Chapter VII: The Ghost's Walk (4)

"A BUMPER of Febrifuge fill, fill for me,
Give those who prefer it, Black Draught;
But whatever the dose a strong one it must be,
Though our last dose to-night shall be quaffed.
And while influenza attacks high and low,
And man's queerest feelings oppress him,
Mouth-making, nose-holding, round, round let I go,
Drink our Physic and Founder--ugh, bless him."

* * * * *

The reader may have heard a good deal from the poets concerning "_The Language of Flowers_;" but here is quite a new dialect of that description, in the shape of mottos for different fruits and vegetables in different months:

_Motto for the Lilac in April_: "Give me leave."
_For the Rose in June_: "Well, I'm blowed!"
_For the Asparagus in July_: "Cut and come again."
_For the Marrowfat Pea in August_: "Shell out!"
_For the Apple in September_: "Go it, my Pippins!"
_For the Cabbage in December_: "My heart is sound: my heart is my own."

* * * * *

Now that "shads is come;" now that lamb has arrived, and green peas may soon be looked for; now that asparagus is coming in, and poultry is going out, listen to _the Song of the Turkey_, no longer seen hanging by the legs in the market, and rejoice with him at his emancipation:

"The season of Turkeys is over!
The time of our danger is past:
'Tis the turn of the wild-duck and plover,
But the Turkey is safe, boys, at last!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"The oyster in vain now may mock us,
Its sauce we can proudly disdain;
No sausages vulgar shall shock us,
We are free, we are free from their chain!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys.
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"What matters to you and to me, boys,
That one whom we treasured when young,
With a ticket, "Two dollars! look here!" boys,
In a poulterer's window was hung!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"Then mourn not for friends that are eaten,
A drum-stick for care and regret!
Enough that, the future to sweeten,
Our lives are not forfeited yet!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!"

* * * * *

Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the _disjecta membra_ of our _ollapodrida_:

Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted _his_ position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze.

This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said:

"Do you _know_ me, sir?"

"I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.)

"Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery.

"I will not swear for it; but if we have--and I am almost _sure_ we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist."

"I have," said Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "I didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it I repaid with a gash across the skull!"

The Frenchman bent down his head, parted his hair with his hands, and said:

"You did: you may look at the receipt."

The next moment they were in each other's arms.

Now this story _seems_ a little problematical; and yet it is vouched for on what ought to be considered reliable authority. In short, it is _true_ in every respect.

* * * * *

Some ambitious juvenile once sung, with an aspiration "peculiar to our institutions,"

"I wish I was the President
Of these United States,
I never would do nothing
But swing on all the gates."

He little knew the miseries, the ennui, the mental dyspepsia, which afflicts the wretch who has nothing to do. One of these unhappy mortals it is, who says, in the bitterness of his spirit:

"Sir, I have no books, and no internal resources. I can not draw, and if I could, there's nothing that I want to sketch. I don't play the flute, and if I did there's nobody that I should like to have listen to me. I never wrote a tragedy, but I think I am in that state of mind in which tragedies are written. Any thing lighter is out of the question. I whistle four hours a day, yawn five, smoke six, and sleep the rest of the twenty-four, with a running accompaniment of swearing to all these occupations except the last, and I'm not quite sure that I don't sometimes swear in my dreams.

"In one word, sir, I'm getting desperate, for the want of _something to do_."

* * * * *

There is a good deal of humor in the sudden contrast of sentiment and language exhibited in the verses below. They purport to be the tragi-comical tale of a deserted sailor-wife, who, with a baby in her arms, comes often to a rock that overlooks the main, to catch, if possible, a glimpse of a returning sail. At length, in despair, she throws her infant into the sea:

"A gush of tears fell fast and warm,
As she cried, with dread emotion,
Rest, baby! rest that fairy form
Beneath the rush of ocean;
'Tis calmer than the world's rude storm,
And kinder--I've a notion!

* * * * *

"Now oft the simple country folk
To this sad spot repair,
When wearied with their weekly yoke,
They steal an hour from care;
And they that have a pipe to smoke,
They go and smoke it there!

"When soon a little pearly bark
Skims o'er the level brine,
Whose sails, when it is not too dark,
With misty brightness shine:
Though they who these strange visions mark
Have sharper eyes than mine!

"And, beauteous as the morn, is seen
A baby on the prow,
Deck'd in a robe of silver sheen,
With corals round his brow--
A style of head-dress not, I ween,
Much worn by babies now!"

What somebody of the transcendental school of these latter days calls the "element of unexpectedness," is very forcibly exemplified by the writer from whom we have quoted.

* * * * *

We have often laughed over the following scene, but couldn't tell where it is recorded to save our reputation for "general knowledge." All that we _do_ know is, that it is a clever sketch by a clever writer _whoever_ he may be. The scene is a military station; and it should be premised that a certain surly, ill-tempered major, whose wife and sister are in the habit of visiting him at the barracks, gives orders, out of spite to subordinate officers, whose families have hitherto enjoyed the same privilege, that "no females are to be allowed in barracks after tattoo, under any pretense whatever:"

"It so happened that the morning after this announcement appeared in the order-book, an old lieutenant, who might have been the major's grandfather, and whom we used to call "The General," on account of his age and gray hairs, was the officer on duty. To the sergeant of the guard "the General" gave the necessary orders, with strict injunctions to have them obeyed to the letter.

