Chapter XXXI: Book XIV: §Voltaire§, in his Œdipus, makes Jocasta say, (7)

As one views Europe, through contemporary books of travel, in the early part of the last century, the landscape is awful—wretched wastes, beggarly and plundered; half-burned cottages and trembling peasants gathering piteous harvests; gangs of such tramping along with bayonets behind them, and corporals with canes and cats-of-nine-tails to flog them to barracks. By these passes my lord’s gilt carriage, floundering through the ruts, as he swears at the postillions, and toils on to the Residenz. Hard by, but away from the noise and brawling of the citizens and buyers, is Wilhelmslust or Ludwigsruhe, or Monbijou, or Versailles—it scarcely matters which—near to the city, shut out by woods from the beggared country, the enormous, hideous, gilded, monstrous marble palace, where the prince is, and the Court, and the trim gardens, and huge fountains, and the forest where the ragged peasants are beating the game in (it is death to them to touch a feather); and the jolly hunt sweeps by with its uniform of crimson and gold; and the prince gallops ahead puffing his royal horn; and his lords and mistresses ride after him; and the stag is pulled down; and the grand huntsman gives the knife in the midst of a chorus of bugles; and ’tis time the court go home to dinner; and our noble traveller, it may be the Baron of Pöllnitz, or the Count de Königsmarck, or the excellent Chevalier de Seingalt, sees the procession gleaming through the trim avenues of the wood, and hastens to the inn, and sends his noble name to the marshal of the court. Then our nobleman arrays himself in green and gold, or pink and silver, in the richest Paris mode, and is introduced by the chamberlain, and makes his bow to the jolly prince, and the gracious princess; and is presented to the chief lords and ladies, and then comes supper and a bank at Faro, where he loses or wins a thousand pieces by daylight. If it is a German court, you may add not a little drunkenness to this picture of high life; but German, or French, or Spanish, if you can see out of your palace-windows beyond the trim-cut forest vistas, misery is lying outside; hunger is stalking about the bare villages, listlessly following precarious husbandry; ploughing stony fields with starved cattle; or fearfully taking in scanty harvests. Augustus is fat and jolly on his throne; he can knock down an ox, and eat one almost; his mistress, Aurora von Königsmarck, is the loveliest, the wittiest creature; his diamonds are the biggest and most brilliant in the world, and his feasts as splendid as those of Versailles. As for Louis the Great, he is more than mortal. Lift up your glances respectfully, and mark him eyeing Madame de Fontanges or Madame de Montespan from under his sublime periwig, as he passes through the great gallery where Villars and Vendome, and Berwick, and Bossuet, and Massillon are waiting. Can Court be more splendid; nobles and knights more gallant and superb; ladies more lovely? A grander monarch, or a more miserable starved wretch than the peasant his subject, you cannot look on. Let us bear both these types in mind, if we wish to estimate the old society properly. Remember the glory and the chivalry? Yes! Remember the grace and beauty, the splendor and lofty politeness; the gallant courtesy of Fontenoy where the French line bids the gentlemen of the English guard to fire first; the noble constancy of the old king and Villars his general, who fits out the last army with the last crown-piece from the treasury, and goes to meet the enemy and die or conquer for France at Denain. But round all that royal splendor lies a nation enslaved and ruined; there are people robbed of their rights—communities laid waste—faith, justice, commerce trampled upon, and well-nigh destroyed—nay, in the very centre of royalty itself, what horrible stains and meanness, crime and shame! It is but to a silly harlot that some of the noblest gentlemen, and some of the proudest women in the world are bowing down; it is the price of a miserable province that the king ties in diamonds round his mistress’s white neck. In the first half of the last century this is going on all Europe over. Saxony is a waste as well as Picardy or Artois; and Versailles is only larger and not worse than Herrenhausen.

THE BITER BIT.

Jerry White, the Chaplain to Cromwell, carried his ambition so far as to think of becoming son-in-law to his Highness, by marrying his daughter, the lady Frances; and as Jerry had those requisites that generally please the fair sex, he won the affections of the young lady: but as nothing of this sort could happen without the knowledge of the watchful father, who had his spies in every place, and about every person, it soon reached his ears. There were as weighty reasons for rejecting Jerry as there had been for dismissing His Majesty Charles II., who had been proposed by the Earl of Orrery as a husband. Oliver therefore, ordered the informer to observe and watch them narrowly; and promised that upon substantial proof of the truth of what he had declared, he should be as amply rewarded as Jerry severely punished. It was not long before the informer acquainted his Highness that the Chaplain was then with the lady; and upon hastening to his daughter’s apartment, he discovered the unfortunate Jerry upon his knees, kissing her Ladyship’s hand: seeing which, he hastily exclaimed, “What is the meaning of this posture before my daughter Frances?” The Chaplain, with great presence of mind, replied, “May it please your Highness, I have a long time courted that young gentlewoman there, my lady’s woman, and cannot prevail: I was therefore humbly praying her Ladyship to intercede for me.” Oliver, turning to the waiting-woman, said:—“What is the meaning of this? He is my friend, and I expect you should treat him as such:” who, desiring nothing more, replied, with a low courtesy, “If Mr. White intends me that honor, I shall not oppose him.” Upon which Oliver said, “We’ll call Goodwin: this business shall be done presently, before I go out of the room.” Jerry could not retreat. Goodwin came, and they were instantly married,—the bride, at the same time, receiving £500 from the Protector.

Mr. Jerry White lived with this wife (not of his choice) more than fifty years. Oldmixon says he knew both him and Mrs. White, and heard the story told when they were present; at which time Mrs. White acknowledged “there was something in it.”

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE GIRONDISTS.

