The manufacture of smoking-tobaccoes is as much and art in Germany as getting up a fancy brand of cigars is here; and the medical philosopher of that country will gravely debate whether "Kanaster" or "Varinas" be best suited for certain forms of convalescence; tobacco being almost as indispensable as gruel, in returning health. We think the light pipe-smoker will find a combination of German and Turkish smoking-tobaccoes a happy thought. The old smoker may secure the best union of delicacy and strength in the Virginia "natural leaf."

Among the eight or ten species of the tobacco-plant now recognized by botanists, the Nicotiana tabacum and the Nicotiana rustica hold the chief place. Numerous varieties of each of these, however, are named and exist.

We condense from De Bow's "Industrial Resources of the South and West" a brief account of tobacco-culture in this country. "The tobacco is best sown from the 10th to the 20th of March, and a rich loam is the most favorable soil. The plants are dressed with a mixture of ashes, plaster, soot, salt, sulphur, soil, and manure." After they are transplanted, we are told that "the soil best adapted to the growth of tobacco is a light, friable one, or what is commonly called a sandy loam; not too flat, but rolling, undulating land." Long processes of hand-weeding must be gone through, and equal parts of plaster and ashes are put on each plant. "Worms are the worst enemy," and can be effectually destroyed only by hand. "When the plant begins to yellow, it is time to put it away; and it is cut off close to the ground." After wilting a little on the ground, it is dried on sticks, by one of the three processes called "pegging, spearing, and splitting." "When dry, the leaves are stripped off and tied in bundles of one fifth or sixth of a pound each. It is sorted into three or four qualities, as Yellow, Bright, Dull, etc." Next it is "bulked," or put into bundles, and these again dried, and afterwards "conditioned," and packed in hogsheads weighing from six hundred to a thousand pounds each.

It would be too long to detail the processes of cigar- and snuff-making, the latter of which is quite complicated.

We were happy to learn from the fearful work of Hassall on "Food and its Adulterations," that tobacco was one of the articles least tampered with; and particularly that there was no opium in cheroots, but nothing more harmful than hay and paper. He ascribes this immunity mainly to the vigilance of the excisemen. But we have recently seen a work on the adulteration of tobacco, whose microscopic plates brought back our former misgivings. Molasses is a very common agent used to give color and render it toothsome. Various vegetable leaves, as the rhubarb, beech, walnut, and mullein, as well as the less delectable bran, yellow ochre, and hellebore, in snuff, are also sometimes used to defraud. Saltpetre is often sprinkled on, in making cigars, to improve their burning.

The Indians mixed tobacco in their pipes with fragrant herbs. Cascarilla bark is a favorite with some smokers; it is a simple aromatic and tonic, but, when smoked, is said sometimes to occasion vertigo and intoxication.

We have before observed that tobacco is a very exhausting crop to the soil. The worn-out tobacco-plantations of the South are sufficient practical proof of this, while it is also readily explained by chemistry. The leaves of tobacco are among the richest in incombustible ash, yielding, when burned, from 19 to 28 per cent. of inorganic substance. This forms the abundant ashes of tobacco-pipes and of cigars. All this has been derived from the soil where it was raised, and it is of a nature very necessary to vegetation, and not very abundant in the most fertile lands. "Every ton of dried tobacco-leaves carries off from four to five hundred-weight of this mineral matter,—as much as is contained in fourteen tons of the grain of wheat." It follows that scientific agriculture can alone restore this waste to the tobacco-plantation.

There is one other aspect of this great subject, which is almost peculiar to New England, the home of reform. Certain Puritanical pessimists have argued that the use of tobacco is immoral. There are few, except our own sober people, who would admit this question at all. We would treat this prejudice with the respect due to all sincere reforms. And we have attempted to show, that, since all races have used and will use narcotics, we had better yield a little, lest more be taken, and concede them tobacco, which is more harmless than many that are largely consumed. We have proved to our own satisfaction, and we hope to theirs, that tobacco in moderation neither affects the health nor shortens life; that it does not create an appetite for stimulants, but rather supplies their place; and that it favors sociality and domestic habits more than the reverse.

If the formation of any habit be objected to, we reply, that this is a natural tendency of man, that things become less prejudicial by repetition, and that a high hygienic authority advises us "to be regular even in our vices."

As we began in a light, we close in a more sober vein, apologists for tobacco, rather than strongly advocating either side. On one point we are sure that we shall agree with the ladies, and that is in a sincere denunciation of the habit of smoking at a tender age. And although, in accordance with the tendency of the times, the school-boy whom we caught attached to a "long-nine" would consistently reply, "Civis Americanus sum!" we shall persist in claiming the censorship of age over those on whose chins the callow down of adolescence is yet ungrown.

* * * * *



SHAKSPEARE DONE INTO FRENCH.

In the first place, it really was an immense success, and Shylock, or Sheeloque, as they dubbed him, was called before the curtain seven times, and in most appropriate humility nearly laid his nose on his insteps as he bowed, and quite showed his spine.

It certainly was like Shakspeare in this, that it had five acts; but when I have made that concession, and admitted that Sheeloque was Le Juif de Venise, I think I have named all the cardinal points of similarity in the "Merchant of Venice" and "Le Juif" of that same unwholesome place. To be sure, there is a suspicion of le devin Williams, as they will call him, continually cropping out; but a conscientious man would not swear to one line of it, and I do not think Shakspeare would be justified in suing the French author for compensation under the National Copyright-Act. I speak of Shakspeare as existing, because it is my belief he does, in a manner so to speak.

I have intimated that "Le Juif" has five acts; but I have not yet committed myself to the assertion that he was in seven tableaux, and possessed a prologue.

It is now my pleasing duty to force you through the five acts, and the one prologue, and the seven tableaux,—every one of them.

This prologue is divided as to the theatre into two parts: to left, Sheeloque's domestic interior,—to right, a practicable canal. In the very first line out crops Shylock's love of good bargains; and I give the reader my word, the little Frenchmen saw that this was characteristic, and applauded vehemently. "Bon," said I,—"if they applaud the first line, what will they do with the last act?"

It need not be said that Shylock dabbles in those bills which Venetian swells of the fifteenth century, in common with those of a later age and more western land, will manipulate, in spite of all the political economy from Confucius down to Mr. Mill; and in this particular instance and prologue the names of the improvidents are Leone and Ubaldo, neither of which, if my memory serve me, is Shakspearian. These gentlemen considerably shake my traditional respect for sixteenth-century Venetian Aristos, for they insult that Jew till I wonder where a count and a duke have learnt such language: but they serve a purpose; they trot Shylock out, so to speak, and give our author an opportunity of doing his best with A 1. Shylock's great speech. Here is the apostrophe:—

"But yesterday—no later past than yesterday—thou didst bid thy mistress call at me from her balcony; thy servants by thy will did cast mud on me, and thy hounds sped snapping after me,'"—whereby we may infer they went hunting in Venice, in the fifteenth century. It must have been rather dangerous running. Nor could the Venetian nobles of that good old time have been very proper; for Leone and Ubaldo justify themselves by saying they were drunk.

It is after this pretty excuse that Shylock has a soliloquy as long as his beard,—and I hear really loud opposition to this didacticism in the pit; but, however, this slow work soon meets compensation in violent action. Shylock won't renew, and the nobles get indignant; so they propose to pay Shylock with more kicks than halfpence. Here the action begins; for Shylock protests he will bite a bit out of them; and though one of these long-sleeved swells warns him that all threats by Jews against Christians are an imprisonment manner, Shylock rashly prepares for a defence. Away fly the lords after Shylock, over go the chairs, down goes the table, and I suppose Shylock does hit "one of them"; for the two lords go off quite triumphantly, with the intimation that he will be in prison in one hour from that.

Then the Jew calls for—Sarah; and this same comes in on tiptoe, for fear of waking the baby. This Shylock fils Sarah proceeds to describe as equally beautiful with Abel and Moses, which seems to give Shylock pere great comfort,—though I am bound to admit the lowly whispered doubt on the part of a pit-neighbor of mine as to Sarah's capability of judging in the matter.

Shylock is preparing for prison, it seems, and one little necessity is a prayer for said son. Sarah comes in with a response, Shylock leaves off praying "immediate," to tell Sarah she is no vulgar servant, which assurance is received in the tearful manner. And here it comes a little faint whiff of the real play. In leaving home, Shylock's French plagiarizes the Jew's speech to Jessica, even down to the doubt the Jew has about leaving his house at all.

