Chapter VIII (1)

As might have ben supposed, Dick was at Mr. Brandon's office long before that gentleman made his appearance down-town. It was a sultry morning, with occasional snatches of rain to make the gloomy streets more gloomy, and the depressing atmosphere more depressing. Mr. Brandon was sensitive to heat; he had no cool summer retreat to go to in the evenings, and return from with a rose in his button-hole in the mornings; and as, instead of being grateful for the many years in which he had enjoyed this luxury, he was disposed to consider himself decidedly ill-used in not having it still, so soon as he found Dick waiting for him, he began his repinings in the most querulous of all his tones:

"Pretty hard on a man who has had his own country-place, and been his own lord and master, to come down to this blistering old hole every morning, isn't it, Mr. Heremore? Well, well, some people have no feeling! There are those old nabobs who were hand and glove with me, mighty glad of a dinner with me, and where are they now? Do they come around with '_How are you, Brandon?_' and invitations to _their_ dinners? Indeed not!"

"Mr. Brandon, I have come to talk to you about some business," began Dick, who had prepared a dozen introductions, all forgotten at the needed moment; then abruptly, "Mr. Brandon, did you ever hear my name, the name of _Heremore_ before?"

It would be false to say that Mr. Brandon showed any emotion beyond that of natural surprise at the abruptness of the question; but it is safe to add that the surprise was very great, almost exaggerated. He replied, coolly enough, as he hung up his hat and sat down, wiping his face with his handkerchief: "Heremore? It is not, so to say, a common name; and I may or may not have heard it before. One who has been in the world so long as I have, Mr. Heremore, can hardly be expected to know what names he has or has not heard in the course of his life. I suppose you ask for some especial reason."

"I do," said Dick, a little staggered by the other's unembarrassed reply, "Did you not once know a gentleman in Wiltshire, called Dr. Heremore?"

"This is close questioning from a young man in your position to an old gentleman in mine, and I am slightly curious to know your object in asking before I reply."

"I believe you were married twice, Mr. Brandon, and that your first wife's maiden name was Heremore?"

"Well--and then?"

"And that she died while you were away, believing you were dead; and and that she had two children," said Dick, who began to feel uneasy under the steady, smiling gaze of the other--"and that she had two children, a son and a daughter."

"Almost any one can tell you that my family consists of my first wife's daughter, and two sons by my second wife. But that's of no consequence. Two children, a son and a daughter, you were saying."

"Yes, two; although you may have been able to trace only one. She died in great poverty, did she not?"

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"I decline answering any questions, I am highly flattered--charmed, indeed--at the interest you show in my family by these remarks; and I can only regret that my fortunes are now so low that I know of no way in which to prove my grateful appreciation of the manner in which you must have labored in order to know so much. In happier times, I might have secured you a place in the police department; but unfortunately, I am a ruined man, unable to assist any one at present."

At this speech, which was delivered in the most languid manner, and in a tone that was infinitely more insulting than the words, Dick was on the point of thrusting his mother's letter before the man's eyes, to show by what means he had obtained his knowledge; but the cool words, the indifferent manner, had a great effect upon our hero, who found it every moment more difficult to believe in the theory that from the first had seemed so likely to be the real one, and so he answered respectfully:

"I assure you, I mean no rudeness to you, Mr. Brandon; but I am engaged in the most serious business in the world, for me. I may be mistaken in you, and shall not know how to atone for the mistake, should I come to know it; but I hope you will be sure of my respectful intention, however I may err."

Mr. Brandon bowed, smiled, and played with his pen, as if the conversation were drawing to a close. Dick, heated and more embarrassed than ever, was obliged to recommence it.

"But was not your first wife's name Heremore? I beg you to answer me this one question, for all depends upon it."

"A very sufficient reason why I should not answer it. But as you to have something very interesting to disclose, perhaps we had better imagine that her name was Heremore before it was Brandon. Permit me to ask if, in that case, I am to own a relation in you? I certainly cannot make such a connection as advantageous as I could a year or so ago; but though I cannot prove the rich uncle of the romances, I shall be glad to know what scion of my wife's noble house I have the honor of addressing."

It seems easy to have answered "_your son_" but the words would not come. More and more the whole thing seemed a dream. What! a man so hardened that he could sit before his own son, whom by this time he must have known to be his son, and talk after this fashion of his dead wife's house! Impossible! If, then, he should tell his tale, and tell it to an unconcerned listener, what a sacrilege he would commit!

"A very near relative," Dick said at last. "I know that Dr. Heremore's daughter married a Charles Brandon about twenty-five years ago."

"Ah! I see! And you thought there was but one Charles Brandon in in the world! You see I shall have to learn a lesson in politeness from you; for I could conceive that there should be room in this world even two Richard Heremores."

Poor Dick was silenced for the moment. He knew he was taking up Mr. Brandon's time, and so the time of his employer. He walked up and down the little office and thought it all over. Certain passages in his mother's letter came to his mind. In this way, perhaps, had her appeals been sneered at in the olden times!

