There was a coal-tax, popularly known as the Richmond duty, which was levied for many years, for the benefit of one family, but was abolished some time ago. Its origin, and the especial circumstance which, gossip saith, more immediately led to its infliction, are not a little curious, perhaps instructive. The first Duke of Richmond of the present line was a son of Charles II. by Louise Rene de Pennevant de Querouaille, a French lady, better known to us as the Duchess of Portsmouth, to whom Otway dedicated his 'Venice Preserved' in such adulatory terms. This son, when only nine years of age, was created a Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter; and his mother, with the proverbial taste of her country, arranged a more graceful mode of wearing the blue ribbon, which, as we see in old portraits, was till then worn round the neck of the knight, with the George pendent from it. The duchess presented her son to the king with the ribbon thrown gracefully over his left shoulder, and the George pendent on the right side. His majesty was delighted, embraced his son, commanded that the insignia of the order should always be so worn, presented the youthful knight with 1s. per ton, Newcastle measure, upon all coals shipped in the Tyne for consumption in England, and secured the munificent parental gift by patent to the young duke and his heirs for ever. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

After the fortunate family had enjoyed this revenue for about a century and a quarter, the then Duke of Richmond, a personage said to be wise in his generation, negotiated the sale of his patent with the government; and on the 19th of August 1799 the Lords of the Treasury agreed that the sum of L.499,833, 11s. 6d., the price of a perpetual annuity of L.19,000, should be paid for the surrender of the duke's right. This enormous sum was accordingly actually disbursed by the Exchequer in two payments, and the obnoxious impost on the Tyne coal-trade was abolished some thirty years afterwards—by which time the Treasury had been repaid much more than it had advanced, a circumstance inducing a belief that his Grace sold his inheritance much too cheaply. The estimate of the quantity of coals consumed in the United Kingdom, and exported during the last year, reaches the staggering amount of 50,000,000 of tons—a tremendous advance, which proves, if nothing else, that if, as some will have it, we are an 'old' country, the capacity for hard work as well as power of consumption increases marvellously with age. At anyrate the three great business localities I have partially indicated are stupendous facts, the full significance of which will be fully comprehended by all and every one who may choose to compare these slight outline sketches with the great originals.



STORY OF REMBRANDT.

At a short distance from Leyden may still be seen a flour-mill with a quaint old dwelling-house attached, which bears, on a brick in a corner of the wide chimney, the date 1550. Here, in 1606, was born Paul Rembrandt. At an early age he manifested a stubborn, independent will, which his father tried in vain to subdue. He caused his son to work in the mill, intending that he should succeed him in its management; but the boy shewed so decided a distaste for the employment, that his father resolved to make him a priest, and sent him to study at Leyden. Every one knows, however, that few lads of fifteen, endowed with great muscular vigour and abundance of animal spirits, will take naturally and without compulsion to the study of Latin grammar. Rembrandt certainly did not; and his obstinacy proving an overmatch for his teachers' patience, he was sent back to the mill, when his father beat him so severely, that next morning he ran off to Leyden, without in the least knowing how he should live there. Fortunately he sought refuge in the house of an honest artist, Van Zwaanenberg, who was acquainted with his father.

'Tell me, Paul,' asked his friend, 'what do you mean to do with yourself, if you will not be either a priest or a miller? They are both honourable professions: one gives food to the soul, the other prepares it for the body.'

'Very likely,' replied the boy; 'but I don't fancy either; for in order to be a priest, one must learn Latin; and to be a miller, one must bear to be beaten. How do you earn your bread?'

'You know very well I am a painter.'

'Then I will be one too, Herr Zwaanenberg; and if you will go to-morrow and tell my father so, you will do me a great service.'

The good-natured artist willingly undertook the mission, and acquainted the old miller with his son's resolution.

'I want to know one thing,' said Master Rembrandt; 'will he be able to gain a livelihood by painting?'

'Certainly, and perhaps make a fortune.'

'Then if you will teach him, I consent.'

Thus Paul became the pupil of Van Zwaanenberg, and made rapid progress in the elementary parts of his profession. Impatient to produce some finished work, he did not give himself time to acquire purity of style, but astonished his master by his precocious skill in grouping figures, and producing marvellous effects of light and shade. The first lessons which he took in perspective having wearied him, he thought of a shorter method, and invented perspective for himself.

One of his first rude sketches happened to fall into the hands of a citizen of Leyden who understood painting. Despite of its evident defects, the germs of rare talent which it evinced struck the burgomaster; and sending for the young artist, he offered to give him a recommendation to a celebrated painter living at Amsterdam, under whom he would have far more opportunity of improvement than with his present instructor.