"Shortly after tattoo, sundry ladies, as usual, presented themselves at the barrack-gate, and were, of course, refused admission; when, to the surprise of the sentinel on duty, the major's lady and sister-in-law made their appearance, and walked boldly to the wicket, with the intention of entering as usual. To their utter astonishment, the sentry refused them permission to pass. The sergeant was called, but that worthy was quite as much of a precisian as the ladies, and his conscience would not permit him to let them in.

"'Do you know who we are, sir?' asked the major's lady, with much asperity of voice and manner.

"'Oh, sartingly; I knows your ladyships wery well.'

"'And pray, what do you mean, sir, by this insolence?'

"'I means no imperance whatsomdever, marm; but my orders is partickler, to let no female ladies into this here barracks a'ter tattoo, upon no account whatever; and I means for to obey my orders without no mistake.'

"'Then you have the effrontery, do you, to refuse admittance to the lady of your commanding officer?' screamed the Honorable Mrs. Snooks.

"'And her sister!' joined in the second lady.

"'Most sartingly, marm,' replied the non-commissioned officer, with profound gravity: 'I knows my duty, marm.'

"'Good gracious, what assurance!' exclaimed both ladies in a breath.

"'No insurance at all, marm: if your ladyships was princesses, you couldn't come in after tattoo; my orders is partikler!'

"'Don't you know, stupid, that these orders can not be intended to apply to _us_?'

"'I doesn't know nuffin about _that_, my lady: all I know is, that orders is _orders_, and must be obeyed.'

"'Impudence!'

"'Imperance or no imperance, I must do my duty; and I can tell your ladyships if my superior officers was for to give me orders not to let in the major himself, I would be obligated for to keep him off at the p'int of the bay'net!'

"The officer of the guard was sent for, and the officer of the guard sent for the orderly-book, which, by the light of the guard-room lantern, was exhibited to the ladies by 'the General,' in justification of his apparent rudeness."

It might, doubtless, have been added, that the effect of such a lesson upon the major, was of a salutary nature; for the chalice was commended to his own lips, which he had prepared for others, in downright earnest.

* * * * *

These lines, from the pen of a Southern poet, are very tender and touching. They were printed some ten years since:

"My little girl sleeps on my arm all night,
And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile,
I bid her rise and place her lips to mine,
Which in her sleep she does. And sometimes then,
Half-muttered in her slumbers, she affirms
Her love for me is boundless. And I take
The little bud and close her in my arms;
Assure her by my action--for my lips
Yield me no utterance then--that in my heart
She is the treasured jewel. Tenderly,
Hour after hour, without desire of sleep,
I watch above that large amount of hope,
Until the stars wane, and the yellow morn
Walks forth into the night."

* * * * *

In the final disposition of his characters, DICKENS excels any living author. There is no confusion--no infringement of the natural. In "Barnaby Rudge," for example, the old lethargic inn-keeper, Willett, retiring in his dotage, and with his ruling passion strong upon him, scoring up vast imaginary sums to imaginary customers, and the lament of the elder Weller at the death of good old Master Humphrey, are not only characteristic, they are perfect specimens of their kind. "And the sweet old creetur," says the elder Weller "has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temper that an infant might ha' drove 'im, has been took at last with that ere unawoidable fit of the staggers, as we must all come to, and gone off his feed forever!" "I see him," continues the old stage-coach driver, "I see him gettin' every journey more and more groggy. I says to Samivel, says I, 'Samivel, my boy, the Gray's a-going at the knees;' and now my predilection is fatally werified; and him as I could never do enough to serve or to show my likin' for, is up the great uniwersal spout o' natur'!"

* * * * *

It is poor Tom Hood, if we have not forgotten, who describes a species of "Statistical Fellows" as

----"A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,
Who jot down the laboring classes' riches,
And after poking in pot and pan,
And routing garments in want of stitches,
Have ascertained that a working man
Wears a pair and a half of average breeches!"

Of this kind was the "Scientific Ass-sociate" mentioned in the "Table Talk of the late John Boyle." The Professor is setting forth one of his "various important matters connected with every-day life." The learned gentleman spoke of shaving as follows:

"The mode of shaving differs in different individuals. Some are very close shavers; others are greater adepts at cutting unpleasant acquaintances than themselves. It is, however, most important that the art of shaving should be reduced to a nicety, so that a man can cut his beard with the same facility as he could cut his stick. It is also of consequence that an accurate calculation should be made of the number of shaving brushes and the number of half pounds of soap used in the course of the year by respectable shavers, for I have observed that some of them are very badly off for soap. There is also a very great variation in the price of labor. Some barbers undertake to shave well for threepence; others charge a much higher sum. This is probably the effect of competition; and I must say, that the Government deserves well of the country for not encouraging any monopoly. At the same time there is a looseness in the details of the profession, which I should like to see corrected. An accurate register ought to be kept of the number of individuals who shave themselves, and of those who shave daily, every other day, and once a week only. We can hardly contemplate the immense benefits which science would reap, if such matters as these were properly attended to!"

