On the Sunday succeeding the tea-party at Mrs. Holmes’, our hero and heroine solved the problem in regard to their church-going by appearing in the Episcopal church at Euston. Thus it was settled that they did intend to go to church, and also where they intended to go; two very important points for the gossips of the neighborhood. Mr. Dawson had called on the church-warden to obtain a pew a day or two before; the fact was duly communicated to his wife, and by her to some of the ladies of the congregation, so that when the Sunday morning arrived the new comers were duly expected. She would of course be dressed in her best silk dress, made in newest fashion; and her hat of the same material, would also be a glass in which the ladies of Euston could mould their own. Great was the surprise of sundry good ladies, who cast furtive glances over their shoulder, when a young lady of graceful mien and carriage, and who could be no other than the expected one, followed the warden, who politely pointed out their seats to the strangers, up the aisle. Attired in a simple, white muslin dress, with a plain straw hat, slightly trimmed with green ribbon, Maria, holding her little boy by the hand, disappointed expedition. There was no time for criticism, for immediately after the clergyman entered the desk, and as there was no grand preliminary flourish by the organ of some favorite aria from Rossini or Bellini, the services commenced.

They were conducted with an earnest fervor which chained and held the attention of all. There was no attempt at display, but the lofty and sublime beauty of the liturgy was brought out in all its force by the heartfelt utterance of the speaker. The congregation soon seemed to enter into the spirit of the rector. The responses were deep and fervent—the music, plain and unaccompanied by an instrument, seemed to the new arrivers, joined in as it was by the whole congregation, as more expressive of deep devotion than the more finished efforts of the choir, accompanied by a superb instrument, to which they had been accustomed. The sermon which followed was in keeping with what had passed. It was a plain, practical discourse on our duties here as connected with our state hereafter. There was no eloquence, but much earnestness—the sentences were not rounded and polished to the highest elegance of finish, but brief and pithy, and the language strong and nervous, went directly home to the heart and conscience. Although devoid of ornament, it was entirely free from any thing like commonplace, and proclaimed the utterer to be no commonplace man. A few months only settled in the place, he had already made a forcible impression on his people, as was apparent from their manner both during the prayers and the sermon.

Mr. Stapleton was indeed no ordinary man. His talents were more than usually fall to the common herd. They had been highly cultivated, and would fit him to adorn any position to which he might be called. His ambition was, however, to do good to his fellow man. To this all the energies of his mind and heart were directed. Holding sincerely to the distinctive principles of his own denomination, he could yet see in every man a brother. The road to heaven was not in his opinion over one narrow plank, which alone must be trodden in conformity with the creeds and synods of certain men in order to reach it. In his preaching as in his practice, it was justification by faith in a crucified Redeemer who died to save all who sincerely trusted in him. Where disease and sorrow were, there was the rector found—nor were his attentions confined to those who were called of his own denomination—it was enough for him to know that pain or suffering existed to draw him to its home. In humble imitation of his Divine Master, “he went about doing good.” The effects of this were already apparent in many cases—universal respect and esteem awaited him whenever he approached—the careless, the indifferent, the profane, all awarded to him a consistency of life and conduct in keeping with the doctrines and principles he enforced. The influence of such a life in a man placed in such a situation could not but be felt in the surrounding community, and especially among those whose spiritual guide he was—accordingly, already the fruits of it were beginning to be shown in a deeper, and more earnest spirit of devotion in his congregation. Their attendance on the regular services of the church was more numerous and more regular; increasing attention was given by them to the spiritual education of their children through the medium of the Sunday-schools into which he had breathed a renewed vitality.

Yet with all his energy and devotedness in his sacred calling Mr. Stapleton was no bigot, no ascetic. In the social circle no one contributed more largely to the entertainment and amusement of those around him. He took an active interest in the temporal affairs of those among whom he lived—he had a keen relish for the innumerable blessings with which God has strewed our pathway through life, recommending the use, but strongly deprecating the abuse of them; in a word, inculcating both by precept and example temperance in all things.

Such was the man upon whose ministrations the hero and heroine of our tale now for the first time attended. They were unknown to him except by reputation, their former history being familiar to him, and fear of intrusion having thus long deterred him from seeking an acquaintance, which must have been most agreeable to a man of as cultivated a mind and refined taste as his. Now, however, that they had enrolled themselves among his parishioners, the case was different, and in the discharge of his pastoral duties he could seek them out with propriety. This was accordingly done, and Dawson and his wife felt pleasure that among those who were likely to be their future life associates there was one so refined in taste, so cultivated in intellect, so gentlemanly in manner as their pastor. Nor was the pastor on his side less pleased. The charms of conversation with persons of refined taste and cultivation were a source of positive pleasure to him, and of relief to a mind worn by study and anxiety. The lighter literature in which Dawson delighted was not unknown to him, and from the shelves of his new friend (the “back-parlor” had been transformed into the “library”) he could obtain authors of rare merit which his own library did not afford. Maria’s piano and voice were always put into requisition at the pastor’s call, and thus in a comparatively short time an intimacy was established, which under other circumstances would in all probability have only been brought about in months, if not in years.

Let it not be supposed, however, that in his intercourse with the Dawsons, Mr. Stapleton ever lost sight of the great object of his life—the salvation of the souls of his fellow-men. The greater his intimacy became, the more he found himself the habitual frequenter of the house of his new friends, the deeper became his interest, the more anxious his desire to raise their thoughts from the concerns of time to those of eternity. Gradually and gently would he lead the conversation into channels which enabled him to dwell more and more on the thoughts that were nearest and dearest to himself. He found attentive listeners. There were no doubts of a sceptical kind to be overcome. Both Dawson and Maria yielded a belief of the head to all the doctrines of Christianity, to which they had been accustomed to listen from their childhood. With her, too, as she had increased in years, had—in her more thoughtful moments—increased an earnest respect for the precepts which were familiar to her. In the midst of all her former gaiety and splendor, she not unfrequently felt that she was created for some higher and nobler purpose than to pass her life in the frivolities of which she was the center. An aching void, filled—as she thought—first, by her husband, and then still fuller by her children, she could not but at times experience, as who of us has not. Stapleton now showed her that even these cherished objects of affection were not sufficient. These ties death might rend asunder—the cherished objects might be wrested from her, at any rate, for a season; but, that there was one, to whom, if she gave her affections, He never would part from her. To do this, it was not necessary for her to abate one iota of her domestic feelings—the love for those on earth and for Him in heaven were not only compatible with each other, but would actually increase the purity and devotion of each.

So sped away the fall and winter. The new comers had become perfectly at home in their new position. Many and various had been the neighborly calls upon them, which had been duly returned. Strange was the contrast between their new and old acquaintances in much of the outward forms of society, but they both found that beneath these plainer exteriors were frequently met with hearts as large and pure, and minds as strong and vigorous, if not as polished and cultivated, as those to which they had been accustomed. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had been invaluable adjuncts to both. The former had conveyed many an useful piece of practical knowledge to Dawson, who had entered on his new pursuits with a fixed determination to succeed, and with his mind unfettered by any of those prejudices arising from the fact that “his father had done so before him,” or that “it was the practice in their neighborhood,” was enabled to avail himself of all the improvements which modern skill and the experience of others now bring to the aid of the tiller of the soil. His life was passed in an even, quiet tenor. If his meals were not as luxurious as they once had been, labor of some kind gave to them a most excellent relish, and no butter was ever so good as that which he now ate, for the hands of Maria had made it; no pastry so light and delicious, for the same fair hands had prepared it; no bread so sweet, for she had kneaded it herself; and her light cakes, a recipe from Mrs. Holmes, were pronounced equal to those of that thrifty lady, whose housewifery was the theme of admiration the country round. Thus they conformed themselves to their circumstances; and, in so doing, enjoyed the many blessings Heaven still reserved for them. The children had thriven apace. Harry had learned not only to take care of himself without the assistance of Mrs. Harris and Jenny, but aspired to take charge of the cows, also; being never so happy as when permitted to assist in driving them to and from the pasture-grounds. Little Maria’s great delight, too, was to feed the “chickes,” and baby, left to roll about a good deal by itself, was fast attaining that happy period, when it is its glorious privilege to waddle up and down stairs alone, to the imminent danger of its own neck, and the perpetual alarm of all careful mammas.

But had the true seed sown by Mr. Stapleton produced no fruit during this time?—It had. An increased and more earnest attention to those things of which he spake was seen on the part of both Dawson and his wife. The mode of operation on their minds and hearts was different. He reasoned—she felt. With the almost unerring instinct of the female character she had reached her conclusions, whilst her husband was deliberating with slower reason. She felt that here was the something which was to fill that aching void in her heart, which, despite her ardent affection for her husband and children, she had long felt there. With her usual prompt determination she acted. She communicated her resolves to her husband, whose only reply was a warmer, more fervent kiss than usual. Thus sanctioned by her husband, in the early spring she made a public confession of her faith by joining in that communion a remembrance of a Saviour’s love from which she had before abstained.

Let it not, however, be supposed that this was the result of sudden and hasty determination. Many and earnest were her communings with her own mind. Long and earnest had been her conversations with Mr. Stapleton—attentive and careful her perusal of the sacred volume; and when, at last, after frequent and fervent prayer to God, for enlightenment and guidance, she fully determined to pursue the path she had considered, she felt her heart lightened of a load, and the peace of mind which the world can neither give nor take away.

One care now oppressed her—one desire actuated her: it was that her husband should also join with her in her new profession. To obtain this end was now her constant aim. Fervently did she address her prayers to God for such a consummation. Earnest and loving were her conversations with him. His head and his mind were (she knew) right; but his heart had been untouched. Well she knew, that for her sake he would do almost any thing—but for his own sake it was that the devoted wife, leaning upon his arm as they sometimes rambled together, or, at other times, with her hand resting in his pressed her gentle pleadings upon him. She opened for him such passages of the sacred volume as she thought most suited for him, and then, not unfrequently, retiring to the privacy of her own chamber would throw herself upon her knees, and pour out all her full, gushing soul to God in earnest prayer, that he would touch the heart of her husband and bring him to Him. (God answereth prayer.) Nor were hers in vain; and, oh! who could tell the unutterable joy of that fond heart when, at last, pressing her fondly to his heart, he avowed his determination to join her, on the following Sunday, in an open profession of his Saviour before men, adding—

“To you, my own sweet wife, I owe this change which has come upon me. Your gentle pleadings, your fond prayers have opened this stubborn heart, and prepared the way for the reception of those better things which were hereafter to be his.”

“Not unto me, dearest Henry, not unto me, but unto God above be the praise. Too happy, indeed, am I, if I have been the feeble instrument in His hands of your enlightenment.”

