ME NOT. Old and New Books and stationery. Bookt Bought, Sold orExchangtd 5i Qrand Riv.Av. Detroit, Mich Book 'H454 ^^3 liAMBLES AJUD ^j^^^-^ fe^S^J^^ S K ETC H BY THE KEY. j/t. HEADLEY. NEW YOEK: JOHN S. TAYLOR, 143 NASSAU STREET. MONTREAL:~R. W. LAY. 1853. 3 '=11'^ Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by JOHN S. TAYLOR, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS. Page Biographical Sketch, ...... 6 CHAPTER I. My First and Last Chamois Hunt, . . . . 11 CHAPTER XL Rambles th;rofgh Pajris, ...... 26 chapter hi. Eambles about Paris, 41 CHAPTER IV. Eambles about Paris, 57 CHAPTER V. Eambles about Paris, 71 CHAPTER VI. Eambles about Paris, 85 CHAPTER VII. Out or Paris — Oter the Channel to England, . 109 CHAPTER VIII. Eambles in London, 122 CHAPTER IX. Eambles about London, 135 CHAPTER X. Eambles about London, 146 (ui) IV CONTENTS. CHAPTER XL Page Rambles about London, . . • . . . 157 CHAPTER XIL Rambles in England, 165 CHAPTER XIIL Rambles in England, 174 CHAPTER XIV. Rambles in England, 182 CHAPTER XV. Rambxes in Wales, 190 CHAPTER XVI. Waterloo, 199 CHAPTER XVII. On the adaption of one^s intellectual efforts to the character of his own mind and the circumstances in which he is placed, 211 CHAPTER XVIII. Italian Paintings, 231 CHAPTER XIX. Association Discussed, 237 CHAPTER XX. Rome, 241 CHAPTER XXL Easter Sunday in Rome, 258 CHAPTER XXII. Relics, . 278 CHAPTER XXIII. Pope Pius IX. and Italy, 291 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP J. T. HEADLEY. The first American ancestor of Mr. Headley was the eldest son of an English baronet, "who came to this country in consequence of a domestic quarrel, and ultimately refused the family estate, which is now held by Sir Francis Headley, the author of a work of some note, on chemistry. Mr. Headley was born on the 30th of December, 1814, at Walton, in New York, where his father was settled as a clergyman. It is a wild and romantic spot on the banks of the Delaware, and his early familiarity with its scenery, doubtless occasioned much of his love of mountain climbing, and indeed, his descriptive power. He com- menced his studies with the law in view, but changed his plan; and after graduating at Union College, became a student of theology, at Auburn. He was licensed in New Torkj and a church was offered him in that city, but his health was feeble, and his phy- sician dissuaded him from attempting to preach. Un- willing, however, to abandon his profession without an effort, he took charge of a small church in Stock- 1* (v) VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. bridge, in Massachusetts, where he thought he could give himself the most favorable trial, but after two years and a half, broke down completely, and planned a European tour and residence for his recovery. He went to Italy in the summer of 1842, intending to spend the winter there, the summer in Switzerland, and the next winter in the East. The state of his health, however, led to some modification of his design ; he remained in Italy only about eight months, traveled some time in Switzerland, passed through Germany and the Netherlands, went into Belgium, thence to France, then over England and Wales, and finally home, having been absent less than two years. His health being worse than when he went abroad, he gave up all idea of following his profession, and turned his attention to literature. His first publication was a translation from the Ger- man, which appeared anonymously, in 1844. In the following year, he gave to the press. Letters from Italy, and the Alps, and the Rhine ; and in 1846, Na- poleon and his Marshals, and The Sacred Mountains. Mr. Headley is one of the most promising of the youthful writers of this country. He has shown his capacity to write an agreeable book, and to write a popular one. His Letters from Italy is a work upon which a man of taste will be gratified to linger. It possesses the unfatiguing charms of perfect simplicity and truth. It exhibits a thousand lively traits, of an ingenuous nature, which, formed in a sincere and un- sophisticated society, and then brought into the midst of the old world, retains all its freshness and distinc- BIOaRAPHICAL SKETCH. Vii tlveness, and observes with native intelligence, every thing that is striking in the life, and manners, and scenery around it. There is a graceful frankness pervades the composition, which engages the interest of the reader in the author as well as in the subject. We meet, every where, the evidences of manly feel- ing, pure sympathies, and an honorable temper. In many of the passages there is a quiet and almost unconscious humor, which reminds us of the delicate raillery of The Spectator. The style is delightfully free from every thing bookish and commonplace ; it is natural, familiar, and idiomatic. It approaches, as a work of that design ought to do, the animation, variety, and ease, of spoken language. The work called Napoleon and his Marshals, was" written to be popular. The author obviously con- templated nothing but effect. In that point of view, it displays remarkable talent for accomplishing a pro- posed object. The figures and scenes are delineated with that freedom and breadth of outline, and in that vivid and strongly contrasted style of coloring, which are well calculated to attract and delight the people. If it were regarded as a work written to satisfy his own ideas of excellence, and as the measure of his best abilities, it could not be considered as adding any thing to his reputation. He has taken the subject up with ardor, but with little previous preparation: the work, therefore, indicates imperfect information, immature views of character, and many hasty and unconsidered opinions. The style has the same melo- dramatic exaggeration which the whole design of the Vlil BIOaHAPIIICAL SKETCH. work exhibits. Yet unquestionably there is power manifested even in the faults of these brilliant sketches. There is that exuberant copiousness of imagination and passion, which, if it be not admirable in itself, is interesting as the excess of youthful genius. We accept it as a promise, but are not satisfied with it as a production. If it be true, how- ever, as has been stated, that some five thousand copies of this book have been disposed of in the few months that have elapsed since its publication, Mr. Headley has many motives to disregard the warnings which may be mingled with his triumph. I am unwilling to trust myself in a detailed criti- cism of Mr. Headley 's latest work — The Sacred Mountains. He may readily be acquitted of inten- tional irreverence ; but he has displayed a most unfor- tunate want of judgment, and a singular insensibility to the character of the subject which he undertook to handle. The attempt to approximate and fami- liarize the incidents of the Deluge, to illustrate the Transfiguration by historical contrasts, and to heighten the agony and awe of the Crucifixion by the extrava- gancies of rhetoric, has produced an efi'ect that is purely displeasing. As events in the annals of the world, those august occurrences " stand solitary and sublime,'' and are only to be viewed through the pas- sionless ether of the inspired narrative. As mysteries of faith, and symbols of a truth before which our nature bows down, they recede into the infinite dis- tance of sanctity and worship. In a literary point of view, Mr. Headley's design has much the same BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IX success that would attend an effort to represent the stars of heaven, the horror of an eclipse, or the roseate beauty of an evening sky, by the whiz and crackle of artificial fireworks. We think so highly of Mr. Headley's natural powers, that we feel a concern in their proper direc- tion and development. The fascination of strong writing, the love of rhetorical effect, have proved the "torva voluptas'' by which American genius has often been betrayed and sacrificed. It is to be hoped that Mr. Headley will recover in time from the dangerous intoxication. He should remember that the spirit of literary art is essentially natural, simple, and calm ; that it is advanced, not by sympathy with the pas- sions of the multitude, but by lonely communion with that high idea of excellence, which is pure, perma- nent, and sacred; that it dwells not in excitement, and the fervent endeavor after an outward result, but in the quiet yet earnest development of those inward instincts of grace and beauty which are the creative energy of genius. Mr. Headley's first move in litera- ture was a commendable and successful one, and he could not do better for his true fame than to retrace his steps, and recover the line of his earliest efforts. Besides the works above mentioned, Mr. Headley has published several orations and many able articles in the reviews. EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. CHAPTER I. MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. " Es ist Zeit zu aufstehen — es ist drei viertel auf eins," said a voice in reply to my question, "Wer ist da?" as I was awakened by a low knock at my door. I had just composed myself to sleep for the second time, as this, "It is time to get up, it wants a quarter of one," aroused me. I was in the mountain valley of Grindelwald in the very heart of the Ober- land. I had been wandering for weeks amid the glo- rious scenery of the Alps, which had gone on chang- ing from grand to awful till I had become as familiar with precipices, and gorges, and glaciers, and snow- peaks, and avalanches, as with the meadow-spots and hill-sides of my native valley. I had stood in the shadow of Mont Blanc, and seen the sun go down on his bosom of snow, until from the base to the heaven- reaching summit, it was all one transparent rose color, blushing and glowing in bright and wondrous beauty in the evening atmosphere. I had stood and gazed on him and his mountain guard, tinted with the same deep rose-hue, till their glory departed, and Mont Blanc rose, white, and cold, and awful, like a .(11) 12 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. miglity model in the pale moonlight. I had wandered over its sea of ice, and climbed its break-neck preci- pices, and trod the difficult passes that surround it, but never yet had seen a wild chamois on its native hills. I had roamed through the Oberland with no better success. All that I had heard and dreamed of the Alps had been more than realized. Down the bosom of the Jungfrau I had seen the reckless ava- lanche stream, and listened all night to its thunder crash in the deep gulfs, sending its solemn monotone through the Alpine solitudes, till my heart stood still in my bosom. From the highest peak of the Wettor- horn (peak of tempests) I had seen one of those "thunderbolts of snow" launch itself in terror and might into the very path I was treading — crushed by its own weight into a mere mist that rose up the face of the precipice, like spray from the foot of a waterfall. With its precipices leaning over me, I had walked along with silent lips and subdued feel- ings, as one who trod near the margin of Jehovah's mantle. I had never been so humbled in the pre- sence of nature before, and a whole world of new emo- tions and new thoughts had been opened within me. Along the horizon of my memory some of those won- drous peaks were now drawn as distinctly as they lay along the Alpine heavens. Now and then, a sweet pasturage had burst on me from amid this savage scenery, like a sudden smile on the brow of wrath, while the wild strain of the Alp-horn, ringing through the rare atmosphere, and the clear voices of the mountaineers singing their "ranz de v aches y'' as they MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 13 led their herds along the mountain path to their eagle-nested huts, had turned it all into poetry. If a man wishes to have remembrances that never grow old, and never lose their power to excite the deepest wonder, let him roam through the Oberland. But I like to have forgotten the hunt I started to describe, in the wonderful scenery its remembrance called' up. Grindelwald is a green valley lying be- tween the passes of the Wengern Alp and the Grand Scheideck, which are between three and four thou- sand feet above it, and are in turn, surrounded by mountains six or seven thousand feet loftier still, although the valley itself is higher than the tops of the Catskill range. There, rise in solemn majesty, as if to wall in for ever the little valley, the Eigher, or Giant — the Schreckhorn, or terrible peak — the Wet- terhorn, or peak of tempests — the Faulhorn, or foul peak — ^the Grand Scheideck, and a little farther away the Jungfrau, or virgin. Thus surrounded, and over- looked, and guarded for ever, the green valley sleeps on as if unconscious of the presence of such awful forms. Here and there, by the stream that wanders through it, and over the green slopes that go modestly up to the mountain on either side, are scattered wooden cottages, as if thrown there by some careless hand, presenting from the heights around, one of the most picturesque views one meets in Switzerland. When the sun has left his last baptism on the high snow-peaks, and deep shadow is settling down on Grindelwald, there is a perfect storm of sound through the valley from the thousands of bells that are at- 2 14 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. tached to the nearly six thousand of cattle the in- habitants keep in the pasturage during the day. The clamor of these bells in a still Alpine valley, made louder by the mountains that shut in the sound, is sin- gularly wild and pleasing. But the two most remarkable objects in this valley are two enormous glaciers which, born far up amid the mountains — grown there among the gulfs into seas — come streaming down into these green pas- turages, plunging their foreheads into the flat ground which lies even lower than the village. Rocks are thrown up, and even small hills, by the enormous pressure of the superincumbent mass. Miles of ice, from sixty to six hundred feet thick, push against the mass in front which meets the valley. One im- mense rock, which seems a mere projection from the primeval base of the mountains, has resisted the pres- sure of one of these immense glaciers, which, conse- quently, has forced itself over, leaving a huge cave from its foot up to where the rock lies imbedded. I went into this cavern, the roof of which was blue as heaven, and polished like a mirror, while a still pool at the bottom acted as a mirror to this mirror, till it stood confined as in a magic circle. These two gla- ciers push themselves boldly almost into the very heart of the village, chilling its air and acting like huge refrigerators, especially at evening. The day previous to the one appointed for the chamois hunt had been one of extreme toil to me. I had traveled from morning till night, and most of the time on foot in deep snow, although a July sun pretended to be MY PIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 15 shining overhead. Unable to sleep, I had risen about midnight and opened my window, when I was startled as though I had seen an apparition ; for there before me, and apparently within reach of my hand, and whiter than the moonhght that was poured in a per- fect flood upon it, stood one of those immense gla- ciers. The night had lessened even the little dis- tance that intervened between the hamlet and it during the day, and it looked like some awful white monster — some sudden and terrific creation of the gods, moved there on purpose to congeal men's hearts with terror. But as my eye grew more fa- miliar to it, and I remembered it was but an Alpine glacier, I gazed on it with indescribable feelings. From the contemplation of this white and silent form I had just returned to my couch and to my slumbers, when the exclamation at the head of this sketch awoke me. It was one o'clock in the morning, and I must up if I would fulfill my engagement with the chamois hunters. In coming down the slope of the Grand Scheideck into the Grindelwald, you see on the opposite moun- tain a huge mass of rock rising out of the centre of a green pasturage which rises at the base of an im- mense snow region. Flats and hollows, no matter how high up among the Alps, become pasturages in the summer. The debris of the mountains above, washed down by the torrents, form a slight soil, on which grass will grow, while the snows melted by the summer sun flow down upon it, keeping it constantly moist and green. These pasturagen, though at an 16 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. elevation of eight thousand feet, will keep green, while the slopes and peaks around are covered with perpetual snow ; and furnish not only grazing for the goats which the mountaineer leads thither with the first break of day, but food for the wild chamois, which descend from the snow fields around at early dawn to take their morning repast. With the first sound of the shepherd's horn winding up the cMs with his flocks, they hie them away again to their inaccessible paths. The eye of the chamois is won- derfully keen, and it is almost impossible to approach him when he is thus feeding. The only way the hunter can get a shot at him is to arrive at the pas- turage first, and find some place of concealment near by, in which he can wait his approach. The pile of rocks I alluded to, standing in the midst of the ele- vated pasturage, furnished such a place of conceal- ment, and it seemed made on purpose for the hunters' benefit. It is two or three good hours' tramp to reach these rocks from Grindelwald, and it may be imagined with how much enthusiasm I turned out of my bed, where I had obtained scarcely two hours' sleep, on such a cold expedition as this. It is astonishing how difi'er- ently a man views things at night and in the morn- ning. The evening before I was all excitement in anticipation of the morning hunt, but now I would willingly have given all I had promised the three hunters who where to accompany me, if I could only have lain still and taken another nap. I looked out of the window, hoping to see some indications of a MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 17 storm which would furnish an excuse for not turning out in the cold midnight to climb an Alpine moun- tain. But for once the heavens were provokingly clear, and the stars twinkled over the distant snow summits as if they enjoyed the clear frosty air of that high region ; while the full-orbed moon, just stooping behind the western horizon (which by the way, was much nearer the zenith than the horizon proper), looked the Eigher (a giant) full in his lordly face, till his brow of ice and snow shone like silver in the light. With our rifles in our hands we emerged from the inn and passed through the sleeping hamlet. Not a sound broke the stillness save the monotonous roar of the turbulent little streamlet that went hurry- ing onward, or now and then the cracking and crush- ing sound of the ice amid the glaciers. I had hunted deer in the forest of America, both at evening and morning, but never with teeth chat- tering so loudly as they did before I had fairly be- gun to ascend the mountain. Ugh ! ^ I can remember it as if it were but yesterday — how my bones ached and my fingers closed like so many sticks around my rifle. Imagine the eS*ects of two heaps of red-hot coals, about a hundred feet thick and several miles long, lifted to an angle of forty-five degrees, in a small and confined valley, and then by contrast you may get some idea of the cold generated by these two enormous glaciers. Yes, I ^d^j generated ; for I gave up that morning all my old notions about cold being the absence of heat, &c., and became perfectly convinced that heat was the absence of cold^ for if 2* 18 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. cold did not radiate from those masses of ice, then there is no reliance to be placed on one's sensations. Now crawling over the rocks, now picking our way over the snow-crust, which bore us or not, just as the whim took it, I at length slipped and fell and rolled over in the snow, by way of a cold bath. This com- pleted my discomfort, and I fairly groaned aloud in vexation at my stupidity in taking this freezing tramp for the sake of a chamois, which, after all, we might not get. But the continous straining effort demanded by the steepness of the ascent finally got my blood in full circulation, and I began to think there might be a worse expedition even than this un- dertaken by a sensible man. At length we reached the massive pile of rocks, which covered at least an acre and a half of ground, and began to bestow ourselves away in the most ad- vantageous places of concealment, of which there was an abundance. But a half-hour's sitting on the rocks in this high region, surrounded by everlasting snow, brought my blood from its barely comfortable temperature back to zero again, and I shook like a man in an ague. I knew that a chamois would be perfectly safe at any distance greater than two feet from the muzzle of my rifle, with such shaking limbs ; so I began to leap about, and rub my legs, and stamp, to the no small annoyance of my fellow-hunt- ers, who were afraid the chamois might see me be- fore we should see them. Wearied with waiting for the dawn, I climbed up among the rocks, and, rest- ing myself in a cavity secure* from notice, gazed MY PIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 19 around me on the wondrous scene. Strangely white forms arose on every side, while deep down in the valley the darkness lay like a cloud. Not a sound broke the deep hush that lay on every thing, and I forgot, for the time, my chilliness, chamois hunters, and all, in the impressive scene that surrounded me. As I sat in mute silence, gazing on the awful peaks that tore up the heavens in every direction, suddenly there came a dull heavy sound like the booming of heavy cannon thi^ough the jarred atmosphere. An avalanche had fallen all alone into some deep abyss, and this was the voice it sent back as it crushed below. As that low thundersound died away over the peaks, a feeling of awe and mystery crept over me, and it seemed dangerous to speak in the presence of such majesty and power. "Hist! hist!" broke from my companions below; and I turned to where their eyes were straining through the dim twilight. It was a long time before I could discover any thing but snow-fields and pre- cipices ; but at length I discerned several moving black objects, that in the distance appeared like so many insects on the white slope that stretched away towards the summit of the mountain. Bringing my pocket spy-glass to bear upon them, I saw they were chamois moving down towards the pasturage. Now carefully crawling down some ledge, now leaping over a crevice, and jumping a few steps forward, and now gently trotting down the inclined plane of snow, they made their way down the mountain. As the daylight grew broader over the peaks, and they approached 20 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. nearer, their movements and course became more dis- tinct and evident. They were making for the upper end of the pasturage, and it might be two hours before they would work down to our ambuscade ; indeed, they might get their fill without coming near us at all. I watched them through my spy-glass as they fed without fear on the green herbage, and almost wished they would keep out of the range of our rifles. They were the perfect impersonation of wildness and timidity. The lifting of the head, the springy tread, and the quick movement in every limb, told how little it would take to send them with the speed of the wind to their mountain homes. The chamois is built some- thing like the tame goat, only slighter, while his fore- leo-s are lono-er than his hinder ones, so that he slants downward from his head to his tail. His horns are beautiful, being a jet black, and rising in parallel line from his head even to the point where they curve over. They neither incline backward nor outward, but, rising straight out of the head, seem to project forward, while their parallel position almost to the tips of the curvatures gives them a very crank ap- pearance. They are as black as ebony, and some of them bend in as true a curve as if turned by the most skilful hand. I watched every movement of these wild creatures till my attention was arrested by a more attractive sight. The sun had touched the topmost peaks of the loftiest mountains that hemmed in the sweet valley of Grindelwald, turning the snow into fire, till the lordly summits seemed to waver to and fro in the red MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 21 light that bathed them. A deep shadow still lay on the vale, through which the cottages of the inhabit- ants could scarcely be distinguished. At length they grew clearer and clearer in the increasing light, and column after column of smoke rose in the morning air, striving in vain to reach half way up the moun- tains that stood in silent reverence before the uprising sun. The ruddy light had descended down the Alps, turning them all into a deep rose color. There stood the Giant, robed like an angel ; and there the Schreckhorn, beautiful as the morning ; and there the Faulhorn, with the same glorious appareling on ; and farther away the Jungfrau, looking, indeed, like a virgin, with all her snowy vestments about her, tinged with the hue of the rose. All around and heaven- high rose these glorious forms, looking as if the Deity had thrown the mantle of his majesty over them on purpose to see how they became their glorious ap- pareKng. It was a scene of enchantment. At length the mighty orb which had wrought all this magnificent change on the Alpine peaks, rose slowly into view. How majestic he came up from behind that peak, as if conscious of the glory he was shedding on creation. The dim glaciers that before lay in shadow, flashed out like seas of silver — the mountains paled away into their virgin white, and it was broad sunrise in the Alps. I had forgotten the chamois in this sudden unroll- ing of so much magnificence before me, and lay ab- sorbed in the overpowing emotions they naturally 22 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. awakened, when the faint and far-off strain of the shepherd's horn came floating by. The mellow notes lingered among the rocks, and were prolonged in softer cadences through the deep valleys, and finally died away on the distant summits. A shepherd was on his way to this pasturage with his goats. He wears a horn, which he now and then wijids to keep his flock in the path ; and also during the day, when he sees any one of the number straying too near pit- falls and crevices, he blows his horn, and the straggler turns back to the pasturage. A second low exclamation from my Swiss hunters again drew my attention to the chamois. They also had heard the sound of the horn, and had pricked up their ears, and stood listening. A second strain sounding nearer and clearer, they started for the snow fields. As good luck would have it, they came trotting in a diagonal line across the pasturage which would bring them in close range of our rifies. We lay all prepared, and when they came opposite us, one of the hunters made a low sound which caused them all to stop. At a given signal we all fired. One gave a convulsive spring into the air, ran a few rods, and fell mortally wounded. The rest, winged with fear and terror, made for the heights. I watched their rapid flight for some distance, when I noticed that one began to flag, and finally dropped entirely behind. Poor fellow, thought I to myself, you are struck. His leap grew slower and slower, till at length he stopped, then gave a few faint springs for- word, then stopped again, and seemed to look wist- MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT." 23 fully towards his flying companions that vanished like shadows over the snow fields that sloped up to the inaccessible peaks. I could not but pity him as I saw him limp painfully on. In imagination I could already see the Hfe-blood oozing drop by drop from his side, bring faintness over his heart, and exhaustion to his fleet limbs. Losing sight of him for the moment, we hastened to the one that lay struggling in his last dying efl'orts upon the grass. I have seen deer die that my bullet had brought down, and as I gazed on the wild yet gentle eye, expressing no anger even in death, but only fear and terror, my heart has smitten me for the deed I had done. The excitement of the chase is one thing — to be in at the death is quite another. But not even the eye of the deer, with its beseeching, imploring look, just before the green film closes over it, is half so pitiful as was the expression of this dy- ing chamois. Such a wild eye I never saw in an ani- mal's head, nor such helpless terror depicted in the look of any creature. It was absolutely distressing, to see such agonizing fear, and I was glad when the knife passed over his throat, and he gave his last struggle. As soon as he was dispatched, we started ofi* after the wounded one. We had no sooner reached the snow than the blood spots told where the sufl*erer had gone. It was easy enough to trace him by the life he left with every step, and we soon came upon him stretched upon his side. As he heard us ap- proach the poor fellow made a desperate efi^ort to rise, but he only half erected himself before he rolled 24 SKETCHES AND RAMBLES. back with a faint bleat and lay panting on the snow. He was soon dispatched ; and, with the two bodies strung on poles, we turned our steps homeward. Who of the four had been the successful marksmen it was impossible to tell, though I had a secret con- viction I was not one of them — still, my fellow-hunt- ers insisted that I was. Not only the position itself made it probable, but the bullet-hole corresponded in size to the bore of my rifle. The evidences, however, were not so clear to my own mind ; and I could not but think they would not have been to theirs, but for the silver bullet I was expected to shoot with when we returned to the valley. The size of that had more to do with their judgment than the rent in the side of the poor chamois. Part of one was dressed for my breakfast, and for once it possessed quite a relish. This was owing to two things — first, my appetite, which several hours on the mountain had made ravenous, and second, to the simple way in which I had ordered it to be dressed. The flesh of the chamois is very black, and possesses nothing of the flavor of our venison. Added to this, the mountaineers cook it in oil, or stew it up in some barbarous manner, till it becomes any thing but a palatable dish. The two most peculiar things about a chamois are its hoofs and its horns. The former are hollow, and hard as flint. The edges are sharp, and will catch on a rook where a claw would give way. It is the peculiar sharpness and hardness of the hoof that give it security in its reckless climbing along the clefts of MY FIRST AND LAST CHAMOIS HUNT. 25 precipices. It will leap over chasms on to a narrow ledge where you would think it could not stand, even if carefully placed there. It flings itself from rock to rock in the most reckless manner, relying alone on its sharp hoof for safety. Its horns seem to answer no purpose at all, being utterly useless both from their position and shape as an instrument of defence. They may add solidity to the head, and thus assist in its butting conflicts with its fellows. Some of the Swiss told me, however, that the animal struck on them when it missed its hold and fell over a precipice — thus breaking the force of the fall. It may be so, but it looked rather apocryphal to me. It would not be an easy matter, in the rapidity of a headlong fall, to adjust the body so that its whole force would come dii-ectly on the curvature of the horns, especially when the landing spot may be smooth earth, a rock lying at an angle of forty-five degrees, or a block of ice. The evening after my expedition I spent with some hunters, who entertained me with stories of the chase, some of which would make a Texas frontier man open his eyes. One of these I designed to relate, but find I have not room. At some future time I may give it. 8 26 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES, CHAPTER IL RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. One prominent idea filled my mind in entering Paris — ''the Revolution." As the smoke of the mighty city rose on my vision, and its deafening hum rolled towards me as we came thundering along in our lumbering diligence from Brussels, an involuntary shudder crept through my frame, for I remembered the terrific tragedies of which it had been the scene. I seemed to hear the tocsin pealing on over the de- voted city, sending faintness and despair to the terri- fied inhabitants, and the firing of the alarm guns calling out the populace to the place and work of massacre. The French Revolution is just beginning to be un- derstood. Deriving our notions very much from English historians, who hate republicanism in what- ever form it appears, they have taken pains to throw all the horrors of the Reign of Terror on the excited populace, and we have adopted their sentiments. Added to this, the overthrow of religion, and the worse than heathen orgies instituted in place of its ceremonies, have destroyed our sympathy for the peo- ple, and made us ready to uphold any thing and any system rather than the anarchy that worked out such RAMBLES THROUan PARIS. 27 terrible results in France. But we must remember that the French Kevolution was the first dawn of hu- man liberty amid the despotisms of Europe, and that convulsions like those which rocked France and sunk her in a sea of blood, were necessary to disrupt and upheave the iron-like feudal system that had been cemented, and strengthened, and rusted together for centuries. This system had gone on increasing in cruelty and oppression, till the people of France were crushed into the earth, despoiled, robbed, and insulted ; while, to crown all, famine, ^ith its horrors, appeared, sending the moan of distress and the cry of the starving over the land. Oppression had reached the limit where despair begins, and that is the spot where the earthquake is gendered. In this state of things, and to relieve the bankruptcy of the kingdom which a corrupt court and profligate nobility had brought about, the tiers Stat, or representation of the people, was ordered to meet the clergy and the nobility in a sort of Con- gress or National Convention, to take into considera- tion the dangers that every day became more immi- nent and alarming. The representatives of the peo- ple flocked to Paris, and there received insults and contumely, till at length, after months of inaction, in which famine and sufi'ering increased, they deter- mined to take redress into their own hands. But while legislating calmly and wisely for France, the court and aristocracy formed a conspiracy to murder them and dissipate the Assembly. The people sympathized with their representatives, 28 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and conspired in return. Thus commenced the vio- lence which deluged France in blood, and almost decimated her population. At the first, the people were all right, and the court and nobility all wrong ; and the violence that visited Paris is to be attributed not so much to the people, as to those who opposed and exasperated them. Just so the hostility to re- ligion is chargeable on the Catholic clergy rather than on the populace. Religion never entered as an element into the strife, one way or the other, until the priests conspired with the oppressor. Catholic- ism has always sided with power, against the rights of the people ; and it was not till after its priests showed themselves opposed to justice, and mercy, and truth, that the people rose against them. Know- ing no other religion but the Catholic, which had lived by robbery and wrong, and now stood between them and their rights, looking with a cold eye on their starving children and perishing friends, what wonder is it they swept it from the face of the earth ? Overwhelmed with the horrors of the Revolution, we forget to put the first and chief blame where it be- longs. A haughty aristocracy, trampling out the lives of the poor, and endeavoring to still their com- plaints by the bayonet, shed the first blood of Paris. A corrupt priesthood, living in luxury and sin, on the plundered wealth of those who are now starving for bread, and asking in most piteous accents for help, caused the first opposition to religion, which finally ended in its public abrogation and the de- struction of the Sabbath. It is time tyranny and the I RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. 29 Catholic religion, refusing month after month, and year after year, the humble and earnest prayer of .a perishing people, were called to account for the hor- rors of the French Revolution, and not the excited maddened populace. So also we might speak of the despotisms of Europe that attempted to crush the infant republic in its first struggles for life ; and show how their conspiracies, and open war, and secret emissaries awoke all the fears and suspicions of those who, with a halter round their neck, stood at the head of government, till, in self-defence, they com- menced those dreadful massacres which shocked the world. We might also speak of the absolute necessity of this wild upheaving to break the power of feud- alism in Europe. It was inevitable ; if it had not come in France it would have come in England. We do not mean to excuse in any way the perpe- trators of those acts of violence, but we wish the chief guilt to rest where it belongs — on those who finally fell before the wrath of an indignant and maddened mob. But not to weary you with a political disquisition on the French Revolution, stand here with me in the beautiful Garden of the Tuileries, and let the past come back on the excited memory. Robes- pierre, Danton,- Marat, Camille Des MouUns, Cou- thon, the bold Mirabeau, Vergniaud, the patriot Lafayette, the unfortunate Louis and his queen, and, last of allj that fearful man Napoleon Bonaparte, come in solemn procession through these green 3* 30 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. walks. Every step here reminds one of the Revolu- tion, and the actors in it. There, in front, stands the noble Palace of the Tuileries, round which the mob so often streamed with shouts and curses, and from whence Louis and his wife went to the scaffold ; and just above the main entrance is the same clock whose bell tolled the hour of death to the hundreds that perished by the guillotine. Behind, at the farther end, just out of the Garden of the Tuileries, in the Champs Elys^es, stands an old Egyptian obe- lisk, occupying the site of the guillotine on which Louis and Marie Antoinette suffered, and from which flowed the noblest blood of France. Two beautiful fountains are throwing up their foam beside it, where the mob were wont to sit and sing, " Ca ira^'' as head after head rolled on the scaffold. Around it walk the gay promenaders, never thinking what a place of terror they tread upon. It was on the 20th of June, that the mob of 80,000, com.posed of men, women, and children, in squalid attire, and with hideous cries, entered by force, and marched in wild procession through the Assembly of France, where her representatives sat in council upon the dangers that environed them. Banners, on w^hich were written the ^'Rights of Man," and ''The Constitution or Death," and ''Long live the SanS'Cidottes^'' were borne aloft; while one carried on high, on the point of his pike, a bleeding heart, labeled "The Heart of Aristocracy." With dances, and yells, and singing the wild " Ca ira^'' this motley crowd streamed through the Legislative Hall, and RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. 