THE ZEPHYR.

———

BY JULIET H. LEWIS.

———

I satby the casement; before me thereLay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair,And it moved my heart with a touching power—’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour.The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown foldWith a loving smile, as it did of old.When the curl waved free in its careless grace,Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling faceOf the gentle girl that I loved so well—A dimming tear on the bright lock fellAs thoughts of the loved one far away,And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay.A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.But the day before, he had entered my bower,And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,And bore off a letter that lay unread,’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheekAnd a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,Received the gift, and bounded onAs wild, and free, as a forest fawn,To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—Are all thine acts as unkind as these?Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,And tracked the wind, in imagining.He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,And with waving wing bore the prize awayTo a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,With his cooling wing, waved the downy toyTheir bright heads above, and the careless band,With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,Ran away, in chase of the silvery thingThat the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—Now wafted afar—’twas a merry raceThe Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!He left them behind, but bore alongTheir glee-toned voices, in joyous song,And each lone mother looked up and smiled,As she caught the tones of her darling child,And paused awhile from her toil, to blessThe heart, o’erflowing with happiness.Then he went his way and on manhood’s browHis cooling fingers are busy now,He parts the dark hair from its resting place,And prints a kiss on the anxious face,And woos him to leave the dust and glareOf the crowded town, for a spot more fair,Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,And his heart bows down to the god of gold;For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shedWhere a widow was praying for daily bread,In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,She prayed for food for her starving child:Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.Then he entered the halls, where many a sceneOf joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—He softly sighed o’er the festal board,Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,He swept the harp with his quivering wing,And woke the tones of each mournful string,While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,Seemed singing a song of the olden time,Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fledTo their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.He sighed through the banners that hung on high—(Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,And hastened on with the rich perfumeAnd a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.He hushed his voice as he entered there,For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,And rushing memories of bright things goneTo the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.One tender act that he did that day,Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,In an unknown land, with no loved one nearTo breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shedFrom the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,To the white haw tree richly blossoming,And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,Filled the rich air, like a lovely showerOf bright things, sent from a fairy land,And lay on the grave as though some kind handHad scattered, that silent heart above,The sweets that in life it had learned to love.But ’twerevainto tell of his wanderings freeO’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,(’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,And sank to its native depths again,)How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.’Twere vain to number the acts like these,That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.I followed him far on his wayward track,And when, from wandering, I turned me back,He whispered at parting, these words, methought,To my hasty heart,—“Judge not!judge not!”

I satby the casement; before me there

Lay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair,

And it moved my heart with a touching power—

’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour.

The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown fold

With a loving smile, as it did of old.

When the curl waved free in its careless grace,

Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling face

Of the gentle girl that I loved so well—

A dimming tear on the bright lock fell

As thoughts of the loved one far away,

And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay.

A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.But the day before, he had entered my bower,And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,And bore off a letter that lay unread,’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheekAnd a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,Received the gift, and bounded onAs wild, and free, as a forest fawn,To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—Are all thine acts as unkind as these?Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,And tracked the wind, in imagining.He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,And with waving wing bore the prize awayTo a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,With his cooling wing, waved the downy toyTheir bright heads above, and the careless band,With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,Ran away, in chase of the silvery thingThat the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—Now wafted afar—’twas a merry raceThe Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!He left them behind, but bore alongTheir glee-toned voices, in joyous song,And each lone mother looked up and smiled,As she caught the tones of her darling child,And paused awhile from her toil, to blessThe heart, o’erflowing with happiness.

A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,

Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,

Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,

And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.

’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,

Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,

For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,

Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.

But the day before, he had entered my bower,

And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,

And bore off a letter that lay unread,

’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,

To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek

And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,

Received the gift, and bounded on

As wild, and free, as a forest fawn,

To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,

Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.

“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—

Are all thine acts as unkind as these?

Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—

Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”

Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,

And tracked the wind, in imagining.

He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,

Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,

And with waving wing bore the prize away

To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,

And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,

With his cooling wing, waved the downy toy

Their bright heads above, and the careless band,

With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,

Ran away, in chase of the silvery thing

That the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.

Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—

Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—

Now wafted afar—’twas a merry race

The Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!

He left them behind, but bore along

Their glee-toned voices, in joyous song,

And each lone mother looked up and smiled,

As she caught the tones of her darling child,

And paused awhile from her toil, to bless

The heart, o’erflowing with happiness.

Then he went his way and on manhood’s browHis cooling fingers are busy now,He parts the dark hair from its resting place,And prints a kiss on the anxious face,And woos him to leave the dust and glareOf the crowded town, for a spot more fair,Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,And his heart bows down to the god of gold;For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shedWhere a widow was praying for daily bread,In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,She prayed for food for her starving child:Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.Then he entered the halls, where many a sceneOf joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—He softly sighed o’er the festal board,Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,He swept the harp with his quivering wing,And woke the tones of each mournful string,While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,Seemed singing a song of the olden time,Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fledTo their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.He sighed through the banners that hung on high—(Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!

Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow

His cooling fingers are busy now,

He parts the dark hair from its resting place,

And prints a kiss on the anxious face,

And woos him to leave the dust and glare

Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair,

Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,

Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.