Close we the scene. It would indeed be a privilege, had we the ability, to follow our heroine further. Never had she looked so lovely. A heavenly radiance and serenity shone from her young brow. Her eyes wore a subdued and softened expression which rendered them even more attractive than of old. And how was her care for her children heightened—not for their bodies only, as formerly, but now for their souls. Never afterward did either she or Dawson cast a regretful glance backward, for they felt that, if they had lost the world, they had gained Heaven.

T. R. N.

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BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.

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“I will tell you a tale,” said Father Bromley.

Father Bromley sat on the piazza of his cottage, looking over the green breadth of lawn which stretched down to Willow Brook. The sun had just gone down, and the western sky, still a-glow, seemed—seen through the willows—like a splendid tissue—gold and green; and the stream, as it rolled, might have been supposed to have its rise in that strange El Dorado which filled our country’s ancestral dreams. On his right sat his daughter Alice, needing to be but a shade paler to be wrapped in a shroud, and laid to her dreamless sleep with a white rose-bud pressed between her slender fingers, and on his left his other daughter, Margaret, fresh as a June rose at sunrise. The father sat between them; the very pattern of paternal grace and quiet benignity. His worldly cares had been slight, so his face had been left smooth, full, and sunny; so sunny, in fact, that it appeared to have taken and retained the quintessence of every sunbeam which had fallen upon it. But now, like external nature, it had a sort of twilight expression, approaching to spirituality, which would awaken in the beholder an abiding interest, and lead him to pause and study ere he passed. Various circumstances conspired to this—the time, the place, and the proximity of his pale child, propt up with pillows, and almost as ethereal as a moonbeam. For a long time they had been sitting in a deepening silence, which neither wished to disturb; and so absorbed were the two daughters with their own thoughts, that the first words of the gray father fell upon unheeding ears.

“I will tell you a story,” he repeated, after a little pause, and in a firmer tone.

Slowly, and with a sigh, like one awakening from a pleasant dream to an unpleasant reality, Alice lifted the lids, and upturned her eyes, filled with a gathering dreaminess, to the dawning love-look of her only parent. Those deep, dark eyes, they must have known many tears.

“Do let us hear it, papa,” she murmured, “but let it be in harmony with gathering stars and slanting moonbeams, and let it have a true golden tinge from the sunset which lights up the gloaming.”

“And do let us hear it!” echoed Margaret, turning quite away from the moon, which was just rising.

“And of what shall it be?” asked Father Bromley, as he looked inquiringly from one to the other.

“O, something that will please Alice!” returned the sweet girl. “For who knows how many times we shall have it in our power to please her,” she thought but did not say, for all of that household knew that sooner or later death would knock at their door.

There was a long pause, and then Alice said—

“Let it be of the picture, with the angel-face, which hangs in the green parlor?” There must have been strange thoughts suggested by it, for her face in the white moonshine grew a shade paler, and her hands trembled a little, as if nervously affected, but no one noticed it.

There was another pause, and then she continued, as if to explain the reason of her wish—

“I have been reading to-day a beautiful poem, in which a lovely lady died of a broken heart, and her spirit nightly haunted her old home. Thinking on the sad tale, I paused to weep, and sat for a few moments with shut eyes. When I opened them, the first thing that I saw was the portrait, and—will you believe it?—it had acquired a new sadness, such as I never saw on a mortal face. It seemed to be looking at me with an incomprehensible intensity of earnestness; and, as I still gazed, a tear—I saw it as plainly as I see the moon—started in the eyes, and rolled down the face. And then another, and another,” she went on in higher tones, as if trying to impress a burning truth on incredulous listeners, “and all the while it looked at me so sadly—but not with pity, and seemed so to invite me, that I fancied that I heard the lips say—‘Come!’ That was only fancy, but, as I live, I saw it weep.”

Father Bromley looked with deep and tender anxiety upon the pale face at his side. He well knew of a report, formerly current in the house, to the effect that this same picture was seen to shed tears just before the death of any member of the family. But this piece of information he restrained, justly deeming it not pertinent for the occasion. Margaret looked anxious and perplexed, but said nothing; and the father, after a little pause, began—in a low voice—his tale. Let us listen, dear reader, seated attentively on the sward, at the corner of the dim old mansion. We may be as sceptical as we please, since neither of us ever saw a strip of painted canvas, in a gilt frame, weep.

“My great grandfather’s second wife—for so far back his story was to date—was a strange, bad woman. There was no peace in her vicinity. The estate had become involved, and my great-grandfather, knowing her to be possessed of some money, married her. But he always had cause to bitterly rue that day and hour which made her his. He had two daughters—both sweet girls, and she one son, who had inherited all her bad qualities, with an additional coarseness and ugliness of manner, which she—if she possessed it—from superiority of education, seldom showed. Her son, whose name was Andrew, had that sensual perception of beauty which always marks vulgar natures, and he had been but a short time in the family before he gave evidence of the impression which the beauty of the younger sister made upon him. Lisette, from the first, rejected his overtures, and withdrew from his society to that of her elder sister as much as possible; but Andrew, not heeding her contempt, and abetted moreover by his mother, still pressed his suit with all the pertinacity and regardlessness of feeling, which characterize such semi-barbarous beings. The persecuted girl sought her father’s protection, and he, in giving it, alienated from himself the spark of affection which the bosom of the step-mother might have known. From that time she ‘hated him with the hate of hell;’ but, with all the cunning of her perfidious heart, she covered it with a smile. She softened toward her step-daughters, and, by her open advice, Andrew discontinued the attentions which had made him so odious in their sight. All was, seemingly, about to be harmonious and well again, when the father suddenly sickened and died. There were strange circumstances attending his death, which made it to be as much talked of as an eighth wonder. Sturdy men put their bushy heads together, and whispered mysteriously in corners, and old dames—stooping over the few last embers on the hearth, as the hours drew on toward the ghostly midnight—muttered to each other in underbreath, starting ever and anon if the wind but wailed a little louder, or flapped a clapboard which chanced to hang loose. Children whimpered if they were put to bed alone in the dark; and young women, in broad daylight, would not go ten rods unattended over an unfrequented road. Dame Burton had had, for a long time before this, an unfavorable reputation with a few, and the assertions of this few were latterly gaining believers. It was now currently reported that she was in the habit of going, nightly, to the Devil’s Crag, under which was a cave, whose black recesses had never been seen by mortal eye. It was furthermore reported, that whenever any one approached it, a dark vapor issued from its mouth, in the midst of which were sometimes seen two fiery eyes, and ominous voices also added to the fright of whomsoever might chance to be lost or stray in this vicinity.

“The foundation for all this was the testimony of two superstitious woodmen; who, in plying their trade, occasionally ventured into the vicinity, and, besides what has been here told, one of them gave out—as a piece of definite information—that, being one night belated in the neighborhood of the cave, and coming toward home in great terror, he suddenly heard the sound of rapid footsteps, and pausing, he saw Dame Burton come into an open spot not twelve feet from him. Suddenly there appeared a man as black as ebony at her side. Whence he came he could not tell, but his identity was not to be mistaken.

“‘Why are you so late?’ asked the dark personage.

“‘Mercy, mercy!’ cried the cringing dame, piteously.

“But mercy did not seem to be one of his component parts; for, seizing her roughly by the arm, and rushing off with her like lightning through the dense underbrush, he made directly for the cave, leaving nothing but an overpowering smell of brimstone, and a line of blue light, pointing like a guide-board toward the place of rendezvous.

“How the man ever got home he could not tell: but it was not at all uncertain that he did get home, and tell the tale here given to a thousand incredulous hearers.

“Father Burton died and was laid with his fathers, and Esther and Lisette wept together in their sorrow, and arrayed themselves sadly in mourning weeds. The suspicions of their neighbors never troubled them. The thought that their step-mother could be to utterly depraved would have killed them at once, had it entered their minds. The father had not, however, been long gone to rest when they perceived a change in the mother and son. The mother’s face assumed a crafty and hag-like expression, and the son’s face seemed to have gotten a look of stupid cunning quite foreign to it. Except this, for some time, nothing was to be seen; but soon matters took a more overt and decided turn, Andrew again renewed his odious attentions, but with a confidence which he formerly lacked. He was met with the same coldness as before, to which was added an entreaty—coached in the most conciliatory language, to the effect—that he would desist. But coldness and entreaty were alike vain. He still persisted, and Dame Burton, at last, seconded his suit by commanding Lisette, in unequivocal terms, to marry him.

“‘I cannot! I will not!’ said Lisette, with a passionate burst of tears, at the close of an interview in which the matter had been pressed upon her with more than ordinary vehemence and fiendish show of malignity.

“‘Cannot? will not?’ muttered the dame, half to herself and half to her auditor, accompanying the same with an impatient gesture, and a laugh hissed through her closed teeth—‘we will see! we will see!’

“‘I beg to hear no more of this,’ continued the persecuted girl, ‘or I shall expect our poor dead father to come in his shroud to defend me from such cruelty.’

“‘Thy poor dead father in his shroud!’ echoed the step-mother. ‘Ah, ha! it was a good drug—a friendly drug,’ she muttered on in an undertone, ‘a pleasant potion, for a peevish child!’ and then she laughed at her devilish wit. ‘Thy father sleeps well, child. Did thy keen wit ever take exception at the friendly nursing which waited on him to the grave?’

“Lisette started, and looked fearfully at her; but, recovering herself, she proceeded to state her refusal more definitely.

“‘I will took upon thy son as a brother, but do not think I can ever do more. Why will he persist in asking what he has so often been told I cannot give? We are dissimilar, and I cannot love him—but I do not hate him. I repeat, I will continue to regard him as a brother, but in any other light I cannot—ay, I will not—look upon him!’

“Rising with the last words she would have passed from the room, but she was detained.

“‘Dost love another?’ queried the crone, looking her full in the face.

“The blood rushed to the young girl’s cheeks.

“‘Ah! I see! I heard Andrew tell of the young painter, who—’

“Lisette’s face was scarlet.

“‘Let me go!’ she cried impatiently. ‘Have not I told thee that I will not marry thy son?’

“‘But you will! you shall!—you cannot escape me! I will summon every fiend in hell to my aid! I will torture thee to submission!—I will melt thee in the crucible of my wrath!’

“The last words were lost on the object of her anger, and the dame stood with her arms akimbo, and a peculiar exultation of expression, such as a fiend, conscious of his diabolical power might be supposed to wear.

“Lisette rushed to her room, and threw herself, half-fainting, into the arms of her sister.

“‘Strange things at the Burton house, Neighbor Guernsey,’ said Widow Hamersley, as she lighted her pipe, and, having taken an initiatory whiff, drew her chair toward the bright wood fire.

