Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

But it was at the table that his efforts to please were particularly conspicuous. He would post himself in the place of honor--seize the great carving-knife--cut up the meats with admirable promptness and dexterity, and carefully and politely wait upon every guest. He directed the servants, overlooked the courses, and tasted the wines. Then when the dessert was brought, he would take from his pocket a piece of pink paper, mysteriously unfold it, and sing from it a stanza in honor of the newly married couple, composed by himself expressly for the occasion. The good fellow knew but one little story and but one stanza, but he served them up every morning in a new edition.

Unfortunately this witty sharper was one day detected in his career of imposition. Seduced by the attraction of great names, he went to the marriage festival of a rich nobleman of the Fauborg St. Germain. He had assisted at the mass--returned in an elegant barouche to the hotel--had glided unobserved into the parlor, and stood waiting for a suitable opportunity to rehearse his amusing little story, and to commence his _impromptu_ remarks, so often before repeated. All at once he became the object of general attention; all at once he found all eyes fixed upon him. The mistress of the feast had counted her plates and her guests, and had ascertained that of the latter there was one too many. She was astonished to find on inquiring the name of the Cousin, that no one knew him, and that no one recognized him as a friend. For the first time the _Cousin of the Married_ lost his self-possession and his assurance. How was he to escape the gaze of the eyes fixed upon him? How was he to answer the questions which might be addressed to him? Presently, a gentleman advances towards him and asks--"By which of the married couple were you invited--on which side are you?"

"On which side?" said the Cousin of the Married, taking his hat, "on the side of the door;" and so saying, he quickly descended the stairs and left the house. Since that day no one has heard tell of him.

But if we have no longer the Cousin of the Married, we have now the _Cousin of the Dead_, an expression equally as significant as the first.

Ruined by the Revolution of 1793, the Count of V***, was obliged to accept of a very modest employment. In consequence of a change in the Ministry, the old clerk was compelled to leave his office, with no other resource to sustain life, than a miserable income of 400 francs per annum. He was old, and alone in the world. His strength did not permit him to labor, and by constantly dwelling on his poverty, he became melancholy, and subsequently fell dangerously sick. By carefully attending to the advice of a physician, who generously refused to accept the small sum the old man offered to give for his services, he became, in time, somewhat restored. This physician prescribed for his patient, on pain of a relapse, frequent exercise and a daily ride. You may judge of the poor man's embarrassment! How could he ride every day in a carriage, when his little income was scarcely sufficient to procure the essentials of life? The smallest excursion in a cabriolet cost twenty-five sous--one excursion per day would be four hundred and fifty francs per annum, and his whole yearly income amounted to only four hundred. At that time omnibusses were not invented.

He was beginning to despond when the heavens sent him succor. In passing near St. Rock, he observed that the gate of the church was hung in black, and that a long line of vehicles were in waiting to conduct a funeral procession to _Père La Chaise_. The coachmen were on their seats, and their strong and beautiful horses, covered with the trappings of mourning, were awaiting with impatience, the moment of departure. The advice of the physician recurred with great force to the mind of poor V***--a feeling of jealousy glided into his inoffensive heart. He envied the fortune of those who could thus ride gratis--he envied, for one instant, the happy destiny of the deceased, in being conveyed to his last earthly home, in a splendid hearse, drawn by four magnificent horses. Feeling a curiosity to know the name and history of one upon whom fortune had so lavished {150} her favors, he entered the church and piously knelt down among the mourners. V*** had on his only black coat, and he was immediately taken for one of the friends of the deceased, and after the ceremonies in the church, was offered a place in one of the funeral carriages. The occasion was too opportune to be neglected, and he gladly jumped into the wished-for carriage.

On the way, a thousand ideas passed through his imagination. He thanked heaven for having furnished him with the means to fulfil, in so economical a manner, the recommendation of his physician. He accompanied the corpse to the grave--saw the coffin laid in the tomb, and on leaving the churchyard, he found the coach in waiting, and the coachman ready to convey him home.

Since that event V*** has become the willing assistant of all public interments; and what was, at first, only useful as a means of exercise, has become for him a pleasure and a delight. He goes to a funeral as others go to the theatre, to a ball, or to a festival. He daily reads the lists of deaths in the city, and these lists are to him a journal, and the only one for which he conceives there is any use. Still more, he has taken lodgings opposite the dwelling of the undertaker, and every morning he crosses the street to converse with the undertaker, and inform himself of the burials of the day. He puts on his blue surtout or his black dress, according to the rank and fortune of the deceased, the expenses of the funeral, &c., and for all grand ceremonies he wears crape on his arm. V*** is now generally known by the title of _the Cousin of the Dead_. For fifteen years he has not missed a single funeral. His views are too liberal to adopt party feelings; he has assisted to inter Bellart and Manuel, Talma and the Bishop of Beauvais, a female follower of St. Simon and the lady Superior of the Convent of Minimes, and he hopes to live to inter many other characters equally distinguished. He once presented to the Chamber of Deputies, a petition for a law interdicting the embalming of infants, by which the number of funeral processions is materially lessened.