Who has not seen just such statistics as these dwelt upon with unction by your thorough "statist?"

* * * * *

Never forget this "_Receipt of Domestic Economy_." When you have paid a bill, always _take_, and _keep_, a receipt of the same:

"O, fling not the receipt away,
Given by one who trusted thee;
Mistakes will happen every day.
However honest folks may be;
And sad it is, oh, _twice_ to pay,
So cast not thy receipt away!

"Ah, yes; if e'er in future hours,
When we this bill have all forgot,
They send it in _again_! ye powers!
And swear that we have paid it not;
How sweet to know, on such a day,
We've never cast receipts away!"

* * * * *

The following is one of the pen-and-ink portraits that have found their way into the "Drawer." The sitter was a subject of our own Gotham.

"He was a Scotchman by birth, and had, without exception, the ugliest face I ever saw on a man's shoulders, or a monkey's either, for that matter. But by a perversity of taste, not unusual in the world, the man made a complete hobby of his 'mug,' homely as it was; and was full of the conceit that on fit occasions he could summon to it a look of terrible and dignified sarcasm, that was more efficacious than words or blows. He was rather insolent in his deportment, and was consequently continually getting into scrapes with some one or other, in which he invariably got the worst of it; because instead of lifting his hand, and giving blow for blow, he always trusted to the efficacy of his _look_. His various little mishaps he used to relate to his fellow-boarders at meal-times, always concluding his narrations with, 'But didn't I give the dirty rapscallions one o' my _looks_?' And then twisting his 'ugly mug' into a shape impossible to be described, he fancied he had convinced his hearers that his antagonists, whoever they were, would be in no hurry to meddle with _him_ again!

"The last time I saw him, he was giving an account of an insult he had received the night before at some porter-house in the neighborhood, where a little fellow, who was a perfect stranger to him, had insisted upon drinking at his expense, and who, when he refused to pay for the liquor, had not only abused him most shamefully with his tongue, but had actually _kicked_ him.

"'Kick you!' exclaimed a fellow-boarder.

"'Yes!' said he, growing warm with the recital; 'he kicked me here!' and he laid his hand on that portion of his valorous person that had come in contact with the stranger's boot.

"'And what did you say to _that_?' asked a second listener.

"'What did I _say_ to it?' he replied, as if astonished that any body should be ignorant of his invariable rejoinder to similar assaults. 'What did I _say_? I said nothing at all. The kick was but a soft one, and the fellow that gave it a wee bit of a 'jink-ma-doddy,' that I could have throttled with one hand on the spot. But I just contented myself with giving him one of my looks!'

"Here Sawney 'defined his position' to the company, by giving them one of his awful glances. But _this_ time he managed to convey an expression of ugliness and comicality so far beyond any thing he had ever called up before, that the inference was irresistible that the kick he had received must have been a good deal harder than he was willing to acknowledge."

* * * * *

Any man or woman walking up or down the sunny side of Broadway, on a pleasant summer day, will see various little bipeds, with thin legs, faded countenances, and jaded air, flourishing little canes, who may, perhaps, bring to mind the following lines:

"Some say there's nothing made in vain,
While others the reverse maintain,
And prove it, very handy,
By citing animals like these--
Musquitoes, bed-bugs, crickets, fleas,
And, worse than all--A DANDY!"

But Nature, as the poet adds, "never made a dandy;" he was cast in a fictitious mould altogether.

* * * * *

There is something not over-complimentary to us, magazine-editors, in the remonstrance which "Chawls Yellowplush" makes to his employer against his discharging him from his employ, because he has ascertained that he writes in magazines, and other periodicals:

"'Sir,' says I, claspink my 'ands, and bursting into tears, 'do not, for Eving's sake, do not think of anythink of the sort, or drive me from your service, because I have been fool enough to write in magazeens! Glans but one moment at your honor's plate; every spoon is as bright as a mirror; condescend to igsamine your shoos; your honor may see reflected in them the faces of every one in the company. If occasionally I've forgot the footman in the lit'ry man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashionable life, it was from a sinsear desire to do good and promote nollitch; and I apeal to your honor--I lay my hand on my busm, and in the face of this honorable company, beg you to say--when you rung your bell, who came to you first? When you stopt out till mornink, who sat up for you? When you was ill, who forgot the nat'ral dignities of his station, and answered the two-pair bell? Oh, sir,' says I, 'I knows what's what: don't send me away! I know them lit'ry chaps, and, bleave me, I'd rather be a footman. The work is not so hard--the pay is better--the vittels incompyrably shuperiour. I've but to clean my things, run my errints, you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth.'"

This was written by one who was himself, in his own person, an admirable illustration of what success and honor a _true_ literary man is capable of achieving; but Yellowplush's "lit'ry men" were of a different calibre.

* * * * *

The learned "science-women" of the day, the "deep, deep-blue stockings" of the time, are fairly hit off in the ensuing satirical sonnet:

I idolize the LADIES! They are fairies,
That spiritualize this world of ours;
From heavenly hot-beds most delightful flowers,
Or choice cream-cheeses from celestial dairies,
But learning, in its barbarous seminaries,
Gives the dear creatures many wretched hours,
And on their gossamer intellect sternly showers
SCIENCE, with all its horrid accessaries.
Now, seriously, the only things, I think,
In which young ladies should instructed be,
Are--stocking-mending, love, and cookery!--
Accomplishments that very soon will sink,
Since Fluxions now, and Sanscrit conversation,
Always form part of female education!

