Chapter XXV (8)

"In personal appearance Halleck was rather below the medium height and well built: in walking he had a rather slow and shuffling gait, as if something afflicted his feet; a florid, bland and pleasant countenance; a bright gray eye; was remarkably pleasant and courteous in conversation, and, as a natural consequence, much beloved by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. But to that brilliancy in conversation which some of his admirers have been pleased to attribute to him in my opinion he could lay no claim. His library was sold at auction in New York on the evening of October 12, 1868. If the collection disposed of on that occasion was really his library in full, it must be confessed it was a sorry affair and meagre in the extreme. In surveying the collection a judge of the value of such property would perhaps pronounce it worth from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty dollars. The books brought fabulous prices--at least ten times their value. The company was large, good-humored and just in the frame of mind to be a little more than liberal, doubtless stimulated to be so from a desire to possess a relic of the departed poet who had added fame to the literature of his country. The following are the names of a few of the books and the prices they brought: _Nicholas Nickleby_, with the author's autograph, $18; Bryant's little volume of poems entitled _Thirty Poems_, with the author's autograph, $11; Campbell's _Poems_, with Halleck's autograph, $8.50; _Catalogue of the Strawberry Hill Collection_, $16; _Barnaby Rudge_, presentation copy by the author to Halleck, $15; Coleridge's _Poems_, with a few notes by Halleck, $10; _Fanny_, a poem by Mr. Halleck, $10. The sum-total realized for his library was twelve hundred and fifty dollars."

Aaron Burr is the subject of some interesting reminiscences: "Shortly after I came to New York, Aaron Burr was pointed out to me as he was slowly wending his way up Broadway, between Chambers street and the old theatre, on the City Hall side. I frequently afterward met him in this and other streets. He was always an object of interest, inasmuch as he had become an historical character, somewhat notoriously so. I will attempt to describe his appearance, or rather how he appeared to me: He was small, thin and attenuated in form, perhaps a little over five feet in height, weight not much over a hundred pounds. He walked with a slow, measured and feeble step, stooping considerably, occasionally with both hands behind his back. He had a keen face and deep-set, dark eye, his hat set deep on his head, the back part sunk down to the collar of the coat and the back brim somewhat turned upward. He was dressed in threadbare black cloth, having the appearance of what is known as shabby genteel. His countenance wore a melancholy aspect, and his whole appearance betokened one dejected, forsaken, forgotten or cast aside, and conscious of his position. He was invariably alone when I saw him, except on a single occasion: that was on the sidewalk in Broadway fronting what is now the Astor House, where he was standing talking very familiarly with a young woman whom he held by one hand. His countenance on that occasion was cheerful, lighted up and bland--altogether different from what it appeared to me when I saw him alone and in conversation with himself. Burr must have been a very exact man in his business-affairs. His receipt-book came into my possession. I found there receipts for a load of wood, a carpenter's work for one day, a pair of boots, milk for a certain number of weeks, suit of clothes, besides numerous other small transactions that but few would think of taking a receipt for. The book was but a sorry, cheap affair, and could not have cost when new more than fifty cents."

Edwin Forrest is thus mentioned: "At the time when Forrest was earning his reputation on the boards of the Bowery Theatre I was connected with that institution, and of course had an opportunity of seeing him every night he performed. Mr. Forrest appeared to be possessed of the perfection of physical form, more especially conspicuous when arrayed in some peculiar costumes which tended to display it to the best advantage. He had a stentorian voice, and must have had lungs not less invulnerable than one of Homer's heroes. He had a fine masculine face and prepossessing countenance, much resembling many of the notable Greeks and Romans whose portraits have come down to our time, and a keen intellectual eye. His countenance at times assumed an air of hauteur which doubtless had become a habit, either from personating characters of this stamp or from a consciousness of his merited popularity. He left the impression on the beholder of one intoxicated with success and the repletion of human applause. He kept aloof from all around him, and condescended to no social intercourse with any one on the stage, and appeared to entertain a contempt for his audience.... He has now lost that mercurial, youthful appearance which was then so conspicuous, and which doubtless aided in laying the foundation of his widespread reputation. He was then straight as an arrow and elastic as a circus-rider, the very beau-ideal of physical perfection: now he bears the marks of decay, or rather, as is said of grain just before harvest, he has a ripe appearance. If he would consult his renown he would retire from the stage, and never set foot upon it again."