Rembrandt accepted the offer, and during the following year toiled incessantly. Meantime his finances were dreadfully straitened; for his father, finding that the expected profits were very tardy, refused to give money to support his son, as he said, in idleness. Paul, however, was not discouraged. Although far from possessing an amiable or estimable disposition, he held a firm and just opinion of his own powers, and resolved to make these subservient first to fortune and then to fame. Thus while some of his companions, having finished their preliminary studies, repaired to Florence, to Bologna, or to Rome, Paul, determined, as he said, not to lose his own style by becoming an imitator of even the mightiest masters, betook himself to his paternal mill. At first his return resembled that of the Prodigal Son. His father believed that he had come to resume his miller's work; and bitter was his disappointment at finding his son resolved not to renounce painting.

With a very bad grace he allowed Paul to displace the flour-sacks on an upper loft, in order to make a sort of studio, lighted by only one narrow window in the roof. There Paul painted his first finished picture. It was a portrait of the mill. There, on the canvas, was seen the old miller, lighted by a lantern which he carried in his hand, giving directions to his men, occupied in ranging sacks in the dark recesses of the granary. One ray falls on the fresh, comely countenance of his mother, who has her foot on the last step of a wooden staircase.[3] Rembrandt took this painting to the Hague, and sold it for 100 florins. In order to return with more speed, he took his place in the public coach. When the passengers stopped to dine, Rembrandt, fearing to lose his treasure, remained in the carriage. The careless stable-boy who brought the horses their corn forgot to unharness them, and as soon as they had finished eating, excited probably by Rembrandt, who cared not for his fellow-passengers, the animals started off for Leyden, and quietly halted at their accustomed inn. Our painter then got out, and repaired with his money to the mill.

Great was his father's joy. At length these silly daubs, which had so often excited his angry contempt, seemed likely to be transmuted into gold, and the old man's imagination took a rapturous flight. 'Neither he nor his old horse,' he said, 'need now work any longer; they might both enjoy quiet during the remainder of their lives. Paul would paint pictures, and support the whole household in affluence.'

Such was the old man's castle in the air; his clever, selfish son soon demolished it. 'This sum of money,' he said, 'is only a lucky windfall. If you indeed wish it to become the foundation of my fortune, give me one hundred florins besides, and let me return to Amsterdam: there I must work and study hard.'

It would be difficult to describe old Rembrandt's disappointment. Slowly, reluctantly, and one by one, he drew forth the 100 florins from his strong-box. Paul took them, and with small show of gratitude, returned to Amsterdam. In a short time his fame became established as the greatest and most original of living artists. He had a host of imitators, but all failed miserably in their attempts at reproducing his marvellous effects of light and shade. Yet Rembrandt prized the gold which flowed into him far more than the glory. While mingling the colours which were to flash out on his canvas in real living light, he thought but of his dingy coffers.

When in possession of a yearly income equal to L.2000 sterling, he would not permit the agent who collected his rents to bring them in from the country to Amsterdam, lest he should be obliged to invite him to dinner. He preferred setting out on a fine day, and going himself to the agent's house. In this way he saved two dinners—the one which he got, and the one, he avoided giving. 'So that's well managed!' he used to say.

This sordid disposition often exposed him to practical jokes from his pupils; but he possessed a quiet temper, and was not easily annoyed. One day a rich citizen came in, and asked him the price of a certain picture.

'Two hundred florins,' said Rembrandt.

'Agreed,' said his visitor. 'I will pay you to-morrow, when I send for the picture.'

About an hour afterwards a letter was handed to the painter. Its contents were as follow: 'MASTER REMBRANDT—During your absence a few days since, I saw in your studio a picture representing an old woman churning butter. I was enchanted with it; and if you will let me purchase it for 300 florins, I pray you to bring it to my house, and be my guest for the day.' The letter was signed with some fictitious name, and bore the address of a village several leagues distant from Amsterdam.

Tempted by the additional 100 florins, and caring little for breaking his engagement, Rembrandt set out early next morning with his picture. He walked for four hours without finding his obliging correspondent, and at length, worn out with fatigue, he returned home. He found the citizen in his studio, waiting for the picture. As Rembrandt, however, did not despair of finding the man of the 300 florins, and as a falsehood troubled but little his blunted conscience, he said: 'Alas! an accident has happened to the picture; the canvas was injured, and I felt so vexed that I threw it into the fire. Two hundred florins gone! However, it will be my loss, not yours, for I will paint another precisely similar, and it shall be ready for you by this time to-morrow.'

'I am sorry,' replied the amateur, 'but it was the picture you have burned which I wished to have; and as that is gone, I shall not trouble you to paint another.'

