← catalogue

The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867

by Various · English · Gutenberg #28630 · 507,533 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867

Author: Various


        
Release date: April 28, 2009 [eBook #28630]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28630

Credits: Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
        (This file was produced from images generously made
        available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOLUME 20, NO. 122, DECEMBER, 1867 ***




Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)








THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._


VOL. XX.--DECEMBER, 1867.--NO. CXXII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by TICKNOR AND
FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.




THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.


CHAPTER XXXIV.

MURRAY BRADSHAW PLAYS HIS LAST CARD.

"How can I see that man this evening, Mr. Lindsay?"

"May I not be _Clement_, dearest? I would not see him at all, Myrtle. I
don't believe you will find much pleasure in listening to his fine
speeches."

"I cannot endure it. Kitty, tell him I am engaged, and cannot see him
this evening. No, no! don't say engaged, say very much occupied."

Kitty departed, communing with herself in this wise:--"Ockipied, is it?
An' that's what ye cahl it when ye're kapin' company with one young
gintleman an' don't want another young gintleman to come in an' help the
two of ye? Ye won't get y'r pigs to market to-day, Mr. Bridshaw,--no,
nor to-morrow, nayther, Mr. Bridshaw. It's Mrs. Lindsay that Miss Myrtle
is goin' to be,--an' a big cake there'll be at the weddin', frosted all
over,--won't ye be plased with a slice o' that, Mr. Bridshaw?"

With these reflections in her mind, Mistress Kitty delivered her
message, not without a gleam of malicious intelligence in her look that
stung Mr. Bradshaw sharply. He had noticed a hat in the entry, and a
little stick by it which he remembered well as one he had seen carried
by Clement Lindsay. But he was used to concealing his emotions, and he
greeted the two older ladies, who presently came into the library, so
pleasantly, that no one who had not studied his face long and carefully
would have suspected the bitterness of heart that lay hidden far down
beneath his deceptive smile. He told Miss Silence, with much apparent
interest, the story of his journey. He gave her an account of the
progress of the case in which the estate of which she inherited the
principal portion was interested. He did not tell her that a final
decision which would settle the right to the great claim might be
expected at any moment, and he did not tell her that there was very
little doubt that it would be in favor of the heirs of Malachi Withers.
He was very sorry he could not see Miss Hazard that evening,--hoped he
should be more fortunate to-morrow forenoon, when he intended to call
again,--had a message for her from one of her former school friends,
which he was anxious to give her. He exchanged certain looks and hints
with Miss Cynthia, which led her to withdraw and bring down the papers
he had intrusted to her. At the close of his visit, she followed him
into the entry with a lamp, as was her common custom.

"What's the meaning of all this, Cynthia? Is that fellow making love to
Myrtle?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Bradshaw. He's been here several times, and they
seem to be getting intimate. I couldn't do anything to stop it."

"Give me the papers,--quick!"

Cynthia pulled the package from her pocket. Murray Bradshaw looked
sharply at it. A little crumpled,--crowded into her pocket. Seal
unbroken. All safe.

"I shall come again to-morrow forenoon. Another day and it will be all
up. The decision of the court will be known. It won't be my fault if one
visit is not enough.--You don't suppose Myrtle is in love with this
fellow?"

"She acts as if she might be. You know he's broke with Susan Posey, and
there's nothing to hinder. If you ask my opinion, I think it's your last
chance: she isn't a girl to half do things, and if she has taken to this
man it will be hard to make her change her mind. But she's young, and
she has had a liking for you, and if you manage it well there's no
telling."

Two notes passed between Myrtle Hazard and Master Byles Gridley that
evening. Mistress Kitty Fagan, who had kept her ears pretty wide open,
carried them.

Murray Bradshaw went home in a very desperate state of feeling. He had
laid his plans, as he thought, with perfect skill, and the certainty of
their securing their end. These papers were to have been taken from the
envelope, and found in the garret just at the right moment, either by
Cynthia herself or one of the other members of the family, who was to be
led on, as it were accidentally, to the discovery. The right moment must
be close at hand. He was to offer his hand--and heart, of course--to
Myrtle, and it was to be accepted. As soon as the decision of the land
case was made known, or not long afterwards, there was to be a search in
the garret for papers, and these were to be discovered in a certain
dusty recess, where, of course, they would have been placed by Miss
Cynthia.

And now the one condition which gave any value to these arrangements
seemed like to fail. This obscure youth--this poor fool, who had been on
the point of marrying a simpleton to whom he had made a boyish
promise--was coming between him and the object of his long pursuit,--the
woman who had every attraction to draw him to herself. It had been a
matter of pride with Murray Bradshaw that he never lost his temper so as
to interfere with the precise course of action which his cool judgment
approved; but now he was almost beside himself with passion. His labors,
as he believed, had secured the favorable issue of the great case so
long pending. He had followed Myrtle through her whole career, if not as
her avowed lover, at least as one whose friendship promised to flower in
love in due season. The moment had come when the scene and the
characters in this village drama were to undergo a change as sudden and
as brilliant as in those fairy spectacles where the dark background
changes to a golden palace and the sober dresses are replaced by robes
of regal splendor. The change was fast approaching; but he, the
enchanter, as he had thought himself, found his wand broken, and his
power given to another.

He could not sleep during that night. He paced his room, a prey to
jealousy and envy and rage, which his calm temperament had kept him from
feeling in their intensity up to this miserable hour. He thought of all
that a maddened nature can imagine to deaden its own intolerable
anguish. Of revenge. If Myrtle rejected his suit, should he take her
life on the spot, that she might never be another's,--that neither man
nor woman should ever triumph over him,--the proud, ambitious man,
defeated, humbled, scorned? No! that was a meanness of egotism which
only the most vulgar souls could be capable of. Should he challenge her
lover? It was not the way of the people and time, and ended in absurd
complications, if anybody was foolish enough to try it. Shoot him? The
idea floated through his mind, for he thought of everything; but he was
a lawyer, and not a fool, and had no idea of figuring in court as a
criminal. Besides, he was not a murderer,--cunning was his natural
weapon, not violence. He had a certain admiration of desperate crime in
others, as showing nerve and force, but he did not feel it to be his own
style of doing business.

During the night he made every arrangement for leaving the village the
next day, in case he failed to make any impression on Myrtle Hazard and
found that his chance was gone. He wrote a letter to his partner,
telling him that he had left to join one of the regiments forming in the
city. He adjusted all his business matters so that his partner should
find as little trouble as possible. A little before dawn he threw
himself on the bed, but he could not sleep; and he rose at sunrise, and
finished his preparations for his departure to the city.

The morning dragged along slowly. He would not go to the office, not
wishing to meet his partner again. After breakfast he dressed himself
with great care, for he meant to show himself in the best possible
aspect. Just before he left the house to go to The Poplars, he took the
sealed package from his trunk, broke open the envelope, took from it a
single paper,--it had some spots on it which distinguished it from all
the rest,--put it separately in his pocket, and then the envelope
containing the other papers.

The calm smile he wore on his features as he set forth cost him a
greater effort than he had ever made before to put it on. He was
moulding his face to the look with which he meant to present himself;
and the muscles had been sternly fixed so long that it was a task to
bring them to their habitual expression in company,--that of ingenuous
good-nature.

He was shown into the parlor at The Poplars; and Kitty told Myrtle that
he had called and inquired for her, and was waiting down stairs.

"Tell him I will be down presently," she said. "And, Kitty, now mind
just what I tell you. Leave your kitchen door open, so that you can hear
anything fall in the parlor. If you hear a book fall,--it will be a
heavy one, and will make some noise,--run straight up here to my little
chamber, and hang this red scarf out of the window. The _left-hand
side-sash_, mind, so that anybody can see it from the road. If Mr.
Gridley calls, show him into the parlor, no matter who is there."

Kitty Fagan looked amazingly intelligent, and promised that she would do
exactly as she was told. Myrtle followed her down stairs almost
immediately, and went into the parlor, where Mr. Bradshaw was waiting.

Never in his calmest moments had he worn a more insinuating smile on his
features than that with which he now greeted Myrtle. So gentle, so
gracious, so full of trust, such a completely natural expression of a
kind, genial character did it seem, that to any but an expert it would
have appeared impossible that such an effect could be produced by the
skilful balancing of half a dozen pairs of little muscles that manage
the lips and the corners of the mouth. The tones of his voice were
subdued into accord with the look of his features; his whole manner was
fascinating, as far as any conscious effort could make it so. It was
just one of those artificially pleasing effects that so often pass with
such as have little experience of life for the genuine expression of
character and feeling. But Myrtle had learned the look that shapes
itself on the features of one who loves with a love that seeketh not its
own, and she knew the difference between acting and reality. She met his
insinuating approach with a courtesy so carefully ordered that it was of
itself a sentence without appeal. Artful persons often interpret sincere
ones by their own standard. Murray Bradshaw thought little of this
somewhat formal address,--a few minutes would break this thin film to
pieces. He was not only a suitor with a prize to gain, he was a
colloquial artist about to employ all the resources of his specialty.

He introduced the conversation in the most natural and easy way, by
giving her the message from a former schoolmate to which he had
referred, coloring it so delicately, as he delivered it, that it became
an innocent-looking flattery. Myrtle found herself in a rose-colored
atmosphere, not from Murray Bradshaw's admiration, as it seemed, but
only reflected by his mind from another source. That was one of his
arts,--always, if possible, to associate himself incidentally, as it
appeared, and unavoidably, with an agreeable impression.

So Myrtle was betrayed into smiling and being pleased before he had said
a word about himself or his affairs. Then he told her of the adventures
and labors of his late expedition; of certain evidence which at the very
last moment he had unearthed, and which was very probably the
turning-point in the case. He could not help feeling that she must
eventually reap some benefit from the good fortune with which his
efforts had been attended. The thought that it might yet be so had been
a great source of encouragement to him,--it would always be a great
happiness to him to remember that he had done anything to make her
happy.

Myrtle was very glad that he had been so far successful,--she did not
know that it made much difference to her, but she was obliged to him for
the desire of serving her that he had expressed.

"My services are always yours, Miss Hazard. There is no sacrifice I
would not willingly make for your benefit. I have never had but one
feeling toward you. You cannot be ignorant of what that feeling is."

"I know, Mr. Bradshaw, it has been one of kindness. I have to thank you
for many friendly attentions, for which I hope I have never been
ungrateful."

"Kindness is not all that I feel towards you, Miss Hazard. If that were
all, my lips would not tremble as they do now in telling you my
feelings. I love you."

He sprang the great confession on Myrtle a little sooner than he had
meant. It was so hard to go on making phrases! Myrtle changed color a
little, for she was startled.

The seemingly involuntary movement she made brought her arm against a
large dictionary, which lay very near the edge of the table on which it
was resting. The book fell with a loud noise to the floor.

There it lay. The young man awaited her answer; he did not think of
polite forms at such a moment.

"It cannot be, Mr. Bradshaw,--it must not be. I have known you long, and
I am not ignorant of all your brilliant qualities, but you must not
speak to me of love. Your regard,--your friendly interest,--tell me that
I shall always have these, but do not distress me with offering more
than these."

"I do not ask you to give me your love in return; I only ask you not to
bid me despair. Let me believe that the time may come when you will
listen to me,--no matter how distant. You are young,--you have a tender
heart,--you would not doom one who only lives for you to wretchedness.
So long that we have known each other! It cannot be that any other has
come between us--"

Myrtle blushed so deeply that there was no need of his finishing his
question.

"Do you mean, Myrtle Hazard, that you have cast me aside for
another?--for this stranger--this artist--who was with you yesterday
when I came, bringing with me the story of all I had done for you,--yes,
for you,--and was ignominiously refused the privilege of seeing you?"
Rage and jealousy had got the better of him this time. He rose as he
spoke, and looked upon her with such passion kindling in his eyes that
he seemed ready for any desperate act.

"I have thanked you for any services you may have rendered me, Mr.
Bradshaw." Myrtle answered, very calmly, "and I hope you will add one
more to them by sparing me this rude questioning. I wished to treat you
as a friend; I hope you will not render that impossible."

He had recovered himself for one more last effort. "I was impatient:
overlook it, I beg you. I was thinking of all the happiness I have
labored to secure for you, and of the ruin to us both it would be if you
scornfully rejected the love I offer you,--if you refuse to leave me any
hope for the future,--if you insist on throwing yourself away on this
man, so lately pledged to another. I hold the key of all your earthly
fortunes in my hand. My love for you inspired me in all that I have
done, and, now that I come to lay the result of my labors at your feet,
you turn from me, and offer my reward to a stranger. I do not ask you to
say this day that you will be mine,--I would not force your
inclinations,--but I do ask you that you will hold yourself free of all
others, and listen to me as one who may yet be more than a friend. Say
so much as this, Myrtle, and you shall have such a future as you never
dreamed of. Fortune, position, all that this world can give, shall be
yours!"

"Never! never! If you could offer me the whole world, or take away from
me all that the world can give, it would make no difference to me. I
cannot tell what power you hold over me, whether of life and death, or
of wealth and poverty; but after talking to me of love, I should not
have thought you would have wronged me by suggesting any meaner motive.
It is only because we have been on friendly terms so long that I have
listened to you as I have done. You have said more than enough, and I
beg you will allow me to put an end to this interview."

She rose to leave the room. But Murray Bradshaw had gone too far to
control himself,--he listened only to the rage which blinded him.

"Not yet!" he said. "Stay one moment, and you shall know what your pride
and self-will have cost you!"

Myrtle stood, arrested, whether by fear, or curiosity, or the passive
subjection of her muscles to his imperious will, it would be hard to
say.

Murray Bradshaw took out the spotted paper from his breast pocket, and
held it up before her. "Look here!" he exclaimed. "This would have made
you rich,--it would have crowned you a queen in society,--it would have
given you all, and more than all, that you ever dreamed of luxury, of
splendor, of enjoyment; and I, who won it for you, would have taught you
how to make life yield every bliss it had in store to your wishes. You
reject my offer unconditionally?"

Myrtle expressed her negative only by a slight contemptuous movement.

Murray Bradshaw walked deliberately to the fireplace, and laid the
spotted paper upon the burning coals. It writhed and curled, blackened,
flamed, and in a moment was a cinder dropping into ashes. He folded his
arms, and stood looking at the wreck of Myrtle's future, the work of his
cruel hand. Strangely enough, Myrtle herself was fascinated, as it were,
by the apparent solemnity of this mysterious sacrifice. She had kept her
eyes steadily on him all the time, and was still gazing at the altar on
which her happiness had been in some way offered up, when the door was
opened by Kitty Fagan, and Master Byles Gridley was ushered into the
parlor.

"Too late, old man!" Murray Bradshaw exclaimed in a hoarse and savage
voice, as he passed out of the room, and strode through the entry and
down the avenue. It was the last time the old gate of The Poplars was to
open or close for him. That same day he left the village; and the next
time his name was mentioned it was as an officer in one of the regiments
just raised and about marching to the seat of war.


CHAPTER XXXV.

THE SPOTTED PAPER.

What Master Gridley may have said to Myrtle Hazard that served to calm
her after this exciting scene cannot now be recalled. That Murray
Bradshaw thought he was inflicting a deadly injury on her was plain
enough. That Master Gridley did succeed in convincing her that no great
harm had probably been done her is equally certain.

Like all bachelors who have lived a lonely life, Master Gridley had his
habits, which nothing short of some terrestrial convulsion--or perhaps,
in his case, some instinct that drove him forth to help somebody in
trouble--could possibly derange. After his breakfast, he always sat and
read awhile,--the paper, if a new one came to hand, or some pleasant old
author,--if a little neglected by the world of readers, he felt more at
ease with him, and loved him all the better.

But on the morning after his interview with Myrtle Hazard, he had
received a letter which made him forget newspapers, old authors, almost
everything, for the moment. It was from the publisher with whom he had
had a conversation, it may be remembered, when he visited the city, and
was to this effect:--That Our Firm propose to print and stereotype the
work originally published under the title of "Thoughts on the Universe";
said work to be remodelled according to the plan suggested by the
Author, with the corrections, alterations, omissions, and additions
proposed by him; said work to be published under the following title, to
wit: ---- ----; said work to be printed in 12mo, on paper of good
quality, from new types, etc., etc., and for every copy thereof printed
the author to receive, etc., etc.

Master Gridley sat as in a trance, reading this letter over and over, to
know if it could be really so. So it really was. His book had
disappeared from the market long ago, as the elm seeds that carpet the
ground and never germinate disappear. At last it had got a certain value
as a curiosity for book-hunters. Some one of them, keener-eyed than the
rest, had seen that there was a meaning and virtue in this unsuccessful
book, for which there was a new audience educated since it had tried to
breathe before its time. Out of this had grown at last the publisher's
proposal. It was too much: his heart swelled with joy, and his eyes
filled with tears.

How could he resist the temptation? He took down his own particular copy
of the book, which was yet to do him honor as its parent, and began
reading. As his eye fell on one paragraph after another, he nodded
approval of this sentiment or opinion, he shook his head as if
questioning whether this other were not to be modified or left out, he
condemned a third as being no longer true for him as when it was
written, and he sanctioned a fourth with his hearty approval. The reader
may like a few specimens from this early edition, now a rarity. He shall
have them, with Master Gridley's verbal comments. The book, as its name
implied, contained "Thoughts" rather than consecutive trains of
reasoning or continuous disquisitions. What he read and remarked upon
were a few of the more pointed statements which stood out in the
chapters he was turning over. The worth of the book must not be judged
by these almost random specimens.

"_The best thought, like the most perfect digestion, is done
unconsciously._--Develop that--Ideas at compound interest in the
mind.--Be aye sticking in _an idea_,--while you're sleeping it'll be
growing. Seed of a thought to-day,--flower to-morrow--next week--ten
years from now, etc.--Article by and by for the....

"_Can the Infinite be supposed to shift the responsibility of the
ultimate destiny of any created thing to the finite? Our theologians
pretend that it can. I doubt._--Heretical. _Stet._

"_Protestantism means None of your business. But it is afraid of its own
logic._--_Stet._ No logical resting-place short of None of your
business.

"_The supreme self-indulgence is to surrender the will to a spiritual
director._--Protestantism gave up a great luxury.--Did it, though?

"_Asiatic modes of thought and speech do not express the relations in
which the American feels himself to stand to his Superiors in this or
any other sphere of being. Republicanism must have its own religious
phraseology, which is not that borrowed from Oriental despotisms._

"_Idols and dogmas in place of character; pills and theories in place of
wholesome living. See the histories of theology and medicine_
passim.--Hits 'em.

"'_Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Do you mean to say, Jean Chauvin,
that_

     _'Heaven_ LIES _about us in our infancy'?_

"_Why do you complain of your organization? Your soul was in a hurry,
and made a rush for a body. There are patient spirits that have waited
from eternity, and never found parents fit to be born of._--How do you
know anything about all that? _Dele._

"_What sweet, smooth voices the negroes have! A hundred generations fed
on bananas.--Compare them with our apple-eating-white folks!_--It won't
do. Bananas came from the West Indies.

"_To tell a man's temperament by his handwriting. See if the dots of his
i's run ahead or not, and if they do, how far._--I've tried that--on
myself.

"_Marrying into some families is the next thing to being
canonized._--Not so true now as twenty or thirty years ago. As many
bladders, but more pins.

"_Fish and dandies only keep on ice._--Who will take? Explain in note
how all warmth approaching blood-heat spoils fops and flounders.

"_Flying is a lost art among men and reptiles. Bats fly, and men ought
to. Try a light turbine. Rise a mile straight, fall half a mile
slanting,--rise half a mile straight, fall half a mile slanting, and so
on. Or slant up and slant down._--Poh! You ain't such a fool as to think
that is new,--are you?

"Put in my telegraph project. Central station. Cables with insulated
wires running to it from different quarters of the city. These form the
centripetal system. From central station, wires to all the livery
stables, messenger stands, provision shops, etc., etc. These form the
centrifugal system. Any house may have a wire in the nearest cable at
small cost.

"_Do you want to be remembered after the continents have gone under, and
come up again, and dried, and bred new races? Have your name stamped on
all your plates and cups and saucers. Nothing of you or yours will last
like those. I never sit down at my table without looking at the china
service, and saying, 'Here are my monuments. That butter-dish is my urn.
This soup-plate is my memorial tablet.'--No need of a skeleton at my
banquets! I feed from my tombstone and read my epitaph at the bottom, of
every teacup._--Good."

