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A M A R A N T I,A ',r : ./FOR THFINSTRUCTION AND ENTERTAINMENT OF TiHfYOUNG.EDITED BY RANDOLPH ROSKCOE,WITh FINE STEEL ENGRAVING3l,LONDON:PUBLISHED BY THOMAS HOLMES,(Successor to Edward Lacey,)76, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.
CONTENTS.PageThe Patriot Son-in-Law, by Malcolm Campbell, Esq. 1Cana 15The Diamond Washers -Coldness -8Agatha 9-"A F4te in France -"A Courtier's Reward 46Merry Margaret, by Malcolm Campbell, Esq. 47The Lost Keys, by Miss Mitford 58The Young Tyrolese 70A Funeral at Sea, by Basil Hall 87Rose of the River, by Malcolm Campbell, Esq. 94The Major, a Tale of the Heart 106The Ensign 134An Evening Walk, by Mrs. Opie 15The Wild Woman, by Malcolm Ca.mpbell, Esq. 143The Young Shepherd's Choice 155Voiture's Note 75The Two Pilgrims in Grey *6
Pa<oThe Rose of Fennock Dale, by Mrs. S. C. Hall 192Ingenuity of Bees 20The Bag of Gold 2A Flood 215The Spirit of Contradiction 216The Island Chief, by the Rev. Win. Ellis 228The Fallen Leaf 252The New Chamber 256The Widow of Kaub, a Tale of the Rhine 260The First Invasion of Ireland 265Chain of Beings 287The different Effects of Kindness and Selfishness 288The Miser's Slippers 290Shah Malek 296Application 298The Mistaken Dervise 298Virtue without Fear 301Filial Resolution 802Prudent Beneficence 311Cultivation of the Vine in the Tyrol 316The Sultan and his Falcon 317A Sister's Perfidy 819
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW." Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thau rt,Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,Love's image upon earth without its wing."REVOLUTIONs are prolific of incidents, anaanecdotes more stirring, than any that are pro-duced by other periods and portions of nationalhistory. The first revolution in France, in theyear 1790, was of this character to a greaterextent than any other in the civilized world-if France could, at that period, claim the reten-tion of a civilized character, and must not ratherbe considered as relapsing, for a time, into moresavage barbarism than ever could have distin-guished its most ancient days. It was preceded,and doubtless in a great measure produced, byone feature of a revolution, in its general cha-racter of a very different kind-the employmentof French troops in conquering the independenceof the United States. This worst part of thecharacter of the American revolution, by givingthe French a taste for liberty, prepared the offi-cers as well h private soldiers, on their return,B
P2 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.to repeat the same thing, with superadded fierce-ness, cruelty, and blood, throughout the capitaland provinces of their own country.The American revolution was productive ofevents as interesting, on the whole, as that ofFrance, and very far from being stained by theirwanton treachery and atrocity. It is one of theseevents, or rather a series of engaging incidents,which forms the outline of the present story;which outline is filled up with as strict an accord-ance to the minutest facts of the case, as correctinformation faithfully transcribed will allow.A wealthy merchant of Boston, when the re-volt commenced in that enlightened and flourish-ing city, had retired to a mansion which he builtfor that purpose about three miles in the country.The house itself was more handsome than exten-sive, and he had fitted it up with more cost andtaste than splendour of furniture and decoration.It was every thing that its owner could wish, andhis happiness in taking possession of it wouldhave been complete, had not death forbidden hisexcellent wife to share its occupation-a calamity,however, which the growing virtues and beautyof an only daughter in some measure counter-balanced. His mercantile affairs in the city wereleft to the direction of a faithful partner, abouthalf his own age, the son of a late valued friend.
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 3who had been trained up in his service, and was -found in every way deserving of a share in themeridian of his prosperity. His daughter andhis partner were, moreover, extremely attachedto each other, and, with the father's consent, theyanticipated early marriage, which was delayedonly by the threatening commencement of hosti-lities in Boston and its neighbourhood.The delay was productive of greater apprehen-sion in the minds of the young friends than aloneit could have excited or threatened. Their con-fidence in each other was too sacred to suffer bymere delay, which would certainly, and mightspeedily terminate; but this was a delay createdby events portending an entire change in publicaffairs--a delay, also, beset with perplexity,springing from a difference of political sentimentbetween mercantile partners, who had ever beforebeen of one mind, as well as one heart and onesoul. Had the war commenced in a distant partof America, or in any other city and its suburbsthan Boston, the young merchant might havewithstood the temptation, so early as he was nowconstrained, to manifest his partiality in favourof the liberal and independent cause; but thatcause was first asserted in his native city, andby those chiefly who had been his earliest andwarmest friends. That cause, moreover, corn-
r4 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.mended itself to his deliberate judgment and grow-ing observation of men and things so strongly,that it required little foresight in those who knewhim, tc pjict that Frederick, the sinlae name bywhich we shall speak of him, would soon appearto advocate it in the civic council, if not contendfor it in the field of battle. In fact, he had noalternative but abandoning Boston and its mer-chandize, and with them, perchance, his belovedAnne and her father. One side or the other eachinhabitant of any note was obliged without delayto espouse, and, although his revered patron andpartner was known to be adverse to any changeof government, Frederick, with the private con-sent of Anne, mildly but firmly declared himselfa friend to the popular cause.Por some time, notwithstanding the battle ofBunker's Hill and other affairs of blood in theneighbourhood of Boston, the respectable inhabit-ants of the country around continued in a greatmeasure unmolested, in the avowal of their sen-timents and the enjoyment of their possessions.The elder merchant found that Frederick was notonly taking all possible care of the concern, butthat its stability and prosperity depended on thepart he was now acting as a politician. Mean-whike his zeal for public freedom had not for amoment diverted his attention from the private
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 5interests of his patron, or the tenderest feelingsof his lovely and beloved daughter. Some pru-dent speculations, also, which Frederick haddevised out of the very turbulence of the city,without taking dishonest advantage of an indivi-dual, had enabled his partner to draw a muchlarger sum from the concern than he expected,in preparation for the flight which he began toforesee he must so soon make from his favouriteand oft'times threatened mansion of retirement.In this state matters stood when two otherindividuals, well known but not much esteemed,suddenly appeared, first at the city and then atthe country house, to crave protection, and, infact, to beg subsistence. They were brother andsister, children of a father just slain in fighting atthe head of his company for the royal cause;and who, with his last breath, had charged themto flee to Mr. Beddome and his partner, to asktheir forgiveness of injuries wantonly inflicted onthem, and make an experiment on their compas-sion for at least temporary safety and support.On reaching Boston in the night, they heard ofFrederick's attachment to the popular cause, and,despairing of his favour, went without delay, andas secretly as possible, towards Mr. Beddome'scountry house, whither Frederick had goneseveral hours before them. They spent theB 3
r6 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.remainder of the night in a shrubbery, and, at anearly hour of the morning, just as Mr. Beddomehad risen, asked an interview with him..Mercy/ always rejoiced over judgment in thisgood man's breast, and he received his adver-saries into his house, without holding a minute'sintercourse with them, and as strangers standingin need of bounty and shelter. It is sufficienthere to observe that the brother had long baselyattempted to supplant Frederick in the affectionsof Miss Beddome ; while his sister simultaneouslyplayed her part in striving to engross Frederick'sattention, and divert his affections from herwhom she was pleased to call her rival. Shewas an extremely handsome young woman; buther surpassing beauty was marred in its effect,and often in its expression, by airs of insufferablevanity. Strange to say, the brother had not beensix hours in the house before he attempted to em-bitter Mr. Beddome's feelings against Frederick,by the new argument he acquired from hisdevotedness to the patriot cause. Whetner thesister would have made any effort on Frederickby some opposite trick, is left uncertain throughhis early departure, before the fugitives obtainedadmission, and without the least knowledge oftheir being in the plantation, or of their father'srecent death.
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 7Mr. Beddome repelled with mild indignity thebase insinuation against Frederick, that as he wasat variance with him in politics, he must be hissecret and determined enemy. Without enteringinto the question of political difference, he be-came so warm in Frederick's praise, and expressedhimself with such perfect satisfaction in the pros-pect of having him for a son as well as partner,that the brother now thought he might practisea different artifice with better effect. Assumingan air of approval, and affecting emotions of gra-titude, he begged leave to depart with his sisterin the dusk of the evening. He did so, andinstantly began preparing to impeach the loyaltyof his benefactor, in the hope of obtaining somehandsome recompence, if not the reversion of hiscountry estate. The haughty and mortified sisterentered with malignant vengeance into the scheme,and offered herself to go, as her brother appre-hended some personal danger, and denounce Mr.Beddome to the chiefs of the royal cause.She- spent the money the good man had giventhem in procuring clothes for the vile embassy,and the next morning appeared at the royalencampment, pretending to be possessed of asecret of the greatest moment. A handsomefemale, in the deepest mourning for a father justslain in their cause, could not have been refused
8 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.admission by the chiefs without such a pretence;but her plea obtained for her immediate atten-tion, and she was promised whatever reasonablereward her brother and herself might expect.The vision of Mr. Beddome's mansion rose upbefore her fancy, and induced her to employevery possible art to render her communicationas important as it could appear. She denouncedMr. Beddome as a secret enemy to the ancientgovernment, and as doing all he could, under themask of friendship, to subvert it: and she saidthis with such well dissembled reluctance, andsorrow for his apostacy, combined with thestrnngest assertions of being influenced by aprinciple of public duty alone, that she won onthe officers in command, and was allowed to sendfor her brother to confirm her testimony.He had not been so successful in his move-ments. Resorting first to Boston for a suit ofmourning, he had been watched by the patriots,and, in attempting to leave the city, he was ar-rested and detained as a spy on their proceedings.There are some violators of truth whose con-firmed habit will allow them to utter nothing butfalsehood: but as a fact could just now bestserve his purpose, the brother told his guardsthat he had come to Boston from Mr. Beddome's,whither he had been on a visit at his dyina
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 9father's command. This alone, when Mr. Bed-.dome's known opinions were considered, waslikely to increase the suspicion against him; andwhen, on reference being made to Frederick, whoknew nothing of the visit and therefore discre-dited the tale, it was deemed altogether untrue,and he was consigned to prison to await a morestrict examination. The serjeant sent from theroyal camp in search of him, heard these tidingson his way, and returned to repeat them to hissuperiors.It has been observed, that nothing is deemeddisastrous amidst the plots of a crafty woman.The sister viewed the detention of her brother asa lucky event in furtherance of her scheme. Sheinstantly added to her charges against Mr. Bed-dome, that he must have been the chief cause ofher brother's imprisonment, and, being able toprove that she had recently left his house, cre-ated the prejudice against him of his denial of theundoubted fact. Her vain and vindictive spiritexulted in the prospect of his speedy arrest, andih the transport of this joy she lost sight of theimprisonment of her brother, and the probablefate that awaited him at the hands of the oppositeparty. Her brother, at the same time, becamealmost indifferent to himself amidst a most tor-turing perplexity how to execute his vengeance
10 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.on Mr. Beddome. He could have no communi-cation with his sister, and knew not how far shehad succeeded or failed. He knew just enough ofher proceeding to entangle his thoughts past hispower to extricate them. She had denouncedMr. Beddome as a secret friend to the indepen-dent party; should he do the same, whether hewere believed or not, he would only increase hisown difficulty. If he were believed, those whohad imprisoned him would rejoice in the disco-very; and if he were not believed, a consequencewhich Frederick's testimony would be likely toproduce, it would only add to the rigour of hiscaptivity.It will naturally be asked-How could Mr.Beddome continue in safety and freedom, evenfor these few days, so near Boston? And whywere the zealous patriots, in possession of thatcity, so slow in requiring either his adherence totheir cause, or his departure from their district?Frederick's influence with all classes in the cityalone can account for this mystery. Strictlyupright in word as well as deed, he dared notspeak of his patron but as truth would justify.Aware, at the same time, of his peaceable andprudent disposition, his young friend was able toconvince the chiefs at Boston that their cause wasin danger only from his example, and not at all
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 11from his efforts or influence. But this able andfaithful defence could not long avail. The timeapproached for Mr. Beddome either to declare hisconsent to the new order of things, or place him-self under the protection of the royal party, byproceeding within the limits of their power.His concern for the happiness of his daughterwith the man of her choice, seemed at first likelyto determine him in favour of the new state ofaffairs at Boston; but his loyalty, and, in hissense of the term, his patriotism, were too power-ful to be overcome, and he resolved upon thelatter course. He was about to execute his deli-berate purpose, when an officer arrived from theroyal camp to demand the instant surrender ofhis person and mansion. Of course he had butone reply." I was about to make a voluntary surrenderof my person to your protection, trusting thatthe estate of a decided loyalist would be protectedso long as its defence is in your power. Whenthat is no longer the case, I have no anxiety forits fate."" Most likely not, Sir"-answered the officer"-" your partner at Boston will, no doubt, thencontrive for its protection; but this double deal-ing will no longer do for us."On no spirit, either in the new world or the