But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,

And his heart bows down to the god of gold;

For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”

He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”

That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,

But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.

He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,

Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,

He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,

Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,

Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed

Where a widow was praying for daily bread,

In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,

She prayed for food for her starving child:

Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,

And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.

Then he entered the halls, where many a scene

Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—

He softly sighed o’er the festal board,

Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,

He swept the harp with his quivering wing,

And woke the tones of each mournful string,

While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,

Seemed singing a song of the olden time,

Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled

To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.

He sighed through the banners that hung on high—

(Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)

But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,

When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,

While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—

And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—

And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,

’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!

Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,And hastened on with the rich perfumeAnd a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.He hushed his voice as he entered there,For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,And rushing memories of bright things goneTo the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.One tender act that he did that day,Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,In an unknown land, with no loved one nearTo breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shedFrom the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,To the white haw tree richly blossoming,And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,Filled the rich air, like a lovely showerOf bright things, sent from a fairy land,And lay on the grave as though some kind handHad scattered, that silent heart above,The sweets that in life it had learned to love.

Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,

And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,

And hastened on with the rich perfume

And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.

He hushed his voice as he entered there,

For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,

With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,

And rushing memories of bright things gone

To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,

Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.

One tender act that he did that day,

Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,

In an unknown land, with no loved one near

To breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,

Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shed

From the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.

Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,

To the white haw tree richly blossoming,

And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,

He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.

Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,

Filled the rich air, like a lovely shower

Of bright things, sent from a fairy land,

And lay on the grave as though some kind hand

Had scattered, that silent heart above,

The sweets that in life it had learned to love.

But ’twerevainto tell of his wanderings freeO’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,(’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,And sank to its native depths again,)How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.’Twere vain to number the acts like these,That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.I followed him far on his wayward track,And when, from wandering, I turned me back,He whispered at parting, these words, methought,To my hasty heart,—“Judge not!judge not!”

But ’twerevainto tell of his wanderings free

O’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—

How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—

Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”

How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,

And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,

How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,

And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,

(’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,

And sank to its native depths again,)

How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,

And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.

’Twere vain to number the acts like these,

That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—

While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,

Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.

I followed him far on his wayward track,

And when, from wandering, I turned me back,

He whispered at parting, these words, methought,

To my hasty heart,—“Judge not!judge not!”

SHAKSPEARE.

———

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

———

Itis the fashion to consider Macbeth a spotless and noble soul, ensnared by the toils of the fiends, and pulled down from heaven to hell by the chance meeting of the weird sisters on the heath. There is a serious objection to this view. It makes machines of men. It takes from us the most obvious and sublime attribute of an immortal being, viz: free agency. If a high-minded and God-revering mortal is unprotected against the attacks of supernatural beings—if foul witches may watch for him in unguarded moments, and weave around his enchanted feet the fatal snares of crime and death, then are we truly a wretched race. But this is not Shakspeare’s creed. This is not the character of the tragedy. Macbeth was a villain. He had deliberately adopted vice as his god long before the fiends were permitted to patter with him. They come as aconsequencenot as acauseof wickedness. The withered and wild sisters on the blasted heath were conjured up by his own cherished weaknesses andsecretdeeds.[4]They were the haggard and hellish impersonations of his own hidden thoughts and passions. He was not the pure, generous, heaven-adoring person he is represented. The germs of his guilt he had received into his heart by himself years before, and they lay shooting there in silence, only waiting the quickening beam of opportunity—waiting the first, feeblest temptation to start forth in all their force. He was one of those fair-seemingmen who pass for honest and noble. The world contains now, as then, many such. Many a man with an uplifted brow and a clear name, waits onlyoccasionto prove himself a scoundrel. It is such specious hypocrites that gather around them (as the smell of carrion does the hawk and vulture) the plotting witches who watch for power over the children of men. They had never tempted the pure good old King Duncan. He might have passed the blasted heath every day of his life, and these hags would never have dreamed of appearing to him. His soul was not prepared for their wiles. But that of Macbeth—as well as that of his stern wife—was corrupted by the whole tenor of their previous life.

Had there been left no evidence of this, I should still have asserted it. The innocent—the pure in heart—they who daily commune with their Maker—who acknowledge their weakness and danger when left to themselves—and implore humbly at his feet his all-sufficient aid—never fall victims to the accursed fiends, whether they appear in the deformity of Paddock and Graymalkin, or disguised under the fair temptations of life.

But Shakspeare has left proof enough in his tragedy. He meant to show, not (as is frequently asserted) the downfall of noble grandeur and unsuspecting innocence, but the destruction of a fair-showing, unsuspected villain—the wreck of a ship whose outward semblance was tall and imposing, but which was unseaworthy and destined to go down before the first gale.

In the first place, why does notBanquosuffer from the fiends? He is with Macbeth when they appear. He even boldly addresses them, and at once—with the frank fearlessness of a noble and virtuous mind, conscious of its honesty, commands them, if they can read the future, to speak tohimalso.

“Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors, nor your hate.”

