SLIDING SCALE OF THE INCONSOLABLES.

The editor of The Albion thus christens, while he translates, the following lively narrative, culled from the varied columns of the Courrier des Etats Unis. The malicious writer dates from Paris; but for such experiences our own city would probably be quite as prolific a hunting-field.

* * * * *

How rapid is the progress of oblivion with respect to those who are no more! How many a quadrille shall we see this winter, exclusively made up from the ranks of inconsolable widows! Widows of this order exist only in the literature of the tombstone. In the world, and after the lapse of a certain period, there is but one sort of widows inconsolable—those who refuse to be comforted, because they can't get married again!

One of our most distinguished sculptors was summoned, a short time since, to the house of a young lady, connected by birth with a family of the highest grade in the aristocracy of wealth, and united in marriage to the heir of a title illustrious in the military annals of the empire. The union, formed under the happiest auspices, had been, alas! of short duration. Death, unpitying death, had ruptured it, by prematurely carrying off the young husband. The sculptor was summoned by the widow. He traversed the apartments, silent and deserted, until he was introduced into a bedroom, and found himself in presence of a lady, young and beautiful, but habited in the deepest mourning, and with a face furrowed by tears. "You are aware," said she, with a painful effort, and a voice half choked by sobs, "you are aware of the blow which I have received?" The artist bowed, with an air of respectful condolence. "Sir," continued the widow, "I am anxious to have a funeral monument erected in honor of the husband whom I have lost." The artist bowed again. "I wish that the monument should be superb, worthy of the man whose loss I weep, proportioned to the unending grief into which his loss has plunged me. I care not what it costs. I am rich, and I will willingly sacrifice all my fortune to do honor to the memory of an adored husband. I must have a temple—with columns—in marble—and in the middle—on a pedestal—his statue."

"I will do my best to fulfil your wishes, madam," replied the artist; "but I had not the honor of acquaintance with the deceased, and a likeness of him is indispensable for the due execution of my work. Without doubt, you have his portrait?"

The widow raised her arm and pointed despairingly to a splendid likeness painted by Amaury Duval.

"A most admirable picture!" observed the artist, "and the painter's name is a sufficient guarantee for its striking resemblance to the original."

"Those are his very features, sir; it is himself. It wants but life. Ah! would that I could restore it to him at the cost of all my blood!"

"I will have this portrait carried to my studio, madam, and I promise you that the marble shall reproduce it exactly."

The widow, at these words, sprung up, and at a single bound throwing herself towards the picture, with arms stretched out as though to defend it, exclaimed, "Take away this portrait! carry off my only consolation! my sole remaining comfort! never! never!"

"But madam, you will only be deprived of it for a short time, and—"

"Not an hour! not a minute! could I exist without his beloved image! Look you, sir, I have had it placed here, in my own room, that my eyes might be fastened upon it, without ceasing, and through my tears. His portrait shall never leave this spot one single instant, and in contemplating that will I pass the remainder of a miserable and sorrowful existence."

"In that case, madam, you will be compelled to permit me to take a copy of it. But do not be uneasy—I shall not have occasion to trouble your solitude for any length of time: one sketch—one sitting will suffice."

The widow agreed to this arrangement; she only insisted that the artist should come back the following day. She wanted him to set to work on the instant, so great was her longing to see the mausoleum erected. The sculptor, however, remarked that he had another work to finish first. This difficulty she sought to overcome by means of money.

"Impossible!" replied the artist, "I have given my word; but do not distress yourself; I will apply to it so diligently, that the monument shall be finished in as short a time as any other sculptor would require, who could apply himself to it forthwith."

"You see my distress," said the widow; "you can make allowance for my impatience. Be speedy, then, and above all, be lavish of magnificence. Spare no expense; only let me have a masterpiece."

Several letters echoed these injunctions, during the few days immediately following the interview. At the expiration of three months the artist called again. He found the widow still in weeds, but a little less pallid, and a little more coquettishly dressed in her mourning garb. "Madam," said he, "I am entirely at your service."

"Ah! at last; this is fortunate," replied the widow, with a gracious smile.

"I have made my design, but I still want one sitting for the likeness. Will you permit me to go into your bedroom?"

"Into my bedroom? For what?"

"To look at the portrait again."

"Oh! yes; have the goodness to walk into the drawing-room; you will find it there, now."

"Ah!"

"Yes; it hangs better there; it is better lighted in the drawing-room than in my own room."

"Would you like, madam, to look at the design for the monument?"

"With pleasure. Oh! what a size! What profusion of decorations! Why, it is a palace, sir, this tomb!"

"Did you not tell me, madam, that nothing could be too magnificent? I have not considered the expense; and, by the way, here is a memorandum of what the monument will cost you."

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed the widow, after having cast an eye over the total adding up. "Why, this is enormous!"

"You begged me to spare no expense."

"Yes, no doubt, I desire to do things properly, but not exactly to make a fool of myself."

"This, at present, you see, is only a design; and there is time yet to cut it down."

"Well, then, suppose we were to leave out the temple, and the columns, and all the architectural part, and content ourselves with the statue? It seems to me that this would be very appropriate."

"Certainly it would."

"So let it be, then—just the statue, alone."

Shortly after this second visit, the sculptor fell desperately ill. He was compelled to give up work; but, on returning from a tour in Italy, prescribed by his physician, he presented himself once more before the widow, who was then in the tenth month of her mourning. He found, this time, a few roses among the cypress, and some smiling colors playing over half-shaded grounds. He brought with him a little model of his statue, done in plaster, and offering in miniature the idea of what his work was to be. "What do you think of the likeness?" he inquired of the widow.

"It seems to me a little flattered; my husband was all very well, no doubt; but you are making him an Apollo!"

"Really? well, then, I can correct my work by the portrait."

"Don't take the trouble—a little more, or a little less like, what does it matter?"

"Excuse me, but I am particular about likenesses."

"If you absolutely must—"

"It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it not? I'll go in there."

"It is not there any longer," replied the widow, ringing the bell.

"Baptiste," said she to the servant who came in, "bring down the portrait of your master."

"The portrait that you sent up to the garret last week, madam?"

"Yes."

At this moment the door opened, and a young man of distinguished air entered; his manners were easy and familiar; he kissed the fair widow's hand, and tenderly inquired after her health. "Who in the world is this good man in plaster?" asked he, pointing with his finger to the statuette, which the artist had placed upon the mantel-piece.

"It is the model of a statue for my husband's tomb."

"You are having a statue of him made? The devil! It's very majestic!"

"Do you think so?"

"It is only great men who are thus cut out of marble, and at full length; it seems to me, too, that the deceased was a very ordinary personage."

"In fact, his bust would be sufficient."

"Just as you please, madam," said the sculptor.

"Well, let it be a bust, then; that's determined!"

Two months later, the artist, carrying home the bust, encountered on the stairs a merry party. The widow, giving her hand to the elegant dandy who had caused the statue of the deceased to be cut down, was on her way to the mayor's office, where she was about to take a second oath of conjugal fidelity. If the bust had not been completed, it would willingly have been dispensed with. When, some time later, the artist called for his money, there was an outcry about the price; and it required very little less than a threat of legal proceedings, before the widow, consoled and remarried, concluded by resigning herself to pay for this funeral homage, reduced as it was, to the memory of her departed husband.



A NEW SERIES OF TALES BY MISS MARTINEAU.

There is scarcely in English literature a collection of tales by a simple writer that are better adapted for the instruction of the masses, than HARRIET MARTINEAU'S Illustrations of Political Economy. Without believing her a very profound philosopher, we are inclined to think these works could be remembered longer than any of her other writings. The pleasure and instruction we derived from them were recalled by the announcement in the London Leader that she is to contribute a new series of stories for the people, to that journal. We copy the first of them.

THE OLD GOVERNESS.

The afternoon was come when the Morells must go on board. They were going to Canada at last, after having talked about it for several years. There were so many children, that it was with much difficulty they had got on for some years past; and there was no prospect for the lads at home. They had, with extreme difficulty, paid their way: and they had, to a certain extent, educated the children. That, however, was Miss Smith's doing.

"We shall always feel, every one of us," said Mrs. Morell, with tears, to the elderly homely governess, "that we are under the deepest obligations to you. But for you, the children would have grown up without any education at all. And, for the greatest service you or any one could possibly render us, we have never been able to give you your due,—even as regards the mere money."

"I can only say again," replied the governess, "that you do not look at the whole of the case. You have given me a home, when it is no easy matter for such as I am to earn one, with my old-womanish ways and my old-fashioned knowledge."

"I will not hear any disparagement of your ways and your knowledge," interrupted Mrs. Morell. "They have been every thing to my children: and if you could have gone with us...."