       *       *       *       *       *

He fell into a revery as he finished reading this last sentence. He
thought of the dim and dread future,--all the changes that it would
bring to him, to all the living, to the face of the globe, to the order
of earthly things. He saw men of a new race, alien to all that had ever
lived, excavating with strange, vast engines the old ocean-bed, now
become habitable land. And as the great scoops turned out the earth they
had fetched up from the unexplored depths, a relic of a former simple
civilization revealed the fact that here a tribe of human beings had
lived and perished.--Only the coffee-cup he had in his hand half an hour
ago.--Where would he be then? and Mrs. Hopkins, and Gifted, and Susan,
and everybody? and President Buchanan? and the Boston State-House? and
Broadway?--O Lord, Lord, Lord! And the sun perceptibly smaller,
according to the astronomers, and the earth cooled down a number of
degrees, and inconceivable arts practised by men of a type yet undreamed
of, and all the fighting creeds merged in one great universal--

A knock at his door interrupted his revery. Miss Susan Posey informed
him that a gentleman was waiting below who wished to see him.

"Show him up to my study, Susan Posey, if you please," said Master
Gridley.

Mr. Penhallow presented himself at Mr. Gridley's door, with a
countenance expressive of a very high state of excitement.

"You have heard the news, Mr. Gridley, I suppose?"

"What news, Mr. Penhallow?"

"First, that my partner has left very unexpectedly to enlist in a
regiment just forming. Second, that the great land-case is decided in
favor of the heirs of the late Malachi Withers."

"Your partner must have known about it yesterday?"

"He did, even before I knew it. He thought himself possessed of a very
important document, as you know, of which he has made, or means to make,
some use. You are aware of the artifice I employed to prevent any
possible evil consequences from any action of his. I have the genuine
document, of course. I wish you to go over with me to The Poplars, and I
should be glad to have good old Father Pemberton go with us; for it is a
serious matter, and will be a great surprise to more than one of the
family."

They walked together to the old house, where the old clergyman had lived
for more than half a century. He was used to being neglected by the
people who ran after his younger colleague; and the attention paid him
in asking him to be present on an important occasion, as he understood
this to be, pleased him greatly. He smoothed his long white locks, and
called a grand-daughter to help make him look fitly for such an
occasion, and, being at last got into his grandest Sunday aspect, took
his faithful staff, and set out with the two gentlemen for The Poplars.
On the way, Mr. Penhallow explained to him the occasion of their visit,
and the general character of the facts he had to announce. He wished the
venerable minister to prepare Miss Silence Withers for a revelation
which would materially change her future prospects. He thought it might
be well, also, if he would say a few words to Myrtle Hazard, for whom a
new life, with new and untried temptations, was about to open. His
business was, as a lawyer, to make known to these parties the facts just
come to his own knowledge affecting their interests. He had asked Mr.
Gridley to go with him, as having intimate relations with one of the
parties referred to, and as having been the principal agent in securing
to that party the advantages which were to accrue to her from the new
turn of events. "You are a second parent to her, Mr. Gridley," he said.
"Your vigilance, your shrewdness, and your--spectacles have saved her. I
hope she knows the full extent of her obligations to you, and that she
will always look to you for counsel in all her needs. She will want a
wise friend, for she is to begin the world anew."

What had happened, when she saw the three grave gentlemen at the door
early in the forenoon, Mistress Kitty Fagan could not guess. Something
relating to Miss Myrtle, no doubt: she wasn't goin' to be married right
off to Mr. Clement,--was she,--and no church, nor cake, nor anything?
The gentlemen were shown into the parlor. "Ask Miss Withers to go into
the library, Kitty," said Master Gridley. "Dr. Pemberton wishes to speak
with her." The good old man was prepared for a scene with Miss Silence.
He announced to her, in a kind and delicate way, that she must make up
her mind to the disappointment of certain expectations which she had
long entertained, and which, as her lawyer, Mr. Penhallow, had come to
inform her and others, were to be finally relinquished from this hour.

To his great surprise, Miss Silence received this communication almost
cheerfully. It seemed more like a relief to her than anything else. Her
one dread in this world was her "responsibility"; and the thought that
she might have to account for ten talents hereafter, instead of one, had
often of late been a positive distress to her. There was also in her
mind a secret disgust at the thought of the hungry creatures who would
swarm round her if she should ever be in a position to bestow patronage.
This had grown upon her as the habits of lonely life gave her more and
more of that fastidious dislike to males in general, as such, which is
not rare in maidens who have seen the roses of more summers than
politeness cares to mention.

Father Pemberton then asked if he could see Miss Myrtle Hazard a few
moments in the library before they went into the parlor, where they were
to meet Mr. Penhallow and Mr. Gridley, for the purpose of receiving the
lawyer's communication.

What change was this which Myrtle had undergone since love had touched
her heart, and her visions of worldly enjoyment had faded before the
thought of sharing and ennobling the life of one who was worthy of her
best affections,--of living for another, and of finding her own noblest
self in that divine office of woman? She had laid aside the bracelet
which she had so long worn as a kind of charm as well as an ornament.
One would have said her features had lost something of that look of
imperious beauty which had added to her resemblance to the dead woman
whose glowing portrait hung upon her wall. And if it could be that,
after so many generations, the blood of her who had died for her faith
could show in her descendant's veins, and the soul of that elect lady of
her race look out from her far-removed offspring's dark eyes, such a
transfusion of the martyr's life and spiritual being might well seem to
manifest itself in Myrtle Hazard.

The large-hearted old man forgot his scholastic theory of human nature
as he looked upon her face. He thought he saw in her the dawning of that
grace which some are born with; which some, like Myrtle, only reach
through many trials and dangers; which some seem to show for a while and
then lose; which too many never reach while they wear the robes of
earth, but which speaks of the kingdom of heaven already begun in the
heart of a child of earth. He told her simply the story of the
occurrences which had brought them together in the old house, with the
message the lawyer was to deliver to its inmates. He wished to prepare
her for what might have been too sudden a surprise.

But Myrtle was not wholly unprepared for some such revelation. There was
little danger that any such announcement would throw her mind from its
balance after the inward conflict through which she had been passing.
For her lover had left her almost as soon as he had told her the story
of his passion, and the relation in which he stood to her. He, too, had
gone to answer his country's call to her children, not driven away by
crime and shame and despair, but quitting all--his new-born happiness,
the art in which he was an enthusiast, his prospects of success and
honor--to obey the higher command of duty. War was to him, as to so many
of the noble youth who went forth, only organized barbarism, hateful
but for the sacred cause which alone redeemed it from the curse that
blasted the first murderer. God only knew the sacrifice such young men
as he made.

How brief Myrtle's dream had been! She almost doubted, at some moments,
whether she would not awake from it, as from her other visions, and find
it all unreal. There was no need of fearing any undue excitement of her
mind after the alternations of feeling she had just experienced. Nothing
seemed of much moment to her which could come from without,--her real
world was within, and the light of its day and the breath of its life
came from her love, made holy by the self-forgetfulness on both sides
which was born with it.

Only one member of the household was in danger of finding the excitement
more than she could bear. Miss Cynthia knew that all Murray Bradshaw's
plans, in which he had taken care that she should have a personal
interest, had utterly failed. What he had done with the means of revenge
in his power,--if, indeed, they were still in his power,--she did not
know. She only knew that there had been a terrible scene, and that he
had gone, leaving it uncertain whether he would ever return. It was with
fear and trembling that she heard the summons which went forth, that the
whole family should meet in the parlor to listen to a statement from Mr.
Penhallow. They all gathered as requested, and sat round the room, with
the exception of Mistress Kitty Fagan, who knew her place too well to be
sittin' down with the likes o' them, and stood with attentive ears in
the doorway.

Mr. Penhallow then read from a printed paper the decision of the Supreme
Court in the land-case so long pending, where the estate of the late
Malachi Withers was the claimant, against certain parties pretending to
hold under an ancient grant. The decision was in favor of the estate.

"This gives a great property to the heirs," Mr. Penhallow remarked,
"and the question as to who these heirs are has to be opened. For the
will under which Silence Withers, sister of the deceased, has inherited,
is dated some years previously to the decease, and it was not very
strange that a will of later date should be discovered. Such a will has
been discovered. It is the instrument I have here."

Myrtle Hazard opened her eyes very widely, for the paper Mr. Penhallow
held looked exactly like that which Murray Bradshaw had burned, and,
what was curious, had some spots on it just like some she had noticed on
that.

"This will," Mr. Penhallow said, "signed by witnesses dead or absent
from this place, makes a disposition of the testator's property in some
respects similar to that of the previous one, but with a single change,
which proves to be of very great importance."

Mr. Penhallow proceeded to read the will. The important change in the
disposition of the property was this. In case the land-claim was decided
in favor of the estate, then, in addition to the small provision made
for Myrtle Hazard, the property so coming to the estate should all go to
her. There was no question about the genuineness and the legal
sufficiency of this instrument. Its date was not very long after the
preceding one, at a period when, as was well known, he had almost given
up the hope of gaining his case, and when the property was of little
value compared to that which it had at present.

A long silence followed this reading. Then, to the surprise of all, Miss
Silence Withers rose, and went to Myrtle Hazard, and wished her joy with
every appearance of sincerity. She was relieved of a great
responsibility. Myrtle was young and could bear it better. She hoped
that her young relative would live long to enjoy the blessings
Providence had bestowed upon her, and to use them for the good of the
community, and especially the promotion of the education of deserving
youth. If some fitting person could be found to advise Myrtle, whose
affairs would require much care, it would be a great relief to her.

They all went up to Myrtle and congratulated her on her change of
fortune. Even Cynthia Badlam got out a phrase or two which passed muster
in the midst of the general excitement. As for Kitty Fagan, she could
not say a word, but caught Myrtle's hand and kissed it as if it belonged
to her own saint, and then, suddenly applying her apron to her eyes,
retreated from a scene which was too much for her, in a state of
complete mental beatitude and total bodily discomfiture.

Then Silence asked the old minister to make a prayer, and he stretched
his hands up to Heaven, and called down all the blessings of Providence
upon all the household, and especially upon this young handmaiden, who
was to be tried with prosperity, and would need all aid from above to
keep her from its dangers.

Then Mr. Penhallow asked Myrtle if she had any choice as to the friend
who should have charge of her affairs.

Myrtle turned to Master Byles Gridley, and said, "You have been my
friend and protector so far,--will you continue to be so hereafter?"

Master Gridley tried very hard to begin a few words of thanks to her for
her preference, but, finding his voice a little uncertain, contented
himself with pressing her hand and saying, "Most willingly, my dear
daughter!"


CHAPTER XXXVI.

CONCLUSION.

The same day the great news of Myrtle Hazard's accession to fortune came
out, the secret was told that she had promised herself in marriage to
Mr. Clement Lindsay. But her friends hardly knew how to congratulate her
on this last event. Her lover was gone, to risk his life, not improbably
to lose it, or to come home a wreck, crippled by wounds, or worn out
with disease.

Some of them wondered to see her so cheerful in such a moment of trial.
They could not know how the manly strength of Clement's determination
had nerved her for womanly endurance. They had not learned that a great
cause makes great souls, or reveals them to themselves,--a lesson taught
by so many noble examples in the times that followed. Myrtle's only
desire seemed to be to labor in some way to help the soldiers and their
families. She appeared to have forgotten everything for these duties;
she had no time for regrets, if she were disposed to indulge them, and
she hardly asked a question as to the extent of the fortune which had
fallen to her.

The next number of the "Banner and Oracle" contained two announcements
which she read with some interest when her attention was called to them.
They were as follows:--

     "A fair and accomplished daughter of this village comes, by the
     late decision of the Supreme Court, into possession of a
     property estimated at a million of dollars or more. It consists
     of a large tract of land purchased many years ago by the late
     Malachi Withers, now become of immense value by the growth of a
     city in its neighborhood, the opening of mines, etc., etc. It
     is rumored that the lovely and highly educated heiress has
     formed a connection looking towards matrimony with a certain
     distinguished artist."

     "Our distinguished young townsman, William Murray Bradshaw,
     Esq., has been among the first to respond to the call of the
     country for champions to defend her from traitors. We
     understand that he has obtained a captaincy in the --th
     Regiment, about to march to the threatened seat of war. May
     victory perch on his banners!"

The two lovers, parted by their own self-sacrificing choice in the very
hour that promised to bring them so much happiness, labored for the
common cause during all the terrible years of warfare, one in the camp
and the field, the other in the not less needful work which the good
women carried on at home, or wherever their services were needed.
Clement--now Captain Lindsay--returned at the end of his first campaign
charged with a special office. Some months later, after one of the great
battles, he was sent home wounded. He wore the leaf on his shoulder
which entitled him to be called Major Lindsay. He recovered from his
wound only too rapidly, for Myrtle had visited him daily in the military
hospital where he had resided for treatment; and it was bitter parting.
The telegraph wires were thrilling almost hourly with messages of death,
and the long pine boxes came by almost every train,--no need of asking
what they held!

Once more he came, detailed on special duty, and this time with the
eagle on his shoulder,--he was Colonel Lindsay. The lovers could not
part again of their own free will. Some adventurous women had followed
their husbands to the camp, and Myrtle looked as if she could play the
part of the Maid of Saragossa on occasion. So Clement asked her if she
would return with him as his wife; and Myrtle answered, with as much
willingness to submit as a maiden might fairly show under such
circumstances, that she would do his bidding. Thereupon, with the
shortest possible legal notice, Father Pemberton was sent for, and the
ceremony was performed in the presence of a few witnesses in the large
parlor at The Poplars, which was adorned with flowers, and hung round
with all the portraits of the dead members of the family, summoned as
witnesses to the celebration. One witness looked on with unmoved
features, yet Myrtle thought there was a more heavenly smile on her
faded lips than she had ever seen before beaming from the canvas,--it
was Ann Holyoake, the martyr to her faith, the guardian spirit of
Myrtle's visions, who seemed to breathe a holier benediction than any
words--even those of the good old Father Pemberton himself--could
convey.

They went back together to the camp. From that period until the end of
the war, Myrtle passed her time between the life of the tent and that of
the hospital. In the offices of mercy which she performed for the sick
and the wounded and the dying, the dross of her nature seemed to be
burned away. The conflict of mingled lives in her blood had ceased. No
lawless impulses usurped the place of that serene resolve which had
grown strong by every exercise of its high prerogative. If she had been
called now to die for any worthy cause, her race would have been
ennobled by a second martyr, true to the blood of her who died under the
cruel Queen.

Many sad sights she saw in the great hospital where she passed some
months at intervals,--one never to be forgotten. An officer was brought
into the ward where she was in attendance. "Shot through the
lungs,--pretty nearly gone."

She went softly to his bedside. He was breathing with great difficulty;
his face was almost convulsed with the effort, but she recognized him in
a moment: it was Murray Bradshaw,--Captain Bradshaw,--as she knew by the
bars on his coat flung upon the bed where he had just been laid.

She addressed him by name, tenderly as if he had been a dear brother;
she saw on his face that hers were to be the last kind words he would
ever hear.

He turned his glazing eyes upon her. "Who are you?" he said in a feeble
voice.

"An old friend," she answered; "you knew me as Myrtle Hazard."

He started. "You by my bedside! You caring for me!--for me, that burned
the title to your fortune to ashes before your eyes! You can't forgive
that,--I won't believe it! Don't you hate me, dying as I am?"

Myrtle was used to maintaining a perfect calmness of voice and
countenance, and she held her feelings firmly down. "I have nothing to
forgive you, Mr. Bradshaw. You may have meant to do me wrong, but
Providence raised up a protector for me. The paper you burned was not
the original,--it was a copy substituted for it--"

"And did the old man outwit me after all?" he cried out, rising suddenly
in bed, and clasping his hands behind his head to give him a few more
gasps of breath. "I knew he was cunning, but I thought I was his match.
It must have been Byles Gridley,--nobody else. And so the old man beat
me after all, and saved you from ruin! Thank God that it came out so!
Thank God! I can die now. Give me your hand, Myrtle."

She took his hand, and held it until it gently loosed its hold, and he
ceased to breathe. Myrtle's creed was a simple one, with more of trust
and love in it than of systematized articles of belief. She cherished
the fond hope that these last words of one who had erred so miserably
were a token of some blessed change which the influences of the better
world might carry onward until he should have outgrown the sins and the
weaknesses of his earthly career.

Soon after this she rejoined her husband in the camp. From time to time
they received stray copies of the "Banner and Oracle," which, to Myrtle
especially, were full of interest, even to the last advertisement. A few
paragraphs may be reproduced here which relate to persons who have
figured in this narrative.

                    "TEMPLE OF HYMEN.

     "Married, on the 6th instant, Fordyce Hurlbut, M. D., to Olive,
     only daughter of the Rev. Ambrose Eveleth. The editor of this
     paper returns his acknowledgments for a bountiful slice of the
     wedding-cake. May their shadows never be less!"

Not many weeks after this appeared the following:--

     "Died in this place, on the 28th instant, the venerable Lemuel
     Hurlbut, M. D., at the great age of XCVI years.

     "'With the ancient is wisdom, and in length of days
     understanding.'"

Myrtle recalled his kind care of her in her illness, and paid the
tribute of a sigh to his memory,--there was nothing in a death like his
to call for any aching regret.

The usual routine of small occurrences was duly recorded in the village
paper for some weeks longer, when she was startled and shocked by
receiving a number containing the following paragraph:--

                    "CALAMITOUS ACCIDENT!

     "It is known to our readers that the steeple of the old
     meeting-house was struck by lightning about a month ago. The
     frame of the building was a good deal jarred by the shock, but
     no danger was apprehended from the injury it had received. On
     Sunday last the congregation came together as usual. The Rev.
     Mr. Stoker was alone in the pulpit, the Rev. Doctor Pemberton
     having been detained by slight indisposition. The sermon was
     from the text, '_The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and
     the leopard shall lie down with the kid_. (Isaiah xi. 6.) The
     pastor described the millennium as the reign of love and peace,
     in eloquent and impressive language. He was in the midst of the
     prayer which follows the sermon, and had just put up a petition
     that the spirit of affection and faith and trust might grow up
     and prevail among the flock of which he was the shepherd, more
     especially those dear lambs whom he gathered with his arm, and
     carried in his bosom, when the old sounding-board, which had
     hung safely for nearly a century,--loosened, no doubt, by the
     bolt which had fallen on the church,--broke from its
     fastenings, and fell with a loud crash upon the pulpit,
     crushing the Rev. Mr. Stoker under its ruins. The scene that
     followed beggars description. Cries and shrieks resounded
     through the house. Two or three young women fainted entirely
     away. Mr. Penhallow, Deacon Rumrill, Gifted Hopkins, Esq., and
     others, came forward immediately, and after much effort
     succeeded in removing the wreck of the sounding-board, and
     extricating their unfortunate pastor. He was not fatally
     injured, it is hoped; but, sad to relate, he received such a
     violent blow upon the spine of the back, that palsy of the
     lower extremities is like to ensue. He is at present lying
     entirely helpless. Every attention is paid to him by his
     affectionately devoted family."

Myrtle had hardly got over the pain which the reading of this
unfortunate occurrence gave her, when her eyes were gladdened by the
following pleasing piece of intelligence, contained in a subsequent
number of the village paper:--

                    "IMPOSING CEREMONY.

     "The Reverend Doctor Pemberton performed the impressive rite of
     baptism upon the first-born child of our distinguished
     townsman, Gifted Hopkins, Esq., the Bard of Oxbow Village, and
     Mrs. Susan P. Hopkins, his amiable and respected lady. The babe
     conducted himself with singular propriety on this occasion. He
     received the Christian name of Byron Tennyson Browning. May he
     prove worthy of his name and his parentage!"

The end of the war came at last, and found Colonel Lindsay among its
unharmed survivors. He returned with Myrtle to her native village, and
they established themselves, at the request of Miss Silence Withers, in
the old family mansion. Miss Cynthia, to whom Myrtle made a generous
allowance, had gone to live in a town not many miles distant, where she
had a kind of home on sufferance, as well as at The Poplars. This was a
convenience just then, because Nurse Byloe was invited to stay with them
for a month or two; and one nurse and two single women under the same
roof keep each other in a stew all the time, as the old dame somewhat
sharply remarked.