Of all the prisons of Paris, the Conciergerie is the most interesting, from its antiquity, associations, and mixed style of architecture,—uniting as it were the horrors of the dungeons of the Middle Ages with the more humane system of confinement of the present century. It exhibits in its mongrel outline the progressive ameliorations of humanity toward criminals and offenders,—forming a connecting link between feudal barbarity and modern civilization. Situated in the heart of old Paris, upon the Ile de la Cité, separated from the Seine by the Quai de l’Horologe, it is one of a cluster of edifices pregnant with souvenirs of tragedy and romance. These buildings are the Sainte Chapelle, the Prefecture de Police, and the Palais de Justice, formerly the residence of the French monarchs. The Conciergerie, which derives its name from _concierge_, or keeper, was anciently the prison of the palace. It is now chiefly used as a place of detention for persons during their trial. Recent alterations have greatly diminished the gloomy and forbidding effect of its exterior; but sufficient of its old character remains to perpetuate the associations connected with its former uses, and to preserve for it its interest as a relic of feudalism. The names of the two turrets flanking the gateway, Tour de César, and Tour Boubec, smack of antiquity. Compared with Cæsar, however, its age is quite juvenile, being less than nine hundred years.

The oldest legible entry in the archives of the Conciergerie is that of the regicide Ravaillac, who was incarcerated May 16, 1610. Among the memorable names on its register are those of Damiens, who attempted the life of Louis XV.; Eleonore Galigaï, the confidante of Marie de Medicis; La Voisine, the famous female poisoner, who succeeded Madame de Brinvilliers; Cartouche the noted robber, and high above them all in point of tragic interest, the innocent and unfortunate queen, Marie Antoinette.

The records of this prison furnish extraordinary illustrations of stoicism in the midst of civil calamity, and its walls bear witness to almost inconceivable indifference to the mastery of violence. We know that there is no social upheaval to which human nature, with its versatility of powers for good or evil, may not become accustomed, and if the condition be inevitable, even become reconciled. But the conduct of the prisoners of the Conciergerie, in many instances, tinged as it was with mingled sublimity and folly, surpasses comprehension. During the Reign of Terror they were almost daily decimated by the guillotine; yet their constant _amusement_ was to play at charades and the—_guillotine_. Both sexes and all ranks assembled in one of the halls. They formed a revolutionary tribunal—choosing accusers and judges, and parodizing the gestures and voice of Fouquier Tinville and his coadjutors. Defenders were named; the accused were taken at hazard. The sentence of death followed close on the heels of the accusation. They simulated the toilet of the condemned, preparing the neck for the knife by feigning to cut the hair and collar. The sentenced were attached to a chair reversed to represent the guillotine. The knife was of wood, and as it fell, the individual, male or female, thus sporting with their approaching fate, tumbled down as if actually struck by the iron blade. Often while engaged in this _play_, they were interrupted by the terrible voice of the public crier, calling over the “names of the brigands who to-day have gained the lottery of the holy guillotine.”

But among the curious souvenirs of this celebrated jail, the most memorable is that of the last night of the Girondists, that unique festivity which was certainly the grandest triumph of philosophy in the annals of human events. Those fierce, theoretical deputies, who had so recently sent to the scaffold the King and Queen of France, were now in turn on their way thither. Christianity teaches men to live in peaceful humility, and to die with hopeful resignation. The last hour of a true believer is calmly joyous. Here was an opportunity for infidelity to assert its superiority in death, as it had claimed for itself the greatest good in life. Let us be just to even these deluded men. They had played a terrible role in the history of their country, and they resigned themselves to die with the same intrepidity with which they had staked their existence upon the success of their policy. They made it a death fête, each smiling as he awaited the dread message, and devoting his latest moments to those displays of intellectual rivalry which had so long united them in life. Mainvielle, Ducos, Gensonné, and Boyer Foufréde abandoned themselves to gayety, wit and revelry, repeating their own verses with friendly rivalry, and stimulating their companions to every species of infidel folly. Viger sang amorous songs; Duprat related a tale; Gensonné repeated the Marseillaise; while Vergniaud alternately electrified them with his eloquence, or discoursed philosophically of their past history, and the unknown future upon which they were about to enter. The discussion on poetry, literature, and general topics, was animated and brilliant; on God, religion, the immortality of the soul, grave, eloquent, calm and poetic. The walls of the prison echoed to a late hour in the morning to their patriotic cries, and were witnesses to their fraternal embraces. The corpse of Valazé, the only one of their number who by a voluntary death eluded the scaffold, remained with them.

The whole scene was certainly the wildest and most dramatic ever born of courage and reason. Yet throughout their enthusiasm there appears a chill of uncertainty, and an intellectual coldness that appals the conscience. We feel that for the Girondists it was a consistent sacrifice to their theories and their lives; but for a Christian and patriot, a sad and unedifying spectacle.

While history cannot refute the tribute of admiration to high qualities, even when misdirected, it is equally bound to record the errors and repeat the warnings of those who claim a place in its pages. The lives of the Girondists, as well as their deaths, formed a confused drama of lofty aspirations, generous sentiments and noble sacrifices, mingled with error, passion and folly. Their character presents all the cold brilliancy of fireworks, which excite our admiration only to be chilled with disappointment at their speedy eclipse. Their death-scene was emphatically a _spectacle_. It exhibited neither the simple grandeur of the death of Socrates, nor the calm and trustful spirit that characterized the dying moments of Washington; the one yielding up his spirit as a heathen philosopher; the other dying as a Christian statesman.

QUEEN ELIZABETH AND THE RING.