This, however, they all knew to be out of the question. It was not only that Miss Smith was between fifty and sixty, too old to go so far, with little prospect of comfort at the end of the journey; but she was at present disabled for much usefulness by the state of her right hand. It had been hurt by an accident a long time before, and it did not get well. The surgeon had always said it would be a long case; and she had no use whatever of the hand in the mean time. Yet she would not part with the baby till the last moment. She carried him on the left arm, and stood on the wharf with him—the mother at her side—till all the rest were on board, and Mr. Morell came for his wife. It was no grand steamer they were going in, but a humble vessel belonging to the port, which would carry them cheap.

"Now, my love," said the husband. "Now, Miss Smith," taking the child from her. "Words cannot tell...."

And if words could have told, the tongue could not have uttered them. It was little, too, that his wife could say.

"Write to us. Be sure you write. We shall write as soon as we arrive. Write to us."

Miss Smith glanced at the hand. She said only one word, "Farewell!" but she said it cheerfully.

The steam-tug was in a hurry, and down the river they went. She had one more appointment to keep with them. She was to wave her handkerchief from the rocks by the fort; and the children were to let her try whether she could see their little handkerchiefs. So she walked quickly over the common to the fort, and sat down on the beach at the top of the rocks.

It was very well that she had something to do. But the plan did not altogether answer. By the time the vessel crossed the bar it was nearly dark, and she was not quite sure, among three, which it was, and she did not suppose the children could see her handkerchief. She waved it, however, according to promise. How little they knew how wet it was!

Then there was the walk home. It was familiar, yet very strange. When she was a child her parents used to bring her here, in the summer time, for sea air and bathing. The haven and the old gray bathing houses, and the fort, and the lighthouse, and the old priory ruins crowning the rocks, were all familiar to her; but the port had so grown up that all else was strange. And how strange now was life to her! Her parents gone, many years back, and her two sisters since; and now, the Morells! She had never had any money to lose, and the retired way in which the Morells lived had prevented her knowing any body out of their house. She had not a relation nor a friend, nor even an acquaintance, in England. The Morells had not been uneasy about her. They left her a little money, and had so high an opinion of her that they did not doubt her being abundantly employed, whenever her hand should get well. They had lived too much to themselves to know that her French, learned during the war, when nobody in England could pronounce French, would not do in these days, nor that her trilling, old-fashioned style of playing on the piano, which they thought so beautiful, would be laughed at now in any boarding school; and that her elegant needleworks were quite out of fashion; and that there were new ways of teaching even reading, spelling, and writing.

She knew these things, and cautioned herself against discontent with the progress of society, because she happened to be left alone behind. She suspected, too, that the hand would not get well. The thing that she was most certain of was, that she must not rack her brain with fears and speculations as to what was to become of her. Her business was to wait till she could find something to do, or learn what she was to suffer. She thought she had better wait here. There was no call to any other place. This was more familiar and more pleasant to her than any other—the Morells' cottage being far away, and out of the question—and here she could live with the utmost possible cheapness. So here she staid.

The hand got well, as far as the pain was concerned, sooner than she had expected. But it was in a different way from what she had expected. It was left wholly useless. And, though the time was not long, it had wrought as time does. It had worn out her clothes; it had emptied her little purse. It had carried away every thing she had in the world but the very few clothes she had on. She had been verging towards the resolution she now took for three or four weeks. She took it finally while sitting on the bench near the fort. It was in the dusk; for her gown, though she had done her best to mend it with her left hand, was in no condition to show by daylight. She was alone in the dusk, rather hungry and very cold. The sea was dashing surlily upon the rocks below, and there was too much mist to let any stars shine upon her. It was all dreary enough; yet she was not very miserable, for her mind was made up. She had made up her mind to go into the work-Pouse the next day. While she was thinking calmly about it a fife began to play a sort of jig in the yard of the fort behind her. Her heart heaved to her throat and the tears gushed from her eyes. In this same spot, fifty years before, she had heard what seemed to her the same fife. Her father was then sitting on the grass, and she was between his knees, helping to tassel the tail of a little kite they were going to fly; and, when the merry fife had struck up, her father had snatched up her gay Harlequin that lay within reach, and made him shake his legs and arms to the music. She heard her own laugh again now, through that long course of fifty years, and in the midst of these tears.

All that night she pondered her purpose: and the more she considered, the more sure she was that it was right. "I might," thought she, "get maintained by charity, no doubt: I might call on any of the clergymen of this place, and the rich people. Or I might walk into the shops and tell my story, and I dare say the people would give me food and clothes. And, if it was a temporary distress, I would do so. I should think it right to ask for help, if I had any prospect of work or independence in any way. But I have none: and this, I am convinced, points out my duty. Hopeless cases like mine are those which public charity—legal charity—is intended to meet. My father little dreamed of this, to be sure; and the Morells little dream of it at this moment. But when do our parents and friends, when do we ourselves, dream of what our lot is really to turn out? Those old notions have nothing to do, if we could but think so, with the event. Nor has my disgust any thing to do with my duty. The plain fact is, that I am growing old—that I am nearly helpless—that I am cold and hungry, and nearly naked—that I have no friends within reach, and no prospect whatever. I am, therefore, an object for public charity, and I will ask for what is my due. I am afraid of what I may find in the workhouse;—the vicious people, the dirty people, the diseased people,—and, I suppose, not one among them who can give me any companionship whatever.

"It is dreadful; but it can't be helped. And the worse the case is about my companions—my fellow-paupers—(for I must learn to bear the word)—the greater are the chances of my finding something to do for them;—something which may prevent my feeling myself utterly useless in the world. This is not being wholly without prospect, after all. I suppose nobody ever is. If it were not so cold now, I could sleep upon mine."

It was too cold for sleep; and when, in the morning, she offered her old shawl in payment for her bed, assuring the poor old woman who let it that she should not want the shawl, because she was going to have other clothes, the woman shook her head sorrowfully,—her lodger looked so wan and chilled. She had no fear that there was any thought of suicide in the case. No one could look in Miss Smith's sensible face, and hear her steady, cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any thing wild or impatient.

"Who is that woman with a book in her hand?" inquired the visiting Commissioner, some months afterwards, of the governor of the workhouse. The governor could only say she was a single woman of the name of Smith, who had no use of her right hand. As to who she was, he could tell no more than this; but his wife had sometimes mentioned her as a different sort of person from those they generally saw there. She could not only read, but she read very well: and she read a great deal aloud to the old people, and in the infirmary. She talked unlike the rest, too. She said little; but her language was good, and always correct. She could not do much on account of her infirmity: but she was always willing to do what could be done with one hand; and she must have been very handy when she had the use of both.

"I should have thought her eyes had been too weak for much reading," observed the Commissioner. "Has the medical officer attended to her?"

The governor called his wife: and the wife called a pauper woman who was told the question. This woman said that it was not exactly a case for the doctor. Nobody that shed so many tears could have good eyes. Ah! the governor might be surprised; because Smith seemed so brisk in the daytime, and cheered the old people so much. But she made up for it at night. Many and many a time she cried the night through.

"How do you know?" asked the Commissioner.

"I sleep in the next bed, sir. I can't say she disturbs any body; for she is very quiet. But if any thing keeps me awake I hear her sobbing. And you need but feel her pillow in the morning. It is wet almost through."

"And does that happen often?"

"Yes, sir. Many a time when she has turned her back,—gone into the infirmary, or been reading to the old people,—I have got her pillow and dried it. And I have seen her do it herself, with a smile on her face all the time."

The Commissioner walked away. Before he left the place, the woman Smith was beckoned out by the governor. She went with a beating heart, with some wild idea in her head that the Morells had sent, that some friends had turned up. While still in the passage, however, she said to herself that she might as well look to see her parents risen from the dead.

The Commissioner had, indeed, nothing to tell. He wanted to ask. He did ask, as much as his delicacy would allow. But he learned nothing; except, indeed, what he ought to have considered the most important thing, the state of her mind about being there. About that, she was frank enough. She said over again to him what she had said to herself, about this being the right place for one in her circumstances. She considered that it would be an abuse of private charity for her to be maintained in idleness at an expense which might set forward in life some person in a less hopeless position.

"You speak cheerfully, as if you were in earnest," said the Commissioner.

"Of course, I am in earnest," she replied.

And cheerful she remained throughout the conversation. Only once the Commissioner saw her eyes filled and a quiver on her lips. He did not know it; but he had unconsciously called her "Madam."

Would she prefer the children's department of the House? There was no doubt that she could teach them much. Would she change her quarters? No. She was too old now for that. She should not be a good companion now for children; and they would be too much for her. Unless she was wanted—

By no means. She should be where she preferred to be.

