If you pass behind Satan's Throne, by a narrow ascending path, you come into a vast hall where there is nothing but naked rock. This empty dreary place is appropriately called the Deserted Chamber. Walking along the verge, you arrive at another avenue, inclosing sulphur springs. Here the guide warns you of the vicinity of a pit, one hundred and twenty feet deep, in the shape of a saddle. Stooping over it, and looking upward, you see an abyss of precisely the same shape over head; a fact which indicates that it began in the upper region, and was merely interrupted by this chamber.

From this, you may enter a narrow and very tortuous path, called the Labyrinth, which leads to an immense split, or chasm, in the rocks. Here is placed a ladder, down which you descend twenty-five or thirty feet, and enter a narrow cave below, which brings you to a combination of rock called the Gothic Window. You stand in this recess, while the guided ascends huge cliffs overhead, and kindles Bengal Lights, by the help of which you see, two hundred feet above you, a Gothic dome of one solid rock, perfectly overawing in its vastness and height. Below, is an abyss of darkness, which no eye but the Eternal can fathom. If, instead of descending the ladder, you pass straight alongside the chasm, you arrive at the Bottomless Pit, beyond which no one ever ventured to proceed till 1838. To this fact we probably owe the meagre account given by Lieber, in the Encyclopaedia Americana. He says, "This cave is more remarkable for extent, than the variety or beauty of its productions; having none of the beautiful stalactites found in many other caves." For a long period this pit was considered bottomless, because, when stones were thrown into it, they reverberated and reverberated along the sides, till lost to the ear, but seemed to find no resting place. It has since been sounded, and found to be one hundred and forty feet deep, with a soft muddy bottom, which returns no noise when a stone strikes upon it. In 1838, the adventurous Stephen threw a ladder across the chasm, and passed over. There is now a narrow bridge of two planks, with a little railing on each side; but as it is impossible to sustain it by piers, travellers must pass over in the centre, one by one, and not touch the railing, lest they disturb the balance, and overturn the bridge.

This walk brings you into Pensico Avenue. Hitherto, the path has been rugged, wild, and rough, interrupted by steep acclivities, rocks, and big stones; but this avenue has a smooth and level floor, as if the sand had been spread out by gently flowing waters. Through this, descending more and more, you come to a deep arch, by which you enter the Winding Way; a strangely irregular and zig-zag path, so narrow that a very stout man could not squeeze through. In some places, the rocks at the sides are on a line with your shoulders, then piled high over your head; and then again you rise above, and overlook them all, and see them heaped behind you, like the mighty waves of the Red Sea, parted for the Israelites to pass through. This toilsome path was evidently made by a rushing, winding torrent. Toward the close, the water not having force enough to make a smooth bed, has bored a tunnel. This is so low and narrow, that the traveller is obliged to stoop and squeeze himself through. Suddenly he passes into a vast hall, called the Great Relief; and this leads into the River Hall, at the side of which you have a glimpse of a small cave, called the Smoke House, because it is hung with rocks perfectly in the shape of hams. The River Hall descends like the slope of a mountain. The ceiling stretches away—away—before you, vast and grand as the firmament at midnight. No one, who has never seen this cave, can imagine the excitement, and awe, with which the traveller keeps his eye fixed on the rocky ceiling, which, gradually revealed in the passing light, continually exhibits some new and unexpected feature of sublimity or beauty.

One of the most picturesque sights in the world, is to see a file of men and women passing along these wild and craggy paths—slowly, slowly—that their lamps may have time to illuminate the sky-like ceiling, and gigantic walls; disappearing behind the high cliffs, sinking into ravines, their lights shining upward through fissures in the rocks; then suddenly emerging from some abrupt angle, standing in the bright gleam of their lamps, relieved against the towering black masses around them. He who could paint the infinite variety of creation, can alone give an adequate description of this marvellous region. At one side of River Hall is a steep precipice, over which you can look down, by aid of blazing missiles, upon a broad, black sheet of water, eighty feet below, called the Dead Sea. This is an awfully impressive place, the sights and sounds of which do not easily pass from memory. He who has seen it will have it vividly brought before him by Alfieri's description of Filippo: "Only a transient word or act gives us a short and dubious glimmer, that reveals to us the abysses of his being; dark, lurid, and terrific, as the throat of the infernal pool." As you pass along, you hear the roar of invisible waterfalls, and at the foot of the slope, the River Styx lies before you, deep and black, overarched with rock. The first glimpse of it brings to mind the descent of Ulysses into hell.

"Where the dark rock o'erhangs the infernal lake, And mingling screams eternal murmurs make."

Across these unearthly waters, the guide can convey but two passengers at once; and these sit motionless in the canoe, with feet turned apart, so as not to disturb the balance. Three lamps are fastened to the prow, the images of which are reflected in the dismal pool.

If you are impatient of delay, or eager for new adventures, you can leave your companions lingering about the shore, and cross the Styx by a dangerous bridge of precipices overhead. In order to do this, you must ascend a steep cliff and enter a cave above, from an egress of which you find yourself on the bank of the river, eighty feet above its surface, commanding a view of those passing in the boat, and those waiting on the shore. Seen from this height, the lamps in the canoe glare like fiery eyeballs; and the passengers sitting there, so hushed and motionless, look like shadows. The scene is so strangely funereal and spectral, that it seems as if the Greeks must have witnessed it, before they imagined Charon conveying ghosts to the dim regions of Pluto. Your companions, thus seen, do indeed—

"Skim along the dusky glades, Thin airy shoals, and visionary shades."



If you turn your eye from the canoe, to the parties of men and women, whom you left waiting on the shore, you will see them, by the gleam of their lamps, scattered in picturesque groups, looming out in bold relief from the dense darkness around them.

When you have passed the Styx, you soon meet another stream, appropriately called Lethe. The echoes here are absolutely stunning. A single voice sounds like a powerful choir; and could an organ be played, it would deprive the hearer of his senses. When you have crossed, you enter a high level hall, named the Great Walk, half a mile of which brings you to another river, called the Jordan. In crossing this, the rocks, in one place, descend so low, as to leave only eighteen inches for the boat to pass through. Passengers are obliged to double up, and lie on each other's shoulders till this gap is passed. This uncomfortable position is, however, of short duration, and you suddenly emerge to where the vault of the cave is more than a hundred feet high. In the fall of the year, this river often rises, almost instantaneously, over fifty feet above low-water mark; a phenomenon supposed to be caused by heavy rains from the upper earth. On this account, autumn is an unfavorable season for those who wish to explore the cave throughout. If parties happen to be caught on the other side of Jordan, when the sudden rise takes place, a boat conveys them, on the swollen waters, to the level of an upper cave, so low that they are obliged to enter on hands and knees, and crawl through. This place is called Purgatory. People on the other side, aware of their danger, have a boat in readiness to receive them. The guide usually sings while crossing the Jordan, and his voice is reverberated by a choir of sweet echoes. The only animals ever found in the cave are fish, with which this stream abounds. They are perfectly white, and without eyes; at least, they have been subjected to a careful scientific examination, and no organ similar to an eye can be discovered. It would indeed be a useless appendage to creatures that dwell for ever in Cimmerian darkness. But, as usual, the acuteness of one sense is increased by the absence of another. These fish are undisturbed by the most powerful glare of light, but they are alarmed at the slightest agitation of the water; and it is therefore exceedingly difficult to catch them.

The rivers of Mammoth Cave were never crossed till 1840. Great efforts have been made to discover whence they come, and whither they go. But though the courageous Stephen has floated for hours up to his chin, and forced his way through the narrowest apertures under the dark waves, so as to leave merely his head a breathing space, yet they still remain as much a mystery as ever—without beginning or end, like eternity. They disappear under arches, which, even at the lowest stage of the water, are under the surface of it. From an unknown cause, it sometimes happens in the neighborhood of these streams, that the figure of a distant companion will apparently loom up, to the height of ten or twelve feet, as he approaches you. This occasional phenomenon is somewhat frightful, even to the most rational observer, occurring as it does in a region so naturally associated with giants and genii.

From the Jordan, through Silliman's Avenue, you enter a high, narrow defile, or pass, in a portion of which, called the Hanging Rocks, huge masses of stone hang suspended over your head. At the side of this defile, is a recess, called the Devil's Blacksmith's Shop. It contains a rock shaped like an anvil, with a small inky current running near it, and quantities of coarse stalagmite scattered about, precisely like blacksmith's cinders, called slag. In another place, you pass a square rock, covered with beautiful dog's tooth spar, called the Mile Stone.

