The hours struck and went by, and the room grew hotter and noisier. Once the tables were emptied; but a fresh party came in, and their leader waved them to seats with maudlin politeness. He was a handsome young man, partly drunk already; he pushed the woman he had with him into a chair, and dropped into another himself. His back was toward Jane; she stood still a minute, then walked slowly, as if something dragged her, till she could see his face.

The glass she held fell from her hand with a crash, but she stood dumb and white, and clung trembling to the table. He started, but gave her a nod.

'You, Will Prescott! Oh, my God!'

'You here, Jane! And you're one of 'em too! I didn't think it quite so soon.'

She did not seem to hear the last words. The blood surged back to her face, and she sank at his feet.

'No, no,' she moaned, 'I'm not, I'm not—I'm only here. You won't think worse of me, Will, seeing I did it for them? I must work somewhere, and this was all I could find. Say you don't think that! Say you believe me!'

He smiled in a drunken way, without speaking.

'Say it, Will! Say you love me, and take me out of this!'

'Ho, ho! that's a devilish good one! You're here, and so'm I; I'm just a little merry to-night—couldn't wait till to-morrow. We're well met, Jane—these are my friends; here's my most par-ticular friend,' laying his hand on his companion's shoulder.

The girl seemed to be stunned so that she did not understand.

'See it, hey? 'Say you love me!' You do it beautifully, Jane—do some more. Did you ever think I loved you?—Oh, yes! and that I wanted to marry you—of course! If your face hadn't looked prettier'n it does now, damn me if I'd ever looked twice at it!'

He turned his chair a little.

'What's that!' he screamed, catching sight of the painting on the wall. 'Take it away! You put it there, you wretch!' staring at it with his eyes fixed.

The noise brought the owner to the door—a burly Dutchman.

'Landlord, put that thing away—cover it up! Damnation! Do I want to come here to be preached at?'

'Who pulled that paper off, I say?' said the man. 'I pinned The Clipper over it. You did it, I swar! Be off with yer!'

'Oh, let her stay, Lumpsey,' said a woman that came in from the bar; 'she'll be one on 'em when she gits round.'

'I won't; I won't have nobody here that's better'n we be no longer. Here's yer pay; an' now, missis, start yerself, an' don't yer come nigh here agen 'thout yer'll behave decent an' be one on us.'

He tossed some bank notes toward her, took her by the shoulders, and shoved her out, shutting the door upon her.

IV.

Everybody had gone out on Christmas eve—darting about in sleighs; at service in the churches; at a party given in their set; shopping, as if their lives depended on it. Buying, selling, visiting, looking, the city was all astir. In the churches, soberly gay with evergreen trimming, like a young widow very stylish in black, but very proper withal, people were listening to the anthems, and everything about the place was wide awake, unless it was the chimes taking a nap until twelve o'clock; drygoods men ran to and fro, dropping smiles, and winding themselves up in a great medley reel of silks, laces, and things of virtu in general; next door, the booksellers were resplendent in dazzling bindings, pictures and photographs of everything and everybody, all of which were at everybody's disposal—take 'em all home, if you pleased; livery stables were as bare as if there had been an invasion of the country that day, and smiling keepers touched their pockets, and shook their heads pityingly at late comers; and even in the markets jolly butchers laughed, and sawed, and cut, and counted their money—and those leathery fellows that were never jolly, suddenly found out a new commercial maxim, that jollity is the best policy, and they fell to laughing too. 'Christmas is coming!' thought everybody. 'Christmas is coming!' and some of the lively small bells in the towers, not grown yet to years of ripe discretion, whispered to each other, and had to bite their tongues to keep from shouting it right out.

The dance house and the narrow alley left behind, Jane was in the street too; she went with the crowd, pulling her hood so as to hide her face. She glanced at the costly goods that lay in confusion on the counters of the stores, and smiled bitterly, taking hold of her own cheap dress; the sleighs almost ran over her, they shot back and forth so wildly, to her whirling brain; a German air that a band was playing on a serenade somewhere in the distance seemed to roar in her ears like thunder. She stopped before a confectioner's. The hot smell of meats came up through the grating where she stood; the window was ablaze with gas, piled high with pyramids of glittering frost, which rose out of a heaped profusion of carved lobster and turkey, and fruits and candies; she saw girls with pretty faces and nice dresses waiting on the fashionable crowd inside, and said to herself that she ought to be there. Some one touched her. It was a girl younger than herself, who stood glaring at the window, shivering in her ragged clothing; her eyes looked unnaturally large out of her sharp, pinched face, daubed with tears and dirt.

'Look a' thar!' she cried eagerly, catching Jane's arm, 'see them! Why ben't them mine? Why ben't I in thar, a buyin' o' them? I ort to ride, ortn't I? Why ben't I got nice things on, like a' them thar? Pinchin' Dave's got my dress for three shillin' to-night—the last un I been a savin'; must ha' some drink, so't I'd be forgettin'—to-night, to-night, ye see, I say—hoh!'

Giving a wild laugh, the girl ran off. A man inside was looking angrily through the window; so Jane turned from the thoroughfare, and finally struck into the road by which she came. The street lamps had given way to the moon. The flats adjoining the city were all white except marshy spots; passing two tall buildings, that made a sort of gateway, the country spread to the sky unbroken, except where rows of dreary houses, shadowy without the twinkle of a light, stood on some new land; this was not the fashionable road, and it was empty. How pure and cool it was! In the city, there was straggling moonlight, darkened by the brick walls, but no moon; out here, the moon had just broken from a bank of cloud low down, piled on a bank of snow, all looking snowy and alike, the horizon line being hardly distinguishable; the light poured from the edge in a shining flood, and rippled without a sound over the crisp, crusted snow—all of one kin, cold, sparkling, desolate.

Jane noted nothing of this; she walked dizzily along the road. Only one day since morning, after living a whole lifetime in that! She scooped up a handful of snow, and rubbed it furiously into her face and eyes, they burned so; her eyes were dry, melting the snow without feeling wet any. Clear back in the morning, Margery Eames met her; then the day dragged along as if it never would go, and she ate nothing but the tears she swallowed; going down those steps, through that dreadful door, waiting on those tables—the evening, till Will Prescott came in. She had wanted so to have what others had, to study, to paint—such things as she had seen, and she couldn't make a stroke! to learn to sing, as she had heard them sing in the churches; to see Germany, that her mother had told her about; she wanted to be loved—not like father and Nobby, but another way too; she had a right to have such things—other people had them. He had praised her, stroked her hair; said she was too pale, but no matter, she'd brighten up by and by; she was his little bluebell he had found in the woods, that he was going to make over into a red rose; she should have everything she wanted, and go with him everywhere, pretty soon—only be patient; if he could wait, couldn't she? And she had been patient, without telling father about it, though somehow he found out; she had waited in the road an hour more than once for a kind word and a smile as he rode by; she had borne with her hard fare, and waited for him to do the things he promised; and after she had to go into the dance house, she hated it most for his sake—she hated him to kiss her, for fear he'd find some taint on her lips of the place she went to; she thought of him all the while, to keep up courage; of course it was for father and Nobby she did it, but he helped her. It was all over now.

She came to the bridge over the river, and stopped on it. Just then she happened to think of a choral her mother liked to sing: 'A mighty fortress is our God.' A fortress—not hers. Did He sometimes turn against people and crowd them—who crowded the girl at the confectioner's window? Was there any God at all? Not in the city; only two sorts of people were there, who either lived in fine houses, and had no souls at all, or else went about the streets, and had lost them. Was there any God out here? If there was, He wouldn't have let Mr. Cowles turn her father off, and she wouldn't be out in the cold; there wasn't any anywhere.

Jane looked down at the water. It was muddy, but it gave a wavering reflection as the wind ruffled it; now and then a piece of driftwood glided from under the bridge, and was borne along toward the factory dam. Her mind flashed round to the factory, and home, and the Christmas tree for to-morrow, and she laughed bitterly. Jump! She had lost him, all that had been keeping her up so long—he never meant to marry her, though he said so, and she believed him. Everything went with that love; what was there left? What matter what came now? Jump! But father and Nobby? She couldn't leave them unprovided for. Money, money! she must have money, for them.

The bells began to chime very softly, as they always did at twelve o'clock of this night in the year. They seemed to say: 'Come! come! come!' She caught at the sound. There was money in the city, and one way yet to earn it.