81 for three hours made it the scene of their infernal orgies. They then crowded through this beautiful garden, and pressed into the palace, and surrounded the king. Seated in a chair upon a table, surrounded by a few of his National Guard, he bore himself for once right kingly, and awed the infuriated mob by his calm presence. A drunken woman handed him the red cap of liberty, which he immediately, without changing his countenance, placed on his head. Another offered him a cup of water, and though he suspected it contained poison, he drank it off at a draught. An inyoluntary cheer burst from the throng at this act of confidence. But while this dis- graceful scene was passing without and within the palace, a slight, dark-looking young man emerged from a cafe, and seeing the mob filling the garden, said to his friend, "Let us see what is going on yonder." Standing in one of the walks of this garden, he beheld all that transpired within the palace with irrepressible disgust ; and at length, when he saw the king put on the red cap, he could restrain his indignation no longer, and exclaimed, " What folly ! How could he disgrace himself so ? The wretches — he should have blown four or five hundred of them into the air at once, and the rest would have taken to their heels." That wsls young Napoleon^ and the friend beside him, Bourrienne. Three years after, he stood in this same garden in very different relations. The mob, and the National Guard together, amounting in all to 40,000 men, had resolved to overthrow the Convention and govern- 82 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. ment of France. An army of 5000 soldiers was all the government could muster to resist this appalling force. It matters not ; a young artillery officer, a bronze-looking man, is at their head, showing in every feature and movement, that he is no Louis XVI. No womanish weakness or fear agitates his Heart. He looks on the approaching thousands as calmly as the marble statues that fill the garden about him, and orders his trusty band to stand in dense array around his few cannon, that are charged to the muzzle with grape-shot. He is about to try the experiment he, three years before, had said the king should have tried. It is young Bonaparte. With his stern, quick voice, he inspires his men with confidence, as he hurries from post to post. A short street, called the Rue St. Honore, comes directly up in a right angle to the garden, from the church St. Roche, which stands at the farther end. Up this short street pressed a body of the insurgents, while the church was filled with armed men who kept up a deadly fire on the regular troops. Bonaparte saw them approach with the same indifi'erence he had so often watched the charge of the Austrian columns on his artillery, and pointed his deadly battery full on the crowding ranks of his countrymen. ^Tire !" broke from his lips, and that narrow street was strewed with the dead. Discharge after discharge of grape-shot swept with awful destruction through the multitude, till at length they broke and fled in wild confusion through the city. The walls of the church stiU bear the bullet-marks of that dreadful RAMBLES THROUaH PARIS. 83 fire, and stand as a monument of the great insurrec- tion of Paris. But while yictory was with the young Bonaparte on this side of the garden, the insurgents had carried the bridge that spans the Seine on the other, and came pouring over the graveled walks full on his deadly battery. He let them approach till within less than four rods of his guns, and then hurled that awful storm of grape-shot into their bosoms. Smitten back by this awful fire in their very faces, mangling and tearing through their dense columns, they halted — but not till they had received three of those murderous discharges did they break and flee. This broke up Parisian mobs, and ended popular insurrections. The temporizing, timid spirit had for years left the city a prey to lawless violence, and deluged it in blood. One resolute, determined man ended them at once. Boldness and resolution will always crush a mob, and the city authorities that dare not support the laws, because they are afraid to take human life, adopt the surest course to secure the greatest flow of blood. Here, too, previous to this, fell the brave Swiss Guards, fighting for their king. Had Louis possessed a tenth part of their valor, he could have retained his throne, and given the people a constitution and a constitutional freedom besides. He, in his womanly weakness, enraged the mob to .acts of violence, by refusing to maintain the law by the strong arm of force. Appointed to uphold the laws, he would not do it, and hence shares the guilt of the consequences that followed. 34 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. There was a curious exhibition of human nature in this tragedy, as the Swiss were driven out of the palace and slaughtered. Some of them, to escape death, climbed up the statues that stand so thick in front of the palace. The mob, though drunk with blood, would not fire on them lest they should mutilate the statues, and so pricked them down with their bayonets and speared them on the ground. A most singular instance of mere taste disarming ferocity when humanity and pity where wholly forgotten ? To spare a statue and murder a man — to feel for art, and at the same time have no feeling for human sufi'ering, is certainly a most singular state of mind, and one we believe none but a Frenchmen would ever pos- sess. But let us pass on to the " Place de Revolution." Here, where now all is gayety and mirth, stood the guillotine that groaned under the weight of bodies it was compelled to bear. In the middle of the Reign of Terror, Fouquier Tinville was the pubHc accuser — a man destitute of all passions but that of murder. All the baser lusts of human nature seemed to have been concentrated into one feeling in this iron man — ^the love of blood. Massacres were at their height, and here, by this spot, the tumbrels were constantly passing, bearing their load of victims from the prisons to the scaffold. There, in that spot, in fair sight of yonder palace, where Robespierre was accustomed to sit and watch the executions, stood the bloody engine. As I stand here, memory is but too faithful to the history of that bloody time. Here comes the king, RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. 35 carried like a common criminal to his execution ! Scarcely had his head rolled on the scaffold before the pale yet calm and dignified queen passes by, hurrying to the same fate ! Here, too, came the base Malesherbes, and all his family. The axe falls, and is scarcely raised again before Madame Elizabeth, sister to the king, places her fair neck under it, and is no more ! Custine, for having said he loyed his father, who had been executed ; Alexander Beauhar- nais, for committing a mistake in the army; the brave old Marshal Luckner, for nothing at all ; Gen- eral Biron and others; the infamous Madame du Barri ; the beautiful young Princess of Monaco ; the noble Madame Lavergne ; young women in almost countless numbers, many going at their own request to die with their parents ! The son of Buffon ; the daughter of Vernet ; Florian the novelist ; Boucher, the poet, and literary men without end, pass by i^ such rapid succession, that the eye grows dim, and one after another Hes down on the block, and their bodies are ti^undled away in brutal haste to the still more brutal burial ! The ascent to that fatal guillo- tine was like the ascent to a public edifice, constantly thronged with doomed victims. Even the infamous Fouquier Tinville at length grew frightened as the committee of public safety ordered him to increase his executions to a hundred and fifty a day ; as he said afterwards, " The Seine, as I returned home, seemed to run blood." And there, where the gay Parisians are strolling, sat the inhuman multitude, and sang " Oa ira^' as head after head rolled at 36 BAMBLES AND SKETCHES. their feet. Gutters were made to let the blood run off that otherwise would have collected in large pud- dles around the place of execution. How one be- comes accustomed to places with which the most tragic scenes are associated. The Parisians were gay and thoughtless as our own promenaders in Broadway, while I, a stranger, and standing for the first time in that bloody spot, could have but one object in my mind — the bloody guillotine ! So with the Tuileries. I could think of nothing as I threaded its sweetly shaded walks, but the awful scenes that had been enacted in it. As my thoughts dwelt thus upon this strange and bloody page in human history, I could not but feel how Heaven allows men to punish themselves. A year before these bloody exe- cutions to which I referred, a procession passed by here on their way to Notre Dame, carrying to an ancient church a lewd woman as the goddess of reason. An apostate bishop with several of the clergy, appeared at the bar of the Convention, and publicly abjured the Christian reUgion. Pach^, He- bert, and Chaumette, the municipal leaders, declared they would '' dethrone the King of heaven as well as the monarchs of the earth." Drunkards and prosti- tutes crowded around, trampling on the religious vessels that had been consecrated in the churches, and the images of Christ. It was publicly declared in the Convention, that " God did not exist, and that the worship of Reason was to take his place;'' and Chaumette, taking his veiled female by the hand, said, Mortals, cease to tremble before the powerless RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. 37 thunders of God, whom your fears have created. Henceforth acknowledge no divinity but Reason." Mounted on a magnificent car, this beautiful but abandoned woman was drawn to Notre Dame, fol- lowed by courtesans, and there elevated on the high altar in the place of God, and the church was r^ded- icated as the temple of Reason. Then followed a scene of licentiousness within the walls of that church the pen of the historian dares not describe. Well, God is no more to the French people, and on all the public burial-places, is placed, by order of the govern- ment, "Death is an Eternal Sleep!" Awful con- dition of human society, that the most careless ob- server must see, will end in an earthquake that shall startle the world. Yet I see the hand of a just God in it all. First fell, before the wronged and starved people, a haughty and oppressive nobiHty, by the very violence they themselves had set on foot. Next came the overthrow of the priests and the confiscation of their property, and their public massacre, all of which they had merited by their oppressions, and corruption, and profligacy, and robbery. Thus far, each received the reward of his deeds. But now the people, drunk with success and power, refuse to recognize the hand of a Deity in enabling them to obtain their rights — nay, pubhcly scoflFed him. Well they too then must perish in turn. God will sweep them all away in succession, till they begin to obey the laws of justice and truth, and bow to his over- ruhng hand. The year that followed this dethrone- ment of the Deity has no parallel in human history. 4 38 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. France bled at every pore, and her population reeled in crowds into the grave. One wild cry of suffering rent the air, and devils rather than men stood at the head of government. A year thus rolled by, when Robespierre saw that he could not control a people that recognized no God ; and, trembling on his bloody throne, as he saw the unrestrained tide of human passions rushing past him, bearing on its maddened bosom the wreck of a mighty people, resolved to rein- state the Deity on his throne. And lo ! in this gar- den, a magnificent amphitheatre is reared under the guiding genius of the painter, David, and filled with the expectant crowd. Clad in blue apparel, and bearing fruits and flowers in his hands, Robespierre appears at the head of the procession, and to the sound of stirring music, and ascends the platform built for his reception. Statues representing Athe- ism, Discord, and Selfishness are set on fire by his own hand, and consumed. But when the smoke dis- appeared, there appeared in the place where Athe- ism, Discord, and Selfishness had stood, a statue of Wisdom. But, alas ! it was blackened with smoke and covered with ashes, and fit emblem of the sort of wisdom that occasion had exhibited. They then adjourned to the Champ de Mars, and closed the day with patriotic songs and oaths offered to the Supreme Being. Men of their own accord, had declared that they could not live without a God, and stamped themselves as fools in the eyes of the world. But this did not prevent the punishment. The oppressive aristocracy and the profligate coui't had fallen as RAMBLES THROUGH PARIS. 39 they deserved. Next disappeared the corrupt and plundering clergy and the infamous Catholic reli- gion. God had dealt justly with them, and now the Atheistic and insulting anarchists must take their punishment. And it is a little singular, that this very occasion on which Robespierre so haughtily re- enthroned the Deity should be the chief cause of his sudden overthrow ; and, what is still stranger, that he should be apprehended and executed in the same blue, coat he wore on that day. Thus God often puts a mark on his acts, by which men can know their meaning and intent. We have not room here to speak of the last fear- ful act in this long and bloody tragedy which closed up the Reign of Terror and introduced a new era to France. But it seemed impossible, as I stood in this beautiful garden on a bright summer evening, and watched the gay throng passing by, that it had been the scene of such strange events. How slight an impression the earth takes from the deeds done upon it ! But the wave swept on, and the wild storm passed by, and the chaos again assumed shape and order. What experiments had been made in morals, and re- ligion, and government ! What truths elicited and errors exploded ! The race of man had tried to their everlasting remembrance some experiments in society. But after it all had subsided, and the smoke and dust had cleared away, there stood the heavens as God had made them, and there his truth as he had reveal- ed it, and there his government, more commanding 40 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and awe-inspiring than ever. Men are thrown into commotion and become wiser than their Maker, but their wisdom always turns out in the end to be folly ; and after they have wrecked their own happiness, and destroyed their own prospects, they confess it all, and obey for a while the commands they thought they had for ever shaken off. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 41 CHAPTER III. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. In Paris, I had nothing to do but stroll over the city and call on memory to bring back the terrible past. Bonaparte and the French Revolution are every where present to the wanderer over Paris. If he looks on the Tuileries or Louvre, it is to think of the unfortunate Louis, or perhaps to be shown the scars of cannon-shot on their solid sides, hurled there by a maddened mob. If he sees an obelisk or fountain, it was placed there by Bonaparte, or to honor Bonaparte. Look on that beautiful palace standing close beside the Champs Elys^e : Robespierre used to sit there, to watch the executions decreed by the bloody Revolutionary Tribunal. Cast your eye down to the Place Vendome ; there rises a beautiful shaft, far into the heavens, but Bonaparte is on the top, in his everlasting surtout and plumeless chapeau, standing on the cannon taken by him in battle. This beautiful and lofty shaft is composed entirely of cannon which he captured during his military career, melted down to compose this column — while, running around it in a spiral direction, from the base to the top, are beautiful bas-reliefs, representing the differ- ent battles in which he was victor. From th^ Palace 4* 42 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. of the Tuileries to the beautiful arch at the farther end of the Champs Elys^es, it is all Bonaparte and the Revolution. Enter the Madeline Churchy one of the most elegant structures in Paris, and you are reminded it was built by Napoleon for a temple of glory, and it resembles any thing but a temple for worship. From one end of the Grecian colonnade that goes entirely around it, look across the Champs Elys^es to the Chamber of Deputies and the H6tel des Invalides, the other side of the Seine, one of the most beautiful views of the kind we have ever seen, and the Revolution and Bonaparte are still before you. The obelisk, behind which the two fount- ains are gayly sending their spray into the air, stands on the very spot the guillotine occupied during the Reign of Terror ; and in the Hotel des Invalides, that terminates the prospect beyond the Seine, sleeps the mighty Conqueror himself, while around him tread the few surviving veterans that once fol- lowed him to battle. The reminiscences of popular power and fury that meet one at every turn, make him feel as if he were treading on the side of a vol- cano, that might at any moment begin to heave again, and swallow all in its bosom of fire. But one morning as I strolled from the Hotel do Meurice (the Astor House of Paris,) in search of rooms, I stumbled on an object which for a moment held me by a deeper spell than any thing I had seen in France. In the Rue Victoire, close beside the principal baths of the city, stands a small house sev eral rods from the street, and approached by a nar RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 43 row lane. It is situated in the midst of a garden, and was the residence of Josephine when the young Napoleon first yielded his heart to her charms. The young soldier had then never dreamed of the won- drous destiny that awaited him, nor had surrendered his soul to that wasting ambition which consumed every generous quality of his nature, and every pure feeling of his heart. Filled with other thoughts than those of unlimited dominion, and dreaming of other things than fierce battle-fields, he would turn his foot- steps hither, to pour the tale of his affections in Jose- phine's ear. His heart throbbed more violently before a single look and a single voice, than it ever did amid the roar of artillery and the sound of falling armies. The eye, before which the world quailed at last, and the pride of kings went down, fell at the gaze of a single woman ; and her flute-like voice stirred his youthful blood wilder than the shout of "Vive rEmp^reur!" from the enthusiastic legions that cheered him as he advanced. Those were the purest days of his existence, and we believe the only happy ones h^ ever passed. When the crown of an emperor pressed his thoughtful forehead, he must have felt that it was better to be loved by one devoted heart, than be feared by a score of kings. As I stood before the humble dwelling, and thought of the monuments of Bonaparte's fame that covered France and the world, I could not but feel how poor a choice he made after all. Surrendering the pure joy that springs from aflection, and the heaven of a quiet home for the tumult of armies and the crown of 44 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. thorns which unholy ambition wearSj he wrecked his own happiness and soul together. He made life one great battle-field, and drove his chariot of war over heaps of slain, and up to the axletrees in human blood, to gain at last — a grave. He could have had that without such labor; and one, too, over which does not hang such darkness and gloom as rest on his. How often, in the midst of his power, must that voice of singular melody, whose tones, it is said, would arrest him in the midst of the gayest assembly, have fallen on his ear like a rebuking spirit, telling him of his baseness, and bringing back faint echoes of that life never could live again. Going one day to "Pere la Chaise," which is with- out the city, on a hill that overlooks the endless field of houses, I stumbled on a square column standing at the end of the Boulevard beside the Seine, which at first puzzled me amazingly. I had no guide-book with me — designing to visit "Pere la Chaise" alone — ^but as I read the inscriptions upon it, I found I was standing on the foundations of the old Bastile. I shuddered involuntarily as memory brought back that terrible dungeon and its still more terrible over- throw. Suddenly, I seemed to hear the shout of thousands, as '^ To the Bastile !" rose on the air. The wave of insurrection that had been dashing from side to side in the city, now took a steady course, and surged up around the Bastile. The dun- geon of tyranny for ages, it had become peculiarly obnoxious to the people, and its doom was sealed. Cannon are brought to play on its missive sides, and RAMBLES ABOUT PABIS. 45 a bold mechanic climbs up tbe wall, and amid the sbower of shot hews away on the chain that holds the drawbridge. Coming with a crash to the ground, the multitude rush over it and the Bastile is taken. The daughter of the governor is sentenced to be burned, but escapes the painful death by the inter- position of those who have humanity in them still. The governor himself, and many with him, are slain ; and their heads, placed on pikes, are carried through the streets in triumph. The Bastile is no more, and alarm spreads through the court of France. I gazed long and thoughtfully on this relic of the Revolu- tion, covered over with names, not of those who de- fended it, but of those who leveled it to the earth. The king does not live who would dare put any other names upon it. That was the beginning of the exer- tion of physical force in the Eevolution. As I trod afterwards the silent walks of the cemetery, and looked away three miles to the mighty city, I could but think how quickly time erases battle-fields, revo- lutions, and emperors from the earth, leaving only here and there a monument in their stead, which, in its turn, gives way to some other structure, or finally falls back to its original elements. I was anxious to see the tomb of Abelard and Heloise, and after much efi*ort found it. On the marble tablet which covers them are wrought two bas-reliefs, lying side by side, representing the two lovers. Heloise was a lovely and true-hearted woman, but Abelard was a selfish, heartless villain, notwithstanding his genius, and the 46 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. sentimentality of the French, and the romance the world has made out of him. From this quiet cemetery I visited the Hotel de Ville, and lo ! I was again in the midst of the Revo- lution. I followed the street leading from it to the Church of the Carmelites, calling to mind the Sab- bath morning of the 2d of September, 1792. Two days before the domiciliary visits had been made. For forty-eight hours the barriers of the city had been closed, and every door shut in the streets. The sound of the busy population had suddenly died away — the promenades were empty, the rattling of carriages was hushed, and the silence and solitude of the sepulchre reigned throughout the vast city, save when the fearful echoes were heard of the rapid tread of the bloodhounds of the anarchists, and the tap of their hammer on every door, as they moved along on their mission of death. The paleness of despair sits on every countenance, and the throbbing heart stops beating, as that hammer-stroke is heard on the door of their dwelling. The suspected are to be arrested for the safety of the state, and fifteen thousand are seized and committed. But what is to be done with this army of prisoners ? They cannot be tried separately. No, their execution is to be as sudden and summary as their arrest, and the Sab- bath of the 2d of September is selected as the day of their slaughter. The bright sun rose over the city, and nature smiled, as she always will, despite the actions of man ; but instead of the church-bells call- ing the worshipers to the house of God, there goes RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 47 pealing over the city the terrible tocsin, and the wild beat of the generale^ and the rapid alarm-guns — making that Sabbath morning as awful as the day of judgment. Through every street came pouring the excited multitude. Twenty-four priests, moving along the street, on their way to the Church of the Abbaye, are seized and butchered. Varennes is at the head of the mob, and trampling over the corpses and spattering the blood over his shoes, kindles into ten- fold fury the ferocity he has awakened in the mad- dened populace. Maillard, who led the mob of wo- men that stormed Versailles, is heard shouting over the tumult, '' To the Carmelites !" and " To the Car- melites !" is echoed in terrific responses from the crowd around him. "To the Carmelites" they go, and surge up hke the maddened sea around the de- voted church. Two hundred priests are within its wall. Finding their hour has come, they rush into each other's embrace, and, kneeling, prayed together to that God, who seems to have withdrawn his re- straining power from man. They are butchered around the very altar, and their blood flows in streams over the pavement of the church. In the intervals of the infuriated shouts the voice of prayer steals on the ear, but the next instant it is hushed in death. The Archbishop of Aries stands amid this wild scene, calm as the Madonna that looks down from the altar above him. Thrice the sword smites his face, inflict- ing three horrible gashes before he falls, and then he dies at the very foot of the cross of Christ. The massacre being completed, " To Abbaye !" is the next 48 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. shout, and the turbulent mass rolls towards the Ab- baye. The brave Swiss Guards are first brought out and pierced by a thousand pikes. The inhuman yells penetrate to the innermost chambers of the prisoners, and each one prepares himself to die. The aged Sombreuil, governor of the Invalides, is brought out, and, just as the bayonet is hfted to pierce him, his lovely daughter falls on his neck, and pleads in such piteous accents and tears for her father's life, that even these monsters are moved with compassion, and promise that his hfe shall be spared on condition she will drink the blood of aristocrats. A goblet filled with the warm blood is presented to her lips, and she drains it at a draught. The half-naked murderers around, bespattered with brains and blood, shout his pardon. The Princess of Lamballe, the friend of the unfortunate queen, and the beauty of the court, is next led forth, and faints again and again at the hor- rible spectacle that meets her gaze. Arising from her swoon, a sword-cut opens her head behind, and she faints again. Recovering, she is forced to walk between two blood-covered monsters over a pavement of dead bodies, and then speared on a heap of corpses. The raging fiend within them still unsatis- fied, they strip the body ; and, after exposing it to every indecency and insult that human depravity can invent, one leg is rent away and thrust into a cannon, and fired off in honor of this jubilee of hell. The beautiful head, borne aloft on a gory pike, with the auburn tresses clotted with blood and streaming down the staff, is waved over the crowd, and made to RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 49 nod in grim salutation to the fiends that dance in horrid mirth around it. " Ca ira ;'' yes, that will do, but Grod is not yet dead, nor his laws destroyed. A thousand are butchered, but, Robespierre, thou shalt yet acknowledge, in other ways than by a magnificent fete and pompous declamation, there is a God in heaven that rules oyer the afiairs of men ! Thou hast awakened elements thou canst not control, and raised a storm thou canst not lay again ! And 1 was standing on the very spot where these scenes had been enacted. The tread of hasty feet were around me, and all the hurry and bustle of city hfe. I looked on the pavements, but they were not bloody ; and on the passing throng, and they were not armed. Nay, no one but myself seemed conscious they were treading over such fearful ground. They had been born, and lived here, and hence could see only com- mon walks and pavement around them; while I, a stranger, could think of nothing but that terrible earthquake that shook France and the world. Oh ! how impotent does man and his strifes appear after the tumult is over, and the Divine laws are seen moving on in their accustomed way. Like the Alpine storm and cloud that wrap the steadfast peak, do the passions and conflicts of men hide the truth of heaven till it seems to have been carried away for ever ; but like that Alpine peak when the storm is over, is its clear summit seen to repose as calmly against the blue sky as if perpetual sunshine had rested on its head. As I passed over to the " Place du Carrousel/' 5 50 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. where the artillery was placed that Eobespierre en- deavored in vain to make fire on the Convention that voted his overthrow by acclamation, I could plainly see how naturally every thing proceeded, from the abrogation of the Sabbath, and the renunciation of the Deity, to that awful Reign of Terror. Cut a nation loose from the restraints of Divine law, and there is nothing short of anarchy. Release man from the tremendous sway of obligation, and he is a fiend at once. Take conscience from him, and put pas- sion in its place, and you hurl him as far as Satan fell when cast out of heaven. The course of Robes- pierre was necessary after he had commenced his Jacobinical career. He had destroyed all the means by which rulers secure their safety except fear. But fear could not be kept up without constant deaths. Besides, he thought to relieve himself from his ene- mies by destroying them, forgetting that cruelty makes foes faster than power can slay them. But the hour which must sooner or later come, finally arrived, and Paris awoke to her condition. The guil- lotine, which had heretofore chopped ofi* only the heads of the upper classes, began now to descend on the citizens and common people. There seemed no end to this indiscriminate slaughter, and the wave that had been sent so far, now began to balance for its backward march. Robespierre had slain aristo- crats, and finally his own companions in blood ; and now saw the storm gathering over his own head. Marat had gone to his account long before- — Danton, Camille, and Des Moulins had followed their murdered RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 51 fictims to the scaffold, and now, when Robespierre should fall, the scene would change. It is sometimes singular to see the coincidence of events as if on pur- pose to make the truth they would teach more em- phatic. After " Down with the tyrant !" which thun- dered on the ears of the doomed man from the whole Convention, till he had to flee for his life, he went to this very H6tel de Ville, where the awful mas- sacre of the 2d of September commenced. After defending himself with his friends in vain,, against the soldiery, the building was surrendered and the room of the tyrants entered. There sat Robespierre, with his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his hands. A pistol-shot fired broke his under jaw, and he fell under the table. Couthon made feeble efforts to commit suicide, while Le Bas blew out his own brains. Robespierre and Couthon, supposed to be dead, were dragged by the heels to the Seine, and were about to be thrown in, when they were dis- covered to be alive, and carried to the Committee of General Safety. There, for nine hours, he lay stretched on the very table on which he used to sign the death-warrants of his victims. What a place and what time to ponder. Insults and curses were heaped on him, as he lay there bleeding and suffer- ing — the only act of humanity extended to him being to wipe the foam from his mouth. As if on purpose to give more impressiveness to this terrific scene, he had on the very blue coat he had worn in pomp and pride at the festival of the Supreme Being. It was now stained with his own blood, which he tried in 62 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. vain to stanch. Poor man ! writhing in torture on the table where he signed his death-warrants, in the very blue coat that made him conspicuous when he attempted to re-enthrone the Deity, what a lesson he furnishes to infidel man to remotest generations. But this was not all ; the guillotine, which had been removed, was rolled back to the Place de Revolu- tion, so that he and his companions might perish on the very spot where they themselves had witnessed so many executions of their own commanding. Led by my own feelings, I slowly wandered back to the Place de Revolution, to witness in imagination the closing up of the great tragedy. As Robespierre as- cended the scafibld, the blood burst through the band- ages that covered his jaw, and his forehead became ghastly pale. Curses and imprecations smote his ear; and one w^oman, breaking through the crowd, exclaimed, " Murderer of all jny kindred, your agony fills me with joy ; descend to hell, covered with the curses of every mother in France !" As the execu- tioner tore the bandage from his face, the under jaw fell on his breast, and he uttered a yell of terror that froze every heart that heard it with horror. The last sounds that fell on his dying ear, were shouts of joy that the tyrant was fallen. The people wept in joy, when they saw that the monsters that had sunk France in blood were no more, and crowded round the scafibld embracing each other in transport. One poor man came up to the lifeless body of Robespierre, and after gazing in silence on it for some time, said, in solemn accents, "Yes, Robespierre, there is a RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 53 God !" There is a God ! was the shriek France sent up from round that scaffold, and its echo has not since died away on the nations of Europe, and shall not till remotest time — for ever uttering in the ears of the infidel ruler, "Beware !" I have gone over these scenes of the Eevolution just as they were suggested to me as I looked on the places where they occurred. I never before was so impressed with the truth, that an irreligious nation cannot long survive as such. Especially in a repub- lican government — where physical force is almost powerless, and moral means, or none, can restrain the passions of men — will the removal of religious restraints end in utter anarchy. Men, governing themselves, are apt to suppose they can make Divine laws as well as human, and adopt the blasphemous sentiment ''Vox populi, vox Dei ;'' a sentiment which, long acted upon, will bury the brightest republic- that ever rose to cheer the heart of man. Rulers may try the experiment of ruling without a God, if they like ; but the nation will eventually whisper above their forms, " There is a God !" It was a relief, after I had gone over the localities of the Revolution, to throw the subject entirely from my mind, and dwell on the more pleasing scenes of Paris, at least those that did not call up such deeds of horror. No one visits Paris without going to the Hotel des Invalides. This, it is well known, is the home of the old soldiers of Bonaparte. The poor and disabled fragments of his mighty legions rest here, at last, in peace. It was a bright summer evening, 5* 54 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. just at sunset, that I strolled over the Seine to this magnificent edifice. As I entered the outward gate into the yard, I saw the bowed and crippled veterans, in their old uniforms, limping around among the can- non that lay stretching their lazy length along the ground — the spoils of Napoleon's victories. I saw one beautiful gun, covered with bas reliefs and sculp- tured in almost every part with the greatest skill. As I stood looking on it, a soldier came up on crutches, appearing as if he were willing to satisfy my curiosity. I asked him where that cannon was taken. He replied from Venice, and, if I remember right, added that it was a royal piece. I asked him if he ever saw Bonaparte. " yes," he replied, ^'I have seen him in battle." He spoke with the greatest affection of his old emperor, and I saw that, even in death. Napoleon held the same sway over the af- fections of his soldiers he was accustomed to wield in the day of his power. Sacrificing his men with reckless prodigality, they nevertheless clung to him with the greatest devotion. As I strolled into the inner court, and looked on the place where the ashes of the conqueror slept, I could not but be impressed with the scene. The sun had gone down over the plains of France, and the dimness of twilight was already gathering over this sombre building. I was alone near the tomb of the mighty dead. Condemn as we may the character of Napoleon — and who does not ? — read the record an outraged world has written against him, till he stands a criminal before heaven and earth — still, one cannot find himself beside the RAMBLES ABOUT PAEIS. 56 form that once shook Europe with its tread, without the profoundest emotions. But the arm that ruled the world lies still ; and the thoughtful forehead on which nations gazed to read their destiny, is now only a withered skull ; and the bosom that was the home of such wild ambition, is full of ashes. " Napoleon ! years ago, and that great word — Compact of human breath, in hate, and dread, And exultation — skied us overhead : An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword, Scathing the cedars of the world, drawn down In burnings, by the metal of a crown. " Napoleon ! foemen, while they cursed that name, Shook at their own curse; and while others bore, Its sound as of a trumpet, on before, Brow-fronted legions followed, sure of fame ; And dying men, from trampled battle-rods, Near their last silence, uttered it for God's. " Napoleon ! sages, with high foreheads drooped. Did use it for a problem ; children small Leaped up as hearing in't their manhood's call : Priests blessed it, from their altars over-stooped By meek-eyed Christs ; and widows, with a moan, Breathed it, when questioned why they sat alone. " Napoleon ! 'twas a name lifted high ! It met at last God's thunder, sent to clear Our compassing and covering atmosphere. And opens a clear sight, beyond the sky. Of Supreme empire ! This of earth's was done- And kings crept out again to feel the sun.^' The grave is a reckless leveler ; and he who " met at last God's thunder," is only one of the thousands 56 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. he left on his battle-fields. His fierce onsets, and terrible passages, and wasting carnage, and Water- loo defeats are all over. Crumbling back to dust amid a few old soldiers, left as a mockery of the mag- nificent legions he was wont to lead to battle, he reads a silent, most impressive lesson on ambition to the world. I turned away in the deepening twilight, feeling that I would not sleep in Bonaparte's grave for Bonaparte's fame. Yet he still exerts a wonder- ful influence over the French people, and keeps alive, by his very tomb, the remembrance of Waterloo and the hatred of the English. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 57 CHAPTER IV. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. MARSHAL SOULT. — GUIZOT. — THE CATACOMBS. The Chamber of Deputies had just closed its sit- ting as I arrived in Paris, and hence I was denied the pleasure of seeing the Commons of France in ses- sion, and comparing them with the Lower Houses of other constitutional governments. The Chamber of Peers, however, was in session, and I frequently passed an hour or two in witnessing its deliberations. Through the politeness of our minister, I was furnish- ed with his own card of entree while in the city, and hence obtained a seat in the apartment devoted to foreign ambassadors, which gave me an excellent point of observation. At my first visit to the Chamber of Peers, I was amused with a rencontre I had with an Englishman and his wife. They were of the lower orders, and evidently perfectly bewildered in the mazes of the Palace of Luxembourg. I was ascending the stairs to the Chamber, when I met them coming down. The woman had learned a few French phrases, and was therefore spokesman for her husband. " Parlez vous Frangaise?" said she, in a broad accent, and 58 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. with a prolongation of the last syllable, which was not necessary to tell me she was an Englishwoman, for she bore evidences of that on every feature and movement. "I speak English tolerably well," I replied. " Oh !" she exclaimed, " do you speak English ?" . "Yes." "Well,'' said she, in the most dolorous tone, "we came here to see the paintings in the palace, and a man below took away my parasol, and gavfe me this little 'piece of wood, and told me to go up stairs, and they wont let me in." It is customary all over Europe to take from a per- son his cane, umbrella, or whatever he may have in the shape of a stick, when he enters a gallery of paintings or any public chamber, so that he may not deface the walls or pictures ; and give him a ticket, so that he can reclaim it when he returns. The man guarding the entrance to the Chamber of Peers had thus taken from th& good Englishwoman her parasol, and she being repulsed by the janitor of the gallery, and unable to speak French, was in a perfect puzzle. I told her she had been endeavoring to gain an en- trance to the Chamber of Peers, which she could not do without a permit from the ambassador of England, She seemed quite shocked at her audacity, and asked what she should do. I pointed out to her the direc- tion to the gallery of paintings, and left her thanking me in good broad English. The Chamber of Peers is arranged like our two houses of Congress. The seats are semicircular, RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 59 bending around a common centre, where the presi- dent sits. The members are all dressed in diplomatic coats, and present to an American the appearance of an assembly of military officers. The Seance had not commenced as I took my place, and the peers were slowly dropping in one after another, and tak- ing their respective seats. There was the Duke de Broglie, Guizot, and others, and last of all, in came, limping, old Marshal Soult. He looks like an old warrior,, with his dark features, clear eye, and stern expression. He is about the middle size, though stout, with a bald spot on the top of his head. His pantaloons were very full, made so evidently to con- ceal his bow legs. It was a useless expedient, how- ever, for the Marshal's lower extremities form a per- fect parenthesis which nothing but petticoats can ever conceal. As he stood a moment, and cast his eye over the Chamber, I thought I could detect in his cool, quiet glance, and self-possessed bearing, the stern old warrior, that had stood the rock of so many battle-fields. As he limped along to his seat, my mind involuntarily ran over some of the most import- ant events of his history. Born of humble parents, entering the army as a private soldier, with musket in hand, he rose to be Marshal of the Empire, Duke of Dalmatia, and Peer of France. He early exhibited his wonderful coolness in the hour of danger. At the battle of Fleurus, General Marceau commanding the right wing of the army under Lefebvre, was routed and forced to fall back. In his agony, he sent to Soult for four battalions that he might renew 60 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. his lost position. Soult refused. " Give them to me !" exclaimed the indignant and mortified Marceau, "or I will blow my brains out." Soult coolly replied that, to do it, would endanger the entire division. Being then a mere aid-de-camp, and unknown, his refusal astonished Marceau, and he asked, in a rage, "Who are you?" "Whoever I am," replied the imperturbable young soldier, " I am calm, which you are not ; do not kill yourself, but lead on your men to the charge, and you shall have the four battalions as soon as we can spare them." His advice had scarcely been given before the enemy was upon them, and side by side these two men raged through the battle like lions. After it was over, Marceau held out his hand to Soult, saying, " Colonel, forgive the past ; you have this day given me a lesson which I shall never forget. You have in fact gained the battle." This is a fair illustration of Soult's character. Cool, collected, and self-reliant, the tumult of battle, and the chaos of defeat, never disturbed his percep- tions, or confused his judgment. At Austerhtz, he did the same thing to Napoleon. As Bonaparte gave him the command of the centre that day, he simply said, " As for you, Soult, I have only to say, act as you always do." In the heat and terror of battle, an aid-de-camp burst in a headlong gallop into the presence of Soult, bearing orders from the Emperor that he should immediately carry the height of Prat- zen. " I will obey the Emperor's commands as soon as I can," replied the chieftain, "but this is not the RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS 61 proper time." Bonaparte was in a perfect fury at his answer, and sent another aid-de-camp with a pe- remptory order, but before he could deliver it " the proper time" had arrived, and the awful column of Soult was in motion, and in the next moment its head was enveloped in the smoke of cannon, and in a few minutes after, torn and mangled, appeared on the crest of the hill, where it struggled two hours for victory, and won it. Soult had delayed his charge because the enemy were extending their lines, and thus weakening the centre. Bonaparte saw at once the reason of his delay, and struck with admiration at his behavior, soon after rode up to him, and, in the presence of his whole staff, exclaimed, '' Marshal, I account you the ablest tactician in my empire." It was Soult' s cannon that thundered over the grave of Sir John Moore, who fell at Corunna, and the noble-hearted Marshal inscribed a memorial to his brave opponent on the spot. He was in the carnage at Waterloo, and there, on that wild field, saw the star of Bonaparte set for ever. As he slowly limped to his seat, I could not but gaze on him with feelings of the deepest interest. On what wild scenes that dark eye had looked, and in what fierce fights that now aged form had moved. The memories of such a man must.be terrible; and what fearful scenes lie between him and his youth ! A word, an allusion to the victories of Bonaparte — the standards taken from the enemy, and now droop- ing over the president's head — the pictures on the walls — must frequently recall to him the fierce-fought 6 62 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. fields ; and, forgetful of the business that is passing, and the beings around him, — on his aged ear will come the roar of battle, and on his flashing eye the shock of armies — the fierce onset — the wild retreat — the route, and the victory. Among the last remaining props of Napoleons's -empire, he too is fast crumbling away. He has escaped the sword of battle, but he cannot escape the hand of Time. I might have thus mused for an hour over Soult and his wonderful career, had not my attention been aroused by the call of the Chamber to order. There was no business of importance to be transacted, and I amused myself in studying the faces of the peers below me. Marquis de Boissy has put himself at the head of the opposition, and seems intent on mak- ing a fool of himself. An able man in his position could accomplish much good ; but he, by his foohsh objection to every thing ^ and ridiculous, nonsensical remarks, awakens only derision. On his feet at every opportunity, he seems to think that the sure road to fame is to talk. He is a conceited, vain man, carrying in his very physiognomy his weak character. Sometimes he would run ashore in his speech, and utterly at a loss what next to say, would hesitate, and drawl out "maintenant," which would frequently draw a titter from the house. These exhibitions of contempt did not efi'ect him at all, and he would flounder on to another '' maintenant." At length he became abusive, and uttered sentiments that brought down murmurs of scorn and the rebuke of the presi- dent. Making some disgraceful charge against the KAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 63 peers, I forget now what, I heard the heavy voice of Soult, muttering in scornful tones, " Comrae un pair de France !" At length the foreign affairs came on the tapis, and in the course of discussion, Guizot, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, was severely assailed for some measures he had adopted. The remarks were of a nature calculated to arouse the minister, and I saw, notwithstanding his apparent nonchalance, that he sat uneasy in his place. The member was not yet in his seat, when Guizot arose, and in a few sen- tences said, he would reply to these charges on the morrow. I need not say I was at the opening of the session the next day. The Paris papers had an- nounced that Guizot was to speak, and the Chamber was crowded with spectators. He ascended the tri- bune or desk in front of the president's chair, and launched at once into the very heart of his subject. Guizot is about the middle size, partially bald, and of pale complexion. His eye, which is piercing, in- dicates either an unamiable disposition, or a temper soured by the difficulties and opposition he has been compelled to encounter in his progress. He must be of a very nervous temperament, for all his movements are rapid, and his speech vehement. As he stood in front of the audience and commenced his speech, he held a white pocket-handkerchief in his right hand, and began to gesture with his left. As he proceeded, he snatched his handkerchief out of his right hand with his left, and gestured with the former. He kept up this process of snatching his handkerchief, first from one hand and then the other, and gesturing Vrith 64 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. the vacant one till he finished his speech. He ap peared wholly unconscious that he was doing it, and it seemed the result of mere nervous excitement. There was not a particle of grace in one single gesture he made, and I do not remember that he once raised his arm to a right angle with his body. His whole body worked, and all his gestures seemed mere mus- cular twitches. He does not talk like a Frenchman. There is no circumlocution, no rhetorical flourishes in his sentences, no effort at mere effect, but he goes straight to his object. He uses different French, also, from the other speakers. He has none of a Frenchman's volubility. His sentences are all com- pact, and his words sound more like Saxon words. Indeed, I think there is more of the Englishman than Frenchman in his composition. There is an apparent contradiction between the man and the language he uses. With a Saxon soul, he is forced to bend it to the wordy language of his native country. I have always thought it would appear strange to hear such men as Ney, Soult, Macdonald, and Bonaparte, talk French. Guizot has risen from obscurity to his present proud eminence by the force of his talents alone. "VYith rank and power to combat, he has steadily won his way through all opposition, and is, beyond doubt, the ablest minister of the Court of Louis Philippe. The Garden of the Luxembourg, with its terraces, orange-trees, magnificent avenues, almost endless walks, statuary, and lofty trees, is a beautiful spot. Marks of revolutionary fury are every where visible RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 65 in it, but that which interested me most was a vacant spot just outside the garden railing, where Marshal Ney was shot after the overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo. The vengeance of the allied powers de- manded some victims ; and the intrepid Ney, who had well-nigh put the crown again on Bonaparte's head at Waterloo, was to be one of them. Condemned to be shot, he was led to this spot on the morning of the 7th of December, and placed in front of a file of soldiers, drawn up to kill him. One of the officers stepped up to bandage his eyes, but he repulsed him, saying, " Are you ignorant that for twenty-five years I have been accustomed to face both ball and bullet !" He then lifted his hat above his head, and with the same calm voice that had steadied his columns so frequently in the roar and tumult of battle said, " I declare before God and man, that I never betrayed my country ; may my death render her happy. Vive la France !" He then turned to the soldiers, and striking his hand on his heart, gave the order, " Sol- diers, fire !" A simultaneous discharge followed, and the "bravest of the brave" sank to rise no more. " He who had fought five hundred battles for France, Qot one against her, was shot as a traitor!" As I looked on the spot where he fell, I could not but sigh over his fate. True, he broke his oath of allegiance • — so did others, carried away by their attachment to Napoleon, and the enthusiasm that hailed his approach to Paris. Still, he was no traitor. Near this spot stands the .Observatory, and, a few steps from it, the ""^ Hospice des Enfans trouve's et 6* 66 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. des Orplielins, or foundling and orphan hospital. This was founded more than two hundred years ago, and at the present time is under admirable arrange- ment. Formerly, there was a box called "touVj' fixed in the wall, and turning on a pivot, into which an infant was dropped by any one that wished, — no questions being asked, and the face of the person bringing the child not seen. This was found to work badly, for it increased the number of illegitimate children, and also brought in from the country many infants whom their parents did not wish to support. There was another evil connected with this arrange- ment. A poor parent would bring her infant and deposit it in this clandestine manner, and then, after a few days, retui^n and introduce herself as a nurse from the country ; and by a little connivance could get her child back again, and receive pay also as a nurse. Restrictions are now in force checking this imposition. There is one evil attending this new arrangement, however — infanticide is more common, indeed the crime has increased almost twofold. There are yearly received into this hospital nearly five thou- sand children, of which over foui' thousand are illegi- timate : a sad comment on the morals of the French capital. These are immediately put out to nurse in various parts of the country, so that there are gene- rally less than two hundred in the hospital at any one time. ' Early in the morning, this multitude of infants is placed in one grand reception room, called La QrecJie^ where the different physicians visit them, and assign them to the different infirmaries, accord- RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 67 ing as their case demands. The medical department is divided into four separate branches — one for cases of ordinary sickness ; one for surgical cases ; one for measles, and one for ophthalmic cases. Cradles are arranged in rows around the outer edge of the room, against the walls, in which the little creatures are placed, while nurses are bending over them in every direction. In front of the fire a bed is placed, at an inclined plane, where the more sickly are laid ; while little chairs are arranged in a snug, warm corner for those which are strong enough to sit up a portion of the time. Cleanliness and order prevail every where, and no child is allowed to suffer from neglect. No- thing can be more sad yet more interesting than the spectacle presented by this large number of infants. Bereft of parental care — cast off from their mothers' bosoms before they are old enough to know them, and left to the tender mercies of strangers, they are still unconscious of their condition, and ignorant of the evil world that awaits their entrance into it. Neither their smiles nor their tears have any thing to do with their position in life. Abandoned, deserted, forlorn, they claim twofold sympathy — from their in- nocence and their unconsciousness of evil. There are several hospitals and infirmaries in this neighborhood, and near by also are the famous Cata- combs of Paris. The catacombs were ancient quar- ries, from which stone was taken for building, and chalk, and clay, and sand, and limestone. In 1784, the Council of State, wishing to clear several ceme- 68 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. teries of the dead, ordered the bones to be tumbled into these old quarries. At first, they were thrown in pell-jnell, like unloading a cart of stone, but those having the management of the business, found they would gain space by paching them in layers. Shafts were sunk from the upper surface to the quarries, and props and pillars placed under the churches and edi- fices that stood over this subterranean world. These quarries were consecrated into catacombs with great solemnity, and then, on the 17th of April, 1786, the work of clearing the cemeteries began. It was all done in the night-time ; and as soon as darkness drew its curtains over the city, might be seen a constant procession of black cars, covered with palls, going from the cemeteries to the quarries. Priests followed from behind, chanting the service of the dead. As they approached these shafts or openings, the cars emptied their contents into the cavity and wheeled back. Bones of priests, robbers, the gay and the wretched, men, women, and children, were piled in inextricable confusion together, to await the summons of the last trumpet, and the collecting power of the breath of God. What a startling truth is that of the resurrection of the dead, and what faith it requires to believe it, as one stands over such heaps of com- mingled and decaying bones ! Among the monu- ments of the dead carted here, was the leaden coffin of the famous or mfamous Madame Pompadour. Since they began to pile up the bones, the workmen engaged in it have made some curious arrangements. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 69 Some of the apartments are built around with bones so as to form chapels, with altars, and vases, made of bones also, and stuck over with skulls of different sizes as ornaments. In the main gallery, the bones are piled up like a wall, with the arm, leg, and thigh bones in front, to give it the appearance of uniformity and consistency, while at regular intervals three rows of skulls are inserted, stretching along the face of the ghostly structure, to give greater beauty and variety to the appearance. Behind this wall the smaller bones are pitched pell-mell, like so much rubbish. Not only the ancient cemeteries have been emptied here, but the massacres of the Revolution hm-ried their slain into this great receptacle of the dead. It is computed that the bones of at least three millions of people repose in these ancient quarries. They are situated in the southern part of the city, and do not approach the gay Paris of the present day. The palaces of the Tuileries and Louvre, the Champs Ely- sdes, and the Garden of the Tuileries, the Boulevard, &c., are all on one side of the Seine. Luxembourg is on the other side of the river, and is almost as much by itself as Brooklyn. These great excavations are under this part of the city, running under the Pan- theon, the Luxembourg palace and garden, the Odeon, the Val de Grace, and several streets. Two hundred acres or more are supposed to be thus undermined. One-sixth of the whole surface of Paris is hollow be- neath, and may yet answer all the purposes of an earthquake to ingulf the dissolute city. 70 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. This Paris is a strange city. What with its me- mentos of popular fury, its temples of fame, and arches of victory, and catacombs, and gardens, and gayety, and wickedness, it furnishes more objects of interest, and more phases of life, than any city I ever visited. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 71 CHAPTER V. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. THE ABATTOIRS, — ISLE ST. LOUIS. — THE BASTILE. Nothing illustrates the effect of a constant city life on the physical .condition of men more than the statistics of Paris respecting its population. It has always seemed to me that it was impossible to elevate our race so long as they would crowd into vast cities, where the whole system of life was to make the rich richer, the poor poorer, and the degraded still more so. God has spread out the earth to be inhabited ; and has not rolled the mountains into ridges along its bosom, and channeled it with magnificent rivers, and covered it with verdure, and fanned it with healthful breezes, to have man shut himself up in city walls, and bury himself in dirty cellars and stagnant alleys. It is worth our consideration, the fact that every large city on the face of the earth has sunk in ruins ; and gone down, too, from the degeneracy, corruption, and crime of its inhabitants. I am not speaking against cities as such, but point to history to ask whether such enormous overgroivn structures are desirable ; or, if necessary, to inquire whether it is not indispensable to have them broken up by large squares and open 72 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. commons in every part. Large, close-packed cities are always corrupt, and I do not see how it is to be prevented. But, independent of all this, health, nay, the continuance of the race, forbids this self-immuring ^yithin city walls. The free open air of the country, the beautiful face of nature, the strong and manly exercise it requires, are all so many props of our sys- tems, and indispensable to the growth and manhood of population. These remarks have been drawn forth from a singular fact respecting Paris. From statis- tics, carefully collected and made out, it is found that all families residing constantly in the city, become, after a few generations, utterly extinct — slowly but surely disappearing. So undeviating is this law of life, that not more than one thousand persons in all Paris can reckon back their ancestors in the male line, to the time of Louis XIII. I mention the " male line," because city life is found to have a worse effect on men than on women. Those who retire to the country in summer exhibit this decay less ; but still, they too show the injurious effect of city dissipation, luxury, and extravagance on the physical frame. The families of nobles, who reside on their manors in the country during the summer, and come to Paris in the winter, have degenerated from their ancient strength and stature. It is said that a young man in Paris, of the third and fourth generation, has the ap- pearance, both in form and manners, of a woman. He is w^eak, effeminate, puerile in mind as well as body, and scarcely ever has children that live. So universal is this effect of constant city life seen to be, that it RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 73 is laid down as a certain rule, that those who make their permanent residence in Paris are doomed to ex- tinction as certainly as if a decree had gone out against them. What a lesson this is on city life, and what a defence of the arrangements of Heaven against those of man ! He may seek pleasures and profit in the city;^ and rail against the solitude and dullness of the country ; but his body, by its slow decay, and its urgent demand for air, relaxation, and exercise, con- founds his arguments, and clears Nature from the dishonor he would cast upon her. But to return to our rambles. Paris is divided into twelve arrondissements, or sections ; and let us wander to the northern suburbs of the city, in the eight arrondissements, to see one of the Abattoirs, or slaughter-houses of Paris. Previous to Napoleon's reign, cattle were driven through the streets, as in New York; and there were numberless private slaughter-houses in every part of the city. The filth with such a custom accumulated in the streets, and the unhealthy effluvia it sent through some of the most thickly populated parts of the town, caused Bona- parte to abohsh it altogether, and establish in the place of private slaughter-houses five great public ones, called Abattoirs, at an expense of more than three millions of dollars. These are immense afi'airs — those of Popincourt and Montmartre are each com- posed of sixty-four slaughter-houses. As a specimen of the largest of these, take the Abattoir of Popin- court. It was erected twenty-six years ago, and is composed of tiventy -three piles of buildings, erected 7 74 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. on a sloping ground, to allow every thing to be carried away without diflSculty. It is surrounded by a wall half a mile in circumference, which gives to it the appearance of a fortress, where men, rather than dumb beasts, are slaughtered. In the centre of this little village of butchers, is a court four hundred and thirty-eight feet long, and two hundred and ninety- one broad, lined on each side by four immense build- ings, separated from each other by roads that go straight through to the walls. Each of these struc- tures is a hundred and forty-one feet long, and nine- ty-six broad, divided in their turn by a broad court, flagged with stones, on each side of which stand eight slaughter-houses, for the separate butchers. Above are attics for drying the skin, storing the tallow, &c. Thus we have, first, the large inclosure, then the twenty-three buildings, among which are the four great slaughter-houses. Within these four huge structures are sixteen smaller butcheries, eight on a side of the flagged and covered court, running through their centres ; making in all sixty-four. Thus they stand, building within building, constituting a very imposing afi*air for a butchery. Besides these, there are sheep-folds, and stables, and hay-lofts, and places for melting tallow, and watering-places for the cattle, and depots for the hides, and immense reservoirs of water. The slaughtering is all done in the afternoon, and the meat taken to the market-places at night. As I remarked, there are five of these abattoirs in Paris, and some idea may be got of the immense quantity of meat the French capital daily consumes from the RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 76 average quantity furnislied by the single one I have described above. Upwards of four hundred oxen, three hundred cows, and two thousand sheep are slain in it every week. Eighteen families reside in this single abattoir, exclusive of the butchers and their assistants. But let us re-enter the city ; and, as we slowly loiter back towards the Champs Elys^es, let us turn into the " AUee des Veuves," or Widows' Alley. It was once the custom, in Paris, for widows in deep mourn- ing to shun all the public promenades. But there was a solitary and sombre avenue, leading away from the farther extremity of the Qhamps Elysees to the Seine, where the rich and elegant widows of the capital could drive in their splendid carriages, with- out violating the code of fashionable life. This street soon became the general resort of wealthy widows, which drew such a quantity of admirers, not to say speculators after them, that it soon became one of the most thronged promenades of the city. It took the name of the Widows' Alley, which it has retained ever since. Following the Seine upward through the city, along the Quai, we pass the Garden and Palace of the Tuileries, the Palace of the Louvre, the Place de Hotel de Ville, and come to the bridge of Louis Philippe, which crosses the Isle of St. Louis. The Rue St. Louis cuts this island in two lengthwise, and as we stroll along, stop a moment at No. 2d — that is the Hotel Lambert, in which Voltaire planned his Henriade, and where Bonaparte had a long and fear- 76 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. ful conversation with his ministerj Montalivet, after the star of his glory had set amid the smoke and car- nage of Waterloo, and the night — long, dark night — of his reward had come. Fleeing from the disas- trous plain, on which his trampled crown lay, followed by the roar of cannon that thundered after his fugi- tive army, he had hurried with headlong speed to Paris, the bearer of his own overthrow. The Chamber of Deputies was thrown into the utmost agitation. The allied army was marching on the city, while there were no troops with which to defend it. " Bo- naparte must abdicate,'' was the general feeling, strengthened by the firm support given it by La- fayette. Prince Lucien accused him of ingratitude to the distressed emperor. " You accuse me of want- ing gratitude to Napoleon," replied Lafayette; ''have you forgotten what we have done for him ? have you forgotten that the bones of our children, of our brothers, every where attest our fidelity ; in the sands of Africa, on the shores of the Guadalquiver, and the Tagus, on the banks of the Vistula, and in the frozen deserts of Muscovy ? During more than ten years, three millions of Frenchmen have perished for a man who wishes still to struggle against all Eui^ope. We have done enough for him. Now our duty is to save the country." "Let him abdicate, — let him abdi- cate," was the response that met the ear of the dis- mayed Lucien^ and he hastened to his imperial brother with the disastrous news. He went into a storm of passion, and refused to listen a moment to the request. Lafayette then declared if he did not, he should move RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 77 his dethronement. Bonaparte saw that his hour had come, and he promised to resign his crown and his throne. He was lost, and there was no redemption. It was in this state of anguish, and mortification, and fear, that he came to this H6tel, and in the large gal- lery had a long and earnest interview with Montalivet. He talked of the past — of Waterloo — of the Depu- ties of France — of Europe — of the world. He had lost none of his fierte of manner by his misfortunes, none of his stern and independent feelings. He railed on each in turn, and then spoke of America as his final asylum. Europe could not hold him in peace ; besides, he hated his enemies too deeply to surrender his person into their power. But even this escape was denied him, and he was compelled to fling him- self into the arms of England. But one cannot look upon this gallery, lined with pictures, where the terror of the world strode back- wards and forwards in agony, without the profound- est emotion. . From a charity boy, at the military school of Brienne, he had risen by the force of his genius to the throne of France. His nod had been law to an empire, and crowns the gifts he bestowed on his family. Mighty armies had followed him as he walked the trembling soil of Europe, but now there were none to do him reverence. He paced to and fro, the tread of his heavy heel echoing through the silent apartment, filled, not as heretofore, with vast designs of conquest, and absorbed with the mighty future that- beckoned him on, but engrossed with anxiety about his personal safety. His throne, 7* 78 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. empire, and armies hid all crumbled away before him, and he knew not which way to turn for escape. The Emperor had become the fugitive — the conqueror of a hundred battle-fields left alone, " The arbiter of others' fate, A suppliant for his own." Backwards and forwards the mighty-souled warrior strode, addressing, in his earnest, energetic manner, his desponding minister — now proposing this and now that measure, yet turning from each as a forlorn hope. Untamed, and unsubdued as ever, he chafed hke a lion in the toils, but the net that inclosed him could not be rent. There is another event connected with this street which is more known. It was here, in the time of Charles V., that the famous battle took place be- tween Chevalier de Macaire and the dog of Montar- gis, so often cited as an illustration of the sagacity and faithfulness of dogs. Aubry de Montdidr^r had been murdered in a forest near Paris, and buried at the foot of a tree. His dog immediately lay down on the grave and remained there for days, until driven away by hunger. He then went to the house of one of Aubry 's friends, and began to howl most pit- eously. The poor famished creature would cease his howling only long enough to swallow the food that was thrown him, and then re-commence. At length, he seized his master's friend by the cloak, and en- deavoured to pull him along in the direction from whence he had come. The friend's suspicion became RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 79^ excited by the actions of the dog, as he remembered Aubry had been missing for several days, and so he followed him. On coming to the tree where the body was buried, the dog began to howl most furi- ously, and paw the ground. Digging down, they found the body of the master, with marks of violence upon him. Not long after this, the dog, meeting the Chevalier de Macaire in the streets, flew at his throat, and could hardly be forced from his grasp. Every time afterwards that he met him, he rushed on him with the same ferocity. This happened once in the presence of the king, and suspicions at length became excited that he was the murderer of the dog's master. In accordance with the spirit of those times, the king ordered that there should be a trial by bat- tle between the Chevalier and the dog, or, as it was called, " Jiigement de Dieu^' — -judgment of God, Lists were accordingly prepared on this spot, then uninhabited, and Macaire, armed with a bludgeon, was to defend himself against the dog, which had a kennel in which to retreat. As soon as the faithful creature was at liberty, he made at the murderer of his master, and, avoiding his blows, ran round and round him till an opportunity offered, and then made a sudden spring at his throat. Fetching him to the ground, he held him there till he confessed his guilt before the king. He was afterwards executed, and the dog nourished with the greatest care and affec- tion. Taking a turn by the Hotel de Ville, and passing on towards Pere la Chaise, we come to the Place de 80 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. la Bastille. I have referred to this before in passing, and speak of it now to describe the monument erect- ed on the site of the old prison, and the grand de- sign, framed by Napoleon, respecting it. The old moat is converted into a basin for boats passing through the canal that skh-ts its ancient foundations. But I never looked on the site of this old prison, the first object of popular vengeance in Paris, when the earthquake throes of the Revolution began to be felt in the shuddering city, without recalling to mind Carlyle's description of the storming of it. In the midst of the uproar of the multitude that surged like the sea round the rock-fast structure — the rattle of musketry, interrupted by the heavy booming of can- non, and groans of the dying — one Louis Tournay, a mechanic, was seen to mount the walls with his huge axe. Amid the bullets that rattled like hailstones about him, he smote away on the ponderous chain of the drawbridge, till it parted, and the bridge fell, making a causeway over which the maddened popu- lace streamed. In describing this scene, Carlyle says : " On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies ! Roar with all your throats of car- tilage and metal — ye sons of liberty ! stir spasmodi- cally whatsoever of utmost faculty is in your soul and body, or spirit ; for it is the hour. Smite thou, Louis Tournay, cartwright of Marais, old soldier of the regiment Dauphiii^ — smite at that outer draw- bridge chain, though the fiery hail whistle around thee ! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe strike such a stroke. Down with it man, to Orcus ! let the RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 81 whole accursed edifice sink thither, and Tyranny be swallowed up for ever. Mounted, some say, on the roof of the guard-room, some on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall, Louis Tournay smites, — brave Aubin Bonnemere (also an old soldier) seconding him;, the chain yields, breaks; the huge drawbridge slams down, thundering." This memorable event in the Revolution, Bonaparte designed to immortalize by building a splendid monument on the site of the overthrown prison. An arch over the canal was to bear a huge bronze elephant, with a tower on his back, in all seventy-two feet high. The legs of this coUossal elephant were to be six feet in diameter, in one of which was to be a staircase leading to the tower on his back — the whole to be a fountain, with the water pouring from the enormous trunk. The plaster model for the work stands there now, a won- der in itself. If it had been finished according to the design, it would have been a beautiful, though strange monument. After Bonaparte's fall, the plan was abandoned, though the model elephant still stands there, slowly wearing away under the storms that are constantly beating upon it. At the Restoration, it was designed to build a colossal representation of the city of Paris in its place. But after the three days' revolution of 1830, and the accession of Louis Philippe to the throne, the present structure was commenced and finished. The arch thrown over the canal by Napoleon was retained, and an immense bronze column rises from it a hundred and thirty feet into the air. A spiral staircase leads to the top, on 82 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. wliicli is placed a figure representing the Genius of France standing in the position of the flying Mer- cury. On one half of this pillar are written in ver- tical lines, and in gilt letters, the names of those who fell in the storming of the Bastile, and on the other half, the names of those who fell in the famous three days of July, 1830. At the base, by each corner, is placed a Gallic cock, supporting laurel wreaths, and between them bas-reliefs, inscriptions, &c. The cost of the whole is about two hundred thou- sand dollars. Thus do the kings of France honor the Revolution, and are compelled to, which shows how supreme the popular will still is in France. From the Place de la Bastile, let us wander, as it is a bright, balmy day of summer, to the beautiful eminence of Pere la Chaise. I have spoken of this cemetery before, but one wants to behold it again and again, and sees new beauties and new objects of interest with each repeated visit. This cemetery covers a hundred acres, and contains the tombs of fourteen thousand persons. It has been open over forty years, and it is estimated that, during that time, twenty millions of dollars have been expended on monuments alone. There are three kinds of graves in the^cemetery — perpetual graves, temporary graves, and fosses communes^ literally translated, common ditches. The sleepers in the first are never disturbed; their wealth or their fame has secured them a permanent resting-place till the final trumpet shall invade their repose, and mingle perpetual, tern- RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 83 porary, and common graves together. Perpetual graves ! What an appellation ! Time recognizes no such perpetuity, and the interval of a few cen- turies will make but little difference with the sleepers there. The fosses communes are trenches four and a half feet deep, into which the poor are gratuitously buried — packed, with only a thin layer of earth between them, one upon another. The poor of this world outnumber the rich, and even in their graves exhibit the distinctions wealth makes among the living. But they are not allowed to rest undisturbed, even in their crowded sepulchres. In the clayey soil of which the cemetery is composed, five years are deemed sufficient to secure the decomposition of the bodies, and so, at the end of that time, the spade crushes through their coffins and mouldering bones, and other poor are packed amid their fragments. Thus, every five years, are the temporary graves, and the fosses communes invaded, and generations mingled with generations in inextricable confusion. The magnificent monuments here seem endless. Among them are those of Bonaparte's celebrated marshals. Here is one to the fierce Kellerman, to Lefebvre, Marshal Ney, the headlong Davoust, and the intrepid Massena. After wandering through this city of tombs, and becoming wearied with the endless inscriptions that meet the eye at every step, and then refreshed with the surpassingly beautiful view that stretches away towards the Seine, winding its silver chain round the 84 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. mighty French capital, let us stroll to the Rue de Picpus, for here, at No. 15, in a small cemetery- sleeps Lafayette, beside his noble-hearted wife, and his relations. A simple, unostentatious monument marks the spot where the hero, and patriot, and phi- lanthropist sleeps. He needs no towering monument and eulogistic epitaph. His deeds are his monument, and his life of self-sacrifice and virtue his glorious epitaph. KAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 85 CHAPTER VI. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. PALACES AND PRISONS OF PARIS. There can scarcely be two things more dissimilar in their outward appearance and inward arrangement than a prison and a palace, yet in Paris one associates them together more frequently than any thing else. In this gay capital, the palace has not only frequently been the prison of its inmates, but the portico to a gloomier dungeon. In the Revolution, a palace was the most dangerous residence one could occupy; and there was not a poverty-stricken wretch in Paris who did not feel more secure than those who occupied it. From a palace to prison was then a short step, and from the prison to the scaffold a shorter still. First in the list comes the Palace of the Tuileries, the residence of the king and court. I do not design to describe this in detail ; for it would be indefinite in the first place, and hence dry and uninteresting in the second place. This magnificent palace fronts the Garden of the Tuileries on one side, and the Place du Carrousel on the other. In 1416, the spot on which it stands was a tile field, where all the 8 86 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. tiles with which Paris is supplied were made, and had been made for centuries. Those portions of the field not occupied with the tile-makers, and their clay and kilns, were used as a place of deposit for carrion, and rubbish of every sort. Francis I. built the first house upon it in •ISIS, and Catherine de Medici, in 1564, began the present edifice. After she had pro- ceeded awhile, she became alarmed at the prediction of an astrologer, and stopped. Henry IV. took it up again, and finally, under Louis XIII., it was completed. It is a noble building, though of no par- ticular order, or rather of all orders combined. Each story shows the taste of the age in which it was erected. The columns of the lower one are Ionic, of the second Corinthian, and of the third Composite, all and each corresponding to the epoch in which they were built. Its front towards the garden is very imposing, and over its solid walls may yet be traced the fierce handwriting of the Revolution. The frenzied mob that thundered against it might not have been able to write, but they have left their marh^ which no one can mistake. The entire length of the front is a thousand feet, while the building is a little over one hundred feet deep. Its interior is divided into private and public royal apartments — saloons, etc., etc. The Louis Philippe gallery is lighted on one side only, and by immense windows, while on the other side of the room, opposite them, and equally large, are arranged looking-glasses in the panels, eighteen feet high, and seven feet wide — single, solid plates. Here, too, is the silver statue RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 87 of peace voted to Napoleon, by the city, after the peace of Amiens. The garden in front of it, with its statues, shaded walks, long avenues and fountains, I have described before. The other side of the palace fronts the Place du Carrousel, beyond which is the Palace of the Louvre. This "Place" derives its name from a grand tournament which Louis XIV. held there nearly two hundred years ago. On the eastern side, the infernal machine exploded, destined to kill Napo- leon, and in its place now rises the triumphal arch, erected by the emperor in the days of his power. Eight Corinthian columns of red marble support the entablature of this arch, and above them are bas- reliefs representing great events in Napoleon's life. There is the battle of Austerlitz, the capitulation of Uljn, the entrance into Vienna and Munich, and the interview of the emperors, forming in all rather a curious comment on the infernal machine. On the farther side stands the Palace of the Louvre. It was begun by Francis I. ; but when Napoleon came into power, the roof was not yet on. One of the things that arrested my attention most, was the bul- let marks on the walls, left there in the last French revolution, of 1830. The maddened populace swarm- ed up to it, as they had formerly done in the first revolution, and hailed bullets on its massive walls. The Swiss Guards defended it, and, mindful of the fate of their comrades half a century before, and determined not to be massacred in detail, as they had been, hurled death on the assailants. Those who fell 88 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. were buried here, and every year, at the anniversary of their death, a solemn service is performed on the spot where they died. This palace is not so large as that of the Tuileries, its front being a little over half as long as the latter. It is a fine building, but in- teresting chiefly for the museums it contains. Here you may wander, day after day, through the halls of paintings and statuary, and ever find something new and beautiful. A little removed from these two pal- aces, on the other side of the Rue Rivoli and Rue St. Honor^, blocked in with houses, stands the Palais Royal. The orgies this old palace witnessed under the Regent, and afterwards under the Duke of Or- leans, otherwise called Egalite, are perhaps without a parallel, if we except those of the Medici in the Ducal palace of Florence. Scenes of debauchery and of shame, of revelry and of drunkenness, such ,as would disgrace the inmates of a brothel, were en- acted here in gilded, tapestried rooms, hung in costly curtains, and decorated with all that art could lavish upon them. But come, stroll around these royal gardens, seven hundred feet long and three hundred feet broad, lined with lime-trees, and fencing in flower-gardens and fountains. It is a July evening, and the cool summer air is breathing freshness over the crowds of loungers that throng the open area. There are four little paviKons in which a man sits to let out papers to read at a cent each. Around them your small poli- ticians are assembled, reading and talking, all hours of the day. Were papers as cheap as in New York, RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. ' 89 this would not be very profitable business, for each would buy instead of hire his paper for a penny, but here it is a money-making afiair. Such a throng is always found here in the evening, that the mere pri- vilege of allowing men to let out chairs and furnish refreshment yields the crown more than five thousand dollars a-year. This garden is entirely surrounded by houses, with the first story an open gallery, in which one can promenade at his leisure, looking in the gay shops that hne it. Here, too, are restaurants and caf^s in any quantity, furnishing your dinners at any price. You may step into this elegant one — and a little soup, a beef-steak, with a slight dessert, mil cost you a dollar. But a few steps farther on is a sign which says, a dinner with five courses for two francs and a half, or about forty-six cents ; and there is another, furnishing an equal number of dishes, with wine, for two francs, or thirty-seven and a half cents. If you have a mind to try this cheap dinner, step in and call for a two-franc dinner. There is no decep- tion — the five dishes and wine come on in solemn order, but if you eat it, shut your eyes, " and ask no questions," not "for conscience," but for stomach's sake. Your mutton may have been cut from the ham of a dog, and the various dishes so disguised in cook- ing, and with sauce, are just as likely to be hash of cats as any thing else. If you get the refuse of some rich man's table, be thankful and say nothing. The wine you need not be a temperance man to refuse, though you must be an out and out toper if you can muster courage to swallow it. Still it is well to make 8* 90 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. the experiment of one such dinner to know what it is. You need not eat it — it is worth two francs to look at it once. The gallery on the south, called the Gallery of Orleans, Crallerie d' Orleans^ three hundred feet long and forty wide, is the most beautiful of all, and almost bewilders you as you walk through it. Many a time have I wandered backwards and forwards here, thinking the while I must be in a glass gallery. The back part of it is composed of elegant shops,, with the windows fairly flashing with the gay and costly things that adorn them — all fancy articles, designed for ornament and show, while between the windows is neither wood nor stone, but splendid mir- rors filling the place of panels. When the brilliant lights are burning, and the gay crowd are strolling about it, it is one of the most picturesque scenes imaginable. The Palais Royal has been called the capitol of Paris, and rightly enough, too, for it is the concentrated gayety of the city. Going out in the Rue St. Honor^, where it nearly joins Rue Rivoli opposite the Place du Carrousel, let us go down the side of the Palace of the Tuileries, and entering the gardens, stroll towards the Champs Elys^es. The Rue St. Honor^ goes direct to the Palace of the Elys^es Bourbon, but the route through these magnificent grounds is just as near, and far more pleasant. Strolling through one of the shaded avenues of the garden, we emerge at the farther end on to the Place de Concorde, the commencement of the Champs Elys^es. Pause here a moment, I always RAMBLES ABOUT PAEIS. 91 do, though it be the hundredth time, and look back on the dial of the clock that is placed in the fagade of the Tuileries. Here the guillotine stood, drenched in blood, and on that very dial did the executioner look when the head of the king was to fall. If that old dial could speak, it could tell tales that would freeze one's blood. You need not shudder as you cross this place of terrible remembrances, for care has been taken to have nothing left to call them to mind. Two beautiful and highly ornamented fount- ains are throwing their bright waters around, making a murmur-like music ; but though they flow a thou- sand years, they cannot wash the blood out of these stones. Wandering down on the Champs Elys^es, we come, on the right hand margin, to the " Palais d'Elys^es Bourbon." The building is fine, but it is the associa- tions that make it interesting. During the Revo- lution, it became the governmental printing-house. Afterwards, Murat bought it and lived in it, after he married the sister of Napoleon. Many of his im- provements remain, and one room is furnished to resemble a silken tent. It was done by the wife of Murat, with which to welcome her kingly husband as he returned from one of his victorious campaigns. After he was made King of Naples, it reverted to the government, and became the favorite residence of Napoleon. Here is the " Salon des Aides-de- Camp," where he used to dine with his family on Sundays, and there the "Salon de Reception," his council chamber, and near by the " Salon des Tra- 92 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. vails." Here, too, is the bedroom and the very bed on which the fugitive emperor slept for the last time, as he fled from the fatal battle of Waterloo. The room is in blue and gold, and the recess where the bed stands is magnificent, but the last night the form of the emperor reclined there, sleep was far from its silken folds. His throne and crown lay crushed and trampled on the hard-fought field, and the sun of his power had set for ever. The Emperor of Russia lodged in this palace when the allied troops occupied Paris the first time, and here Napoleon lived during the hundred days after he returned from Elba. He left it after his final overthrow, to give place to Wel- lington, who sat here and mused over the crisis he had passed, and the world-wide renown he had gained. Old palace ! I should think it would hardly know its own politics by this time. To entertain loyally so many different kinds of kings and heroes, and treat them all with equal grace, argues a flexibility of opinion equal to Talleyrand. Opposite the Champs Elys^es, the other side of the Seine, is the Palais Bourbon, distinguished now chiefly as the seat of the Chamber of Deputies. The famous Council of Five Hundred used to sit here, and now the five hundred and twenty-nine representatives of France meet in Congress within its walls. It is hardly worth going over, but its beautiful white front, adorned with columns, has a fine effect when viewed from this side of the river. Opposite the Tuileries, on the farther side of the Seine, though out of sight, and a long way from the RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 93 banks of the river, stands the noble Palace of the Luxembourg. I have spoken of this before, when describing the debates in the Chamber of Peers, and only refer to it now in the list of palaces. In the days of the French Republic, the Directory occupied it as the place of their sitting, and now the imbecile and almost helpless peers legislate in its halls. With a trip to Versailles, I will close up [figura- tively speaking) the palaces of Paris. This is about twelve miles from Paris, with a railroad leading to it each side of the river, so that you can go one side of the Seine, and return on the other. I took the rail- road as far as St. Cloud, or about half-way, and stopped to see this other royal though rather petit palace. The magnificent grounds interested me more than any things else. It was a scorching day, and I strolled under the shades of the green trees in perfect delight. Just as I was approaching one of the cascades, I heard music, sounding like human voices singing, though the echo took a singular tone. I wandered about hither and thither, but could not, for the life of me, tell whence the sound came. At length, I came upon a deep recess in a high bank, looking like a dry cascade, and lo ! there sat a sister of charity, with several girls and young women about her, knitting, and sewing, and singing together. They made the woods ring again, while the deep cavern-like recess they were in, by confining the sound, and send- ing it upward instead of outward, produced a singular effect on the ear. I walked through the grand park a mile, to Sevres, 94 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. to see the famous porcelain manufactory. I do not design to describe this manufactory, but the great show-room is magnificent. Such costly and richly ornamented vessels and bijouterie I never saw before. The best painters are employed, and some of the designs are most exquisitely finished. A man could spend a fortune here without half gratifying his taste. This is the best porcelain manufactory in Europe. Here are kept also all the specimens of porcelain in the world, as well as of the first variety ever glazed in France. No one visiting Paris should fail of see- ing them. From this place I took the cars to Versailles, and in a few minutes went rattling into the miserable, forsaken-looking little village that bears that name. Soon after, I was looking on the Palace of palaces in France. I do not design either to describe this immense pile of buildings. Henry IV., the ^^ glorious Harry of Navarre," used to gallop over its site in the chase. It has passed through many changes, but now presents a richness and wealth of exterior sur- passed by few palaces in the world. You approach it through the ample Place d'Armes, and enter the spacious court through groups of statues, looking down on you as you pass. The main front is five hundred feet long, flanked by wings, each two hun- dred and sixty feet in length. I cannot even go over the names of the almost endless rooms in this pile of buildings. It is estimated that one travels seven miles to pass through them all. I can travel that far in the woods without fatigue, but to go that distance RAMBLES ABOUT PABIS. 95 through galleries of paintings, and statues, and ele- gantly furnished apartments, filled with Tvorks of art, is quite another thing. Seven miles of sight-seeing on a single stretch was too much for my nerves, so I selected those rooms most worthy of attention, and avoided the rest. The historical gallery interested me most. Here are the pictures of all Napoleon's great battles. In- deed, it might be called the Napoleon gallery. All the pomp and magnificence of a great battle-field meet you at every step. But I was most interested in a group of paintings, representing Napoleon and his most distinguished marshals, both in their youth and in the full maturity of years. There stands the young Lieutenant Bonaparte — thin, sallow, with his long hair carelessly thrown about his grave and thoughtful face — and by its side the Emperor, in the plenitude of his power and splendor of his royal robes. There, too, is the sub-Lieutenant Lannes, the fiery- hearted youth, and that same Lieutenant as the Duke of Montibello, and Marshal of the Empire. In the same group is the under-Lieutenant, Murat, tall and handsome, and fiery ; and, by his side, Murat, as King of Naples, gorgeously appareled, furnishing strong and striking contrasts — histories in themselveSe There also were Bernadotte and Soult, in the same double aspect, and, last of all, Louis Philippe, as Lieutenant and as King of France. The grand '' Galerie des Glaces" is one of the finest rooms in the world. It is 242 feet long, 35 wide, and 43 feet high. Seventeen immense windows light it on one 96 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. side, while opposite them are seventeen equally large mirrors. Sixty columns of red marble, with bases and capitals of gilt bronze, fill up the spaces between the windows and mirrors, while similar columns adorn the entrance. You wander confused through this wilderness of apartments, filled with works of art, and it is a relief when you emerge on to one of the balconies, and look off on the apparently limitless gardens and parks that spread away from the palace. Immense basins of water, little canals, fountains, jets, arches, and a whole forest of statuary, rise on the view, baffling all description, and astonishing you with the prodigality of wealth they exhibit. There is a beautiful orangerie^ garden of orange-trees, sunk deep down amid walls, to which you descend by flights of a hundred and three steps. Here is one orange-tree more than four hundred years old, that still shakes its green crown among its children. On one side of these extensive grounds are two royal buildings, called the great and little Trianon^. In the garden of the little [petit) Trianon is a weeping willow, planted by the hand of Marie Antoinette. Here, in her days of darkness and sorrow, she used to come and sit, and weep over her misfortunes. Poor willow, it almost seems to speak of its mistress, as it stands drooping alone. But I have tarried so long around the palaces of Paris, that I must dismiss its prisons without a de- scription. There are eight prisons in the city, whose walls have seen more of suffering, more cries and groans — witnessed more unhallowed revelries and RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 97 scenes of shame, than the like number in any other part of the world. During the Revolution, they were crowded with inmates who, in the frenzy of despera- tion, enacted scenes that day would blush to look upon; while the monsters who trod France, like a wine-press, beneath their feet, made the foundations float with the blood of the slain. There is La Force, which forms so conspicuous a figure in one of Eugene Sue's works. Here, too, is the Conciergerie into which Marie xlntoinette was hurried from her palace and lay for two months and a half, and left it only to mount the scafl'old. Here, too, pined the Princess Elizabeth a weary captive, and, last of all, it received the inhuman Robespierre, from whence he was taken to the scaffold. This prison has been the scene of many a terrible massacre. In the one of 1792, tivo hundred and thirty-nine were murdered at once, and rivulets of blood poured on every side, from its gloomy walls. Here, too, is the never-to-be-forgotten Abbaye, with its gloomy underground dungeons, which per- formed so tragical a part in the Revolution. I have previously described some of the terrific scenes this prison has witnessed. One cannot look on it v/ithout shuddering, and turns away, wondering if the men hurrying past him are of the same species with those who have made this prison such a blot on humanity. Ah ! this Paris is full of extremes. Its population rush into pleasure or into massacres with equal readi- ness — turn dandies or tigers in a moment — are carried away by romantic sentiments, one day, and by the most ferocious feelings that ever filled the bosom of 9 98 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. a fiend, the next — gay, dancing popinjays, in the morning, and heroes at night — votaries of pleasure, and profound mathematicians, mingling the strangest qualities, and exhibiting the strangest history, of any people on the face of the earth. Dining with our Minister to the Court of France, the conversation naturally turned upon Louis Philippe and his family. He told me that the social life of the king was more like the quiet home of a citizen than that of a great monarch. His early misfortunes and wide wanderino-s had tauc^ht him lessons he never would have learned in the dazzling circle of a court ; while the bitter experience the Bourbons had passed through, and his own experience in a foreign land, among a free people, strong because they were free, had showed him how to steer clear of the rocks on which his predecessors had wrecked. No American can have sat beside the hospitable table of Mr. Ledyard, in company with his beautiful and intelligent wife and family, without carrying away with him the most pleasant remembrances. A thousand ludicrous mistakes occur in Paris among Americans and English, from their ignorance of the French language. Things are called for and brought, which, according to the understanding of the Frenchman, are as different from what is really wished as they well could be. A man frequently asks for a table-cloth when he thinks he is ordering a napkin, or a hat store when he is after a hat-box. The French, however, never tire of teaching you their language. Where an American or Englishman RAMBLES ABOUT PAKIS. 99 would be mum, if not sullen, a Frericliman will insist on making you speak phrases and words till you can get so as to talk with him. With the utmost gravity, he will stumble on through a cloud of blunders, and if he but gets the mere fag end of the idea you are after, he will shrug his shoulders with delight, and, taking a pinch of snuff, say " ehhien^'' commence again. One ludicrous instance was related to me here of a couple of Englishmen who had just come over from the " sea-girt Isle.'' Not having fortified themselves with a very extensive knowledge of the French lan- guage, it was the most natural thing in the world that their dehut into French phrases should be some- what laughable. Sitting together at their dinner, one of them finally spoke to the waiter in French, bidding him remove the dishes. He spoke it very plainly, but the "vraiter had never heard such a phrase before, and ignorant what to do, politely asked him what he had said. The Englishman, suspecting he had made a mistake, and too proud to expose his ignorance, merely replied, or wished to reply, " never mind," thinking that would be the shortest mode of getting out of the difficulty ; but he only involved himself deeper. Instead of saying n'importe^ he an- swered with the greatest nonchalance, jamais esprit^ which comes just about as near to " never mind" in French, as niinquam animus in Latin. One should never fail, 'in Paris, to walk through the Champs Elys^es on a holiday. Every Sabbath day is a hoKday, and to walk through it on some fete 100 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. one gets a good idea of the way the French spend Sunday. This Champs Elysees, I forgot to mention before, is a mile and a quarter long, and averages about a third of a mile in width. It is traversed by a wide avenue in the centre, flanked with ample side- walks and lined with trees. Numberless alleys, cir- cles, and squares appear in every direction. Look up and down it as the summer sun is sinking in the distant sky ; an endless crowd is streaming along, and the sound of mirth and music makes the air ring again. Imagine the effect of an open space a mile and a quarter long and a third of a mile in width, in the very centre of New York, waving with trees, and filled every pleasant evening with carriages and pedestrians without number, and echoing with strains of music. Yet what sights it has witnessed ! The excited mob has streamed through it, and its alleys have rung with theory of "To the Bastile !" and " Down with the King !" The guillotine has thrown its gloomy shadow over it, and the death cry of Robespierre startled its quiet shades. Here the al- lied army was reviewed after Paris surrendered and Napoleon abdicated; and a splendid sight it was, those fifty thousand choice troops marching with streaming banners and triumphant music along those shaded walks. Here the wild Cossacks pitched their tents during the occupation of the city. These wild warriors from the wilderness of Russia had followed their emperor over the plains of Europe, till, ascend- ing the last heights that overlooked the city, their barbarian hearts had feasted on the gorgeous specta- RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 101 cle. They had seen Moscow in flames, and following the retreating, bleeding army of Napoleon across the Borysthenes, had seen it slowly disappear in the snow-drifts of a northern winter ; and now, with theu' wild steeds and long lances, they galloped through these avenues, and stretched themselves under the shade of its trees, as much at home as in their native deserts. Here, too, the English army, under Wel- lington, the year after, encamped, as it returned from the victorious field of Waterloo. I could not but think of these things, as I stood and looked on the thoughtless multitude that seemed occupied with nothing but the present. These great contrasts show the fluctuations of Time, and how easily the populous city may become the prey of the spoiler and turn to ashes. The right side as you walk up is devoted more especially to promenading, and the left to sports, where boys and men are playing at bowls, skittles, and ball. But on the right-hand side, also, beyond the promenade, are objects of amusement. Here is an upright timber, to which are attached long arms, sustaining boats, in which, for a few sous, the young can sit and go round, rising and falling in long undu- lations, as if moving over the billows. Near by is a huge horizontal wheel, with wooden horses attached to the outer edge, on which boys are mounted, mov- ing round in the circle. Returning to the main pro- menade, you encounter a minature carriage, elegantly furnished, drawn by four beautiful goats, carrying along -a gayly dressed boy, who is already proud of 9* 102 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. a splendid equipage. At the far termination, on a gentle eminence, rises, the magnificent" triumphal arch, designed by Napoleon — ^'L'Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile.'' Bending at the end of this mile-long avenue, its white arch, ninety feet high, shows beau- tifully in the light of the setting sun. Covered with bas-rehefs wrought with highest art, the splendid structure cost nearly two millions of dollars. There, in enduring stone, are sculptured the taking of Alex- andria, the passage of the bridge of Areola, the bat- tles of Austerlitz and Jemappes, and warriors and war scenes without number. Turning back down the Champs Elys^es, and taking the side deserted by the gay and fashionable, a diJBferent scene presents itself. Besides the games in full motion on every side, here are collected all the jugglers, lazzaroni, musicians, and men with wise dogs and wise pigs, and dancing monkeys, and self- moving dolls, &c., &c. There is a group standing in that oval shape which indicates something of interest in the centre. Let us enter it. Lo, there is a man with five dogs of various colors, which he has trained to act like rational beings. First, he gives them the order to march; when placing themselves in line, each lifts his fore paw upon the back of the one before him, and thus, walking on their hind legs, they move gravely around the circle, amid the shouts of the spectators. After various exhibitions of this sort, one dog is selected to play dominoes with any of the com- pany, and, what is stranger still, he beats every body that plays against him. RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 103 A little farther on is a smaller group gathered around an old woman, who is haranguing a large doll baby she carries on her arm. Some terrible story is illustrated in the contortions and gestures she ex- hibits, as now she embraces, and now casts from her the baby image. Farther still the ground is covered "with nimble players, and the air rings with shouts and laughter. This is a holiday of a summer evening in Paris, and of every pleasant Sabbath evening. What would we think of such an exhibition in New York on any day, especially on the Sabbath ? In every part of Europe this day of rest is turned into a holiday ; but nowhere do the people seem to be so utterly for- getful that there is any sacredness attached to it as in Paris. Here it does not seem the wickedness of depraved hearts, of scorners and despisers, but of those who never dreamed they were doing any thing improper to the day — as if there existed no law but that of pleasure. And yet who can blame Europeans for preferring the field and the promenade to the church? Ignorant of all religion except the Catholic, and knowing it to be two-thirds a fable, and three- fourths of its priests knaves, what can we expect from them but utter indifference and unbelief ? The fountains of these grounds, and indeed of all Paris, are supplied with water from the Seine. There are no aqueducts leading into the city, bringing water from elevations, as in Ncav York, so that it makes fountains any where and every where a vent is given it ; but it is all pumped up from the middle of the 104 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. river by a tremendous steam engine, which raises 150,000 cubic feet in twenty-four hours. Strolling over the grounds, my friend at length stopped in a secluded place, and said, '^ Here, when the allied armies first occupied Paris, was a bloody fight between several Cossacks. It was outside of their camp, and the quarrel had some circumstances connected with it which caused many remarks to be made about it. Do "you know," he continued, "that I have often thought it had something to do with the wife of the French officer who was carried off by the Cossacks at the battle of Fere-Champenoise ?" The following is the story he referred to : When the allied armies, in 1814, were in full march for Paris, Marshals Marmont and Mortier, with twenty thousand men, threw themselves before them to arrest their progress. A mere handful compared to the mighty host that opposed them, they were compelled to retreat towards the capital. As they approached Fere-Champenoise, they were assailed by twenty thousand cavalry and a hundred and thirty cannon. The artillery would rend asunder the solid squares by its tremendous storms of grape-shot and balls, and then the cavalry dash in at the openings, tramp- ling down the steady ranks, and sweeping away whole battahons, as if they had been chaff, before them. Broken, mangled, and bleeding, the weary army finally rallied behind Fere-Champenoise. The next day. General Pacthod approached the village with six thousand men, fighting as he came, in order to effect a junction with the French army. But as he was RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 105 crossing the fields, he found himself suddenly enve- loped in the Russian and Prussian cavalry. The Emperor Alexander was there also with his guards, and wishing to save an attack, summoned the French general to surrender. He refused ; and, although he knew that escape was hopeless, addressed his men, exhorting them to die bravely. They answered with shouts, and immediately forming themselves into squares, commenced retreating. Thirteen thousand horsemen, shaking their sabres above their heads, making the earth tremble as they came, and filling the air with dust, burst with loud hurrahs on those six thousand infantry. A rolling fire swept round those firm squares, strewing the plain with dead, as they still showed a bold front to the overpowering enemy. Again and again, on a headlong gallop, did those terrible masses of cavalry come thundering on the little band, and as often were they hurled back by the bayonet. At length, the enemy brought seventy cannon to bear upon these compact bodies. The destruction then became horrible. At the first discharge whole ranks went down, and when the smoke cleared away, you could see wide lanes through those squares, made by the tempest of cannon balls. Into these openings the cavalry dashed with head- long fury. Every thing now was confusion and chaos. It was no longer a wall of men against which cavalry were dashing in vain valor, but a broken host through which the furious squadrons galloped, making fright- ful havoc as they passed. Still the French refused to sui-render. Some with the tears streaming down 106 EAMBLES AXD SKETCHES. their faces, and some frantic with anger, kept fixing on the enemy till the last cartridge was exhausted, and then rushed on them with the bayonet. But half of the six thousand had already fallen, and the other half was so rent and scattered that they re- sembled a crowd of fugitives more than a disciplined troop, and the general was compelled to surrender. In the midst of this dreadful struggle, Lord London- derry saw the young and beautiful wife of a French colonel, who was bravely heading his troops, in a light carriage, attempting to flee over the field. See- ing that their case was hopeless, the officer had sent away his wife from the dreadful scene of slaughter. But as she was hurrying over the field, three Cos- sacks surrounded the carriage and dragged her from it. Lord Londonderry, though in the midst of the fight, galloped to her rescue, and delivering her to his orderly, commanded him to take her to his own quarters, and then hastened back to the conflict. The orderly placed the lady on the horse behind him, and hurried away. He had not gone far, however, before he was assailed by a band of fierce Cossacks, who pierced him through with a lance, leaving him, as they supposed, dead on the field, and bore ofi* the lady. She was never heard of more. Her case ex- cited a great deal of sympathy, and the Emperor Alexander himself took a deep interest in it, and made every efi'ort to discover what had become of her ; but in vain. Her melancholy fate remains a mystery to this day. These are the facts to which my friend referred, RAMBLES ABOUT PARIS. 107 when lie said he believed that the quarrel between the Cossacks, which occurred only a few days after this tragical event, had something to do with it. Very possible. It is not improbable that these wild warriors brought her to Paris with them, and kept her concealed from their officers ; and this fight, the cause of which could not be discovered, had something to do with her. But there is no limit to the imagination in these thino-s. She mio-ht have been slain on the field of battle, and buried from sight ; and she may have lived for years a weary captive, doomed to suffering worse than death. How often does a single case of suffering affect us more than the destruction of thousands; and it is only by taking one individual wounded in the field of battle, and finally dying in a loathsome hospital, and gathering up all the agonies of his single heart, and the sighs and tears of his wife and children far away — computing the mental and physical suffering to- gether, and then multiplying it by tens and hundreds of thousands, that we get any idea of the horrors of war ! I have often thought of a remark that Bona- parte made respecting an incident that occurred in the battle-field of Bassano. His generals had fought there till nightfall, and conquered, and Bonaparte arrived upon it after dark, when all was hushed and still. The moon was sailing up the quiet heavens, shedding her mellow radiance over the scene, reveal- ing here and there unburied corpses, as he rode along, when suddenly a dog leaped out from beneath a cloakj 108 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and barked furiously at liim. His master lay dead on the plain, covered by his cloak, underneath which the faithful creature had crept to caress him. As he heard footsteps approaching, he darted forth to arrest the intruder. He would now rush up to Napoleon and bark at him, and then return and lick his mas- ter's face and hands as he lay cold and dead. The alternate barkings and caresses of that faithful dog, the only living thing on that battle-field, clinging still, when all other friends had left — the scene itself — the moon — the night — the silent corpses, all combined to produce an impression he never forgot. Years after, at St. Helena, he said it afi*ected him more than any incident in his whole military career. But here is a farewell to Paris. Without one word of complaint against Maurice's excellent hotel, I packed my baggage and prepared to depart. Chang- ing my French money into notes on the Bank of England, I inquired at what time the cars started for Rouen, turned to my chamber, and slept my last night in Paris. OUT OE PARIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 109 CHAPTER VII. OUT OF PAEIS— OYER THE CHANNEL TO ENGLAND. The morning was dark and overcast, and a chill wind was blowing, as I stowed myself in the railroad cars and started for Rouen. I had not made up my mind whether I would go on to Havre, or cross from Rouen to Dieppe, and so across the Channel to Brighton. Past dirty villages, through a monoto- nous and interminably fiat country, we thundered along, while a drizzling rain, that darkened and chilled all the landscape, made the scene still more dreary and repulsive. Around me were chattering Frenchmen of every grade, keeping up an incessant clatter, that was Avorse even than the rattling of the cars. At noon, however, the storm began to break away, and by the time we reached Rouen, the frag- mentary clouds were trooping over as blue a sky as ever gladdened the earth. Ha\dng arrived at Rouen, I concluded to cross over to Dieppe ; and so, having engaged my passage in a diligence, and dined, I strolled round the town. This old city has not changed, apparently, since Joan of Arc blessed it with her presence. Every thing is old about it — the houses are old ; the streets are old ; the very stones have an old look, and the in- 10 110 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. habitants seem to have caught some of the rust. The streets are narrow, without sidewalks, and paved, oh how roughly ! They slant down from the base of the houses to the centre, forming a sort of gutter, so that the water can pass off in a single stream. I venture to say that horses never dragged a carriage faster than a walk along the streets of Eouen. I wandered hither and thither till I came upon the cathedral, which presents a magnificent appearance, and is quite a redeeming feature in the miserable slip-shod town. Near by is a stone statute of Joan of Arc. As an old memorial of this wonderful woman, it possessed, by its associations, a deep interest. Dressed in her battle armor, she recalls strange deeds and strange times. But the statue, taken by itself, is a mere block of stone, and pays no great comphment to the Maid of Orleans. After being cheated out of my place in the dili- gence, which I had engaged — a common custom, by the way, on the continent, and one you must make your mind up to, if a man of peace — 'I was compelled to take an outside seat. I should have preferred it, were we not to ride a part of the way in the night. I remember, on a similiar occasion, having a regular fracas with a diligence officer in Zurich, Switzerland. I had before always hired private carriages, so as to stop or go when I pleased. But wishing to go direct from Zurich to Basle as expeditiously as possible, I concluded to take the diligence. I had been inform- ed that the route was very much traveled that season of the year, and I ought to engage my passage as OUT OF PARIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. Ill long as I could conveniently before I wished to start. So the night before, I went into the office and paid my passage, took my ticket, and supposed all was right. The next morning my baggage was put aboard, and throwing my cloak into the coupe, I was strolling about the yard waiting the moment to start, when a gentleman accosted me, wishing to know what my number was in the coupe. I replied, I did not know ; and I did not take the trouble to look, as I concluded it was none of his business. He soon, how- ever, accosted me again, which made me think some- thing was wrong. I took out my ticket, and replied, No. 2. " That is my number,'' said he ; " let us go into the office and see about it." The secret of all this was, this man was a citizen of Zurich, and wished a seat in the coupe, which will hold but four, but had come too late. The villanous diligence proprietor, or his agent, had concluded to give him my place, and make me wait till night. I asked the agent how this was. He said I had engaged my passage for the night. I told him it was false, and he knew it ; for I had told him expressly when I was going, and had his ticket in my hand. It was of no use, however ; he said I could not have my place. I was indignant at the cheat, and so told him I would take the body of the diligence. (You must know, a diligence is di- vided into three compartments ; first the coupe, in front, in which you sit and look out on the scenery with a good deal of comfort. Behind this is the main apartment, which is stuffed like a stage-coach, with seats. Behind this is still another smaller apartment, 112 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. that will hold a few. Over the coupe, on the top of the diligence, is the cabriolet, which is simply a ca- lash-top, seat