Chapter IV (5)

"All the public performances had been transferred to Versailles
on account of the marriage of the Dauphin. We were to pass three
days there, but sufficient lodgings were not provided for us.
Madame Grandval had no apartment; and I offered to share with her
the room with two beds which had been assigned to me in the
avenue of St. Cloud. I gave her one of the beds and took the
other. While my maid was undressing to lie down beside me, I said
to her, 'We are at the world's end here, and it is dreadful
weather; the cry would be somewhat puzzled to get at us.' In a
moment it rang through the room. Madame Grandval ran in her
night-dress from top to bottom of the house, in which nobody
closed an eye for the rest of the night. This, however, was the
last time the cry was heard.

"Seven or eight days afterward, while I was chatting with my
usual evening circle, the sound of the clock striking eleven was
followed by the report of a gun fired at one of the windows. We
all heard the noise, we all saw the fire, yet the window was
undamaged. We concluded that some one sought my life, and that it
was necessary to take precautions again another attempt. The
Intendant des Menus Plaisirs, who was present, flew to the house
of his friend, M. de Marville, the Lieutenant of Police. The
houses opposite mine were instantly searched, and for several
days were guarded from top to bottom. My house was closely
examined; the street was filled with spies in all possible
disguises. But, notwithstanding all this vigilance, the same
explosion was heard and seen for three whole months always at the
same hour, and at the same window-pane, without any one being
able to discover from whence it proceeded. This fact stands
recorded in the registers of the police.

"Nothing was heard for some days; but having been invited by
Mademoiselle Dumesnil[2] to join a little evening party at her
house near the _Barriere blanche_, I got into a hackney-coach at
eleven o'clock with my maid. It was clear moonlight as we passed
along the Boulevards, which were then beginning to be studded
with houses. While we were looking at the half-finished
buildings, my maid said, 'Was it not in this neighborhood that M.
de S---- died?' 'From what I have heard,' I answered, 'I think it
should be there'--pointing with my finger to a house before us.
From that house came the same gun-shot that I had heard before.
It seemed to traverse our carriage, and the coachman set off at
full speed, thinking we were attacked by robbers. We arrived at
Mademoiselle Dumesnil's in a state of the utmost terror; a
feeling I did not get rid of for a long time."

[2] The celebrated tragedian.

[Mademoiselle Clairon gives some further details similar to the
above, and adds that the noises finally ceased in about two years
and a half. After this, intending to change her residence, she
put up a bill on the house she was leaving; and many people made
the pretext of looking at the apartments an excuse for gratifying
their curiosity to see, in her every-day guise, the great
tragedian of the Theatre Francais.]

"One day I was told that an old lady desired to see my rooms.
Having always had a great respect for the aged, I went down to
receive her. An unaccountable emotion seized me on seeing her,
and I perceived that she was moved in a similar manner. I begged
her to sit down, and we were both silent for some time. At length
she spoke, and, after some preparation, came to the subject of
her visit.

"'I was, mademoiselle, the best friend of M. de S----, and the
only friend whom he would see during the last year of his life.
We spoke of you incessantly; I urging him to forget you,--he
protesting that he would love you beyond the tomb. Your eyes
which are full of tears allow me to ask you why you made him so
wretched; and how, with such a mind and such feelings as yours,
you could refuse him the consolation of once more seeing and
speaking to you?'

"'We can not,' I answered, 'command our sentiments. M. de S----
had merit and estimable qualities; but his gloomy, bitter, and
overbearing temper made me equally afraid of his company, his
friendship, and his love. To make him happy, I must have
renounced all intercourse with society, and even the exercise of
my talents. I was poor and proud; I desire, and hope I shall ever
desire, to owe nothing to any one but myself. My friendship for
him prompted me to use every endeavor to lead him to more just
and reasonable sentiments: failing in this, and persuaded that
his obstinacy proceeded less from the excess of his passion than
from the violence of his character, I took the firm resolution to
separate from him entirely. I refused to see him in his last
moments, because the sight would have rent my heart; because I
feared to appear too barbarous if I remained inflexible, and to
make myself wretched if I yielded. Such, madame, are the
motives of my conduct--motives for which, I think, no one can
blame me.'

"'It would indeed,' said the lady, 'be unjust to condemn you. My
poor friend himself in his reasonable moments acknowledged all
that he owed you. But his passion and his malady overcame him,
and your refusal to see him hastened his last moments. He was
counting the minutes, when at half-past ten, his servant came to
tell him that decidedly you would not come. After a moment's
silence, he took me by the hand with a frightful expression of
despair. Barbarous woman! he cried; but she will gain nothing by
her cruelty. As I have followed her in life, I shall follow her
in death! I endeavored to calm him; he was dead.'

"I need scarcely tell you, my dear friend, what effect these last
words had upon me. Their analogy to all my apparitions filled me
with terror, but time and reflection calmed my feelings. The
consideration that I was neither the better nor the worse for all
that had happened to me, has led me to ascribe it all to chance.
I do not, indeed, know what _chance_ is; but it can not be denied
that the something which goes by that name has a great influence
on all that passes in the world.

"Such is my story; do with it what you will. If you intend to
make it public, I beg you to suppress the initial letter of the
name, and the name of the province."