She preferred to be where she was. The Commissioner's lady soon after dropped in, and managed to engage Smith in conversation. But there was no result; because Smith did not choose that there should be. Perhaps she was more in the infirmary; and had oftener a warm seat by the fire, and was spoken to with more deference. But this might be solely owing to the way she made with the people by her own acts and manners. The invalids and the infirm grew so fond of her that they poured out to her all their complaints. She was favored with the knowledge of every painful sensation as it passed, and every uneasy thought as it arose.

"I never thought to die in such a place as this," groaned old Johnny Jacks.

"I wonder at that," said his old wife; "for you never took any care to provide yourself a better—to say nothing of me." And she went on to tell how Johnny had idled and drank his life away, and brought her here at last. Much of Johnny's idling and drinking having been connected with electioneering in an abominably venal city, he was a great talker on politics, and the state was made responsible for all his troubles. He said it was a shame that any body should die in a workhouse; he appealed to his neighbor Smith, who was warming his broth, whether it was not so?

"Which is best?" she answered; "being here, or on a common, or the sea-sands? Because," she added, "there was a time when old people like us were left to die wherever they fell. There are countries now where old people die so. I should not like that."

"You don't mean to say that you or any one likes being here?"

"Oh, no; I don't mean to say that. But things are better than they were once: and they may be better again."

"I shall not live to see that," groaned Johnny.

"No; nor I. But it is something to think of."

"D—— it," said Johnny, "I am not the better for any good that does not happen to me, nor to any body I know."

"Are not you?" said neighbor Smith. "Well, now, I am."

And so she was to the end. She died in that infirmary, and not very long after. When the Morells' letter came, it was plain that they had enough to do to take care of themselves. So she did not let them know,—in her reply, written by the hands of the schoolmaster,—where she was. The letter was so cheerful that they are probably far from suspecting, at this moment, how she died and was buried. As "from the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," there was so much in her letter as rather surprised them about her hope and expectation that the time would come when hearty work in the vigorous season of life should secure its easy close; and when a greater variety of employment should be opened to women. There was more of this kind of speculation and less news and detail of facts than they would have liked. But it was a household event to have a letter from Miss Smith; and the very little children, forgetting the wide sea they had passed, began shouting for Miss Smith to come to them just (as it happened) when her ear was closing to every human voice.



ON THE ATTEMPTS TO DISCOVER THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.

There are some peculiarities of style in the following performance, which is by no means devoid of eloquence, and which derives a certain interest from the efforts now being made to discover the fate of Sir John Franklin. The author is GEORGE STOVIN VENABLES, LL. D., of Jesus College, Cambridge.

THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.

"And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold; And ice, mast high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts and snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shape of men, nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between— The ice was here, the ice was there— The ice was all around: It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound."

COLERIDGE. Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

The secret wonders of the gloomy North bid proud defiance, in their solitude, to man's triumphant daring. Who shall pierce the ancient prison-house where Nature's might, in mightier chains of adamantine frost, lies fettered, since Creation? Who shall live where promontories huge, of piled ice, like monstrous fragments of primeval worlds tossed on the surge of Chaos, over the waves rear their triumphant heads, and laugh to scorn the undreaded kinghood of the lordly sea?

A fearful challenge! yet the charmed spell, which summons man to high discovery, is ever vocal in the outward world, though they alone may hear it, who have hearts responsive to its tone. The gale of spring, breathing sweet balm over the western waters, called forth that gifted old adventurer[10] to seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds, far in the Indian Isles. Yea, there is power in Nature's solemn music. All have heard the sighs of Winter in the middle air, and seen the skirts of his cloud-woven robe lingering upon the misty mountain-top: but years rolled on, ere man might understand the mystic invitation of that call to seek the Monarch in his Arctic home.

At length that call is answered. Daringly yon gallant ship, towards the Polar Star, walks the untrodden pathways of old Ocean, leaving the haunts of man. Even now, the bounds are passed where silently the Boreal Morn[11] folds and unfolds, in swiftest interchange, her silver robe of alternating light over the midnight Heaven. There is a change in every sight and sound. White glaciers clash on the tormented waves, in fierce career waving eternally, and hoary whales, with musical din[12] booming along the deep, breathe forth in giant chorus, wondrously, the welcome of the Spirit of the North.

Joy to the brave! That old phantasmal veil which checked the view of dim antiquity, shrinks from their eagle glance, while fabled hills and regions of impenetrable ice fade in the blue expanse of mighty bays[13]—now spread the bosom of the expectant sail unto the Eastern breeze, and while the prow furrows the yielding waters, image forth high dreams of lofty hope—the joyous bound of billows gushing between parted shores, where Asia's rocky brow for ever frowns on the opposing continent. And, borne on spirit-plumed wings, let fancy soar far from that sunless clime, to the warm South, where soft skies slumber through the cloudless noon, o'er the gold palaces of fair Cathay.

Why pause ye in mid ocean? Still the sail swells to the voiceful breeze; the high mast bends with hideous creak, and every separate rib in the huge fabric quivers. Yet the ship on the unmoved waters motionless struggles, as one, who in a feverish dream nervelessly fleeing o'er a haunted waste, strives horribly to shun some fiendish shape, with straining sinews, and convulsive gasp, and faint limbs, magic-stricken. There is rest, dismal and dreary, on the silent sea: most dismal quiet: for the viewless might of the keen frost-wind[14] crisps the curling waves, binding their motion with a clankless chain along the far horizon. Fruitlessly the imprisoned vessel writhes, until the gale, lulled in the embrace of evening, leaves its prey, to share the torpor of the lifeless waste, till earth awaken from her half-year's sleep.

Yet, in those daring hearts, the cheerless voice of boding Fear or dull Despondency can find no answering tone, whether the storm, round the snow-rampart[15] howling, interweaves his solemn moans with the rejoicing shouts of the glad theatre,[16] or simple strains of homely music leave that warm recess—vibrating far into the tremulous air. Here, even here are pleasures; those stray[17] forms of joy, which Nature spreads throughout the world, that he who seeks may find them. When the Sun, uprising from his long and gloomy trance, beams through the clearer air, how beautiful, in some obscurest dell[18] of that lone land, led by the music of an unseen river to see fair flowers, with light-awakened buds, salute the spring tide. Happily, they smile in the midst of nakedness, like sweet memories of laughing infancy, beaming around the desolation of an aged heart.

Oh, that the might of Man's majestic will were self-sufficing! that the meaner chains which bind him to this dark, material world, before the lightning glance of Enterprise might fade, as those Philistian bonds, that fell from him of Zorah. Back—in sorrow back—the ocean-wanderers turn the unwilling prow; for Nature may not yield, and all is lost, save gloomy thoughts of unrequited toil in the storm-beaten deep; and phantasies of gorgeous dreams, for ever desolate; and hopes, which were, and will not be again.

Yet if the race of Man, as some have deemed[19], form but one mighty Being, who doth live, yea with intenser life, while kingly Death benumbs each separate atom with the touch of his pale sceptre—one unchanging ocean of everchanging waves—one deathless heaven of clouds, which to their graves roll ceaselessly: if it be so, not vainly have long years sent forth their heralds on the trackless deep, where high endeavors of exalted will which in themselves find no accomplishment, shall build at length perfection. Peacefully he[20] sleeps, who erst beheld the rifted shores of Greenland "glister in the sun, like gold:" and that deserted chief[21] whose angry moan once mingled wildly with the screaming winds and the hoarse gurgle of ingulfing waves, is unremembered now. But high Emprise died not with them. Have not our latter days beheld, with awe, the ice-borne Muscovite[22] ride the fierce billows of the Polar Sea? Has not the Northern hunter seen the flag of England, o'er her floating palaces, unfurled in his dominions crystalline? And who shall mourn, while, in the mystic race, from hand to hand still moves the unquenched torch, that none have reached the goal? Not suddenly doth the sweet warmth of universal life, from brumal caves advancing, interfuse the vast abysmal air, or penetrate the deep heart of the frost-entranced Earth. Gentle, and in its very gentleness invincible, it moves, though ruthlessly stern Winter calls his rallied armies on, and snow-blasts violate the joyous prime. So is it, with the silent victories of Man's enduring spirit: we have seen Winter and Spring; and shall we not behold the full rejoicing of the complete year?