Something good in the way of inculcation may be educed from this rather biting sonnet. If woman so far forgets her "mission," as it is common to term it nowadays, as to choose those accomplishments whose only recommendation is that they are "the vogue," in preference to acquisitions which will fit her to be a better wife and mother, she becomes a fair subject for the shafts of the satirical censor.

* * * * *

The following bit of gossip is especially "Frenchy," and will remind the readers of "The Drawer" of the man described by the late ROBERT C. SANDS, who sued for damages in a case of breach-of-promise of marriage. He was offered two hundred dollars to heal his breaking heart. "Two hundred dollars!" he exclaimed; "two hundred dollars for ruined hopes--for blighted affection--for a wretched existence--a blasted life! Two hundred dollars! for all this!! No--never! _Make it three hundred, and it's a bargain!_" But to the French story:

"A couple very well known in Paris are at present arranging terms of separation, to avoid the scandal of a judicial divorce. A friend has been employed by the husband to negotiate the matter. The latest mission was in relation to a valuable ring given to the husband by one of the then sovereigns of Europe, and which he wished to retain. For this he would make a certain much-desired concession, The friend made the demand--

"What!" said the indignant wife, "do you venture to charge yourself with such a mission to _me_! Can you believe that I could tear myself from a gift which alone recalls to me the day when my husband loved me? No: this ring is my only _souvenir_ of a happiness, now, alas! forever departed! 'Tis all that I now possess of a once-fond husband!"

Here she threw herself upon a _fauteuil_, and covered her face with her hands.

But the husband's friend insisted. The lady supplicated--grew desperate--threatened to submit to a public divorce, as a lesser evil than parting with that cherished ring--and at last confessed that she had--_sold the ring six months before!_

Wasn't _that_ a climax?

* * * * *

A very quaint and pretty scrap of verse is this, from the old German:

"Should you meet my true love,
Say, I greet her well;
Should she ask you how I fare,
Say, she best can tell.

"Should she ask if I am sick,
Say, I died of sorrow;
Should she then begin to weep,
Say, I'll come to-morrow!"

* * * * *

It has been thought strange, that when a malefactor is executed at "_The Tombs_," that curiosity should be excited to know how the unfortunate wretch behaved at the last, and at the same time great anxiety is manifested to obtain the slightest relic connected with his ignominious death. This propensity is well hit off in the following episode in the life of "_A Criminal Curiosity-Hunter_." A friend visits him, and he thus describes the interview:

"He received me with extreme urbanity, and asked me to sit down in an old-fashioned arm-chair. I did so.

"'I suppose, sir,' said he, with an air of suppressed triumph, 'that you have no idea that you are now sitting in a very remarkable chair!'

"I assured him that I was totally unconscious of the fact.

"'Let me tell you, then,' said he, 'that it was in that chair that Fauntleroy, the banker, who was hanged for forgery, was sitting when he was arrested!'

"'Indeed!'

"'Fact, sir! I gave ten guineas for it! I thought, also, to have obtained the night-cap in which he slept the night before his execution, but another collector was beforehand with me, and bribed the turnkey to steal it for him.'

"'I had no idea,' I said, 'that there could be any competition for such an article.'

"'Ah, sir!' said he, with a deep sigh, 'you don't know the value of these interesting relics. I have been upward of thirty years a collector of them. When a man devotes himself to a great object, he must go to it heart and soul. I have spared neither time nor money in _my_ pursuit; and since I became a collector I have attended the execution of every noted malefactor throughout the kingdom.'

"Perceiving that my attention was drawn to a common rope which served as a bell-pull, he said to me:

"'I see you are remarking my bell-cord; that is the identical rope, sir, which hanged Bellingham, who murdered Mr. Perceval in the House of Commons. I offered any sum for the one in which Thistlewood ended his life, to match it, but I was disappointed.... The Whigs, sir, have swept away all our good old English customs, and deprived us of our national recreations. I remember, sir, when Monday was called 'hanging-day' at the Old Bailey; on that morning a man might be certain of seeing three or four criminals swung off before breakfast.'"

The criminal curiosity-hunter now takes his friend into an adjoining room, where he shows him his general museum of curiosities, comprising relics of every grade of crime, from murder to petty larceny; among them a door-mat made of oakum picked by a "lady"-culprit while in the penitentiary; a short clay-pipe, once in the possession of Burke, the wholesale murderer; and the _fork_ belonging to the _knife_ with which some German had cut his wife's and children's throats!

* * * * *

"Misery," it is said, "loves company." What a juvenile "company," when the last thaw came--(and so many came, after what was supposed to be the _last_ snow, this season, that it would be difficult to count them)--what a juvenile company, we say, there was, to lament with the skate-vender who poured out his griefs in the following affecting parody upon the late THOMAS MOORE'S lines, "I never loved a dear gazelle," &c.:

"I never wrote up 'Skates to sell,'
Trusting to fickle Nature's law,
But--when I advertised them well,
And puffed them--it was sure to thaw.
Yes; it was ever thus--the Fates
Seem adverse to the trade in skates.