Master Byles Gridley had been appointed Myrtle's legal protector, and,
with the assistance of Mr. Penhallow, had brought the property she
inherited into a more manageable and productive form; so that, when
Clement began his fine studio behind the old mansion, he felt that at
least he could pursue his art, or arts, if he chose to give himself to
sculpture, without that dreadful hag, Necessity, standing by him to
pinch the features of all his ideals, and give them something of her own
likeness.

Silence Withers was more cheerful now that she had got rid of her
responsibility. She embellished her spare person a little more than in
former years. These young people looked so happy! Love was not so
unendurable, perhaps, after all.--No woman need despair,--especially if
she has a house over her, and a snug little property. A worthy man, a
former missionary, of the best principles, but of a slightly jocose and
good-humored habit, thought that he could piece his widowed years with
the not insignificant fraction of life left to Miss Silence, to their
mutual advantage. He came to the village, therefore, where Father
Pemberton was very glad to have him supply the pulpit in the place of
his unfortunate disabled colleague. The courtship soon began, and was
brisk enough; for the good man knew there was no time to lose at his
period of life,--or hers either, for that matter. It was a rather odd
specimen of love-making; for he was constantly trying to subdue his
features to a gravity which they were not used to, and she was as
constantly endeavoring to be as lively as possible, with the innocent
desire of pleasing her light-hearted suitor.

"_Vieille fille fait jeune mariee._" Silence was ten years younger as a
bride than she had seemed as a lone woman. One would have said she had
got out of the coach next to the hearse, and got into one some half a
dozen behind it,--where there is often good and reasonably cheerful
conversation going on about the virtues of the deceased, the probable
amount of his property, or the little slips he may have committed, and
where occasionally a subdued pleasantry at his expense sets the four
waistcoats shaking that were lifting with sighs a half-hour ago in the
house of mourning. But Miss Silence, that was, thought that two
families, with all the possible complications which time might bring,
would be better in separate establishments. She therefore proposed
selling The Poplars to Myrtle and her husband, and removing to a house
in the village, which would be large enough for them, at least for the
present. So the young folks bought the old house, and paid a mighty good
price for it, and enlarged it, and beautified and glorified it, and one
fine morning went together down to the Widow Hopkins's, whose residence
seemed in danger of being a little crowded,--for Gifted lived there with
his Susan,--and what had happened might happen again,--and gave Master
Byles Gridley a formal and most persuasively worded invitation to come
up and make his home with them at The Poplars.

Now Master Gridley has been betrayed into palpable and undisguised
weakness at least once in the presence of this assembly, who are looking
upon him almost for the last time before they part from him, and see his
face no more. Let us not inquire too curiously, then, how he received
this kind proposition. It is enough, that, when he found that a new
study had been built on purpose for him, and a sleeping-room attached to
it so that he could live there without disturbing anybody if he chose,
he consented to remove there for a while, and that he was there
established amidst great rejoicing.

Cynthia Badlam had fallen of late into poor health. She found at last
that she was going; and as she had a little property of her own,--as
almost all poor relations have, only there is not enough of it,--she was
much exercised in her mind as to the final arrangements to be made
respecting its disposition. The Rev. Dr. Pemberton was one day surprised
by a message, that she wished to have an interview with him. He rode
over to the town in which she was residing, and there had a long
conversation with her upon this matter. When this was settled, her mind
seemed to be more at ease. She died with a comfortable assurance that
she was going to a better world, and with a bitter conviction that it
would be hard to find one that would offer her a worse lot than being a
poor relation in this.

Her little property was left to Rev. Eliphalet Pemberton and Jacob
Penhallow, Esq., to be by them employed for such charitable purposes as
they should elect, educational or other. Father Pemberton preached an
admirable funeral sermon, in which he praised her virtues, known to this
people among whom she had long lived, and especially that crowning act
by which she devoted all she had to purposes of charity and benevolence.

The old clergyman seemed to have renewed his youth since the misfortune
of his colleague had incapacitated him from labor. He generally preached
in the _forenoon_ now, and to the great acceptance of the people,--for
the truth was that the honest minister who had married Miss Silence was
not young enough or good-looking enough to be an object of personal
attentions like the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker,--and the old minister
appeared to great advantage contrasted with him in the pulpit. Poor Mr.
Stoker was now helpless, faithfully and tenderly waited upon by his own
wife, who had regained her health and strength,--in no small measure,
perhaps, from the great need of sympathy and active aid which her
unfortunate husband now experienced. It was an astonishment to herself
when she found that she who had so long been served was able to serve
another. Some who knew his errors thought his accident was a judgment;
but others believed that it was only a mercy in disguise,--it snatched
him roughly from his sin, but it opened his heart to gratitude towards
her whom his neglect could not alienate, and through gratitude to
repentance and better thoughts. Bathsheba had long ago promised herself
to Cyprian Eveleth; and, as he was about to become the rector of a
parish in the next town, the marriage was soon to take place.

How beautifully serene Master Byles Gridley's face was growing! Clement
loved to study its grand lines, which had so much strength and fine
humanity blended in them. He was so fascinated by their noble expression
that he sometimes seemed to forget himself, and looked at him more like
an artist taking his portrait than like an admiring friend. He
maintained that Master Gridley had a bigger bump of benevolence and as
large a one of cautiousness as the two people most famous for the size
of these organs on the phrenological chart he showed him, and proved it,
or nearly proved it, by careful measurements of his head. Master Gridley
laughed, and read him a passage on the pseudo-sciences out of his book.

The disposal of Miss Cynthia's bequest was much discussed in the
village. Some wished the trustees would use it to lay the foundations of
a public library. Others thought it should be applied for the relief of
the families of soldiers who had fallen in the war. Still another set
would take it to build a monument to the memory of those heroes. The
trustees listened with the greatest candor to all these gratuitous
hints. It was, however, suggested, in a well-written anonymous article
which appeared in the village paper, that it was desirable to follow the
general lead of the testator's apparent preference. The trustees were at
liberty to do as they saw fit; but, other things being equal, some
educational object should be selected. If there were any orphan
children in the place, it would seem to be very proper to devote the
moderate sum bequeathed to educating them. The trustees recognized the
justice of this suggestion. Why not apply it to the instruction and
maintenance of those two pretty and promising children, virtually
orphans, whom the charitable Mrs. Hopkins had cared for so long without
any recompense, and at a cost which would soon become beyond her means?
The good people of the neighborhood accepted this as the best solution
of the difficulty. It was agreed upon at length by the trustees, that
the Cynthia Badlam Fund for Educational Purposes should be applied for
the benefit of the two foundlings known as Isosceles and Helminthia
Hopkins.

Master Byles Gridley was greatly exercised about the two "preposterous
names," as he called them, which in a moment of eccentric impulse he had
given to these children of nature. He ventured to hint as much to Mrs.
Hopkins. The good dame was vastly surprised. She thought they was about
as pooty names as anybody had had given 'em in the village. And they was
so handy, spoke short,--Sossy and Minthy,--she never should know how to
call 'em anything else.

"But, my dear Mrs. Hopkins," Master Gridley urged, "if you knew the
meaning they have to the ears of scholars, you would see that I did very
wrong to apply such absurd names to my little fellow-creatures, and that
I am bound to rectify my error. More than that, my dear madam, I mean to
consult you as to the new names; and if we can fix upon proper and
pleasing ones, it is my intention to leave a pretty legacy in my will to
these interesting children."

"Mr. Gridley," said Mrs. Hopkins, "you're the best man I ever see, or
ever shall see,... except my poor dear Ammi.... I'll do jest as you say
about that, or about anything else in all this livin' world."

"Well, then, Mrs. Hopkins, what shall be the boy's name?"

"Byles Gridley Hopkins!" she answered instantly.

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Gridley, "think a minute, my dear madam. I will
not say one word,--only think a minute, and mention some name that will
not suggest quite so many winks and whispers."

She did think something less than a minute, and then said aloud,
"Abraham Lincoln Hopkins."

"Fifteen thousand children have been so christened the past year, on a
moderate computation."

"Do think of some name yourself, Mr. Gridley; I shall like anything that
you like. To think of those dear babes having a fund--if that's the
right name--on purpose for 'em, and a promise of a legacy,--I hope they
won't get _that_ till they're a hundred year old!"

"What if we change Isosceles to Theodore, Mrs. Hopkins? That means _the
gift of God_, and the child has been a gift from Heaven, rather than a
burden."

Mrs. Hopkins seized her apron, and held it to her eyes. She was weeping.
"Theodore!" she said,--"Theodore! My little brother's name, that I
buried when I was only eleven year old. Drownded. The dearest little
child that ever you see. I have got his little mug with Theodore on it
now. Kep' o' purpose. Our little Sossy shall have it. Theodore P.
Hopkins,--sha'n't it be, Mr. Gridley?"

"Well, if you say so; but why that P., Mrs. Hopkins? Theodore Parker, is
it?"

"Doesn't P. stand for Pemberton, and isn't Father Pemberton the best man
in the world--next to you, Mr. Gridley?"

"Well, well, Mrs. Hopkins, let it be so, if you like; if you are suited,
I am. Now about Helminthia; there can't be any doubt about what we ought
to call her,--surely the friend of orphans should be remembered in
naming one of the objects of her charity."

"Cynthia Badlam Fund Hopkins," said the good woman triumphantly,--"is
that what you mean?"

"Suppose we leave out one of the names,--four are too many. I think the
general opinion will be that Helminthia should unite the names of her
two benefactresses,--Cynthia Badlam Hopkins."

"Why, law! Mr. Gridley, isn't that nice?--Minthy and Cynthy,--there
ain't but one letter of difference! Poor Cynthy would be pleased if she
could know that one of our babes was to be called after her. She was
dreadful fond of children."

       *       *       *       *       *

On one of the sweetest Sundays that ever made Oxbow Village lovely, the
Rev. Dr. Eliphalet Pemberton was summoned to officiate at three most
interesting; ceremonies,--a wedding and two christenings, one of the
latter a double one.

The first was celebrated at the house of the Rev. Mr. Stoker, between
the Rev. Cyprian Eveleth and Bathsheba, daughter of the first-named
clergyman. He could not be present on account of his great infirmity,
but the door of his chamber was left open that he might hear the
marriage service performed. The old, white-haired minister, assisted, as
the papers said, by the bridegroom's father, conducted the ceremony
according to the Episcopal form. When he came to those solemn words in
which the husband promises fidelity to the wife so long as they both
shall live, the nurse, who was watching near the poor father, saw him
bury his face in his pillow, and heard him murmur the words, "God be
merciful to me a sinner!"

The christenings were both to take place at the same service, in the old
meeting-house. Colonel Clement Lindsay and Myrtle his wife came in, and
stout Nurse Byloe bore their sturdy infant in her arms. A slip of paper
was handed to the Reverend Doctor on which these words were
written:--"The name is Charles Hazard."

The solemn and touching rite was then performed; and Nurse Byloe
disappeared with the child, its forehead glistening with the dew of its
consecration.

Then, hand in hand, like the babes in the wood, marched up the broad
aisle--marshalled by Mrs. Hopkins in front, and Mrs. Gifted Hopkins
bringing up the rear--the two children hitherto known as Isosceles and
Helminthia. They had been well schooled, and, as the mysterious and to
them incomprehensible ceremony was enacted, maintained the most stoical
aspect of tranquillity. In Mrs. Hopkins's words, "They looked like
picters, and behaved like angels."

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening, Sunday evening as it was, there was a quiet meeting of
some few friends at The Poplars. It was such a great occasion that the
Sabbatical rules, never strict about Sunday evening,--which was,
strictly speaking, secular time,--were relaxed. Father Pemberton was
there, and Master Byles Gridley, of course, and the Rev. Ambrose
Eveleth, with his son and his daughter-in-law, Bathsheba, and her
mother, now in comfortable health, Aunt Silence and her husband, Doctor
Hurlbut and his wife (Olive Eveleth that was), Jacob Penhallow, Esq.,
Mrs. Hopkins, her son and his wife (Susan Posey that was), the senior
deacon of the old church (the admirer of the great Scott), the
Editor-in-chief of the "Banner and Oracle," and, in the background,
Nurse Byloe and the privileged servant, Mistress Kitty Fagan, with a few
others whose names we need not mention.

The evening was made pleasant with sacred music, and the fatigues of two
long services repaired by such simple refections as would not turn the
holy day into a day of labor. A large-paper copy of the new edition of
Byles Gridley's remarkable work was lying on the table. He never looked
so happy,--could anything fill his cup fuller? In the course of the
evening Clement spoke of the many trials through which they had passed
in common with vast numbers of their countrymen, and some of those
peculiar dangers which Myrtle had had to encounter in the course of a
life more eventful, and attended with more risks, perhaps, than most of
them imagined. But Myrtle, he said, had always been specially cared for.
He wished them to look upon the semblance of that protecting spirit who
had been faithful to her in her gravest hours of trial and danger. If
they would follow him into one of the lesser apartments up stairs they
would have an opportunity to do so.

Myrtle wondered a little, but followed with the rest. They all ascended
to the little projecting chamber, through the window of which her
scarlet jacket caught the eyes of the boys paddling about on the river
in those early days when Cyprian Eveleth gave it the name of the
Fire-hang-bird's Nest.

The light fell softly but clearly on the dim and faded canvas from which
looked the saintly features of the martyred woman, whose continued
presence with her descendants was the old family legend. But underneath
it Myrtle was surprised to see a small table with some closely covered
object upon it. It was a mysterious arrangement, made without any
knowledge on her part.

"Now, then, Kitty!" Mr. Lindsay said.

Kitty Fagan, who had evidently been taught her part, stepped forward,
and removed the cloth which concealed the unknown object. It was a
lifelike marble bust of Master Byles Gridley.

"And this is what you have been working at so long,--is it, Clement?"
Myrtle said.

"Which is the image of your protector, Myrtle?" he answered, smiling.

Myrtle Hazard Lindsay walked up to the bust, and kissed its marble
forehead, saying, "This is the face of my Guardian Angel!"




A MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE.


From the first, our country has been a refuge, not only for kings and
princes and statesmen and warriors, but for all sorts of adventurers and
impostors. Following hard after Kosciuszko, General Charles Lee, Baron
Steuben, Baron de Kalb, Lord Stirling, and Lafayette, we had Talleyrand,
Louis Philippe, and Jerome Bonaparte, and Joseph, king of Spain; and,
but for a sudden change of wind, might have had Napoleon the Great
himself--after the affair of Waterloo. We have always been, and must
continue to be, overrun with pretenders, mountebanks, blood relations of
Charles Fox, Lord Byron, and the Guelphs, who are always in the market.

Never, at any time, however, have we had a more puzzling or mysterious
visitant than Major-General Bratish--Baron Fratelin--Count Eliovich. I
knew him well,--better, I believe, than others who had known him longer,
but under less trying circumstances. I stood by him through thick and
thin. I fought his battles for a long while, and almost always
single-handed, against a cloud of enemies, at a time when he appeared to
be hunted for his life by a band of conspirators, and was undoubtedly
beset by eavesdroppers and spies at every turn.

All at once, after a dazzling career in the political and literary world
beyond seas, continuing for many years, and followed by a course here
which kept him always before the public, and for something more than two
years made it almost a distinction for anybody to be acquainted with
him, this General Bratish--Count Eliovich--found himself an outcast,
helpless and hopeless, obliged to live from hand to mouth.

That he was greatly belied, I had reason to know. That he was cruelly
misunderstood, and wickedly misrepresented by the whole newspaper press
of our country, I had reason to believe, upon evidence not to be
questioned; but we are anticipating.

One day, in the summer or fall of 1839, Colonel Bouchette of Quebec, son
of the late Surveyor-General of Canada, brought a stranger to see me,
whom he introduced as Major-General Bratish, late in the service of her
Catholic Majesty, the Queen of Spain, and associate of General De Lacy
Evans, of the Auxiliary Legion. They were both (Bouchette and Bratish)
living in Portland at the time, and occupied chambers in the same
building; and I inferred from what passed in this or in a subsequent
interview that the Colonel had known the General in Quebec or Montreal,
about the time of the outbreak there in which they were implicated.

The object they had in view, on their first visit, was to open a way for
General Bratish to lecture in Portland, upon some one--or more--of many
subjects,--on Greece, Hungary, Poland, the war in Spain, South America,
our own Revolutionary War, modern languages, or matters and things in
general.

The appearance and deportment of the gentleman were much in his favor.
He seemed both frank and fearless, with a mixture of modesty and
self-reliance quite captivating. He looked to be about five-and-thirty,
according to my present recollection, stood five feet nine or ten, with
a broad chest and good figure. He had not much of military
bearing,--certainly not more than we see in General Grant,--and on the
whole bore the appearance of a young, handsome, healthy, well-bred
Englishman, accustomed to good society. He was neither talkative nor
reserved, but natural and free; speaking our language with uncommon
propriety, French and German still better, and Italian like a native,
and often expressing himself with singular strength and
picturesqueness,--reminding me of the Italian poet and critic, Ugo
Foscolo,--whom I saw at the time he was furnishing the papers translated
by Mrs. Sarah Austin for the Edinburgh Review.

Arrangements were soon made for a first appearance; and the result was
all that could have been hoped for, and much more than could reasonably
have been expected. His manner was dignified, unpretending, and earnest;
and he had a sort of unstudied natural eloquence, quite wonderful in a
foreigner, unacquainted with our idioms and unaccustomed to platform
speaking. Whatever might be the subject, he always talked with an air of
modest truthfulness, and gave the most dramatic and startling
narratives, like an eyewitness on the stand, testifying under oath.
Never shall I forget Warsaw, nor the battle of Navarino, as rapidly
sketched by him in a sort of parenthesis, while he was lecturing upon a
very different subject; he wanted an illustration, and both of these
pictures flashed suddenly out upon us. The other lectures that followed
his first seemed, up to the very last, to grow better and better, until
we had faith, not only in his representations, but in the man himself.

Instead of shunning, he rather invited inquiry; and at an interview with
the late Mr. Edward Preble, son of the Commodore, when that gentleman
was questioning him about Tripoli, and was preparing to show him the
very charts used by the Commodore, the General refused to look at them,
and instantly drew a sketch of the harbor, with the castles, batteries,
and fortifications, and gave the soundings and approaches; and all
these, upon a careful examination, proved to be correct in every
particular, according to the testimony of Mr. Preble himself.

About this time, in consequence of the favorable notices that appeared
in our Portland papers, the Philadelphia Ledger, the Saturday Courier,
and some other journals of that city, opened upon him in full cry,
followed by the American press generally; the Courier declaring that he
had taken _leg bail_ and escaped from Canada,--that he had run away from
Rochester, after obtaining five hundred dollars from Henry McIlvaine,
Esq., of the Philadelphia bar, in the shape of fees for constituting
that gentleman "Consul-General of Greece"! By others he was charged with
being a tin-pedler, a horse-thief, and a leech-doctor, who had assumed
the title of Count long after his arrival in this country. Among many
anonymous letters--letters addressed to strangers in Portland--came one
from Henry McIlvaine himself, saying: "I see by the Portland papers,
that a man calling himself _sometimes_ General Bratish, at others
General Eliovich, Count Eliovich, Baron Fratelin and Walbeck, and
claiming to have been a general in the Polish, Spanish, Mexican, and
other armies, is now in your town; and I should suppose, from the papers
_who_ have noticed him, imposing upon respectable people. Having seen
something of this person, and been _myself a victim_, I have felt it due
to my friends in Portland to put them on their guard. He is the son of a
merchant in Trieste, driven from his home and his friends in consequence
of his crimes. His pretension to any of the titles he claims is
altogether without foundation. After _exhausting Europe_, he has within
a few years turned his talents to good account in our country. He made
his appearance here about two years ago as Consul-General and Envoy from
Greece, in which capacity he was very free with his commissions of
vice-consulships in New York and Philadelphia. He was indicted here for
forgery,--_convicted_,--obtained a new trial by the false oaths of his
associates, some of whom are now in the state prison (one for
horse-stealing), and gave bail for his appearance at the next term. The
pretence for a new trial was the absence of a witness _who never
existed_, but who was expected to prove his innocence. Before the next
term, the Consul-General took wing, leaving his bail, a simple
Frenchman, to pay the forfeit. It would be impossible for me to give
anything like a history of his crimes in a letter. Suffice it to say
that he is a notorious swindler, the most unblushing and inexhaustible
liar and the most finished rascal I ever saw."