The hour shall come, nor shall the longing heart in that dark interval be all unblest with glance prophetic. Though no meteor shape glare from the speaking sky, no sheeted ghost wander dim-moving in the weird midnight, with such forshadowings true as ever wait on him who, with a calm and reverend eye, hath viewed the mysteries of things, and dared to image forth the future from the past—bind on the mystic robe, and from the brow of Hope's enchanted hill look boldly forth upon the coming ages. Saw ye not white fog-wreaths floating through the cold gray dawn over ice-laden billows, as they roll through yon rock-cinctured chasm? A dusky shape looms through the hazy atmosphere, and sails, as of some struggling bark that wearily breasts the opposing strength of angry waves,[23] float with a fitful motion to and fro. Still on and on—a breath-suspending sight of pale Solicitude, and fearful hope—and hark! the triple crash of Britain's joy, the magical music of her wild hurra, peals with a sound of mighty exultation through the aerial depths. The cloven mist unwraps its folded canopy, and lo! the blue Pacific, boundlessly outspread, far glitters in the silvery light of morn.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Columbus.

[11] The phenomenon which is commonly called Aurora Borealis, is in high latitudes frequently seen to the south.

[12] On entering the Arctic Circle, the musical sounds of the white whales is first heard.

[13] Modern discoverers have frequently found an open passage in latitudes, where chains of hills were laid down in the old charts.

[14] The effect of the change of temperature at the beginning of winter is almost instantaneous, as young ice at the thickness of half an inch will stop a large vessel in full sail.

[15] Captain Parry found considerable advantage from raising a wall of snow round the ship, in its winter station.

[16] The theatrical amusements, which were introduced during the stay of the Fury and Hecla at Melvile Island, are well known.

[17] Alluding to the following lines of Mr. Wordsworth:—

——"Pleasure is spread throughout the earth, In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find."

[18] The beautiful effect of these Arctic Oases is described in the account of Captain Parry's second voyage.

[19] See the speech attributed by Socrates to Diotima in the Banquet of Plato.

[20] Sir Martin Frobisher, who in 1577 anchored on the Western coast of Greenland, reported that in that country "the stones be altogether sparkled, and glister in the sun like gold."

[21] Hudson.

[22] Baron Wrangle.



RECOLLECTIONS OF PAGANINI.

The "Leaves from the Portfolio of a Manager," in the December Dublin University Magazine, disclose a number of interesting facts connected with Prynne's "Histriomastix," Milton's "Samson Agonistes," Hannah More's "Tragedies," Ireland's "Shakspeare Forgeries," and not a few very startling disclosures respecting the extraordinary emoluments of first class performers, from Roscius down to Jenny Lind. From this portion of our Manager's Portfolio we select the amusing recollections of Paganini in Ireland, twenty years ago:

"Catalani, Pasta, Sontag, Malibran, Grisi, Taglioni, Rubini, Mario, Tamburini, Lablache, cum multis aliis, have received their thousands, and tens of thousands: but, until the Jenny Lind mania left every thing else at an immeasurable distance, Paganini obtained larger sums than had ever before been received in modern times. He came with a prodigious flourish of trumpets, a vast continental reputation, and a few personal legends of the most exciting character. It was said that he had killed his wife in a fit of jealousy, and made fiddlestrings of her intestines; and that the devil had composed a sonata for him in a dream, as he formerly did for Tartini. When you looked at him, you thought all this, and more, very likely to be true. His talent was almost supernatural, while his 'get up,' and 'mise en scene,' were original and unearthly, such as those who saw him will never forget, and those who did not can with difficulty conceive. The individual and his performance were equally unlike anything that had ever been exhibited before. No picture or description can convey an adequate idea of his entrance and his exit. To walk simply on and off the stage appears a commonplace operation enough, but Paganini did this in a manner peculiar to himself, which baffled all imitation. While I am writing of it, his first appearance in Dublin, at the great Musical Festival of 1830, presents itself to 'my mind's eye,' as an event of yesterday. When he placed himself in position to commence, the crowded audience were hushed into a deathlike silence. His black habiliments; his pale, attenuated visage, powerfully expressive; his long, silky, raven tresses, and the flash of his dark eye, as he shook them back over his shoulders; his thin, transparent fingers, unusually long; the mode in which he grasped his bow, and the tremendous length to which he drew it; and, climax of all, his sudden manner of placing both bow and instrument under his arm, while he threw his hands behind him, elevated his head, his features almost distorted with a smile of ecstasy, and his very hair instinct with life, at the conclusion of an unparalleled fantasia! And there he stood, immovable and triumphant, while the theatre rang again with peals on peals of applause, and shouts of the wildest enthusiasm! None who witnessed this will ever forget it, nor are they likely again to see the same effect produced by mere mortal agency.

"The one string feat I always considered unworthy this great master of his art. It has been done by fifty others, and is at best but an imperfect exhibition on a perfect instrument; a mere piece of charlatanerie, or theatrical 'gag,' to use a professional term, sufficiently intelligible. There have been, and are, mighty musicians on the violin. Spagnoletti, De Beriot, Ole Bull (who according to some plays without any string at all), Sivori, Joachim, Ernst, Levey, &c. &c., are all in the list of great players; but there never was more than one Paganini; he is unique and unapproachable.

"In Dublin, in 1830, Paganini saved the Musical Festival, which would have failed but for his individual attraction, although supported by an army of talent in every department. All was done in first-rate style, not to be surpassed. There were Braham, Madame Stockhausen, H. Phillips, De Begnis, &c. &c., Sir G. Smart for conductor, Cramer, Mori, and T. Cooke for leaders, Lindley, Nicholson, Anfossi, Lidel Hermann, Pigott, and above ninety musicians in the orchestra, and more than one hundred and twenty singers in the chorus. The festival was held in the Theatre-Royal, then, as now, the only building in Dublin capable of accommodating the vast number which alone could render such a speculation remunerative. The theatre can hold two thousand six hundred persons, all of whom may see and hear, whether in the boxes, pit, or galleries. The arrangement was, to have oratorios kept distinct on certain mornings, and miscellaneous concerts on the evenings of other days. The concerts were crushers, but the first oratorio was decidedly a break down. The committee became alarmed; the expenses were enormous, and heavy liabilities stared them in the face. There was no time to be lost, and at the second oratorio, duly announced, there stood Paganini, in front of the orchestra, violin in hand, on an advanced platform, overhanging the pit, not unlike orator Henley's tub, as immortalized by the poet. Between the acts of the Messiah and the Creation, he fiddled 'the Witches at the Great Walnut Tree of Benevento,' with other equally appropriate interpolations, to the ecstatic delight of applauding thousands, who cared not a pin for Hadyn or Handel, but came to hear Paganini alone; and to the no small scandal of the select few, who thought the episode a little on the north side of consistency. But the money was thereby forthcoming, every body was paid, the committee escaped without damage, and a hazardous speculation, undertaken by a few spirited individuals, was wound up with deserved success.

"When the festival was over, the town empty, and a cannon-ball might have fired down Sackville-street, without doing much injury, Paganini was engaged by himself for a series of five performances in the theatre. For this he received L1,143. His dividend on the first night's receipts amounted to L330 (horresco referens)! without a shilling of outlay incurred on his part. He had the lion's share with a vengeance, as the manager cleared with difficulty L200. The terms he demanded and obtained were a clear two-thirds of each night's receipts, twenty-five guineas per night for the services of two auxiliaries, worth about as many shillings, the full value allowed for every free ticket, and an express stipulation that if he required a rehearsal on a dark morning, when extra light might be indispensable, the expense of candles should not fall on him—a contingency which by no possible contrivance could involve a responsibility exceeding five or six shillings."

FOOTNOTES:

[23] A current is supposed to flow constantly from the Pacific through the North-West Passage into the Atlantic.



A PEASANT DUCHESS.

The Stamford Mercury gives an interesting account of the life and fortunes of a young woman of that neighborhood who rose to a high station by means of her personal attractions, and, after a checkered life, died in Italy a few weeks ago. She was the daughter of John Peele, a small farmer at Corringham, near Gainsborough, who eked out a somewhat declining livelihood by dealing in horses, &c., having previously been in better circumstances. Being an only daughter, and aware that she possessed no small share of rustic charms, she resolved to try her fortune in a higher sphere. She became a dressmaker in Gainsborough, and resided subsequently in Hull, and it is said as housemaid in a good family in London, where her attractions obtained for her the attentions of a person of rank, to whom she afterwards averred she was married; and she from that time occupied a position where her fortunes led her into contact with some of the highest classes. A few years afterwards she astonished her former companions by appearing with her carriage and livery servants in the character of chere amie to Mr. Fauntleroy, then a flourishing banker in London. The riches of the banker were of a doubtful character, however; some time afterward she was convicted of forgery, and paid the penalty with his life. Affected by the ruin, but not participating in the crime of Fauntleroy, she struggled bravely with fate, and generally maintained a fair appearance in society both in London and Paris. She shortly reappeared in her native county as Duchess of Palata. At this time the fortunes of her family had reduced them to be the occupants of a small cottage at Morton, and age rendering her father incapable of active exertion, he filled the humble office of rural postman. To her honor it should be recorded that she enabled her parents to pass the remainder of their days in comfort. Six or seven years ago she again visited her native place, a widow, his grace the Duke of Palata having paid the debt of nature. Her mother she left at Morton, paid the last duties to her father (somewhat ostentatiously), and volunteered her assistance to promote the advancement of her female relatives. Again, however, "a change came o'er the spirit of her dream;" and some three or four years ago the public journals announced her marriage to the son of an Irish clergyman of good family. In this character, accompanied by her niece as femme de chambre, but not by her husband, she once more visited Gainsborough and the scenes of her youth; after making her mother an allowance, she again departed for Italy, in good health; but death, which spares neither rank nor character, has closed the "last scene of all, in this strange eventful history."