'They're calling me!' she cried, clutching her dress wildly with both hands; 'they're pushing me into hell—why shouldn't I go? They'll have money, and I'm gone already.'

She turned, and walked back without faltering, to the edge of the city, and stopped between the two buildings. There was an alley close by, like one she knew so well; by the noise there was revel in it. She hesitated a minute, crouching out of sight in the shadow of the buildings.

'Don't stop here!' she muttered to herself; 'now as well as any other time!' and turned into the alley. The light was streaming from a door near the middle, and a man in sailor's dress came out and caught a glimpse of her creeping along close to the wall.

'Hey, lass!' he said, 'merry Christmas to ye! 'Rived in port to-day. Been a cruisin'. Locker full, an' all hands piped ashore. What craft be you—a Dutch galley? Sail down a bit, till I get within speakin' distance.'

She only staggered closer against the wall.

'Beatin' off, hey? Well, lass, come an' drink to better acquaintance.'

'It's the first time, but I'll go—I'll go with you,' she answered. She followed him to the door. The gas flared full on his face, and she gave a mortal scream.

'Brother Tom!'

He made a headlong clutch at her, but she broke away, leaving a fragment of her dress in his hand, and flew round the corner out of his sight.

She ran blindly through several streets, but finally she regained the road, and never stopped her headlong speed till she leaned against the door of Adam Craig's cottage. She pushed the door open softly, and went in. Quick as she had been, her brother was there already, standing by Nobby's bed; Adam Craig was there, but his back was turned.

'Did you—tell him?' she whispered.

Her brother nodded, and put out his hand. She took it, with a half hesitation.

'He understands,' he whispered, answering the question of her eyes.

The old stoker turned around. She made a move to shrink away, but he caught her, and drew her to his breast, crying and sobbing:

'Lord, Lord, Lord's good!' he cried, 'thank Him for't! She's saved, my little girl! I've found more'n I've lost, to-day. Oh, she's pure yet, she's saved—she's nawt lost, my girl, she's nawt! I didn't knaw't! didn't knaw what she was doin', but it's all right noo! We'll never want any more, but if Net'd been lost—but she's nawt, nawt—she's nawt gone, she's here, an' harm never'll come nigh her any more! I knowed Tom'd come back, an' now Net! they both hev saved each other, Lord's good for't!'

'But Nobby?' she whispered.

'Lord brought us one, an' noo He's goin' to take back t'other,' said Adam.

The child was twisting in his father's arms in the height of his pain.

'I knaw noo why 'twas I went away thet mornin', an' Nobby got t'bump,' said Adam, looking on sadly.

The young sailor made no answer. The partial drunkenness of his first night on shore was gone, and he only held his suffering child, wiping the drops from its face. So they stood watching, and the hours went on.

'Zuhoeret!' cried Adam's wife. 'Die Weihnachtsglocken!'

It was the bells, ringing out the full morning carol. The child was lying on his bed; he brightened up a little, then shut his eyes wearily, and stopped writhing. For little Nobby it that moment became true that

'Christ was born on Christmas day.'



APHORISM.—NO. VII.

The sufficient reason why the common developments of intellect are so poor, is not so much in the want of native capacity, as in the low moral estate of our nature. Our hearts are so dry, our better affections so dull, that we are not the subjects of stimulus adequate to the calling forth of efforts suitable to the necessities of the case. Here and there, one is so richly endowed in mind, that his love of science or art may suffice to tax his powers to the full: but a world could never be constituted of such geniuses. The mass of men, if ever to be led up to any high plane of mental life, must be so under the promptings of affections and passions which find their excitement in the more practical spheres of our existence.



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER ON SECESSION AND STATE RIGHTS.

In the earlier numbers of The Spirit of the Fair, the newspaper published by a committee of gentlemen for the benefit of the New York Metropolitan Fair, appeared a series of very remarkable papers from the pen of James Fenimore Cooper, the American novelist.[7] The history of these papers is very curious, as announced by the editors of The Spirit of the Fair, in their introductory, as follows:

'UNPUBLISHED MSS. OF JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

'Our national novelist died in the autumn of 1850; previous to his fatal illness he was engaged upon a historical work, to be entitled 'The Men of Manhattan,' only the Introduction to which had been sent to the press. The printing office was destroyed by fire, and with it the opening chapters of this work; fortunately a few pages had been set up, and the impression sent to a literary gentleman, then editor of a popular critical journal, and were thus saved from destruction. To him we are indebted for the posthumous articles of Cooper, wherewith, by a coincidence as remarkable as it is auspicious, we now enrich our columns with a contribution from the American pioneer in letters.'

Many readers at the time passed over these papers without the careful attention which they deserved. Others, who perused them more thoroughly, were struck with the remarkable prescience which the great writer's thoughts exhibited on topics which the events now passing before us lend a tremendous interest. Cooper, it must be remembered, uttered his views on 'Secession,' 'State Rights,' etc., upward of fifteen years ago, and at a period when the horrors of rebellion, as a consequence of slavery, were little foreseen as likely to succeed those years of peace and prosperity. Had these opinions been published at the period intended by their writer, they would doubtless have been pronounced visionary and illogical. By a singular succession of events, however, the MS. has been hidden in the chrysalis of years, until, lo! it sees the light of day at a period when the prophetic words of their author come up, as it were, from his grave, with the vindication of truth and historic fidelity.

For the benefit of those who have not read these papers in the newspaper where they originally appeared, we make the following extracts, feeling assured that no man interested in passing events, or in the causes which led to them, can fail to recognize in these passages the astonishing power and comprehensiveness of the mind that fifteen years ago discussed these vital topics. Let it be remembered, too, that their author was a man whose sympathies were largely with his countrymen, not less of the South than of the North, and that it was doubtless with a view of warning his Southern friends of the danger which hovered over the 'institution' of slavery, that they were written. Probably had they appeared in print at that time, they would have produced no effect where mostly effect was aimed at; but now that they have appeared, when the small cloud of evil pointed out has spread over the Southern land and broken into a deluge of devastation, they will at least prove that the words of warning were not perishable utterances signifying nothing.

'SECESSION.

'The first popular error that we shall venture to assail, is that connected with the prevalent notion of the sovereignty of the States. We do not believe that the several States of this Union are, in any legitimate meaning of the term, sovereign at all. We are fully aware that this will be regarded as a bold, and possibly as a presuming proposition, but we shall endeavor to work it out with such means as we may have at command.

'We lay down the following premises as too indisputable to need any arguments to sustain them: viz., the authority which formed the present Constitution of the United States had the legal power to do so. That authority was in the Government of the States, respectively, and not in their people in the popular signification, but through their people in the political meaning of the term, and what was then done must be regarded as acts connected with the composition and nature of governments, and of no minor or different interests of human affairs.

'It being admitted, that the power which formed the Government was legitimate, we obtain one of the purest compacts for the organization of human society that probably ever existed. The ancient allegiance, under which the colonies had grown up to importance, had been extinguished by solemn treaty, and the States met in Convention sustained by all the law they had, and backed in every instance by institutions that were more or less popular. The history of the world cannot, probably, furnish another instance of the settlement of the fundamental contract of a great nation under circumstances of so much obvious justice. This gives unusual solemnity and authority to the Constitution of 1787, and invests it with additional claims to our admiration and respect.

'The authority which formed the Constitution admitted, we come next to the examination of its acts. It is apparent from the debates and proceedings of the Convention, that two opinions existed in that body; the one leaning strongly toward the concentration of power in the hands of the Federal Government, and the other desirous of leaving as much as possible with the respective States. The principle that the powers which are not directly conceded to the Union should remain in first hands, would seem never to have been denied; and some years after the organization of the Government, it was solemnly recognized in an amendment. We are not disposed, however, to look for arguments in the debates and discussions of the Convention, in our view often a deceptive and dangerous method of construing a law, since the vote is very frequently given on even conflicting reasons. Different minds arrive at the same results by different processes; and it is no unusual thing for men to deny each other's premises, while they accept their conclusions. We shall look, therefore, solely to the compact itself, as the most certain mode of ascertaining what was done.