“It was now Autumn, and the winds were growing colder day by day, and the external aspect of Nature more dreary.

“‘Yes, yes,’ returned she who was addressed. ‘Since Mistress Alton lost her two little children in Marsden Forest, who were no doubt eaten of the wolves, there has not been the like of it. I pity poor Esther, who is left all alone with so ungracious a woman as Dame Burton.’

“‘Ay, ay, Neighbor Guernsey. Many a long year have I known this strange woman, and I have yet to discover if there be any good thing in her. And the dolt Andrew is no better man a stupid beast. It has been noised about, that the step-mother has been trying to force the younger girl to marry him. Heaven knows what might happen if the poor child would not yield!’

“Here the widow puffed forth a volume of smoke as large as a small thunder-cloud, and gazed knowingly among the embers.

“‘And the young painter in the village, they say, is going distracted at her loss,’ continued Mistress Guernsey, not observing the drift of the other’s remarks. ‘He has been painting a portrait of her, and now he has left all and gone off to search for her in the woods.’

“‘Small chance of his finding her, Neighbor Guernsey,’ answered the widow, drily; her remarks still tending in a direction which her companion did not perceive. ‘It is no wolf of the forest which will have the pleasure of picking her bones.’

“‘Heaven grant it may be as you say!’ was the reply, referring to the last clause of the sentence, whose ambiguity was unnoticed.

“‘Hast thou not heard tales about this dame?’ asked the widow, dropping her disguise and speaking more openly.

“‘Ay, ay, many a time and oft; tales smacking of mystery and mischief, which boded no good to Dame Burton. They say she has unholy company o’nights in the wood. But, after all, they were only tales about which I knew nothing certain.’

“‘Hast thou not,’ continued the widow, ‘noticed a strange twinkle in her eyes, a shrillness in her voice, and that her hair is becoming coarse and grizzled? What does this portend?’

“‘Alas! I cannot tell,’ replied Mistress Guernsey. ‘There were strange hints when her good man died, and now I bethink me that they might have been true, and the remorse of the inner conscience might thus have developed itself outwardly.’

“Here there ensued a pause, and the two sat awhile quietly listening to the hollow moaning of the wind among the trees of the old forest hard by. Superstition, which always attends ignorance, was a prominent point in the characters of both; but more especially in that of the widow. No doubt she heard demon voices in the wind wailing in the crannies, and fancied the air filled with evil spirits, hurrying like lightning upon their various errands of mischief. When she spoke again her voice quivered, and her frame shook as with an ague-fit.

“‘I tell thee, Mistress Guernsey, I have seen—’ said she, at last, her gaze fixed intently on vacancy.

“‘Seen what?’ asked the other, drawing closer, and looking distrustfully into every corner of the room.

“‘Seen—’ repeated the widow, still looking into vacancy.

“‘Seen what?’ repeated her auditor, drawing still nearer, and looking with still greater scrutiny into all the dark nooks of the apartment.

“But the expected speech still hung half-way between conception and utterance, as if some impalpable auditor were present, who might convey the tale to the ears of the object of both her aversion and fear.

“The sad moaning of the wind filled up the chasm in the conversation, and the subtle influences of the place, and their loneliness, seemed to be rapidly gathering about the two lonely women. The speech was still unspoken, when the thread of the proceedings was broken short by the abrupt entrance of Mistress Hamersley’s son. Whether or not the embryo disclosure might have embodied new and startling developments, or only old statements re-hashed, we cannot tell; but, certain it is that, the vein of mystery was explored no further that night. The son piled new fagots on the fire—the widow refilled and relighted her pipe, and the conversation took a more cheerful turn, and the place took again that air of rude pleasantness which belongs particularly to a farm-house-kitchen, while the weird lady was, for the moment, forgotten.

“As may have been gathered from the remarks in the preceding conversation, Lisette had disappeared, lost, it was supposed, in the forest, into which she sometimes strayed alone; for, as to superstition, she had none of it, and wild animals had mostly retired to a safe distance before the advance of civilization. Every possible means had been tried for her recovery, seconded by apparently every effort of Dame Burton and her son. They seemed inconsolable, and some of those who looked upon her as a slandered person affirmed that she spent the nights for a week in weeping. Esther was now alone and friendless, thrown entirely into the power of these protectors. Surmises and ill-boding opinions passed occasionally from mouth to mouth, but never reached her ears. She wept in silent sorrow away from all intercourse. Thus matters went on for some weeks, until one night, at dusk, Andrew was brought to his mother a corpse. He had been accidentally shot in a hunting excursion. Her sorrow at this occurrence was real. Every other tie had been to her nothing, while this had absorbed all her soul’s capability of affection. She had indulged him in every thing, and had attempted to gratify his every wish. Now that he was gone, all that she possessed was gone, and all her thoughts and deeds glared upon her in all their malignity. She had nothing now to take from herself those hell-hound thoughts which bred in her a bitter remorse. One night she lay by his coffin—another by his grave, and a third she would have spent thus, but they led her away. She yielded as pliantly as a child. Thenceforth, she was completely broken down. She could do nothing more, and all day she sat like a fixture in the chimney-corner, while all the house-affairs fell into Esther’s hands. But, at dusk, the dame would be gone mysteriously for an hour. Esther never questioned concerning it, nor cared; but the ignorant neighbors whispered, wondered, surmised, and told of strange things that happened at these times, until it became so much a matter of course, that nothing more could be said. At the end of a year she married my grandfather Bromley. The portrait of the lost sister was taken from the painter’s studio, and hung in her room. Each succeeding year added a new balm to her wounds, until they seemed so far back in the past, that sometimes she would almost question with herself whether or not they had had actual existence.

“Thus twenty years of married life passed calmly and pleasantly. Sons and daughters were growing up around her in full bloom, and all promised that the afternoon of her life should be peace. Dame Burton had grown old and decrepit, and bent nearly double. Her hair was white as snow, and her face had a sort of blank, passive expression, except at times, when her eyes would glow like half-extinguished coals, and she would start as if some frightful object looked in upon her visions. Through all the long day she sat in the chimney-corner, and never stirred until the bats wheeled in the dusk, and the rude noises of day were displaced by a stillness, so still that the bark of life might be said to move down the noiseless river of time with muffled oars.

“One night, in the early autumn, my grandfather was gone, and my grandmother was left alone with the family. All were quietly at rest before she retired. That day she had been laboring hard and was overwearied, and now a strange restlessness and loneliness of feeling came across her. It was just at the moonrise. The moon came up looking red and angrily over the ripening fields, glistening with dew, near at hand, the mill-pond still and large further off, and the black and massive woods in the distance. Those weird influences were at work, which incline every mind at times to retrospection. And now, as over a dim sea, from a dim seen island, came the memories of the past. She saw, as in a dream, the mother of her childhood, who pressed her childish hand in hers. A few years past, and she saw her die, and felt the intense agony of that moment. A few years more were gone, and she saw the deathbed of her other parent, and felt the keener and more enduring pain which maturer minds must feel. Still farther, and she saw the sister-branch, which had grown side by side with her upon the parental tree, torn rudely away. And now she could think no more. It was too much pain. Turning from the window, she hastily disrobed herself, and dropped wearily upon the bed. It was some time before slumber came, and when it did come it brought a dream. Memory, in the guise of a headless figure with a lantern, seemed to lead her through all the past, which was nothing more than a field covered with brambles and underbrush, and filled with pitfalls into which she continually fell. Her flesh was torn and bloody; but still she went on, and on, and on, and still there was no end.

“She might have slept thus nearly an hour, when she became conscious that there was another presence in the room. She stirred a little, and the village-clock drowsily clanged to tell the midnight. She opened her eyes. The moon was far up, and poured a flood of white light through the casement. A tall, attenuated figure, in a long, loose, and tattered gown, which showed ghostly white, stooped over her.

“The shape stood between the bed and the window, and yet so ethereal was it, that she seemed to see the casement, the climbing moon, and the white church spire, as though nothing intervened. But the face, so ghastly white, so thin with want and woe—cross-lined and interlined—and the eyes—so faded and expressionless, she had never seen any thing like it.

(Here Margaret pressed her father’s arm, and pointed to Alice, whose fingers were quivering like aspen-leaves—but he did not pause.)

“Like two pictures on a wall, her imagination placed the image of her lost sister beside this form, so unlike in every particular. The conclusion was irresistible. It was her sister, or—as her disturbed fancy would rather indicate—her ghostly representative. Overcome by her emotions she fainted, and when she recovered, the visitor was gone. She lay quite still, in her terror, until the approach of dawn, and then arising, she dressed herself all in a tremor, and prepared to descend. All was still as death, for it lacked a half-hour yet of sunrise. She heard Chanticleer’s shrill cry without, just as he emerged from his dormitory, and she noticed a cricket’s sharp voice within, and even the tick of a death-watch in the wall fell distinctly on her ears. A chill crept over her, like the forerunner of some frightful calamity.

(Here Margaret pressed the narrator’s arm again, but with the same success as before.)

“She crept, rather than walked down the stairs, and peeped through the kitchen door, which stood ajar. The eastern shutter was swung partially back, and admitted a streak of the cold, gray light of dawn, which fell upon the features of the midnight visitor, who sat erect at one side of the room. She did not stir, though Esther, staggering in her terror, thrust the door back with considerable noise. Perfectly still she sat, gazing, as if in fright, at the hideous face of old Dame Burton, who sat a little more in the dusk, regarding her attentively. The old crone was inclined a little forward, her shriveled lips separated in a grin, and one lean finger threateningly raised in a gesture which said more than words. Neither spoke; but, cold, still, and pale, they gazed at one another, and then was felt around—

“See, see!” exclaimed Margaret.

Alice sat motionless, with her head thrown slightly back, and her face whiter than the moonbeams which fell upon it.

“What is this?” asked Father Bromley.

“It is Death!” shrieked Margaret.

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HOURS IN AUGUST.

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BY MRS. J. H. THOMAS.

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ANNIE.

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BY D. W. BARTLETT.

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BY CHARLES WILLIAMS.

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For several centuries after the irruption of the Barbarians and the fall of Rome, there are scarce any visible traces of the existence of those manufactures which attained so high a development in the old world. This remark, of course, applies merely to Europe, for arts and refinement still continued uninjured in the Eastern empire; and thence, on the revival of Italian commerce, the knowledge of many inventions and useful arts flowed westward. In the ninth century, the inhabitants of the cities in Italy began to rebuild their ancient walls; and the security conferred by fortified towns, together with the union of their citizens for mutual defense, soon caused a decided advance in the useful arts. Their progress was necessarily slow, in consequence of many disturbing political and social evils. We will give a few examples from an ancient historian^[11] cited by Muratori, to show the condition of the most civilized country of Europe in the former half of the thirteenth century.