This pass brings you into Wellington's Gallery, which tapers off to a narrow point, apparently the end of the cave in this direction. But a ladder is placed on one side by which you ascend to a small cleft in the rock, through which you are at once ushered into a vast apartment, discovered about two years ago. This is the commencement of Cleveland's Avenue, the crowning wonder and glory of this subterranean world. At the head of the ladder, you find yourself surrounded by overhanging stalactites, in the form of rich clusters of grapes, transparent to the light, hard as marble, and round and polished, as if done by a sculptor's hand. This is called Mary's Vineyard; and from it, an entrance to the right brings you into a perfectly naked cave, whence you suddenly pass into a large hall, with magnificent columns, and rich festoons of stalactite, in various forms of beautiful combination. In the centre of this chamber, between columns of stalactite, stands a mass of stalagmite, shaped like a sarcophagus, in which is an opening like a grave. A Roman Catholic priest first discovered this, about a year ago, and with fervent enthusiasm exclaimed, "The Holy Sepulchre!" a name which it has since borne.

To the left of Mary's Vineyard, is an inclosure like an arbor, the ceiling and sides of which are studded with snow-white crystallized gypsum, in the form of all sorts of flowers. It is impossible to convey an idea of the exquisite beauty and infinite variety of these delicate formations. In some places, roses and lilies seem cut on the rock, in bas-relief; in others, a graceful bell rises on a long stalk, so slender that it bends at a breath. One is an admirable imitation of Indian corn in tassel, the silky fibres as fine and flexile as can be imagined; another is a group of ostrich plumes, so downy that a zephyr waves it. In some nooks were little parks of trees, in others, gracefully curled leaves like the Acanthus, rose from the very bosom of the rock. Near this room is the Snow Chamber, the roof and sides of which are covered with particles of brilliant white gypsum, as if snowballs had been dashed all over the walls. In another apartment the crystals are all in the form of rosettes. In another, called Rebecca's Garland, the flowers have all arranged themselves into wreaths. Each seems to have a style of formations peculiar to itself, though of infinite variety. Days might be spent in these superb grottoes, without becoming familiar with half their hidden glories. One could imagine that some antediluvian giant had here imprisoned some fair daughter of earth, and then in pity for her loneliness, had employed fairies to deck her bowers with all the splendor of earth and ocean. Like poor Amy Robsart, in the solitary halls of Cumnor. Bengal Lights, kindled in these beautiful retreats, produce an effect more gorgeous than any theatrical representation of fairyland; but they smoke the pure white incrustations, and the guide is therefore very properly reluctant to have them used. The reflection from the shining walls is so strong, that lamplight is quite sufficient. Moreover, these wonderful formations need to be examined slowly and in detail. The universal glitter of the Lights is worthless in comparison. From Rebecca's Garland you come into a vast hall, of great height, covered with shining drops of gypsum, like oozing water petrified. In the centre is a large rock, four feet high, and level at top, round which several hundred people can sit conveniently. This is called Cornelia's Table, and is frequently used for parties to dine upon. In this hall, and in Wellington's Gallery, are deposits of fibrous gypsum, snow-white, dry, and resembling asbestos. Geologists, who sometimes take up their abode in the cave for weeks, and other travellers who choose to remain over night, find this a very pleasant and comfortable bed.

Cornelia's Table is a safe centre, from which individuals may diverge on little exploring expeditions; for the paths here are not labyrinthine, and the hall is conspicuous from various neighboring points of view. In most regions of the cave, it is hazardous to lose sight of the guide. If you think to walk straight ahead, even for a few rods, and then turn short round and return to him, you will find it next to impossible to do so. So many paths come in at acute angles; they look so much alike; and the light of a lamp reveals them so imperfectly, that none but the practised eye of a guide can disentangle their windings. A gentleman who retraced a few steps, near the entrance of the cave, to find his hat, lost his way so completely, that he was not found for forty-eight hours, though twenty or thirty people were in search of him. Parties are occasionally mustered and counted, to see that none are missing. Should such an accident happen, there is no danger, if the wanderer will remain stationary; for he will soon be missed, and a guide sent after him. From the hall of congealed drops, you may branch off into a succession of small caves, called Cecilia's Grottoes. Here nearly all the beautiful formations of the surrounding caves, such as grapes, flowers, stars, leaves, coral, &c., may be found so low, that you can conveniently examine their minutest features. One of these little recesses, covered with sparkling spar, set in silvery gypsum, is called Diamond Grotto. Alma's Bower closes this series of wonderful formations. As a whole, they are called Cleveland's Cabinet, in honor of Professor Cleveland, of Bowdoin College. Silliman calls this admirable series, the Alabaster Caves. He says: "I was at first at a loss to account for such beautiful formations, and especially for the elegance of the curves exhibited. It is however evident that the substances have grown from the rocks, by increments or additions to the base; the solid parts already formed being continually pushed forward. If the growth be a little more rapid on one side than on the other, a well-proportioned curve will be the result; should the increased action on one side diminish or increase, then all the beauties of the conic and mixed curves would be produced. The masses are often evenly and longitudinally striated by a kind of columnar structure, exhibiting a fascicle of small prisms; and some of these prisms ending sooner than others, give a broken termination of great beauty, similar to our form of the emblem of 'the order of the star.' The rosettes formed by a mammillary disk surrounded by a circle of leaves, rolled elegantly outward, are from four inches to a foot in diameter. Tortuous vines, throwing off curled leaves at every flexure, like the branches of a chandelier, running more than a foot in length, and not thicker than the finger, are among the varied frost-work of these grottoes; common stalactites of carbonate of lime, although beautiful objects, lose by contrast with these ornaments, and dwindle into mere clumsy, awkward icicles. Besides these, there are tufts of 'hair salt,' native sulphate of magnesia, depending like adhering snowballs from the roof, and periodically detaching themselves by their own increasing weight. Indeed, the more solid alabaster ornaments become at last overgrown, and fall upon the floor of the grotto, which was found covered with numbers quite entire, besides fragments of others broken by the fall."

A distinguished geologist has said that he believed Cleveland's Avenue, two miles in length, contained a petrified form of every vegetable production on earth. If this be too large a statement, it is at least safe to say that its variety is almost infinite. Amongst its other productions, are large piles of Epsom salts, beautifully crystallized. Travellers have shown such wanton destructiveness in this great temple of Nature—mutilating beautiful columns, knocking off spar, and crushing delicate flowers—that the rules are now very strict. It is allowable to touch nothing, except the ornaments which have loosened and dropped by their own weight. These are often hard enough to bear transportation.

After you leave Alma's Bower, the cave again becomes very rugged. Beautiful combinations of gypsum and spar may still be seen occasionally overhead: but all round you rocks and stones are piled up in the wildest manner. Through such scraggy scenery, you come to the Rocky Mountains, an irregular pile of massive rocks, from 100 to 150 feet high. From these you can look down into Dismal Hollow—deep below deep—the most frightful looking place in the whole cave. On the top of the mountain is a beautiful rotunda, called Croghan Hall, in honor of the proprietor. Stalactites surround this in the richest fringe of icicles, and lie scattered about the walls in all shapes, as if arranged for a museum. On one side is a stalagmite formation like a pine-tree, about five feet high, with regular leaves and branches; another is in a pyramidal form, like a cypress.

If you wind down the mountains on the side opposite from that which you ascended, you will come to Serena's Arbor, which is thirteen miles from the entrance of the cave, and the end of this avenue. A most beautiful termination it is! In a semicircle of stalactite columns is a fountain of pure water spouting up from a rock. This fluid is as transparent as air; all the earthy particles it ever held in suspension, having been long since precipitated. The stalactite formations in this arbor are remarkably beautiful.

One hundred and sixty-five avenues have been discovered in Mammoth Cave, the walk through which is estimated at about three hundred miles. In some places, you descend more than a mile into the bowels of the earth. The poetic-minded traveller, after he has traced all the labyrinths, departs with lingering reluctance. As he approaches the entrance, daylight greets him with new and startling beauty. If the sun shines on the verdant sloping hill, and the waving trees, seen through the arch, they seem like fluid gold; if mere daylight rests upon them, they resemble molten silver. This remarkable richness of appearance is doubtless owing to the contrast with the thick darkness, to which the eye has been so long accustomed.

As you come out of the cave, the temperature of the air rises thirty degrees instantly (if the season is summer), and you feel as if plunged in a hot vapor bath; but the effects of this are salutary and not unpleasant. Nature never seems so miraculous as it does when you emerge from this hidden realm of marvellous imitations. The "dear goddess" is so serene in her resplendent and more harmonious beauty! The gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the hills, the sky, and the air, all seem to wear a veil of transfigured glory. The traveller feels that he was never before conscious how beautiful a phenomenon is the sunlight, how magnificent the blue arch of heaven!

There are three guides at the service of travellers, all well versed in the intricate paths of this nether world. Stephen, the presiding genius of Mammoth Cave, is a mulatto, and a slave. He has lived in this strange region from boyhood, and a large proportion of the discoveries are the result of his courage, intelligence, and untiring zeal. His vocation has brought him into contact with many intellectual and scientific men, and a prodigious memory, he has profited much by intercourse with superior minds. He can recollect every body that ever visited the cave, and all the terms of geology and mineralogy are at his tongue's end. He is extremely attentive, and peculiarly polite to ladies. Like most of his race, he is fond of grandiloquent language, and his rapturous expressions, as he lights up some fine point of view, are at times fine specimens of glorification. His knowledge of the place is ample and accurate, and he is altogether an extremely useful and agreeable guide.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] See engraving of this hotel in the International for August, 1851.