'No one will deny that all the great powers of sovereignty are directly conceded to the Union. The right to make war and peace, to coin money, maintain armies and navies, etc., etc., in themselves overshadow most of the sovereignty of the States. The amendatory clause would seem to annihilate it. By the provisions of that clause three fourths of the States can take away all the powers and rights now resting in the hands of the respective States, with a single exception. This exception gives breadth and emphasis to the efficiency of the clause. It will be remembered that all this can be done within the present Constitution. It is a part of the original bargain. Thus, New York can legally be deprived of the authority to punish for theft, to lay out highways, to incorporate banks, and all the ordinary interests over which she at present exercises control, every human being within her limits dissenting. Now as sovereignty means power in the last resort, this amendatory clause most clearly deprives the State of all sovereign power thus put at the disposition of Conventions of the several States; in fact, the votes of these Conventions, or that of the respective Legislatures acting in the same capacity, is nothing but the highest species of legislation known to the country; and no other mode of altering the institutions would be legal. It follows unavoidably, we repeat, that the sovereignty which remains in the several States must be looked for solely in the exception. What, then, is this exception?

'It is a provision which says, that no State may be deprived of its equal representation in the Senate, without its own consent. It might well be questioned whether this provision of the Constitution renders a Senate indispensable to the Government. But we are willing to concede this point and admit that it does. Can the vote of a single State, which is one of a body of thirty, and which is bound to submit to the decision of a legal majority, be deemed a sovereign vote? Assuming that the whole power of the Government of the United States were in the Senate, would any one State be sovereign in such a condition of things? We think not. But the Senate does not constitute by any means the whole or the half of the authority of this Government; its legislative power is divided with a popular body, without the concurrence of which it can do nothing; this dilutes the sovereignty to a degree that renders it very imperceptible, if not very absurd. Nor is this all. After a law is passed by the concurrence of the two houses of Congress, it is sent to a perfectly independent tribunal to decide whether it is in conformity with the principles of the great national compact; thus demonstrating, as we assume, that the sovereignty of this whole country rests, not in its people, not in its States, but in the Government of the Union.

'Sovereignty, and that of the most absolute character, is indispensable to the right of secession: nay, sovereignty, in the ordinary acceptation of the meaning of the term, might exist in a State without this right of secession. We doubt if it would be held sound doctrine to maintain that any single State had a right to secede from the German Confederation, for instance; and many alliances, or mere treaties, are held to be sacred and indissoluble; they are only broken by an appeal to violence.

'Every human contract may be said to possess its distinctive character. Thus, marriage is to be distinguished from a partnership in trade, without recurrence to any particular form of words. Marriage, contracted by any ceremony whatever, is held to be a contract for life. The same is true of Governments: in their nature they are intended to be indissoluble. We doubt if there be an instance on record of a Government that ever existed, under conditions, expressed or implied, that the parts of its territory might separate at will. There are so many controlling and obvious reasons why such a privilege should not remain in the hands of sections or districts, that it is unnecessary to advert to them. But after a country has rounded its territory, constructed its lines of defence, established its system of custom houses, and made all the other provisions for security, convenience, and concentration, that are necessary to the affairs of a great nation, it would seem to be very presumptuous to impute to any particular district the right to destroy or mutilate a system regulated with so much care.

'The only manner in which the right of secession could exist in one of the American States, would be by an express reservation to that effect in the Constitution, There is no such clause; did it exist it would change the whole character of the Government, rendering it a mere alliance, instead of being that which it now is—a lasting Union. But, whatever may be the legal principles connected with this serious subject, there always exists, in large bodies of men, a power to change their institutions by means of the strong hand. This is termed the right of revolution, and it has often been appealed to to redress grievances that could be removed by no other agency. It is undeniable that the institution of domestic slavery, as it now exists in what are termed the Southern and Southwestern States of this country, creates an interest of the most delicate and sensitive character. Nearly one half of the entire property of the slaveholding States consists in this right to the services of human beings of a race so different from our own as to render any amalgamation to the last degree improbable, if not impossible. Any one may easily estimate the deep interest that the masters feel in the preservation of their property. The spirit of the age is decidedly against them, and of this they must be sensible; it doubly augments their anxiety for the future. The natural increase, moreover, of these human chattels renders an outlet indispensable, or they will soon cease to be profitable by the excess of their numbers. To these facts we owe the figments which have rendered the Southern school of logicians a little presuming, perhaps, and certainly very sophistical. Among other theories we find the bold one, that the Territories of the United States are the property, not of the several States, but of their individual people; in other words, that the native of New York or Rhode Island, regardless of the laws of the country, has a right to remove to any one of these Territories, carry with him just such property as he may see fit, and make such use of it as he may find convenient. This is a novel copartnership in jurisdiction, to say the least, and really does not seem worthy of a serious reply.'

'SLAVERY.

'The American Union has much more adhesiveness than is commonly imagined. The diversity and complexity of its interests form a network that will be found, like the web of the spider, to possess a power of resistance far exceeding its gossamer appearance—one strong enough to hold all that it was ever intended to enclose. The slave interest is now making its final effort for supremacy, and men are deceived by the throes of a departing power. The institution of domestic slavery cannot last. It is opposed to the spirit of the age; and the figments of Mr. Calhoun, in affirming that the Territories belong to the States, instead of the Government of the United States; and the celebrated doctrine of the equilibrium, for which we look in vain into the Constitution for a single sound argument to sustain it, are merely the expiring efforts of a reasoning that cannot resist the common sense of the nation. As it is healthful to exhaust all such questions, let us turn aside a moment, to give a passing glance at this very material subject.

'At the time when the Constitution was adopted, three classes of persons were 'held to service' in the country—apprentices, redemptioners, and slaves. The two first classes were by no means insignificant in 1789, and the redemptioners were rapidly increasing in numbers. In that day it looked as if this speculative importation of laborers from Europe was to form a material part of the domestic policy of the Northern States. Now the negro is a human being, as well as an apprentice or a redemptioner, though the Constitution does not consider him as the equal of either. It is a great mistake to suppose that the Constitution of the United States, as it now exists, recognizes slavery in any manner whatever, unless it be to mark it as an interest that has less than the common claim to the ordinary rights of humanity. In the apportionment, or representation clause, the redemptioner and the apprentice counts each as a man, whereas five slaves are enumerated as only three free men. The free black is counted as a man, in all particulars, and is represented as such, but his fellow in slavery has only three fifths of his political value.'

'THE LOVE OF UNION.

'The attachment to the Union is very strong and general throughout the whole of this vast country, and it is only necessary to sound the tocsin to bring to its maintenance a phalanx equal to uphold its standard against the assaults of any enemies. The impossibility of the Northwestern States consenting that the mouth of the Mississippi should be held by a foreign power, is in itself a guarantee of the long existence of the present political ties. Then, the increasing and overshadowing power of the nation is of a character so vast, so exciting, so attractive, so well adapted to carry with it popular impulses, that men become proud of the name of American, and feel unwilling to throw away the distinction for any of the minor considerations of local policy. Every man sees and feels that a state is rapidly advancing to maturity which must reduce the pretensions of even ancient Rome to supremacy, to a secondary place in the estimation of mankind. A century will unquestionably place the United States of America prominently at the head of civilized nations, unless their people throw away their advantages by their own mistakes—the only real danger they have to apprehend: and the mind clings to this hope with a buoyancy and fondness that are becoming profoundly national. We have a thousand weaknesses, and make many blunders, beyond a doubt, as a people; but where shall we turn to find a parallel to our progress, our energy, and increasing power? That which it has required centuries, in other regions, to effect, is here accomplished in a single life; and the student in history finds the results of all his studies crowded, as it might be, into the incidents of the day.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: The stereotype plates of The Spirit of the Fair, in which the Cooper articles originally appeared, are owned by Mr. Trow. Bound volumes of these interesting papers, containing a record of days so full of patriotism, charity, and incident, may be obtained on application to him. We give this piece of information to our readers, not doubting that many of them will be glad to avail themselves of the opportunity to possess them—an opportunity which may soon pass away in the rapid development of present events.—EDITOR CONTINENTAL.]



APHORISMS.—NO. VIII.

'We shall never know much while we have so many books.'

Such was my thought, many years ago; and such does all my observation and experience still confirm. Knowledges we may have, even if we do read much: but not much knowledge.