If this were true, how happened it that the notorious swindler, the
horse-thief, the convicted forger, and the escaped convict was still at
large,--and not only at large, but always before the public, and _always
without a change of name_? Why was he not surrendered by his bail? Why
not followed by a bench warrant, or a requisition from the Governor of
Pennsylvania? Of course, the story could not be true, as told by Mr.
McIlvaine. It was too absurd on the face of it.

But was any part of the story true? and, if so, how much? Having been
frequently imposed upon, both at home and abroad, by adventurers and
pretenders, I determined to go to the bottom of this case before I
committed myself, and I must say that, for a while, the stories told by
General Bratish, and the explanations he gave, seemed to me still more
absurd and preposterous.

According to his story--to give one example out of a score--he had been
obliged to apply for the benefit of the Insolvent Act, in Philadelphia,
owing to losses he had sustained by lending money to distressed
compatriots, and eleemosynary outcasts, and had been opposed in the
Court of Insolvency by Colonel John Stille, Jr. and Mr. Henry McIlvaine,
who threatened him with a prosecution for the forgery of consular
papers, if he dared to appear. He declared that he did appear,
nevertheless, and was honorably discharged; that his claims and
evidences of debt, handed over to Mr. McIlvaine, the assignee, amounted
to $7,620 for cash lent, while his debts altogether amounted to less
than $1,000; that he was arrested while in court, on a warrant for
forgery, and there subjected to a long and rigorous examination by
Messrs. McIlvaine and Stille, who had got possession of all the claims
against him; that the offence charged consisted in issuing a commission
as Vice-Consul of Greece, _with General Bratish's own signature_! that
McIlvaine went before Mr. Alderman Binns to get the warrant for forgery,
and employed Colonel John Stille, Jr., his coadjutor, to appear as
public prosecutor in the Mayor's Court of Philadelphia; that he, General
Bratish, was put upon trial before a bench of aldermen, not a man of the
whole except the Recorder being acquainted with the rudiments of law;
that, on being arraigned, he refused to plead, and called no witnesses
himself, though some were called by his counsel,--when the Recorder
directed the plea of "Not guilty" to be entered, and the trial to
proceed; that he claimed to be a foreign consul provisionally appointed,
entered a formal protest, which appeared in the papers of the day, and
never deigned to open his mouth, until, to the consternation and
amazement of all who understood the case, the jury found him _guilty_,
under the direction of the Recorder,--a direction which amounted to
this, namely, that, while General Bratish could not be legally convicted
of the offence charged, he might be convicted of another offence _not
charged!_ that a motion for a new trial was entered at the suggestion of
the Recorder himself, and was finally argued in a burst of indignation
by General Bratish, who thrust aside his counsel, and refused to be
delivered on technical grounds; that the motion was opposed by Messrs.
McIlvaine and Stille, but prevailed; that the verdict was set aside, a
new trial granted, and General Bratish was allowed to go at large, on
greatly reduced bail, every member of the court concurring, except Mr.
Alderman McKean; that no sooner was the trial over, and the proceedings
published, than a public meeting was called through the National
Gazette, the Public Ledger, the United States Gazette, and the
Pennsylvanian, and all persons were invited to appear, and bring
forward their charges--if any they had--against him; that such a
meeting, both large and respectable, was held at the College of
Pharmacy, and resolutions were adopted, declaring the character of
General Bratish to be "_unimpeached and unimpeachable_" his authority
from Greece to be fully proved, and his identity to have been
established by the testimony of "several highly respectable gentlemen
present"; that, before he could have another trial, the court was
abolished; and that, after waiting two months for the prosecutor to
move, for want of something better to do, General Bratish betook himself
to Canada; that he was followed there, watched, arrested for a
horse-thief, immediately and honorably discharged, re-arrested upon a
suspicion of high treason, put beyond the reach of a _habeas corpus_
writ, and confined for seven months, in the citadel of Quebec and
elsewhere, _as a prisoner of state_, &c., &c.

Such was a part of his story; and astonishing as it may
appear--incredible, I might say--I found it, after a most careful
investigation, to be not only substantially true, but scrupulously
exact. The evidence came to me through unwilling or prejudiced
witnesses,--my friend, Henry C. Carey of Philadelphia, among the
number,--and was corroborated throughout by official documents and
published proceedings. And here I may as well add, that Mr. Arnold
Buffum was chairman, and J. Griffith, M. D. secretary, of the meeting
above referred to, of March 6th, 1838.

While this unhappy controversy was raging, and our people were dividing
upon the questions involved, a little incident occurred which had a very
wholesome effect upon our misgivings. The General happened to be in
conversation with a stranger one day, when the subject of Unitarianism,
as it existed in the North of Europe, came up. Something was then said
about the great Unitarian Convention held at Cork, Ireland, two or three
years before. General Bratish said he was in attendance, and had let
fall some remarks there. A by-stander, who had very little faith in our
hero, caught at the ravelling thus dropped. If what the General said
were true, surely some evidence might be found by diligent search. And,
sure enough! the gentleman found a copy of the Christian Pioneer, in
Boston, giving an account of that very Convention. He acknowledged to me
that he opened the journal with fear and trembling, but soon came upon
what purported to be an abstract of a speech by General Bratish, and
what furnished abundant confirmation of his highest pretensions as a
soldier, as a writer, as a patriot, and as a philanthropist. I saw the
Pioneer myself. It was a monthly journal, published in Glasgow,
Scotland, July, 1835. The speech, as reported, was eminently
characteristic, and the summary that followed was in the following
words:--

"The society was gratified on this occasion by the presence of the Rev.
George Harris of Glasgow, whose visit to Cork the committee gladly
availed themselves of, earnestly requesting his attendance; and of Mr.
Bratish, _a native of Hungary, and a member of the Hungarian Diet, who,
in consequence of his intrepid advocacy of the cause of much-injured
Poland, both in his place in the legislature, and subsequently with his
pen and his sword, has been obliged to fly his country, and take refuge
in this kingdom_."

Among the most damaging allegations was one to this effect, that Mr.
Forsyth, our Secretary of State, had contradicted the story of General
Bratish about his consular authority and proceedings in every
particular. So far was this from being true, that Mr. Forsyth
_confirmed_ the story of General Bratish in substance, acknowledging to
me that he _knew_ nothing to his prejudice, and that General Bratish had
held such communications with him as he had represented.

Yet more, while I was patiently and quietly pursuing these
investigations, Colonel Bouchette handed me a copy of the Bath (Me.)
Telegraph Extra, of July 19, 1839, containing a report of the
proceedings at a public meeting held there, in consequence of the
newspaper charges and anonymous letters which had followed our
adventurer to that city. It was headed "General Bratish Eliovich (Baron
Fratelin)," and was signed by Judge Clapp (Ebenezer), and by Henry
Masters, Secretary. The resolutions were brief but conclusive; and the
committee that drew them up, after a thorough investigation, were chosen
from among the most respectable citizens of the place. "Every specific
charge brought forward by responsible persons," they say, "was most
completely refuted, and the truth was found entirely in accordance with
the statements and accounts of the transactions given beforehand by
General Bratish"; and they declare him "entitled to the confidence and
respect of the community at large," saying that "his conduct in this
State has been that of a gentleman and man of honor."

I found too, that, go where he would, behave as he might, the moment his
name appeared in the papers, anonymous letters and paragraphs followed,
denouncing him as a "pedler," as a "native Yankee," as a thief who had
robbed a fellow-boarder at Bedford Springs and then run away, taking one
of the most unfrequented roads "across the country to Cumberland, upon
which no public conveyance runs"; and yet I found, upon further inquiry,
that he went off by the regular mail coach direct to Philadelphia, drove
straight to the Marshall House, where he had always put up, (one of the
largest and most respectable establishments in the city,) and _entered
his name at length on the travellers' book in the usual way_, and was
received by McIlvaine himself and others he had met with at Bedford
Springs, on a footing of the most friendly intimacy, for over two months
after the alleged robbery and exposure.

I ascertained further, that he came to this country in the summer of
1836 on board the Statesman, Captain Mansfield, from Gothenburg to
Salem, with letters from Christopher Hughes, our _Charge d'Affaires_ at
Stockholm, to his son at New York, and with a Swedish passport to North
America, duly authenticated, in which he was called "the Honorable John
Bratish de Fratelin"; that he had many other letters, bills of credit,
and drafts, and a large amount of money in gold,--some "thousands of
dollars" according to the testimony of Captain N. B. Mansfield himself,
with whom I communicated by letter; that he was brought on board in the
Governor's barge, and was known to have been treated with great
distinction by the Swedish nobility, and to have been so well received
by Bernadotte himself, the king of Sweden, as to give rise to a report
that he was a son of Murat, the late king of Naples, whose queen he
certainly resembled, as he did others of the Bonaparte family; that on
the passage he put on no airs, claimed no title, but chose to be called
plain Mr. Bratish, until his rank was discovered, and he came to be
known as General John Bratish Eliovich (the son of Elias), Baron
Fratelin; that after a twelve-month's residence at Boston and Salem,
holding intercourse with what is there called the best society, he went
to Washington, where he passed the winter of 1837-38 among the
fashionables and upper-tens; that, while there, he received the
provisional appointment of Consul-General for the United States from the
Regency of Greece, dated February 15, 1837, upon which he threw up an
engagement he had entered into with General Duff Greene, which secured
him a respectable support, and set about seeing the country; that after
travelling from New York to New Orleans, he returned to the North, and
stopped for a month or two at Bedford Springs, _about a day's journey
from Philadelphia_; that being disappointed in remittances and receipts,
and unable to collect moneys he had lent to his compatriots, he could
not pay his bill for six weeks' board, amounting to fifty dollars, and
went to Philadelphia, leaving with Mr. Brown, the landlord, a part of
his baggage and books, after trying in vain to dispose of a valuable
platina medal; that in Philadelphia, Mr. McIlvaine--notwithstanding the
alleged robbery--lent him one hundred and sixty-five dollars, and was
constituted Vice-Consul of Greece _ad interim_, that is, "until the
pleasure of his Majesty, the king of Greece, should be known."

Here then was the foundation of all the attacks made upon the unhappy
General; but was there not something behind,--something _below_ this
foundation? The extraordinary case of Dr. Follen, who was hunted from
pillar to post, year after year, and wellnigh lied into his grave, shows
what may be done by conspirators and spies and slanderers, when a
respectable man grows obnoxious to a foreign power. If he is at all
headstrong or imprudent, nothing can save him. Oddly enough, it happens
that one of the very papers which followed Dr. Follen whithersoever he
went, like a sleuth-hound,--the Philadelphia Gazette,--was among the
bitterest and most unrelenting, of those that assailed General Bratish.

While pursuing these investigations, I learned from what I regarded as
high authority, that General Bratish had presented an address to Lord
Normanby, at the head of the whole consular body, having been chosen for
that special purpose; and I was referred to the Irish Royal Cork Almanac
for 1835, where, under the head of Foreign Consuls, I read, "Colonel
John Bratish (d'Elias) Eliovich, K. C. C., S. S., L. H., Consul-General
of Greece, Mexico, Buenos Ayres, and Switzerland, Consular Agent of
Turkey."

How were these contradictions to be reconciled,--the facts proved with
the stories told? If General Bratish was the swindler and impostor they
pretended, the sooner he was exposed, and the more publicly, the better.
On the contrary, if he was an honest man--a man greatly wronged and
belied, like Dr. Follen--he ought to be defended,--but how? He was poor
and friendless, and the whole newspaper press of the country was either
against him, or wholly indifferent. Had he been on trial in a court of
justice, any lawyer would have defended him,--nay, for that matter, he
might have defended himself. But if he entered the field as a writer,
alone against a host, volumes would have to be written,--and who would
publish them,--who read them?

That I might bring the matter to issue at once, knowing well, and from
long experience, that, when people are accused through the newspaper
press of our country, they are always believed to be guilty until they
have _established their innocence_, I sent a communication to the
Portland Advertiser of October 15, 1839, with my name, charging upon Mr.
Henry McIlvaine and Colonel John Stille, Jr. all that I afterwards
repeated with more distinctness and solemnity in "The New World," for
which I was then writing (and from which I withdrew in consequence of
what I then regarded as unfairness toward General Bratish on the part of
my coadjutors, Messrs. Park Benjamin and Epes Sargent), and arraigning
both McIlvaine and Stille, as conspirators and libellers.

One day, while this controversy was raging, the General called upon me,
and begged me, for my own satisfaction, to inquire of Baron de
Mareschal, the Austrian Minister, respecting certain charges that had
just appeared against him. I consented, and immediately despatched the
following letter to the care of my friend, the Honorable George Evans,
our Representative in Congress, requesting him to see the Baron for me.

     "_To_ HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL BARON DE MARESCHAL, _Envoy
     Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from his Majesty the
     Emperor of Austria._

     "The undersigned is led to apply to your Excellency in behalf
     of a gentleman here, who has been assailed by a great variety
     of newspaper slanders, most of which have been triumphantly
     refuted. The gentleman referred to is known here, by his
     passports and other credentials, as John Bratish Eliovich, late
     a general in the service of her most Catholic Majesty, the
     Queen of Spain, and is now an American citizen.

     "He states--and he bids me trust confidently to the character
     of your Excellency for an early reply--that in 1828 he was at
     Rio Janeiro; that instead of 'running away,' as reported, with
     a large amount of funds belonging to his uncle, Christopher
     Bratish, he left Rio Janeiro in consequence of being appointed
     by the Emperor, Dom Pedro, Brazilian Consul to Austria, with
     the approbation and consent of your Excellency, manifested by a
     regular passport, granted by your Excellency's legation.

     "The friends of General Bratish in this region are numerous and
     respectable, and they beg your Excellency's reply to the
     following questions:--

     "Is the statement above made by General Bratish true?

     "And if your Excellency would be so kind as to say whether, in
     your opinion, there can be any foundation for the story
     respecting the 'large amount of money' said to have been
     carried off by General Bratish, when he is reported to have run
     away from Rio Janeiro, your Excellency would gladly oblige, not
     only the undersigned, but a number of other persons deeply
     interested in the character of General Bratish.

     "Meanwhile, I am with respect your Excellency's most obedient
     servant,

                              "---- ----.

     "PORTLAND, ME., April, 1840."

     "That your Excellency may know who has taken this liberty, the
     undersigned begs leave to refer you to the Hon. George Evans,
     Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, General Scott, or to any member of
     Congress from the Northern or Middle States."

Through some oversight in the transcribing, the full date of this letter
does not appear; but I soon received the following from Mr. Evans:--

              HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, WASHINGTON,

                                    April 20, 1840.

     "MY DEAR SIR,--Your favor of ----, enclosing letter for General
     Mareschal was duly received, and I immediately despatched a
     messenger to deliver it to the General, with a note in your
     behalf. Yesterday the General called upon me to say that he
     felt constrained, from various circumstances, to decline a
     reply to it. He wishes you to understand that he does this with
     entire respect for yourself, whom he should be very happy
     personally to oblige. He said, if the information you seek was
     desirable for any personal or private purposes of your
     own,--such as, for instance, if any alliance was in
     contemplation with any of your friends,--he should feel bound
     to give you a reply. But he does not think that he ought to be
     drawn into a newspaper discussion, or to become the subject of
     comment or remark in such a matter. He wished me to explain his
     feelings, and hopes you will not impute his declining to any
     want of regard for you, and that you will appreciate the
     motives which govern him. I am not at liberty to detail a
     conversation I held with him on the general subject of your
     letter. He did not show it to me, though he spoke of its
     contents.

                        "Very faithfully yours,

                            "GEO. EVANS."

Very adroit and very diplomatic, to be sure, on the part of the Baron;
but surely he might have answered yes or no to the first question,
without committing himself. And why not show my letter to Mr. Evans?
Taking the ground he did, however, he forced me to the following
conclusion, namely, that he could not answer _No_, and was afraid, for
reasons of state, perhaps, to answer _Yes_.

And now, what was to be done? Should I prepare a memoir, setting forth
all these charges, with such refutations and such explanations as had
occurred, and appeal to the public. There seemed to be no other way
left.

While I was preparing this memoir, which made a pamphlet of forty-eight
large octavo pages, with the documentary evidence in small print,
General Bratish was at my elbow; and one evening, after I had read over
to him what I had written, I happened to say that I was exceedingly
sorry for the loss of his orders and decorations in Canada,--they would
have been such a corroboration of his story.

"Lost!" said he, "they are not lost."

"Where are they?"

"In the bank, with some other valuables."

"In the bank! When can you get them for me?"

"To-morrow, when the bank is open."

Shall I confess the truth? So sudden and so startling was this
declaration, after what I had seen in the papers about the loss of these
badges and orders in Canada, that I began, for the first time, to have
uncomfortable suspicions. But, sure enough, the next day he brought them
all to me, together with the original contract entered into between
Colonel De Lacy Evans (afterward General Evans) and General Bratish,
with the approbation of Alva, the Spanish Ambassador at the Court of St.
James, whereby it was provided that "John Bratish Eliovich, Esquire, K.
C. C., V. S. S., V. L. H., &c., &c.," should enjoy the rank, pay, and
emoluments of a Major-General in the Auxiliary Legion then raising for
the Queen of Spain. This document, signed by Colonel De Lacy Evans and
Carbonel, and approved by Alva, styled him "Major-General John Bratish
Eliovich, K. C. C., V. L. H., &c., &c.," and bore the signature of
General Bratish, whereby his identity was established; and the
decorations and orders put into my hands were the following: "Knight
Commander of Christ," the "Tower and Sword" of Portugal, the "Saviour"
of Greece, and the "South Star" of Brazil.

Here, certainly, was pretty strong confirmation; and yet on this very
evening, my wife, who sat where she could see all the changes of his
countenance while I was writing the memoir and occasionally asking a
question without looking up, saw enough to satisfy her that Bratish was
making a fool of her husband, and, the moment his back was turned,
expressed her astonishment that a man of sense--meaning me--could be so
easily imposed upon. So much for the instinct of a woman; but more of
this hereafter.

Not long after this, the General rushed into my office in a paroxysm of
rage,--the only time I ever saw him disturbed. His honor had been
questioned, and by whom, of all the world? Why,--would I believe it?--by
his friend, Colonel Bouchette! Upon further inquiry, I found that he had
received a draft from his sister, which had to pass through a secret
channel to him, lest their estates should be confiscated in Hungary;
that, after two or three disappointments, he had succeeded in getting it
cashed here without endangering a certain friend in New York; that on
mentioning the circumstance to Colonel Bouchette, who had counselled him
not to attempt the negotiation here, that gentleman had laughed in his
face; whereupon the General turned his back on him, and hurried off to
my office. A friend was with me at the time. "Ach, mein Freund!" said
the General, as he finished the story, "he doubted my word, he
questioned my honor, he asked to see the money; but I refused to show
him the money,--I was indignant, outraged; but I have it here,--_here_!"
slapping his breast-pocket, "and I am ready to show it to you." I
declined; he persisted; until at last, afraid of the impression he might
make upon my friend Winslow, who was present, I consented. But he only
talked the louder and the faster, without producing the money; and when
I grew serious, and insisted on seeing it, he acknowledged that he
hadn't it with him!

"Where is it, sir?" said I.

"At my lodgings."

"And how long will it take you to produce it?"

"Ten minutes."

"Very well,"--taking out my watch,--"I will wait fifteen, and my friend
here will stay with me, and be a witness."

Away went the General, and, to my amazement, I must acknowledge, within
the fifteen minutes he returned, bringing with him a cigar-box
containing about five hundred dollars in bills and specie, which I
counted.

Here was a narrow escape,--a matter of life or death to him, certainly,
if not to me. But where had he got the money? He was very poor, judging
by appearances. The lecturing was over for a time, and there was no
field for conjecture. To this hour the whole affair is a mystery.
Unlikely as it was that he should have obtained it from his sister,
there seemed to be no other explanation possible.

Other perplexing and contradictory evidence for and against the General
began to appear. I never saw him on horseback but once, and then I was
frightened for him. As a general, he ought, of course, to know how to
ride. As a native Hungarian, he must have been born _to_ the saddle, if
not _in_ it. Nevertheless, I trembled for him, though the creature he
had mounted was far from being either vicious or spirited; and then,
too, when he tried waltzing, he reminded me, and others I am afraid, of
"the man a-mowing."