Here is at once a man not to be tampered with. They promisehimalso as well as Macbeth a dazzling future good—a posterity of kings—but it in no way changes his plans of life, or raises the least idea in his mind of crime or intrigue. Even when, according to the prediction of the witches, Macbeth instantly receives intelligence, of his being thane of Cawdor, Banquo’sclear-seeing sense of right, his innocence of nature takes the true and virtuous view of the affair, looks, at a glance, through all the complicated web of the sisters’ plots, and keeps himself unsoiled, unendangered by them.

Banquo.“But ’tis strange;And often-times, to win us toour harm,The instruments of darkness tell us truths;Win us with honest trifles, to betray usIn deepest consequence.”

Banquo.“But ’tis strange;

And often-times, to win us toour harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths;

Win us with honest trifles, to betray us

In deepest consequence.”

And while he is making this just reflection, the obvious impulse of a mind not warped from the erectness of a moral and religious integrity and reverence, Macbeth soliloquizes with a kind of inexpressible anticipatory triumph.

“Two truths are toldAs happy prologues to the swelling actOf the imperial theme.”

“Two truths are told

As happy prologues to the swelling act

Of the imperial theme.”

And he then goes on, like a ready made, long-matured rascal as he is—like one whose mind had no habit of virtuous or religious contemplation, but which has always had a familiarity with evil and a tendency downward:

——“Why do Iyieldto that suggestionWhose horrid image doth unfix my hair,” etc.

——“Why do Iyieldto that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,” etc.

The very moment his attention is directed to the subject of his becomingking, he conceives the idea of murdering the actual occupant of the throne, notwithstanding the fact that there are two sons living.

An innocent man, were he told he would become king of England, would not instantly set about murdering the queen. He would (supposing him to have faith in the prediction) say to himself, as indeed Macbeth does at one time:

“If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, without my stir.”

The very first page of the tragedy marks Macbeth for a villain even before he has made his appearance.

1.Witch.When shall we three meet againIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?2.Witch.When the hurly-burly’s done,When the battle’s lost and won;3.Witch.That will be ere set of sun.1.Witch.Where the place?2.Witch.Upon the heath.3.Witch.Then to meet with Macbeth.

1.Witch.When shall we three meet againIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?

1.Witch.When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

2.Witch.When the hurly-burly’s done,When the battle’s lost and won;

2.Witch.When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won;

3.Witch.That will be ere set of sun.

1.Witch.Where the place?

2.Witch.Upon the heath.

3.Witch.Then to meet with Macbeth.

Why have these fiendish women selected the gallant soldier as their victim? What gathers them about the “battle” that is raging near?Whatbut thescentofa sinful heart?

But there are other proofs of an extrinsic nature, which settle the previous character of Lady Macbeth at the same time, and shows how ripe they both were for the fiends.

If a man’s true nature may be supposed to be known to any one itis to his wife. He may put on a smooth face before his best friend; he may write or speak virtuous sentiments to the public; he may give charitable donations, and follow the career of a flaming patriot or a meek saint, but the lady upon whom he has conferred with his name, the right of being with him continually, will be pretty able to tell how matters really are. I do not say that, because a wife abuses her husband and calls him names, he must necessarily be a rascal; but, as a general rule, the partner of his woes and joys has better opportunities ofknowing the manthan almost any one else—at least, if she be a person of Lady Macbeth’s discrimination. Well then, see what hisladysays of him, to herself, on receiving his letter recounting the prediction of the weird sisters.

“Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt beWhat thou art promis’d:—yet I do fear thy nature;It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness,To catch the nearest way.”

“Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be

What thou art promis’d:—yet I do fear thy nature;

It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness,

To catch the nearest way.”

That she should suppose himtoo full of the milk of human kindnessto do cruel actions is a skilful stroke in the delineation both of his nature and hers. However well she knew him, as he had been till then, an unprincipled man—evenshehad never fathomed those depths of character, (for good or for evil common to all men, and equally unfathomed probably by himself,) which the subsequent events disclosed. Shakspeare somewhere else says, “It is not a year or so that shows us a man”—and it is an important truth, that we are not thoroughly known by our best friends, and do not know ourselves till late in life. This same person, so full of the milk of human kindness that she feared his “softer nature” could never be brought to the necessary resolution, no sooner finds himself once fairly compromised than his atrocities throw the cruelties of ordinary oppressors quite into the shade.

“Thou would’st be great;Art not without ambition; but withoutThe illness should attend it. What thou would’st highlyThou would’st holily; would’st not play false,And yetwould’st wrongly win,” etc. etc.

“Thou would’st be great;

Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou would’st highly

Thou would’st holily; would’st not play false,

And yetwould’st wrongly win,” etc. etc.

This passage has been often misunderstood. “Without theillness” that should attend ambition—“what thou would’st highly thou would’st holily,” does not mean, thou art without theviceswhich should attend ambition, and, what thou would’st highly—thou would’st in aholy spirit. It means, he is without thecourageto bear the risk and odium necessary to the successful carrying out of ambitious plans, although he is willing enough to beguiltyif he may notappearto be so. “What he would highly,” he would also with anappearance of holiness. He loves themaskof virtue, but he loves also the sweets of sin. He has thus far enjoyed the good opinion of theworld. He cannot bear to throw aside the wreath which he has worn and which flatters his weakness and vanity. It is theworldwhich alone he thinks of. This is his only god. Of the Supreme Being, there is not a word; but of his inclination to assume the moral responsibility there is a distinct acknowledgment:

“Would’st not play falseAnd yetwould’st wrongly win. ‘Thou’d’st have, great Glamis,’That which cries, ‘Thus thou must do if thou have it!’And that which thou dostrather fear to do,Thanwishest should be undone.”