But, some will ask, if one has true ideas, though derived from others—is not that knowledge? Yes, if he has ideas: but propositions expressing them are not enough: one may have many of these, and know but little. For example, let us suppose Locke right about the mind's coming into existence as a sheet of white paper—a man may receive this, and yet not know it. See how easily this may be tested. White paper will receive any impression you please: can the human mind receive the impression that two and two are five, or that a part is equal to the whole? Locke could have answered this, and seemed to save his theory. The borrower from Locke cannot.



THE RESURRECTION FLOWER.

If a traveller in Egypt were to bow before the Sphynx, and receive a nod in return, he could scarcely be more surprised than I was to-day, upon seeing a little, dried-up thing—the remains of what had once bloomed and faded ''mid beleaguering sands'—spring into life and beauty before my very eyes. All the Abbott Collection contains nothing more rare or curious. Old, perhaps, as Cheops, and apparently as sound asleep, it is startled at the touch of water, and, stretching forth its tiny petals, wakes into life as brightly as a new-born flower.

No one could believe, upon looking at this little ball, hanging on its fragile stem, and resembling both in color and shape a shrunken poppy-head, or some of the acorn tribe, what magical results could arise from merely wetting its surface—yet so it is.

Sleeping, but not dead, the flower is aroused by being for an instant immersed in water, and then supported in an upright position. Soon the upper fibres begin to stir. Slowly, yet visibly, they unfold, until, with petals thrown back in equidistant order, it assumes the appearance of a beautifully radiated, starry flower, not unlike some of the Asters in form. Resting a moment, it suddenly, as though inspired by some new impulse, throws its very heart to the daylight, curving back its petals farther still, and disclosing beauties undreamed of even in the loveliness of its first awakening.

To say that, in general effect, its appearance resembles the passion-flower is to give but a poor description, and yet one searches in vain for a more fitting comparison. Lacking entirely the strong contrasts in color of the latter, it yet wears a halo of its own, unlike any other in the whole range of floral effects.

When viewed through a powerful lens, the heart of the flower, which, to the naked eye, lies flooded in a warm, colorless light, assumes the most exquisite iridescent hues, far more beautiful than the defined tints of the passion-flower. Melting to the eye in its juiciness and delicacy, yet firm in its pure outline and rounded finish, it bears the same relation to that chosen type of the great Suffering, that peace bears to passion, or that promise bears to prayer.

Soon the aspect of the flower changes. As though over the well-spring of its eternal life hangs some ruthless power forcing it back into darkness, before an hour has passed, we can see that its newly-found vigor is fading away. The pulsing light at its heart grows fainter and fainter—slowly the petals raise themselves, to drop wearily side by side upon its bosom—and finally, its beauty vanished, its strength exhausted, it hangs heavy and brown upon its stem, waiting for the touch that alone can waken it again.

This rare botanical wonder, blooming one moment before admiring eyes, and next lying dried and shrivelled in a tomb-like box, is not without its legendary interest, though the odor of its oriental history has, by this time, been nearly blown away by that sharp simoom of investigation, which has already whirled so many pretty fables and theories into oblivion.

The story of the flower, as given in 1856, by the late Dr. Deck, the naturalist, is as follows:

While travelling on a professional tour in Upper Egypt, eight years before, engaged in exploring for some lost emerald and copper mines, he chanced to render medical service to an Arab attached to his party. In gratitude, the child of the desert formally presented to him this now-called 'Resurrection Flower,' at the same time enjoining upon him never to part with it. Like the fabled gift of the Egyptian, it was supposed to have 'magic in the web of it.' The doctor was solemnly assured by the Arab, and others of his race, that it had been taken ten years before from the breast of an Egyptian mummy, a high priestess, and was deemed a great rarity; that it would never decay if properly cared for; that its possession through life would tend to revive hope in adversity, and, if buried with its owner, would ensure for him hereafter all the enjoyments of the Seventh Heaven of Mahomet. When presented, this flower was one of two hanging upon the same stem. Dr. Deck carefully preserved one; the twin specimen he presented to Baron Humboldt, who acknowledged it to be the greatest floral wonder he had yet seen, and the only one of its kind he had met with in the course of his extensive travels.

For years the doctor carried his treasure with him everywhere, prizing it for its intrinsic qualities, and invariably awakening the deepest interest whenever he chanced to display its wondrous powers. During the remainder of his life he caused the flower to open more than one thousand times, without producing any diminution of its extraordinary property, or any injury to it whatever. It is proper to state that, though closely examined by some of the most eminent naturalists, both at home and abroad, no positive position in the botanical kingdom was ever assigned to it—indeed to this day it remains a waif in the floral world, none having determined under what classification it belongs.

I need not say that the doctor, while gratefully accepting the gift of his Arab friend, quietly rejected the accompanying superstitions. Subsequent trials and proofs positive confirmed his doubts of its hope-inspiring power, while his inclination and good old prejudices tempted him to forego the delights of the Seventh Heaven by bequeathing his treasure to his friend and pupil, Dr. C. J. Eames, of New York, than whom none could regard it with a truer appreciation, or recognize its exquisite perfection with a feeling nearer akin to veneration.

It has now been in the possession of Dr. Eames for several years, and has, in the mean time, been unfolded many hundred times, still without any deterioration of its mysterious power. It opens as fairly and freshly to-day, as when, under Egyptian skies, more than sixteen years ago, its delicate fibres, heavy with the dust of ages, quivered into a new life before the astonished eyes of Dr. Deck.

Well-named as, in some respects, it seems to be, this marvel of the botanical world has already given rise to not a few discussions among the scientific and curious, some earnestly proclaiming its right to the title of 'Resurrection Flower,' and others denying that it is a flower at all. Indeed, in its unfolded state, its resemblance to a flattened poppy-head, and other seed vessels, offers strong argument in favor of the latter opinion. In alluding to it, one uses the term 'flower' with decided 'mental reservation'—beautiful flower, as it seems to be when opened—and speaks of its 'petals' with a deprecating glance at imaginary hosts of irate botanists. Some, it is true, still insist that it is a bona fide flower; but Dr. Deck himself inclined to the belief that it was the pericarp or seed vessel of some desert shrub, rare indeed, as few or none like it have appeared in centuries, yet not without its analogies in the vegetable world.

The famous Rose of Jericho (not that mentioned in the Apocrypha, or the very common kind peculiar to the far East, but that long-lost variety prized by the Crusaders as a holy emblem of their zeal and pilgrimage) was, in all probability, a member of the same genus to which the 'Resurrection Flower' belongs. This opinion is supported by the fact that resemblances of the 'flower,' both open and closed, are sculptured upon some of the tombs of the Crusaders—two, in the Temple Church of London, and several in the Cathedrals of Bayeux and Rouen in Normandy, where lie some of the most renowned followers of Peter the Hermit.

A brother of Dr. Deck, engaged in antiquarian research in the island of Malta, discovered the same device graven upon the knights' tombs, and invariably on that portion of the shield, the 'dexter chief,' which was considered the place of highest honor. This gentleman has also furnished the following quotation from an old monkish manuscript, describing 'a wonder obtained from Jerusalem by the holy men, and called by them the 'Star of Bethlehem,' as, if exposed to the moon on the eve of the Epiphany, it would become wondrous fair to view, and like unto the star of the Saviour; and with the first glory of the sun, it would return to its lowliness.'

Doubtless the old chroniclers, had they lived in these days of evidence and 'solid fact,' would have given some credit to the heavy dews peculiar to moonlight nights, an exposure to which would assuredly have produced all the effect of immersion upon the flower.

The fact of so close a representation of the 'Resurrection Flower' being upon the tombs of the Crusaders, added to the circumstance that in his Egyptian researches he had never met with any allusion to it, induced Dr. Deck to discard the story of its Egyptian origin as untenable. 'I have unwrapped many mummies myself,' he wrote, 'and have had opportunities of being present at unrolling of others of all classes, and have never discovered another Resurrection Flower, nor heard of any one who had; and in the examination of hieroglyphics of every age and variety, I never discovered anything bearing the remotest resemblance to it. Those who are conversant with the wonderful features of the Egyptian religion and priestcraft, will observe how eagerly they seized upon and deified anything symbolical of their mysterious tenets, and transmitted them to posterity, figured as hieroglyphics; and it is but natural to presume that this homely-looking flower, with its halo, so typical of glory and resurrection, would have ranked high in their mythology, if it, and its properties, had been known to them. Moreover, an examination of the elaborate works of Josephus, Herodotus, King, and Diodorus, so full in their description of Egyptian mythology, has failed to elicit any description or notice of it whatever.'