The fragments also contain notes on Bryant, Parton, Mrs. Siddons and several eminent divines and journalists. Of the latter class the fullest relate to James Gordon Bennett, founder of the _Herald_, and his coadjutor, William H. Attree. The following are extracts: "I remember entering the subterranean office of Mr. Bennett early in the career of the _Herald_ and purchasing a single copy of the paper, for which I paid the sum of one cent only. On this occasion the proprietor, editor and vender was seated at his desk busily engaged in writing, and appeared to pay little or no attention to me as I entered. On making known my object in coming in, he requested me to put my money down on the counter and help myself to a paper: all this time he continued his writing operations. The office was a single oblong, underground room. Its furniture consisted of a counter, which also served as a desk, constructed from two flour-barrels, perhaps empty, standing apart from each other about four feet, with a single plank covering both; a chair, placed in the centre, upon which sat the editor busy at his vocation, with an inkstand by his right hand; on the end nearest the door were placed the papers for sale. I attribute the success of the _Herald_ to a combination of circumstances--to the peculiar fitness of its editor for his position, to its cheapness, and its advertising patronage, which was considerable. In the fourth place, it early secured the assistance of William H. Attree, a man of uncommon abilities as a reporter and a concocter of pithy as well as ludicrous chapters greatly calculated to captivate many readers. In fact, this clever and talented assistant in some respects never had his match. He did not, as other reporters do, take down in short-hand what the speaker or reader said, but sat and heard the passing discourse like any other casual spectator: when over he would go home to his room, write out in full all that had been said on the occasion, and that entirely from memory. On a certain occasion I hinted to him my incredulity about his ability to report as he had frequently informed me. To put the matter beyond doubt, he requested me to accompany him to Clinton Hall to hear some literary magnate let off his intellectual steam. I accordingly accompanied him as per arrangement. We were seated together in the same pew. He placed his hands in his pockets and continued in that position during the delivery of the discourse, and when it was finished he remarked to me that I would not only find the substance of this harangue in the _Herald_ the next day, but that I would find it word for word. On the following morning I procured the paper, and read the report of what I had heard the previous evening; and I must say I was struck with astonishment at its perfect accuracy. Before Mr. Attree's time reporting for the press in New York was a mere outline or sketch of what had been said or done, but he infused life and soul into this department of journalism. His reports were full, accurate, graphic; and, what is more, he frequently flattered the vanity of the speaker by making a much better speech for him than he possibly could for himself. Poor Attree died in 1849, and is entombed at Greenwood."

It is probable that other fragments of this work are in existence, and if so it is hoped that the publication of these will tend to their discovery.

C.B.T.

CONCERNING NIGHT-NOISES.

Many a time these summer nights am I startled out of my midnight sleep by a conversation like the following as two friends pause on the corner beneath my suburban window:

"Well, good-night."

"_Good_-night."

"Hold on a moment. I want to--"

"Oh yes. Rely on me. Do you think he will--"

"He promised."

"Oh, then he'll do it. Well, then, good--"

"Good-night, good-night."

"Wait an instant. But how shall I--"

"... Now you understand?"

"Oh yes. Good-night."

"Good-night."

"_Good_-night."

After these exclamations, uttered with piercing distinctness, have been exchanged, the belated revellers from some club or whist-party or an evening at the theatre in town terminate their sweet sorrow at parting by going their several ways to their different homes, where, no doubt, on retiring to rest they sink at once into blameless slumber, ignorant of the fact that for me they have murdered sleep.

I had gone to bed betimes, wornout with hard mental labor: I had hoped for a night's repose to recruit my energies for the morrow. This sleep I craved was no luxurious indulgence of pampered inclination, but my stock in trade--my bone, my sinew, my heart's courage, my mental inspiration, the immediate jewel of my soul.

Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing:
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my NIGHT'S SLEEP
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.

But let me now repose again: tenderly entreated, softly courted, sleep may return. There are many specifics for bringing slumber to mutinous eyelids. Let me remember what they are.

_First._ To think of the wind blowing on a field of grain. Watch with your mind's eye the long wavy undulations, the golden sheen which takes the light. What a dreamy, exquisite rhythm! (Still, I don't sleep.)

_Second._ Repeat the multiplication-table backward, from twelve times down to twice. (Hopeless, the only result being to render my mathematical powers acutely, preternaturally awake, so that I begin to estimate the magnitude of my summer expenses.)

_Third._ Try to decide where to spend the August vacation. I am thinking of Lake George, the Saguenay, Sea Girt, the White Mountains, when all at once I begin to yield drowsily to the influence of long conversations about nothing which take possession of my mind--mere gibberish, strings of words without sense. Thank Heaven, I am off! I am actually going to sleep. _Not yet!_

Down the street comes a man with an accordion. He is playing "Annie Laurie." Every now and then he strikes a wrong note. Excruciating agony! Did he render it correctly it might blend with a romantic dream, but when he insists on flatting persistently, as for bonnie Annie Laurie he offers to lay him down and die, who is to bear it? And why does he not consummate the proffered sacrifice by dying at once? I would cheerfully bury him. He passes slowly, lingeringly, seeming to pause outside of my window, as if my casement enshrined that form like the snowdrift and that throat like the swan's. But, although he vanishes finally, the street has become alive. Two men pass in deeply-interesting conversation, one of them assuring the other that he has not done "a stroke's work" in two years. He is maudlin, of course. "A stroke's work"? And as if any man could expect to find work and to do it after keeping such hours as these!

And now comes "the whistler." I had been expecting him. He is to-night whistling airs from _Pinafore_. The _Pirates_, thank Heaven! furnishes him no airs. He whistles--let me confess, reluctant although I am to do it--he whistles to perfection. There is nothing experimental, nothing tentative, in his notes, which come clear, sharp, in perfect time and tune.

