THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN OUR REVOLUTION.

The “First Blood of the Revolution” is commonly supposed to have been shed at Lexington, April 19, 1775; but Westminster, Vt., files a prior claim in favor of one William French, who it is asserted was killed on the night of March 13, 1775, at the King’s court-house, in what is now Westminster. At that time Vermont was a part of New York, and the King’s court officers, together with a body of troops, were sent on to Westminster to hold the usual session of the court. The people, however, were exasperated, and assembled in the court-house to resist. A little before midnight the troops of George the Third advanced and fired indiscriminately upon the crowd, instantly killing William French, whose head was pierced by a musket ball. He was buried in the churchyard, and a stone erected to his memory, with this quaint inscription:—

“In Memory of William French, Who Was Shot at Westminster March ye 12th, 1775, by the hand of the Cruel Ministerial tools of Georg ye 3rd at the Courthouse at 11 o’clock at Night in the 22d year of his age.

THE “TEA-PARTY” AND THE “TEA-BURNING.”

The world has rung with the story of the “Boston tea-party,” how in the darkness of night certain men disguised as Indians threw overboard the cargo which bore the obnoxious duty, and kept their secret so well that even their own families were not trusted with it. It was a resolute and patriotic act, and answered its purpose. But why all the darkness, the disguise and mystery? Because the number of those who opposed the act, either from loyalty to Great Britain, from timidity, or from pecuniary interest in the cargo, was so great, that only by such means could the deed be done and the doers of it escape punishment.

How does this compare with the “tea-burning” in Annapolis in the same year? Here the course to be taken was publicly and calmly discussed in open assembly; the resolution arrived at was openly announced, and carried out in the face of day, the owner of the vessel himself applying the torch. This was the Maryland way of doing the thing; and it may well be asked whether the calm judicial dignity of the procedure, the unanimity of sentiment, the absence alike of passion and of concealment, are not far worthier of commemoration and admiration than the act of men who, even for a patriotic purpose, had to assume the garb of conspirators and do a deed of darkness.

The local historians thus tell the story:—

On the 14th of October, the brig Peggy Stewart arrived at Annapolis, having in its cargo a few packages of tea. The duty was paid by the owner of the vessel. The people were outraged at the attempt to fix upon them the badge of servitude, by the payment of the tax.

A meeting was held, at which it was determined that the tea should not be landed. The owner, fearing further trouble, proposed to destroy the tea. But that was not sufficient punishment. The offence was a grave one, for had this attempt succeeded, it would have been followed by others more aggressive, and thus the very principle which was contended for would have been overthrown in the end. It was the head of the ugly beast that was thrust in the door, and it must not only be put out, but driven out by blows, lest growing bold, it should push its whole body in.

After much discussion it was proposed to burn the vessel. The meeting did not consent to this, but many expressed their determination to raise a force to accomplish the brig’s destruction.

Acting under the advice of Mr. Carroll of Carrollton, the owner, seeing that the loss of his property was certain, and willing to repair his good name, even by that loss, proposed to destroy the vessel with his own hands. In the presence of the assembled multitude he set fire to it, with the tea on board,—expiating his offence by the destruction of his property.

The striking features of this transaction were not only the boldness with which it was executed, but the deliberation and utter carelessness of concealment in all the measures leading to its accomplishment.

It was not until the 28th of November that the Dartmouth arrived in Boston harbor, and not until the 16th of December that protracted discussion ended in the overthrow of its cargo. The tea-ship sent to South Carolina arrived December 2d, and the tea-ship to Philadelphia, December 25th. The cargo of the former perished in storage; that of the latter was sent back.

THE UNITED STATES NAVY.

A South Carolina correspondent of the American Historical Record writes as follows concerning the inception of the Navy:—

A few years ago, while looking over a volume of manuscript letters in the Charleston (South Carolina) Library, I found a leaf of coarse foolscap, with the following endorsement:—

ORIGIN OF THE NAVY.

At a caucus in 1794, consisting of Izard, Morris, and Ellsworth of the Senate, Ames, Sedgwick, Smith, Dayton, &c. of the Representatives, and of Secretaries Hamilton and Knox, to form a plan for a national navy, Smith began the figuring as Secretary of the meeting. Hamilton then took the pen, and instead of minuting the proceedings, he amused himself by making a variety of flourishes during the discussion. In consequence of the plan adopted at this meeting, a bill was reported for building six frigates, which formed the foundation or origin of the American Navy.

The “figuring” on the top of the page consists of five lines, and is as follows:—

Then follows an estimate of the annual cost of such a vessel. The rest of the page below these estimates is occupied by bold flourishes, which seem, if they mean anything, to imitate a drawing of a peacock’s tail “in its pride.” Similar scratching, but to a less extent is on the other side of the page.

The only letter addressed to Shakspeare, which is undoubtedly genuine, is that now in the museum at Stratford, from Richard Quinn, the actor, asking for a loan of £20. This letter is endorsed: “To my lovinge good ffriend and countreyman, Mr. William Shackespere deliver Thees.” If the writer spelled names no better than other words, this affords little aid to the solution of the perplexing question, for notwithstanding the outrageous fashion in which our forefathers spelled English, he is considerably ahead of his age in this respect.

There has been discovered in Boston the following letter relative to William Penn, written “September ye 15, 1682.” by Cotton Mather, to “ye aged and beloved Mr. John Higginson”:—

There bee now at sea a shippe (for our friend Mr. Esaias Holcraft, of London, did advise me by ye last packet that it wolde sail some time in August) called ye Welcome, R. Greenaway, master, which has aboard an hundred or more of ye heretics and malignants called Quakers, with W. Penne, who is ye chief scampe at ye hedde of them. Ye General Court has accordingly given secret orders to Master Malachi Huxett, of ye brig Porpusse, to waylaye ye said Welcome as near the coast of Codde as may be, and make captive ye said Penne and his ungodlie crew, so that ye Lord may be glorified and not mocked on ye soil of this new countrie with ye heathen worshippe of these people. Much spoyl can be made by selling ye whole lotte to Barbadoes, where slaves fetch good prices in rumme and sugar, and we shall not only do ye Lord great service by punishing ye wicked, but shall make great gayne for his ministers and people.

Master Huxett feels hopeful, and I will set down ye news he brings when his shippe comes back.

AN AMERICAN MONARCHY.

After the downfall of Napoleon I., in 1815, several young Americans who subsequently earned high position as writers and statesmen, among them Irving, Everett, Ticknor, LegarÉ, and Preston, (afterward Senator from South Carolina,) went to Europe for the benefit of foreign travel. While abroad, they took an opportunity to pay a visit to Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Preston relates that during the evening, in the course of conversation, Sir Walter gave an account of a curious discovery he had made.

Not long after it had been divulged who was the author of the “Waverley Novels,” Scott was the Regent’s (afterward George the Fourth) guest in the royal palace, where, one day, the latter ordered the key of a certain room to be given to the great writer, saying that it opened the door of the Stuart Chamber, where all the papers concerning the Stuarts and their pretenders were kept. George gave Scott full permission to rummage among all these records, and to use what he liked for his works. “I depend on your discretion,” he said, and Scott went. He spent several days in this curious chamber, and, so he told Preston, one day stumbled upon what seemed to him a remarkable paper. It consisted of a call and petition, by Scottish in America, chiefly, however, by the Gaelic Scottish who had a settlement—“saddle-bagging” as it is sometimes expressed in the West—in North Carolina, addressed to the Pretender (Prince Charles Edward, grandson of James the Second), as he was then called, to come to America and assume the crown of this realm.

The question whether this country had not best be turned into a monarchy was seriously and very naturally mooted, in the earliest days of our national existence, but until this singular revelation was made, it was not known that such a positive offer, a very strange one, to say the least, had been made.