He mentions the barbarous dress that still prevailed—that a man and his wife ate from the same plate—that one cup sufficed for the use of a whole family—that gold or silver were rarely or never seen for ornament in dress—that war was still the glory of the men. But the more refined ecclesiastics even then contrived to gather luxuries around them, brought by reviving commerce from the East. And that at this age considerable display could be made on grand occasions, will be well shown by the account given of the French soldiers and the procession on the entry of Beatrice into Naples, A. D. 1266. The writer above quoted says, that “all of them were tastefully dressed, and wore beautiful plumes, while their chiefs were notably adorned with large golden collars; and the carriage of the queen covered with silken velvet, dyed sky-blue, and sprinkled with golden lilies.” Carriages, says the authority cited, were very rare. The “many ladies of rank, glittering with precious robes, and sitting on their richly caparisoned, ambling palfreys,” complete the view of a characteristic scene of the times. It is impossible to read such descriptions without feeling in its full force the statement of Hallam, that the revival of commerce and arts must be dated much earlier than the thirteenth century.

One of the earliest movements in this revival is to be seen in the woolen manufactures of Flanders, which were so flourishing in the thirteenth century, that a contemporary writer asserts “that all the world was clothed with English wool wrought in Flanders.” Brabant and Hainault were also the seat of the same manufacture; and the fabrics woven in the factories of the Netherlands were, doubtless, extensively diffused. We need scarcely observe, that the attainment of this perfection mast have been a work of some time.

Cologne, Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp became centres of manufactures and commerce; whilst the origin of the Hanseatic League gave a new impulse in the north to the progress of the useful arts. In the early part of the fourteenth century a system of trading commenced between the north and south of Europe; and the free application to navigation of the discovery of the magnetic needle—a discovery made in Europe about A. D. 1200, and long unapplied—vastly increased commercial intercourse, and, as a necessary consequence, the home manufactures of nations. The Italian towns, especially Venice, Pisa, and Genoa, first raised to importance by the Crusades, took a leading part in the general movement, and became the channels through which the East poured her riches and the knowledge of her arts into Europe. The southern French provinces were not behindhand. Marseilles—where the spirit at commercial enterprise had never wholly died away—Narbonne, Nismes, and Montpellier, were all distinguished for prosperity and growing wealth. The invention of a system of banking, which we find in operation so early as 1400 A. D., deserves to be mentioned, as one of the most influential causes of the rapid growth which followed. England, indebted to her neighbors for the origin of so many of her manufactures, entered the lists late, though destined eventually to outstrip all competitors.

During the unsettled periods at which we have been glancing, agriculture was, of course, neglected; but toward the end of the thirteenth century we find that it has shared in the general revival, and that the plains of Lombardy present the appearance of one vast garden. Indeed, the prospect of Italy was then far more pleasing than that which there meets the traveler’s eye in our own times.

A few words on the progress of the art of building. The first Gothic architecture—correctly so named—appears to have arisen from an imitation of Roman remains, and the combination therewith of rude barbaric notions. The round arch still remained the predominant feature of construction; and the less finished works of this period, with their undeveloped style, deserve the name of “Gothic,” which is now generally restricted to the designation of them. In the twelfth century, however, the introduction of the pointed arch marked a new era in the art of building, and was the beginning of that skill and taste which produced the magnificent architectural monuments inherited by us from the middle ages. Clustered pillars, carved mullions, foliations, and graceful tracery, quickly followed the introduction of this new element; and the union of strength with lightness, of which the flying buttress affords a beautiful example, was carried to as high a point of perfection as the material would allow. To the introduction of the pointed arch Venice may, perhaps, lay claim; and the rise of her palaces amid the waters of the Adriatic, probably marked the origin of many other improvements in construction. One of these, which lies at the very root of modern skill in house building—we mean the framing of timber floors—may be assigned to her artificers. Houses were thenceforward built in stories, and skill in this respect soon issued in domestic works, which in utility and outward beauty surpassed the ancient dwellings. These improvements were soon adopted elsewhere, from the ninth and tenth centuries downward.

The Moorish architecture, introduced into Europe by the Arabian conquerors of Spain, early attained a high development. One singular characteristic of this style,—the horse-shoe arch—must be specially mentioned, as a new feature in construction; and its shape was, perhaps, suggestive of the dome, universal in the later Mohammedan architecture. Slender pillars, profuse decorations in painting, mosaic, and stucco, with elaborate lattice and trellis-work, and perforated battlements, so intricate as to resemble network, are the other points for remark in Moorish buildings. The polish and refinement of the Saracens distinguished them wholly from the rude barbarians of the North. They did not invade to destroy, but to improve; and so early was the development of their architecture, that one of their most splendid remains, the mosque at Cordova, was erected in the beginning of the ninth century—a period which could show nothing so beautiful elsewhere. The celebrated Alhambra—the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada—is some three centuries later, and must be alluded to here as the highest development of the luxurious Eastern style. The perfect state in which parts of this celebrated Moorish palace still remain, is elegantly thus described by a modern writer,^[12] in his notice of the “Court of Lions” and the surrounding halls:—“Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of Moorish elegance and splendor exist in almost their original brilliancy. Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its rudest towers; yet, see, not one of those slender columns has been displaced—not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade has given way; and all the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a morning’s frost, yet exist, after the lapse of centuries, almost as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist.”

In following the course of invention and rediscovery during the middle ages, and in subsequent times, we see two main causes of the superiority of our own useful arts to those of the ancients—the extended application of mechanical and chemical science. The discovery of the various problems in mechanics, which paved the way for the multiplication of human force, and the introduction of new motor powers, occupied chiefly the latter half of the sixteenth and the seventeenth century. The treatises of Stevinus and Galileo, with the first dawnings of the discovery of the steam-engine, appear to mark a new era, and prepare the way for those wonderful applications of moving power which have changed the face of the manufacturing world. The subsequent train of discovery is far too comprehensive for our limits, and ends at length in that crowning development of machinery—the Calculating Machine of Mr. Babbage. We need only mention that, by this extraordinary instrument, some processes of numeric and algebraic calculation may be effected, to an extent hitherto unattainable by mathematicians.

A short view of the progress of the art of clockmaking, will well illustrate a gradual advance made in the application of mechanics to the uses of daily life. Striking clocks were known in Italy probably as early as the end of the thirteenth century—one other strong proof that we must date the revival of arts much earlier than that period. Their existence becomes certain about the middle of the fourteenth; probably at that period they were general. These clocks were all moved by the action of weights; and, though furnished with balance regulators, were still very inaccurate. Next followed the introduction of a spring as the moving power, marking a new era in the art. Then came the age of mechanical discovery, producing Galileo’s observation of the vibration of the pendulum in nearly equal times, whether the spaces traveled through were large or small. So valuable a discovery could not long remain dormant; and we find, accordingly, that it was applied by the discoverer, or, in a better form, by Huyghens, to the regulation of time-pieces by means of the pendulum. The advance of chemical science soon showed a source of error in the unequal size of the pendulum, caused by alternate expansion and contraction of the metal due to change of temperature. This was remedied by the use of the jar filled with mercury as a pendulum; and subsequently by the employment of a pendulum formed of different metals, so arranged that their different expansions should mutually balance each other. The mutual connection between the art of making clocks and the science of astronomy, in which each has alternately borrowed and lent so much, is an excellent illustration of the many points in which the useful arts are brought into contact with higher provinces. The remaining improvements would fill volumes, and we cannot pretend to enter more fully into them.

In our estimate of causes at work during the middle ages, we must not forget that the alchemists exercised a very important influence. Their doctrine, that all the metals are compounds of the constituent parts of gold mingled with baser matters, which could be separated by the action of the philosopher’s stone, exercised eventually a powerful influence on the progress of arts. The long and patient research of the “adept” after this magic agent for turning all it touched to gold, though prompted by cupidity, resulted in many chemical discoveries and adaptations, and brought to light various useful products, for which, perhaps, we might long have waited, had not this strong motive been rooted in the minds of philosophers of the middle ages.

The invention of printing will be noticed elsewhere; and the comparative state of the useful arts in Europe may be estimated from their history in our own country. It remains for us here to notice, in a supplemental manner, one or two branches of art which will not be elsewhere included. By this means we shall better illustrate a subject into which we cannot pretend to enter fully.

In the preceding pages, the use of silk by the Greeks and Romans has been merely glanced at, because the tissues which they employed were strictly of foreign production. We will now shortly notice a manufacture, the history of which will illustrate many preceding remarks. Its origin must be assigned to China, where it doubtless reached a highly perfect state, before any other nations acquired an acquaintance with the mode of producing or working the raw material. It is probable that silk-worms were reared in China, and their cocoons extensively employed, 2700 years before the Christian era. The raw material subsequently was exported to Persia, Tyre, Berytus, and elsewhere, till, in our westward progress, we find the island of Cos receiving and manufacturing it. In the Augustan age silks were still rare, even in Rome, the centre of all luxuries; and so late as the third century it was deemed a display of wanton profusion for an emperor to dress entirely in silk.

In the sixth century, some Persian monks, who had penetrated into China, gained an acquaintance with the source whence silk is derived—a secret till then guarded with scrupulous care. They brought back with them to Constantinople a quantity of eggs enclosed in a hollow cane, which produced “the progenitors of all the generations of silk-worms which have since been reared in Europe and the western parts of Asia.” For nearly six hundred years, Constantinople and the territories of the Greek empire continued to monopolize the production of silken fabrics; till, in the twelfth century, the manufacture was introduced into Sicily, and thence successively into Italy, Spain, and France; until, finally, it reached England. The culture of the mulberry-tree was extensively introduced wherever the climate permitted. Bologna, Modena, Venice, Genoa, and Florence were all noted for their silk manufactures, and produced silken tissues for the rest of Europe; till, in the sixteenth century, the rearing of the worm and the weaving of silk were introduced into Lyons and the south of France, since which period the French have acquired and maintained a superiority in this branch of the useful arts. In this historical sketch we may observe many important points:—First, we see a manufacture in a stationary state of high perfection for thousands of years in the East; then follows its slow progress westward during the ages of Greece and Rome; next the loss to Italy and Europe of the bare knowledge of the material product, on the fall of the Roman empire; then the revival and cultivation of the manufacture in the metropolis of the Eastern empire; succeeded by its introduction thence into Sicily, and a rapid improvement effected by the enterprise of Italian cities; till, finally, it spread wherever circumstances were favorable. The account of any such manufacture well remembered, is a kind of epitome of the history of the time through which we mark its progress. To make the sketch true in all its parts we need only add, that a Frenchman invented a loom to make woven silks, whose patterns rival the slow produce of Eastern patience, while England has shown her accustomed superiority in the effecting by machinery of all processes required antecedent to weaving.