The Cousin of the Dead possesses a remarkably expansive sensibility, and an extraordinary quantity of sympathy for the afflictions of others. He feels the grief of a bereaved mother, the despair of a heart-broken widow, the sorrow of a childless father, with the poignancy of truth. Many a legator, in noticing his sorrow at the grave, has taken him for a disinherited relative; many a mother has been gratified to see him shed tears over her favorite son, and many an husband, on losing a beloved wife, has been astonished at his grief over her remains. He composes funeral orations for all illustrious persons; the burial place is his life and his world. At times, struck with the appearance of grief depicted on his countenance, the friends of the dead have desired him to be the principal mourner.

One day, during the burial of a personage of considerable importance, the Cousin of the Dead was observed to shed an abundance of tears. One of the mourners approached him and desired that he would make a few appropriate remarks--_jeter quelques fleurs sur le cercueil_--on the individual whose remains they had just deposited in the cold grave. The procession closed around him as he prepared to speak.

"The tomb," said he, "is again about to enclose the remains of a distinguished citizen." He stopped for a moment, and inquired, in a low voice, the name of the deceased. He was answered, "Augustin Leger."

"Augustin Leger," he resumed, "was a man, grave and austere. His long life was but a continued series of virtuous and benevolent acts. He was entirely devoted to the holy, the legitimate cause of----"

_He was a regicide!_

"The rights of the sovereign people. His disinterestedness----"

_He was a usurer!_

"His laudable economy, his aversion to luxury, his unassuming and modest deportment, had gained for him universal esteem. But still more worthy of admiration were his virtues in private life--his patience, his humility, and his devoted and unchangeable attachment to the wife of his bosom, the lady of his choice."

_He had been divorced!_

"For his children he cherished the most affectionate and tender regard."

_He had driven them from his house!_

"Virtuous friend! May the earth rest lightly on thy coffin!"

THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
_Cowper_.

Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of _The Andromache_?[1] Ignoble souls!--De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. _L'histoire en est breve_--assist me Spirit of Apicius!

[Footnote 1: Montfleury. The author of the _Parnasse Reformé_ makes him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy, or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."]

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the _Chaussée D'Antin_, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau, he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his king--the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.

He buries his face in the pillow--the clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc?----"_Horreur!_--_chien!_--_Baptiste!_--_l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!_" It is superfluous to say more--the Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust.

* * * * *

"Ha! ha! ha!"--said his Grace on the third day after his decease.

"He! he! he!"--replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur.

"Why, surely you are not serious"--retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned--_c'est vrai_--but, my good {151} sir, consider!--you have no actual intention of putting such--such--barbarous threats into execution."

"No _what?_"--said His Majesty--"come sir, strip!"

"Strip indeed!--very pretty i' faith!--no, sir, I shall _not_ strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest _robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt--to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper--not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"

"Who am I?--ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee just now from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee--my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."

"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!--Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!--Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantime _au revoir!_"--and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it _bien comme il faut_. It was not very long, nor very broad,--but its height--ah, that was appalling! There was no ceiling--certainly none--but a dense, whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal--its upper end lost, like C----, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby--but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such--Gheber never imagined such--Mussulman never dreamed of such when drugged with opium he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo! The Duc muttered a slight oath decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_ French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled--it was not colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty--in a blush.

But the paintings!--Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!--a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for did he not paint the ---- ? and was he not consequently damned? The paintings!--the paintings! O Luxury! O Love!--who gazing on those forbidden beauties shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that lie imbedded and asleep against those swellings walls of eider down?

But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup--mais!_ The Duc De L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires!

_Le Pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and the damned! And there too--there--upon that ottoman!--who could _he_ be?--he, the _petit-maitre_--no, the Deity--who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his pale countenance, _si amerement_.

* * * * *

_Mais il faut agir_--that is to say a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene--De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a table--some points also. The Duc had studied under B----, _il avait tué ses six hommes_. Now then _il peut s'echapper_. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. _Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!

_Mais il joue!_--what a happy thought! But his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "_Diable_" of the Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said "_que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'Ecarté_."

But the chances--the chances! True--desperate: but not more desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?--had he not skimmed over Pere Le Brun? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "_Si Je perds_," said he, "_Je serai deux fois perdu_," I shall be doubly damned--_voila tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders) _Si Je gagne Je serai libre,--que les cartes soient prepareés!_

* * * * *

His Grace was all care, all attention--his Majesty all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not think--he shuffled. The Duc _coupa_.

The cards are dealt. The trump is turned--it is--it is--the king! No--it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart.

They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.

"_C'est à vous à faire_"--said his Majesty cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Duc assured his Majesty in taking leave "_que s'il n'etait pas De L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable_."

THE ILIAD.

Mr. H. N. Coleridge says there would be no difficulty in composing a complete epic poem with as much symmetry of parts as is seen in the Iliad, from the English ballads on Robin Hood.

{152}

RUSTIC COURTSHIP IN NEW ENGLAND.

[_From the lips of an Octogenarian_.]

Won by the charms
Of goodness irresistible.
_Thomson_.