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

The following description of the significance of the different parts of our national flag was written by a member of the committee appointed by the Continental Congress to design a flag for the young Republic:—

The stars of the new flag represent the new constellation of States rising in the West. The idea was taken from the constellation of Lyra, which in the land of Orpheus signifies harmony. The blue in the field was taken from the edges of the Covenanter’s banner, in Scotland, significant of the league-covenant of the United Colonies against oppression, incidentally involving the virtues of vigilance, perseverance and justice. The stars were disposed in a circle symbolizing the perpetuity of the Union; the ring, like the serpent of the Egyptians, signifying eternity. The thirteen stripes showed with the stars, the number of the United Colonies, and denoted the subordination of the States to the Union, as well as equality among themselves. The whole was the blending of the various flags of the army and the white ones of the floating batteries. The red color, which in Roman days was the signal of defiance, denoted daring; and the white purity.

The French tricolor, so far from being a revolutionary flag, is more ancient than the white flag, and was, in fact, the flag of the House of Bourbon. Clovis, when he marched through Tours to fight the Visigoths, adopted as his banner the scope of St. Martin, which was blue, and thus blue was, so to speak, the first French color. The oriflamme, which was the particular flag of the Abbey of St. Denis, and was red, became to a certain extent the national flag, when St. Denis came under the protection of the kings of France, the kings still preserving their blue flag studded with golden fleurs de lis. The white flag (which was also the banner of Joan of Arc) has in all countries, and through all times, been the sign of authority. And when Louis XIV. destroyed the functions of the colonels-general of the different corps that bore the white standard, the color became the emblem of Royal authority. Nevertheless, it is useless to dispute the fact that the tricolor took its rise as the badge of the National Guard at the French Revolution, and that it will be as difficult to separate it from the idea of revolution as to separate the white flag from the idea of legitimacy.

THE POLITICAL GAMUT.

In 1815 the French newspapers announced the departure of Bonaparte from Elba, his progress through France, and his entry; into Paris, in the following manner:—

March 9. The Anthropophagus has quitted his den.—March 10. The Corsican Ogre has landed at Cape Juan.—March 11. The Tiger has arrived at Gap.—March 12. The Monster slept at Grenoble.—March 13. The Tyrant has passed through Lyons.—March 14. The Usurper is directing his steps towards Dijon, but the brave and loyal Burgundians have risen en masse, and surrounded him on all sides.—March 18. Bonaparte is only sixty leagues from the capital; he has been fortunate enough to escape the hands of his pursuers.—March 19. Bonaparte is advancing with rapid steps, but he will never enter Paris.—March 20. Napoleon will, to-morrow, be under our ramparts.—March 21. The Emperor is at Fontainebleau.—March 22. His Imperial and Royal Majesty yesterday evening arrived at the Tuileries, amidst the joyful acclamations of his devoted and faithful subjects. 5 The Journal des DÉbats, in reference to the escape from Elba, spoke of Napoleon on the 9th of March, as “the Poltroon of 1814.” On the 15th it said to him, “Scourge of generations thou shall reign no more!” On the 16th he is “a Robespierre on horseback”; on the 19th, “the adventurer from Corsica”; but on the 21st, we are gravely told that “the EMPEROR has pursued his triumphal course, having found no other enemies than the miserable libels which were vainly scattered on his path to impede his progress.”

THE FLIGHT OF EUGENIE.

The following particulars of the flight of the Empress of France from Paris, in consequence of the subversion of the Napoleonic dynasty by the capitulation of Sedan, were furnished by the late Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, who obtained them from one who aided the flight of Eugenie, and are therefore stamped with the essentials of authenticity.

The safety of the Empress had been assured to her by General Trochu, who had solemnly promised to inform her of the approach of danger. For some unexplained reasons he failed to do so, and when on Sunday the mob began to assemble about the Tuileries, three of her friends, Prince Metternich, the Spanish Ambassador and M. Lesseps, formed a plan for her escape, and went to her rescue. M. Lesseps stood outside and harangued the mob for the purpose of detaining them, while the two other gentlemen went in search of the Empress. They found her partaking of a very frugal lunch with one of her ladies, and her fears could not be aroused. Seeing it impossible to persuade her, the two gentlemen used force to remove her. At this she consented to make a slight preparation, and without at all changing her dress, (for the mob had already entered the Palace), catching up a small leathern reticule, she put into it two pocket-handkerchiefs, and two books, the New Testament and a prayer-book. On her head she put a riding hat, and then by that time thoroughly aroused, she fled through the Palace, through long corridors, up and down flights of stairs, through chamber and salon, a long distance before they came down to the Rue Rivoli, on which side of the Palace the mob had not collected. Here a cab awaited her. She, with the lady in attendance, was put into it. “Now,” said the friends, “we must leave you; too well-known, our attendance would bring destruction upon you! Make good speed!” Yes, good speed, for she heard the cries of the furious mob, and as she was entering the cab a little boy exclaimed, “There is the Empress,” and she thought all was lost; but it proved that there was no one there to take notice, and so the two ladies drove off. Soon they came into the midst of the excited crowd, and the lady accompanying her questioned on this side and the other the meaning of it all, and appeared to be lost in wonder at the proceedings, while the Empress sank back out of sight in the carriage. They had a long ride out beyond the Champs ÉlysÉes to the quieter parts of the city, when they alighted, dismissed the cab, to avoid giving any clew in case of pursuit, and walked some distance. Where should she go? To whom flee? What friend trust? There was but one to whom she would venture, and that one an American gentlemen of some note, who, with his wife, had long been a friend of both Emperor and Empress. So they took another cab for the house of this gentleman (whom we will call Mr. W——), arriving there to find him away from home, and his wife absent for the summer at a small seaport on the coast. The servant under these circumstances was extremely ungracious, and quite refused to admit these strange ladies, and when at last, upon their insisting, they were admitted to the house, she was unwilling to show them into an apartment suitable for them, and it was not without some difficulty that they were allowed to wait in the library for the owner’s return. When at last he returned and entered the room, judge of his surprise at the sight of the Empress. “You must get me immediately out of France,—this very night,” exclaimed the Empress the moment she saw him. Out of France that very night? He told her it was impossible. He was expecting a party of friends to dinner, but would plead sudden business and excuse himself, and make preparations as quickly as possible for her flight; but, in the meantime, she must be quiet and rest. This she was prevailed upon to do, and, supplying herself from Mrs. W——’s wardrobe, retired for the night.

The dinner party, receiving the excuses of the host, and overcome with a sense of mystery, soon withdrew in spite of the cordial message and wishes of the gentleman that they would make themselves merry in his absence. At four o’clock in the morning a carriage stood at the door, into which Mr. W—— put the two ladies, and, driving himself, they set off on their way out of France, pursuing quiet streets, confining their course to unfrequented roads and lanes of the country, and avoiding the more public highways, until the horses were worn out. They were then near a little village; and the question arose how to get a carriage brought to them, and explain why they could not go to it. Mr. W—— went to the inn and, having found a private carriage which was waiting over there, agreed with the servant to come out a mile or so and carry his party, Mr. W——’s two sisters—one of whom was very lame indeed, and could not walk a step—some miles on, till they should come to a railway. This done and the lame lady with much difficulty put into the carriage by her “brother” and “sister,” they proceeded for a distance until they came to a railway, where they left the carriage to break up the clew, and rode a short distance in the rail-car without attracting attention. Then they took another carriage, riding in roundabout ways, until at the end of two days they reached the little seaport where Mrs. W—— was spending the summer. How must Mr. W—— conduct the ladies into the presence of his wife without being observed by every one? After some reconnoitring, this was successfully accomplished, and throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. W——, Eugenie exclaimed: “You and your husband are the only friends left to me in the world.” She, with the lady who accompanied her, remained in the room of Mrs. W——, lest some one should see and recognize her. No servant could be allowed to enter the room. Mrs. W—— brought food to the two ladies and served the Empress in everything, who expostulated at the inconvenience she was causing her friend, and insisted upon waiting upon herself, her behavior being of such a sweet character as still more to endear her to her friends, who were risking nearly all they possessed in her cause.

Their plan was now to get her across the Channel to the Isle of Wight, and thence to England. There were but two conveyances in the harbor—both private yachts—and only one able to get out to sea. The owner of that one flatly refused to take the ladies over, but at last, after the identity of the ladies had been made known and much persuasion used, he consented, and Mr. W—— and the two ladies, with the reticule containing two pocket-handkerchiefs, set out the day after their arrival in the little seaport town on their voyage to England.