We have mentioned the singular manner in which the ancient Greek art of vase painting died away, without apparent cause. The reappearance of the same art early in the middle ages is due, probably, to the Moors, but whence derived by them, or whether reinvented, or how retained in the world during so many centuries, are all curious questions. But, be this as it may, the manufacture of porcelain vases, where color and enamel were carried to high perfection, with their arabesques, heraldic devices, portraits, or landscapes, and an endless variety of form, whether grotesque or tasteful, was much pursued in the fourteenth century. The beautiful Majolica vases, of which one illustration will be found standing side by side with a characteristic Moorish jar, were part of a branch of manufacture which again perished in Italy to revive elsewhere. The two vases tell each an interesting story. No one can glance for one moment at the Moorish vessel, with its singular shape and arabesque ornament, without feeling that it is the monument of a people that stood alone. As little can we regard the vase of Majolica or Raffaelle ware, without the thought of that singular coincidence in things, small as well as great, between the Italian republics and their ancient Grecian counterparts.

A short epitome of the Majolica manufacture is given as follows in a recent work:—“Small plates for ice and sweetmeats, about a palm in diameter; children’s plates, with paintings in the style of the Festa di Ballo; nuptial vases with appropriate subjects; vases for holding different kinds of wine, poured out from one spout; fiaschini, or small flasks, in the shape of lemons and apples; cups covered with tendrils and other quaint devices; small statues of saints; jocose figures; birds of every kind, colored after nature; painted tiles, used for walls and floors, many of them admirably executed, show the great variety and excellence of this ware.”^[13] On the decay of the art in Italy, it was revived in other forms in France and Germany. The singular accidental discovery of the art of making the hard paste porcelain, which, till the beginning of the seventeenth century, was confined to the East, will furnish one instance of the many debts due to the alchemists. A persecuted German, named BÖttcher, whilst prosecuting his forbidden researches for the philosopher’s stone, unexpectedly found that some of his crucibles assumed the appearance of Oriental porcelain. Carefully noting the substances on which he had been experimenting, he worked incessantly, sometimes spending many days and nights, without a moment’s intermission, by the side of his furnace, till at length he perfected his knowledge of processes which originated the beautiful manufactures of Dresden. The secret spread through Austria and France, giving rise in the latter country to the celebrated SÈvres china; and the proscribed research in a forbidden mine terminated in the happy industry of thousands of workmen.

The progress of maritime discovery, and the new impulse given thereby to commercial and industrial progress, has been briefly noticed. But while compelled by our narrow limits to pass by, with a hasty word of mention, the enterprise which raised the Venetians and Dutch to the rank of leading powers in Europe, and which conferred the treasures of Africa and remotest India upon the Portuguese nation, the rise of the Spanish power in the new world must be noticed more fully, as opening a new and peculiar phase of civilization to our view. The singular state of society among the Aztec race at the period of the Spanish conquest of Mexico is doubly interesting, from the striking contrast which it presented to any thing in the old world; and from the fact that it shows us the highest point of a development, the progress of which no traces remain to illustrate. Suddenly transported from the stirring scenes of martial enterprise and reviving industry of Europe in the middle ages, the steel-clad Spaniard found himself among nations where the blindest and most abject superstition stood side by side with social refinement; where the prevailing mildness of manners was no bar to the dreadful orgies of human sacrifice; and where the busy industry of millions had been for ages raising the pyramid of art and science, in complete isolation from their brethren of the old world.

Various points of resemblance will be noticed by the reader between the arts of these American races and those of ancient Egypt. For instance, the pyramidal temples found by the Spaniards on their first invasion much resembled the Egyptian structures, in their form, and were constructed of solid masses of earth encased with stone or brick facing. They differed from Egyptian pyramids in being higher proportionally to the size of the base. They were ascended by external stairs, and were arranged in several stories. The area at the summit was surmounted by towers;—sanctuaries where the images of their gods were erected, and where the horrid stone for human sacrifice stood, close by the altars, on which a never-dying fire was burning.

Another point of close similarity between the Aztecs and the ancient Egyptians was seen in the employment of hieroglyphic writing, or rather painting, by both people. Their laws, their annals, their rituals, and their business documents, were all expressed by this rude representation of painted figures, often gross caricatures in their execution. “Their manuscripts were made of different materials—of cotton-cloth or skins nicely prepared; of a composition of silk and gum; but for the most part of a fine fabric from the leaves of the aloe.” A sort of paper was made from this, resembling somewhat the Egyptian papyrus, which, when properly dressed and polished, is said to have been more soft and beautiful than parchment. Some of the specimens still existing exhibit their original freshness, and the paintings on them retain their brilliancy of colors. “The large leaves were folded square like books, or done up into a roll in the ancient manner. The arrangement of the picture letters was horizontal or perpendicular, and the reading in the former case probably from right to left.”^[14]

The cultivation of the soil was skillfully pursued by the Aztec people. Their irrigation, farm buildings, and agricultural processes, were excellent; while the large fields of maize, the banana, the cacao or chocolate plant, the useful aloe, the vanilla, and a crowd of splendid garden plants, furnished them with all necessaries and many luxuries on almost too easy terms. A description of the uses of the aloe or agave plant, from the pen of the eloquent author just cited, is highly interesting:—“Its bruised leaves afforded a paste from which paper was manufactured; its juice was fermented into an intoxicating beverage, pulque, of which the natives to this day are excessively fond; its leaves further supplied an impenetrable thatch for the more humble dwelling; thread, of which coarse stuffs were made, and strong cords, were drawn from its tough and twisted fibres; pins and needles were made of the thorns at the extremity of its leaves; and the root, when properly cooked, was converted into a palatable and nutritious food. The agave, in short, was meat, drink, clothing, and writing materials for the Aztec.”^[15]

The Mexicans were well acquainted with the usual mining operations for procuring gold, silver, lead, and tin. Iron was unknown to them, and we find bronze fulfilling a variety of uses, just as among the ancient Greeks and Romans. Very perfect tools were made from this compound of tin and copper; vessels of gold and silver were cast and chased, some of them of an enormous size; in the working of ornamental jewelry, and in the cutting of precious stones, their artificers highly excelled. A hard mineral substance—obsidian, furnished the material for their hardest tools—their axes, knives, razors, and swords. Their sculpture still evidences skill in workmanship, though the designs may be barbarous; and the mechanical skill which could raise and transport so large a monument as a porphry stone of fifty tons weight, without the aid of beasts of burden, from a distance of many leagues, cannot have been contemptible. They employed utensils of lacquered wood or of earthenware, and in the art of pottery were so advanced, that it was said by a historical writer of Europe, “There is no fictile vessel among ourselves which in skill of construction excels the vases formed by them.” And this, too, at a time when the fictile art was at a high pitch of excellence in Europe. Cotton was raised abundantly in the suitable localities; was woven into fabrics, sometimes beautifully fine; and these in turn made into a kind of armor by thickly quilting. Or it was interwoven with the “delicate hair of rabbits and other animals, which union produced a cloth of great warmth as well as beauty, of a kind altogether original; and on this they often laid a rich embroidery of birds, flowers, or some other fanciful device.”^[16]

The reader will remember the feather tapestry to which allusion has been made in the account of Greek and Roman art. It is singular to turn after the lapse of centuries and find this fabric in a more perfect form, and applied to an infinite variety of purposes, among a newly-discovered people, whose very existence was undreamt of by the ancient world. The gaudy plumes of the tropical birds most naturally have suggested their employment for dress or ornament, and the art of working them made so great progress as to have become a characteristic of the industry of the people. Tapestry and mantles of these materials could not be excelled, in brilliancy of hue and softness to the touch, by the most elaborate tissues of the loom.

The scenes which everywhere met the eyes of the Spanish invader denoted a state of refinement and luxury, in some points forcibly reminding us of counterparts in Eastern life. One main cause of this development was perhaps the singular contrast which Mexican society offered to that of Greece, Rome, or modern monarchies, in the fact that trade was not only honorable in itself, but a pathway to high political dignity.

The list of articles given by Mr. Prescott, as the tributes paid to the royal revenue, will furnish an epitome of many manufactures and products. “There were cotton dresses and mantles of featherwork exquisitely made; ornamented armor; vases and plates of gold; gold dust, bands, and bracelets; crystal, gilt, and varnished jars and goblets; bells, arms, and utensils of copper; reams of paper; grain, fruits, copal, amber, cochineal, cocoa, wild animals and birds, timber, lime, and mats.”^[17]

The regularity of plan in the chief cities, which so forcibly struck the eye of the Spaniard; the solid structures of stone, often reared amid the waters of their lakes on a foundation of piles; the vast temples before described; aqueducts only second, perhaps, to those of Rome or Peru; vast solid dykes, and roads of masonry which vied in stability with those of ancient Rome, everywhere attested a high state of constructive skill; while baths, gardens, canals covered with light craft, and sculptures in an infinite variety of form, generally grotesque, may be added to the details already given of the results of Mexican civilization.

There is nothing in the old world, says Mr. Stephens, like the ruins of the cities of Central America, which he so completely explored. The pyramidal structures are not complete in themselves like those of Egypt. They form parts of a whole, have no cells in their interior, and were mostly employed as the foundations for other buildings; nor are the single stones, used for images and ornaments, to be compared in vastness of proportion to Egyptian obelisks. The conclusion arrived at by the writer above quoted is, that in these cities we are presented with “the spectacle of a people skilled in architecture, sculpture, and drawing, and, beyond doubt, other more perishable arts, and possessing the cultivation and refinement attendant upon these, not derived from the old world, but originating and growing up here, without models or masters, having a distinct, separate, independent existence; like the plants and fruits of the soil, indigenous.”^[18]

These edifices were constructed probably by the people who occupied the country at the time of the Spanish invasion, not by earlier races; and a short account of some of the more remarkable remains will be here added, to complete the picture of civilization in the new world already presented to the reader.

The remains never reveal the existence of the true arch, and herein are similar to most primitive architectural structures. The substitute in use was, to make the stones gradually overlap each other, until they approached close together in the centre of the doorway or passage to be roofed, when one more stone was added to complete the pointed arch thus formed.

Of the various cities described by Mr. Stephens, we shall take Copan as an example; lying in one of the most fertile valleys in Central America. This city extended along the river Copan for more than two miles. The great feature in the remaining ruins is the vast temple, which presents a line of survey of 2866 feet. “The front or river wall extends on a right line north and south 624 feet, and is from 60 to 90 feet in height. It is made of cut stones, from three to six feet in length, and a foot and a half in breadth. The other three sides consists of ranges of steps and pyramidal structures, rising from 30 to 140 feet in height on the slope.”

