Chapter VI (1)

Mr. Egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the waste-basket. Public men have such odd out-of-the-way letters that their waste-baskets are never empty: letters from amateur financiers proposing new ways to pay off the National Debt; letters from America, (never free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in country villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the king's service; letters from freethinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters from bigots in reproof of freethinking; letters signed Brutus Redivivus, containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for tyrants, if the Danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed Matilda or Caroline, stating that Caroline or Matilda has seen the public man's portrait at the Exhibition, and that a heart sensible to its attractions may be found at No. ---- Piccadilly; letters from beggars, impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers--all food for the waste-basket.

From the correspondence thus winnowed, Mr. Egerton first selected those on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his pocket-book; and secondly, those of a private nature, which he as carefully put into another. Of these last there were but three--one from his steward, one from Harley L'Estrange, one from Randal Leslie. It was his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his office, a few minutes afterward, he slowly took his way. Many a passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black frock-coat thus worn, well became the erect air, and the deep full chest of the handsome senator. When he entered Parliament Street, Audley Egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the cares of office.

After a few observations on the last debate, this gentleman said--

"By the way, can you dine with me next Saturday, to meet Lansmere? He comes up to town to vote for us on Monday."

"I had asked some people to dine with me," answered Egerton, "but I will put them off. I see Lord Lansmere too seldom, to miss any occasion to meet a man whom I respect so much."

"So seldom! True, he is very little in town; but why don't you go and see him in the country? Good shooting--pleasant old-fashioned house."

"My dear Westbourne, his house is '_nimium vicina Cremonae_,' close to a borough in which I have been burned in effigy."

"Ha--ha--yes--I remember you first came into Parliament for that snug little place; but Lansmere himself never found fault with your votes, did he?"

"He behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me his mouthpiece; and then, too, I am so intimate with L'Estrange."

"Is that queer fellow ever coming back to England?"

"He comes, generally every year, for a few days, just to see his father and mother, and then goes back to the Continent."

"I never meet him."

"He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town, and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him."

"Why does he not go to them?"

"A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do in London, I suppose."

"Is he as amusing as ever?"

Egerton nodded.

"So distinguished as he might be!" continued Lord Westbourne.

"So distinguished as he is!" said Egerton formally; "an officer selected for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman, matchless!"

"I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured days," answered Lord Westbourne. "But still, though L'Estrange is doubtless all you say, don't you think he rather wastes his life--living abroad?"

"And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste our lives? But I can't stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door of my prison."

"On Saturday, then?"

"On Saturday. Good day."

For the next hour, or more, Mr. Egerton was engaged on the affairs of the state. He then snatched an interval of leisure, (while awaiting a report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him,) in order to reply to his letters. Those on public business were soon dispatched; and throwing his replies aside, to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew out the letters which he had put apart as private.

He attended first to that of his steward: the steward's letter was long, the reply was contained in three lines. Pitt himself was scarcely more negligent of his private interests and concerns than Audley Egerton--yet, withal, Audley Egerton was said by his enemies to be an egotist.

The next letter he wrote was to Randal, and that, though longer, was far from prolix: it ran thus--

"Dear Mr. Leslie,--I appreciate your delicacy in consulting me, whether you should accept Frank Hazeldean's invitation to call at the Hall. Since you are asked, I can see no objection to it. I should be sorry if you appeared to force yourself there; and for the rest, as a general rule, I think a young man who has his own way to make in life had better avoid all intimacy with those of his own age who have no kindred objects nor congenial pursuits.

"As soon as this visit is paid, I wish you to come to London. The report I receive of your progress at Eton renders it unnecessary, in my judgment, that you should return there. If your father has no objection, I propose that you should go to Oxford at the ensuing term. Meanwhile, I have engaged a gentleman who is a fellow of Baliol, to read with you; he is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at Eton, that you may at once obtain a scholarship in that college. If you do so, I shall look upon your career in life as assured.

Your affectionate friend, and sincere
well-wisher, A.E."

The reader will remark that, in this letter, there is a certain tone of formality. Mr. Egerton does not call his _protege_ "Dear Randal," as would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, "Dear Mr. Leslie." He hints, also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. Is this meant to guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity may have excited?

The letter to Lord L'Estrange was of a very different kind from the others. It was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gaily, and as with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked Audley Egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. Yet, notwithstanding, there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the fine tact of a woman would detect. It had not that _abandon_, that hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his correspondent. But where was the evidence of the constraint? Egerton is off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself--that he avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling. But perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! How can you expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are spent in Downing Street, and whose nights are consumed in watching government bills through committee, can write in the same style as an idle dreamer amidst the pines of Ravenna or on the banks of Como.

Audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had appointed to meet at two o'clock. There was no office in London at which deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which Mr. Egerton presided.

The deputation entered--some score or so of middle-aged, comfortable-looking persons, who nevertheless had their grievance--and considered their own interests, and those of the country, menaced by a certain clause in a bill brought in by Mr. Egerton.

The Mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well--but in a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. It was a slap-dash style--unceremonious, free, and easy--an American style. And, indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of the Mayor which savored of residence in the Great Republic. He was a very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering--the look of a man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed the liberty to speak his mind, and "wallop his own nigger!"

His fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and Mr. Egerton had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. Mayor must be a rich man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the self-love of his equals.

Mr. Egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and, though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. There was much sense and much justice in Mr. Mayor's arguments, and the statesman civilly promised to take them into full consideration.

He then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed before it opened again, and Mr. Mayor presented himself alone, saying aloud to his companions in the passage, "I forgot something I had to say to Mr. Egerton; wait below for me."

"Well, Mr. Mayor," said Audley, pointing to a seat, "what else would you suggest?"

The Mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then, drawing his chair close to Mr. Egerton's, laid his forefinger on that gentleman's arm, and said, "I think I speak to a man of the world, sir."

Mr. Egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his arm from the touch of the forefinger.

_Mr. Mayor._--"You observe, sir, that I did not ask the members whom we return to Parliament to accompany us. Do better without 'em. You know they are both in Opposition--out-and-outers."

_Mr. Egerton._--"It is a misfortune which the Government cannot remember, when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is to be served or injured."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Well, I guess you speak handsome, sir. But you'd be glad to have two members to support Ministers after the next election."

_Mr. Egerton_, smilingly.--"Unquestionably, Mr. Mayor."

_Mr. Mayor._--"And I can do it, Mr. Egerton. I may say I have the town in my pocket; so I ought, I spend a great deal of money in it. Now, you see, Mr. Egerton, I have passed a part of my life in a land of liberty--the United States--and I come to the point when I speak to a man of the world. I am a man of the world myself, sir. And if so be the Government will do something for me, why, I'll do something for the Government. Two votes for a free and independent town like ours--that's something, isn't it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, taken by surprise--"Really I--"

_Mr. Mayor_, advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the official.--"No nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. The fact is that I have taken it into my head that I should like to be knighted. You may well look surprised, Mr. Egerton--trumpery thing enough, I dare say; still every man has his weakness and I should like to be Sir Richard. Well, if you can get me made Sir Richard, you may just name your two members for the next election--that is, if they belong to your own set, enlightened men, up to the times. That's speaking fair and manful, isn't it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, drawing himself up.--"I am at a loss to guess why you should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition."

_Mr. Mayor_, nodding good-humoredly.--"Why, you see, I don't go all along with the Government; you're the best of the bunch. And maybe you'd like to strengthen your own party. This is quite between you and me, you understand; honor's a jewel!"

_Mr. Egerton_, with great gravity.--"Sir, I am obliged by your good opinion; but I agree with my colleagues in all the great questions affecting the government of the country, and--"

_Mr. Mayor_, interrupting him.--"Ah, of course you must say so; very right. But I guess things would go differently if you were Prime Minister. However, I have another reason for speaking to you about my little job. You see you were member for Lansmere once, and I think you came in but by two majority, eh?"

_Mr. Egerton._--"I know nothing of the particulars of that election; I was not present."

_Mr. Mayor._--"No; but, luckily for you, two relatives of mine were, and they voted for you. Two votes, and you came in by two! Since then, you have got into very snug quarters here, and I think we have a claim on you--"

_Mr. Egerton._--"Sir, I acknowledge no such claim; I was and am a stranger in Lansmere; and, if the electors did me the honor to return me to Parliament, it was in compliment rather to--"

_Mr. Mayor_, again interrupting the official.--"Rather to Lord Lansmere, you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, I fancy. Peer of the realm. But, never mind, I know the world; and I'd ask Lord Lansmere to do my affair for me, only I hear he is as proud as Lucifer."

_Mr. Egerton_, in great disgust, and settling his papers before him.--"Sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his Majesty candidates for the honor of knighthood, and it is still less in my department to make bargains for seats in Parliament."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Oh, if that's the case, you'll excuse me; I don't know much of the etiquette in these matters. But I thought that, if I put two seats in your hands, for your own friends, you might contrive to take the affair into your department, whatever it was. But since you say you agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. Now you must not suppose I want to sell the town, and that I can change and chop my politics for my own purpose. No such thing! I don't like the sitting members; I'm all for progressing, but they go _too_ much ahead for me; and, since the Government is disposed to move a little, why I'd as lief support them as not. But, in common gratitude, you see, (added the Mayor, coaxingly,) I ought to be knighted! I can keep up the dignity, and do credit to his Majesty."