The clock strikes two. It is the voice of doom, for presently the 2.19 freight-train will thunder slowly through our end of the town. It renders my case utterly hopeless. One might as well expect to sleep in momentary expectation of the Juggernaut. I know its every sound: I can feel the bridge at ---- Junction, five miles away, tremble under it. I listen and wait, every nerve on edge. A mile and a half the other side of our station the engine will first snort, then begin a series of shrieks--shrieks suggestive of warning, imminent danger, supreme peril, the climax of a tragical catastrophe. For at least five minutes shall I be compelled to listen while the engineer--if it be a real living engine-man who impels this chorus of fiends--runs the full scale of his shrill tooting, perhaps deeming it essential to the safety of the town, which ought to be asleep, or to the dignity of his long, creeping train of coal- and freight-laden cars.

Even the Juggernaut passes: it is gone. I emerge, faint and wornout from the trial. Now that it is toward three o'clock, everybody except the policeman in bed, and no more trains to come until after five, one might suppose there was some chance for an interval of peace, of repose. I get up and walk about a little in order to feel, with the opportunity, the inclination for slumber. Yes, it will come....

Scarcely have I ventured to close my eyes again before there begins a chirp, a twitter, a general thrill of sound. All the birds are awake, and are soon in full chorus. Presently a flush of color will run around the horizon, and it will be dawn. The actual night has flown. I can hear Smith, our grocery-man around the corner, setting off into the country for his milk and eggs. Several marketcarts are abroad.... There goes an extra train, shrieking direly along the curve.

It is actually growing light. With the first gleam of day my excellent aunt--who embodies all my future expectations of wealth--sleeping in the next chamber, turns in her bed, yawns loudly and unreservedly, gets up and takes an observation, opening and closing her shutters with a bang. By breakfast-time my revered relation becomes a respectable and no longer a riotous member of society, but during the early morning hours her inventions for disturbing her neighbors are ingenious and diabolical.

By five o'clock the morning-trains begin, followed at half-past six by fifty factory-whistles. The children are awake and stirring. The housemaid is banging her utensils on piazza and in hallway: the cook is flirting with the milk-and butter-man at the back gate, and exclaiming "Oh Laws!" to some news or pleasantry of his. The licensed venders are abroad. There are all sorts of cries. It is less than an hour to breakfast. The night is lost: one foolish, intolerable noise has spoiled all.

L.W.

TABARIN, THE FRENCH MERRY-ANDREW.

The French word _tabarin_ is almost obsolete, and its English synonym, _merry-andrew_, is not much in vogue, but as they are andronymics, to coin a word, embalming the memories of two famous charlatans, they possess an abiding interest apart from all question of their use or disuse.

Andrew Borde and Tabarin were both charlatans and both famous, but here all resemblance between them ceases. The former was a witty and eccentric quack, who travelled about from place to place and country to country selling drugs and practising medicine in fairs and marketplaces, where his glib tongue readily gathered crowds and earned him the nickname which has since passed current in English as a generic term for buffoons of all sorts and conditions. The tenth volume of the _Extra Series_ of the Early English Text Society is wholly devoted to Borde, and well repays perusal, although probably few who read it will agree with Mr. Furnivall, the editor, that "any one who would make him more of a merry-andrew than anything else is a bigger fool than he would make Borde."

Tabarin, however, was a veritable and inimitable clown, and his name has figured in French literature both as a proper and a common noun almost from the day that he and his partner, Mondor, set up their booth on the Pont Neuf. They began their sale of ointments and liniments in Paris about the year 1618, attracting custom by their absurd dialogues in the vein of the circus-clown and ring-master of to-day. Occasionally they left the city to try their luck in the provinces, but during most of their career they were to be found on the bridge near the entrance to the Place Dauphine. Tabarin retired from the business about 1630, but his partner continued at the old stand with a new clown, who must have been either less witty or more obscene than Tabarin, for in 1634 Mondor was abated as a nuisance by the authorities.

Tabarin was blessed with a wife and daughter: his wife's name was Francisquine; his daughter married the celebrated buffoon Gaultier Garguille. The story goes that when he left Mondor he bought a small country-place near Paris, where he passed his latter days comfortably on his earnings. There are two traditions current as to the manner of his death: according to one, he was killed by some noblemen in a hunting quarrel; according to the other, he died from the effects of heavy drinking for a wager. He is said to have styled himself Tabarin because he usually appeared in a little tabard, called in Italian _tabarrino_, but his true name and his nationality are alike unknown.

Tabarin's pleasantries, as jotted down by members of his audiences, have been given to the world at divers times in various forms, and have latterly been collected and published in a body with those of his less successful rival Grattelard; but very few of them are suited to nineteenth-century taste, and most of them are gross to the last degree. Some of the presentable ones are here given, and may serve as specimens of his manner, though they will scarcely account for his reputation:

_Tab._ Who are the politest people in the world, master?