There has been no necessity for stating that Sara supposes herself the widow of a libel on his sex, a man unspeakable; and the moment I hear he is, or was, a man of crime unspeakable, I know he will turn up. Shylock having gone away,—I do not know where,—up comes a gondola to the front-door, and, of course, in walks Sarah's husband. "Good evening, Ma'am," says he. "God of Israel!" says she. And then such an explanation as this infamous husband gives! He puts in, that he is a pirate; that his captain, whom he describes as a Venus en corsaire, has lost a son, and wants another; hence speaker, name Arnheim, wants that little Israelite who is so much like Abel and Moses at one and the same moment: though how Arnheim should know of that little creation, or how he should know him to be also like the lost infantile pirate as well as Abel and Moses, does not sufficiently appear,—as, indeed, my neighbor, who is suggestive of a Greek Chorus in a blue blouse, discovers in half a dozen disparaging syllables.

Of course, when the supposed widow hears this, her cries ought to wake up all hearing Venice, but not one Venetian comes to her aid; and though she uses her two hands enough for twenty, she has not got her way when thoroughly breathed.

"Sarah," says that energetic woman's husband, "Sarah, don't be a fool!"

Then I know the baby is coming: there never yet was a French prologue without a baby,—it seems a French unity; sometimes there are two babies, who always get mixed up. But to our business.

Out comes the baby, (they never scream,) and—alas that for effect he should thus commit himself!—Arnheim rips Sarah up, and down she goes as dead as the Queen of Sheba.

Then comes a really fine scene. Shylock enters, learns all; in come soldiers for Shylock, and, of course, accuse him of the murder; whereupon Shylock shows on the blade a cross. "Doth a Jew wear a knife with a cross on it?" says he. "Go to!—'tis a Christian murder."

To this the soldier-head has nothing to say; so he hurries Shylock off to prison, and down comes the curtain.

"Hum!" says the Greek Chorus,—"it might be worse."

ACT I.

It is clear there must be lady characters, or I am quite sure the Greek Chorus would find fault wofully,—and the only one we have had, Sarah, to wit, can't decently appear again, except in the spiritual form. Well, there is the original Portia,—alas for that clever, virtuous, and noble lady!—how is she fallen in the French!—she is noble-looking and clever,—but the third quality, oh, dear me! This disreputable is named Imperia, and the real Bassanio becomes one Honorius, who is, as he should be, the bosom friend of one Andronic, which is Antonio, I would have you know. I have thought over it two minutes, and have come to the conclusion that the less I say about Imperia the better, and I know the Anglo-Saxon would not agree with Imperia,—but, as the Frenchman does, I offer you one, or part of one of Imperia's songs, as bought by me for two disgraceful sous.

"Deja l'aube rayonne et luit, La nuit Finit; Maitresse, L'heure enchanteresse Passe et fuit... A ton arret je dois me rendre. Sort jaloux! (bis.) Hatons-nous, Il faut descendre Sans reveiller son vieil epoux!..."

Well,—what do you think of it? Now I will not mention her again,—I will refer to her, when I shall have vexatious occasion, as "that woman." And, indeed, "that woman" and Honorius set us up in comprehension of matters progressing. It seems that quite twenty years have passed since Sarah's soul slid through a knife-gash; that Honorius and Andronic, who have come from Smyrna, (why?) are almost brothers; that Honorius is good in this fact only, that he knows he is really bad; and that Andronic is the richest and most moral man in Venice,—though why, under those circumstances, he should be friendly with such a rip as Honorius, Honorius does not inform us.

I shall pass over the next scenes, and come to that in which all the creditors of all the lords are brought on to the stage in a state which calls for the interference of the Doge: they are all drunk,—except Shylock. This scene really is a startler. Shylock, now dashed with gray, and nearly double, comes up to "that woman" and calls her sister; whereupon she demanding that explanation which I and the Greek Chorus simultaneously want, Shylock states that he is Usury and she Luxury, "and they have one father."

"Queer old man!!!" says "that woman."

Here follow dice, in which the Jew is requested to join, all of which naturally brings about a discussion on the rate of usage, which that dog Andronic is bringing down, and a further statement that that imprisonment lasted two years. Then comes a coup d'theatre: Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns now, (nor can I help pointing out the Frenchman's ingenuity here: in the play, the Doge must be just, or where would the pound of flesh be?—while, if the Doge of the prologue were just, Shylock would not have been committed for two years,—ergo, kill No. 1. Doge, install No. 2.)—Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns. Shylock has it all his own way, and Honorius is arrested before the very eyes of "that woman." Then comes the necessary Deus ex machina in the shape of Andronic, who pays everybody everything, saves his friend, and play proceeds. Andronic reproaches Jew touching his greed, whereon the Jew offers this not profound remark,—"I am—what I am,"—and goes on counting his money.

Oh, if you only knew the secret!

This cash payment winds up the act.

ACT II.

Decidedly, the beginning of Act Second proves Andronic is no fool, for he advises Honorius to flee that creature,—and what better advice in those matters is there than that of retreating? Decidedly, too, the virtuous Doge is worth having,—really a Middle-Age electric telegraph,—for he gives all about him such a dose of news as in this day would sell every penny-paper printed: and such bad news!—Venice down everywhere, and a loan wanted. Here comes a fine scene for Andronic, (for, after all, the lords have "hitched out" of the proposed loan, whereby I take it they are not such fools as people take them to be,)—Andronic declares, that, if he were rich enough, the Doge should not ask for money, but ships are but frail and his have gone to pieces. Here, you see, comes another faint whiff of the real original play.

Then, clearly, the Doge can only apply to the Jews. Enter Shylock a propos. The next scene is so awful to the Greek Chorus, who may be of a business turn, that I am charitable enough not to reproduce it here; but the percentage the Jew wants for the loan seems to be quite a multiplication-table of tangible securities, and I only wonder the Doge does not order him into the Adriatic. Amongst other demands, the Jew procures all the Dogic jewels,—and then he wants all the jewels of the Doge's daughter; indeed, Shylock becomes a most unreasonable party.

No sooner does he speak of the daughter, Ginevra by name, than in she comes, jewel-casket in hand,—which leads the cynical Greek Chorus to suppose that Mademoiselle is either clairvoyante or prefers going about with a box. The way in which that best of her sex offers up the jewels on the patriotic shrine is really worthy of the applause bestowed on the act; but when that pig of a Jew is not satisfied, when he insists upon the diamond necklace Ginevra wears, as another preliminary to the loan, people in the theatre quite shake with indignation.

Now the jewel has been the pattern young lady's mother's; and here comes an opening for that appeal to the filial love of Frenchmen which is never touched in vain. It is really a great and noble trait in the French character, that filial love, not too questionable to be demonstrative,—'tis a sure dramatist's French card, that appeal to the love of mothers and fathers by their children.

Having procured the weight of this chain, which has caused Shylock the loss of many friends in the house who have been inclined to like him consequent upon the loss of that Abel-Moses-photograph,—Shylock departs with this information, that he will bring the money to-morrow: which assertion proves Shylock to be a strong man, if a hundred thousand marks are as heavy as I take them to be.

Upon what little things do dramas, in common with lives, turn! That necklace is the brilliant groundwork of the rest of the plot. Why—why—why—WHY didn't Shakspeare think of the necklace?

And as I always must tell love-affairs as soon as I hear of them,—for, as a rule, I live in country towns,—I may at once state that Ginevra loved Andronic, and latter loved former, and they would not tell each other, and the Doge knew nothing about it.

Yes, decidedly, the necklace is the first character in "Le Juif de Venise." You see, Ginevra loved the necklace, and Andronic loved Ginevra; so he is forced to procure that charming necklace for her, coute qui coute, and so he goes to Shylock for it. And here you will see its value: Shylock will sell it only for a large sum. Andronic, seeing his losses, hasn't the money,—but will have;—glorious opening for the clause about the pound of flesh! Signed, sealed, and delivered. How superior is Andronic to Antonio, the old ——! This latter pawns his breast for a friend only: the great Andronic risks the flesh about his heart for sacred love. Io Venus!

Yet, nevertheless, notwithstanding, it is the opinion of the Greek Chorus that Andronic is a joli fool,—which choral remark I hear with pain, as reflecting upon unhesitating love, and especially as the remarker has been eminently touched at the abduction.

ACT IV.

As for the Fourth Act,—it is very tender and terrible.

I need not say that the tenderness arises through the necklace,—and indeed, for that matter, so also does the terror. Touching the first, of course it is the discovery by Ginevra of the return of those maternal diamonds,—which are handed to her by a femme-de-chambre, who has had them from Andronic's valet-de-chambre, who is in love with the femme-de-chambre, who reciprocates, etc., etc., etc.

But touching the terrible,—"that woman" hears of the necklace, and sends Honorius for it to Shylock. Bad job!—gone! Well, then, Honorius falls out with his old friend Andronic because latter will not yield up the necklace. Honorius demands to know who has it. Andronic will not name Ginevra's name before "that woman" and all the lofty lords, and then there's a grand scene.

In the first place, it seems that in Shylock's Venetian time, the Venetian lords, when obliging Venice with a riot, called upon Venetians to put out their lights, and this the lords now do, (we are on the piazza,) and out go all the lights as though turned off at one main.

