The causes and circumstances of that tragedy were never unveiled to the world. Nor is there any great desire to penetrate the mystery. The Countess got well, and continued her fashionable life, appropriating a large portion of her great rental in New-Orleans to the purchase of property and the improvement of her elegant hotel in Paris. The Revolution of 1830 found the Countess a fierce Bourboniste, and produced such apprehension of confiscation, and danger to her life and liberty, that she concluded to return to New-Orleans. Here she found that her property had greatly augmented in value, and after a short sojourn in her native city, discovering that Louis Philippe's dynasty was an unproscriptive one, she returned to Paris, where she resided until the Revolution of 1848 again filled her with alarm for her large possessions. Beside, she was well known to be a conspicuous Legitimiste of the party of Henry V. Again she returned to New-Orleans, full of horror of Red Republicanism and Socialism, and with disgust for the fickleness of the French.

Directing her attention, with characteristic energy and ardor, to the improvement of her property which incloses Jackson Square, the principal public place in New-Orleans, she built some forty elegant houses, and then assuming the government of the municipality, she succeeded in inducing the authorities to cut down the old trees on the square, and to have it laid off in the parterre style. The 'Woodman spare that tree' sentiment strongly opposed this reform; but it was vain to resist the Countess. The trees obstructed the view of her fine rows of houses, and down they must come, and down they did come, very much to the improvement of the city, and to the full justification of the taste and good sense of the Countess.

After thus improving her property, and augmenting her resources, the Countess thought she might trust herself again in Paris, though a parvenu filled the throne which, in her view, was justly the property of the elder branch of the Bourbons.

But before she left, an incident occurred which must close this desultory sketch. It happened one day, while the Countess was in a notary's office, for the purpose of signing some deeds, that a tall, grave, and eccentric-looking old gentleman entered, and seeing the notary engaged, took his seat to wait his turn. After completing her signature of the deeds, the Countess, raising her eyes from the parchment, perceived that she was the object of close and keen observation of the eccentric old gentleman with the very brilliant and piercing eyes. A single glance served to bring that face and form distinctly back to her memory. Rushing up to the old gentleman, she threw her arms around his neck, in an affectionate embrace, exclaiming:

'Oh! Mr. McDonogh, is it you? I have not forgotten you during our long separation.' And after a pause, her emotions checking her utterance, she continued: 'We were once betrothed; it would have been better for both if we had married. Is it too late to repair that fatal error?'

For the first time for forty years, the old man was deeply affected by a tender and human feeling. The ancient love was aroused from the deep recess of his heart, where it had kin dormant and forgotten, and for a moment triumphed over the passion which had been growing and expanding for the half of his lifetime, until it had gained the entire mastery of his soul. Greatly moved by this penitence of his once-loved betrothed, Mr. McDonogh begged to be permitted to consult his better judgment, and tearing himself from the bewitchments of the Countess, he repaired instantly to the office of his lawyer. Walking in with the appearance of great excitement, he paced the office of the lawyer in an anxious and excited manner for some time, to the profound astonishment of his ancient counselor. At last the cause of this emotion was explained, when, turning to his lawyer, Mr. McDonogh confessed that he was under a great excitement, produced by meeting his old love, the Countess. 'And what would you think now, R——, if I were to marry her?'

'I should think,' replied the unsentimental counselor, 'that you had become crazy.'

'Ah?' replied the millionaire interrogatively, and then pausing thoughtfully, he continued: 'And you would think right—you would think right; so let us to business.'



HELTER-SKELTER PAPERS.

In choosing a caption for the heterogeneous collection of reflections that are likely to be the result of the 'present writing,' the superscriber makes no apology for his title not being also a topic to any further extent than its consideration in this paragraph. The object held in view in giving any name to the succeeding lucubrations was merely to obtain a starting-point; it being conceded that the commencement of a tas of papers need have no greater influence on their course than the point of departure of a railroad-train exercises on its terminus and intermediate stopping-places. To resort then to my heading or its derivations for any indication of my purpose in what may follow, would be futile, and I am free to disclaim any premeditate purpose of governing my pen by either hilariter or celeriter, save as accident may determine. This, at least, gives hope of variety in the consequences of my present step; but whether spiciness will also ensue, will depend entirely on the humor of the writer and the complaisance of the reader hereof. So with no further introduction, the following children of my moods are presented for the kind consideration of those under whose eyes they may fall.

—HAS A MAN A RIGHT TO USE AN OLD PUN IN MAKING A NEW JOKE? This was a question which arose in the Quidnuncs coterie the other evening, after Muggins had sent in the following, for the comic column of a weekly paper, the editor of which had returned it gratefully but firmly, on the score of superannuation: 'If Truth lie at the bottom of a well, why should we be surprised that so many kick the bucket before they are able to reach it?'

Slight sympathy was expressed for Muggins, but in my opinion that was owing rather to the depravity evinced in the particular attempt than to any condemnation of his conduct in making an old joke answer the purpose of a new one. I confess that I don't see why a good pun should be thrown aside after it has served as the soul of a single sentence. I am a supporter of the doctrine of Transmigration of Puns. For a true pun always has a humorous idea behind the verbal quip that is its prominent characteristic. And though the verbal quip may be 'old as the hills,' the joke may present a face fresh as that of a young maiden and bear a meaning merry as her eyes. Thus an adept in this art once renovated two veritable antiques:

'I tell thee, Binks, that the proposition is incontrovertible; any thing that is worth doing is worth being well done.'

'Well, then, brother Noggs, what hast thou to say to a beef-steak? Does not thy rule fail thee there?'

'Truly it doth, Binks; but thou wilt grant me that thine is a rare exception?'

'That will I, right readily.' And both laughed heartily, and went their ways.

—'SIR, YOU ARE TREADING ON MY FAVORITE CORN,' was the mild protest of one in a crowd against the act of a neighbor who had encroached on his pedal extremities, by attempting to violate the philosophical axiom that two bodies can not occupy the same space simultaneously. The remark raised a laugh; yet it involved a great truth. Each of us has at least one pet infirmity, which we nurse as earnestly, with a view to its becoming chronic, (perhaps unwittingly,) as we strive earnestly to eradicate other morbid troubles. And the position is true regarding moral as well as physical invalids. Who has not often been doubly irritated by the removal of his source of irritation? Thus Paterfamilias Bloggs, having been 'riled' by the overcrowding of the omnibus in which he proceeds homeward, makes up his mind that if Materfamilias B. has not provided fish-balls for supper, he will 'raise a row.' And he so gloats in expectancy over the imaginary denunciation that he will inflict on that long-suffering female, that he is quite disappointed, on entering his basement, to discover at a glance that a dish of beautifully-browned fish-balls decks the evening table. So Bloggs' wrath is smothered, and smoulders for the rest of the evening, finding insufficient vent in boxed ears for the children, and short, crisp replies to civil questions from the older members of the family. Thus you see that removing a cause does not always do away with a consequence.



—WHO EVER GAVE A SATISFACTORY EXCUSE FOR AN INOPPORTUNE LAUGH? Certainly, no child transgressing in this particular ever failed to receive less than ten-fold its due of punishment therefor, as many grown persons will join me in testifying. Especially is this true in instances of church cachinnation. I solemnly aver that I have felt a stronger tendency to hearty laughter in a church than I ever experienced in a theatre, and yet I could not and can not give any satisfactory reason for the inclination. I wanted to laugh for the child's reason, 'Because.'

Not many months since, in a land thousands of miles hence, I was stretched upon a bed of sickness. In pursuance of the humane duties of his calling, the minister of the Episcopal Church called upon me, and after a short conversation, proposed addressing the throne of grace. This he did in a few eloquent extemporaneous phrases, closing with the Lord's prayer. Now, from the outset, I felt an uncontrollable inclination to laugh; but for a time succeeded in restraining it. But when, in close succession upon the minister's words, there arose from the next room (separated from us by a thin board partition) a sepulchral echo in the voice of my room-mate, a grim and swarthy miner, who probably had not heard the prayer since he repeated it after his mother at her knee, and from the still potent though long dormant force of habit, now joined in its utterance, the incongruity of my surroundings overcame me, and I electrified the worthy priest by bursting into a guffaw. Looking back on the scene, I can see far more pathos than humor in it; but at the time, the scene was to me irresistibly ludicrous. And oh! the paltry excuse that I raked up. 'Nervousness,' I think. No matter, I had 'spoiled the whole party and broke up the ball!' 'Tis always the way.

* * * * *

—SOMEBODY HAS SAID THAT TO BE A SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR, IT IS ONLY NECESSARY TO FEEL WHAT YOU WRITE. This I deny, for many reasons which I might but will not cite, contenting myself with saying that to write what one feels, though much more gratifying and in a moral sense far more commendable than to conceal or falsify sentiments, is dangerous, and has been known to cause a writer to feel not only more than he wrote or could write, but more than he had any expectation or desire of feeling in such connection. Thus, whenever under an assumed but transparent title, I introduce my friend Scroggs into a little sketch of my production, I never express in that performance my actual estimate of Scroggs, physically or mentally. Nor in my glowing description of the incidents of a trip to Catskill Mountain House, do I confine myself to the expression of what I felt in viewing the many and varied scenes of rural beauty that presented themselves during the progress of that undertaking. Do you suppose that I would run the risk of conveying to Claribella, who was my only companion in that expedition, that I never was more bored in my life, and that my conversation was the result of operating with a constantly working though invisible pump at the well of common-places and platitudes, which a gentleman accumulates for such emergencies in the course of his social experience? Heaven preserve my hair, should I venture on such a step.

'But you digress,' some impatient reader suggests.