_Mon._ I've travelled in Spain, Italy and Germany, and I assure you that the French nation is by all odds the most courteous. They are the only people in the world that kiss and compliment, and above all take off hats.

_Tab._ Take off hats! If that's courtesy I don't want any of it.

_Mon._ Taking off hats, Tabarin, is an ancient custom originating among the Romans. It is done in token of good-will.

_Tab._ So you say taking off hats is the pink of politeness? Now, if that's so, do you want to know who I think are the politest people?

_Mon._ Yes: who?

_Tab._ Why, our Paris street-thieves, for they don't stop at taking off hats, but take cloaks off too.

* * * * *

_Tab._ Master, why don't they let women take orders?

_Mon._ Because the sex is frail, Tabarin, and not worthy to conduct the services of the Church, which are sacred mysteries.

_Tab._ Humbug! It's because they always will have the last word, so it wouldn't do to let them give the responses. Why, the services would never end.

By similar logic Tabarin demonstrates, among others, the following propositions:

An ass is a better linguist than his master, because he understands when he is spoken to, while his lingo is all lost upon the man.

A fiddler has the hardest lot of all mankind, because his life depends upon a bit of wood and a piece of cord, for all the world like a malefactor's.

Cut-purses are the most liberal of all men, for they not only empty their own purses, but those of other people.

If you put a miller, a tailor, a bailiff and an attorney in a bag, the first thing to come out will be a thief.

The most wonderful gardener and the most wonderful tree in the world are respectively Jack Ketch and the gallows tree, because when the hangman plants that unpleasant vegetable it bears fruit the same day.

If you see six birds on a tree, and shoot three, there will be _none_ left, for of course the remaining three will fly away. This last jest is so trite to-day as to be absolutely threadbare.

Tabarin's wits were not exhausted by this kind of buffoonery. He issued comic proclamations and almanacs, and even produced short farces in which his wife performed with him. From one of these farces Moliere is supposed to have borrowed the ideas for his sack-scene in the _Fourberies de Scapin_.

La Fontaine stole one of Grattelard's dialogues bodily, and converted it into the celebrated fable of _The Acorn and the Pumpkin_. Grattelard was contemporary with Tabarin, as remarked above: he and his partner, Desiderio Descombes, sold quack medicines at the north end of the Pont Neuf. The dialogue in question follows, at least so much of it as is in point, and will serve as tailpiece to the specimens of Tabarin's wit:

_Grat._ I had a great discussion this morning with a philosopher, trying to prove to him that Nature often makes great mistakes.

_D. D._ No, no, Grattelard: everything that Nature does is done for the best.

_Grat._ Just wait now: let me tell you how I had to give in.

_D. D._ Well, how was it?

_Grat._ We were walking in the garden, and pretty soon we came across a tremendous pumpkin, as big as a Swiss drum. "There!" said I: "Nature has no better sense than to hang a great thing like that on such a slender vine that the least breeze can break it off."

_D. D._ Then you blamed Nature in the matter of the pumpkin?

_Grat._ Yes, for of course there ought to be some proportion _inter sustinens et sustentum_; but, by Heavens, I soon changed my mind, for just as I was passing under a great oak tree down fell an acorn and struck me on the nose. Of course I had to admit that Nature was right, after all, for if she had put a pumpkin up there I should have been in a pretty pickle.

_D. D._ Yes indeed, Grattelard: you would have cut a fine figure drinking out of a bottle with your nose in a sling.

_Grat._ By the Georgics of Virgil, 'twould be all up with spectacles for my old age.

Tabarin was the first of the series of clowns that enlivened the streets of Paris for two hundred years, or, at any rate, the first to attain celebrity: Bobeche in our own century was the last. He made a great noise in his day, but nothing keeps his memory green except the Bobeche of Offenbach's _Barbe-Bleue_. Tabarin, however, has a new lease of life in two of the handy little-volumes of the _Bibliotheque Elzevirienne_.

S.E.T.

A LEGION OF DEVILS.

"Everybody knows," said Beppo, my Roman model, "that the English are mad, signor. For has not the padre told me so? and does he not say that the fires of Purgatory burn within them? Else why do they roll about in a tub of water every morning, if not to cool their vitals? It is an insult to an Italian to wash him: we only wash dead bodies;" and Beppo draws his huge frame up to its full height, while his black eyes flash, and I mentally acknowledge him and his begrimed rags picturesque if filthy.

"Si, si, they are all mad," he continues, "and they keep horses and dogs as mad as themselves; and they ride out, dressed in the very color of the flames of Purgatory, to run screaming and shouting after poor foxes over the Campagna, notwithstanding the Holy Father has rigorously prohibited that sort of insanity, and has placed his gendarmerie purposely to stop it. But who can stop _il diavolo e gli suoi angeli_? Why, signor, if they want foxes, I myself, Beppo Donati, would catch them any number for a paul or two. But they are all mad, all mad. And the dogs, it is well known how they became possessed; for," lowering his voice and coming nearer me, "I myself saw the arch-fiend himself and his legions enter them bodily. I will tell the signor how it was.