Concerning the love-token which Queen Elizabeth gave to Essex, with an intimation that if he forfeited her favor, its return would secure her forgiveness, Miss Strickland quotes the testimony of Lady Spelman, who says that when Essex lay under sentence of death, he determined to try the virtue of the ring, by sending it to the queen, and claiming the benefit of her promise; but knowing he was surrounded by the creatures of those who where bent on taking his life, he was fearful of trusting it to any of his attendants. At length, looking out of his window, he saw early one morning a boy whose countenance pleased him, and him he induced by a bribe to carry the ring, which he threw down to him from above, to the Lady Scrope, his cousin, who had taken so friendly interest in his fate. The boy, by mistake, carried it to the Countess of Nottingham, the cruel sister of the fair and gentle Scrope, and, as both these ladies were of the royal bedchamber, the mistake might easily occur. The countess carried the ring to her husband the Lord Admiral, who was the deadly foe of Essex, and told him the message, but he bade her suppress both. The queen, unconscious of the accident, waited in the painful suspense of an angry lover for the expected token to arrive; but not receiving it, she concluded he was too proud to make this last appeal to her tenderness, and, after having once revoked the warrant, she ordered the execution to proceed.

Multum in Parvo.

Prior, says Leigh Hunt, wrote one truly loving verse, if no other. It is in his _Solomon_. The monarch is speaking of a female slave, who had a real affection for him—

_And when I called another, Abra came._

* * * * *

Coleridge says that Noah’s Ark affords a fine image of the world at large, as containing a very few men, and a great number of beasts.

* * * * *

The boxes which govern the world are the cartridge-box, the ballot-box, the jury-box, and the band-box.

* * * * *

There are certain things upon which even a wise man must be content to be ignorant. “I cannot fiddle,” said Themistocles, “but I can take a city.”

* * * * *

Sir Thomas Overbury said of a man who boasted of his ancestry, that he was like a potato—the best thing belonging to him was under the ground.

* * * * *

“Go and see Carlini” (the famous Neapolitan comedian), said a physician to a patient, who came to consult him upon habitual depression of spirits. “I am Carlini,” said the man.

* * * * *

The words _Abstemiously_ and _Facetiously_ contain all the vowels in consecutive order.

* * * * *

When Mr. Pitt’s enemies objected to George III. that he was too young, his Majesty answered: “That is an objection the force of which will be weakened every day he lives.”

* * * * *

Prayer moves the hand
That moves the universe.

* * * * *

The clock that stands still, points right twice in the four-and-twenty hours; while others may keep going continually, and be continually going wrong.

* * * * *

The Mexicans say to their new-born offspring, “Child, thou art come into the world to suffer. Endure, and hold thy peace.”

* * * * *

Balzac makes mention of a man who never uttered his own name without taking off his hat, as a mark of reverence for the exalted appellation.

* * * * *

Gibbon says: As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors the thirst of military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters.

* * * * *

In the works of Prof. Thomas Cooper it is said,—Mankind pay best, 1. Those who destroy them, heroes and warriors. 2. Those who cheat them, statesmen, priests and quacks. 3. Those who amuse them, as singers, actors, dancers and novel writers. But least of all, those who speak the truth, and instruct them.

* * * * *

Wax-lights, though we are accustomed to overlook the fact, and rank them with ordinary commonplaces, are true fairy tapers,—a white metamorphosis from the flowers, crowned with the most intangible of all visible mysteries—fire.

* * * * *

An illustration of false emphasis is supplied by the verse, (I. Kings xiii. 27,) “And he spoke to his sons, saying, Saddle me the ass. And they saddled _him_.”

* * * * *

Shakspeare, in the compass of a line, has described a thoroughly charming girl:—

Pretty, and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle.

* * * * *

The foundation of domestic happiness is confidence in the virtue of woman; the foundation of political happiness is reliance on the integrity of man; the foundation of all real happiness, temporal and spiritual, present and eternal, is faith in the mercy of God through Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.

* * * * *

Buckingham’s Epitaph on Thomas Lord Fairfax:—

He might have been a King,
But that he understood
How much it is a meaner thing
To be unjustly great, than honorably good.

* * * * *

A favorite exclamation of the Parisian mob, who must always have a “_vive_” something or other, became during the Revolution, “_vive la mort!_”

* * * * *

Alphonso, King of Aragon, in his judgment of human life, declared that there were only four things in this world worth living for: “Old wine to drink, old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to converse with.”

* * * * *

David refers to a good old form of salutation and valediction in Psalm cxxix. 8:—

“The blessing of the Lord be upon you; we bless you in the name of the Lord.”

* * * * *

An eastern sage being desired to inscribe on the ring of his Sultan a motto, equally applicable to prosperity or adversity, returned it with these words engraved upon the surface: “And this, too, shall pass away.”

* * * * *

Oliver Cromwell’s grace before dinner:—

Some have meat, but cannot eat,
And some can eat, but have not meat,
And so—the Lord be praised.

Life and Death.

All death in nature is birth, and in death appears visibly the
advancement of life. There is no killing principle in nature, for
nature throughout is life: it is not death that kills, but the higher
life, which, concealed behind the other, begins to develop itself.
Death and birth are but the struggle of life with itself to attain a
higher form.—§Fichte.§

I came in the morning,—it was spring,
And I smiled;
I walked out at noon,—it was summer,
And I was glad;
I sat me down at even,—it was autumn,
And I was sad;
I laid me down at night,—it was winter,
And I slept.

BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATIONS OF LIFE.

What a fine passage is that of Bishop §Heber§, which is said to have suggested to §Cole§ his justly-famed series of paintings, entitled _The Voyage of Life_!