Nearly every one has read of the famous Rose of Jericho (Anastatica hierochontina) or Holy Rose—a low, gray-leaved annual, utterly unlike a rose, growing abundantly in the arid wastes of Egypt, and also throughout Palestine and Barbary, and along the sandy coasts of the Red Sea. One of the most curious of the cruciferous plants, it exhibits, in a rare degree, a hygrometric action in its process of reproduction. During the hot season it blooms freely, growing close to the ground, bearing its leaves and blossoms upon its upper surface; when these fall off, the stems become dry and ligneous, curving upward and inward until the plant becomes a ball of twigs, containing its closed seed-vessels in the centre, and held to the sand by a short fibreless root. In this condition, it is readily freed by the winds, and blown across the desert, until it reaches an oasis or the sea; when, yielding to the 'Open Sesame' of water, it uncloses, leaving nature to use its jealously guarded treasures at her will.

The dried plant, if carefully preserved, retains for a long time its hygrometric quality. When wet, it expands to its original form, displaying florets (?) not unlike those of the elder, but larger, closing again as soon as the moisture evaporates. Hence it is reverenced in Syria as a holy emblem. The people call it Kaf Maryam, or Mary's Flower, and many superstitions are held regarding it, one of which is, that it first blossomed on the night on which our Saviour was born. Growing everywhere, upon heaps of rubbish and roofs of old houses, by the wayside, and almost under the very door-stones, it creeps into the surroundings of the people, weaving its chains of white, yellow, or purple flowers while sunshine lasts, and, when apparent decay overtakes it, teaching its beautiful lesson of Life in Death. Who can cavil at the thought which raises it to a symbol of that Eternal Love forever weaving endless chains from heart to heart, no spot too lowly for its tendrils to penetrate, or too dreary for its bloom.

Some specimens of the Anastatica have been carried to this country by travellers. One, in the cabinet of Fisher Howe, Esq., of Brooklyn, and brought by him from Jericho fourteen years ago, still retains its remarkable habit; and another, older still, is in the possession of Dr. Eames.

Among the plants which exhibit curious phases of hygrometric action might be cited some of the Fig Marigolds (Mesembryanthemum); also the Scaly Club Moss (Lycopodium). The latter, after being thoroughly withered, will, if laid in water, gradually expand, turn green, and assume the appearance of a thriving plant. When again dried, it becomes a brown, shrunken mass, capable, however, of being revived ad libitum.

Some species of Fungi also exhibit a similar property—and all have observed with what promptitude the various pine and larch cones cover their seed in a storm, or even when it 'looks like rain.' I remember being once not a little puzzled in trying to open a drawer that some weeks before had been filled with damp pine cones. Upon becoming dry, each individual had attempted a humble imitation of the genii in the 'Arabian Nights,' expanding to its fullest extent, only to be subjugated by being cast again into the water.

Some of the Algae exhibit properties similar to that of the Club Moss; and a marine plant known as the Californian Rock-rose is still more curious. Clinging closely to the rocks, and feeding upon some invisible debris, or, like certain orchids, drawing its sustenance from the air (for the rocks upon which it grows, sometimes are lifted far above the water), it attains an enormous size, being in some instances as large as a bushel basket. It is not without a certain jagged beauty of contour, resembling, more than anything else, clusters of Arbor Vitae branches cut out of wet leather, and meeting in the centre. Once torn from its stony bed, the Rock-rose curls up into an apparently tangled mass of network, having the general outline of a rose, but it will at any time, upon being immersed in water, assume its original appearance. I have seen a fine specimen of this plant open and close, for the hundredth time, years after it had been taken from the rock.

The Hygrometric Ground Star (Geastrum hygrometricum), found in many portions of Europe, is well known; nearer home, we have a variety (Geastrum Saratogensis) differing in some respects from its transatlantic relative, which is of a warm brown color, and flourishes in gravelly soil.

The American variety grows abundantly in the drifting sands of Saratoga County, N. Y. It has no stem or root, excepting here and there a fine capillary fibre by which it clings to the ground. When dry, it contracts to a perfect sphere, is rolled by the wind across the sand, and (according to the account given by Dr. Asa Fitch, who has had a specimen in his possession for twenty years) shakes a few seeds from the orifice at its summit at each revolution. This seed ball also possesses the power of opening when moistened, changing its spherical form to that of an open flower about two inches in diameter. When opened, it displays eight elliptical divisions, resembling petals. These are white as snow on the inside, and traversed by a network of small irregular cracks, while their outer surface resembles kid leather, both in color and texture.

The Ground Star differs in habit from the 'Resurrection Flower,' which never yields its seed unless expanded by moisture (if Dr. Deck's theory be correct), and is not nearly as intricate or beautiful in construction as the oriental relic. Indeed, to this day, the 'Resurrection Flower,' as one must call it for want of a better name, remains without a known rival in the botanical world. From time to time, brief notices concerning it have been published; and where writers, sometimes without having seen the original, have claimed the knowledge or possession of similar specimens, they have become convinced of their mistake on personal inspection. Even the plants alluded to in a short account, given eight years ago, in a leading New York periodical, as being the same as the 'Resurrection Flower,' proved, on comparison by Dr. Eames, to be entirely different.

Although it is by no means certain that the plant in Baron Humboldt's collection, and that owned by Dr Eames, are the only individuals of their kind in existence, the fact of their great rarity is well established. As far as I have been able to ascertain, there is but one 'Resurrection Flower' in America.

That new plants might be obtained from this lonely representative of its race few can doubt; but to this day the germs exposed so temptingly at each awakening, have never been removed. Old as it is, it has never done its work, the only seeds it has sown being those of inquiry and adoration in the minds of all who have witnessed its marvellous powers.

Whether the pretty oriental tale of its origin be true or not—and it requires an oriental faith to believe it in the face of contradictory evidence—none can gaze upon that little emblem of 'Life in Death'—so homely and frail, and yet so beautiful and so eternal—without peculiar emotion.

What drooping, weary soul, parched with the dust of earth, but sometimes longs to be forever steeped in that great Love in which it may expand and bloom—casting its treasures upon Heavenly soil,—and glowing evermore with the radiance of the Awakening.



RECOGNITION.

Now in the chambers of my heart is day, And form and order. A most sacred guest Is come therein, and at his high behest Beauty and Light, who his calm glance obey, Flew to prepare them for his regal sway. Now solitude I seek, which once, possessed, I fled; now, solitude to me is blessed, Wherein I hearken Love's mysterious lay, And hold with thee communion in my heart. That thou art beautiful, thou who art mine— That with thy beauty, Beauty's soul divine Has filled my soul, I muse upon apart. In the blue dome of Heaven's eternity, Rising I seem upborne by thoughts of thee.



THE SEVEN-HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY OF A GERMAN CAPITAL.

Most of our countrymen look upon Germany as all one. The varieties of outlandish customs, costumes, and dialects observed among our emigrant population from that land are little noticed, and never regarded as marking districts of the fatherland from which they severally sprung. One of the most fruitful themes of pleasant humor and biting sarcasm in our periodical literature and in the popular mouth, is the ignorance betrayed by enlightened foreigners, and especially foreign journalists, in regard to the geography of our country; as though America were, par excellence, THE land, and on whatever other subject the world might, without meriting our contempt, fail to inform itself, our country, not only in its glorious history and more glorious destiny, but in the minuter details of the picture, must be understood and acknowledged. This charge of ignorance is not unfounded. Often have I been not a little amused when an intelligent German has inquired of me as a New Yorker, with the sure hope of news from his friend in Panama, or another to learn how he might collect a debt from a merchant at Valparaiso, or a third to be informed why he received no answers to letters addressed to friends in Cuba, and so on. But if the tables were turned upon us, there is no point on which we should be found open to a more fearful retribution than on this. I know an American gentleman of education—and he told me the story himself—who applied at Washington for letters to our diplomatic representatives in Europe, and who had sufficiently informed himself to be on the point of sailing for several years' residence abroad, and still, when letters were handed him for our consul-general at Frankfort and our minister in Prussia, asked, with no little concern, whether a letter to our minister in Germany could not be given him. I knew a correspondent of a New York journal fearfully to scourge a distinguished German for his ignorance of American geography. The same person, after months of residence in Munich, having about exhausted the resources which it offered him for his correspondence, gave a somewhat detailed account of the affairs of Greece, in which he referred to King Otho as brother of King Lewis of Bavaria, although almost any peasant could have told him that the latter was father to the former.