This is a journey usually made in a few hours; but a terrible storm arising, it was prolonged to twenty-seven. The same night and in the same waters the ever-memorable vessel the Captain went down. But although the gentleman in command lost all control of himself and ship, they weathered the storm.

During this time Eugenie showed the most remarkable self-possession, and evidently looked upon death as a relief from her woes. But this was not to be, and after a passage fraught with the most imminent danger, she was landed on the Isle of Wight, to find on English ground that asylum which had been sought by so many fugitives before her. And to add to her relief, her son, of whose whereabouts she knew nothing, was found to be in Hastings, not far from her.

Such is the true story of Eugenie’s escape from Paris and France. What a sad, sad tale of fallen greatness! How much must she have suffered in those few days! the fury of a Paris mob in her ears; the fear of pursuit at her back; how often did she start, and give herself up for lost! What threatening meaning did many an accidental phrase assume! No wonder her courage sustained the fearful storm; the thunder and lightning, the waters, however dark and cold and deep, would be far more merciful than that dreadful mob that called out her name, the mob that had shown no pity to the little child or tender woman, and derided with the bitterest insults the fond Marie Antoinette at the guillotine. Oh, France! when we remember those days of terror, can we wonder at this retribution?

NAPOLEON III.

The following lines, suggested by the rise of Louis Napoleon, were written January 6th, 1853. The capitulation of Sedan occurred September 1, 1870, and the death of the exile of Chiselhurst, January 9, 1873.

This memorable utterance was originally made at Toulouse in the autumn of 1852, while Louis Napoleon was feeling the public pulse in the vineyards of Southern France, preparatory to re-establishing the imperial rÉgime. At the close of a splendid banquet given to him by the Chamber of Commerce, in the Bourse, the Prince-President, emboldened by the mad enthusiasm of the company present, suddenly cast off all reserve, and unequivocally announced the impending change. “There is one objection,” he urged in vindication of his purpose, “to which I must reply. Certain minds seem to entertain a dread of war; certain persons say, the Empire is only war. But I say, the Empire is Peace (l’Empire c’est la Paix), for France desires it, and when France is satisfied the world is tranquil.”

JEFFERSON ON MARIE ANTOINETTE.

Mr. Jefferson’s estimate of Marie Antoinette is not so favorable as that of some writers; for many years after his return from France he wrote of her thus:—

This angel, as gaudily painted in the rhapsodies of Burke, with some smartness of fancy, but no sound sense, was proud, disdainful of restraint, indignant at all obstacles to her will, eager in the pursuit of pleasure, and firm enough to hold to her desires, or perish in their wreck. Her inordinate gambling and dissipations, with those of the Count d’Artois and others of her clique, had been a sensible item in the exhaustion of the treasury, which called into action the reforming hand of the nation; and her opposition to it, her inflexible perverseness and dauntless spirit, led herself to the guillotine, drew the king on with her, and plunged the world into crimes and calamities which will forever stain the pages of modern history. I have ever believed that had there been no queen there would have been no Revolution. No force would have been provoked or exercised. [He adds, that he would not have voted for the execution of the sovereign. He would have shut the queen up in a convent, and deprived the king only of irresponsible and arbitrary power.]

GENERAL BLÜCHER.

This “personal” of BlÜcher is from the Recollections of Lady Clementina Davies:—When the special messengers arrived to inform BlÜcher that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and that his services would be immediately required in the field, they were astonished to find him literally running round and round a large room, the floor of which was covered with sawdust, and in which he had immured himself under the delusion that he was an elephant. For the time it was feared that BlÜcher was hopelessly insane, or that he was so far suffering from delirium tremens that his active co-operation in the anticipated campaign would be impossible; but when the urgent news was brought him he at once recovered himself, and proceeded to give his advice in a perfectly sound state of mind, the tone of which was thus, as by a sudden shock, restored to him.

THE MOTHER OF CHARLES V.

An interesting historical discovery has been made by a Prussian savant, of the name of Bergenroth, who was commissioned by the English Government to investigate various collections of Spanish archives for papers illustrating the relations between Spain and England in the middle ages. Among other important documents, M. Bergenroth discovered a hitherto unpublished mass of correspondence of Ferdinand the Catholic and Charles V.

From this correspondence it appears that Joanna, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, and mother of Charles, was not really mad, as all the world has hitherto believed. The story was an atrocious fabrication, under cover of which, first her father, and then her son kept her incarcerated, in order to keep possession themselves of the crown of Castile, which was hers by right of her mother Isabella. After long years of rigorous and even cruel captivity, the unfortunate lady did at last lose her senses, but not until her old age.

We are continually called upon to reconstruct our views of history, which, the more we study it, more and more resembles Hamlet’s cloud, taking whatever shape partisanship may determine. We must draw a new likeness of Charles, who is no longer the prince full of Flemish bonhomie, good knight, and boon companion, rigorous and despotic, but not personally cruel; and when this is done, Philip II. will appear a less surprising anomaly.

THE TRADITIONAL MARY MAGDALENE.

The injurious and probably unjust inferences respecting Mary Magdalene, as drawn by the general assent of the Christian Church from the narratives of the Evangelists, in which mention is made of her attendance on our Lord, want the stamp of confirmation. Such portraiture is more traditional than authoritative. The prevailing conjecture that the infirmity of which she had been cured implied moral guilt was rejected, or mentioned with hesitation, by the early Greek and Latin Fathers. It was taken up by Gregory the Great, and stamped with his authority in the latter part of the sixth century. It is sanctioned by the Roman Breviary, and its truth has been assumed by most ecclesiastical writers, who seem to think that Mary loved much because she had much to be forgiven. Painters and poets have described the supposed illustrious penitent, in loose array, without giving her costume the benefit of her conversion! By these means it became established in the popular mind. This was the more easy, as it supplied an agreeable and interesting contrast. It made one Mary serve as a foil to set off the excellencies of another. Mary, the mother of our Lord, became the type of feminine purity; but the leaders of opinion were not content with giving her those honors to which all Christians consider her justly entitled. To give it, however, the advantage of a striking contrast, and thus make it shine with greater splendor, a female character of an opposite description was wanted—a type of fallen womanhood, penitent and restored. And as “the woman which was a sinner,” mentioned by St. Luke in the seventh chapter of his Gospel, is left by the historian strictly anonymous, Mary Magdalene, whose name occurs in the next chapter, was seized on for this purpose, and her character treated in a way which, by any honest woman, would be deemed worse than martyrdom.

MOTHER GOOSE.

Mother Goose, instead of being a traditional bard, or a creature of fancy, as commonly supposed, was a veritable personage. The mother-in-law of Thomas Fleet, the editor, in 1731, of the Boston Weekly Rehearsal, was the original Mother Goose—the “old woman” of the world-famous melodies. Mother Goose belonged to a wealthy family in Boston, where her eldest daughter, Elizabeth Goose, was married by Cotton Mather, in 1715, to Fleet, and in due time gave birth to a son. Like most mothers-in-law in our own day, the importance of Mrs. Goose increased with the appearance of her grandchild, and poor Mr. Fleet, half distracted with her endless nursery ditties, finding all other means fail, tried what ridicule could effect, and actually printed a book with the title: “Songs for the Nursery, or Mother Goose’s Melodies for Children, printed by T. Fleet, at his printing house, Pudding Lane, Boston. Price ten coppers.”

Mother Goose was the mother of nineteen children, and hence we may easily trace the origin of that famous classic:—

HISTORY AND FICTION.