Life bears us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our boat at first glides swiftly down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook and the windings of its grassy borders: the trees shed their blossoms over our young heads, and the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young hands; we rejoice in hope, and grasp eagerly at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries us on, and still our hands are empty.

Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, and amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry that is passing before us; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and rendered miserable by some short-lived disappointment. But our energy and dependence are alike in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and griefs are left behind us: we may be shipwrecked, but we cannot anchor; our voyage may be hastened, but cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens toward its home; the roaring of the waves is beneath our keel, the land lessens from our eyes, the floods are lifted up around us, and we take our last leave of earth and its inhabitants, and of our future voyage there is no witness save the Infinite and the Eternal!

THE ROUND OF LIFE.

From the Aphorisms of Dr. Horne, Bishop of Norwich:—

Some are serving,—some commanding;
Some are sitting,—some are standing;
Some rejoicing,—some are grieving;
Some entreating,—some relieving;
Some are weeping,—some are laughing;
Some are thirsting,—some are quaffing;
Some accepting,—some refusing;
Some are thrifty,—some abusing;
Some compelling,—some persuading;
Some are flattering,—some degrading;
Some are patient,—some are fuming;
Some are modest,—some presuming;
Some are leasing,—some are farming;
Some are helping,—some are harming;
Some are running,—some are riding;
Some departing,—some abiding;
Some are sending,—some are bringing;
Some are crying,—some are singing;
Some are hearing,—some are preaching;
Some are learning,—some are teaching;
Some disdaining,—some affecting;
Some assiduous,—some neglecting;
Some are feasting,—some are fasting;
Some are saving,—some are wasting;
Some are losing,—some are winning;
Some repenting,—some are sinning;
Some professing,—some adoring;
Some are silent,—some are roaring;
Some are restive,—some are willing;
Some preserving,—some are killing;
Some are bounteous,—some are grinding;
Some are seeking,—some are finding;
Some are thieving,—some receiving;
Some are hiding,—some revealing;
Some commending,—some are blaming;
Some dismembering,—some new-framing;
Some are quiet,—some disputing;
Some confuted and confuting;
Some are marching,—some retiring;
Some are resting,—some aspiring;
Some enduring,—some deriding;
Some are falling,—some are rising.
These are sufficient to recite,
Since all men’s deeds are infinite;
Some end their parts when some begin;
Some go out,—and some come in.

RULES OF LIVING.

_From Rev. Hugh Peters’ Legacy to his Daughter._

_London, §A.D.§ 1660._

Whosoever would live long and blessedly, let him observe these following rules, by which he shall attain to that which he desireth:—

Let thy
Thoughts be divine, awful, godly.
Talk — little, honest, true.
Works — profitable, holy, charitable.
Manners — grave, courteous, cheerful.
Diet — temperate, convenient, frugal.
Apparel — sober, neat, comely.
Will — confident, obedient, ready.
Sleep — moderate, quiet, seasonable.
Prayers — short, devout, often, fervent.
Recreation — lawful, brief, seldom.
Memory — of death, punishment, glory.

DR. FRANKLIN’S MORAL CODE.

The great American philosopher and statesman, Benjamin Franklin, drew up the following list of moral virtues, to which he paid constant and earnest attention, and thereby made himself a better and happier man:—

_Temperance._—Eat not to fulness; drink not to elevation.

_Silence._—Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.

_Order._—Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.

_Resolution._—Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.

_Frugality._—Make no expense, but do good to others as yourself; that is, waste nothing.

_Industry._—Lose no time, be always employed in something useful; but avoid all unnecessary actions.

_Sincerity._—Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly; and, if you speak, speak accordingly.

_Justice._—Wrong no one by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.

_Moderation._—Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries.

_Cleanliness._—Suffer no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.

_Tranquillity._—Be not disturbed about trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.

_Humility._—Imitate Jesus Christ.

EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.

The celebrated Lord Coke wrote the subjoined couplet, which he religiously observed in the distribution of time:—

Six hours to sleep,—to law’s grave studies six,—
Four spent in prayer,—the rest to nature fix.

But Sir William Jones, a wiser economist of the fleeting hours of life, amended the sentence in the following lines:—

Seven hours to law,—to soothing slumber seven,—
Ten to the world allot,—and all to heaven.

LIVING LIFE OVER AGAIN.

Good Sir Thomas Browne says, Though I think no man can live well once but he that could live twice, yet for my own part I would not live over my hours past, nor begin again the thread of my days; not upon Cicero’s ground,—because I have lived them well,—but for fear I should live them worse. I find my growing judgment daily instruct me how to be better, but my untamed affections and confirmed vitiosity make me daily do worse. I find in my confirmed age the same sins I discovered in my youth; I committed many then, because I was a child, and because I commit them still, I am yet an infant. Therefore I perceive a man may be twice a child before the days of dotage, and stand in need of Æson’s bath before threescore.

RHYMING DEFINITIONS.

§Fame.§—A meteor dazzling with its distant glare.
§Wealth.§—A source of trouble and consuming care.
§Pleasure.§—A gleam of sunshine, passing soon away.
§Love.§—A morning stream whoso memory gilds the day.
§Faith.§—An anchor dropped beyond the vale of death.
§Hope.§—A lone star beaming o’er the barren heath.
§Charity.§—A stream meandering from the fount of love.
§Bible.§—A guide to realms of endless joy above.
§Religion.§—A key which opens wide the gates of Heaven.
§Death.§—A knife by which the ties of earth are riven.
§Earth.§—A desert through which pilgrims wend their way.
§Grave.§—A home of rest when ends life’s weary day.
§Resurrection.§—A sudden waking from a quiet dream.
§Heaven.§—A land of joy, of light and love supreme.