"You see, ma'am," said the old man, "my mother died when I was twelve years old. About that time old Mr. C---- came down, and set up for a great _marchant_. Well, his wife was sick, and she sent to ----, where she came from, for a widow-woman to come and take care of her. This widow-woman had three children. Her husband, had been a sea-faring man, and he was _wracked_ and lost down there at Halifax,--and left his wife with nothing at all, and these three children to take care of."

"Well, my daddy, ma'am, fell in with her, some how or other, and married her. She was a nice woman--as good a mother as ever was,--and had great _larning_, and knew how to do every thing,--only she didn't know _nothing_ about country-work, you see. Well, her oldest daughter came down, (for my dad had agreed to take one of the children,) and she was a nice _gal_; and a while after the boy came down. Well, there was nothing said; we all worked along; and the daughter she got married--married Mr. H----, (you know his folks?--) he broke his neck afterwards, falling from his horse."

"Well, a while after this tother daughter came down. Debby was dreadful plain!--I thought she was _dreadful plain!!_--but she was a nice _gal_--smart, working--and good to every body. You see, there were four young children of the second crop, and they had got ragged; and Debby spun, and wove, and clothed, and mended them up. Well, she went back,--but they couldn't live without her, and sent for her again, and so she came. She took care of every thing--saw to my things, and had them all in order,--and every thing comfortable for me in the winter, when I went in the woods,--but I thought nothing, no more than if she'd been my sister."

"Well, by this time I was a youngish man; and in my day, the young folks had a sort of a frolic every night. I used to go,--and sometimes went home with one _gal_, sometimes with another,--but never thought of Debby. Well, there was a Mr. ---- came to see her, but she wouldn't have nothing to say to him; and after that, one came from the Shoals--a rich man's son; his father gave him a complete new vessel, and every thing to load her; but Debby wouldn't have nothing to do with him _nother_. _Then I wasn't worth so much as this stick!_--Well, I wondered, and so I says to mother, 'Mother, what's the reason Debby wont take this man?--she'll never better herself!'--'Don't you know, John?' says mother. 'No.' So I says to Debby--'Why don't you have him, Debby?' 'Because,' says Debby, says she, 'if I can't have the one I want, I wont have nobody!'"

"Well, I thought nothing,--but went on, frolicking here, and frolicking there, till one night as I was going home, just towards day, with one of my mates, says I, 'Tom,' says I, 'I wont go to another frolic these two months! If I do, I'll give you a dollar!'--'You?' says he--'you'll go afore two nights!' 'Well, you'll see,' says I.--Well, I stayed at home _steady_; and after a while says father, says he to mother, 'Suzy,' says he, (for that was the way he always spoke to her--) 'Suzy,' says he, 'I guess John has got tired of raking about so,--and I'm glad of it.' 'I hope he has,' says mother."

"Well, one day we were all sitting at table,--mother _sot_ there,--and father _sot there_,--and the hired man next him,--(for we had a hired man, and hired _gal_,) and Debby was next to mother, and the _gal_ next, and I between the hired man and hired _gal_. Well, mother was joking the hired man and _gal_,--(she was a great hand to joke,) and I cast an eye at Debby, and I thought, 'I never see any body alter as you have, Debby!'--She looked handsome!--Well, Debby was weaving up stairs; and I was mowing down by the well, close by the house; and I felt kind of uneasy, and made an excuse to go in for a drink of water. Well, I went in;--and I went up stairs, and into tother chamber--not the one where Debby was weaving,--(for I was kind of bashful, you see,--) and then I went in where Debby was--but said nothing,--for I had never laid the weight of my finger on the _gal_ in my life. At last, 'Debby,' says I, 'what sort of a weaver are you, Debby?' 'O, I guess I can get off as many yards as any body,' says she; 'and I want to get my web out, to go up on the hill to sister's, this afternoon.' 'Well,' says I, 'tell her to have something nice, for I shall be up there.' 'We shan't see you there, I guess,' says Debby. 'You will though,' says I; 'see if you don't!' Father had a great pasture on the hill,--a kind of farm like, (for my father was a rich man!--) so just afore night up I goes, and they had every thing in order. So a while after supper I says to Debby, 'Debby, 'tis time for us to go, for 'twill be milking-time, by the time we get home.' So we went right down across,--and on the way we talked the business over. I married her--and a better wife never wore shoe-leather!"

PALÆSTINE.

Palæstine derives its name from the Philistæi, who inhabited the coast of Judæa. It has also been called "The Holy Land" as being the scene of the birth, sufferings and death of our Redeemer. It was bounded on the north by Syria, on the east by Arabia Deserta, on the south by Arabia Petrea, and on the west by the Mediterranean. The principal divisions of the country were Galilea in the north, Samaria in the middle, and Judæa in the south. This country is at present under the Turkish yoke; and the oppression which it now experiences, as well as the visible effects of the divine displeasure, not only during the reign of Titus, and afterwards in the inundations of the northern barbarians, but also of the Saracens and Crusaders, are more than sufficient to have reduced this country, which has been extolled by Moses, and even by Julian the Apostate, for its fecundity, to its present condition of a desert. Galilea, the northern division, is divided by Josephus into Upper Galilea, called Galilea of the Gentiles because inhabited by heathen nations--and Lower Galilea which was adjacent to the sea of Tiberias, and which contained the tribes of Zebulon and Ashur. Galilea was a very populous country: containing, according to Josephus 204 cities, and towns, and paying 200 talents in tribute.