Digress! That is an impossibility in an article without a topic. But even if I plead guilty, my impatient critic; did you ever take a walk in the country, and if so, did you choose those broad roads that lead to churches and the village stores and the 'Academy,' or did you plunge, by some little modest path, into the recesses of a grove, careless whither your steps carried you, so content you were to yield to the enchanting guidance of accident? And what though, in following your bent, you were compelled to climb an occasional fence or cross a chance puddle, the satisfaction of coming suddenly upon some pleasant view, or unexpectedly entering an apparently previously unexplored nook, more than atoned for such trifling annoyances. Without digression in some degree, neither spoken nor written language can be made entertaining to the person addressed. Who is more discursive than the Autocrat, the Czar of table-talkers; and whose productions are more charming or wiser? We do not do our everyday thinking in strictly logical or consistent forms. It is sufficient to introduce hypotheses, premises, or syllogisms, when there are ends to be attained by such a course. Impulse is far more attractive than prim consistency in the character of those we love; and if this be true as to pet persons, why not in our favorite writings? So the most charming women I have met would be styled in Spanish las inconsecuentes. Therefore, when amusement is the aim of writing, let digression have full swing.

—I ENVY A GOOD TALKER. There is no class of persons so generally underrated and vilified, yet this would be a dull world without them. And the faculty is not to be acquired. Really good talkers are born, not made. (And some, I hear a skeptic say, are not to be borne in certain contingencies.) Talk is like a river; it rushes onward, by expression of ideas, making room for thoughts to follow, and the dull elf, whose mouth is a mill-dam, finds his fancies and thoughts accumulate on his brain, till that organ is dull and sodden as is his facial aspect. Why is it that some can only be fluent from the point of a pen, while others can only address their fellows effectively by word of mouth? Of course there are conversational monsters as well as other violations of nature's creative processes. And the more thought that talk holds in solution, the more grateful the offering. But I have often listened attentively and pleasurably to an hour's flow from the lips of a pretty, graceful woman, or an interesting child, just saying enough myself to prove that sleep had not seized me. And at the subsidence of the tide, I could not for the life of me recall a single idea to which verbal embodiment had been given. Perhaps I had been carried away by the music of tone, or the charming, ever-changing curves of the opening and closing lips, or the dimples in the cheeks, as they budded, blossomed, and faded in the light of the now laughing, now languishing eyes, that never lost their hold of mine, yet never bore mine down by that most intolerable of all social manifestations—a stare.

* * * * *

—I have a friend, who declares that he has LOST A SMILE. Not one from his sweetheart, for that would be either recoverable or replaceable with another. The smile he mourns is—his own. To speak plainly, he has lost, through neuralgia, the control over the risible muscles of his face, and they not only refuse to obey him in his desire and design to beam upon all peaceful comers, but occasionally put in motion another set of facial strings, which give him a depressed and lachrymose air when he would fain appear most jubilant. He says he never till now knew how much of his facial aspect was artificial. His present condition is only relieved when he is under the control of some powerful emotion. Then he can laugh as heartily and present the appearance of so doing as fully as ever. It is only the conventional smile, the bland, self-possessed smile of society, that is utterly gone from him. I elicited the confession by entering his room noiselessly one day, and detecting him in the act of making the gloomiest grimaces at a small boarding-house mirror on the wall. He was much confused, and at first denied any such employment; but ultimately admitted that he had been practicing facial gymnastics for the purpose of simulating the smile he had lost. Perhaps some of our fashionable dentists may be able to aid him by a suggestion. They certainly have more smiles at their command than any class of men that have come under my observation. How singular that the most ferocious quadrupeds and the blandest of men should evince their most contrasted characteristics—fierceness and amenity—by showing their teeth.

I sometimes think those are blessed who are endowed with a coarse organization. Sensitive people are chronic martyrs. Their nerves are so many toes, that their neighbors and friends are perpetually treading on. Not only are the pangs of such more acute, but the occasions of injury are infinitely multiplied by super-susceptibility. Talk of the happy hours of childhood! Ask nine persons out of ten, who are of susceptible organization, at what period in life their sufferings were most intense and unremitting, and if they be gifted with good memories, their reply will be, 'before adolescence.'[3] For susceptibility of nerve implies also high mental capability, acute intelligence, vivid imagination, all of which go to intensify sensation, and thus to aggravate the mischief. And our sympathy is due to one who by one of those strange contradictions in human nature finds herself, a highly nervous creature, the victim of an affection for one of the coarser organizations to which I have alluded. I say victim, for such attachments seldom result happily. The effect produced, in the first instance, by the magnetism of a strong over a weak nature gradually dies away. With it die the brilliant colors in which the beloved has been invested by the belover, and life is thenceforward only lit up by the lamps that heaven sets in the eyes of the little children that sometimes cheer the darkness of these ill-assorted unions.

* * * * *

—'SIR WE ARE TOO POOR TO BE ECONOMICAL.' These were the words which I once heard a woman use to a rich relative of her husband, who had followed up his refusal of assistance by allusions to many little short-comings which he had noted in the domestic details of the family. The phrase seems to involve a contradiction; but a little consideration will show even the most superficial thinker that it expresses a truth. Great is the power of ready money. Ready money can save by wholesale purchases. Ready money can save by choice of place of purchase. Ready money can save by choice of proper time for purchase. Ready money can save by discount obtained under threat of discontinuance of trade; a threat futile in the mouths of the poor. Ready money can save in furniture and wearing apparel, by being able to provide the best in fabric and construction, and therefore the most lasting. But it is needless to extend the catalogue of ready money's powers. None know them better than those who seldom are able to obtain their aid.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Quevedo has broadly satirized his faith in 'Childhood's happy hour'. In his Visions of Hell, where Satan, wearied by the continual grumbling of the condemned, requests them to leave, go back to life, be born again, and live it all over. On due reflection, they conclude that rather than suffer the whippings, schoolings, and scoldings incident to boy and girlhood, they—would prefer to stay where they were.—NOTE BY EDITOR.]



SKETCHES OF THE ORIENT.

The world is undergoing a wonderful change. Even within the memory of some twenty-five years, what events have occurred to verify the remark. Civilization changes all the preconceived perfections of the past, and introduces new scenes of life; it reforms without injuring, and leaves us undecided as to the value of the progress made. New customs and new habits leave man where he was; his nature is still the same, and perhaps he has only engrafted on a faulty structure what neither embellishes nor improves, and shows how slow is the progress of the human mind toward this goal for which it has, since the commencement of time, been bent.

This is peculiarly verified in the 'Orient,' the most ancient of climes and lands. Through the mist of so many centuries, so many thousands of years, the 'far East' has followed the 'even tenor of its way' through revolutions and systems; its usages have been consecrated by time, and the parent has handed down to his son the usages which were more nearly allied to the natural state of man than those of the more famed and progressing 'West.' The animal has had more sway than the intellectual part of his nature, and what the curious traveler most admires is the still primitive condition of the latter. Violence there reigns superior to reason, and if changes be made, the former consults but little the latter in the measures which it adopts for the prosecution of its plans. There is seldom any appeal made by the reformer to the understandings of the people to be reformed; they must blindly adopt the innovations offered, and this without the means of contrasting what they are thus compelled to receive at the hand of the bestower with what they forsake. Tossed in the billows of doubt, they are exposed to the rocks of misconception, and are too often wrecked through the total absence of any chart to guide them in their new voyage of life. The transitory step is always a dangerous one to a people who have not entire confidence in their leader, for his plans may inspire neither conviction nor approval, and if they fail, leave his followers exposed to all the fury of storms without any haven in which to seek a refuge.

Sultan Mahmoud, believing that European civilization was superior to that of the East, imagined that he adopted it, when he only assumed its exterior, the costume of Frankistan. How little did he know of the defects to which this simplest part of it led. Luckily, he adopted only the habiliments of the male sex, leaving those of the female unchanged. The flowing robes, full of ease and comfort; the turban, soft to the head, and giving it protection from the colds of winter and the heats of summer; the commodious shoe, which leaves the feet uncrumpled and free from the results of the tighter and closer ones of the West, were laid aside for the dress of Europe. The only part of the garb which we use, that he did not assume and compel his people to accept, was the unseemly and uncomfortable hat, and this he would also have taken, had religion not interposed to prevent it. Of all parts of the Christian's costume, the hat is the most calculated to inspire disgust in the sight of the native of the Orient, and if ever he adopts it, it is because it is supposed to cover him with protection against the injustice of his own rulers, and not from any preference or even choice. It is always an object of ridicule, and serves to point many a remark of derision and contempt against the wearer. On the other hand, what is more noble and dignified than the turban, with its snowy white folds, or its varied hues of green or red? Just as the external appearance of the colored man, and the knowledge of his total deprivation of civil abilities perpetuates the existing prejudice against him, so does the dress of the Frank clothe him with all that is distasteful and revolting in the eyes of the native of the East, with his prejudices dating back to the earlier days of the prophets. To pass over the external appearances of the reformed Eastern, let us examine the results of the civilization of Europe with which his costume has clothed him. Tight clothes have unfitted him for the broad and soft luxury of the sofa, and many persons resume the flowing robe and full trowsers within doors, so as to be able to enjoy the comforts which they lost with them. For the same reason, they must sit at a high table, on a high chair. The sleeve of the tight coat scarcely permits of being rolled up, so that the man of the East can return to his primitive use of his fingers in place of the fork, and for this he rejects the coat for the flowing pelisse, or he goes to his meal in his shirt-sleeves. It is amusing to see the homme de bureau, or the humble clerk, endeavoring to sit on his sofa cross-legged, with his writing paraphernalia before him as formerly, or to examine the broad chair which he has had to invent, so as to suit himself to his new transitory state. It may even be doubted whether he has gained any thing by the change, as a cavalier, for the full trowsers were far more comfortable than the present tight pantaloons, and any one who has seen the Bedouin horsemen, with their commodious saddles and flowing robes, must have given them his entire approbation in point of contrasted beauty.