“Would’st not play false

And yetwould’st wrongly win. ‘Thou’d’st have, great Glamis,’

That which cries, ‘Thus thou must do if thou have it!’

And that which thou dostrather fear to do,

Thanwishest should be undone.”

Here we have Macbeth’s character. Here we have the secret of his goodness. It isfearandlove of the world.

Shakspeare meant to draw a very—very common character, only he has made it colossal. How many men in the common life of this day are irreproachable from the same considerations—fear and love of the world, joined to a certain dislike of the trouble, exertion and risk of wrong. (“If we should fail!”) That these are the moving springs of this seemingly noble and generous but really remorseless and impious character we see again from a remark of his own. After contemplating the murder for some time, he concludes to abandon the plan. Why? Because he will not incur the moral guilt? Because he has thoughts of his God, whose eye is on him, and who cannot but punish a crime? Because the commandment has been written, “Thou shalt do no murder?” Because the Deity himself has decreed “blood for blood?”

No. For reasons much more suited to his irreligious, infidel, worldly mind:

“We will proceed no further in this business!He hathhonoredme of late; and I have boughtGolden opinionsfrom allsorts of people,Which should be worn now in their newest gloss,Not cast aside so soon.”

“We will proceed no further in this business!

He hathhonoredme of late; and I have bought

Golden opinionsfrom allsorts of people,

Which should be worn now in their newest gloss,

Not cast aside so soon.”

These are his reasons for not wishing to proceed. Not a thought of his Maker—not an allusion to a future world. He expressly says, in another passage, if he could but be secure against detectionin this world, he does not feel any apprehension respecting the other. He’ll “jump the world to come.”

No man, not corrupt by long previous backslidings either of thought or deed, would act as Macbeth acts. He grasps at the first idea of murder with the true zest of an assassin. All his struggles are only those of fear. Thefirsttime he meets the king, his generous, grateful, and gracious master, he seems already to have arranged the murder in his mind, and his hypocrisy and cruelty do not waver an instant. He discovers the self-possession and plausible villany of a practised criminal, and this too before he sees his wife upon the subject. It almost seems as if they had spoken on this point before. When Duncan heaps him with thanks and rewards, he answers:

Mac.“The service and the loyalty I owe,In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ partIs to receive our duties: and our dutiesAre, to your throne and state, children and servants;Which do but what they should, by doing every thingSafe toward your love and honor.”

Mac.“The service and the loyalty I owe,

In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part

Is to receive our duties: and our duties

Are, to your throne and state, children and servants;

Which do but what they should, by doing every thing

Safe toward your love and honor.”

When the King says, as if in dark conformity to the witches’ prediction:

“from hence to Inverness,And bind us further to you,”

“from hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you,”

Macbeth, like a hungry leopard trembling with joy at seeing his victim take refuge in his very den, says, with an affectation of grateful submission:

Mac.“The rest is labor which is not used for you:I’ll be myself the harbinger, andmake joyfulThe hearing of mywife with your approach.”

Mac.“The rest is labor which is not used for you:

I’ll be myself the harbinger, andmake joyful

The hearing of mywife with your approach.”

And thenalready, to himself:

Mac.“The Prince of Cumberland! That is a stepOn which I must falldown, or else overleap;For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!Let not light see my black and deep desires,The eye wink at the hand,yet let that beWhich the eye fears, when it is done, to see.”

Mac.“The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step

On which I must falldown, or else overleap;

For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!

Let not light see my black and deep desires,

The eye wink at the hand,yet let that be

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.”

His famous soliloquy, “Out, out, brief candle,” is in itself a superb piece of earthly philosophy, but it becomes resplendently significant when regarded as thecreed of infidelitywhich has brought him where he is; for he is an atheist, andthereforehe is amurderer.

“Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,Andthen is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.”

“Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

Andthen is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

These are not the thoughts of the gentle, happy-hearted Shakspeare. These are the blasphemous outbreakings of a blood-drenched, disbelieving soul, vainly striving to make head against God’s vengeance by denying his existence. No. Life’snota walking shadow. It is more than a poor player—than a tale signifying nothing. It signifies much not to be known by the “ignorant present,” as they find, unhappy lost ones, who mistake such wicked blasphemies for truth.

The pertinacity with which his selfish soul is wedded to the world is again betrayed in one of his last soliloquies, where, in running a kind of balance in his accounts between the gains and losses of his murderous ambition, he complains:

“And that which should accompany old age,Ashonor, love, obedience, troops of friends,I must not look to have; but, in their stead,Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath,Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.”

“And that which should accompany old age,

Ashonor, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have; but, in their stead,

Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath,

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.”