EARTH.

What is earth, sexton?—A place to dig graves.
What is earth, rich man?—A place to work slaves.
What is earth, greybeard?—A place to grow old.
What is earth, miser?—A place to dig gold.
What is earth, school-boy?—A place for my play.
What is earth, maiden?—A place to be gay.
What is earth, seamstress?—A place where I weep.
What is earth, sluggard?—A good place to sleep.
What is earth, soldier?—A place for a battle.
What is earth, herdsman?—A place to raise cattle.
What is earth, widow?—A place of true sorrow.
What is earth, tradesman?—I’ll tell you to-morrow.
What is earth, sick man?—’Tis nothing to me.
What is earth, sailor?—My home is the sea.
What is earth, statesman?—A place to win fame.
What is earth, author?—I’ll write there my name.
What is earth, monarch?—For my realm it is given.
What is earth, Christian?—The gateway of heaven!

RHYMING CHARTER.

The following grant of William the Conqueror may be found in Stowe’s _Chronicle_ and in Blount’s _Ancient Tenures_:—

HOPTON, IN THE COUNTY OF SALOP.

_To the Heyrs Male of the Hopton, lawfully begotten_:

From me and from myne, to thee and to thyne
While the water runs, and the sun doth shine.
For lack of heyrs to the king againe,
I, William, king, the third year of my reign
Give to the Norman hunter,
To me that art both _line_[40] and deare,
The Hop and the Hoptoune,
And all the bounds up and downe.
Under the earth to hell,
Above the earth to heaven,
From me and from myne
To thee and to thyne;
As good and as faire
As ever they myne were.
To witness that this is _sooth_,[41]
I bite the wite wax with my tooth,
Before Jugg, Marode, and Margery
And my third son Henery,
For one bow, and one broad arrow,
When I come to hunt upon Yarrow.

Footnote 40:

Related, or of my lineage.

Footnote 41:

True.

NICE QUESTIONS FOR LAWYERS.

A gentleman, who died in Paris, left a legacy of $6000 to his niece in Dubuque, Iowa, who it appears also died about the same hour of the same day. The question which died first turns upon the relation of solar to true time, and must be decided by the difference of longitude. If the niece died at four o’clock §A.M.§, and her uncle at ten o’clock §A.M.§, the instants of their death would have been identical. Assuming that to be the hour of the testator’s death, if the niece died at any hour between four and ten, although the legacy would apparently revert to his estate, it would really vest in her and her heirs, since by solar time she would have actually survived her uncle.

Another case where great importance depended upon the precise time of death was that of the late Earl Fitzhardinge, who died “about midnight,” between October 10th and 11th. His rents, amounting to £40,000 a year, were payable on Old Lady-day and Old Michaelmas-day. The latter fell this year (1857) on Sunday, October 11, and the day began at midnight: so that if he died before twelve, the rents belonged to the parties taking the estate; but if after, they belonged to and formed part of his personal estate. The difference of one minute might therefore involve the question as to the title of £20,000.

THE BONE NOT DESCRIBED BY MODERN ANATOMISTS.

God formed them from the dust, and He once more
Will give them strength and beauty as before,
Though strewn as widely as the desert air,
As winds can waft them, or the waters bear.

The Emperor Adrian—the skeptic whose epigrammatic address to his soul in prospect of death,

Animula, vagula, blandula,[42] &c.,

Footnote 42:

_Byron’s Translation._

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou not wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humor gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

is well known—asked Rabbi Joshua Ben Hananiah, in the course of an interview following the successful siege of Bitter, “How doth a man revive again in the world to come?” He answered and said, “From _Luz_, in the back-bone.” Saith he to him, “Demonstrate this to me.” Then he took _Luz_, a little bone out of the back-bone, and put it in water, and it was not steeped; he put it into the fire, and it was not burned; he brought it to the mill, and that could not grind it; he laid it on the anvil and knocked it with a hammer, but the anvil was cleft, and the hammer broken.

The name Luz is probably derived from Genesis xlviii. 3, where, however, it refers to a place, not to a bone. The bone alluded to is the _sacrum_, the terminal wedge of the vertebral column. Butler, in his Hudibras, erroneously traces to the Rabbinic belief the modern name _os sacrum_, its origin really being due to the custom of placing it upon the altar in ancient sacrifices.

The learned Rabbins of the Jews
Write, there’s a bone, which they call _Luz_
I’ th’ rump of man, of such a virtue
No force in nature can do hurt to;
And therefore at the last great day
All th’ other members shall, they say,
Spring out of this, as from a seed
All sorts of vegetals proceed;
From whence the learned sons of art
_Os sacrum_ justly style that part.—_Hudibras._

DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.

There taught us how to live; and—oh, too high
A price for knowledge!—taught us how to die.—§Tickell.§

On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,
Weeping thou sat’st, while all around thee smiled;
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou mayst smile while all around thee weep.[43]
§Sir W. Jones§: _Pers. Trans._

Footnote 43:

A German journal proposed that the following lines should be
translated into any other language, so that the number of lines and
words should not exceed those in the original (twenty words).

Sohn! Du weintest am Tage der Geburt, es lachten die Freunde;
Tracht, dass am Todestag, wæhrend sie weinen, du lachst.

The English response thus complied with the conditions (seventeen
words):—

When I was born I cried, while others smiled;
Oh, may I dying smile, while others weep.

_Napoleon._—Tête d’Armée!

_Sir Walter Raleigh._—It matters little how the head lieth.

_Goethe._—Let the light enter.

_Tasso._—Into thy hands, O Lord.

_Alfieri._—Clasp my hand, my dear friend: I die.