"Mr. Brandon," he said, standing in front of his tormentor, his whole appearance changed from that of the hesitating, embarrassed boy to the resolute, high-spirited man-- "Mr. Brandon, there has been enough trifling. {65} I insist upon knowing if you were or were not the husband of Miss Heremore. If you were not, it is a very simple thing to say so. There are plenty of ways by which I can make myself certain of the fact without your assistance; but out of consideration for you, I came to you first."

"I am deeply grateful," with a mock ceremonious bow.

"But if you persist in this way of treating me, I shall have to go elsewhere."

"And then?"

"Heaven knows I do not ask anything of you, beyond the information I came to seek. I wondered yesterday why she should have given me her father's name instead of mine; now I can understand it. I had doubts while first speaking to you, but now they are gone. I believe it is so. If you will not tell me as much as you know of Dr. Heremore, I can go to his old home for it. It would have saved me time and expense if you had answered my questions; but as you please."

He was clearly in earnest. Mr. Brandon saw it, and stopped him at the door.

"My wife's name _was_ Heremore," he said very indifferently, "and her father has been dead these twenty years. You have your answer. Permit me to ask what you mean to do about it?"

"Dr. Heremore was my grandfather," said Dick, coming back and sitting down.

"Ah! indeed!" politely; "he was a very excellent old gentleman in his way; it is much to be regretted that he and you should have been unable to make each other's acquaintance."

"When my mother--your first wife--died, you knew she left two children."

"One--a daughter. I think you have met her."

"There were two. I was the other."

"Are you quite sure?" asked Mr. Brandon in the same languid tones; but, for the first time, it seemed to Dick that they faltered.

"I am quite sure. You would know her writing."

"Possibly. It was a great while ago, and my eyes are not as good as they were."

"You would recognize her portrait?"

"If one I had seen before, I might."

"I should say this was a portrait of the first Mrs. Brandon," he said, taking that which Dick handed him and, looking at it, not without some signs of embarrassment, "or of someone very like her. And this is not unlike her writing, as I remember it. Oh! you wish me to read this?"

Dick signed assent, watching him while he read. Whatever Mr. Brandon felt while reading that letter, he kept it all in his own heart.

"This is all?" he asked when he had read and deliberately refolded it.

"It is all at present," answered Dick.

Then Mr. Brandon arose, handed the paper back, and said very quietly but deliberately:

"My first wife is dead and gone; her daughter lives with me, and, as long as I had the means, received every luxury she could desire. The past is past, and I do not wish it revived. Understand me. I do not wish it revived. I want to hear nothing more, not a word more, on this subject. If I were rich as I once was, I could understand why you should persist in this thing. I am not yet so poor that the law cannot protect me from any further persecution about the matter. Your mother, you say, named you for your grandfather, not for me. {66} If you wish paternal advice--all that my poverty would enable me to give, however I were disposed--I advise you to go for it to her father, for whom she showed her judgment in naming you. Good morning."

"You cannot mean this! You must have known me as a child, and known my name before, long, long ago, and surely consented to it, or she would not have so named me. Of course, it was by some mistake the Brandon was dropped at first, not by her, but by those who took care of me when she died; she could never have meant such a thing; it was undoubtedly an accident. You cannot mean to end all here--that I am not to know, to see, my sister!"

"I tell you I wish to hear not another word of this matter; do you hear me? Have I not troubles enough now without your coming to bring up the hateful past? You shall not add to your sister's, whatever you may do to mine."

"I insist upon seeing her."

"You shall not. I positively forbid you to go near her. Now leave me! I have borne enough."

"But I cannot let the matter rest here; you know I cannot. The idea of it is absurd! If you do not wish me for a son, I have no desire to force myself upon you. I do not know why you should refuse to own me; I am not conscious of any cause I have given you to so dislike me."

"I don't dislike you, nor do I like you particularly; I have no ill-feeling against you, but I don't want this old matter dragged up. I am not strong enough to bear persecution now."

"But I do not want to persecute you. I want--"

"Well, what _do_ you want?"

"I hardly know. I may have had an idea that you would welcome your oldest child after so many years of loss, however unworthy of you he might be. I may have thought that if you once were not all you should have been to one who, likely, was at one time very dear to you, it might be a satisfaction to you, even at this late day, to retrieve--"

"You thought wrong, and it is not worth while wasting words on the matter. I have got over all that, and don't want it revived. I can't put you out, but I beg you to go; or, if you persist in forcing your words upon me, pray choose some other subject."

"I will go, since you so heartily desire it; but I warn you that I will not give up seeing Miss--my sister."

"As you please. You will get as little satisfaction there, I fancy; though it may not be quite as annoying to her as to me."

"I shall try, at all events."

"Try. Go to her; say anything to her; make any arrangement with her you choose; take her away altogether. I don't care a button what you do, so you only leave me."

"I will leave you willingly, and am indeed sorry to have put you to so much pain."