{153} The middle district, Samaria, had its origin in a division of the people of Israel into two distinct kingdoms, during the reign of Jeroboam. One of these kingdoms, called Judah, consisted of such as adhered to the house of David, comprising the two tribes of Judah and Benjamin. The other ten tribes retained the name of Israelites under Jeroboam. Their capital was Samaria, which also became the name of their country. The Samaritans and people of Judæa were bitter enemies. The former differed in many respects from the strictness of the Mosaic law. Among the Judæans, the name of Samaritan was a term of reproach.

The southern division, Judæa, did not assume that name until after the return of the Jews from the Babylonian captivity--though it had been called long before "the kingdom of Judah," in opposition to that of Israel. After the return, the tribe of Judah settled first at Jerusalem; but afterwards spreading over the whole country, gave it the name of "Judæa."

The only rivers of any note in Palæstine are the Jordanes, and the Leontes, which latter passes through the northern extremity of Galilea. The Jordan, according to a curious story of Philip the Tetrarch, has its origin in a lake called Phiala, about ten miles north of Cæsarea of Samochon. This is said to have been ascertained by throwing into the lake some straw which came out where the river emerges from the ground, after having run fifteen miles beneath the surface of the earth--Mannert the German, thinks this fabulous, and places the source of the river in Mount Paneas, in the province of Dan. The Jordan holds a south-westerly course--flows through the lake Samochon, or Samochonites, or as it is called in the Bible, Merom; after which, proceeding onwards till received by the sea of Tiberias, or lake of Genesareth, it emerges from this, and is finally lost in the Dead Sea. In ancient times it overflowed its banks annually, about the period of early harvest; and thus differing from most other rivers, which generally swell in the winter, it was supposed to have a subterraneous communication with the Nile. But now, we can perceive no rise, which is probably owing to the channel having been deepened by the swiftness of the current. The name is supposed to be derived from the Hebrew "Jarden," on account of the river's rapid "_descent_" through the country.

The Dead Sea, called also Asphaltites, from the "asphaltos," or bitumen, which it throws up, is situated in Judæa, and near 100 miles long and 25 broad: but is called by Tacitus "Lacus immenso ambitu." Its waters are extremely salt; but the vapors exhaled from them are found not to be so pestilential as they have been usually represented. It is supposed that the thirteen cities, of which Sodom and Gomorrah, as mentioned in the Bible, are the chief, were destroyed by a volcano, and once occupied the site of the Dead Sea. Earthquakes are now frequent in the country. Volumes of smoke are observed to issue from the lake, and new crevices are daily found on its margin.

The country is mountainous. The range of Libanus, so named on account of their snowy summits, from the Hebrew "Lebanon," _white_, is imperfectly defined. The principal part of them lies towards the north of Galilea, but the name of Libanus is sometimes given to several parallel chains, which run through the whole extent of Palæstine. Between two of these ranges lay a valley so beautiful that some have called it a terrestrial Paradise; though situated in a much higher region than the greater part of the country, it enjoys perpetual spring--the trees are always green, and the orchards full of fruit. Libanus has been famed for its cedars. Mount Carmel is a celebrated mountain, properly belonging to Samaria, but on which the Syrians had an altar, _but not a temple_, dedicated to their god Carmelus. A priest of this deity, according to Tacitus, (Lib. 2, cap. 78,) foretold the accession of Vespasian to the throne.

The principal towns in Galilea were Dio-Cæsarea, Jotapata or Gath, Genesareth, and Tiberias. Tiberias was built by Herod, near the lake of the same name, and called after the emperor. After the taking of Jerusalem, there was at Tiberias a succession of Hebrew judges, till about the time of the abdication of Dioclesian and Maximinianus. Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis, says that a Hebrew copy of St. John, and the Acts of the Apostles, was kept in this city.

The chief cities of Samaria were Neapolis, Antipatris, Archelais, Apollonia, Samaria, and Cæsarea. Cæsarea, was the principal, and was anciently called "Turris Stratonis." It was much embellished by Herod, who named it Cæsarea in honor of Augustus--and was the station of the Roman governors. Samaria was situated on Mount Sameron, and was the residence of the kings of Israel, from the time of Omri, its founder, to the overthrow of the kingdom.