Then there is such a scrimmage! Honorius lunges at Andronic; this latter disarms former; then latter comes to his senses, flies over to his old friend, and all the Venetian brawlers are put to flight.

Then Honorius says,—and pray, pray, mark what Honorius says, or you will never comprehend Act V.,—then Honorius says, taking Andronic's previous advice about flying, "I will go away, and fight the Adriatic pirates." Now, pray, don't forget that. I quite distress myself in praying you not to forget that,—to wit,—"Honorius goes away to fight the Adriatic pirates."

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

ACT V.

This, of course, is the knifing act.

Seated is Shylock before an hour-glass, and trying to count the grains of sand as they glide through.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

You remember that in that original play Antonio's ships are lost merely. Bah! we manage better in this matter: the ships come home, but they are empty,—emptied by the pirates; though why those Adriaticians did not confiscate the ships is even beyond the Greek Chorus, who says, "They were very polite."

At last all the sand is at rest.

Crack,—as punctual as a postman comes Andronic; and as the Venetians are revolting against the flesh business, about which they seem to know every particular, Andronic brings a guard of the just Doge's soldiers to keep the populace quiet while the business goes on;—all of which behavior on the merchant's part my friend the Chorus pronounces to be stupid and suicidal.

Then comes such a scene!—Andronic calling for Ginevra, and the Jew calling for his own.

Breast bared.

Then thus the Jew:—

"Feeble strength of my old body, be centred in this eye and this arm! Thou, my son, receive this sacrifice, and tremble with joy in thy unknown tomb!"

Knife raised.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

And I do hope you have not forgotten that Honorius went away to fight the Adriatic pirates.

For, if you have forgotten that fact, you will not comprehend Honorius's rushing in at this moment from the Adriatic pirates.

Yes,—but why did he go amongst them?

The big secret, in fact. If Honorius had not gone, why, I suppose Shylock would have had his pound of man.

As it is, Honorius and his paper—which latter has also come from the pirates—do the business.

Why, the whole thing turns on the paper. How lucky it was Honorius went amongst the pirates!

Honorius has vanquished the chief of the pirates,—who was named Arnheim,—and that disreputable widower, just before his last breath, gave Honorius the said paper,—though why, it is not clear. And—and this paper shows that ANDRONIC IS THAT SON STOLEN AWAY FROM SARAH, DECEASED, AND SHYLOCK,—THAT SON, NOT ONLY THE IMAGE OF ABEL, BUT OF MOSES, TOO.

Great thunderbolts!

Then, very naturally, (in a play,) in come all the characters, and follows, I am constrained to say, a very well-conceived scene,—'tis another appeal to filial love. The Jew would own his son, but he remembers that it would injure the son, and so he keeps silent. I declare, there is something eminently beautiful in the idea of making the Jew yield his wealth up to Andronic, and saying he will wander from Venice,—his staff his only wealth. And when, as he stoops to kiss his son's hand, Ginevra (who of course has come on with the rest) makes a gesture as though she feared treachery, the few words put into the Jew's mouth are full of pathos and poetry.

And so down comes the curtain,—the piece meeting with the full approval of Chorus, who applauded till I thought he would snap his hands off at the wrists.

"A very moral play," said a stout gentleman behind me,—who had done little else all night but break into the fiercest of apples and pears,—"a very moral play,"—meaning thereby, probably, that it was very moral that a Jew's child should remain a Christian.

Now there were some good points in that play; but, oh, thou M. Ferdinand Dugue, thou,—why didst thou challenge comparison with a man who wrote for all theatres for all times?

* * * * *



THE POET'S SINGING.

In heat and in cold, in sunshine and rain, Bewailing its loss and boasting its gain, Blessing its pleasure and cursing its pain, The hurrying world goes up and down: Every avenue and street Of city and town Are veins that throb with the restless beat Of the eager multitude's trampling feet. Men wrangle together to get and hold A sceptre of power or a crock of gold; Blaspheming God's name with the breath He gave, And plotting revenge on the brink of the grave! And Fashion's followers, flitting after, O'ertake and pass the funeral train, Thoughtlessly scattering jests and laughter, Like sharp, quick showers of hail and rain, To beat on the hearts that are bleeding with pain! And many who stare at the close-shut hearse Envy the dead within,—or, worse, Turn away with a keener zest To grapple and revel and sin with the rest! While far apart in a bower of green, Unheeded, unseen, A warbling bird on the topmost bough Merrily pipes to the Poet below, Asking an answer as gay, I trow! But he hears the surging waves without,— The heartless jeer, and the wild, wild shout: The ceaseless clamor, the cruel strife Make the Poet weary of life; And tears of pity and tears of pain Ebb and flow in every strain, As he soothes his heart with singing.

The tide of humanity rolleth on; And 'mid faces miserly, haggard, and wan, Between the hypocrite's and the knave's, The hapless idiot's and the slave's, Sweet children smile in their nurses' arms, And clap their hands in innocent glee; While, unrebuked by the heavenly charms That beam in the eyes of infancy, Oaths still blacken the lips of men, And startle the ears of womanhood! On either hand The churches stand, Forgotten by those who yesterday Went thronging thither to praise and pray, And take of the Holy Body and Blood! Their week-day creed is the law of Might; Self is their idol, and Gain their right: Though, now and then, God sees some faithful disciples still Breasting the current to do His will. The little bird on the topmost bough Merrily pipes to the Poet below, Asking an answer as gay, I trow! But he hears the surging waves without,— The atheist's scoff and the infidel's doubt, The Pharisee's cant and the sweet saint's prayer, And the piercing cry for rest from care; And tears of pity and tears of pain Ebb and flow in every strain, As he praises God with singing.



A JOURNEY IN SICILY.

CHAPTER I.

PALERMO.

In the latter part of April, 1856, four travellers, one of whom was the present writer, left the Vittoria Hotel at Naples, and at two, P.M., embarked on board the Calabrese steamer, pledged to leave for Palermo precisely at that hour. As, however, our faith in the company's protestations was by no means so implicit as had been our obedience to their orders, it was with no feeling of surprise that we discovered by many infallible signs that the hour of departure was yet far off. True, the funnel sent up its thick cloud; the steward in dirty shirt-sleeves stood firm in the gangway, energetically demanding from the baggage-laden traveller the company's voucher for the fare, without which he may vainly hope to leave the gangway ladder; the decks were crowded in every part with lumber, live and dead. But all these symptoms had to be increased many fold in their intensity before we could hope to get under way; and a single glance at the listless countenances of the bare-legged, bare-armed, red-capped crowd who adhered like polypi to the rough foundation-stones of the mole sufficed to show that the performance they had come to witness would not soon commence. Our berths once visited, we cast about for some quiet position wherein to while away the intervening time. The top of the deck-house offered as pleasant a prospect as could be hoped for, and thither we mounted.

The whole available portion of the deck, poop included, was in possession of a crowd of youngsters, many mere boys, from the Abruzzi, destined to exchange their rags and emptiness for the gay uniform and good rations of King Ferdinand's soldiery. In point of physical comfort, their gain must be immense; and very bad must be that government which, despite of these advantages, has forced upon the soldier's mind discontent and disaffection. No doubt, the spectacle of the Swiss regiments doubly paid, and (on Sundays at least) trebly intoxicated, has something to do with this ill feeling. The raggedness of this troop could be paralleled only by that of the immortal regiment with whom their leader declined to march through Coventry, and was probably even more quaint and fantastic in its character. Chief in singularity were their hats, if hat be the proper designation of the volcanic-looking gray cone which adhered to the head by some inscrutable dynamic law, and seemed rather fitted for carrying out the stratagem of shoeing a troop of horse with felt than for protecting a human skull. A triple row of scalloped black velvet not unfrequently bore testimony to the indomitable love of the nation for ornament; and the same decoration might be found on their garments, whose complicated patchwork reminded us of the humble original from which has sprung our brilliant Harlequin. Shortly our attention was solicited by a pantomimic Roscius, some ten or twelve years old, who, having climbed over the taffrail and cleared a stage of some four feet square, dramatized all practicable scenes, and many apparently impracticable, for he made nothing of presenting two or three personages in rapid interchange. Words were needless, and would have been useless, as the unloading of railway bars by a brawny Northumbrian and his crew drowned all articulate sounds.

Notwithstanding these varied amusements, we were not sorry to see arrive, first, a gray general, obviously the Triton of our minnows, and close behind him the health and police officers of the government, to whose paternal solicitude for our mental and bodily health was to be ascribed our long delay in port. These beneficent influences, incarnated in the form of two portly gentlemen in velvet waistcoats,—an Italian wears a velvet waistcoat, if he can get one, far into the hot months,—began their work of summoning by name each individual from the private to the general, then the passengers, then the crew, and finally, much to our relief, reembarked in the boat, and left us free to pursue our voyage.