The numerous idol columns situated among the ruins of Copan, and elaborately sculptured into rude forms, will be best understood from the drawing of one of the most celebrated, which may be seen in the frontispiece to the work of Mr. Stephens. Altars of great variety in form, covered with sculptures and the mysterious hieroglyphic writing; rectangular court-yards, with ranges of steps ascending to raised terraces; and the scattered remains of gigantic sculpture, are the most striking features in the existing ruins. The carvings in stone display almost a perfection in the mere manual art, and show that the metallic substitutes for modern tools must have been excellent; while the beautiful representations of dresses and ornaments contrast agreeably with those repulsive forms in which they chose to embody their ideas of divine beings.

The remains of a palace at Palenque, also of considerable size, built of stone, faced with stucco, and painted in various bright colors, display the proficiency of the ancient inhabitants in other branches of industry. Their cement and mortar are said to equal those found in Roman remains; stucco ornament was extensively employed; and the hieroglyphics, bas-reliefs, and other ornamented sculptures are fully as remarkable as those of Copan. Feather head-dresses; ear-rings, necklaces, medallions, bracelets, and girdles are beautifully carved in stone, as ornaments of the sculptured figure. Some bas-reliefs are in stucco, but this is more common for borders and other minor ornaments. The area of the building was inclosed by two parallel corridors, surrounding it on all sides; and the main feature was a large rectangular court-yard, 80 feet long by 70 broad. Other court-yards of less size, and a variety of apartments filled up the area. Did our space permit, there could scarcely be a more pleasing task than to follow the wanderings of Mr. Stephens among the ruined cities of Yucatan, of which he has discovered no less than forty-four; but enough has been said to show the skill of the ancient inhabitants, the monuments of which excited such lively wonder in the breasts of the Spaniards.

It would, doubtless, be interesting to carry our view southward into the region of Peru, and to describe the monuments of a civilization on a par with that of the Aztecs, though apparently unconnected therewith in its origin. The immense extent of many Peruvian works; their roads, sometimes nearly 2000 miles in length, and constructed of masonry equally solid with any remains of antiquity; their subterranean aqueducts for the irrigation of dry lands, extending for hundreds of miles; their edifices of porphyry, granite, or brick, all displayed skill in the useful arts concurrent with that of the ancient Mexicans. In some points they were even superior, for while the Aztec race passed to the agricultural mode of life without gaining any acquaintance with the utility of domestic animals, or the economy of pastoral subsistence; on the contrary, we find that the Peruvians were masters of immense flocks of llamas, alpacas, and two other varieties of sheep, which furnished them with valuable supplies of fine wool for clothing, and with flesh for food.

A description of the manufactures and arts of the Peruvians would be so closely similar in its details to that already given of the Aztecs, that we may here dismiss the subject with this remark—that the former were superior to their northern neighbors in the designing and construction of public works of importance, but far inferior to them in the art of expressing their thoughts by signs, and generally in intellectual acquirement. The curious arrangement of knotted cords, by which the Peruvians recorded events, is, perhaps, among the most rude of all barbarous inventions. Curiously enough, similar knotted cords, in modern times, have been used as alphabet and books for the blind.

When, from the busy scene of European revival and progress, of which we have remarked a few features, we turn our view to the nations of the East, how strikingly contrasted is the prospect! Instead of the turmoil of change, the hurry after new inventions, the disuse of old customs and processes, we see the life of art to be one steady, even tenor. It seems almost as if a law had been laid down in the very nature of the inhabitant of those climes—“Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.” He appears to have reached a point of perfection in many manufactures, in times so early that their history is fabulous; and to have scarcely improved his position during the lapse of thousands of years.

This singular want of advance beyond a certain point, together with many peculiarities in the industrial condition of the Chinese, combine to render a notice of this curious people indispensable to the present article.

“Time,” says the writer in the “EncyclopÆdia Britannica,” “may be said to stand still in China.” Half-burnt bricks, mud, clay, and wood still continue to be the ordinary materials of their architecture, as they were three thousand years ago. The case is precisely the same with the minor points of dress and fashion. There a young lady may safely wear the head-dress of her great grandmother, without the imputation of being singular or old-fashioned.

Their buildings are singularly monotonous in form and plan—the thatched hut of the meanest peasant, with its walls of mud, is scarcely lower in point of design than the palace of the viceroy. Their houses are low, furnished with overhanging roofs, uninterrupted by a single chimney; their windows are fitted with poor substitutes for glass, in the shape of oiled paper, gauze, or a transparent shell; the houses of a town are crowded together, and with the flag-staffs and ornamental streamers produce quite a camp-like effect. But the gaudy decoration of their shops—the brilliancy of their painted lanterns—the bustle and confusion of traffic, and the hilarity of the motley crowd would soon undeceive the spectator, and convince him that he is anywhere but in the seat of war. The domestic furniture—the couches, the stoves, the china vessels, the painted fans, and cabinets, and the beautiful materials for dress—bespeak a great deal of comfort, though they may display but little taste. Four points are said to be peculiarly characteristic of the Chinese, as compared with other Oriental nations—“they sit on chairs, eat off tables, burn wax candles, and cover the whole body with clothing.” But many others place them in a position enviable when compared with that of their neighbors. The internal communication in their country is admirably provided for by the numerous canals which everywhere intersect the whole empire, and unite their large navigable rivers into one vast network for traffic. These canals are crowded by barges, varying with the size and depth of the channel; some of them worked by paddle-wheels, moved by machinery, and well fitted up for the conveyance of passengers or goods. In fact, traveling in China is quite luxurious, though not very speedy. The voyager makes a home of his boat for the time being, and lives as comfortably as in his own house. There is but little road-traveling or land-carriage in the Celestial Empire.

The Chinese, with all their defects, contrive to produce some articles superior to the counterparts of European manufacture. Their vermilion, prepared from the same cinnabar which we ourselves employ, is far brighter than ours; the blue colors on their china are more perfect; while, in the ingenious carving of ivory into fans, pagodas, or nested balls, no other artists can vie with them. Their large horn lanterns are inimitable; their gongs cannot be made in Europe, though we know the metal; their silver filagree work, lacquered cabinets, engraved stones and gems, are all works of great skill. In the productions of the loom they are scarcely equalled by French manufacturers; their silks, satins, embroidery and tassels are unsurpassed; while in the variety of their spices and perfumes, and the excellence of their paper, ink and printing, they may challenge the world. And yet the old customs of primitive times—the domestic weaving and dyeing, still continue the same as in those days when the beautiful tissues found their way into Greek and Roman houses. But, while praising the excellence of their works, we only allude to the finished product—the process is generally primitive, the tools are simple, and the artificer almost unassisted by machinery.

Their agriculture has been over-praised—their plows hardly merit the name—they have no succession of crops—simple rice is the staff of life, and their only claim to superior merit appears to be in the general practice of irrigation. The white mulberry-tree is grown in vast quantities to supply the silk-worm with food, and in the middle provinces large fields of cotton and patches of indigo are frequent. The tea-plant is cultivated extensively, only in particular provinces, but grows every where in gardens and inclosures. The leaves are gathered from the middle of April to the middle of May, and are exposed to heat in iron pans. A high temperature produces the black-teas; while the leaves exposed to less heat form the green teas. The berry of the tea-plant affords a fine oil for the table. Tobacco is in universal cultivation and use.

A curious feature in the Chinese character is visible in their import trade. So rigidly exclusive are they, that nearly all foreign produce must be imported in Chinese ships; and further, the great bulk of such imports is collected by colonies of Chinese, who reside in the countries furnishing the supply, and retain their utter isolation even in the midst of foreigners. These imports are considerable, and some of them curious. They are thus enumerated: “From Java alone they import birds’ nests to the value of half a million dollars annually; the sea-slug (Holothuria) from the coast of New Holland, Timor, and adjoining islands, to a still greater extent; sharks’ fins from the same quarter; copper from Japan, and tin from Bantam; pepper, areca-nut, spices of different kinds, ebony, sandal-wood, red-wood for dyeing, tortoise-shell, pearl-shell, coral, camphor, wax, and a variety of articles generally produced or collected by their own countrymen resident in the islands of the East.”^[19]

In returning homeward from the distant regions of the Celestial Empire, could we but pause for a short time to survey the vast continent of HindÛstan, we should find ample materials for description and comment. We should behold a country destined by the bountiful gifts of nature to be the inexhaustible source of wealth and luxury through all time, yet still itself in the infancy of development. We should see again the characteristic Eastern skill and patience, which, without the aid of machinery and the mighty assistance of the division of labor, can rival, in the beauty of their products, the most finished works of European art. And we should look forward with hope and trust to a time when the universal introduction of our own arts and civilisation shall confer on India treasures more vast than her richest mines of diamonds or gold. But we must now close this article with a brief summary of the few points which it has been our endeavor to illustrate.

We see, then, the arts of the Western Empire trodden down and lost to view during the ages of northern invasion, but preserved by the feeble successor of the Queen of Nations in the East. We see during the same period the mighty torrent of Moslem conquest, bearing with it the science and arts of the East, and implanting them in the heart of a conquered nation in Europe; whence, during centuries, they diffused themselves through various channels, connecting the empire of the polished Arab with the ruder Gothic nations. Concurrently with this Arabian influence in its later periods, we see the steady and ever-increasing tide of knowledge flowing from Constantinople to Italy and the rest of Europe. Then comes the period of general revival, and the northern nations wake to life. The progress of science and the union of nations call into existence numberless fountains of knowledge, gathering their waters into one mighty stream, that flows on to our own times—an unbroken, resistless river, ever swelling with new and innumerable tributaries.

But the new spirit awakened in Europe does not rest there. It carries her inhabitants forth to the uttermost bounds of the earth. A new world receives them with its singular picture of manners and arts; and while the newly-found nations perish under the ruthless cruelty of the invaders, their country sends back invaluable products to influence the progress of European arts. The progress of these arts, and the mighty inventions of modern times, belong, as we have said, to another article; it has been our care, therefore, to select from the East one example of the unbroken tenor of her industrial life—the antiquity and stability of her arts.

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[11]	Ricobaldus Ferrariensis, Murat. Diss. 23.

[12]	Washington Irving, “Tales of the Alhambra.”

[13]	Murryat on Pottery, p. 19.

[14]	Prescott’s “Conquest of Mexico.”

[15]	Ibid. p. 123.

[16]	“Conquest of Mexico,” vol. i. p. 130.

[17]	Ibid. p. 36.

[18]	Stephens’ “Central America,” vol. ii. p. 442.

[19]	Encyc. Britann., art. China.