* * * * *

The author of the "Nibelungenlied" is unknown, and, whether it be the work of one poet, of two, or twenty, is still a matter of doubt, among German critics. That the Nibelungenlied has been extensively interpolated, is, I believe, agreed on all hands; we may conclude as much, from having reason to believe that it was handed down for some time (how long, nobody knows for certain), by oral tradition, and what effect such a state of things may have on popular poetry, we may readily collect from what Bishop Percy and Sir Walter Scott have told us of the variations in the old ballads of England and Scotland. Lachmann attributes it to the thirteenth century.



Original Correspondence.

PARIS, DEC. 2, 1850.

FROM time immemorial, no one knows why (for the legends which recount her history leave it doubtful whether she performed on any instrument), St. Cecilia has been chosen by musicians as their patron saint; and the musicians of Paris, on the approach of winter, always celebrate a mass, in music, to her honor, and for the benefit of the distressed members of their body. Not that they entertain any exaggerated idea of the consoling powers of the musical art, or hope to relieve the positive sufferings of poverty and destitution by any combination of sounds, no matter how harmonious; but this festival being held in the church of St. Eustache, the largest in Paris, and all lovers of music being so eager to gain admission, that the immense aisles of this grand old pile (which will contain five thousand persons), are always crowded to overflowing on these occasions, every one paying a franc for his admission: the sum thus gained, together with the collections taken up in the middle of the service, by the committee of ladies chosen for that purpose (who go round among the crowd, preceded by the beadle, and followed by two or three attendant gentlemen, carrying a little embroidered bag of a particular shape, used for that purpose, in which they receive the contributions of the benevolent), constitute a fund, from which many an unfortunate or superannuated brother of the tuneful craft obtains relief.

This vast building, with its lofty arches, is admirably calculated for the performance of grand religious compositions; the effect of the music being enhanced by the aspect of the building, and the accessories of sculpture, painting, and carving, which render this church one of the richest in the capital.

To obtain places on any occasion of the kind, it is necessary to go an hour or two in advance; and the gradual filling of the aisles is one of the most curious scenes which a stranger can contemplate. As there are no pews, each person, on entering, helps himself or herself to a chair, which he holds aloft over the heads of his already seated neighbors, as he slowly forces his way onward through their serried ranks, until he espies some unappropriated gap into which he can insinuate his chair and himself; the police and the beadles always taking care to keep a little pathway, just large enough to squeeze through, open all through the outer aisle that runs round the church. For the unfortunate people who form the walls of this pathway, the process of filling is a severe infliction; the uninterrupted stream of in-comers, forcing their way along with a ruthless disregard of the shoulders of those between whom they pass, is really, (especially when the in-comer happens to be a very stout man, or a very fat lady, enveloped in an unusual quantity of drapery,) almost overpowering. Every now and then the beadle comes along, rapping his silver-headed cane on the pavement, and crying, "Way, there! keep out of the path!" and escorting a party of privileged individuals for whom seats have been reserved; and, as the beadle is always tall and stout, and always forces his way through in defiance of apparent impossibilities, a chorus of murmurs accompanies his progress. The beadle is a very grand personage, and his appearance sufficiently indicates this fact. He wears a cocked hat, covered with silver lace, and decorated with nodding white plumes; a scarf of crimson velvet, stiff with embroidery in silver thread, covers the upper part of his person; black velvet smalls, fastened at the knee with silver buckles, white silk stockings and gloves, and enormous buckles in his polished shoes, complete his attire. He wears a massive silver chain round his neck; and a sword hangs at his side to strike terror into the hearts of all beholders. Besides the grand beadle, there are several minor ones, dressed in black, but wearing heavy silver chains; gens d'armes also are always present, and often soldiers, who mount guard, musket in hand, at all the doorways, and on the steps of the chancel.

When these sapient guardians of the peace perceive that as many have been admitted as can possibly be squeezed into the building, they shut the doors; and the process of distribution goes on until the mass is equalized throughout the edifice; a task of no small difficulty, as the portions of the building contiguous to the doors are always densely packed at an early period, so that the greater number have to pass through these crowded centres to gain the remoter parts of the church. Meantime people chat, and look about them, amusing themselves as they best can; and the sonorous edifice echoes with the footsteps of the moving mass. But at length the noise subsides; the "organ utters its voices," and a hush, intense, unbroken, falls on the vast assembly. The glorious music peals through the vaulted aisles, and swells upward to the arching roof, pervading every nook and corner of the fane; and so perfect is the stillness that one would think the winged notes the only living things within its precincts.

On Friday last this annual solemnity was celebrated as usual at St. Eustache; the mass, composed by Adam, a very noble and beautiful composition, was admirably executed by a choir of two hundred and fifty singers, and a band of one hundred musicians, including the whole orchestra of the Opera Comique, and the best performers from the Italian opera. The solos were sung by Mesdames Grimm and Couraud, and by Bassine and Chapuis, the latter being one of the best tenors in the city. Some of the quartettes, with accompaniments of harps and wind instruments, were indescribably beautiful.

The Archbishop of Paris made an elegant little address, in which he spoke of art in Pagan and in Christian days, and of its mission in the present; and winding up with an appeal to the liberality of his hearers on behalf of the charitable idea which had prompted this performance. The Archbishop is a man of mild and grave countenance, but his dress was very inharmonious. He wore a surplice of very rich lace, a cape of violet silk, and a scarf richly embroidered in gold, which was all very pretty, but his arms and hands were encased in sleeves, finished with gloves, of scarlet cloth, which showed through the lace sleeves of the surplice, and gave the hands a very frightful appearance. He wore a little round cap on the top of his head, a golden crucifix on his bosom, and an enormous gold ring on his right hand. He spoke very slowly, screaming rather than speaking, in order to make himself heard in the distant parts of the building. The service lasted two hours, and yielded several thousand francs.

The Duchess of Narbonne, famed for her benevolence, was so desirous to aid on this occasion, that though unable, on account of her great age, to go among the crowd making the guest, as it is termed, she held a bag at one of the great doors, adding to the sum she thus received, a thousand francs as her own contribution, and a hundred francs for her chair, for which the ordinary price is two sous.

The musicians are not alone in their preparations for winter. The shopkeepers are just beginning the periodic display which betokens the coming on of the holidays: and conspicuous among the novelties whose appearance thus indicate the approach of Christmas, is a new style of porcelain, of English invention, which imitates with great success the antique marble vases, pitchers, &c., of classic days. Many of these objects are of great beauty; the creamy hue of the ware itself, slightly translucent, the graceful simplicity of their forms, and the delicate mouldings of classical designs in bass-relief with which they are adorned, producing an admirable effect, highly creditable to English taste.

While modern art is thus successfully emulating the symmetrical achievements of ancient times, a relic of great interest, recalling the romantic age of Spanish history, has just been unexpectedly brought to light. Some workmen, employed in making repairs in the Guildhall of Burgos, in Spain, have recently discovered the tomb of the Cid, so renowned in ancient story; a tomb whose very existence was unknown. An old chest, long considered as mere rubbish, and on which stood the antique chair from which, in other days, the Counts of Castille gave judgment, having been opened through the curiosity of these workmen, was found to contain the remains of Don Rodrigo Campeador, and his wife Chimena, immortalized in ancient legend, in the verses of Guilhen de Castro, of Corneille, and in our own days, in the graceful writings of Mrs. Hemans. The remains of the renowned hero and his beautiful spouse are to be removed to the church of San Gadeo, where a suitable monument will be erected to their memory.

The following incident, connected with the two prevailing manias of the day, lapdogs and balloon-ascensions, is just now amusing the gay circles of this gossiping capital.