We soon left behind the ominous cone of Vesuvius, reported by the best judges to be at present in so unsound a state that nothing can prevent its early fall; sunset left us near the grand precipices of Anacapri, and morning found us with Ustica on our beam, and the semicircle of mountains which enchase the gem of Palermo gradually unfolding their beauties. By ten, A.M., we were in harbor and pulling shorewards to subject ourselves to the scrutiny of custom-house and police. Our passports duly conned over, the functionary, with a sour glance at our valanced faces, inquired if we had letters for any one in the island. Never before had such a question been asked me, nor ever before could I have given other than an humble negative. But the kindness of a friend had luckily provided me with a formidable shield, and a reply, given with well-assumed ease, that I had letters from the English Ambassador for the Viceroy, smoothed the grim feature, and released us from the dread tribunal. The custom-house gave no trouble, and we reembarked to cross about half a mile of water which separated us from the city gate. Here, however, we were destined to experience the influence of the sunny clime: our two stout boatmen persisted in setting their sail, under the utterly false pretence that there was some wind blowing, and fully half an hour elapsed ere we set foot ashore.

This gave me ample time to recall the different aspect of Palermo when first I saw it, in 1849. I had accompanied the noble squadron, English and French, which carried to the Sicilian government the ultimatum of the King of Naples. The scenes of that troubled time passed vividly before me: the mutual salutes of the Admirals; the honors paid by each separately to the flag of Sicily, that flag which we had come to strike,—for such we all knew must be the effect of our withdrawal. I recollected the manly courtesy with which the Sicilians received us, their earnest assurances that they did not confound our involuntary errand with our personal feelings; and how, when a wild Greek mountaineer from the Piano de' Greci, unable to comprehend the intricacies of politics, and stupidly imagining that those who were not for him were against him, had insulted one of our officers, the bystanders had interposed so honorably and so swiftly that even the hot blood of our fiery Cymrian had neither time nor excuse to rise to the boiling-point. I recalled the scene in the Parliament House, when the replies to the King's message, which had been sent by each chief town, were read by the Speaker: the grave indignation of some,—the somewhat bombastic protestations of others,—the question put of submission or war,—the shout of "Guerra! guerra!" ringing too loud, methought, to be good metal; the "Suoni la tromba" at that night's theatre,—the digging at the fortifications,—women carrying huge stones,—men more willing to shout for them than to do their own share,—Capuchin friars digging with the best,—finally, the wild dance of men, women, cowled and bearded monks, all together, brandishing their spades and shovels in cadence to the military band. With this came to me the mild smile and doubtful shake of the head of the good Admiral Baudin, and his prophetic remark,—"I have seen much fighting in various parts of the world; and if these men mean to fight, I cannot comprehend them."

While this mental diorama was unrolling, even Sicilian laziness had time to reach the shore; and passing by a rough mass of rocks, where our second cutter had once run too close for comfort, and the Friedland's launch had upset and lost two men, we at length landed close to the city gate. A custom-house officer pounced on us for a fee, notwithstanding our examination on first landing, and ("uno avulso, non deficit aureus alter,") at the city gate, not thirty yards distant, a third repeated the demand, equivalent to "Your money or your keys." A capital breakfast at the Trinacria hotel was the fitting conclusion to these oft-recorded troubles, and the gratifying news that the Viceroy had just left the island for Naples obviated the necessity of a formal visit, and left us free to enjoy the notabilities of Palermo.

The plan of this beautiful city is very simple, being a tolerably accurate square, surrounded by walls, of which the northern face skirts the sea, and the southern faces the head of the lovely valley in which the city stands,—the Golden Shell. Two perfectly straight streets, intersecting in a small, but highly ornamented piazza, traverse the city. The Toledo, or Via Cassaro,—for it bears both these designations,—runs from the sea to the Monreale gate, close to which is the Royal Palace, and the Cathedral square opens from this street. The Via Macqueda contains few buildings of interest except the University. Between the wall and the sea runs the magnificent Marina, a more beautiful promenade than even the Villa Reale of Naples, having on the right the low but picturesque headland of Bagaria, while on the left rise the all but perpendicular rocks of Monte Pellegrino, once the impregnable mountain-throne of Hamilcar Barcas, and later the spot where in a rude cavern, now sheeted with marble and jasper, "from all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God." The handicraftsmen of Palermo still occupy almost exclusively the streets named after their trades,—an indication of immobility rarely to be met with nowadays, though Rome displays it in a minor degree.

We first visited the University Museum. Numerous pictures, far beyond the ordinary degree of badness, occupy the upper rooms, where the only object of interest is a very fine and well-preserved bronze of Hercules and the Pompeian Fawn, half life-size. But far beyond all else in artistic importance are the metopes from Selinuntium, which, though much damaged, show marks of high excellence. They are of clearly different dates, though all very archaic. The oldest represent Perseus cutting off the Gorgon's head, and Hercules killing two thieves. Perseus has the calm, sleepy look of a Hindoo god,—while Gorgon's head, with goggle eyes and protruding tongue, resembles a Mexican idol. Hercules and the thieves have more of an Egyptian character. The material of these bas-reliefs is coarse limestone; and in the metopes on the opposite wall, which are clearly of later date, recourse has been had to a curious method of obtaining delicacy in the female forms: the faces, hands, and feet, which alone are visible from among the drapery, are formed of fine marble. An Actaeon torn by his dogs is much corroded by sea air, but displays great nobleness of attitude. The vigor in the left arm, which has throttled one of the dogs, can hardly be surpassed. A portion of the cella, of one of the temples has been removed hither, and its brilliant polychromy is sufficient to decide the argument as to the existence of the practice, if, indeed, that point be yet in doubt. But it seems that the non-colorists have relinquished the parallel of architecture, which, be it observed, they formerly defended obstinately, and have now intrenched themselves in the citadel of sculpture, intending to hold it against all evidence. The only other object of much interest was a Pompeian fresco, representing two actors, whose attitudes and masks are so strikingly adapted to express the first scene of the "Heautontimorumenos," between Menalcas and Chremes, that it seems scarcely doubtful that this is actually the subject of the painting.

Near the upper end of the Toledo the Cathedral is situated, not very favorably for effect, as only the eastern side is sufficiently free from buildings. It is a noble pile: Northern power and piety expressed by the agency of Southern and Arabic workmen, and somewhat affected by the nationality of the artificer.

The stones are fretted and carved more elaborately than those of any French or English cathedral, but entirely in arabesques and diapering of low relief, so that the spectator misses with regret the solemn rows of saints and patriarchs that enrich the portals of our Gothic minsters. These, however, are reflections of a subsequent date, and did not interfere to mar the pleasure with which we sat in front of the southern door, beneath the two lofty arches, which, springing from the entrance tower, span the street high above our heads. For some time we sat, unwilling to change and it might be impair our sensations by passing inwards. Our reluctance was but too well founded: the whole interior has been modernized in detestable Renaissance style, and in place of highest honor, above the central doorway, sits in tight-buttoned uniform a fitting idol for so ugly a shrine, the double-chinned effigy of the reigning monarch. We turned for comfort to a chapel on the right, where in four sarcophagi of porphyry are deposited the remains of the Northern sovereigns. The bones of Roger repose in a plain oblong chest with a steep ridged roof, and the other three coffins, though somewhat more elaborate, are yet simple and massive, as befits their destined use. The inscription, on that of Constantia is touching, as it tells that she was "the last of the great race of Northmen,"—the good old bad Latin "Northmannorum" giving the proper title, which we have injudiciously softened into Norman.

In a small piazza near the intersection of the main streets is a Dominican church, whose black and white inlaid marbles are amazing in their elaborateness, astounding in their preposterously bad taste. They transcend description, and can be faintly imagined only by such as know a huge marble nightmare of waves and clouds in the south aisle of Westminster Abbey. This church contains one good painting of a triumphant experiment conducted by some Dominican friars in the presence of sundry Ulemas and Muftis: a Koran and Bible have been thrown into a blazing fire, and the result is as satisfactory as that of Hercules's death-grapple with the Nemean lion. To be sure, lions and Turks are not painters. The Martorana church is rich in gold-grounded mosaics, resembling Saint Mark's at Venice. One represents the coronation of Roger Guiscard by the Saviour: very curious, as showing at how early a date the invaders laid claim to the Right Divine. The inscription is also noteworthy: Rogerius Rex, in the Latin tongue, but the Greek characters, thus: [Greek: ROGERIOS RAEX].[a] The Renaissance has invaded this church too, and flowery inlaid marbles with gilded scroll balconies (it is a nuns' church) mingle with the bold discs and oblong panels of porphyry and green serpentine. In the nave of the small church sat in comfortable arm-chairs two monks, one black, one white, leaning their ears to gilded grates and receiving the confessions of the sisterhood. The paschal candlestick stood in front of the high altar,—Ascension-Day not being past; but here, as in other Sicilian churches, it assumes the form of a seven-branched tree, generally of bronze bedecked with gold. These same nuns' balconies are not confined to the interior of churches, but form a distinct and picturesque feature in the long line of the Toledo. Projecting in a bold curve whose undersurface is gaily painted in arabesque, their thick bars and narrow openings nevertheless leave a gloomy impression on the mind, while they add to the Oriental character of the city. A somewhat unsuccessful effort to identify the church whose bell gave signal for the Sicilian Vespers closed our day's labor. The spot is clearly defined and easily recognizable, and a small church, now shut up, occupies the site. So far, so good; but the cloister which is distinctly mentioned cannot now be found, nor is it easy to perceive where it could have stood. Perhaps some change in the neighboring harbor may have swept it away.