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FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

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It was traveling on the railroad from Orleans to Amboise, that I first met Monsieur and Madame Faye, who were returning from Paris to Tours. There was a little battle, just as the train was starting, in consequence of late comers. The only wonder is how any Frenchman manages ever to be ready, considering the immense amount of talk and leave-taking which seem a part of their existence—and I, amongst others, put out my hand to help in an apparently infirm man, whose agitation seemed to prevent him from knowing where to take his seat. I pointed to that next to me, pulling his coat to force him into it, that we might not all be inconvenienced by his lingering. He bowed and smiled, and continued to talk to a female who followed him; and who began to stow away numerous baskets and bundles which she was tightly embracing, thanking us, all the time, for our politeness to her husband. In a few seconds they were stashed, and we then had leisure to remark the appearance of the new travelers. The gentleman was rather past middle age, good-looking, neatly dressed. He had a cheerful, pleasant countenance and soft, mild eyes, which he directed toward those to whom he spoke, although we afterward found they possessed no speculation. The lady was any thing but tidy in her style; indeed, so much the reverse as to be surprising in a Frenchwoman; but her story, when it was told me at our next meeting at Tours, explained the peculiarities which made her at first an object of somewhat disrespectful observation.

We soon became good friends. Monsieur Faye was blind, and had been so from childhood. His cousin, Mathurine, had proposed for him when they were both about five-and-twenty, and had, from that time, devoted her whole life to attend on him.

“I should not,” she said, “have asked him; but that my brother, who required my services because of his lameness, determined just then to marry; and, therefore, as I had a substitute with him, and poor dear Hector here was too modest to ask me, what else was to be done?”

I found, on further acquaintance, that Hector was a remarkable personage, in his way: a bit of a musician, a philosopher, an antiquary, and a great reader of, or rather listener to, history; for it was his little, lively, untiring wife, who read to him from morning till night; and sometimes, when he could not sleep, from night till morning.

I found Mathurine incessantly occupied with the well-being of Hector. She might have been pretty at the period of their union, probably some twenty years before; but her small, slight figure was rather awry, in consequence of having, for so long a time, served as a prop to her tall husband, who always leant on her shoulder as he walked. She seemed indeed altogether out of the perpendicular; her bonnet never sat straight, owning to its being pushed aside by his arm; her shawl had the end any where but in the middle; her gloves were generally ragged at the fingers, while I observed that his were carefully repaired—it being evident that my friends were obliged to practice economy; her shoes were shabby, with the strings often untied. “What would you have?” she once remarked laughingly. “I have no time to attend to these trifles; which, after all, don’t signify; for I am not a coquette, and he does not see me. I catch up the first thing that comes to hand, and he fancies I am quite a belle.”

Hector had the strangest voice I ever heard; it would begin contralto and run up to alto in an incredible manner when he was excited; and then fall down again to the gruffest bass, his little brisk wife’s treble accompanying so as, as she imagined, to soften the sharp effects he produced.

She had managed to learn several languages, in order to read to him the authors he admired in the original; and odd enough her versions were; but, as he perfectly comprehended the jargon they had studied together, her plan succeeded admirably.

Amongst Monsieur Faye’s peculiarities was that of being an inveterate sight-seer. There was no object of interest near the places he visited that he had not, as he said, seen; and no sooner did he hear a description of a castle or a cathedral than he became restless to make its acquaintance. I happened one day to speak of having, in former years, gone to the strange old castle of Loches, about thirty miles from Tours; and struck instantly with his usual desire for exploring, he proposed a journey to the spot, inviting me to be his guest and guide.

I have always observed that the French, although by no means what we call rich, are very generous, according to their means, and if they cannot do a thing in grand style, they do it equally well on a small scale. Hector had long wished to give a treat to his hostess and her family, and this he felt was a good opportunity. Our party, therefore, was formed of Madame Tricot, a black-eyed little widow; her sister Euphrosine and her young lover the militaire—just arrived on leave to visit his betrothed—and Achille, the widow’s eldest son; a sharp boy of thirteen, distinguished by his half-military college uniform, more perhaps than by the progress he was making in those studies which Madame Tricot felt sure would lead him to immortality; and which she herself superintended with unwearied zeal, forcing her refractory pupil to rise before daybreak every morning, and repeat his Greek and Latin lessons to her previous to school hours, although, when I questioned her with surprised awe, she replied by saying with a knowing nod:

“No, no, I do not understand all this; but Achille imagines I do; and, at all events, he is obliged by this means to learn his lessons. They are very severe at college, and he is such a gamin!”

As I had seldom seen Achille occupied, in his leisure hours, in the absence of his mamma, in any other way than teazing a peculiarly uproarious parrot, whose discordant shrieks regularly awoke me from early slumber, I could easily believe that some difficulties lay in the way of the future hero’s advancement, had he been left entirely to his own plan of pursuing knowledge.

Seven persons, large and small, besides the driver, one fine October morning, filled the large rumbling vehicle which Madame Faye had engaged for our expedition to the old ruined castle of Loches; and very merry we all were as we saw the baskets of eatables stuffed under the seats, and wedged ourselves inside and out preparatory to setting forth, which we did at last in the midst of a shower of precautionary words from Madame Tricot, sent after the two staring, laughing, rosy-cheek maids who stood helping, and enjoying our prospect of a fÊte, and flirting with our smart driver up to the very last moment. At length we rattled away along the leafy avenue of the Boulevard Heurteloup, at Tours, and were soon on the long level road which conducts to the old town, which we made our goal.

Situated just at the entrance of the luxuriant garden of Touraine; full to overflowing of grapes and melons, and plums and peaches, of incredible size; on the banks of the river Indre, (here spanned by several pretty bridges,) rises the craggy hill, on the sides of which was built, at a period too remote to be ascertained even by a hand-book, the rugged, stony, impassable, confused, fossil-looking town, crowned at its extreme summit by the grimmest, strangest, oldest, and most inexplicably constructed castle that exists in France. Probably its like would be sought in vain in Europe. Such another series of towers, and spires, and long and high walls, terraces, battlements, stair-cases, and dungeons, was never brought together by the hand of man. The castle was constructed by order of a certain Count of Anjou, named Foulques Nera, to become—long after his valorous fame had passed away, or had merged into the reputation of an ogre—a ponderous plaything.

The inn where our party stopped at Loches, is very characteristic of the place; for it is, though modernized and beautified outwardly, a maze of galleries, and corridors, and turrets, and secret stair-cases, and rooms with vaulted ceilings, so that the world of the present day seems shut out the moment the faÇade is lost sight of. It had an odd effect in such a place to see smart handmaids flitting about, and a chattering hostess coming out to welcome guests to her antique dwelling, which has all the trouble in the world to look young and inviting, in spite of the paint and frippery in which French taste has striven to disguise its feudal reality.

We very soon arranged ourselves and our repast (with but little addition from the larder of our nevertheless civil hostess) on a sort of platform, on the walls of what is now a terrace, and was once no doubt a war-like spot, where if people “drank the red wine,” it was probably “through the helmet barred.” The hostess merrily uncorked our bottles of Loire wine, observing candidly that it was much better than her cellars produced; and, addressing herself to me, adroitly began a eulogy on the character of the English in general, remarking, that it was astonishing how many of my countrymen made her hotel their home for six months together.

A ramble through the streets showed us that it was market day at Loches. From the lower range of rugged walls to the rocky summit where the castle toppled over—comprising the narrow, high street, which ascends through the whole length, winding and twisting like a snake pursued—was one mass of vegetables, fruit, and flowers, whose bright hues, and the gay colors of the vendors’ dresses, contrasted strangely with the lofty houses with overhanging roofs, frowning down on the groups that dared to disturb the solemn gloom which had been theirs for centuries.

Monsieur Faye stopped every moment to talk to the market-women, to cheapen melons, and to accept bouquets from girls whose bright eyes he praised. On he went, chuckling that his defective sight had not been discovered: his little wife winking to us meantime with an air of entire satisfaction. Madame Tricot endeavored to excite Achille to study the guide pittoresque and make himself acquainted with the notable objects of the place. The lovers, who had doubtless much zeal in the same cause, proposed to him that they should all three mount the hill at a quick pace, and find out the points of view ready for us on arrival at the top. By a curious chance we never managed to find the couple again until our return; and Achille reported that he had not seen them since he observed them to have “joined their heads” over the tomb of Agnes Sorel, the chief lion of the spot.

It seems that Charles the Seventh came to Loches to hunt, when he was visited by the disconsolate wife of the troubadour King RenÉ, of Anjou, who came to solicit his aid in favor of her imprisoned husband. Agnes was in her train—one of those dangerous maids of honor whose eyes have done such fatal mischief to the susceptible hearts of incautious monarchs—but when the duchess quitted Loches, her beautiful companion accompanied her not, she remained in the service of Mary d’Anjou, the wife of Charles the Seventh.

It would be curious to know in what chamber of this wild old castle the love tale was first told which has furnished France with a ceaseless romance. All that remains of Agnes now is her white marble tomb, on which she lies with her hands clasped on bare breast, her beautiful, delicate, and expressive head guarded by two winged kneeling cherubs, and her draperied feet supported by two lambs. The tomb: is in perfect preservation, and is one of the most exquisite morceaux in France. Agnes was the chÂtelaine of the castle, and loved to live here above all other places, although the munificence of her lover gave her the choice of several abodes.

Here, it is said that the ill-nurtured Prince Dauphin, afterward Louis the Eleventh, performed an act very much in conformity with his usual brutality. In one of these saloons he struck the beautiful favorite of his father; but he who could beat his own chosen little effigy of the Virgin Mary, because she refused some of his requests, might well begin his career by an outrage like this. Happy, no doubt, were both the angry beauty and her royal lover, when they saw the last drawbridge of the castle of Loches fall and shut out forever from their presence the gloomy prince, who disapproved of their luxuries, and who spurred his steed onward, nor stopped till he had reached the dominions of the Duke of Burgundy.

Louis came back eventually, however, to these walls, and either late repentance or a sense of justice caused him to respect the tomb of Agnes, which he refused to let the monks of Loches remove.

Monsieur Faye was very anxious to ascertain—for he was rather a phrenologist—the form of the celebrated beauty’s head, and felt it through the bars which protect the lovely marble statue to his heart’s content, discovering bumps which would have disclosed the whole of her character, had history been silent on the subject. There was, besides, not a cornice nor a balustrade in the building that he did not feel; his hand being guided by that of Mathurine. I was amazed at the accuracy of his notions of the places we inspected; and more so at the unwearied patience of his guide, who had no enjoyment which he did not feel, and who had acquired a habit of description so accurate that I felt at last inclined to let her see for the whole party.