and all, set on the diligence. Behind this are several open seats, like those on the top of some of the Manhattan ville stages, furnishing a sort of deck passage, not only in appearance, but price. The coupe is the highest in price ; cabriolet next ; body of the diligence next ; stern accommodations next ; deck passage cheapest of all.) Well, cheated out of the coupe, I offered to take the body of the diligence, without asking to have any of the money refunded. He said the seats were all engaged. I then told him I would take the cabriolet. That was full also. Anxious to leave that morning, as I had paid my bills and packed my trunks, I offered, at last, to take a deck passage, and pay the same price that I had for the coupe. But the deck seats were all en- gaged. My patience was now almost exhausted ; but I swallowed my indignation, and quietly asked him to refund the money, and I would post it to Basle. No, I should neither go nor have my money back, but wait till night and take a night passage ! This ex- hausted the last drop of good-nature that had been gradually oozing out for a long time, and I told him he was a scoundrel and a cheat, and I would fetch him before the city authorities, and spend a thousand francs in Zurich before I would submit to such injus- tice ; and I would see if there was any justice for such men in Switzerland. This brought him to terms, and I took my seat. I mention this for the sake of other travelers, and would merely add that a little OUT OF PARIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 113 boldness and a few threats will sometimes save a vast deal of annoyance, expense, and injustice. I man- aged the same in Rouen, whose dirty old walls and streets I never care to see again. Over an uneven and hilly road we wound our way, till at last, after dark, tired and hungry, we rolled into Dieppe, which is picturesquely situated on a small port, with a very narrow entrance. I had be- come acquainted on the way with a French merchant who lived at Brighton, and we stopped at the same hotel. In the morning, when we came to settle our bills, I noticed that he paid much less than I did. I said nothing at the time, but soon after asked him how it happened that I was charged so much more than he, when we had had similar accommodations. ^' 0" said he, with the utmost naivete^ '' you are a gentleman and I am a merchant ; gentlemen always pay more." I looked at him a moment to see if he was quizzing me, but I saw he was quite serious. "Well, but," said I, "how did that woman know I was a gentleman and you was not ? I am sure you are dressed more hke one than myself." "0," he replied, " I told her I was a merchant, and trades- men are always charged less." This being called a gentleman merely because you do not say you are not, and being charged for it too, was .entirely new to me, traveler as I was ; but before I got through with England I understood it perfectly. It is curious sometimes to see how one is made aware of his supe- rior claims. Now I never should have dreamed, from the apartments given me, or the fare I received, 10* 114 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. that I was taken for a gentleman ; and as for atten- tions, my friend the merchant received more of them than I did; and I might have left Dieppe, and its miserable, dirty hotel, utterly unconscious of the high estimation in which I was held by the slattern mis- tress, if I had not been called to pay for that esteem. With all due deference to the good woman, I must say I do not think I got the worth of my money. But soon all was bustle and confusion, as the pas- sengers rushed for the steamboat that lay against the wharf. The tide was fast ebbing, and we must hurry, or the boat would be aground. One would have thought, from the uproar, that a seventy-four gun ship had swum into port, and the exact moment of high tide must be seized to get her out, instead of a paltry steamboat, which would not be tolerated on any line between New York and Albany. With this contracted thing, which would have answered to ply on the Hudson between some of the smaller towns, we pushed from the port and stood out to sea. The wind was blowing strongly off the shore, and we ex- pected a passage of six or seven hours across the Channel. The shores of France receded, and the little cockle-shell went courtesying over the waves as self-conceited as if she were a gallant ship. Some few fresh-water travelers could not stand even the gentle motion she made going before the wind, and disappeared, one after another, below. I watched the receding shore awhile, and the white sails, here and there, that were flocking out to sea, and then sat down near some Englishmen and listened for a while OUT OF PARIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 115 to their conversation. I soon fell into an agreeable chit-chat with an intelligent and accomplished Irish gentleman, which wore away another hour. Daring the forenoon I was struck with the different manner an Englishman will assume towards an American and an English stranger. There were two proud and haughty looking men, from Nottingham, as I after- wards learned, who seemed averse to taking part in the conversation. The increased motion of the boat had continued to send the passengers below, till but a few, and those gentlemen, were left on deck. With nothing to read, and having got thoroughly tired of my own company, I very naturally sought to enlist them in conversation. But, John Bull like, they maintained a stubborn hauteur that nothing seemed able to overthrow. At length, to gratify a mere passing whim, I accidentally let it slip out in a re- mark that I was an American. You cannot conceive the change that passed over them ; their frozen de- portment became genial at once, and they seemed as anxious to enter into conversation as they were before to avoid it. This sudden transformation puzzled me at first, but I was soon able to unriddle it. Taking me for an Englishman, and not knowing what rank I held in Enghsh society, they were afraid of putting themselves on too familiar a footing with one below them. Perhaps I was a London tallow chandler or haberdasher, or even tailor, and it was not best to make too free with their dignity ; but, as an Ameri- can, I stood on fair and equal ground. "With a repub- lican, one does not commit himself, for he addresses .116 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. a man who, if in the lowest, is still in the highest rank. The King of Sweden will invite a charge d'affaires J after he has resigned and become an American citizen, to sit beside the queen at his own table, which he would not allow him to do as a diplo- matic officer of the second rank. One of those Eng- lish gentlemen, before he left me in London, gave me a pressing invitation to visit him at Nottingham — a hospitality as unexpected as it was grateful. But alas for this world of sudden changes ! The wind which had followed in our wake, and sent us swiftly forward, began now to haul around, and finally got directly abeam. The waves were making fast, and the little boat heeled over, as she puffed and blowed along, while the sky became overcast, and dark and ominous. The wind kept constantly moving about from point to point, till at length it got dead ahead, and blew in our very teeth. Acting as if it had now achieved some great feat and fairly out- witted us, it began to blow most furiously, as if to make up for its mildness while creeping stealthily around to head us off. If it had begun a little sooner, it would have driven us back to Dieppe ; but now we were so far across, that by the time the sea was fairly awake, and its waves abroad, we hoped to be under a bold shore. But before the white cliffs of England began to rise over the sea, our little cockle-shell was making wild work in the water. The sea had made fast, and now kept one-half of her constantly drenched. Every wave burst over her forward deck, and the poor deck passengers crowded back to the OUT OF PAEIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 117 farthest limit of their territory, and there, crouching before the fierce sea-blast, took the spray of each spent wave on their shrinking forms. I never saw a boat act so like a fury in my life. She was so small, and the sea was so chopped up, that she bounced about like a mad creature. Now on one side, and now on the other; now rearing up on her stern, shaking the spray from her head, and almost snort- ing in the efibrt ; and now plunging her forehead into the sea and shivering like a creature in the ague ; she tumbled, and floundered, and pitched on in such com- plicated movements, that it completely tm^ned my, as I thought, sea-hardened stomach upside down. I had never been very sea-sick in my life, although I had crossed the Atlantic, and sailed almost the length and breadth of the Mediterranean ; but here I was thoroughly so. It was provoking to be so sea-sick on such a strip of water as this, and in a small steam- boat ; but it could not be helped. The frantic boat jerked, and wriggled, and stopped, and started, and plunged, and rolled so abruptly and irregularly, that it made the strongest head turn ; and, months after, I could not recall that drunken gallopade in the waters of the British channel without feeling dizzy. I walked the deck — then sat down — looked ofi' on the distant chalk cliffs that were just visible in the dis- tance, and tried to think it was foolish to be affected by such a small affair. It all would not do, and I at length rolled myself up in my cloak and flung myself full length on deck, and fairly groaned. But at length Brighton hove in sight, and I stag- 118 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. gered up to gladden my eyes once more witli the fresh earth and the dwellings of men. As I saw the carriages rattling along the streets, and men prome- nading by the sea-shore, I wondered how one could be such a fool as to enter a ship so long as there was a foot of dry land to tread upon. To add to the pleasure of my just then not most lucid reflections, the captain told me it would be impossible to land at Brighton, the sea was so high, and we must coast along to Shoreham. "Can't you try it, captain?" I inquired, most beseechingly. He shook his head. The boat was wheeled broadside to land, and began to toil her slow way to Shoreham. Narrowly escaping beino; driven ao;ainst the sort of half moles that formed the port, we at length were safe ashore, and the pale, forsaken-looking beings below began to crawd, one after another, upon deck, and looked wistfully towards the green earth. The miserable custom-house esteeming it quite a windfall to have so much unexpected work to do, caused us a great deal of delay and annoyance. The officers felt the consequence "a little brief authority" gives a man, and acted not only like simpletons but villains, taking Bribes, and shuffling, and falsifying in a manner that would have made an American custom- house immortal in some Madam Trollope, or Marryat, or Dickens' sketch. I never had my patience so tried, or my indignation so aroused, by any govern- mental meanness on the continent. An Italian policeman exhibits more of the gentleman than did these English custom-house officers. At length J OUT OF PAKIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 119 lost all patience, and bluntly told them I considered the "whole of them a pack of cheats, and I would be much obliged to them if they would give me a gra- duated scale of their system of bribes, that I might publish it for the sake of my friends who would not wish to lose the train for London through ignorance of their peculiar mode of doing business. For my plainness of speech my trunk was oyerhauled with- out mercy; and when the officer was satisfied, he commenced tumbling back my things in the most confused manner, on purpose to annoy me. I touched his arm very politely, and told him I would pack my things myself. With a most impudent tone he bade one of the assistants put my trunk on the floor. He stepped forward to do it, when I told him he could not be allowed to touch it, and I was left alone. My English friends by this time had become perfectly furi- ous, and several others getting wind of the trickery that had been practised, there was a general hubbub, amid which the custom-house officers became wonder- fully bland and accommodating, condescending to a world of apologies. AVe, however, missed that train for London, and sat down to our dinner to wait for the next. It was dark before we approached London, and it was with strange sensations that I looked out through the gloom upon the suburbs of that mighty city. In the deep darkness and fog, the lights past which we fled seemed to come from houses built on high cause- ways, stretching away for miles into the gloom. The mouths of red-hot furnaces would come and go with 120 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. frightful rapidity ; and I could not but think of Dick- ens' description of poor Nelly's wandering at night through the outskirts of London, by the red forges of the workmen. The utter confusion and indistinct- ness that comes over one on entering a vast and strange city for the first time, and at night, makes it seem like a world in chaos. He stands blind and be- wildered, like a lost wanderer in the midst of the pathless forest. London was the first city in Europe I had entered by night, and my inability to catch a single outline, or fix a single feature, produced a feel- ing of restlessness and uncertainty that was really painful. There were long lines of gas-lights before me, between which surged along the mighty mul- titude, while a confused hum and steady jar filled all the air. What a world of human hearts was beat- ing around me, and what a world, too, of joy and sufiering they contained ! At home, one may not notice it ; but in a strange city, to stand alone in the midst of a million of people, produces strong and sometimes overwhelming sensations. What a tide of human life was pouring along those streets ; what scenes of suffering and crime that darkness en- veloped ! Could I look into every cellar and gloomy apartment of that vast city that was shaking and roaring around me, what a frightful page I could un- fold ^ To Him who sitteth above the darkness, and whose eye reacheth not only every dwelling but every heart, what a spectacle does such a city as London exhibit. It was with such thoughts that I rode through the OUT OF PARIS — OVER TO ENGLAND. 121 streets towards my hotel. As I looked round my snug apartment, and saw something definite on which my eye could rest, I felt as if some mysterious calamity had been evaded, and I could breathe free again. Wearied and excited, I turned to my couch and slept my first night in London. 11 122 BAMBLES AND SKETCHES. CHAPTER VIIL EAMBLES IN LONDON. * KEY. MR. MELVILLE. — MARCHIONESS OF P. — DUKE OP WELLINaTON. — THE QUEEN. The first day in a large, strange city always awakens peculiar feelings, for the mind has not yet adapted itself to its new home, new associations, and new objects. There is a sense of vagueness, inde- finiteness, as if all landmarks and road-marks were mingled in inextricable confusion. As you pass along and fix, one after another, some striking localities, constituting, as it were, points of observation, gra- dually the chaos begins to assume form and arrange- ment, till at length the endless web of streets lies like a map in the mind. I have always had one rule in visiting large cities on the continent. First, I get a map and study it carefully, fixing, at the outset, some principal street as a centre around which I am to gather all other highways and by-ways. This is a capital plan, for all cities have some one great thoroughfare along which the main stream of life flows. Thus you have the Toledo at Naples, the Corso at Rome, the Bou- levards at Paris, Broadway iu New York, &c., &c. BAMBLES IN LONDON. 123 After this is done, I select some day, and purposely lose myself, by constant indefinite wandering in the city. Guided by no definite object, following merely the whim of the moment, I am more apt thus to fall in with new and unexpected things, and see every object with the eye of an impartial observer. But London has three or four thoroughfares of almost equal importance. Its millions of souls must have more than one outlet, and hence a person is easier confused in it than in almost any other large city in the world. There is one thing, however, that helps a stranger amazingly in knowing his where- abouts — the three great streets. Regent street, Oxford street, and the Strand, all empty themselves near Cheapside, and thus fix a centre to the mind. There is one peculiarity in foreign cities, especially on the continent, which always strikes a stranger, and that is tablets, etc., fixed in the houses, indicat- ing some great event, and the time it transpired. Thus, in Florence, there are inscriptions fixing the rise of a great flood ; and in the pavement near the Duomo, one which informs the stranger, that Dante used to come and sit there of an evening, and look on the splendid cathedral, as the glorious sunbeams fell upon it. In another direction, you are informed that Corinna inhabited the house before you; and by the Arno, that a man there once boldly leaped into the water and saved a female. So in walking along Aldersgate street, London, I saw a tablet fixed in the walls of a house, stating that there a bloody murder was committed, and warning all good people 124 RAMBLES AXB SKETCHES. * against the crime. Sauntering along, I came to Smitlifield, famous for the martyrdom of Rogers and his family ; but I never was so bothered to get up any feeling or sympathy about an interesting locality in my life ; for there before me, in the open space, were countless sheep-pens, composed each of som^ half a dozen bars, while the incessant bleating of the poor animals within made a perfect chaos of sound. Smith- field is noAv a sheep market^ in the heart of London — thus changes the world about us — and the old Roman Forum is a cow market. There is nothing I have regretted so much in tra- veling as carelessness in providing myself with letters of introduction; the most essential of all things, if you wish to know men ; though utterly worthless, if you are anxious only to see things. I do not know that I should have taken a single one to London, had not a friend put it into my head, by offering me a couple, one to Thomas Campbell, and another to William Beattie. These, however, were quite enough for one Avho wished only to see the literary men of London, for it is one of the excellent traits of an English gentleman that he takes pleasure in intro- ducing you to his friends, and thus you are handed over from one to another, till the circle is complete. But I was unfortunate, for I found neither of these gentlemen in London. A day or two after my ar- rival, I drove down to the residence of the latter, in Park Square, Regent's Park, and was told by the servant that Mr. B. was in Dover. Leaving a little present for him, with which I had been intrusted by RAMBLES IN LONDON. 125 one of his friends, I returned to my lodgings some- what disappointed. A few days after, I received a letter from Mr. Beattie, saying that he regretted ex- ceedingly that his absence from London prevented him from seeing me, and adding the unpleasant infor- mation that Campbell had just left him for France. This dished all my prospects in that quarter, and I set about amusing myself as I best could, now wandering through Hyde Park at evening, strolling up the Strand, or visiting monuments and works of art. On the Sabbath, I concluded to go to Camberwell, and hear the celebrated Mr. Melville preach. I had read his sermons in America, and been struck with their fervid, glowing eloquence, and hence was ex- ceedingly anxious to hear him. Camberwell, which, though a part of London, is three miles from St. Paul's, resembles more some large and beautiful vil- lage than the fragment of a city. I had been told that it was difficult to get entrace into the church, as crowds thronged to hear him ; and as I entered the humble, unpretending building, packed clear out into the portico, I could not but wonder why he should not choose some more extensive field of labor. By urging my way to the door, and consenting to stand during the whole service, I succeeded in getting both a good view and good hearing. As he rose in the pulpit, his appearance gave no indication of the rousing, thrilling orator I knew him to be, unless it was the expression about the eye. There was that peculiar lifting to the brow, a sort of openness and airiness about the upper part of the face, which be- 126 RAMBLES AXD SKETCHES. longs more or less to all your ardent, enthusiastic characters. No man who has a soul with wings to it, on which it now and then mounts upward with a stroke that carries the eye of the beholder in rapture after it, is without some feature which is capable of lighting up into intense hrilliancy. Mr. Melville looks to be about forty-five. His full head of hair, which lies in tufts around his forehead, is slightly turned with gray, while his voice, without being very powerful, is full and rich. His text em- braced those verses which describe the resurrection of Lazarus. The topic promised something rich and striking, and I was expecting a display of his impas- sioned eloquence, but was disappointed. He had divided the subject into two sermons, and the first, which I was to hear, was a train of reasoning. He commenced by taking the infidel side of the question, and argued through the first half of his sermon as I never heard a skeptic reason. He took the ground that the miracle was wholly improbable, from the fact that but one of the evangelists had mentioned it. Here was one of the most important miracles Christ ever performed — one which, if well established, would authenticate his claim and mission beyond a doubt, and yet but one single evangelist makes mention of it. All the other miracles were open to some criticism. The son of the widow of Nain might have been in a trance, or the functions of life suddenly suspended, as IS often witnessed, and the presence and voice of Christ been the occasion only, not the cause, of his awaking at that particular time. As for healing the RAMBLES IN LONDON. 127 sick, that had been done by others, and there were many instances on record where the excited action of the mind in a new channel had produced great bodily effects. But here was a case in which none of these suppositions could be of any weight. Lazarus had lain in his grave four days, and decomposition had already commenced. All the friends knew it, for they had been present at the funeral. They had not only closed his eyes, but laid him in his grave, and placed a huge stone upon it. Shut out from the light and air of heaven, his body had begun to return to its mother earth. In this state of things Christ ar- rives, and going mournfully to the tomb of his friend, calls him from his sleep of death. The dead man moves in his grave-clothes, arises, and comes forth ! Now, in the first place, was it likely that so wonder- ful an occurrence as this should have escaped the knowledge of the disciples, or if known, would have been omitted in their biographies of him ? Did not the unbroken silence of all these writers argue against the occurrence of the miracle ? These disciples men- tion with great minuteness many acts of the Saviour apparently of less importance, and yet this wondrous miracle is unaccountably left out. Mr. Melville w^ent on in this way, bringing forward argument after ar- gument, and applying them with such power and force, that I really began to tremble. That his views were correct, I had no doubt ; but I feared he was not aware of the strong light in which he was putting the case, nor of the impression he was making on his hearers. I knew he designed to meet and overthrow 128 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. this tremendous array of argumentj whicli no infidel could have used with such consummate ability ; but I doubted whether the audience would feel the force of his after reasoning, as they evidently had of his for- mer. To his mind, the logic might be both clear and convincing, but not to the hearer. But I was mis- taken. The giants he had reared around his subject became men of mist before him. They went down, one after another, under his stroke, with such rapidity, that the heart became relieved, as if a burden had been suddenly removed. He denied, in the first place, that there was any thing so peculiar about the miracle as the whole argument of the infidel assumed. He adduced several other miracles giving more convincing proof of Christ's divinity than it — furnishing less grounds for cavil ; and then went on to show that this very omission proved, if not that miracle, the truth of the statements of the evangelists, and their perfect freedom from all collusion, and thus in the end proved the miracle itself. His argument and illustration were both beautiful, and I was very sorry when he was through. I should like to have heard the other part of the subject, vfhen he came to spealc, with the faith and love of the believer, of that thrilling scene. I have no doubt it gave occasion to one of his finest efforts, and around that grave he poured light so intense and dazzling, that the hearer became a spectator^ and emotion took the place of reason. Mr. Melville is the younger son of a nobleman, and exhibits in his manner and bearing something of the hauteur so pe- RAMBLES IN LONDON. 12& culiar to the English aristocracy. He, however, does not seem to be an ambitious man, or he would not stay in this village-like church in the suburbs of the city. His health may have something to do with it ; but I imagine the half rural aspect and quiet air of Camberwell suit him better than the turmoil, and tumult, and feverish existence of a more metropolitan life. It is quite a long step from this to Hyde Park, and the scene that presents itself is quite different from that of a house of worship. It is a week day, and through this immense park are driving in all direc- tions the gay and luxurious nobility of England. About five o'clock in the evening the throng is the thickest, and along every winding road that intersects these magnificent grounds are passing splendid car- riages, or elegant delicate structures of the wealthy and noble, making the whole scene a moving pano- rama. Here English ladies show their skill with the whip, and drive their high-spirited horses with the rapidity and safety of a New York omnibus driver. Look, there goes a beautiful, light, graceful thing, dravrn by two cream-colored ponies, or rather very small horses, with silver manes and tails. Of fault- less form, they tread daintily along, while behind, on two other ponies of the same size and color precisely, are mounted two outriders, who dog that light vehicle as if it were death to lose sight of it. The only occupant of that carriage is a lady, fat and hand- some, with auburn hair, b}ue eyes, and a full, open face, who, with the reins in one hand, and the whip 180 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. in the other, is thus taking her airing. As she passes me, a long stretch of road is before her, and with a slight touch the graceful team spring away, while the fair driver, leanly gently forward, with a tight rein guides them in their rapid course. Those two out- riders have hard work to keep up with the carriage of their mistress as it flies onward. That lady is the Marchioness of P., a noted beauty. I give this simply as a specimen of the manner in which the ladies of the English nobility amuse them- selves. It is no small accomplishment to be a good whip, and the lady who can manage a spirited team is prouder of her achievement than if she performed a thousand domestic duties. What a singular thing custom is ! I have seen women in our frontier settle- ments going to the mill, and driving both horses and oxen with admirable skill, nay, pitching, and loading grain. The Dutch girls in Pennsylvania will rake and bind equal to any man, and many of our western females perform masculine duties with the greatest success ; but we have not generally regarded these things as accomplishments. It makes a great difler- ence, however, whether it is done from necessity or from choice. It is singular to see how our refinement and luxury always tend to the rougher state of so- ciety, and not unfrequently to that bordering, in many respects, on savage life. Gladiatorial shows, bull-fights, &c., spring out from the weariness and ennui of a refined, lazy, voluptuous life. The want of excitement produces these spectacles ; for when men become insensible to the more refined pleasures, RAMBLES IN LONDON. 131 from their long gratification, they seek the stimula- tion of grosser ones. Exhausted luxury must ter- minate in brutal debasement or brutal ferocity, and just in proportion as the senses are gratified does man seek for the stronger stimulants, which are found in that state of society bordering nearest on animal life* This luxury produces the opposite of true re- finement, say what those will who rule in the high places of fashion. But I will speak of Hyde Park again, and will just step across to St. James's Park, which is laid out with an eye as much to taste as to convenience. A little lake slumbers in the centre, on which ducks are quietly saihng, and green and beautiful trees are shaking their freshness down on the dreamy groups that are strolling about, while palaces on every side shut in with their gorgeous fronts the large and de- lightful area. I was sauntering along, musing as I went, when a single horseman came on a plunging trot towards me. It needed no second look to tell me it was the "iron duke." That face, seen in every print-shop in London, with its hooked nose, thin, spare features, and pecuhar expression, is never mis- taken by the most indifferent observer. He had on a gray tweed overcoat, which cost him probably five or six dollars, and his appearance, manner and all, was that of a common gentleman. He is an ungraceful rider, notwithstanding so much of his life has been passed on horseback, and in the field; but I must confess that the kind of exercise he has been sub- jected to in that department was not the most favor- 132 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. able to elegance of attitude in the saddle. His long and wearisome campaigns and fierce battles bave de- manded endurance and toil, and though his seat is not that of a riding-master, he has nevertheless ridden to some purpose in his life. As I turned and watched his receding form, I could not but think of the stormy scenes he had passed through, and the wild tumult amid which he had urged his steed. There are Albuera, Badajos, Salamanca, St. Sebastian, and last of all, Waterloo, about as savage scenes as one would care to recall. Where death reaped down the brave fastest, and the most horrid carnage covered the field ; amid the smoke and thunder of a thousand cannon, and the fearful shocks of cavalry, he has ridden as calmly as I see him now moving away into yonder avenue of trees. The Duke has a house near by, in a most dilapi- dated state, which he, with his accustomed obstinacy, steadily refuses to repair. The mob in their fury thus defaced it, and he is determined it shall stand as a monument of lawless violence. His great influence in the administration of the government, has made him the object of marked hatred to that whole class of men who are starving for want of work, and yet have sense enough to know who are their oppressors. Once he came near being trodden under foot by them. They pressed fiercely upon his steps as he rode along the street, and were just about to drag him from his horse, when a cartman drove his cart right behind him, and kept it steadily there, notwithstanding every effort to push the bold fellow aside. His devotion RAMBLES IN LONBOZsT. 133 saved the Duke, and the latter was so grateful for it, that he made every effort afterwards to discover his name, for the purpose of rewarding him, but never did. Soon after, I came to Buckingham Palace, the royal residence, and seeing a crowd at the main en- trance, I asked a sentinel on guard what it meant. He replied that the Queen was every moment ex- pected. This was a sight worth stopping to see, so I fell into the ranks that were arranged on each side of the gate. I had not waited long before several outriders came up on a full gallop, and the ponderous gate swung back on its hinges as if touched by an enchanter's wand, while those horseman reined up on either side, and stood as if suddenly turned into statues. Soon an open carriage, drawn by six horses, came up with a rapid sweep, followed by several men in gold lace on horseback. There was quite a move- ment at the sight of this cortege, yet there was noth- ing particularly imposing in it. The top of the car- riage had been thrown back, giving it the appearance of a barouche, and within sat two ladies and two gen- tlemen, looking for all the world like any other well- dressed people ; yet one of those ladies was the Queen of England, and one of those gentlemen was Prince Albert. The Queen had on a straw hat and a light shawl, and with her very plain face, full and unplea- sant eye, retreating chin, and somewhat cross expres- sion in her look, seemed any thing but an interesting woman. The portraits of her have as little of her features in them as they well could ; for Victoria, as 12 134 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. Queen of England, is a very plain woman, wWle Vic- toria, a milliner, would be called somewhat ugly. The royal cortege swept into the court, the gates swung back on their hinges, and the blessed vision had departed. The Queen, however, had deigned to bow to me — that is, to us, some fifty or a hundred — and I turned away to my hotel wondering when the farce of queens would end. Here is one of the most powerful empires in the world, sustained by the most powerful intellects it possesses, with a mere stick, a puppet moved by wires, placed over it. A young woman who probably could not manage an ordinary school well, is presented with the reins of govern- ment, because the registry says that her great-grand- father's uncle, or some similar relative, once wore a crown legitimately. So hoary-headed statesmen, the proud, the great, and the wealthy, come and bow the knee, and hail her sovereign who they know really exercises no more sway than a wooden image placed in her stead, with a little royal blood dropped into its mouth by way of consecrating it. This putting up the mere symbol of royalty, and then bowing with such solemn mockery before it, will yet appear as ludicrous as the worship of the Grand Lama, when an infant six months old, by the people of Thibet. RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 135 CHAPTER IX. RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. THE THAMES. — HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. — SIR ROBERT PEEL, LORD LYNDHURST, AND LORD BROUGHAM. — WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I FREQUENTLY strolled through the streets of Lon- don to the Thames ; for I loved to stand on one of the many noble bridges that span it, and gaze on the graceful arches of the others, and watch the throng of little steamboats that flew about on every side in the most funny manner imaginable, as if worried to death in the effort to keep the multitudinous craft around and the busy wharves in order. They shot and darted hither and thither — now bowing their long pipes to pass under an arch, and now emerging into view, flying along the stream as if possessed with the power of will. And then their names were so pretty— "Daylight," "Starlight," "Moonlight," " Sunbeam," etc., etc., just fitted for such wee bits of things. This world-renowned Thames is a small affair, and bears about the same proportion to our noble Hudson as our Croton aqueduct does to it. No wonder that an Englishman, born and bred in London, and taught to consider the Thames as a very fine 136 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. river, sliould regard the accounts of our majestic streams with incredulity. An American standing beside the Thames one day with an Englishman, took occasion to speak of the Missouri, a mere tributary of the Mississippi, and in order to convey some defi- nite idea of its size, told how many of the Thames it would hold. When he had finished, the Englishman simply gave a long whistle and turned on his heel, as much as to say, " You don't suppose I'm such a fool as to believe that !" This, by the way, is a fair illus- tration of the manner we this side of the water get wrong impressions of foreign nations from English- men. It must be remembered that an Englishman never looks on any country in the abstract, or by itself, but always in comparison with his own. Eng- land is the standard by which to judge of the size, and state, and degree of civilization of all other countries on the globe. Thus we have heard a thou- sand changes rung on the clear sky of Italy, till every traveler looks up, the moment he touches the Italian coast, to see the aspect of the heavens. He finds them blue and beautiful enough, and immediately goes into ecstasies ; when the fact is, the sky that has bent over him from his infancy is as clear and bright an arch as spans any land the sun shines upon. There is a softness in the Italian sky not found in the United States, but no clearness equal to ours. The English, accustomed to everlasting mists, are struck with astonishment at the pure air of Italy, and utter endless exclamations upon it. This is natural, for a Londoner considers a perfectly bright EAMBLES ABOUT LONDO]^. 137 and clear day at home as a sort of phenomenon, not expected to occur except at long intervals. The at- mosphere of London is a perpetual fog ; the pleasant days are when this fog is thin and light, and the cloudy days when it soaks you to the skin. As you get up morning after morning and see this moveless mist about you, you wish for one of those brisk north- westers that come sweeping down the Hudson, chasing all vapors fiercely out to sea. But let me take a peep at the two houses of Parlia- ment. Our minister, Mr. Everett, has sent me his card with his ambassadorial seal upon it, which gives me the entree to the House of Lords ; while Mr. Macaulay has kindly given me access to the House of Commons. I visited the latter more frequently than the former, for there is always more life in the representation of the people than in that of a mere shadow, nobility, A very fine building for the sessions of Parliament is going up, but the rooms in which the two houses now meet are very ordinary afi*airs. The chamber of the House of Commons looks more like one of our mongrel churches — met with in some country places — half church, half school-house, than any thing I can think of. Some of the members are compelled to sit in the gallery, while the seats are of the most common kind. One is struck on approach- ing the House of Commons in seeing so many saddle- horses held by servants, as if a squadron of troopers had just dismounted ; but on entering, the mystery is dispelled ; for there sit the owners, some with hats on, others with their feet on the backs of benches before 12^' 138 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. them, Tv^Itli their riding-whips in their hands. The younger members of Parliament regard the sittings of the House a bore, and come in only now and then and stay a short time, for the sake of propriety ; then mount their horses and away. I heard Robert Peel speak here one evening, in reply to young O'Connell, nephew of Daniel O'Connell. O'Connell, a short, thick-set man, was full of fire and ardor, like his race, and dealt his blows on the right hand and on the left with downright good-will, if not always with the greatest skill. Peel's whole manner and reply were characteristic of the well-bred Englishman. He was carefully dressed, and his entire speech was marked by that urbanity and good sense which usually distinguish him. He had on light-colored pantaloons, a light vest, and brown coat ; and, with his full fresh face, looked the perfect picture of health and good living. Probably there is not a man in England that does more thinking and down- right hard work than he, and yet his appearance indicates one who lives a life of ease and comfort, sets a fine table, and enjoys a good glass of wine. How, amid the harassing cares of his station, and the incessant toil to which he is subject, he manages to retain that florid complexion, full habit, and bland expression, I cannot divine. I believe it is a mere physical habit, that is, the expression of his face; but still that does not explain how he is able to keep in such good bodily condition. There is much com- plaint of the rude manners of our representatives in Congress ; and they are an unruly, rough set of men RAMBLES ABOUT LONDOX. 