Chapter VI: Part III (3)

The art of conversation so essential to every one who wishes to mingle in society, can only be perfected by frequent intercourse with the polite, yet great assistance may be derived by an intelligent person from the observations below, and no important blunders can possibly be made if the rules here given be attended to.

Under favorable circumstances, and among persons who know how to train a conversation, there are few if any amusements more grateful to the human mind. Every one knows something which he is willing to tell, and which any other that he is in company with wishes to know, or which if known to him, would be amusing or useful.

To be a skilful conversationist, one’s eyes and ears should be busy; nothing should escape his observation. His memory should be a good one, and he should have a good-natured willingness to please and to be pleased.

It follows that all matter of offense in conversation should be avoided. The self-love of others is to be respected. Therefore, no one is tolerated who makes himself the subject of his own commendation, nor who disregards the feelings of those whom he addresses.

There is as much demand for politeness and civility in conversation as in any other department of social intercourse. One who rudely interrupts another, does much the same thing as though he should, when walking with another, impertinently thrust himself before his companion, and stop his progress.

It was one of the maxims of a French philosopher, that “in conversation, confidence has a greater share than wit.” The maxim is erroneous, although it is true that a fashionable fool may attain to the small talk of which much of the conversation of society is composed, and his glib confidence may so impose upon the superficial as to make this pass for wit; but it will not be received as such by that portion of society whose esteem is desirable. Good sense, sound and varied information, are as necessary as confidence to enable a man to converse well.

In addition, then, to the ordinary routine of education, make yourself acquainted with the passing circumstances of the day—its politics, its parties, its amusements, its foibles, its customs, its literature, and at the present time I must also say its science. Some of these subjects may be the parent of much gossip and scandal; still, a man moving in society as a gentleman, must be ignorant of nothing which relates thereto, or if he is, he must not appear to be.

Avoid a loud tone, particularly in speaking to ladies. By observing men of the world, you will perceive that their voices, as it were, involuntarily assume a softness as they address the sex; this is one of the most obvious proofs of an intimacy with good society.

Never attempt to occupy the attention of a company for a long time; unless your conversation is very brilliant it must become very tiresome.

The object of conversation is to entertain and amuse. To be agreeable, you must learn to be a good listener. A man who monopolizes a conversation is a bore, no matter how great his knowledge.

Never get into a dispute. State your opinions, but do not argue them. Do not contradict, and above all, never offend by correcting mistakes or inaccuracies of fact or expression.

Never lose temper—never notice a slight—never seem conscious of an affront, unless it is of a gross character, and then punish it at once.

You can never quarrel in presence of ladies, but a personal indignity may be avenged _anywhere_.

Never talk of people by hints, slurs, innuendoes, and such mean devices. If you have anything to say, out with it. Nothing charms more than candor, when united with good breeding.

Do not call people by their names in speaking to them. In speaking of your own children, never “Master” and “Miss” them—in speaking to other people of theirs, never neglect to do so.

It is very vulgar to talk in a loud tone, and indulge in horse-laughs. Be very careful in speaking of subjects upon which you are not acquainted. Much is to be learned by confessing your ignorance—nothing can be by pretending to knowledge which you do not possess.

Never tell long stories. Avoid all common slang phrases and pet words.

Of all things, don’t attempt to be too fine. Use good honest English—and common words for common things. If you speak of breeches, shirts, or petticoats, call them by their right names. The vulgarity is in avoiding them.

Be not partial to theorizing, or your conversation will assume the style of speech-making, which is intolerable.

CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON.

By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

I think we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God’s. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon grey blank of sky, we might grow faint
To muse upon eternity’s constraint
Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop,
For a few days consumed in loss and taint?
O pusillanimous heart, be comforted
And like a cheerful traveler, take the road,
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn and thou unshod
To meet the flints? At least it may be said,
“Because thy way is _short_, I thank thee, God.”

TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

By CHARLES LAMB.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Bertram, Count of Rossilion, had newly come to his title and estate, by the death of his father. The King of France loved the father of Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal court in Paris; intending, for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial favor and protection.

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the French court, came to conduct Bertram to the king. The King of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court was in the form of a royal mandate, or positive command, which no subject, of what high dignity soever, might disobey; therefore though the countess, in parting with this dear son, seemed a second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she dared not keep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss of her late lord, and her son’s sudden absence: and he said, in a courtier’s flattering manner, that the king was so kind a prince, she would find in his majesty a husband, and that he would be a father to her son: meaning only that the good king would befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had fallen into a sad malady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the king’s ill health, and said, she wished the father of Helena (a young gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her), were living, for that she doubted not he could have cured his majesty of his disease. And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter to her care when he was dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena under her protection; then the countess praised the virtuous disposition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues from her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, which made the countess gently reprove her for too much grieving for her father’s death.

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted with this dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care of Lafeu, saying, “Good, my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier.” Bertram’s last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of mere civility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short farewell to her with saying, “Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.” Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image to her mind but Bertram’s.

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he was the Count of Rossilion, descended from the most ancient family in France. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-born Bertram, as to her master and to her dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so loving to die his vassal. So great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, she would say, “It were all one that I should love a bright peculiar star, and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me.”

Bertram’s absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face. Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep study and long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest was one set down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king’s complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicians were of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father’s skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the lucky stars in heaven, to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being Count Rossilion’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her steward that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood from some words she uttered, that she was in love with Bertram, and had thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess, those days probably when her love for Bertram’s father first began; and she said to herself, “Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature’s children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults.” While the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, “Helena, you know I am a mother to you.” Helena replied, “You are my honorable mistress.” “You are my daughter,” said the countess again; “I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words?” With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, “Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the Count Rossilion can not be my brother, nor I your daughter.” “Yet, Helena,” said the countess, “you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?” “Good madam, pardon me,” said the affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question, “Do you love my son?” “Do you not love him, madam?” said Helena. The countess replied, “Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your love has to the full appeared.” Helena on her knees now owned her love, and with shame and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense she had of the inequality between their fortunes, she protested Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun, that looks upon his worshiper but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she had lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the intent she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king’s illness. “That was your motive for wishing to go to Paris,” said the countess, “was it? Speak truly.” Helena honestly answered, “My lord your son made me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then.” The countess heard the whole of this confession without saying a word either of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found that it was most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and that he had given it to his daughter on his death-bed; and remembering the solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed to depend on the execution of a project (which, though conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden’s thoughts, the countess knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon’s daughter), free leave she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her with ample means and suitable attendants, and Helena set out for Paris, with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest wishes.

Helena arrived in Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the old lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still many difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon’s daughter (with whose fame the king was well acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the darling treasure which contained the essence of all her father’s long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of two days. The king at length consented to try it, and in two days’ time Helena was to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if she succeeded he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout all France (the princes only excepted) whom she could like for a husband; the choice of a husband being the fee Helena demanded, if she cured the king of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the efficacy of her father’s medicine. Before two days were at an end, the king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the young noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the promised reward of a husband upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena to look around on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among these young lords she saw the Count Rossilion, and turning to Bertram, she said, “This is the man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever whilst I live into your guiding power.” “Why then,” said the king, “young Bertram, take her; she is your wife.” Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of the king’s of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician’s daughter, bred at his father’s charge, and now living dependent on his mother’s bounty. Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, “That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.” But the king would not suffer his royal command to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of the kings of France; and that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, who, though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her husband’s love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram to apply to the king for him for a leave of absence from court; and when she brought him the king’s permission for his departure, Bertram told her that as he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved, when she found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, “I can nothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes.” But this humble speech of Helena’s did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common civility of a kind farewell.