As yet the Oriental has made no innovation in his domestic life and habits, or if any, it is that his ladies wear the slender botine of the Christian lady in place of the loose slipper of former years. As yet there is no commingling of the sexes, no excursions by land and sea in boats or carriages together, in undisturbed and unrestricted familiar intercourse. The lady of the house has not yet met her husband's friends at the dinner-table, at the social soiree, or in the ball-room. He is quite willing to go to these, at the house of his Frank friend, but he has not been convinced of the propriety of the change, and his sovereign has not carried his reforms into harem life. It will require some years yet to fit the Oriental for witnessing the displays of female beauty at such places with the calm indifference of the more accustomed native of Frankistan. He is willing, however, to commingle with the females of his European neighbors' household, even to embrace them in the mysteries of the mazy polka or waltz; but he hesitates admitting that such are the advantages or benefits of civilization. Indeed, it may be doubted whether his own wife and daughters would suffer such, were they told that they might do so without fear of reproach; for it is mostly to the mothers and wives that the Eastern world owes its tardy progress in the civilization of the West. Some time since, during the late Carnival, there was a Persian ambassador present at a ball given by the Italian minister, attended by the ambassador extraordinary of the Shah of Persia, who had never been to Europe or in a 'civilized European' society. Being asked by a foreign gentleman how he was, and how he liked the ball, he frankly replied, that such an exhibition as that of the beautiful ladies assembled there decolle, etc., had taken him quite by surprise; that it was more than his nerves could stand, and he felt so bad that he thought of leaving the ball and retiring to his own quarters. The same gentleman, to induce him to remain, jocosely told him that it was the paradise of the Christian, whilst his (that of Mussulmans) was in the life to come. At this he smiled, and turning toward a bevy of very handsome young ladies, dressed in the hight of the fashion, his eyes gloating on the fair scene, answered, that he admired the Christian paradise very much, and as the other was somewhat uncertain, he thought he could be satisfied with the persons now around him. It is quite possible that, except for the loss of dignity which would have attended the act, the Shah's ambassador might easily have been induced to join in a polka with one of the infidel houris then present.

Many of the Mussulmans (Turks) of Stamboul come over the Golden Horn to Pera, to witness the merry scenes of the Christian Carnival. They do not select the most fashionable places of resort, and consequently fall into rather doubtful company. They come sometimes with a companion or two, but prefer to have only their own people with them, or at most a toady or two to keep them in countenance. Such a person finds a conspicuous place, where he can see what is going on, throws off his more than half European coat, puts on his loose pelisse, calls for his Tchibook, or pipe, and, it must be added, something very much like hot punch, and goes in for the full enjoyment of the evening. In an hour or two, he is rather 'pulverized,' and very disregardful of what he says and does. The true semi-barbarian then comes to view; he becomes very ostentatious, and is disposed to act the fast man; a friend will always find him a lady, whom he invites to accompany him over to his konak, (private dwelling in Stamboul,) which she refuses; he urges her to play faro or rouge et noir with his money, which she does, until his purse is rather light, and by this time our Turk is so far insensible as to require to be conveyed to his carriage by the toadies or private attendants above mentioned. This he thinks is all right, and calls it a la Franka, or conformably with European civilization and fashion.

The Armenian and Greek ladies, too, are adopting the same ideas of reform and improvement in social life. One of the former, a fair, married lady, of good family, having lately fallen in with a young and handsome foreigner attached to one of the legations, allowed his visits to become more and more frequent, so that one day her husband, returning home rather sooner than expected, caught the couple in flagrante delicto. This was carrying European civilization somewhat to a delicate point; but she shielded herself against the husband's reproaches by the assertion that it was a la Franka, and the matter was compromised without any 'secession movement.'

The late Sultan built a theatre, and had a corps of ballet-girls for private amusement. He frequently gave entertainments at the former to the foreign legations, and one season even attended a bal pare at the British Embassy, and a bal en ordinaire at the French. This rather startled some of his subjects; but as such things were considered a la Franka, it passed over without any serious results. At the former, it is said, an amusing incident occurred, which, if not altogether true, is bon troveto. The late Sultan was extremely sensitive about coming in close contact with non-believers in the principles of the blessed Prophet. He never could touch the letter accrediting a foreign ambassador without hastening to perform ablutions, and as to conforming to the custom of shaking hands with an infidel, it was too horrible to be thought of for a moment. All animals, except horses, he held in abhorrence, and changed his entire costume several times a day, if he happened to have occasion to expose himself even to the winds blowing from the direction of the infidel hill on which Pera, the residences of the Christians, are built. On his arrival at the ball in question, he was, as is customary, shown into a private apartment, for a moment's repose previous to entering the salon in which hundreds of gay visitors were collected. The apartment happened to be that of the lady of the Ambassador, in fact, her boudoir, in which her poodle-dog, Bijou, had been accustomed to stay. Scarcely had the Sultan taken a seat, before poor Bijou made his appearance, and was at once driven away by some of the frightened attendants; but soon after returning unnoticed, the spiteful brute approached the Sultan, and offered the greatest indignity in his power to the pantaloons of the sensitive monarch. Imagine the indignation which occurred, and the designs of the wily British Ambassador to civilize the Turkish Sultan would have been wholly frustrated had not the chief gardien of the Sultan's wardrobe fortunately brought with him a full fresh suit for his master, in case of eventualities.

On the same occasion, the British Ambassador, for the same laudable purpose of civilizing the various clergy of the Ottoman capital, had insisted upon the Armenian, Greek, and Catholic Armenian Bishops and the Greek Rabbi of the Jews appearing at his bal pare in their canonicals! Against this they strongly remonstrated, but the influence of the Ambassador was greater than their own, and they had to make their debut at his ball in full dress. But this was, however, soon forgotten, as it was all a la Franka.

Some years ago, the late Sultan, on the occasion of the circumcision of one or two of his sons, gave a series of entertainments to his own functionaries, and one to the foreign diplomatic corps, in one of the valleys on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, called Hyder Pacha. With the view of properly amusing the foreign legations, a la Franka, the Sultan got up an extemporary theatre, adjoining the splendid pavilion, in which his guests were assembled. The play selected as best calculated for the purpose, was the Milliner's Shop, the like of which the Sultan had noticed while passing through the great street of Pera—the windows filled with bonnets, dress-caps, crinolines, etc., and very handsome dolls, some quite as 'large as life,' decolle, and thanks to the miniature crinolines, often showing very well-made chaussures and ankles. The little stage was not much raised above the green sward of the valley—a ditch had been dug out for the use of the orchestra, and the counter of the milliner separated this from the audience. As the whole affair had been got up rather hurriedly, the entrepreneur had not been able to procure a sufficient number of blocks on which to exhibit the bonnets and caps, and as men were readily obtained for the purpose, holes were cut in the counter, through which these thrust their heads, and on them rested the articles in question. A man also figured against the wall, on whom to hang up a ready-made dress or two, while his head also served as a block for a first-rate bonnet with flowers and feathers to suit the occasion. Now the weather had threatened a change, and much to the regret of the Sultan and his Court, who had it at heart to give such an entertainment to the diplomatic corps of Europe as would tell largely in the papers, and prove the great progress made by him in civilization, just as the play commenced, the rain began to fall in torrents. In their pavilion, the foreign ambassadors, etc., were somewhat secure, but not so the dramatis personae. The ditch soon filled with water, and the orchestra had to hold their instruments above their heads, while the water rose to their waists, and finally drove them to open 'secession.' But the man-blocks which supported the millinery were still more to be pitied. Their heads were fast in the holes made, and partially closed again in the centre, so that they were unable to escape from the rain which deluged the whole affair. The water fell in torrents over the gay bonnets, caps, crinolines, etc., until they became a mass of tawdry, and the bare pates of those under them came ludicrously into view. It required the assistance of a carpenter and his aids to get the poor fellows free from their bondage, and enable them to seek safety in flight. As to the man fastened against the wall, he bore his torture, and the merriment which he occasioned among the audience, for some time, but finally was compelled to put an end to his part of the entertainment by a timely retreat.

Sultan Mahmoud was the first reformer of the Ottoman Empire, and his second son, Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz, the last. The reforms of the late Sultan, Abd-ul-Mejid, nearly ruined him, and the consequence is, that the present sovereign has wisely concluded to fall back upon some of the older fashions of his people. Mahmoud thought to drive away the remembrance of the Dervish-Janissaries whose violences seldom allowed a Sultan to die of disease, and never of old age. To effect this, he disbanded their several corps, and created new ones, in another dress. Perhaps this was wise at the time, but the object once reached, he might—or his successor, at most—have restored the broken spirit of his people, by a return to their national costume. It was only by force and fear that he induced his new troops to adopt the dress of the deeply detested Ghiaours, and the measure greatly alienated the respect and affections of his subjects, especially those of the interior of the empire. The higher classes of the capital assumed it with less reserve, on account of the economy which it admitted, and because it was a la mode, but the lower were less disposed to lay that one aside which had been worn by their ancestors, and served to designate the true Mussulman. The picturesque costume of the natives of Arabia, of Egypt, Syria, and Albania, had to be thrown aside for the tight pantaloons and coat of the Infidel, and Mahmoud went so far even as to require the Bombardiers of his army to wear a head-dress, black, and tall as a hat, differing from it by the absence of a rim, and open on the top, covered only with a bag of dark silk, drawn together with a cord. This, how-ever, disappeared in the reign of his successor.