On the other hand, he was well-bred and self-possessed, full of accurate
information, and never obtrusive. And here I am reminded of another
singular circumstance, which went far in confirmation of the story he
told. He gave J. S. Buckingham, Esq., M. P., whom I had known in London
as the Oriental traveller, a letter to me, in which he speaks of him as
a member of the British-Polish Committee in London,--thereby endangering
the whole superstructure he had been rearing with so much care. Mr.
Buckingham wrote me from New York, but failed to see me.

Worn out and wellnigh discouraged by these persecutions, the General now
left us, and went to New York, from which place he wrote me, under date
of October 9, 1840, as follows. I give his own orthography, to show
that, although acquainted with our language to such a degree that he was
able to lecture in it, as Kossuth did, and to speak it with uncommon
readiness, he must have learnt it by _ear_, like many others with which
he was familiar enough for ordinary purposes.

"One of my last occupation upon American soil is one of a painful, and
at the same times pleasant nature, to wit, to address you, my noble, my
chivalerouse, my excellent friend. My God revard you and may he for the
benefit of mankind scater many such persons trought the world--it would
prevent misantropy and it would serve as the best antidote against
crimes and deceptions, persecutions and sufferings. O could you know all
what I suffered in my eventful life, you would indead belive that no
romance is equal to reality. But--basta--God is great and merciful, and
I never yit and I hope never will find occassion to doubt the wundaful
ways of his mercy.... Perhaps no times since I cam to America, I had
occassion for more patience than during the first days of my arrival in
N. Y. Harshed by law, cut by some friends, findig once more by European
new a change in Greece, with my funds low, I began indeed to feel
bitterly my sad fate--when by one of this suden fricks which I offen
prouve that man must never despair all changed quit casualy it was
raported to the German Association that I am her--immediately I was
invited to ther mittings, the French Lafayette Club followed suit, and
yesterday evning your humble servant was by acclamation apointed
Vice-President of the General Union of all the forign assotiations of
the city of New York (the German Tepcanoe Club 30 pers. excepted)....

"I am very sorry that I cannot tell you where I go--I sail in the cliper
armed brig Fairfield for the West India unter very avantageouse
circumstances a eccelent pay rang and emoluments you may guess the rest
be assured it is a honorable a very honorable employment. My next for
the South wia Havanna or New York or New Orleans will inform you of the
rest."

Accompanying this letter was a slip from one of the large New York
dailies confirming his story, and reporting the resolutions passed at a
great public meeting, of which A. Sarony was President and Chairman,
John Bratish, Vice-President, and George Sonne, Secretary. "The call of
the meeting was read and adopted," says the report, "when General
Bratish addressed the assemblage in the English, French, and German
languages, in the most patriotic and eloquent manner. His speech was
received with enthusiastic and repeated applause."

And here for a long season we lost sight of the General, though two or
three circumstances occurred, each trivial in itself, but all tending to
give a new aspect to the affair, just before he left us, we had a small
party at our house, where, among other amusements, a game called "The
Four Elements" was introduced. When it was all over, and our visitors
were gone, a costly handkerchief, with a lace border, was not to be
found. It had been last seen in the hands of General Bratish. Having no
idea that, if he had pocketed it by mistake, it would not be returned,
we waited patiently,--very patiently,--supposing he might have thrown
aside his company dress-coat without examining the pockets, and that
when he put it on again the handkerchief would be forthcoming, of
course. But no,--nothing was heard of it, until one evening at a lecture
my wife suddenly caught my arm, and, pointing to a white handkerchief
the General was flourishing within reach, said, "There's Aunt Mary's
handkerchief, now!"--"Nonsense, my dear!"--"It is, I tell you; I can see
where he has ripped off the lace." I thought her beside herself; but
still--why the sudden substitution of a large red Spitalfields for the
white handkerchief? "Perhaps," said I to my wife,--"perhaps the
handkerchief was not marked, and he did not know where to find the
owner."--"But it was marked, and he knows the owner as well as you do,"
was the reply. Of course, I had nothing more to say; and so I laughed
the exhibition off, as a sort of _pas de mouchoir_, like that which
brought Forrest into a controversy with Macready.

And then something else happened. I missed the only copy I had in the
world of "Niagara and Goldau," which he had borrowed of me and returned,
with emphasis; and many months after he had disappeared, I received a
volume of poems from the heart of Germany, entitled, "Der Heimathgruss,
Eine Pfingstgabe von Mathilde von Tabouillot, geborene Giester,"
published at Wesel, 1840, with a letter from the lady herself, thanking
me with great warmth and earnestness for my pamphlet in defence of
General Bratish. Putting that and that together, I began to have a
suspicion that my copy of "Niagara and Goldau" had been presented to the
authoress by my friend, the General,--perhaps in the name of the author.

Yet more. While these little incidents were accumulating and seething
and simmering, I received a letter from Louis Bratish, in beautiful
French, dated Birmingham, 7th October, 1841, in which he thanked me most
heartily for what I had done as the friend of his brother, "John
Bratish,"--withholding the "General,"--and begging me to consider it as
coming from the family; and about the same time, another letter, and the
last I ever received, from the General himself. It was dated "Torrington
House, near London, 12th October, 1841," and contained the following
passages:--

"I cannot account for the very extraordinary silence in speite of all my
request that you would at leas be so kind as to inform me if you realy
don't wish to hear more from me. I know your Hart too well not to be
persuaded that it must be some mistake or some intrigue.

"At last my family begin to understand how much they did wrong me and I
have the pleasure to enclose you a letter of my yungest brother, which
is now at the house of Messrs. Toniola brothers, a volunteer partner, to
learn the english....

"Mr. Josua Dodge, late Special Agent of the U. S. in Germany, is
returning in one or two days to America; this gentleman in consequence
of his mission crossed and recrossed all Germany and Belgium. I met him
in Germany; he was present at Stuttgard in a most critical moment, when,
denunced by the Germanic Federation (in the name of Austria) I was in
iminent peril. He acted as a true American, boldly stepped forward,
asked the way and the werfore and united with my firmness, the American
passports where respected, and Mr. Dodge succeded to get an official
acknowledgment that nothing was known against my moral character, and
they took refuge upon some little irregularity in the passport.... He,
my friends and my family wished very much that I should at lease for
some times rethurn to America (_pour reson bien juste_) but the
recollection is too bitter yet.... Several Americans are now visiting my
sister and her husband in Belgium--among them Mr. Bishop of Cont. and
Mr. Rowly, C. S. of N. Y.--What would I give to see J. N and his amable
family!...

"My address is Monsieur Le General Bratish (Eliovich), raccommande a
Mons. Latard, Vervois Belgique.

"P. S. Great excitement at London. The Morning Chronicle is out upon me
for having done I don't know what in North America and Germany. All
fidle-stik. I send you the paper to see how eassy John Bull is gulled. I
could send you some important news. Attention!!! keep your powder dray!"

Nothing more was heard of our mysterious General until a letter fell
into my hands, purporting to be written by his brother Luigi. It was in
choice Italian, and dated Birmingham, 16th April, 1842, charging the
"Caro Fratello" with having deceived him about Mr. Everett, complaining
of his behavior to Dr. Sleigh and others who had befriended him; telling
him that Dr. Sleigh, to whom he referred, doubted his Spanish
commission, and believed him to have been a member of the "Hunter's
Association,"--a band of horse-thieves in Canada,--and signifying, in
language not to be misunderstood, that the family had given up all hope
of him.

The next information we had was that the General had turned up at Havre,
and was about being married to the daughter of a wealthy banker, and
carried a commission as Major-General from the Governor of Maine! And
then, after a lapse of two years, that he had been travelling with a
British nobleman, whose baggage he had run away with,--that he was
arrested for the offence, and tried in Malta, I do not know with what
result; but I have now before me a supplement of the Malta Times of
October 9, 1844, in Italian, Spanish, and English, wherein he refers to
the testimonials of my friend, Albert Smith, Ex-M. C, and Levi Cutter,
Mayor of Portland; complains bitterly of the late Mr. Carr, Minister of
the United States at Constantinople; and says, among other things, what
of itself were enough to show that he had claimed to be a General of the
State of Maine, and thereby settling the question most conclusively and
forever. His language is: "To one charge of Mr. Everett, I plead guilty;
to wit, to have usurped, or succeeded to gain the good opinion of
respectable people in the United States, and here I am glad, at the same
time, to put Mr. Everett's mind at rest; _he thinks it possible that I
may be a General of the State of Maine_, but he admits _only_ the
possibility, and expresses the hope that it may not be so,--this, after
the pretension to know my birthplace, life, death, and miracles, and an
assertion on his part to have had, or seen, a correspondence with the
Executive of Maine, in my regard, is very diplomatic--_very!_--but his
Excellency may be easy on this head. I do not share _now_ the military
glory and honor of fellowship with that very numerous body of generals
of the United States Militia; and if evidence may be produced that I was
attended by a staff, I assure his Excellency, that it was only to have
my boots cleaned by a captain, to be shaved by a major, to be helped by
a colonel, and to get my meals at the private personal head-quarters of
a _Gineral_ at one dollar per day."

And here I stop. From that day to this, nothing has been heard of
General Bratish; but I should not be surprised to have him reappear, as
if he had risen from the dead, in some new character, and so managing as
to deceive the very elect. No such pretender has appeared since
Cagliostro; and nobody ever succeeded so well in misleading public
opinion, and embroiling so many persons of consideration, both in this
country and in Europe, not excepting the Chevalier d'Eon, and the
Princess Cariboo. Many other strange things might be related of Bratish,
as, for example, his great speech in the Hungarian Diet, reported in the
_Allgemeine Zeitung_,--the most impudent forgery of our day. But this
paper is already longer than I intended; and I have only to add, that I
have reason to believe now that he was indeed a native of Trieste, and
that Colonel Stille and Mr. McIlvaine were right in saying what they did
of him _generally_, though wrong in many of the particulars upon which
they chiefly relied.




A TOUR IN THE DARK.


One February evening, more than a year ago, after a drive of fourteen
miles over a lonely Kentucky road, I drew rein in front of a huge,
rambling wooden building, standing solitary in the midst of the forest.

There was no village in sight to account for the presence of so large a
structure, no adjacent farms, and, except a little patch in front of the
house, no fields,--nothing but the solemn woods which nearly shut it in
on every side.

I did not ask if this was the Mammoth Cave Hotel. I knew it without
asking.

Here I was, then, at last,--about to see what I had desired to see ever
since I was a boy!

But delay frequently comes with the certainty of accomplishing any
long-cherished desire; and though I had driven with a hasty whip from
the railway station fourteen miles away, and though the hotel proprietor
offered to procure me a guide that evening, my haste to see the cave was
unaccountably over. I ordered a fire in my room, and concluded to wait
until morning.

It was too early in the season for the usual summer visitors, and I
found myself the sole guest in this big, lonesome caravansary, that
looked as though a dozen old-fashioned Dutch farm-houses had been placed
in the midst of a wood-lot, and then connected by the roofs, the whole
forming one straggling, weather-stained, labyrinthine building, full of
little nests of rooms, high-pitched gables, cumbrous outside
chimney-stacks, cavernous fireplaces, and low, wide corridors open at
either end, where were uncertain shadows, and draughts of damp air that
whispered and moaned all night long.

In the evening, as I sat before the blazing pile of logs in the
fireplace, some one knocked at my door, and a negro servant looked in.
Would I like to see the guide?

"Certainly. What is his name?"

"Nicholas, sah, Nicholas! But we all calls him Ole Nick."

Rather an ominous name, to be sure! but then, if one goes to the regions
below, what guide so appropriate?

On presentation, his Majesty proved to be an interesting black man,
considerably past middle age; wrinkled, as none but a genuine negro ever
becomes; a short, broad, strong man, with a grizzled beard and mustache,
quiet but steady eyes, grave in his demeanor, and concise in his
conversation. He tells me of two routes by which I can make a tour
through his dominions. The shortest one will require six hours to
travel, and at the farthest will take me to the banks of the river Styx,
six miles from the entrance to the cave. The other route will take the
whole day, and will lead as far as the so-called "Maelstroem,"--a
singular pit, a hundred and seventy-five feet deep,--and place nine
miles of gloom between me and this outer world. And with these facts to
be juggled and distorted in ridiculous combinations with remembrances of
many persons and places in the vagaries of dreams, I went to bed and to
sleep.

As the sun came up, we went down,--my guide and I,--down a rocky path
along the side of a ravine that grew narrower and deeper until we came
to a dilapidated house where the ravine seemed to end. Stepping upon the
rotting piazza of this old house and facing "right about," there opened
before us, as broad and lofty as the entrance to some ancient Egyptian
temple, the mouth of the cave. From where we stood, a path, as wide as
an ordinary city sidewalk and as smooth, sloped gently downward through
the portal.

Turning to the right to avoid the drip of a limpid stream,--that falls
over the entrance like a perpetual libation to Pluto,--a few minutes'
walk places us many hundred feet vertically beneath the surface, and in
the "Rotunda," an enlargement of the cave, which looks about as large as
the interior of Trinity Church, but is in reality larger; being quite as
lofty, and measuring at its greatest diameter a hundred and seventy-five
feet.

Here, as we paused to look, with our flaring lamps poised above our
heads, a strange squeaking noise was heard, which seemed to come from
everywhere and nowhere in particular. I glanced inquiringly at my guide,
in answer to which he simply replied, "Bats," and pointed to the walls,
where, on closer inspection, I found these creatures clinging by
thousands, literally blackening the wall, and hanging in festoons a foot
or two in length. The manner of forming these festoons was curious
enough: three or four bats having first taken hold of some sharp
projecting ledge with their hindmost claws, and hanging thereby with
their heads downward, others had seized their leathery wings at the
second joint, and they too, hanging with downward heads, had offered
their wings as holding-places for still others; and so the unsightly
pendent mass had grown, until in some instances it contained as many as
twenty or thirty bats. The wonder seemed that four or five pairs of
little claws not so large as those of a mouse could sustain a weight
that must have been in some instances as much as three pounds.

The mysterious influence of the approaching spring had penetrated even
into these abodes of darkness, and aroused in the bats a little life
after their long hibernation; and their weak, plaintive squeak, which
had something impish in it withal, came from every shadowy recess, and
from the dark vault overhead. This "Rotunda" should have been called the
"Bower of Bats."

As they all hung too high to reach by other means, I flung my stick at
random upward against the wall, and brought down two of the black
masses, that writhed helpless upon the stony floor of the cave. Poor,
palpitating things, unable to loose their clutch upon each other's
wings, it was hard to say whether they were more disgusting or pitiful.
What Eshcol clusters these, to bear back from this Canaan of darkness,
saying, "This is the fruit of it!"

Such an immense number of bats had harbored and died here from time
immemorial, that more than a hundred acres of the earthy floor of the
cave had, from their decomposing remains, become impregnated with nitre;
and during the years 1812 to 1814, a party of saltpetre-makers took up
their residence here. They made great vats in the cave, in which they
lixiviated the impregnated earth, and by wooden pipes conveyed it to a
place where they boiled the water drawn from the vats. Their rude
mechanical contrivances are standing yet, in the same positions in which
they were left so long ago; and so dry and pure is the air of the cave,
that, though more than half a century has passed, these wooden pipes and
vats show no more indication of decay than they did when first put in.
In one place my guide dug up from the clayey floor--where it was their
custom to feed the oxen employed in drawing the materials to and
fro--some corn-cobs, very dry and light, but as perfect as though they
were only a few months old.

The footprints of the oxen, made in the earth that was then moist, are
plainly visible in many places; and the clay has since become almost as
hard as stone, so that I found it difficult to make any impression in it
with the point of my pocket-knife.

A few minutes' walk brought us in front of the "Giant's Coffin," an
enormous rock forty feet in length, which has fallen from the ceiling.
The resemblance to a coffin is so strangely exact, that, having heard
mention of it before coming in, I recognized it at the first glance. The
upper part of the rock is composed of a stratum whiter than the rest,
and gives it the appearance of having a border of white ornamentation
around it, just below the lid. It rests upon a gigantic bier about ten
feet high, and a little longer than the coffin, and the effect is as
though some kingly son of Anak were lying in state in this huge
sepulchral vault.

Near at hand is a cluster of objects, not carved out by the accidents of
time or the long attrition of subterranean rivers, as is the case with
almost everything else in the cave, but shaped by human hands into a
mournful resemblance to cottages; the likeness being all the more
pathetic when one learns the fact that for many months a number of
benighted human beings made their home here, under the delusion that the
air of the cave, which is chemically pure and dry, would cure their
pulmonary diseases; and that here, like plants shut out from the
generous, fostering sun, they paled and died.

The appearance of those who came out after two or three months'
residence in the cave is described as frightful. "Their faces," says one
who saw them, "were entirely bloodless, eyes sunken, and pupils dilated
to such a degree that the iris ceased to be visible; so that, no matter
what the original color of the eye might have been, it appeared entirely
black."

These cottages, if by a great stretch of courtesy I may call them such,
are very small, consisting each of but one room about ten feet square;
they had been built of stones collected in the cave, and laid loosely in
the wall without mortar; they had fireplaces and chimneys, good wooden
floors, and doors, but no windows, as there was neither light to let in
nor prospect to view without. As there was neither rain nor snow fall,
neither midday heat nor dew of night, beneath that stony cope, roofs
also were useless; so that the structures were only cells that strongly
reminded one of sepulchres. I can conceive of nothing more melancholy
than the existence of the seven or eight consumptives, who I am told
occupied these _ante mortem_ tombs at one time about fifteen years ago.
Three died there, and every one of the others who had resided in the
cave for a period of two months died within two or three weeks after
coming out.

Near to these monuments of ignorance and despair, I noticed a monument
of another sort, and of later date,--a tribute to one of the most
gallant and genial of men, in whom it was fully demonstrated that "the
bravest are the tenderest." It was a pyramidal pile, about eight feet
high, of carefully selected stones, laid without mortar, but with
mathematical precision; and on one stone near the top was scratched a
name dear to every soldier's heart,--"McPherson."

The cells where the living died, and this pile which tells how the
memory of the dead yet lives, are the last objects on our route that
have any association with the things of this outer world; these are the
pillars that mark the beginning of a realm devoid of human
association,--its Pillars of Hercules, beyond which is a silent waste
whose darkness breeds the wildest mysteries.

Walking continuously through the gloom, one loses to some extent the
idea of progression. Here he can get no look ahead, no backward view. He
is the centre of a little circle of light, beyond which is immeasurable
darkness, whence objects seem to come to him like apparitions, changing
form as the first and last rays of light fall upon them, as though the
shape in which they appear under the full light of the lamp were only
some disguise of assumed innocence, which they cast off as they glide
silently into the dark again, to take on some semblance too awful for
mortal eyes. Farther and farther we went along these arched, crypt-like
ways; passing frequently through lofty chambers where the roof could not
be discovered, each with some fanciful and often inappropriate name
assigned to it, until we came at length to what looked like a window in
the side wall of the cave. Peering through this, and holding my lamp
high over my head, I could see neither roof nor sides nor bottom,--only
the wall in which was the window through which I looked. Upward it was
lost in the darkness, and from my breast it descended, perpendicular as
a plummet line, until it vanished in the gulf below, from which arose a
sound of dripping water. This, my guide informed me, was "Gorin's Dome."
Taking then from his haversack a Bengal light, he ignited it and threw
it into the dark void. The sulphurous light shot up and up into a dome
unlike anything built by human hands, unless it might be the interior of
some tremendous tower, eighty feet in width, and nearly two hundred in
height, which the beholder viewed from without, looking inwards through
a window placed at two thirds of the entire height from the bottom.

The inaccessible floor of this place is nearly level, and the walls
strictly perpendicular from base to summit; the whole cavern having been
hollowed out by the constant dripping of water holding carbonic acid in
solution, which cuts the rock as ordinary water channels the ice of a
glacier or the mural face of an iceberg into a semblance of columns, and
sometimes into the folds of an immense curtain.

The brief light fell upon the distant floor; flashed up once, bringing
into strong relief every salient angle in the wonderful walls, and then
died out; the awful prospect vanishing like a nightmare vision, and
leaving nothing to the sense but the sound of the water dripping into
the depths below. The light had burned only half a minute; but so
strange was the scene, that this glimpse sufficed to photograph it
indelibly in my memory.

Gorin's Dome is not the largest of this class of sub-cavities in the
cave, being smaller than Mammoth Dome; but it is the first of its class
that the tourist sees, and it is viewed from so singular a stand-point
that it makes the most startling impression.