_Mr. Egerton_, without looking up from his papers.--"I can only refer you, sir, to the proper quarter."

_Mr. Mayor_, impatiently.--"Proper quarter! Well, since there is so much humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom I ought to go to."

_Mr. Egerton_, beginning to be amused as well as indignant.--"If you want a knighthood, Mr. Mayor, you must ask the Prime Minister; if you want to give the Government information relative to seats in Parliament, you must introduce yourself to Mr. ----, the Secretary of the Treasury."

_Mr. Mayor._--"And if I go to the last chap, what do you think he'll say?"

_Mr. Egerton_, the amusement preponderating over the indignation.--"He will say, I suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in which you have put it to me; that the Government will be very proud to have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a gentleman like you, in the proud position of Mayor, may well hope to be knighted on some fitting occasion. But that you must not talk about the knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the unfortunate political opinions of the town."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Well, I guess that chap there would want to do me! Not quite so green, Mr. Egerton. Perhaps I'd better go at once to the fountain-head. How d'ye think the Premier would take it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, the indignation preponderating over the amusement.--"Probably just as I am about to do."

Mr. Egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared.

"Show Mr. Mayor the way out," said the Minister.

The Mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked straight to the door; but, suffering the attendant to precede him along the corridor, he came back with rapid stride, and clinching his hands, and with a voice thick with passion, cried, "Some day or other I will make you smart for this, as sure as my name's Dick Avenel!"

"Avenel!" repeated Egerton, recoiling, "Avenel!"

But the Mayor was gone.

Audley fell into a deep and musing reverie which seemed gloomy, and lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.

He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley L'Estrange open on the table. He drew it toward him, and wrote, "A man has just left me, who calls himself Aven--" in the middle of the name his pen stopped. "No, no," muttered the writer, "what folly to reopen the old wounds there," and he carefully erased the words.

Audley Egerton did not ride in the park that day, as was his wont, but dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse's head toward Westminster Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly, as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[From the Journal des Chasseurs.]

WILD SPORTS IN ALGERIA.

BY M. JULES GERARD.