12 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.old, could such an insinuation have had a moreinflammable effect. Mr. Beddome could endureany charge with better temper than this. Anhonest indignation rose in every feature, and hethrew the reproach of double dealing from himwith all the force of the most powerful and per-fect contempt. A direct denial of what he wasuniversally known to be incapable of, he did notconsider necessary; but both the temper andlanguage in which he answered the base insinua-tion convinced the officer, who knew somethingof his character before, of his perfect innocence,and led to a treatment as mild as a faithful dis-charge of his commission would allow." I dare not, Sir"--he said, as they passedtowards the camp-" mention the name of youraccuser, nor state the particulars of the accusa-tion; but I more than suspect that you have beenbetrayed by a member of your own family, abet-ted and aided by one in Boston who would becomea member of your family, and who has long beenengaged in your service."" Impossible, Sir !" exclaimed Mr. Beddome."Impossible !" he repeated, with greater energyand decision. "My daughter is, indeed, at Bos-ton, whither I sent her on horseback, as to aplace of safety, less than twelve hours ago; butI could as soon betray my king, yea, curse my
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 13GoD, as she could willingly expose her father todanger !"" Then you are unaware, Sir"--said the officer--" of the interview she had with one of therebel chiefs on her road, and who took from hera packet of your letters; for what purpose, Imust leave you to judge. I regret exceedingly togive you the information; but it was necessary toprepare you to meet her in the royal camp, andconfront her as your accuser!"No attempt to describe the good man's feelingsat this moment could avail, or should be made.He soon reached the camp, overwhelmed with ananxiety not capable of being endured a single dayby the strongest mind. The consciousness of per-fect rectitude is often a support under the greatesttrial; but here was a trial which that had nopower to sustain or counteract. The parent'sheart was pierced with anguish, and the mostperfect integrity of the man and the christiancould not heal the wound.The reader need not be told where the errorlay. A vague report had run through the campthat the female who had accused Mr. Beddomewas his own daughter, and that her male abettorin Boston must be his partner and her lover.The officer in commission had departed with anassurance that the rumour was true, and was even4
14 THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.more astonished than Mr. Beddome, though ofcourse far less gratified, on finding it false. Itsfalsehood was soon ascertained. A moment ofthe first interview between the commander-in-chief and his injured prisoner, convinced thelatter that he had been most painfully misin-formed, while the former, from the first acquaint-ed with the name and character of his accuser,was anxious to know what ground she had forthe accusation.Frederick by this time had become informed ofMr. Beddome's danger, and fearful of his arrest;and was preparing to leave Boston for the coun-try house just as his daughter arrived in thecity. It was a mutual friend who had met her inher midnight journey, and to whom she had con-fided a packet of her father's letters, every onedemonstrative of his loyalty. These he placed inFrederick's hands on his departure from Boston,and with these Frederick arrived, under the pro-tection of a flag of truce from the mansion, justin time to repel the foul charges brought againsthis partner. The commander-in-chief was satis-fied. The brother and sister accusers would havebeen punished but for Mr. Beddome's interces-sion. Frederick and Miss Beddome were soonafter married under circumstances of the greatestpromise, which revolving years increasingly ful-
THE PATRIOT SON-IN-LAW. 15filled; and their excellent father was allowed tospend his remaining years, which were many, inthe house he had built for himself and children,and which he presented, long before he died, as afree unincumbered gift to hisPATRIOT SON-IN-LAW.CANOVA.MANY authors have fancied particular hours ofthe day, or particular seasons of the year, as morepropitious to the flights of genius. Canova fan-cied the sun of Italy alone propitious to hisgenius; a clouded sky or a foggy atmospherecast a gloom on his spirits which he could notovercome, so that even Paris was to him thegrave of genius. Napoleon perceived that in thebust Canova made of him, and which is now inthe possession of Baron Denon, there was want-ing that grand character which distinguished hisworks from the rest of modern sculptors, andobserved to him that he did not think he hadbeen happy in the execution of his work. "Ifeel it, sire," replied Canova, "but I cannot helpit; the clouded sky of France does not inspireme like the warm sun of Italy."c2
16THE DIAMOND WASHERS.LN the district of Cerro de Frio, on the coldmountains of Brazil, there is an establishment ofdiamond-works. The district is situated on thevery ridge of the mountains which stretch alongthe entire coast of Brazil, rising to their fullheight, in the interior, at the distance three hun-dred miles.It is here that the streams which pour them-selves into the Atlantic, by means of the Rio, orriver Grande, separate themselves from thosewhich flow into it by the Rio Francisco.On this very spot the diamond ground is si-tuated, and extends over a space of sixteenleagues from north to south, and about half thatnumber from east to west.In the midst of this rugged country stands thetown of Tejuco, whose inhabitants are almostentirely supported by diamond washing.The largest range of works is situated uponthe river Jijitonhona, a stream about as wide asthe Thames at Windsor, and from three to ninefeet in depth.The diamond is contained in a kind of marl-
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 17like pebble, called cascalhoa, and is dug up fromthe bottom of the river, whose stream is, con-sequently, for the time diverted into anotherchannel. This is done by a canal cut across theland, round which the river winds, and thewaters are prevented from returning to their oldcourse by an embankment formed of bags ofsand, placed across the river at the head of thecanal.The deeper parts of the river are then laid dryby pumps, the earth removed, and the cascal-hoa dug up and carried to a convenient place forwashing.This laborious occupation was, for a longtime, performed only by negroes, who carriedthe cascalhoa in bowls upon their heads. Insome of the works, the negroes are still unas-sisted in this employment; in others, their labouris spared by means of an inclined plane, alongwhich, by the assistance of a water wheel, twocarts are moved-one cart descending emptydown the inclined plane, at the same time thatanother ascends loaded with cascalhoa. Whenit has been thus transported from the bed of theriver, the cascalhoa is laid in heaps ready forwashing, and the negroes calculate upon diggingup as much cascalhoa during the rainy season, asthey can wash during the remainder of the year.c3
r18 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.In the diamond works of Jijitonhona, therewere two negroes remarkable for their strength,and for their friendship to one another. Theyexcelled, too, all the other negroes in manlybeauty-their limbs were straighter, better form-ed, their jetty skin was of a smoother and morepolished texture, and their teeth more brilliantlywhite. They were young-very young; but notnew to a state of labour and of servitude, for,alas! they had been born slaves.Cato and Paul, for such were the names givento them by their European masters, were how-ever far from being unhappy: they were healthyand vigorous, and their labours were light, forthe prettiest negress of the whole establishmentsmiled upon them.Clari, the belle of all the negresses, was not aslave. She had been taken from her parents intothe protection of the overseer's wife, who hadtaken care to have her taught every useful ac-quirement, and her mistress herself had instructedher how to read and write; when her aged pa-rents died, Clari whs told by her mistress thatshe need no longer consider herself a slave, andthat she might continue to live with her as a ser-vant, or leave her and go whither she pleased." I have no friend in the world but you, mykind lady," answered Clari, " let me live with
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 19you, and turn me out of doors if ever Clari beungrateful, or neglect to do what her mistresspleases."Clari therefore had continued to live with herindulgent lady, and though a beauty and some-what of a coquette, she had a kind heart, andoften availed herself of her mistress's favour tointercede for any hapless negro who might haveoffended their more rigorous masters.Few, indeed, were the slaves in her master'semploy, who had not, some time or other, beenindebted to the kind offices or good wishes ofClari, and to slaves constantly subjected to thestern countenance of a severe task-master, hervery look of sympathy was a consolation. Pauland Cato both strove to please and win a glanceof kindness from the bright black eye of Clari,but hitherto she had smiled on both alike, with-out favouring either with a single mark of pre-ference.The rainy season, which there begins in Marchand ends in August, was just over: this is by farthe most laborious part of the year for the ne-groes of Jijitonhona. Often and often hadClari, while attending upon her mistress's ham-mock, gazed upon the negroes toiling one afteranother, with their baskets upon their heads,and literally groaning beneath their burdens, asA
20 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.they deposited them upon the heap. Clari'slarge laughing black eyes were often filled with atear, when she saw their labours, instead ofbeing encouraged by the kind and cheering voiceof the master, too often rewarded only by a lashor a reprimand.- But this severe labour had now ceased, and thewashing of diamonds begun. A shed was erectedupwards of thirty yards long, and about half thewidth: this temporary building was formed byupright posts, supporting a roof which wasthatched with long grass; down the middle of itwas conveyed, in a canal, a stream of water co-vered over with strong planks, upon which thecascalhoa was placed in heaps.On each side of the canal a flooring of plankscemented by clay, and sloping downwards fromthe canal, extended all along the shed : this floor-ing was divided into about twenty troughs, formedby small ledges of wood fastened to the planks;the upper end of every trough joined the canal,and received water from it through a space ofabout an inch in size, left for the purpose, be-tween the boards. This space might be madelarger or smaller, and the water could be forcedto any part of the trough, or entirely stoppedfrom entering, by a piece of clay.These preparations were all completed, and
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 21the first day of washing artm ed. Upon the heapof cascalhoa, at equal distances, were placedthree high chairs, for the three overseers of theestablishment: when they were seated the ne-groes entered, each carrying a short-handled rake,of a peculiar form, with which he raked into atrough from fifty to eighty pounds weight ofcascalhoa; each negro then lets water into histrough, taking care the while to rake the cascal-oa, so as to keep it in continual motion, andto retain it towards the head of the trough.This process occupies the negroes about aquarter of an hour, until the earthy particlesbegin to be washed away, and the water becomesclearer; the gravel then is raked up to the end ofthe trough, until the stream, by degrees, flowsquite clear: the large stones are picked up andthrown away, and then the smaller ones, ai-erwhich the search for diamonds begins. When anegro finds a diamond, he immediately standsupright and claps his hands; then he extendsthem, holding the precious jewel between histhumb and first finger. The overseer, who per-ceives by the motion of the negro what has hap-pened, receives the diamond from him, and dropsit into a gamella, or bowl, suspended from thetop of the shed, and which is half full of water.All the diamonds which are found during the
22 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.day are dropped into the same bowl, and, at theclose of the work they are taken out, and deli-vered to the governor or principal officer, whoweighs them, and registers the particulars in abook kept for the purpose.The diamonds collected from these washingsvary much in size: some are so small that twoor three are required to weigh a single grain,twenty of which will scarcely make up a singlecarat; while now and then, but very rarely, astone weighing from seventeen to twenty caratsis picked up, and once, perhaps, in the course oftwo years, may be found one weighing as muchas thirty carats.There is one circumstance which consoles thenegro slaves thus employed, and almost recon-ciles them to their labour: if a negro slave hasthe good luck to pick up a diamond of eight orten carats weight, he is rewarded by a present ofa suit of new clothes, two new shirts, a hat, andhandsome knife: if he has the great good for-tune to find one which weighs an octavo, orseventeen carats and a half, the negro is madehappy for life: he is, by the laws of the district,entitled to his freedom, which is purchased forhim by the governor, who pays his ransom to hismaster. No longer a slave, he is permitted everafter to work on his own account, free from the
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 23galling thraldom which oppresses and subduesthe mind still more than it does the body.It is for this reward, for the mere chance ofthe gift of freedom, so dear to every negro aswell as to every other man, that they are all con-tent to work with less sense of their unhappycondition. This it was that animated the coun-tenances of Cato and Paul, when the first day ofwashing arrived; this it was that urged them onto persevere so diligently, that even the over-seer's stern looks were unconsciously changedinto those of approbation.The two friends always worked close to oneanother in neighboring troughs, and each watch-ed the other's progress with an anxiety almostequal to that which he felt for his own. Theyhad no secrets from one another, and both knew,if ever either of them should have the good for-tune to pick up a diamond of the desired weight,in what manner it was his intention to act. Itmight be that Clari, too, was aware of what waspassing in the minds of these two friends, forevery day, when the washing was over, had theymet her, and her eager eye had seemed as if itasked them, " What luck, my friends ?"On the fourth day of the washing an exclama-tion was heard from Paul, and, at the same in-stant, Cato erected himself, ad stretched forth
r24 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.his hand, in which was seen a diamond of un-usual size: he was breathless with agitation, andwhen he had delivered his precious cargo intothe hands of the overseer, almost sank downupon the ground.Paul was scarcely less agitated, but both, aftera short interval, resumed their work in silence.The labours of the day were at length ended,and the bowl of diamonds consigned to theprincipal overseer to be weighed. Where wasnow the animation of Paul and Cato ? Arm inarm they stood during the proceeding, as if tosupport one another, whether in grief or. joy.Cato's diamond was at lengtn in the hand ofJhe officer. It was pleasing to see the anxiety ofall present, even of the overseers themselves,that it should prove of sufficient weight to enti-tle the poor fellow to his liberty. It was weighed-the overseer shook his head: " Sixteen caratsand a half-only one carat wanting; 'tis a pity,Cato," said he. But Cato spoKe not,-he walkedaway from the shed with his friend, and whenClari's black eye glanced up to his that evening,she saw a tear roll down his cheek,-she heardno murmur.The next day, and the next, Cato and Paulwere at their work in their troughs with theirusual animation and activity.