Always the world bounds his hopes and his fears.

The original viciousness of his nature is also betrayed by the readiness with which, once embarked in the career of crime, he plunges in headlong. The very morning of the murder of the king, he stabs in their sleep the two grooms of the chamber, then Banquo and Fleance (which latter escapes by chance.) He rushes on from murder to murder with the rabid fury of a hound maddened with the taste of blood. He adopts the direst principles of action,

Mac.“From this momentThe very firstlings of my heart shall beThe firstlings of my hand.”

Mac.“From this moment

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand.”

Surprises the castle of Macduff, and massacres his wife, his babes,

“And all the unfortunate soulsThat trace him in his line.”

“And all the unfortunate souls

That trace him in his line.”

That Shakspeare meant to draw, in this remarkable portraiture, a worldly character unsupported byreligion, is evident from thetone of pietywhich runs through the other characters. The gentlewoman’s “Heaven knows what she has known,” and her “pray God it be well.” The doctor’s “God, God forgive us all!” Macduff’s

“Did Heaven look onAnd would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,Not for their own demerits, but for mine,Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now.”

“Did Heaven look on

And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,

They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,

Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now.”

This is the oft repeated apprehension of a pious heart which fears still its own weakness, and finds, in the inscrutable and most awful visitatings of God a merited blow—a chastener of its still corrupt desires—a lesson to unlink it yet more from its grasp on mortality.

Immediately again Macduff prays to heaven—and in the same page Malcolm says:

“MacbethIs ripe for shaking, and thepowers abovePut on their instruments.”

“Macbeth

Is ripe for shaking, and thepowers above

Put on their instruments.”

Another instance of the pure christian piety with which the poet invests his good characters, and of which he deprives his bad ones, telling strongly for Dr. Ulrici’s theory, occurs in the third scene of the fourth act, where Malcolm, the heir to the throne, in order to try Macduff, represents himself as being full of vices. Macduff replies,

“Thy Royal FatherWas a mostsainted King; the Queen, that bore thee,—Oftener upon her knees than on her feet.”

“Thy Royal Father

Was a mostsainted King; the Queen, that bore thee,—

Oftener upon her knees than on her feet.”

In his answer, Malcolm uses the expression, full of pious reverence:

“ButGod aboveDeal between thee and me,” &c.

“ButGod above

Deal between thee and me,” &c.

And still another, the morning after the murder, when Macduff says:

“In thegreat hand of God I stand,” &c.

[4]Vide a future¶.

[4]

Vide a future¶.

THE DAUGHTERS OF DR. BYLES.

A SKETCH OF REALITY.

———

BY MISS LESLIE.

———

Onmy first visit to Boston, about nine years since, I was offered, by a lady of that kind and hospitable city, (the paradise of strangers,) an introduction to the two daughters of the celebrated Mather Byles: and I gladly availed myself of this opportunity of becoming acquainted with these singular women, whom, I had been told, were classed among the curiosities of the place.

Their father, a native Bostonian, (born in 1706, during the reign of Queen Anne,) was connected with the family of Cotton Mather. His education was completed in England, where he studied theology at Cambridge, and was afterwards ordained a minister of the gospel according to the Episcopal faith. On his return to Boston, Mather Byles was inducted into the first pastor-ship of Hollis street church, then a newly-erected edifice, constructed entirely of wood, as were most American churches of that period. He became proprietor of a house and a small piece of ground near the junction of Tremont and Nassau streets. In this house all his children were born, and here the two that survived were still living. His wife was a daughter of Governor Taylor.

The position of Dr. Byles as a clergyman, his literary acquirements, his shrewd sense, and his ready wit, caused him to be highly popular at home, and brought him into personal acquaintance or epistolary correspondence with many of the principal men of his time, on both sides of the Atlantic. He frequently exchanged letters with Pope and with Dr. Watts: and among the visiters at his “modest mansion” might be enumerated some of the most distinguished persons of his native province—while strangers of note eagerly sought his acquaintance.

All went smoothly with Dr. Byles till America became impatient of her dependence on the crown of Britain; and, unfortunately for him, his sympathies were on the side of the mother country. He could not be persuaded that her children of the new world had sufficient cause for abrogating the authority of the nation from whence they had sprung; and he considered their alleged grievances as mere pretexts for throwing off a chain which, in his opinion, had pressed but lightly on them; and that, in short, as Falstaff said of the Percy and Mortimer insurrection,—“Rebellion lay in their way, and they found it.” His congregation had warmly and almost unanimously espoused the popular cause, and, consequently, were much irritated at the ultra royalist feelings and opinions of their pastor, whose difficulties with his flock seeming daily to increase, Dr. Byles eventually thought it best to resign his situation as minister of Hollis street church.