The archbishop of Canterbury once put the following question to Betterton, the actor: “How is it that you players, who deal only with things imaginary, affect your auditors as if they were real; while we preachers, who deal only with things real, affect our auditors as if they were imaginary?” “It is, my lord,” replied the player, “because we actors speak of things imaginary as if they were real, while you preachers too often speak of things real as if they were imaginary.” Whitefield used to tell this anecdote as an explanation of his own vehement and dramatic style of preaching. The remark may be applied to historical and fictitious writing. The old school historians were so solid and stately that they conveyed only feeble images to the mind, while poets and romancers out of airy nothings have created living and breathing beings. How much more readily we remember romance than history, and yet “truth is stranger than fiction.” Shakspeare’s Macbeth and Richard are not the Macbeth and Richard of history, yet we cling to the poet’s portraits of them, and discard the sober truth. “Macbeth,” Sir Walter Scott tells us, “broke no law of hospitality in his attempt on Duncan’s life. He attacked and slew the king at a place called Bothgowan, or the Smith’s house, near Elgin, in 1039, and not, as has been supposed, in his own castle of Inverness. The act was bloody, as was the complexion of the times; but in very truth, the claim of Macbeth to the throne, according to the rules of Scottish succession, was better than that of Duncan. As a king, the tyrant so much exclaimed against, was, in realty, a firm, just and equitable prince. Early authorities show us no such persons as Banquo and his son Fleance, nor have we reason to think that the latter ever fled further from Macbeth than across the flat scene according to the stage direction. Neither were Banquo or his son ancestors of the house of Stuart. All these things are now known, but the mind retains pertinaciously the impressions made by the imposition of genius. While the works of Shakspeare are read, and the English language exists, history may say what she will, but the general reader will only recollect Macbeth as the sacrilegious usurper and Richard as the deformed murderer.”

CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM.

Robert Greene, the Elizabethan dramatist and novelist, indulged in the following disparaging criticism in reference to Shakspeare:—

“There is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers that, with his tiger’s heart wrapt in a player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you, and being an absolute Johannes factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.”

The line in italics is a parody of one in 3 Henry VI., i. 4:—

“O! tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide,” which was taken from an old play called the First Part of the Contention of the two famous Houses of York and Lancaster. Shakspeare is known to have founded his Henry VI. upon this piece and another which are supposed to have been written by Greene or his friends, and hence, no doubt, Greene’s acrimonious remark.

Says Dugald Stewart in his Essays:—A curious specimen of cotemporary criticism is found in the Letters of the celebrated Waller, who speaks thus of the first appearance of Paradise Lost:—“The old blind schoolmaster, John Milton, hath published a tedious poem on the Fall of Man. If its length be not considered as merit, it has no other!” Johnson also says, in his Lives of the Poets: “Thompson has lately published a poem, called the Castle of Indolence, in which there are some good stanzas!”

Why do not men of superior talents strive, for the honor of the arts which they love, to conceal their ignoble jealousies from the malignity of those whom incapacity and mortified pride have leagued together as the covenanted foes of worth and genius? What a triumph has been furnished to the writers who delight in levelling all the proud distinctions of humanity! and what a stain has been left on some of the fairest pages of our literary history by the irritable passions and petty hostilities of Pope and Addison!

Michelet, the historian, showed his extreme aversion to the First Napoleon by describing him as “without eyelashes or eyebrows; with a small quantity of hair of an uncertain brown; with eyes gray, like a pane of glass, wherein one sees nothing; in short, an incomplete and obscure impersonality which appears phantasmagorical.”

Fortuna quÆ plurimum potest, cum in aliis rebus, tum prÆcipue in bello, in parvis momentis magnus rerum mutationes efficit.—CÆsar, De Bello Civili.

In Poor Richard’s Almanac, 1758, Franklin quotes,—“He adviseth to circumspection and care even in the smallest matters, because sometimes ‘A little neglect may breed great mischief,’ adding, ‘For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost’; being overtaken and slain by the enemy, all for want of care about a horse-shoe nail.” And St. James (ch. iii. v. 5) gives a fine illustration in respect to the government of the tongue, “Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.”

In the relations of cause and consequence there must, of course, be many greater causes in readiness to act. An accidental spark may blow up a fortress—provided there be gunpowder in the magazine. But it is as legitimate as it is curious to trace the successive links of a chain of events back to small accidents.

“How momentous,” says Campbell, “are the results of apparently trivial circumstances! When Mahomet was flying from his enemies, he took refuge in a cave; which his pursuers would have entered, if they had not seen a spider’s web at the entrance. Not knowing that it was freshly woven, they passed by, and thus a spider’s web changed the history of the world.”

When Louis VII., to obey the injunctions of his bishops, cropped his hair and shaved his beard, Eleanor, his consort, found him, with this unusual appearance, very ridiculous, and soon very contemptible. She revenged herself as she thought proper, and the poor shaved king obtained a divorce. She then married the Count of Anjou, afterwards Henry II. of England. She had for her marriage-dower the rich provinces of Poitou and Guienne; and this was the origin of those wars which for three hundred years ravaged France, and cost the French three millions of men. All this probably had never occurred had Louis not been so rash as to crop his head, and shave his beard, by which he became so disgustful in the eyes of Queen Eleanor.

Warton mentions, in his Notes on Pope, that the Treaty of Utrecht was occasioned by a quarrel between the Duchess of Marlborough and Queen Anne about a pair of gloves.

The expedition to the island of RÉ was undertaken to gratify a foolish and romantic passion of the Duke of Buckingham.

The coquetry of the daughter of Count Julian introduced the Saracens into Spain.

What can be imagined more trivial, remarks Hume, in one of his essays, than the difference between one color of livery and another in horse races? Yet this difference begat two most inveterate factions in the Greek empire, the Prasini and Veneti; who never suspended their animosities till they ruined that unhappy government.

The murder of CÆsar in the capitol was chiefly owing to his not rising from his seat when the senate tendered him some particular honors.

The negotiations with the Pope for dissolving Henry VIII.’s marriage (which brought on the Reformation) are said to have been interrupted by the Earl of Wiltshire’s dog biting his holiness’s toe, when he put it out to be kissed by that ambassador; and the Duchess of Marlborough’s spilling a basin of water on Mrs. Masham’s gown, in Queen Anne’s reign, brought in the Tory Ministry, and gave a new turn to the affairs of Europe.

If the nose of Cleopatra had been shorter, said Pascal, in his epigrammatic and brilliant manner, the condition of the world would have been different.

Luther might have been a lawyer, had his friend and companion escaped the thunderstorm; Scotland had wanted her stern reformer, if the appeal of the preacher had not startled him in the chapel of St Andrew’s Castle; and if Mr. Grenville had not carried, in 1764, his memorable resolution as to the expediency of charging certain stamp duties on the plantations in America, the western world might still have bowed to the British sceptre.

Giotto, one of the early Florentine painters, might have continued a rude shepherd boy, if a sheep drawn by him upon a stone had not accidentally attracted the notice of Cimabue.

THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Mr. Jefferson used to relate, with much merriment, that the final signing of the Declaration of Independence was hastened by an absurdly trivial cause. Near the hall in which the debates were then held was a livery stable, from which swarms of flies came into the open windows and assailed the silk-stockinged legs of honorable members. Handkerchief in hand they lashed the flies with such vigor as they could command on a July afternoon, but the annoyance became at length so extreme as to render them impatient of delay, and they made haste to bring the momentous business to a conclusion.

After such a long and severe strain upon their minds, members seem to have indulged in many a jocular observation as they stood around the table. Tradition has it that when John Hancock had affixed his magnificent signature to the paper, he said, “There, John Bull may read my name without spectacles!” Tradition, also, will never relinquish the pleasure of repeating that, when Mr. Hancock reminded members of the necessity of hanging together, Dr. Franklin was ready with his “Yes, we must indeed all hang together, or else, most assuredly we shall all hang separately.” And this may have suggested to the portly Harrison—a “luxurious, heavy gentleman,” as John Adams describes him—his remark to slender Elbridge Gerry, that when the hanging came he should have the advantage, for poor Gerry would be kicking in the air long after it was all over with himself.

French critics censure Shakspeare for mingling buffoonery with scenes of the deepest tragic interest. But here we find one of the most important assemblies ever convened, at the supreme moment of its existence, while performing the act that gives it its rank among deliberate bodies, cracking jokes, and hurrying up to the table to sign, in order to escape the flies. It is precisely so that Shakspeare would have imagined the scene.