I knew of a large old lion in the Smauls country and betook myself in that direction. On arriving I heard that he was in the Bonarif, near Batnah. My tent was not yet pitched at the foot of the mountain, when I learned that he was at the Fed Jong, where, on my arrival, I found he had gained the Aures. After traveling one hundred leagues in ten days in the trace of my brute without catching a glimpse of anything but his footprints, I was gratified on the night of the 22d of August with the sound of my lord's voice. I had established my tent in the valley of Ousten. As there is only one path across this thickly covered valley, I found it an easy task to discover his track and follow it to his lair. At six o'clock in the evening I alighted upon a hillock commanding a prospect of the country around. I was accompanied by a native of the country and my spahi, one carrying my carbine, the other my old gun. As I had anticipated, the lion roared under cover at dawn of day; but instead of advancing toward me, he started off in a westerly direction at such a pace that it was impossible for me to come up with him. I retraced my steps at midnight and took up my quarters at the foot of a tree upon the path which the lion had taken. The country about this spot was cleared and cultivated. The moon being favorable, the approach of anything could be descried in every direction. I installed myself and waited. Weary after a ride of several hours over a very irregular country, and not expecting any chance that night, I enjoined my spahi to keep a good watch, and lay down. I was just about to fall asleep when I felt a gentle pull at my burnous. On getting up I was able to make out two lions, sitting one beside the other, about one hundred paces off, and exactly on the path in which I had taken up my position. At first I thought we had been perceived, and prepared to make the best of this discovery. The moon shed a light upon the entire ground which the lions would have to cross in order to reach the tree, close to which all within a circumference of ten paces was completely dark, both on account of the thickness of the tree and the shadow cast by the foliage. My spahi, like me, was in range of the shadow, while the Arab lay snoring ten paces off in the full light of the moon. There was no doubting the fact--it was this man who attracted the attention of the lions. I expressly forbade the spahi to wake up the Arab, as I was persuaded that when the action was over he would be proud of having served as a bait even without knowing it. I then prepared my arms and placed them against the tree and got up, in order the better to observe the movements of the enemy. They were not less than half an hour traversing a distance of one hundred metres. Although the ground was open, I could only see them when they raised their heads to make sure that the Arab was still there. They took advantage of every stone and every tuft of grass to render themselves almost invisible; at last the boldest of them came up crouching on his belly to within ten paces of me and fifteen of the Arab. His eye was fixed on the latter, and with such an expression that I was afraid I had waited too long. The second, who had stayed a few paces behind, came and placed himself on a level with and about four or five paces from the first. I then saw for the first time that they were full-grown lionesses. I took aim at the first, and she came rolling and roaring down to the foot of the tree. The Arab was scarcely awakened when a second ball stretched the animal dead upon the spot. The first bullet went in at the muzzle and came out at the tail; the second had gone through the heart. After making sure that my men were all right, I looked out for the second lioness. She was standing up within fifteen paces, looking at what was going on around her. I took my gun and leveled it at her. She squatted down. When I fired she fell down roaring, and disappeared in a field of maize on the edge of the road. On approaching I found by her moaning that she was still alive, and did not venture at night into the thick plantation which sheltered her. As soon as it was day I went to the spot where she had fallen, and all I found were bloodmarks showing her track in the direction of the wood. After sending the dead lioness to the neighboring garrison, who celebrated its arrival by a banquet, I returned to my post of the previous night. A little after sunset the lion roared for the first time, but instead of quitting his lair he remained there all night, roaring like a madman. Convinced that the wounded lioness was there, I sent on the morning of the 24th two Arabs to explore the cover. They returned without daring to approach it. On the night of the 24th there was the same roaring and complaining of the lion on the mountain and under cover. On the 25th, at five in the evening, I had a young goat muzzled, and proceeded with it to the mountain. The lair was exceedingly difficult of access. Nevertheless I succeeded at last by crawling now on my hands and now on my belly in reaching it. Having discovered certain indications of the presence of the inhabitants of this locality, I had the goat unmuzzled and tied to a tree. Then followed the most comical panic on the part of the Arabs, who were carrying my arms. Seeing themselves in the middle of the lion's lair, whom they could distinctly smell, and hearing the horrified goat calling them with all its might, was a position perfectly intolerable to them. After consulting together as to whether it were better to climb up a tree or clamber on a rock, they asked my permission to remain near the goat. This confidence pleased me and obtained them the privilege of a place by my side. I had not been there a quarter of an hour when the lioness appeared; she found herself suddenly beside the goat, and looked about her with an air of astonishment. I fired, and she fell without a struggle. The Arabs were already kissing my hands, and I myself believed her dead, when she got up again as though nothing was the matter and showed us all her teeth. One of the Arabs who had run toward her was within six paces of her. On seeing her get up he clung to the lower branches of the tree to which the goat was tied, and disappeared like a squirrel. The lioness fell dead at the foot of the tree, a second bullet piercing her heart. The first had passed out of the nape of the neck without breaking the skull bone.

[From the Spectator.]

RECENT DEATHS IN THE FAMILY OF ORLEANS.

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin:" there is not one among the millions who read of the mortal sufferings endured by Queen Louise of Belgium that will not sympathize with the sorrowing relatives around her deathbed; especially with that aged lady who has seen so many changes, survived so many friends, mourned so many dear ones. To the world Queen Amelie is like a relative to whom we are endeared by report without having seen her; and as we read of her journey to pay the last sad offices to her daughter, we forget the "royal personage," in regard for that excellent lady who has been made known to us by so many sorrows.

The Orleans family, in its triumphs and in its adversities, may be taken as a living and most striking illustration of "principle,"--of principle working to ends that are certain. Louis Philippe's character shone best in his personal and family relation. He was a shifty expedientist in politics: a great national crisis came to him as a fine opportunity to the commercial man for pushing some particular kind of traffic. He adopted the cant of the day, as mere traders adopt produce, ready made; taking the correctness of the earlier stages for granted. He adopted "the Monarchy surrounded by Republican institutions," as a Member of Parliament takes the oaths, for form's sake: it was the form of accepting the crown, its power and dignity; and he did what was suggested as the proper thing to be done: but did he ever trouble himself about the "Republican institutions?" He adopted the National Guard, as a useful instrument to act by way of breastwork, under cover of which his throne could repose secure, while the royal power could shoot as it pleased _over_ that respectable body at the people: but did he ever trouble himself with the purpose of a national guard?--No more than a beadle troubles his head with the church theology or parochial constitution. He never meddled with the stuff and vital working of politics; and when the time came that required him to maintain his post by having a hold on the nation of France, by acting with the forces then at work, wholly incompetent to the unsought task, he let go, and was drifted away by the flood of events. But still, though the most signal instance of opportunity wasted and success converted to failure before the eyes of Europe, he retained a considerable degree of respectability. First, the vitality of the man was strong, and had been tested by many vicissitudes; and the world sympathizes with that sort of leasehold immortality. Further, his family clung around him: the respectable, amiable paterfamilias, whose personal qualities had been somewhat obscured by the splendors of the throne, now again appeared unvailed, and that which was sterling in the man was once more known--again tried, again sound. Louis Philippe failed as a king, he succeeded as a father.

Queen Amelie placed her faith less on mundane prosperity than on spiritual welfare; and she was so far imbued by faith as a living principle that it actuated her in her conduct as a daily practice. With the obedience of the true Catholic, she combined the spirit of active Christianity. While some part of her family has been inspired mainly by the paternal spirit, some took their spirit from the mother; and none, it would appear, more decidedly than Queen Louise. The accounts from Belgium liken her to our own Queen Adelaide, in whom was exhibited the same spirit of piety and practical Christianity; and we see the result in the kind of personal affection that she earned. Agree with these estimable women in their doctrine or not, you cannot but respect the firmness of their own faith or the spirit of self-sacrifice which remained uncorrupted through all the trials of temptations, so rife, so _devitalizing_ in the life of royalty.

Death visits the palace and the cottage, and we expect his approach: we understand his aspect, and know how he affects the heart of mortality. Be they crowned or not, we understand what it is that mortal creatures are enduring under the affliction; and we well know what it means when parent and children, brothers and sisters, collect around the deathbed.

King Leopold we have twice seen under the same trial, and again remember how much he has rested of his life on the personal relation. We note these things; we call to mind all that the family, illustrious not less by its vicissitudes and its adversities than by its exaltation, has endured; and while we sympathize with its sorrows, we feel how much it must be sustained by those reliances which endure more firmly than worldly fortune. But our regard does not stop with admiration; we notice with satisfaction this example to the family and personal relation--this proof that amid the splendors of royalty the firmest reliances and the sweetest consolations are those which are equally open to the humblest.

[From "Leaves from the Journal of a Naturalist," in Fraser's Magazine.]

PLEASANT STORY OF A SWALLOW.

In September, 1800, the Rev. Walter Trevelyan wrote from Long-Wilton, Northumberland, in a letter to the editor of Bewick's "British Birds," the following narrative, which is so simply and beautifully written, and gives so clear an account of the process of taming, that it would be unjust to recite it in any words but his own for the edification of those who may wish to make the experiment:--"About nine weeks ago (writes the good clergyman), a swallow fell down one of our chimneys, nearly fledged, and was able to fly in two or three days. The children desired they might try to rear him, to which I agreed, fearing the old ones would desert him; and as he was not the least shy they succeeded without any difficulty, for he opened his mouth for flies as fast as they could supply them, and was regularly fed to a whistle. In a few days, perhaps a week, they used to take him into the fields with them, and as each child found a fly and whistled, the little bird flew for his prey from one to another; at other times he would fly round about them in the air, but always descended at the first call, in spite of the constant endeavors of the wild swallows to seduce him away; for which purpose several of them at once would fly about him in all directions, striving to drive him away when they saw him about to settle on one of the children's hands, extended with the food. He would very often alight on the children, uncalled, when they were walking several fields distant from home." What a charming sketch of innocence and benevolence, heightened by the anxiety of the pet's relations to win him away from beings whom they must have looked upon as so many young ogres! The poor flies, it is true, darken the picture a little; but to proceed with the narrative:--"Our little inmate was never made a prisoner by being put into a cage, but always ranged about the room at large wherever the children were, and they never went out of doors without taking him with them. Sometimes he would sit on their hands or heads and catch flies for himself, which he soon did with great dexterity. At length, finding it take up too much of their time to supply him with food enough to satisfy his appetite (for I have no doubt he ate from seven hundred to a thousand flies a day), they used to turn him out of the house, shutting the window to prevent his returning for two or three hours together, in hopes he would learn to cater for himself, which he soon did; but still was no less tame, always answering their call, and coming in at the window to them (of his own accord) frequently every day, and always roosting in their room, which he has regularly done from the first till within a week or ten days past. He constantly roosted on one of the children's heads till their bed-time; nor was he disturbed by the child moving about, or even walking, but would remain perfectly quiet with his head under his wing, till he was put away for the night in some warm corner, for he liked much warmth." The kind and considerate attempt to alienate the attached bird from its little friends had its effect. "It is now four days (writes worthy Mr. Trevelyan, in conclusion) since he came in to roost in the house, and though he then did not show any symptoms of shyness, yet he is evidently becoming less tame, as the whistle will not now bring him to the hand; nor does he visit us as formerly, but he always acknowledges it when within hearing by a chirp, and by flying near. Nothing could exceed his tameness for about six weeks; and I have no doubt it would have continued the same had we not left him to himself as much as we could, fearing he would be so perfectly domesticated that he would be left behind at the time of migration, and of course be starved in the winter from cold and hunger." And so ends this agreeable story: not, however, that it was "of course" that the confiding bird would be starved if it remained, for the Rev. W.F. Cornish, of Totness, kept two tame swallows, one for a year and a half, and the other for two years, as he informed Mr. Yarrell.

[From Mure's Literature of Ancient Greece.]

EXCLUSION OF LOVE FROM GREEK POETRY.

One of the most prominent forms in which the native simplicity and purity of the Hellenic bard displays itself is the entire exclusion of sentimental or romantic love from his stock of poetical materials. This is a characteristic which, while inherited in a greater or less degree by the whole more flourishing age of Greek poetical literature, possesses also the additional source of interest to the modern scholar, of forming one of the most striking points of distinction between ancient and modern literary taste. So great an apparent contempt, on the part of so sensitive a race as the Hellenes, for an element of poetical pathos which has obtained so boundless an influence on the comparatively phlegmatic races of Western Europe, is a phenomenon which, although it has not escaped the notice of modern critics, has scarcely met with the attention which its importance demands. By some it has been explained as a consequence of the low estimation in which the female sex was held in Homer's age, as contrasted with the high honors conferred on it by the courtesy of medieval chivalry; by others as a natural effect of the restrictions placed on the free intercourse of the sexes among the Greeks. Neither explanation is satisfactory. The latter of the two is set aside by Homer's own descriptions, which abundantly prove that in his time, at least, women could have been subjected to no such jealous control as to interfere with the free course of amorous intrigue. Nor even, had such been the case, would the cause have been adequate to the effect. Experience seems rather to evince that the greater the difficulties to be surmounted the higher the poetical capabilities of such adventures. Erotic romance appears, in fact, to have been nowhere more popular than in the East, where the jealous separation of the sexes has, in all ages, been extreme. As little can it be said that Homer's poems exhibit a state of society in which females were lightly esteemed. The Trojan war itself originates in the susceptibility of an injured husband: and all Greece takes up arms to avenge his wrong. The plot of the Odyssey hinges mainly on the constant attachment of the hero to the spouse of his youth; and the whole action tends to illustrate the high degree of social and political influence consequent on the exemplary performance of the duties of wife and mother. Nor surely do the relations subsisting between Hector and Andromache, or Priam and Hecuba, convey a mean impression of the respect paid to the female sex in the heroic age. As little can the case be explained by a want of fit or popular subjects of amorous adventure. Many of the favorite Greek traditions are as well adapted to the plot of an epic poem or tragedy of the sentimental order, as any that modern history can supply. Still less can the exclusion be attributed to a want of sensibility, on the part of the Greek nation, to the power of the tender passions. The influence of those passions is at least as powerfully and brilliantly asserted in their own proper sphere of poetical treatment, in the lyric odes, for example, of Sappho or Mimnermus, as in any department of modern poetry. Nor must it be supposed that even the nobler Epic or Tragic Muse was insensible to the poetical value of the passion of love. But it was in the connection of that passion with others of a sterner nature to which it gives rise, jealousy, hatred, revenge, rather than in its own tender sensibilities, that the Greek poets sought to concentrate the higher interest of their public. Any excess of the amorous affections which tended to enslave the judgment or reason was considered as a weakness, not an honorable emotion; and hence was confined almost invariably to women. The nobler sex are represented as comparatively indifferent, often cruelly callous, to such influence; and, when subjected to it, are usually held up as objects of contempt rather than admiration. As examples may be cited the amours of Medea and Jason, of Phaedra and Hippolytus, of Theseus and Ariadne, of Hercules and Omphale. The satire on the amorous weakness of the most illustrious of Greek heroes embodied in the last mentioned fable, with the glory acquired by Ulysses from his resistance to the fascinations of Circe and Calypso, may be jointly contrasted with the subjection by Tasso of Rinaldo and his comrades to the thraldom of Armida, and with the pride and pleasure which the Italian poet of chivalry appears to take in the sensual degradation of his heroes. The distinction here drawn by the ancients is the more obvious, that their warriors are least of all men described as indifferent to the pleasures of female intercourse. They are merely exempt from subjection to its unmanly seductions. Ulysses, as he sails from coast to coast, or island to island, willingly partakes of the favors which fair goddesses or enchantresses press on his acceptance. But their influence is never permitted permanently to blunt the more honorable affections of his bosom, or divert his attention from higher objects of ambition.

[From the Spectator.]

THE GATEWAY OF THE OCEANS.

The forcing of the barrier which for three hundred years has defied and imperiled the commerce of the world seems now an event at hand. One half of the contract for the junction of the Atlantic and Pacific, obtained from the State of Nicaragua last year by the promptitude of the Americans, is to be held at the option of English capitalists; and an understanding is at length announced, that if the contemplated ship-canal can be constructed on conditions that shall leave no uncertainty as to the profitableness of the enterprise, it is to be carried forward with the influence of our highest mercantile firms. The necessary surveys have been actually commenced; and as a temporary route is at the same time being opened, an amount of information is likely soon to be collected which will familiarize us with each point regarding the capabilities of the entire region. It is understood, moreover, that when the canal-surveys shall be completed, they are to be submitted to the rigid scrutiny of Government engineers both in England and the United States; so that before the public can be called upon to consider the expediency of embarking in the undertaking, every doubt in connection with it, as far as practical minds are concerned, will have been removed.

The immediate steps now in course of adoption may be explained in a few words. At present the transit across the Isthmus of Panama occupies four days, and its inconveniences and dangers are notorious. At Nicaragua, it is represented, the transit may possibly be effected in one day, and this by a continuous steam-route with the exception of fifteen miles by mule or omnibus. The passage would be up the San Juan, across Lake Nicaragua to the town of that name, and thence to the port of San Juan del Sur on the Pacific. On arriving at this terminus, (which is considerably south of the one contemplated for the permanent canal, namely Realejo,) the passenger would find himself some six or seven hundred miles nearer to California than if he had crossed at the Isthmus of Panama; and as the rate of speed of the American steamers on this service is upward of three hundred miles a day, his saving of three days in crossing, coupled with the saving in sea distance, would be equivalent to a total of fifteen hundred miles, measured in relation to what is accomplished by these vessels. A lower charge for the transit, and a comparatively healthy climate, are also additional inducements; and under these circumstances, anticipations are entertained that the great tide of traffic will be turned in the new direction. This tide, according to the last accounts from Panama, was kept up at the rate of 70,000 persons a year; and it was expected to increase.

The navigability of the San Juan, however, in its present state, remains yet to be tested. The American company who have obtained the privilege of the route have sent down two vessels of light draught, the Nicaragua and the Director, for the purpose of forthwith placing the matter beyond doubt. At the last date, the Director had safely crossed the bar at its mouth, and was preparing to ascend; the Nicaragua had previously gone up the Colorado, a branch river, where, it is said, through the carelessness of her engineer, she had run aground upon a sand-bank, though without sustaining any damage. The next accounts will possess great interest. Whatever may be the real capabilities of the river, accidents and delays must be anticipated in the first trial of a new method of navigating it: even in our own river, the Thames, the first steamer could scarcely have been expected to make a trip from London Bridge to Richmond without some mishap. Should, therefore, the present experiment show any clear indications of success, there will be reasonable ground for congratulation; and it forms so important a chapter in the history of enterprise, that all must regard it with good wishes.

If the results of this temporary transit should realize the expectations it seems to warrant, there can be little doubt the completion of the canal will soon be commenced with ardor. Supposing the surveys should show a cost not exceeding the sum estimated in 1837 by Lieutenant Baily, the prospect of the returns would, there is reason to believe, be much larger than the public have at any time been accustomed to suppose. There is also the fact that the increase of these returns can know no limit so long as the commerce of the world shall increase; and indeed, already the idea of the gains to accrue appears to have struck some minds with such force as to lead them to question if the privileges which have been granted are not of a kind so extraordinarily favorable that they will sooner or later be repudiated by the State of Nicaragua. No such danger however exists; as the company are guaranteed in the safe possession of all their rights by the treaty of protection which has been ratified between Great Britain and the United States.

One most important sign in favor of the quick completion of the ship-canal is now furnished in the circumstance that there are no rival routes. At Panama, a cheap wooden railway is to be constructed, which will prove serviceable for much of the passenger-traffic to Peru and Chili; but the project for a canal at that point has been entirely given up. The same is the case at Tehuantepec, where the difficulties are far greater than at Panama.

It is true, the question naturally arises, whether if an exploration were made of other parts of Central America or New Grenada, some route might not be discovered which might admit of the construction of a canal even at a less cost than will be necessary at Nicaragua. But in a matter which concerns the commerce of the whole world for ages, there are other points to be considered besides mere cheapness; and those who have studied the advantages of Nicaragua maintain that enough is known of the whole country both north and south of that State, to establish the fact that she possesses intrinsic capabilities essential to the perfectness of the entire work, which are not to be found in any other quarter, and for the absence of which no saving of any immediate sum would compensate. In the first place, it is nearer to California by several hundred miles than any other route that could be pointed out except Tehuantepec, while at the same time it is so central as duly to combine the interests both of the northern and southern countries of the Pacific; in the next place, it contains two magnificent natural docks, where all the vessels in the world might refresh and refit; thirdly, it abounds in natural products of all kinds, and is besides comparatively well-peopled; fourthly, it possesses a temperature which is relatively mild, while it is also in most parts undoubtedly healthy; and finally, it has a harbor on the Pacific, which, to use the words of Dunlop in his book on Central America, is as good as any port in the known world, and decidedly superior even to Portsmouth, Rio Janeiro, Port Jackson, Talcujana, Callao, and Guayaquil. The proximity to California moreover settles the question as to American cooperation; which, it may be believed, would certainly not be afforded to any route farther south, and without which it would be idle to contemplate the undertaking.