This last injunction was not, as we see, strictly complied with; but, at the distance of half a century, the suppression of a name was probably of little consequence.

There is no reason to doubt the entire truth of Mademoiselle Clairon's narrative. The incidents which she relates made such a deep and enduring impression on her mind, that it remained uneffaced during the whole course of her brilliant career, and, almost at the close of a long life spent in the bustle and business of the world, inspired her with solemn and religious thoughts. Those incidents can scarcely be ascribed to delusions of her imagination; for she had a strong and cultivated mind, not likely to be influenced by superstitious credulity; and besides, the mysterious sounds were heard by others as well as herself, and had become the subject of general conversation in Paris. The suspicion of a trick or conspiracy never seems to have occurred to her, though such a supposition is the only way in which the circumstances can be explained; and we are convinced that this explanation, though not quite satisfactory in every particular, is the real one. Several portentous occurrences, equally or more marvelous, have thus been accounted for.

Our readers remember the history of the Commissioners of the Roundhead Parliament for the sequestration of the royal domains, who were terrified to death, and at last fairly driven out of the Palace of Woodstock, by a series of diabolical sounds and sights, which were long afterward discovered to be the work of one of their own servants, Joe Tomkins by name, a loyalist in the disguise of a puritan. The famous "Cocklane Ghost," which kept the town in agitation for months, and baffled the penetration of multitudes of the divines, philosophers, and literati of the day, was a young girl of some eleven or twelve years old, whose mysterious knockings were produced by such simple means, that their remaining so long undetected is the most marvelous part of the story. This child was the agent of a conspiracy formed by her father, with some confederates, to ruin the reputation of a gentleman by means of pretended revelations from the dead. For this conspiracy these persons were tried, and the father, the most guilty party, underwent the punishment of the pillory.

A more recent story is that of the "Stockwell Ghost," which forms the subject of a volume published in 1772, and is shortly told by Mr. Hone in the first volume of his "Every Day Book." Mrs. Golding, an elderly lady residing at Stockwell, in Surrey, had her house disturbed by portents, which not only terrified her and her family, but spread alarm through the vicinity. Strange noises were heard proceeding from empty parts of the house, and heavy articles of furniture, glass, and earthenware, were thrown down and broken in pieces before the eyes of the family and neighbors. Mrs. Golding, driven by terror from her own dwelling, took refuge, first in one neighboring house, and then in another, and thither the prodigies followed her. It was observed that her maid-servant, Ann Robinson, was always present when these things took place, either in Mrs. Golding's own house, or in those of the neighbors. This girl, who had lived only about a week with her mistress, became the subject of mistrust and was dismissed, after which the disturbances entirely ceased. But the matter rested on mere suspicion. "Scarcely any one," says Mr. Hone, "who lived at that time listened patiently to the presumption, or without attributing the whole to witchcraft." At length Mr. Hone himself obtained a solution of the mystery from a gentleman who had become acquainted with Ann Robinson many years after the affair happened, and to whom she had confessed that she alone had produced all these supernatural horrors, by fixing wires or horse-hairs to different articles, according as they were heavy or light, and thus throwing them down, with other devices equally simple, which the terror and confusion of the spectators prevented them from detecting. The girl began these tricks to forward some love affair, and continued them for amusement when she saw the effect they produced.

Remembering these cases, we can have little doubt that Mademoiselle Clairon's maid was the author of the noises which threw her mistress and her friends into such consternation. Her own house was generally the place where these things happened; and on the most remarkable occasions where they happened elsewhere, is expressly mentioned that the maid was present. At St. Cloud it was to the maid, who was her bed-fellow, that Clairon was congratulating herself on being out of the way of the cry, when it suddenly was heard in the very room. She had her maid in the carriage with her on the Boulevards, and it was immediately after the girl had asked her a question about the death of M. de S---- that the gun-shot was heard, which seemed to traverse the carriage. Had the maid a confederate--perhaps her fellow-servant on the box--to whom she might have given the signal? When Mademoiselle Clairon went a-shopping to the Rue St. Honore, she probably had her maid with her, either in or outside the carriage; and, indeed, in every instance the noises took place when the maid would most probably have been present, or close at hand. In regard to the unearthly cry, she might easily have produced it herself without any great skill in ventriloquism, or the art of imitating sounds; a supposition which is rendered the more probable, as its realization was rendered the more easy, by the fact of no words having been uttered--merely a wild cry. Most of the common itinerant ventriloquists on our public race-courses can utter speeches for an imaginary person without any perceptible motion of the lips; the utterance of a mere sound in this way would be infinitely less difficult.

The noises resembling the report of fire-arms (very likely to have been unconsciously, and in perfect good faith, exaggerated by the terror of the hearers) may have been produced by a confederate fellow-servant, or a lover. It is to be observed, that the first time this seeming report was heard, the houses opposite were guarded by the police, and spies were placed in the street, but Mademoiselle Clairon's own house was merely "examined." It is evident that these precautions, however effectual against a plot conducted from without, could have no effect whatever against tricks played within her house by one or more of her own servants.