139 as one would wish to see in any legislative liall ; but the members of England's House of Commons are quite as uncouth and ill-bred in their behavior. The House of Lords, like the Senate, has more dignity, but the room in which it sits is inferior even to that of the Lower House. It would make a re- spectable session room for some church, and nothing more. Lord Lyndhurst was on the woolsack when I went in, and, with his immense powdered wig and gown, looked comical enough to my republican eyes. I could hardly divest myself of the impression that I was looking on some old picture, till he opened his mouth to speak. This same Lord Lyndhurst, Lord High Chancellor of England, was once a poor boy in the streets of Boston. His father was a painter in the city, but managed to give his son a good educa- tion ; and industry and genius did the rest. A law- yer in England, he went up, step after step, till he finally found himself on the '' tvoolsadc^'' which, by the way, is simply a huge red cushion somewhere near the centre of the House of Lords. I had also a fair look at Lord Brougham, whose face indicates any thing but greatness. But with all his genius, he bids fair to make a wreck of himself. His misfor- tunes or own evil nature have made him a dissipated man ; and there are stories told of him in London which would disgrace a member of the Empire Club of New York. It is stupid, sitting in the House of Lords when no exciting topic is on the tapis, for it is sim.piy a dull routine of business. 140 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. Westminster Abbey is close by, and let us step up into it a moment, and walk amid the tombs of the mighty dead. This old structure has stood the wear and tear of centuries, witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms, and seen changes that have altered the face of the world. Yet still it stands in its ancient strength, the sepulchre of England's kings, and poets, and historians, and warriors. Its exterior would ar- rest the eye as a fine specimen of architecture. It is built in the form of a cross, four hundred and sixteen feet in length, and nearly two hundred feet in breath. Two noble towers rise from the west end, and are two hundred and twenty feet high. But the interest is all within. The choir occupies the centre of the building, and hence destroys the effect of the nave, ,and indeed lessen to the eye the magnitude of the building. All around the sides are small chapels, in which lie kings and queens in great abundance, each surmounted by monuments characteristic of the age in which he or she lived. Here lies an old Saxon king, and near by sleeps Henry V. The chapel of Henry VII. is the greatest curiosity in the Abbey, being built itself in the form of a cathedral, with nave and side aisles, and is adorned with Gothic towers, while the ceiling is wrought into a variety of designs, and all from the solid stone. Two heavy brass gates open into it, and one feels, as he stands amid its strange architecture, as if he were in the presence of. the ancient centuries. But let us stroll around this old Abbey, whose at- mosphere is so different from that of the busy world RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 141 without. It is all tombs, tombs, tombs — standing silent and mournful in the '^ dim religious light;" and one treads at every step on the ashes of greatness and pride. Here is a monument to Shakspeare, and there lies Milton, the poet of heaven, whose lyre rang with strains that had never before fallen on mortal ears. Underneath him sleeps Gray, and on the tablet above him stands the Muse, pointing to the bust of Milton, with this inscription : — " No more the Grecian muse unrivaled reigns. To Britian let the nations homage pay ; She felt a Homer's power in Milton's strains, A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of Gray." Near by is Dryden's monument, and a little farther away that of Chaucer and Spenser. Here, too, are Thomson — sweet poet of the Seasons — and Addison, and Butler, the author of ^'Hudibras." But what a contrast do the monuments of John Gay and Handel exhibit ! On the former, is the epitaph written by himself, for himself : — "Life is a jest, and all things show it; I thought so once, and row I know it." Before the figure of the other is placed the '^ Mes- siah," opened at the passage '^ I know that my Re- deemer liveth." Can any thing illustrate more forcibly the difference between the views of the wicked man and those of the Christian — one saying, even in his grave, "Life is a jest, and now I know it;" and the other uttering in exulting accents, "I know that my 142 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. Redeemer liveth?" "With what different hope and feelings, must two men of whom one can utter these sentiments in sincerity, go out of the world ! Which is most likely to have his knowledge prove false ? A little further on is a monument to Andr^, the spy, and Garrick, the actor. Here, too, are sleeping, side by side, Pitt and Fox, rivals no more ; and here also are Grattan, and Canning, and Sheridan, and more than all, Isaac Newton. But step once more into this side chapel. There are sleeping, almost wdthin reach of each other, Mary and Elizabeth. The beautiful but erring queen of the Scots, rests in her mxouldering tomb as quietly as her proud and success- ful rival. The haughty Elizabeth sent her to the scaffold, and held her proud sceptre in security, and vainly thought that her reputation was secure. Years rolled by, and she, too, was compelled to lie down in death. A nation mourned her departure — princes and nobles followed her to the tomb, and there were all the pageantry and pomp of a kingly funeral when she was borne to her resting-place. Centuries have passed aw^ay, and history has drawn the curtain from before her throne ; and now pilgrims come from every land to visit her tomb and that of her rival. Ah, could she listen to the words spoken over her grave, hear the sighs breathed over the beautiful Mary, and the scorn and contempt poured on her own queenly head, she w^ould learn that the act by which she thought to have humbled her rival, has covered her own head with infamy. The tw^o queens sleep side hy side ; but who thinks of Elizabeth over the tomb RAMBLES ABOUT LO^N^DOX. 143 of Mary but to scorn her ? Had she let her rival live, her errors would have ruined her fame ; but now the mournful and cruel fate to which she fell a victim covers her faults, and fills the heart with sympathy rather than condemnation. Oh ! what a contrast the interior of this old Abbey presents to the world without ! London, great, busy, tumultuous London, is shaking to the tread of her million of people, while here all is sad, mournful, and silent. The waves of human life surge up against the walls, but cannot enter; the dead reign here. From the throne, the halls of state, and the heights of fame, men have come hither in their coffins, and disappeared from the world they helped to change. As one stands beneath these old arches, it seems as if a monarch whose word was fate, had sat enthroned here century after century, and slowly beckoned to the great to descend from their eminences, and lay their proud foreheads in the dust at his feet. Overlooking all the common herd, he would have none but the lordly as his victims. He beckons the king, and he lays aside his sceptre and royal apparel, and with a mournful countenance obeys, and descends into the tomb. He waves his imperial hand to the statesman whose single intellect rules- the nation, and he ceases his toil, and lies down beside his monarch. He nods to the orator, and his eloquence dies away in indis- tinct murmurs, and with a palsied tongue, he too, yields to the irresistible decree. The poet is stopped in the midst of his song, and with lyre snapped in his hand, hastens to this great charnel-house. Thus, 144 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. century after century, has this invisible being stood under the gloomy arches of Westminster Abbey, and called the great and the kingly to him ; and lo ! what a rich harvest lies at his feet ! and still he is calhng, and still they come, one after another, and the mar- ble falls over them. What a congregation of dead are here ! Some of the noblest hearts that ever beat are mouldering under my feet, and I tread over more greatness than ever did the haughtiest tread upon when alive. After wandering for an hour in this sombre place, I emerged into the daylight once more, with strange feelings. For a moment, I could not shake oflf the belief I had been dreaming. I had lived so com- pletely with the past, that the present had been for- gotten ; and now, as it came back again, it seemed that one or the other must be a dream. Carriages were rattling around, and the hasty multitude went pouring on, and the jar and hum of London went up like the confused noise from some great battle-field. The tide of human life rolled fiercely on, shaking the gray Abbey on its ancient foundations ; but none of it reached the ears of the mighty sleepers within. Their work was long since done. I do not remember ever to have had such feelings but once in my life before, and that was in emerging from the tombs of the Scipios, near Rome. The sun was just sinking in the west as I entered the gloomy portals by torch- light, and roamed through the damp and sombre apartments. As I saw the names of those ancient Romans above the place where they had reposed, time RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 145 seemed suddenly to have been annihilated, and I felt as if standing in the burial-ground of those who had but just died. The familiarity of the scene made it appear real, and when I again stood at the mouth of the tomb and looked off on the landscape, it was some time before I could fairly recall my scattered senses. The fields appeared strange, and the glorious light that glowed where the sun had gone down, looked mysterious and new. With my heart full of mournful reflections on the fleeting nature of all human greatness, and with a deeper awe of the tomb that crowds such great souls into its portals, I strolled homeward, scarce mindful of the throng through which I passed, and noticing it only to sigh over its evanescence, still sweeping on to the dark inane, wave after wave striking on the un- seen shore of the future, but sending back no echo. Flowing ever onward, and no returning wave, •We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.'* 13 146 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES, CHAPTER X. RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. STARVING CHILDREN. — LONDON BRIDGES. — MADAME TUSSAUD'S exhibition. — BONAPARTE'S CARRIAGE. WINDSOR CASTLE. — THE QUEEN'S STABLES. . I WAS constantly meeting in London evidences of the miserable condition of the poor. Though there is a law forbidding street begging, it cannot prevent the poor wretches from asking for bread. I was struck with the character of many of the beggars that accosted me, so unlike those I had been accustomed to meet. I had just come from Italy, where the whining tone, pitiful look, and drawling "me misera- bile!'' "fame!" "per carita!" and the ostentatious display of deformed limbs, had rendered me somewhat hardened to all such appeals. But here it was quite different. Men of stout frames, upright bearing, and manly voices, would tell me in a few plain words that they were out of work, and that their families were starving ! One pleasant afternoon, as I was strolling up Lud- gate Hill, filled with the multitude, I saw a sight I shall never forget ; it even arrested the Londoners, accustomed as they are to all kinds of misery, and a RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 147 group \ras collected on the walk. Two cliildren, a boy and a girl, the latter I should judge about eight, and the former, five or six years of age, sat on the flagging, pressed close against the wall, wholly un- conscious of the passing multitude. In their dress, appearance, and all, they seemed to have been just taken from some damp, dark cellar, where they had been for months deprived of light and almost of sus- tenance. Their clothes were in rags, black, damp, and ready to drop from their crouching bodies ; their cheeks were perfectly colorless, as if bleached for a long time in the dews of a dungeon, and the little boy was evidently dying. How they came there, no one could tell ; but there sat the sister, struggling feebly to sustain her sinking brother. The poor little fel- low sat with his head waving to and fro, and his eyes closed, while his sister, to whom some one had given a morsel of bread, was crowding the food into his mouth, conscious that famine was the cause of his illnes.«. The spectators, moved by the touching spec- tacle, rained money into her lap; but she did not even deign to pick it up or thank them, but, with her pale face bent in the deepest anxiety on her bro- ther, kept forcing the bread into his mouth. The tears came unbidden to my eyes, and I also threw my mite of charity into her lap and hastened away. Oh ! how strange it is that men will roll in wealth, and every day throw away what would make hun- dreds happy, and yet feel no reproaches of conscience for their acts ! We hear much nowadays of the hor- rors of war ; but there is no battle-field which exhi- 148 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. bits such woe, and suffering, and mortality, as the streets, and lanes, and cellars of London. Even our preachers are on the wrong track in their efforts to ameliorate the condition of our race. It is not war, nor ambition, nor intemperance, nor any of the great vices so openly condemned, that lies at the bottom of human misery. It is covetousness — the thirst for gold, which fills the church too much, as it does the world — ay, so much that it cannot be touched by the hand of discipline — that makes our earth a place of tears. These very vices, against which such ana- themas are hurled, grow out of this very covetous- ness, that is treated as an imperfection rather than a crime. The place that Christ gave it no one dare now give it, and man is left to mourn in poverty and want, and all the hateful passions of the wretched left to rise up in rebellion and scorn against the heartless religion that condemns their vices and urges them to repentance, while it leaves them and their children to starve. " The Ohurch/' par excel- lence, of England, may treble her prelates and her incomes, build countless cathedrals, and pray for the salvation of the world till doomsday ; but, so long as she robs the poor, and neglects the physical condition of the suffering, she will pray to a deaf God. " To visit the widow and the fatherless in their distress" is one of the chief duties of religion, and yet the Church of England never does it ; on the contrary, she sends the tithe collector in her place. But I have not yet given a general description of London. Well, this city of more than a million of inhabitants, RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 149 occupies about one thousand four hundred square acres packed with houses. It is about eight miles long and between four and five broad ; so that, you see, Harlem Island will have to be packed pretty close before New York equals London in its popula- tion. It is divided into West End, occupied by the noble and wealthy ; the City Proper, embracing the central portion, which constituted old London; the East End, devoted to commerce and trade, and busi- ness of every kind, and hence filled with dust and filth; Southwark, made up, in a great measure, of manufactories and the houses of the operatives ; and Westminster, containing the royal palace, parks, two Houses of Parliament, and the old Abbey. There are two hundred thousand houses in this mammoth city, eighty squares, and ten thousand streets, lanes, rows, &c. The bridges, to which I referred in my former ar- ticle, constitute one of the chief beauties of London, There are six of them, and magnificent structures they are. A suspension bridge is also in contem- plation ; and then there is Thames Tunnel, tie won- der of the world, of which I will say something more by and by. Of these six bridges. New London is by far the finest. Vauxhall, about seven hundred feet long, is made of cast iron, and composed of nine arches of seventy-eight feet span. Westminster is of stone, over a thousand feet long, and cost nearly two million dollars. Blackfriars is a thousand feet in length, and has nine arches. This is also of stone. Southwark is of cast iron, and, though nearly seven 13* 150 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. hundred feet in length, is composed of but' three arches, the middle one being two hundred and forty feet span, the largest in the world. The effect of this central arch is beautiful, especially when a whole fleet of boats is beneath it, and a whole crowd of people streaming across it. The New London, which has taken the place of the Old London Bridge, is indeed a noble structure. It is built of Scotch granite, and goes stepping across the Thames in five beautiful arches, completing this wonderful group of bridges, the like of which no city in the world can furnish. It cost seven and a half millions of dollars, while the six together were built at the enormous ex- pense of over fourteen and a half millions. Across them is a constant stream of people, and a hundred and fifty thousand are supposed to pass New London alone daily. One is amazed, the moment he begins to compute the enormous wealth laid out on public works in this great city. The finest buildings it con- tains are St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace. There are other magnifi- cent buildings, but these are the most prominent. St. Paul's is a noble structure, and, as you stand un- der the magnificent dome, it seems higher than that of St. Peter's, in Rome. The grand scale on which every thing in the latter is built, deceives the eye when attempting to measure any one object in parti- cular. But the dome of St. Paul's is so much larger in proportion to other parts of the building, that you look at it almost as if it stood by itself. Around the RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 151 •walls are monuments to the dead warriors, statesmen, &c., some of them being fine specimens of sculpture. One of the most peculiar things that strikes the eye of the beholder when looking on Buckingham Palace, is a huge bronze lion standing on the top, with head and tail erect. The rampant attitude, as it is pre- sented in such strong relief against the sky, has a singular efiect. It is quite characteristic, however, of the nation it represents, for rampant enough it has been, as the history of the world will testify. France, Spain, the East, America, and the islands of the sea, can all bear testimony to the appropriateness of the symbol. This Anglo-Saxon race is strangely aggres- sive ; no people, except the ancient Romans, ever equaled them. Without being cruel, their thirst for conquest and desire of territory are insatiable. This evil trait has not disappeared in the children, but exhibits itself just as strongly on our side of the water, and under a republican form of government. One of the curiosities of London was Madame Tussaud's exhibition of wax figures. She has nearly all the distinguished characters of the present age, as large as life, and executed with remarkable fidelity. Robbers, murderers, &c., figure in this strange collec- tion. As I was strolling around, I came upon Cob- bett, in his plain, Quaker-like garb, without noticing him. As I cast my eye down, I saw a man with a gray coat and a white hat sitting with a snufi'-box in his hand, his head gently nodding, as if in approval of something he saw ; and it never occurred to me he was not a live man, and I passed him a step without 152 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. suspecting I was giving a wax figure such a wide berth. Among other things, was a corpse of some woman, I forget who, the most human looking thing I ever saw not made of flesh and blood. In an ad- joining apartment were several rehcs of Bonaparte, among others, two of his teeth and his traveling car- riage. This carriage Napoleon had made on purpose for himself and Berthier, and was used by him during all his later campaigns. It was divided into two compartments, one for himself and one for his chief of the staff. Napoleon had it so arranged that he could he down and sleep when weary, or when tra- veling all night, with a little secretary, which he could by a touch, spread open before him, and seve- ral drawers for his dispatches and papers of all kinds. He had also made arrangements for a traveling library, which he designed to fill with small editions of the most select books in the world. I could not but think, as I sat in it, what vast plans had been formed in its narrow apartments — plans changing the fate of the world, and what mental agitation and suffering it had also witnessed. As it was whirled onward along the road, the restless spirit within dis- posed of crowns and thrones, changed dynasties, and made the earth tremble. From thence issued decrees that sent half a milHon of men into the field of battle, and from thence, too, terms have been dictated to humbled kings. Another of the exhibitions in this same building was "artificial Z(?6," a curious thing, by the way, to manufacture. Windsor Castle is some twelve or fifteen miles from I EAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 153 London, and of course is visited by every traveler. It was a pleasant morning — that is, as pleasant as it ever is in London — when I jumped into the cars of the great western railway, and shot ofi* towards Wind- sor. I roamed over this magnificent castle with feel- ings very difierent from those I had experienced as I mused amid the ruins of feudal times on the continent Here was an old castle, yet perfect in all its parts, enjoying a fresh old age, and blending the present with the past, just enough to mellow the one and give life to the other. William the Conqueror laid the foundation of this structure when he built a fortress here, and the kings of England have, from time to time, enlarged and repaired it, till it now stands one of the finest castles in the world. The Queen being at Buckingham Palace, visitors were allowed to pass through it without trouble. I am not going to de- scribe it ; but there it stands on that eminence, with its gray turrets, and round towers and walls, and stern aspect, as haughty and imposing an object as you could wish to look upon. There are no jousts and tournaments to-day in its courts — no floating banners that tell of knights gathered for battle ; but the sentinel is quietly pacing up and down, and here and there a soldier informs you that you are in the precincts of royalty. I will not speak of the ante^ room, vestibule, throne room, with their paintings both in fresco and on canvass ; nor of the Waterloo chamber, where William IV. gave dinners in honor of the battle of Waterloo ; nor of St. George's Hall, two hundred feet long ; nor of the Queen's presence 154 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and. audience chamber; nor of the choice paintings that cover the walls of these apartments. One must see them, to appreciate their effect on the mind. But you may, if strong of limb, wind up and up the stone staircase of the Round tower, and look off on the extended landscape. The mist is not thick to-day, and the parks and trees, nay, forests, below, shaven lawns, pools, and lakes, are scattered about in endless variety. Twelve shires are visible from the summit of this tower, and the limitless landscape melts away in the distance, for there are no mountains to bound the vision. Windsor town is below, and a little far- ther away the white walls of Eton College rise amid the green foliage. Descending from the tower, I left the castle and entered St. George's Chapel. The architecture of this building is fine. The roof is richly carved, and the western window is a magnificent specimen of stained glass. But one of the most singular things to an American eye is the stalls of the knights of the garter, on each side of the choir. As all the knights of this order have been installed here, each one of course has his stall appropriated to him, and there, beneath a carved canopy, hangs his sword, mantle, crest, helmet, and mouldering banner. I looked upon these silent symbols, covered with dust, with strange and blended feelings. Noble names are in that list of knights ; but where is the strong arm and stalwart frame ? Gone, leaving but these perish- ing symbols behind. Their effect on the mind is like that of an elegy on the dead — a world of mournful RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 155 associations cluster around them, and their motionless aspect and unbroken silence are more eloquent than •v^ords. There is a beautiful cenatoph here of the Princess Charlotte, erected by Wyatt. The body of the Princess is lying on a bier, covered with the habili- ments of death, while the face, too, is shrouded in drapery. Around her, with faces also veiled, kneel the mourners, while the soul of the Princess, in the form of an angelic being, is soaring exultingly home- wards. As a group of statuary, it has great merits as well as some great defects. I turned from old Windsor Castle and its feudal associations, from St. George's Chapel and its solemn and sombre choir, to the Queen's stables. A special permit is recjuired to get access to these ; but as I had seen how Victoria and her nobles lived, I was curious to see also how her horses fared. I do not know how many there were in the stables, but I should think thirty or forty. Here were beautiful carriage horses, saddle horses, and ponies, lodged in apartments that tens of thousands of her subjects would thank God if they could occupy. Thus goes the world. Parliament could reject a bill which appro- priated a small sum of money to the purposes of edu- cation, and yet vote thirty thousand dollars to re- plenish and repair the Queen's stables. Here, too, are carriages of every variety, from the delicate, fairy-like thing which is drawn by ponies, to the heavy travehng carriage ; and bridles and saddles of the choicest kind. I could not but think, as I looked on these fine apartments for the horses, and the use- 156 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. less expenditure in carriages, fee, of the starving population of London and the thousands of poor children in the factories. What kind of government is that which will tax the wretched human being, nay, deprive him of education, to lavish the money on horses and stables ? The English government is well fitted for national strength and greatness, but most miserably arranged to secure competence to the lower classes. However, she is slowly changing be- fore that mighty movement that no power can resist — the onward progress of the principle of freedom. One of these days, these now apparently sluggish and wretched masses will rise in their strength and terror, and by one terrible blow settle the long arrears of guilt with the luxurious, profligate nobility of Eng- land, and begin to reap the fields they have so long sown. Woe to her when that day shall come ! EAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 157 CHAPTER XL RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. THE TOWER OF LONDON. It is said that Webster had scarcely arrived in London, before lie ordered a carriage, and drove to the Tower. There is probably no building in the world so fraught with history, and around which cluster so many and varied associations as this. — Kings have held their courts there ; and there, too, lain in chains. Queens, princes, nobles, and menials have by turns occupied its gloomy dungeons. The shout of revelry, triumphant strains of music, and groans of the dying, and shrieks of murdered victims, have successively and together made its massive walls ring. Every stone in that gray old structure has a history to tell — it stands the grand and gloomy trea- sure-house of England's feudal and military glory. Centuries have come and gone, whole dynasties dis- appeared, and yet that old tower still rises in its strength. It has seen old monarchies crumble to pieces, and new ones rise — the feeble town become the gorgeous and far extending city — the Roman galley give place to the fleets of commerce — the heavy-armed knight, with his hauberk, and helmet, 14 158 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and shield, disappear before the cabman and omnibus driver of London. The pomp and glory of knightly days have vanished before the spirit of trade and the thirst for gain. The living tide rolls like the sea around it ; yet there it stands, silent yet eloquent — unwasted by time, unchanged by the changes that destroy or modify all things human. It has a double effect, standing as it does amid modern improve- ments. The moment one crosses the ditch and passes un- der the gloomy arch, he seems in another world — breathing a different atmosphere, and watching the progress of a different life. All the armor ever worn in ancient days — every instrument of torture or of death, used in the dark ages — crowns and sceptres and jewels, are gathered here with a prodigality that astonishes the beholder. We enter by the "Lyons' Gate," and crossing what was once occupied as the royal menagerie^ pass to the Middle Tower, near which is the Bell Tower, where hangs the alarm-bell, whose toll is seldom heard. Here, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was im- prisoned for refusing to acknowledge the supremacy of Henry VIII., and afterwards executed. A httle farther on is the " Traitor's Gate," and near by, the Bloody Tower, where, it is said, the two princes — nephews of Richard HI. — were suffocated by their uncle. The armory is mostly gone, having been de- stroyed in the conflagration which took place a few years ago. But here is the Horse Armory, a hun- RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 159 dred and fifty feet long, and thirty-three wide, with a line of equestrian figures, as if in battle array, stretching through the centre. A banner is over the head of each — the ceiling is covered with arms and accoutrements — the walls with armor and figures of ancient warriors ; and over all rest the dust and rust of time. That row of twenty-two horsemen, large as life, armed to the teeth, with helmet and cuirass and breastplate and coats of mail, and lances and swords and battle-axes and shields, sitting grim and silent there, is a sight one will not easily forget. They seem ready to charge on the foe, and their atti- tude and aspect are so fierce, that .one almost trembles to walk in front of the steeds. But pass along these dusty kings and knights of old. Here sits Edward I., of 1272, clad in mail worn in the time of the crusades, and bearing a shield in his left hand. So, haughty king, thou didst look when the brave and gallant Wallace lay a prisoner in these dungeons, from whence he was dragged by thy order, tied to the tails of horses, and quartered and torn asunder with fiendish cruelty. Next to the tyrant and brute sits Henry VI., who, too feeble to rule the turbulent times, became the in- mate of a dungeon here, and was one night darkly murdered in his cell. Gay Edward IV., in his dash- ing armor we pass by, for here sits an ancient knight in a suit of ribbed mail, with ear-guards to his helmet and rondelles for the armpits, and altogether one of the finest suits of armor in the world. Beside him is another knight, his horse clad in complete armor, and 160 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. a battleaxe hanging at the saddle-bow. Beware, you are crowding against the horse of old Henry VIII. That is the very armor the bloody- monarch wore. His relentless hand has grasped that short sword, and around his brutal form that very belt once passed, and beneath that solid breastplate his wild and ferocious heart did beat. Horse and horse- man are clad in steel from head to heel ; and, as I gazed on him there, I wanted to whisper in his ears the names of his murdered wives. Here all the pomp of royal magnificence honored the nuptials of Anne Boleyn, and here, three years after, she lay a pri- soner — the beautiful, the honored, and rejected — and wrote from her dungeon to her relentless lord, say- ing:— " Let not your Grace ever imagine that your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, when not so much as a thought thereof, ever proceeded ^ ^ ^ Try me, good king, but let me have a lawfull tryall ; and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges, yea, let me receive an open tryall, for my truth shall fear no open shames ^ ^ ^ But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander must bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that he will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, the instru- ments thereof, and that he will not call you to a strict account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me at his general judg- ment-seat, where both you and me myself, must shortly appear, and in whose judgment, I doubt not, (whatsoever the world may think of me,) mine innocence shall be openly recorded and sufficiently cleared. " From my dolefull prison in the Tower, this 6th of May. " Yofir most loyall and ever faithfuU wife, ''ANNE BOLEYN." EAMBLES ABOUT LOIs^DOK. 161 It availed not, proud king, and that beautiful neck was severed at thy command; but, at that dread judg- ment to which she summons thee, her tremulous voice — lost here on earth in the whirlwind of passion — shall be to thy ear louder than a peal of thunder. Katharine Howard is another swift witness ; last, though not least, the Countess of Salisbury. This high-spirited woman, though seventy years of age, was condemned to death for treason. When brought out for execution, she refused to place her head on the block, declaring she was no traitress, and the ex- ecutioner followed her around on the scaffold, striking at her hoary head with his axe until she fell. But I will not dwell on these separate figures. As I looked on this long line of kings sitting motionless on their motionless steeds, the sinewy hand strained over the battleaxe, the identical sword they wielded centuries ago flashing on my sight, and the very spurs on their heels that were once driven into their war steeds as they thundered over the battle plain, the plumes seemed to wave before my eyes, and the shout of kings to roll through the arches. The hand grasp- ing the reins on the horses' necks seemed a live hand, and the clash of the sword, the shield, and the battle- axe, and the mailed armor, rung in my ear. I looked again, and the dream was dispelled. Motionless as the walls around them they sat, mere effigies of the past. Yet how significant ! Each figure there was a history, and all monuments of England's glory as she was. At the farther end of the adjoining room eat a solitary " crusader on his barbed horse, said to 14* 162 HAMBLES AND SKETCHES. be 700 years old." Stern old grim figure ! on the very trappings of thy steed, and on that thick plaited mail, has flashed the sun of Palestine. Thou didst stand perchance with that gallant host led on by the wondrous hermit, on the last hill that overlooked Je- rusalem, and when the Holy City was seen lying like a beautiful vision below, glittering in the soft light of an eastern sunset, that flooded Mount Moriah, Mount Zion, and Mount Olivet, with its garden of sufi*ering, and more than all. Mount Calvary, the voice from out that visor did go up with the mighty murmur of the bannered host, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem!'' On that very helmet perchance has the cimeter broke, and from that mailed breast the spear of the Infidel rebounded. Methinks I hear thy battle shout, " To the rescue !" as thy gallant steed is borne into the thickest of the fight, where thy brave brethren are struggling for the Cross and the Sepulchre. But crusades and crusaders are well-nigh forgotten. For centuries the dust of the desert has drifted over the bones of the chivalry of Europe. The Arab still spurs his steed through the forsaken streets of ancient Jerusalem, and the Muezzin's voice rings over the sepulchre of the Saviour. But let these grim figures pass. Here is the room in which Sir Walter Raleigh lay a prisoner. By his gross flatteries he had won the favor of Elizabeth, who lavished honors upon him until she at length discovered his amour with the beautiful Elizabeth Throckmorton. Her rage then knew no bounds, and was worthy of her character, and she cast the RAMBLES ABOUT LONDON. 163 luckless, accomplished courtier into the Tower. Up and down this very stone floor he has paced day after day, pondering on the sad change that has befallen him, and sighing heavily for the splendor and luxury he has lost. He did not, however, despair ; he knew too well the weakness of his termagant mistress, and so, one day, as he saw from that window the queen's barge passing by, he threw himself into a paroxysm of passion, and in his ravings besought the jailer to let him go forth in disguise, and get but one look of his dear mistress. His request being refused, he feU upon the keeper, and finally drew his dagger. Good care was taken that this extraordinary mad fit should be reported to Ehzabeth. Raleigh followed up the news with a well-timed letter, which so won upon the vixen that she liberated him. Said he, in this rare epistle : " My heart was never broken till this day, that I hear the queen goes away so far ofi*, whom I have followed so many years with so great love and desire in so many journeys, and am now left behind in a dark prison, all alone. While she was yet near at hand, that I might hear of her once in two or three days, my sorrows were the less, but even now my heart is cast into the depth of misery. I, that was wont to behold her riding like Alexander^ hunting like Diana^ walking like Vemis^ the gentle wind hloiving her fair hair about her pure face like a nymph — sometimes sitting in the shade like a god- dess, sometimes singing like an angel, sometimes playing like Orpheus. Behold the sorrows of this world once amiss, hath bereaved me of all.'* 164 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. Elizabeth was at this time sixty years old, ugly as death's head, and yet the foolish old thing swallowed it all. Her tiger heart relented, and she released her cunning lover. It seems strange that a woman of her strength of intellect could have a weakness so perfectly ridicu- lous and childlike. But flattery was never too gross for her, and Raleigh knew it. He had ^Dften filled her royal ear with such nonsense before, and seen her wrinkled face relax into a smile of tenderness — com- ical from its very ugliness. So goes the world; every man has his weak side, and the strongest cha- racter is assailable in some one direction. Pride, or vanity, or envy, or covetousness, or passion, furnishes an inlet to the citadel, and it falls. RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 165 CHAPTER XIL EAMBLES IN ENGLAND. THE REaALIA. — BANK OF ENGLAND. — THAMES TUNNEL. OUT OF LONDON. — MURDERINa OF THE KING'S ENG- LISH. — OXFORD.