So he departed, and Rembrandt shortly afterwards received a second letter to the following effect: 'MASTER REMBRANDT—You have broken your engagement, told a falsehood, wearied yourself to death, and lost the sale of your picture—all by listening to the dictates of avarice. Let this lesson be a warning to you in future.'

'So,' said the painter, looking round at his pupils, 'one of you must have played me this pretty trick. Well, well, I forgive it. You young varlets do not know the value of a florin as I know it.'

Sometimes the students nailed small copper coins on the floor, for the mischievous pleasure of seeing their master, who suffered much from rheumatism in the back, stoop with pain and difficulty, and try in vain to pick them up.

Rembrandt married an ignorant peasant who had served him as cook, thinking this a more economical alliance than one with a person of refined mind and habits. He and his wife usually dined on brown bread, salt herrings, and small beer. He occasionally took portraits at a high price, and in this way became acquainted with the Burgomaster Six, a man of enlarged mind and unblemished character, who yet continued faithfully attached to the avaricious painter. His friendship was sometimes put to a severe test by such occurrences as the following:—

Rembrandt remarked one day that the price of his engravings had fallen.

'You are insatiable,' said the burgomaster.

'Perhaps so. I cannot help thirsting for gold.'

'You are a miser.'

'True: and I shall be one all my life.'

''Tis really a pity,' remarked his friend, 'that you will not be able after death to act as your own treasurer, for whenever that event occurs, all your works will rise to treble their present value.'

A bright idea struck Rembrandt. He returned home, went to bed, desired his wife and his son Titus to scatter straw before the door, and give out, first, that he was dangerously ill, and then dead—while the simulated fever was to be of so dreadfully infectious a nature that none of the neighbours were to be admitted near the sick-room. These instructions were followed to the letter; and the disconsolate widow proclaimed that, in order to procure money for her husband's interment, she must sell all his works, any property that he left not being available on so short a notice.

The unworthy trick succeeded. The sale, including every trivial scrap of painting or engraving, realised an enormous sum, and Rembrandt was in ecstasy. The honest burgomaster, however, was nearly frightened into a fit of apoplexy at seeing the man whose death he had sincerely mourned standing alive and well at the door of his studio. Meinherr Six obliged him to promise that he would in future abstain from such abominable deceptions. One day he was employed in painting in a group the likenesses of the whole family of a rich citizen. He had nearly finished it, when intelligence was brought him of the death of a tame ape which he greatly loved. The creature had fallen off the roof of the house into the street. Without interrupting his work, Rembrandt burst into loud lamentations, and after some time announced that the piece was finished. The whole family advanced to look at it, and what was their horror to see introduced between the heads of the eldest son and daughter an exact likeness of the dear departed ape. With one voice they all exclaimed against this singular relative which it had pleased the painter to introduce amongst them, and insisted on his effacing it.

'What!' exclaimed Rembrandt, 'efface the finest figure in the picture? No, indeed; I prefer keeping the piece for myself.' Which he did, and carried off the painting.

Of Rembrandt's style it may be said that he painted with light, for frequently an object was indicated merely by the projection of a shadow on a wall. Often a luminous spot suggested, rather than defined, a hand or a head. Yet there is nothing vague in his paintings: the mind seizes the design immediately. His studio was a circular room, lighted by several narrow slits, so contrived that rays of sunshine entered through only one at a time, and thus produced strange effects of light and shade. The room was filled with old-world furniture, which made it resemble an antiquary's museum. There were heaped up in the most picturesque confusion curious old furniture, antique armour, gorgeously-tinted stuffs; and these Rembrandt arranged in different forms and positions, so as to vary the effects of light and colour. This he called 'making his models sit to him.' And in this close adherence to reality consisted the great secret of his art. It is strange that his favourite amongst all his pupils was the one whose style least resembled his own—Gerard Douw—he who aimed at the most excessive minuteness of delineation, who stopped key-holes lest a particle of dust should fall on his palette, who gloried in representing the effects of fresh scouring on the side of a kettle.

Rembrandt died in 1674, at the age of sixty-eight. He passed all his life at Amsterdam. Some of his biographers have told erroneously that he once visited Italy: they were deceived by the word Venetiis placed at the bottom of several of his engravings. He wrote it there with the intention of deluding his countrymen into the belief that he was absent, and about to settle in Italy—an impression which would materially raise the price of his productions. Strange and sad it is to see so much genius united with so much meanness—the head of fine gold with the feet of clay.[4]

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[Footnote 3: This picture is believed to be no longer in existence. I have found its description in the work of the historian Decamps.]

[Footnote 4: Abridged from the French of J. de Chatillon.]