The present Sultan has adopted a middle course. Without either restoring the costumes of the Janissaries, or even assimilating the habiliments of his troops to that which they wear in their own country, which would have inspired a strong and useful esprit de corps, he has accepted the uniform of the Zouave and Turcos of the French army. It is sufficiently Oriental to meet the object desired, and is very popular in the Sultan's army. It leaves to the wearer the free use of his limbs, but as a parade-dress will not show so favorably, to European eyes, as the more dignified dress of the Guards. The most difficult part of a military costume is the head-dress; and the common red cap of the Turks, called the Fez, is even more objectionable than the unseemly slouched hat worn in the regular army of the United States. Around this cap the Sultan has had a small turban bound, in one or two folds, which is a relief to the eye, and easily kept in order. It is readily taken off, in case of need, and may be bound around the waist as a sash, or girdle.

This change in the dress of his army has given to his people the idea that their new Sultan is anti-Christian, and will restore the Ottoman Empire to its former state and condition. How far this will be verified, still rests to be seen. Reforms not entirely needed, and but half carried out, leave the recipients in that transitory state which weakens and demoralizes without effecting any permanent and real benefit. An external change is certainly less efficient than a moral one, but it goes far toward influencing the feelings of patriotism and loyalty which are so essential to man in his political condition, and it is more than probable that the anti-reforms of Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz will effect more real good in his capital, and elsewhere, than the boasted reforms of his illustrious father.



WITCHES, ELVES, AND GOBLINS.

The creative power of man, though so much boasted, is after all but a mere phantom—a vapor which rises from the ground and floats with little change of form from place to place. The diapason which we thought so extensive, appears, on inquiry, to consist of only a few notes, and the changes that may be rung upon them, may almost be counted upon the fingers. Homer's fables are near of kin to those of Shakspeare; the legends of ancient Greece find their details mirrored exactly in the traditions of Spain, Scotland, and Scandinavia. Whether in the remoter fogs of the past some glimmering traces of light may lead us to discover a common origin, a universal fountain, whence proceed pure and limpid all the streams that are contaminated by baser contact in their later course, is a question which might mightily task the most powerful minds. The gods of Greece and Rome are reproduced in Odin and Thor, Freia, and Gerda and Tduna. Aphrodite at Athens, Venus on the Seven Hills, Freia in the North, differ but in name. Dark hair and coal-black eyes, and a warm, sunny beauty may please the ardent inhabitants of Greece and Rome; the Swedes and Germans may bow before golden hair and blue eyes, fair and blooming cheeks. But transport the Grecian Aphrodite to the Dofrefield glaciers, and she will soon grow white as their snow, her eyes will fade to the pale cold blue of their skies, and with the winter frosts her hair will turn like fall leaves, golden yellow; and under the sun of Italy, Freia will tan to the burning, dark-hued, voluptuous Venus of the South. The two soils naturally breed the one cold statues, the other passionate life, but these two different phases are in themselves identical, Thor's hammer, and the various wonderful exploits of the Northern gods and goddesses, their dim, ill-defined notions of creation, of time and space, and of future worlds, are but natural growths from the nature of the North. Their gods, like their men, are all action, and to raise their actions above those of the human race, they naturally invest them with peculiar supernatural physical endowments, and a strange, mysterious mode of action. The powers of magic come to their aid; they are not absolutely omnipotent. Dwarfs forge them invincible arms in subterranean caverns; earth, air, fire, and water, conspire to assist them. The elements rage or are appeased at their command.

In the same way the gods of Greece and Rome are all repose. Their actions acquire a superiority over those of man not by supernatural agencies or extraordinary developments of physical power; their preeminence lies in the quiet assumption of power, in the immediate sequence of action on volition. Their divinity is esoteric, consisting in attributes innate and not assumed. Action with them is power; but in the North power must be superadded.

Thus we find all the various attributes embodied in the gods of the South, likewise deified and modified in the North, Thus Loke is the Mercury of the ancients. He is the same sly rogue as Hermes, though he has not some of the better qualities of that god. He is essentially the god of deceit. His deceptions are more subtle and deep-laid than those of the Grecian adept. He combines with the Pagan element something of the old Christian Satanic element. Without the horn and hoof of the Christian devil, he has all his peculiar mental qualities, and uses them to the great prejudice and harm of the other gods. So, likewise, with many of the more human [Greek: muthoi]. We find the same ideas to spring up in the agora of Athens, the wilds and snows of Norway, and the heathers and hills of Scotland. The fable of the Sirens finds an exact counterpart in the North. Like Ulysses, Duke Magnus and innumerable others escape with difficulty from the charms and enticements of sea-nymphs. Sometimes it is their wonderful song which the earth and the elements obey as they did Orpheus, that attracts them. Sometimes it is by more sensual blandishments, and sometimes by sweet and tender persuasion, suadae medulla. Mountain elves start from the ground, and from unseen caverns, and attempt to entice brave knights to their ruin; they dance round them beneath the trees, and endeavor to make them join in their dances. The natural fortitude of the stalwart champions is rarely able to resist the temptation, and they are always on the point of falling, when some unoffending barn-yard fowl sounds the signal for retreat, or some Christian word is uttered, or sign made, and the fair visions vanish, either naturally or in divers shapes with odors of brimstone and sulphur. The differences between the Grecian and the Northern conceptions are striking. In the Greek the forms are clear and vivid. The sirens are beautiful women, with angelic voices and vulture's talons. There are nothing but conceivable realities in their story. There is nothing strange or supernatural in their accessories. But in the Scandinavian elves the case is different. They vanish and reaeppear at different times; they have no actual, permanent existence. The crow of a cock or the sign of the cross is enough to drive them back to their hiding-places. They shun daylight and fixed, customary spots. They generally surprise casual travelers, and upon them in lone, romantic spots, practice all their arts of enticement and seduction. There is always something of magic, of the supernatural, connected with them. The Greek sirens are not like common women; but once conceive of their physical existence, and you understand them thoroughly. Their laws of action are purely human, and we do not find them one half so unnatural as our neighbor that has a splay foot or a hunchback. The Northern witches, however, are formed like human females, but obey unknown and mysterious powers. The commonest words and associations of men are bans to them. Only so long do they have power as nothing human disturbs and overthrows their supernatural spells.

Again let us look for a moment at another division of Grecian fiction. The grim Cyclops who toils for Vulcan, working like mortal men, and forging divine things, it is true, like any Grecian blacksmith, has a counterpart of a somewhat different character in the North. The reality and vividness of the Greek changes as we approach the Pole. In deep caverns distorted, strange little dwarfs work by the aid of supernatural powers wondrous weapons, swords of incredible qualities, armor that defies mortal blades, bracelets of wondrous and cunning finish and singular properties—all here is miraculous, the workman, the process, and the work. The vividness with which Homer presents to us the one-eyed Polyphemus, with his tree-staff and his ponderous body, is exchanged by the Scandinavian for smallness, indistinctness of form and of power. The grand in the South is obtained by giving enlarged pictures of man as he is; in the North, by investing him with strange, magic, mysterious qualities. In mental as well as material nature, a general haziness of outline conveys the idea of greatness as strongly, though in another manner, as the sharp and perceptible outline of any thing really great.

This peculiarity we shall find running through the literature, the character, and the mind of the two nations. The North is misty, undefined, illimited; the Greek is clear as crystal, sharp and angular, on every side. Its conceptions are never vague, but are tangible, real, and human. Thus with the Greek, a vast ocean, like that they know, encircles the whole earth, and fixes its bounds and the limits which man shall not pass; the Northerns compassed it about with a vast serpent of immense size, which bounded infinity and space, time and eternity, thereby mirroring, in some degree, as it were, the ancient symbol for time and space without end, the snake biting his own tail, the circle with no one beginning nor end. The heaven of the Greeks is the summit of one of their own mountains, known to every peasant and inhabitant. Accessible only to the gods, there they live, as unconcernedly as though the earth were not. Thor, and Odin, and Freia live in the 'Shining Walhalla,' whither go the souls of brave and good warriors. Their way thither is over the heavenly bridge, the many-colored rainbow, thrown over between heaven and earth for the passage of the happy souls. And there in this dim, ghostly Walhalla they sit like the Grecian gods, and drink mead instead of ambrosia and nectar. They do not share in the earthly vices of the Southern gods. Thor never begat such a progeny as Jupiter.