In Judæa, were the cities of Engedi, Herodium, Hebron, Beersheba, Jericho, and Jerusalem. Jericho was in the tribe of Benjamin, near the river Jordan; and is called by Moses the city of palm-trees, from the palms in the adjacent plain, which are also noticed by Tacitus. It was destroyed by Joshua, but afterwards rebuilt. Jerusalem, the capital, was anciently called Salem, or Jebus, by the Jebusites, who were in possession of it till the time of David; but it was then called by the Hebrews Jeruschalaim, signifying "the possession of the inheritance of peace." The Greeks and Romans called it by the name of Hierosolyma. It was built on several hills, of which Mount Sion, in the southern part of the city, was the largest. To the north was Acra, called the "second," or "lower city"--on the east of which was Solomon's temple, built on Mount Moriah. North-east of this was the Mount of Olives, and north of it Mount Calvary, the place of the crucifixion. This city was taken by Pompey, who thence derived his name of Hierosolymarius. It was also taken and destroyed by Titus, (in the year of our Lord 71, by the account of Tacitus--but according to Josephus,) on the 8th of Sept. A.D. 70--2177 years after its foundation.

In this siege 110,000 persons are said to have perished, and 97,000 to have been made prisoners, and as Josephus relates, sold as slaves, or thrown to wild beasts for the sport of the conquerors.

P.

MARTORELLI.

Martorelli was occupied for two years in a treatise to prove that the use of glass for windows was unknown to the ancients. Fifteen days after the publication of his folio, a house was found in Pompeii all whose windows were paned with glass.

{154}

LIVING ALONE.

BY T. FLINT.

There are, to whom to live alone,
Sounds in their ear the funeral moan
Of winter's night breeze, sad and deep,
A prelude of sepulchral sleep.
To live alone I have no dread,
And careless hear upon my bed,
Between the wintry night wind's howl,
The hootings of the forest owl;
Reckless I wrap myself in gloom,
And court endurance for the tomb.
Time was, my feelings were not so:
When Spring upon the drifted snow
Breath'd warm, and bade the waters flow;
When turtles coo'd; on the green hills
Skip'd the spring lambs, murmur'd the rills,
And spread their cups the daffodils,
I was as gay, and with me played
Full many a budding, blue-eyed maid;
My heart, the merriest thing of all,
Bounded within me at the call
Of laughing nature. Ah! 'twas then
The thought of living far from men,
And festive throngs, and social glee,
Had seemed a living death to me.
I loved; but I was plain and poor--
My fair one rich--and from the door
She sign'd my passport--bade me go,
And, as I might, digest my wo.
One shrug'd, and said, "he must confess,
To cling to one so purposeless,
Would be a folly all would blame
As more than due to friendship's claim."
Another cut our feeble tye,
Because I pass'd all chances by
To mend my fortunes, unimprov'd,
Too weak to be sustain'd, or lov'd.
At last I found a pretty one,
Who lov'd me for myself alone.
I was thrice dear to her, but she
A thousand times more dear to me:
I was the happiest one that liv'd,
And should have been, while she surviv'd.
I saw her suffering, saw her fail--
And in my eye the sun grew pale;
Nature's stern debt she early paid,
And in the earth my gem was laid:
My heart then grew, as marble, cold--
And, fortune's worst endur'd, grew bold.
Supine in nature's busy hive,
Men deem'd me dead, though still alive.
One and another slid away,
And left me lonely, old and gray.
'Tis all a vanity, I said,
And to my lot bow'd down my head--
Found pensive gladness in my gloom,
A prelude requiem of the tomb,
And felt myself too sternly wise
With useless grief to blear my eyes.
As my slow hours still strike their knell,
I fancy it my passing bell,
And strive, ere yet I pass away,
To grow insensible as clay.

THE VALLEY NIS.

BY E. A. POE.

Far away--far away--
Far away--as far at least
Lies that valley as the day
Down within the golden East--
All things lovely--are not they
One and all, too far away?

It is called the valley Nis:
And a Syriac tale there is
Thereabout which Time hath said
Shall not be interpreted:
Something about Satan's dart
Something about angel wings--
Much about a broken heart--
All about unhappy things:
But "the valley Nis" at best
Means "the valley of unrest."

_Once_ it smil'd a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell,
Having gone unto the wars--
And the sly, mysterious stars,
With a visage full of meaning,
O'er th' unguarded flowers were leaning,
Or the sun-ray dripp'd all red
Thro' tall tulips overhead,
Then grew paler as it fell
On the quiet Asphodel.

_Now_ each visiter shall confess
Nothing there is motionless:
Nothing save the airs that brood
O'er the enchanted solitude,
Save the airs with pinions furled
That slumber o'er that valley-world.
No wind in Heaven, and lo! the trees
Do roll like seas, in Northern breeze,
Around the stormy Hebrides--
No wind in Heaven, and clouds do fly,
Rustling everlastingly,
Thro' the terror-stricken sky,
Rolling, like a waterfall,
O'er th' horizon's fiery wall--
And Helen, like thy human eye,
Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie,
And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave
All banner-like, above _a grave_.
And one by one, from out their tops
Eternal dews come down in drops,
Ah, one by one, from off their stems
Eternal dews come down in gems!

NEW TESTAMENT.

The Greek of the New Testament is by no means, whatever some zealots assert, the Greek of Homer, of Anacreon, or of Thucydides. It is thickly interspersed with Hebraisms, barbarisms, and theological expressions. The Evangelists differ much in style among themselves. St. Matthew is not as pure as St. John, nor he as St. Paul. St. Luke is the most correct--especially in the Acts.