[Footnote a: The e in Rex is here rendered by the Greek eta,—a proof that the pronunciation of that letter was similar to that of our long a, and not like our double ee; although the modern Greeks support the latter pronunciation.]

23d April. To those who take interest in the efforts of that age when Christianity, devoid at once of artistic knowledge and of mechanical, strove from among the material and moral wreck of Paganism to create for herself a school of Art which should, despite of all short-comings, be the exponent of those high feelings which inspired her mind, the Royal Chapel of Palermo offers a delightful object of study. Less massive than the gloomily grand basilicas of Rome and Ravenna, surpassed in single features by other churches, as, for instance, the Cathedral of Salerno, it contains, nevertheless, such perfect specimens of Christian Art in its various phases, that this one small building seems a hand-book in itself. The floor and walls are covered with excellently preserved and highly polished Alexandrine mosaic, flowing in varied convolutions of green and gold and red round the broad crimson and gray shields, whose circular forms recall the mighty monolith columns of porphyry and granite which yielded such noble spoils. The honey-combed pendentines of the ceiling must be due to Arab workmen; their like may yet be found in Cairo or the Alhambra; while below the narrow windows, and extending downwards to the marble panelling, runs a grand series of gold-grounded mosaics, their subjects taken from the Old and New Testaments. But far older than even these are the colossal grim circles of saints and apostles who cling to the roof of the choir, and yield in size only to the awful figures of the Saviour, the Virgin, and Saint Paul, enthroned in the apsides of the nave and aisles. The ambones, though not so large as those of Salerno, are very gorgeous; and the paschal candlestick, here at all events in its usual shape, is of deeply-carved marble, and displays an incongruous assemblage of youths, maidens, beasts, birds, and bishops, hanging each from other like a curtain of swarming bees.

Service, which had been going on in the choir when we arrived, had now ceased; but from the crypt below arose a chant so harsh, vibratory, and void of solemnity, that we were irresistibly reminded of the subterranean chorus of demons in "Robert le Diable." Two of us ventured below and discovered the chapter, all robed in purple, sitting round a pall with a presumable coffin underneath. Little of reverence did they show,—it is true, the death was not recent, the service being merely commemorative, as we afterwards learned,—and as the procession shortly afterwards emerged and proceeded down the chapel, the unwashed, unshaven, and sensual countenances of some of highest rank among them gave small reason to believe that they could feel much reverence on any subject whatever.

The Palace itself is as tedious as any other palace: the Pompeian room follows the Louis Quinze, and is in turn followed by the Chinese, till, for our comfort, we emerged into one large square hall, whose stiff mosaics of archers killing stags, peacocks feeding at the foot of willow-pattern trees, date from the time of Roger. Another wearisome series of rooms succeeded, which we were bound to traverse in search of a bronze ram of old Greek workmanship, brought from Syracuse. The work is very good and well-preserved; in fact, no part is injured, save the tail and a hind leg, whose loss the custode ascribed to the villains of the late revolution. He even charged them with the destruction of another similar statue melted into bullets, if we may believe his incredible tale. A pavilion over the Monreale gate commands a view right down the Toledo to the sea.

The drive to Monreale is a continued ascent along the skirts of a limestone rock, whose precipices are thickly planted at every foothold with olive, Indian fig, and aloe. The valley, as it spread below our gaze, appeared one huge carpet of heavy-fruited orange-trees, save where at times a rent in the web left visible the bluish blades of wheat, or the intense green of a flax-plantation.

Monreale is a mere country-town, containing no object of interest, save the Cathedral. This is a noble basilica, grandly proportioned, the nave and aisles of which are separated by monolith pillars, mostly of gray granite, and some few of cipollino and other marbles, the spoils, no doubt, of the ancient Panormus. Above the cornice the walls are entirely sheeted with golden mosaics, representing, as usual, Scripture history. The series which begins, like the speech of the Intendant in "Les Plaideurs," "Avant la creation du monde" complies with the wish of (the judge?) by going on to the Deluge, in a train of singularly meagre figures, most haggard of whom is Cain, here represented (as in the Campo Santo of Pisa) receiving his death accidentally from the hand of Lamech. In the passage of the beasts to the Ark, Noah coaxes the lion on board, and in the next compartment the patriarch shoves the king of beasts down the plank in a most ludicrous fashion. The mosaics of the New Testament are less archaic, though still very old, too old to be infected by the tricks of later Romanism,—such, for instance, as introducing the Virgin among the receivers of the mysterious gift of tongues. Saint Paul, both here and at the Royal Chapel, appears under the earlier type adopted whether by fancy or tradition to represent that saint,—that is, a short, strong figure, with the head large, and almost devoid of hair, except at the sides, and one dark lock in the centre of the massive forehead. Over the western door-way is a mosaic of the Virgin with the following leonine and loyal distich beneath it:—

"Sponsa suae prolis, O Stella puerpera Solis, Pro cunctis ora, sed plus pro rege labora!"

There is an ample square cloister, with twenty-seven pairs of columns on each side, once richly decorated in mosaics like those of San Giovanni Laterano and San Paolo at Rome, but even more dilapidated than either of these latter. Indeed, so entirely non-existent is the mosaic, the twisted and channelled columns showing nothing but places "where the pasty is not," that the more probable solution may be that want of funds or of devotion has left the work unfinished. On the capital of one column may be seen the figure of William the Good, who founded the Cathedral in 1170. He bears in his arms a model of the building, which here appears with circular-headed windows instead of the lanceolated Gothic now existing.

In, perhaps, the very loveliest of the many lovely sites around Palermo stands the small Moorish building of La Ziza. Moorish it may be called; for the main feature of the edifice, a hall with a fountain trickling along a channel in the pavements, is clearly due to the Saracens. These, however, had availed themselves of Roman columns to support their fretted ceilings, once gorgeous in color, but now desecrated with whitewash. The Norman invaders have added their never-failing gold mosaic,—while the Spaniard, after painting sundry scenes from Ovid's "Metamorphoses" in a dreadfully barocco style, calls upon the world, in those magniloquent phrases which somehow belong as of right to your mighty Don, to admire the exquisite commingling of modern art with antique beauty, to which his fiat has given birth.

Somewhat of Spain, perhaps, might also be traced in an incident, promisingly romantic, but coming to a most lame and impotent conclusion, which occurred this afternoon to one of our party. While busily sketching, in the Martorana church, the previously mentioned mosaic of Roger's coronation, a hand protruded from the gilded lattice above, and a small scroll was dropped, not precisely at the feet, but in the neighborhood of the amazed artist. Sharp eyes, however, must be at work; for, ere he could appropriate this mysterious waif on Love's manor, a side-door opened, and an attendant in the very unpoetical garb of a carpenter bore off the prize. It maybe presumed that the next confessor who occupied an arm-chair in the church would have somewhat of novelty to enliven what some priests have stated to be the most wearisome of the work, namely, the hearing of confessions in a nunnery.

This evening was passed in the house of the British Consul, who, in amusing recognition of our nationalities, comprising, as they did, both branches of the Anglo-Saxon race, treated us to Lemann's captain's-biscuit and Boston crackers. Notwithstanding the interesting conversation of our host, who had not allowed a residence of many years in a mind-rusting city to impair his love of literature, a love dating from the time when Praed edited the "Etonian," and Metius Tarpa contributed to the "College Magazine," we were obliged to leave early. Our arrangements for a very early start next morning were completed, and a thirty miles' ride lay before us.

To save further allusion to them, it may be as well to describe these arrangements, which were made for us by Signor Ragusa, landlord of the Trinacria hotel. A guide, Giuseppe Agnello by name, took upon himself the whole responsibility of our board, lodging, and travelling, at a fixed rate of forty-two (?) carlini a head,—which sum, including his buonamano and return voyage from Syracuse or Messina, amounted to about twenty francs each per diem. For this sum he furnished us with good mules, a hearty breakfast at daybreak, cold meat and hard eggs at noon, and a plentiful dinner or supper, call it which you choose, on arriving at our night's quarters. Agnello himself was cook, and proved a very tolerable one. This is essential; for Spanish custom prevails in the inns, whose host considers his duty accomplished when he has provided ample stabling for the mules and dubious bedding for his biped guests.