Repose is also, as hinted at, a characteristic of Southern mythology, while action, assisted by supernatural agencies, is the feature of the Northern deities. Thus Jupiter sits majestic and silent upon Olympus and nods his head, and the whole earth shakes. He is human in his character, but of an ideal and superior human nature—man immensely magnified. The gods of Norway are also human, but they are, in themselves, mere men. What makes them gods is the magic power which is joined with them, a mere adjunct not forming a part of them. They toil and act like men—they are never still. Thor bears the hammer, the emblem of physical strength, energy, and activity. He can at a draught half drain the sea, and cause the tides to rise and ebb; he can lift the serpent that surrounds the world; he can wrestle with Death himself, and almost come off victorious. The giants are his mortal enemies, and against them he wages war and bears deadly hatred, as Jupiter against the Titans. None but the warrior, who has fought long and well, enjoys the long dreamt-of mead of Walhalla. A death on one's own bed is almost as ignominious as that of the coward. The straw-death (stroedod) they will endeavor to avoid by opening their own veins and bleeding to death, and as the warm life-blood pours forth, they sing triumphant death-songs, and see the portals gradually open to receive them, and Braga the Scald, seated at the gate with his magic-sounding harp, his fingers running through the golden strings, and in such ecstasies they give up the ghost. The Greek dies in a more quiet, philosophical, and practical manner. He does not fear the shame of a warm and soft bed. Achilles, and Ajax, and Diomed, are not the only inmates of Elysium. Socrates, and Plato, and Homer, Apelles and Zeuxis, are all there too. The poet and the philosopher, the painter and the sculptor, rank as high through pen, pencil, and chisel, as the warrior by his blade and his bloody exploits. Art, in the North, finds no existence, and strikes no sympathizing chord in the bosoms of the sturdy Northmen. Art, to be perfect, requires a distinctness of conception, and an assimilation to human nature in its subjects, entirely at variance with the dim, mysterious character of the Scandinavian imagination. Painting is a thing utterly unknown, and sculpture, where found, deals in shapeless blocks and huge, massive, ill-proportioned forms, analogous to the primitive Egyptian art. In the Northern mythology and legendary history, minstrels play an important part. They are as indispensable as the Welsh bards, though not invested with the same authority as they. At the table of the gods, Braga strikes his wonderful harp and chants the triumphal hymns of dead warriors as they enter the Walhalla. Round the boards of the rougher Vikings, among the muscular, sun-browned champions, hardened to blood and strife, the minstrel is ever present, and as the huge cups pass around the long line, they sing the triumphs and praises of their hosts. They are like the old Grecian minstrels; like Phemius and Demodocus, they chant old memories of great sea-kings and champions, legends of magic elves and dwarfs, and wondrous and often touchingly beautiful stories of love and passion. The vague impressions of music seem to harmonize marvelously with the Northern nature. It is wild and weird in its character, for much of it, with the innumerable ballads of those days, have reached us from father to son, and vividly recall the times whence they date, and the men whose characters they mirror. There is often a magic element connected with their music. The music of the elves is like that of the sirens and of Orpheus, often irresistible. Through many of their ballads runs the same legendary undertone. A maiden's song moves the king's heart, and one by one he offers in vain every gift in his power, to the very half of his kingdom, and ends by placing a crown of gold upon her head, and seating her beside him on his throne as his lawful queen. The story of the two sisters, one ugly and one beautiful, reappears in the North in various forms. The younger and more lovely of the two is murdered, and the elder is to wed her bride-groom. Pilgrims who meet with the body, make a lyre from the bones, and string it with the golden hair of the maiden, and as they play at the bridal, each string tells its tale of horror in turn, while the unhappy sister sinks under these inanimate accusations.

In the Greek myths we find none of these mysterious elements. The supernatural creations we meet with are innumerable, and no less strange in themselves. But there is nothing in Polyphemus, in Circe, in the Sirens, beyond their physical natures, which can make us look beyond ourselves to understand and fully sympathize with them. Once fully grasp their superhuman endowments, and you feel they act like men on a large scale. Not so with the Northern supernatural beings. In themselves they approach nearer to men, and are but little above them in endowments and character, but it is their mode of action which makes them superior to us; their divinity and power lie not in themselves, but in the agents, visible and mysterious, that they employ. They are not like Jupiter, omnipotent. They are brought to a stand quite as often as more humble mortals. Thor, without his hammer, is no longer Thor himself. His trusty Mjoelner is more to him than the thunderbolt of Zeus to the Grecian father of the gods. The eagle and thunderbolt of Jove, the aegis of Minerva, the girdle of Venus and Mercury's wands, are mere emblems of what powers their own natures give them. With the Northern deities their whole strength lies in the possession of these. Without them they are powerless, and in spite of all their might, they are often obliged to call on one another for assistance, and sometimes even stand in need of mortal aid. We may, perhaps, consider the Grecian gods as mere personifications and idealities, but those of the North are essentially real. They are the creations of a powerful but vague imagination, forms which resemble a Norwegian mountain, distinct in itself by its glittering snows and icy rocks, but which shrouds its head in a perpetual mist, except when some adverse wind with its indiscreet blowing, displays it in all its nakedness, and plain though grand reality.

Analogous to the story of Circe and Ulysses is a myth which forms the foundation of some of the most beautiful and pathetic ballads of Sweden, Denmark and Norway. The mountain king bears to his cavern in the hill-side a fair maiden, and with him

'For eight long years, I ween, she lived in the mountain there, And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a daughter fair.'

And here the resemblance ceases, and the Northern legend assumes a more beautiful tone. The maiden longs for her mother and her old home, and goes from the mountain king with the promise not to mention her seven sons. She tells her tale, however, and the elf-king straightway appears, and strikes her till the life-blood flows. She then says:

'Farewell, dear father, and farewell, dear mother, too, Farewell, my sister dear, and dear brother, farewell to you. Farewell, thou lofty heaven, and the fresh, green earth, farewell! Now wend I to the mountain where the mountain king doth dwell.'

And so they ride to the mountain, through the long, wild, black wood, the mother weeping bitter tears, while the elf-king smiles. Her little daughter reaches her a golden chair:

'Oh! rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe-begone.'

She takes the foaming mead in her hand,

'And scarce from out the mead-glass bright the first draught does she take, (The hour goes heavy by,) Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary heart it brake, (Ah! well sorrow's burden know I.)'

That the Greeks had similar ballads and legends can not be doubted, but to revive them from their present destruction is a task beyond the power of science and antiquarianism. Hardly more than a quarter of a century has elapsed since the first important steps were taken in the North of Europe to preserve these ballads which had thus been orally handed down from ages that vanish in the darkness of the past, and which in a few years more, with the gradual disappearance of primitive simplicity in Sweden and Norway, might have been, for the greater part, lost to us forever. Who knows but that in some remote corner of Greece, in spite of the revolutions and shocks which have convulsed it, there may still lurk an occasional shadow at least of some good old popular song?

The refrains which accompany the Northern ballads, and which are, in fact, found among all nations whose ballad poetry has been preserved, merit some attention. Sometimes melancholy and sad, sometimes gay and joyous, they impart character wonderfully to the piece. There is something peculiarly mournful in the recurring of these sad, touching thoughts and words, and as the interest of the ballad deepens, their touching simplicity grasps more deeply into the soul, and affects us in a manner which nothing else could. When they are joyous—a rarer form, however—they impart to us also their own buoyancy and gayety. Sometimes they convey the moral of the piece, some simple yet profound reflection, which marks by itself the feeling that pervades the whole ballad; at other times they are merely descriptive of nature, and borrow their enlivening or heart-rending character from the assimilation or contrast they present with the groundwork of the poetry. The origin of this kind of refrain is evidently due to the manner in which the ballads were composed. Mainly extemporized, both words and music, by wandering scalds or minstrels, the refrain was a pause to enable the singer to compose the next line. The utter disregard of rhyme, alliterations the most slight and imperceptible, and words of no similarity of sound almost always taking their place, rendered this a very easy task. A thorough knowledge and mastery of legendary lore, and a little power and concentration of thought and imagery, were the only qualities requisite for a ballad-monger. Some of them bear the marks of superior minds, both by their wonderful vividness of description and by the tone of deep, genuine feeling which pervades them throughout.

There is a wonderful affinity between the Scotch and the Norwegians and Swedes, especially in their traditionary literature, which marks a common origin and common customs at some remote period. We find among the genuine Scotch ballads many that are almost literal versions of the same Scandinavian legends no less indigenous in their own land. A large number of the most beautiful Scotch ballads plainly point to an extraneous Northern origin, and their exact counterparts in form, ideas, and words, we find circulating as popular songs among the Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian peasantry. These may often be traced back centuries, at the end of which they seem still to be as old and as thoroughly implanted in their native soil as they now seem. They have been sung from mouth to mouth, with the same wild old melodies and the same quaint language, as they were sung centuries ago among the scenes they so faithfully depict.

The characteristics we have so briefly alluded to as marking the two classes of nations, namely, mysterious grandeur among the Northmen, and among the Greeks ideality, grandness, and vividness of conception, might by skillful hands be traced in more modern times under the influence of an ever-changing and growing civilization. I will only allude, in passing, to a few prominent points.

The literature of Greece, as we know it, had already reached its hight, two thousand years before our time. It was already gray with years before the North had begun its infancy. Homer is the boundary which is insurmountably opposed to our further retrospection, and Homer is already the beginning of perfection in Greek letters. Of earlier periods we can but conjecture that there must have been such, bearing a character analogous to the relics of those nations whose fabulous history is better known to us. Northern literature can hardly be said to have had an existence till within the last hundred years. Before that time we must look for all phases of progress and germs of progress in the physical and animal character of the nation, their social and political features and relations. The vividness and ideality of the ancients find their natural change in the more purely impassioned style of more modern Southern poetry. Their creations have naturally lost with the fall of paganism, the supernatural endowments they had, and retaining in some their ideality, they have hightened and fired the human nature they depict by the addition of wilder and more flaming passions, of love that consumes, and ambition, revenge, and hatred that destroy. Thus we again obtain consistent characters governed by human laws, but raised above the ordinary mass of men by different qualities from those which ennobled ideal creations among the ancients. Repose still constitutes greatness in some instances; but the inner man is made all fire, and seething metal, ever-burning and quenchless. Elevation and subtlety of ideas naturally follow these causes, they are another natural growth of the simple ideality of conception.