"Not a word, I pray you," answered Mr. Brandon, now polite and smiling. "You have performed a disagreeable duty in the least disagreeable way you could, I do not doubt. All I ask is, never to hear it mentioned again."

Dick stayed for no more ceremony. Glad to be released from such an atmosphere of selfishness and cowardice, he hardly waited for the answer to his good-morning before turning to the street.

In less than an hour he was in the dreary room, with _boarding-house_ stamped all over its walls, saying good-morning to a stately young lady, very pale and weary-looking, who kindly rose to receive him. {67} The little room was hot and close; there were no shutters to the windows; the shades were too narrow at the sides; besides being so unevenly put up that the eyes ached every time one turned toward them, and the gleaming light was almost worse than the heat.

"I have been trying for the dozenth time to straighten them," said Mary, drawing one down somewhat lower, "but it's of no use."

"Are they crooked?" asked Dick innocently.

"Well, yes, rather," answered Mary, smiling. "I think I never saw anything before that was so near the perfection of crooked."

"I have seen your father this morning," Dick began, taking a chair near the table.

"There is nothing the matter, I hope?" she questioned nervously.

"Nothing that any one but myself need mind. I made some discoveries about myself last evening that I would like to tell you. Have you time?"

"I have nothing to do. I shall be very glad if my attentive listening can do you any service." She moved her chair, in a quiet way, a little farther from his, and looked at him in some surprise. She saw he was very earnest, excited, and greatly embarrassed. She could not help seeing that his eyes were anxiously following her every movement, eagerly trying to read her face.

"I am afraid I shall shock you very much, and you are not well; I am sorry I came. I thought only of my own eagerness to see you; not, until this moment, of the pain I may cause you."

"Do not think of that. I do not think, Mr. Heremore, you are likely to say anything that should pain me. I think you too sensible--I mean, too gentlemanly for that."

"I hope you really mean that. I am sure I must seem very rude and unpolished in your eyes; but I would have been far more so, had it not been for you."

"For me?"

"Yes." And he told her about the Christmas morning in Fourteenth Street.

"And you remembered that little thing all this time!" Mary exclaimed. "And you were once a newsboy!"

"Yes; I was once a great, stupid, ragged newsboy. I do not mean to deny, to conceal anything. I am so very sorry, for your sake; but I hope you will like me in spite of it all. If just those few words and that one smile did so much for me, what is there your influence may not do?"

"Mr. Heremore, I do not in the least understand you."

"I don't know where to begin; this has excited me so that I do not know what I am saying, and now I wish almost that you might never know it; there is such a difference between us that I cannot tell how to begin."

"Is it necessary that you should begin?" asked Mary. "You told me you wished to speak to me, of some discoveries you had made in regard to yourself. To anything about yourself I will listen with interest; but I do not care to have anything said about myself; there can be no connection between the two subjects that I can see; so pray do not waste words on so poor a subject as myself; but tell me the discovery, if you please."

"But it concerns you as much as it does me. Do you know much about your own mother? She died, you told me, long ago."

"I know very little about her. I presume her death was a great grief to papa; for he has never permitted a word to be said about her, and anything that pains papa in that way is never alluded to. {68} The little I do know I have learned from my old nurse."

"You do not remember her?"

"Not in the least; she died when I was a mere baby."

"Did you ever see her portrait, or any of her writing, or hear her maiden name?"

"No, to all your questions. Does papa know you are here, this morning?"

"Yes; I went to him at once. At first he was very determined I should not see you; but in the end, he seemed glad to get me silenced at any price, and I was so anxious to see you that I did not wait for very cordial permission."

"You did not talk to papa about my mother?"

"Yes, that is what I went for."

"How did you dare to do it? Was he not very angry? I am sure you know something about mamma."

"Yes, I do. I have her portrait; this is it."

"Her portrait! My mamma's portrait! O what a beautiful face! Is this really my mamma? Did papa see it? Did he recognize it?"

"I showed it to him. He did not deny it was hers."

"_Deny it was hers!_ What in the world do you mean, Mr. Heremore? Where did you get it?"

Then Dick, in the best way he could, told the whole story of the box, and gave her the letter to read. When Mary came to the part which said, "_Will you love your sister always, let what may be her fate? Remember, always, she had no mother to guide her_," she turned her eyes, full of tears, to Dick, saying no words.

"She did not know that it would be the other way," Dick replied to her look, his own eyes hardly dry. "She would have begged for me if she had known that--" farther than this he could not get. Mary put her hands in his, and said earnestly:

"No need for that; her pleading comes just as it should. Will you really be my brother--all wearied, sick, and worn-out as I am? Oh! if this had only come two years ago, I could have been something to you!"

But Dick could not answer a word, He could only keep his eyes upon her face; afraid, as it seemed, that it would suddenly prove all a dream.

But the day wore on and it did not prove less real. The heat and the glaring light were forgotten, or not heeded, while the two sat together and talked of this strange story, and tried to fill up the outlines of their mother's history.

"I feel as if our grandpapa were living, or, if not living, there must be somebody who knows something about him," she said.