{155}

CASTELLANUS, OR THE CASTLE-BUILDER TURNED FARMER.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was
Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass
Forever flushing round a summer sky.
_Thomson_.

MR. WHITE,--It is a long time since I threw my mite into the treasury of your book; Nugator's occupation's gone! was my ejaculation when last I wrote to you. The same devouring element which has recently plunged New York in misery and gloom, had just then triumphed over much of my earthly possessions, but over none more foolishly prized than sundry small wares which were intended for your market. As there was no prospect of getting Congress to extend the time of the payment of _my bonds_, to which one would think I was as justly entitled as the rich merchant, I had to set to work as best I might to repair the ravages of fire. In the midst of saws and hammers, of bricks and mortar, my ideas have been so vulgarized, that you must not expect to see a Phoenix rise from my ashes. From me you must never expect any thing but trifles, as my signature portends; yet when I reflect that this world is made up of small things as well as great, and that the former are as essential to constitute a whole as the latter, and that your book ought no more than the world to consist altogether of the grand, but should sometimes admit the trifling, I am encouraged to begin again, although already scorched by more fires than one, having encountered the fire of some of your critics. As the mouse sets off to greater advantage the bulk of the mammoth, the critics should rather be pleased than otherwise, to see my wretched skeleton in contrast with the vast proportions of some of your contributors,--but enough.

Romances and novels made my neighbor Castellanus a castle-builder; nothing can be more dissimilar than the world he inhabits and that ideal one in which he has always lived; like certain persons who shall be nameless, he has been literally _in_ the world and _out_ of it at the same time, and his experience therefore might justify a seeming paradox. I think it was Godwin in his Fleetwood, who drew so beautiful a contrast between our _night_ dreams and _day_ dreams. Castellanus never could bear the former, attended by hag and night mare, where we are forever struggling to attain some goal, which we can never reach; he did not like to start affrighted out of sleep; to sink through chasms yawning beneath his feet;

"Nor toss on shatter'd plank far out upon some deep."

No, I have heard him exclaim, "Give me the dreams of day; let me recline upon some bank in summer shade, supine, where fancy fits her wings for pleasant flight, and quickly ushers me into her radiant halls. No hope defeated can there make me grieve; no cup untasted from my lips be dashed; no light, receding ever, there can shine, but whatsoever there be of joy or love to mortals known, is seized at once and easily made my own." There are few persons, perhaps, who do not at some period of life, construct these gay castles, yclept in air, and well indeed is the appellation bestowed, for though more splendid far than the works of old; more passing rare than all of which we read;--Balbec's! Palmyra's!--none could excel them,--yet in a moment they will topple down, nor leave one marble column, spared as if to point to the scene of desolation and to mourn for its brethren, broken, ruined, and overthrown. Such monuments are sometimes seen standing amid that decay, produced by Goths and Vandals; and Goths and Vandals still in modern times will break, _irruptive_, on the castle-builder's chosen spot--misfortunes! griefs! pale care! tormenting debt!--Then fancy, all thy revelry is forgotten; reluctantly from our sweet couch, we rise and homeward frowning hie to toil and writhe and fret. But such is the skill of the artist, that he has but to ramble forth where all is still and wave his wand, when in an instant, like the enchantment of old, his shining palaces will upward climb. It is not so, alas! with those works barbarians overturned; none know how to raise them to such sublime heights; lost are those arts by which they towering rose, and we but gaze on them to sigh and curse the hands which slew them.

This practice of castle-building had been the habit of Castellanus from his boyhood. It gave him a strange unsocial turn and made him shun the inmates of his father's house. He fled all company, and the pleasures which others pursue were rarely pleasures to him. One enjoyment he had which never palled. Some lonely seat beside a "wimpling burn" or waterfall, where human sounds fell distantly; there with book in hand, he drank in the lulling music with which such a place is fraught; there would he draw forth, unseen, some old romance with worn and dusky lid, of "haunted Priories" with bloody hand, or dark "Udolpho" with its deep mysteries, its gliding ghosts, and secret pannels. Then would fall the curtain on this mortal vale and all its hateful realities, and his rapt soul would revel in the high wrought tale of fancy. For him these fictions had an unspeakable charm--gallant youths were his companions. He trod with them over Alps and Appenines, where banditti lurked amid the dreary forests and lights were seen to glance and disappear. Soft maidens, too, were there, whose superhuman charms won every heart; encompassed by ten thousand dangers, he could not leave them, until he saw them safely locked in love's triumphant arms. Though a very ugly fellow, he had deceived himself into the belief that he should one day or other marry one of these delightful creatures, and had even settled that her name should be Julia, and thought he should be one of the happiest fellows upon earth; but, Mr. Editor, who do you think he now is? a clodhopper!! aye a miserable clodhopper! The owner of land and negroes!! In that one sentence, I sum up all of human misery--and what do you think is his wife's name? Peggy! Phœbus what a name!

"Cobblers! take warning by this cobbler's end."