THE POEM OF THE MONTH.

The finest new poem that has fallen under our notice is the following, from Graham's Magazine for the present month. We think few who have read Miss Carey's recent poems entitled Lyra, Jessie Carol, October, and The Winds, with her prose volume just published by Redfield, will be disposed to question, that in the brief period in which she has been before the public she has entitled herself to the highest rank among the living literary women of the United States.

WINTER, BY ALICE CAREY.

Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow, Hugging away beneath a fleece of gold Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold, And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below, Where in a bed of chilly waves afar, With dismal shadows o'er her sweet face blown, Tended to death by eve's delicious star, Lies the lost day alone.

Where late, with red mists bound about his brows, Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs Of the old forest trees, The gusts upon their baleful errands run O'er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes, And over all, like clouds about the sun, A shadow lies.

For, fallen asleep upon a dreary world, Slant to the light, one late October morn, From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold, And tearing off his garland of ripe corn, Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with delicious wine, And Ceres' drowsy flowers, so dully red, Deep in his cavern leafy and divine, Buried him with his dead.

Then, with big black beard glistening in the frost, Under the icy arches of the north, And o'er the still graves of the seasons lost, Blustered the Winter forth— Spring, with your crown of roses budding new, Thought-nursing and most melancholy Fall, Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew, Blighting your beauties all.

Oh heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove, Your summer but forerun the autumn's death, The flowery arches in the home of love Fall crumbling, at a breath; And, sick at last with that great sorrow's shock, As some poor prisoner, pressing to the bars His forehead, calls on Mercy to unlock The chambers of the stars— You, turning off from life's first mocking glow Leaning it may be, still on broken faith, Will down the vale of Autumn gladly go To the chill winter, Death.

Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove I hear a sob, as one forlorn might pine— The white-limbed beauty of a god is thine, King of the seasons! and the night that hoods Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweave— Thou surely canst not grieve;

But only far away Makest stormy prophecies; well, lift them higher, Till morning on the forehead of the day Presses a seal of fire Dearer to me the scene Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace, Than Summer, with her rustling robe of green, Cool blowing in my face.

The moon is up—how still the yellow beams That slantwise lie upon the stirless air, Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair, O'er beauty's cheeks that streams, How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks. And the wild legend from the old time wins, Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks Of Ilia's lovely twins.

Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands Cover me softly, singing all the night— In thy dear presence find I best delight; Even the saint that stands Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams Of rarest glory, to my mortal eyes Pales from the blest insanity of dreams That round thee lies.

Unto the dusky borders of the grove Where gray-haired Saturn, silent as a stone, Sat in his grief alone, Or where young Venus, searching for her love, Walked through the clouds, I pray, Bear me to-night away.

Or wade with me through snows Drifted in loose fantastic curves aside, From humble doors where Love and Faith abide, And no rough winter blows, Chilling the beauty of affections fair, Cabined securely there.

Where round their fingers winding the white slips That crown his forehead, on the grandsire's knees, Sit merry children, teasing about ships Lost in the perilous seas; Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep, To stories about battles, or of storms, Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep, Slide they from out his arms.

Where, by the log-heap fire, As the pane rattles and the cricket sings, I with the gray-haired sire May talk of vanished summer-times and springs, And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile The long, long hours— The happier for the snows that drift the while About the flowers.

Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee? No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow; From life's fair summer I am hastening now, And as I sink my knee, Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow— Dowerless, I can but say— O, cast me not away!



CARLYLE ON THE OPERA.

The London Keepsake, for 1852, contains an article by Carlyle. He has not sent something that was at hand, or thrown off any thing on the spur of the moment, but set himself to write down to his company, and do his best in that way. The paper is written in the character of a travelling and philosophical American, who pours forth his thoughts on the opera; the topics being the deterioration of music as an art, the small beneficial result that follows so much outlay and such a combination of artistical skill, the amount of training bestowed on the singers and dancers, greater than that which produces great men, and the company before the curtain, together with reflections thereanent. It is a piece of forcible description, and of thoughtful though perhaps rather one-sided reflection. As we heard it remarked a few days ago by a shrewd critic, Carlyle is never so much himself as when he appears in the character of another—for examples, in that of the strolling lecturer, who left with his unpaid lodging-house keeper a denunciation of modern philanthropists, or in that of the correspondent whose letters he quotes in the Life of Sterling. In the disguise of a Yankee philosopher he thus breaks out, after some serious and highly-wrought prefatory phrases on the glories of true music, while yet true music partook of the divine:

"Of the account of the Haymarket Opera my account, in fine, is this: Lustres, candelabras, painting, gilding at discretion: a hall as of the Caliph Alraschid, or him that commanded the slaves of the Lamp; a hall as if fitted up by the genies, regardless of expense. Upholstery and the outlay of human capital, could do no more. Artists, too, as they are called, have been got together from the ends of the world, regardless likewise of expense, to do dancing and singing, some of them even geniuses in their craft. One singer in particular, called Coletti, or some such name, seemed to me, by the cast of his face, by the tones of his voice, by his general bearing, so far as I could read it, to be a man of deep and ardent sensibilities, of delicate intuitions, just sympathies; originally an almost poetic soul, or man of genius, as we term it; stamped by Nature as capable of far other work than squalling here, like a blind Samson to make the Philistines sport! Nay, all of them had aptitudes, perhaps of a distinguished kind; and must, by their own and other people's labor, have got a training equal or superior in toilsomeness, earnest assiduity, and patient travail, to what breeds men to the most arduous trades. I speak not of kings' grandees, or the like show-figures; but few soldiers, judges, men of letters, can have had such pains taken with them. The very ballet girls, with their muslin saucers round them, were perhaps little short of miraculous; whirling and spinning there in strange mad vortexes, and then suddenly fixing themselves motionless, each upon her left or right great-toe, with the other leg stretched out at an angle of ninety degrees;—as if you had suddenly pricked into the floor, by one of their points, a pair, or rather a multitudinous cohort, of mad restlessly jumping and clipping scissors, and so bidden them rest, with opened blades, and stand still, in the Devil's name! A truly notable motion; marvellous, almost miraculous, were not the people there so used to it. Motion peculiar to the Opera; perhaps the ugliest, and surely one of the most difficult, ever taught a female creature in this world. Nature abhors it; but Art does at least admit it to border on the impossible. One little Cerito, or Taglioni the Second, that night when I was there, went bounding from the floor as if she had been made of Indian-rubber, or filled with hydrogen gas, and inclined by positive levity to bolt through the ceiling; perhaps neither Semiramis nor Catherine the Second had bred herself so carefully. Such talent, and such martyrdom of training, gathered from the four winds, was now here, to do its feat, and be paid for it. Regardless of expense, indeed! The purse of Fortunatus seemed to have opened itself, and the divine art of Musical Sound and Rhythmic Motion was welcomed with an explosion of all the magnificences which the other arts, fine and coarse, could achieve. For you are to think of some Rossini or Bellini in the rear of it, too; to say nothing of the Stanfields, and hosts of scene-painters, machinists, engineers, enterprisers—fit to have taken Gibraltar, written the History of England, or reduced Ireland into Industrial Regiments, had they so set their minds to it!

"Alas, and of all these notable or noticeable human talents, and excellent perseverances and energies, backed by mountains of wealth, and led by the divine art of Music and Rhythm vouchsafed by Heaven to them and us, what was to be the issue here this evening? An hour's amusement, not amusing either, but wearisome and dreary, to a high-dizened select populace of male and female persons, who seemed to me not worth much amusing! Could any one have pealed into their hearts once, one true thought, and glimse of Self-vision: 'High-dizened most expensive persons, Aristocracy so called, or Best of the World, beware, beware what proofs you give of betterness and bestness!' and then the salutary pang of conscience in reply: 'A select Populace, with money in its purse, and drilled a little by the posture-maker: good Heavens! if that were what, here and every where in God's Creation, I am? And a world all dying because I am, and show myself to be, and to have long been, even that? John, the carriage, the carriage; swift! Let me go home in silence, to reflection, perhaps to sackcloth and ashes!' This, and not amusement, would have profited those high-dizened persons.

"Amusement, at any rate, they did not get from Euterpe and Melpomene. These two Muses, sent for, regardless of expense, I could see, were but the vehicle of a kind of service which I judged to be Paphian rather. Young beauties of both sexes used their opera-glasses, you could notice, not entirely for looking at the stage. And it must be owned the light, in this explosion of all the upholsteries, and the human fine arts and coarse, was magical; and made your fair one an Armida,—if you liked her better so. Nay, certain old Improper-Females (of quality), in their rouge and jewels, even these looked some reminiscence of enchantment; and I saw this and the other lean domestic Dandy, with icy smile on his old worn face; this and the other Marquis Singedelomme, Prince Mahogany, or the like foreign Dignitary, tripping into the boxes of said females, grinning there awhile with dyed moustachios and macassar-oil graciosity, and then tripping out again;—and, in fact, I perceived that Colletti and Cerito and the Rhythmic Arts were a mere accompaniment here.