Five minutes' farther walk brought us to a wooden footbridge,--a narrow,
shaky contrivance, with a treacherous footing and a slender hand-rail.
Here the bottom of the cave seemed to have dropped out, and the roof to
have gone in search of it; and but for the dim glimpse of the rock on
the other side one might have suspected that this bridge would launch
him into that ungeographical locality called, in the old Norse
mythology, "Ginnunga Gap,"--a place where there was neither side, edge,
nor bottom to anything.

The vault overhead is called "Minerva's Dome"; the gulf below is called
the "Side-Saddle Pit," though I failed to discover any degree of
appropriateness in the odd name.

Standing in the middle of the bridge, my guide flung one of his Bengal
lights far upward, in the midst of the slow-falling drops that had
already carved out this tremendous well and were still making it larger.
The light turned them for an instant into a shower of diamonds; then
down it fell, down, down! As in its descent it passed the bridge on
which we stood, the shadows of our two figures rushed up the opposite
wall, like a pair of demons scared out of their abode by the hissing
flame; and Nick, the guide, as he leaned over, looking downward after
it,--every one of the innumerable wrinkles in his black face made more
distinct, with his white beard and mustache, and the whites of his eyes
seeming to glow in the blue elfish light,--was a caricature, half
grotesque, almost terrible, of Satan himself.

Minerva's Dome and Side-Saddle Pit, both being one place and formed by
the same dripping water, correspond to Gorin's Dome and the pit beneath
it; that part which has been hollowed out above the roof of the cave
being called the dome, and the part below the floor of the cave the pit.
The only difference between the two is that in the case of Gorin's Dome
the dripping waters have bored their huge shaft on one side of the track
of the cave, only just piercing the wall of it in one spot, to make the
window through which it is viewed; while in the case of the Side-Saddle
Pit the vertical shaft cuts directly across the track of the cave, or,
to speak more correctly, across the tunnel which was once the bed of a
subterranean river, but which is now a broad, smooth, dry path.

The topography of this underground realm may be divided into three
departments, as follows:--

First,--as being greatest in extent,--the "avenues," or tunnels, which
present conclusive evidence of having once been the channels of a
subterranean stream, whose waters, having some peculiar solvent
property, wore their bed lower and lower in the rock, until they cut
through into some lower opening, through which they were drawn off,
leaving the old channels dry. Imagine one of the narrow, crooked streets
in the old part of Boston, spanned by a continuous stone archway from
the summits of the buildings on either hand; then close with solid
masonry every window and loop-hole by which a ray of light could
struggle in, and you have for proportions and sinuosity not a bad
semblance of these tunnels, which constitute four fifths of the extent
of the Mammoth Cave.

The second and next largest department is that of the "chambers." These
are places in the general course of the former river where the roof fell
in before the withdrawal of the waters, opening great spaces upward; the
fallen mass forming a sort of island in the centre of the stream, and
crowding the waters on either side of it against the walls of the cave,
so that they were worn out to twice the average width, and finally
itself disappearing under the combined action of the current and the
solvent properties of the water.

The air in all these tunnels and chambers is remarkably dry and pure.
Wood seems never to decay here; as is instanced in the wooden pipes and
vats of the saltpetre-makers, upon which the lapse of a half-century has
not had any visible effect.

The general width of the tunnels or avenues is about forty or fifty
feet, and the average height about thirty feet; but this uniformity is
broken every few hundred yards by chambers, varying in width from eighty
to two hundred feet, and in height from seventy to two hundred and
fifty feet. The floor is formed in some places of sand, but generally of
indurated mud, so hard that it is impossible to make any indentation in
it with the heel of the boot, and remarkably even and smooth, so that
almost anywhere one can walk with as much ease as on city sidewalks. The
walls also are clean and smooth, as in the arched crypts of some mighty
cathedral. A cross section of almost any one of these tunnels would show
an elliptic outline, the vertical diameter being the shortest, and the
bottom being filled with indurated mud or sand to a sufficient depth to
make a level floor.

The third division or class of openings is that of the "domes" and
"pits." These were formed by the same kind of agency as the tunnels and
chambers, namely, by the action of water holding carbonic acid in
solution; but acting in a different manner, and at a period long after
the subterranean river had ceased to flow through its tunnels.

The solvent acid of the water must be acquired in percolating through
the several hundreds of feet of superincumbent earth and sandstone, as
there is but one of these domes, "Sandstone Dome," that extends upward
to the sandstone. The solvent water then, after finding its way into the
vertical crevices of the limestone, gradually rounded them out like
wells, until the pieces which occasionally fell from the top formed a
sort of floor. Through the interstices of this floor, the dissolved
substance of the rock is carried into some deeper and yet undiscovered
cavities beneath. The floor itself gradually sinks, the domes grow
higher, and the walls recede as long as the water continues to drip into
them.

It is not unreasonable to suppose that the substratum of limestone in
all the country for many miles in the vicinity is perforated with these
tremendous shafts; as those which are seen in the cave are only such as
happened to be in the course of the tunnels composing the Mammoth Cave.
It is not improbable that there are many others on every side, close to
the line of the tunnels, but not yet connected with them.

In any one of the above-mentioned departments, the description of one
place answers for most others, except in dimensions. The following are a
few out of many hundreds of measurements taken in as many different
places:--

The "Rotunda," the first chamber from the entrance of the cave, is about
one hundred feet high, and one hundred and seventy-five in diameter.

The "Methodist Church," eighty feet in diameter, and forty in height.

"Wright's Rotunda" is four hundred feet in its shortest diameter, being
nearly circular; the roof seems perfectly level, and is about forty-five
feet high.

"Kinney's Arena" is a hundred feet in diameter, and is fifty feet high.

"Proctor's Arcade" is one hundred feet in width and three quarters of a
mile in length. The walls, which are about forty-five feet high, are
nearly perpendicular throughout the whole length of the arcade, joining
the roof nearly at right angles, and are so smooth that they look like
hammer-dressed stone.

"Silliman's Avenue" is a mile and a half in length and about forty feet
in height, its width varying from twenty to two hundred feet.

"Shelby's Dome" and the pit beneath it are two hundred and thirty-five
feet in height, and about twenty-five in diameter.

"Mammoth Dome" is two hundred and fifty feet high, and nearly one
hundred in diameter.

"Lucy's Dome," the highest in the cave, is sixty feet in diameter, and
three hundred in height.

Nine miles from the entrance of the cave is the "Maelstroem," a dry pit
or well, one hundred and seventy-five feet deep, and about twenty in
diameter; and from the bottom of this shaft may be seen the openings to
three other avenues, which lead farther into this Plutonian labyrinth
than mortal foot has ever trod.

Although the distance of nine miles is about as far as tourists usually
get from the entrance, that is by no means the measure of its extent,
but only the extent of the direct route; there being a number of other
tunnels branching off from it on either side, some of which connect with
it again at a distance of several miles, and some of which have not been
explored to their connection, if they have any.

The total length of all the explored avenues is estimated at over one
hundred miles. If a single day's experience in the cave were sufficient
ground for offering an opinion, I should say that this was a large
over-estimate; but I have no doubt that, like all other great works of
both art and nature, it grows upon the sense of the beholder. But even
setting down its extent at half the foregoing estimate, none can tread
these hollow chambers, thinking of others unexplored, and extending not
only from that distant nine-mile-station, but on every hand, into the
unknown, without a feeling of awe and fear.

Thus on and on through the echoing avenues, where the reverberation of
our footsteps seemed to follow stealthily far behind us, through chamber
and hall, where my guide in the advance flung up his lights, revealing
for an instant the grim and distant vaults,--through "Star Chamber,"
five hundred feet long, seventy in width, and sixty in height, "Cloud
Room," a quarter of a mile in length, sixty feet in height, "Deserted
Chamber," "River Hall," "Revellers' Hall," "The Great Walk,"--through
all these, and a dozen more, we wandered, until, after two hours' walk,
and at a distance of four and a half miles from the entrance to the
cave, I paused upon the muddy banks of the "Styx," and, stooping, dipped
up in my hands a draught from its cold, sunless waters.

Here my guide would willingly have played Charon to my Ulysses, but as
no one had penetrated thus far into the cave for several months, the
boat used to carry visitors over, and to voyage up and down the short
river (only a hundred and fifty yards in length), had sunk, and we
found it impossible to raise it.

The river is about twenty-five feet in width, its course crossing that
of the cave at right angles, and its channel being simply another avenue
or tunnel on a little lower level than the one by which the visitor
approaches it.

In this stream, as well as in "Echo River," are found the famous eyeless
fish. We dipped in vain, for a long time, in hopes of capturing some of
these. At last I was fortunate enough to secure one tiny specimen, about
two inches long, which was shaped like other minnows, but had no eyes,
and was perfectly white, there being not the slightest shade of coloring
on the back. The upper part of its head was as translucent as agate,
through which could be seen opaque spots imbedded in the head where the
base of the eye-sockets should have been. The specimen I obtained was
one of the smallest, as the guide told me these fishes frequently
attained the length of six or seven inches.

I secured also an eyeless crawfish about three inches in length. This
forlorn little creature, like the fish, was entirely colorless. It had
two slightly protuberant spots in its head where the eyes should be; but
they were dull and opaque, and did not seem to differ in texture from
the rest of its body, which had not the translucence of that of the
fish, but looked as though carved out of white marble.

The fish are found also in "Lake Lethe," a quarter of a mile from the
Styx, as well as in "Echo River," the largest and most interesting body
of water in the cave. This last flows out of a tunnel which has such a
low roof that the volume of water nearly fills it, and from here to
where it enters the rocks again is three quarters of a mile. Here the
blind white creatures that inhabit its dark, slow-flowing waters are
more plentiful, but are as unlike those nimble, glistening fellows which
inhabit the streams of the outer world, as the cavern's atmosphere of
darkness and death is different from our atmosphere of light and life.
They refuse to bite at any bait; they move sluggishly, and, when caught
in a net, flop languidly, and die. The only food they are known to have
is the smaller ones of their own kind; and, oddest of all, they, as well
as the crawfish, give birth to their young alive, instead of spawning
the eggs to be hatched by the sun. Last and remotest of these sunless
streams is "Roaring River," the margin of whose solemn waters is nine
miles from the entrance of the cave. This should be Acheron, which hated
the light, and ran sighing down into a cave; for from this stream too
comes a perpetual moan.

The region where the several rivers mentioned are grouped is lower than
the rest of the cave, and much more gloomy in appearance than the high,
dry chambers through which one passes in coming back toward the
entrance.

I was somewhat disappointed in the display of stalactites and other
similar formations of the protocarbonate of lime found in the cave. For
a number of years I had been familiar with mines and mining operations
in the lead-mining districts of Illinois, Wisconsin, and Missouri, and
had there seen some of the most beautiful, though not the largest,
specimens of calcareous spar known to exist. The lime in these
localities being in most instances perfectly pure, the stalactites, to
the length of three feet sometimes, are as free from coloring as
icicles. Sometimes the miners' drift (which compared with the Mammoth
Cave is as a rabbit's burrow to a railway tunnel) is opened into small,
low-roofed caves; and in these, in addition to the translucent
stalactites, there are little hollows in the floor covered with thin
sheets of protocarbonate of lime, no thicker than a pane of
window-glass, and as white as snow. From beneath these the water has
sunk away, leaving a hollow space, and giving the whole precisely the
appearance of those little pools which every one has noticed when a
muddy road suddenly congeals: the pools of water freeze over, and the
water disappears, leaving the ice only a shell over a cavity.

Nothing of this kind, however, is found in the Mammoth Cave. The lime of
which the stalactites are formed being mixed with various oxides and
other impurities, they are all of a dark brown, or gray, or muddy color.
With the exception of some stalactite columns in the "Gothic Arcade,"
which form a fine alcove called the "Gothic Chapel," there are no
stalactites of extraordinary size. There is a stalactite mass (or was
some years ago) in "Uhrig's Cave," in the suburbs of the city of St.
Louis, about twelve feet in height and four feet in diameter, which
exceeds in size anything I saw in the Mammoth Cave.

The gypsum or alabaster flowers are the crowning beauty of the Mammoth
Cave. These are an entirely different formation from the stalactites,
being formed only in a perfectly dry atmosphere, while the stalactites
are necessarily formed in a moist one.

The gypsum is formed by crystallization, and in that process exerts the
same expansive force as ice. Wherever it forms in crevices it fractures
the rocks that enclose it, and protrudes from the crevice; its own bulk
divides, or splits, and curves open, and outward, with much more
tenacity than ice. It seems to have a fibrous texture, in the direction
of which the split always opens.

I found in the "Snowball Room" and in a large chamber called
"Cleveland's Cabinet," a beautiful display of these flowers. In the
Snowball Room, the likeness to winter appears again, in the knots
strongly resembling snowballs stuck all over the ceiling. And in
Cleveland's Cabinet I found some singularly beautiful specimens of
alabaster formations. One kind seemed to be literally growing from the
ceiling as a vegetable would, and looked more than anything else like
short, thick stalks of celery. If an ordinary stalk of celery were
split, so that its natural tendency to curl over backward could be
freely exercised, it would give a very good idea of the shape of some
of the gypsum flowers, except that these are not often longer than four
inches, and in that length frequently curl so as to make a complete
circle. They have the same fibrous appearance as celery, and are as
white as snow.

When five or six of these stalks--if I may call them so--start from one
point, and curve outward in different directions from a common centre,
they frequently form beautiful rosettes. Imagine one of the common
tiger-lilies, which, instead of its thin, red curving petals, has stalks
of celery, curving as much, but broken off square at the ends; then
imagine the celery to be of the purest conceivable white; and you have a
tolerable conception of one of these beautiful alabaster flowers.

This alabaster growth is found only in a few places throughout the cave;
when it is in chambers or spaces in which the atmosphere is very dry, it
invariably has a beautiful fibrous texture like wood or celery, and the
curved form; but if the atmosphere is damp, it forms on the ceiling in
round nodules, from two to three inches in diameter, as in the Snowball
Room.

In the Gothic Arcade there is a sort of colonnade formed along the side
of the tunnel by the meeting of the down-growing stalactites and the
upward-growing stalagmites; the two together having formed slender
columns of spar, from three to six feet in height. One group of these,
about eight feet high, which is the most beautiful in the cave, is
called the Gothic Chapel. In many of the formations, it is very
difficult to trace even the remotest resemblance to the objects after
which they have been named; but in one instance, that of a stalactite
called the "Elephant's Head," the resemblance is remarkable.

Ordinarily it is the custom for one guide to conduct a party of four or
five persons into the cave. I dislike over-officious guides and the
hackneyed comparisons and wordy wonder of gabbling tourists in grand
and solemn places like this; therefore, in the morning, before
starting, I congratulated myself that I should be alone, with the
exception of the guide, who fortunately seemed thoroughly imbued with
the spirit of the place in which he had spent the greater portion of his
time for seventeen years.

He was as grave and taciturn as some cave-keeping anchorite. During our
inward progress, he had carefully pointed out every place and object of
interest, and hurled his blue-lights here and there into domes and pits
and cavernous retreats of darkness. But now, on our backward course, he
stalked silently and abstractedly before, though he seemed to listen to
every step of my feet; for, if I paused or made a misstep, he instantly
looked round.

At last he turned, and, looking me curiously in the face, asked whether
I thought I should be afraid if left in the dark there a little while.
Some people could not bear it, he said, and one gentleman who had
consented to the ordeal of darkness had been half crazed by it, and when
the guide, who had withdrawn and concealed himself, with his light,
returned, the traveller tried first to run away into the darkness, and
then, under some strange hallucination, fired his pistol in the guide's
face.

I had a suspicion that the effect of the obscurity was exaggerated; I
was disposed, moreover, to "try the dark," from curiosity. But I must
acknowledge that, when the guide, with that doubting look, repeated his
inquiry, I hesitated, asking, "Is there any danger? and from what?"

"Nobody knows, massa," said he seriously; "only some people's nerve
can't stan' it, dat 's all."

The mention of that odious word, "nerve" sounded so much like the
familiar solicitation, "Try your nerves, gentlemen?" from the
electrical-machine man,--who is found on the curbstone of some
thoroughfare in every city,--that for one brief instant the prestige of
the great cave was gone.

Poh! I thought, so it is only claptrap after all? "Here, take the
lamps, all of them, matches too, and go away so far that I cannot hear
you halloo, even at your loudest. I will sit here until you come back!"
So saying, I sat down upon a rock in the Star Chamber; and he, taking
the lights, walked away toward the entrance of the cave.

"So then," I thought, "this is the perfect darkness, the total absence
of light, which is seldom if ever known above ground; for even in the
darkest night and the darkest house there are some wandering rays of
light; though they may not be sufficient to enable the eye to
distinguish anything, they are there; they penetrate, reflected in a
hundred zigzags, into the darkest places of the outer world. But here
there are miles between me and the utmost limits of their influence!"

I held my hand before my face, but could not distinguish by sight that
it was there. A few pale, phosphorescent gleams, that seemed to be
wandering in the air, I was convinced were only the remembrances of the
optic nerve,--eidolons of the retina; but they seemed to some extent
plastic to my thoughts, and ready to become the subjective creations of
the brain, outlined in the dark. I could conceive then how the brain,
excited by fear, or stimulated by emotion, might multiply these
phantasms, moulding them into the likeness of objects and beings that
never had any existence in reality. My sense of hearing, too, seemed
preternaturally sharpened; I could hear the ticking of the watch in my
pocket, the throbbing of my own heart, the murmur of the air in my
lungs. I held my breath so that the slightest sound from any other
source than my own organism should not escape me; the ringing vacancy in
my ears grew more and more painful. Not the remotest breath of any
sound, except a faint dropping of water in some distant place! (I could
think of none but in that awful place called Gorin's Dome.) It seemed to
whisper, "Hush! hush! hush!" Sometimes I could not hear the dropping;
for just the same reason that, if one listens intently to the ticking of
a clock for ten minutes, there are intervals when his ear cannot detect
it, because of its regular monotonous sound.

In such intervals the tympanum of the ear, aching with the dead collapse
of its world, made sounds for itself; and it required the exercise of
reason to convince myself, sometimes, that I did not hear distant
babbling voices.

But hark! There _is_ a sound! Not distant, but near! Here!--There! A
sound like large, soft feet treading cautiously. No, not that,
but--something breathing. Pshaw! I believe it was only the sound of my
own respiration after all!

I did not exactly "whistle to keep my courage up," but, feeling that I
must do something to assert my vitality, my antagonism to this
overpowering dark, I cleared my throat vehemently, defiantly,--AHEM!
AHEM! AHEM!! But it sounded so incongruous, so impertinent I might say,
in the midst of that awful silence! Besides, it woke such queer echoes
from unexpected quarters, that I stopped to listen, and heard the
water-drops again in Gorin's Dome, whispering, "Hush! hush! hush!" And
from all the gloomy chambers and tunnels came the echo, breathing,
"Hush! hash! hush!"

It began to be terrifying to think that release from this hell of
silence was dependent upon one man's will, and he too a man I had never
seen until within a few hours. Where was he now, my dark-faced guide?
What if he should not be able to find me again in the midst of this
hundred miles of tunnels that look so much alike? What if he should not
intend to come? What if--But, thank Heaven! there he is at last! That is
the firm, substantial sound of a mortal footstep; not those stealthy,
phantom steps I seemed to hear before! There too is the distant glinting
of the red lamplight on the sides of the cave! How long it takes him to
get here! There he is at last! Blessed be his black face! how unlike the
pale, phosphorescent forms I fancied just a little while ago! How
foolish seem all those dreadful fancies now, so terribly real then!




AN AUTUMN SONG.


    Below the headland with its cedar-plumes
      A lapse of spacious water twinkles keen,
    An ever-shifting play of gleams and glooms
         And flashes of clear green.

    The sumac's garnet pennons where I lie
      Are mingled with the tansy's faded gold;
    Fleet hawks are screaming in the light-blue sky,
         And fleet airs rushing cold.

    The plump peach steals the dying rose's red;
      The yellow pippin ripens to its fall;
    The dusty grapes, to purple fulness fed,
         Droop from the garden-wall.

    And yet, where rainbow foliage crowns the swamp,
      I hear in dreams an April robin sing,
    And memory, amid this Autumn pomp,
         Strays with the ghost of Spring.




BY-WAYS OF EUROPE.

A VISIT TO THE BALEARIC ISLANDS.


I.