As to the maid-servant's motives for engaging in this series of deceptions, many may have existed and been sufficiently strong; the lightest, which we shall state last, would probably be the strongest. She may have been in communication with M. de S----'s relations for some hidden purpose which never was effected. How far this circumstance may be connected with the date of the first portent, the very night of the young man's death, or whether that coincidence was simply accidental, is matter for conjecture. The old lady, his relative, who afterward visited Clairon, and told her a tale calculated to fill her with superstitious dread, _may_ herself have been the maid-servant's employer for some similar purpose; or (which is at least equally probable) the tale may have had nothing whatever to do with the sound, and may have been perfectly true. But all experience in such cases assures us that the love of mischief, or the love of power, and the desire of being important, would be sufficient motives to the maid for such a deception. The more frightened Clairon was, the more necessary and valuable her maid became to her, naturally. A thousand instances of long continued deception on the part of young women, begun in mere folly, and continued for the reasons just mentioned, though continued at an immense cost of trouble, resolution, and self-denial in all other respects, are familiar to most readers of strange transactions, medical and otherwise. There seem to be strong grounds for the conclusion that the maid was the principal, if not the sole agent in this otherwise supernatural part of this remarkable story.

THE REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

We must not allow a poet of the tender and manly feeling of Mr. Bowles to pass away from among us with a mere notice of his death amid the common gossip of the week. The peculiar excellence of his Sonnets and his influence on English poetry deserve a further notice at our hands.

The Rev. William Lisle Bowles, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's Sutton, in Northamptonshire--a parish of which his father was vicar--on the 24th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Gray, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, bishop of Durham. He was educated at Winchester School, under Dr. Joseph Warton, and rose to be the senior boy. Warton took much notice of him; and, on his removal to Oxford, in 1782, was the means, we have heard, of inducing him to enter at Trinity College, of which Tom Warton was then the senior Fellow. "Among my contemporaries at Trinity," he says, "were several young men of talents and literature--Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, Dornford." Of these Headley is still remembered by some beautiful pieces of poetry, distinguished for imagery, pathos, and simplicity.

Mr. Bowles became a poet in print in his twenty-seventh year--publishing in 1789 a very small volume in quarto, with the very modest title of "Fourteen Sonnets." His excellencies were not lost on the public; and in the same year appeared a second edition, with seven additional sonnets. "I had just entered on my seventeenth year," says Coleridge, in his "Biographia Literaria," "when the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles, twenty-one in number, and just then published in a quarto pamphlet, were first made known and presented to me by a schoolfellow [at Christ's Hospital] who had quitted us for the University. As my school finances did not permit me to purchase copies, I made, within less than a year and a half, more than forty transcriptions--as the best presents I could offer to those who had in any way won my regard. And with almost equal delight did I receive the three or four following publications of the same author." Coleridge was always consistent in his admiration of Mr. Bowles. Charlotte Smith and Bowles, he says--writing in 1797--are they who first made the sonnet popular among the present generation of English readers; and in the same year in which this encomium was printed, his own volume of poetry contains "Sonnets attempted in the manner of Mr. Bowles." "My obligations to Mr. Bowles," he adds in another place, "were indeed important, and for radical good;" and that his approbation might not be confined to prose, he has said in verse:

"My heart has thanked thee, Bowles, for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring."

Mr. Bowles's sonnets were descriptive of his personal feelings; and the manly tenderness which pervades them was occasioned, he tells us, by the sudden death of a deserving young woman with whom

"Sperabat longos, heu! ducere soles,
Et fido acclinis consenuisse sinu."

An eighth edition appeared in 1802; and a ninth and a tenth have since been demanded.

While at Trinity--where he took his degree in 1792--Mr. Bowles obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem. On leaving the University he entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire; from which he was preferred to a living in Gloucestershire--and in 1803 to a canonry in Salisbury Cathedral. His next step was to the rectory of Bremhill in Wiltshire--to which he was presented by Archbishop Moore. Here he remained till his death--beloved by his parishioners and by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. A volume of his sermons ("Paulus Parochialis"), designed for country congregations, was published in 1826.

The Sonnets were followed, at an Horatian interval, by other poems hardly of an inferior quality: such, for instance, as his "Hope, an Allegorical Sketch"--"St. Michael's Mount"--"Coombe Ellen"--and "Grave of Howard." His "Spirit of Discovery by Sea," the longest of his productions, was published in 1804, and is now chiefly remembered by the unhappy notoriety which Lord Byron obtained for it by asserting in his "English Bards" that the poet had made the woods of Madeira tremble to a kiss. Lord Byron subsequently acknowledged that he had mistaken Mr. Bowles's meaning: too late, however, to remove the injurious impression which his hasty reading had occasioned. Generally, Mr. Bowles's more ambitious works may be ranked as superior to the poems of Crowe and Carrington--both of which in their day commanded a certain reputation--and as higher in academical elegance than the verse of Mr. James Montgomery; while they have neither the nerve and occasional nobility of Cowper, nor that intimate mixture of fancy, feeling, lofty contemplations, and simple themes and images which have placed Wordsworth at the head of a school.