— STRATFORD-ON-AYON. I INTENDED, in my last, to go more into details of the Tower ; but I will mention only one or two things. In Queen Elizabeth's armory are stored all the va- rieties of ancient weapons of warfare. There are the glaive, giusarne, the bill, catchpole, Lochaber axe, two-handed battleaxe, halberd, crossbows, &c. Pass- ing over the rooms and instruments of torture,, let us drop for a moment into the tower house containing the regalia. Here, in a single glass case, are gathered all the crown jewels, diadems, sceptres, &c., of rich old England. There are five crowns in all, and five royal sceptres, heavy with gold and flashing with diamonds. The queen's diadem, made for the wife of James II., is a single circlet of gold, yet, with its large, richly set diamonds and edging of pearls, it cost a half million of dollars. Victoria's crown has a large cross in front entirely frosted with brilliants, and in the centre a single sapphire, two inches long, and blue as heaven — it is the size of a small egg. 166 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. There leans St. Edward's staff, four feet and a half long, and of pure gold, and near it a royal sceptre, three feet and a half in length, radiant with its own jeweled light. There, too, are the golden eagle, which holds the aijointing oil for their most gracious sovereigns — the anointing spoon — the great golden salt-cellar of state, surrounded with twelve smaller ones, all of gold — the baptismal font, in which Vic- toria and the present Prince of Wales were both baptized, silver-gilt, four feet high — and the heavy sacramental plate — two massive tankards, all of solid gold. " Only sixpence a sight," and lo ! the eye feasts on this profusion of diamonds, and jewels, and pre- cious stones. Millions of money have been wasted on these baubles, and there they idly flash year after year, while their worth expended on famishing Ire- land, would give bread to every starving family, or instruction to every ignorant and depraved child of the kingdom. But this is the way of the world — millions for show, but not a cent for wretched, starving men. With a mere glance at the Bank of England and the Thames Tunnel^ and we will away to the open country — to the green hedge-rows and rolling fields of merry old England. The Bank of England is a fine building : ^^ It is an immense and very extensive stone edifice, situated a short distance north-west of Corn Hill. The principal entrance is from Thread- needle street. It is said this building covers five acres of ground. Business hours from nine o'clock RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 167 until five P. M. There are no windows opening on the street ; light is admitted through open courts ; no mob could take the bank, therefore, without cannon to batter the immense walls. There are nine hundred clerks employed in the bank, and not one foreigner among the whole. Should a clerk be too old for ser- vice, he is discharged on half-pay for life. The clock in the centre of the bank has fifty dials attached to it; each of the rooms has a dial, in order that all in the bank should know the true time. Large cis- terns are sunk in the courts, and engines in perfect order, always in readiness in case of fire. The bank was incorporated in 1694. Capital c£18,000,000 ster- ling, or ^90,000,000.'' The Tunnel is one of the chief wonders of London. This subterranean passage is thirty feet beneath the bed of the Thames River, and twenty-two feet high. It is thirteen hundred feet long and thirty-eight wide, and lighted with gas. One has strange emotions in standing under these dark, damp arches. Over his head is rushing a deep river, and vessels are floating, and steamboats are ploughing the water, and he can- not but think of the effect a small leak would produce, and what his chance would be in a general break-down of the arches above. The Tunnel is composed of two arches, with a row of immense columns in the centre. It is designed for carriages, but is not yet sufficiently completed to receive them. You descend by a winding staircase, and passing under the river emerge into daylight by a similar staircase on the farther side. Little hand 168 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. printing-presses, fruit and candy tables, and nick- nacks of various kinds, are strung through this passage. As I was sauntering along, suddenly I heard a low humming sound which startled me prodigiously. The first thought was that the masonry above had given way, and that ringing was the steady pressure of the down-rushing waters. The bare possibility of being buried up there was too horrible to entertain for a moment. I looked anxiously round ; but find- ing no one, not even those who lived there, the least alarmed, I concluded it was all right, and walked on. But that strange humming-ringing grew louder and louder, and completely bewildered me. It had no rising swell, or sinking cadence, but monotonous, deep, and constant, kept rising every moment louder and clearer. Hastening forward, I came to the far- ther entrance of the Tunnel, and there sat a man and boy, one with a violin and the other with a harp — the innocent authors of all the strange, indescrib- able sounds that had so confused me. The endless reverberations amid those long arches so completely mingled them together — one overtaking, and blend- ing in with another, and the whole bounding back in a mass to be again split asunder, and tossed about, created such a jargon as I never before listened to. The sounds could not escape, and in their struggles to do so — hitting along the roof and sides of the Tunnel — they at length lost all distinctness of utter- ance, and became tangled up in the most astonishing manner. RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 169 At length I bade smoky London adieu, and driv- ing early one morning to a stage-office, booked my- self for Oxford. As I was waiting for the stage to start, I stepped into a shop near by for some crack- ers, thinking perhaps my early breakfast would leave me with something of an appetite before it was time to dine. But, to my surprise, the keeper told me he had no "crackers," and looked as though he regarded me a lunatic, or fresh from some remote region, I returned his look of surprise, for there before me were bushels of crackers. All at once I remembered that cracker was an Americanism, and that English- men call every thing of the kind biscuit. This put matters right. In a short time we were trundling through the long streets of London, and at length passing from the dirty suburbs, found ourselves in the open country. For a while it was pleasant, but we soon came to a barren, desolate tract, which quite damped the hopes with which we had set out. But this being passed, we entered on the beauti- ful farming districts of England. The roads were perfect, and the long green hedge-rows gently rolling over the slopes ; the masses of dark foliage sprinkled here and there through the fields ; and the fine brac- ing air, combined to lift our spirits up to the enjoying point. I had taken a seat on the top of the coach, and hence could overlook the whole country. Marlow, which we passed, is a pretty place, and the seats o^ English gentlemen along the road are picturesque and beautiful. 15 170 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. As we were descending a gentle inclination to Henley-on-the-Thames, the valley that opened on our view was lovely beyond description. But just here an accident overtook us ; one of our wheels broke, and we were compelled to foot it into town. The driver immediately sent one of those hangers-on, around taverns and stables, to a coachmaker to see if he could obtain a coach or extra wheel. As he came slouching back, I was struck with his reply. English people are always ridiculing the language spoken in this country ; but that loafer beat a down- easter out and out. He had been unsuccessful, and as he came up he drawled out, " He hain't got nary coach nor nary wheel!" Now, an ignorant Yankee might have said, "He hain't got nary coach nor wheel," but he never would have doubled the "nary" — this was wholly English. I had often noticed a similar dreadful use of the English language among the cabmen of London; they are altogether worse than our cabmen at home. We, however, succeeded in getting under way at last, and reached Oxford just as the clouds began to pour their gathered treasures down. I will not attempt to describe old Oxford. It is a venerable place, and the pile of buildings which compose the University, one of the most imposing I have ever seen. Old and time-worn, with their grave architecture and ancient look, they present a striking appearance amid the green-sward that surrounds them. Of the Bodleian and Radcliffe libraries I shall say nothing. In conversing with one of the RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 171 tutors of the Uniyersity, I was surprised to learn that Pusey was regarded there rather as an honest old granny than an able and profound man. The morning I left Oxford for Stratford-on-the- Avon was as beautiful a one as ever smiled over New England. The fragmentary clouds went troop- ing over the -sky, the fresh, cool wind swept cheer- fully by, and the newly-washed meadows and fields looked as if just preparing themselves for a holiday. Again I took my seat on the top of the coach, with two or three others, and started away. We soon picked up an additional companion — a pretty young woman — who also climbed to the roof of the coach. The inside was full, and you must know that an Englishman never gives up his seat to a lady. He takes the place he has paid for, and expects all others, of whatever sex, to do the same. If it rains, he says it is unfortunate, but supposes that the lady knew the risk when she took her seat, and expects her to bear her misfortune like a philosopher. This lady, I should think, from her general appear- ance and conversation, was a governess. She had evidently traveled a good deal, and was very talka- tive and somewhat inquisitive. When she discovered I was an American, she very gravely remarked, that she mistrusted it before from my complexion. Now ' it must be remembered that I have naturally the tinge of a man belonging to a southern clime, which had been considerably deepened by my recent expo- sures in the open air in Italy and along the Rhine. Supposing that all Americans were tawny from their 172 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. close relationsliip to the aborigines of our country, she attributed my swartbiness to the Indian hlood in my veins. I confessed myself sufficiently surprised at her penetration, and humored her inquisitiveness. She left us at Stratford, bidding my friend and my- self good-by with a dignified shake of the hand. We of course regarded this great condescension on her part to two Indians, with proper respect, attributing it to the comparative fluency with which we spoke English. She evidently thought us savages of more than ordinary education. After dinner, I strolled out to the house of Shaks- peare, a low, miserable affair at the best, and hardly large enough for three persons. Yet here the great dramatist was born. After going through it, I went to the church where his bones repose, and read, with strange feelings, the odd inscription he directed to be placed over his tomb. It was a beautiful day, and I went out and sat down on the banks of the Avon, beside the church, and gazed long on the rippling waters and green slopes of the neighboring hills and greener hedges. Cattle were lazily browsing in the fields ; the ancient trees beside the church bent and sighed as the fresh breeze swept by, and all was tranquillity and beauty. I had never seen so pure a sky in England. The air was clear and bracing, and, although it was the middle of August, it seemed like a bright June day at home. How many fancies a man will sometimes weave, and yet scarce know why ! A single chord of memory HAMBLES IN ENaLAND. 173 is, perhaps, touched, or some slight association mil arise, followed by a hundred others, as one bird, start- ing from the brake, will arouse a whole flock, and away they go swarming together. It was thus as I sat on the banks of the Avon, soothed by the ripple of its waters. Along this stream Shakspeare had wandered in his boyhood, and cast his dark eye over this same landscape. What gorgeous dreams here wrapp€d his youthful imagination, and strange, wild vagaries crossed his mind. Old England then was merry, and plenty reigned in her halls, and good cheer was every where to be found. But now want and poverty cover the land. Discontent is written on half the faces you meet, and the murmurs of a coming storm are heard over the distant heavens. Farewell, sweet Avon ! your bright waters, bor- dered with green fields, and sparkling in light, are like a pleasant dream. 15* 174 ^ RAMBLES AND SKETCHES, CHAPTER XIIL RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. guy's cliff. — ^WARWICK CASTLE. — KENILWORTH CAS- TLE. — COVENTRY. — PEEPING TOM. — CHARTISTS. I WILL not speak of Woodstock, whicli Scott has made immortal ; for the village of that name is merely a collection of dirty-looking hovels, arranged along the street in blocks, like houses. Gruy's Cliff is distinguished as the home of the stern old Sir Guy, renowned in the feudal wars. A mile farther on are Warwick and Warwick Castle. The village itself looks like a fragment of antiquity, though the streets were somewhat enlivened, the day I passed through them, by multitudes of men, women, children, cows, horses, and sheep, to say nothing of vegetables and saleables of all kinds and quality. One of those fairs so common in England, and so characteristic of the people, was being held, and I had a good view of the peasantry. The yeomanry collected at one of our cattle-shows are gentlemen compared to them. I will not describe the castle, with its massive walls and ancient look, for the impression such things make does not result from this or that striking object, but RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 175 from the whole combined. The walls may be thick, the moat deep, the turrets high and hoary, and the rusty armor within massy and dinted — it is not either of these that arrests your footsteps and makes you stand and dream, but the history they altogether un- roll, and the images your own imagination calls up from the past. The rusty sword of this strong-limbed old earl is five feet long, and weighs twenty pounds, his shield thirty pounds, breastplate alone fifty-six pounds, and helmet seven pounds, to say nothing of his mas- sive coat of mail. It was no baby hand wTiich wield- ed that sword or held that shield. A strong heart beat under that breastplate of fifty-six pounds in weight ; and when, mounted on his gigantic war-horse, clad also in steel from head to foot, he spurred into the battle, the strongest knights went down in his path, and his muffled shout was like the trumpet of victory. Thence we proceeded to Kenilworth Castle, a mere ruin, standing solitary and broken amid the green fields. Gone are its beautiful lake, drawbridge, port- cullis, and moat — its strong turrets have crumbled, while over the decayed and decaying walls the ivy creeps unchecked. It is one of the most picturesque ruins I have ever seen. Here and there a portion remains almost entire, while in other places a heap of rubbish alone tells where a magnificent apartment once rung to the shout of wassailers. The bow-win- dow, in which sat the flattered Earl of Leicester and the proud Elizabeth, and looked down on the grand 176 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. tournament, is still entire. As I stood here and gazed below on the green-sward, now spreading where the gay and noble once trod in pride, and around on the ruin whose battlements once glittered with deco- rations in honor of the haughty queen, and before me, through the gateway, where the gorgeous pro- cession passed, the pageantry of life soemed a dream. There chargers had careered, and trumpets rung, and helmets bowed in homage ; and there now swung an old gate, kept by a solitary old porter. The snake and lizard occupy the proud halls of Leicester, and of all the beautiful and brave who once thronged these courts, not one remains. The old walls and crum- bling stones have outlasted them all, and serve only as a tombstone to what has been. "What wild heart- throbbings, and dizzy hopes, and bitter griefs, have been within these ruined inclosures ! But now all is still and deserted — the banners flutter no more from the battlements ; the armed knight spurs no more over the clattering drawbridge ; lord and vassal have dis- appeared. Time, has outwatched each warder, and hung his mouldering hatchet over all who have lived and struggled here. As I behold in imagination the stern, severe Ehzabeth, passing beneath yonder arch on her gallant steed, and princes and nobles of every degree pressing on her steps, and then turn to the deserted ruin, I involuntarily exclaim^ "ghosts are we all." Ah, proud Leicester ! what deeds of thine could these dumb walls, had they a tongue, tell ! What re- cords are registered in their mouldering forms against EAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 177 thee ! Kenilworth, thy Kenilworth, is apparently de- serted ; but around it still linger, metliinks, the spirits of those thou host wronged, nay, perchance, murdered. It was with strange feelings I turned away from this beautiful ruin. The heavens were gathering blackness, and now and then a big drop came danc- ing to the earth, and all betokened a storm at hand. Had the fading sunlight gilded its dilapidated turrets as I passed from under its silent arches, it would not have seemed so mournful ; but, amid this suspense of the elements and increasing gloom, its irregular form had a sad aspect, and left a sad impression. When I first approached the castle, I was struck with the curious English used by a girl, perhaps thir- teen years of age, who had little pamphlets, describ- ing the ruin and giving its history, to sell. As she advanced to meet me, holding the book in her hand, she exclaimed: "A shilling, sir, for the book, or a sixpence for the lend'' "A sixpence for the lend,'' I replied ; '^ what do you mean by that ?" On inquiry, I discovered that the price of the book was a shilling, but that she would lend it to me to go over the castle with for half price. Thinks I to myself, you might travel the length and breadth of the Atlantic States, and not hear such an uncouth English sentence as that. Coventry is on the railroad that connects Liver- pool and London. It has a quaint old church, and a quaint look about it altogether. As I strolled through the graveyard, I seemed to be among the fragments of a past world — the very tombstones 178 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. looked as if they had mthstood the deluge. As I wandered about, dreaming rather than thinking, strains of music stole out from the antiqurted struc- ture, soothing my feelings, and filling my heart with a pleasure composed half of sadness. One of the greatest curiosities of this place, it is well known, is "Peeping Tom." The story of Lady Godiva has been woven into poetry as well as prose, and is known the world over. Her husband. Earl Leofric, was captain-general of all the forces under King Canute, and exercised his power in laying heary taxes on his subjects. Those of Coventry wer^ ground to the earth by his oppression, and though their sufi*erings could not move his iron heart, they filled the soul of the gentle Godiva with the deepest sorrow. Impelled by her sympathies, she constantly, but in vain, besought her lord to lessen the burdens of the people. But once, being received after a long absence with enthusiastic afi*ection, he in his sudden joy asked her to make any request, and he would grant it. Taking advantage of his kind- ness, she petitioned for his subjects. The stern old earl was fairly caught, but he hoped to extricate him- self by imposing a condition as brutal as it was cruel. Knowing the modesty of his lovely wife, he promised to grant her request, provided she would ride naked through the streets of Coventry. "Any thing," she replied, " for my suffering people." He was aston- ished ; but, thinking she would fail in the hour of trial, promised to fulfil his part of the contract. Godiva appointed a day ; and Leofric, finding she was deter- RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 179 mined, ordered the people to darken the fronts of their houses and shut themselves up, while the Lady Godiva was passing. They joyfully obeyed, and the blushing, frightened benefactress, with her long tresses streaming over her form, rode unclad through the streets. All was silent and deserted ; but one man, a tailor, could not restrain his curiosity, and peeped forth from an upper window to get sight of her. In a moment, Godiva's charger stopped and neighed. The fair rider, being startled, turned her face and saw the unfortunate tailor. Instantly the poor fel- low's eyes dropped out of his head, in punishment of his meanness. So runs the tradition, and so it has run from time immemorial. In the time of Richard II., a painting was placed in Trinity Church, representing the earl and his wife — ^the former holding in his hand a char- ter, on which is iuscribed, '« I, Leofric, for the love of thee. Doe make Coventrie tol-free." I had heard of '' Peeping Tom." and went in search of him. I had forgotten, however, that he occupied the upper story of a house, and went the whole length of the street in which I was informed he was placed, without finding him. I expected to see a statue standing in some corner upon the ground, and hence was compelled to inquire more particularly of his whereabouts. Yrhen at length I caught a glimpse of him, with his cocked hat on, peeping from an aper- ture in the corner of a house standing at the inter- 180 EAMBLES AND SKETCHES. section of two streets, I had a long and hearty laugh. His appearance was comical in the extreme, as it stood looking down on the throng of promenaders. The man who owns the house receives an annual sti- pend for allowing it to remain there, and every two years it is clad in a new suit, made after the fashion of the tenth century. On these occasions, the shops are closed as on Sundays, and a procession of the citizens, with the mayor at their head, passes through the principal streets of the place, accompanied by a woman dressed in white or flesh-colored tights, on horseback. When they come opposite ''Tom,'' the procession halts, the high sheriff invests the effigy in its new suit, and the imposing ceremonies are ended. This was the year for the procession, but I arrived too late to witness it. A woman of rather easy virtue, clad in a flesh-colored suit, fitting tight to her skin, was placed on a horse, and, with a quantity of false hair falling around her form, represented the lovely Godiva. I could not but think how such a procession with such comical ceremonies, would appear in New York, and what the good people of that practical city w^ould do on such an occasion. As I was strolling about, I came upon three or four hardy, weather-beaten men, one of whom came up to me, and said : " Sir, I am not in the habit of begging, but my master in Stafford has broke, and I am left without work. I came here with my family to find work, but cannot, and have sold my last bed and blanket to buy provisions. If you could give me something, I should be much obliged to you." This RAMBLES IN LONDON. 181 ■was said in a manly tone — so unlike tlie "wliimng ac- cents of a continental beggar, that I was struck with it. "Why," said I, "this is very strange — here you are, a strong man, with two good arms, and a pair of stout hands at the end of them, and yet are starving in the richest kingdom of the world. This is very strange — what is it all coming to?" He turned his eye upon me with the look of a tiger, and exclaimed : " What is it all coming ? Why it is coming to this, one of these days," and he struck his brawny fists together with a report like that of a pistol. I need not say that I gave him money. A strong man, willing to work for his daily bread, and yet denied the privilege, is the saddest sight under the sun. 16 182 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. CHAPTER XIV. RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. BIRMINGHAM. — LIVERPOOL. — A TALL WOMAN. — BEG- GARS. — CHESTER. — NORTH WALES. It is only eighteen miles from Coventry to Bir- mingham, and by the great London and Liverpool railway the distance is made in forty minutes. So, just at evening, myself and friend jumped in the cars, and soon found ourselves amid the tall chimneys of this great manufacturing city of England. It is use- less to repeat the story of factory life, or describe over again, for the fortieth time, the sickly children and girls who spend their days (few enough) at the looms and in the unhealthy apartments of those im- mense cotton-mills. Money is coined out of human life ; and degradation, and want, and misery are the price this great kingdom pays for its huge manufac- turing cities. But one thing in my hotel struck me especially. It is well known, notwithstanding the complaints of English travelers of our love of money, that, next to Italy, England is the most dishonest country in the world to travel in. The hackman cheats you — ^the landlord cheats you, and the servants cheat you. RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 183 You are fleeced the length and breadth of the king- dom. Such outrages as you are compelled to submit to would not be tolerated for a moment in the United States. You are not only charged enormously for your board, but are compelled to make up the ser- vants' wages — each man paying such a sum that servants give the landlord a large price for their places, demanding nothing for their labor. In travel- ing, you not only pay your fare, but every time the horses are changed, or once in fifteen or twenty miles, are expected to give the driver an English shilling, or about twenty-five cents our money. But this land- lord of Birmingham was none of your swindlers — he scorned to fleece travelers — and would have no one in his house who practised it. So he had regulations printed and neatly framed, hung up in the apartments, on purpose, it was stated, to prevent those who stop- ped at his house from being imposed upon. Servants were not allowed to demand any thing, and it was contrary to the rules of the house to charge more than four shillings (a dollar) for a bed, the same for dinner and breakfast ; or, in other words, it was not permitted to ask more than about four dollars a day from any person, unless he had extras. I could not but exclaim, as I turned towards my bed — " Honest man ! how grateful travelers must feel for the interest you take in their welfare ! No cheating here ; and one can lay his head on his pillow in peace, knowing that in the morning there will be no trickery in the account — a dollar for his sleep, a dollar for his break- fast, and he can depart in peace!" 184 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. The approach to Liverpool through the tunnel is any thing but pleasant — this subterranean traveling is unnatural — it seems a great deal worse to be killed under ground than in the clear air of heaven, and beneath the calm, quiet sky. Liverpool is an un- pleasant city to stop in ; yet,' before I embarked, I was compelled to spend a month there. I will not describe it ; I do not like to describe cities — they are simply a confused heap of houses^ an endless web of streets. One day, as I was sauntering along, I saw in a stairway leading to the second floor, a man two- thirds dmnk — dressed like a clown, with a single feather in his cap, and a monkey hopping to and from his shoulder. Holding on to a rope, and swinging backwards and forwards on the steps in his drunken- ness, he kept bawling out to the passers by, "Walk up, gentlemen — only a penny a piece — the tallest woman in the world, besides, Oliver Cromwell, Queen Elizabeth, Henry VIIL, and other great men, large as life — only one penny a sight — well worth the money. Walk up, gentlemen !'' It was such an out-of-the-way-looking hole, and withal such a comi- cal advertisement, that I presented my penny, and "walked up^'' and sure enough there was a woman seven feet high, towering head and shoulders above me. She was slender, which, with her female ap- parel, that always exaggerates the height, made her appear a greater giantess even than she was. I could not believe my eyes, and suspected there was some trickery practised, and told the exhibitor so. He immediately requested her to sit down, and take oflf RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 185 her shoes and stockings, and then asked me to feel of her feet and ankles. I did so, and found that they were actually bone and muscle. But, to use a western phrase, she was " a> tall specimen," and I came to the conclusion I had seen three of the most remarkable women in the world. First, a French woman who weighed six hundred and twenty-four pounds — a mountain of flesh; second, an Italian without arms, who could write, thread a needle, em- broider, sketch, load and fire a pistol with her toes, and last of all, this English girl, seven feet high, or thereabouts. Another day, as I was passing along a by-street, I heard some one singing, and soon after a man in his shirt sleeves emerged into view, leading four children — two on each side — and singing as he ap- proached. He took the middle of the street — the children carrying empty baskets — and thus traversed the city. I soon discovered that he was a beggar, and this was his mode of asking alms. With his head up, and a smile on his countenance, he was singing at the top of his voice, something about a happy family. At all events, the burden of his strain was the happiness he enjoyed with his children: how pleasant their home was for the love that dwelt in it, &c. He did not speak of his poverty and sujQfer- ings, or describe the starvation in his hovel; but, taking a different tack, solicited charity on the ground that people ought to keep such a happy family in the continued possession of their happiness. Where begging is so common, imposture so frequent, 16* 186 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. and men's hearts have become so steeled against the pitiful tale and the haggard face, the appearance of suffering accomplishes but little ; and I could not but admire the man's ingenuity in thus striking out a new path for himself. Still, it was pitiful to watch him — it seemed such an effort to appear happy, and the hungry-looking children at his side, though trained to their task, and wearing bright faces, seemed so way-worn and weary. I followed their footsteps with my eyes till they turned an angle of the street, and as their voices died away in the distance, I fell into one of my fits of musing on life, its strange destinies, and the unfathomable mystery attached to the une- qual distribution of good and evil in it. Alas ! how different is the same man, that is, the outward man Circumstances have placed one on a throne, and his heart is haughty, his glance defiant, and his spirit proud and overbearing. Misfortune has placed an- other in poverty and want, and he crouches at your feet^ — solicits, with trembhng hands and eyes full of tears, a mere moiety for his children. Injustice, abuse, contempt, cannot sting him into resistance or arouse his wrath. With his manhood all broken down, he crawls the earth, the by-word and jest of his fellows. Yet life to him is just as solemn as to the monarch — it has the same responsibilities, the same destinies. That humbled and degraded spirit will yet stand up in all its magnificent proportions, and assert its rank in the universe of God. The heap of rags will blaze hke a star in its immortaHty — and yet that unfortunate creature may struggle RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 187 and suffer through this life, and enter on another only to experience still greater unhappiness. The ways of Heaven are indeed dark and beyond the clouds. My friend left me at Liverpool, and took the steamer for Dublin, where I promised, in a few days, to meet him. I wished to make the land route through North Wales, and then cross over the Chan- nel. Crossing the Mersey in a ferry-boat, I took the cars for the old city of Chester, lying on the confines of England and Wales. This ancient town, which has borne such a part in the history of England, stands just as it did centuries ago. The same im- mense wall surrounds it that guarded it in knightly days. It environs the entire place, and is so broad that the top furnishes a fine promenade for three abreast. Towards evening I wandered without the walls, and strolled away towards the banks of the Dee. It was a lovely afternoon for England — the sky was clear, and the air pure and invigorating. A single arch is sprung across the stream, said to be one of the largest in the world. It is a beautiful curve, and presents a picturesque appearance, leaping so far from one green bank to another. Along the shore, winding through the field, is a raised embank- ment, covered with green turf for a promenade. Along this, ladies and gentlemen were sauntering in groups, while here and there a fisherman was gasting his line. It was a lovely scene — there on the quiet banks of the Dee, and in full view of the ofd walls of Chester, I sat down under a tree, and thought long and anx- iously of home. It is always thus — in the crowded 188 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. city, and turmoil and hurry of travel, one almost for- gets he has a home or far-distant friends- — but a single strain of soothing music, one quiet night, or one lonely Tvalk, brings them all back to him, and he wonders that he ever left them for boisterous scenes. One hour we are all energy and will — wishing for a field of great risks and great deeds, and feel confined and straitened for want of greater scope and freer action — the next, we feel lost in the world of active life around us — utterly unequal to its demands on our energies, and thirst only for a quiet home and more tranquil enjoyments. The land of my birth looked greener to me there, on the banks of the Dee, than ever before — and the wide waste of waters never so wide and unfriendly. At sunset, I took the stage-coach for the western coast of Wales. I traveled till midnight, and then stopped to make the rest of the route along the north shore by daylight. A little Welsh inn received me, the landlady of which, in return for my politeness to her, secured me a seat next day in the coach, which I otherwise should have lost. She had been accus- tomed to the haughty bearing of Englishmen, and though I treated her with only the civility common in my own country, it seemed so uncommon to her, that she asked me where I resided. She seemed delighted when I told her in America, and the next morning prevailed on the driver to give me a seat, though he had told me the coach was full. 1 had read much of Wales, and had obtained, when a boy, very extravagant ideas of the wildness of its RAMBLES IN ENGLAND. 189 scenery from Mrs. Hemans' poems. It did not occur to me that I had just come from the Alps, the grand- est scenery on the globe, and hence should prepare for disappointment; but expected to be astonished with beetling crags and lofty mountains, until at last Snowden crowned the whole, as Mont Blanc does the peaks that environ him. I never stopped to question my impressions, nor inquire when or where I derived them ; and hence was wholly unprepared for the dimi- nutive hills that met my gaze. One must never form a notion of a cataract or a mountain from an English- man's description of it. Living on an island and in a rolling country which furnishes no elevations of magnitude, and hence no large streams, he regards those relatively large of immense size. Still, the north coast of Wales presents bold and rugged features ; and with its old castles frowning amid the desolate scenery — gray as the rock they stand on — ^is well worth a visit. 190 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. CHAPTER XV. RAMBLES IN WALES. PENRYNN QUARRIES. — HOMEWARD BOUND. — SCOTCH BOY. — STORM AT SEA. — HOME. The north coast of Wales is studded with old cas- ties — some of which are in ruins, and others in a good state of preservation. Many a fierce struggle and wild tale they could tell, could they but reveal their history. Cromwell's army has thundered against their walls, and England's chivalry dashed over their battlements; and deeds of daring, and of darkness too, stained every stone with blood. Our road lay right along the base of one, with old towers still standing, and the ancient drawbridge still resting on its ancient foundations. A little farther on, the whole breast of the mountain seemed converted into a modern castle ; for ramparts rose over every ridge, and turreted battlements stretched along every pre- cipitous height. Nothing can be more bleak and desolate than the north coast of Wales. The rocky shores, treeless, shrubless mountains, and ruined castles, combine to render the scene sombre and gloomy. At length we reached Bangor, from whence I made a visit to the RAMBLES IN WALES. 191 slate quarries of Mr. Tennant. This gentleman was an English colonel; but being so fortunate as to marry the only daughter of the owner of these ex- tensive quarries, he threw up his profession, and set- tled down in Wales. Becoming sole heir to Penrynn Castle, on the death of his father-in-law, he improved it by additions and renovations; till now, with its extensive and beautiful grounds, it is well worth a visit. The quarries, however, were more interesting to me than the castle, for they are said to be the largest in the world; yielding the proprietor a net income of nearly one hundred thousand dollars per annum. The whole mountain, in which these quarries are dug, is composed of slate. At the base of it the miners commenced, and dug, in a semicircular form, into its very heart. They then blasted back and up a terrace all around the space they had made, some thirty or forty feet from the bottom. About the same distance above this terrace they ran another around, until they terraced the mountain, in the form of an amphitheatre, to the very top. Around each terrace runs a railroad, to carry out the slate ; while small stone huts are placed here and there, to shelter the workmen when a blast occurs near them. These ter- races are filled with workmen, who look, from below, like so many ants crawling over the rocks. Taking one of these as a guide, I rambled over the quarries, in a more excited state than one usually views so plain and practical an object; for the blasts, that occur every few moments, keep the mountain in an uproar. The amphitheatre is so far across, that a 192 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. person need not fear a blast from tte opposite side ; but one from the terrace he is on, or from the one above or below him, is always more or less dangerous. To prevent accidents, just before a blast takes place, the man who is to fire, steps to the edge of the ter- race, and hallooes, ''he JiooV at which all in the neighborhood run for the stone cabins, like prairie dogs for their holes. Again and again was I com- pelled to dodge into one of these coverts ; when, after a moment's pause, there would follow a heavy explo- sion ; and the next moment the loose stones would be rattling like hail on the roof above me. Several times I measured, with considerable interest, the thickness of the covering above me, and calculated how heavy a rock it would require to crush through it. When out on the open terrace, the constant re- ports, like the rapid discharge of cannon in various parts of the mountain, keep one constantly on the look out. The depot of the finished slates is also a great curiosity. They are piled in huge rows, accord- ing to their size and value : they are named Dukes, Marquises, Counts, &c., to designate their respective worth. All sorts of ornaments are made by the workmen in their leisure moments, which are sold to travelers ; several of which I brought away with me. It was a bright day when I visited the quarries ; and, as I turned away, I paused, and looked back on that excavated mountain. It was a curious spectacle — those terraces, rising one above another, sprinkled all over with human beings, like mere spots on the spire of a church. HOMEWARD BOUND. 