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished the purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, and she had wedded her heart’s dear lord, the Count Rossilion; but she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house, she received a letter from Bertram which almost broke her heart. The good countess received her with cordial welcome, as if she had been her son’s own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she spoke kind words, to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, “Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.” She then read these words out of Bertram’s letter: “When you can get the ring from my finger which never shall come off, then call me husband, but in such a _then_ I write a _never_.” “This is a dreadful sentence!” said Helena. The countess begged her to have patience, and said now Bertram was gone, she could be her child, and that she deserved a lord, that twenty such rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain by respectful condescension and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law. Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried out in an agony of grief, “Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.” The countess asked her if she found these words in the letter? “Yes, madam,” was all poor Helena could answer.

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence; in this letter she informed her that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and his home, that to atone for her offense she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting the countess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his house forever.

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an officer in the Duke of Florence’s army, and after a successful war, in which he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram received letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to return home, when Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim’s weeds, arrived at the city of Florence. Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their way to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city, she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this good lady therefore Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous city, and told her that if she would like to see the duke’s army, she would take her where she might have a full view of it. “And you will see a countryman of yours,” said the widow; “his name is Count Rossilion, who has done worthy service in the duke’s wars.” Helena wanted no second invitation, when she found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompanied her hostess; and a sad mournful pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear husband’s face. “Is he not a handsome man?” said the widow. “I like him well,” replied Helena with great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative widow’s discourse was all of Bertram; she told Helena the story of Bertram’s marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife and entered into the duke’s army to avoid living with her. To this account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when it was ended the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the widow began another tale, every word of which sank deep into the mind of Helena; for the story she now told was of Bertram’s love for her daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena’s hostess: and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed in praise of Diana’s beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit her love: and all his suit to her was that she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married man: for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in reduced circumstances, was well-born, and descended from the noble family of the Capulets.

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely owing to the excellent education and good advice she had given her; and she further said, that Bertram had been particularly importunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired that night, because he was going to leave Florence early the next morning. Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram’s love for the widow’s daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one) to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling them her chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring from him, which he said if ever she was in possession of, he would acknowledge her as his wife.

The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair, partly moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won over to her interest by the promise of reward which Helena made them, giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future favor. In the course of that day Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram, that she was dead, hoping that when he thought himself free to make a second choice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her in her feigned character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and this promise too she doubted not she could make some future good come of it. In the evening after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana’s chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena were precious sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her forever; which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he would not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he had entirely overlooked her beauty, a face we are accustomed to see constantly losing the effect which is caused by the first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it was impossible he should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she was always silent in his presence; but now that her future fate, and the happy ending of all her love projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a favorable impression on the mind of Bertram from this night’s interview, she exerted all her wit to please him; and the simple graces of her lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which it was of such importance to her to possess, she gave him another ring, which was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was light in the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out on his journey toward his mother’s house.

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris, their further assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they found the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, and Helena followed the king with all the speed she could make.

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the moment he saw the countess of Rossilion, he began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son; but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented the death of Helena, he said, “My good lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all.” But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, and could not bear that the memory of his favorite Helena should be so lightly passed over, said, “This I must say, the young lord did great offense to his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve her.” The king said, “Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. Well—call him hither;” meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before the king: and, on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his dead father’s and his admirable mother’s sake, pardoned him, and restored him once more to his favor. But the gracious countenance of the king was soon changed towards him, for he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had given to Helena; and he well remembered that Helena had called all the saints in heaven to witness that she would never part with that ring, unless she sent it to the king himself upon some great disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on the king’s questioning him how he came by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram’s dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed her; and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, “I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was foully snatched.” At this moment Diana and her mother entered, and presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram fearing the king’s anger, denied he had made any such promise, and then Diana produced the ring (which Helena had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; and she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account of the ring differing from Bertram’s, the king’s suspicions were confirmed; and he said, if they did not confess how they came by this ring of Helena’s they should both be put to death. Diana requested her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweler of whom she bought the ring, which being granted, the widow went out, and presently returned, leading in Helena herself.