The school of the Wartons was not the school of Pope; and the comparatively low appreciation of the great poetical satirist, which Mr. Bowles entertained and asserted in print, was no doubt imbibed at Winchester under Joseph Warton, and strengthened at Oxford under Tom. Mr. Bowles's edition of Pope is a very poor performance. He had little diligence, and few indeed of the requirements of an editor. He undertook to traduce the moral character of Pope; and the line in which Lord Byron refers to him on that account

"To do for hate what Mallet did for hire"

will long be remembered to his prejudice. His so-called "invariable principles of poetry" maintained in his Pope and in his controversy with Byron and Campbell, are better based than critics hitherto have been willing to admit. Considering how sharply the reverend Pamphleteer was hit by the Peer's ridicule, it must be always remembered, to the credit of his Christianity, that possibly the most popular of all the dirges written on Lord Byron's death came from Mr. Bowles's pen; and the following tributary stanza is deepened in its music by the memory of the former war.

"I will not ask sad Pity to deplore
His wayward errors who thus sadly died,
Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more,
Will I say aught of Genius misapplied;
Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride:
But I will bid th' Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from the Perseus's side,
And pray thy spirit may such quiet have
That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave."

It only remains for us to add, that Mr. Bowles wrote a somewhat poor life of Bishop Ken--that he was famous for his Parson Adams-like forgetfulness--that his wife died in 1844, at the age of 72--and that he himself at the time of his death was in his eighty-eighth year.--_London Athenaeum._

MORNING IN SPRING.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF GUSTAV SOLLING.)

From the valleys to the hills
See the morning mists arise;
And the early dew distills
Balmy incense to the skies.

Purple clouds, with vapory grace,
Round the sun their soft sail fling;
Now they fade--and from his face
Beams the new-born bliss of Spring!

From the cool grass glitter bright
Myriad drops of diamond dew;
Bending 'neath their pressure light,
Waves the green corn, springing new

Nought but the fragrant wind is heard,
Whispering softly through the trees,
Or, lightly perched, the early bird
Chirping to the morning breeze

Dewy May-flowers to the sun
Ope their buds of varied hue.
Fragrant shades--his beams to shun--
Hide the violet's heavenly blue

A joyous sense of life revived
Streams through every limb and vein:
I thank thee, Lord! that I have lived
To see the bright young Spring again!

ETA.

[From Household Words.]

WORK! AN ANECDOTE.

A calvary officer of large fortune, who had distinguished himself in several actions, having been quartered for a long time in a foreign city, gradually fell into a life of extreme and incessant dissipation. He soon found himself so indisposed to any active military service, that even the ordinary routine became irksome and unbearable. He accordingly solicited and obtained leave of absence from his regiment for six months. But, instead of immediately engaging in some occupation of mind and body, as a curative process for his morbid condition, he hastened to London, and gave himself up entirely to greater luxuries than ever, and plunged into every kind of sensuality. The consequence was a disgust of life and all its healthy offices. He became unable to read half a page of a book, or to write the shortest note; mounting his horse was too much trouble; to lounge down the street was a hateful effort. His appetite failed, or every thing disagreed with him; and he could seldom sleep. Existence became an intolerable burden; he therefore determined on suicide.

With this intention he loaded his pistols, and, influenced by early associations, dressed himself in his regimental frock-coat and crimson sash, and entered St. James's Park a little before sunrise. He felt as if he was mounting guard for the last time; listened to each sound, and looked with miserable affection across the misty green toward the Horse Guards, faintly seen in the distance.

A few minutes after the officer had entered the park, there passed through the same gate a poor mechanic, who leisurely followed in the same direction. He was a gaunt, half-famished looking man, and walked with a sad air, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground, and his large bony hands dangling at his sides.

The officer, absorbed in the act he meditated, walked on without being aware of the presence of another person. Arriving about the middle of a wide open space, he suddenly stopped, and drawing forth both pistols, exclaimed, "Oh, most unfortunate and most wretched man that I am! Wealth, station, honor, prospects, are of no avail! Existence has become a heavy torment to me! I have not strength--I have not courage to endure or face it a moment longer!"

With these words he cocked the pistols, and was raising both of them to his head, when his arms were seized from behind, and the pistols twisted out of his fingers. He reeled round, and beheld the gaunt scarecrow of a man who had followed him.

"What are you?" stammered the officer, with a painful air; "How dare you to step between me and death?"

"I am a poor, hungry mechanic;" answered the man, "one who works from fourteen to sixteen hours a day, and yet finds it hard to earn a living. My wife is dead--my daughter was tempted away from me--and I am a lone man. As I have nobody to live for, and have become quite tired of my life, I came out this morning, intending to drown myself. But as the fresh air of the park came over my face, the sickness of life gave way to shame at my own want of strength and courage, and I determined to walk onward and live my allotted time. But what are _you_? Have you encountered cannon-balls and death in all shapes, and now want the strength and courage to meet the curse of idleness?"

The officer was moving off with some confused words, but the mechanic took him by the arm, and threatening to hand him over to the police if he resisted, led him droopingly away.

This mechanic's work was that of a turner, and he lived in a dark cellar, where he toiled at his lathe from morning to night. Hearing that the officer had amused himself with a little turnery in his youth, the poor artisan proposed to take him down into his work-shop. The officer offered him money; and was anxious to escape; but the mechanic refused it, and persisted.