According to a Spanish tradition the discovery of America is mainly due to the result of a hard-fought game of chess. Columbus had for seven weary years been dancing attendance upon the Court of Spain in pursuance of the aim of his life. The anxious petitioner for royal favor and assistance had failed to arouse in Ferdinand sufficient interest, in what was declared by the commissioners appointed to report upon the project, to be a visionary and impracticable scheme. True, he had enlisted the sympathy of the good queen Isabella, and his hopes had been encouraged and sustained by her in many ways. But after years of vain solicitation, baffled by the skepticism which could not share his aspirations, he determined to lay his plans before Charles VIII. of France, and accordingly called to take leave of their majesties before his departure from Cordova. Arriving at the palace at nightfall, he announced his purpose to the queen, who instantly sought Ferdinand with a determination to make a final effort on behalf of the sad and discouraged suitor. The king was absorbed in a game of chess with a grandee whose skill taxed his powers to the utmost. Isabella’s interruption had the effect of distracting the monarch’s attention, and of causing him to lose his principal piece, which was followed by a volley of imprecations on mariners in general, and Columbus in particular. The game grew worse, and defeat seemed imminent. With the prospect of being vanquished, Ferdinand at length told the queen that her protegÉ should be successful or otherwise accordingly as the game resulted. She immediately bent all her energies upon the board, and watched the long contest with concentrated interest. The courtiers clustered around the table, amused at the excitement of the king and the quiet satisfaction of his antagonist. And so the game went on which was to decide the discovery of a new world, until Isabella leaned toward her husband’s ear and whispered, “you can checkmate him in four moves.” In the utmost astonishment Ferdinand re-examined the game, found the queen’s assertion correct, and in the course of a few minutes announced that Columbus should depart on his voyage with the title of Admiral of the Elect.

THE STORY OF TWO FAVORITE BALLADS.

ANNIE LAURIE.

The birth of the heroine of the well-known ballad of Annie Laurie is quaintly recorded by her father, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, in the family register, in these words:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty God, my daughter, Annie Laurie, was born on the 16th day of December, 1682 years, about 6 o’clock in the morning, and was baptised by Mr. Geo.” [Hunter, of Glencairn.]

And his own marriage is given in the same quaint style:—

“At the pleasure of the Almighty, I was married to my wife, Jean Riddle, upon the 27th day of July, 1674, in the Tron Kirk of Edinb., by Mr. Annane.”

These statements are derived from the curious collection of manuscripts left by the late Mr. W. F. H. Arundell, of Barjarg Tower, Dumfriesshire. The papers of this industrious collector contain a vast fund of information respecting the antiquities and county families of Dumfriesshire. From them we learn further that Annie was wooed by William Douglas, of Fingland, in Kirkcudbrightshire. Her charms are thus spoken of in his pathetic lyric, “Bonnie Annie Laurie”:—

“She was, however, obdurate to his passionate appeal, preferring Alexander Ferguson, of Craigdarroch, to whom she was eventually married. This William Douglas was said to have been the hero of the well-known song, “Willie was a Wanton Wag.” Though he was refused by Annie, he did not pine away in single blessedness, but made a runaway marriage with Miss Elizabeth Clark, of Glenboig, in Galloway, by whom he had four sons and two daughters.”

ROBIN ADAIR.

Robin Adair was well-known in the London fashionable circles of the last century by the sobriquet of the “Fortunate Irishman;” but his parentage and the exact place of his birth are unknown. He was brought up as a surgeon, but “his detection in an early amour drove him precipitately from Dublin,” to push his fortunes in England. Scarcely had he crossed the Channel when the chain of lucky events that ultimately led him to fame and fortune commenced.

Near Holyhead, perceiving a carriage overturned, he ran to render assistance. The sole occupant of this vehicle was a “lady of fashion, well-known in polite circles,” who received Adair’s attentions with thanks; and, being lightly hurt, and hearing that he was a surgeon, requested him to travel with her in her carriage to London. On their arrival in the metropolis she presented him with a fee of one hundred guineas, and gave him a general invitation to her house. In after life Adair used to say that it was not so much the amount of this fee, but the time it was given, that was of service to him, as he was then almost destitute. But the invitation to her house was a still greater service, for there he met the person who decided his fate in life. This was Lady Caroline Keppel, daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle and of Lady Anne Lenox, daughter of the first Duke of Richmond. Forgetting her high lineage, Lady Caroline, at the first sight of the Irish surgeon, fell desperately in love with him; and her emotions were so sudden and so violent as to attract the general attention of the company.

Adair, perceiving his advantage, lost no time in pursuing it; while the Albemarle and Richmond families were dismayed at the prospect of such a terrible mesalliance. Every means were tried to induce the young lady to alter her mind, but without effect. Adair’s biographer tells us that “amusements, a long journey, an advantageous offer, and other common modes of shaking off what was considered by the family as an improper match, were already tried, but in vain; the health of Lady Caroline was evidently impaired, and the family at last confessed, with a good sense that reflects honor on their understandings as well as their hearts, that it was possible to prevent, but never to dissolve an attachment; and that marriage was the honorable, and indeed the only alternative that could secure her happiness and life.”

When Lady Caroline was taken by her friends from London to Bath, that she might be separated from her lover, she wrote, it is said, the song of “Robin Adair,” and set it to a plaintive Irish tune that she had heard him sing. Whether written by Lady Caroline or not, the song is simply expressive of her feelings at the time, and as it completely corroborates the circumstances just related, which were the town-talk of the period, though now little more than family tradition, there can be no doubt that they were the origin of the song, the words of which, as originally written, are the following:—

Immediately after his marriage with Lady Caroline, Adair was appointed Inspector General of Military Hospitals, and subsequently, becoming a favorite of George III., he was made Surgeon-General, King’s Sergeant Surgeon, and Surgeon of Chelsea Hospital. Very fortunate men have seldom many friends, but Adair, by declining a baronetcy that was offered to him by the king, for surgical attendance on the Duke of Gloucester, actually acquired considerable popularity before his death, which took place when he was nearly fourscore years of age, in 1790. In the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of that year there are verses “On the Death of Robert Adair, Esq., late Surgeon-General, by J. Crane, M. D.,” who, it is to be hoped, was a much better physician than a poet.

Lady Caroline Adair’s married life was short but happy. She died of consumption, after giving birth to three children, one of them a son. On her death-bed she requested Adair to wear mourning for her as long as he lived; which he scrupulously did, save on the king’s and queen’s birthdays, when his duty to his sovereign required him to appear at Court in full dress. If this injunction respecting mourning were to prevent Adair marrying again, it had the desired effect; he did not marry a second time, though he had many offers.

JOAN OF ARC.

The legend respecting the substitution of another person at the stake, and the subsequent marriage of the Maid to Robert des Hermoises, has been treated by no less an iconoclast than M. Octave Delepierre, the learned Belgian Consul in England, in a volume (Doute Historique), privately printed. In the AthenÆum for September 15, 1855, there is a complete analysis of the story, from which it appears that more than two centuries after the alleged execution of Joan, namely in 1645, Father Vignier found documents among the archives at Metz, which spoke of the presence and recognition of Joan in that city, five years after her alleged execution. The Father was then a guest of a descendant of Robert des Hermoises, in whose muniment chest he discovered the marriage contract of Robert and Joan. The matter was forgotten, when in 1740, documents were found at Orleans which recorded, among other things, a gratuity made to Joan in 1439, “for services rendered by her at the siege of the same city, 210 livres.” The tradition has many singular points, and is full of delightful uncertainty.

AMY ROBSART.

Another time-honored illusion is gone, and Amy Robsart descends into the grave like a respectable lady, instead of disappearing through a trap-door into a vault beneath and breaking her neck. So one by one the pleasant fictions over which in youth we lingered with such keen enjoyment, are stripped of their reality, and nothing but dull prose is left in their place. The pretty legend of Pocahontas, the venerable and patriotic one of William Tell, the ingenious mystification between the island of Juan Fernandez, Alexander Selkirk, and Robinson Crusoe, all have been cast down from their shrines. Nay, attempts have been made to remove Shakspeare himself into the region of myth, by representing that Lord Bacon was the veritable author of the plays and poems supposed to have been written by the great bard of Avon. No one need now despair of the disappearance of any time-honored personage or romance.