"Wonderful to see; and sad, if you had eyes! Do but think of it. Cleopatra threw pearls into her drink, in mere waste; which was reckoned foolish of her. But here had the Modern Aristocracy of men brought the divinest of its Arts, heavenly Music itself; and, piling all the upholsteries and ingenuities that other human art could do, had lighted them into a bonfire to illuminate an hour's flirtation of Singedelomme, Mahogany, and these improper persons! Never in Nature had I seen such waste before. O Colletti, you whose inborn melody, once of kindred as I judged to 'the Melodies eternal,' might have valiantly weeded out this and the other false thing from the ways of men, and made a bit of God's creation more melodious,—they have purchased you away from that; chained you to the wheel of Prince Mahogany's chariot, and here you make sport for a macassar Singedelomme and his improper-females past the prime of life! Wretched spiritual Nigger, oh, if you had some genius, and were not a born Nigger with mere appetite for pumpkin, should you have endured such a lot? I lament for you beyond all other expenses. Other expenses are light; you are the Cleopatra's pearl that should not have been flung into Mahogany's claret-cup. And Rossini, too, and Mozart and Bellini—Oh, Heavens, when I think that Music too is condemned to be mad and to burn herself, to this end, on such a funeral pile,—your celestial Opera-house grows dark and infernal to me! Behind its glitter stalks the shadow of Eternal Death; through it too I look not 'up into the divine eye,' as Richter has it, 'but down into the bottomless eyesocket'—not up towards God, Heaven, and the Throne of Truth, but too truly down towards Falsity, Vacuity, and the Dwelling-place of Everlasting Despair."



THE GRAVE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

Sir John Richardson has just published, in London, a very valuable work, embracing the results of his recent travels and adventures in the polar regions, in search of the brave navigator who is probably buried under their eternal snows. As a narrative it is not particularly interesting; it is rich rather in scientific facts and observations. It has northern landscapes, painted by an observer who combines scientific knowledge with the taste of a lover of nature; exhibitions of zeal and endurance under hardships; and incidents interesting from their rarity or their circumstances; but nothing different from other expeditions undertaken to explore the same region. A large part of the scientific matter is presented by itself. A curious account of the Indian races whose territories were travelled over forms a succession of separate chapters, and a series of elaborate papers on the physical geography of northern America occupies an appendix, which fills nearly two-thirds of the second volume. The nature of the country explored gives a freshness to every thing connected with it, and interest even to casual observation.

This is a curious fact connected with the feeling of heat:

"The power of the sun this day in a cloudless sky was so great, that Mr. Rae and I were glad to take shelter in the water while the crews were engaged on the portages. The irritability of the human frame is either greater in these Northern latitudes, or the sun, notwithstanding its obliquity, acts more powerfully upon it than near the Equator; for I have never felt its direct rays so oppressive within the Tropics as I have experienced them to be on some occasions in the high latitudes. The luxury of bathing at such times is not without alloy; for, if you choose the mid-day, you are assailed in the water by the tabani, who draw blood in an instant with their formidable lancets; and if you select the morning or evening, then clouds of thirsty moschetoes, hovering around, fasten on the first part that emerges. Leeches also infest the still waters, and are prompt in their aggressions."

The following relate to cold and mid-winter:

"The rapid evaporation of both snow and ice in the winter and spring, long before the action of the sun has produced the slightest thaw or appearance of moisture, is made evident to residents in the high latitudes by many facts of daily occurrence; and I may mention that the drying of linen furnishes a familiar one. When a shirt, after being washed, is exposed in the open air to a temperature of 40 deg. or 50 deg. below zero, it is instantly rigidly frozen, and may be broken if violently bent. If agitated when in this condition by a strong wind, it makes a rustling noise like theatrical thunder. In an hour or two, however, or nearly as quickly as it would do if exposed to the sun in the moist climate of England, it dries and becomes limber....

"In consequence of the extreme dryness of the atmosphere in winter, most articles of English manufacture made of wood, horn, or ivory, brought to Rupert's Land, are shrivelled, bent, and broken. The handles of razors and knives, combs, ivory scales, and various other things kept in the warm rooms, are damaged in this way. The human body also becomes visibly electric from the dryness of the skin. One cold night I rose from my bed, and having lighted a lantern, was going out to observe the thermometer, with no other clothing than my flannel night-dress, when, on approaching my hand to the iron latch of the door, a distinct spark was elicited. Friction of the skin at almost all times in winter produced the electric odor....

"Even at mid-winter we had three hours and a half of daylight. On the 20th of December I required a candle to write at the window at ten in the morning. On the 29th, the sun, after ten days' absence, rose at the fishery, where the horizon was open; and on the 8th of January, both limbs of that luminary were seen from a gentle eminence behind the fort, rising above the centre of Fishery Island. For several days previously, however, its place in the heavens at noon had been denoted by rays of light shooting into the sky above the woods. The lowest temperature in January was 50 deg. F. On the 1st of February the sun rose to us at nine o'clock and set at three, and the days lengthened rapidly. On the 23d I could write in my room without artificial light from ten A.M. to half-past two P.M., making four hours and a half of bright daylight. The moon in the long nights was a most beautiful object; that satellite being constantly above the horizon for nearly a fortnight together in the middle of the lunar month. Venus also shone with a brilliancy which is never witnessed in a sky loaded with vapors; and, unless in snowy weather, our nights were always enlivened by the beams of the Aurora."

Few if any readers will ever be in a situation to use the knowledge of how to build a snow-house. The Arctic architecture, from a chapter on the Esquimaux, is worth reading, should it never turn out to be worth knowing:

"As the days lengthen, the villages are emptied of their inhabitants, who move seaward on the ice to the seal-hunt. Then comes into use a marvellous system of architecture, unknown among the rest of the American nations. The fine pure snow has by that time acquired, under the action of strong winds and hard frosts, sufficient coherence to form an admirable light building material, with which the Eskimo master-mason erects most comfortable dome-shaped houses. A circle is first traced on the smooth surface of the snow; and the slabs for raising the walls are cut from within, so as to clear a space down to the ice, which is to form the floor of the dwelling, and whose evenness was previously ascertained by probing. The slabs requisite to complete the dome, after the interior of the circle is exhausted, are cut from some neighboring spot. Each slab is neatly fitted to its place by running a flenching-knife along the joint, when it instantly freezes to the wall, the cold atmosphere forming a most excellent cement. Crevices are plugged up, and seams accurately closed by throwing a few shovelfuls of loose snow over the fabric. Two men generally work together in raising a house, and the one who is stationed within cuts a low door, and creeps out when his task is over. The walls being only three or four inches thick, are sufficiently translucent to admit a very agreeable light, which serves for ordinary domestic purposes; but if more be required a window is cut, and the aperture fitted with a piece of transparent ice. The proper thickness of the walls is of some importance. A few inches excludes the wind, yet keeps down the temperature so as to prevent dripping from the interior. The furniture—such as seats, tables, and sleeping-places—is also formed of snow, and a covering of folded reindeer-skin or seal-skin renders them comfortable to the inmates. By means of ante-chambers and porches, in form of long, low galleries, with their openings turned to leeward, warmth is insured in the interior; and social intercourse is promoted by building the houses contiguously, and cutting doors of communication between them, or by erecting covered passages. Storehouses, kitchens and other accessory buildings, may be constructed in the same manner, and a degree of convenience gained which would be attempted in vain with a less plastic material. These houses are durable, the wind has little effect on them, and they resist the thaw until the sun acquires very considerable power."

The following account of the formation of dry land is from an earlier portion of the journey, and refers to a region between the 50th and 55th degrees of latitude:

"The eastern coast-line of Lake Winipeg is in general swampy, with granite knolls rising through the soil, but not to such a height as to render the scenery hilly. The pine forest skirts the shore at the distance of two or three miles, covering gently-rising lands; and the breadth of continuous lake-surface seems to be in process of diminution, in the following way. A bank of sand is first drifted up, in the line of a chain of rocks which may happen to lie across the mouth of an inlet or deep bay. Carices, balsam-poplars, and willows, speedily take root therein; and the basin which lies behind, cut off from the parent lake, is gradually converted into a marsh by the luxuriant growth of aquatic plants. The sweet gale next appears on its borders, and drift-wood, much of it rotten and comminuted, is thrown up on the exterior bank, together with some roots and stems of larger trees. The first spring storm covers these with sand, and in a few weeks the vigorous vegetation of a short but active summer binds the whole together by a network of the roots of bents and willows. Quantities of drift-sand pass before the high winds into the swamp behind, and, weighing down the flags and willow branches, prepare a fit soil for succeeding crops. During the winter of this climate, all remains fixed as the summer left it; and as the next season is far advanced before the bank thaws, little of it washes back into the water, but on the contrary, every gale blowing from the lake brings a fresh supply of sand from the shoals which are continually forming along the shore. The floods raised by melting snows cut narrow channels through the frozen beach, by which the ponds behind are drained of their superfluous waters. As the soil gradually acquires depth, the balsam-poplars and aspens overpower the willows; which, however, continue to form a line of demarcation between the lake and the encroaching forest. Considerable sheets of water, are also cut off on the northwest side of the lake, where the bird's-eye limestone forms the whole of the coast. Very recently this corner was deeply indented by narrow branching bays, whose outer points were limestone cliffs. Under the action of frost, the thin horizontal beds of this stone split up, crevices are formed perpendicularly, large blocks are detached, and the cliff is rapidly overthrown, soon becoming masked by its own ruins. In a season or two the slabs break into small fragments, which are tossed up by the waves across the neck of the bay into the form of narrow ridgelike beaches, from twenty to thirty feet high. Mud and vegetable matter gradually fill up the pieces of water thus secluded; a willow swamp is formed; and when the ground is somewhat consolidated, the willows are replaced by aspens."