He accordingly took the morbid gentleman down into his dark cellar, and set him to work at his lathe. The officer began very languidly, and soon rose to depart. Whereupon, the mechanic forced him down again on the hard bench, and swore that if he did not do an hour's work for him, in return for saving his life, he would instantly consign him to a policeman, and denounce him for attempting to commit suicide. At this threat the officer was so confounded, that he at once consented to do the work.

When the hour was over, the mechanic insisted on a second hour, in consequence of the slowness of the work--it had not been a fair hour's labor. In vain the officer protested, was angry, and exhausted--had the heartburn--pains in his back and limbs--and declared it would kill him. The mechanic was inexorable. "If it _does_ kill you," said he, "then you will only be where you would have been if I had not stopped you." So the officer was compelled to continue his work with an inflamed face, and the perspiration pouring down over his cheeks and chin.

At last he could proceed no longer, come what would of it, and sank back in the arms of his persecuting preserver. The mechanic now placed before him his own breakfast, composed of a two-penny loaf of brown bread, and a pint of small beer; the whole of which the officer disposed of in no time, and then sent out for more.

Before the boy who was dispatched on this errand returned, a little conversation had ensued; and as the officer rose to go, he smilingly placed his purse, with his card, in the hands of the mechanic. The poor, ragged man received them with all the composure of a physician, and with a sort of dry, grim humor which appeared peculiar to him, and the only relief of his other wise rough and rigid character, made sombre by the constant shadows and troubles of life.

But the moment he read the name on the card all the hard lines in his deeply-marked face underwent a sudden contortion. Thrusting back the purse and card into the officer's hand, he seized him with a fierce grip by one arm--hurried him, wondering, up the dark broken stairs, along the narrow passage--then pushed him out at the door!

"You are the fine gentleman who tempted my daughter away!" said he.

"I--_your_ daughter!" exclaimed the officer.

"Yes, my daughter; Ellen Brentwood!" said the mechanic. "Are there so many men's daughters in the list, that you forget her name?"

"I implore you," said the officer, "to take this purse. _Pray_, take this purse! If you will not accept it for yourself, I entreat you to send it to her!"

"Go and buy a lathe with it," said the mechanic. "Work, man! and repent of your past life!"

So saying, he closed the door in the officer's face, and descended the stairs to his daily labor.

IGNORANCE IN ENGLAND.--Taking the whole of northern Europe--including Scotland, and France and Belgium (where education is at a low ebb), we find that to every 2-1/4 of the population, there is one child acquiring the rudiments of knowledge; while in England there is only one such pupil to every fourteen inhabitants. It has been calculated that there are at the present day in England and Wales nearly 8,000,000 persons who can neither read nor write--that is to say, nearly one quarter of the population. Also, that of all the children between five and fourteen, more than one half attend no place of instruction. These statements would be hard to believe, if we had not to encounter in our every-day life degrees of illiteracy which would be startling, if we were not thoroughly used to it. Wherever we turn, ignorance, not always allied to poverty, stares us in the face. If we look in the _Gazette_, at the list of partnerships dissolved, not a month passes but some unhappy man, rolling, perhaps, in wealth, but wallowing in ignorance, is put to the _experimentum crucis_ of "his mark." The number of petty jurors--in rural districts especially--who can only sign with a cross, is enormous. It is not unusual to see parish documents of great local importance defaced with the same humiliating symbol by persons whose office shows them to be not only "men of mark," but men of substance. A housewife in humble life need only turn to the file of her tradesmen's bills to discover hieroglyphics which render them so many arithmetical puzzles. In short, the practical evidences of the low ebb to which the plainest rudiments of education in this country have fallen, are too common to bear repetition. We can not pass through the streets, we can not enter a place of public assembly, or ramble in the fields, without the gloomy shadow of Ignorance sweeping over us.--_Dickens's "Household Words."_

[From The Ladies' Companion.]

MEN AND WOMEN.

A woman is naturally gratified when a man singles her out, and addresses his conversation to her. She takes pains to appear to the best advantage, but without any thought of willfully misleading.

How different is it with men! At least it is thus that women in general think of men. The mask with them is deliberately put on and worn as a mask, and wo betide the silly girl who is too weak or too unsuspicious, not to appear displeased with the well-turned compliments and flattering attentions so lavishly bestowed upon her by her partner at the ball. If a girl has brothers she sees a little behind the scenes, and is saved much mortification and disappointment. She discovers how little men mean by attentions they so freely bestow upon the last new face which takes their fancy.

Men are singularly wanting in good feeling upon this subject; they pay a girl marked attention, flatter her in every way, and then, perhaps, when warned by some judicious friend that they are going too far, "can hardly believe the girl could be so foolish as to fancy that any thing was meant."

The fault which strikes women most forcibly in men is _selfishness_. They expect too much in every way, and become impatient if their comforts and peculiarities are interfered with. If the men of the present day were less selfish and self-indulgent, and more willing to be contented and happy upon moderate means, there would be fewer causes of complaint against young women undertaking situations as governesses when they were wholly unfit for so responsible an office. I feel the deepest interest in the present movement for the improvement of the female sex; and most cordially do I concur in the schemes for this desirable purpose laid down in "The Ladies' Companion;" but I could not resist the temptation of lifting up my voice in testimony against some of the every-day faults of men, to which I think many of the follies and weaknesses of women are mainly to be attributed.