ELECTIONEERING CURIOSITY.

[In giving the following address of an American candidate, we must beg our readers to understand that it is not intended as a joke. Electioneering in the States, generally speaking, is carried on with good-humour; and when there is no real cause of squabbling, the object of the aspirant is to get the laugh in his favour. The orator we introduce to the English public is Mr Daniel R. Russell, a candidate for the Auditorship in Mississippi.]

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—I rise—but there is no use telling you that; you know I am up as well as I do. I am a modest man—very—but I never lost a picayune by it in my life. Being a scarce commodity among candidates, I thought I would mention it, for fear if I did not, you never would hear it. Candidates are generally considered as nuisances, but they are not; they are the politest men in the world, shake you by the hand, ask how's your family, what's the prospect for crops, &c.—and I am the politest man in the state. Davy Crockett says the politest man he ever saw, when he asked a man to drink, turned his back so that he might drink as much as he pleased. I beat that all hollow: I give a man a chance to drink twice if he wishes, for I not only turn my back, but shut my eyes! I am not only the politest man, but the best electioneerer: you ought to see me shaking hands with the vibrations, the pump-handle and pendulum, the cross-cut and wiggle-waggle. I understand the science perfectly, and if any of the country candidates wish instructions, they must call upon me. Fellow-citizens, I was born—if I hadn't been I wouldn't have been a candidate; but I am going to tell you where: 'twas in Mississippi, but 'twas on the right side of the negro line; yet that is no compliment, as the negroes are mostly born on the same side. I started in the world as poor as a church-mouse, yet I came honestly by my poverty, for I inherited it; and if I did start poor, no man can say but that I have held my own remarkably well. Candidates generally tell you—if you think they are qualified, &c. Now, I don't ask your thoughts, I ask your votes. Why, there is nothing to think of except to watch and see that Swan's name is not on the ticket; if so, think to scratch it off and put mine on. I am certain that I am competent, for who ought to know better than I do? Nobody. I will allow that Swan is the best auditor in the state; that is, till I am elected: then perhaps it's not proper for me to say anything more. Yet, as an honest man, I am bound to say that I believe it's a grievous sin to hide anything from my fellow-citizens; therefore say that it's my private opinion, publicly expressed, that I'll make the best auditor ever in the United States. 'Tis not for honour I wish to be auditor; for in my own county I was offered an office that was all honour—coroner, which I respectfully declined. The auditor's office is worth some 5000 dollars a year, and I am in for it like a thousand of brick. To shew my goodness of heart, I'll make this offer to my competitor. I'm sure of being elected, and he will lose something by the canvass, therefore I am willing to divide equally with him, and make these offers: I'll take the salary, and he may have the honour, or he may have the honour, and I'll take the salary.

In the way of honours, I have received enough to satisfy me for life. I went out to Mexico, ate pork and beans, slept in the rain and mud, and swallowed everything but live Mexicans. When I was ordered to go, I went; 'charge,' I charged; and 'break for the chaperel'—you had better believe I beat a quarter nag in doing my duty.

My competitor, Swan, is a bird of golden plumage, who has been swimming for the last four years in the auditor's pond at 5000 dollars a year. I am for rotation. I want to rotate him out, and to rotate myself in. There's a plenty of room for him to swim outside of that pond; therefore pop in your votes for me—I'll pop him out, and pop myself in.

I am for a division of labour. Swan says he has to work all the time, with his nose down upon the public grindstone. Four years must have ground it to a pint. Poor fellow! the public ought not to insist on having the handle of his mug ground clean off. I have a large, full-grown, and well-blown nose, red as a beet, and tough as sole-leather. I rush to the post of duty; I offer it up as a sacrifice; I clap it on the grindstone. Fellow-citizens, grind till I holler enuff—that'll be sometime first, for I'll hang like grim death to a dead African.

Time's most out. Well, I like to forgot to tell you my name. It's Daniel; for short, Dan. Not a handsome name, for my parents were poor people, who lived where the quality appropriated all the nice names; therefore they had to take what was left and divide around among us—but it's as handsome as I am—D. Russell. Remember, all and every one of you, that it's not Swan.

I am sure to be elected; so, one and all, great and small, short and tall, when you come down to Jackson after the election, stop at the auditor's office—the latch-string always hangs out; enter without knocking, take off your things, and make yourself at home.



A NEGRO'S ACCOUNT OF LIBERIA.