Indeed, there is nothing strange about this, unless it be that any one should deem himself quite above the class of blunders which he satirizes. It is less to be wondered at that one should continue to hurl his satiric javelins at those who commit the same class of errors with himself, since he seldom becomes aware of his own ridiculous mistakes. In regard to Germany, our people know but its grand divisions and its large cities; and of its people among us but their exterior distinctions, and mainly those offered to the eye, arrest attention. We meet them as servants or employes in kitchens, shops, and gardens, and on farms, or as neighbors, competitors, or associates in business. At evening we separate, and they go to their own domestic or social circles, where alone the native character speaks itself freely forth in the native language and dialect. There only the homebred wit and humor freely flow and flash. There the half-forgotten legends and superstitions, the utterance of which to other ears than those of their own people is forbidden—perhaps by a slight sense of shame, perhaps by the utter failure of language,—together with the pastimes and adventures of their native villages or districts, are arrested in their rapid progress to oblivion, as they are occasionally called forth to amuse the dull hours or lighten the heavy ones of a home-sick life in a foreign land. Could we but half enter into the hearts of the peasant Germans who move among us, and are by some regarded as scarcely raised in refinement and sensibility above the rank of the more polished domestic animals of our own great and enlightened land, we should often find them replete with the choicest elements of the truly epic, the comic, and the tragic.

How seldom do the people of different lands and languages learn to understand each other—become so well acquainted as to appreciate each other's most engaging traits? The German emigrant seeks a home among us, and desires to identify himself with us. The costume of his native district is thrown off as soon as he needs a new garment, often much sooner. His language is laid aside except for domestic use and certain social and business purposes, as soon as he has a few words of ours. These words serve the ends of business, and rarely does he ever learn enough for any other purpose. The other parts of the man remain concealed from our view. He is to us a pure utilitarian of the grossest school. His pipe suspended from his mouth, his whole time given to his shop, his farm, or his garden, and to certain amusements unknown to us, he is deemed to vegetate much like the plants he grows, or to live a life on the same level with that of the animal he feeds, incapable of appreciating those higher and more refined pleasures to which we have risen—in other words, the true type of dulness and coarseness. An intelligent Welshman once told me that he could not talk religion in English nor politics in Welsh. So with the Germans among us. Their business and politics learn to put themselves into English, their religious, domestic, and social being remains forever shut up in the enclosure of their mother tongue, and from this we rashly judge that what they express is all there is of them. We have never considered the difficulty of transferring all the utterances of humanity from their first and native mediums to foreign ones. It is easy to learn the daily wants of life or the formal details of business in a new language. Here words have a uniform sense. But the nice shades and turns of thought which appear in the happiest and most delicate jets of wit and humor, and which form the great staples of pleasant social intercourse, depend upon those subtile discriminations in the sense of words which are rarely acquired by foreigners. One may have all the words of a language and not be able to understand them in sallies of wit. How nicely adjusted then must be the scales which weigh out the innumerable and delicate bits of pleasantry which give the charm to social life! The words to relate the legends connected with the knights and castles of chivalry, saints, witches, elves, spooks, and gypsies, the foreigners among us never acquire, or at least never so as to have the ready and delicate use of them in social life, until their foreign character has become quite absorbed in the fully developed American, and the taste, if not the material for picturing the customs and legends of the fatherland are forever gone.

It is mainly North Germany with whose institutions we have become more or less familiar through our newspaper literature, and the numbers of students who have from time to time gone thither for educational purposes. Some acquaintance has also been made with Baden and Wirtemberg, in South Germany, as these principalities have a population mainly Protestant; and Heidelberg, at least, has been a favorite resort for American students. But the same is not true of Catholic South Germany. Munich's collections and institutions of art—mainly the work of the late and still living King Lewis I.—have, indeed, become generally known. Mary Howitt, in her 'Art Student in Munich,' has given us some graphic delineations of life there. The talented and witty Baroness Tautphoens has done us still better service in her 'Initials' and 'Quits,' in relation both to life in the capital and in the mountains; yet the character, institutions, and customs of the people remain an almost unexplored field to the American reader.

In the middle of the twelfth century Munich was still an insignificant village on the Isar, and had not even been erected into a separate parish. About this time Henry the Lion added to his duchy of Saxony, that of Bavaria, and having destroyed the old town of Foehring, which lay a little below the site of Munich on the other side of the river, transferred to the latter place the market and the collection of the customs, which had till then been held by the bishops of Freising with the imperial consent. The emperor Frederic I., in the year 1158, confirmed, against the remonstrances of Bishop Otho I., the doings of Henry. The duke hastened to surround the village with a wall and moat to afford protection to those who might choose to settle there, and in twenty years it had become a city. But the duke fell into disgrace with the emperor, and the latter revoked the rights he had granted; but this was like taking back a slander which had already been circulated. The effect had been produced. Munich was to become a capital.

Bishop Otho's successor would gladly have destroyed the infant city and the bridge which had been the making of it. In consequence, however, of his early death, this beneficent purpose toward his see of Freising remained unexecuted. The next successor continued the same policy. He built a castle with the design of seizing the trading trains which should take the road to Munich, perhaps deeming this the best way of magnifying his office as a leader in the church militant. But before he could achieve his purpose of cutting off all supplies from the rival town, and turning trade and tribute all to his own place, a new defender of the rising city had sprung up in the house of Wittelsbocher—the same which still reigns over the kingdom of Bavaria,—and the matter of the feud was finally adjusted by the quiet surrender of the bridge and the tolls to the city.

The imperial decree, therefore, of 1158, must be regarded as having laid the foundation of Munich as a city, and accordingly the seven hundredth anniversary of its founding was celebrated in the year 1858. I shall place a notice of this fete at the head of the list of those which occurred during my residence in that capital.

It was a part of the plan that the ceremony of laying the foundation of a new bridge over the Isar should be performed by the king. This was deemed specially appropriate, because the springing up of the city had depended upon a bridge over the river to draw thither the trade which had gone to the old Freising. This occurred on Sunday, and I did not see it. I never heard, however, but that his majesty acquitted himself as well in this stone mason's work as he does in the affairs of court or state—just as well, perhaps, as one of our more democratic Chief Magistrates, accustomed to splitting rails or other kinds of manual labor, would have done. I took a walk with my children at evening, and met the long line of court carriages returning, followed by a procession on foot, the archbishop, with some church dignitaries, walking under a canopy and distributing, by a wave of the hand at each step of his progress, his blessing to the crowds which thronged both sides of the broad street. Some, perhaps, prized this more than we did, but I do not suppose that there was anything in the nature of the blessing or in the will of the benevolent prelate to turn it from our heretical heads.

The other parts of this celebration consisted in dinners, plays in the theatres, a meeting at the Rathhaus, at which were read papers on the development of Munich for the seven hundred years of its existence, and a procession, the whole occupying about a week. I shall only notice specially the procession, and in connection with it the art exhibition for all Germany, which closed at the same time, having been in progress for three months; for the two greatly contributed to each other.

The illustrated weekly, published at Stuttgart by the well-known novelist Hacklaender, under the title of Ueber Land und Meer, refers to these festivities in the following terms:

'Munich, the South German metropolis of art, was, during the closing days of September, transformed into a festive city. The German artists had assembled from all parts of the country, that they might, within those walls, charmed by the genius of the muses, wander through the halls in which the academy had collected the best works of German art, and take counsel upon the common interests, as they had formerly done at Bingen and Stuttgart. The artists and the magistracy vied with each other in preparing happy days for the visitors—an emulation which was crowned with the most delightful results. The artists' festival, however, was but the harbinger to the the city of the great seventh centennial birthday festival of the Bavarian capital, which had been so long in preparation, and was waited for with such impatience. Concerts and theatres opened the festal series. Services in all the churches of both confessions consecrated the coming days, and the laying of the foundation of the new bridge over the Isar, leading to the Maximilianeum, formed, historically, a monumental memorial for the occasion. Favored by the fairest of weather, the city celebrated the main festival on the 27th of September. It was a historical procession, moved through all the principal streets of the city, and caused departed centuries to pass in full life before the eyes of the citizens and the vast assemblage of strangers there present. It was no masquerade, but a true picture of the civilization of the city, from its first appearance in history to the present day—'a mirrored image,' says a chronicler of the festival, 'of times long since gone by.