The war broke out; the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and Boston was subsequently occupied by the British army, and besieged by the Americans, who established themselves in hostile array upon the heights that commanded the town,—and, with a view of dislodging the enemy, they vigilantly exerted themselves in stopping all supplies of fuel and provisions. After holding out against the patriots during a leaguer of more than eight months, the British finally withdrew their forces, and embarked them to carry the war into another section of the country. Now, that something like order was again restored in the town of Boston and its vicinity, it was thought time to punish those who had rendered themselves obnoxious by aiding and abetting the cause of the enemy. Some of the most noted royalists were expelled from the province and took refuge in Nova Scotia, others went into voluntary exile and repaired to England, where they preferred a claim of indemnification for the losses they had sustained by adhering to the cause of monarchy. Among others, Dr. Mather Byles was denounced at a town-meeting, for his unconcealed toryism: for having persisted in praying for the king; and for interchanging visits with the British officers, most of whom were received familiarly at his house. Upon these charges he was tried before a special court, and at first sentenced to have his property confiscated, and himself and family transported to England. But the board of war, out of respect to his private character, commuted his punishment to a short imprisonment in his own house, under the guard of sentinels, and allowed him to retain his possessions.

The rebellion eventuated in a successful revolution; and honor, fame, and the gratitude of their country rewarded those who had assisted in the glorious contest for independence; while all who had held back, and all who had sided with the enemy, were contumeliously cast into the shade, regarded with contempt by their former associates, or compelled to wear out their lives in exile from the land of their birth. Most of the connections of the Byles family quitted the States. But the doctor remained, and finding that he could not regain his former place among his townsmen, he lived in retirement during the residue of his life, and died at his own house in Boston, in 1788, in the 82d year of his age. He was interred beneath the pavement of the chancel in Trinity church, having worshipped there with his family after quitting that of Hollis street.

In the old family house his two surviving daughters had ever since continued to reside, steadily refusing to sell either the building or the lot of ground attached to it, though liberal offers for its purchase had repeatedly been made to them. So deep-rooted was their attachment to this spot, where they had been born, and where they had always lived, that they considered it impossible for them to exist in any other place, continually asserting that a removal from it would certainly kill them. They had a trifling source of income which brought them two hundred dollars annually, and they contrived to save nearly the whole of this little sum. Also, they possessed a tolerable quantity of old-fashioned plate, which they had put away in a chest up stairs, never to be used or sold while they lived. In the mean time their wants were chiefly supplied, (and, indeed, many little luxuries were furnished them,) by the benevolence of certain ladies of Boston, who, in the goodness of their hearts, overlooked the anomaly of two women who had the means of a comfortable independence within their reach, submitting to receive assistance from eleemosynary bounty rather than relinquish the indulgence of what, in those matter-of-fact times, would, by most persons, be regarded as a mere morbid fancy. But on this point of feeling they believed their happiness to depend; and their tolerant benefactresses kindly enabled them to be happy in their own way.

The Miss Byleses kept no domestic; but a man came every morning to attend to the wood and water part of theirménage, and to go their errands—and a woman was employed every week to do up the Saturday work. A newspaper was sent to them gratuitously—books were lent to them, for the youngest was something of a reader, and also wrote verses; and they frequently received little presents of cakes, sweetmeats, and other delicacies. They rarely went out, except to Trinity church. Then they put on their everlasting suits of the same Sunday clothes: their faces being, on these occasions, shaded with deep black veils suspended from their bonnets, not so much for concealment as for gentility.

The lady who volunteered to introduce me to the daughters of Dr. Byles, was, as I afterwards understood, one of those who assisted in affording them some of the comforts which they denied to themselves. We set out on our visit on one of the loveliest mornings of a Boston summer, the warmth of the season being delightfully tempered by a cool breeze from the sea. After passing the beautiful Common, (why has it not a better name?) my companion pointed out to me, at what seemed the termination of the long vista of Tremont street, an old black-looking frame-house, which, at the distance from whence I saw it, seemed to block up the way by standing directly across it. It was the ancient residence of Mather Byles, and the present dwelling of his aged daughters; one of whom was in her eighty-first and the other in her seventy-ninth year. This part of Tremont street, which is on the south-eastern declivity of a hill, carried us far from all vicinity to the aristocratic section of Boston.

At length we arrived at the domain of the two antique maidens. It was surrounded by a board fence, which had once been a very close one, but time and those universal depredators, “the boys,” had made numerous cracks and chinks in it. The house (which stood with the gable end to the street) looked as if it had never been painted in its life. Its exposure to the sun and rain, to the heats of a hundred summers and the snows of a hundred winters, had darkened its whole outside nearly to the blackness of iron. Also, it had, even in its best days, been evidently one of the plainest and most unbeautified structures in the town of Boston, where many of the old frame-houses can boast of a redolence of quaint ornament about the doors, and windows, and porches, and balconies. Still, there was something not unpleasant in its aspect, or rather in its situation. It stood at the upper end of a green lot, whose long thick grass was enamelled with field flowers. It was shaded with noble horse-chestnut trees relieved against the clear blue sky, and whose close and graceful clusters of long jagged leaves, fanned by the light summer breeze, threw their chequered and quivering shadows on the grass beneath, and on the mossy roof of the venerable mansion.