All of you that feel like it, my friends, come on home—the bush is cleared away—you can hear no one say there is nothing to eat here. Why, one man, Gabriel Moore, brought better than 200 cattle from the interior this year—another 100—some 60, some 50, &c. There are no hogs there, they say—no turkeys—why, I saw 50 or 60 in the street at Millsburg the other day. No horses: I have got four in my stable now; I have a mare and two colts, and I have a horse that I have been offered 100 dollars for here; if you had him he would bring 500. If you don't believe it, let some gentleman send me a buggy or a single gig—you shall see how myself and wife will take pleasure, going from town to town—throw the harness in too—any gentleman that feels like it—white or coloured—and I will try to send him a boa constrictor to take his comfort; I know how to take the gentleman without any danger. My oxen I was working them yesterday; and as for goats and sheep, we have a plenty. We have a plenty to eat, every man that will half work. I give you this; you are all writing to me to tell you about Liberia, what we eat, and all the news—I mean my coloured friends. Yours truly, ZION HARRIS.



LARD-CANDLES.

One of the most important discoveries or improvements of the age, is a new species of candle which has been recently made in Cincinnati, and which will shortly be offered extensively for sale. It is calculated to supersede all other kinds in use by its beauty, freedom from guttering, hardness, and capacity of giving light, in all which respects it is superior to every other species of candle. This candle is nearly translucent, and can be made to exhibit the wick, when the candle is held up between the eye and the light, while the surface is as glossy as polished wax or varnish. The principal ingredient is lard; and the value of this manufacture can be hardly exaggerated. Taking durability into account, it can be made as cheap as any other candle; and there exists no single element of comfort, convenience, profit, and economy, in which this article has not the advantage of sperm, star, wax, or tallow candles. It will be readily conceded that the days of all other portable or table light, including lard-oil, are numbered. In fact, except where intense light, as in public buildings, is an object, gas itself cannot compete with it for public favour.—American Paper.



CALIFORNIA ITEMS.

Some idea of the traffic between San Francisco and the southern mines may be formed from the fact, that there are at this moment ten steamers plying between San Francisco and Sacramento. The latter are for the most part of a larger size than those on the San Joaquin river; and make the trip of about 120 miles in from seven to eight hours. In the elegance of their accommodations and the luxuries of their larder, they might compare favourably with any passenger-vessels in the world. There are ten other steamers plying from Sacramento to different places above that city. One year ago there was but one steamboat in Oregon—the Columbia; now there are eleven of different kinds running in the Columbia and Willamette rivers, not including the Pacific steamers, Sea-gull and Columbia, running between Oregon and California.



THE NOBLE MARINER.

BY THE REV. JAMES GILBORNE LYONS, LL.D.

Most readers of these lines will remember that when the ship Ocean Monarch was turned off Liverpool on the 24th of August 1848, Frederick Jerome of New York saved fifteen lives by an act of singular courage and benevolence. They will also lament that one so ready to help others should himself perish by violence: he was killed in Central America in the autumn of 1851.

Shout the noble seaman's name, Deeds like his belong to fame: Cottage roof and kingly dome, Sound the praise of brave Jerome. Let his acts be told and sung, While his own high Saxon tongue— Herald meet for worth sublime— Peals from conquered clime to clime.

Madly rolled the giant wreck, Fiercely blazed the riven deck; Thick and fast as falling stars, Crashed the flaming blocks and spars; Loud as surf, when winds are strong, Wailed the scorched and stricken throng, Gazing on a rugged shore, Fires behind, and seas before.

On the charred and reeling prow Reft of hope, they gather now, Finding, one by one, a grave In the vexed and sullen wave. Here the child, as if in sleep, Floats on waters dark and deep; There the mother sinks below, Shrieking in her mighty wo.

Britons, quick to strive or feel, Joined with chiefs of rich Brazil; Western freemen, prompt to dare, Side by side with Bourbon's heir; Proving who could then excel, Came with succour long and well; But Jerome, in peril nursed; Shone among the foremost—first.

Through the reddened surge and spray, Fast he cleaves his troubled way; Boldly climbs and stoutly clings, On the smoking timber springs; Fronts the flames, nor fears to stand In that lorn and weeping band; Looks on death, nor tries to shun, Till his work of love is done.

Glorious man!—immortal work!— Claim thy hero, proud New York; Harp of him when feasts are spread, Tomb him with thy valiant dead. Who that, bent on just renown, Seeks a Christian's prize and crown, Would not spurn whole years of life, For one hour of such a strife?

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Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by W.S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; D.N. CHAMBERS, 55 West Nile Street, Glasgow; and J. M'GLASHAN, 50 Upper Sackville Street, Dublin.—Advertisements for Monthly Parts are requested to be sent to MAXWELL & Co., 31 Nicholas Lane, Lombard Street, London, to whom all applications respecting their insertion must be made.

THE END