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 25Not many days after this, it happened thatClari was lingering near the shed about the timeshe thought their work would be over, when sheheard a shout from within, and, in a few minutes,she learnt that Paul had picked up a diamond ofeighteen carats weight, and on the next daywould receive his freedom.When the two friends came forth that evening,Clari was no where to be found, and they feltthat something was wanting to their joy in herabsence.It is the custom at the works of Jijitonhona tomake great rejoicings when a slave thus gainshis liberty; the next day, therefore, was one offestivity and triumph. The slaves all assembled,and forming themselves into a procession, carriedthe happy Paul in triumph upon their shoulders.His head was crowned with a wreath of flowers,and he was supported by his friend Cato, whosehappiness and triumph seemed as great as hisown.The procession marched up the meadow, bythe river side, and made its way through thecrowds that were assembled from the town ofTejuco.Here many gay hammocks were swinging aboutin every direction, each borne upon the shouldersof a dozen negroes, and attended by domestics)
:26 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.and slaves, for the Portuguese inhabitants of thecolony thought it unsuitable to their dignity tobe seen in public either on foot, or with a smallnumber of attendants.At the upper end of the meadow, close to theworks, was erected a temporary kind of -throne,on which was seated, in great state, the governorof the district; the overseers and inferior officerswere placed on less elevated seats around.A little to the left, was seen the light bluehammock of Clari's mistress, gaily decoratedwith light blue fringe; the curtains were drawnaside, and the overseer's wife was seen reposingupon the velvet cushion, watching with great in-terest the whole scene, for often had her favourite,Clari, talked to her of the two friends, Paul andCato. The slaves whose office it was to carry thelady's hammock, had fastened it to the groundby a couple of iron staffs, firmly planted in theearth, and upon the iron forks at the head oftnem they rested the long bamboos attached tothe hammock.The procession of negroes at length reachedthe throne, and Paul, after being let down fromthe shoulders of the negroes, knelt at the feetof the governor, from whom he was to receivehis freedom.After paying down the ransom to Paul's mas-
THE DIAMOND WASHERS. 27ter, the governor turned to the happy negro, andmade him the presents usual on such an occa-sion, consisting of new clothes, linen, and otherthings. Then addressing him, he said, " I ampleased, Paul, that this good fortune has hap-pened to you, for I hear that you are faithfuland industrious: you are no longer a slave, butas in servitude you have done your duty, conti-nue to do it still, now you are free." Paul'sheart was full, he could not speak: he lookedhis thanks both to the governor and to his gene-rous companions, who so heartily rejoiced in agood fortune they could not share..When, at length, his friends dispersed, andformed themselves into mirthful groups, someenjoying the dance, others occupied in sports andgames in which they passed their holiday,-Paul,accompanied still by Cato, turned round to lookfor Clari.She was not now to be seen by the side of herlady's hammock, and when, after some search,they found her, she was sitting dejectedly upona-mossy stone, beneath the shade of a banyantree, no longer the joyous, the merry-heartedClari.Paul ran up to her,-" I am now free, likeyourself, Clari! will you not now smile uponme ?"D2
28 THE DIAMOND WASHERS.Clari had turned away her head, but forcingherself to smile, she looked at him,--" I amglad, very glad, Paul, that you have been sofortunate: you are now happy, but Clari cannotforget to be what she has ever been,-a friend tothe unhappy. Clari will be poor Cato's wife."A CURE FOR COLDNESS.As the unfortunate Louis XVI. one very sharpday, was riding in his carriage, and muffled upin furs, he observed a gentleman about his ownage walking gaily along, exposed to the frostybreeze, in a light summer dress, and withoutthe covering of a surtout.- As the gentleman.was very smart in his appearance, the King wassurprised how he could keep himself so appa-rently warm, and ordered an attendant to ask himwhat method he adopted for that purpose. Thegentleman, whom the King afterwards particu-larly noticed, replied, that his Majesty could notpossibly feel any effect of the keen air, if he wouldcondescend to follow the method of the personwhom he honoured by his inquiries, and whichwas, to put on at once his whole wardrobe.
29AGATHA, A FRAGMENT."* ^ I HAVE seen her but twice, in th courseof my life,-at very different periods, in verydifferent places, under very different circum-stances. She has flashed across the path of myexistence, as a bright meteor across the stormyheavens to which traveller's eyes are turned. Shehas been scarcely more intimately connected withme than that with him; yet the gleam has re-mained impressed upon my mental vision, longafter the object has been removed;-the sweetnote which her contemplation has been amongthe discords of my life, has seemed still to vibrateupon my ear, long after it has ceased to sound!I scarcely know whence arose the strong in-terest I have felt concerning her; for our meet-ings have been brief, transient, and far between.-Our lots have been, in no degree, cast in together.She has been to me more as one in a book, or ina dream, than as a real person;-and yet I havestarted at her sight, and been thrilled at thesound of her voice, as though she had been thelove of my youth and of my whole life, whoseD3
30 AGATHA,form I may never see,-whose voice may neverbless my ear again!Was it because she was so beautiful ?-In somedegree, I believe it was. Beauty! beauty!-whatfloods of intense delight hast thou not poured, inthy richness, over my senses and my soul!-What deep rapture, calm from its very excess,have I not drunk as I have stood gazing on thee,enrapt!-gazing on thee as an abstract thing !-asan embodying of the essence of all loveliness!-asthe palpable presence of the beautiful to mortalvision! Inanimate nature is beautiful, and thesoul drinks peace from its contemplation. Thewoods are beautiful, as they shine beneath therich light of leafy June;--they are beautiful whenmany-coloured Autumn tinges them with its deephues, and waves them with its sweeping winds;--they are beautiful as they bud into life, inSpring,--nay, as they stand desolate, amid thesnows of Winter, stretching their forked branches,as in remonstrance, towards the sky !-TheWaters, too, are beautiful,-from the tinkling rilland the lively brook, to the mighty stream andthe vast sea itself;-beautiful in smiles and bright-ness,-beautiful in terrors and in storms! Themountains are beautiful,-sublime! Silence reignsamong the dark pines-grandeur and desolationsit upon the snow-clad peak, and in the deep un-
A FRAGMENT. 31fathomable ravine! Nature is beautiful in all heraspects, and in every mood;-in the lake and inthe sea, in the meadow and in the mountain, inthe soft breath and verdure of May, and in theiron-bound ruggedness of Winter !-But whatportion of this beautiful system, in its chosenspots, in its happiest moments, can equal humanbeauty in its power over the human soul! Whothat, in the season of his hot youth, has drunk ofthe draughts of woman's beauty, but will own thethrill to the very core, which has rushed, indes-cribably, through him, as he hung upon those deepand dangerous delights!Thus have I gazed on beauty,-as I have gazedon a picture, as I have listened to sweet music! Apicture has, sometimes, haunted me for months;-my ears have often fed upon a snatch of song,a swell of sound, as though they were a corporealand tangible enjoyment. Thus, with equal ab-straction, have I contemplated some beauty;--thus did I contemplate Agatha's, when I saw herfor the first time!It was after I had been about a month at Jena,that this happened. I was just turned seventeen.Youth burned throughout my veins,-poetry pos-sessed my head and heart. The life of my com-panions, in the town, seemed to me coarse, cold,and feeble. I was used to wander in the woods
32 AGATHA,and in the fields. An undefined vacuum seemedto exist in my mind-a vague want-an aspiringand reaching at something higher and more, thoughwhat, I could not describe, I did not know. Thatperiod gave its tinge to my life.-My character wasformed then; or, rather, it has scarcely changedsince,-for I cannot call anything so dreary,vague, and unsubstantial, formed at all.It was at this period that I saw Agatha first,-and, for many years, I did not see her again.She was with her father, who was a general in theAustrian service. It was time of war, and theywere passing through Jena to join the army,-that is, he was going to the army, while she wasto remain as close to its rear as safety permitted.But she never thought of safety; she would,willingly, have shared the dangers, as well as thefatigues and hardships, of war, so that she mighthave been with her father,-that father in whomall the affections of her enthusiastic heart, al1 theenergies of her noble mind, were concentred intoone. But he valued and loved this admirablebeing as she merited;-more was impossible. Inproportion, therefore, with her desire to accom-pany him, was his inflexibility that she shouldnot.At this time, I saw her only one evening. Butthe instant my eyes lighted upon her, I felt as if
A FRAGMENT. 33I nou, beheld the incarnation of that ideal visionof beauty which had flitted across my wakingreveries, and my dreams in sleep. Here was thatunion of diversified excellencies which my ownheated fancy had so often fused together, butwhich I scarcely could think or hope existed innature! When I first saw her, she was singing-singing one of those hymns (I may truly call them)of national excitement and feeling, which, at thattime, swarmed through our country. All thenobler and more exalted sentiments of the humanheart were gathered on her countenance, and inher accent. Patriotism,-the excitation of war ina just-in the only just- cause, national defence,-hatred, in the only state in which it is a virtue,against national oppressers,-these, softened andembellished by the reflection that one, dearer toher than all the world, was to share in thedangers to which she was spurring on her country-men, gave added power to the supreme lovelinessof her features, and melody of her voice, whilethey received, in return, that influence over thesoul, derivable from nothing but beauty andsweet music.It was fated that, on this evening, I should seeAgatha, in all the various moods and momentsmost becoming to a woman. The tone of her
34 AGATHA,song turned the conversation upon war,-its ex-citement, its dangers, its terrors; and Agatharelated a story of a touching circumstance whichshe had half witnessed, in the last campaign, ina manner which displayed her in woman's chosenand fittest character-the handmaid and ministerof pity.Her tale was, simply, of a soldier's bride, whoaccompanied him to the wars, whose husbandwas killed in action; and who, after searchingthe field for his corpse, had died upon it, inbringing an infant into this miserable world, ina manner so typical of utter misery. The or-phaned child had been sent to the town in therear, where Agatha then was: she fostered andadopted it.In the calamities of war, such events as thesehappen, probably, by the hundred: the con-queror sees them not, and thinks not of them:even those who witness them, forget them almostas soon as seen; their very number and frequencyprevent their making any deep impression. But,in a peaceful assembly, let one of them be sin-gled out and narrated, not as a vague generality,but by a person under whose individual know-ledge it has come,-and, as in the case of whichI speak, every heart will swell, every eye will