Mr. Thackeray is the only writer of the present day who touches, with any severity, upon the faults of his own sex. He has shown us the style of women that he thinks men most admire, in "Amelia," and "Mrs. Pendennis." Certainly, my own experience agrees with his opinion; and until men are sufficiently improved to be able to appreciate higher qualities in women, and to choose their wives among women who possess such qualities, I do not expect that the present desirable movement will make much progress. The improvement of both sexes must be simultaneous. A "gentleman's horror" is still a "blue stocking," which unpleasing epithet is invariably bestowed upon all women who have read much, and who are able to think and act for themselves.

A YOUNG WIFE

THE RETURN OF POPE PIUS IX. TO ROME.

The banishment of a Pope has hitherto been a rare event: the
following detailed and graphic description of the return of PIUS
IX. to his seat of empire, superadds a certain degree of
historical importance to its immediate interest. It is from the
correspondence of the "London Times."

VELLETRI, _Thursday, April_ 11.

All speculation is now set at rest--the last and the most important stage in the Papal progress has been made--the Pope has arrived at Velletri.

The Pope was expected yesterday at three o'clock, but very early in the morning every one in the town, whether they had business to execute or not, thought it necessary to rush about, here, there, and every where. I endeavored to emulate this activity, and to make myself as ubiquitous as the nature of the place, which is built on an ascent, and my own nature, which is not adapted to ascents, would allow me. At one moment I stood in admiration at the skill with which sundry sheets and napkins were wound round a wooden figure, to give it a chaste and classic appearance, which figure--supposed to represent Charity, Fortitude, Prudence, or Plenty--was placed as a _basso relievo_ on the triumphal arch, where it might have done for any goddess or virtue in the mythology or calendar. At another moment I stood on the Grand Place, marveling at the arch and dry manner in which half a dozen painters were inscribing to Pio Nono, over the doors of the Municipality, every possible quality which could have belonged to the whole family of saints--one man, in despair at giving adequate expression to his enthusiasm, having satisfied himself with writing _Pio Nono Immortale! Immortale! Immortale! Vero Angelo!_

But to say the truth, there was something very touching in the enthusiasm of this rustic and mountain people, although it was sometimes absurdly and quaintly expressed; for instance, in one window there was a picture, or rather a kind of transparency, representing little angels, which a scroll underneath indicated as the children of His Holiness. Whether the Velletrians intended to represent their own innocence or to question that of His Holiness, I did not choose to inquire. Then there were other pictures of the Pope in every possible variety of dress; sometimes as a young officer, at another as a cardinal; again, a corner shop had him as a benevolent man in a black coat and dingy neck-cloth; but, most curious of all, he at one place took the shape of a female angel placing her foot on the demon of rebellion. The circumstance of his Protean quality arose from each family having turned their pictures from the inside outside the houses, and printed Pio Nono under each; but if the features of each picture differed, not so the feelings that placed them there: it was a touching and graceful sight to see the people as they greeted each other that morning.