We entered the enclosure by a board gate, whose only fastening was a wooden latch with a leather string; like that which secured the wicket of Little Red Ridinghood’s grand-mother. There was a glimpse of female figures hastily flitting away from a front window. We approached the house by a narrow pathway, worn by frequent feet, in the grass, and a few paces brought us to the front door with its decayed and tottering wooden steps. My companion knocked, and the door was immediately opened by a rather broad-framed and very smiling old lady, habited in a black worsted petticoat and a white short-gown, into the neck of which was tucked a book-muslin kerchief. Her silver hair was smoothly arranged over a wrinkled but well-formed forehead, beneath which twinkled two small blue eyes. Her head was covered with a close full-bordered white linen cap, that looked equally convenient for night or for day. She welcomed us with much apparent pleasure, and my companion introduced her to me as Miss Mary Byles. She was the eldest of the two sisters.

Miss Mary ushered us into the parlor, which was without a carpet, and its scanty furniture seemed at least a century old. Beneath a surprisingly high mantel-piece was a very low fire-place, from whence the andirons having been removed for the summer, its only accoutrement was a marvellous thick cast-iron back-plate, of a pattern antique even to rudeness. There were a few straight tall-backed chairs, some with bottoms of flag-rush, and others with bottoms of listing; and there was onefauteuil, to be described hereafter. My attention was attracted by the oldest-looking table I had ever seen, and of so dark a hue that it was difficult to tell whether it was mahogany or walnut. When opened out it must have been circular; but, now that the leaves were let down, it exhibited a top so strangely narrow (not more than half a foot in width) that it was impossible to divine the object in making it so; unless, indeed, it was the fashionable table of the time. And fashion, at all periods, has been considered reason sufficient for anything, however inconvenient, ugly or absurd. To support the narrow top and the wide leaves, this table seemed to be endowed with a hundred legs and a proportionate number of bars crossing among them, in every direction, all being of very elaborate turned work. I opine that this must have been a great table in its day.

My companion inquired after the health of Miss Catherine Byles, the youngest of the ladies. Miss Mary replied that sister Catherine was quite unwell, having passed a bad night with the rheumatism. Regret was expressed at our losing the pleasure of seeing her. But Miss Mary politely assured us that her sister would exert herself to appear, rather than forego an opportunity of paying her respects to the ladies; and we as politely hoped that, on our account, she would not put herself to the smallest inconvenience. While compliments were thus flying, the door of the next room opened, and Miss Catherine Byles made her entrance, in a manner which showed us that she went much by gracefulness.

Miss Catherine was unlike her elder sister, both in figure and face; her features being much sharper, (in fact, excessively sharp,) and her whole person extremely thin. She also was arrayed in a black bombasin petticoat, a short-gown, and a close lined cap, with a deep border that seemed almost to bury her narrow visage. She greeted us with much cordiality, and complained of her rheumatism with a smiling countenance.

My eyes were soon rivetted on a fine portrait of Dr. Mather Byles, from the wonderful pencil of Copley—wonderful in its excellence at a period when the divine art was scarcely known in the provinces, and when a good picture rarely found its way to our side of the ocean. And yet, under these disadvantages, and before he sought improvement in the schools of Europe, did Copley achieve those extraordinary fac-similes of the human face, that might justly entitle him to the appellation of the Reynolds of America, and are scarcely excelled by those of his cotemporary, the Reynolds of England.

The moment I looked at this picture I knew that itmustbe a likeness; for I saw in its lineaments the whole character of Dr. Byles, particularly the covert humor of the eye. The face was pale, the features well-formed, and the aspect pleasantly acute. He was represented in his ecclesiastical habiliments, with a curled and powdered wig. On his finger was a signet-ring containing a very fine red cornelian. While I was contemplating the admirably-depicted countenance, his daughters were both very voluble in directing my attention to the cornelian ring, which they evidently considered the best part of the picture; declaring it to be an exact likeness of that very ring, and just as natural as life.

Before I had looked half enough at Copley’s picture, the two old ladies directed my attention to another portrait which they seemed to prize still more highly. This, they informed me, was that of their nephew, “poor boy,” whom they had not seen for forty years. It was painted by himself.—His name was Mather Brown, and he was the only son of their deceased elder sister. He had removed to London, where, as they informed me, he hadtakenthe Prince of Wales and the Duke of York—“and, therefore,” said one of the aunts—“he is painter to the royal family.” They both expressed much regret that they had not been able to prevail on their father, after the revolution, to give up America entirely, and remove with his family to England. “In that case,” said Miss Mary, “we should all have been introduced at court; and the king and queen would have spoken to us; and I dare say would have thanked us kindly for our loyalty.”

The truth was, as I afterwards found, that a much longer period than forty years had elapsed since their nephew left America; but they always continued to give that date to his departure. He had painted himself with his hair reared up perpendicularly from his forehead, powdered well, and tied behind,—and, in a wide blue coat with yellow buttons, and a very stiff hard-plaited shirt-frill with hand-ruffles to match. In his hand he held an open letter, which, both his aunts informed me, contained the very words of an epistle sent by one of them to him, and, therefore, was an exact likeness of that very letter. To gratify them, I read aloud the pictured missive, thereby proving that it really contained legible words.