A FRAGMENT. 35fill with tears, as the narrator tells his simplestory. So powerful is fact,-so irresistible is thetouch of real nature !From this time, Agatha became the nucleusround which the thronging images of my day-dreams gathered. I did not feel love towards her,or anything which could be considered to ap-proach to any of the numberless shades andvariations of the passion. She was " like a star,and dwelt apart;" an abstraction,-a spirit ofthe beautiful and the good,-a heroine of distantdays; or an ethereal type and ideal image of allloveliness, to guide and to 'delight the present!But I never thought of her as a mere mortalwoman; her worldly existence was to me asthough it had not been, or had long ceased to be.I had not become known to her, and, perhaps,this circumstance contributed to cause, at leastto suffer, the unearthliness of all my recollec-tions of this supreme engrosser of my thoughts,feelings, aspirations, visions,-of this being who,like the moon in the heavens, was single of herkind,-of this ONE!Certain it is, I felt towards her nothing likelove; for, not long after this period, I felt lovein all its tenderness, in more than all its fervour,towards another: of that passion it is not mypurpose, here, to speak. That was the reality of
36 AGATHA,my existence,-my existence itself! All the restis a dream,--nothing! My heart burnt itself outin that feeling,-there is nothing now alere flam-mam;-the fire is not only decayed, but thevery ashes are scattered to the four winds ofheaven!But even into this passion,-such as I havedescribed it, and fifty-fold more beside!-didthe image of Agatha enter; but it entered not asa being of this world, but an ideal standard, towhich there was no sacrilege towards love, noindignity towards my feelings as a lover, in com-paring the merits of her for whom alone Ibreathed. It was as if the Roman King hadweighed the qualities of his earthly mistressagainst those of his heavenly visitant, and foundthat they equalized the beam !The next time that I saw Agatha was, from itscircumstance, as much in unison with the toneof my mind, at the time, as the first had been.She then had given food and form to the wildvisions of a youthful brain-now her appearancechimed in, in equal unison, with my stricken,spent, and desolate heart.It was at a village in Saxony. I had stoppedthere, travelling; and had wandered from my inn,almost unconsciously, till I found myself in thechmrt Y-rd, Images of Death peopled my
A FRAGMENT. 37thoughts, and, probably, had led me to hisabode. I paused, and looked around me. Thespot was singularly beautiful, but of a pensiveand saddened character. The old tower of thechurch was partly mantled with ivy, and partlyshewed its grey surface to the cold light, whichgleamed upon it from the westward, the sunhaving already gone down. One large yew-tree,and one only, stood within the precincts of theplace, and overshadowed many graves with itsgloomy branches. A brook, the low gurgling ofwhich tallied with the character of the scene,bounded the church-yard to the south and east;and, beyond it, a deep wood of pines stretchedaway towards the manorial chateau.- I paused,and leaned upon a grave-stone. The spot wassuited to my feelings. The grave held all thatthe world had possessed for me: what was theworld, to my heart, but one ground of graves!at least, thus I felt that it ought to be.I read the brief epitaphs which were accumu-lated around me, and strove, as grief will alwaysdo, to assimilate to my own case such as bore toit any general resemblance. I sighed over thegraves of the young, and exclaimed, with thehermit in Atala,--" helas la poussiere jetee surun front de dix-huit printems !" and I recollectedthat we had read that book together: side byside, our voices faltering at the same passage, our
38 AGATHA,tears dropping on the same page, our eyes meetingwhere the unboundedness of the love of these two" savages in the desert" was expressed, and ourhands thrilling in each other's grasp, at the fateand dying words of Atala!--Oh, God! howlittle did I then think, that so soon it would beher fate!-that the dust would be cast upon herforehead, scarcely older, and oh! more beautiful,than that of the fictioned savage,-and that, likethe other, 1 should be left heart-stricken, solitary,cold,-cold in feeling, barren and broken in spirit!While I " chewed the cud of these hitter fankcies" --" sweet" there were none mingled withthem,-I was roused by the loud stroke of thechurch-bell, which began to toll, as for a burial.And so, assuredly, it was; for, on looking up, I per-ceived a long procession approaching the church-yard, at a foot's-pace, and, from its trappings andgeneral aspect, easily distinguishable as a funera_.As it advanced, I perceived it to be that of a mili-tary man; for there was a considerable numberof troops, both before and after the body, and Icould distinguish the charger of the deceased, ledalong, in his military accoutrements, typical ofthe rank of his late master.I stood aside, to let the procession pass on. Itwas in unison with my train of thought,--and yetrelieved me from the intensity of its individuali-zation. There is something very imposing in a
A FRAGMENT. 39military funeral. Though the trade is that ofdeath, yet so opposed is it to mourning, thatthere always seems something incongruous, yetnot disagreeably so, in its signs when displayedby a soldier.-A brief sigh, and passing Requies-cat! over his slain comrade, is all that we look forat his hands. A funeral, on the contrary, bespeaksthat the deceased died by disease, not the sword;-for brief are the obsequies of those who fall inbattle!As the body approached, I turned my eyes, in-stinctively, towards the chief mourner. A thrill,like electricity, shot through every fibre of myframe,- for it was Agatha! It was her father'sburial,-she was following him to the grave!If, in the very budding-time of my youth, whenour meeting was in the intercourse of society, I hadregarded her almost as a being of another world,-there was, assuredly, nothing in her appear-ance, now, to make her seem to me more earthly.Her hair was parted on her brow,-her face wasdeadly pale,-her form seemed statue-like,-sostill and equable was her bearing, although she, infact, moved onward. Her eyes, too, shining andconspicuous in her pale countenance,--fixed andfull of grief, though tearless, as they were,-seemed, to my excited mind, to shed a light toodeep and holy for mere humanity. I was suffer-ing from the work of death,-I was indulgingE 2
40 AGATHA.that grief in his very temple; and here and thendid she, who had been so long the chief object ofmy heated imagination, appear to me, in the garband in the office of sorrow,--suffering from thesame cause, experiencing the same sad feelingsthat I did !At some moments, when my wayward mindhas had the reigns for some time together, I havealmost fancied that this appearance of Agatha,-^ the funeral,-the troops,-the horse,-the wholeprocession,-were but the creation of my ownbrain,-a dream, perhaps, in the sleep of exhaustedsuffering,--a mental idea dwelt upon, in its details,till it became a reality! But, no!--1 have beenin that churchyard, since; and there, close to thespot where I beheld Agatha shrink, as the vollieswere poured over her father's grave,--there standshis tomb!I never saw her again!--but, to my mental eyes,her image still is present;-from my mental ears,her voice passes not away Irhuj4laMErhr
41A FETE IN FRANCE,(At Enghien les Bains, a Village about nine miles fromParis, celebratedfor its Mineral Waters,)BY W. M. TARTT, ESQ." Our feastsIn every mess have folly, and the feedersDigest it with a custom."WINTER'S TALE..LL the world knows that at almost everyplace in France there is an annual fete, generallycommencing on a Sunday, and lasting two, three,or more days. The dances, often held in " an-tique woods," their foliage mingled with theglitter of hundreds of pendant lamps, and thepretty paysannes, in their neat laced caps andwhite dresses, glissading it upon the turf, havebeen described a thousand times: but as theaquatic character of our fete at Enghien makesit different from most others, it may be worthcommemorating.Our village, as Miss Mitford would call it,consists of ten or twelve houses; and, by themorning of the fete, nearly as many shops were34
42 A FETE IN FRANCE.erected under tents by the road side, for the saleof toys, prints, glass and earthenware, bon-bonsand merlitons.The ground in several places was also clearedfor dancing, and travelling orchestras were putup for the musicians.Unfortunately for us all, the morn was over-cast, and " the great, the eventful day" came in,not " heavily with clouds" merely, but with coldwind and drenching showers of rain.The principal prize was-a silver fork andspoon; and early in the forenoon the aspirants,undamped by the weather, paraded about inlascar-looking dresses of white cotton, with redor blue sashes round their waists, according tothe different parties to which they belonged. Thepeasantry and neighboring gentry assembled inconsiderable numbers, dispersing with everyshower, and rallying as it cleared off. Argen-teuil, Eau-bonne, Dieul, and Soissy; St. Gratien,Epinay, Montmorency, and La-barre, had pouredforth the elite of their inhabitants; and towardsthree o'clock began the Joutte d la lance.Drums announced the approach of the com-batants, and six of the blue party and six of thered,, bearing heavy wooden lances of their re-spective colours, embarked on the lake in sepa-rate boats, attended by other boats containingthe music, umpires, and spectators. One of the
A FETE IN FRANCE. 43competitors stood in the bow of each of the twoboats, holding his lance in his right htnd: theywere then rowed to the attack; and he ,rho eitherlost his footing, or saved himself by using bothhands, went overboard, and was sent at once" hors du combat," and into the lake. At first itwas rather a tame affair; but when the numberwas reduced to one of the most skilful on eachside, it became more interesting: the last cham-pion of the red did wonderful execution; but,like many other heroes, after all his victories hewas himself beaten, and " he of the blue" havingconquered, was lead in triumph through the village.Then came on the affair of the pig. It seemeda more rational being than those who tormentedit, for it showed no inclination to take the wateron so cold a day; but what can one do against ahundred. Its ear-piercing remonstrances were ofno avail, and its shrill cries were smothered bythrowing it into the middle of the lake. It mustbe confessed that it had not fair play, for as oftenas it approached the sides, it was headed by theboats, and again turned into the middle. Itsantagonists were a middle-aged matelot and threeyounger men; the latter, however, soon foundthey had no chance, and confined themselves toannoying their more successful competitor. He,after some time, caught the pig, and brought itnear the shore; where the umpires took posses-4
44 A FETE IN FRANCE.sion of it, and upon the pretext that it had beencaught by the leg in place of the tail, they re-conducted it to the point of embarkation.The matelot dressed himself, and " with a bandof chosen men," with drums and lances, camedown upon the enemy, and bore away the pigby force. So ended the affair of the pore lachesur l'eau; and the amusements of the day wereconcluded by dancing, in a drizzling rain andcold night, under the light of a few lugubriouslamps.On the second day the weather was almostworse than on the first, and the company wasless numerous. The ducks were sent on thelake: two or three youths took the water afterthem, and one of the poor animals being drivento the side, was seized upon by a spectator: theswimmer landed, and, in the struggle for posses-sion, the duck was actually torn to pieces alive.I believe they once treated a Saint in the samemanner. Then followed thejeu d'anguilles, whichconsisted in walking on a long pole, projectedforty or fifty feet over the surface of the water,and seizing an eel suspended from a triangleat the end. In this case (for the pun can-not possibly be avoided) the prize slipped throughthe fingers of all who attempted it: few of themeven reached the end of the pole-and the amuse.ment was in seeing them fall into the water.
