Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. V.--NEW-YORK, MARCH 1, 1852--No. III.

THE AZTECS AT THE SOCIETY LIBRARY.

For several weeks the attention of the curious has been more and more attracted to a remarkable ethnological exhibition at the Society Library. Two persons, scarcely larger than the fabled gentlemen of Lilliput, (though one is twelve or thirteen and the other eighteen years of age), of just and even elegant proportions, and physiognomies striking and peculiar, but not deficient in intellect or refinement, have been visited by throngs of idlers in quest of amusement, wonder-seekers, and the profoundest inquirers into human history. Until very recently, Mexico was properly described as _Terra Incognita_. The remains of nations are there shrouded in oblivion, and cities, in their time surpassing Tadmor and Thebes, untrodden except by the jaguar and the ocelot. A few persons, indeed, attracted by uncertain rumors of ancient grandeur in Palenque, have visited her temples and tombs--

There to track
Fallen states and empires o'er a land
Which was the mightiest in her high command,
And is the loveliest--

but no one has been found to read the hieroglyphics of Tolteca, to disclose the history of the dwellers in Anahuac, to make known the annals of the rise and fall of Tlascala, Otumba, Copan, or Papantla. In the great work of Lord Kingsborough are collected many important remains of Mexican and Aztec art and learning; Mr. Prescott has combined with a masterly hand the traditions of the country; and Mr. Stevens and Mr. Squier have done much in the last few years to render us familiar with the more accessible and probably most significant ruins which illustrate the civilization of the race subdued by the Spaniards; but still Central America is unexplored. In the second volume of the work of Mr. Stevens, he mentions that a Roman Catholic priest of Santa Cruz del Quiche told him marvellous stories of a "large city, with turrets white and glittering in the sun," beyond the Cordilleras, where a people still existed in the condition of the subjects of Montezuma. He proceeds:

"The interest awakened in us, was the most thrilling I ever
experienced. One look at that city, was worth ten years of an
every-day life. If he is right, a place is left where Indians
and a city exist, as Cortez and Alvarado found them; there are
living men who can solve the mystery that hangs over the ruined
cities of America; who can, perhaps, go to Copan and read the
inscription on its monuments. No subject more exciting and
attractive presents itself to any mind, and the deep impression
in my mind will never be effaced. Can it be true? Being now in
my sober senses, I do verily believe there is much ground to
suppose that what the Padre told us is authentic. That the
region referred to does not acknowledge the government of
Gautamala, and has never been explored, and that no white man
has ever pretended to have entered it; I am satisfied. From
other sources we heard that a large _ruined_ city was visible;
and we were told of another person who had climbed to the top
of the sierra, but on account of the dense clouds rising upon
it, he had not been able to see any thing. At all events, the
belief at the village of Chajul is general, and a curiosity is
aroused that burns to be satisfied. We had a craving desire to
reach the mysterious city. No man if so willing to peril his
life, could undertake the enterprise, with any hope of success,
without hovering for one or two years on the borders of the
country, studying the language and character of the adjoining
Indians, and making acquaintance with some of the natives. Five
hundred men could probably march directly to the city, and the
invasion would be more justifiable than any made by Spaniards;
but the government is too much occupied with its own wars, and
the knowledge could not be procured except at the price of
blood. Two young men of good constitution, and who could afford
to spend five years, might succeed. If the object of search
prove a phantom, in the wild scenes of a new and unexplored
country, there are other objects of interest; but, if real,
besides the glorious excitement of such a novelty, they will
have something to look back upon through life. As to the
dangers, they are always magnified, and, in general, peril is
discovered soon enough for escape. But, in all probability, if
any discovery is made, it will be made by the Padres. As for
ourselves, to attempt it alone, ignorant of the language, and
with the mozos who were a constant annoyance to us, was out of
the question. The most we thought of, was to climb to the top
of the sierra, thence to look down upon the mysterious city;
but we had difficulties enough in the road before us; it would
add ten days to a journey already almost appalling in the
perspective; for days the sierra might be covered with clouds;
in attempting too much, we might lose all; Palenque was our
great point, and we determined not to be diverted from the
course we had marked out."--_Vol. ii., p. 193-196._

Mr. Stevens appears to have had some confidence in the Padre's statement, and expresses a belief that the race of the aboriginal inhabitants of Central America is not extinct, but that, scattered perhaps and retired, like our own Indians, into wildernesses which have never been penetrated by white men--erecting buildings of "lime and stone," "with ornaments of sculpture, and plastered," "large courts," and "lofty towers, with high ranges of steps," and carving on tablets of stone mysterious hieroglyphs, there are still in secluded cities "unconquered, unvisited, and unsought aborigines." It is stated in a pamphlet before us, that such a city was discovered in 1849 by three adventurous travellers, and that one of them succeeded in bringing to New York two specimens of its diminutive and peculiar inhabitants--the persons now being exhibited in Broadway. Of the credibility of this account we express no opinion, but the "Aztec Children" have the phrenological and general appearance of the ancient Mexican sculptures, and may well be regarded for their probable origin, their physical structure, or their mere appearance, as among the "most wonderful specimens of humanity." We assent to the following paragraph by Mr. Horace Greeley, whose testimony agrees with the common impressions they have produced:

"I hate monstrosities, however remarkable, and am rather
repelled than attracted by the idea of their truthfulness.
Assuming that there is a propensity in human nature--an
'organ,' as the phrenologists would phrase it--that finds
gratification in the inspection and scrutiny of Joice Heths,
Woolly Horses, and six-legged Swine, I would rather have it
gratified by fabricated and factitious than by natural and
veritable productions, and would rather not share in the
process from which that gratification is extracted. There is a
superabundance of ugliness and deformity which one is obliged
to see, without running after and nosing any out. It was,
therefore, with some reluctance that I obeyed a polite
invitation to visit the Aztec children, and ratify or dispute
the commendations hitherto bestowed on them, in these columns
and elsewhere. I did not expect to find ogres nor any thing
hideous, but, among all similar exhibitions, remembering with
pleasure only Tom Thumb, I could not hope to find gratification
in the sight of two dwarf Indians. But I was disappointed.
These children are simply abridgements or pocket editions of
Humanity--bright-eyed, delicate-featured, olive-complexioned
little elves, with dark, straight, glossy hair,
well-proportioned heads, and animated, pleasing countenances.
That their ages are honestly given, and that the boy weighs
just about as many pounds as he is years old (twenty), while
the girl is about half his age and three pounds lighter, I see
no reason at all for doubting. That they are human beings,
though of a low grade morally and intellectually, as well as
diminutive physically, there can be no doubt; and they are not
freaks of Nature, but specimens of a dwindled, minnikin race,
who almost realize in bodily form our ideas of the 'brownies,'
'bogles,' and other fanciful creations of a more superstitious
age. Their heads, unlike those of dwarfs, are small and not
ill-looking, but with very low foreheads and a general
conformation strongly confirmatory of certain fundamental
assertions of Phrenology. Idiotic they are not; but their
intellect and language are those of children of three or four
years, to whom their gait also assimilates them; but they have
none of childhood's reserve or shyness, are inquisitive and
restless, and articulate with manifest efforts and difficulty.
To children of three to six or eight years, their incessant
pranks and gambols must be a source of intense and unfailing
delight. The story that they were procured from an unknown,
scarcely approachable Aboriginal City of Central America called
_Iximaya_, situated high among the mountains and rarely visited
by civilized man, may be true or false; but that they are
natives of that part of the world, I cannot doubt. To the
moralist, the student, the physiologist, they are subjects
deserving of careful scrutiny and thoughtful observation; while
to those whose highest motive is the gratification of
curiosity, but especially to children, they must be objects of
vivid interest."

A DAY AT CHATSWORTH.

THE PRISON OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, AND PALACE OF THE DUKES OF DEVONSHIRE.

Among the most magnificent of the palatial homes of England--indeed one of the most rich and splendid residences occupied in all the world by an uncrowned master--is Chatsworth, in Derbyshire, the most beautiful district in the British islands. With some abridgment we transfer to the _International_ an account of a recent visit to Chatsworth, by Mrs. S. C. HALL, with the illustrations by Mr. FINHALT, from the January number of the London _Art-Journal_. Our agreeable authoress, after some general observations respecting the attractions of the neighborhood, proceeds:

"We are so little proud of the beauties of England, that the
foreigner only hears of Derbyshire as the casket which contains
the rich jewel of CHATSWORTH. The setting is worthy of the gem.
It ranks foremost among proudly beautiful English mansions; and
merits its familiar title of the Palace of the Peak. It was the
object of our pilgrimage; and we recalled the history of the
nobles of its House. The family of Cavendish is one of our
oldest descents; it may be traced lineally from Robert de
Gernon, who entered England with the Conqueror, and whose
descendant, Roger Gernon, of Grimston, in Suffolk, marrying the
daughter and sole heiress of Lord Cavendish in that county, in
the reign of Edward II., gave the name of that estate as a
surname to his children, which they ever after bore. The study
of the law seems to have been for a long period the means of
according position and celebrity to the family, Sir William
Cavendish, in whose person all the estates conjoined, was Privy
Councillor to Henry VIII., Edward VI., and Mary; he had been
Gentleman-Usher to Wolsey; and after the fall of the great
Cardinal, was retained in the service of Henry VIII. He
accumulated much wealth, but chiefly by his third marriage,
with Elizabeth, the wealthy widow of Robert Barley, at whose
instigation he sold his estates in other parts of England, to
purchase lands in Derbyshire, where her great property lay.
Hardwick Hall was her paternal residence, but Sir William began
to build another at Chatsworth, which he did not live to
finish. Ultimately, Elizabeth became the wife of George Talbot,
Earl of Shrewsbury; she was one of the most remarkable women of
her time, and the foundress of the two houses of Devonshire and
Newcastle. Her second son, William, by the death of his elder
brother in 1616, after being created Baron Cavendish, of
Hardwick, was in 1618 created Earl of Devonshire. It was
happily said of him, 'his learning operated on his conduct, but
was seldom shown in his discourse.' His son, the third Earl,
was a zealous loyalist; like his father, remarkable for his
cultivated taste and learning, perfected under the
superintendence of the famous Hobbes of Malmesbury. His eldest
son, William, was the first Duke of Devonshire; the friend of
Lord Russell, and one of the few who fearlessly testified to
his honor on his memorable trial. Wearied of courts, he retired
to Chatsworth, which at that time was a quadrangular building,
with turrets in the Elizabethan taste; and then, 'as if his
mind rose upon the depression of his fortune,' says Kennett,
'he first projected the now glorious pile of Chatsworth;' he
pulled down the south side of 'that good old seat,' and rebuilt
it on a plan 'so fair an august, that it looked like a model
only of what might be done in after ages.' After seven years,
he added the other sides, 'yet the building was his least
charge, if regard be had to his gardens, water-works, statues,
pictures, and other the finest pieces of Art and Nature that
could be obtained abroad or at home.' He was highly honored
with the favor and confidence of William III. and his successor
Anne. Dying in 1707, his son William, who was Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland, spent the latter part of his life at Chatsworth,
dying there in 1755. It is now the favorite country residence
of his great grandson, the sixth Duke and ninth Earl of
Devonshire.

"The Duke's tastes, as evinced at Chatsworth, are of the purest
and happiest order;--and are to be found in the adornments of
his rooms, the shelves of his library, the riches of his
galleries of art, and the rare and beautiful exotic marvels of
his gardens and conservatories. Charles Cotton, in his poem,
the _Wonders of the Peak_, wrote, two centuries ago, of the
then Earl of Devonshire--and no language can apply with
greater truth to the Duke who is now master of Chatsworth:

"But that which crowns all this, and does impart
A lustre far beyond the pow'r of Art,
Is the great Owner; He, whose noble mind
For such a Fortune only was design'd.
Whose bounties, as the Ocean's bosom wide,
Flow in a constant, unexhausted tide
Of Hospitality, and free access,
Liberal Condescension, cheerfulness,
Honor and Truth, as ev'ry of them strove
At once to captivate Respect and Love:
And with such order all perform'd, and grace,
As rivet wonder to the stately place."

"Although carriages are permitted to drive from the railway
terminus at Rowsley, to the pretty and pleasant inn at Edenson,
by a road which passes directly under the house, the stranger
should receive his first impressions of Chatsworth from one of
the surrounding heights. It is impossible to convey a just idea
of its breadth and dignity; the platform upon which it stands
is a fitting base for such a structure; the trees, that at
intervals relieve and enliven the vast space, are of every rich
variety, the terraces nearly twelve hundred feet in
extent--'the emperor fountain' throwing its jet two hundred and
seventy feet into the air, far overtopping the avenue of
majestic trees, of which it forms the centre. The dancing
fountain, the great cascade, even the smaller fountains
(wonderful objects any where, except here, where there are so
many more wonderful) sparkle through the foliage; while all is
backed by magnificent hanging woods, and the high lands of
Derbyshire, extending from the hills of Matlock to Stony
Middleton. And the foreground of the picture is, in its way,
equally beautiful; the expansive view, the meadows now broken
into green hills and mimic valleys, the groups of fallow deer,
and herds of cattle, reposing beneath the shade of
wide-spreading chestnuts, or the stately beech--all is harmony
to perfection; nothing is wanting to complete the fascination
of the whole. The enlarged and cultivated minds which conceived
these vast yet minute arrangements, did not consider minor
details as unimportant; every tree, and brake, and bush; every
ornament, every path, is exactly in its right place, and seems
to have ever been there. Nothing, however great, or however
small, has escaped consideration; there are no bewildering
effects, such as are frequently seen in large domains, and
which render it difficult to recall what at the time may have
been much admired; all is arranged with the dignity of order;
all, however graceful, is substantial; the ornaments sometimes
elaborate, never descend into prettiness; the character of the
scenery has been borne in mind, and its beauty never outraged
by extravagance. All is in harmony with the character which
nature in her most generous mood gave to the hills and valleys;
God has been gracious to the land, and man has followed in the
pathway He has made.

"A month at Chatsworth would hardly suffice to count its
beauties; but much may be done in a day, when eyes and ears are
open, and the heart beats in sympathy with the beauties of
Nature and of Art. It is, perhaps, best to visit the gardens of
Chatsworth first; they are little more than half a mile to the
north of the park; and there Sir Joseph Paxton is building his
new dwelling, or rather adding considerably to the beauty and
convenience of the old. In the Kitchen-Gardens, containing
twelve acres, there are houses for every species of plant, but
the grand attraction is the house which contains the Royal Lily
(Victoria Regia), and other lilies and water-plants from
various countries. It will be readily believed that the
flower-gardens are among the most exquisitely beautiful in
Europe; they have been arranged by one of the master minds of
the age, and bear evidence of matured knowledge, skill, and
taste; the nicest judgment seems to have been exercised over
even the smallest matter of detail, while the whole is as
perfect a combination as can be conceived of grandeur and
loveliness. The walks, lawns, and parterres are lavishly, but
unobtrusively, decorated with vases and statues; terraces occur
here and there, from which are to be obtained the best views of
the adjacent country; 'Patrician trees' at intervals form
umbrageous alleys; water is made contributory from a hundred
mountain streams and rivulets, to form jets, cascades, and
fountains, which, infinitely varied in their 'play,' ramble
among lilies, or--it is scarcely an exaggeration to say--fling
their spray into the clouds, and descend to refresh the topmost
leaves of trees that were in their prime three centuries ago.
The most striking and original of the walks is that which leads
through mimic Alpine scenery to the great conservatory; here
Art has been most triumphant; the rocks, which, have been all
brought hither, are so skilfully combined, so richly clad in
mosses, so luxuriantly covered with heather, so judiciously
based with ferns and water-plants, that you move among or
beside them in rare delight at the sudden change which
transports you from trim parterres to the utmost wildness of
natural beauty. From these again you pass into a garden, in the
centre of which is the conservatory, always renowned, but now
more than ever, as the prototype of the famous Palace of Glass,
which, in this _Annus Mirabilis_, received under its roof six
millions of the people of all nations, tongues, and creeds. In
extent, the conservatory at Chatsworth is but a pigmy compared
with that which glorifies Hyde Park: but it is filled with the
rarest Exotics from all parts of the globe--from 'farthest
Ind,' from China, from the Himalayas, from Mexico; here you see
the rich banana, Eschol's grape hanging in ripe profusion
beneath the shadow of immense paper-like leaves; the feathery
cocoa-palm, with its head peering almost to the lofty arched
roof; the far-famed silk cotton-tree, supplying a sheet of
cream-colored blossoms, at a season when all outward vegetable
gayety is on the wane: the singular milk-tree of the
Caraccas--the fragrant cinnamon and cassia--with thousands of
other rare and little-known species of both flowers and fruits.
The Italian Garden--opposite the library windows, with its
richly colored parterres, and its clustered foliage wreathed
around the pillars which support the statues and busts
scattered among them, and hanging from one to the other with a
luxurious verdure which seems to belong to the south--is a
relief to the eye sated with the splendors of the palatial
edifice.

"The water-works, which were constructed under the direction of
M. Grillet, a French artist, were begun in 1690, when a pipe
for what was then called 'the great fountain' was laid down;
the height of twenty feet to which it threw water being, at
that time, considered sufficiently wonderful to justify the
hyperbolical language of Cotton:

'--should it break or fall, I doubt we should
Begin to reckon from the second flood.'

It was afterward elevated to fifty feet, and then to
ninety-four feet; but it is now celebrated as the most
remarkable fountain in the world; it rises to the height of two
hundred and sixty-seven feet, and has been named the _Emperor
Fountain_, in honor of the visit of the Emperor of Russia to
Chatsworth in 1844. Such is the velocity with which the water
is ejected, that it is shown to escape at the rate of one
hundred miles per minute; for the purpose of supplying it, a
reservoir, or immense artificial lake, has been constructed on
the hills, above Chatsworth, which is fed by the streams around
and the springs on the moors drains being cut for this purpose,
commencing at Humberly Brook, on the Chesterfield Road, two
miles and a half from the reservoir, which covers eight acres;
a pipe winds down the hill side, through which the water
passes; and such is its waste, that a diminution of a foot may
be perceived when the water-works have been played for three
hours. Nothing can exceed the stupendous effect of this column,
which may be seen for many miles around, shooting upwards to
the sky in varied and graceful evolutions. From this upper lake
the waterfalls are also supplied, which are constructed with so
natural an effect on the hill side, behind the water-temple,
which reminds the spectator of the glories of St. Cloud. From
the dome of this temple bursts forth a gush of water that
covers its surface, pours through the urns at its sides, and
springs up in fountains underneath, thence descending in a long
series of step-like falls, until it sinks beneath the rocks at
the base, and--after rising again to play as 'the dancing
fountain' is conveyed by drains under the garden and
park,--being emptied into the Derwent.[1] But we may not forget
that our space is limited: to describe the gardens and
conservatories of Chatsworth would occupy more pages than we
can give to the whole theme; suffice it that the taste and
liberality of the Duke of Devonshire, and the skill and
judgment of Sir Joseph Paxton, have so combined Nature and Art
in this delicious region, as to supply all the enjoyment that
may be desired or is attainable, from trees, shrubs, and
flowers seen under the happiest arrangement of countries,
classes, and colors.

"The erection of the present house is narrated by Lysons, who
says, the south front was begun to be rebuilt on the 12th of
April, 1687, and the great hall and staircase covered in about
the middle of April, 1690; the east front was begun in 1693,
and finished in 1700; the south gallery was pulled down and
rebuilt in 1703; in 1704, the north front was pulled down; the
west front was finished in 1706; and the whole of the building
not long afterwards completed, being about twenty years from
the time of its commencement. The architect was Mr. William
Talman, but in May, 1692, the works were surveyed by Sir
Christopher Wren.

"On entering--the Lower Hall or Western Lodge contains some
very fine antique statuary, and fragments which deserve the
especial attention of the connoisseur. Among them are several
which were the treasured relics of Canova and Sir Henry
Englefield, and others found in Herculaneum, and presented by
the King of Naples to 'the beautiful' Duchess of Devonshire. A
corridor leads thence to the Great Hall, which is decorated
with paintings by the hand of a famous artist in his
day--Verrio--celebrated by Pope for his proficiency in
ceiling-painting. The effect of the hall is singularly good,
with its grand stair and triple arches opening to the principal
rooms. The sub-hall, behind, is embellished by a graceful
fountain, with the story of Diana and Actaeon, and the abundance
of water at Chatsworth is sufficient for it to be constantly
playing, producing an effect seldom attempted within doors. A
long gallery leads to the various rooms inhabited by the Duke,
the walls being decorated with a large number of fine pictures
by the older masters of the Flemish and Italian schools. In the
billiard-room are Landseer's famed picture of Bolton Abbey in
the Olden Time, with charming specimens of Collins, and other
British painters.

"The chapel is richly decorated with foliage in carved
woodwork, which has been erroneously attributed to Grinling
Gibbons. It was executed by Thomas Young, who was engaged as
the principal carver in wood in 1689, and by a pupil of his,
Samuel Watson, a native of Heanor, in Derbyshire, whose claim
to the principal ornamental woodcarving at Chatsworth is set
forth in verses on his tomb in Heanor Church.

"Over the Colonnade on the north side of the quadrangle, is a
gallery nearly one hundred feet long in which have been hung a
numerous and valuable collection of drawings by the old
masters, arranged according to the schools of art of which they
are examples. There is no school unrepresented, and as the eye
wanders over the thickly-covered wall, it is arrested by
sketches from the hands of Raffaelle, Da Vinci, Claude Poussin,
Paul Veronese, Salvator Rosa, and the other great men who have
made Art immortal. To describe these works would occupy a
volume; to study them a life; it is a glorious collection
fitly displayed.

"The old state-rooms, which form the upper floors of the south
front, occupy the same position as those which were
appropriated to the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots during her
long residence here. There is, however, but little to see of
her period; if we except some needlework at the back of a
canopy representing hunting scenes, worked by the hand of the
famous Countess of Shrewsbury, popularly known as 'Bess of
Hardwick.'

"The gallery, ninety feet by twenty-two, originally constructed
for dancing, has been fitted up by the present Duke as a
library. Among the books which formed the original library at
Chatsworth, are several which belonged to the celebrated
Hobbes, who was many years a resident at the old hall. The
library of Henry Cavendish, and the extensive and valuable
collection at Devonshire House have aided to swell its stores.
Thin quartos of the rarest order, unique volumes of old poetry,
scarce and curious pamphlets by the early printers, first
editions of Shakspeare, early pageants, and the rarest dramatic
and other popular literature of the Elizabethan era, may be
found in this well-ordered room--not to speak of its great
treasure, the _Liber Veritalus_ of Claude.

"The statue gallery, a noble room erected by the present Duke,
contains a judiciously-selected series of sculptures. The gem
of the collection is the famous seated statue of Madame
Bonaparte, mother of Napoleon, by Canova. The same style
characterizes that of Pauline Borghese, by Campbell. Other
works of Canova are here--his statue of Hebe, and Endymion
sleeping; a bust of Petrarch's Laura, and the famous Lions,
copied by Benaglia from the colossal originals on the monument
of Clement XIV., at Rome. Thorwaldsen is abundantly represented
by his Night and Morning, and his bas-reliefs of Priam
Petitioning for the Body of Hector, and Briseis, taken from
Achilles by the Heralds. Schadow's Filatrice, or Spinning Girl,
and his classic bas-reliefs are worthy of all admiration. The
English school of sculpture appears to advantage in Gibson's
fine group, Mars and Cupid, and his bas-relief of Hero and
Leander--Chantry's busts of George IV. and
Canning--Westmacott's Cymbal Plaery--Wyatt's Musidora, and many
others.

"Our visit to the mansion may conclude with a brief notice of
one of its most interesting relics. Queen Mary's Bower is a sad
memorial of the unhappy Queen's fourteen years' imprisonment
here. It has been quaintly described as 'an island plat, on the
top of a square tower, built in a large pool.' It is reached by
a bridge, and in this lonely island-garden did Mary pass many
days of a captivity, rendered doubly painful by the jealous
bickerings of the Countess of Shrewsbury, who openly complained
to Elizabeth of the Queen's intimacy with her husband; an
unfounded aspersion, which Mary's urgent solicitations to
Elizabeth obliged the Countess to retract, but which led to
Mary's removal from the Earl's custody to that of Sir Amias
Pawlet.

"To the Hunting-Tower on the hill above the house, the ascent
is by a road winding gracefully among venerable trees, planted
'when Elizabeth was Queen,' and occasionally passing beside a
fall of water, which dashes among rocks from the moors above.
The tower stands on the edge of the steep and thickly-wooded
hill; it is built on a platform of stone, reached by a few
steps; it is one of the relics of old Chatsworth, and is a
characteristic and curious feature of the scene. Such towers
were frequently placed near lordly residences in the olden
time, for the purpose 'of giving the ladies of those days an
opportunity of enjoying the sport of hunting,' which, from the
heights above, they saw in the vales beneath. The view from the
tower is one of the finest in England. The house and grounds
below, embosomed in foliage, peep through the umbrage far
beneath your feet; the rapid Derwent courses along through the
level valley. The wood opposite crowns the rising ground, above
Edensor--the picturesque and beautiful village within whose
humble church many members of the noble family are buried. The
village itself may be considered as a model of taste; it
resembles a group of Italian and Gothic villas, the utmost
variety and the most picturesque styles of architecture being
adopted for their construction, while the little flower-gardens
before them are as carefully tended as those at Chatsworth
itself. Upon the hills above are traces of Roman encampments,
and from the summit you look down upon the beautiful village
of Bakewell, and far-famed Haddon Hall--the antique residence
of the dukes of Rutland, an unspoiled relic of the sixteenth
century. Looking toward the north, the eye traverses the
fertile and beautiful valley of the Derwent, with the quiet
little villages of Pilsley, Hassop, and Baslow, consisting of
groups of cottages and quiet homesteads, speaking of pastoral
life in its most favorable aspect. The eye, following the
direction of the stream, is carried over the village of Calver,
beyond which the rocks of Stony Middleton converge and shut in
the prospect, with their gates of stone; amid distant trees,
the village of Eyam, celebrated for its mournful story of the
plague, and the heroism of its pastor, is embosomed. The ridge
of rock stretches around the plain to the right, and upon the
moors are traces of the early Britons in circles of stones and
tumuli, with various other singular and deeply-interesting
relics of 'the far off past.' Turning to the south, the
prospect is bounded by the hills of Matlock; the villages of
Darley-le-Dale, and Rowsley, reposing in mid-distance; the
entire prospect comprising a series of picturesque mountains,
fertile plains, wood, water, and rock, which cannot be
surpassed in the world for variety and beauty. The noble domain
in the foreground forming the grand centre of the whole:

"'This palace, with wild prospects girded round,
Where the scorn'd Peak rivals proud Italy.'

"It was evening when we ascended this charming hill, and stood
beneath the shadow of its famous Hunting Tower. The sun had
just set, leaving a landscape of immense extent sleeping
beneath rose-colored clouds; the air was balmy and fragrant
with the peculiar odor of the pine-trees which topped the
summit of the promontory on which we stood. We were told of
Taddington Hill--of Beeley Edge--of Brampton Moor--of Robin
Hood's bar--of Froggat Edge--until our eyes ached from the
desire to distinguish the one from the other. There was Tor
this, and Dale that, and such a hall and such a hamlet; but the
stillness by which we were surrounded had become so delicious
that we longed to enjoy it in solitude.

"What pen can tell of the beams of light that played on the
highlands, when, after the fading of that gorgeous sunset, the
valley became steeped in a soft blue-gray color, so tender, and
clear and pure, that it conveyed the idea of 'atmosphere' to
perfection. Then, as the shadows, the soothing shadows of
evening, increased around us, the woods seemed to melt into the
mountains; the rivers veiled their course by their misty
incense to the heavens--wreath after wreath of vapor creeping
upwards; and as the distances faded into indistinctness, the
bold headlands seemed to grow and prop the clouds; the heavens
let down the pall of mystery and darkness with a tender, not
terrific, power; earth and sky blended together, softly and
gently; the coolness of the air refreshed us, and yet the
stillness on that high point was so intense as to become almost
painful. As we looked into the valley, lights sprung up in
cottage dwellings; and then, softly on a wandering breeze, came
at intervals the tolling of a deep bell from the venerable
church at Edensor, a token that some one had been summoned to
another home--perhaps in one of those pale stars that at first
singly, but then in troops, were beaming on us from the pale
blue sky.

"While slowly descending from our eyrie, amid the varied
shadows of a most lustrous moonlight, our eyes fell upon the
distant wood which surrounded Haddon Hall; its massive walls,
its mouldering tapestries, its stately terrace, its quaint
rooms and closets, its protected though decayed records of the
olden time, its minstrel gallery--were again present to our
minds; and it was a natural and most pleasing contrast--that of
the deserted and half-ruined house, with the mansion happily
inhabited, filled with so many art-treasures, and presided
over by one of the best gentlemen a monarch ever ennobled and a
people ever loved."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A quaint whim of the olden time is constructed near one of the walks; it is the model of a willow-tree in copper, which has all the appearance of a living one, situated on a raised mound of earth. From each branch, however, water suddenly bursts, and also small jets from the grassy borders around. It was considered a good jest some years ago to delude novices to examine this tree, and wet them thoroughly by suddenly turning on the water above and around them. This tree was originally made by a London plumber in 1693; but it has been recently repaired by a plumber in the neighborhood of Chesterfield, under the direction of Sir Joseph Paxton.

MEN AND WOMEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

We have _Louis Quinze_ chairs in our parlors, Louis Quinze carving and gilding about our mirrors, our ladies (in a double sense, of grace and utility), sweep past us in the streets or rustle in the ball-room in Louis Quinze brocades, with the boddice, if not the train, of pattern identical with that of Madame de Pompadour, as depicted in the excellent portrait before us in Mr. Redfield's elegant volumes, and we are, if scandal does not lie more than usual, making very practical acquaintance with Louis Quinze morals. It may be as well, therefore, to become more familiar with a period we find it so convenient to imitate. The great events of French history since 1789, their rapid sequence and ever varying character, have thrown into the shade the previous annals of the kingdom. Especially has this been the case with the period immediately preceding the days of terror. This period has been dispatched in a few sentences, in the opening chapters of works on the French Revolution--in some vague generalities on its profligacy and chaotic infamy. We have had glimpses, through the _Oeil de Boeuf_, at groups of exquisite gentlemen and gay ladies; abbes who wrote every thing but sermons, and were free from the censure of not practising what they preached since they did not preach at all; generals who fought a campaign as deliberately and ceremoniously as they danced a minuet; statesmen whose diplomacy was more of the seraglio than the council; painters who improved on nature, applying the same tricks of art to the landscape as with powders to their curls; and simpering lips of the Marquise, and poets whose highest flights were a sonnet to Pompadour, or a pastoral to a sheep-tending Phillis. Our casual observations of all these people, however, have been vague and slight, for few have probably had patience to follow these worthies to their retirement, and look over their shoulders at the memoirs which every mother's son and daughter of the set, from the prime minister to the cook, found--it is impossible to tell how--time to scribble down for the edification of posterity. In the volumes of Arsene Houssaye before us, these gay but unsubstantial shadows take flesh and blood, and become the _Men and Women_--the living realities of the Eighteenth Century. We have here the most piquant adventures of the _Memoirs_ and the choicest _mots_ of the _Anas_, culled from the hundreds of volumes which weigh down the shelves of the French public libraries. Not only indeed have we the run of the _petites soupers_ of Versailles, but we may wander at will in the coulisses of the Grand Opera, picking up the latest gossip of Camargo or Sophie Arnold, enter the foyer of the classic Theatre Francaise, or adjourn to the Cafe Procope to hear the last joke of Piron, or the latest news from Fernay. And better than all these, we may mount, _au cinquieme, au sexieme_, to the lofty yet humble garret of the author or the artist, and there find, in an age of sickening heartlessness, refreshing scenes of household sincerity, patient endurance of hardship, showing that even that depraved age was not utterly devoid of the heroic and the pure. M. Houssaye is no rigid moralist, he employs no historic pillory, and often displays the painful flippancy of the modern French school on religious points, but he does honor to these better traits of humanity when he meets them. And we are not sure but that the morality of the work is the more impressive for the absence of the didactic. Here is little danger of our falling in love with vice, seductive as she appears in the annals of Louis XV., for we see the rotten canvas as well as the brilliant scene. We remember with the gaudy blossoms of 1740-60, the ashen fruit of 1789-'95. It is as hard to select extracts from M. Houssaye's volumes on account of the _embarras des richesses_, as it would be to choose a gem or two for our drawing-room from a gallery of Watteau and Greuze, or a row of Laucret's _passets_. Much as the reader, we doubt not, will enjoy those we have picked for him, he will still find equal or greater pleasure in those we have left untouched.

Here are the first steps in the ascent of Madame de Pompadour to that "bad eminence" she attained of virtual though virtueless Queen of France. The entire sketch is the best life of this celebrated woman with which we are acquainted:

"Madame de Pompadour was born in Paris, in 1720. She always
said it was 1722. It is affirmed, that Poisson, her father, at
least the husband of her mother, was a sutler in the army; some
historians state that he was the butcher of the Hospital of the
Invalides, and was condemned to be hung; according to Voltaire,
she was the daughter of a farmer of Ferte-sous-Jouarre. What
matters it, since he who was truly a father to her was the
farmer-general, Lenormant de Tourneheim. This gentleman,
thinking her worthy of his fortune, took her to his home, and
brought her up, as if she had been his own daughter. He gave
her the name of Jeanne-Antoinette. She bore till she was
sixteen years of age this sweet name of Jeanne. From her
infancy, she exhibited a passion for music and drawing. All the
first masters of the day were summoned to the hotel of
Lenormant de Tourneheim. Her masters did not disgust Jeanne
with the fine arts of which she was so fond. Her talent was
soon widely known. Fontenelle, Duclos, and Crebillon, who were
received at the hotel as men of wit, went about every where,
talking of her beauty, her grace, and talent.

"Madame de Pompadour was an example of a woman that was both
handsome and pretty; the lines of her face possessed all the
harmony and elevation of a creation of Raphael's; but instead
of the elevated sentiment with which that great master animated
his faces, there was the smiling expression of a Parisian
woman. She possessed in the highest degree all that gives to
the face brilliancy, charm, and sportive gayety. No lady at
court had then so noble and coquettish a bearing, such delicate
and attractive features, so elegant and graceful a figure. Her
mother used always to say, 'A king alone is worthy of my
daughter.' Jeanne had an early presentiment of a throne! at
first, from the ambitious longings of her mother; afterward,
because she believed that she was in love with the king. 'She
confessed to me,' says Voltaire, in his memoirs, 'that she had
a secret presentiment that the king would fall in love with
her, and that she had a violent inclination for him.' There is
a time in life when destiny reveals itself. All those who have
succeeded in climbing the rugged mountain of human vanity
relate that, from their earliest youth, dazzling visions
revealed to them their future glory.

"Well, how was the throne of France to be reached, the very
idea of which made her head turn? In the mean time, full of
genius, always admired, and always listened to, she
familiarized herself with the life of a beautiful queen; she
saw at her feet all the worshippers of the fortune of her
father; she gathered about her poets, artists, and
philosophers, over whom she already threw a royal protection.

"The farmer-general had a nephew, Lenormant d'Etioles. He was
an amiable young man, and had the character and manners of a
gentleman; he was heir to the immense fortune of the
farmer-general, at least, according to law. Jeanne, on her
side, had some claim to a share of this fortune. It was a very
simple way of making all agreed, by marrying the young people.
Jeanne, as we have seen, was already in love with the king; she
married D'Etioles without shifting her point in view:
Versailles, Versailles, that was her only horizon. Her young
husband became desperately enamored of her; but this passion of
his, which amounted almost to madness, she never felt in the
least. She received it with resignation, as a misfortune that
could not last long.

"The hotel of the newly-married couple,
_Rue-Croix-des-Petits-Champs_, was established on a lordly
footing; the best company in Paris left the fashionable
_salons_ for that of Madame D'Etioles until that time, there
had never been such a gorgeous display of luxury in France. The
young bride hoped by this means to make something of a noise at
court, and thus excite the curiosity of the king. Day after day
passed away in feasts and brilliant entertainments. Celebrated
actors, poets, artists, and foreigners, all made their
rendezvous at this hotel, the mistress of which was its life
and ornament; all the world went there, in one word, except the
king."

The painters are among the pleasantest personages of Mr. Houssaye's book, as they generally are in whatever society or whatever time we find them, all the world over. Watteau is familiar to us all, if not from his works, at second-hand in engravings, or those dainty little china shepherdesses and shepherds which we have seen on our grandmothers' mantel-pieces, and which are again emerging from the glass corner cupboard to the rosewood and mirrored etagere. The following passages descriptive of his early life, are full of animation:

"He was born in 1684, at the time the king of France was
bombarding Luxembourg. His family was poor, as a matter of
course. He was put to school just long enough not to learn any
thing. He was never able to read and write without great
difficulty, but it was not in that his strength lay. He learned
early to discover genius in a picture, to copy with a happy
touch the gay face of Nature. There had been painters in his
family, among others, a great uncle, who had died at Antwerp,
without leaving any property. The father of Watteau had little
leaning toward painting; but he was one of those who let men
and things here below take their course. Watteau, therefore,
was permitted to take his. Now Watteau was born a painter. God
had given him the fire of genius, if not genius. His first
master was chance, the greatest of all masters after God. His
father lived in the upper story of a house with its gable-end
to the street. Watteau had his nose out of the window oftener
than over a book; he loved to amuse himself with the varied
spectacle of the street. Sometimes it was the fresh-looking
Flemish peasant-girl, driving her donkey through the
market-place, sometimes the little girls of the neighborhood,
playing at shuttlecock during the fine evenings. Peasant-maid
and little child were traced in original lines in the memory of
the scholar; he already admired the indolent _naivete_ of the
one, the prattling grace of the other. He had his eye also on
some smiling female neighbor, such as are to be found every
where; but the most attractive spectacle to him was that of
some strolling troop of dancers or country-players. On
fete-days sellers of elixirs, fortune-tellers, keepers of bears
and rattlesnakes, halted under his window. They were sure of a
spectator. Watteau suddenly fell into a profound revery at the
sight of Gilles and Margot upon the stage; nothing could divert
his attention from this amusement, not even the smile of his
female neighbor: he smiled at the grotesque coquetries of
Margot; he laughed till out of breath at the quips of Gilles.
He was frequently seen seated in the window, his legs out, his
head bent, holding on with difficulty, but not losing a word or
a gesture. What would he not have given to have been the
companion of Margot, to kiss the rusty spangles of her robe, to
live with her the happy life of careless adventure? Alas! this
happiness was not for him. Margot descended from the boards,
Gilles became a man as before, the theatre was taken down,
Watteau still on the watch; but by degrees he became sad; his
friends were departing, departing without him, with their gauze
dresses, their scarfs fringed with gold, their silver lace,
their silk breeches, and their jokes.--"Those people are truly
happy," said he, "they are going to wander gayly about the
world, to play comedy wherever they may be, without cares and
without tears!"--Watteau, with his twelve-year-old eyes, saw
only the fair side of life. He did not guess, be it understood,
that beneath every smile of Margot there was a stifled tear.
Watteau seems to have always seen with the same eyes; his
glance, diverted by the expression and the color, did not
descend as far down as the soul. It was somewhat the fault of
his times. What had he to do while painting queens of comedy,
or dryads of the opera, with the heart, tears, or divine
sentiment?

"After the strollers had departed, he sketched on the margins
of the 'Lives of the Saints,' the profile of Gilles, a gaping
clown, or some grotesque scene from the booth. As he often shut
himself up in his room with this book, his father, having
frequently surprised him in a dreamy and melancholy mood,
imagined that he was becoming religious. He, however, soon
discovered that Watteau's attachment to the folio was on
account of the margin, and not of the text. He carried the book
to a painter in the city. This painter, bad as he was, was
struck with the original grace of certain of Watteau's figures,
and solicited the honor of being his master. In the studio of
this worthy man, Watteau did not unlearn all that he had
acquired, although he painted for pedlers, male and female
saints by the dozen. From this studio he passed to another,
which was more profane and more to his taste. Mythology was the
great book of the place. Instead of St. Peter, with his eternal
keys, or the Magdalen, with her infinite tears, he found a
dance of fauns and naiads, Venus, issuing from the waves, or
from the net of Vulcan. Watteau bowed amorously before the gods
and demigods of Olympus; he had found the gate to his Eden. He
progressed daily, thanks to the profane gods, in the religion
of art. He was already seen to grow pale under that love of
beauty and of glory which swallows up all other loves. On his
return from a journey to Antwerp, his friends were astonished
at the enthusiasm with which he spoke of the wonders of art. He
had beheld the masterpieces of Rubens and Vandyke, the
ineffable grace of Murillo's _Virgins_, the
ingenuously-grotesque pieces of Teniers and Van Ostade, the
beautiful landscapes of Ruysdael. He returned with head bent
and eyes fatigued, and his mind filled with lasting
recollections.

"He was not twenty when he set out for Paris with his master.
The opera, in its best days, enlisted the aid of all painters
of gracefulness. At the opera, Watteau threw the lightning
flashes of his pencil right and left: mountains, lakes,
cascades, forests, nothing dismayed him, not even the Camargos,
whom he had for models. He ended by taming himself down to this
cage of gayly-singing and fluttering birds. A dancing-girl, who
had not much to do, deigned to grant the little Flemish dauber,
the favor of sitting for her portrait. Fleming as he was,
Watteau made the progress of the portrait last longer than the
scornfulness of Mademoiselle la Montagne. This was not all: the
portrait was considered so graceful in the dancing-world, that
sitters came to him every day, on the same terms.

"He left the opera with his master, as soon as the new
decorations were finished. Besides Gillot, the great designer
of fauns and naiads had returned there more flourishing than
ever. The master returned to Valenciennes, Watteau remained at
Paris, desiring to depend upon his fortune, good or bad. He
passed from the opera into the studio of a painter of
devotional subjects, who manufactured St. Nicholases for Paris
and the provinces, to suit to the price. So Watteau
manufactured St. Nicholases, 'My pencil,' he said, 'did
penance.' The opera always attracted him; there he could give
free scope to all the extravagance of his fancy, to all the
charming caprices of his pencil; but at the opera, his master
and himself had given way to Gillot; and the latter was not
disposed to give way to any body."

An allegro morceau from the life of Gretry:

A MONK OF A BAD PATTERN.

"Other adventures also occurred, to convince Remacle that his
fellow-travellers were worthy of him. Ever in dread of the
before-mentioned officers, the old smuggler forced them to make
a _detour_ of some leagues, to see, as he said with a
disinterested air, a superb monastery, where alms were bestowed
once a week on all the poor of the country. On entering the
great hall, in the midst of a noisy crowd, Gretry saw a fat
monk, mounted on a platform, who was angrily superintending
this Christian charity. He looked as if he would like rather to
exterminate his fellow-creatures than aid them to live; he was
just bullying a poor French vagabond who implored his aid. When
he suddenly saw the noble face of Gretry he approached the
young musician.--'It is curiosity which brings you here,' he
remarked with vexation.--'It is true,' said Gretry, bowing;
'the beauty of your monastery, the sublimity of the scenery,
and the desire of contemplating the asylum where the
unfortunate traveller is received with so much humanity, have
drawn us from our route. In beholding you, I have seen the
angel of mercy. All the victims of sorrow should bless your
edifying gentleness. Tell me, father, do you make as many happy
every day as I have just witnessed?'