193 From Bangor I went to Caernaryon, to visit the ruined castle there, so famous in the ancient history of England. I clambered up its spiral staircase — looked out of its narrow windows— plucked the ivy from its massive and immensely thick walls, and then went to a neighboring eminence to have the whole in one coup d'oeil. It is an impressive ruin, independent of the associations conneoted with it. It was my de- sign to cross to the island of Anglesea and take steam- boat for Dublin, where I expected to meet my friend, who left me at Liverpool ; but that afternoon a storm set in which frightened me back. I had had some experience in the British channels, and concluded I had rather not see Dublin than again be made as deadly sick as I had been. I went back to Bangor ; roamed over the island of Anglesea ; saw the stone block, once a sacrifice stone of the ancient Druids ; stood on the Menai bridge, next to that of Frybourg, the longest suspension bridge in the world ; and finally set sail for Liverpool. Waiting here two weeks, till I could get a state-room to myself, I at last embarked on board the packet England, and dropped down the Channel. Rounding the southern coast of Ireland we stood out to sea, and soon the last vestige of land dis- appeared behind the waters ; and, homeward bound, we were on the wide Atlantic. There was an incident occurred on leaving port which interested me exceedingly. With the depart- ure of almost every vessel, some poor wretches, with- out the means to pay their passage, secrete themselves aboard till fairly out to sea, when they creep forth 17 194 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. from their Hding-places. The captain cannot put back for them, and he cannot see them starve on board his ship ; and so they get a free passage to this land, where every man can find work. So common has this become, that an officer is always hired to ransack the vessel while she is being towed out of the harbor. Several were found hid away in ours, whom I saw shoved over into the "tug,'' as the tow boat is called, without the last feeling of commiseration. They were such hard, depraved looking cases, that I thought it no loss to have them kept back from our shores. But at length the officer drew forth a Scotch lad about seventeen years of age, who seemed unlike his companions. Dirty and ragged enough he indeed was, but a certain honest expression in his face, which was covered with tears, interested me in him imme^ diately. I stopped the officer, and asked the boy his name "Robert S," he replied. "Where are you from?'' Greenock. I am a baker by trade, but my master has broke, and I have come to Liverpool to get work." "Why do you want to go to Ame- rica?" said I. "To get work," he replied, in his strong Scotch accent. He seemed to have but one idea, and that was work ! The object of his ambi- tion, the end of his wishes, was the privilege of work- ing. He had wandered around Liverpool in vain; slept on the docks, and lived on the refuse crumbs he could pick up ; and as a last resort determined, all alone, to cross the Atlantic to a land where man is allowed the boon of working for his daily bread. I could not let him go ashore, and told the captain that HOMEWARD BOUND. 195 I would see that liis passage was paid. The pas- sengers joined with me, and I told him he need not be alarmed, he should go to America. I was struck with his reply: said he, in a manly tone, ^'I don't know how I can pay you, sir, but I will work for you." I gave him clothes, and told him to wash himself up and be cheerful, and I would take care of him. In a short time he became deadly sick, and at the end of a week he was so emaciated and feeble I feared he would die. I said to him one day, " Eobert are you not very sorry now you started for America ?" " No, sir !" he replied, "ii I can get work there.'' "Mer- ciful God!" I mentally exclaimed, "has hunger so gnawed at this poor fellow's vitals, and starvation stared him so often in the face, that he can think of no joy like that of being permitted to work !" Days and weeks passed away, wearisome and lonely, until at length, as we approached the banks of Newfoundland, a heavy storm overtook us. It blew for two days, and the third night the sea was rolling tremendously. The good ship labored over the mountainous billows, while every timber, and plank, and door seemed suddenly to have been en- dowed with a voice, and screeched, and screamed, and groaned and complained, till the tumult without was almost drowned by the uproar within. It did not seem possible that the timbers could hold together for an hour so violently did the vessel work. I could not keep in my berth, and ropes were strung along the deck to enable the sailors to cross from one side to another. I crawled to the cabin door, and holding on 196 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. '?fitli both hands, gazed out with strange feelings upon the wild and ruinous waste of waters. We had a host of steerage passengers aboard, whom the captain was compelled to drive below, and fasten down the hatches oyer them. The sea was breaking madly over the shrinking, shivering ship, as if determined to crush it down ; and at every shock of the billows, as they fell in thunder on the deck, the poor wretches below thought themselves going to the bottom, and kept up a constant wailing, screaming, and praying, at once pitiful and ludicrous. Still, I could not blame them ; for to one unaccustomed to the sea, the rush and roll of waves on the trembling planks overhead are any thing but pleasant sounds. One moment, as we ascended a billow, the jib-boom of our vessel seemed to pierce mid-heaven — the next moment, in her mad and downward plunge it would disappear in the sea, and tons of water come sweeping with a crash over our decks. Once the second mate, who was forward, was caught by one of these furious seas and borne backward the whole length of the deck, against the after cabin. As the ship pitched again he was car- ried forward, and the second time borne backward, before he could feel the deck, although the water was running in a perfect torrent from the scuppers the while. Oh ! it was a fearful night — the clouds swept in angry masses athwart the heavens, and all around was the mountainous deep, over which our groaning vessel strained with desperate efforts and most piteous complaints. I turned in, sick of the sea ; but I could not sleep ; for one moment my feet would be pointing HOMEWARD BOUND. 197 to the zenith, and the next moment my head, and im- mediately after, head, body, and legs, would be lying in a confused heap on the state-room floor. As a last resort, I stretched myself on the cabin sofa, which was bolted to the floor, and bade the steward lash me to it with a rope ; and strange to say, in this position I dropped asleep and slept till morning. It was the soundest night's rest I ever had at sea. But it is startling to be waked out of sleep by the creaking of timbers and roar of waves ; and the spirits feel a sudden reaction that is painful. I staggered on deck, and such a sight I never beheld before. The storm had broken, and the fragmentary clouds were flying like lightning over the sky, while the sea, as far as the eye could reach, was one vast expanse of heaving, tumbling mountains — their bases a bright pea-green, and their ridges white as snow. Over and around these our good ship floundered like a mere toy. On our right, and perhaps three quarters of a mile dis- tant (though it seemed scarcely three rods), lay a ship riding out the storm. When we went down and she went up, I could see the copper on her bottom ; and when we both went down together, the tops of her tallest mast disappeared as though she had been sud- denly engulfed in the ocean. The sun at length emerged from a cloud and lighted up with strange brilliancy this strange scene. It was a sublime spec- tacle, and I acknowledged it to be so ; but added men- tally, as I clung to a belaying pin and braced against the bulwarks to keep my legs, that I thought it would appear much better from shore. 17* 198 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. Days and nights passed away, until at length, a bird came and lighted on our rigging, and then I knew we were near my fatherland. I could have kissed it. The last night came on with rain and storm, and we flew on before the gale with our white wings spread, thankful that it bore us homeward. At noon next day, the clouds broke away, and soon after we took on board a pilot. The sun went down in beauty and the moon sailed up the golden sky, and the stars came out and smiled on the sea, and all was lovely and entrancing ; but soon other lights flashed over the waters, that far outshone both moon and stars — the lights from Sandy Hook. My heart leaped up in my throat at the sight, and an involun- tary burst of joy escaped my lips. No bay ever looked so sweet as New York bay the next morning ; and when my feet pressed my native land, I loved her better than ever. ^if ^{f ^*f ^If ^if Stf I will only add, that my proteg^, the Scotch boy, was taken care of, and proved worthy of the interest I had taken in him. He is now on the fair road to wealth and prosperity. The good packet England, a few months after, left Liverpool for New York, and was never heard of more. A better officer than her captain never trod a deck, and her first mate was also a fine man. He had been lately married, and went to sea because it w^as his only means of livelihood. Alas ! the billows now roll over them and their gallant ship together. WATERLOO. 199 CHAPTER XVI. WATERLOO. This famous battle-field lies about ten miles from Brussels. It was a cloudy, gloomy day, that I left the city to visit this spot on which the fate of Europe was once decided. I stopped a moment to look at the house where the ball was held the night before the battle, and from the thoughtless gayety of which so many officers were summoned by the thunders of cannon to the field of battle. Before reaching the field, we passed through the beautiful forest of Soig- nies, composed of tall beeches, and which Byron, by poetical license, has changed into the forest of Ar- dennes. Ardennes is more than thirty miles distant in an opposite direction, but still it was more classic than Soignies, and so Byron, in describing the passage of the British army through it on their way to battle, says : — " And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Wet with nature's tear-drops, as they pass — Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass. Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe. And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low." 200 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. At length we came to the small village of Waterloo, and, taking a guide, wandered over the field. Not to weary one with confused details, conceive a large undulating plain with two ridges rising out of it lying opposite to each other, and gently curving in from the centre. These opposing ridges are mere eleva- tions of ground separated by a shallow valley, vary- ing from a quarter to a half mile in width. Standing on one of those curved ridges, along which the Eng- lish army was posted in two lines, the other ridge or elevation of ground faces you, along which the French were drawn up. The main road from Brus- sels to Genappe, cuts directly across this valley, and through these ridges, in the centre of the field. On the extreme right is the chateau of Hougoumont, a farm-house, with an orchard surrounded by a high wall in the shape of a parallelogram. This defended Wellington's right. The centre rested its left on a small house called La Haye Sainte, while the left wing extended farther on to another farm-house, called Ter la Haye. Thus fortified at both extremi- ties, and in the centre, the allied forces awaited the approach of the French on the opposite ridge. Fifty- four thousand men were drawn up for the slaughter on one side, a mile and a half in length, while Bona- parte brings to the battle seventy-five thousand Frenchmen. Back of the French lines is a house called La Belle Alliance, near which Bonaparte placed his observatory. This was the position of the field, and such the strength of the mighty armies that stood thirty years WATERLOO. 201 agOj on the morning of the 15tli of June, locking each other in the faces. Two unconquered generals were at their head, and the fate of Europe the stake before them. As I stood on the mound reared over the slain, and looked over this field along which the grain waved as it waved on the day of that fierce bat- tle, a world of conflicting emotions struggled in my heart. One moment the magnificence and pomp of this stern array converted it into a field of glory — the next, the conception of the feelings that agitated the bosoms of these two military leaders, and the terrible results depending — all Eui'ope hanging in breathless suspense on the battle, imparted to it a moral sublimity utterly overwhelming ; the next the fierce onset, the charging squadron, the melee of horses and riders ; the falhng of mangled companies before the destructive fire ; the roar of artillery, and the blast of the bugle, and braying of trumpets, and roll of drums, and the tossing of plumes and banners, and wheeling of regi- ments, and shock of cavalry, changed it into a scene of excitement, and daring, and horror, that made the blood fiow back chill and dark on the heart. Then came the piles of the dead and the groans of the wounded, whole ranks of orphans, and whole villages of mourners; till a half-uttered "woe to the warrior," was choked by tears of compassion. Thirty years ago Wellington stood where I stood, and surveyed the field over which the two mighty armies were manoeuvering. At length, at this very hour (eleven o'clock,) when I am gazing upon it, the cannonading begins, and soon rolls the whole length 202 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. of the line. In a moment it is all in imagination be- fore me. Yonder on the extreme right Jerome Bona- parte with 12,000 men descends like a mountain stream on the chateau of Hougoumont. Column after column, the dark masses march straight into the deadly fire that opens in every direction. In perfect order and steady front they press up to the very walls, and thrust their bayonets through the door itself. At length the house takes fire, and the shrieks of the wounded who are burning up, rise a moment over the roar of the strife, and then naught is heard but the confused noise of battle. Slowly, reluctantly, those 12,000 surge back from the wall— 12,000, did I say? No, in this rapid half hour 1,500 have fallen to rise no more, and there in that orchard of four acres, their bodies are scattered, nay, rather piledy besmeared with powder and blood. Between me and them fresh columns of French infantry, headed by a long row of cannon that belch forth their fires every few moments, come steadily up to the English squares. Whole ranks of living men fall at every discharge, but those firm squares neither shake nor falter. The earth trembles as cannon answers can- non, burying their loads in solid masses of human flesh. In the midst of this awful melee, the brave Picton charges home on the French, and they roll back like a wave from the rock — but a bullet has en- tered his temple, and he sallies back and falls at the head of his followers. And yonder, to save their fly- ing infantry, a column of French cavalry throw them- selves with the ocean's mighty swing on the foe, but WATERLOO. 203 these rock-fast squares stand rooted to the ground. Slowly and desperately that daring column walk their horses round and round the squares, dashing in at every opening, but in vain. And now from wing to wing it is one wild battle, and I see nothing but the smoke of cannon, the tossing of plumes, and the soar- ing of the French eagle over the charging columns ; and I hear naught but the roll of the drum, the sound of martial music, the explosion of artillery, and the blast of the bugle sounding the charge. There stands Wellington, weary and anxious. Wherever a square has wavered, he has thrown himself into it, cheering on his men. But now he stands and sur- veys the field of blood, and sees his posts driven in, his army exhausted, and exclaims, while he wipes the sweat from his brow, "Would to Grod that Blucher or night would come." The noble Gordon steps up to him, begging him not to stand where he is so ex- posed to the shots of the enemy, and while he is speaking, a bullet pierces his own body and he falls. Bonaparte surveys the field of slaughter with savage ferocity, and pours fresh columns on the English lines, while the cavalry charge with desperate valor on the English infantry. For four long hours has the battle raged and victory wavered. But look ! a dark object emerges from yonder distant wood, and stretches out into the field. And now there are ban- ners, and horsemen, and moving columns. The Prussians are coming. Bonaparte sees them, and knowing that nothing can save him but the destruc- tion of the English lines before they arrive, orders 204 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. up his old Imperial Guard, that had been kept aloof from battle all the day. He addresses them in a few fiery words, telling them that all rests on their valor. They shout ^'the Emperor for ever," till the sound is heard even to the British lines. With the impetu- ous Ney at their head, they move in perfect order and beautiful array down the slope. The storm of battle is hushed. No drum, or trumpet, or martial strain, cheers them on. No bugle sounds the charge. In dead silence and with firm and steady step they come. The allied forces look with indescribable awe and dread on the approach of those battalions that had never yet been conquered. But the momentary pause is like the hush of the storm ere it gathers for a fiercer sweep. The cannon open at once, and whole ranks of that gallant band fall hke a snow wreath from the mountain, yet they falter not ; — over the mangled forms they pass, and with steady, resistless force, come up face to face with their foe. The lines reel, and totter, and sway backward. The field seems lost — but no, that awful discharge on their bosoms from that rank of men that seemed to rise from the ground has turned the day — the invincible guard stop as if stunned by some terrible blow. A second dis- charge, and they wheel and fly. The whole Enghsh line now advance to the assault. Look at that man- gled column, how that discharge of artillery has torn its head and carried away half its number. 'Tis over ; that magnificent army that formed in such beautiful order in the morning on the heights, is now rent, and the fugitives darken the field. 'Tis WATERLOO. 205 night ; but the Prussians, fresh on the field, pursue the flying the long night. Oh, what scenes of horror and dread are witnessed, where the thunder of distant cannon comes booming on the midnight air ! Death is dragging his car over the multitude, and the very heavens look aghast at the merciless slaughter. 'Tis night ; the roar of the far off cannon is heard at intervals, but here it is all quiet. The battle is hushed, and the conflicting legions have parted to meet no more. The full, round moon is sailing quietly up the blue heavens, serene and peaceful as ever. The stars shine on as if they looked on no scene of woe. A weary form is slowly passing over the field. It is Wellington, weeping as he goes ; for his horse's hoofs strike at every step in puddles of human blood, and the moonbeams fall on more than tAventy thousand corpses strewed over the trampled ground. The groans of the dying and the shrieks of the suffering mingle together, while the sudden death- cry rings over all. And the unconscious moon is smiling on, painting the far off landscape in beauty. God in heaven ! is this thy earth, and are those man- gled mountains of flesh thy creatures? How little nature seems to sympathize with the scenes that transpire in her presence ! It is true, the grain lies trampled, and crushed, and red on the plain; but* the wind passes as gently over it, stirring the tree- tops as it goes, as if no groans were mingled with its breath. The full-orbed moon rides up her gorgeous pathway of stars, smiling down as sweetly on these crushed and shrieking masses, as if naught but the 18 206 KAMBLES AND SKETCHES. shepherd boy reclined on the field, and gazed on her beauty. Nay, God himself seems not to notice this fierce attack on the happiness of his creatures, but lets nature, like a slumbering child, breathe peacefully on. And yet this is an awful night, and there is an aggregate of woe and agony here no mind can mea- sure. And he, the author of it all, the haughty homicide who has strode like a demon over Europe, and left his infatuated armies on three continents, where is he ? A fugitive for his life ; while the roar of the distant cannon coming faintly on his ear, tells him of the field and the power he has left behind. His race is run, that baleful star has gone down, and the nations can ^'breathe free again." Such were my thoughts as I stood on this greatest of human battle-fields. It is evident to an impartial observer, that if Grouchy had obeyed Bonaparte, as Blucher did Wellington; or had Blucher stayed away as did Grouchy, Bonaparte would have won the field, and no one could have told where that scourge of man would have stopped. But God had said, '^thus far and no farther," and his chariot went down just as it was nearing the goal. The Christian cannot muse over such a field of blood without the deepest execration of Bonaparte's cha- racter. The warrior may recount the deeds wrought in that mighty conflict, but the Christian's eye looks farther — to the broken hearts it has made, and to the fearful retributions of the judgment. We will not speak of the physical sufi*ering crowded into this one day, for we cannot appreciate it. The sufi'erings WATERLOO. 207 of one single man, with liis shattered bones piercing him as he struggles in his pain ; his suffocation, and thirst, and bitter prayers drowned amid the roar of battle ; his mental agony as he thinks of his wife and children ; his last death-shriek, are utterly inconceiv- able. Multiply the sum of this man's suffering by twenty thousand, and the aggregate who could tell ? Then charge all this over to one mans amhition^ and who shall measure his guilt, or say how dark and terrible his doom should be ? Bonaparte was a man of great intellect, but he stands charged with crimes that blacken and torture the soul for ever, and his accusers and their witnesses will rise from almost every field in Europe, and come in crowds from the banks of the Nile. He met and conquered many armies, but never stood face to face with such a ter- rible array as when he shall be summoned from his grave to meet this host of witnesses. The murderous artillery, the terrific charge, and the headlong cour- age will then avail him nothing. Truth, and Justice, and mercy, are the only helpers there, and they can- not help Mm. He trod them down in his pride and fury, and they shall tread him down for ever. He assaulted the peace and happiness of the earth, and the day of reckoning is sure. He put his glory above all human good or ill, and drove his chariot over a pathway of human hearts, and the God of the human heart shall avenge them and abase him. I care not what good he did in founding institutions and over- turning rotten thrones ; good was not his object, but personal glory. Besides, this sacking and burning 208 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. down cities to build greater, has always been a fa- vorite measure with conquerors, and the favorite apology with their eulogizers. It is false in fact, and false if true in the inference drawn from it. It is not true that improvement was his purpose, nor does it exculpate him if it was. God does not per- mit man to produce happiness this way without a special command. When he wishes a corrupt nation or people to be swept away, he sends his earthquake or pestilence, or if a man is to be his anointed instru- ment, he anoints him in the presence of the world. He may, and does, allow one wicked thing to scourge another, but the scourger is a criminal while he fulfils the design, for he acts not for the Deity, but for him- self. The grand outline of Bonaparte's mental cha- racter — the greatest achievement he performed — the mighty power he wielded, and the awe with w^hich he inspired the world, have blinded men to his true cha- racter, and he remains half apotheosized to this day ; while the sadness of his fate — being sent to eat out his heart on a solitary rock in mid ocean — has created a morbid sympathy for him, any thing but manly or just. The very manner *of his death, we think, has contributed to this wrong feeling. Dying amidst an awful storm, while trees were falling, and the sea flinging itself as if in convulsions far up on the island, have imparted something of the supernatural to him. And then his fierceness to the last ; for though the night was wild and terrible, a wdlder night was over his heart ; and his spirit, in its last fitful struggle, was w^atching the current of a heavy fight, and his last WATERLOO. 209 dying Tvords were tete cTarmee^ " head of the army." He has gone, and his mighty armies with him ; but the day shall come when the world shall read his history as they read that of Caesar Borgia, and to point to his tomb with a shudder. It is strange that such men as Bonaparte should always regard themselves as fated to perform what they do, as if themselves stupified with their own success, and conscious — acting voluntarily though they were — that the results were greater than human calculations could make them. Napoleon often spoke of himself as under a fate that protected him from death while he prosecuted his mad ambition. He may have been right, for Pharaoh was impelled by his own wicked heart to accomphsh a great and glorious plan. How sweet it is to know there is one right Being in the universe, who can and will eventually adjust all things well ! Before lea\dng the field, I was struck with one fact my guide told me, illustrating the brutality of the soldier. He was a native of Waterloo, and the morn- ing after the battle, stole forth to the field to pillage the slain. But the soldiers had been before him, and, weary and exhausted as they were with the hard day's fight, had spent the night in robbing the dead and the wounded ; so that he, on his own confession, could find, among the thousands heaped together, nothing worth carrying away but an old silver watch. This single fact is volumes on the brutalizing tendency of war. The field of Waterloo has undergone some change, from the erection of a large tumulus over the slain in the centre of it, surmounted by a bronze lion. The 18* 210 RAMBLES ANB SKETCHES. dirt excavated to make it has deepened tlie valley, while several monuments are scattered here and there to commemorate some gallant deed. In the little church of Waterloo repose many of the officers who fell in battle, and the walls are lined with tablets, bearing some of them touching inscriptions. One of them was peculiarly so. It was written above a young man, the son of a noble family, who was one of Wellington's suite, and had been with him in the peninsular campaign. He was but eighteen years old, and Waterloo was his tiventieth battle. Scarcely out' of boyhood, he had passed through the storm of nine- teen battles and perished in the twentieth. It is ter- rific to reflect on the moral efiect of so many scenes of blood upon a youthful heart. Such training will ruin any man, even though he were an angel. Ah, the evils of war are felt not less on the living than the dead ; not less on the mourner than the victor. The path of victory and defeat are both equally wasting. The blood of the slain has manured this field well, and the grain was waving richly over it, stirred by a gentle wind. I turned away a wiser, if not a better man, and filled with deep abhorrence of war and war's am- bition. And yet how many pilgrims come to this battle-field, and how high Bonaparte stands in the world's estimation ; while who seeks Howard's grave, or mourns over his death of a martyr ? But this is the world's way, and always has been — neglect its benefactors and deify its destroyers — crucify its Saviour and build temples above its Caesars. ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 211 CHAPTER XVII. » ON THE ADAPTATION OF ONE'S INTELLECTUAL EF- FORTS TO THE CHARACTER OF HIS OWN MIND AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN WHICH HE IS PLACED. The necessity of adapting all one's intellectual efforts to tlie character of his mind, furnishes a wide range of varied and interesting thought, finding illus- trations in the mathematician and poet, the novelist and chemist, the historian and the humorist. To trace out the workings of different minds in their peculiar departments would be a delightful and in- structive task. '' Know thyself," was written on the temple of Apollo, and though a heathen injunction, outweighs volumes of wholesome counsel. Perhaps there is no motive operating so powerfully on the mind of the young student as the unexpressed desire to excel as a speaker, a man of letters or of genius. Probably there is no vision which floats so dazzlingly before the spirit of the ambitious scholar, as the sight of himself, holding an audience spell-bound by the force of his eloquence or the displays of his genius in some department of learning or of art. If the secrets of the studio were revealed, the dreams of the am- bitious sleeper uttered aloud, and the irrepressible longings of his spirit breathed in the ear, they would 212 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. all speak of this one bright vision. True, this dream, except in a few cases, is never fully realized. It results from the consciousness of power which the soul feels as it first steps across the threshold into the great intellectual universe, and expands to the deepening, growing prospect above and around it. But a man may sit for ever and gaze upon the hill- top of his desires ; invested though it be with real splendor, without industry on his part, he might as well gaze on the moon. To have his industry well applied ; to excel at all in our primary exertions, or after efforts, we must let the mind work to its natural tendencies. Neither the mind nor its tendencies are created by education ; they are simply developed, corrected, and strengthened. Every mind has its peculiarities, its own way of viewing a question, and its mode of presenting it. In some one thing it is better than in all others. There are the feebler and the stronger powers, and to know where ones intellectual strength lies is the first lesson to be learned, but it is one that many never learn. Our taste is not the judge on this point ; for taste is only a cultivated quality, re- ceiving its character from the influences under which it has been educated. Mistaking taste for genius is the rock on which thousands have split. It has hur- ried many a young and struggling author into scenes of bitter disappointment and an early grave. A taste for poetry it not the divine '^afflatus," nor a love for eloquence its heaven-imparted power. Mistaking taste for genius effectually prevents a man from un- ADAPTATION OP INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 213 derstanding its true intellectual strength. One, per- haps, has been educated to consider the true power of a speaker to consist in logical argument, and calm, deliberate discussion ; while his own mind is highly imaginative, and its power consists in the force and beauty of its illustrations ; the new forms under which it presents truth; its resistless appeals, and impas- sioned bursts of feeling. To comply with the rigid taste under which it has been educated, the mind would leave untouched its greatest powers, and labor to lead out those most weakly developed, and which never can become more than ordinary. On the other hand, a cool mathematician, whose imagination never flew beyond a diagram, may possess a wonderful pen- chant for the pathetic and highly figurative. He may struggle for ever, but his efforts will be like measuring poetry by the yard, or gauging beauty with rule and compass. How many illustrations of this truth have been presented to each of us in our lifetime. My memory refers this moment to two. One, whose mind was of a bold and ardent character, wished to be reputed a cool and laborious metaphy- sician. To secure this reputation, he labored through life against Nature herself. Sometimes, when sud- denly excited, he would break away from the fetters in which he had enthralled himself, and burst with startling power upon his auditors. But he controlled these ebulUtions of feeling, as he termed them, and, with the power of excelling as an orator, he died as a common metaphysician. The other probably never could have been a great man ; yet all the excellence 214 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. he possessed consisted in the plain, practical, com- mon sense view he took of a subject adapted to in- struct or benefit his hearers. But he had a wonder- ful taste for the pathetic. He fondly believed he was fitted to stir an audience with lofty feeling, and bear them away on the resistless tide of strong emo- tion. Mistaking the structure of his mind, he conse- quently always failed, but consoled himself with the reflection that no human power could arouse and agitate such marble hearts. He never tore a passion to tatters, like a declamatory schoolboy; but he gently rocked it to rest, then made a serious carica- ture of it. He would turn even a tragedy into a comedy. "Know thyself," is a difficult but neces- sary lesson. Many a man considers himself a sound critic of a speaker's or writer's power, while he brings every one to the same test — his oivn taste. But minds are as various in their construction as natural scenery in its aspects. There is the bold outline of the mountain range, with its rocks and caverns and gloomy gorges; and there is the great plain, with its groves and streamlets. There are the rough torrent and headlong cataract, and there is the gentle river, winding in perfect wantonness through the vale, as if it loved and strove to linger amid its beauties; there is the terrific swoop of the eagle, and the arrow- like dart of the swallow ; there are the thunder-cloud and rainbow, the roar of the ocean and the gentle murmur of the south wind; all, all unlike, yet all attractive, and all possessing their admirers. The same Divine hand that created and spread out this ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 215 diversified scenery, has formed mind with aspects as various, and it appears most attractive in that which the Creator has given it. I recollect of seeing, some years ago, a contrast drawn by a western man, between Dr. Beecher and Bishop Mcllvaine. I do not recollect the author's name, nor can I now recall much of the comparison ; but, among other things, he remarked, that the structure and movement of their minds were as differ- ent as the structure and movement of their bodies — one abrupt, vehement, and rapid; the other calm, easy, and graceful. The thoughts of one are like a chest of gold rings ; of the other, like the hnks of an iron chain. One makes the sky above you all suns'hine and beauty ; the other makes one half of it too bright for mortal eye to gaze upon, the other half with thunder-cloud piled on thunder-cloud, and above all the wheels of Providence rolling. These men are both eloquent; yet how difi'erent the orbits in which their minds re- volve. One never could be the other. One is the torrent among the hills ; the other the stream along the meadows. One startles ; the other delights. One agitates ; the other soothes. One ever asks for the war bugle, and pours through it a rallying cry that would almost wake the dead ; the other cries, '• bring out the silver trumpet," and breathes his soul into it till the melody dies away in the human heart like sunset in the heavens. Some one drawing a con- trast between Lord Brougham and Canning, remarks that the mind of one (Lord Brougham) is hke a con- 216 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. cave mirror, converging all the rays of light that fall upon it into one tremendous and burning focus ; the mind of the other, like a convex mirror, scattering the rays as they strike it, till it shines and glitters from every point you view it. So Longinus, speak- ing of Demosthenes and Cicero, says, one is like the mountain torrent, bearing away every thing by the violence of its current; the other a consuming fire, wandering hither and thither over the fields, ever burning, and ever finding something to consume. Every great speaker and writer in our own land has his peculiar style, that no other one can appropriate to himself. How do all these varieties occur ? From obeying the great — I might say greatest — maxim, "Look into thine* own heart, then write.'' Walter Scott would doubtless have died an ordinary man if he had continued the -law, to which external circum- stances seemed resolved to chain him. No one sup- poses that every man has powers so strikingly developed as those I have noticed. The upward ten- dencies of some minds are so powerful, that no edu- cation can subdue or change them, and, Titan-hke, they will arise, though mountains are piled on them. But in more ordinary ones, the better qualities are not so prominent ; they must be sought out and culti- vated. These varieties as really exist in the most common intellects as in great ones. A backwoods- man very soon knows whether he is better on the dead lift or vigorous leap, but how few who write or speak know in what direction their minds work with greatest power ; and yet, till they do, they never can ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 217 receive their best cultivation. A man destitute of imagination might as well attempt to fly with leaden wings, as strive to excel in highly descriptive and ornamental, or figurative writing. While, on the contrary, let one with a youthful, ardent, and highly imaginative mind, assume the deliberate judge and deep philosopher, and aim to make every word weigh a pound, and he will appear at best like a child with his grandfather's spectacles on. And yet the world is full of these unnatural efforts, till the mind often loses all its elasticity and playfulness on the one hand, and all its force and power on the other. In- deed, sober-minded men often compliment themselves on the soundness of their judgments in condemning writers and speakers, when they ought to be reproved for the narrowness of their views. That man who, on listening to a beautiful poem, satirically inquired at the close what it all proved, doubtless considered himself blessed with a vastly deep and philosophical mind. What did it prove ? It proved there was harmony in the universe besides the jingle of dollars and cents — that there was beauty in the world be- sides lines and angles, railroads and canals. Many seem to think there is nothing proved, except by a long train of consecutive reason. As if the stars and the blue sky, the caroling of birds, and the music of running waters, proved nothing ! They prove much to one who has an eye and ear to perceive and understand them. Said a great scholar and dis- tinguished man once to me, ''Mrs. Hemans never wrote a single line of poetry in her life.'' Vastly 19 ' 218 RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. profound! Methinks such 'a man could discourse systematically on the compact, scientifically-built wall of a garden all day, and never behold a single flower it inclosed. For such minds beauty and har- mony are created in vain. It is this rigidity of taste that often paralyzes the powers of the finest-wrought minds. The variety which God has created is disre- garded, and every one is brought to the same iron- like standard. The mind is doubtless, in a thousand instances, injured before it is old enough to compare for itself. How many parents regard institutions of learning as so many intellectual mills, into which every variety of mind is to be tossed, and come out well-bolted intellectual flour ! How little do they study the difi*erent characters of those under their control ! and while they fondly believe they are granting them equal opportunities by the course they pursue, they are using means adapted to develop the best powers of one, and the weakest of the other. Let not the reader suppose that the intellect is self- educated ; that Nature is an unerring guide, and he must folbw as far as she leads. She directs to which species the variety belongs, gently admonishing man to cultivate it according to the character of the plant. Nor do I suppose she has inclosed a path for any particular mind to tread in without deviation to the right hand or to the left, but that there is one in which it can move with greater facility and pleasure. There is one aspect of it more attractive than all the rest. I may be considered as having given an undue im- portance to this subject, but I am confident that no ADAPTATION OF INTELLECTUAL EFFORTS. 219 one has advanced far Tvithout knowing what his best powers are. Cultivate an ordinary mind so that it may possess its greatest power, and it will be regarded as a giant in this world of misapplied effort. The latter part of this subject — the adaptation of one's self to circumstances — may seem at first sight to conflict with the former, namely, that one should consult the peculiar tendencies and powers of his own mind in his mental efforts. But it does not ; for although one may possess an excellence on which he must mainly rely, yet there may be some circum- stances calhng forth a lower order of powers that shall exhibit the mind to greater advantage from the very beauty of the adaptation itself. Besides, the desired result does not always depend on the weight of the given blow, but on the direction it takes, and the point of contact. So the mind cannot always produce the greatest results by the employment of its greatest powers. That depends very much upon the minds with which it comes in collision, and the tastes it has to encounter. When there is a broad and striking contrast on the occasion, this rul