As the day drew on, the preparations were completed, and the material of which every house was built was lost under a mass of scarlet and green. But, alas! about three o'clock the clouds gathered upon Alba; Monte Calvi was enveloped in mist, which sailed over the top of Artemisio; the weather turned cold; and the whole appearance of the day became threatening. The figure of the Pope on the top of the triumphal arch, to compose which sundry beds must have been stripped of their sheets--for it was of colossal dimensions--quivered in the breeze, and at every blast I expected to see the worst possible omen--the mitre, which was only fastened by string to the sacred head, falling down headless; but having pointed this out to some persons who were too excited themselves to see anything practical, a boy was sent up, and with two long nails secured the mitre more firmly on the sacred head than even Lord Minto's counsels could do. At three o'clock the Municipality passed down the lines of troops amid every demonstration of noisy joy. There were half a dozen very respectable gentlemen in evening dress, all looking wonderfully alike, and remarkably pale, either from the excitement or the important functions which they had to perform; but I ought to speak well of them, for they invited me to the reserved part of the small entrance square, where I had the good fortune to shelter myself from the gusts of wind which drove down from the hills. From three to six we all waited, the people very patient, and fortunately so crowded that they could not well feel cold. The cardinal's servants--strange grotesque-looking fellows in patchwork liveries--were running up and down the portico, and the soldiers on duty began to give evident signs of a diminution of ardor. Some persons were just beginning to croak, "Well, I told you he would not come," when the cannon opened from the heights, the troops fell in--a carriage is seen coming down the hill, but it is the wrong road. Who can it be? The troops seem to know, for the chasseurs draw their swords, the whole line present arms, the band strikes up, and the French General Baraguay d'Hilliers dashes through the gates. Again roar the cannon--another carriage is seen, and this time in the right direction; it is preceded by the Pope's courier, covered with scarlet and gold. The people cheered loudly, although they could not have known whom it contained; but they cheered the magnificent arms and the reeking horses. It was the Vice-Legate of Velletri, Monsignore Beraldi. The Municipality rushed to the door of the carriage, and a little, energetic-looking man in lace and purple descended, and was almost smothered in the embraces of the half dozen municipal officers, who confused him with questions--"Dove e la sua Santita!" "Vicino! Vicino!" "E a Frosinone, e a Valomontone?" "Bellissimo, bellissimo, recevimento! sorprendente! Tanto bello! tanto bello!" was all the poor little man could jerk out, and at each word he was stifled with fresh embraces; but he was soon set aside and forgotten, when half a dozen of the Papal couriers galloped up, splashed from head to foot. They were followed by several carriages with four or six horses, the postillions in their new liveries; then came a large squadron of Neapolitan cavalry, and immediately afterward the Pope. It was a touching sight. While the women cried, the men shouted; but however absurd a description of enthusiasm may be, in its action it was very fine. As he passed on, the troops presented arms, and every one knelt. He drew up in front of the municipality, who were so affected or so frightened that their speech ended in nothing. The carriage door was opened, and then the scene which ensued was without parallel; every one rushed forward to kiss the foot which he put out. One little Abbate, Don Pietro Metranga, amused me excessively. Nothing could keep him back; he caught hold of the sacred foot, he hugged it, he sighed, he wept over it. A knot of gentlemen were standing on the steps of the entrance, among others Mr. Baillie Cochrane, in the Scotch Archers' uniform, whom His Holiness beckoned forward, and put out his hand for him to kiss. Again the carriages would have moved on, for it was late, and _Te Deum_ had to be sung; but for some time it was quite impossible to shake off the crowd at the door. At last the procession moved, and I, at the peril of my life--for the crowd, couriers, and chasseurs rode like lunatics--ran down to the cathedral. To my surprise, the Pope had anticipated me, and the door was shut. I was about to retire in despair, when I saw a little man creeping silently up to a small gate, followed by a very tall and ungainly prince in a red uniform, which put me very much in mind of Ducrow in his worst days. I looked again, and I knew it was my friend the Abbe, and if I followed him I must go right. It was as I expected. While we had been abusing the arrangements, he had gone and asked for the key of the sacristy, by which way we entered the church. It was densely crowded in all parts, and principally by troops who had preoccupied it. When the host was raised, the effect was grand in the extreme. The Pope, with all his subjects, bowed their heads to the pavement, and the crash of arms was succeeded by the most perfect silence. The next ceremony was the benediction of the people from the palace, which is situate on the extreme height of the town. Nerving myself for this last effort, I struggled and stumbled up the hill. There the thousands from the country and neighborhood were assembled, and in a few minutes the Pope arrived. In the interval all the facades of the houses had been illuminated, and the effects of the light on the various picturesque groups and gay uniforms was very striking. A burst of music and fresh cannon announced the arrival of His Holiness. He went straight into the palace, and in a few minutes the priests with the torches entered the small chapel which was erected on the balcony. The Pope followed, and then arose one shout, such as I never remember to have heard: another and another, and all knelt, and not a whisper was heard. As the old man stretched out his hands to bless the people, his voice rung clear and full in the night:

"Sit nomen Dei benedictum."

And the people, with one voice, replied:

"Ex hoc et nunc et in seculum."

Then the Pope:

"Adjutorum nostrum in nomine Domini."

The people:

"Qui fecit coelum et terram."

His Holiness:

"Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus Pater, Filius, et Spiritus
Sanctus."

And the people, with one voice:

"Amen!"