As the steamer Mallorca slowly moved out of the harbor of Barcelona, I
made a rapid inspection of the passengers gathered on deck, and found
that I was the only foreigner among them. Almost without exception they
were native Majorcans, returning from trips of business or pleasure to
the Continent. They spoke no language except Spanish and Catalan, and
held fast to all the little habits and fashions of their insular life.
If anything more had been needed to show me that I was entering upon
untrodden territory, it was supplied by the joyous surprise of the
steward when I gave him a fee. This fact reconciled me to my isolation
on board, and its attendant awkwardness.

I knew not why I should have chosen to visit the Balearic Islands,
unless for the simple reason that they lie so much aside from the
highways of travel, and are not represented in the journals and
sketch-books of tourists. If any one had asked me what I expected to
see, I should have been obliged to confess my ignorance; for the few dry
geographical details which I possessed were like the chemical analysis
of a liquor wherefrom no one can reconstruct the taste. The _flavor_ of
a land is a thing quite apart from its statistics. There is no special
guide-book for the islands, and the slight notices in the works on Spain
only betray the haste of the authors to get over a field with which they
are unacquainted. But this very circumstance, for me, had grown into a
fascination. One gets tired of studying the bill of fare in advance of
the repast. When the sun and the Spanish coast had set together behind
the placid sea, I went to my berth with the delightful certainty that
the sun of the morrow, and of many days thereafter, would rise upon
scenes and adventures which could not be anticipated.

The distance from Barcelona to Palma is about a hundred and forty miles;
so the morning found us skirting the southwestern extremity of
Majorca,--a barren coast, thrusting low headlands, of gray rock into the
sea, and hills covered with parched and stunted chaparral in the rear.
The twelfth century, in the shape of a crumbling Moorish watch-tower,
alone greeted us. As we advanced eastward into the Bay of Palma,
however, the wild shrubbery melted into plantations of olive, solitary
houses of fishermen nestled in the coves, and finally a village, of
those soft ochre-tints which are a little brighter than the soil,
appeared on the slope of a hill. In front, through the pale morning mist
which still lay upon the sea, I saw the cathedral of Palma, looming
grand and large beside the towers of other churches, and presently,
gliding past a mile or two of country villas and gardens, we entered the
crowded harbor.

Inside the mole there was a multitude of the light craft of the
Mediterranean,--xebecs, feluccas, speronaras, or however they may be
termed,--with here and there a brigantine which had come from beyond the
Pillars of Hercules. Our steamer drew into her berth beside the quay,
and after a very deliberate review by the port physician we were allowed
to land. I found a porter, Arab in everything but costume, and followed
him through the water-gate into the half-awake city. My destination was
the Inn of the Four Nations, where I was cordially received, and
afterwards roundly swindled, by a French host. My first demand was for a
native attendant, not so much from any need of guide as simply to
become more familiar with the people through him; but I was told that
no such serviceable spirit was to be had in the place. Strangers are so
rare that a class of people who live upon them has not yet been created.

"But how shall I find the Palace of the Government, or the monastery of
San Domingo, or anything else?" I asked.

"O, we will give you directions, so that you cannot miss them," said the
host; but he laid before me such a confusion of right turnings and left
turnings, ups and downs, that I became speedily bewildered, and set
forth, determined to let the "spirit in my feet" guide me. A
labyrinthine place is Palma, and my first walks through the city were so
many games of chance. The streets are very narrow, changing their
direction, it seemed to me, at every tenth step; and whatever landmark
one may select at the start is soon shut from view by the high, dark
houses. At first, I was quite astray, but little by little I regained
the lost points of the compass.

After having had the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans,
Vandals, and Saracens as masters, Majorca was first made Spanish by King
Jaime of Aragon, the Conquistador, in the year 1235. For a century after
the conquest it was an independent kingdom, and one of its kings was
slain by the English bowmen at the battle of Crecy. The Spanish element
has absorbed, but not yet entirely obliterated, the characteristics of
the earlier races who inhabited the island. Were ethnology a more
positively developed science, we might divide and classify this confused
inheritance of character; as it is, we vaguely feel the presence of
something quaint, antique, and unusual, in walking the streets of Palma,
and mingling with the inhabitants. The traces of Moorish occupation are
still noticeable everywhere. Although the Saracenic architecture no
longer exists in its original forms, its details may be detected in
portals, court-yards, and balconies, in almost every street. The
conquerors endeavored to remodel the city, but in doing so they
preserved the very spirit which they sought to destroy.

My wanderings, after all, were not wholly undirected. I found an
intelligent guide, who was at the same time an old acquaintance. The
whirligig of time brings about, not merely its revenges, but also its
compensations and coincidences. Twenty-two years ago, when I was
studying German as a boy in the old city of Frankfort, guests from the
South of France came to visit the amiable family with whom I was
residing. There were M. Laurens, a painter and a musical enthusiast, his
wife, and Mademoiselle Rosalba, a daughter as fair as her name. Never
shall I forget the curious letter which the artist wrote to the manager
of the theatre, requesting that Beethoven's _Fidelio_ might be given
(and it was!) for his own especial benefit, nor the triumphant air with
which he came to us one day, saying, "I have something of most
precious," and brought forth, out of a dozen protecting envelopes, a
single gray hair from Beethoven's head. Nor shall I forget how Madame
Laurens taught us French plays, and how the fair Rosalba declaimed Andre
Chenier to redeem her pawns; but I might have forgotten all these
things, had it not been for an old volume[A] which turned up at need,
and which gave me information, at once clear, precise, and attractive,
concerning the streets and edifices of Palma. The round, solid head,
earnest eyes, and abstracted air of the painter came forth distinct from
the limbo of things overlaid but never lost, and went with me through
the checkered blaze and gloom of the city.

The monastery of San Domingo, which was the head-quarters of the
Inquisition, was spared by the progressive government of Mendizabal, but
destroyed by the people. Its ruins must have been the most picturesque
sight of Palma; but since the visit of M. Laurens they have been
removed, and their broken vaults and revealed torture-chambers are no
longer to be seen. There are, however, two or three buildings of more
than ordinary interest. The _Casa Consistorial_, or City Hall, is a
massive Palladian pile of the sixteenth century, resembling the old
palaces of Pisa and Florence, except in the circumstance that its roof
projects at least ten feet beyond the front, resting on a massive
cornice of carved wood with curious horizontal caryatides in the place
of brackets. The rich burnt-sienna tint of the carvings contrasts finely
with the golden-brown of the massive marble walls,--a combination which
is shown in no other building of the Middle Ages. The sunken rosettes,
surrounded by raised arabesque borders, between the caryatides, are
sculptured with such a careful reference to the distance at which they
must be seen, that they appear as firm and delicate as if near the
spectator's eye.

The Cathedral, founded by the Conquistador, and built upon, at
intervals, for more than three centuries, is not yet finished. It stands
upon a natural platform of rock, overhanging the sea, where its grand
dimensions produce the greatest possible effect. In every view of Palma,
it towers solidly above the houses and bastioned walls, and insists upon
having the sky as a background for the light Gothic pinnacles of its
flying buttresses. The government has recently undertaken its
restoration, and a new front of very admirable and harmonious design is
about half completed. The soft amber-colored marble of Majorca is
enriched in tint by exposure to the air, and even when built in large,
unrelieved masses retains a bright and cheerful character. The new
portion of the cathedral, like the old, has but little sculpture, except
in the portals; but that little is so elegant that a greater profusion
of ornament would seem out of place.

Passing from the clear, dazzling day into the interior, one finds
himself, at first, in total darkness; and the dimensions of the
nave--nearly three hundred feet in length by one hundred and forty in
height--are amplified by the gloom. The wind, I was told, came through
the windows on the sea side with such force as to overturn the chalices,
and blow out the tapers on the altar, whereupon every opening was walled
up, except a rose at the end of the chancel, and a few slits in the
nave, above the side-aisles. A sombre twilight, like that of a stormy
day, fills the edifice. Here the rustling of stoles and the muttering of
prayers suggest incantation rather than worship; the organ has a hollow,
sepulchral sound of lamentation; and there is a spirit of mystery and
terror in the stale, clammy air. The place resembles an antechamber of
Purgatory much more than of Heaven. The mummy of Don Jaime II., son of
the Conquistador and first king of Majorca, is preserved in a
sarcophagus of black marble. This is the only historic monument in the
Cathedral, unless the stranger chooses to study the heraldry of the
island families from their shields suspended in the chapels.

When I returned to the Four Nations for breakfast, I found at the table
a gentleman of Palma, who invited me to sit down and partake of his
meal. For the first time this Spanish custom, which really seems
picturesque and fraternal when coming from shepherds or muleteers in a
mountain inn, struck me as the hollowest of forms. The gentleman knew
that I would not accept his invitation, nor he mine; he knew, moreover,
that I knew he did not wish me to accept it. The phrase, under such
conditions, becomes a cheat which offends the sacred spirit of
hospitality. How far the mere form may go was experienced by George
Sand, who, having accepted the use of a carriage most earnestly offered
to her by a Majorcan count, found the equipage at her door, it is true,
but with it a letter expressing so much vexation, that she was forced to
withdraw her acceptance of the favor at once, and to apologize for it! I
have always found much hospitality among the common people of Spain,
and I doubt not that the spirit exists in all classes; but it requires
some practice to distinguish between empty phrase and the courtesy which
comes from the heart. A people who boast of some special virtue
generally do not possess it.

My own slight intercourse with the Majorcans was very pleasant. On the
day of my arrival, I endeavored to procure a map of the island, but none
of the bookstores possessed the article. It could be found in one house
in a remote street, and one of the shopmen finally sent a boy with me to
the very door. When I offered money for the service, my guide smiled,
shook his head, and ran away. The map was more than fifty years old, and
drawn in the style of two centuries ago, with groups of houses for the
villages, and long files of conical peaks for the mountains. The woman
brought it down, yellow and dusty, from a dark garret over the shop, and
seemed as delighted with the sale as if she had received money for
useless stock. In the streets, the people inspected me curiously, as a
stranger, but were always ready to go out of their way to guide me. The
ground-floor being always open, all the features of domestic life and of
mechanical labor are exposed to the public. The housewives, the masters,
and apprentices, busy as they seem, manage to keep one eye disengaged,
and no one passes before them without notice. Cooking, washing, sewing,
tailoring, shoemaking, coopering, rope and basket making, succeed each
other, as one passes through the narrow streets. In the afternoon, the
mechanics frequently come forth and set up their business in the open
air, where they can now and then greet a country acquaintance or a city
friend or sweetheart.

When I found that the ruins of San Domingo had been removed, and a
statue of Isabella II. erected on the Alameda, I began to suspect that
the reign of old things was over in Majorca. A little observation of the
people made this fact more evident. The island costume is no longer
worn by the young men, even in the country; they have passed into a very
comical transition state. Old men, mounted on lean asses or mules, still
enter the gates of Palma, with handkerchiefs tied over their shaven
crowns, and long gray locks falling on their shoulders,--with short,
loose jackets, shawls around the waist, and wide Turkish trousers
gathered at the knee. Their gaunt brown legs are bare, and their feet
protected by rude sandals. Tall, large-boned, and stern of face, they
hint both of Vandal and of Moslem blood. The younger men are of inferior
stature, and nearly all bow-legged. They have turned the flowing
trousers into modern pantaloons, the legs of which are cut like the
old-fashioned _gigot_ sleeve, very big and baggy at the top, and tied
with a drawing-string around the waist. My first impression was, that
the men had got up in a great hurry, and put on their trousers
hinder-end foremost. It would be difficult to invent a costume more
awkward and ungraceful than this.

In the city the young girls wear a large triangular piece of white or
black lace, which covers the hair, and tightly encloses the face, being
fastened under the chin and the ends brought down to a point on the
breast. Their almond-shaped eyes are large and fine, but there is very
little positive beauty among them. Most of the old country-women are
veritable hags, and their appearance is not improved by the
broad-brimmed stove-pipe hats which they wear. Seated astride on their
donkeys, between panniers of produce, they come in daily from the plains
and mountains, and you encounter them on all the roads leading out of
Palma. Few of the people speak any other language than the _Mallorquin_,
a variety of the Catalan, which, from the frequency of the terminations
in _ch_ and _tz_, constantly suggests the old Provencal literature. The
word _vitch_ (son) is both Celtic and Slavonic. Some Arabic terms are
also retained, though fewer, I think, than in Andalusia.

In the afternoon I walked out into the country. The wall, on the land
side, which is very high and massive, is pierced by five guarded gates.
The dry moat, both wide and deep, is spanned by wooden bridges, after
crossing which one has the choice of a dozen highways, all scantily
shaded with rows of ragged mulberry-trees, glaring white in the sun and
deep in impalpable dry dust. But the sea-breeze blows freshening across
the parched land; shadows of light clouds cool the arid mountains in the
distance; the olives roll into silvery undulations; a palm in full,
rejoicing plumage rustles over your head; and the huge spatulate leaves
of a banana in the nearest garden twist and split into fringes. There is
no languor in the air, no sleep in the deluge of sunshine; the landscape
is active with signs of work and travel. Wheat, wine, olives, almonds,
and oranges are produced, not only side by side, but from the same
fields, and the painfully thorough system of cultivation leaves not a
rood of the soil unused.

I had chosen, at random, a road which led me west toward the nearest
mountains, and in the course of an hour I found myself at the entrance
of a valley. Solitary farm-houses, each as massive as the tower of a
fortress and of the color of sunburnt gold, studded the heights,
overlooking the long slopes of almond-orchards. I looked about for
water, in order to make a sketch of the scene; but the bed of the brook
was as dry as the highway. The nearest house toward the plain had a
splendid sentinel palm beside its door,--a dream of Egypt, which
beckoned and drew me towards it with a glamour I could not resist. Over
the wall of the garden the orange-trees lifted their mounds of
impenetrable foliage; and the blossoms of the pomegranates, sprinkled
against such a background, were like coals of fire. The fig-bearing
cactus grew about the house in clumps twenty feet high, covered with
pale-yellow flowers. The building was large and roomy, with a
court-yard, around which ran a shaded gallery. The farmer who was
issuing therefrom as I approached wore the shawl and Turkish trousers
of the old generation, while his two sons, reaping in the adjoining
wheat-fields, were hideous in the modern _gigots_. Although I was
manifestly an intruder, the old man greeted me respectfully, and passed
on to his work. Three boys tended a drove of black hogs in the stubble,
and some women were so industriously weeding and hoeing in the field
beyond, that they scarcely stopped to cast a glance upon the stranger.
There was a grateful air of peace, order, and contentment about the
place; no one seemed to be suspicious, or even surprised, when I seated
myself upon a low wall, and watched the laborers.

The knoll upon which the farm-house stood sloped down gently into the
broad, rich plain of Palma, extending many a league to the eastward. Its
endless orchards made a dim horizon-line, over which rose the solitary
double-headed mountain of Felaniche, and the tops of some peaks near
Arta. The city wall was visible on my right, and beyond it a bright arc
of the Mediterranean. The features of the landscape, in fact, were so
simple, that I fear I cannot make its charm evident to the reader.
Looking over the nearer fields, I observed two peculiarities of Majorca,
upon which depends much of the prosperity of the island. The wheat is
certainly, as it is claimed to be, the finest of any Mediterranean land.
Its large, perfect grains furnish a flour of such fine quality that the
whole produce of the island is sent to Spain for the pastry and
confectionery of the cities, while the Majorcans import a cheap,
inferior kind in its place. Their fortune depends on their abstinence
from the good things which Providence has given them. Their pork is
greatly superior to that of Spain, and it leaves them in like manner;
their best wines are now bought up by speculators and exported for the
fabrication of sherry; and their oil, which might be the finest in the
world, is so injured by imperfect methods of preservation that it might
pass for the worst. These things, however, give them no annoyance.
Southern races are sometimes indolent, but rarely Epicurean in their
habits; it is the Northern man who sighs for his flesh-pots.

I walked forward between the fields toward another road, and came upon a
tract which had just been ploughed and planted for a new crop. The soil
was ridged in a labyrinthine pattern, which appeared to have been drawn
with square and rule. But more remarkable than this was the difference
of level, so slight that the eye could not possibly detect it, by which
the slender irrigating streams were conducted to every square foot of
the field, without a drop being needlessly wasted. The system is an
inheritance from the Moors, who were the best natural engineers the
world has ever known. Water is scarce in Majorca, and thus every stream,
spring, rainfall,--even the dew of heaven,--is utilized. Channels of
masonry, often covered to prevent evaporation, descend from the
mountains, branch into narrower veins, and visit every farm on the
plain, whatever may be its level. Where these are not sufficient, the
rains are added to the reservoir, or a string of buckets, turned by a
mule, lifts the water from a well. But it is in the economy of
distributing water to the fields that the most marvellous skill is
exhibited. The grade of the surface must not only be preserved, but the
subtle, tricksy spirit of water so delicately understood and humored
that the streams shall traverse the greatest amount of soil with the
least waste or wear. In this respect, the most skilful application of
science could not surpass the achievements of the Majorcan farmers.

Working my way homeward through the tangled streets, I was struck with
the universal sound of wailing which filled the city. All the tailors,
shoemakers, and basket-makers, at work in the open air, were singing,
rarely in measured strains, but with wild, irregular, lamentable cries,
exactly in the manner of the Arabs. Sometimes the song was antiphonal,
flung back and forth from the farthest visible corners of a street; and
then it became a contest of lungs, kept up for an hour at a time. While
breakfasting, I had heard, as I supposed, a _miserere_ chanted by some
procession of monks, and wondered when the doleful strains would cease.
I now saw that they came from the mouths of some cheerful coopers, who
were heading barrels a little farther down the street. The Majorcans
still have their troubadours, who are hired by languishing lovers to
improvise strains of longing or reproach under the windows of the fair,
and perhaps the latter may listen with delight; but I know of no place
where the Enraged Musician would so soon become insane. The isle is full
of noises, and a Caliban might say that they hurt not; for me they
murdered sleep, both at midnight and at dawn.

I had decided to devote my second day to an excursion to the mountain
paradise of Valdemosa, and sallied forth early, to seek the means of
conveyance. Up to this time I had been worried--tortured, I may say,
without exaggeration--by desperate efforts to recover the Spanish
tongue, which I had not spoken for fourteen years. I still had the sense
of possessing it, but in some old drawer of memory, the lock of which
had rusted and would not obey the key. Like Mrs. Dombey, I felt as if
there were Spanish words somewhere in the room, but I could not
positively say that I had them,--a sensation which, as everybody knows,
is far worse than absolute ignorance. I had taken a carriage for
Valdemosa, after a long talk with the proprietor, a most agreeable
fellow, when I suddenly stopped, and exclaimed to myself, "You are
talking Spanish,--did you know it?" It was even so: as much of the
language as I ever knew was suddenly and unaccountably restored to me.
On my return to the Four Nations, I was still further surprised to find
myself repeating songs, without the failure of a line or word, which I
had learned from a Mexican as a school-boy, and had not thought of for
twenty years. The unused drawer had somehow been unlocked or broken
open while I slept.

Valdemosa is about twelve miles north of Palma, in the heart of the only
mountain-chain of the island, which forms its western, or rather
northwestern coast. The average altitude of these mountains will not
exceed three thousand feet; but the broken, abrupt character of their
outlines, and the naked glare of their immense precipitous walls, give
them that intrinsic grandeur which does not depend on measurement. In
their geological formation they resemble the Pyrenees; the rocks are of
that _palombino_, or dove-colored limestone, so common in Sicily and the
Grecian islands,--pale bluish-gray, taking a soft orange tint on the
faces most exposed to the weather. Rising directly from the sea on the
west, they cease almost as suddenly on the land side, leaving all the
central portion of the island a plain, slightly inclined toward the
southeast, where occasional peaks or irregular groups of hills interrupt
its monotony.