"The signor has been in the Catacombs of the blessed martyrs, but cannot know as much about them as myself, who was custodian for many a year in the dangerous and least frequented ones; and it was there that I received the hurt that caused me to turn model. Many are the hours I have passed in the remote ones lying miles away from the Eternal City, where the only available entrance was a tortuous, chimney-like hole almost filled with rubbish, and so insignificant in appearance that it had remained concealed by a few bushes from the time it was last used by the blessed martyrs themselves till to-day.

"To descend this aperture, signor, one struggles along with much difficulty: lying on one's chest, and with a lighted taper in one hand, the other holding a rope that has been made fast to a tree outside, one slides down by degrees feet foremost. The passages are usually narrowed and choked by the rubbish, and descend nearly perpendicularly to where, lower down, they open wider and your feet touch steps cut roughly in the rock; but you must not trust them, for the soft stone will crumble with your weight. After descending some sixty or seventy feet you suddenly bump against an old stone doorway, and you are at the bottom. But on passing the doorway your position is even worse, as the stagnant pools of muddy water reach up to your knees, and the passages are too low to admit of your standing upright, while you stretch your taper into a thick darkness that closes over everything a few yards distant and prevents your seeing anything but the horizontal niches in tiers, one above the other, where the mortal remains of the beatific lie surrounded by the symbols of the faith they died for. Here they keep their vigil century after century over our Holy City, while they await their glorious resurrection.

"I have been miles under the Campagna in these subterranean cemeteries. No one has yet ascertained their entire extent. They branch out in every direction, and the ramifications are so countless--not only on a level, but in stories underlying one another--and so many of them have fallen in or been filled with water, that no successful attempt has ever been made to follow them to their extremities. Nor can it be found out whether they communicate with one another or remain as they were originally, distinct from each other.

"You have heard, signor, that the early Christians celebrated the feasts of the Church by visiting the then newly-decorated and consecrated subterranean cemeteries, and that on one of these occasions, when a large crowd of persons had entered to celebrate a festival, it occurred to the ruling authorities that the opportunity might be advantageously used to lessen by so many the troublesome and ever-increasing population of the new faith. Accordingly, a number of huge stones were brought and the entrance built up and rigidly guarded till all the unfortunate prisoners had died a martyr's death.

"After that, to guard against a repetition of such an act, various apertures of exit were made, and may now be frequently found on the Campagna, where, when one's foot sinks into a doubtful-looking hole filled with rubbish, one knows it penetrates to the depths beneath. Secret passages were also made to debouch in the private houses of well-known Christians or buildings set apart for Christian worship; and it was from one of these walled-up doorways that I, Beppo Donati, myself saw _un miracolo_ performed and a legion of devils let loose.

"It was in the church of St. Prassede. St. Prassede, the signor knows, was one of the daughters of the senator Pudens mentioned by St. Paul as sending his greetings to Timothy. The present church stands on the site of the very house once inhabited by this Christian family, and in the dark crypt under the high altar there is a walled-up doorway with the sign of the cross upon it. The crypt was originally the cellar of the ancient house, into which debouched one of the secret entrances to the Catacombs: at one extremity of the crypt is the doorway in question, now strongly built up, with the cross impressed in its superficial stucco.

"For many centuries the subterranean excavations behind the crypt have been haunted by the Evil One and his coadjutors, who break forth from time to time in unearthly noises, racings, scamperings, moanings and yellings, and scarcely a man, woman or child in the vicinity but has heard them with their own veritable ears. Many special services of exorcism have been performed in the church above to meet the occasions as they might arise, but with no permanent effect. And, signor, notwithstanding the cloud of witnesses that can testify to these supernatural sounds, the city contains sceptics, and none more determined than the learned Father Xavier of the Holy Propaganda.

"The day of the miracle that I am about to tell you of was a dark, wet Thursday in November, when my wife Teresina and myself attended high mass at St. Prassede, in honor of Teresina's festa. At the conclusion of the mass strange sounds were heard behind the walls of the crypt, and more especially at the back of the walled-up door. Gasps, yellings, scamperings, and then a cessation, and again a repetition of the same unearthly sounds with increased vehemence. Sometimes they would seem to recede till they died away in the distance, and then come rushing as if a whole legion of the enemy were close at hand. From the body of the church the crypt is approached by an open passage down a wide flight of steps immediately in front of the high altar, and the walled door, as well as the whole of the crypt, can be distinctly seen from the top of the steps. When the mysterious noises were first heard most of the congregation had retreated precipitately to the doors, but some of the more pious or venturesome--among whom were Teresina and myself--had remained, and were leaning over the balusters while the padre descended with his attendants to perform the special service appointed for the occasion. The exorcism took effect, for the noises, from being very uproarious, suddenly ceased altogether, and the arch-fiend seemed pacified, if not utterly routed, until at the close of the service, a bell was rung as appointed in the office. The sound of this bell had the effect of increasing the demoniac uproar to such a degree that the padre officiating was fain to hurry through the rest of the service as best he could and beat a precipitate retreat, with the acolytes, bells and all, to the sacristy.