"If a large lot I chanced to buy,
Thinking 'twas likely _still_ to freeze
Up the thermometer would fly,
All in a day, some ten degrees.
Their presence in my window-pane,
Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain."

But, after all, our skate-vender has no great need of fear. We have had deep snows in April, and May _may_ bring him his season yet: for what says the Almanac of past years? Why, that

"Monday, fourth of May,
Was a very snowy day!"

_Literary Notices._

_Austria in 1848 and '49_, by W.H. STILES (Harper and Brothers). This work, in two octavo volumes, by the late Chargé d'Affaires of the United States, at the Court of Vienna, furnishes the most complete history that has yet appeared of the political affairs of Hungary, with ample and accurate details of the late disastrous revolutionary struggle. From his diplomatic position at Vienna, Mr. Stiles had rare opportunities for observation, of which he has availed himself in a manner that is highly creditable to his acuteness and good sense. He has evidently made a diligent study of his subject in all its bearings; the best authorities have been faithfully consulted; conflicting views have been cautiously weighed; but his final conclusions are derived from the free exercise of his own judgment. Hence his work is quite free from the spirit of partisanship. It is critical in its tone, rather than dogmatic. Aiming at entire impartiality, it may seem too moderate in its statements to satisfy the advocates of extreme views on either side. Mr. Stiles shows an ardent attachment to the principles of liberty; he is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of American institutions; but he has no sympathy with the Communism or Red Republicanism of Europe. An admirer of the heroic enthusiasm of Kossuth, he displays no wish to conceal the defects of his character. He is opposed, with strong conviction, to the interference of America in the affairs of Hungary. At the same time he deprecates the tyranny of which she has been the victim, and presents a candid and intelligent view of the nature of her recent struggle. His volume contains many felicitous portraitures of the leading actors on both sides. A number of valuable and interesting documents, illustrative of the Revolutionary movement, are preserved in the Appendix.

The following description of the Seressâners, a portion of Jellachich's troops, presents a favorable specimen of the picturesque style in which the author often temperately indulges:

"_Seressâners_ are the wild border soldiers from Montenegro, and bearing a stronger resemblance to the Indians of the North American forests than to the ordinary troops of the European continent. The frame of such a borderer seems to be nothing but sinew and muscle; and with ease, nay, without appearing to be at all affected by them, he endures hardships and fatigues to which the most seasoned soldiers are scarcely equal. A piece of oaten bread and a dram of _sklikowitz_ (plum brandy) suffice him, on an emergency, a whole day, and with that refreshment alone will march on untired, alike in the most scorching heat and the most furious snow-storm; and when night comes, he desires no other couch than the bare ground, no other roof than the open sky. Their costume is most peculiar, as well as picturesque. There is something half Albanian in some portions of the dress--in the leggings and full trowsers fastened at the knee, and in the heavily gold-embroidered crimson jacket. But that which gives decided character and striking originality to these sons of war is the cloak. Over these giant frames hangs a mantle of scarlet cloth, fastened tightly at the throat; below this, on the breast, depends the clasp of the jacket, a large silver egg, made so as to open and serve as a cup. In the loose girdle are to be seen the richly-mounted pistols and glittering kandjar--Turkish arms chiefly; for every _Seressâner_ is held, by old tradition, to have won his first weapon from the Turk. The mantle has a cape, cut somewhat in the shape of a bat's wing, but which, joined together by hooks and eyes, forms a sharp pointed hood, resembling those of the Venetian _marinari_, but higher and more peaked. Over the crimson cap, confined by a gold band upon the brow, falling with a gold tassel on the shoulder, rises this red hood, usually overshadowing such a countenance as a Murillo or a Vandyke would delight to portray. The brilliant rays of the long dark eye repose beneath a thick fringe of sable lashes; but you feel that, if awakened, they must flash forth in fire. The brow, the mouth, and the nose are all essentially noble features; and over all is spread a skin of such clear olive-brown, that you are inclined to think you have a Bedouin before you."

Our readers will remember the controversy which has recently produced some excitement in London, with regard to a person claiming to be a Hungarian baroness, employed in the political service of Kossuth. The following curious anecdote sets that question at rest, while it explains the romantic manner in which Mr. Stiles was put in possession of the dispatch from Kossuth, requesting his intervention with the Imperial Government:

"On the night of the 2d December, 1848, when all communication between Hungary and Austria had ceased, large armies on either side guarding their respective frontiers, the author was seated in the office of the Legation of the United States at Vienna, when his servant introduced a young female, who desired, as she said, to see him at once upon urgent business. She was a most beautiful and graceful creature, and, though attired in the dress of a peasant, the grace and elegance of her manner, the fluency and correctness of her French, at once denoted that she was nearer a princess than a peasant. She sat and conversed for some time before she ventured to communicate the object of her visit. As soon as the author perceived that in the exercise of the utmost caution she desired only to convince herself that she was not in error as to the individual she sought, he told her that, upon the honor of a gentle man, she might rest assured that the individual she saw before her was the diplomatic agent of the United States at the court of Vienna. Upon that assurance, she immediately said, 'Then, sir, I am the bearer of a communication to you.' She then asked, 'Have you a servant, sir, in whom you can rely, who can go with me into the street for a few moments?' The author replied that he had no servant in whom he could rely, that he feared they were all in the pay of the police, but that he had a private secretary in whom he reposed confidence, and who could accompany her. The secretary was immediately called, they descended together into the street, and in a few moments returned, bearing with them the rack of a wagon. This rack, which is a fixture attached either to the fore or back part of a peasant's wagon, and intended to hold hay for the horses during a journey, was composed of small slats, about two inches wide and about the eighth of an inch thick, crossing each other at equal distances, constituted a semicircular net-work. As all these slats, wherever they crossed, were fastened together with either wooden or iron bolts, with our unskillful hands an hour nearly was consumed before we could get the rack in pieces. When this was accomplished, we saw nothing before us but a pile of slats; but the fair courier, taking them up one by one, and examining them very minutely, at length selected a piece, exclaiming, 'This is it!' The slat selected resembled the others so completely, that the most rigid observer, unapprised of the fact, could not have detected the slightest difference between them; but, by the aid of a penknife, to separate its parts, this slat was found to be composed of two pieces, hollowed out in the middle, and affording space enough to hold a folded letter. In this space had been conveyed, with a secrecy which enabled it to pass the severe scrutiny of the Austrian sentinels, the communication addressed to the author by Louis Kossuth.

"The mysterious personage, as intrepid as she was fair, who undertook the conveyance of this dispatch, at night, alone and unprotected, in an open peasant's wagon, in a dreadful snow-storm, through the midst of the Austrian army, when detection would have been certain death, was (as M. Pulszky has just informed the author) then a single lady, has since married, and is now the Countess Motesiczky.

"The statement, therefore, of a person assuming the title of Baroness de Beck, and who, in a work upon the Hungarian war, published in England about two years ago, claiming for herself the credit of having been the bearer of the dispatch referred to, is altogether without foundation. This authoress, whose character, as well as untimely and remarkable death, was involved in so much mystery, and excited for a time so much discussion in Europe, was (as M. Pulszky represents) the servant of the Countess Motesiczky, and thus became possessed of a knowledge of the incident above detailed."

Stringer and Townsend have issued the fourth edition of _Frank Forester's Field Sports of the United States_, by HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, with several additions and new pictorial illustrations. One need not be a practical sportsman in order to enjoy, with keen zest, the racy descriptions of silvan life which flow so charmingly from the practiced pen of this accomplished "Forester." In the woods, he is every where at home. He not only knows how to bag his game, but he studies all their habits as a book, and never leaves them till they have fulfilled their destiny on the table of the epicure. Writing, in a great measure, from personal experience, his style has all the freshness of a mountain breeze. With a quick eye for the picturesque, he paints the scenery of our American sporting grounds, with admirable truthfulness and spirit. He has made free use in these volumes of the works of distinguished naturalists, Audubon, Giraud, Wilson, Godman and others, and has been equally happy in his borrowings and in his own productions. We recommend his manual to all who cherish a taste for rural life. To sportsmen, of course, we need say nothing of its merits.

The _Golden Christmas_, by W. GILMORE SIMMS is the title of a slight story, presenting many vivid sketches of social life on a Southern plantation. In its execution, it is more careless than the usual writings of the author, but its ease and vivacity will make it a favorite with indulgent readers in search merely of amusement. Its prevailing tone is "genial and gentle, tender and tolerant, not strategetical and tragical." (Published by Walker, Richards, and Co. Charleston, S.C.)

_Falkenburgh_ is a recent novel by the author of "Mildred Vernon," which is well worth reading, for its piquant delineations of character, apart from the current interest of the plot, which is one of great power and intensity. The scene is laid in the picturesque regions of the Rhine, and suggests many delightful pictures to the rare descriptive talents of the writer. (Harper and Brothers.)

A new work of fiction by CAROLINE CHESEBRO, entitled _Isa, A Pilgrimage_, is issued by J.S. Redfield, in the style of simple elegance which distinguishes his recent publications. This is a more ambitious effort than the former productions of the authoress, displaying a deeper power of reflection, a greater intensity of passion, and a more complete mastery of terse and pointed expression. On the whole, we regard it as a successful specimen of a quite difficult species of composition. Without the aid of a variety of incident or character, with scarcely a sufficient number of events to give a fluent movement to the plot, and with very inconsiderable reference to external nature, the story turns on the development of an abnormal spiritual experience, showing the perils of entire freedom of thought in a powerful, original mind, during the state of intellectual transition between attachment to tradition and the supremacy of individual conviction. The scene is laid in the interior world--the world of consciousness, of reflection, of passion. In this twilight region, so often peopled with monstrous shapes, and spectral phantasms, the author treads with great firmness of step. With rare subtlety of discrimination, she brings hidden springs of action to light, untwisting the tangled webs of experience, and revealing with painful minuteness, some of the darkest and most fearful depths of the human heart. The characters of Isa and Stuart, the leading personages of the story, certainly display uncommon insight and originality. They stand out from the canvas in gloomy, portentous distinctness, with barely light enough thrown upon them to enable us to recognize their weird, mysterious features. For our own part, we should prefer to meet this writer, whose rare gifts we cordially acknowledge, in a more sunny atmosphere; but we are bound to do justice to the depth and vigor of the present too sombre creation.