The towers of the castle rise above a hundred and fifty feet from the gigantic rock upon which they are built. Some of them appear light and graceful at a distance, although really massive. The castle is divided into two unequal portions: in one is a huge church, the spires of which peer up between enclosing turrets in a way quite original; the other is chiefly composed of a huge tower, which looks like the spiteful ogre of a fairy tale, bending over a mountain and watching to snap up unwary knights or merchants who ventured near his stronghold. Century after century this grim old place has been the abode of personages famous in the romance of history. Joan of Arc came here on a visit; Anne of Brittany and her two husbands made it their favorite abode, and her oratory still exists, covered with ermine spots and cordeliÈres in stone, which incrust the walls, and were very sensible to the touch of my blind friend. Mary Stuart here tuned her lute; and here, several ages before, our John Lackland feasted and reveled; here Philip Augustus came to receive the castle as a bribe for the assistance he was to render him against Coeur de Lion, who afterward besieged and took it. Here Jean of France resided, before the great battle which sent him the prisoner of the Black Prince to England, and in the fine Lady Chapel—whose delicate columns Monsieur Faye felt with his hands—was instituted a perpetual mass for the souls of the identical King John of France, and all the kings and dukes that had preceded him here. Here Francis the First and the fair and inappropriately named Diana, lived and loved a great part of their hours away.

When one sees the dark, dreary, gloomy, rugged walls, it is difficult to fancy Loches a dwelling for beauty and love; and it would require loads of bright tapestry and gilt furniture to fill up the black and blank nooks which yawn on all sides. In these chambers, however, once all was revel and luxury, as the court of the profligate Medici could testify: and the be-puffed and be-hooped ladies, and the be-slashed and be-jeweled lords, danced many a branle and pavane over the dungeons, where howled and groaned the victims of their tyranny and cruel luxury.

It is said that one of the towers descends as deep into the earth as it rises above it, and terrible are the approaches to these frightful spots. A tradition exists that one of the later governors of the castle, being curious to know the extent of these gloomy places, set forth one day on an exploring expedition, and found several passages closed by iron doors: these he had forced open, and found himself in new passages, cut in the depth of the rock on which the castle is built. Another door arrested his progress, which was also broken open, and he entered a long alley, still in the rock, which he followed for a considerable time, till at length it led him to a subterraneous chamber, where, seated on a huge block of stone, with his head leaning on his two hands, sat a very tall man. Monsieur de Pontbrillant, the enterprising governor, was amazed at this vision; but, scarcely had he looked upon it, when the current of air striking the figure, it fell away into dust at his feet. Beside the unfortunate prisoner stood a small wooden coffer, in which still remained several articles of linen, very fine, and carefully folded. The skull and bones of this corpse were long shown at the castle, and were looked upon with awe by those to whom this story was related: but who the prisoner was was never known. In more than one of the old castles of France are still to be traced these horrid dungeons, where captives of all ranks were confined immediately beneath the pleasure chambers of the lords and ladies.

The governor of Loches was always a very great man, which, perhaps, accounted for the fact of our having to wait a long time for the keys of the great tower, which a messenger had gone in search of at the present governor’s lodgings. While we waited in an outer court, we were civilly invited by the portress to walk into her parlor, and there we sat some time talking to her, and hearing the gossip of the place. Beside the large fire-place, guarded from the draught of the open door by a huge wooden screen, sat the grandmother of the establishment—generally a cherished member of the humblest family circle in France—who, old as she seemed, got up and made us a reverence, resuming her cosy seat by the fire, which was directly piled with enormous pine cones and sent up a resinous flame, the perfume of which spread through the room. Monsieur Faye was placed near her, and as she went on with her ceaseless knitting, she was soon busy in cheerful converse with her new acquaintance, while I was listening to a history of a lately escaped convict from this apparently secure retreat: the castle being the country prison.

“You see,” said the portress, “you would not have been obliged to wait so long for the keys but for this: we used, till three days ago, to keep them here, but since that event they are sent up to the governor’s house, and my husband, the guide, who shows you over the dungeons, is obliged to go and get them—but he will soon be back.”

“Do they keep prisoners in the dungeons now-a-days?” I asked.

I was told that the escaped culprit, who had robbed a hen-roost, had been put in a room above the dungeons—of which there are three stories beneath the ground level—and had contrived to hook up a plank, by which means he descended, with intent to rise the easier, having swung himself down till he could jump across a certain black abyss, which we afterward shuddered to see, and gain a broken stair-case where a door led to a corridor conducting to the outer court. With an iron nail he had displaced a huge stone in the steps, had crept through that, displaced a second in the same way, and thus arrived at the passage. Here he hid himself in a dark corner on the chance of the jailor-guide coming that way with visitors before long. As it happened, that event occurred, and the jailor was just preparing to light the candle which serves to illumine the gloom, having left the outer door open till the process was accomplished, when the ready adventurer lept from his hiding-place, overturned the guide, and amidst the screams and cries of the affrighted visitors, rushed out, with them, pell-mell into the outer world. As his blouse was the same costume as that worn by many of the affrighted strangers—for all ranks make the dungeons a lion—he passed unnoticed in the crowd, and excited no surprise as he “ran violently down the steep hill” with the rest and got fairly off. I could not regret that so ingenious and fearless a personage had baffled the vigilance of the guardians of Loches, but I felt a little nervous at the chance of a similar adventure occurring as we began our exploring expedition in the same quarter. I was assured, however, that there was no chance of such a thing, all the prisoners now detained, to the number of four, being at that moment smoking their pipes in a pleasant, sunny little court which we had to cross before we reached the low door which gave entrance to the dungeons.

There was nothing formidable in the aspect of these worthies, whose crimes were not of a deeper die than that of having got drunk and committed damage to the citizens in their cups; and we passed amongst them, returning the salutes they made with their night-caps, quite without alarm.

In the great court before this enormous and sinister-looking tower, one of the most splendid and the most worthless of the ancient governors of Loches paused before he entered, attended by three hundred gentlemen of high family, all probably “as wicked as himself,” and all bent on turning the good fortune of their friend and patron to the best account. This governor was the famous favorite of the infamous Henry the Third of France, the gorgeous Duke d’Epernon, and during the time he passed in these walls, the gold of the kingdom was no more spared by him than by his master. But a change arrived—two reigns had intervened—and a second time he visited these walls, more as a prisoner than a prince; he was then a gray-headed, gloomy, morose, miserable man, deserted by all the former companions of his profligacy whom the axe and the sword had spared, and here he came to hide himself from a court which his vices had disgraced.

Marie de Medicis, the prisoner of her son at Blois, also arrived here, in night and silence, escaped from her captivity, and entreated shelter of the old favorite, who had been suspected of knowing more than was honest of the murder of her husband, Henry the Fourth.

It is a strange reflection, and one that might well intrude while one stands before the door of the great tower of Loches, waiting till its rusty key turns in the lock, how unequal is the fate of those who have acted remarkable parts in the drama of the world. In spite of the mutations of fortune, mortification, neglect, disgrace or discontent, in spite of the overthrow of ambition, the wreck of hope, the struggles and turmoils, that d’Epernon had gone through, he could not get rid of the burden of life till the age of eighty-eight, when he died in the Castle of Loches, unregretted, and at once forgotten.

A story is told relating to him, which proves that men are not to be frightened by tyranny and power out of their natural wit and sarcasm. While this favorite of the contemptible king was in the enjoyment of his greatest favor, the public criers were accustomed to carry about a huge book, which they announced as “The high acts and deeds of valor and virtue of the most noble Duke d’Epernon.” These books, eagerly purchased, were found to contain blank paper. I fear that these historical recollections did not occur to Achille as he descended the rugged steps, green, and slimy, and steep, which led, from stage to stage, to the hideous dark holes in which these heroes of middle-age romance were accustomed to place their vassals or equals, as the case might be, when once in the power of their vengeance. Our guide, the jailor, was a good deal interrupted in his customary story of the place by indignation at the devastation committed on his steps and apartments by the late fugitive. Not attempting to smother the indignation awakened in his bosom, as he reviewed the ruin caused by the nail of the man of expedients, he mixed up his historical records with allusions to the damage in something like the following terms:

“Here you see the dungeon where the great monarch Louis the Eleventh (confound his impudence!) confined his minister Cardinal Balue in an iron cage—(I wish there was one here now and Jacques le Pochard was in it!) This is the place where the Grand Duke Sforza was lodged, and you may see where he painted the walls all round to amuse himself—here, where the flame of my candle touches the roof—(it’ll take me a whole day to mend the bottom of that door—the villain!) This is the dungeon where criminals were fastened to that iron bar in the middle of the chamber, and were only able to move from one end to the other by slipping a link of their chain along—mind the step! it leads through the dark passage to the next flight. (I had no idea the rascal had done so much harm to my steps! if ever I catch him again, I’ll flay him!—the brigand!)”

Nothing could equal the delight of my blind friend, at finding that he could touch the damp roofs of these horrible boudoirs for the favorites of princes with his hand, and that he could make out the patterns sketched by the unlucky Duke of Milan on the walls of the chamber with three rows of bars to the window, through which the duke found light enough to pursue his passion for art.

We had seen or felt all at last, and I was glad to return to the last corridor leading to daylight, when suddenly our guide exclaimed that he had left the key in the lock outside, and that some miscreant in the court had shut the door upon us. This was startling intelligence, and we began to feel any thing but satisfaction in the adventure, while our guide, placing his lips to the huge, gaping key-hole—through which a long line of sunlight streamed, as if in mockery—roared lustily to those without. Presently we heard suppressed tittering, and, after a minute or two of altercation between the old man’s voice and that of a young girl on the other side, the key was replaced, turned, and we hastily emerged to day and freedom.

“I ought to have known,” said the old grandfather, laughing, in spite of his anger, as a pretty, saucy-looking girl of twelve bounded across the court and took refuge in the porter’s lodge, “that that young hussy would never let an opportunity slip of playing me a trick—brigande!”

Achille seemed more amused with this last episode than any of our adventures; and it was with much gayety, and highly satisfied, that we descended the stony street, no longer filled with sellers and buyers, for the market was over. We had been four hours exploring! and nothing interrupted the stillness of the dreary old town but the ringing laughter of our young companions, and the pleasant exclamations of the whole party.

It was beyond midnight when we drove merrily up to the Boulevard Heurteloup, and found the same two watchful maidens on the look-out for our return. They did not appear to have been dull in our absence, nor did they seem afraid of solitude, probably feeling secure in the opportune presence of the sentinels on guard, whose measured tread still sounded along the avenue leading to the rail-road station hard by. Monsieur Faye remarked that we were fortunate in a moonlight night, and observed that he had seldom seen the stars so bright as they had been all the way from Loches.

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THE LUCKY PENNY.

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BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

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(Continued from page 534.)