In due time my team made its appearance,--an omnibus of basket-work,
with a canvas cover, drawn by two horses. It had space enough for twelve
persons, yet was the smallest vehicle I could discover. There appears to
be nothing between it and the two-wheeled cart of the peasant, which, on
a pinch, carries six or eight. For an hour and a half we traversed the
teeming plain, between stacks of wheat worthy to be laid on the altar at
Eleusis, carob-trees with their dark, varnished foliage, almond-orchards
bending under the weight of their green nuts, and the country-houses
with their garden clumps of orange, cactus, and palm. As we drew near
the base of the mountains, olive-trees of great size and luxuriance
covered the earth with a fine sprinkle of shade. Their gnarled and
knotted trunks, a thousand years old, were frequently split into three
or four distinct and separate trees, which in the process assumed forms
so marvellously human in their distortion, that I could scarcely believe
them to be accidental. Dore never drew anything so weird and grotesque.
Here were two club-headed individuals righting, with interlocked knees,
convulsed shoulders, and fists full of each other's hair; yonder a bully
was threatening attack, and three cowards appeared to be running away
from him with such speed that they were tumbling over one another's
heels. In one place a horrible dragon was devouring a squirming,
shapeless animal; in another, a drunken man, with whirling arms and
tangled feet, was pitching forward upon his face. The living wood in
Dante was tame beside these astonishing trees.

We now entered a wild ravine, where, nevertheless, the mountain-sides,
sheer and savage as they were, had succumbed to the rule of man, and
nourished an olive or a carob tree on every corner of earth between the
rocks. The road was built along the edge of the deep, dry bed of a
winter stream, so narrow that a single arch carried it from side to
side, as the windings of the glen compelled. After climbing thus for a
mile in the shadows of threatening masses of rock, an amphitheatre of
gardens, enframed by the spurs of two grand, arid mountains, opened
before us. The bed of the valley was filled with vines and orchards,
beyond which rose long terraces, dark with orange and citron trees,
obelisks of cypress and magnificent groups of palm, with the long white
front and shaded balconies of a hacienda between. Far up, on a higher
plateau between the peaks, I saw the church-tower of Valdemosa. The
sides of the mountains were terraced with almost incredible labor, walls
massive as the rock itself being raised to a height of thirty feet, to
gain a shelf of soil two or three yards in breadth. Where the olive and
the carob ceased, box and ilex took possession of the inaccessible
points, carrying up the long waves of vegetation until their
foam-sprinkles of silver-gray faded out among the highest clefts. The
natural channels of the rock were straightened and made to converge at
the base, so that not a wandering cloud could bathe the wild growths of
the summit without being caught and hurried into some tank below. The
wilderness was forced, by pure toil, to become a Paradise; and each
stubborn feature, which toil could not subdue, now takes its place as a
contrast and an ornament in the picture. Verily, there is nothing in all
Italy so beautiful as Valdemosa!

Lest I should be thought extravagant in my delight, let me give you some
words of George Sand, which I have since read. "I have never seen," she
says, "anything so bright, and at the same time so melancholy, as these
perspectives where the ilex, the carob, pine, olive, poplar, and cypress
mingle their various hues in the hollows of the mountain,--abysses of
verdure, where the torrent precipitates its course under mounds of
sumptuous richness and an inimitable grace.... While you hear the sound
of the sea on the northern coast, you perceive it only as a faint
shining line beyond the sinking mountains and the great plain which is
unrolled to the southward;--a sublime picture, framed in the foreground
by dark rocks covered with pines; in the middle distance by mountains of
boldest outline, fringed with superb trees; and beyond these by rounded
hills which the setting sun gilds with burning colors, where the eye
distinguishes, a league away, the microscopic profile of trees, fine as
the antennae of butterflies, black and clear as pen-drawings of India-ink
on a ground of sparkling gold. It is one of those landscapes which
oppress you because they leave nothing to be desired, nothing to be
imagined. Nature has here created that which the poet and the painter
behold in their dreams. An immense _ensemble_, infinite details,
inexhaustible variety, blended forms, sharp contours, dim, vanishing
depths,--all are present, and art can suggest nothing further. Majorca
is one of the most beautiful countries of the world for the painter, and
one of the least known. It is a green Helvetia under the sky of
Calabria, with the solemnity and silence of the Orient."

The village of Valdemosa is a picturesque, rambling place, brown with
age, and buried in the foliage of fig and orange trees. The highest part
of the narrow plateau where it stands is crowned by the church and
monastery of the Trappists (_Cartusa_), now deserted. My coachman drove
under the open roof of a venta, and began to unharness his horses. The
family, who were dining at a table so low that they appeared to be
sitting on the floor, gave me the customary invitation to join them, and
when I asked for a glass of wine brought me one which held nearly a
quart. I could not long turn my back on the bright, wonderful landscape
without; so, taking books and colors, I entered the lonely cloisters of
the monastery. Followed first by one small boy, I had a retinue of at
least fifteen children before I had completed the tour of the church,
court-yard, and the long-drawn, shady corridors of the silent monks; and
when I took my seat on the stones at the foot of the towers, with the
very scene described by George Sand before my eyes, a number of older
persons added themselves to the group. A woman brought me a chair, and
the children then planted themselves in a dense row before me, while I
attempted to sketch under such difficulties as I had never known before.
Precisely because I am no artist, it makes me nervous to be watched
while drawing; and the remarks of the young men on this occasion were
not calculated to give me courage.

When I had roughly mapped out the sky with its few floating clouds, some
one exclaimed, "He has finished the mountains, there they are!" and they
all crowded around me, saying, "Yes, there are the mountains!" While I
was really engaged upon the mountains, there was a violent discussion as
to what they might be; and I don't know how long it would have lasted,
had I not turned to some cypresses nearer the foreground. Then a young
man cried out: "O, that's a cypress! I wonder if he will make them
all,--how many are there? One, two, three, four, five,--yes, he makes
five!" There was an immediate rush, shutting out earth and heaven from
my sight, and they all cried in chorus, "One, two, three, four,
five,--yes, he has made five!" "Cavaliers and ladies," I said, with
solemn politeness, "have the goodness not to stand before me." "To be
sure! Santa Maria! How do you think he can see?" yelled an old woman,
and the children were hustled away. But I thereby won the ill-will of
those garlic-breathing and scratching imps, for very soon a shower of
water-drops fell upon my paper. Next a stick, thrown from an upper
window, dropped on my head, and more than once my elbow was
intentionally jogged from behind. The older people scolded and
threatened, but young Majorca was evidently against me. I therefore made
haste to finish my impotent mimicry of air and light, and get away from
the curious crowd.

Behind the village there is a gleam of the sea, near, yet at an unknown
depth. As I threaded the walled lanes, seeking some point of view, a
number of lusty young fellows, mounted on unsaddled mules, passed me
with a courteous greeting. On one side rose a grand pile of rock,
covered with ilex-trees,--a bit of scenery so admirable, that I fell
into a new temptation. I climbed a little knoll and looked around me.
Far and near no children were to be seen; the portico of an unfinished
house offered both shade and seclusion. I concealed myself behind a
pillar, and went to work. For half an hour I was happy; then around
black head popped up over a garden-wall, a small brown form crept
towards me, beckoned, and presently a new multitude had assembled. The
noise they made provoked a sound of cursing from the interior of a
stable adjoining the house. They only made a louder tumult in answer;
the voice became more threatening, and at the end of five minutes the
door burst open. An old man, with wrath flashing from his eyes, came
forth. The children took to their heels; I greeted the new-comer
politely, but he hardly returned the salutation. He was a very fountain
of curses, and now hurled stones with them after the fugitives. When
they had all disappeared behind the walls, he went back to his den,
grumbling and muttering. It was not five minutes, however, before the
children were back again, as noisy as before; so, at the first thunder
from the stable, I shut up my book, and returned to the inn.

While the horses were being harnessed, I tried to talk with an old
native, who wore the island costume, and was as grim and grizzly as
Ossawatomie Brown. A party of country people from the plains, who seemed
to have come up to Valdemosa on a pleasure trip, clambered into a
two-wheeled cart drawn by one mule, and drove away. My old friend gave
me the distances of various places, the state of the roads, and the
quality of the wine; but he seemed to have no conception of the world
outside of the island. Indeed, to a native of the village, whose fortune
has simply placed him beyond the reach of want, what is the rest of the
world? Around and before him spread one of its loveliest pictures; he
breathes its purest air; and he may enjoy its best luxuries, if he heeds
or knows how to use them.

Up to this day the proper spice and flavor had been wanting. Palma had
only interested me, but in Valdemosa I found the inspiration, the heat
and play of vivid, keen sensation, which one (often somewhat
unreasonably) expects from a new land. As my carriage descended, winding
around the sides of the magnificent mountain amphitheatre, in the
alternate shadows of palm and ilex, pine and olive, I looked back,
clinging to every marvellous picture, and saying to myself, over and
over again, "I have not come hither in vain." When the last shattered
gate of rock closed behind me, and the wood of insane olive-trunks was
passed, with what other eyes I looked upon the rich orchard-plain! It
had now become a part of one superb whole; as the background of my
mountain view, it had caught a new glory, and still wore the bloom of
the invisible sea.

In the evening I reached the Four Nations, where I was needlessly
invited to dinner by certain strangers, and dined alone, on meats cooked
in rancid oil. When the cook had dished the last course, he came into a
room adjoining the dining apartment, sat down to a piano in his white
cap, and played loud, long, and badly. The landlord had papered this
room with illustrations from all the periodicals of Europe:
dancing-girls pointed their toes under cardinals' hats, and bulls were
baited before the shrines of saints. Mixed with the woodcuts were the
landlord's own artistic productions, wonderful to behold. All the house
was proud of this room, and with reason; for there is assuredly no other
room like it in the world. A notice in four languages, written with
extraordinary flourishes, announced in the English division that
travellers will find "confortation and modest prices." The former
advantage, I discovered, consisted in the art of the landlord, the music
and oil of the cook, and the attendance of a servant so distant that it
was easier to serve myself than seek him; the latter may have been
"modest" for Palma, but in any other place they would have been
considered brazenly impertinent. I should therefore advise travellers to
try the "Three Pigeons," in the same street, rather than the Four
Nations.

The next day, under the guidance of my old friend, M. Laurens, I
wandered for several hours through the streets, peeping into
court-yards, looking over garden-walls, or idling under the trees of the
Alameda. There are no pleasant suburban places of resort, such as are to
be found in all other Spanish cities; the country commences on the other
side of the moat. Three small cafes exist, but cannot be said to
flourish, for I never saw more than one table occupied. A theatre has
been built, but is only open during the winter, of course. Some placards
on the walls, however, announced that the national (that is, Majorcan)
diversion of baiting bulls with dogs would be given in a few days.

The noblesse appear to be even haughtier than in Spain, perhaps on
account of their greater poverty; and much more of the feudal spirit
lingers among them, and gives character to society, than on the
main-land. Each family has still a crowd of retainers, who perform a
certain amount of service on the estates, and are thenceforth entitled
to support. This custom is the reverse of profitable; but it keeps up an
air of lordship, and is therefore retained. Late in the afternoon, when
the new portion of the Alameda is in shadow, and swept by a delicious
breeze from the sea, it begins to be frequented by the people; but I
noticed that very few of the upper class made their appearance. So grave
and sombre are these latter, that one would fancy them descended from
the conquered Moors, rather than the Spanish conquerors.

M. Laurens is of the opinion that the architecture of Palma cannot be
ascribed to an earlier period than the beginning of the sixteenth
century. I am satisfied, however, either that many fragments of Moorish
sculpture must have been used in the erection of the older buildings, or
that certain peculiarities of Moorish art have been closely imitated.
For instance, that Moorish combination of vast, heavy masses of masonry
with the lightest and airiest style of ornament, which the Gothic
sometimes attempts, but never with the same success, is here found at
every step. I will borrow M. Laurens's words, descriptive of the
superior class of edifices, both because I can find no better of my own,
and because this very characteristic has been noticed by him. "Above the
ground-floor," he says, "there is only one story and a low garret. The
entrance is a semi-circular portal without ornament; but the number and
dimensions of the stones, disposed in long radii, give it a stately
aspect. The grand halls of the main story are lighted by windows
divided by excessively slender columns, which are entirely Arabic in
appearance. This character is so pronounced, that I was obliged to
examine more than twenty houses constructed in the same manner, and to
study all the details of their construction, in order to assure myself
that the windows had not really been taken from those fairy Moresque
palaces, of which the Alhambra is the only remaining specimen. Except in
Majorca, I have nowhere seen columns which, with a height of six feet,
have a diameter of only three inches. The fine grain of the marble of
which they are made, as well as the delicacy of the capitals, led me to
suppose them to be of Saracenic origin."

I was more impressed by the _Lonja_, or Exchange, than any other
building in Palma. It dates from the first half of the fifteenth
century, when the kings of the island had built up a flourishing
commerce, and expected to rival Genoa and Venice. Its walls, once
crowded with merchants and seamen, are now only opened for the Carnival
balls and other festivals sanctioned by religion. It is a square
edifice, with light Gothic towers at the corners, displaying little
ornamental sculpture, but nevertheless a taste and symmetry, in all its
details, which are very rare in Spanish architecture. The interior is a
single vast hall, with a groined roof, resting on six pillars of
exquisite beauty. They are sixty feet high, and fluted spirally from top
to bottom, like a twisted cord, with a diameter of not more than two
feet and a half. It is astonishing how the airy lightness and grace of
these pillars relieve the immense mass of masonry, spare the bare walls
the necessity of ornament, and make the ponderous roof light as a tent.
There is here the trace of a law of which our modern architects seem to
be ignorant. Large masses of masonry are always oppressive in their
effect; they suggest pain and labor, and the Saracens, even more than
the Greeks, seem to have discovered the necessity of introducing a
sportive, fanciful element, which shall express the delight of the
workman in his work.

In the afternoon, I sallied forth from the western coast-gate, and found
there, sloping to the shore, a village inhabited apparently by sailors
and fishermen. The houses were of one story, flat-roofed, and
brilliantly whitewashed. Against the blue background of the sea, with
here and there the huge fronds of a palm rising from among them, they
made a truly African picture. On the brown ridge above the village were
fourteen huge windmills, nearly all in motion. I found a road leading,
along the brink of the overhanging cliffs, toward the castle of Belver,
whose brown mediaeval turrets rose against a gathering thunder-cloud.
This fortress, built as a palace for the kings of Majorca immediately
after the expulsion of the Moors, is now a prison. It has a superb
situation, on the summit of a conical hill, covered with umbrella-pines.
In one of its round, massive towers, Arago was imprisoned for two months
in 1808. He was at the time employed in measuring an arc of the
meridian, when news of Napoleon's violent measures in Spain reached
Majorca. The ignorant populace immediately suspected the astronomer of
being a spy and political agent, and would have lynched him at once.
Warned by a friend, he disguised himself as a sailor, escaped on board a
boat in the harbor, and was then placed in Belver by the authorities, in
order to save his life. He afterwards succeeded in reaching Algiers,
where he was seized by order of the Bey, and made to work as a slave.
Few men of science have known so much of the romance of life.

I had a long walk to Belver, but I was rewarded by a grand view of the
Bay of Palma, the city, and all the southern extremity of the island. I
endeavored to get into the fields, to seek other points of view; but
they were surrounded by such lofty walls that I fancied the owners of
the soil could only get at them by scaling-ladders. The grain and trees
on either side of the road were hoary with dust, and the soil of the
hue of burnt chalk, seemed never to have known moisture. But while I
loitered on the cliffs the cloud in the west had risen and spread; a
cold wind blew over the hills, and the high gray peaks behind Valdemosa
disappeared, one by one, in a veil of rain. A rough _tartana_, which
performed the service of an omnibus, passed me returning to the city,
and the driver, having no passengers, invited me to ride. "What is your
fare?" I asked. "Whatever people choose to give," said he,--which was
reasonable enough: and I thus reached the Four Nations in time to avoid
a deluge.

The Majorcans are fond of claiming their island as the birthplace of
Hannibal. There are some remains supposed to be Carthaginian near the
town of Alcudia, but, singularly enough, not a fragment to tell of the
Roman domination, although their _Balearis Major_ must have been then,
as now, a rich and important possession. The Saracens, rather than the
Vandals, have been the spoilers of ancient art. Their religious
detestation of sculpture was at the bottom of this destruction. The
Christians could consecrate the old temple to a new service, and give
the names of saints to the statues of the gods; but to the Moslem every
representation of the human form was worse than blasphemy. For this
reason, the symbols of the most ancient faith, massive and
unintelligible, have outlived the monuments of those which followed.

In a forest of ancient oaks near the village of Arta, there still exists
a number of Cyclopean constructions, the character of which is as
uncertain as the date of their erection. They are cones of huge,
irregular blocks, the jambs and lintels of the entrances being of single
stones. In a few the opening is at the top, with rude projections
resembling a staircase to aid in the descent. Cinerary urns have been
found in some of them, yet they do not appear to have been originally
constructed as tombs. The Romans may have afterwards turned them to that
service. In the vicinity there are the remains of a Druid circle, of
large upright monoliths. These singular structures were formerly much
more numerous, the people (who call them "the altars of the Gentiles")
having destroyed a great many in building the village and the
neighboring farm-houses.

I heard a great deal about a cavern on the eastern coast of the island,
beyond Arta. It is called the Hermit's Cave, and the people of Palma
consider it the principal thing to be seen in all Majorca. Their
descriptions of the place, however, did not inspire me with any very
lively desire to undertake a two days' journey for the purpose of
crawling on my belly through a long hole, and then descending a shaky
rope-ladder for a hundred feet or more. When one has performed these
feats, they said, he finds himself in an immense hall, supported by
stalactitic pillars, the marvels of which cannot be described. Had the
scenery of the eastern part of the island been more attractive, I should
have gone as far as Arta; but I wished to meet the steamer Minorca at
Alcudia, and there were but two days remaining.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Souvenirs d'un Voyage d'Art a l'Isle de Majorque._ Par J.-B.
Laurens.




MINOR ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS.


In the present paper we propose to consider six dramatists who were more
immediately the contemporaries of Shakespeare and Jonson, and who have
the precedence in time, and three of them, if we may believe some
critics, not altogether without claim to the precedence in merit, of
Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, and Ford. These are Heywood,
Middleton, Marston, Dekkar, Webster, and Chapman.

They belong to the school of dramatists of which Shakespeare was the
head, and which is distinguished from the school of Jonson by essential
differences of principle. Jonson constructed his plays on definite
external rules, and could appeal confidently to the critical
understanding, in case the regularity of his plot and the keeping of his
characters were called in question. Shakespeare constructed his, not
according to any rules which could be drawn from the practice of other
dramatists, but according to those interior laws which the mind, in its
creative action, instinctively divines and spontaneously obeys. In his
case, the appeal is not to the understanding alone, but to the feelings
and faculties which were concerned in producing the work itself; and the
symmetry of the whole is felt by hundreds who could not frame an
argument to sustain it. The laws to which his genius submitted were
different from those to which other dramatists had submitted, because
the time, the circumstances, the materials, the purpose aimed at, were
different. The time demanded a drama which should represent human life
in all its diversity, and in which the tragic and comic, the high and
the low, should be in juxtaposition, if not in combination. The
dramatists of whom we are about to speak represented them in
juxtaposition, and rarely succeeded in vitally combining them so as to
produce symmetrical works. Their comedy and tragedy, their humor and
passion, move in parallel rather than in converging lines. They have
diversity; but as their diversity neither springs from, nor tends to, a
central principle of organization or of order, the result is often a
splendid anarchy of detached scenes, more effective as detached than as
related. Shakespeare alone had the comprehensive energy of impassioned
imagination to fuse into unity the almost unmanageable materials of his
drama, to organize this anarchy into a new and most complex order, and
to make a world-wide variety of character and incident consistent with
oneness of impression. Jonson, not pretending to give his work this
organic form, put forth his whole strength to give it mechanical
regularity; every line in his solidest plays costing him, as the wits
said, "a cup of sack." But the force implied in a Shakespearian drama, a
force that crushes and dissolves the resisting materials into their
elements, and recombines or fuses them into a new substance, is a force
so different in kind from Jonson's, that it would of course be idle to
attempt an estimate of its superiority in degree. And in regard to those
minor dramatists who will be the subjects of the present paper, if they
fall below Jonson in general ability, they nearly all afford scenes and
passages superior to his best in depth of passion, vigor of imagination,
and audacious self-committal to the primitive instincts of the heart.

The most profuse, but perhaps the least poetic of these dramatists, was
Thomas Heywood, of whom little is known, except that he was one of the
most prolific writers the world has ever seen. In 1598 he became an
actor, or, as Henslowe, who employed him, phrases it, "came and hired
himself to me as a covenanted servant for two years." The date of his
first published drama is 1601; that of his last published work, a
"General History of Women," is 1657. As early as 1633 he represents
himself as having had an "entire hand, or at least a main finger," in
two hundred and twenty

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/28630