_Martin Luther._—Father in Heaven, though this body is breaking away from me, and I am departing this life, yet I know that I shall forever be with thee, for no one can pluck me out of thy hand.

_Mozart._—You spoke of refreshment, my Emilie: take my last notes, sit down at the piano, sing them with the hymn of your sainted mother; let me hear once more those notes which have so long been my solace and delight.

_Haydn._—God preserve the Emperor!

_Haller._—The artery ceases to beat.

_Grotius._—Be serious.

_Erasmus._—Lord, make an end.

_Cardinal Beaufort._—What! is there no bribing death?

_Hilary_, Bishop of Poictiers.—Soul, thou hast served Christ these seventy years, and art thou afraid to die? Go out, soul, go out.

_Queen Elizabeth._—All my possessions for a moment of time!

_Charles II._—Let not poor Nelly starve.

_Anne Boleyn._—It is small, very small indeed (clasping her neck).

_Sir Thomas More._—I pray you see me safe up; and as for my coming down, let me shift for myself (ascending the scaffold).

_John Hampden._—O Lord, save my country! O Lord, be merciful to——

_Chancellor Thurlow._—I’m shot if I don’t believe I’m dying.

_Addison._—See with what peace a Christian can die.

_Julius Cæsar._—Et tu, Brute.

_Nero._—Is this your fidelity?

_Herder._—Refresh me with a great thought.

_Frederick V._, of Denmark.—There is not a drop of blood on my hands.

_Mirabeau._—Let me die amid the sound of delicious music and the fragrance of flowers.

_Madame de Staël._—I have loved God, my father, and liberty.

_Lord Nelson._—Kiss me, Hardy.

_Lord Chesterfield._—Give Dayrolles a chair.

_Hobbes._—I am taking a fearful leap in the dark.

_Byron._—I must sleep now.

_Sir Walter Scott._—I feel as if I were to be myself again.

_Keats._—I feel the daisies growing over me.

_Robert Burns._—Don’t let that awkward squad fire over my grave.

_Lawrence._—Don’t give up the ship.

_Washington._—It is well.

_Franklin._—A dying man can do nothing easy.

_Wolfe._—Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.

_Marion._—Thank God, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say that since I came to man’s estate I have never intentionally done wrong to any one.

_Adams._—Independence forever!

_Jefferson._—I resign my soul to God, and my daughter to my country.

_J. Q. Adams._—This is the last of earth. I am content.

_Harrison._—I wish you to understand the true principles of the Government. I wish them carried out. I ask nothing more.

_Taylor._—I have endeavored to do my duty.

_Daniel Webster._—I still live.

THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

_Written in her Prayer-Book the morning before her Execution_:

O! Domine Deus, (O my Lord and my God,
Speravi in te,— I have trusted in thee;
O! carè mi Jesu, O Jesus, my love,
Nunc libera me. Now liberate me.
In durâ catenâ, In my enemies’ power,
In miserâ, pœnâ, In affliction’s sad hour,
Desidero te. I languish for thee.
Languendo, gemendo, In sorrowing, weeping,
Et genuflectendo, And bending the knee,
Adoro, imploro, I adore and implore thee
Ut liberes me! To liberate me!)

REMARKABLE TRANCE.

At the siege of Rouen, the body of François de Civille, a French captain who was supposed to have been killed, was thrown with others into the ditch, where it remained from eleven o’clock in the morning to half-past six in the evening, when his servant, observing some latent heat, carried the body into the house. During the ensuing five days and nights not the slightest sign of life was exhibited, although the body gradually recovered its warmth. At the expiration of this time the town was carried by assault, and the servants of an officer belonging to the besiegers, having found the supposed corpse of Civille, threw it out of a window, with no other covering than his shirt. Fortunately for the captain, he fell upon a heap of straw, where he remained senseless three days longer, when he was taken up by his relations for sepulture and ultimately brought to life. What was still more strange, Civille, like Macduff, had been “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,” having been brought into the world by a Cæsarian operation which his mother did not survive. After his last escape he used to add to his signature, “three times born, three times buried, and three times risen from the dead by the grace of God.”

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION.

Whether,—as in the case of the Abbé Prevost in the forest of Chantilly,—if a supposed _cadaver_, while subjected to the investigating knife of the anatomist, should awake from a trance only to be conscious of his horrible condition and to expire from the immediate effect of the dissection, it is any thing more than homicide _per infortuniam_, or not.

Whether, in the case of Lazarus, who was restored to life by the Saviour after decomposition had commenced, he could have reclaimed property already in the possession and occupancy of the heirs to whom he had willed it before death.

PRESERVED BODIES.

There is an arched vault, or burying-ground, under the church at Kilsyth, in Scotland, which was the burying-place of the family of Kilsyth until the estate was forfeited and the title became extinct in the year 1715, since which it has never been used for that purpose except once. The last earl fled with his family to Flanders, and, according to tradition, was smothered to death about the year 1717, along with his lady and an infant child, and a number of other unfortunate Scottish exiles, by the falling in of the roof of a house in which they were assembled. What became of the body of the earl is not known; but the bodies of Lady Kilsyth and her infant were disembowelled and embalmed, and soon afterwards sent over to Scotland. They were landed, and lay at Leith for some time, whence they were afterwards carried to Kilsyth, and buried with great pomp, in the vault above mentioned.