The volumes have all the value of an official survey, and they are the most important contributions to our knowledge of the Terra Incognita of the Lower Mackenzie, that have been published. The occupants of this region are the Loucheux Indians. Fine grown men of considerable stature, and well-knit frames, they have evidently followed the course of the Mackenzie River, from south to north. These are the Indians of whom from the scantiness of our previous data, information is most valuable. They are reasonably considered to belong to the same family as the Dog-rib, Beaver, Hare, Copper, Carrier, and other Indians, a family which some call Chepewyan, others Athabascan, but which the present work designates as Tinne. The Esquimo and Crees, though as fully described, are better known. The chapters, illustrative of the other branches of the natural history of North America, are equally valuable.



WITS ABOUT THE THRONE OF LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH.

We copy the following paragraphs from Sir James Stephens's Lectures on the History of France. The illustrious men referred to are of course well known by educated men, but to the masses their names are familiar chiefly from their appearance in the brilliant romances of Dumas.

"The constellation of genius, wit, and learning, in the midst of which Louis shone thus pre-eminently, was too brilliant to be obscured by any clouds of royal disfavor; nor would any man have shrunken with greater abhorrence than himself, from any attempt to extinguish or to eclipse their splendor. He wisely felt, and frankly acknowledged, that, their glory was essential to his own; and he invited to a seat at his table, Moliere the roturier, to whom the lowest of his nobles would have appointed a place among his menial servants. As Francis, and Charles, and Leo, and Julius, and Lorenzo had assigned science, and poetry, and painting, and architecture, and sculpture, as their appropriate provinces, to those great master spirits of Italy, to whom they forbade the culture of political philosophy, so Louis, when he interdicted to the gigantic intellects of his times and country all intervention in the affairs of the commonwealth, summoned them to the conquest of all the other realms of thought in which they might acquire renown, either for him, for France, or themselves. The theatres, the academies, the pulpits, and the monasteries of his kingdom rivalled each other in their zealous obedience to that royal command, and obeyed it with a success from which no competent and equitable judge can withhold his highest admiration. At this day, when all the illusions of the name of Louis are exhausted, and in this country, where his Augustan age has seldom been regarded with much enthusiasm, who can seriously address himself to the perusal of his great tragedians, Corneille and Racine—or of his great comedians, Moliere and Regnard—or if his great poets, Boileau and La Fontaine—or of his great wits, La Rochfaucauld and La Bruyere—or of his great philosophers, Des Cartes and Pascal—or of his great divines, Bossuet and Arnauld—or of his great scholars, Mabillon and Montfaucon—or if his great preachers, Bourdaloue and Masillon—and not confess that no other monarch was ever surrounded by an assemblage of men of genius so admirable for the extent, the variety and the perfection of their powers.

"And yet the fact that such an assemblage were clustered into a group, of which so great a king was the centre, implies that there must have been some characteristic quality uniting them all to each other and to him, and distinguishing them all from the nobles of every other literary commonwealth which has existed among men. What, then, was that quality, and what its influence upon them?

"Louis lived with his courtiers, not as a despot among his slaves, but as the most accomplished of gentlemen among his associates. The social equality was, however, always guarded from abuse by the most punctilious observance, on their side, of the reverence due to his pre-eminent rank. In that enchanted circle men appeared at least to obey, not from a hard necessity, but from a willing heart. The bondage in which they really lived was ennobled by that conventional code of honor which dictated and enforced it. They prostrated themselves before their fellow-man with no sense of self-abasement, and the chivalrous homage with which they gratified him, was considered as imparting dignity to themselves.

"Louis acknowledged and repaid this tribute of courtesy, by a condescension still more refined, and by attentions yet more delicate than their own. The harshness of power was so ingeniously veiled, every shade of approbation was so nicely marked, and every gradation of favor so finely discriminated, that the tact of good society—that acquired sense, which reveals to us the impression we make on those with whom we associate—became the indispensable condition of existence at Versailles and Marly. The inmates of those palaces lived under a law peculiar to themselves; a law most effective for its purposes, though the recompense it awarded to those who pleased their common master was but his smile, and though the penalty it imposed on those who displeased him was but his frown."



AMERICAN WAR-ENGINES.

The probabilities of a general war in Europe invest the subject of the following paper with an unusual interest. It is worthy of notice that America has furnished so large a proportion of the improvements in war-engines of every description. Fulton's schemes are well known; we all remember something of the guns invented by Perkins; there is a gentleman now in daily conference with Mazzini and the revolutionary committees, in London, who proposes the noiseless discharge of twenty thousand missiles in a minute, by means of a machine invented in Ohio; and we find in the Times an abstract of a paper read at the Institution of Civil Engineers, on the 25th of November, by our famous countryman Colonel Colt, "On the Application of Machinery to the Manufacture of Rotating Chambered-Breech Fire-Arms, and the Peculiarities of those Arms." The communication commenced with a historical account of such rotating chamber fire-arms as had been discovered by the author, in his researches after specimens of the early efforts of armorers for the construction of repeating weapons, the necessity for which appears to have been long ago admitted; and with the attention of such an intelligent class devoted to the subject, it is certainly remarkable that during so long a period so little was really effected towards the production of serviceable weapons of this sort. The collections in the Tower of London, the United Service Museum, the Rotunda at Woolwich, Warwick Castle, the Musee d'Artillerie, and the Hotel Cluny, at Paris, as well as some ancient Eastern arms brought from India by Lord William Bentinck, demonstrated the early efforts that had been made to produce arms capable of rapidly firing several times consecutively, without the delay of loading after each discharge. Drawings of these specimens were exhibited, comprising the match-lock, the pyrites wheel-lock, the flint-lock, down to the percussion-lock, as adapted by the author. Among the match-lock guns, some had as many as eight chambers, rotating by hand. Some of the pyrites wheel-lock guns had also as many as eight chambers, and rotated by hand; one of them, made in the seventeenth century, had the peculiarity of igniting the charge close behind the bullet, burning backwards towards the breech—an arrangement identical in principle with that of the modern Prussian "needle gun," for which great merit has been claimed. The flint-locks induced more determined efforts, but all were abortive, as the magazines for priming and the pan covers were continually blown off on the explosion of the charge. Indeed, from the earliest match-lock down to the present time, the premature explosion of several chambers, owing to the simultaneous ignition of the charges, from the spreading of the fire at their mouths, had been the great source of difficulty. In some of the most ancient specimens, orifices were provided in the butt of the barrel for the escape of the bullets in case of explosion, whilst others had evidently been destroyed by this action. In a brass model of a pistol of the time of Charles II., from the United Service Museum, there was an ingenious attempt to cause the chamber to rotate, by mechanical action, in some degree similar, but more complicated than the arms constructed by the author. The "Coolidge" and the "Collier" guns, both flint guns of comparatively modern manufacture, exhibited the same radical defects of liability to premature explosion.

The invention of Nock's patent breech, and the Rev. Mr. Forsyth's introduction of the detonating or percussion guns, which latter principle, with the necessary mechanical arrangements for the caps, was essential to the safe construction of repeating fire-arms, constituted a new era in these weapons.

Colonel Colt gave a detailed and interesting account of his experiments, which resulted in the invention of his celebrated revolvers. His communication, the first that had been brought before the institution, by an American, was received with acclamations; and in the discussion which ensued, in which our Minister, the Hon. Abbott Lawrence, Captain Sir Thomas Hastings, R.N., Captain Sir Edward Belcher, R.N., Captain Riddell, R.N., Mr. Miles, and the members of the council took part, the most flattering testimony was given of the efficiency of the revolvers in active service, and the strongest opinions as to the necessity of their use in all frontier warfare; and that without this arm it was almost impossible, except with an overwhelming force of troops, to cope with savage tribes. The discussion was resumed at a meeting of the Institution, held on the second of December.

A new, and, we understand, a very important invention, in this line, is also described in the following interesting article by a contributor to the International:

SKETCH OF THE PROGRESS OF INVENTION IN OFFENSIVE ARMS: JENNING'S RIFLE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY W. M. FERRIS.