Yes, ye castle-builders! look upon his undone condition and take warning. Take warning, parents, and bring up your children to suit the sphere in which they are to move. I shall not trouble you with the why and the wherefore of his present condition, but suffice it to say that such it is, and then picture to yourself the untold miseries he must endure when I depict to you the sort of life he is leading, with such passions as I have already described his ruling ones to be. _Imprimis_: there is Peg--but I had better say as little as possible of her, {156} out of respect for the ladies and out of regard for my friend, because in truth like "Jerry Sneak," he has not eaten a "_bit of under crust since he was married_," but follow me if you please upon his farm, and let me introduce you to his plagues and tormentors. Let us look for the overseer--we shall find him, if at home, which is seldom the case, seated on a _stump_, with the symbol of his office under his arm. There he is, you see, mounted on his throne lazily looking at the laborers; working the land to death by injudicious cultivation; extorting the last drop of vitality from it; a foe to every species of improvement, and obstinately bent upon going on in the jog trot of his predecessors. This is Castellanus' companion _ex necessitate_. Shades of the Orvilles and Mortimers! pity him. What can there be in common between them? What can they talk about? About Evelina and Amanda?--cottages covered with woodbine and honeysuckle?--landscapes and glorious sunsets?--the warbling of birds?--Oh no, Suk and Sall, negro cabins or pig-styes, corn fields and----yes, they _can_ talk of birds, but they are blackbirds and crows, and devil take their warbling--of sunset, but only to lament the shortness of the days. His (the overseer's) themes are rogues and runaways--he is eloquent upon hog-stealing, and neither Simon Sensitive nor Timothy Testy could recount more readily the miseries of human life. His are the miseries of Geoponies. Rot--rust--weevil--fly and cutworm, haunt his imagination and dwell upon his tongue. Castellanus had rather be a dog and bay the moon than discuss such subjects. But my friend's delight was once in horses; it was one of the few pleasures he had. His fancy was early captivated by Alexander mounting Bucephalus; a horse gaily caparisoned and mounted by a steel clad knight, was a sight upon which his imagination feasted. The red roan charger of Marmion at the battle of Flodden had thrilled his every nerve,

"Blood shot his eyes--his nostril spread
The loose rein, dangling from his head
Housing and saddle bloody red."