In the spring of 1796, some reckless young men, having paid a visit to this ancient cemetery, tore open the coffin of Lady Kilsyth and her infant. With astonishment and consternation they saw the bodies of Lady Kilsyth and her child as perfect as they had been the hour they were entombed. For some weeks this circumstance was kept secret; but at last it began to be whispered in several companies, and soon excited great and general curiosity. “On the 12th of June,” wrote the minister of the parish of Kilsyth, in a letter to Dr. Garnet, “when I was from home, great crowds assembled, and would not be denied admission. At all hours of the night, as well as the day, they afterwards persisted in gratifying their curiosity. I saw the body of Lady Kilsyth soon after the coffin was opened. It was quite entire. Every feature and every limb was as full, nay, the very shroud was as clear and fresh and the colors of the ribands as bright, as the day they were lodged in the tomb. What rendered this scene more striking and truly interesting was that the body of her son and only child, the natural heir of the title and estates of Kilsyth, lay at her knee. His features were as composed as if he had been only asleep. His color was as fresh, and his flesh as plump and full, as in the perfect glow of health; the smile of infancy and innocence sat on his lips. His shroud was not only entire, but perfectly clean, without a particle of dust upon it. He seems to have been only a few months old. The body of Lady Kilsyth was equally well preserved; and at a little distance, from the feeble light of a taper, it would not have been easy to distinguish whether she was dead or alive. The features, nay, the very expression of her countenance, were marked and distinct; and it was only in a certain light that you could distinguish any thing like the agonizing traits of a violent death. Not a single fold of her shroud was decayed, nor a single member impaired. Neither of the bodies appear to have undergone the slightest decomposition or disorganization. Several medical gentlemen made incisions into the arm of the infant, and found the substance of the body quite firm, and in its original state.”

The writer states, among other interesting points that attracted his attention, that the bodies appeared to have been saturated in some aromatic liquid, of the color of dark brandy, with which the coffin had been filled, but which had nearly all evaporated.

Other instances of the artificial preservation of bodies might be mentioned, still more remarkable, though perhaps less interesting, than the preceding. The tomb of Edward the First, who died on the 7th of July, 1307, was opened on the 2d of January, 1770, and after the lapse of four hundred and sixty-three years the body was found undecayed: the flesh on the face was a little wasted, but not decomposed. The body of Canute the Dane, who obtained possession of England in the year 1017, was found quite fresh in the year 1766, by the workmen repairing Winchester Cathedral. In the year 1522, the body of William the Conqueror was found as entire as when first buried, in the Abbey Church of St. Stephen at Caen; and the body of Matilda his queen was found entire in 1502, in the Abbey Church of the Holy Trinity in the same city.

No device of art, however, for the preservation of the remains of the dead, appears equal to the simple process of plunging them into peat-moss.

In a manuscript by one Abraham Grey, who lived about the middle of the sixteenth century, now in the possession of his representative Mr. Goodbehere Grey, of Old Mills, near Aberdeen, it is stated that, in 1569, three Roman soldiers, in the dress of their country, fully equipped with warlike instruments, were dug out of a moss of great extent, called Kazey Moss. When found, after the lapse of probably about fifteen hundred years, they were still fresh and plump!

Modern chemistry teaches us that in these cases there is a conversion of the tissues of the body into adipocere, a substance closely resembling spermaceti, and composed, according to Chevreul, of margaric and oleic acids, with a slight addition of the alkalies. It is generally formed from bodies buried in moist earth, and especially when they have accumulated in great numbers. On the removal of the _Cimetière des Innocens_ in Paris, in 1787, where thousands of bodies had been buried annually for several centuries, it was found that those bodies which had been placed in great numbers in the trenches were, without having lost their shapes, converted into this substance.

FOLLY OF EMBALMING CORPSES.

Full many a jocund spring has passed away,
And many a flower has blossomed to decay,
And human life, still hastening to a close,
Finds in the worthless dust its last repose.—§Firdousi.§

Professor Johnston, in alluding to the custom of converting the human body into a frightful-looking mummy, or of attempting by various artificial processes to arrest its natural course of decomposition into kindred elements, remarks, as beautifully as truly:—

Embalm the loved bodies, and swathe them, as the old Egyptians did, in resinous cerements, and you but preserve them a little longer, that some wretched, plundering Arab may desecrate and scatter to the winds the residual dust. Or jealously, in regal tombs and pyramids, preserve the forms of venerated emperors or beauteous queens, still, some future conqueror, or more humble Belzoni, will rifle the most secure resting-place. Or bury them in most sacred places, beneath high altars, a new reign shall dig them up and mingle them again with the common earth. Or, more careful still, conceal your last resting-place where local history keeps no record and even tradition cannot betray you: then accident shall stumble at length upon your unknown tomb and liberate your still remaining ashes.

How touching to behold the vain result of even the most successful attempts at preserving apart, and in their relative places, the solid materials of the individual form! The tomb, after a lapse of time, is found and opened. The ghastly tenant reclines, it may be, in full form and stature. The very features are preserved,—impressed, and impressing the spectator, with the calm dignity of their long repose. But some curious hand touches the seemingly solid form, or a breath of air disturbs the sleeping air around the full-proportioned body,—when, lo! it crumbles instantly away into an almost insensible quantity of impalpable dust!

Who has not read with mingled wonder and awe of the opening, in our own day, of the almost magical sepulchre of an ancient Etruscan king? The antiquarian _dilettanti_, in their under-ground researches, unexpectedly stumbled upon the unknown vault. Undisturbed through Roman and barbaric times, accident revealed it to modern eyes. A small aperture, made by chance in the outer wall, showed to the astonished gazers a crowned king within, sitting on his chair of state, with robes and sceptre all entire, and golden ornaments of ancient device bestowed here and there around his person. Eager to secure the precious spoil, a way is forced with hammer and mattock into the mysterious chamber. But the long spell is now broken; the magical image is now gone. Slowly, as the vault first shook beneath the blows, the whole pageant crumbled away. A light, smoky dust filled the air; and, where the image so lately sat, only the tinselled fragments of thin gold remained, to show that the vision and the ornaments had been real, though the entire substance of the once noble form had utterly vanished.