The name of Amy Robsart has always possessed a peculiar interest, not merely on account of the historical associations connected with her, but for the halo with which romance and poetry have invested her; and not the least strange feature of the case is the fact that historians should have so generally ignored the falsity of the legend. It had lain wrapped in its venerable mantle for more than three hundred years, until very recently, when public attention was forcibly called to the subject by an article published in the Oxford Undergraduates’ Journal, England. In a communication in that periodical, from the Secretary to the Oxford Architectural and Historical Society, there is a statement to the following effect: “The Rev. J. Burgon, the Vicar of St. Mary’s (Oxford), has caused an inscription to be cut on the top step of the three steps leading to the chancel of St. Mary’s Church, commemorating the site of the interment of the ill-fated Amy Robsart. The inscription is as follows: ‘In a vault of brick, at the upper end of this quire, was buried Amy Robsart, wife of Lord Robert Dudley, K. G., Sunday, 22d September, A. D. 1560.’” History tells us that the funeral was celebrated with great pomp: but previously to the ceremony, a coroner’s inquest was held on the body, and after a long and minute investigation of the circumstances, a verdict of “accidental death,” was returned. The character of the Earl of Leicester, (Lord Robert Dudley) her husband, was such as to raise grave doubts as to the mode by which she came by her death, and the popular belief that Queen Elizabeth was in love with him, and was willing to marry him, gave great countenance to the prevailing suspicion that he had kept his marriage a secret, and got rid of his wife to enable him to carry out his ambitious schemes. The historian, Hume, alludes to these reports, which, however, he derived from Camden, the antiquary, and which very probably originated in the political hostility and personal hatred of Cecil, Walsingham, and others of Leicester’s mortal enemies. Ashmole, in his work, The Antiquities of Berkshire gives the popular legend from which Sir Walter Scott derived many of the materials for his beautiful romance of Kenilworth.

Ashmole wrote his book about the middle of the seventeenth century, a hundred years after the fatal event at Cumnor Hall; he is, therefore, no authority on the subject; but William Julius Mickle, the poet, took him for one a century later, and turned the story into verse. And thus, between political hostility, personal dislike, the non-authenticated statements of historians, antiquaries, poets and novelists, it has long been accepted as an undoubted fact that Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, murdered his wife, or was accessory to her murder, at Cumnor Hall. But it has been very generally overlooked that his alleged main motive for the supposed murder could have had no existence. There is no doubt the Queen knew he was married, but she continued to disgrace herself by open professions of attachment to him notwithstanding; and after Amy’s sudden death, the inquest on her body, and her public funeral, “Good Queen Bess” was just as fond of him as ever, and showered such favors upon him as could have left him but little to wish for. He knew perfectly well that a marriage between himself and Elizabeth would have convulsed the kingdom, and probably cost him his life. He also knew that she had no real intention of parting with one iota of the royal power or prerogative, even to him, and hence the motive for the so-called murder falls to the ground, and with it the pathetic romance built upon it.

WILLIAM TELL.

William Tell is very hard to kill. German writers in the last century demolish him, over and over again, but to little purpose. He remained the Swiss hero, and what is far worse, those hideous statues at Altorf continue to assert their undying ugliness, and pretend to prove, by their presence there, the truth of the story. The giant has been recently slain once more as an impostor. Once more? Half a dozen times; and each slayer takes himself for the sole and original champion. Swiss professors even have been at the work of demolition. Three or four years ago Mr. Baring-Gould, in his “Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,” set up a dozen of those myths, and bowled them all down at one bowl: he proved, as others had done, that the legend of William Tell was “as fabulous as any other historical event.” Mr. Baring-Gould, however, does more than some others have done. He traces the story as far back as it can be traced. This is the order of the tradition:—

1. In the tenth century a tippling, boasting Danish soldier, named Toki, swore he could drive an arrow through an apple, placed on the point of a stick, at a great distance. King Harald Bluetooth told the boaster that the apple should be placed on his son’s head, and if Toki did not send an arrow through it at the first attempt, his own head should pay the penalty. Toki performed the feat with perfect success; but Harald perceiving he had brought other arrows, demanded the reason thereof, and Toki replied that if he had injured his son he would have driven those other arrows into the King’s body. The story was first related by Saxo Grammaticus, in the twelfth century.

2. But in the eleventh century the above prototype of Tell had successors or imitators. King Olaf, the Saint of Norway, challenged Eindridi, among other things, to shoot with an arrow at a writing tablet on the head of Eindridi’s son. Each was to have one shot. Olaf grazed the boy’s head, whereupon the boy’s mother interfered, and Eindridi was withdrawn from the contest. Olaf remarked that his competitor had a second arrow, which Eindridi confessed that he intended for his Majesty if anything very unpleasant had happened to the boy.

3. A year or two later in this eleventh century, another Norse archer, Hemingr, had a match with King Harold. Harold set a spear-shaft for a mark in the ground. He then fired in the air; the arrow turned in its descent and pierced the spear-shaft. Hemingr followed suit, and split the King’s arrow, which was perpendicularly fixed in the spear-shaft. Then the King stuck a knife in an oak. His arrow went into the haft. Hemingr shot, and his arrow cleft the haft and went into the socket of the blade. The enraged King next fired at a tender twig, which his arrow pierced, but Hemingr’s split a hazel-nut growing upon it. “You shall put the nut on your brother Bjorn’s head,” said Harold, “and if you do not pierce it with your spear at the first attempt, your life shall be forfeited.” Of course the thing was done. Hemingr is supposed to have had his revenge by sending an arrow through Harold’s trachea at the battle of Stamford Bridge, where he fought on the English side.

4. In the Faroe Isles, the above Harold is said to have had a swimming-match with a certain Geyti, who not only beat him, but gave him a ducking. Harold condemned him to shoot a hazel-nut off his brother’s head, under the usual penalty, and with the usual result.

5. The same story is told of one Puncher, (suggestive name,) with this difference, that the object aimed at was a coin.

6. In Finland, it is a son who shoots an apple off his father’s head; for which feat some robbers, who had captured his sire, gave him up to the son.

7. In a Persian poem of the twelfth century, a King, in sport, shoots an arrow at an apple on the head of his favorite page, who, though not hurt, died of the fright.

8. The story, with a difference, is told of Egil, in the Saga of Thidrik, of no particular date.

9. It is familiar to us, in the English ballad of William of Cloudesley, chronological date of event uncertain.

10. Enter William Tell, in the first decade of the fourteenth century. We need not tell his well-known tale again. It is only necessary to remark, by way of comment, that the Tell and Gesler legend was not set up till many years afterwards, and that in no contemporary record is any mention made of either Tell, Gesler, or the apple incident. No Vogt named Gesler ever exercised authority for the Emperor in Switzerland; no family bearing the name of Tell can be traced in any part of that country.

11, and lastly. The hero’s name was not Tell at all, but M’Leod, and he came from Braemar. Mr. Baring-Gould has quite overlooked him. Therefore is the new claimant’s story here subjoined in order to make the roll of legends complete. It is taken from The Braemar Highlands; their Tales, Traditions and History, by Elizabeth Taylor. The King referred to is Malcolm Canmore.