'The twelfth century opened the procession—representations of the present time in science, art, and industry, as developed under the reigns of Lewis and Maximilian, which have been so promotive of all that is great, closed it up. But one voice was heard in regard to the success of this festival.'

The plan was to let representatives of the people for this whole period of seven hundred years pass before the eyes of the spectators in the fashions and costumes of their respective ages, bearing the implements or badges of their several guilds or professions. The preparation had been begun months beforehand. Artists had been employed to sketch designs. The best had been selected. The costumes were historical. We see sometimes in every part of our country, costumes extemporized from garrets for old folks' concerts and other like occasions, but generally they do not correspond with each other, or with the performances. The result is committed to accident. The actors wear what their meagre wardrobes of the antique furnish. The wider the divergence from present fashions the better. Chance may bring together the styles of a dozen successive periods, and render the whole without coherence. In such an exhibition our interest is felt simply in the grotesque. It shows us how a countenance familiar to us is set off by a strange and outlandish costume. It represents no history. Such was not this procession. Its front had twelfth century costumes of peasants, burghers, and even the ducal family. So down to the very day of the festival; for statues of the present royal family on open cars closed up the long line. It did not seem indeed quite right that the successive ages of the dead should pass before us living, and the living age alone lifeless. In one part of the procession was an imperial carriage of state drawn by six horses, a man in livery leading each horse, with all the necessary footmen, outriders, and outrunners. The whole was antiquity and novelty happily combined. The costumes and insignia of all classes, with the tools and implements of all handicrafts, from the day when Duke Henry and Bishop Otho, seven hundred years before, had had their petty bickerings about the tolls of a paltry village, down to the present day, the whole transformed into a living panorama, and made to pass in about four hours before the eye.

To set forth great things by small, a bridal pair remove from the East and settle in our Western wilds. In a score of years they return to their native place, wearing the very garments in which they had stood up and been pronounced husband and wife. The picture is equal to a volume of history and one of comedy, the two bound in one. But here, instead of a score of years we have a score of ages, reaching back to a period farther beyond that great popular movement in which modern society had its birth, than that is anterior to our own age. If all the costumes, fashions, implements, and tools of the house, the shop, and the field, insignia and liveries, from those of the first Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam, down to those of New York's belles, beaux, and beggars of the present day, should be made to pass in review before us, how absurdly grotesque would be the scene! That veritable 'History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrick Knickerbocker,' has perhaps shaken as many sides and helped digest as many dinners as almost any book since Cervantes gave the world his account of the adventures of his knight Don Quixote, and yet this great historical work hints but a part of that picture, though doubtless greatly improved by the author's delicate touches, which would pass before us in a procession illustrating two centuries of New York's history. Using such hints, the reader may partially judge of the impression made by this setting forth of seven centuries of a capital of Central Europe, and yet one can hardly tell, without the trial, whether he would rather smile at the grotesqueness of the pageant, or be lost in the profound contemplation of the magnificent march of history reenacted in this drama.

This procession spoke but to the eye. It was but a tableau, dumb, though in its way eloquent. It detailed no actions; it only hinted them. It simply presented the men who acted, clad in the outward garb, and bearing the tools and weapons of their day. The cut of a garment, the form of a helmet or halberd, a saddle or a semitar, a hoe or a hatchet, or the cut of the hair or the beard, may speak of the heart and soul, only, however, by distant hints. But just as the representation is less distinct and detailed, is it a mightier lever for imagination to use in raising again to life centuries which had long slept in the dust. The superstructure of history, indeed, which we should rear upon such a basis, would be wide of the truth on one side, just as the narratives and philosophical disquisitions which come to us under that name are on the other. History generally relates those things in which all ages have been most alike—the same which have 'been from the beginning and ever shall be'—the intrigues of courts and of diplomacy—varied mainly by the influence of the religion of the Bible, as at first persecuted, then rising by degrees to a rank either with or above the state, and becoming a persecuting power, and then finally modifying and softening down the native rudeness of the human race, until mutual and universal tolerance is the result; court life, diplomacy, and war, however, remaining and still to remain the perpetual subjects of historical composition. But between this elevated range and the humble one of burghers' tools and costumes, lies a boundless field of aspect, variegated with all the forms which checker social and domestic life. Oh!—thought a little group of American spectators occupying a room near the corner of Ludwig and Theresien streets—could we but rend the veil of time which conceals Munich's seven hundred years of burgher and peasant life, how odd, how rude a scene would present itself! The reader's fancy may make the attempt. I will aid a little if I can, and there was indeed some material furnished in addresses prepared for that occasion, and in some other papers which have come into my hands.

The people of that little village on the banks of the Isar were but the owners and tillers of the barren soil. Nearly a century (1238) after Henry the Lion had surrounded it with walls, and a local magistracy had been chosen; when two parishes—those of St. Peter and St. Mary—had been already long established, we find a schoolmaster signing, doubtless by virtue of his office, a certificate of the freedom of a certain monastery from the city customs. That the school teacher must, ex officio, sign such papers, spoke volumes. How few could have had the learning, for it must indeed be done in Latin. And then the history of the city runs nearly a century back of this date. What was the burgher life of that first century of Munich's history? It is but the faintest echo that answers. Schools there were at that day and long before. Nay, the cloister schools were already in decay; but more than three hundred years were yet to elapse before the rise of the Jesuit schools. Three hundred years! How can we, of this age of steam, estimate what was slowly revolving in society in those years? In 1271 we find an order of the bishop of Freising requiring the parish rector to have a school in each parish of the city; half a century later than this we meet documentary evidence that school teaching had assumed a rank with other worldly occupations, and was no longer subject to the rector of the parish. If I could but set the reader down in a school room of that day, I might forego any attempt to portray the times; but, alas! I cannot. He would, however, doubtless see there groups of boys—for I half suspect that this was before girls had generally developed the capability of learning—the faces and garments clean or smutty, showing the grade of social progress which had been gained, for we may presume that the use of soap and water had been to some extent introduced, and if so, I have erred again, for the dirty and the ragged did not go to school. These could do without education. We should see, too, the beaming or the dull and leaden eye—if, indeed, the eye spoke then as now—proclaiming the master's success or failure. And then the schoolmaster, the chief figure in the group, would be found to have the otium cum dignitate, and especially the former, in a higher sense than is now known. And what was the staple information which circulated among the people? Of this we know more. It was made up of adventures of knights, miracles wrought by the host, by crucifixes and Madonnas, and apparitions of saints, leading some emperor or prince to found a church or monastery—a kind of history which few churches or other religious institutions want. If there was less of life in the humanity of that age than we have at present, there was as much more in other things; for even those holy pictures and statues could move their eyes and other parts. They found various ways of expressing approbation of the pious, and frowning upon scoffers. Crucifixes and Madonnas, carried by freshets over barren fields, brought fertility. The devil, too, figured more largely in the narratives of days before printed books formed the basis of education. He generally appeared in the persons of giants and witches, which latter were his agents by special contract. Their freaks had all shades of enormity, from the slight teasing of the housewife in her baking and churning to the peril of life and limb and endless perdition. The devil sometimes coming in one of these forms endangered the lives of the quiet people of the city by formally dismissing the watch between the hours of eleven and twelve o'clock at night. So hundreds of things which he has become too genteel in our day to practise.