"I think I ought to go and see. Mr. Staffs was very particular in urging that."

"I think so; even if you learned nothing, it would be a good thing for you just to have tried."

"I know I can get permission to stay away for a few days longer; there's nothing doing at this season, Would it take long?"

"I don't know much about it; not more than two days each way, I should think. There is a steamer, too, that goes to Portland, and you can find out if Wiltshire is near there. The steamer trip would be splendid at this season. Are you a good sailor?"

"I don't know. You have got a great ignoramus for a brother. I have never been half a day's journey from New York in my life."

"Is that so? Well, you must go to Portland. How you will enjoy the strong, bracing sea-breezes; they make one feel a new life!"

{69}

Then suddenly Dick's face grew very red, but bright, and he said eagerly: "Would you trust me--I mean could your father be persuaded--would you be afraid to go with me?"

"Oh! I wish I could! I would enjoy it as I never did a journey before! Just to see the sea again, and with a brother! I can't tell you how I have all my life envied girls with great, grown-up brothers. Nobody else is ever like a brother. Fred and Joe are younger than I, and have been away so much that they never seemed like brothers. A journey with you on such a quest would be something never to be forgotten."

"It doesn't seem as if such a good thing could come to pass," answered Dick. "I don't know anything about travelling; you would have to train me; but if you will bear with me now, I will try hard to learn. Do you think your father would listen to the idea?"

"No; he would not listen to ten words about it. He hates to be troubled; he would never forgive me if I went into explanations about an affair that did not please him; but if I say, 'Papa, I am going away for a couple of weeks to New England, unless you want me for something,' he will know where I am going, what for, and will not mind, so he is not made to talk about it; that is his way."

"Will you really go, then, with me? You know I shall not know how to treat you gallantly, like your grand beaux."

"Ah! don't put on airs, Mr. Dick; you were not so very humble before you knew our relationship. Remember, I have known you long."

"I wonder what you thought of me."

"I thought a great deal of good of you; so did papa, so does Mr. Ames."

"You know Mr. Ames?"

"Ah! very well indeed; he comes to see us every New Year's day; he actually found us out this year, and I got to liking him more than ever; he has come quite often since, and we talked of you; he says you are a good boy. I am going to be _grande dame_ to-day, and have lunch brought up for us two, unless Madame the landlady is shocked."

"Does that mean I have staid too long?"

"No, indeed. Mrs. Grundy never interferes with people with clear consciences, at least in civilized communities; in provincial cities, and country towns she will not let you turn around except as she pleases; that's the difference. There are no bells in this establishment, or, if there are, nobody ever knew one to be answered, so I will start on a raid and see what I can discover."

In course of time she returned with a servant, who cleared the little rickety table, and then disappeared, returning at the end of half an hour with a very light lunch for two; but that was not her fault, poor thing!

Then hour after hour passed and still Dick could not leave her; he had gone out and bought a guidebook, which required them to go all over the route again, and there was so much of the past life of each to be told and wondered at, that it was late in the afternoon and Mr. Brandon's hand was on the door before Dick had thought of leaving. Of course he must remain to see Mr. Brandon, who, however, did not seem any too glad to see him. Nothing was said in regard to the matter which had been all day under discussion. Mr. Brandon talked of the news of the day, of the weather, and the last book he had read, accompanied him to the door, and shook hands with him quite cordially, to the surprise of the landlady, who was peeping over the banisters in expectation of high words between them. {70} Mr. Brandon even went so far as to speak of him as a very near relative, as several of the boarders distinctly heard. Mr. Brandon hated to be talked to on disagreeable subjects, but he knew the world's ways all the same.

"Come very early to-morrow morning," Mary said in a low voice as they parted, "and I will let you know if I can go."

Dick did not forget this parting charge, and early the next morning had the happiness of hearing that her father had consented to let her go.

"Papa isn't as indifferent as he seems," she said. "When it is all fixed and settled, he will treat you just as he does the rest of us, only he hates a scene and explanations. I suppose he _was_ unkind to poor mamma, and now hates to say a word about it; but you may be sure he feels it. And now you must take everything for granted, come and go just as if you had always been at home with us, and he will take it so."

"But what will people say?"

"Why, we will tell the truth, only as simply as possible--as if it were an everyday affair--that papa's first wife died while he was away from home, and that when he returned from Paris, where he says he was then, the people told him you were dead too. I don't know why that old woman should have told such a story."

"Nor I, but perhaps, poor, ignorant soul, she thought the boy was better under her charge than given over to a 'Protestant,' who had acted so like a heathen to the child's mother; but good as was her motive, and perhaps her judgment, I hope she did not really tell a lie about it, so peace to her soul. Who knows how much Dick owes to her pious prayers?"