A FETE IN FRANCE.The swimmers, in every instance, wore lightdresses; a delicacy which seemed extraordinaryin a country where I have often seen respectablelooking young women riding on horseback, aftera manner that only befitted the wearers oftrowsers.Our fete ended with the prix d'addresse pour lesdames. The prize was a robe garnie, and rumoursaid that if the roads had been good, the ladieswere to have run for it. As it was the addressconsisted in walking blind-folded to a target, andplacing a small javelin in a heart which formedthe centre. All these things may be described:but the clamour of female voices which followedevery unsuccessful effort, and the attempts of theGarde-champ&tre to reduce them to order, arebeyond my powers. Compared to this, the chat-tering of the Pierides after their transformationwas solemn silence. The heart of the target,though surrounded by the female beauty of atleast six neighboring villages, remained un-touched; and, as I witnessed a repetition of theirattempts for many successive Sundays, it is possi-ble (to use the language of the old fairy tales)that it may remain the same " to this very day."The eternal quadrille finished the evening, andit rained heavily all night.With all these drawbacks, our fete may havebeen considered a failure. Had the weather been
46 A FETE IN PRANCE.fine, it was not difficult to conceive that it wouldhave been a very pleasant affair. The merchanttemps ruined every thing.A COURTIER'S REWARD.IT is well Known that Napoleon liked splendourin every thing and every person at his court. Asenator of very handsome fortune, but of verysordid habits, was seen by the Emperor alightingfrom a hackney coach at the gates of the Tuile-ries; the monarch said to him, on his appearancein the saloon, " Have you no carriage ?"-"- No,sir," replied the senator, "I I have not yet beenable to provide myself with one, but I hopeshortly to do honour to your kind generosity."-" Well, well," rejoined the Emperor, " youshall have one to-morrow suitable to your rank."The senator left the royal presence transportedwith joy at the idea of having a carriage free ofexpense. The morrow came, and with it camea beautiful carriage, to which four magnificenthorses were richly harnessed; at the same timea note from the sovereign--" Pay to the bearer20,000 fr. price of the equipage"-was handed tohim, with which command he was, very unwil-lingly, forced to comply. The matter formed astanding joke at the Imperial Court long after,
147MERRY MARGARET." A merrier woman,Within the limit of becoming mirth,I never spent an hour's talk withal,.Her eye begets occasion for her wit,For every object that the one doth catchThe other turns to a mirth-moving jest;Which her brisk tongue (conceit's expositor)Delivers in such apt and gracious words,That aged ears play truant at her tales;And younger hearings are quite ravished;So quick and voluble is her discourse.""T VHAT constitutes madness? is a very difficultquestion to answer. In Brown's abridgment ofcases of lunacy, there is a curious instance of aman on whom a commission had been appointed,-because he was found unable to manage his ownconcerns, and whom the verdict pronounced to beunthrift. Certainly they might as well have pro-nounced him lunatic at once, for then his affairswould have been taken out of his own hands : asit was, their absurd pertinacity, by declaringhim merely imprudent and not insane, left him
48 MERRY MARGARET.to spend hislast farthing, to come to want, anddie in a:workhousel -Tfthe strongest inconsistencies of human" nature, is an exclusive attention to the avoidanceSof bodily diseases, without an effort to preventi thosee of the mind. If we have caught a cold of":-the slightest nature, we are as busy and as anxiousS:to remove it, as though it were to bring on thek plague. If a bleeding at the nose, or a. running:at the eyes;, or a dulness at the ears, takes place,some remedy must at on(p be applied, or some. yil consequence will follow. If we sprain an:ancle, or stiffen the neck, or render the shoulderSbo..ne less easy than usual in its motions, we are:all complaint, and all inquiry, lest some fatal"..-result should be at hand I Now all this is very:i),roper in itself, and, no objection can fairly beurged against the most prompt and effectual pre-- .7 '. ,::veition of bodily disease; but why should weSDe ss solicitous about the beginning of disease.Sin thhe mind, and never fearful that such symp-:. toms, if not taken in time, may lead to insanityand' madness ? Why, especially, should we. be'Sredklless in this case, as to create and cherishSthe beginning of a mentaldisease, by bitter com-plaints and wild apprehensions of what has arisenSin the body ?For what is mental disease which may lead to:madness ? Is it not ill temper? Is it not fretful
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MERRY MARGARET. 49anxiety ? Is it not excessive fear ? Is it not ex-travagant suspicion ? Is it not" Pale envy sick'ning at another's good?"And may not these things lead to insanity quiteas soon as a cold, or a sprain, or any other slightaffection and accident of the body, lead to in-curable illness ? Are not these things, in fact, asmuch incipient madness, as the other are inci-pient fever or consumption ? How strange, then,passing strange is it, that notwithstanding mad-ness, in the bare possibility of it, is dreaded in-finitely more than diseases which bring on certaindeath, all our care should be devoted to preventbodily disease, while symptoms of mental de-rangement pass unheeded, and are even strength-ened in the attempt. Our numerous suicides are,unquestionably, acts of insanity, and every ver-dict, without exception, should be to that effect,because no man in his senses would put an endto his own life. But are we, therefore, to con-clude that no suicide is a responsible being ?-Ifhe be not responsible for the last murderous act,he may be so for the derangement which broughtit on-if he be not accountable for the closingscene, he may be for much of his progress to-wards it, and he, undoubtedly, often is for hisfirst setting out in that wild and passionateyr
50 MERRY MARGARET.career which, at length, brings him to this me-lancholy end."Why these remarks have been made the intro-duction to a story turning on mirth, the writercan scarcely explain, except that it is mirth ofan insane character which is chiefly to engagethe reader's attention. If excessive rage hasbrought on the fiercer forms of madness in some,excessive joy has given birth to the merrier mo-difications of insanity in others: this was thecase with the heroine of the present story-ifsuch a laughing, dancing dame, may be men-tioned under such a title.From infancy and childhood, she was alwaysmerry to a fault; laughing at every thing thattook place, without regard to the nature of theoccurrence, or the painful consequences it mightentail on others. Her only regret was that shewas poor; but this did not restrain her mirth:she laughed at its necessary effects, in her coarsefood and tattered garments: and even at its well-known cause, the folly of her parents in drown-ing their fortune, as she used to describe it, inthe South-sea-losing their property in the cele.brated bubble of that name.This calamity broke their hearts; but, thoughshe never allowed herself to joke with theirdeath, she was not therefore restrained from her-usual mirth, on account of its obvious cause:
MERRY MARGARET. 51she grew up more full of merriment than ever,and was often told by her companions that theadversity which had brought her father and mo-ther to the dust, seemed scarcely to restrain herfrom flying in the air.At last she took the hint, and, as schemes offlight in abundance were then contriving, sheeasily persuaded one of the inventors, who wasglad of such a dupe, to lend her a pair of wings.With these she strove to pass from the top of atree to the summit of an adjacent hill; but shefell in the attempt, and had her folly punished bythree months painful confinement. Before herstrength returned a very different event tookplace, which gave a larger infusion of insanity toher mirth, while, perhaps, it was the cause ofimposing on its exuberance some safe restraint,and rendering its wildest exercise perfectly harm-less. The settlement of the South-sea affairbrought her in a creditor, as the only survivingchild of her parents, to the amount of betweenfive and six hundred pounds. The fact was cau-tiously communicated to her; yet she exultedwith such excess at the dragging up, as she calledit, of so much money for poor Margaret from thebottom of the sea, that fears were entertained ofa fatal result. At length she was able to leaveher bed, by which time an annuity had been pur-F2
52 MERRY MARGARET.chased for her, and her support became as certainand ample as she could wish.Now began the wild incoherence of her mirth.Whereas before she laughed at her poverty andmeanness, now she exulted in her vast wealth andhigh dignity. At one time she was an empress;but, as her limited reading would not furnish herwith an empress of the name, she sunk into aqueen, rejoicing that she could still receive fromher subjects royal honour. This favourite pas-sion, in her old age, almost occasioned her violentdeath. The populace of the town in which shelived were inflamed with zeal in defence of theunfortunate queen Caroline, and chose Margaretto represent their idol in a procession. Hervanity and hilarity on this occasion knew nobounds, and she attempted several times to standon her throne, the better to display the whiterobe of innocence with which she was decked.In one of these attempts she fell from the loftyeminence amidst the crowd ou her admirers, andwas almost trampled to death under the feet ofthe very men and women, whose tongues were, atthe same moment, hailing her as their spotlessqueen!Extremes often meet, and from the sublime tothe ridiculous is sometimes but a single step.On the same morning that Margaret was arrayed
" alRRiY MARGARET 53as a queen, she would often appear as a beggar:and it was very generally observed that her royalrobes were put on while a bright sun was in theheavens, and were exchanged for the weeds ofpoverty as the orb of day passed under loweringclouds, or sunk beneath the horizon. In a win-ter's evening she seldom failed to present herselfin almost every public house of the town; yet, ifa stranger offered her money, it was politely re-fused, with an intimation that she had enough,and to spare.One evening she entered the best room of aninn, where three gentlemen were sitting, two ofwhom had never seen her before, while the thirdtook no notice of her, because she had recentlypassed off one of her worst tricks upon him.What was their surprise when she merrily toldthem to depart while they were free, for officersof justice were at hand to arrest them for smug-gling !They kept their seats, and almost their silence,breaking the latter only by the remark that theyhad nothing to fear but from the overflowing ofher mirth. Continuing to dance to her ownbuoyant spirits and words, she assured them theywould not be at their own disposal five minuteslonger, and that they hal better follow her to aplace of safety. They were at length excited, byher mere importunance to leave the room, andj 34
54 MERRY MARGARET.soon after the house. On her exulting in thesuccess of her joke, they were followed into thestreet by the landlord, the only other person thenin the house, to see the result; and it was scarcelyempty before a large stack of chimneys fell witha prodigious crash, and would have been fatal toall who remained beneath the roof. This cir-cumstance, which really happened at a small innin an extreme northern county, about eighty yearsago, would appear to have no connection with theinsane mirth of poor Margaret, beyond the factthat she was the individual who gave the warn-ing; when, perhaps, quiet travellers, in a com-posed and comfortable mood, were not likely tobe disturbed by any other person. The writerintroduces the anecdote with no scruple in assert-ing the event to have been a proof of divine inter-position, acting by the most singular, yet suitable,instrumentality.Margaret's power of walking was the most won-derful thing about her, and her habit of advocatingthis method of travel from place to place, gaveproof of wisdom, as well as mirth and wit. Shewas sometimes told that nature required theassistance of art to convey it to great distances:when she would break out in a defence of nature,as she called it, from such an insult. " What""-she would sometimes ask--" can be more na-tural than going from place to place in the
MERRY MARGARET. 55upright position in which God has made ye ?Let them that choose endure the shocks andthumps of riding a horse; and let them that canand choose too, loll down in a chair upon wheelsand springs. I like the method of travellingthat gives exercise to every part of my poor bodyat once. You pay for every journey a price ofhealth, as well as other prices for turnpikes, andhorses, and carriages, and harness, and whips, andgrooms, and heaven knows what; while I pickup my food on the way, often for nothing, andget a stock of health, and therefore wealth, everymile into the bargain."Her answers, of which this is a sample, weregenerally so diverting, and her illustrations andlanguage so appropriate, that all who knew herwould often provoke her best efforts by oppositionand sophistry. " You acknowledge, then, thatyou are dependent at last," said one of a companyat an inn she had visited. "Dependent !" shesaid, with a loud laugh-" that is droll indeed,especially on the subject of walking. If I was-the slave of a hostler or a driver, a groom or acoachman, like you, I might be called dependent.When I called for my horse, and my man said,with a long face, the mare is lame and the geld-ing has been drenched: or when I called for mychaise, and heard that a wheel was broken, or theharness wanted mending, I might then be called
56 MERRY MARGARET.dependent: but what dependence have I, when,with the rising sun, I take my hat and staff, andgo forth without asking any one, or being ques-tioned by master or man ? What dependence canI have when there is no one to consult on thejourney, any more than at starting, but myself?"When you are fairly on your way, your horse maybe restive, or your servant sulky, and you arenonplussed whether to advance or return: but Ihave only to tell my legs to keep moving, and mywork is done."On another occasion, some one affected to pityMargaret by reason of the danger to which shewas exposed, especially in her long journies." 0 yes! danger indeed!" she answered, "Ihave seen you riding along, I suppose at yourease, as you would say. You was at your ease,truly, watching the motions of your horse, whichseemed to me to have a strange talent, first foistumbling, and then for starting At your ease,indeed, when I saw you was obliged to keep asharp look out to prevent your wheels being en-tangled, and your little chaise upset by everyother carriage that passed! I will take upon meto say, that while I walked along without fear,you were not at your ease till you left yourwheeled chair, and got down in safety at yourown door. Ybur terror at your own danger was,I own, a little merriment to poor Margaret."