It seems that Madame de N., the accomplished and beautiful wife of a triple millionaire of the quartier St. Honore, equally renowned for the charms of her wit, and for the intensity of her passion for the barking pets so dear to Parisian hearts, had taken a violent fancy (shared by half Paris) to a certain tiny gray spaniel, the property of one of the most admired of the innumerable representatives of Albion at this time here congregated, the beautiful and distinguished Lady R., whose intimacy was assiduously cultivated by Madame de N., all for the love of the little gray spaniel.

Sylphide, the spaniel in question, was in sooth well calculated to make havoc in hearts susceptible to canine charms. Her glossy fur, combed, bathed, and perfumed every day with the utmost care, was of the most delicate mouse-color, and softer than silk; her lustrous eyes sparkled like jewels, and her expressive face, with the delicate drooping ears that adorned her graceful head, were the realization of the most ideal dream of little-doggish beauty; her tail was perfection; her slender legs, in their light electric movements, hardly touched the ground; and the dainty way in which she raised her charming little paws from the sidewalk, when, by some rare chance (attired in her newest paletot of the finest merino, lined with wadded silk, and trimmed with a rich braid, her neck encircled with a silver collar, whose burnished chain was attached to her mistress's waist), she honored the sidewalk with their pressure, was so irresistibly bewitching, that all the fair round arms of Paris opened spontaneously at the sight, as though to offer a nestling-place to the little beauty, and raise her from a contact unworthy of so peerless a creature.

Any price, no matter how exorbitant, that could have been asked for this little paragon, Madame de N. would very gladly have paid; but, unhappily, Sylphide was not to be sold: Lady R. was very fond of her, and never seemed to understand the various hints thrown out from time to time, with the utmost tact and delicacy, but still quite intelligibly, by Madame de N.; and all that the latter could do was to bring her utmost power of petting to bear on the subject of her adoration, trusting to some unlooked-for stroke of good fortune to aid her in the accomplishment of her heart's desire.

Sylphide was excessively fond of sugar-plums (in which she was a great connoisseur), and also of fresh brioche, crumbs of which she would eat, in the most charming manner, from the snowy hand of her admiring friend; and as the bonbonniere of Madame de N. was always well supplied with her favorite dainties, Sylphide, who, on her side, was not ungrateful, soon contracted a lively affection for Madame de N. and her bonbonniere.

Such was the position of affairs, when an incident occurred which produced a total estrangement between the two ladies. M. de S., a gentleman well known in the diplomatic circles, whom Madame de N. had long numbered among her conquests, fascinated by the charms of the fair islander, deserted his brilliant countrywoman, and ranged himself among the satellites of her rival. And by a curious coincidence, at the very time that M. de S. quitted thus abruptly the orbit of Madame de N., the Prince of ——, who had hitherto been one of the brightest luminaries in the train of Lady R., left her ladyship to lay his homage at the feet of the charming Parisian. But the acquisition of the Prince seems to have failed to console the latter for the loss of a knight who had so long worn her colors; and the defection of M. de S. drew from her an expression of resentment towards her rival, which the mutual friend to whom these angry feelings had been confided, lost no time in repeating to the object of her displeasure. But Lady R., so far from being affected by the indignation of Madame de N., merely replied, with a careless shrug of her handsome shoulders, "Mais, ma chere, she has really nothing to complain of; all the world knows that 'exchange is no robbery!'"

At this time a magnificent bracelet, the latest achievement of the wonder-working ateliers of Froment & Meurice, had been the object of Lady R.'s most violent desire; but her lord, who was subject to occasional attacks of a malady not uncommon to the husbands of beautiful and fashionable ladies, was just then suffering from an attack of jealousy so acute, that, to the despair of Lady R., he utterly refused to gratify her desire to become the possessor of this costly ornament; and the lady, after having vainly called to her aid all the force of her address, and all the charms of her eloquence, found herself obliged, though with a heavy heart, to renounce the idea of its acquisition.

Lady R.'s desire for this bracelet, and its disappointment, were no secret to Madame de N.; and on learning, from the gossiping confidant, the response made by her rival to her complaint, a sudden thought darted through her mind. "Chere amie," said she to the confidant, "I beg you to say to her ladyship, that, since such is her opinion, I hold her to the acceptance of the consequences of her maxim."

The confidant lost no time in delivering this message, to which Lady R., thinking only of her host of admirers, laughingly replied, that Madame de N. was quite at liberty to make any practical application of the principle that she pleased.

Within two hours from the reception of this challenge, the beautiful bracelet, inclosed in an elegant case, on whose lid the initials of Lady R., surrounded by her crest, were engraved in letters of gold, had passed from the jeweller's show-rooms to the boudoir of Madame de N., who thenceforth, by means of an espionage that followed every movement of her rival, kept her constantly in view. At length the tournament, to be followed by the balloon-ascension (held a week or two ago in the Champ de Mars), was announced to the great delight of the spectacle-loving public; and having learned that the fair Englishwoman was to be present in an open carriage, Madame de N. determined to avail herself of this occasion to execute her scheme.

Accordingly on the appointed day, the bracelet, in its elegant case, being placed in the carriage beside her, and the coachman duly instructed in the part he was to play, Madame de N., holding in her hand her bonbonniere, supplied with fresh crumbs of the most delicate brioche, followed, at short distance, the carriage of her rival to the Champ de Mars, and took her stand just in the rear of her ladyship's phaeton.

Lady R. was in excellent spirits, receiving the homage of a crowd of attendant cavaliers; Sylphide, to the unspeakable joy of Madame de N., being seated on the front seat nearest her carriage.

Madame de N. waited patiently through the various evolutions of the gorgeous scene; and, at its close, when the great balloon of M. Poitevin rose majestically from the field, surrounded by its graceful band of nymphs that seemed to float, self-sustained, in the air, their silver wands and wreaths of flowers shining in the light of the setting sun, when all eyes followed the aeronauts, and deafening acclamations rent the air, in less time than we take in recounting the movement, the carriage of Madame de N. advanced to the side of Lady R.'s; Sylphide, attracted by the well-known bonbonniere, leapt lightly into the outstretched arms of her friend; and Madame de N. depositing the morocco case on the very spot Sylphide had quitted, bowed gracefully to her rival, and drove rapidly away, before Lady R. had had time to comprehend what was passing.

Great was her ladyship's amazement, as may well be supposed; and great, for the first few moments, was also her indignation; but the mystery was soon explained; for, in opening the case, which occupied Sylphide's vacant place, and which was unmistakably intended for her, she perceived the rich bracelet she had so much wished for, and beside it, the card of Madame de N., on which was written, in pencil, these words, which contained the key of the enigma, "Exchange is no robbery."

A hearty laugh, which she tried in vain to repress, broke from the lips of the fair lady; much to the astonishment of the gentlemen who had witnessed the scene, and to whom, notwithstanding their eager inquiries, Lady R. very naturally declined giving any explanation of the affair.

I shall observe your instructions, to keep you advised of whatever occurs here in the middle of the world.

STELLA.



Authors and Books.

The German book trade has, for some months, been fairly overwhelmed with books upon Hungary. We notice among the latest, "Flowers from Hungarian Battlefields," a collection of novelettes, with scenes drawn from real life in the late war, by Sajo, one of the most popular writers of Hungary. The stories are spirited and vivid. "Confessions of a Civilian," and "Confessions of a Soldier," are two books, of which the last named has been for some time before the public, and has excited attention by the thoroughness of its absolutist tendencies. The Civilian is the opposite of the Soldier, being a liberal of the first stamp. Both these writers, however, oppose the present Austrian ministry. A German translation of Horwath's "History of the Hungarians" is coming out at Pesth in numbers, and is welcomed by the German critics. This is regarded by the most competent judges as an excellent work. "Janos the Hero," a Romance of Hungarian Peasant Life, by Alexander Petoefy, one of the most popular Magyar writers, is spoken of as a most successful delineation of national peculiarities. "The Revolution and the Jews in Hungary," is an interesting chapter out of the history of the Hungarian Jews, by J. Eichorn. The fidelity of the Hebrews to the cause represented by Kossuth and his associates, and defended by the entire nation, is as well known as the extortions with which the butcher Haynau attempted to punish their patriotism. Rerum Hungaricum Monumenta is the last work of the lamented antiquarian Eudlicher, and is designed to open to the literary world the authentic sources of early Hungarian history. It is, in short, a most valuable collection of ancient documents relating to the origin of the Magyars, their first settlement in Hungary, and their history under the native princes of the race of Arpad. One of the best results of this work will be the provocation of other savans to similar investigations, which cannot fail to throw light on many obscure historical questions.