"Teresina and myself had fled to the door of the church, where we stationed ourselves in a convenient place for a start when the occasion might require it. We had not been there long when we saw Father Xavier--the sceptic I told the signor about--enter the church with two assistants armed with crowbars and pickaxes, and proceed immediately to the crypt, where no doubt could exist as to the noises at that moment, as the yellings, scamperings and scramblings were loud enough in all conscience. The sacristan came out from the body of the church and suggested another exorcism to the reverend father, who answered that he preferred the pickaxe, and, turning to beckon to his workmen, found they had fled. Nowise daunted, the reverend gentleman took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and went to work with a will, making the vault re-echo with his blows. This operation, while it had the effect of thinning the audience still further in the church, where Teresina and I lingered, certainly abated the noises behind the door, until the padre's blows, continuing with unabated energy, effected a breach where the very head and claws of the Evil One himself were actually to be seen protruding through the aperture: in one moment more the whole troop of the enemy had dashed through the opening, upset the padre, and were in full career through the church, from whence the whole assembly took flight into the streets, uttering frantic shouts and seeking safety in the houses. The legionaries of Satan had it all to themselves, and continued their career until they arrived at the place where the English keep their hounds, where, with a tremendous yell, they leaped over the gate and disappeared in the kennels.

"I myself saw this, signor," said Beppo, giving his head an emphatic nod, "and have I not every reason for saying that the hounds, as well as their masters, are possessed?"

Beppo's story still leaving some physiological questions unsolved in my dark Protestant mind, I took occasion to speak to Father Xavier himself about it when I next met him. From him I learned that on the morning in question a party of English left the city on a hunting-excursion on the Campagna. A fox was unearthed after considerable delay, and a sharp run started, when suddenly fox, dogs and all disappeared down one of the numerous holes leading to the Catacombs. As the occurrence was not unusual, the hunt waited, expecting them to reappear up some other aperture; but after lingering the greater part of the day they were obliged to return to the city without the dogs, who had found their way through the dark and intricate passages to the door of the crypt, where the sceptical padre, as we have seen, liberated them.

M.S.D.

THE DEMIDOFFS.

Readers of the agreeable memoirs of Madame Le Brun may remember the passage in which she speaks of a certain "M. Demidoff, le plus riche particulier de la Russie." His father, she goes on to say, had left him an inheritance of great value in the shape of mines, the products of which he sold to the government on very profitable terms. His enormous wealth enabled him to obtain the hand of a Miss Strogonov, the daughter of one of the most ancient families of the land. Their union was an harmonious one, and they left two sons, "of whom one," concludes our author, "lives most of the time at Paris, and, like his father, is very fond of art."

Madame Le Brun's friend was Nicolai Demidoff (1774-1828), one of the least distinguished members of his family, who have been the mining-kings of Russia for two centuries. The contemporary of Peter the Great was ennobled by him (without receiving a title), and in the patent it was decreed that the family should be for ever free from military and other service, "that they may devote themselves to the discovery of metals." Nicolai's son Anatoli was born in Moscow March 24, 1813: he was sent to Paris to be educated, and remained there till his eighteenth year, studying at various institutions, including the law-school and the Ecole Polytechniqne. Shortly after his return his father died, and he came into possession of an enormous property, which he immediately began to spend, lavishly, but generously. In St. Petersburg he bought and furnished a large building to serve as a charitable institution. From its kitchen two hundred thousand meals are given yearly to the poor, and in it one hundred and fifty orphans are housed and fed, one hundred and fifty girls are trained to be capable servants, and forty impoverished gentlewomen find a home. When the cholera raged in the same city not long afterward he not only established a hospital, but is said to have devoted himself personally to the care of the sick. In the furtherance of science and art he was still more munificent. He founded the Demidoff prizes, which annually distribute nearly four thousand dollars to the authors of the most useful works published during the year, while from his mines in Siberia eight young men went forth yearly to acquire a thorough technical education at his expense. In 1837, urged by the great need of coal felt by the Russian industrial classes, he began a three years' exploration of the Black Sea country, accompanied by a staff of six professors, who produced a detailed report, not only of the coal-deposits, but also of the zoology, botany and geology of the region traversed. The results of their labors are described in four octavo volumes--_Voyage dans la Russie meridionale, executee sous la direction de M. Anatole de Demidoff_--and inscribed to the emperor Nicholas. One reward of this labor was election to the Institute de France, his competitors being Parry and Sir John Franklin.