“A young man named M’Leod had been hunting one day in the royal forest. A favorite hound of the King’s having attacked M’Leod, was killed by him. The King soon heard of the slaughter of his favorite, and was exceedingly angry—so much so that M’Leod was condemned to death. The gibbet was erected on Craig Choinnich, i.e., Kennoth’s Craig. As there was less of justice than revenge in the sentence, little time was permitted ere it was carried into execution. The prisoner was led out by the north gate of the castle. The King, in great state, surrounded by a crowd of his nobles, followed in procession. Sorrowing crowds of the people came after, in wondering amazement. As they moved slowly on, an incident occurred which arrested universal attention. A woman with a child in her arms came rushing through the crowd, and throwing herself before the King, pleaded with him to spare her husband’s life, though it should be at the expense of all they possessed. Her impassioned entreaties were met with silence. Malcolm was not to be moved from his purpose of death. Seeing that her efforts to move the King were useless, she made her way to her husband, and throwing her arms around him declared that she would not leave him—she would go and die with him. Malcolm was somewhat moved by the touching scene. Allen Durward, noticing the favorable moment, ventured to put in the suggestion that it was a pity to hang such a splendid archer. ‘A splendid archer, is he?’ replied the King; ‘then he shall have his skill tried.’ So he ordered that M’Leod’s wife and child should be placed on the opposite side of the river; something to serve as a mark was to be placed on the child’s head. If M’Leod succeeded in hitting the mark without injuring his wife or child his life would be spared, otherwise the sentence was to be carried into execution. Accordingly (so the legend goes) the young wife and child were put across the river, and placed on Tomghainmheine; according to some, a little farther down the river, near where a boat-house once stood. The width of the Dee was to be the distance separating M’Leod from his mark. He asked for a bow and two arrows, and having examined each with the greatest care, he took his position. The eventful moment came, the people gathered round him, and stood in profound silence. On the opposite side of the river his wife stood, the central figure of a crowd of eager bystanders, tears glistening on her cheeks as she gazed alternately at her husband and child in dumb emotion. M’Leod took aim; but his body shook like an aspen-leaf in the evening breeze. This was a trial for him far harder than death. Again he placed himself in position; but he trembled to such a degree that he could not shoot, and turning to the King, who stood near, he said in a voice scarcely articulate in its suppressed agony, ‘This is hard!’ But the King relented not; so the third time he fell into the attitude, and as he did so, almost roared, ‘This is hard!’ Then as if all his nervousness had escaped through the cry, he let the arrow fly—it struck the mark! The mother seized her child, and in a transport of joy seemed to devour it with kisses; while the pent-up emotion of the crowd found vent through a loud cry of wonder and triumph, which repeated itself again and again as the echoes rolled slowly away among the neighboring hills. The King now approached M’Leod, and after confirming his pardon, inquired why he, so sure of hand and keen of sight, had asked two arrows? ‘Because,’ replied M’Leod, ‘had I missed the mark, or hurt my wife and child, I was determined not to miss you.’ The king grew pale, and turned away as if undecided what to do. His better nature prevailed; so he again approached M’Leod, and with kindly voice and manner told him that he would receive him into his body-guard, and he would be well provided for. ‘Never!’ answered the undaunted Celt. ‘After the painful proof to which you have just put my heart. I could never love you enough to serve you faithfully. The King in amazement cried out, ‘Thou art a Hardy! and as Hardy thou art, so Hardy thou shalt be.’” From that time M’Leod went under the appellation of Hardy, while his descendants were termed the M’Hardy’s—Mac being the Gaelic word for son. The date of the above is the eleventh century, when the legend burst forth in several parts of the world. Here we have it in Scotland. Like many other legends it probably came originally from India.

THE TIME OF LE GRAND MONARQUE.

Thackeray draws the following graphic picture of the extremes of society in Europe in the time of Louis XIV. Rarely is the contrast between “the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,” and “the short and simple annals of the poor,” delineated with such masterly vigor. Referring to the influence of French fashions upon the German courts, he says:—

It is incalculable how much that royal bigwig cost Germany. Every prince imitated the French king, and had his Versailles, his WilhelmshÖhe or Ludwigslust; his court and its splendors; his gardens laid out with statues; his fountains, and water-works, and Tritons; his actors, and dancers, and singers, and fiddlers; his harem, with its inhabitants; his diamonds and duchies for these latter; his enormous festivities, his gaming-tables, tournaments, masquerades, and banquets lasting a week long, for which the people paid with their money, when the poor wretches had it; with their bodies and very blood when they had none; being sold in thousands by their lords and masters, who gaily dealt in soldiers,—staked a regiment upon the red at the gambling table; swapped a battalion against a dancing-girl’s diamond necklace, and, as it were, pocketed their people.

As one views Europe, through contemporary books of travel, in the early part of the last century, the landscape is awful—wretched wastes, beggarly and plundered; half-burned cottages and trembling peasants gathering piteous harvests; gangs of such tramping along with bayonets behind them, and corporals with canes and cats-of-nine-tails to flog them to barracks. By these passes my lord’s gilt carriage, floundering through the ruts, as he swears at the postillions, and toils on to the Residenz. Hard by, but away from the noise and brawling of the citizens and buyers, is Wilhelmslust or Ludwigsruhe, or Monbijou, or Versailles—it scarcely matters which—near to the city, shut out by woods from the beggared country, the enormous, hideous, gilded, monstrous marble palace, where the prince is, and the Court, and the trim gardens, and huge fountains, and the forest where the ragged peasants are beating the game in (it is death to them to touch a feather); and the jolly hunt sweeps by with its uniform of crimson and gold; and the prince gallops ahead puffing his royal horn; and his lords and mistresses ride after him; and the stag is pulled down; and the grand huntsman gives the knife in the midst of a chorus of bugles; and ’tis time the court go home to dinner; and our noble traveller, it may be the Baron of PÖllnitz, or the Count de KÖnigsmarck, or the excellent Chevalier de Seingalt, sees the procession gleaming through the trim avenues of the wood, and hastens to the inn, and sends his noble name to the marshal of the court. Then our nobleman arrays himself in green and gold, or pink and silver, in the richest Paris mode, and is introduced by the chamberlain, and makes his bow to the jolly prince, and the gracious princess; and is presented to the chief lords and ladies, and then comes supper and a bank at Faro, where he loses or wins a thousand pieces by daylight. If it is a German court, you may add not a little drunkenness to this picture of high life; but German, or French, or Spanish, if you can see out of your palace-windows beyond the trim-cut forest vistas, misery is lying outside; hunger is stalking about the bare villages, listlessly following precarious husbandry; ploughing stony fields with starved cattle; or fearfully taking in scanty harvests. Augustus is fat and jolly on his throne; he can knock down an ox, and eat one almost; his mistress, Aurora von KÖnigsmarck, is the loveliest, the wittiest creature; his diamonds are the biggest and most brilliant in the world, and his feasts as splendid as those of Versailles. As for Louis the Great, he is more than mortal. Lift up your glances respectfully, and mark him eyeing Madame de Fontanges or Madame de Montespan from under his sublime periwig, as he passes through the great gallery where Villars and Vendome, and Berwick, and Bossuet, and Massillon are waiting. Can Court be more splendid; nobles and knights more gallant and superb; ladies more lovely? A grander monarch, or a more miserable starved wretch than the peasant his subject, you cannot look on. Let us bear both these types in mind, if we wish to estimate the old society properly. Remember the glory and the chivalry? Yes! Remember the grace and beauty, the splendor and lofty politeness; the gallant courtesy of Fontenoy where the French line bids the gentlemen of the English guard to fire first; the noble constancy of the old king and Villars his general, who fits out the last army with the last crown-piece from the treasury, and goes to meet the enemy and die or conquer for France at Denain. But round all that royal splendor lies a nation enslaved and ruined; there are people robbed of their rights—communities laid waste—faith, justice, commerce trampled upon, and well-nigh destroyed—nay, in the very centre of royalty itself, what horrible stains and meanness, crime and shame! It is but to a silly harlot that some of the noblest gentlemen, and some of the proudest women in the world are bowing down; it is the price of a miserable province that the king ties in diamonds round his mistress’s white neck. In the first half of the last century this is going on all Europe over. Saxony is a waste as well as Picardy or Artois; and Versailles is only larger and not worse than Herrenhausen.