_The Howadji in Syria_, by GEORGE W. CURTIS (Harper and Brothers). Another fragrant record of Oriental life by the delightful pen which dropped spices and honey so luxuriantly in the unmatched _Nile Notes of a Howadji_. This volume is written in a more subdued strain--the radiant Oriental splendors gleam less dazzlingly, as the traveler approaches the West--the pictures of gorgeous beauty are softened down to a milder tone--and as the pinnacles of the Holy City appear in view, a "dim religious light" tempers the glowing imaginative sensuosity which revels in the glorious enchantments of the sunny Nile. As a descriptive writer, the Howadji has few equals in modern literature. He is indebted for his success to his exquisite perceptions of external nature, combined with a fancy fertile in charming images, and a vein of subtle reflection, which often gives an unexpected depth to his pictures, in the midst of what may at first seem to be only the flashes of a brilliant rainbow coloring. His notices of facts have the accuracy of a gazetteer. They are sharp, firm, well-defined, and singularly expressive. The most prosaic writer could not give a more faithful daguerreotype copy of Eastern scenery. Read his account of the Camel, in the description of his passage across the Desert from Cairo to Jerusalem. The ugly beast is made as familiar to the eye as the horses in a Broadway omnibus. A few authentic touches give a more vivid impression of this unwieldy "ship of the desert" than the labored details of natural history. But this fidelity to nature is by no means the ultimate aim of the Howadji. It is only the condition of a higher sweep. It serves as the foundation of a series of delicious prose poems, sparkling with beauty, electric with emotion, and seductive to the ear by their liquid melody of expression. The Howadji is no less loyal to feeling than he is faithful to nature. With not the faintest trace of sentimentalism, he is not ashamed of the eye and the soul susceptible to all beautiful influences. He writes out his experience with a cordial frankness that disarms prejudice. This union of imagination and fact in the writings of the Howadji must always give a charm to his personal narratives. No one can listen to the relation of his unique adventures without delight. How far his admirable success in this line of composition would insure his success in a purely imaginative work, we do not venture to predict. We trust he will yet give us an opportunity to decide the experiment.

_A Commentary on the Book of Proverbs_, by MOSES STUART. In a characteristic Preface to this volume, which is the last that came from the press previous to the lamented death of the author, Professor Stuart maintains that the Book of Proverbs was not wholly composed by Solomon, but that it consists of a selection of the proverbial sayings that were current among the wise men of the Hebrew nation. These were digested and arranged by Solomon, and received his sanction by passing through his hands. Most of the maxims are the offspring of sound common sense, of much experience, and of acute discrimination. They present a vivid picture of the internal Hebrew man--of his genius, feelings, morals, industry, social condition, and, indeed, of the whole state of the Hebrews, and their rank among the society of nations. The commentary by Professor Stuart is adapted to beginners in the Hebrew study, giving minute attention to all the philological difficulties, whether in form, idiom, or syntax. It exhibits a profusion of grammatical and exegetical learning, a devoted study of the original text, and considerable analytic acumen. (Published by M.W. Dodd.)

_The Story of a Soul_, by HENRY W. PARKER, is the title of an anniversary Poem, read before a literary society of Hamilton College, devoted to a retrospect of the supposed experience of a soul, and of the progress of society during the nineteenth century. It shows a lively imagination, a familiar acquaintance with human nature, and an uncommon fluency of expression. The alternation in the poem of grave reflections on the spiritual life, and touches of sarcastic humor on the current events of the day, gives a lively air to the composition, and well sustains the interest of the reader. (Sold by Evans and Brittan.)

Lippincott, Grambo, and Co. have commenced the publication of a series of _Cabinet Histories_, embracing a volume for each State in the Union. The work is intrusted to the charge of T.S. ARTHUR, and W.H. CARPENTER, whose names may be taken as a guarantee that their task will be performed with exactness and fidelity, and that no sectarian, sectional, or party feelings will bias their judgment, or lead them to violate the integrity of history. It is intended to present a brief narrative of the domestic policy of each State; and, at the same time, to give a peculiar prominence to the personal history of the people, illustrating the progressive development of the social state from the rude forest life of the earlier day to the present condition of refinement and prosperity. The design of the series is excellent. If ably carried out, as we have no doubt it will be, it must prove an important contribution to the interests of popular education. We have already received the _Histories of Kentucky_ and of _Georgia_, which are executed in a manner that furnishes the highest promise for the future volumes of the series. The style is marked by rare simplicity and clearness. The facts are well arranged, and apparently based on authentic evidence. A fine portrait of the veteran pioneer, Daniel Boone, embellishes the History of Kentucky.

The translation of MOSHEIM'S _Commentaries on the State of Christianity before the Age of Constantine_, by JAMES MURDOCK, D.D., is a valuable contribution to the literature of Ecclesiastical History. This work is well known to the students of theology as one of great learning and research, and has not been superseded by the more elaborate and ambitious productions of a later period. Dr. Murdock's name is a sufficient assurance of the fidelity of the translation. (Published by S. Converse.)