MERRY MARGARET. 57The latter days of Margaret were spent withconsiderable usefulness and comfort. When shecould walk no longer, she wished to be active,and of service to others. She was appointed toattend the sick female ward of an hospital. Herexcessive mirth began to abate, yet would sherelieve the sufferers around her by tales of heryouth, each of which had some moral design, andall were told in language at once cheerful andintelligent. At length she became confined toher bed, and then reason appeared to return ingreater strength than for the last fifty years.Moreover, its calm yet cheerful exercise wasattended by the consolations of religion, and thehope of future blessedness. In her last days itmight be said of her as of an ancient divine, thatshe was " seriously cheerful and cheerfully seri-ous." She had just reached her seventy-hilthyear when she died, an example of lively resigna-tion to the will of God,
58THE LOST KEYS.BY A LADY.IT was a glorious June morning, and I got upgay and bright, as the Americans say, to break-fast in the pretty summer-room overlooking thegarden, which, built partly for my accommoda-tion, and partly for that of my geraniums, whomake it their winter residence, is as regularlycalled the green-house, as if I and my severalproperties-sofas, chairs, tables, chiffonieres, andottomans-did not inhabit it during the whole ofthe fine season; or as if it were not in its ownperson a well-proportioned and spacious apart-ment, no otherways to be distinguished fromcommon drawing-rooms, than by being nearlyfronted with glass, about which out-of-door myr-tles, passion flowers, clematis, and the Persianhoneysuckle, form a most graceful and variedframe-work, not unlike the festoons of flowersand foliage which one sees round some of thescarce and high-prized tradesmen's cards, andridotto tickets of Hogarth and Bartolozzi. Largeglass folding-doors open into the little garden,
THE LOST KEYS. 59almost surrounded by old buildings of the mostpicturesque form-the buildings themselves partlyhidden by clustering vines, and my superb bay-tree, its shining leaves glittering in, the sun onone side, whilst a tall pear-tree, garlanded to thevery top with an English honeysuckle in fullflower, breaks the horizontal line of the low cot-tage-roof on the other; the very pear-tree being,in its own turn, half concealed by a splendidpyramid of geraniums erected under its shade.Such geraniums! It does not become us poormortals to be vain-but really, my geraniums !There is certainly nothing but the garden intowhich Aladdin found his way, and where thefruit was composed of gems, that can comparewith them. This pyramid is undoubtedly thegreat object from the green-house; but the com-mon flower-beds which surround it, filled withroses of all sorts, and lilies of all colours, andpinks of all patterns, and campanulas of allshapes, to say nothing of the innumerable tribesof annuals, of all the outlandish names that everwere invented, are not to be despised even besidethe gorgeous exotics, which, arranged with thenicest attention to colour and form, so as tocombine the mingled charms of harmony andcontrast, seem to look down proudly on theirhumble compeers.No pleasanter place for a summer breakfast-
60 THE LOST KEYS.always a pretty thing, with its cherries, and straw-berries, and its affluence of nosegays and posies--no pleasanter place for a summer breakfasttable than my green-house-and no pleasantercompanion, with whom to enjoy it, than the fairfriend, as bright as a rose-bud, and as gay as alark-the saucy, merry, charming Kate, who waswaiting to partake our country fare. The birdswere singing in the branches; bees, and butter-flies, and. myriads of gay happy insects were flit-ting about in the flower beds; the haymakerswere crowding to their light and lively labour mia neighboring meadow; whilst the pleasantsmell of the newly-mown grass blended withthat of a bean-field in full blossom still nearer,and with the thousand odours of the garden-sothat sight, and sound, and smell, were a rarecompound of all that is delightful to the senseand the feeling.Nor were higher pleasures wanting. My prettyfriend, with all her vivacity, had a keen relishof what is finest in literature and in poetry. Anold folio edition of that volume of Dryden calledhis " Fables," which contains the glorious rifa-cimenti of parts of Chaucer, and the best of hisoriginal poems, happened to be on the table; thefine description of Spring in the opening of theFlower and the Leaf, led to the picture of Edenm the Paradise Lost, and that again to Comus,
THE LOST KEYS. 61and Comus to Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess,and Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess to Shak-speare, and As You Like It. The bees and thebutterflies, culling for pleasure or for thrift thesweets of my geraniums, were but types of KateLeslie and myself roving amidst the poets. Thisdoes not sound much like a day of distress; butthe evil is to come.A gentle sorrow did arrive, All too soon, in theshape of Kate Leslie's poney-phaeton, whichwhisked off that charming person as fast as hertwo long-tailed Arabians could put their feet tothe ground. This evil had, however, substan-tial consolation in the promise of another visitvery soon; and I resumed, in peace and quiet-ness, the usual round of idle occupation whichforms the morning employment of a countrygentlewoman of small fortune: ordered dinner-minced veal, cold ham, a currant pudding, anda sallad-if any body happens to be curious onthe score of my housekeeping; renewed my beau-pots; watered such of my plants as wanted most;-mended my gloves; patted Dash; looked at theTimes; and was just sitting down to work, or topretend to work, when I was most pleasantlyinterrupted by the arrival of some morning visit-ers-friends from a distance-for whom, after ahearty welcome and some cordial chat, I orderedluncheon, with which order my miseries began.G
62 THE LOST KEYS." The keys, if you please ma'am, for the wineand the Kennet ale,"' said Anne, my female fac-totum, who rules, as regent, not only the cook,and the under-maid, and the boy, but the wholefamily, myself included, and is an actual house-keeper in every respect except that of keepingthe keys. " The keys, ma'am, if you please,"said Anne; and then I found that my keys were,not in my right-hand pocket, where they oughtto have been, nor in my left-hand pocket, wherethey might have been, nor in either of my apronpockets, nor in my work basket, nor in my reti-cule-in short, that my keys were lost!Now these keys were only two in number, andsmall enough in dimensions; but then the oneopened that important part of me, my writing-desk; and the other contained within itself thespecific power over every lock in the house,being no other than the key of the key-drawer;and no chance of picking them-for alas! alas!the locks were Bramah's! So, after a few excla-mations, such as, What can have become of mykeys? Has any one seen my keys? Somebodymust have run away with my keys!-I recol-lected that, however consolatory to myself suchlamentations might be, they would, by no means,tend to quench the thirst of my guests. I ap-plied myself vigorously to remedy the evil all Icould by sending to my nearest neighbours (for
THE LOST KEYS. 61and Comus to Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess,and Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess to Shak-speare, and As You Like It. The bees and thebutterflies, culling for pleasure or for thrift thesweets of my geraniums, were but types of KateLeslie and myself roving amidst the poets. Thisdoes not sound much like a day of distress; butthe evil is to come.A gentle sorrow did arrive, all too soon, in theshape of Kate Leslie's poney-phaton, whichwhisked off that charming person as fast as hertwo long-tailed Arabians could put their feet tothe ground. This evil had, however, substan-tial consolation in the promise of another visitvery soon; and I resumed, in peace and quiet-ness, the usual round of idle occupation whichforms the morning employment of a countrygentlewoman of small fortune: ordered dinner-minced veal, cold ham, a currant pudding, anda sallad-if any body happens to be curious onthe score of my housekeeping; renewed my beau-pots; watered such of my plants as wanted most;mended my gloves; patted Dash; looked at theTimes; and was just sitting down to work, or topretend to work, when I was most pleasantlyinterrupted by the arrival of some morning visit-ers-friends from a distance-for whom, after ahearty welcome and some cordial chat, I orderedluncheon, with which order my miseries began.G
64 THE LOST KEYS.forced to borrow a shilling to give the messenger,I couldbear my loss no longer, and determinedto i itvtte- a strict search on& the instant.S 't before -the search could begin in came thepretty little roly-poly Sydneys and Murrays, bratsfrom seven downwards, with their whole train ofnurses, and nursery-maids, and nursery-govern-esses, by invitation, to eat strawberries; and thestrawberries were locked up in a cupboard, thekey of which was in the unopenable drawer!And good farmer Brookes, he too called, sent byhis honour for a bottle of hollands-the rightSchiedam; and the Schiedam was in the cellar;and the key of the cellar was in the Bramah-locked drawer! And the worthy farmer, whobehaved charmingly for a man deprived of hisgin, was fain to be content with excuses, like avoter after an election; and the poor childrenwere compelled to put up with promises, like avoter before one; to be sure they had a fewpinks and roses to sweeten their disappointment,but the strawberries were as uncomeatable as theSchiedam.At last they were gone, and then began thesearch in good earnest. Every drawer, not lock-ed, every room that could be entered, every boxthat could be opened, was ransacked over andover again for these intolerable keys.All my goods and chattels were flung together
THE LOST KEYS. 63time was pressing, and our horse and his masterout for the day) to supply, as well as might be,my deficiency. Accordingly I sent to the publichouse for their best beer, which, not being Ken-net ale, would not go down; and to the good-humoured wives of the shoemaker and the bakerfor their best wine. Fancy to yourselves a de-canter of damson-wine arriving from one quarter,and a jug of parsnip-wine, fresh from the wood,tapped on purpose, from the other! And this fordrinkers of Burgundy and Champaigne! Luckilythe water was good, and my visitors were good-natured, and comforted me in my affliction, andmade a jest of the matter. Really they are anice family, the St. Johns, especially the twoyoung men, to whom I have, they say, taughtthe taste of spring water.This trouble passed over lightly enough. Butscarcely were they gone before the tax gatherercame for money-locked up in my desk! Whatwill the collector say ?-And the justice's clerkfor warrants, left under my care by the chairmanof the bench, and also safely lodged in the samesafe repository. What will their worships say tothis delinquency ? It will be fortunate if they donot issue a warrant against me in my own per-son! My very purse was left by accident in thatunlucky writing-desk; and when our kind neigh-bours, the Wrights, sent a melon, and I wasG 2
66 THE LOST KEYS.a pair of garden-scissors against his old compa-nion, a silver pencil case, and that prospect fadedaway. A slight opening of Dryden's heavily-.-irnd volume gave another glimmer of sunshine,`u8t it proved to be occasioned by a sprig ofmyrtle in Palamon and Arcite-Kate Leslie'selegant mark.This circumstance recalled the recollection ofmy pretty friend. Could she have been the cul-prit ? And I began to ponder over all the in-stances of unconscious key-stealing that I hadheard of amongst my acquaintance. How my oldfriend, Aunt Martha, had been so well known forthat propensity as to be regularly sought afterwhenever keys were missing; and my youngfriend, Edward Harley, from the habit of twist-ing something round his fingers during his elo-quent talk (people used to provide.another elo-quent talker, Madame de Stael, with a willowtwig for the purpose), had once caught up andcarried away a key, also a Bramah, belonging to alawyer'sbureau, thereby, as the lawyer affirmed,causing the loss of divers lawsuits to himself andhis clients. Neither Aunt Martha nor Edwardhad been near the place; but Kate Leslie mightbe equally subject to absent fits, and might, in aparoxysm, have abstracted my keys; at all eventsit was worth trying. So I wrote her a note to goby post in the evening (for Kate, I grieve to say,r Y AU i to say
THE LOST KEYS. 07lives above twenty miles off) and determined toawait her reply, and think no more of my cala-mity.A wise resolution! but, like many other wiseresolves, easier made than kept. Even if I couldhave forgotten my loss, my own household wouldnot have let me.The cook, with professional callousness, cameto demand sugar for the currant pudding-andthe sugar was in the store-room-and the store-room was locked; and scarcely had I recoveredfrom this shock before Anne came to inform methat there was no oil in the cruet, and that theflask was in the cellar, snugly reposing, I sup-pose, by the side of the Schiedam, so that if forweariness I could have eaten, there was no dinnerto eat-for without the sallad who would takethe meat ? However, I being alone, this signifie&little; much less than a circumstance of which Iwas reminded by my note to Kate Leslie, namely,that in my desk were two important letters, onetriple, and franked for that very night; as well asa corrected proof-sheet, for which the press waswaiting; and that all these despatches were to besent off by post that evening.Roused by this extremity, I carried my troublesand my writing-desk to my good friend the black-smith-a civil intelligent man, who sympathizedwith my distress, sighed, skook his head, and
68 THE LOST KEYS.uttered the word Bramah!-and I thought myperplexity was nearly at its height, when, as Iwas wending slowly homeward, my sorrows werenought to a climax by my being overtaken byone of the friends whom I admire and honour:most in the world-a person whom all the worldadmires-who told me, in her prettiest way, thatshe was glad to see me so near my own gate, forthat she was coming to drink tea with me.Here was a calamity! The Lady Mary H., aprofessed tea-drinker-a green-tea-drinker, one (itwas a point of sympathy between us) who tooknothing but tea and water, and, therefore, requiredthat gentle and lady-like stimulant in full perfec-tion. Lady Mary come to drink tea with me;and I with nothing better to offer her than tea fromthe shop--the village-shop-bohea, or souchong,or whatever they might call the vile mixture.Tea from the shop for Lady Mary! Ill luckcould go no further: it was the very extremityof small distress.Her ladyship is, however, as kind as she ischarming, and bore our mutual misfortune withgreat fortitude; admired my garden, praised mygeraniums, and tried to make me forget my cala-mity. Her kindness was thrown away. I couldnot even laugh at myself, or find beauty in myflowers,:or be pleased with her for flattering them.I tried however, to do the honours by my. plants,
THE LOST KEYS. 69and, in placing a large night-scented stock, whichwas just beginning to emit its odour, upon thetable, I struck against the edge, and found some-thing hard under my belt." My keys! my keys!" cried I, untying theribbon, as I heard a most pleasant jingle on thefloor; and the lost keys, sure enough, they were;deposited there of course, by my own hand;unfelt, unseen, and unsuspected, during our longand weary search. Since the adventure of mydear friend, Mrs. S., who hunted a whole morn-ing for her spectacles whilst they were comfort-ably perched upon her nose, I have met withnothing so silly and perplexing.But my troubles were over-my affliction wasat an end.The strawberries were sent to the dear littlegirls; and the Schiedam to the good farmer;and the warrants to the clerk. The tax-gatherercalled for his money; letters and proofs went tothe post; and never in my life did I enjoy a cupof Twining's green tea so much as the one whichLady Mary and I took together after my day ofdistress.^PprRo r `
70TIHE YOUNG TYROLESE.SAM O N G t h e g a ll a n t b a n d o f p a t r i o t s th a t r a l-lied so bravely round the standard of AndrewHofer, there was not a more devoted championof- freedom than Gustavus Rosen. Placed bybirth and fortune beyond the cares incidental topoverty, and blessed in the society of a belovedwife and two amiable children, Rosen had passedthe meridian of his days in tranquil happiness;misfortune had been a stranger to his dwelling,till the invasion of the French army poured thered tide of war with remorseless fury into theonce fruitful valleys of the Tyrol. All that wasdear and lovely lay crushed beneath the steps ofthe conqueror; the voice of woe and wailing washeard throughout the land-mothers mourningfor their children, children for their parents.The sound of busy, cheerful labour ceased onthe plains; the joyous voice of childhood washushed. The note of the shepherd's pipe washeard no more as he led his fleecy care from thefold. The chime of sabbath bells no longerswelled with hallowed melody upon the breeze,summoning the inhabitants of the land to meettogether in the house of prayer, to mingle in one
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 71general chorus of praise and grateful thanks-giving, to Him from whose hand all blessingsflow.Those bells were now only heard pealing forththe alarum that woke terror and dismay in thehearts of the feeble and the helpless, minglingin jangling and discordant sounds with the rollingdrums, the shrill blast of the bugle, or loud trum-pet, and the deep roar of the artillery. The tumultof war had hushed all other sounds.Panic stricken, the Tyrolese at first made noeffectual effort for resisting the invading army;they looked to Austria for succour, but she wasunable to afford them any assistance, and thehapless Tyrol fell a victim to the policy of itsprinces.In the hour of terror and despair, when all hadforsaken her, Hofer, the village innkeeper, alonestood forth as the champion of his country. Firedwith patriotic zeal, he planted the standard offreedom once more on his native mountains, ex-horting his countrymen to rally round it in de-fence of their country's rights.The fire of patriotism was kindled, and like theelectric shock, it flew from man to man. Thethrilling cry of " Hofer and Liberty !" was re-peated by every tongue. " We will conquer or diein the cause of freedom !" and a thousand answer-ing echoes from the hills returned, " We will die !"