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son’s danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy that it was Helena, said, “Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?” Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, “No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and not the thing.” Bertram cried out, “Both, both! O pardon!” “O, my lord,” said Helena, “when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind; and look, here is your letter!” reading to him in a joyful tone those words, which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, _When from my finger you can get this ring_—“This is done, it was to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?” Bertram replied, “If you can make it plain that you are the lady I talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly.” This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena purposely to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her also a noble husband: Helena’s history giving him a hint that it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform notable services.

Thus Helena at last found that her father’s legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself the countess of Rossilion.

THE LAST SNOW OF WINTER.

By SARAH DOUDNEY.

Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft,
Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled;
Last trace of dreary winter, idly left
On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled;
Why does it linger while the violets blow,
And sweet things grow?

A relic of long nights and weary days,
When all fair things were hidden from my sight;
A chill reminder of those mournful ways
I traversed when the fields were cold and white;
My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low
Beneath the snow.

Now spring is coming, and my buried love
Breaks fresh and strong and living through the sod;
The lark sings loudly in the blue above,
The budding earth must magnify her God;
Let the old sorrows and old errors go
With the last snow!

CONJURORS.

By THOMAS FROST.

A French conjuror of the first of the present century, was Comte, who was as famous for his ventriloquil powers as for his legerdemain. Many anecdotes are current among continental conjurors of the consternation which Comte created on various occasions by the exercise of his powers as a ventriloquist off the boards. He once overtook near Nevers a man who was beating an overladen ass, and, throwing his voice in the direction of the poor brute’s head, reproached the fellow for his cruelty, causing him to stare at the ass for a moment in mingled surprise and awe, and then take to his heels. On another occasion, being in the marketplace of Mâcon, he inquired the price of a pig which a peasant woman had for sale, and pronounced it extortionate, a charge which the owner, with much volubility, denied.

“I will ask the pig,” said Comte, gravely. “Piggy, is the good woman asking a fair price for you?”

“Too much by half,” the pig seemed to reply. “I am measled, and she knows it.”

The woman gasped and stared, but she was equal to the occasion.

“Oh! the villain,” she exclaimed. “He has bewitched my pig! Police, seize the sorcerer!”

The bystanders rushed to the spot, but Comte slipped away as quickly as he could, and left the affair to the intelligence of the police.

On one occasion the possession of this strange power was the means of saving Comte’s life. He was denounced by some ignorant Swiss peasants in the neighborhood of Friburg, as a sorcerer, set upon and beaten with sticks, and was about to be thrown into a limekiln, when he raised such a horrible yell, which appeared to proceed from the kiln, that the fellows dropped him, and fled precipitately from the spot.

Miller, whose strange adventures and vicissitudes were related by himself in his “Life of a Sowman,” was a conjuror of the fair-frequenting class during the greater part of his varied life. He relates an amusing anecdote of a failure he once had in performing the common trick of cooking a pancake in a hat. He was performing before a private party at Kelso, and among the company was an elderly gentleman, who sat close to the operating table, and caused some discomposure to Miller and his attendant by the closeness of his observation of their motions, and the grimaces and chucklings in which he indulged whenever he discovered, or thought he had discovered, the mode in which any of the tricks were performed. The pancake trick is done by secretly introducing into the hat a ready cooked and hot pancake in a tin dish, and above this a gallipot. The batter is prepared, in sight of the spectators, in a similar gallipot, just as much smaller than the other as to fit closely into it. The contents of the smaller gallipot are poured into the larger one, and both are withdrawn together; and the conjuror, after pretending to cook the pancake over a lamp or candle, presents it on the tin dish.