A new edition of Madame PULSZKY'S delightful _Tales and Traditions of Hungary_ has been issued by J.S. Redfield. They are full to overflowing of the genuine Magyar spirit, presenting a series of rich and beautiful portraitures of the old Hungarian life. In the prevailing interest which is now attached to the country of Kossuth, this volume can not fail to find a welcome reception with the American public.

_Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, by WILLIAM EDMONDSTONE AYTOUN. The brave martial spirit of these poems of the olden time is finely sustained by the ringing melody of their rhythm. Combining a fervent admiration of the Cavaliers with a devout hatred of the Covenanters, the author has embodied his political feelings in resonant strains. The neat edition of his volume brought out by Redfield will make him better known in this country.

Harper and Brothers have published _Notes on the Book of Revelation_, by Rev. ALBERT BARNES, forming the eleventh volume of Barnes's _Notes on the New Testament_. The character of this popular commentary is too well known to require any critical remarks. In the preface to the present volume, the author makes some interesting statements with regard to the progress of the work from its commencement to its completion. It was begun more than twenty years ago. It was intended only to comprise brief and simple Notes on the Gospels, for the use of Bible classes and Sunday-school teachers. Contrary to the original plan of the author, his Notes have been extended to eleven volumes, and embrace the whole of the New Testament. They have been written entirely in the early hours of the morning, before nine o'clock, the rest of the day having been invariably devoted to other pursuits. In studying the Apocalypse, without any pre-conceived theory as to its plan, Mr. Barnes discovered that the series of events recorded by Gibbon bore a singular correspondence to the series of symbols made use of by the sacred writer. This fact presents a point of literary curiosity which we apprehend has escaped the notice of previous writers. The remarks upon it by Mr. Barnes are quite to the purpose: "The symbols were such as it might be supposed _would be used_, on the supposition that they were intended to refer to these events; and the language of Mr. Gibbon was often such as _he would have used_, on the supposition that he had designed to prepare a commentary on the symbols employed by John. It was such, in fact, that, if it had been found in a Christian writer, professedly writing a commentary on the book of Revelation, it would have been regarded by infidels as a designed attempt to force history to utter a language that should conform to a pre-determined theory in expounding a book full of symbols. So remarkable have these coincidences appeared to me in the course of this exposition, that it has almost seemed as if he had designed to write a commentary on some portions of this book, and I have found it difficult to doubt that that distinguished historian was raised up by an overruling Providence to make a record of those events which would ever afterward be regarded as an impartial and unprejudiced statement of the evidences of the fulfillment of prophecy. The historian of the 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' had no belief in the divine origin of Christianity, but he brought to the performance of his work learning and talent such as few Christian scholars have possessed. He is always patient in his investigations; learned and scholar-like in his references; comprehensive in his groupings, and sufficiently minute in his details; unbiased in his statements of facts, and usually cool and candid in his estimates of the causes of the events which he records; and, excepting his philosophical speculations, and his sneers at every thing, he has probably written the most candid and impartial history of the times that succeeded the introduction of Christianity, that the world possesses, and even after all that has been written since his time, his work contains the best ecclesiastical history that is to be found. Whatever use of it can be made in explaining and confirming the prophecies, will be regarded by the world as impartial and fair, for it is a result which he least of all contemplated, that he would ever be regarded as an expounder of the prophecies in the Bible, or be referred to as vindicating their truth."

_Romanism at Home_, by KIRWAN, is a controversial work against the Roman Catholic Church, in a series of Letters to the Hon. Chief Justice Taney. Bold, vehement, and enthusiastic--of a stringent polemical tone--and abounding in striking local and personal details--it is adapted to make a strong impression, and can not fail to be extensively read. (Harper and Brothers.)

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Lord COCKBURN'S _Life of Francis Jeffrey_ is welcomed by the London Press as one of the most charming books of the season. The Correspondence is spoken of as being singularly delightful. "The generous humanity," says the _Athenæum_, "the genial good-will, the ever-recurring play of the noblest affections of the heart endear to us the writer of these letters, and claim the sympathies of all who are alive to what is beautiful in human nature. They exhibit much of the vivacity and freshness of Walpole, combined with the literary grace of Chesterfield and the sweet tenderness of Cowper. In their union of emotional feeling with refined sense and bright conception, their character is almost poetical. They are revelations of Jeffrey's heart as well as of his head, and will make him known and loved by countless readers. His fascination as friend and companion can be easily understood after reading these effusions of a mind whose genial feeling could not be stifled or depressed by forensic or literary toil, or by the snows of age."

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The ninth and tenth volumes of Mr. GROTE'S _History of Greece_ are now out. They bring down the history from the period of the culmination of the Spartan supremacy, to the accession of Philip of Macedon. "A very remarkable thing about these two volumes," says the _Leader_, "is the amount of political teaching they contain, adapted to the present hour. The volumes are, we may say, pervaded with a lesson of contrast between the results of a government founded on despotism, and those of a government founded on free speech. Invariably in Greece, where free speech was permitted, and democratic spirit prevailed, the developments of society were better, greater, and more orderly, than where matters were managed by long continuations of military despotism, or occasional _coups d'état_." Three or four volumes more will conclude this great work.

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