Some years before this time he had entered the diplomatic service, being attache, first, at Vienna, then at Rome, then charge d'affaires at Florence. Here he met and married Mathilde Bonaparte, who, through her mother, was closely connected with his sovereign. Nicolai's daughter had been allowed to make a love-match in marrying the duke of Leuchtenberg, son of Eugene Beauharnais, and the emperor was by no means pleased to have another mesalliance in the family. What most offended him, however, was the fact that M. Demidoff, in the Catholic as well as in the Greek marriage ceremony, had promised to educate his children in the faith of the officiating priest. In consequence of this he was deprived of such titular honors as he possessed and was ordered to live abroad. As the married pair did not get on very well, and as, after a childless union of four years, they agreed to separate, Demidoff was again received into the imperial favor. He had meantime bought the fine estate and mansion of San Donato, near Florence; and as he thought the possessor of so much wealth and the husband of so noble a lady deserved to have a title, he dubbed himself "prince," and continued to enjoy this self-given title, probably in the hope that an uncontested use would give him a prescriptive right to bear it. In this hope he was disappointed, for Count Medem, an attache of the Russian embassy at Paris, noticing "Prince Demidoff" on the list of the members of the Jockey Club, crossed the name out, adding the observation, "Il n'y a pas de prince Demidoff." A bloodless duel followed.

In the lately-published memoirs of the German novelist Hacklaender--who in 1843 figured as secretary to the crown-prince of Wuertemberg during his visit to Italy--we have an agreeable picture of M. Demidoff at San Donato. "His paintings, sculptures, odd furniture, bronzes and weapons were arranged in an irregular and apparently arbitrary fashion, so that they did not produce the wearisome effect of an ordinary collection, but looked rather like treasures with which their owner had surrounded himself partly for use, partly only to look at." Demidoff "was a tall, thin man," continues Mr. Hacklaender, "with light, almost yellow, complexion, and always dressed with extreme elegance. On the occasion of our first visit to his town-house the princess was painting in her studio, in which art she was more than a dilettante. The prince went first to her with Demidoff, and after they had come back we heard from her a peal of the heartiest laughter, which rung down through five large rooms. Soon after she came out and greeted us in the kindest fashion. She was then a young and handsome woman, with a splendid figure, graceful curves, fine eyes and complexion,--all beautified and illumined by her pleasant voice and happy manner."

In 1851, Demidoff bought the villa of San Martini, which Bonaparte occupied during his stay in Elba, improved the building at a cost of forty thousand dollars, and made of it a museum in which were to be seen all sorts of curiosities connected with the great emperor--hats, swords, pistols, portraits of the king of Rome, and manuscripts for which he paid one hundred thousand dollars. His uncle's other collections the present M. (or, if you like, Prince) Demidoff sold at auction the present year: I have not heard whether the Elba relics were sold with them.

Florence, as well as St. Petersburg, owes much to M. Demidoff--among other things, an asylum in which fifty boys are trained in silk-weaving. It was in Paris, however, not in the city which he so long honored with his residence, that in 1870 this philanthropic and enterprising man took leave of worldly vanities.

A.V.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

A History of Classical Greek Literature. By the Rev. J.P. Mahaffy,
M.A., Fellow and Professor of Ancient History, Trinity College,
Dublin. New York: Harper & Brothers.

It is easy to imagine a history of Greek literature which should be not only useful and stimulative to the student, but fascinating to the general mass of intelligent readers. The literature of Greece is not, like that of modern nations, the mirror of a many-colored life; but the originality, variety and perfection of its forms make it on the whole the most complete and splendid representation of thought and imagination which the world possesses. While it owed little or nothing to any foreign influence, it was itself the source of all later conceptions of literary art, and though it exists only in fragmentary remains, these still furnish the chief standard of excellence in nearly every department. The subject is therefore unique both in the value of its materials and in the definiteness of its limits. What is demanded for the adequate treatment of it is not universal knowledge, but minute and thorough scholarship; not a wide and diversified experience, an unlimited range of sympathies, the power of detecting subtle motives and disentangling complicated threads of action, but a comprehension of the simple and eternal elements of character and conduct, the faculty of tracing a specific development from its origin to its decline, while indicating its connection with other indigenous growths of the same soil, and a vivid sense of the marvellous rapidity and exquisite beauty of the simultaneous or successive unfoldings. Given these powers, unhampered by any defect of mere technical skill, and it is hard to see how any mind susceptible of being interested in their application to such a topic could resist their sway.

We do not know what ideal Mr. Mahaffy may have formed of the task he has undertaken or of the qualities demanded for it. His preface gives no intimation on this point, and his "introduction" affords only negative evidence in his refusal to follow "the usual practice with historians of Greek literature" and "begin with a survey of the character and genius of the race, the peculiar features of the language, and the action which physical circumstances have produced upon the development of all these things." Instead of any discussions of this nature, which "in many German books are," it appears, "so long and so vague that the student is wearied before he arrives at a single fact," the natural division of literature into poetry and prose is made the starting-point. The former, in accordance with "a well-known law of human progress," precedes the latter, but is gradually supplanted by it. "This may be seen among us in the education of children, who pass in a few years through successive stages not unlike those of humanity at large in its progress from mental infancy to mature thought. We know that little children can be taught to repeat and remember rhymes long before they will listen to the simplest story in prose." On the other hand, "when the majority of people begin to read, poetry loses its hold upon the public, and the prose-writer, who composes with greater simplicity and less labor, at last obtains an advantage over his rival the poet, who is put into competition with all the older poets now circulating among a more learned public." In accordance with this profound yet simple theory--from which we gather that the Golden Age of the poets was that in which there were no readers--the work is divided into two nearly equal parts, the first dealing with poetry and the second with prose, and this "is now the accepted order among the German writers on the subject."