The Northern character at the present day has very different qualities. Though renowned for philosophical and metaphysical prose, yet their poetry they require to deal with realities and not with ideas; it must be clear as a fountain, and any opaqueness is an inexcusable flaw. They are yet in the infancy of literature, and the imagination is still more sensuous than acute and subtle. However much they court abstractions in prose, in verse they love only the actual, the real, the tangible. Nature, and not metaphysics, are the subjects of their poetry, and they still preserve a freshness and simplicity reminding of more ancient and ruder days, delightful amidst the hair-splitting of most modern poetry. Their infancy is like the infancy of all national literatures, peculiarly modified by the advanced state of civilization in which their birth was thrown. At first sight there seems something unnatural and unaccountable in this apparent contradiction in the character of the nation, manifested respectively in their prose and their poetry. But on farther examination all becomes clear as a spring day. Their prose was, as their whole literature might and should have been, contemporary with their civilization through its various phases. Metaphysics is the last refinement, or rather, corruption, which national literature undergoes. Their prose had naturally arrived at this stage when the true poetic feeling woke for the first time. And in spite of the rational tendencies of the age, it assumed that character of warm, bodily imagination which marks all early literatures. The tendency to the mysterious and the superhuman has mostly vanished, and more vivid conceptions of every thing have, under their Christian development, taken the place of dim magic and weird creations. Northern poets still delight in dealing with those wonderful poetical inventions of their own ancient mythology, and revel among the elves and dwarfs that surround the bosoms of mountains and woods. Lif, with her golden hair, Gerda, with cheeks like auroras, the cunning Loke, with his mixture of guile, wickedness and deceit, Thor's mighty Mjoelner, and the mead-horns of Walhalla—from among these wonderful beings, they have culled with a careless hand, and every sprig and flower is radiant with poetic beauty. The taste for old legends and traditions has revived within a few years, and scholars and antiquarians are now laying open unknown mines of treasure.



A TRUE ROMANCE.

Among my friends at Rome, during a few weeks that I spent there, was one old resident of the 'Eternal City' whom I had often begged to give me some authentic narrative of Catholic experience. He was naturally reserved, jealously truthful, a 'know-nothing' upon religious controversy, not at all the man to invent an exciting story, not fond of legends, Romish or Genevan, not a violent partisan of republicanism in church or state, and not familiar enough with American thought to suspect the use that might be made in the United States of such an incident as I am now to repeat. In fact, as I compare him with other sources of intelligence open to travelers, sure as I am that no one could question his belief of whatever he told, every weight that character, intelligence, years, experience, could confer, rests upon the only monkish secret which he professed to know. One night he invited me to a subterranean restaurant, famous for its excellent creature-comforts, and there over some royal English beer, without any graces of style or attempts to exaggerate the incidents, he unfolded what I believe to be a true record of unblessed love.

General readers are familiar with the fact that many a nun immures herself for life under a sort of moral compulsion, because her high-born family has become too indigent to maintain its stately style of living, because the lady herself is in danger of contracting some degrading alliance, declines peremptorily such connection as her relations approve, or has committed some imprudence that clouds over her future prospects. The secret influences which entangle men in the Catholic orders correspond to this. It would be arrant bigotry to doubt that some offer up an unstained heart, in aspirations for usefulness or sighs for holiness; but many times a youth is led blindfold to the altar by ambitious relatives, like Talleyrand, and discovers too late his perfect unfitness for the vow he has assumed. And these last are they whose lives become a scandal to their profession, whose levity shocks so many Protestant observers, whose consciences have no true peace, who die sometimes in open unbelief and, living, are the worst enemies of the cause they advocate.

As my story goes, at nearly the same time that a gallant young man of high family disappeared from the gay circles of Rome, a lovely girl of distinguished parentage had suffered her blonde tresses to be shorn, her graceful limbs draped in forlorn russet, her merry meetings with girlish spirits like herself exchanged for the tears of the confessional, the lengthened prayers of the cloister, the frequent fastings and sometimes scourgings of monastic life. The cause of this contemporaneous disappearance was known only to the most intimate friends of two celebrated but no longer wealthy families, who deemed the sacrifice necessary, and so recked not of the wounds it might make, the perjuries it might tempt, the life-struggle of duty with feeling it might cause.

Time passed on. Forgotten by society, it was supposed these victims of artificial life had forgotten the circles they were wont to charm, forgotten almost themselves in a system most ingeniously arranged to blot out one's individuality and to make its subject a perfectly ordered part of a grand machine. But, unsuspected by their friends, unknown to their superiors, these two pledged hearts had met. Love will break through even convent-walls, will speak amidst monastic silence, will rise unbidden under ascetic discipline. No one can tell, very few can imagine how they agreed upon their trysting hour. Through a neglected drain, from some underground apartment, where she had been imprisoned for negligence, the slender form of the delicate maiden worked its way into the free air where her lover awaited her in the eagerness of a stolen pleasure; and the hours supposed to be given to prayer or repose flew fast in the worship of the 'winged god.' If I recollect rightly, there were deeply-shaded groves not far from their place of meeting, in which they felt secure from observation during the night season.

But Love has always been blind to its own peril: a prudent lover would be indeed a black swan; if such there have been, these were not. And one night, when the beautiful nun would return through the friendly passage in season, that her absence might not be detected when the sisters were summoned to their matin service, the rain, whose torrents she had not noticed while her lover's arm sheltered her, had filled up the only pathway to her cell, and not even by the hazard of life could she recover her room once more. A few hours more, and her absence would inevitably come to light, would be fearfully punished, if not by a death such as Scott portrays in one of his poetical legends, by a disgrace far worse than physical suffering, from which nothing but the grave could give her relief. The alternative, flight, where no provision had been made, with no possible help from any friend, with the likelihood of treachery where they might least expect it, seemed impossible.

In despair rather than hope, the forlorn lady recollected that her uncle, who had some spiritual supervision over the Roman convents, though he was sure to be more outraged by her misstep than any one else, had (besides the motive of shielding a family name from disgrace) perhaps some remaining affection for his favorite niece. At any rate, if she were to die, she thought it would be a satisfaction to die humanely, by the speedy stroke of offended honor than by such cruel penances as would slowly wear life away. And, what might she not hope, if there were still one humane drop in that aged bosom, one indulgent memory of youthful passion beneath that austere cowl, one fond thought of a childhood which seemed to herself a dream of paradise, when his hand blessed her curling head, and his lips gave a parting kiss, returned so heartily by herself.

There was not a moment to lose—they hardly knew how time had sped, but they had never found his wings slow when they were together. So, hand in hand they hastened to the presence which was to be either deliverance or condemnation to them both; and when at last they reached the palace, and after some delay were admitted to kneel before his eminence, no words can paint the horror with which he exchanged his dreams of the papal chair for a sight of the apostate priest and self-doomed nun confessing in one breath that they had 'loved not wisely, but too well'—that God once brought together those whom cruel relatives tore asunder—that he was their only escape from double ruin, and infamy worse than death.

The moments seemed hours while he who had approved the punishment of other celibates for no greater sins, sought how he might ward off a blow that struck so near his own bosom—that was to crush one the grace of whose childhood had not been more marked than her affection for himself—than the earnestness of the tone with which she was wont to declare herself 'his little daughter.' He had not the courage to hazard his position by espousing her cause or undertaking her escape. He felt that she had been more sinned against than sinning, in having been forced into a vow of perpetual virginity when she had already made another vow which her loving nature had rejoiced to keep.

And yet, the preservation of his dignity was of infinite moment to his peace—nor could he help seeing that a flood of disgrace would sweep over the Church were such breaches widened by the public protection of the offenders, and, of course, the enemies of monastic institutions would seize upon the opening for fiercer assaults.

Suddenly he dismissed the erring brother in too much trouble to bestow the admonition which the other was in too great anxiety to heed—threw over the trembling girl the cloak and hat of a common citizen—summoned his household servants together as quickly as possible, and hastened in the twilight of early dawn to the sleeping convent with as large an attendance as such hot haste would permit.

For some time no admittance could be obtained; and the rain seemed to pour down in sheets, as if all the windows of heaven were open. But his orders were peremptory, his authority was ample, his excuse ingenuity itself: 'He had just heard that a man was secreted within those consecrated walls; he was determined to see for himself, if he had to tear one stone from another; under his supervision no such infamy should be so much as suspected.' And so, making a virtue of necessity, the panic-struck lady abbess yielded her dignity, and the posse of pretended inspectors stood within the drowsy walls before one rose-tint in the East threatened their secret with exposure.

So responsible an official could not be satisfied with seeing the nuns together, or witnessing their earliest chapel-service; he must enter every room, survey every cranny, and leave no possibility of deception, no corner for concealment. And posting some of his servants—whose excessive watchfulness might prove a little inconvenient—at the two principal entrances, with his remaining attendants he proceeded orderly from room to room, the superior refusing, as was expected, to sanction by her presence such an invasion of the sacred privacy of her institution. When they reached the cell adjoining that where our tale properly ends, the disguised nun was far enough in the rear of the feebly-lighted party, and they too busy in the pretended search, for her disappearance to be noticed—her uncle had made her see that this was the only chance—so, flinging the coat and hat through an open window into the yard, she glided with ghost-like tread into her own apartment, and when the drowsy servitors opened her door, she was seen upon her knees before the crucifix, praying more fervently than ever the jubilant prayer of a newly-rescued soul.

The trouble threatened to lead to some farther difficulties. For these ladies were of the Roman aristocracy, and their honor had been impeached, their sanctuary invaded, their solemn asseverations had been disregarded, their protector had become their accuser. It might have gone hard with the father who had planned this ingenious device to save his name from disgrace and shield his niece from suffering. But, just before the party turned from the convent-gate, a keen eye detected the fallen mantle; and the trophy was exhibited to the agitated superior, in proof that some of the forbidden sex had been lurking around, and had stolen away in terror from so formidable a search; she was warned to new vigilance, and offered every assistance for the future which the papal guards could bestow.

And so ends all that my informant knew of the love-lost girl. Her accomplice in guilt, who did not desert her till he saw there was hope in her uncle's face, was hurried away as a missionary to South-America; and, as the waves of the sea rolled between him and his only object of affection, he must have 'rejoiced with trembling' that the crimson waves of death had not mingled her and him in a common doom. He wanted the independence to detect the injustice of a system which made a pure attachment guilt, and its discovery condemnation; so he raised no protesting voice against it. Truly, the day of strange stories in Italy is not yet over.



HUGUENOTS OF NEW-YORK CITY.