For a few thousand years some apparently fortunate kings and princes may arrest the natural circulation of a handful of dust. But in what are they better than Cromwell, whose remains were pitilessly disturbed,—than Wyckliffe, whose ashes were sprinkled on the sea,—than St. Genevieve, whose remains were burned in the Place de Grève and her ashes scattered to the wind,—than Mausolus, whose dust was swallowed by his wife Artemisia,—than the King of Edom, whose bones were burned for lime,—or than St. Pepin and all the royal line of Bourbon, whose tombs were emptied by a Parisian mob? Lamartine tells us, in his _History of the Girondists_, that a decree of the Convention had commanded the destruction of the tombs of the kings at St. Denis. The Commune changed this decree into an attack against the dead. * * * * The axe broke the gates of bronze presented by Charlemagne to the Basilica of St. Denis. * * * They raised the stones, ransacked the vaults, violated the resting-places of the departed, sought out, beneath the swathings and shrouds, embalmed corpses, crumbled flesh, calcined bones, empty skulls of kings, queens, princes, ministers, bishops. Pepin, the founder of the Carlovingian dynasty and father of Charlemagne, was now _but a pinch of gray ash, which was in a moment scattered by the wind_. The mutilated heads of Turenne, Duguesclin, Louis XII., Francis I., were rolled on the pavement. * * * * Beneath the choir were buried the princes and princesses of the first race, and some of the third,—Hugh Capet, Philip the Bold, Philip the Handsome. They rent away their rags of silk and threw them on a bed of quicklime. * * * * They threw the carcass of Henry IV. into the common fosse. His son and grandson, Louis XIII. and XIV., followed. Louis XIII. was but a mummy; Louis XIV. a black, indistinguishable mass of aromatics. Louis XV. came last out of his tomb. The vault of the Bourbons rendered up its dead; queens, dauphinesses, princesses, were carried away in armfuls by the workmen and cast into the trench. A brief interval of proud separation, and they were mingled with the common dust! Their ashes dissipated, nothing but their empty tombs remain,—the houses of the dead, like the houses of the living, long surviving, as melancholy mementos of the tenants for whom they were erected.

M. de Saulcy, in his _Journey Round the Dead Sea_, remarks of the rock-tombs of the valley of Hinnom, “The immense necropolis, traces of which are to be met with at every step in the valley, dates from the period when the Jebusites were masters of the country. After them the Israelites deposited the remains of their fathers in the same grottoes; and the same tombs, after having become at a still later period those of the Christians who had obtained possession of the Holy City, have, since the destruction of the Latin kingdoms of Jerusalem, ceased to change both masters and occupants. Even the scattered bones are no more found in them; and from the city of the dead the dead alone have disappeared, while the abodes are still entire.”

There is a barbaric philosophy, therefore, as well as an apparent knowledge of the course of nature, in the treatment of the dead which prevails in Thibet and on the slopes of the Himalaya. In the former country the dead body is cut in pieces, and either thrown into the lakes to feed the fishes, or exposed on the hill-tops to the eagles and birds of prey. On the Himalayan slopes the Sikkim burn the body and scatter the ashes on the ground. The end is the same among these tribes of men as among us. They briefly anticipate the usual course of time,—a little sooner verifying the inspired words, “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.”

Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod.—§Bryant.§

WHIMSICAL WILL.

By William Hunnis, Chapel-master to Queen Elizabeth:—

To God my soule I do bequeathe, because it is his owen,
My body to be layd in grave, where to my friends best knowen;
Executors I will none make, thereby great stryfe may grow,
Because the goods that I shall leave wyll not pay all I owe.

THE TRIPOD.

According to the Babylonian Talmud, _Beracoth_, p. 8, and in _Jalkud Schimoni_ on Ps. lxviii, 20, “Nine hundred and three axe the kinds of death made in this world.” Physiologists drop the nine hundred, declare that life stands on a tripod, and assert that we die by the lungs, the heart, or the brain.

IMPRECATORY EPITAPH.

The Shakspearean imprecation, “Curst be he that moves my bones,” is paralleled in an epitaph in Runic characters at Greniadarstad church, in Iceland, which according to Finn Magnussen’s interpretation, concludes thus:—

“If you willingly remove this monument, may you sink into the ground.”

THE FLEUR-DE-LIS.

Nothing, says an old writer, could be more simple than the lily, which was the distinctive badge of the French monarchy; nor, at the same time, could anything be more symbolic of the state of the nobility and gentry, exempted from the necessity of working for a livelihood or for dress, than lilies, of which it is said: “They toil not neither do they spin,” _neque laborant neque nent_,—which was the motto of the royal arms of France.

THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT.

The waters change to blood; next, frogs arise;
Dust turns to lice; and then come swarms of flies;
Lo! murrain strikes the beasts, but Goshen’s free!
Lo! boils beset the men, save, Israel, thee!
Then fires the thundering hail; then locusts bite;
Then comes three days of one unbroken night;
The first-born’s midnight death, from cot to throne,
Winds up ten plagues that make Egyptians moan.

A STORY OF LONG AGO.

The long time ago of which I mean to tell, says Jean Ingelow, was a wild night in March, during which, in a fisherman’s hut ashore, sat a young girl at her spinning-wheel, and looked out on the dark driving clouds, and listened, trembling, to the winds and the seas. The morning light dawned at last. One boat that should have been riding on the troubled waves was missing—her father’s boat! and half a mile from the cottage her father’s body was washed upon the shore.