The founding of the city was near the close of that great movement known as the crusades. What a world of material these furnished to be used in popular education! The feats of knights, instead of assuming distinct forms and being stereotyped and told to them in books, were surrendered to the popular mouth for preservation and propagation. Saints, angels, and demons attached themselves from time to time to these circulating myths. Original characters often dropped out, and the discrimination of the wisest believer in the real and ideal, became confused. Then came the period of the Hussite war. This gave rise to many a miracle of divine judgment. The Bohemian mocker of the holy mass, or of some wonder-working statue of the Virgin, is pursued with divine vengeance. The Jews—how suggestive the name, in the history of mediaeval Europe, of mystery, miracle, and murder!—were early allowed to settle in Munich. They were assigned to a particular street. In the year 1285 a story was started—it had been long stereotyped, and editions of it circulated in every part of Christendom—of the murder of a Christian child. A persecution of the Jews was the result—one hundred and forty were burned in their own houses—and the poor Israelites must doubtless suffer without redress, although many of them were then, as they now are, bankers and brokers to the spiritual and temporal lords. Not far from the same time the ducal mint was destroyed, because the people were enraged to find the metal in their coin growing alarmingly less. For this the city must pay a fine.

From our first knowledge of this town it continued gradually, but very slowly, to advance in intelligence—we should rather say from century to century than from year to year; for during this period progress was too slow to be perceptible, unless the observation were verified by the pillars erected to mark the boundary lines between successive centuries. The inquirer into the past often sighs out the wish that art had found a way to transmit full impressions of all departed generations to the latest living one. Perhaps he prudently limits the desired favor to himself, otherwise the wish would not be wise; its realization would place every lazy observer upon the same level with the studious investigator. The cumbrous details, too, of sixty centuries piled upon one mind would crush it, unless human nature were a very different thing from that which we now behold. It is in accordance with a wise plan of Providence that the deeds of past ages should perish with them, except the few needed to cast their gleam of light upon the world's future pathway. We are made capable of rescuing just enough for the highest purposes of life, not enough to overwhelm and burden us in our march toward the goal before us. It is thought by some that the point and finish of the ancient Greek authors, as compared with the moderns, is attributable to the fact that they were less perplexed with accumulated lore and the multiplication of books and subjects of study. Their minds were not subject to the dissipating effects of large libraries, and daily newspapers with telegraphs from Asia, Africa, and Hesperia. I shall not discuss this question. The amount of information handed down from past ages even now is but as the spray which rises above the ocean's surface to the vast depths which lie below. The historical fossils of those ages are therefore left to exercise the genius of the Cuviers of historical inquiry. As that naturalist could, from a single bone of an extinct animal species, make up and describe the animal, so have inquirers into the past succeeded in picturing a departed age from the few relics left of it. Hence we are treated occasionally with such agreeable surprises in the march of history as the discovery of Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Nineveh. The genius of our Wincklemanns, Champollions, Humboldts, and Layards has found a worthy field. Such days as that I am attempting to describe, representing seven centuries of a modern capital before the admiring eyes of the present generation of its people, become possible. Instead of the monotony of a perpetual observation, we have the charm of alternate lulls and surprises.

This picture has a further likeness to the naturalist's description made from the fossils of extinct genera of animals. In the latter the animal is made to stand before us. We have the data necessary to infer his habits. But we see him not perfect in his wilderness home of unnumbered ages past. We see him not the pursuer or the pursued; we hear not the fierce growls or the plaintive note of alarm or distress. These we must imagine. So, too, the slowly and peacefully moving train which passes our windows, setting forth the sleeping centuries of this city. There is the emperor in state—dukes in ducal magnificence—knights in armor with horses richly and fancifully caparisoned—citizens in the dress of their times—the various mechanics' and traders' guilds, with their implements, their badges and their banners, with priests thickly scattered through the whole line, which is ever changing as the representatives of one age succeed those of another. The whole is calm and quiet. The fierce contests, the angry broils, private and public—now throwing the whole city into a ferment of innocent alarm, now deluging its streets with blood—the rage of plagues, sealing up the sources of human activity, and causing the stillness of the grave to settle over the scene—all these we must supply; and surely the thoughtful mind is busy in doing this as it contemplates the passing train. We conceive rival claimants for the ducal throne, contending, regardless of dying counsel, until death again settles what death had thrown open to contest. Everything which has ever transpired on the theatre of the world's great empires, may be conceived as enacted on this narrower stage. The difference is less in talents and prowess than in the extent of the field and the numbers of actors.

From the period of the Reformation down we can form the picture with more distinctness. Seehofen, son of a citizen of Munich, while a student at Wittenberg, received Luther's doctrine, and through him many of his townsmen. The most learned and able opponent whom the Reformer had to encounter was John Eck, chancellor of the Bavarian University of Ingolstadt—one of the most renowned at that day in Europe—which, by removal to the capital, has now become the University of Munich. In 1522 Duke William, of Bavaria, issued an edict forbidding any of his people to receive the reformed doctrine. Bavaria, therefore, remained Catholic, and Munich became the headquarters of German Catholicism. The electoral duke, Maximilian, of Bavaria, was head of the Catholic league which carried on the 'Thirty Years' War' against the Protestants under Gustavus Adolphus, king of Sweden, in the early part of the seventeenth century. The city is full of sayings derived from this whole period, such as to leave us no ground to wonder that few Catholics are inclined to become Protestants. The only Protestant church in the city was built within the last thirty years. It is but a few years since the house was still shown in Scudlinger street, in which Luther, in his flight from Augsburg, whither he had been called to answer for his teaching before Cardinal di Vio in 1518,[8] stopped, his horse all in a foam, to take a drink, and in his hurry forgot to pay for the piece of sausage which he ate. In the market place was a likeness of Luther and his 'Katherl.'[9] There are also numerous derisive pictures, such as the Reformer riding upon a swine, with a sausage in his hand, which, however, all originated in the mockery of the Jews, who were afterward compelled to surrender some of them to the leading spirit of the Reformation. At Saurloch, a little distance south of Munich, there were still, in 1840, to be seen pictures of Luther and his wife in a group made up of chimney sweeps, buffoons, and many others of the class. As this age passed before the eyes of the spectators, they would doubtless give it new life by attributing to it the spirit exemplified in these choice and tasteful pictures and sayings, amusing at this day, doubtless, to both parties.

The period of the 'Thirty Years' War' and the visit to Munich of Gustavus Adolphus has left more sayings and monuments, and thus do more honor to the people. After the Catholic victory near Prague, in 1620, the elector celebrated a public entry into the city amid the jubilations of the people and the Jesuits. A pillar was erected in remembrance of the victory, and dedicated, eighteen years afterward, to the Virgin, in accordance with a vow. The city was also variously adorned. The rejoicing was somewhat premature. In 1632 the duchess and ducal family had to remove to Salzburg for safety, whither they carried with them the bones of St. Benno, the patron saint of the city, and other valuables. The king of Sweden entered the walls under a promise, which he had made in consideration of three hundred thousand florins, to be paid to him by the people, to secure them against fire, sword, and plunder. Ladies freely gave up their precious ornaments to make up the amount. But they failed. The conqueror took forty-two priests of the religious orders, and twenty respectable citizens, as hostages for the payment. These wandered around with his camp for three years, and then all returned except four, who died during the time. The traditions of the people give the king credit for having strictly abstained from plunder, and executed the only man who transgressed his rule, although the citizens failed on their part. How beautifully the brilliant and the glorious mingle with the sad and the sombre in the picture which we form of this age as the passing train brings it before our minds! How religion, variously tinged with the sable hues of superstition, wrought upon that age! The Swedish king, the moment victory turns in his favor, dropping upon his knees in the midst of the dead and the dying, the clouds of smoke and dust as yet unsettled, pours out his soul in fervent prayer and thanksgiving.[10] He but represents his army and his age. The Catholic army are not less devout in their way. Germany is full of monuments and sayings of this period. Those of Munich are of the Catholic side. There stands in a public square an equestrian statue of colossal size, in bronze, of the elector Maximilian, head of the Catholic League—his pillar to the Virgin still stands—and the great general of the League, Count Tilley, represented in bronze, is among the prominent objects viewed by the visitor to this capital. On the other hand, the greatest organization in Europe for the aid of Protestants in Catholic lands, having branches everywhere, bears the name of Gustavus Adolphus. Let the reader then conceive the visions which flit through the minds of the spectators as this age passes in review before them.

But here I shall close this part of the picture. The description of the city as it now exists belongs in other connections. It has been suggested, as greatly adding to the interest of this birthday festival of the capital, that it concurred in time with the exhibition of the art of all Germany in the Crystal Palace. Although the two had no natural connection, yet they became so intertwined in fact as not easily to be separated. I shall therefore just touch upon the art display.