Oh what a picture! and that I should be obliged to exhibit to your view the counterfeit presentment. The ploughboys are just coming out of the stable with their master's horses going to plough. Here, sir, is Buck-e-fallus, as the negro boys call Bucephalus. There is no difficulty in mounting _him_; they have knocked out one of his eyes; he has a blind side and cannot see the shadow cast by the sun. If his spirit was ever as high as his namesake's, he has lost it now--that little ragged urchin can ride him with a grape-vine--raw-boned, spavined and wind-galled! let him pass and let us see the next. This is Smiler! "Lucus a non lucendo," I suppose; alas! _he_ never smiles--he reminds one of Irving's wall eyed horse looking out of the stable window on a rainy day. His look is disconsolate in the extreme; from the imperturbable gravity of his manners, you perceive he is dead to hope; melancholy has marked him for her own; bad feeding, constant toil, and a lost currycomb, have made him "what thou well may'st hate," although he once "set down" as "shapely a shank" as Burns' Auld mare Maggie ever did. Do you see that long legged fellow, that Brobdignag, mounted upon the little mare mule? His legs almost drag the ground, and he ought in justice to _toat_ (aye, sir, _toat_, a good word, an excellent word, and one upon which I mean to send you an etymological essay some of these days,) the animal he bestrides. There are some singular traits about that mule _Golliver_, as the boys by a singular misnomer call her. She keeps fat "while other nags are poor;" it is because she lives in the corn-field. She can open the stable-door by some inscrutable means, some sort of open sessame; gates are no impediments to her, and even ten rails and a rider cannot arrest her progress. She seems to have a vow upon her never to leave the plantation; she will go as far as the outer gate with her rider, but if he attempt to pass that boundary his fate is sealed. He is canted most unceremoniously over her head and made to bite the dust; that gate is her _ultima Thule_; her ne plus ultra; the utmost bound of her ambition. She has acquaintances enough, as Old Oliver says, and wishes not to extend the circle. Her policy is Chinese, or perhaps like Rasselas, she once escaped from her happy valley and was disappointed in the world--"_one fatal remembrance_" perhaps casts its "bleak shade" beyond that gate.--I know not in sooth, but heaven help me! what am I doing? If I go on thus, with the whole _stud_ of my neighbor, and write at large upon every thing which torments him, I shall never have done. Suffice it then, that I give you a hasty, panoramic sketch of what he has to encounter in his rides over his farm. See him mounted on his little switch tailed grey, which has the high sounding title of White Surrey, and whose tail is nearly cut off at the root by the crupper--the mane in most admired disorder, and fetlocks long and bushy. Now what does he behold? Barren fields--broken fences--gates unhinged--starving cattle--ragged sheep--and jades so galled that they make _him_ wince--hogs that eat their own pigs and devastate his crops--mares that sometimes cripple their own colts--cows on the contrary which have so much of the milk of _vaccine kindness_, that they suffer their offspring to suck after being broken to the cart--bulls even, that suck--rams, so pugnacious, that they butt his mules down, as the aforesaid Gulliver can attest, for often have I seen her knocked down as fast as she could rise--upon my life it's true, Mr. Editor, and you need not add with Major Longbow, what will you lay it's a lie? It was amusing to see the ram, with head erect and fixed eye, moving round in a small circle and watching his opportunity to plant his blows, with all the pugilistic dexterity of Crib or Molyneux. I once knew my unfortunate neighbor to have a fine blooded colt, foaled in the pasture with his mules. These vicious devils had no sooner perceived that the colt was without those long ears which characterize their species, than they set to work with one accord to demolish the _monstrous_ production, and in spite of all the efforts of the mother, which fought with a desperation worthy of some old Roman, beset by a host of foes, succeeded in trampling to death her beautiful offspring. What a picture this is of some political zealots and envenomed critics, who no sooner perceive that a man has not _asses ears_, like themselves, than they commence a senseless outcry against him and compass his destruction. I have somewhere read of a madman, and perhaps he was right, who, when confined, protested he was not mad; that all mankind were madder than he, and that they were envious of his superior intellect and therefore wished to put him out of the way. Castellanus goes to ride out with Cecilia, Camilla, the {157} Children of the Abbey, or some such book in his pocket, and so engrossed is his mind with the elegance and refinement of those personages, that he can scarcely bear to go where his overseer is. He shuns him as much as Lovel did Captain Mirvan, or old Mr. Delville Mr. Briggs. He turns with horror from the pictures of desolation and mismanagement around him, and hastens home to find consolation in the bosom of his heroines, not of his Peggy, for he cannot yet say "_Non clamosa mea mulier jam percutit aures_"[1]--and in truth that virtuous lady has a tongue, and with it can ring such a peal about the above mentioned unproductive state of things, that he had rather hear the "grating on a scrannel-reed of wretched straw;"--or, to be less poetical, and to come back to what he hears every day, he had rather listen to the music of his own cart-wheels, which grate so harshly and scream so loudly that they may be heard a mile off. The inevitable result of all I have told you, Mr. Editor, is, that my neighbor is actually sinking three or four per cent. upon his capital every year, and must come to beggary unless you can arouse him from his ridiculous castle-building and novel reading. I wish you could see the style in which he moves with his _cara sposa_ to church; they have _come down_, as we say, to an old gig, which cannot be quite as old as Noah's ark, because no two of the kind were ever seen in this world, and therefore could not have been preserved at the time of the Deluge, although the brass mountings on the muddy and rain-stiffened harness are of so antique a fashion, that we might well suppose the ingenuity of that celebrated artificer in brass, Tubal Cain, was employed in their construction. This crazy vehicle is drawn by the overseer's horse, which is borrowed for the "nonce,"--because neither Buck-e-fallus nor Smiler, nor any of the stud are _fit to go_, and Gulliver, besides being a mule, has declined, as I have already shewn, having any thing to do with our "external relations;" and furthermore, because this is the only conceivable mode in which my neighbor can obtain a return for that unlimited control which the said horse exercises over the corn in his corn-house. The contrast between the long lean figure, and rueful and cadaverous countenance of Castellanus, and the short figure resembling "_the fat squab upon a Chinese fan_," and the ruddy countenance of Mrs. Castellanus, is very striking;

They sit, side by side, in the gig, sir, as solemn
As Marriage and Death in a newspaper column.

How they ever came together, except by the fortuitous concourse of atoms, I cannot divine, for certainly without disrespect, I may say, that however charming Mrs. Castellanus may be, she is not

A beauty ripe as harvest,
Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over,
Than silver, snow, or lilies--

nor has she

--------------------a soft lip
Would tempt you to eternity of kissing,
And flesh that melteth in the touch to blood.

But we may cease to wonder at their union, when we reflect on the couples we see every day,--so totally dissimilar in taste and external appearance, that we may almost believe with St. Pierre that we love only those who form a contrast to ourselves. "Love," he says, "results only from contrasts, and the greater they are, the more powerful is its energy. I could easily demonstrate this by the evidence of a thousand historical facts. It is well known, for example, to what mad excess of passion that tall and clumsy soldier, Mark Anthony, loved and was beloved by Cleopatra; not the person whom our sculptors represent of a tall, portly, Sabine figure, but the Cleopatra whom historians paint as little, lively and sprightly, carried in disguise about the streets of Alexandria, in the night time, packed up in a parcel of goods on the shoulders of Apollodorus, to keep an assignation with Julius Cæsar."

NUGATOR.

[Footnote 1: Nay, what's incredible, alack!
I hardly hear a woman's clack.--_Swift_.]

SONG.

This is _no_ "dark and dreary world,"
'Tis full of life and beauty--
Yet not to him, all "primrose path"
Who's in the way of duty--
And yet, to cheer him on the road,
The way-side flower is springing,
While to the charms of Nature's day
The wild-bird's sweetly singing.
There is a bliss in Virtue's path
Above all sensual thinking--
Would he might prove it, he who hath
"Joy"--_Is_ there "_joy_ in drinking?"