It may be justly considered that mechanical invention has been the most prominent characteristic of history for the last four centuries. The application of science to the useful arts has been pushed to an extent of which preceding ages never dreamed. In poetry, in painting, in sculpture, the great masters of ancient times are still the teachers of mankind. But in all those arts which administer to the necessities, increase the comforts, or multiply the enjoyments of men, the present is marvellously in advance of every former age. Prominent among those arts which have shared in this advancement, is that of war. At first sight it may appear improper to distinguish as useful, improvements in the method of taking life. But, experience and philosophy unite in teaching that every improvement in military skill tends to render war less frequent, and the nearer its operations approach to those of an exact science, the more reluctant is each nation to engage in it, and the more careful not to commit those offences which render a resort to it on the part of other nations unavoidable.

We purpose to trace a brief sketch of the progress of invention in offensive weapons, and more particularly in that class of fire-arms used either in hunting or war, by a single individual, and generally denominated small-arms, in contradistinction to artillery. Such a sketch will be interesting, not only in its subject-matter, but also as a chapter in the general history of human progress.

The learned reader who is curious in such matters, will find in the Natural History of Pliny (vol. vii. cap. 56, 67), a statement of the source whence originated most of the mechanical implements, the manners and customs, and the political and religious institutions known in the author's time. It is to be presumed that Pliny did not intend to vouch for the truth of all he has there stated. He probably meant merely to give a synopsis of the traditions most generally received, and which assigned to a divine energy almost every thing that contributed to the happiness of men. He tells us here that "the first combats were made by the Africans against the Egyptians with a kind of stick, which they called phalanges." The evident Greek origin of this word renders the story absurd enough, and doubtless most of our readers will continue to acquiesce in the account given in Holy Writ, that the origin of war was but little subsequent to the origin of the race, and that fraternal blood first stained the breast of our mother earth. But this statement of Pliny contains a grain of truth. The stick, or club, was undoubtedly the first weapon made use of by men in their combats with each other, though the spear and the sword followed at a period long anterior to any known in historical records.

But from the earliest ages men have sought to avoid hand-to-hand conflicts, and to make skill supply the place of strength. In contests with wild beasts this was indispensable. Nature had provided man with no weapon with which he could contend against the boar's tusks, the lion's teeth, or the tiger's paw. Hence, the substitution of missiles for manual weapons, has been the end towards which ingenuity has been constantly directed.

The conversion of the spear into the javelin, as it was the most obvious, so probably it was the earliest step in advance. Close upon this followed the sling, and last the arrow and the bow. The invention of the latter weapon is ascribed by Pliny, in the chapter above cited, to a son of Jupiter. In the days of Homer it was the weapon of the gods; and thousands of years after, it was the pride and glory of the English yeoman. The classical scholar will remember the description in the fourth book of the Iliad, of the bow with which Pandaros shot at Menelaus an arrow which would have sent to Hades the hero dear to Mars, had not the daughter of Jove brushed it aside with her hand, as a mother doth a fly from her sleeping child. The bow does not appear to have been extensively used in later times in either the Greek or Roman armies. The ferocious Spartan preferred the close combat with manual weapons, the Athenian won his glory upon the sea, and it was with the pike that Alexander overcame the hosts of Persia. The Cretans, who were the most celebrated archers in Europe, sometimes formed a separate division in the Grecian and afterward in the Roman armies. The Romans, however, generally preferred heavy-armed troops. But it was a peculiarity of Roman policy always to adopt every improvement in the art of war with which they became acquainted, whether it originated with friend or foe. Rome never let slip any opportunity to add to the efficiency of her legions, and they repaid her care by carrying her eagles in triumph from the Thames to the Euphrates, and from the Danube to the Nile.

It was in the west of Europe, and from about the eleventh to the fifteenth century, that archery flourished in the greatest perfection. The early chronicles are filled with the exploits of the English archers, and old and young still read with delight those ballads which tell of the wondrous achievements of "Robin Hood and his merry men." Indeed, with the name of that famous outlaw are connected all our ideas of perfect skill in the use of the bow, and in the directions which in his dying hour, he gave to his faithful man, "Little John," we seem to hear the dirge of archery itself:

"Give me my bent bow in my hand, And a broad arrow I'll let flee, And where that arrow is taken up, There shall my grave digg'd be.

"And lay me a green sod under my head, And another at my feet, And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet."

We shall not stop to dwell on the defects of the bow. The great and insuperable one was its want of power. The strength of a man was the limit of its capacity, and something more was necessary to pierce the ironclad breast of the knight. But, until the invention of gunpowder, it stood at the head of missile engines.

When and where gunpowder was invented it is impossible now to ascertain. It seems to be described in the pages of Roger Bacon, while many are of opinion that the returning Crusaders brought it from the east. Certain it is that it had been known in China for many centuries, and applied to the blasting of rocks and other useful purposes, though never to the art of war. But the latter application of it was made by the Europeans almost contemporaneously with their knowledge of its properties, and for war it has been chiefly employed until the present time. The invention of cannon preceded by a century that of small-arms, and it was by a gradual reduction in the size of the former that the latter were produced. Barbour, in his metrical Life of Robert Bruce, says, that cannon were used by Edward III. in his first campaign against the Scots, in 1327. He calls them "Crakys of war." They are also supposed to have been employed by the French in the siege of Puy Guillaume, in 1338. But the first use of them which rests on unimpeachable evidence, and which seems to have been productive of much effect, was at the battle of Cressy, in 1346. It is from this epoch that it is most usual to date the employment of artillery. That day which witnessed the first efficient use of a weapon destined to revolutionize the art of war, also witnessed the most splendid achievements of the archers of England. The bowstrings of the French had become useless by the dampness of the weather, while those of the English, either on account of greater care or the different material of which they were made, were uninjured. The cloth-yard arrows of the English bowmen, directed with unerring skill, made terrible havoc in the ranks of their enemies, while four pieces of artillery stationed on a little hill contributed to their victory. The French troops had none of them ever seen, and most of them never heard of such a weapon, and the terror inspired by the noise and the smoke did more than the balls to hasten their defeat.

The first cannons were rude in the extreme. They were made of bars of iron hooped together like the staves of a barrel, and were larger at the muzzle than at the breech. The size was very soon decreased, so that two men could carry one, and fire it from a rest. The 400 cannon with which Froissart said that the English besieged St. Malo, in 1378, were probably of this kind. Nearly a century elapsed before small-arms were invented. Sir S. Meyrick, to whom subsequent writers have been indebted for most of their knowledge upon this subject, has given, upon the authority of an eye-witness, the time and place of their invention. "It was in 1430," says Bilius, "that they were contrived by the Lucquese, when they were besieged by the Florentines." A French translation of Quintus Curtius made by Vasqua de Lucene, a Portuguese, in 1468, preserved among the Burney MSS. of the British Museum, exhibits in one of its illuminations the earliest representation of hand fire-arms which has yet been discovered. The following engraving is from a copy of this illumination, contained in the Penny Cyclopaedia.



It will be observed that this gun much resembles one of those small lead cannons with which patriotic boys, upon each return of our national anniversary, manifest their appreciation of the blessings of liberty. It was fastened to a stick, and fired by a match held in the hand. We proceed to sketch the progress of improvement from this the first gun until we reach the repeating rifle.

If we analyze the manipulation of fire-arms, it will be found to consist of three principal operations—namely, to charge the piece, to direct it toward the object of attack, and to discharge it by in some manner igniting the powder; or more concisely, to load, take aim, and fire. That gun with which these operations can be performed most safely, accurately, and rapidly, is the best.

The process of loading has continued to be essentially the same from the invention of the gun to the present time. The charge is put in at the muzzle, and rammed down to the lower end of the barrel. At a very early period, efforts were made to construct guns which would load at the breech; but hitherto no such gun has been able to supplant those which load at the muzzle. The great complication of their parts, their liability to get out of repair, their insecurity, and the long practice required to learn their use, have been among the reasons which have prevented any of these inventions from being adopted. Hence it is that the muskets with which our soldiers are armed at the present day, possess no advantage in this respect over the rude little cannon fastened to the end of a stick, used by the soldiers of Europe four centuries ago. But in other respects the progress of invention has been steady and secure.

With the gun represented in the above engraving it was impossible to take aim. Being perfectly straight, it could not be brought in the range of the eye. The most that could be expected was, that by pointing it in the direction of the enemy, it might chance to hit some one, in a crowd.

The inconveniences attending the discharge of the piece were almost as great. A puff of wind, or the slightest motion of the soldier himself, would throw the priming from the touch-hole, and it is almost unnecessary to add, that in rainy or even very damp weather, such a gun was utterly useless. The first step in improvement was to place the touch-hole on the right side of the barrel instead of upon the top, and to attach a small pan which held the priming. By this means the priming was kept from being blown away by the wind, though scarce any other advantage was attained.

About the year 1475 a great advance was made by the invention of the arquebus or bow-gun. A spring let loose by a trigger threw the match, which was fastened to it, forward, into the pan which contained the priming. It was from this spring that the gun took its name.