72 THE YOUNG TYROLESE.Even women and children seemedinspired withthe same patriotic zeal, and vowed to die in thedefence of their country. Mothers were seen lead-ing their sons, yet striplings in years, to thecamp, with their own hands arming them in thecause of Liberty. "It is better to die than tolive the slaves of France," they said.The standard of the Tyrolese army was com-mitted by Hofer's own hand, to the care of theyoung son of Gustavus Rosen, a gallant boy ofsixteen, with a solemn .charge to defend it withhis Iife.." I will defend it," replied the youth, as heunfolded it to the breeze, " and when this bannerfalls, there shall the son of Gustavus Rosen befound beside it. Death only shall part us."Three times did the brave Tyrolese, led on byHofer, beat back the invader to the frontier, andvictory seemed to crown them with success; butthe crafty Bavarian now poured his thousandsinto the Tyrol, overpowering by the force ofnumbers, the few brave men who were left todefend their country, and effecting that whichthe armies of France had been unable to do alone.At this juncture Austria made peace withFrance, and the Tyrol was ceded to Buonaparte,who demanded it as one of the conditions of the" treaty, Unable"to defend the province, the Em-peror yielded up the Tyrol without reserve.
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 73Hopeless, dejected, and overpowered by num-bers, the unfortunate Tyrolese were obliged torelinquish the unequal strife: burning with in-dignation, they withdrew among the inaccessibleglens and fastnesses of their native mountains,resolving to perish rather than yield to theusurper's power.The bravest and best of that devoted band hadfallen, or were carried captives across the Alps:"6 Scattered and sunk, the mountain bandFling the loved rifle from their hand,The soul of fight is done."During the heat of the war, Gustavus Rosenhad conveyed his wife and his infant daughter toa safe retreat among the mountains, where underthe care of an old and faithful friend, who formany years had followed the adventurous life ofan Alpine hunter, he knew they would be safefrom the horrors of the war, which spared notin its fury either the infant or the ancient ofdays." Here, my beloved Gertrude," he said, ad-dressing his weeping partner, " you and ourTeresa will find safety and repose; and thoughold Albrecht's cot be rude and homely, it is farbetter than our camps and leaguered walls,""6 There is no safety where you are not," exH
74 THE YOUNG TYROLESE.claimed the wife of Rosen, throwing herself intohis arms-" if there be safety in this wild retreat,stay -and share it with us."7 The eye of the patriot soldier flashed fire: heturned, and pointed sternly to the wreaths of dunSmo k e t h a t r o l l e d i n h e a v y v o l u m e s a c r o s s t h edistant plain. " A thousand helpless mothers,with their orphan children, cry for vengeanceagainst the spoiler on yonder smoking plain!And shall their appeal be unheard?" he criedvehemently, grasping his sword. " See, Ger-trude, even now heaven blushes with the fieryglare of yon flaming hamlet, and shall I slumberhere in inglorious ease, while my country de-mands my aid ?"Then softening the impetuosity of his manner,he strove to soothe his weeping spouse; thepatriot's sternness yielding to the tenderness ofthe husband and father, he fondly folded thebeloved objects of his solicitude to his heart."Suddenly a rifle was fired. " Hark, 'tis the signalgun, he cried. " Gertrude, that shot was firedby our gallant boy." " My child! my Henrick!"exclaimed the distracted mother. " Stay, myhusband " but before the sound of that rifle hadceased to reverberate among the rocks, Rosenwas gone: with desperate haste he pursued hisperilous way, leaping from crag to crag, nowtrusting his weight to the weak sapling that over-
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 75hung his path, or stemming with nervous armthe force of the mountain torrent that wouldhave barred his path.Old Albrecht watched his fearful progress withsilent awe; then turned to soothe the grief of thedisconsolate Gertrude and her daughter; cheer-ing them with the hope that Rosen would soonreturn, at the same time bidding them welcometo his lowly roof and mountain fare. " You willbe as safe, dear lady," he said, " as the eagleon his eyrie on the rocks above you."The first intelligence that reached the wife ofRosen was, that her husband had fallen in thePasseyre valley, in a desperate skirmish with theFrench; it was the last effort made by the brave"Tyrolese in defence of their country. The braveHenrick too was no more ; he was found stretchedon the banks of the little stream at the gorge ofthe valley, wrapped in the banner which he hadsworn to defend with his last drop of blood. Hehad faithfully fulfilled his word, and the standardof freedom had become the winding sheet of theyoung hero." We knew young Henrick Rosen," said thesoldier who brought the sad news to the cot-tage of Albrecht, " by his fair face, and by thestandard which he still grasped in his hand,though that hand was stiffened by the chillnessof death."H 2
76 THE YOUNG TYROLESE.This heavy news overpowered the weak frameof Madame Rosen: she ,never again looked up,and before the close of the autumn, Teresa weptover the green sod that covered the grave of hermother.She had not attained her fifteenth year whenshe found herself an orphan, alone in the world,cut off from every kindred tie: yet, in the excessof her grief, she acknowledged the mercy ofHim who had not left her entirely destitute.The old hunter and his wife, folding the sor-rowing orphan by turns in their arms, promisedto fulfil to her the part of parents. " You shallbe our child," they said,-" shall eat of our ownbread, and drink of our own cup, and be- to usas a daughter."With pious words they strove to quiet thegrief of their adopted child, directing her tolook to that source whence only true comfortflows; and humbly to submit to the chasteningof that all-merciful God who wounds but to heal,and fills our hearts with sorrow that true joymay abound.The distressing events which, as a soldier'sdaughter, Teresa had necessarily witnessed, andthe untimely fate of her parents, had cast a shadeof melancholy over the mind of the young or-phan, and given a loftier tone to her feelings thanwas usual in one so young.
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 77Seated on the hearth at the feet of old Albrecht,she loved to listen to his mountain legends; byturns to weep or exult over the fortunes of theSwiss patriot Tell, a theme on which the oldhunter never tired. During the long winterevenings, while the wind roared round theirlowly dwelling, or the snow whirling in eddieschoked the paths, and beat upon their roof, oldAlbrecht would beguile the tedious hours, byrelating the feats of his youthful days, charmingthe attentive ears of his old Minna and of Teresa,by the exploits of the chamois hunter, or talesof other days. But the young Teresa loved bestto talk of her parents-of the patriots who fellin defence of their country-of her heroic bro-ther, who had fallen in the flower of his youth,so young, so brave-though her tears alwaysmingled with the lofty feelings which theseproud, yet sad recollections inspired.The long weary winter at length wore away;the warm breath of spring unloosed the moun-tain torrents from their icy chain; the rockyglens echoed once more " with the joy of waves.'The snow-wreaths melted before the influence ofthe sunbeams; and the earth, though tardily,put off her snowy vest, and came forth like abride decked with fresh flowers.In early youth there is a buoyancy in the mindwhich grief cannot entirely subdue, and whichn3
78 THE YOUNG TYROLESE.inclines us to seize with eagerness every glimpseof joy that presents itself in our path. Teresahailed the approach of spring with delight; she:lo0ed to ramble among the lonely glens, or climbthe 'mountain paths; to watch the stealthy la-bours of the marmot, hollowing its subterraneandwelling in the rocks; to follow with admiring"eye the soaring flight of the eagle, winging hisway through the pathless fields of air; to listento the short shrill cry of the swift-footed cha-mois, as, startled at her approach, he boundedaway to his inaccessible home among the rocks:the murmur of the stream, the sighing of thewind as it lifted the branches above her, or thecheerful whistle of the herdsmen, as they tendedtheir flocks on the adjacent hills, were music tothe ear of Teresa, and sounds which spoke ofchildish joys..In one of her mountain rambles, Teresa hadafforded some assistance to a poor shepherd indistress, and in return for her kindness he hadpresented her with a young lamb, one of thefirstlings of his flock. Delighted with the gift,Teresa carried home her lamb, and shewed itwith innocent pride to her adopted parents.From that time Minna (for so she called it out ofaffection to her adopted mother), became the con-Btant companion of her walks.Unweariedly the little creature followed the
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 79footsteps of her mistress, or gambolling beforeher, only quitted her side to crop the flowers ortender grass that grew in her path. Sometimesher gentle mistress would reproach her favouritefor wantonly destroying the garland she wasweaving to adorn her hat of straw, or to wreatheamong her own fair locks.Her dress was such as was usually worn bythe Tyrolese and Swiss girls: a bodice of darkcoloured cloth, laced tight to her bosom, whichwas shaded by a handkerchief or tucker of whitemuslin, a short petticoat of striped stuff, and awhile linen apron; these, with a large straw'hat,formed the general habiliments of the youngTeresa, whose native grace and loveliness needednot the adventitious adornments of dress torender her more pleasing.One of Teresa's favourite haunts was a narrowdell, not far from the dwelling of old Albrecht;the only entrance to this secluded spot was by arude descent of rocky fragments, which had beenworn into the appearance of steps by the foot ofthe hunter. The mountain daisy, the pale ra-nunculus, and deep-blue violet, bloomed here innative beauty among the rocks, or diversified thesloping turf beneath the lime and chesnut tree;while the dark pine afforded a support to thevarious parasitical plants which wreathed their
80 THE YOUNG TYROLESE.slender stems, in fantastic garlands, round itsrugged bark.SIt was at the close of a beautiful calm day, intha month of August, that wearied with playing-her knitting pins by the side of old Minna at thecottage door, Teresa sought her favourite retreat,and seated on the grassy mound at the foot of a"tall lime tree, fell into a train of sorrowful re-flections.In her way to the dell she had passed by thegrave of her mother, on which with duteouscare, according to the custom of her country,she had strewn fresh-gathered flowers; uncon-sciously her tears had fallen while offering thistribute of affection to the memory of her belovedparent, and the remembrance of all her tenderlove, and maternal care, recurred to her mind, tosadden the heart of the young orphan.In vain her little pet strove with anxious soli-citude to attract her notice: Teresa, engrossedby her own sad thoughts, appeared unconsciousof her presence, till bleating reproachfully, theneglected favourite licked her hands, and rubbedher head against her mistress's knee." Ah, pretty Minna!" she said, stooping tocaress the lamb, " I fear I have grieved you bymy neglect." Just then a rustling among thebushes caused her to turn her head, when she
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 81"beheld from between the parting masses offoliage two strangers, who were intently regard-ing her.A vague indistinct idea crossed the mind ofthe bewildered girl, as she gazed for an instant onthe war-worn features of the elder stranger; herheart beat tumultuously; was it a dream, thecoinage of her own imagination, or did she in-deed behold her father? Yes, it was indeed Gus-tavus Rosen! The humble garb of the herds-man that enveloped his noble form, the deepscars which had marred his lofty brow, and thepallid hue which sickness and sorrow had spreadover his countenance, could not disguise the pa-rent from the eye of filial affection." My father !" burst involuntarily from thelips of Teresa: the arms of the war-worn soldierwere extended to enfold his daughter, as shesprang forward and flung herself weeping on hisbosom."( My child! my dear, my beloved child!'murmured the agitated father, pressing her to hisheart with fervent gratitude.Who shall enter into the feelings of that pa-rent and his child, thus unexpectedly re-united ?or speak the anguish of Rosen's heart, whenTeresa led him in silence to the grave whichcovered the mouldering ashes of her belovedmother ?