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.

CHAPTER XV.

PHYSIOLOGICAL.

If Master Bernard felt a natural gratitude to his young pupil for saving him from an imminent peril, he was in a state of infinite perplexity to know why he should have needed such aid. He, an active, muscular, courageous, adventurous young fellow, with a stick in his hand, ready to hold down the Old Serpent himself, if he had come in his way, to stand still, staring into those two eyes, until they came up close to him, and the strange, terrible sound seemed to freeze him stiff where he stood,—what was the meaning of it? Again, what was the influence this girl had exerted, under which the venomous creature had collapsed in such a sudden way? Whether he had been awake or dreaming he did not feel quite sure. He knew he had gone up The Mountain, at any rate; he knew he had come down The Mountain with the girl walking just before him;—there was no forgetting her figure, as she walked on in silence, her braided locks falling a little, for want of the lost hair-pin, perhaps, and looking like a wreathing coil of—Shame on such fancies!—to wrong that supreme crowning gift of abounding Nature, a rush of shining black hair, that, shaken loose, would cloud her all round, like Godiva, from brow to instep! He was sure he had sat down before the fissure or cave. He was sure that he was led softly away from the place, and that it was Elsie who had led him. There was the hair-pin to show that so far it was not a dream. But between these recollections came a strange confusion; and the more the master thought, the more he was perplexed to know whether she had waked him, sleeping, as he sat on the stone, from some frightful dream, such as may come in a very brief slumber, or whether she had bewitched him into a trance with those strange eyes of hers, or whether it was all true, and he must solve its problem as he best might.

There was another recollection connected with this mountain adventure. As they approached the mansion-house, they met a young man, whom Mr. Bernard remembered having seen once at least before, and whom he had heard of as a cousin of the young girl. As Cousin Richard Venner, the person in question, passed them, he took the measure, so to speak, of Mr. Bernard, with a look so piercing, so exhausting, so practised, so profoundly suspicious, that the young master felt in an instant that he had an enemy in this handsome youth,—an enemy, too, who was like to be subtle and dangerous.

Mr. Bernard had made up his mind, that, come what might, enemy or no enemy, live or die, he would solve the mystery of Elsie Venner, sooner or later. He was not a man to be frightened out of his resolution by a scowl, or a stiletto, or any unknown means of mischief, of which a whole armory was hinted at in that passing look Dick Venner had given him. Indeed, like most adventurous young persons, he found a kind of charm in feeling that there might be some dangers in the way of his investigations. Some rumors which had reached him about the supposed suitor of Elsie Venner, who was thought to be a desperate kind of fellow, and whom some believed to be an unscrupulous adventurer, added a curious, romantic kind of interest to the course of physiological and psychological inquiries he was about instituting.

The afternoon on The Mountain was still uppermost in his mind. Of course he knew the common stories about fascination. He had once been himself an eyewitness of the charming of a small bird by one of our common harmless serpents. Whether a human being could be reached by this subtile agency, he had been skeptical, notwithstanding the mysterious relation generally felt to exist between man and this creature, "cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field,"—a relation which some interpret as the fruit of the curse, and others hold to be so instinctive that this animal has been for that reason adopted as the natural symbol of evil. There was another solution, however, supplied him by his professional reading. The curious work of Mr. Braid of Manchester had made him familiar with the phenomena of a state allied to that produced by animal magnetism, and called by that writer by the name of hypnotism. He found, by referring to his note-book, the statement was, that, by fixing the eyes on a bright object so placed as to produce a strain upon the eyes and eyelids, and to maintain a steady fixed stare, there comes on in a few seconds a very singular condition, characterized by muscular rigidity and inability to move, with a strange exaltation of most of the senses, and generally a closure of the eyelids,—this condition being followed by torpor.

Now this statement of Mr. Braid's, well known to the scientific world, and the truth of which had been confirmed by Mr. Bernard in certain experiments he had instituted, as it has been by many other experimenters, went far to explain the strange impressions, of which, waking or dreaming, he had certainly been the subject. His nervous system had been in a high state of exaltation at the time. He remembered how the little noises that made rings of sound in the silence of the woods, like pebbles dropped in still waters, had reached his inner consciousness. He remembered that singular sensation in the roots of the hair, when he came on the traces of the girl's presence, reminding him of a line in a certain poem which he had read lately with a new and peculiar interest. He even recalled a curious evidence of exalted sensibility and irritability, in the twitching of the minute muscles of the internal ear at every unexpected sound, producing an odd little snap in the middle of the head, that proved to him he was getting very nervous.

The next thing was to find out whether it were possible that the venomous creature's eyes should have served the purpose of Mr. Braid's "bright object" held very close to the person experimented on, or whether they had any special power which could be made the subject of exact observation.

For this purpose Mr. Bernard considered it necessary to get a live crotalus or two into his possession, if this were possible. On inquiry, he found that there was a certain family living far up the mountain-side, not a mile from the ledge, the members of which were said to have taken these creatures occasionally, and not to be in any danger, or at least in any fear, of being injured by them. He applied to these people, and offered a reward sufficient to set them at work to capture some of these animals, if such a thing were possible.

A few days after this, a dark, gypsy-looking woman presented herself at his door. She held up her apron as if it contained something precious in the bag she made with it.

"Y'wanted some rattlers," said the woman. "Here they be."

She opened her apron and showed a coil of rattlesnakes lying very peaceably in its fold. They lifted their heads up, as if they wanted to see what was going on, but showed no sign of anger.

"Are you crazy?" said Mr. Bernard. "You're dead in an hour, if one of those creatures strikes you!"

He drew back a little, as he spoke; it might be simple disgust; it might be fear; it might be what we call antipathy, which is different from either, and which will sometimes show itself in paleness, and even faintness, produced by objects perfectly harmless and not in themselves offensive to any sense.

"Lord bless you," said the woman, "rattlers never touches our folks. I'd jest 'z lieves handle them creaturs as so many striped snakes."

So saying, she put their heads down with her hand, and packed them together in her apron as if they had been bits of cart-rope.

Mr. Bernard had never heard of the power, or, at least, the belief in the possession of a power by certain persons, which enables them to handle these frightful reptiles with perfect impunity. The fact, however, is well known to others, and more especially to a very distinguished Professor in one of the leading institutions of the great city of the land, whose experiences in the neighborhood of Graylock, as he will doubtless inform the curious, were very much like those of the young master.

Mr. Bernard had a wired cage ready for his formidable captives, and studied their habits and expression with a strange sort of interest. What did the Creator mean to signify, when he made such shapes of horror, and, as if he had doubly cursed this envenomed wretch, had set a mark upon him and sent him forth, the Cain of the brotherhood of serpents? It was a very curious fact that the first train of thoughts Mr. Bernard's small menagerie suggested to him was the grave, though somewhat worn, subject of the origin of evil. There is now to be seen in a tall glass jar, in the Museum of Comparative Anatomy at Cantabridge in the territory of the Massachusetts, a huge crotalus, of a species which grows to more frightful dimensions than our own, under the hotter skies of South America. Look at it, ye who would know what is the tolerance, the freedom from prejudice, which can suffer such an incarnation of all that is devilish to lie unharmed in the cradle of Nature! Learn, too, that there are many things in this world which we are warned to shun, and are even suffered to slay, if need be, but which we must not hate, unless we would hate what God loves and cares for.

Whatever fascination the creature might exercise in his native haunts, Mr. Bernard found himself not in the least nervous or affected in any way while looking at his caged reptiles. When their cage was shaken, they would lift their heads and spring their rattles; but the sound was by no means so formidable to listen to as when it reverberated among the chasms of the echoing rocks. The expression of the creatures was watchful, still, grave, passionless, fate-like, suggesting a cold malignity that seemed to be waiting for its opportunity. Their awful, deep-cut mouths were sternly closed over the long hollow fangs that rested their roots against the swollen poison-bag, where the venom had been boarding up ever since the last stroke had emptied it. They never winked, for ophidians have no movable eyelids, but kept up that awful fixed stare which made the two unwinking gladiators the survivors of twenty pairs matched by one of the Roman Emperors, as Pliny tells us, in his "Natural History." But their eyes did not flash, as he had expected to see them. They were of a pale-golden or straw color, horrible to look into, with their stony calmness, their pitiless indifference, hardly enlivened by the almost imperceptible vertical slit of the pupil, through which Death seemed to be looking out like the archer behind the long narrow loop-hole in a blank turret-wall. Possibly their pupils might open wide enough in the dark hole of the rock to let the glare of the back part of the eye show, as we often see it in cats and other animals. On the whole, the caged reptiles, horrid as they were, were yet very different from his recollections of what he had seen or dreamed he saw at the cavern. These looked dangerous enough, but yet quiet. A treacherous stillness, however,—as the unfortunate New York physician found, when he put his foot out to wake up the torpid creature, and instantly the fang flashed through his boot, carrying the poison into his blood, and death with it.