The arquebus is mentioned by Philip de Comines, in his account of the battle of Morat, in 1476. It appears to have been used in England in 1480.

But as yet no improvement had been made by which the soldier was enabled to take aim. The butt of the arquebus was perfectly straight, and placed against the breast when the gun was fired. The danger of being knocked over by the recoil of the piece was great, that of hurting the enemy very small. The Germans first conceived the idea of bending the butt downward, and thus elevating the barrel so as to bring it in the range of the eye. They also sloped it so as to fit the shoulder instead of being held against the breast. The arquebus constructed in this manner was used in England in the time of Henry VIII., and was variously called haquebut, hakebut, hagbut, and hagbus, names all derived from the hooked shape of the butt. A small sized arquebus, with a nearly semi-circular butt, and called a demihaque, was probably the origin of the modern pistol.



The musket, invented in Spain, was introduced into France in the reign of Charles IX., by De Strozzi, Colonel-General of the King's infantry, and thence into England. At first it was so heavy that each musketeer was accompanied by a boy to assist him in carrying it. It was, however, soon decreased in weight sufficiently to enable the musketeer to carry it himself, though it was still so heavy that he could only fire it from a rest. This rest, which each musketeer carried with him, consisted of a stick the height of his shoulder, pointed at the lower end, and having at the upper an iron fork in which the musket barrel was laid. In a flask the musketeer carried his coarse powder for loading. His fine powder for priming was in a touch-box. His bullets were in a leathern bag, shaped much like a lady's work-bag, the strings of which he was obliged to draw in order to get at them. In his hand were his burning match and musket rest, and after discharging his piece he was obliged to defend himself with his sword. The match was fixed to the cock by a kind of tongs. Over the priming-pan was a sliding cover, which had to be drawn back with the hand before pulling the trigger. It was necessary to blow the ashes from the match, and take the greatest care that the sparks did not fall upon the priming. After each discharge the match had to be taken out of the cock and held in the hand until the piece was reloaded; then, in order that it might come down exactly upon the priming, the greatest care and nicety were required in fitting it again to the cock. Other inconveniences attended the use of the match-lock musket. The light of the burning match betrayed the position of the soldier, and hence it could not be used by sentinels or on secret expeditions. Various contrivances were resorted to in order to obviate these difficulties. Walhuysen, a captain of the town of Danzig, in a treatise entitled L'Art Militaire pour l'Infantrie, printed in 1615, says: "It is necessary that every musketeer should know how to carry his match dry in moist or rainy weather, that is, in his pocket or in his hat, by putting the lighted match between his head and hat, or by some other means to guard it from the weather. The musketeer should also have a little tin tube, about a foot long, big enough to admit a match, and pierced full of little holes, that he may not be discovered by his match when he stands sentinel or is gone on any expedition."

The learned captain does not state whether the hair of those soldiers who carried their lighted matches between their heads and hats, was insured. These inconveniences were so great that many able military men regarded fire-arms as a failure, and recommended a return to the long-bow, which had been so terrible a weapon in the hands of the English archers. But the art of war, like every other, never goes backward, and men were not disposed to abandon the use of so mighty an agent as gunpowder, merely for the want of some weapon adapted to its use.

The fire-lock, named from its producing fire by friction, was the first improvement upon the match-lock. Its earliest form was that known as the wheel-lock, which is mentioned in a treatise on artillery by Luigi Collado, printed at Venice in 1586. He says that it had been lately invented in Germany. This lock consisted of a solid steel wheel, with an axle, to which was fastened a chain. The axle was turned by a small lever, and thus winding around it the chain, drew up a very strong spring. By pulling the trigger the spring was let go, and the wheel whirled around with great velocity. The cock was so constructed as to bring a piece of sulphuret of iron down upon the edge of the wheel, which was notched, and touched the priming in the pan. The friction produced the sparks. It was from this use that the sulphuret of iron derived the name of pyrites, or fire-stone. Afterwards a flint or any common hard pebble was used. The complicated nature of this lock, and its uncertainty, prevented its general adoption. The next improvement was due to the Dutch. About the year 1600 there was in Holland a band of marauders known as snaphausen, or poultry-stealers. However free they were in using the property of others, they were yet unable to incur the expense of the wheel-lock, and the match-lock, by its burning light, exposed them on their nightly expeditions. The wit which had been sharpened by laying "plots" and "inductions dangerous" against unoffending hens and chickens, was turned to the invention of a gun-lock better adapted to their purposes. The result of their cogitations was the lock which, after its inventors, was called the snaphause. It consisted of a flat piece of steel, furrowed like the edge of the wheel in the wheel-lock, which was screwed on the barrel beyond the priming-pan in such a manner as to be movable. By bringing it over the pan, and pulling the trigger, the flint in the cock struck against the steel, and the spark was produced. The simplicity and cheapness of this lock soon rendered it common, and the transition from it to the ordinary flint-lock followed almost as a matter of course. The last improvement which we shall notice was the percussion-lock. This is due to the Rev. Mr. Forsyth, of Belhelvie, in Scotland, though the original form of the lock has been entirely changed by the introduction of the copper cap.



Whilst these improvements were being made in locks, the other parts of the gun were gradually approaching in lightness, strength, and accuracy of finish, to the modern standard. The most valuable improvement was the invention of the rifle barrel. It is mentioned by Pere Daniel, who wrote in 1693, as being then well known; but the time and place of its origin has never been ascertained. It was first employed as a military weapon by the Americans, in the Revolutionary war, and it is in their hands that it acquired its world-wide reputation.

It would be impossible, in an article like the present, to detail all the various attempts which have been made, during the last half century, to increase the efficiency of the rifle. The efforts of scientific men and mechanics have been constantly directed towards the invention of a gun which should fire, with the greatest possible rapidity, a number of times without reloading, and which should possess the indispensable requisites of safety, durability, and simplicity, both in construction and in use. Hitherto no invention has combined these advantages in a sufficient degree to supplant the common rifle.

In our opinion, these ends are all most simply and beautifully attained by the invention of Mr. Jennings. But of this our readers will be able to judge for themselves, by the above engravings and the directions for its use.



Fill the magazine, on the top of the breech, with percussion pills or primings, and the tube, under the barrel, with the hollow cartridges containing gunpowder. Of these cartridges the tube will hold twenty-four. Place the forefinger in the ring which forms the end of the lever, e, and the thumb on the hammer, elevating the muzzle sufficiently to let the cartridge nearest the breech slip, by its gravity, into the carrier d; swing the lever forward, and raise the hammer which moves the breech-pin back, and the carrier up, placing the cartridge level with the barrel; pull the lever back, and thus force the breech-pin forward, and shove the cartridge into the barrel, by which motion a percussion priming is taken from the magazine by means of the priming-rack c, revolving the pinion which forms the bottom of the magazine, and it also throws up the toggle a, behind the breech-pin, thus placing the piece in the condition to be discharged by a simply upward pressure of the finger in the ring. After the discharge release the pressure and repeat the process.

In conclusion, the reader is invited to look at the engraving we have given of the first gun, and to compare it with the offspring of American ingenuity we have just described.

Fire-arms are the great pioneers which have opened a way for the progress of civilized man, and given him victory over the savage beasts and still more savage men who have opposed his course. Civilization has in its turn reacted upon fire-arms, and brought them to their present state of wonderful efficiency.

The heavy match-lock of three centuries ago was almost as dangerous to him who used it as to the enemy against whom it was directed. It would be almost impossible for a person to injure himself by the repeating rifle except by deliberate intention. Skilful military men advised the abandonment of the match-lock for the bow. A good marksman with the repeating rifle would kill a score of bowmen, before they could approach near enough to reach him with their arrows. The practised musketeer, in the reign of Elizabeth, could hardly fire his piece once in twenty minutes; the merest novice can fire the repeating rifle twenty times in one minute.



CLOVER'S COLONIAL CHURCHES IN VIRGINIA.

ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, HAMPTON.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY REV. JOHN C. M'CABE,

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY REV. LEWIS P. CLOVER

"Regarded as a building what is there to engage our attention! What is it which in this building inspires the veneration and affection it commands? We have mused upon it when its gray walls dully reflected the glory of the noontide sun. We have looked upon it from a neighboring hill when bathed in the pure light of a summer's moon, its lowly walls and tiny towers seemed to stand only as the shell of a larger and wider monument, amidst the memorials of the dead. Look upon it when and where we will, we find our affections yearn towards it; and we contemplate the little parish church with a delight and reverence, that palaces cannot command. Whence then arises this? It arises not from the beauties and ornaments of the building, but from the thoughts and recollections associated with it."—Molesworth.



The region of country in lower Virginia, bordering, or near the James River, from the head of tide water to the sea-board, is rich in the possession of memorials of gone-by days, now turned up from the bosom of the earth, in the shape of arrow-heads, and broken war-hatchets—monuments, fragmentary monuments, of a race of forest-born monarchs: now appealing to the antiquary in the mouldering records of the County Court offices, and now, silently but eloquently, looking out imploringly in the ruins of churches and tombs, which meet the eye of the traveller, as he muses upon the faith and fortunes of generations long departed.