A very proud and happy man was Dick in these days, when he journeyed to Maine with his newly-found sister. It is true that the change in Mr. Brandon's circumstances did not enable Mary to have a new travelling suit for the occasion, and that she was obliged to wear a last year's dress; but last year's dress was a very elegant one, and almost "as good as new;" for Mary, fine lady that she was, had the taste and grace of her station, and deft fingers, quick and willing servants of her will, that would do honor to any station; so her dress was all _à la mode_, and Dick had reason to be proud of escorting her. She had, however, something more than her dress of which to be proud, or Dick would not have been so grateful for finding her his sister; she had a kind heart, which enabled her always to answer readily all who addressed her, to make her constantly cheerful with Dick, and to keep everything smooth for the inexperienced traveller, who otherwise would have suffered many mortifications; she had, too, a womanly dignity, a sense of what was due to and from her, not as Miss Brandon, but as a woman, which secured her from any incivility and made her always gentle and considerate to every one. Dick could never enough delight in the quiet, composed way in which she received attentions which she never by a look suggested; for the gentle firmness, the self-possession, the quiet composure, the perfect courtesy of a refined and cultivated woman were new things to him; and to say he loved the very ground she walked on would be only a mild way of expressing the feeling of his heart toward her.

Added to all this, giving to everything else a greater charm, Mary's mind was always alive; she had been thoroughly educated, and had mingled all her life with intelligent and often intellectual people, whose influence had enabled her to seek at the proper fountains for entertainment and instruction. {71} Whatever passed before her eyes, she saw; and whatever she saw, she thought about. In her turn, Mary already dearly loved her brother; although two years younger than he, she was, as generally happens at their age, much more mature, and she could see, as if with more experienced eyes, what a true, honest heart, what thorough desire to do right, what patience and what spirit, too, there was in him, and again and again said to herself, "What would he not have been under other circumstances!" But she forgot, when saying that, that God knows how to suit the circumstances to the character, and that Dick, not having neglected his opportunities, had put his talent out to as great interest as he could under other influences. There was much that had to be broadened in his mind, great worlds of art and literature for him to enter; but there was time enough for that yet; he had a character formed to truth and earnestness, and had proved himself patient and energetic at the proper times. It now was time for new and refining influences to be brought to bear; it was time for gentleness and courtesy to teach him the value of pleasant manners and self-restraint; for the conversation of cultivated people to teach him the value of intelligent thoughts and suitable words in which to clothe them; for the knowledge of other lives and other aims to teach him the value or the mistake of his own. These things were unconsciously becoming clearer to him every day that he was with his sister, who, I need hardly say, never lectured, sermonized, or put essays into quotation marks, but whose conversation was simple, refined, and intelligent, whatever was its subject. Others greater than Mary would come after her when her work was done, we may be sure; but at the present time Dick was not in a state to be benefited by such.

To Be Continued.

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{72}

When?

Come, gentle April showers,
And water my May flowers.
The violet--
Blue, white, and yellow streaked with jet--
Thickly in my bed are set;
Gay daffodillies,
Tulips and St. Joseph's lilies;
Bethlehem's star,
Gleaming through its leaves afar;
Merry crocuses, which quaff
Sunshine till they fairly laugh;
And that fragrant one so pale,
Meekest lily of the vale,
All are keeping whist, afraid
Of this late snow o'er them laid.
Come, then, gentle April showers,
And coax out my pretty flowers.

I am tired of wintry days,
Have no longer heart to praise
Icicles and banks of snow.
When will dandelions blow,
And meadow-sweet,
And cowslips, dipping their cool feet
In little rills
Gushing from the mossy hills?
I am weary of this weather.
Vernal breezes, hasten hither,
Bringing in your dappled train,
Tearful sunshine, smiling rain,
And, to coax out all my flowers,
Fall, fall gently, April showers.

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{73}

Translated From The French Of Le Correspondant.

Influence Of Locality On The Duration Of Human Life.

In every place there are influences which are favorable or unfavorable to the duration of human life. The nature of the soil, the atmospheric changes, the variations of the temperature, the position of one's abode with respect to the points of the compass and its elevation above the level of the sea, act in a powerful manner upon the organization.

A vast forest is one the grandest, most enchanting and enlivening scenes in nature. What an ineffable and touching harmony comes from the varieties of foliage, and what a sweet perfume they lend to the caressing breeze! What a soothing charm in their cool shade, calming the fever of life, purifying the soul from all passion, expanding and elevating the mind, and making man realize more fully his celestial origin. All men who are endowed with superior mental faculties have a natural and powerful inclination for solitude--especially the solitude of a vast forest. The soft light of its open spaces, the deep shades, the endless variety of tones from the quivering leaves, the pungent sweetness of the odors, the air full of vibrations and sparkling light, surround and penetrate them. It seems to them a glimpse of a world of mystery to which they have drawn near, and which harmonizes perfectly with all the thoughts and feelings in which they love to indulge.

Not only persons capable of reading the divine lessons written on space, love to wander in the shades of vast forests, but great noble hearts that have been wounded, also find here a balm. The soothing melancholy they drink in, the divine presence they feel, fill up the void left by some charming illusion that has been dispelled. There are special places where the air we breathe, and every exterior influence, tend to nourish and develop not only physical but intellectual life. A beneficent spirit seems to watch over the safety of humanity and to promote its happiness. The fluids, the emanations that surround us, penetrate our organization and become a part of our being; and in consequence of the wonderful sympathy between the body and soul, it is evident that they also influence our intellectual faculties.

Umbrageous forests are especially favorable to our existence; trees are devoted and faithful friends that never reproach us for their benefits, and their love is susceptible of no change, Plants are for us a real panacea. They are the natural pharmacies which Providence has established on earth for the prevention or cure of our diseases. From their wood, barks, leaves, flowers, and fruits, are exhaled essences which strengthen our organs, purify the blood, and neutralize the noxious air around us.

The history of all ages shows that those regions which are favored with vast forests have always been healthy and propitious to man; but where the forests have been cut down, those same regions have become marshy and the source of deadly miasmas, The marsh fevers which now prevail in certain parts of Asia Minor render them uninhabitable. {74} Nevertheless, ancient authors speak of marshes of small extent, but not of marsh fevers, because then the forests still remained.

A thousand years ago, La Brenne was covered with woods, interspersed with meadows. These meadows were watered by living streams. It was then a country famous for the fertility of its pastures and the mildness of its climate. Now the forests have disappeared. La Brenne is gloomy, marshy, and unhealthy. The same could be said of La Dombe, La Bresse, La Sologne, etc.

The following is a permanent example exactly to the point. In the Pontine marshes, a wood intercepts the current of damp air laden with pestilential miasmas, rendering one side of it healthy, while the other is filled with its destructive vapors. The places where forests have disappeared seem as if inhabited by evil genii, who eagerly seek to enter the human frame under the form of fevers, cholera, diseases of the lungs and liver, rheumatism, etc. For example, it is sufficient to breathe for only a few seconds in certain regions of Madagascar, or some of the fatal islands near by, for the whole organization to be instantly seized with mortal symptoms. The most robust and vigorous young man, who goes full of ardor to those shores with the hope of a bright future, affected by these miasmas, feels as if dying with the venom of the rattlesnake in his veins; and, if he recovers from his agony, it is often to drag out in sorrow the small remnant of his days. How many unfortunate people of this class have I not met during my voyage in the Indian Ocean. What a sacrilege to think of destroying these delicious and mysterious forests, with their atmosphere full of celestial vibrations, and their divine orchestra, where the breeze murmurs in a thousand tones the hymn which reveals the Creator to the creature! Every sorrow is soothed in the depths of those beneficent shades. There the soul, as well as the body, finds a repose which regenerates it. The divinity descends; we feel its presence. It moves us to the depths of our souls. It caresses us like the breath of the mother we adore!

Man may live to an advanced age in almost every climate, in the torrid as well as the frigid zone; but he cannot everywhere attain the utmost limit of human life. The examples of extreme longevity are more common in some countries than in others. Although, in general, a northern climate may be favorable to long life, too great a degree of cold is injurious. In Iceland, in the north of Asia--that is, in Siberia--man lives, at the longest, but sixty or seventy years. The countries where people of the most advanced age have been found, of late years, are Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and England. Individuals of one hundred and thirty, one hundred and forty, and one hundred and fifty years of age, have been found there. Ireland shares with England and Scotland the reputation of being favorable to the duration of life. More than eighty persons above fourscore years of age have been found in a single small village of that country, called Dumsford. Bacon said that he did not think you could mention a single village of that country where there was not to be found at least one octogenarian. Examples of longevity are more rare in France, in Italy, and especially in Spain. Some cantons of Hungary are noted for the advanced age to which their inhabitants attain. Germany also has a good many old people, but few who live to a remarkable age. Only a small number are to be found in Holland. It is seldom that any one reaches the age of one hundred in that country. {75} The climate of Greece, which is as healthy as it is agreeable, is considered now, as it formerly was, favorable to longevity. The island of Naxos is specially noted in this respect. It was generally admitted in Greece that the air of Attica disposed those who breathed it to philosophy.

Examples of longevity are to be found in Egypt, and in the East Indies, principally in the caste of Brahmins and among the anchorets and hermits, who, unlike the rest of the inhabitants, do not abandon themselves to indolence and excesses of every kind.

A careful computation of the comparative longevity, in the different departments of France, has been made for 1860 and the preceding years. The medium annual number of deaths in France, at the age of one hundred years and upward, is 148. The following fifteen _départements_, given in decreasing order, are those which have the greatest number: Basses-Pyrenees, Dordogne, Calvados, Gers, Puy-de-Dôme, Ariége, Aveyron, Gironde, Landes, Lot, Ardèche, Cantal, Doubs, Seine, Tarn-et-Garonne. It will be seen that a great number of mountainous districts are to be found in these departments. It is surprising to see that of _la Seine_ on this list. Nevertheless these departments do not hold the same rank in respect to the ordinary duration of life; which would seem to prove that some examples of extreme longevity are not a sufficient index that a country is favorable to long life. I give their numbers in order: Basses-Pyrénées, 7; Dordogne, 42; Calvados, 2; Gers, 9; Puy-de-Dôme, 30; Ariége, 48; Aveyron, 34; Gironde, 18; Landes, 52; Lot, 33; Ardèche, 43; Cantal, 23; Doubs, 25; Seine, 53; Tarn-et-Garonne, 13.

The fifteen departments in which ordinary life is most prolonged are: Orne, Calvados, Eure-et-Loir, Sarthe, Eure, Lot-et-Garonne, Deux-Sèvres, Indre-et-Loire, Basses-Pyrenees, Maine-et-Loire, Ardennes, Gers, Aube, Hautes-Pyrenees, et Haute-Garonne.

It is evident that places need not be very remote from each other to produce a different influence on the duration of life.

That cold is injurious to the nerves, remarks M. Reveille-Parise, is a truth almost as old as the medical art. A low temperature produces not only a painful effect upon the skin, but it benumbs and paralyzes the nerves of the extremities, and diminishes the circulation of the fluids, and this gives rise to all sorts of diseases.

Men of intellectual pursuits, having an extremely nervous susceptibility, are particularly affected by change of temperature. It is not surprising, then, to find that the mental faculties have attained their utmost degree of perfection in certain climates. Choice natures, such as poets and other men of genius, only produce the finest fruit under the influence of an ardent sun and a pure and brilliant atmosphere. It is only in warm and temperate climates that nature and life are most lavish of their treasures; there we find genuine creations; elsewhere are imitations only, with the exception of the physical sciences, which depend on continued observation. It is remarkable that, if the men of the North have conquered the South, the opinions of the South have always held sway in the North. Besides, fertility of the soil and a mild temperature set man free, in southern countries, from all present care and all anxiety respecting the future, and infuse that blissful serenity of soul so favorable to the flights of the imagination. In the misty climate of the north, he has to struggle incessantly against the influence of the weather, which so greatly diminishes the powers of the mind. {76} This struggle is almost always a disadvantage to the minds of men, who are particularly impressible and often reduced to a state of muscular enervation. Cold, dampness, fogs, violent winds, sudden changes of temperature, frequent rains, endless winters, uncertain summers with their storms and unhealthy exhalations, are fearful enemies to an organization which is delicate, nervous, irritable, suffering, and exhausted.

The state of the atmosphere, then, acts powerfully on the mental faculties. There are really days when the mind is not clear. The thoughts, sometimes so free and abundant, are suddenly arrested. The sources of the imagination are expanded and contracted according to the degrees of the barometer and thermometer. The different seasons of the year have more influence than may be thought, upon the master-pieces of art, upon the affections, the events of life and even upon political catastrophes. History relates that Chancellor de Cheverny warned President de Thou that if the Duke de Guise irritated the mind of Henry III during a frost, (which rendered him furious,) the king would have him assassinated; and this really happened on the twenty-third of December, 1588.

The Duchess d'Abrantès says:

"Napoleon could not endure the least cold without immediate
suffering. He had fires made in the month of July, and did not
understand why others were not equally affected by the least
wind from the northeast. It was Napoleon's nature to love air
and exercise. The privation of these two things threw him into
a violent condition. The state of the weather could be
perceived by the temper he displayed at dinner. If rain or any
other cause had prevented him from taking his accustomed walk,
he was not only cross but suffering."

We read in the Journal of Eugénie de Guerin:

"With the rain, cold winds, wintry skies, the nightingales
singing from time to time under the dead leaves, we have a
gloomy month of May. I wish my soul were not so much influenced
by the state of the atmosphere and variations of the seasons,
as to be like a flower that opens or closes with the cold and
the sun. It is something I do not understand, but so it is as
long as my soul is imprisoned in this frail body."

Ask the poets, artists, and men of thought, if a lively feeling of energy and of joy, prompting to action and labor; or, otherwise, if a certain state languor--of strange and undefinable uneasiness--does not make them dependent on the state of the atmosphere.

It may be considered, then, as an established principle, that a temperate climate, mild seasons, and pure air constantly, renewed constitute not only the highest physical enjoyment but the indispensable conditions of health.

The physical character of places has a truly astonishing effect upon man. A distinguished traveller, M. Trémaux, has endeavored to prove, in several _mémoires_ to the Académie des Sciences, that man be changed from the Caucasian to the negro type simply by this influence. He calls attention to the coincidences that exist between the physical types and the geological nature of the countries acting especially through their products. The least perfect, or rather, the type which is farthest removed from our own, belongs to the oldest lands, and, in a subsidiary manner, to climates the least favored. The most perfect belongs to the countries which, within the smallest limits, offer the greatest variety of formations, allowing the most recent to predominate, and, in a subsidiary manner, to the most favored climates. The type is also influenced by other causes of a more secondary nature which are very complex.