Miller’s attendant was so much confused by the watching, grimacing, and chuckling of the old gentleman that he omitted to place the gallipot in the hat which a gentleman of the party had lent for the purpose, and Miller poured the batter upon the pancake before he discovered the omission. He was not so ready-witted as Robert-Houdin showed himself on similar occasions, nor was his attendant so equal to the emergency as the French conjuror’s ministering imp proved in the face of such a disaster. They could only stare in bewilderment at the spoiled hat until Miller, recovering from his confusion, confessed his failure, explained the manner in which the trick is done, and threw the blame upon the inquisitive and chuckling old gentleman.

Anderson, a juggler widely known in Europe as the “Wizard of the North,” during a provincial tour met with a strange adventure. One day, toward the conclusion of an engagement at Elgin, he visited Forres, a town twelve miles distant, to make arrangements for repeating his performance there, in the vicinity of the “blasted heath,” on which, according to tradition, Macbeth met the witches. Having made the requisite arrangements, he was directed by the printer to the residence of an elderly widow, who had apartments to let, which, proving suitable, were taken for one week.

“You’ll excuse me, sir,” said the widow when he was about to depart, “but I maun tell ye I’m a puir widow, and a’ that I hae to live by is what I get by lettin’ my apartments. Ither folk hae engaged ’em, saying I might expect ’em on a certain day; but they didna come, sae I was disappointed. It’s an old sayin’, that ‘burnt bairns dreed the fire.’ Ye are a stranger, although a decent lookin’ man, and ye may do the same; sae I hope ye winna object to pay half o’ the rent aforehand.”

Anderson made no objection, but at once handed four half-crowns to the old lady. At that moment he remembered that he must see the printer again before he left Forres, and, as the day, which had threatened to be a wet one, was fine, he left his umbrella with the widow, whose good opinion the payment in advance of one moiety of the week’s rent had quite secured. But, unfortunately, the widow read the words, _Great Wizard of the North_, on the handle of the umbrella when Anderson had left her; and he observed, on his return, that she trembled and changed color as she regarded him intently from head to foot, without venturing to approach him.

“Save us!” she faintly ejaculated. “Wha are ye?”

“I am a rather notorious character,” Anderson replied, with a smile, “and I have no doubt, although you have never seen me before, that you have heard of me. My name is Anderson, and I am known as the Wizard of the North.”

“A weezard, are ye?” said the affrighted widow. “Then, for the love o’ guideness, gang oot o’ my house! I wadna lodge ye for ae night under my roof nae for a’ the world. For the love o’ heaven, gang awa, and tak your umbrella alang wi’ ye.”

As the Elgin coach was shortly to pass the house, Anderson did not pause to explain or remonstrate, but stepped at once toward the door, when the widow cried, “Stap! Dinna leave ought belanging to ye wi’ me; tak your siller wi’ ye, and never let me see your face again.”

Hastily taking the four half-crowns from her purse, she threw them upon the floor, screaming that they burned her fingers, and immediately fell back in a swoon of terror. In her fall, her head struck a stool, slightly lacerating her cheek; and on several of the neighbors hurrying in, on hearing her scream and fall, they found her bleeding, and apparently lifeless. The women cried out that the stranger had murdered the widow, and the men seized Anderson’s arms, to prevent his escape.

At that moment the coach was driven up, and the driver, seeing a crowd about the widow’s house, pulled up, and inquired the cause of the commotion.

On being told that a murder had been committed, the guard leaped down, and, looking through the window, recognized Anderson, whom he had seen several times in Elgin. The coach started again, and Anderson, finding he was in an awkward position, as the old lady gave no signs of life, demanded to be taken before a magistrate at once. This, he was told, was impossible, as there was no magistrate within seven miles, and all that could be done was to lodge him in the town jail until the next day.

To the jail the conjuror was taken, therefore, between a couple of constables, who were commendably prompt in making their appearance. The coach went on to Elgin, where the guard lost no time in spreading the news of the wizard’s arrest, and, going to the Assembly Rooms, told the audience, who were just growing impatient at the conjuror’s non-appearance, that “they might conjure for themselves that night, for there would be no wizard, as he was where he would not get out with all his magic; he was in Forres jail, for murdering an old woman.” A thrill of horror ran through the crowded auditory; then a murmur arose, and loud demands were made for the return of the money paid at the doors. This was done; and nothing was talked of at Elgin that night but the horrible murder at Forres.