_Thursday Evening._

The Velletri fireworks were certainly a failure; the population understands genuflexions better than squibs and crackers; but the illumination, which consisted of large pots of grease placed on posts at intervals of a yard down every street, had really a very good effect, and might afford a good hint for cheap illuminations in England. What is most remarkable to an Englishman on such occasions is, the total absence of drunkenness and the admirable and courteous conduct of the people to each other. It seemed to me that the population never slept; they were perambulating the streets chanting "Viva Pio Nono" all night; and, at 8 o'clock this morning, there was the same crowd, with the same excitement. I went early to the Papal Palace to witness the reception of the different deputations; but, notwithstanding my activity, I arrived one of the last, and on being shown into a waiting-room found myself standing in a motley group of generals of every clime, priests in every variety of costume, judges, embassadors, and noble guards. A long suite of ten rooms was thrown open, and probably the old and tapestried walls had never witnessed so strange a sight before as the gallery presented. There was a kind of order and degree preserved in the distribution of the visitors. The first room mostly contained priests of the lower ranks, in the second were gentlemen in violet colored dresses, looking proud and inflated; then came a room full of officers, then distinguished strangers, among whom might be seen General Baraguay d'Hilliers, Count Ludolf, the Neapolitan embassador, the Princes Massimo, Corsini, Ruspoli, Cesareni, all covered with stars, ribbons, and embroidery. The door of each room was kept by the municipal troops, who were evidently very new to the work, for the pages in their pink silk dresses might be seen occasionally instructing them in the salute. Presently there was a move, every one drew back for Cardinal Macchi; he is the _doyen_ of the college, and, as Archbishop of Velletri, appeared in his brightest scarlet robes--a fit subject for the pencil of the great masters. He was followed by Cardinals Asquini and Dupont in more modest garb, and each as he passed received and gracefully acknowledged the homage of the crowd. While we were standing waiting, two priests in full canonicals marched by with stately steps, preceded by the cross, and bearing the consecrated elements which they were to administer to the Pope; they remained with him about twenty minutes, and again the doors were thrown open, and they came out with the same forms. The Sacrament was succeeded by the breakfast service of gold, which it would have made any amateurs of Benvenuto Cellini's workmanship envious to see. At last the breakfast was ended, and I began to hope there was some chance of our suspense terminating, when there was a great movement among the crowd at one end of the gallery, the pages rushed to their posts, flung back the two doors, and the Prime Minister, Cardinal Antonelli, entered. Standing in that old palace, and gazing on the Priest Premier, I could realize the times of Mazarin and Richelieu. Neither of these could have possessed a haughtier eye than Antonelli, or carried themselves more proudly: every action spoke the man self-possessed and confident in the greatness of his position. He is tall, thin, about forty-four or forty-five, of a dark and somewhat sallow complexion, distinguished not by the regularity or beauty of his features, but by the calmness and dignity of their expression. As the mass moved to let him pass to the Papal apartments at the other extremity of the gallery, there was nothing flurried in his manner or hurried in his step--he knew to a nicety the precise mode of courtesy which he should show to each of his worshipers; for instance, when the French general--ay, the rough soldier of the camp--bent to kiss his hand, he drew it back, and spoke a few low, complimentary words as he bowed low to him, always graciously, almost condescendingly. When the Roman princes wished to perform the same salute his hand met their lips half-way. When the crowd of abbes, monks, priests, and deacons, seized it, it passed on unresistingly from mouth to mouth, as though he knew that blessing was passing out of him, but that he found sufficient for all. I was beginning to marvel what had become of my little friend of the preceding evening, Don Pietro, when I observed a slight stoppage, occasioned by some one falling at the Cardinal's feet. It was Don Pietro. He had knelt down to get a better hold of the hanging fringes, and no power could withdraw them from his lips; he appeared determined to exhaust their valuable savor, and, for the first time, I saw a smile on Antonelli's countenance, which soon changed into a look of severity, which so frightened the little abbate that he gave up his prey. Cardinal Antonelli went in to the Pope, and expectation and patience had to be renewed. Then came all the deputations in succession, men with long parchments and long faces of anxiety. There could not have been less than eight or ten of these, who all returned from the interview looking very bright and contented, ejaculating "_Quanto e buono! quanto buono!_" To my great disappointment, a very officious little gentleman, who, it appears, is a nephew of Cardinal Borroneo, and who, only two days since, had been appointed a kind of deputy master of the ceremonies, informed me that it was very unlikely His Holiness could receive any more people, as he had to go out at eleven, which fact was confirmed by the Papal couriers, who marched, booted and spurred, whip in hand, into the ante-room. This announcement had scarcely been made, when Cardinal Antonelli appeared and informed us that the Pope would receive two or three at a time, but that they must not stop long. The first batch consisted of "our own correspondent;" Don Flavio Ghigi, I looked round to see who was the third, it was the little abbate. As we entered the presence chamber, I made an inclination, but, to my surprise, both Don Flavio and Don Pietro rushed forward. The Ghigi gracefully, and with emotion, kissed the Sovereign's foot, and then his hand, which was extended to him. His Holiness had evidently been greatly excited. He took Don Flavio by the hand, saying, "Rise up, my son, our sorrows are over." Meanwhile Don Pietro had embraced not merely the foot, but the ankle. Vainly the Pope bade him rise. At last he exclaimed, looking at the little man with wonder, "Eh! Che Don Pietro con una barba!" "Ah," said the unclerical priest, not in any degree taken by surprise, "Since our misfortunes, your Holiness, I never had the heart to shave." "Then, now that happier times are come, we shall see your face quite clean," was the Pope's reply. More genuflexions, more embracings, and away we went. After a few minutes' delay, the gentlemen of the chamber gave notice that His Holiness was about to pass; he was preceded by priests bearing the crucifix, and this time wore a rich embroidered stole; his benevolent face lighted up as he blessed all his servants who knelt on his passage. He has a striking countenance, full of paternal goodness; nor does his tendency to obesity interfere with the dignity of his movements. Some half-dozen Capuchins fell down before him, and the guards had some difficulty in making them move out of the way. As the Pope moved he dispensed his blessing to the right and to the left. Meanwhile a great crowd had collected outside. When he appeared he was enthusiastically cheered. He entered his carriage--the scarlet couriers kicked, cracked, and spurred--the troops all knelt--the band played some strange anthem, for he has become rather tired of "_Viva Pio Nono_," with which he has no agreeable associations--and the pageant passed away.

I was compelled to decline the invitation from the Council of State; and, soon after his Holiness's departure, I started for Rome, in order to arrive before the gates were shut, for the passport system is in the strictest operation. All along the road fortunately the preparations have taken the turn of cleanliness--whitewash is at a premium. At Genzano and Albano the woods of Dunsinane seem to be moving through the towns. At the former place I saw General Baraguay d'Hilliers, who had to send to Albano for two cutlets and bread, the supplies of Genzano being exhausted. The Pope leaves Velletri to-morrow, Friday, 12th, at 8 o'clock. At Genzano the Neapolitan troops leave him, and are replaced by the French; at Albano he breakfasts, and enters Rome at 4 o'clock. Preparations are making for a grand illumination, and the town is all alive.

ROME, _Friday Evening, April_ 12.