Jerry White, the Chaplain to Cromwell, carried his ambition so far as to think of becoming son-in-law to his Highness, by marrying his daughter, the lady Frances; and as Jerry had those requisites that generally please the fair sex, he won the affections of the young lady: but as nothing of this sort could happen without the knowledge of the watchful father, who had his spies in every place, and about every person, it soon reached his ears. There were as weighty reasons for rejecting Jerry as there had been for dismissing His Majesty Charles II., who had been proposed by the Earl of Orrery as a husband. Oliver therefore, ordered the informer to observe and watch them narrowly; and promised that upon substantial proof of the truth of what he had declared, he should be as amply rewarded as Jerry severely punished. It was not long before the informer acquainted his Highness that the Chaplain was then with the lady; and upon hastening to his daughter’s apartment, he discovered the unfortunate Jerry upon his knees, kissing her Ladyship’s hand: seeing which, he hastily exclaimed, “What is the meaning of this posture before my daughter Frances?” The Chaplain, with great presence of mind, replied, “May it please your Highness, I have a long time courted that young gentlewoman there, my lady’s woman, and cannot prevail: I was therefore humbly praying her Ladyship to intercede for me.” Oliver, turning to the waiting-woman, said:—“What is the meaning of this? He is my friend, and I expect you should treat him as such:” who, desiring nothing more, replied, with a low courtesy, “If Mr. White intends me that honor, I shall not oppose him.” Upon which Oliver said, “We’ll call Goodwin: this business shall be done presently, before I go out of the room.” Jerry could not retreat. Goodwin came, and they were instantly married,—the bride, at the same time, receiving £500 from the Protector.

Mr. Jerry White lived with this wife (not of his choice) more than fifty years. Oldmixon says he knew both him and Mrs. White, and heard the story told when they were present; at which time Mrs. White acknowledged “there was something in it.”

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE GIRONDISTS.

Of all the prisons of Paris, the Conciergerie is the most interesting, from its antiquity, associations, and mixed style of architecture,—uniting as it were the horrors of the dungeons of the Middle Ages with the more humane system of confinement of the present century. It exhibits in its mongrel outline the progressive ameliorations of humanity toward criminals and offenders,—forming a connecting link between feudal barbarity and modern civilization. Situated in the heart of old Paris, upon the Ile de la CitÉ, separated from the Seine by the Quai de l’Horologe, it is one of a cluster of edifices pregnant with souvenirs of tragedy and romance. These buildings are the Sainte Chapelle, the Prefecture de Police, and the Palais de Justice, formerly the residence of the French monarchs. The Conciergerie, which derives its name from concierge, or keeper, was anciently the prison of the palace. It is now chiefly used as a place of detention for persons during their trial. Recent alterations have greatly diminished the gloomy and forbidding effect of its exterior; but sufficient of its old character remains to perpetuate the associations connected with its former uses, and to preserve for it its interest as a relic of feudalism. The names of the two turrets flanking the gateway, Tour de CÉsar, and Tour Boubec, smack of antiquity. Compared with CÆsar, however, its age is quite juvenile, being less than nine hundred years.

The oldest legible entry in the archives of the Conciergerie is that of the regicide Ravaillac, who was incarcerated May 16, 1610. Among the memorable names on its register are those of Damiens, who attempted the life of Louis XV.; Eleonore GaligaÏ, the confidante of Marie de Medicis; La Voisine, the famous female poisoner, who succeeded Madame de Brinvilliers; Cartouche the noted robber, and high above them all in point of tragic interest, the innocent and unfortunate queen, Marie Antoinette.

The records of this prison furnish extraordinary illustrations of stoicism in the midst of civil calamity, and its walls bear witness to almost inconceivable indifference to the mastery of violence. We know that there is no social upheaval to which human nature, with its versatility of powers for good or evil, may not become accustomed, and if the condition be inevitable, even become reconciled. But the conduct of the prisoners of the Conciergerie, in many instances, tinged as it was with mingled sublimity and folly, surpasses comprehension. During the Reign of Terror they were almost daily decimated by the guillotine; yet their constant amusement was to play at charades and the—guillotine. Both sexes and all ranks assembled in one of the halls. They formed a revolutionary tribunal—choosing accusers and judges, and parodizing the gestures and voice of Fouquier Tinville and his coadjutors. Defenders were named; the accused were taken at hazard. The sentence of death followed close on the heels of the accusation. They simulated the toilet of the condemned, preparing the neck for the knife by feigning to cut the hair and collar. The sentenced were attached to a chair reversed to represent the guillotine. The knife was of wood, and as it fell, the individual, male or female, thus sporting with their approaching fate, tumbled down as if actually struck by the iron blade. Often while engaged in this play, they were interrupted by the terrible voice of the public crier, calling over the “names of the brigands who to-day have gained the lottery of the holy guillotine.”

But among the curious souvenirs of this celebrated jail, the most memorable is that of the last night of the Girondists, that unique festivity which was certainly the grandest triumph of philosophy in the annals of human events. Those fierce, theoretical deputies, who had so recently sent to the scaffold the King and Queen of France, were now in turn on their way thither. Christianity teaches men to live in peaceful humility, and to die with hopeful resignation. The last hour of a true believer is calmly joyous. Here was an opportunity for infidelity to assert its superiority in death, as it had claimed for itself the greatest good in life. Let us be just to even these deluded men. They had played a terrible role in the history of their country, and they resigned themselves to die with the same intrepidity with which they had staked their existence upon the success of their policy. They made it a death fÊte, each smiling as he awaited the dread message, and devoting his latest moments to those displays of intellectual rivalry which had so long united them in life. Mainvielle, Ducos, GensonnÉ, and Boyer FoufrÉde abandoned themselves to gayety, wit and revelry, repeating their own verses with friendly rivalry, and stimulating their companions to every species of infidel folly. Viger sang amorous songs; Duprat related a tale; GensonnÉ repeated the Marseillaise; while Vergniaud alternately electrified them with his eloquence, or discoursed philosophically of their past history, and the unknown future upon which they were about to enter. The discussion on poetry, literature, and general topics, was animated and brilliant; on God, religion, the immortality of the soul, grave, eloquent, calm and poetic. The walls of the prison echoed to a late hour in the morning to their patriotic cries, and were witnesses to their fraternal embraces. The corpse of ValazÉ, the only one of their number who by a voluntary death eluded the scaffold, remained with them.

The whole scene was certainly the wildest and most dramatic ever born of courage and reason. Yet throughout their enthusiasm there appears a chill of uncertainty, and an intellectual coldness that appals the conscience. We feel that for the Girondists it was a consistent sacrifice to their theories and their lives; but for a Christian and patriot, a sad and unedifying spectacle.

While history cannot refute the tribute of admiration to high qualities, even when misdirected, it is equally bound to record the errors and repeat the warnings of those who claim a place in its pages. The lives of the Girondists, as well as their deaths, formed a confused drama of lofty aspirations, generous sentiments and noble sacrifices, mingled with error, passion and folly. Their character presents all the cold brilliancy of fireworks, which excite our admiration only to be chilled with disappointment at their speedy eclipse. Their death-scene was emphatically a spectacle. It exhibited neither the simple grandeur of the death of Socrates, nor the calm and trustful spirit that characterized the dying moments of Washington; the one yielding up his spirit as a heathen philosopher; the other dying as a Christian statesman.

QUEEN ELIZABETH AND THE RING.

Concerning the love-token which Queen Elizabeth gave to Essex, with an intimation that if he forfeited her favor, its return would secure her forgiveness, Miss Strickland quotes the testimony of Lady Spelman, who says that when Essex lay under sentence of death, he determined to try the virtue of the ring, by sending it to the queen, and claiming the benefit of her promise; but knowing he was surrounded by the creatures of those who where bent on taking his life, he was fearful of trusting it to any of his attendants. At length, looking out of his window, he saw early one morning a boy whose countenance pleased him, and him he induced by a bribe to carry the ring, which he threw down to him from above, to the Lady Scrope, his cousin, who had taken so friendly interest in his fate. The boy, by mistake, carried it to the Countess of Nottingham, the cruel sister of the fair and gentle Scrope, and, as both these ladies were of the royal bedchamber, the mistake might easily occur. The countess carried the ring to her husband the Lord Admiral, who was the deadly foe of Essex, and told him the message, but he bade her suppress both. The queen, unconscious of the accident, waited in the painful suspense of an angry lover for the expected token to arrive; but not receiving it, she concluded he was too proud to make this last appeal to her tenderness, and, after having once revoked the warrant, she ordered the execution to proceed.