On the following morning, Anderson was conducted to the residence of the magistrate, where the widow, who had recovered in the course of the night, told as much of the tragi-comical story as she knew. The gentleman who administered justice in that remote district smiled at the old lady’s narrative, reproved the witnesses for their hastiness, and at once discharged Anderson, with an expression of regret for the inconvenience and loss to which his detention had subjected him. The news of the _dénouement_ of the affair reached Elgin as soon as Anderson, for whom it proved an excellent advertisement, bringing crowds to the Assembly Rooms, and inducing him to prolong his stay in that town several nights beyond the term he had intended.

THE INFLUENCE OF WHOLESOME DRINK.

Three-quarters of that staunch body which you bring with you to the task of perusing these pages, my firmly-knit friend, notwithstanding substantial appearances, are nothing but thin water. If without your clothes you weigh one hundred and fifty pounds, one hundred and thirteen of those pounds are mere liquid, which could be poured through the spout of a tea-pot, or even the channel of a tobacco pipe. Are you surprised to find yourself of so watery a nature? If you are so, you have no good ground for your wonder, for I can tell you that liquid has plenty of work to perform for your good.

Water is continually being drained away out of the supply-pipes of your body, and therefore requires to be as constantly restored to them, unless the blood is to be allowed to get so thick that it can no longer flow freely through their channels. The Great Architect of your body purposed that this should never happen, because if it did, all the powers of your frame, which are sustained by the blood-movement, would suffer and flag. Therefore he has contrived a plan to prevent such thickening of the life-stream.

So soon as your blood has begun to grow thick and to flow slowly, it moves unwillingly and lazily through the structures of your throat, as well as through all other parts. The thick lazily moving blood there causes that unpleasant feeling which you call thirst; a feeling which is so disagreeable that the instant you are conscious of it, you seek to get rid of it by swallowing drink.

When you drink water to quench your thirst, the thin liquid goes down into your digesting bag, and is then directly sucked up into the supply-pipes which run about all over its inside. There it thins the thickened blood, goes with it to the heart, and is thence pumped out through the channels of supply, taking its part in all the operations of life, diluting and changing here, and carrying and cleansing everywhere. There are various outlets through which the waste is poured away, but the principal of these lie upon the skin and in the kidneys. Before it is poured away, however, it actually forms part and parcel of all the structures of your frame; is for the time a portion of your life! It runs not merely through the digesting-canal of your body to the outlets for waste, but actually through the blood, and heart, and brain. Hence you see good drink may carry health, and vigor, and activity to all these internal and delicate parts; but bad drink may at once introduce mischief there, and danger, and disease.

The best possible drink is, of course, that which has the most power to fulfil the main office for which it is required; that is, the keeping the blood duly thin, for easy and ready flow. In its capability to do this, Nature’s own liquid, pure water, stands altogether alone. No other fluid is at once so incorruptibly impartial, and so generously free; so ready to dissolve, so willing to carry, and so frank to return what is entrusted to it. When healthy people drink freely of pure water, the solid substance of their frames is actually washed and worn away, in consequence, more quickly; but this is directly made up to them by their getting stronger appetites, and eating more solid food. The food replaces the wear, and they do not waste, although their structure is more quickly consumed. The wear and tear goes to work, instead of to waste.

People do not, however, drink only pure water, perfect as that liquid is for the performance of the service for which it is swallowed. An immense amount of ingenuity and industry is spent in preparing beverages which are commonly preferred to plain water, because they have very agreeable flavors, and because it is believed that they are nourishing as well as thirst-quenching. These agreeable artificial beverages are principally prepared by the agency of boiling water, and the leaves and seeds of certain vegetables, which are cultivated for the purpose very extensively in various quarters of the globe.