* * * * *

A very interesting work has just made its appearance at Leipsic, giving an intimate though by no means flattering account of the condition of the POLISH POPULATION IN GALLICIA. The peculiarities of this race of people are described as wild barbarism combined with elegant politeness, dreamy melancholy, and practical cunning. The author was in Gallicia before the peasants' insurrection in 1846. He narrates a variety of the most striking scenes, which though highly colored are apparently true in the main. Among other things he gives an account of a dinner-party to which he was invited, at the house of a nobleman. The house stood in the midst of a scattered mass of outbuildings, none of which bore the slightest appearance of neatness, order, or comfort. Every thing, in fact, has the appearance of neglect and decay. Many of the walls are supported by props to prevent them from tumbling. Around the doors the slightest rain produces a disgusting morass, while the general aspect of the whole reminds the beholder of Attila's wooden palace in Pannonia, where he heaped up the booty of a world, and received the ambassadors of Rome. When the writer reached the door, he found his host with some other gentlemen waiting to receive him. The company was numerous, and all, especially the ladies, expensively dressed, in the last Parisian fashion, with abundant jewelry and ornaments. The saloon in which they were received was large but low, the walls covered with dirty paper, the floor of rough boards, the furniture of all sorts and sizes, and nowhere a trace of art or refined taste. The conversation was carried on in French, and the ladies exhibited a thorough acquaintance with Paris matters, notabilities, and gossip generally. At the table the drinking was almost incredible, and the topic of conversation, the emancipation of Poland. Every word was aimed at the conversion of the German guest. The hard treatment of the serfs was spoken of as necessary, as they must be kept in complete subjection in order to be made useful in the great work. The festivity grew more and more ardent, till at last one of the gentlemen took a shoe off from a lady's foot, filled it with wine, and after drinking from it himself, passed it to the others, so that all could pledge the ladies from such a cup. The next morning the stranger saw by chance a sight of another kind, as he was taking a walk. Behind a wall a man lay on the earth; another held fast his head, and a third his feet, while a fourth stood over him with a whip, laying on with all his might. The lord stood by in his dressing-gown, smoking a long pipe, and coolly directing the procedure. The guest turned away from the spectacle, but was told by his servant that this was the tenth man who had undergone the same punishment that morning. The offence was, that they had not begun work at sunrise. Of course a peasantry so treated could have no affection for their masters. All the work was done in the worst manner, while the lord was plundered in every way by his servants. Of the supplies for the family, more than half were regularly stolen, there being no supervision in the household. The extravagance of the masters was boundless, and when they got out of money they resorted to the Jews, who had the whole commerce of the country in their hands, besides having mortgages on most of the estates.

This is the merest outline of a small portion of the book. It renders more intelligible the atrocities which took place in the insurrection of 1846, and which the Austrian Government permitted, if they did not foment.

* * * * *

One of the most remarkable philologists and travellers of the present day is the Hungarian Professor REGULY, a man as yet little known out of his own country and northern Europe. He has devoted himself a good deal to the exposition of the affinities between the Magyar and the Finnish languages, and his labors have impelled a number of learned Hungarians to the same study. In the year 1839 he left his country, and passed ten years in the north of Asia and Europe, mostly among the Finnish tribes of the Moguls, Ostiacks, Tsheremisses, Nordwins, &c., making himself familiar with their manners, customs, dialects, songs, and traditions, in order to attain a thorough personal acquaintance therewith. He also spent a long period in Kasan and St. Petersburgh, studying the other languages of Central Asia. His adventures during this time were, as may be supposed, remarkable. He suffered not only the privations and exposures inseparable from such an undertaking, but was also poorly supplied with money, and often in the greatest distress from that cause. Nothing but scientific enthusiasm carried him through, till he became acquainted with some Russian savans, and a Russian Councillor named Balugyanszky, who were of great assistance to him. He left his home a vigorous young man, and comes back broken down in strength and health. His investigations have related not only to philology, but to geography and ethnography. He has penetrated farther into the north of Asia than any previous traveller. On his return, at St. Petersburgh, he prepared, at the special request of the Geographical Society, a vast map of Northern Asia along the Ural Mountains, between 58 and 70 deg. north latitude, and 72 and 80 deg. east longitude, giving about five hundred localities. This map is made on the largest scale, containing sixteen large quarto sheets. The St. Petersburgh Gazette says of it, that it has proved Reguly to be the discoverer of a vast territory for Russia. He is now at Pesth, engaged in preparing for publication the fruits of his ten years' absence from home. He will treat of the languages of the European and Asiatic Finnish tribes, their grammar and vocabularies, with constant regard to the analogies of the Magyar tongue. By way of introduction he will first publish a special work, containing his philosophical views on the organism of language. After these philological treatises he will print a series of ethnographic works on the various races among which he has lived, with collections of their songs and traditions, and finally a detailed narrative of his travels, with a condensed account of their scientific results. The conclusion of his philological studies is briefly, that the Central-Asiatic, or as it might be called, the Ural-Altaic group of languages, is divided into six branches or families, namely, the language of the Mandshu Tartars, the Mongols, the Turkish-Tartar tribes, the Samoyedes, the Fins, and the Magyars. These families have however no nearer relation to each other than the individual tongues of the Indo-European group, as the Indian, the Romanic, German, Celtic, Slavic, and Persian languages. Still he regards the Magyar and Finnic languages as having greater mutual affinities than the others, though not to such a degree that one of these races of men can be supposed to be derived from the other. He rather supposes all of the races whose languages form the Central-Asiatic group to have sprung from an original race, which was probably Scythian.

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The Austrian government has just set on foot an enterprise which promises to be of use to both Literature and Science. The plan is, to prepare and publish at the expense of the Imperial Treasury, a great work on the ethnography of the Empire, and all savans, teachers, artists, poets, of every race, are invited to furnish materials. It is designed to give a complete account of the origin, history, manners, language, character and condition of each of the many tribes and peoples included under the Austrian sceptre. This will be combined of course with descriptions of the country, scenery, climate, soil, minerals, and natural and industrial productions of each region. It is supposed that the whole will be completed in eight big volumes. It will be accompanied by a vast ethnographic map, which is now being prepared with great energy under the superintendence of the Minister of Commerce.

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KARL GUTZKOW is one of the most prolific and popular novel and playwrights now living in Germany. As to his last work, Die Ritter vom Geiste (The Knights of the Spirit), of which only the first volume has been published, the critics entertain the most contradictory opinions. Some exclaim at its great length, which indeed is rather terrific: there are to be nine books, and the first occupies the whole of the first volume. Others are charmed with the skill with which the details of the work are wrought up, and the great variety of persons who figure in the story. The author has certainly laid out all his strength in this book, which is designed to reproduce the present age in all the contradictions of its doctrines and the complexity of its tendencies. But instead of seizing these in some central and vital point, and setting them forth in a work whose very simplicity would conceal its depth from most readers, Gutzkow has adopted the easier and more clumsy method of multiplying his characters and complicating the actions of his drama. Thus it is hardly possible for it not to be tedious and a failure. But we can speak of it more fairly when it is farther advanced.

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Dr. NEANDER'S Library is advertised for sale by auction at Berlin, but our correspondent thinks it will be saved from the hammer by a private subscription, which will secure it to the University.

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KARL SIMROCK has just brought out at Frankfort a new collection of GERMAN POPULAR SONGS, not obsolete or artistic poems, but such as still live among the people, and are familiar to every class. "Among Volkslieder," he says in his preface, "I include only such as have proceeded directly from the people, and still bear the tokens of their origin, in their unsophisticated form, and simple, hearty language. The pieces of cultivated poets which have found access and become loved with the people, are reserved for a future collection of favorite German songs. The distinction here hinted at between the people's songs and popular songs is not generally understood. All previous collections have confused the two, and some even have not a single production of the people. For example, Des Knaben Wunderhorn, whose great merit must be recognized, contains antique poems which by no means issued from among the people." In another place he says: "The songs here collected and arranged have been newly written down, literally from the mouths of the people; and where they could not be procured in this way, have been corrected by comparison of all earlier versions. So that as they here stand, they are in a sort my own property." The work is spoken of by competent critics as perfectly successful. We believe that Simrock, who is perhaps better qualified for the undertaking than any other man in Germany, intends in a future edition to publish the melodies of the songs along with the words.