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The geological chart of Europe, says Mr. Trémaux, shows that the greatest surface of primitive rock formations is in Lapland, which possesses also the most inferior people; going to the south of Scandinavia, gneiss and granite occupy also a great part of the country, but that region is also connected with others more varied. It contains many lakes, and its climate is more favored, as well as its inhabitants. As to the Scandinavians of Denmark, they have a purely Germanic type and are, in effect, upon the same soil.

Russia possesses different formations of a medium age, but the extended surface of each kind does not permit its people to profit by the resources of those adjoining, and, consequently, they are but indifferently favored. If we turn to the countries which are in the best condition, we distinguish in general all the west and south of Europe, and more particularly France, Italy, Greece, the eastern part of Spain, and the north-east of England. It is here, in truth, that civilization and the intellectual faculties have most sway.

Race does not change while it remains upon the same soil and under the same natural influences; whereas, it is gradually modified, according to its new position, when it is removed to another place.

The physical influences of a region, and of mixture of race, have a distinct manner of acting. By cross-breeding, the features are at once strongly modified in individuals, but especially according to the region in which it takes place. Thus, in Europe, the mixed race is more strongly inclined to the type of the white man; in Soudan, to that of the negro. A type seems to be more readily improved than degenerated. The physical character of a place does not act in detail, but in a general manner, beginning by modifying the complexion more and more in each generation. It acts less quickly upon the hair, and more slowly still upon the features. Cross-breeding is considered the principal modifying agent only because its effects are at once perceptible, but it can explain evident facts only in an imperfect manner.

The elevation of a place above the level of the sea has a radical influence upon phthisis. With the design of indicating the regions and the degrees of elevation within which this malady is rare or completely unknown, Dr. Schnepp has made a compilation from a series of meteorological observations, made in the Pyrenees and at Eaux Bonnes, and from analogous documents furnished by travellers who have lived upon the elevated and inhabited plateaux of the old and new world.

The document on this subject which he sent to the Academy of Sciences shows that, in the choice of a healthy locality for invalids, people are too exclusively influenced by a warm temperature, disregarding the more formal indications of nature in distributing the maladies of the human race over the surface of the globe. For instance, phthisis exists in the tropical zone. In Brazil, it causes one fifth of the cases of mortality; in Peru, three tenths, and in the Antilles, from six to seven, in every thousand inhabitants. In the East Indies, the greater part of the English physicians report, among the causes of death, two cases from phthisis to every thousand people. In the temperate zones, phthisis is one of the most devastating of diseases. It generally attacks from three to four in every thousand inhabitants. The three countries in which it was not to be found, Algiers, Egypt, and the Russian steppes of Kirghis, have also been invaded by it, although in a smaller proportion, In Algeria, the deaths from phthisis are, to those from other causes, in the proportion of one to every twenty-four or twenty-seven; in Egypt, in the proportion of one to eight.

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This old malady becomes more rare as we approach the higher latitudes. It is supposed not to exist at all in Siberia, in Iceland, and in the Faroe Islands. Thus, diseases of the lungs seem to be more rare in certain cold countries than in warm countries. It is also observed that at a certain altitude the number of cases greatly diminish, and even completely disappear. Brockman testifies that phthisis is rare on the plateaux of the Hartz mountains at the height of two thousand feet above the level of the sea; and C. Fuchs, stating the same fact concerning certain elevations in Thuringia and the Black Forest, was the first to advance the theory that phthisis diminishes according to certain altitudes.

Dr. Brüggens, also, has since testified to the infrequency of this disease in the Swiss Alps, at the height of 4500 to 6000 feet in the Engaddine; nor is it found among the monks of the Great Saint Bernard at the altitude of 6825 feet. According to M. Lombard, it completely disappears among these mountains at the height of 4500 feet.

The populous cities of the American continent, which are situated in the tropical zone at an altitude of six thousand feet above the level of the sea, are exempt from lung diseases; although, in the same latitude, phthisis is common in lower regions, This immunity exists on the other hemisphere in the same zone--on the elevated plateaux of Hindostan and the Himalaya. In examining the state of the climate on the heights in which phthisis is seldom or never found, we find there, even on the equator, a medium temperature sufficiently low throughout the year; between twelve and fifteen degrees on the heights below 9000 feet; between three and five degrees on those between 9000 and 12,000 feet.

In the temperate zone it is still lower. But the warmest months upon tropical heights do not vary more than six or eight degrees from the medium temperature. It is the same on the plateaux of the Alps and in Iceland, and is a general and common characteristic of the regions in which phthisis is not found. The deviations below the annual medium, appear even to increase this immunity. If sufficient observations have not been made to decide upon the degree of comparative humidity on the heights above 12,000 feet, we know that the elevation at which phthisis is wanting, is in a hygrometrical condition more nearly approaching saturation than the lower regions, and that the rains are also more abundant there.

It is desirable that the heights of Cévennes, the Pyrenees, the Alps, and, above all, the elevated parts of our Algerian possessions should be carefully studied, with a view to the treatment of lung diseases, which are the great scourge of the human race, and which annually cause the death of more than three millions of its number.