Of these vegetable-furnished beverages, some are swallowed as soon as they have been prepared, and even while the warmth of the water is in a certain degree retained. Others are kept for some time, and allowed to pass into a condition of half decay, before they are used. The former class consist of the tea, coffee, and cocoa, so familiarly known in most households, besides being employed daily in a greater or less degree, by more than seven hundred millions of human beings.

Few persons undervalue the fragrant drink, which pours forth its pleasant leafy smell upon almost every table, from the cottage to the palace, once or twice in the day. Tea-drinkers are not, however, aware how enormous is the quantity of the fragrant leaf that is required every year for their supply, although only distributed to them by small spoonfuls.

Upon the hillsides, in the remote land of China, there are thousands of acres of gardens filled with rows of plants, that look from a distance something like large gooseberry bushes, but which upon closer inspection more nearly resemble stunted japonica shrubs. Almost as soon as these shrubs have fully put forth their young leaves, men and women come round, and strip their twigs and branches bare. They then carry away the leaves, and dry them with much care, partly by exposure to the sunshine and air, and partly by the heat of fires of charcoal, until two-thirds of their weight have been steamed away. When the leaves are dried quickly, the shrunk and crisped foliage is of a green color. When they are left moist for a longer period, and are dried more slowly, they turn of a dull black hue. In either case, the crisped and curled leaves form the tea, portions of which are sent over the sea for the use of English tea-tables. The ground which is devoted to the growth of the tea plant, in China, would, if all joined together, form a farm nearly as large as Wales! Three millions and a half of acres are there covered with tea-bushes; and the entire produce of these acres in tea, is fifty times as large as the amount which is consumed in England. Fifty monster ships, like the Great Eastern, would not hold therefore the tea produce of a single year. Of tea, and of its allies, coffee and cocoa, the earth yields yearly not less than three thousand millions of pounds; a quantity which it would take a grocer a hundred years to weigh out, if he worked at the rate of a pound every second. More than half the inhabitants of the earth are daily engaged in the occupation of consuming this vast amount.

Although these favorite beverages are now so extensively used, this has not been very long the case. In the year 1664 the East India Company made a present to the Queen of England of two pounds of tea, considering it a very rare and choice gift. The Chinese themselves do not seem to have drunk tea generally before the seventh century. Cocoa was brought from Mexico to Spain in the middle of the sixteenth century for the first time; and coffee was not seen in London until the seventeenth century. Hence it appears that these drinks are at least not actually necessary to human beings. The forefathers of the present generation did without them for centuries.

When articles, which were scarcely known to be in existence three centuries ago, have so rapidly spread themselves through the world, that they are now viewed almost in the light of daily requisites by the larger half of mankind, it may very safely be concluded that there is some strong reason for the result. The reason may be a good one, or a bad one; the articles may be found to be of great service when employed, or they may be merely felt to produce agreeable feelings not necessarily serviceable. Is it possible to determine in which of these predicaments tea and its allies stand? As a first step towards the formation of an opinion in this matter, it will be quite worth any interested person’s while to satisfy himself by a very easy experiment that there is something in tea, which careless notice and common use would never discover. Let him simply rub a teaspoonful of dry tea leaves to powder, and place it in a flat watch-glass, standing on the hot hob of a fire-place, a piece of stiff white paper being twisted up into the form of a sugar-loaf, and covered over the watch-glass and powdered tea. So soon as the tea has become very hot, a white steam-like vapor will rise from it, and be entangled in the paper, and if the paper cap be removed after a few minutes and be unfolded, its surface will be found to be sprinkled with a white glittering powder, something like pounded glass, or very fine salt. The powder is the vapor, turned into the powdery state, after it has been entangled by the paper. There is so much of this white powder in tea, that three grains can be procured from half an ounce of the leaves. Fifty pounds of good tea would furnish a pound of the white powder.