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Belgian Literature is a standing joke with the authors of Paris, and not without reason, for the majority of the books printed by the publishers of Belgium, are pirated from their French neighbors. There is, however, such a thing as a Belgian literature, though it is not very extensive, and one of its chief ornaments is Professor BORGNEL, of Liege, best known as the author of a Historie des Belges a la fin du dix-huilieme Siecle, published some six years since, to which he is about to bring out an addition, carrying the history back to the beginning of the same century. He has also been occupied for several years with the history of the Flemish Provinces, under the domination of the Spaniards, and has a work on that subject in preparation. The Introduction to it appeared not long since among the Memoirs of the Brussels Academy, where it is entitled: Philippe I. et la Belgique. In treating a subject which the masterly pen of Schiller has already rendered familiar to the world, Prof. Borgnel does not attempt to imitate the ardent and splendid eloquence of that great poet and historian; Borgnel's merits are distinctness in his outlines, remarkable clearness of arrangement, perfect impartiality towards individuals and parties, and conscientious use of materials. Of these he has had a greater variety, including many manuscripts not before brought to light, than any previous writer.

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Among the new books announced in London is Notes on North America, Agricultural, Social, and Economical, by J. F. W. Johnston, author of "Lectures on Agricultural Chemistry." We may anticipate something of value from a man of his studies and well earned reputation. Professor Johnston passed the greater portion of his time, while in America, in the British Provinces. He had been led to believe that they offered the most interesting field for his professional observation. When he came into New-England, New-York and Pennsylvania, he was continually surprised at the perfection and the success of our agriculture. He regretted only, that the mistake into which he had been led by British travellers, had detained him from the United States until the period of his absence from home was nearly expired. Professor Johnston's lectures in New-York were given under singular disadvantages, but the too small audiences who heard them were pleased and instructed. All who became acquainted with him were impressed with a belief of his candor and his talents. We hope to see immediately an edition of his book in this country.

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In Geissen, Prof. LIEBIG, has published a Review of the Progress of Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology, in the year 1849. He has been assisted in its preparation by Professor Kopp and several other savans connected with the University at Giessen. It is marked by his usual completeness, breadth of scope, and exhaustive treatment of each particular subject. Liebig is now engaged in preparing a new series of Chemical Letters, which will be specially devoted to the growth of this science, in connection with the history of mental progress in general. Professor Knobel, of the same University, has also issued a work on the Genealogies of the Book of Genesis, which excites remark by the thoroughness of its historical investigations. Leopold Schmid's last work is on the Spirit of Catholicism, and also highly spoken of by both Catholic and Protestant writers. This author holds a high rank in the Catholic literature of Germany, and has been chosen Bishop of Mayence. Professor Hillebrand is occupied with a revision of his highly esteemed History of German national literature since Lessing. There seems to be no reason to fear that Giessen is doing less than its share toward keeping the ocean of German books up at a high-water mark.

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BERANGER, the veteran chansonier, is now occupying himself in writing biographies, anecdotes, criticisms, &c., of the public men with whom, in the course of his long career, he has been in contact. It is five years since he announced his intention of giving such a work to the public, and he thinks it will possess great historical value, while of his songs, which alone will convey his name to the last ages in which the language of France is spoken, he thinks but "indifferently well."

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The house, at Paris, in which EUGENE SUE laid some of the most exciting scenes of his "Wandering Jew," has lately been advertised for sale, and has been visited by crowds of curious loungers. It is known as the Hotel Serilly, and is situated at No. 5 Rue Neuve Saint Francois, in the quarter called the Marais. At the time the "Wandering Jew" was published, the street was often filled by groups of gazers at the strange old edifice, which had been so exactly described by the romancer, that no one could mistake it. Some even ventured to knock at the door and seek further information. They were received by a mysterious and taciturn old Hebrew, who looked as if he himself had charge of the great Rennepeal treasure, and three-quarters of the visitors went away convinced that they had seen the veritable Samuel himself. Now that the whole house has been thrown open to the public, there have been found under it vast sub-cellars extending under the large garden in the rear, and in these cellars are seven wells, partially filled up, but with walls of careful masonry, and other indications that they were of great depth and great utility. The opinion was at once set on foot by the explorers, that the millions of the treasure had been concealed in one of these wells. The fact is, that the house formerly belonged to a Protestant family which suffered extreme persecution after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and which doubtless found the subterranean passages extremely convenient. In the year 1791, it was inhabited by the revolutionist Carnot.

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The COUNT DE TOCQUEVILLE, a relative of the author of "Democracy in America," has just published a historical work on the Reign of Louis XVI. The writer, an old man almost sinking into the grave, enjoys the advantage of having himself witnessed and even shared in a part of the events he describes. He was intimate with Malasherbes, and personally devoted to the unfortunate Louis. Of his ability as a writer, a former work on the Reign of Louis XV. furnished proofs which are repeated in the present volume. Of course he does full justice to the amiable personal qualities of Marie Antoinette and her husband, without doing injustice to their faults. But he shows that after all what was charged upon them as political crime, was but the consequence of long-standing causes, over which they had no control, or even of measures of reform to which with the best intentions, they had given their consent. In speaking of the mission of Franklin at the French Court, M. de Tocqueville gives some interesting details. "At Paris," he says, "the zeal for the cause of the insurgents constantly increased. The women who exercised a great influence in the reign of Louis XVI., became passionate supporters of the Americans, and made aiding them a question of honor. The simple manners of their envoys,—their hair without powder, their citizens' dress, pleased by a sort of piquant novelty. All who approached Franklin were charmed by his wit. In him people venerated the founder of the liberty of a great nation, and even grew enthusiastic in behalf of that liberty." M. de Tocqueville shows however that the prime minister Maurepas only feared the Americans because he was embarrassed in his position, and thought to relieve himself by making war with England. But as there was no good reason for making such a war, the honesty of the King revolted at it. M. de Vergennes also said in the Council, that England would be much more weakened by a long war with her colonies, than by their loss. "But how," repeated all the women, "can we help embracing the cause of a people which sends us ambassadors without powder, and with shoe-strings, instead of buckles?" So weighty a reason turned the balance, and the war was declared. That war finished the ruin of the French monarchy, not only by inspiring the officers and soldiers sent to the United States with new ideas, but also by completing the exhaustion of its finances. With regard to the Revolution in which Louis XVI. lost his head, it is enough praise for our historian, that while he inclines always to the monarchical side, he is not altogether unjust to the popular virtues which shone with such rare brilliancy amid the gloom of that epoch.

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The great work of J. G. AUDUBON and the Rev. Dr. BACHMAN, upon the "Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America," is much praised by those persons in Europe whose praise is of most value. The Athenaeum remarks that, hitherto, the mammalia of America have been known chiefly through descriptions by zoologists, in the Transactions of European Societies, and that no systematic attempt has been made to bring together into one connected view the very varied forms of animal life presented by this great continent, while these authors have not only used the materials which were at hand in the works of others, but have themselves observed with great diligence the habits of many of the creatures which they have described. "Their work is creditable to the United States, where a large number of subscribers have induced the authors to undertake it,—and a most valuable addition to our general natural-history literature." The geographical range within which the animals described in these pages are found is not that of the government of the United States merely; it comprehends Russian and British America, in fact, all the country which lies north of the tropics in the New World.

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At the last MICHAELMAS BOOK FAIR at Leipsic, the Catalogue contained the titles of 5,023 new works published in Germany since Easter. This is from twelve to fifteen hundred more than at any fair since the Revolution of 1848. A great number of these books are large and of remarkable merit, being in some sort, the accumulation of the more profound scientific labors of the past two years.

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The BARONESS VON BECK has just published in London two volumes of "Personal Adventures" in the Hungarian war. She is herself a Hungarian, and she saw her husband fall while cheering his men to defend a barricade at Vienna. In this book Kossuth is her hero, her prophet, her demigod; and she sacrifices all other celebrities without compunction at the altar of his greatness. Dembinsky she treats with manifest injustice; Georgey comes out on her pages as a very Mephistopheles. Klapka himself does not escape without animadversion. But without adopting her opinions, either of the man she blames or the subject she discusses, it cannot be denied that she has great cleverness, and a wonderful power of exciting and interesting the reader.

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A valuable scientific periodical is the Geographisches Jahrbuch for the Communication of all the more important New Investigations, edited by the distinguished BERGHAUS, and published by Perthes of Gotha. The last number has an article by the editor on the system of "Mountains and Rivers of Africa," which differs altogether from what is laid down in the present maps. The author lays down the river Nile as flowing from the N'Yassi, and as connected with a great number of rivers in Dar Fur, Waday, and Fertil, with relation to which only the vaguest views have hitherto been entertained. The article shows, too, that the newly discovered lake N'Gami, in Southern Africa, has been long known under the name of Nampur. The same number of the Jahrbuch also contains an article from the pen of the late lamented ALBERT GALLATIN, on the climate of North America. This article was written in English, and was translated into German for the Jahrbuch.