Rapid as is the progress of steam upon those waters, which, in giving up their Indian patronymies, gave up the bold hunter and his lithe canoe to the progress of "manifest destiny," few are those who pass the venerable site of the first colony in Virginia, Jamestown, without paying a tribute of a sigh, and perchance a tear, to that solitary tower which is still standing a mute watcher amid the few almost illegible tombs,—all that are left of a busy population long departed;—the germ, however, of a great nation, whose name is even now "a watchword to the earth."

The rank grass waves above those mouldering stones—the green corn of summer rustles in the breeze, which seems, it its "hollow, solemn memnonian, but saintly swell," to have "swept the field of mortality for a hundred centuries,"[C] and that lone, ruined, vine-crested tower, stands, the only memorial of the house, and the Temple of God. Gone are the altars where knelt the adventurer and the exile—high-born chivalry and manly beauty—gentle blood and noble pedigree,—and where rose "humble voices," and beat "pure hearts," approaching the throne of the heavenly grace! Jamestown is a city of the dead, and precious is the dust of its pathless cemetery!

When we turn "from the wreck of the past that has perished," and stand beside those monuments which have withstood the "corroding tooth of time," and still stand invested with the sacred and solemn beauty of antiquity, we approach in the venerating spirit of worshippers, and render our thank-offerings at their base. Such is likely to be the feeling with the pilgrim antiquary, as he stands for the first time beneath the shadows of that venerable cruciform pile, St. John's Church, Hampton, which has braved "the battle and the breeze" of nearly two centuries; and then, when he crosses its worn threshold, and treads its echoing aisles, the wish must arise, involuntarily, to know something of the history of a spot "so sad, so fair."

With the exception of Jamestown, there is no portion of Virginia possessing as much historic interest as Hampton, and its vicinity. Hampton is the county seat of Elizabeth City County, which is one of the eight original shires in which Virginia was divided. The town is doubtless the oldest Indian settlement in Virginia, and it is a matter of historical verity that it was the first place visited by Captain John Smith after he had cast anchor in these waters. We learn from Burke, the historian, that while Smith and his company were "engaged in seeking a fit place for the first settlement, they met five of the natives, who invited them to their town, Kecoughtan, or Kichotan, where Hampton now stands. Here they were feasted with cakes made of Indian corn, and regaled with tobacco and a dance. In return, they presented the natives beads and other trinkets."

We have no occasion to go specially into the history of this expedition, as it is well known to the student, that it was the result of a successful application on the part of a company, succeeding that of the ill-fated Sir Walter Raleigh, and for which a charter was obtained from James the First, in the year 1606, for the settling of Virginia. "The design," says Stith, the historian of Virginia, "included the establishment of a northern and southern colony, and among the articles, instructions, and orders," of the charter, provision was made for the due carrying out of that which is the highest end of every Christian colony, for it is expressly ordered, that "the said president, council, and ministers, should provide that the true word and service of God be preached, planted, and used, according to the rites and doctrines of the Church of England; not only in the said colonies, but also as much as might be amongst the savages bordering upon them, and that all persons should kindly treat the savages, and heathen people, in those parts, and use all proper means to draw them to the true service and knowledge of God."[D] This expedition left the shores of England, December 19, 1606, and, after a protracted voyage, occasioned by unpropitious winds, which kept them in sight of home for more than "six weeks," reached the capes of Virginia. The southern cape was christened "Henry," and the northern, "Charles," after the King's sons. This was on the 26th day of April, 1607. Accompanying this expedition was Rev. Robert Hunt, of the English Church, as the first chaplain of that colony, which, though few as the grains of mustard seed scattered by the morning wind, was the first planting of that tree which was destined, in coming time, to strike its roots deep down into the centre of empire, and to shelter beneath its strong branches, and wide-spread shadows, the exile and the oppressed, and to furnish home and altar for the pilgrim of civil and religious freedom.

When we look around now and behold our country, "the observed of all observers," exalting her "towering head," and "lifting her eyes," the mind instinctively turns to the colony of Jamestown; and we cannot but exclaim, in the words of the Psalmist, "Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt; Thou hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root; and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it, and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs unto the sea, and her branches unto the river." But a sad memory for the days of toil, and struggle, and blood in that little colony, will remind us that this tree was not "transplanted from Paradise with all its branches in full fruitage." Neither was it "sowed in sunshine," nor was it "in vernal breezes and gentle rains that it fixed its roots, and grew and strengthened." Oh, no! oh, no! In the mournfully beautiful words of Coleridge, "With blood was it planted; it was rocked in tempests; the goat, the ass, and the stag gnawed it, the wild boar whetted its tusk upon its bark; the deep scars are still extant on its trunk, and the path of the lightning may be traced among its higher branches!" The first communion of the body and blood of our Lord was administered by the pious Hunt, May 4, 1607, the day after the debarkation of the colonists: and, "here," says the Bishop of Oxford, "on a peninsula, upon the northern shore of James River, was sown the first seed of Englishmen, who, in after years, were to grow and to multiply into the great and numerous American people." It was an offering, this first sacrament, of the "appointed sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving;" and we have an evidence of the pervading spirit of Hunt in that little band, when we remember that among their very first acts after rearing their straw-thatched houses for protection from the weather, was to erect the church of the colony. Hunt was succeeded, after his death, in 1610, by Master Bucke (the chaplain of Lord de la Ware), whose services were called forth the very day of his arrival at Jamestown. According to Purchas, "He (that is Lord Delaware) cast anchor before Jamestown, where we landed, and our much grieved Governor, first visiting the church, caused the bell to be rung; at which all such as were able to come forth of their house, repayered to church, which was neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the country, where our minister, Master Bucke, made a zealous and sorrowful prayer, finding all things so contrary to our expectations, and full of misery and misgovernment." This state of things had been brought about by the treacherous conduct of their neighbors, the savages, domestic feuds, fluctuations in the quantity and quality of their food, bad water, and severe climatic diseases. While "Master Bucke" was toiling with the little band at Jamestown, Whitaker (son of Master Whitaker of St. John's College, Cambridge) was in Henrico, whose deeds of love and patience in his noble work we would gladly record, but for the desire of approaching, as speedily as possible, the beginning and planting of the church in Elizabeth City County. The first legislature of Virginia was convened under the administration of Governor Sir George Yeardley, in the year 1626; but before this we find, during the first administration of Governor Wyatt, nay, before that, during that of Sir Thomas Yeardley, in 1619, a starting point for our inquiries and investigations in regard to the Hampton Church. By reference to the histories of the period, we find that the pay of their clergy was fixed at L200 worth of corn and tobacco. One hundred acres were marked off for glebes in every borough, for each of which the company at home provided six tenants at the public cost. They applied to the Bishop of London to find them a body of "pious, learned, and painful ministers,"—"a charitable work," says Wilberforce, "in which he readily engaged." Two years subsequent to this occurred the massacre at Jamestown, and two years after that, we find, amongst thirty-five provisions, the following, for the promotion of religious knowledge and worship: That there shall be erected a house of worship, and there shall be a burial ground on every plantation; that the colonists, under penalty, shall attend public worship, and that there shall be uniformity in faith and worship, with the English Church—prescribing also the observance of the feasts of the Church, and a fast upon the anniversary of the Jamestown massacre; not forgetting, by the way, to enjoin "respectful treatment, and the payment of a settled stipend to the colonial clergy." In the instructions given to Sir William Berkeley, Governor-General of Virginia, after the return of the royal exile, Charles the Second, to the throne of his murdered sire,—passing over, as we do, for the sake of brevity, much that might interest the reader during the closing period of the reign of James, that of Charles the First, and also that of the psalm-singing blood-hunter Cromwell,—we find the recommendation of the duties of religion, the use of "the booke of Common Prayer, the decent repairs of Churches, and a competent provision for conforming ministers."[E] These suggestions, we learn, were at once acted upon by the colonial legislature, and provision was made for the building and due furniture of churches, &c., &c. This was in 1660. The oldest records in the County Court office date as far back as 1635. In 1644, I find the churchwardens presenting two females for offences, to the Court; and in 1646, I find that Nicholas Brown, and William Armistead, churchwardens, present one of their body to the Court, requesting that Thomas Eaton be compelled to collect the parish levy, and make his returns. This fixes the fact, then, that this was a parish, and that there was a church somewhere in this region in 1644, for, from the English laws respecting the clergy, the object of the creation of churchwardens is "to protect the edifice of the Church, to superintend the ceremonies of public worship, to promote the observance of religious duties, &c., &c.[F]" I find, in 1644, the following on record—"To paid Mr. Mallory for preaching 2 funeral sermons, 800 pounds of tobacco." The next year I find the Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere, who continued to officiate until the early part of 1667. We now find, in those same records, the first mention of the church immediately under consideration, and it is as follows, being an extract from a will, and bearing date December 21, 1667: