Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

"Eight hours elapse. Then phantoms, trailing mortuary vails, slowly cross the hall and sink in caverns, without audible noise of trapdoors or of falling. You notice only that they are gone by a fetid odor exhaled from them.

"The novice remains four and twenty hours in this gloomy abode, in the midst of a freezing silence. A rigorous fast has already weakened his thinking faculties. Liquors prepared for the purpose first weary and at length wear out his senses. At his feet are placed three cups, filled with a drink of a greenish color. Necessity lifts them to his lips: involuntary fear repels them.

"At last appear two men: looked upon as the ministers of Death. These gird the pale brow of the recipiendary with an auroral-colored-ribbon dipped in blood, and full of silvered characters mixed with our lady of Loretto. He receives a copper crucifix, of two inches length: to his neck are hung a sort of amulets wrapped in violet cloth. He is stripped of his clothes; which two ministering brethren deposit on a funeral pile, erected at the other end of the hall. With blood on his naked body are traced crosses. In this state of suffering and humiliation, he sees approaching with large strides five Phantoms armed with swords, and clad in garments dropping blood. Their faces are vailed: they spread a velvet carpet on the floor; kneel there, pray; and remain with outstretched hands crossed on their breasts, and faces fixed on the ground in deep silence. An hour passes in this painful attitude. After which fatiguing trial, plaintive cries are heard; the funeral pile takes fire, yet casts only a pale light; the garments are thrown on it and burnt. A colossal and almost transparent figure rises from the very bosom of the pile. At sight of it the five prostrated men fall into convulsions insupportable to look on: the too faithful image of those foaming struggles wherein a mortal, at hand-grips with a sudden pain, ends by sinking under it.

"Then a trembling voice pierces the vault, and articulates the formula of those execrable oaths that are to be sworn: my pen falters: I think myself almost guilty to retrace them."

Strange as it may seem, we stop here with Monsieur the Author. Strange too that some deny the reality of all this--and tell of magic lanterns and science--stranger still that men are who believe all--all--'tis to them a spasmodic miracle, and he is an infidel of course who doubts. Strange too is it, that men do not see here the monstrous power of what is called Symbolism, and that they should not help nor hinder; who say, Let the world go--who cares! Men live and women too who say, "There's _something_ in it"--there must be! and is there not? Figure now all this boundless cunningly devised agglomerate of royal arches, deaths' heads, hieroglyphically painted screens, "columns in the state of innocence, with spacious masonic halls--dark, or in the favorablest theatrical light-and-dark: Kircher's magic lantern, Belshazzar handwritings (of phosphorus), plaintive tones, gong-beatings, hoary head of a supernatural Grand Cophta emerging through the gloom--and how it all acts, not only directly through the foolish senses of men, but also indirectly connecting itself with Enoch and Elias, with philanthropy, immortality," &c. Let such as _will_ now say there is nothing in it--something there is, for a thoughtful man to consider well of, asking himself what also does this of clairvoyance, and spiritual knockings, and Jenny-Lind manias, and Jerkers--truly mean? and what kind of a person am _I who have had_ part and lot with these?

But the lofty science of Egyptian Masonry flourishes, lodges are established over Europe, and the Grand Master travels hither and thither, "mounts to the seat of the Venerable, and holds high discourse, hours long, on masonry, morality, universal science, divinity, and things in general," with a "sublimity, and emphasis and unction," proceeding it appears "from the special inspiration of the Holy Ghost." He is received with shouts and exultation--every where the great heart of man thrills at the coming of this mystic symbol, which contains--cunningly enfolded, as their eyes can and do see--every virtue, every greatness--is he not indeed the Incarnation of these, and therefore to be worshipped; such gift of reverence is in the heart of man, and to such things does he again and again bow down!

To go on. Cheers, and the ravishment of thronging audiences can make him maudlin; render him louder in eloquence of theory; and "philanthropy," "divine science," "depth of unknown worlds," "finer feelings of the heart"--and so shall draw tears from most asses of sensibility. "The few reasoning mortals scattered here and there, that see through him, deafened in the universal hub-bub, shut their lips in sorrowful disdain, _confident in the grand remedy, Time_." So says our author, and can we blame him? Will the reader allow the current of this prosperity to be checked for one moment by a certain Count M.? One of the chosen few at Warsaw, who having spent the night with the "dear Master," in conversing with spirits, had returned to the country to transmute metals perhaps--perhaps to do other mighty works. Count M. seems to have been afflicted with doubts, to have supposed that by sleight-of-hand the "sweet Master" had substituted the crucible with melted ducats, for the other--carefully filled with red lead, "smelted and set to cool," "and now found broken and hidden among these bushes"--the whole golden crucible standing in its place. "Neither does the Plenagon or Elixir of Life, or whatever it was, prosper better--our sweet master enters into expostulation--swears by his great God, and his honor, that he will finish the work and make us _happy_." In vain--"the shreds of the broken crucible lie there before your eyes"--and the usurper has its place. That "resemblance of a sleeping child, grown visible in the magic cooking of our Elixir, proves to be an inserted rosemary leaf. The Grand Cophta cannot be gone too soon."

Already it has been said that "Charity pays," philanthropy, benevolence, all these--sometimes? if one sows his bread on the waters shall he not expect its return after many or after few days?--the sooner the better for your Cagliostros, your Barnums. Shout it daily to an envious world--"Am I not a charitable man? If I have done wrong myself (as who has not?) has not a great deal of good _grown out_ of my wickedness? I have therefore done my share, for which if the world has paid me in 'praise and pudding,' it is no more than it has done before, and will do again!" Take courage!

Cagliostro doctors--heals--the poor, for nothing!--even gives them alms--does a great deal of good--who but he? At Strasburg in the year 1783 (year of our peace with England), he "appears in full bloom and radiance, the envy and admiration of the world. In large hired hospitals, he with open drug-box (containing 'Extract of Saturn'), and even with open purse, relieves the suffering poor; unfolds himself lamblike, angelic, to a believing few, of the rich classes. Medical miracles have at all times been common, but what miracle is this of an occidental or oriental Serene-highness that 'regardless of expense,' employs himself in curing sickness, in illuminating ignorance?" We at the present day know nothing like it; the mere giving of a few surplus hundreds or thousands to certain Slavery, Anti-Slavery, Peace, Temperance or other societies, is benevolence of the "rocking chair" species--is not to be mentioned with this, of the self-denying Cagliostro's diving into cellars, and mounting into garrets, to seek and to save--at the risk of not only life but comfort--the first of which happily was not thus sacrificed:--nor indeed on the whole was comfort lost sight of, as the "coach-and-four with liveries and sumptuosities bears witness." There is often profound wisdom in this thing called _public_ or newspaper charity. Does it--or does it not--pay?

The favorite of the gods, he who holds high discourse with spirits, and to whom is opened the hidden secret of earth and heaven, finds ready acceptance--backed as he is by charities, by elegancies: finds acceptance with the poor, the ignorant to whom he ministers--but also "with a mixture of sorrow and indignation" it is recorded, among the great--and not only they, but among the learned, "even physicians and naturalists." It does not seem worth while to expend sorrow and indignation upon this fact, not at all new, as we now fifty years farther along have discovered; for we can show our physicians and naturalists, and also our priests and prophets, in small crowds with whom marvels find acceptance. We shall see more of them by and by.

But one among the rich and great, was the Cardinal Prince Count Rohan, Archbishop of Strasburg. "Open-handed dupe," as some term him--now out of favor with the Queen Marie Antoinette (after that beheaded and called unfortunate). Banished from his beloved Paris and the sunshine of royalty, what should he do but to regain his pedestal? necessary no doubt, for the glory of God, and his church; necessary at least for the Count Rohan. Cagliostro is all powerful--he will help the Cardinal Prince--not only by philters and charms, but by prophecies from the gods, who speaking through their earthly oracle, will of course (it paying best), promise success and not failure. The Archbishop tries all things, and at last the far-famed "diamond necklace," upon the queen, which no woman's heart can withstand, not even the queen's. Sad to tell, the miserable queen knew nothing of the necklace; and only the Md'lle De la Motte, styled countess, by superior arts had outjuggled Cagliostro himself, Cardinal Rohan, queen and all: the diamonds were gone--the queen's character blackened, cardinal, cophta, and countess, all in the Bastille, where they lay some nine months (year 1781), disastrous months, when "high science" wasted itself in eating out its own heart. Cagliostro escaped, was let go--but a plundered, banished, suspected high priest, was quite another thing from a golden cophta, with the foreign coat-of-arms, serene countess--and open purse relieving the unfortunate.

Cagliostro now flits to England, to Bale, to Brienne, to Aix, to Turin, he wanders hither and thither; we cannot follow him. The end of all, the lofty and the low, must come--that seems drawing near to Cagliostro too--but how? not in ruddy splendor as of departing day, not quiet, serene, as of nature sinking to rest--rather like the disastrous death of the bleeding shark it seems: his brethren, his friends--- sharks of his own kind, of all kinds, high and low--rush upon the wounded shark, as to a banquet to which they were bidden. He is exiled here, he is persecuted there--imprisonment, despair, degradation haunt him--the houseless, unfortunate--now vagabond, once renovator of the human race, and friend of lords and friend of gods and princes. Such is gratitude! such is popular favor! a thing to be bought and bargained for, to be given when _not needed_. Such, no doubt, Cagliostro decided!

He is sore bested, and begins "to confess himself to priests," for a man must do something in his extremity. It avails him not; he is at last in the gripe of the holy Inquisition at Rome, "in the year of our Lord, 1789, December 29," and must match himself with a power which this world knows something of: face to face, hand to hand, at last. Have they juggles equal to his juggles, miracles equal to his--high science equal to his--legions of angels equal to his?--enough that they have dungeons, and sbirri--and in his case, hearts harder than the nether mill-stone--not to be softened "by demands for religious books"--assertions of the divinity of the Egyptian Masonry--promises of wonderful revelations--oaths, flatteries, or any of the mystic paraphernalia of the now powerless professor and prophet: they will not let him out! but rather will introduce him to a new art, that of becoming a Christian, and get him, the toughest in a tough time, into heaven as they best can. Did they find Loyola's twenty days sufficient, and was the article then turned out of hand complete for that other state? The Inquisition biographer does not dwell upon this, it was perhaps as well. We learn at last that he died in the year 1795, and went, the writer says, "_Whither_ no man knows!" So ended a Magician!

NEW HAVEN, Feb., 1852.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] T. Carlyle.

BITTER WORDS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

Bitter words are easy spoken;
Not so easily forgot;
Hearts it may be can be broken--
Mine cannot!

When thou lovest me I adore thee;
Hating, I can hate thee too;
But I will not bow before thee--
Will not sue!

Even now, without endeavor,
Thou hast wounded so my pride,
I could leave thee, and for ever--
Though I died!

THE MURDER OF LATOUR.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY HON. W. H. STILES.[2]

The cabinet remained in deliberation at the Ministry of War, situated at the corner of the square called the Hof. The tide of insurrection now rose to an unconquerable height. The nearest shots of the retiring cannons, the advancing shouts of the infuriated people, warned the ministers that all defence was rapidly becoming hopeless. The building itself still offered some means of resistance, and there were two cannons in the court; but at that crisis was issued a written order, signed by Latour and Wessenberg, "to cease the fire at all points," and given to officers for distribution.[3] It was in vain. The popular torrent rolled on toward the seat of government, which was destined ere long to be disgraced by atrocious crime. The minister of war, Count Latour, prepared for defence. The military on guard in front of the war office were withdrawn into the yards, with two pieces of artillery loaded with grape. The gates were closed, the military distributed to the different threatened points, and the cannons directed towards the two gates; soon the scene of battle had reached the Bogner Gasse, immediately under the windows of the war department; the ministers in consultation heard the cry, "The military retreat." The great square of the Hof was soon cleared, the soldiers retiring by the way of the Freyung. The guards and academic legion pursuing; the military commander's quarters in the Freyung are soon captured. The retiring military not being able to escape through the Schotten-Thor, as they had expected, that gate being closed and barricaded, they cut their way through the Herrn Gasse.

So intent were the respective combatants, either in retreat or pursuit, that the whole tempest of war swept over the Hof, and left that square, for a short time, deserted and silent.

But that stillness was but of short duration; a few moments only had elapsed, when a number of straggling guards, students, and people, came stealing silently from the Graben, through the Bogner, Naglus, and Glosken Gasse, on to the Hof, and removed the dead and the wounded into the neighboring dwellings, and into the deserted guard-house in the war department. These were soon followed by a fierce and noisy mob, armed with axes, pikes, and iron bars, which halted before the war office, and began to thunder at its massive doors.

The officer of ordnance in vain attempted to communicate to the crowd the order of the ministry, that all firing should cease. A member of the academic legion, from the window, over the gateway, waved with a white handkerchief to the tumultuous masses, and, exhibiting the order signed by Latour and Wessenberg, read its contents to the crowd.

But a pacification was not to be thought of; the people were too excited, their fury could only be appeased by blood; that delayed measure was not sufficient; they made negative gesticulations, and summoned the student to come down and open the portals to their admission. The tumult increased from minute to minute; the closed doors at length gave way under the axes of the mob, and the people streamed in, led by a man "in a light gray coat."

The secretary of war, having by this time abandoned the idea of defence, on the ground either that it was useless or impolitic, no shots were fired or active resistance offered; but the orderlies with their horses retired to the stables, and the grenadiers into an inner court. At first only single individuals entered, and their course was not characterized by violence; then groups, proceeding slowly, listening, and searching; and, at last the tumultuous masses thundered in the rear.

Ere long the cry rung on the broad staircase, "Where is Latour? he must die!" At this moment the ministers and their followers in the building, with the exception of Latour himself, found means to escape, or mingled with the throng. The deputies, Smolka, Borrosch, Goldmark, and Sierakowski, who had undertaken to guarantee protection to the threatened ministers, arrived in the hope of restraining the mob. The numerous corridors and cabinets of the war office (formerly a monastery of the Jesuits) were filled with the crowd; the tide of insurrection now rose to an uncontrollable height; and the danger of Latour became every moment more imminent.

The generals who were with him, perceiving the peril, entreated him to throw himself upon the Nassau regiment or the Dutch Meister grenadiers, and retreat to their barracks. He scorned the proposal, denied the danger, and even refused, for some time, to change his uniform for a civilian's dress, until the hazard becoming more evident, he put on plain clothes, and went up into a small room in the roof of the building, where he soon after signed a paper declaring that, with his majesty's consent, he was ready to resign the office of minister of war. A Tecnicker, named Ranch,[4] who, it was said, had come to relieve the secretary of war, was seized and hung in the court by his own scarf, but fortunately cut down by a National Guard before life was extinct. The mob rushed into the private apartment of the minister, but plundered it merely of the papers, which were conveyed to the university. They came with a sterner purpose. The act of resignation, exhibited to the crowd by the deputy Smolka, was scornfully received by the people, while the freshness of the writing, the sand adhering still to the ink, betrayed the proximity of the hand which had just traced it. Meanwhile, the crowd had penetrated the corridors of the fourth story, and were not long in discovering the place of Latour's concealment. Hearing their approach, and recognizing the voice of Smolka, vice-president of the assembly, who was doubtless anxious to protect him, Latour came out of his retreat.

They descended together from the fourth story by a narrow stairway, on the right-hand side of the building, and entered the yard by the pump. At each successive landing place, the tumult and the crowd increased; but the descent was slow, and rendered more and more difficult by the numbers which joined the crowd at every turn of the stairs. At length they reached the court below, and Count Latour, although he had been severely pressed, was still unhurt; but here the populace, which awaited them, broke in upon the group that still clustered around Latour, and dispersed it. In vain did the deputies, Smolka and Sierakowski, endeavor to protect the minister; in vain did the Count Leopold Gondrecourt attempt to cover him by the exposure of his own body. A workman struck the hat from his head; others pulled him by his gray locks, he defending himself with his hands, which were already bleeding. At length a ruffian, disguised as a Magyar, gave him, from behind, a mortal blow with a hammer, the man in the gray coat cleft his face with a sabre, and another plunged a bayonet into his heart. A hundred wounds followed, and, with the words, "I die innocent!" he gave up his loyal and manly spirit. A cry of exultation from the assembled crowd rent the air at this event. Every indignity was offered to his body; before he had ceased to breathe even, they hung him by a cord to the grating of a window in the court of the war office. He had been suspended there but a few minutes when, from the outrages committed on it, the body fell.

They then dragged it to the Hof, and suspended it to one of the bronze candelabras that adorn that extensive, and much frequented square, and there treated it with every indignity; it remained for fourteen hours exposed to the gaze of a mocking populace.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] A chapter from Mr. Stiles's forthcoming work on Austria, which we have mentioned elsewhere in this number of the International.

[3] The last order issued by the unfortunate Latour was instructed to Colonel Gustave Schindler, of the imperial engineers, an efficient officer, as well as a most amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one well and favourably known in the United States, from his kind attention to Americans who have visited the Austrian capital. The colonel was in the act of passing out of the great door of the war office, which opens on the Hof, when the mob reached that spot. Recognized by his imperial uniform, he was instantly surrounded and attacked. He received many blows on the head, inflicted by the crowd with clubs and iron bars; was most severely wounded, and would probably have been killed but for the timely interference of one of the rabble, who, riding up on horseback between the colonel and the mob, shielded him from further blow, and finally effected his escape.

[4] A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usually called Tecnickers.

SOME SMALL POEMS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

SONG.

I hung upon your breast in pain,
And poured my kisses there like rain;
A flood of tears, a cloud of fire,
That fed and stifled wild desire,
And lay like death upon my heart,
To think that we must learn to path;
For we must part, and live apart!

Had I, that hour of dark unrest,
But plunged a dagger in your breast
And in mine own, it had been well;
For now I had been spared the hell
That racks my lone and loving heart,
To think that we must learn to part;--
For we must part, and die apart!

LU LU.

The shining cloud that broods above the hill,
Casts down its shadows over all the lawns,
The snowy swan is sailing out to sea,
Leaving behind a ruffled surge of light!
Lu Lu is like a cloud in memory,
And shades the ancient brightness of my mind:
A swan upon the ocean of my heart,
Floating along a path of golden thought!

The light of evening slants adown the sky,
Poured from the inner folds of western cloud;
But in the cast there is a spot of blue,
And in that heavenly spot the evening star!
The tresses of Lu Lu are like the light,
Gushing from out her turban down her neck;
And like that Eye of heaven, her mild blue eye,
And in its deeps there hangs a starry tear!

THOSE WHO LOVE LIKE ME.

Those who love like me,
When their meeting ends
Friends can hardly be,
But less or more than friends!

With common words, and smiles,
We cannot meet, and part,
For something will prevent--
Something in the heart!

The thought of other days,
The dream of other years;
With other words, and smiles,
And other sighs and tears!

For all who love like me,
When their parting ends,
Friends must never be,
But more or less than friends!

TO THE WINDS

Blow fair to-day, ye changing Winds!
And smooth the story sea;
For now ye waft a sacred bark,
And bear a friend from me.
From you he flies, ye Northern Winds,
Your Southern mates to seek;
So urge his keel until he feels
Their kisses on his cheek:
And when their tropic kisses warm,
And tropic skies impart,
Their floods of sunshine to his veins,
Their gladness to his heart--
Blow fair again, ye happy Winds!
And smooth again the sea,
For then ye'll waft the blessed bark,
And bear my friend to me!

"WIND OF SUMMER, MURMUR LOW."

Wind of summer, murmur low,
Where the charmed waters flow,
While the songs of day are dying,
And the bees are homeward flying,
As the breezes come and go.
Come and go, hum and blow,
Winds of summer, sweet and low,
Ere my lover sinks to rest,
While he lies upon my breast,
Kiss his forehead, pale and fair,
Kiss the ringlets of his hair,
Kiss his heavy-lidded eyes,
Where the mist of slumber lies;
Kiss his throat, his cheek, his brow,
And his red, red lips, as I do now,
While he sleeps so sound and slow,
On the heart that loves him so,
Dreaming of the sad, and olden,
And the loving, and the golden
Wind of summers long ago!

THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON.

The melancholy fate of the author of _The Crescent and the Cross_, _Canada_, _Darien_, &c., has been stated in these pages. In Great Britain, where he was well known and highly esteemed by literary men, there have been many feeling and apparently just tributes to his memory, one of the most interesting of which is a memoir in the _Dublin University Magazine_, from which we transcribe the following paragraphs:

"It was during an extended tour in the Mediterranean about
ten years ago, that Mr. Warburton sent some sheets of
manuscript notes to Mr. Lever, at that time Editor of the
_Dublin University Magazine_. These at once caught that
gentleman's attention, and he gladly gave them publicity,
under the title of "Episodes of Eastern Travel," in
successive numbers of the magazine, where they were
universally admired for the grace and liveliness of their
style. Mr. Lever, however, soon saw that though for the
purposes of his periodical these papers were extremely
valuable, the author was not consulting his own best
interests by continuing to give his travels to the world in
that form; and, with generous disinterestedness, advised him
to collect what he had already published, and the remainder
of his notes, and make a book of the whole. Mr. Warburton
followed his advice, entered into terms with Mr. Colburn,
and published his travels under the title of 'The Crescent
and the Cross.'

"Of this book it is needless for us to speak. In spite of
the formidable rivalry of an 'Eothen,' which appeared about
the same time, it sprang at once into public favor, and is
one of the very few books of modern travels of which the
sale has continued uninterrupted through successive editions
to the present time. Were we to pronounce upon the secret of
its success, we should lay it to its perfect
_right-mindedness_. A changeful truth, a versatile propriety
of feeling initiates the author, as it were, into the heart
of each successive subject; and we find him as profoundly
impressed with the genius of the Holy Land, as he is
steeped, in the proper place, in the slumberous influences
of the dreamy Nile, upon whose bosom he rocks his readers
into a trance, to be awakened only by the gladsome
originality of these melodies which come mirthfully on their
ears from either bank. And, we may observe in passing, it is
precisely the _want_ of this, which prevents the
indisputable power and grace of 'Eothen' from having their
full effect with the public.

"Passages of beauty, almost of sublimity, stand isolated
from our sympathies by the interposed cynicism of a few
caustic remarks; and scenes of the world's most ancient
reverence and worship become needlessly disenchanted under
the spell of some skeptical sneer.

"But we must not turn aside to criticise. Since the
publication of the 'Crescent and the Cross,' Mr. Warburton
has written, or edited, a number of works, some historical,
others of fiction, of which his last romance, 'Darien,' only
appeared as he was on the eve of departing on the fatal
voyage. It has been remarked as a singular circumstance,
that in this tale has prefigured his own fate. A burning
ship is described in terms which would have served as a
picture of the frightful reality he was himself doomed to
witness. The coincidence, casual as it is, has imparted a
melancholy interest to that story, which will long be wept
over as the parting and presaging legacy of a gifted spirit,
prematurely snatched away.

"These lighter effusions most probably grew out of the
craving of the publishers for the _prestige_ of his name,
already found to be valuable even on title-pages; and the
ready market they commanded could not but prove an
excitement to continue and multiply them. This might be
considered in an ulterior sense unfortunate; for we are
inclined to think that the true bent of Mr. Warburton's
mind, if not of his talents, was towards graver and less
imaginative studies; and we know that this propensity was
growing upon him with maturer years and soberer reflections.

"It is not exclusively from the bearing of his researches
and the general drift of his correspondence that we infer
this; though both set latterly in that direction. He had for
some time been actually at work with definite objects in
view. One subject which he took up warmly was a _British_
History of Ireland; that is, a history intended to deal
impartial justice between the Irish people on the one side,
and the British empire on the other; reviewing the politics
of successive periods, neither from the Irish nor the
English side of the question, but with reference to the
general interests of the whole.

"The task, would have proved an arduous one, under any
circumstances--perhaps an invidious one; but what was worse,
even when accomplished, the book might have turned out a
dull affair. So, with a view to lightening the reading, he
had proposed to embody with it memoirs of the Viceroys, thus
keeping the British connection prominent, while enlivening
the pages with biographical touches.

"Acting on these ideas, he had actually begun a 'History of
the Viceroys' in conjunction with a literary friend, and was
only deterred from prosecuting it by the apathy, or rather
discouragement, of the London publishers, who felt no
inclination to venture upon an Irish historical speculation.
Unfortunately, neither he nor his friend could afford to
pursue the task gratuitously, and it was accordingly
abandoned.

"Still later, he employed himself in collecting materials
for a History of the Poor--a vast theme; perhaps too vast
for a single intellect to grasp. To him, however, it was a
labor of love; and he had succeeded in getting together a
considerable mass of curious and valuable material _pour
servir_. His last visit to his native country had researches
of this nature for one of its objects; and we are sure many
persons connected with the charitable institutions of
Dublin, will recollect the persevering zeal with which he
visited the haunts of poverty, as well as the asylums for
its relief, noting down every thing which might prove
afterwards serviceable on that suggestive topic.

"With an upwelling of philanthropy so pure and perennial as
this, the preliminary investigations could have been only a
delight to him. Other men might be forced to them as a
revolting duty; he chose the inquiry, with very dubious
hopes of bettering himself by prosecuting it, because his
heart was full of compassion, and he thought he might do
good. We repeat, what we can state from personal knowledge,
that the bent of Mr. Warburton's mind was latterly towards
works of general utility; and it is with great satisfaction
we learn, what we had not been aware of until the public
papers announced it, that his projected visit to the New
World was a mission, in which the interests of humanity were
to have in him an advocate and champion.

"Into his private life we feel that, under present
circumstances, it would be indelicate, as well as out of
place, to enter. Surrounded as he was with all the blessings
which the domestic relations can bestow, beloved by his
intimates, caressed by the gifted and the good, Eliot
Warburton lived the centre of a radiating circle of
happiness. His personal qualities were of no common order.
His society was eagerly sought after. With a fastidious
lassitude of air, and an apparent disinclination to
exertion, he possessed remarkable force of thought and
fluency of diction; and it was no uncommon thing to see him,
when he had begun to relate passages from his experience in
foreign countries, or adventures in his own, the centre of a
gradually increasing audience, amidst which he sat,
improvisating a sort of romantic recitation, until he was
completely carried away on the current of his own eloquence,
and lost every sense of where he was or what he was doing,
in the enthusiasm he had fanned up and saw reflected around
him. This power was a peculiar gift; and he loved to
exercise it. In this form many of his happiest effusions
have been given utterance to; and every body who has heard
him at such inspired moments has felt regret that the
brilliant bursts which so delighted him, should have been
stamped upon no more retentive tablets than the ears of
ordinary listeners.

"Of this amiable, refined and gifted individual, we are
afraid to speak as warmly as our heart would dictate. Before
us lie the few hasty lines--but not too hurried to be the
channel of a parting kindness--scrawled to us on the first
day of this year--the last day the writer was ever to pass
in England. They are, perhaps, amongst the latest words he
ever wrote. 'I am off,' they run 'for the West Indies
to-morrow. _But I have accomplished your affair._' Oh,
vanity of human purpose! Man proposes--God disposes. We were
next to hear of him, standing on the deck of the burning
vessel in the Atlantic, alone with the captain, after every
other soul had disappeared, surveying--we feel convinced,
with a courage of a lion--the awful twofold death close
before him, and which he had in probability deliberately
preferred to an early relinquishment of his companions to
their fate. It is a fine picture--one that shall every hang
framed with his image in our memory; helping us to believe
that

"'-----Lycidas our sorrow is not dead.
Sunk though he be beneath the watery flood,'--

But that he hath mounted to a higher sphere--

"'Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.'"

AUTHOR OF "THE FOOL OF QUALITY."

Of the interesting papers in the February Dublin University Magazine, we have read none with more satisfaction than the biographical sketch and portrait of one of the most distinguished Irishmen of his own or any age, the gifted and pure minded author of _Gustavus Vasa_ and _The Fool of Quality_, HENRY BROOKE. Of his literary fate it might be said that the most unfortunate thing he did was to assert the patriotism of Dean Swift; and the most unfortunate thing was to be left out of Doctor Johnson's "Lives of the Poets." Trials had he to undergo, although not absolutely driven to the wall, like many children of "the fatal dowry," and those of Irish complexion, in particular; but he bravely bore up against them. Those who deem that relatives may live more happily apart, and that friendship is best preserved in full dress, may look at the picture of Henry Brooke, the poet and politician, and Robert Brooke, the painter, with their wives and children, not less than twenty, living together in perfect peace and amity at Daisy Park, in the flattest part of Kildare, where, in those dull seats and distant times, a family breeze might now and then have been looked on in the Irish sense as a "convenience and a comfort." "While Henry wrote," says the biographer, "Robert painted, and sold his pictures; and thus these two loving brothers, having lost their property, made a right and manful use of their intellectual gifts, and supported their large families by the sweat of their brows."

"In his politics, Brooke was of the old whig school; and,
had he lived in 1829, he would probably have been an
emancipator. He was a right-minded, ardent Irishman in his
love for fatherland; hated oppression; idolized liberty;
wrote most keenly against Poyning's infamous laws; mourned
over the misrule and misgovernment of his country, under the
tyranny and rapacity of the Stuart dynasty; admired King
William, and was an exulting Protestant; yet greatly loved
his Roman Catholic neighbors, and would preserve to them
their properties, though he disliked their principles, and
deprecated their ascendency."

Dr. Johnson's feelings respecting Brooke are accounted for, not improbably, as follows:

"It may be asked why did Dr. Johnson exclude Brooke from his
'Lives of the Poets,' where so many names of little note are
to be found? In 1739, Johnson had written in Brooke's praise
in his 'Complete Vindication,' and twenty years afterwards,
when the learned Dr. Campbell showed a spirited 'Prospectus
of a History of Ireland' written by him, to the great
moralist, he read it with much pleasure and praise, saying
that 'every line breathed the true fire of genius.' It is
recorded that, on this occasion, Johnson lamented that 'the
vanity of Irishmen, even if their patriotism were extinct,
did not enable Brooke to carry his design into execution.'
In Johnson's letter to Charles O'Connor we have his mind on
the subject. To Brooke he appears never to have written;
there had been an ancient quarrel between them. They had
argued and disagreed; and the traditionary story in Brooke's
family bears _so_ heavily on the manner of the philosopher,
and is _so_ flattering to the courtesy of the poet, that we
should prefer not to write it down. Brooke was at all times
strangely careless of fame; independent to a fault, and more
proud than vain; and though much urged by his friends to
humble himself, yet he could not be induced to 'bow down' to
the cap of this literary Gesler, much as he regarded his
learning and noble intellect. This dislike of the Doctor
continued during his life; and Boswell narrates that on the
occasion of a play being read to him (it was Brooke's
_Gustavus Vasa_) and a circle of friends, on coming to the
line--

"Who rules o'er free men should himself be free!'

the company applauded, but Johnson said it might as well be
said--

"'Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat--'

a stupid and inapt verbal sophism, and unworthy of his great
and good mind; but such was often his way. In this fashion
one might string endless parodies on the line, and equally
inapplicable; for example:--

"'Who keeps a madhouse should himself be mad!'

"Mr. Brooke's elegant and honest mind probably had in view
that word of Scripture which saith, 'he that ruleth his own
spirit is better than he who taketh a city'--(Prov. xvi.
32.)

"By this unhappy difference Brooke lost his Johnsonian niche in the temple of biographical fame. Yet we must remember that a better fate was his,--'his record is on high,'--and his spirit with that Saviour who loved him and made him what he was. Faults and inconsistency were in him, no doubt, but still we know not of any of whom it could be so well and suitably said--

"'His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, 'This was a man.'"

BANCROFT'S AMERICAN REVOLUTION.[5]

From the Westminster Review.

Among the historians who have attained a high and deserved reputation in the United States, within the last few years, we are inclined to yield the first place to George Bancroft. His great work on the history of the United States has been brought down from the commencement of American colonization to the opening of the Revolutionary War, to which subject it is understood that he intends devoting the three succeeding volumes. His researches in the public offices of England, while he was Minister of the United States at the Court of St. James, have brought to light a great mass of documentary evidence on the antecedents and course of the Revolution, which have not yet been made public. With his critical sagacity in sifting evidence, his hound-like instinct in scenting every particle of testimony that can lead him on the right-track, and his plastic skill in moulding the most confused and discordant materials into a compact, symmetrical, and truthful narrative, he cannot fail to present the story of that great historical drama with a freshness, accuracy, and artistic beauty, worthy of the immortal events which it commemorates. Mr. Bancroft is now exclusively occupied in the completion of this work. He pursues it with the drudging fidelity of a mechanical laborer, combined with the enthusiasm of a poet and the comprehensive wisdom of a statesman. With strong social tastes, he gives little time to society. His favorite post is in his library, where he labors the live-long day in the spirit of the ancient artist, _Nulla dies sine linea_. His experience in political and diplomatic life, no less than his rare and generous culture, and his singular union of the highest mental faculties, enable us to predict with confidence that this work will be reckoned among the genuine masterpieces of historical genius. The volumes of the History of the United States already published, are well known to intelligent readers both in Great Britain and America. They are distinguished for their compact brevity of statement, their terse and vigorous diction, their brilliant panoramic views, and the boldness and grace of their sketches of personal character. A still higher praise may be awarded to this history for the tenacity with which it clings to the dominant and inspiring idea of which it records the development. Whoever reads it without comprehending the standpoint of the author, is liable to disappointment. For it must be confessed that as a mere narrative of events, the preference may be given to the productions of far inferior authors. But it is to be regarded as an epic in prose of the triumph of freedom. This noble principle is considered by Mr. Bancroft as an essential attribute of the soul, necessarily asserting itself in proportion to the spiritual supremacy which has been achieved. The history, then, is devoted to the illustration of the progress of freedom, as an out-birth of the spontaneous action of the soul. It is in this point of view that the remarkable chapters on the Massachusetts Pilgrims, the Pennsylvania Quakers, and the North American Indians, were written; and their full purport, their profound significance, can only be appreciated by readers whose minds possess at least the seeds of sympathy and cognateness with this sublime philosophy. The chapter on the Quakers is a pregnant psychological treatise. Sparkling all over with the electric lights of a rich humanitary philosophy, it invests the theologic visions of Fox and Barclay with a radiance and beauty which have been ill-preserved in the formal and lifeless organic systems of their successors. The parallel run by the historian between William Penn and John Locke is one of the most characteristic productions of his peculiar genius. Original, subtle, suggestive, crowded with matter and frugal of words, it brings out the distinctive features of the spiritual and mechanical schools in the persons of two of their 'representative men,' with a breadth and reality which is seldom found in philosophical portraitures. Mr. Bancroft was the son of an eminent Unitarian clergyman in Worcester, Massachusetts. He was born about the beginning of the present century, and is consequently a little more than fifty years of age. He graduated at Harvard University, with distinguished honors, before he had completed his fifteenth year. Soon after he sailed for Europe, and continued his studies at the German Universities, returning to his own country just before the attainment of his majority. Devoting himself for several years to literary and educational pursuits, he acquired a brilliant reputation as a poet, critic, and essayist; and at a subsequent period, entering the career of politics, he has signalized himself by his attachment to democratic ideas, and the eloquence and force with which on all occasions he has sustained the principles with the prevalence of which he identifies the progress of humanity.

* * * * *

From the Athenaeum.

The further this work proceeds, the more do we feel that it must take its place as an essentially satisfactory history of the United States. Mr. Bancroft is thoroughly American in thought and in feeling, without ceasing to have those larger views and nobler sympathies which result from cosmopolitan rather than from local training. His style is original and national. It breathes of the mountain and the prairie--of the great lakes and wild savannahs of his native land. A strain of wild and forest-like music swells up in almost every line. The story is told richly and vividly. It has hitherto been thought by Americans themselves, even more than by Europeans, that the story of the English colonies presented but a dreary and lifeless succession of petty squabbles between the settlers and the crown officers--of unintelligible persecutions of each other on the ground of differences of opinion in religion. Mr. Bancroft has shown how ill founded has been this impression. In his hands American history is full of fine effects. Steeped in the colors of his imagination, a thousand incidents hitherto thought dull appear animated and pictorial. Between Hildreth and Bancroft the difference is immense. In the treatment of the former, dates, facts, events are duly stated--the criticism is keen, the chronology indisputable,--but the figures do not live, the narrative knows no march. The latter is all movement. His men glow with human purposes,--his story sweeps on with the exulting life of a procession.

Yet because Mr. Bancroft contrives to bring out the more romantic aspects of his theme, it is not to be supposed that he fails in that strict regard to truth--truth of character as well as of incident--which is the historian's first duty, and without which all other qualities are useless. Of all American writers who have written on the history of their own country, we would pronounce him to be the most conscientious. His former volumes were remarkable for the amplitude and accuracy of their references. The authorities cited were often recondite and obscure,--yet it was evident that they had been sifted carefully and critically. The same may be said of the volume before us.

Careful research had enabled Mr. Bancroft to throw new light on several points connected with the settlement and early history of his country. As his dates approach nearer to the present time, the sources of new information open on him in abundance. The MS, additions to our knowledge of the times treated of in these volumes are considerable; but they are spread pretty fairly over the entire narrative--lending a new light to the events and adding a new trait to the characters--rather than thrown into masses. The effect produced is more that of greater roundness and completion than of absolute change in old historical verdicts. We quote one out of innumerable instances of these minute but characteristic additions. The historian is speaking of the Duke of Newcastle,--whose ignorant government of the colonies was one of the chief sources of their discontent:--

"For nearly four-and-twenty years he remained minister for
British America; yet to the last, the statesman, who was
deeply versed in the statistics of elections, knew little of
the continent of which he was the guardian. He addressed
letters, it used to be confidently said, to 'the island of
New England,' and could not tell but that Jamaica was in the
Mediterranean. Heaps of colonial memorials and letters
remained unread in his office; and a paper was almost sure
of neglect unless some agent remained with him to see it
opened. His frivolous nature could never glow with
affection, or grasp a great idea, or analyze complex
relations. After long research, I cannot find that he ever
once attended seriously to an American question, or had a
clear conception of one American measure."

Walpole had told us that Newcastle did not know where Jamaica was:--the amusing address "Island of New England" Mr. Bancroft finds referred to in a manuscript letter of J. Q. Adams. It serves to suggest that what is usually thought to be a joke of Walpole's was probably the literal truth:--the man who is sufficiently innocent of geography to make New England an island, would have no difficulty in confounding the East and West Indies.

In this volume we first meet with the great character who is to be the hero of the Revolution now looming before the reader. Mr. Bancroft treats us to no full-length portrait of George Washington:--instead of a picture he presents us with the man. Washington comes before us at twenty-one,--in the chamber of Governor Dinwiddie, of Virginia; from whom he is accepting a perilous but most important mission--to cross the forests, rivers, and mountains which separate Williamsburg and Lake Erie, in the depths of a severe winter, and there endeavor to detach the Delaware Indians from the French alliance. All the elements of Washington's greatness--his courage, hardihood, military prescience, and merciful disposition--are stamped indelibly on this the first act of his public life:--