Mr. Bernard kept these strange creatures, and watched all their habits with a natural curiosity. In any collection of animals the venomous beasts are looked at with the greatest interest, just as the greatest villains are most run after by the unknown public. Nobody troubles himself for a common striped snake or a petty thief, but a cobra or a wife-killer is a centre of attraction to all eyes. These captives did very little to earn their living; but, on the other hand, their living was not expensive, their diet being nothing but air, au nature. Months and months these creatures will live and seem to thrive well enough, as any showman who has them in his menagerie will testify, though they never touch anything to eat or drink.

In the mean time Mr. Bernard had become very curious about a class of subjects not treated of in any detail in those text-books accessible in most country-towns, to the exclusion of the more special treatises, and especially the rare and ancient works found on the shelves of the larger city-libraries. He was on a visit to old Dr. Kittredge one day, having been asked by him to call in for a few moments as soon as convenient. The Doctor smiled good-humoredly when he asked him if he had an extensive collection of medical works.

"Why, no," said the old Doctor, "I haven't got a great many printed books; and what I have I don't read quite as often as I might, I'm afraid. I read and studied in the time of it, when I was in the midst of the young men who were all at work with their books; but it's a mighty hard matter, when you go off alone into the country, to keep up with all that's going on in the Societies and the Colleges. I'll tell you, though, Mr. Langdon, when a man that's once started right lives among sick folks for five-and-thirty years, as I've done, if he hasn't got a library of five-and-thirty volumes bound up in his head at the end of that time, he'd better stop driving round and sell his horse and sulky. I know the better part of the families within a dozen miles' ride. I know the families that have a way of living through everything, and I know the other set that have the trick of dying without any kind of reason for it. I know the years when the fevers and dysenteries are in earnest, and when they're only making believe. I know the folks that think they're dying as soon as they're sick, and the folks that never find out they're sick till they're dead. I don't want to undervalue your science, Mr. Langdon. There are things I never learned, because they came in after my day, and I am very glad to send my patients to those that do know them, when I am at fault; but I know these people about here, fathers and mothers, and children and grandchildren, so as all the science in the world can't know them, without it takes time about it, and sees them grow up and grow old, and how the wear and tear of life comes to them. You can't tell a horse by driving him once, Mr. Langdon, nor a patient by talking half an hour with him."

"Do you know much about the Venner family?" said Mr. Bernard, in a natural way enough, the Doctor's talk having suggested the question.

The Doctor lifted his head with his accustomed movement, so as to command the young man through his spectacles.

"I know all the families of this place and its neighborhood," he answered.

"We have the young lady studying with us at the Institute," said Mr. Bernard.

"I know it," the Doctor answered. "Is she a good scholar?"

All this time the Doctor's eyes were fixed steadily on Mr. Bernard, looking through the glasses.

"She is a good scholar enough, but I don't know what to make of her. Sometimes I think she is a little out of her head. Her father, I believe, is sensible enough;—what sort of a woman was her mother, Doctor?—I suppose, of course, you remember all about her?"

"Yes, I knew her mother. She was a very lovely young woman."—The Doctor put his hand to his forehead and drew a long breath.—"What is there you notice out of the way about Elsie Venner?"

"A good many things," the master answered. "She shuns all the other girls. She is getting a strange influence over my fellow-teacher, a young lady,—you know Miss Helen Darley, perhaps? I am afraid this girl will kill her. I never saw or heard of anything like it, in prose at least;—do you remember much of Coleridge's Poems, Doctor?"

The good old Doctor had to plead a negative.

"Well, no matter. Elsie would have been burned for a witch in old times. I have seen the girl look at Miss Darley when she had not the least idea of it, and all at once I would see her grow pale and moist, and sigh, and move round uneasily, and turn towards Elsie, and perhaps get up and go to her, or else have slight spasmodic movements that looked like hysterics;—do you believe in the evil eye, Doctor?"

"Mr. Langdon," the Doctor said, solemnly, "there are strange things about Elsie Venner,—very strange things. This was what I wanted to speak to you about. Let me advise you all to be very patient with the girl, but also very careful. Her love is not to be desired, and"—he whispered softly—"her hate is to be dreaded. Do you think she has any special fancy for anybody else in the school besides Miss Darley?"

Mr. Bernard could not stand the old Doctor's spectacled eyes without betraying a little of the feeling natural to a young man to whom a home question involving a possible sentiment is put suddenly.

"I have suspected," he said,—"I have had a kind of feeling—that she—Well, come, Doctor,—I don't know that there's any use in disguising the matter,—I have thought Elsie Venner had rather a fancy for somebody else,—I mean myself."

There was something so becoming in the blush with which the young man made this confession, and so manly, too, in the tone with which he spoke, so remote from any shallow vanity, such as young men who are incapable of love are apt to feel, when some loose tendril of a woman's fancy which a chance wind has blown against them twines about them for the want of anything better, that the old Doctor looked at him admiringly, and could not help thinking that it was no wonder any young girl should be pleased with him.

"You are a man of nerve, Mr. Langdon?" said the Doctor.

"I thought so till very lately," he replied. "I am not easily frightened, but I don't know but I might be bewitched or magnetized, or whatever it is when one is tied up and cannot move. I think I can find nerve enough, however, if there is any special use you want to put it to."

"Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Langdon. Do you find yourself disposed to take a special interest in Elsie,—to fall in love with her, in a word? Pardon me, for I do not ask from curiosity, but a much more serious motive."

"Elsie interests me," said the young man, "interests me strangely. She has a wild flavor in her character which is wholly different from that of any human creature I ever saw. She has marks of genius,—poetic or dramatic,—I hardly know which. She read a passage from Keats's 'Lamia' the other day, in the school-room, in such a way that I declare to you I thought some of the girls would faint or go into fits. Miss Darley got up and left the room, trembling all over. Then I pity her, she is so lonely. The girls are afraid of her, and she seems to have either a dislike or a fear of them. They have all sorts of painful stories about her. They give her a name that no human creature ought to bear. They say she hides a mark on her neck by always wearing a necklace. She is very graceful, you know, and they will have it that she can twist herself into all sorts of shapes, or tie herself in a knot, if she wants to. There is not one of them that will look her in the eyes. I pity the poor girl; but, Doctor, I do not love her. I would risk my life for her, if it would do her any good, but it would be in cold blood. If her hand touches mine, it is not a thrill of passion I feel running through me, but a very different emotion. Oh, Doctor! there must be something in that creature's blood that has killed the humanity in her. God only knows the mystery that has blighted such a soul in so beautiful a body! No, Doctor, I do not love the girl."

"Mr. Langdon," said the Doctor, "you are young, and I am old. Let me talk to you with an old man's privilege, as an adviser. You have come to this country-town without suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of perils. There is a mystery which I must not tell you now; but I may warn you. Keep your eyes open and your heart shut. If, through pitying that girl, you ever come to love her, you are lost. If you deal carelessly with her, beware! This is not all. There are other eyes on you beside Elsie Venner's.—Do you go armed?"

"I do!" said Mr. Bernard,—and he 'put his hands up' in the shape of fists, in such a way as to show that he was master of the natural weapons at any rate.

The Doctor could not help smiling. But his face fell in an instant.

"You may want something more than those tools to work with. Come with me into my sanctum."

The Doctor led Mr. Bernard into a small room opening out of the study. It was a place such as anybody but a medical man would shiver to enter. There was the usual tall box with its bleached rattling tenant; there were jars in rows where "interesting cases" outlived the grief of widows and heirs in alcoholic immortality,—for your "preparation-jar" is the true "monumentum aere perennius"; there were various semipossibilities of minute dimensions and unpromising developments; there were shining instruments of evil aspect, and grim plates on the walls, and on one shelf by itself, accursed and apart, coiled in a long cylinder of spirit, a huge crotalus, rough-scaled, flat-headed, variegated with dull bands, one of which partially encircled the neck like a collar,—an awful wretch to look upon, with murder written all over him in horrid hieroglyphics. Mr. Bernard's look was riveted on this creature,—not fascinated certainly, for its eyes looked like white beads, being clouded by the action of the spirits in which it had been long kept,—but fixed by some indefinite sense of the renewal of a previous impression;—everybody knows the feeling, with its suggestion of some past state of existence. There was a scrap of paper on the jar with something written on it. He was reaching up to read it when the Doctor touched him lightly.

"Look here, Mr. Langdon!" he said, with a certain vivacity of manner, as if wishing to call away his attention,—"this is my armory."