Governor Stuyvesant was among the earliest to encourage the emigration of the Huguenots to New-York, and whose descendants for generations have ranked with our best and most honorable citizens. On the twenty-fourth of January, 1664, N. Van Beck, a merchant in New-Amsterdam, received letters from Rochelle, stating the wish of some French Protestants to settle in New-Netherland, as their religious rights had been invaded and their churches burned. The Governor and Council resolved to receive them kindly, and grant them lands gratuitously. In a letter of M. de Denonville to the French government, dated sixteenth November, 1686, he reports that fifty or sixty 'men, Huguenots,' arrived at New-Amsterdam, 'who are establishing themselves at Manat, (New-Amsterdam,) and its environs. I know that some have arrived at Boston, from France.' Although the waves of the Atlantic divided the two countries, the French King does not seem to have forgiven his banished subjects in America. In his instructions to Count De Frontenac, respecting the expedition from Canada against New-York, and dated seventh June, 1689, he directs him to 'send to France the French refugees, whom he will find there, particularly those of the pretended Reformed Religion,' or Huguenots. His royal but remorseless spirit was not gratified, however, as the French did not venture to attack New-York, and instead of their Protestant brethren being sent back to France, a few years afterward they erected a church for their own religious services. This was Du Saint-Esprit, and built on Pine street, directly opposite to the present Custom-House, by the Huguenots and Walloon settlers, the last of whom were a part of the French Protestants, although they emigrated to America from the river 'Wael.' An earlier French chapel had been erected on Marketfield street, then called Petticoat Lane, near the Battery. It was an humble edifice, but hither, every Lord's day, the Huguenots from the city, Staten Island, the Wallabagh, and New-Rochelle, by wagons, in which they lodged, were wont to assemble to worship God, without the fear of royal, persecuting edicts, or armed bands. L'Eglise Saint-Esprit was founded in the year 1704, with a cemetery adjoining. It was a plain, neat, stone building, and nearly square—its bell the gift of Sir Henry Ashurst, of London. On its tablet in front was inscribed: AEDES SACRA GALLOR PROT. REFORM. FONDA. 1704. PENITUS REPAR. 1741. In our day its sacred walls have been taken down, the dead removed, and the venerable spot, like many others in our busy city, is now devoted to Mammon. The successors of Saint-Esprit long since united with the Episcopalians, and erected the beautiful marble church in Leonard street, where the doctrines of the ever-blessed Reformation continue to be declared in the same language in which they were so eloquently preached two centuries ago, by Claude, Laurin, and other Reformed French Ministers.

The Rev. James Laboire was the first pastor of the Saint-Esprit, which soon numbered a flourishing congregation. Some of its members would walk from New-Rochelle, on Saturday night, to worship God in this place, and thus spending the holy day, would return home again in the evening, joyfully singing Marot's old French hymns to cheer them by the way. The Staten-Island Huguenots would make the same pious journey in their light skiffs and boats. For some years Mr. Laboire, the pastor, toward his support was 'allowed a yearly sallary of twenty pounds per ann. out of ye Revenue of this Province.' The religious services were here performed in the primitive manner of the French Calvinistic churches; but after the sovereignty of the English was established over the Dutch, the forms of their church worship were gradually introduced, until at length the Huguenot congregation united with the Protestant Episcopal, in this diocese.

In the Documentary History of New-York, vol iii. p. 427, may be found an old curious article, entitled, 'A Full and Just Discovery of the weak and slender foundation of a most Pernicious SLANDER, raised against the FRENCH PROTESTANT REFUGEES, inhabiting the Province of New-York, generally, but more particularly affecting Captain BENJAMIN FANUEL, a person of considerable note amongst them. Printed and published by license of his Excellency Edward Viscount Cornbury, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the said Province, in favor of Justice.'

It appears that one Morris Newinhuysen, a mate of a vessel, in 1706, was taken by the French, and a prisoner of war, at New-York, reported that the 'French Protestants' here corresponded with 'the inhabitants of France, tending to the taking and destruction of this city, by Her Majesty's declared enemies.' The New-York Huguenots considered this accusation a 'crime of so high a nature in itself,' and so 'altogether false and untrue,' as to petition Governor Burnet to cause 'the said Morris Newinhuysen, and all others who may appear concerned, to be strictly examined upon the same report, and if found out, be punished according to the nature of the crime.' This petition is dated 'February 10, 1707/8,' and signed by 'Stephen D'Lancey, Elias Nezereau, Abraham Jouneau, Thomas Bayeux, Elias Neau, Paul Deoilet, Augustus Jay, Jean Cazale, Benjamin Fanuel.' These must have been leading Huguenots at the time. To another petition of a similar character, we find the names of Daniel Cromelin, John Auboyneau, Francis Vincent, Alexander Allaire. His Excellency the Governor, ordered the report to be considered, which was done, when his Council reported that there was not 'any ground to suspect Captain Faneuil of holding a correspondence with France.' This was cheering news to the 'French Refugees' in the Province of New-York, as such a slanderous report, to use their own language on the occasion, was 'of pernicious consequence to all the French refugees in general, and disturbs their peace and quiet, and obstructs that affection and familiarity which they had formerly enjoyed with the other inhabitants of this Province, to their just grief and resentment.'

The Rev. Louis Rou was also a pastor of the 'Reformed Protestant French Church in New-York.' As early as the year 1713, among other names in its official records, are found John Barberie, elder, Louis Carre, ancien, Jean Lafont, ancien, Andre Fuyneau, ancien.' During the year 1724, there was great excitement in the French congregation, caused by a party question. Stephen De Lancey, a wealthy merchant, and patron of the church, with others became dissatisfied with the pastor. He was dismissed for want of zeal, and for innovations which they contended he had introduced into their church discipline; but the minister, with his friends, appealed from this decision to Governor Burnet and his Council, when they sustained him. Indignant memorials were published by both parties, and things went so far, that when De Lancey was elected to the Colonial Assembly, the Governor refused to administer his oath of office, alleging that he was not a subject of the British crown. De Lancey, the Huguenot, contended that he had left France before the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and had received denization in England, under the great seal of James II. He was right, and the Assembly sustained his argument and claims against his Excellency the 'Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Provinces of New-York, New-Jersies, and Territories thereon depending in America.'

For the curious in old families, among the official friends of the French minister, we find James Gou, John Hastier, Elias Pelletreau, Jr., Jean Va Chan, Andrew Foucault, Jacques Bobin, N. Cazalet, Samuel Bourdet, David Le Febrer, Francois Bourdet, Peter Morgat. They testify to Mr. Rou's 'exemplary piety and instruction for upwards of fourteen years,' which 'have rendered him exceedingly estimable to all who knows him, which can't but be acknowledged even by those who are now the occasion of this trouble.' We find a more general list of French families, his friends also, and dated thirty-first December, 1724, and they speak well of him, 'with edification, always leading an exemplary life:' James Bergerron, Francis Bosset, Daniel Girand, Daniel Gailliard, Elias Chardavoine, Paul Pelletreau, James Many, Gamaliel Guyele, Anthony Pintard, Jeremie La Touche, Samuel Bourdet, Jean Bachan, Elie Mainburt, Andrew Richard, James Belleveau, Peter Quintard, John Bosset, James Bobin, Daniel Bossuet, Charles Jardin, Amand Perot, William Huertin, John Vezier, Peter Dennys Doctr, John Many, Peter Tillou, Peter Ebrard, Henry Collier, John David, Noe Cazalet, Gabriel Le Boyteix, Jr., Elias Grosellier, Andrew Girand, Francis Baumier, James Des Brosses, James Renaudet, Lawrence Cornisleau, Daniel Mesnard, John Ganeau, Peter Monget, John Hastier, David Le Telier, Jean Le Chevalier, Philip Gilliot, Abraham Bertrand, Abraham Butler, Daniel Cromelin, John Pintard, Abraham Pontereau, Peter Burton, Stephen Bourdet, Paul Pinaud, Peter Fauconnier. As the same old chronicle says: 'Here followeth the names of the widow women, and others, members of the same church:' Rachel Ebrard, Elizabeth Heurtin, Marie Anne Ablin, Magdalene Fauconnier, Anne Bachan, Mary Perot, Susanne Magle Bosset, Mary Sergeran, Esther Bouniot, Marquise Boyteul, Martha Brown, Renee Mary Rou, Judith Morget, Martha Pentereau, Mary Bargeau, Susanne Boutecon, Susanne Ford, Mary Oaks, Mary Ellison, Martha Perot, Esther Masse, Elizabeth Tillou.

At this period, a Rey. Mr. Moulinars was the assistant minister of Mr. Rou, and united with the party who opposed him, and they also have left records of their views, in which they claim to have paid Mr. Rou in full, and that then the Consistory could dismiss him when they saw fit. 'We are not indebted unto Mr. Rou one farthing for all the time he hath served us,' is their language, and to their official act are the signatures of 'I. I. Moulinars, ministre, John Barheweeld, Louis Carreansien, Abraham Gouneau, ans., Fran. Cazalz, ans., Rene Het, ans., January twenty-eighth, 1724.' Still the Council decided in favor of Mr. Rou, and were 'of opinion that the said congregation be admonished that every person in it do all in his power to preserve peace and unanimity in their congregation.' That body also advised 'that the ministers of the French congregation who shall officiate next Sunday be ordered to read publicly the said opinion and admonition, immediately after divine service in the forenoon.'