82 THE YOUNG TYROLESE," It ik. the hand of the Almighty," he said, atlength rising from the grassy mound where thefirst burst of grief had subsided. " And shall Idare, ungrateful as I am, to arraign the justiceQf that Being, who in his mercy summoned theo'er wearied spirit to its home of rest ?"Then turning to his daughter, he said, " Te-resa, you must welcome this young stranger as"the preserver of your father's life. Come hither,Louis, he continued, taking the hand of hiscompanion; " this is the beloved child of whomyou have so often heard me speak during mycaptivity."The dark eye of the young stranger brightenedas he took the extended hand of Teresa, whothanked him with artless warmth for the servicesrendered to her father.To old Albrecht and his wife, Rosen seemedlike one returned from the grave; and to theiranxious inquiries how he whom they had num-bered with the dead, thus again appeared amongthem, he replied-that in the skirmish whichhad taken place in the Passeyre valley, he hadindeed been wounded, but not mortally, and wastaken prisoner, and conveyed with many of hisgallant countrymen to the Porta Molina of Man-tua, where he was confined in the barracks,which, at that time, formed the depot for prison-ers of war
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 83" During my illness, which was long and,painful," said Rosen, " my chief attendant wasthis youth, the son of one of the centinels whoused to guard my prison-to his unremitting ten-derness and care I first owed my life, and subse-quently my liberty." I remained in a-doubtful state, lingering asit were between life and death, from the begin-ning of November till the month of January;health at length appeared returning, when onemorning I was surprised by an unexpected visitfrom the governor, who, approaching the tablenear which I was seated, laid a written paperbefore me; my eye glanced over its contents;they were too plainly defined. It was my owndeath-warrant, duly signed and sealed." It was not thefear of death, for I had facedhim too often in the field to dread his power, butit was the thought of my wife and of you, myTeresa, that for a moment bowed the stern spiritof the soldier, and forced tears from- eyes whichnever wept before."( There are those that make it hard for youto die, Gustavus Rosen,' said the governor. Iacknowledged it. He paused for a minute andhesitated-then turning to me. said, There is away by which you might not only avert the dis-pleasure of the Emperor, but convert it intoeverlasting friendship.' I was silent, and he
84 T'HE YOUNG TYROLESE.continued, taking my hand, You were the friendof Andrew Ilofer-discover his retreat to me,an-d your pardon is instantly sealed.'"., .Tell your base Emperor,' I cried, dashingfrom me the hand of the governor,' that Gus-tavus Rosen scorns life and liberty on such vileterms!'" But, alas! my firm rejection of these infa-mous terms availed not; the gallant Hofer hadbeen betrayed, basely betrayed into the hands ofhis enemies, and was that very day led throughthe streets of Mantua as a prisoner. This wasthe death-blow to the hopes of freedom and theTyrol. They had captured, but not conqueredthat brave spirit; the soul of the patriot was stillas free'as when he first reared the standard ofliberty on his native mountain." Ask me not now to dwell on his death scene;the remembrance of that name is yet too fresh inthe minds of his friends-suffice it to say, he diedas he had lived-the hero, the patriot, the pride,the glory of his country! The name of Hoferwill ever be cherished by the sons of liberty; andhis memory, and that of his followers who diedin the cause of Freedom, will be hallowed by thetears of their country, and their deathless famerecorded in the page of history, and immortalizedbythe song of the patriot bard.": Time," continued Rosen, " passed on: agi.
THE YOUNG TYROLESE. 85station of mind brought on a return of my illness,and for many weary weeks I remained a prey tofever and disease: during that period my sen-tence was repealed; the death of our gallantleader had satisfied the vengeance of our enemies." With returning health came an insatiablelonging for liberty, and the desire of once againbeholding my wife and my child. Louis, who hadbeen my faithful attendant during all my sick-ness, marked my restlessness, and having wonfrom me the cause, formed a plan for my escape.His father being lately dead, he had no tie tobind him to the spot, and he insisted on sharinghimself the chances of our expedition--my escape--which we carried into effect as soon as circum-stances favoured our design. Success attendedus beyond our most sanguine expectations, norcan I be too grateful to the generous friend whohas been the means of restoring me once more infreedom to the arms of my beloved child.""Is young Louis a native of France, or is he aMantuan ?" asked Albrecht, who had for sometime regarded the young stranger with more thancommon interest.", My father was a French soldier," repliedLouis; " my mother a native of Bregentz, atown bordering, as I believe, on Tyrol and Swit-zerland. She was the daughter of an AlpineI
86 !HE TOUNG TYROLESE.hunter, and left her parents to follow the fortunesof the -cmp with my father."" the yet living ?" asked old Albrecht, in aaewp voice4". My mother has been dead nearly five years."" :F(And your father ?"" He also is dead : he died in the hospital atMantua, a few weeks ago."" What was your mother's maiden name?"demanded old Minna, with great emotion." Annette Friedwald," was the brief reply." She was our child! Our only child !" ex-claitned the old couple. " And you, Louis, areour grandchild, whom Heaven, in its bounty, hasrestored to us to be the solace and comfort of ourdeclining years."It was, indeed, the child of their long regretteddaughter, who, by a train of singular events, hadthus unexpectedly been made known to them.Gustavus Rosen and his daughter shared in thehappiness of the old hunter and his wife. " Youwere the kind protectors of my Teresa," saidRosen, " when she was a destitute orphan, andher father now restores to you a son to be theprop of your old age. Thus may true friendshipand benevolence ever meet with their due recom-pence!"
87A FUNERAL AT SEA.IT need not be mentioned, that the surgeon isin constant attendance upon the dying man, whohas generally been removed from his hammockto a cot, which is larger and more commodious,and is placed within a screen on one side of thesick bay, as the hospital of the ship is called.It is usual for the captain to pass through thisplace, and to speak to the men every morning;and I imagine there is hardly a ship in the ser-vice in which wine, fresh meat, and any othersupplies recommended by the surgeon, are notsent from the tables of the captain and officers tosuch of the sick men as require a more generousdiet than the ship's stores provided. After thecarver in the gun-room has helped his messmates,he generally turns to the surgeon, and says," Doctor, what shall I send to the sick ?" But,even without this, the steward would certainlybe taken to task were he to omit inquiring, as amatter of course, what was wanting in the sickbay. The restoration of the health of the inva-lids by such supplies, is, perhaps, not more im-portant, however, than the moral influence of theattention on the part of the officers. I would12
88 A FUNERAL AT SEA.strongly recommend every captain to be seen (nomatter for how short a time) by the bed-side ofany of his crew whom the surgeon may report asdying. Not occasionally, and in the flourishingstyle with which-we read of great generals visit-ing hospitals, but uniformly and in the quietsobrietyy of real kindness, as well as hearty con-sideration for the feelings of a man falling at hispost in the service of his country. He who iskilled in action has a brilliant Gazette to recordhis exploits, and the whole country may be said'to attend his death-bed. But the. merit is notless-or may even be much greater-of the sol-dier or sailor who dies of a fever in a distant land--his story untold, and his sufferings unseen. Inwarring against climates unsuited to his frame, hemay have encountered, in the public service, ene-mies often more formidable than those who han-dle pike and gun. There should be nothing leftundone, therefore, at such a time, to show notonly to the dying man, but to his shipmates andhis family at home, that his services are appreci-ated. I remembered on one occasion, hearingthe captain of a ship say to a poor fellow who wasalmost gone, that he was glad to see him socheerful at such a moment; and begged to knowif he had anything to say. " I hope, sir," saidthe expiring seaman with a smile, "I have donemy duty to your satisfaction?" "That you
A FUNERAL AT SEA. 89have, my lad,' said his commander, "and to thesatisfaction of your country too." " That is allI wanted to know, sir," replied the man. Thesefew commonplace words cost the captain not fiveminutes of his time, but were long recollectedwith gratitude by the people under his orders,and contributed, along with many other gracefulacts of considerate attention, to fix his autho-rity.If a sailor, who knows he is dying, has a cap-tain who pleases him, he is very likely to send amessage by the surgeon to beg a visit, not oftento trouble his commander with any commission,but merely to say something at parting. Noofficer, of course, would ever refuse to grantsuch an interview, but it appears to me it shouldalways be volunteered; for many men may wishit, whose habitual respect would disincline themto take such a liberty, even at the moment whenall distinctions are about to cease.Very shortly after poor Jack dies, he is pre-pared for his deep-sea grave by his messmates,who, with the assistance of the sailmaker, andin the presence of the master-at-arms, sew himup in his hammock, and, having placed a coupleof cannon-shot at his feet, they rest the body(which now not a little resembles an Egyptianmummy) on a spare grating. Some portion ofthe bedding and clothes are always made up in'3
90 A FUNERAL AT SEA.the package,. apparently to prevent the fornbeing too much seen. It is then carried aft, and,being placed across the after hatchway, the unionjack is thrown over all. Sometimes it is placedbetween two of the guns, under the half deck;but generally, I think, he is laid where I havementioned, just abaft the mainmast. I shouldhave mentioned before, that as- soon as the sur-geon's ineffectual professional offices are at anend, he walks to the quarter deck, and reportsto the officer of the watch that one of his pa-tients has just expire. At whatever hour octhe day or night this occurs, the captain is im-mediately made acquainted with the circumstance.Next day, generally about eleven o'clock, thebell on which the half hours are struck, is tolledfor the funeral, and all who choose to be present,assemble on the gang-ways, booms, and roundthe mainmast, while the fore-part of the quarterdeck is occupied by the officers. In some ships,(and it qught perhaps to be so in all) it is madeimperative on the officers and crew to attend theceremony. If such attendance be a proper markof respect to a professional brother, as it surelyis, it ought to be enforced, and not left to ca-price. There may, indeed, be times of greatfatigue, when it would harass men and officersneedlessly to oblige them to come on deck forevery funeral, and upon such occasions the watch
.A FUNERAL AT SEA. 91on deck may be sufficient. Or, when some diredisease gets into a ship, and is cutting down hercrew by its daily and nightly, or it may be hourlyravages, and when, two or three times in a watch,the ceremony must be repeated, those onlywhose turn it is to be on deck need be assem-bled. In such fearful times, the funerel is gene-rally made to follow close upon the death.While the people are repairing to the quarter-deck, in obedience to the summons of the bell,the grating on which the body is placed, beinglifted from the main deck by the messmates ofthe man who has died, is made to rest acrossthe lee-gangway. The stanchions for the man-ropes of the sides are unshipped, and an openingmade at the after-end of the hammock netting,sufficiently large to allow a free passage. Thebody is still covered by the flag already men-tioned, with the feet projecting a little over thegunwale, while the messmates of the deceasedarrange themselves on each side. A rope, whichis kept out of sight in these arrangements, isthen made fast to the grating, for a purposewhich will be seen presently. When all is ready,the chaplain, if there be one on board, or, if not,the captain, or any of the officers he may directto officiate, appears on the quarter deck andcommences the beautiful service, which, thoughbut too familiar to most ears, I have observed,