The Doctor threw open the door of a small cabinet, where were disposed in artistic patterns various weapons of offence and defence,—for he was a virtuoso in his way, and by the side of the implements of the art of healing had pleased himself with displaying a collection of those other instruments, the use of which renders them necessary.

"See which of these weapons you would like best to carry about you," said the Doctor.

Mr. Bernard laughed, and looked at the Doctor as if he half doubted whether he was in earnest.

"This looks dangerous enough," he said,—"for the man that carries it, at least."

He took down one of the prohibited Spanish daggers or knives which a traveller may occasionally get hold of and smuggle out of the country. The blade was broad, trowel-like, but the point drawn out several inches, so as to look like a skewer.

"This must be a jealous bull-fighter's weapon," he said, and put it back in its place.

Then he took down an ancient-looking broad-bladed dagger, with a complex aspect about it, as if it had some kind of mechanism connected with it.

"Take care!" said the Doctor; "there is a trick to that dagger."

He took it and touched a spring. The dagger split suddenly into three blades, as when one separates the forefinger and the ring-finger from the middle one. The outside blades were sharp on their outer edge. The stab was to be made with the dagger shut, then the spring touched and the split blades withdrawn.

Mr. Bernard replaced it, saying, that it would have served for side-arm to old Suwarrow, who told his men to work their bayonets back and forward when they pinned a Turk, but to wriggle them about in the wound when they stabbed a Frenchman.

"Here," said the Doctor, "this is the thing you want."

He took down a much more modern and familiar implement,—a small, beautifully finished revolver.

"I want you to carry this," he said; "and more than that, I want you to practise with it often, as for amusement, but so that it may be seen and understood that you are apt to have a pistol about you. Pistol-shooting is pleasant sport enough, and there is no reason why you should not practise it like other young fellows. And now," the Doctor said, "I have one other weapon to give you."

He took a small piece of parchment and shook a white powder into it from one of his medicine-jars. The jar was marked with the name of a mineral salt, of a nature to have been serviceable in case of sudden illness in the time of the Borgias. The Doctor folded the parchment carefully and marked the Latin name of the powder upon it.

"Here," he said, handing it to Mr. Bernard,—"you see what it is, and you know what service it can render. Keep these two protectors about your person day and night; they will not harm you, and you may want one or the other or both before you think of it."

Mr. Bernard thought it was very odd, and not very old-gentleman like, to be fitting him out for treason, stratagem, and spoils, in this way. There was no harm, however, in carrying a doctor's powder in his pocket, or in amusing himself with shooting at a mark, as he had often done before. If the old gentleman had these fancies, it was as well to humor him. So he thanked old Doctor Kittredge, and shook his hand warmly as he left him.

"The fellow's hand did not tremble, nor his color change," the Doctor said, as he watched him walking away. "He is one of the right sort."

CHAPTER XVI.

EPISTOLARY.

Mr. Langdon to the Professor.

MY DEAR PROFESSOR,—

You were kind enough to promise me that you would assist me in any professional or scientific investigations in which I might become engaged. I have of late become deeply interested in a class of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and I must exercise the privilege of questioning you on some points upon which I desire information I cannot otherwise obtain. I would not trouble you, if I could find any person or books competent to enlighten me on some of these singular matters which have so excited me. The leading doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not versed in the curiosities of medical literature.

I proceed, with your leave, to ask a considerable number of questions,—hoping to get answers to some of them, at least.

Is there any evidence that human beings can be infected or wrought upon by poisons, or otherwise, so that they shall manifest any of the peculiarities belonging to beings of a lower nature? Can such peculiarities be transmitted by inheritance? Is there anything to countenance the stories, long and widely current, about the "evil eye"? or is it a mere fancy that such a power belongs to any human being? Have you any personal experience as to the power of fascination said to be exercised by certain animals? What can you make of those circumstantial statements we have seen in the papers of children forming mysterious friendships with ophidians of different species, sharing their food with them, and seeming to be under some subtile influence exercised by those creatures? Have you read, critically, Coleridge's poem of "Christabel," and Keats's "Lamia"? If so, can you understand them, or find any physiological foundation for the story of either?

There is another set of questions of a different nature I should like to ask, but it is hardly fair to put so many on a single sheet. There is one, however, you must answer. Do you think there may be predispositions, inherited or ingrafted, but at any rate constitutional, which shall take out certain apparently voluntary determinations from the control of the will, and leave them as free from moral responsibility as the instincts of the lower animals? Do you not think there may be a crime which is not a sin?

Pardon me, my dear Sir, for troubling you with such a list of notes of interrogation. There are some very strange things going on here in this place, country-town as it is. Country-life is apt to be dull; but when it once gets going, it beats the city hollow, because it gives its whole mind to what it is about. These rural sinners make terrible work with the middle of the Decalogue, when they get started. However, I hope I shall live through my year's school-keeping without catastrophes, though there are queer doings about me which puzzle me and might scare some people. If anything should happen, you will be one of the first to hear of it, no doubt. But I trust not to help out the editors of the "Rockland Weekly Universe" with an obituary of the late lamented, who signed himself in life

Your friend and pupil,

BERNARD C. LANGDON.

The Professor to Mr. Langdon.

MY DEAR MR. LANGDON,—

I do not wonder that you find no answer from your country friends to the curious questions you put. They belong to that middle region between science and poetry which sensible men, as they are called, are very shy of meddling with. Some people think that truth and gold are always to be washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion, that, unless there are so many grains to the peck of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay to wash for either, as long as one can find anything else to do. I don't doubt there is some truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism, for instance; but when you ask me to cradle for it, I tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so, and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets, that I can do something better than hunt for the grains of truth among their tricks and lies. Do you remember what I used to say in my lectures?—or were you asleep just then, or cutting your initials on the rail? (You see I can ask questions, my young friend.) Leverage is everything,—was what I used to say;—don't begin to pry till you have got the long arm on your side.

To please you, and satisfy your doubts as far as possible, I have looked into the old books,—into Schenckius and Turner and Kenelm Digby and the rest, where I have found plenty of curious stories which you must take for what they are worth.

Your first question I can answer in the affirmative upon pretty good authority. Mizaldus tells, in his "Memorabilia," the well-known story of the girl fed on poisons, who was sent by the king of the Indies to Alexander the Great. "When Aristotle saw her eyes sparkling and snapping like those of serpents, he said, 'Look out for yourself, Alexander! this is a dangerous companion for you!'"—and sure enough, the young lady proved to be a very unsafe person to her friends. Cardanus gets a story from Avicenna, of a certain man bit by a serpent, who recovered of his bite, the snake dying therefrom. This man afterwards had a daughter whom no venomous serpent could harm, though she had a fatal power over them.

I suppose you may remember the statements of old authors about lycanthropy, the disease in which men took on the nature and aspect of wolves. Aetius and Paulus, both men of authority, describe it. Altomaris gives a horrid case; and Fincelius mentions one occurring as late as 1541, the subject of which was captured, still insisting that he was a wolf, only that the hair of his hide was turned in! Versipelles, it may be remembered, was the Latin name for these "were-wolves."

As for the cases where rabid persons have barked and bit like dogs, there are plenty of such on record.

More singular, or at least more rare, is the account given by Andreas Baccius, of a man who was struck in the hand by a cock, with his beak, and who died on the third day thereafter, looking for all the world like a fighting-cock, to the great horror of the spectators.

As to impressions transmitted at a very early period of existence, every one knows the story of King James's fear of a naked sword and the way it is accounted for. Sir Kenelm Digby says,—"I remember when he dubbed me Knight, in the ceremony of putting the point of a naked sword upon my shoulder, he could not endure to look upon it, but turned his face another way, insomuch, that, in lieu of touching my shoulder, he had almost thrust the point into my eyes, had not the Duke of Buckingham guided his hand aright." It is he, too, who tells the story of the mulberry mark upon the neck of a certain lady of high condition, which "every year, in mulberry season, did swell, grow big, and itch." And Gaffarel mentions the case of a girl born with the figure of a fish on one of her limbs, of which the wonder was, that, when the girl did eat fish, this mark put her to sensible pain. But there is no end to cases of this kind, and I could give some of recent date, if necessary, lending a certain plausibility at least to the doctrine of transmitted impressions.

I never saw a distinct case of evil eye, though I have seen eyes so bad that they might produce strange effects on very sensitive natures. But the belief in it under various names, fascination, jettatura, etc., is so permanent and universal, from Egypt to Italy, and from the days of Solomon to those of Ferdinand of Naples, that there must be some peculiarity, to say the least, on which the opinion is based. There is very strong evidence that some such power is exercised by certain of the lower animals. Thus, it is stated on good authority that "almost every animal becomes panic-struck at the sight of the rattlesnake, and seems at once deprived of the power of motion, or the exercise of its usual instinct of self-preservation." Other serpents seem to share this power of fascination, as the Cobra and the Bucephalus Capensis. Some think that it is nothing but fright; others attribute it to the