All these efforts did not produce harmony in the French congregation. Moulinars evidently had a restless spirit, and was much opposed to the Church of England, at that time the established religion of the New-York Colony, and respected by many of the Huguenots. Through his efforts, a 'meeting-house' was erected for the French refugees at New-Rochelle, and its members numbered one hundred persons. One old document (May twelfth, 1725) records 'that the said Mr. Moulinars has declared (as can be proved) that he finds our Church (Episcopal) and that of Rome as like one another as two fishes can be ... and one of the chiefest reasons of this violence against Mr. Rou has no other ground than his constant affection to the Church, and the public approbation he has at all times given to its ceremonies and doctrines.' The churchmen also complained that Moulinars caused 'great prejudice in general to the Church of England, and in particular to that of New-Rochelle, where he would come quarterly from New-York, and plead among the people.' New-Rochelle was then a parish, and its rector, of course, considered the French preacher a dissenter. From the parochial account of the former, the town embraced two Quaker families, three Dutch ones, four Lutherans, and several of the French; and the Huguenots settling among them in the year 1726, gathered a congregation of 'about one hundred persons.'

The Rev. Messrs. Daille and Labord appear early to have served the French Protestant Church in New-York; but of the latter we have learned nothing. The former had been pastor awhile to the French Protestants in Boston. About the year 1690, the Dutch Church Consistory employed Mr. Daille to preach to the French in their own language, at New-York, and also to conduct the religious services of the pulpit during a part of the Lord's day.

In 1763, Jean Carll was the pastor of Du Saint-Esprit, for we discover his name, together with Peter Vallade and James Desbrosses, the present elders, Daniel Bounet and Charles Jardine, the present deacons of the French Protestant Church in the city of New-York, to a petition for a charter. Their church property, they state, was purchased agreeable to an act of the Legislature in 1703; 'a decent edifice for the public worship of Almighty God, according to the usage of the French Protestant Churches,' erected; 'and the residue they devoted to the use of the cemetery or church-yard for the interment of their dead.' 'Ever since, they have maintained a succession of ministers there, who have dispensed the ordinances of divine worship in the French tongue.' Besides this property, they received the rents of a house and parcel of ground in the township of Breucklin, on Nassau Island, near the ferry, and the French Church now asked from the legislative authorities a proper charter. With honest pride they boast, in their petition, of the most inviolable fidelity 'to all those indulgent states and powers who protected them from the merciless rage of their Popish persecutors. As your petitioners in particular are the descendants of a people who suffered the greatest hardships and flew from their native country to preserve the purity of the Christian faith and worship.' Eloquent and truthful words. The Huguenots were a great blessing to every land where they settled. The name of their body politic was 'the Ministers, Elders, and Deacons of the Protestant French Church of the City of New-York.'

During the Revolutionary War, New-York became literally a city of prisons. The pews of the North Dutch Church in William street were used for fuel, and eight hundred American prisoners were incarcerated within its old walls, without fuel or bedding, and here many died from cold and starvation. The 'Brick Meeting,' in Beekman street, was also used at first for a prison, and afterward changed into an hospital. The Rose-street Friends' Meeting-house and the Wall-street Presbyterian church became hospitals also, and Du Saint-Esprit was made a depot for military stores. The Middle Dutch, the present Post-Office, stripped of its sacred furniture, was the abode of three thousand American prisoners. 'Here,' says John Pintard, himself a most respectable member of the Protestant French Church near by, and an eye-witness of the disgusting sight, 'the prisoners taken on Long Island and at Fort Washington—sick, wounded, and well—were all indiscriminately huddled together by hundreds and thousands, large numbers of whom died by disease, and many were undoubtedly poisoned by their inhuman attendants, for the sake of their watches or silver buckles.' The suffering inmates were afterward transferred to other places of confinement, and the venerable building turned into a riding-school for the British dragoons. Its floor was taken up, the ground covered with tan-bark, and the window-sashes removed for this sacrilegious purpose. The French Huguenot church remained in its original form one hundred and thirty years, until 1834, when it was taken down, the grounds sold, and its dead disinterred and removed to other resting-places. In their native lands, the ashes of the Huguenots would sometimes be dug up, burned, and scattered by persecuting hands to the winds of the heavens; but in ours—Protestant and more favored—their sainted dust, wherever buried, is watched and preserved with pious care and affectionate fidelity. It would be a pleasant but an impossible duty to trace the histories of thousands of our most excellent New-Yorkers, whose pious ancestors worshiped God in the old sanctuary of Du Saint-Esprit, and whose ashes reposed, in Christian hope, alongside of its humble and venerable walls. But records are scarcely to be found. Still we may love their characters and strive to imitate their noble and generous virtues. Hallowed be those precious memories!

The remains of many Huguenots repose among the innumerable dead of old Trinity church-yard, that vast home of the departed; and where can be found their memorials of honor, patriotism, and exalted piety. Here lie the ashes of the Rev. Elias Neau, near its northern porch. He was a man of more than ordinary eminence; his life useful, beneficial, and religious. Mr. Neau was the paternal ancestor of Mrs. Commodore Oliver H. Perry, of Rhode-Island.

Previous to his escape from France, he suffered confinement for several years in the prisons and galleys, and while in his dungeons, learned by heart the liturgy, and became attached to the English Church service. When the Rev. Mr. Vesey was rector of Trinity, Mr. Neau was appointed catechist of that church. For a number of years, he faithfully discharged the duties of this important appointment among the Indians and the slaves, of whom some fifteen hundred were catechumens in the city of New-York. He could only collect them together on Sunday nights, after the last public services; and when properly prepared, would present them to Mr. Vesey, for baptism. Mr. Neau may be said to have founded the Free School of Trinity, an institution so useful and well known among the noble charities of New-York. Its former tablet is still preserved among the mementoes of the olden time. This excellent Huguenot closed his useful life in 1722, resting from his earthly labors alongside of God's holy temple, where he had so long worshiped and' served him.

The Rev. Elias Neau, his wife Susannah, and daughter Judith, left France, for America, with the Huguenots, about 1685. Judith married a Rabineau in New-York, and their only child, Marie, married Daniel Ayrault; their issue was six sons and five daughters; and the second son, Daniel, married Susannah Eargrass, whose children were Daniel and Mary Ayrault. Mary married Benjamin Mason, and their children were two sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Benjamin Mason, M.D., was educated in England, marrying Margaret Champlin, of Newport, R. I., and their issue was three sons and one daughter. This daughter, Elizabeth Champlin Mason, became the wife of the patriotic and brave Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, of the United States Navy. From this last union were four sons and one daughter, Elizabeth Mason Perry. This daughter married the Rev. Francis Vinton; and their children, seven sons and three daughters, make the eighth generation from their venerable, pious Huguenot ancestor; Mr. Vinton himself serving in holy things at the same sacred altar of old Trinity, where the Rev. Elias Neau worshiped, and after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years. How enduring is sacred truth! It will abide forever.

Johannes Delamontagnie was another Huguenot refugee, who reached New-Amsterdam in 1773. Governor Kieft appointed him a member of his council, then the second office in the colonial government. He purchased a farm of two hundred acres at Harlaem, for seven hundred and twenty dollars, naming it' Vriedendel', (Valley of Peace.) The land was situated East of the Eighth Avenue, between Ninety-third street and the Harlem river. His grandson, named Vincent, died in May, 1773, at the very advanced age of one hundred and sixteen years. Numerous descendants are still among us from this early French Protestant emigrant, although some abbreviations have been made in the name.



THE BANE OF OUR COUNTRY.

While sharing the Provost-Marshal's office, in Portsmouth, Virginia, I was struck with the almost utter absence of cultivation of the understanding of the people living there or in the surrounding country, who entered to obtain passes, or for other purposes. Scarce one of them at first appreciated the nature of an oath, which they all shrank from taking, or objected to, when proposed as a condition of obtaining either the passes or the protection they wished. They were not merely illiterate and untaught, but showed also an extremely low grade of reasoning power. There was, indeed, in most cases, but little development even of those lower grades of intellectual ability which are so frequently seen in simply 'illiterate' persons. They hung back from committing themselves, in any way, as friendly to us, though they evidently did not feel that hatred or ill-feeling characteristic of the bolder secessionist. I afterward saw many more of these people, in Norfolk, at our office. With our continued occupancy of the city, and in the absence of any aggressive action by our Government, they presented themselves more frequently. Among them there was occasionally one who avowed himself, without reservation, for the Union. These people are, I am confident, the only ones in the rebellious States who are other than secessionists. Love of the Union—that which the reader identifies with patriotism and nationality—they had not, because this can nowhere be found in the rebellious States, except in isolated instances. That they remained silent and subdued under the progress of the acts of the secessionists, and never raised hand or voice in contradiction to them, proves in this class an absence of that force of character, or of that moral courage or 'energy' which is the distinguishing attribute of our Northern people, even the poorest, and this was also evinced when we first occupied the town. It was not peacefulness of disposition which I remarked, but the lack first, of decision of character, and next, of decision of understanding respecting the questions at issue. In conversation they could express only very simple notions, nor could I promptly elicit more from them. Even their feelings lacked the qualities of force and intensity. Yet this class is next to the ruling and leading part of the population, which is composed of planters, cotton, tobacco, and produce factors' families, professional men, and others, who court patronage, including shopkeepers, small manufacturers, and money-lenders, and who support in political affairs their own clientele of supporters. The latter people constitute the determinedly rebellious. It is the first class only, that we can regard as the sole support to Unionism which there is in the rebellious States; but in them we shall find no moral force or power even when the reign of the leading class shall have ceased. These facts, I am aware, are in striking contrast to the usual estimation of the courage and daring of the people of the South. But the usual estimation is true only of the people who have a concert of interest in slavery, and who, whatever their petty disagreements may be, concur in their politics. Nowhere, therefore, is democracy less actual than in the rebellious States; a ruling and a subservient class exists precisely as in England or Austria. To increase the latter, comprising the people I first described, is by no means to increase the power and extend the domination of the other, but the contrary; and undoubtedly the diminution of their number by the sacrifice of their lives in the rebellion, is considered by the chief managers as desirable, in view of the success of their scheme of polity and government.