At the same time, however, it must be admitted, that if any body of persons would adopt the example now set by the American company, and commence a survey of any new route at their own expense, they would be entitled to every consideration, and to rank as benefactors of the community, whatever might be the result of their endeavors. There are none who can help forward the enterprise, either directly or indirectly, upon whom it will not shed honor. That honor, too, will not be distant. The progress of the work will unite for the first time in a direct manner the two great nations upon whose mutual friendship the welfare of the world depends; and its completion will cause a revolution in commerce more extensive and beneficent than any that has yet occurred, and which may still be so rapid as to be witnessed by many who even now are old.

[From the Spectator.]

THE MURDER MARKET.

"The Doddinghurst murder," "the Frimley murder," "the Regent's Park burglary," "the Birmingham burglary," "the Liverpool plate robberies,"--the plots thicken to such a degree that society turns still paler; and having last week asked for ideas on the subject of better security for life and property, asks this week, still more urgently, for _more_ security. We must then penetrate deeper into the causes.

Yes, civilization is observable in nothing more than in the development of criminality. Whether it is that _pennyalining_ discloses it more, or that the instances really are more numerous, may be doubtful; but why, in spite of modern improvements to illumine, order, and guard society, does crime stalk abroad so signally unchecked?--_that_ is the question.

We believe that the causes are various; and that to effect a thorough amendment, we must deal with _all_ the causes, radically. Let us reckon up some of them. One is, that the New Police, which at first acted as a scarecrow, has grown familiar to the ruffianly or roguish: it has been discovered that a Policeman is not ubiquitous, and if you know that he is walking toward Berkhamstead you are certain that he is not going toward Hemel Hempstead. In some counties the Policeman is the very reverse of ubiquitous, being altogether non-inventus, by reason of parsimony in the rate-payers. The disuse of arms and the general unfamiliarity with them help to embolden the audacious. The increase of wealth is a direct attraction: the more silver spoons and epergnes, the more gold-handled knives and dish-covers electro-gilt, are to be found in pantry, the more baits are there set for the wild animals of society; and if there be no trap with the bait, then the human vermin merely run off with it. But he will bite if you offer any let. With the general luxury grows the burglarious love of luxury: as peers and cits grow more curious in their appetites, so burglars and swell-mobsmen. The tasteful cruet which tempts Lady Juliana, and is gallantly purchased by her obliging husband Mr. Stubbs, has its claims also for Dick Stiles; and the champagne which is so relished by the guests round Mr. Stubbs's mahogany is pleasant tipple under a hedge. Another cause, most pregnant with inconvenience to the public, is the practice in which we persist in letting our known criminals go about at large, on constitutional scruples against shutting the door till the steed be gone. We are bound to treat a man as innocent until he be found guilty,--which means, that we must not hang him or pillory him without proof before a jury: but an innocent man may be suspected, and _ought_ to be suspected, if appearances are against him. So much for the suspected criminal, whom we will not take into custody until he has galloped off in our own saddle. But even the convicted ruffian is to be set at large, under the system of time sentences. Yes, "the liberty of the subject" demands the license of the burglar.

A sixth cause is the mere increase of the population hereditarily given to crime,--a caste upon which we have made so little impression, either by prison discipline, ragged schools, or any other process. In education we rely upon book learning or theological scrap teaching, neither of which influences will reach certain minds; for there are many, and not the worst dispositions, that never can be brought under a very active influence of a studious or spiritual kind. But we omit the right kind of training, the physical and material, for that order of mind.

Other causes are--the wide social separation in this country, by virtue of which our servants are strangers in the house, alien if not hostile to the family; the want of our present customs to give scope for such temperaments as need excitement; the state of the Poor-law, which makes the honest man desperate and relaxes the proper control over the vagrant.

The remedies for these causes must go deeper than bells for shutters or snappish housedogs for the night: meanwhile, we must be content to read of murders, and to use the best palliatives we can--even shutter-bells and vigilant little dogs.

[From the Examiner.]

STATUES.