In the first volume epic, lyric and dramatic poetry are dealt with in the order in which they are here named, while in the second the arrangement is strictly chronological, taking up historians, philosophers and orators as they appeared upon the scene. Except in the case of the epic and the drama there is no examination of the rise or nature of any particular form of composition, and the exceptions merely touch the familiar ground of the origin of the Homeric poems and the rise of the AEschylean tragedy. Some account is given of the principal authors, their works are more or less fully enumerated and some of them analyzed, style and similar matters are discussed in a summary and decisive tone--critics, ancient and modern, who have held different views from those of Mr. Mahaffy being sharply reprehended--and the final sections of some of the chapters are devoted to bibliography, including modern imitations and translations. Although Mr. Mahaffy is never otherwise than terse--or, more properly speaking, curt--he sometimes condescends to repetition. Thus he tells us in three or four different places that Sophocles and Thucydides "play at hide-and-seek with the reader." These two authors, thus happily classed together, represent "the artificial obscurity of the Attic epoch," in distinction from "the pregnant obscurity" of Heracleitus and AEschylus and "the redundant obscurity of some modern poets." The attempt of "Classen and others" to explain the involutions and anacolutha of Thucydides by "the undeveloped condition of Attic prose, and the difficulties of wrestling with an unformed idiom to express adequately great and pregnant thoughts," is triumphantly refuted by the statement that "Euripides and Cratinus had already perfected the use of Attic Greek in dramatic dialogue," and "in Attic prose Antiphon had already attained clearness, as we can see in his extant speeches." As Classen, in his discussion of the question, has not omitted to notice Antiphon, it may be doubted whether he would accept this fact as conclusive. Another point in regard to Thucydides is introduced in a manner that prepares us for some startling disclosures: "As regards the historian's trustworthiness, it has been so universally lauded that it is high time to declare how far his statements are to be accepted as absolute truths." But expectation subsides when we are assured in the next sentence that "on contemporary facts his authority is very good, and so far there has been no proof of any inaccuracy brought home to him." He is open to doubt, it appears, "only when he goes into archaeology," by which term Mr. Mahaffy understands early Sicilian history, which "reaches back three hundred years, nay to three hundred years before the advent of the Greeks." It has "only lately," it appears, been discovered that Thucydides had no personal knowledge of the events of that remote period, but "copied from Dionysius of Syracuse," and hence "the whole tradition requires careful consideration." In that case, we fear, the "high time" for deciding on the "absolute truth" of the historian's statements will have to be indefinitely postponed. Meantime we learn from the work before us the striking fact, that "the night-escape of the Plateans from their city," as related in the third book of Thucydides, "has been reproduced in our own day by Sir E. Creasy, in his Greek novel, _The Old Love and the New_." It has sometimes been debated whether the Greeks had any novels: it is now settled that they had one--written by an Englishman. It is to be hoped that this discovery will give a new impetus to the interest in Greek literature, which must be at a low ebb if Mr. Mahaffy be correct in stating that "even diligent scholars find it a task to read a dialogue of Plato honestly through." To be sure, if Plato's style and matter were simply such as Mr. Mahaffy describes them, there would be no great inducement to make the attempt. The same remark would apply to most of the extant plays of Sophocles. The _Oedipus Rex_, in particular, reveals itself in Mr. Mahaffy's analysis as a mere farrago of inconsistencies and absurdities. In allusion to the very different estimate of Professor Campbell, Mr. Mahaffy remarks, "Though I deeply respect this simple-hearted enthusiasm, it does not appear to me the best way of stimulating the study of any writer." Still, Mr. Mahaffy can occasionally defend a Greek author against the strictures of other critics. Thus he cannot agree with Mr. Simcox in giving "some credence to the attacks on Demosthenes charging him with unchastity. These," he observes, "the whole man's life and his portrait-statue forbid us to believe." We do not quite understand how the fact that Demosthenes was a "whole man" tends to rebut the charge referred to, and if what Mr. Mahaffy meant to say be "the man's whole life," this is simply begging the question, a part of that whole being the point of dispute. But the evidence of the "portrait-statue" is, of course, resistless, and one cannot but regret, in the interests of public decency, that testimony so conclusive is not admitted in modern trials involving a similar issue. One great characteristic of Mr. Mahaffy's style is an unsparing use of the first personal pronoun. "I think," "I do not think," "I conceive," "I believe," "I advocate," "I infer," "I would select," "I had predicted," are forms of expression strewn abundantly, often in clusters, over the pages of the work, the subject to which they refer being generally one on which most other people do not "think" or "conceive" as Mr. Mahaffy does. One is reminded of an epigram on Whewell, master of Trinity College (Oxford, not Dublin), after the appearance of his _Plurality of Worlds_:

His eye, as it ranges through boundless infinity,
Finds the chief work of God the master of Trinity.

William Cowper. By Goldwin Smith. (English-Men-of-Letters Series.)
New York: Harper & Brothers.