Having looked at the pictures, I was invited by Miss Mary Byles to take my seat in the large arm-chair, which she assured me was a great curiosity, being more than a hundred years old, having been sent over from England by “government,” as a present to their maternal grandfather, Governor Taylor. The chair was of oak, nearly black with age, and curiously and elaborately carved. The back was very tall and straight, and the carving on its top terminated in a crown. This chair was furnished with an old velvet cushion, which was always (by way of preservation) kept upside down, the underside being of dark calico. Miss Mary, however, did me the honor, as a visiter, to turn the right side up, that I might sit upon velvet; and as soon as I had placed myself on it, she enquired if I found it an easy seat? On my replying in the affirmative. “I am surprised at that”—said she, with a smile—“I wonder how a republican can sit easy under the crown.”—Beginning to understand my cue, I, of course, was properly diverted with this piece of wit.

Miss Catherine then directed my attention to the antique round table, and assured me that at this very table Dr. Franklin had drank tea on his last visit to Boston. Miss Mary then produced, from a closet by the chimney-side, an ancient machine of timber and iron in the form of a bellows, which she informed me was two hundred years old. It looked as if it might have been two thousand, and must have been constructed in the very infancy of bellows-making, about the time when people first began to grow tired of blowing their fires with their mouths. It would have afforded a strange contrast, and a striking illustration of the march of intellect, if placed by the side of one of those light and beautiful, painted, gilt and varnished fire-improvers which abound in certain shops in Washington street. This bellows of other days was so heavy that it seemed to require a strong man to work it. The handles and sides were carved all over with remarkably cumbrous devices; and the nozzle or spout was about the size and shape of a very large parsnep with the point cut off.

Miss Mary now asked her sister ifshehad no curiosities to show the ladies? Miss Catherine modestly replied that she feared she had nothing the ladies would care to look at. Miss Mary assured us that sister Catherine had a box of extraordinary things, such as were not to be seen every day, and that they were universally considered as very great curiosities. Miss Catherine still seemed meekly inclined to undervalue them. My companion, whohadseen the things repeatedly, begged that their Philadelphia visiter might be indulged with a view of these rarities—and, finally, after a little more coquetry, a sort of square band-box was produced, and Miss Catherine did the honors of her little museum.

She showed us the envelope of a letter addressed to her father by no less a person than Alexander Pope, and directed in the poet’s own hand. The writing was clear and handsome, and had evidently been executed with a new pen, and with a desire that the superscription should look well. Next, were exhibited four commissions, each bearing the signature of a different British sovereign. The names of the royal personages were placed at the top of the document and not at the bottom. This, the old ladies told us was to show that royalty ought to go before every thing else. The first signature was that of Queen Anne, and headed the appointment of their grandfather to the government of the province of Massachusetts. I have never in my life seen any autograph so bad as that of “great Anne whom three realms obeyed”—if this was to be considered a fair specimen. It looked as if nobody had ever taught her to write, and had the appearance of being scratched on the paper, not with apenbut with apindipped in ink. I believe it is related of the Emperor Charlemagne (who pressed the seals of his missives with the hilt of his dagger) that he effected his signature by plunging his thumb into the ink, and making with it a large black spot or blot on the parchment. No doubt, being a man of sense, he took care that his dab or smear should always be of exactly the same shape and dimension, and souniquein its look as to preclude the possibility of counterfeits.

The next document shown us by Miss Catherine, was honored with the name of the First George—that sapient Elector of Hanover, whose powers of comprehension were so obtuse that he never could be made exactly to understand by what means he succeeded to the throne of England, and often said “he was afraid he was keeping some honest man out of his place.” His majesty’s pen-maker was palpably unworthy of holding that office, for, in this autograph, both up strokes and down were so thick that they looked as if done with the feather of the quill instead of its point.

Afterwards was displayed a commission signed by George the Second. Here the royal caligraphy seemed on the mend. The signature was well written, and his majesty’s pen-provider was evidently fit for his station.

Last, was a paper bearing the name of George the Third, written in a fair and easy hand, but rather inferior to that of his predecessor, notwithstanding that the second of the Hanoverian monarchs had “never likedbainting orboetry in all his life, and did not know what good there was in either.”

It is a most fallacious and illiberal hypothesis that the hand-writing is characteristic of the mind. And those who profess that theory frequently employ it as a vehicle for the conveyance of impertinent and unjust remarks.

We were next shown a small portion of moss gathered from the time-honored roof of Bradgate Hall, the mansion in which the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey first saw the light.

These relics of the departed great were followed by the exhibition of some little articles, only remarkable as specimens of mechanical ingenuity. Among them was a large deep-red mulberry, looking surprisingly like a real one.

“And now,” said Miss Catherine, “I will show you the greatest curiosity of all.” She then took out an inner pasteboard box that had been placed within the larger one, and setting it on the floor, produced, from a round hole in the lid, an artificial snake, that looked something like a very long, very close string of button-molds. By giving it some mysterious impulse, she set the reptile in motion, and caused it to run about in the neighborhood of our feet. We thought it best to be a little startled and a little frightened, and very greatly surprised at the ingenuity of the thing. After we had sufficiently enjoyed the sight, Miss Catherine attempted to replace her snake in the box, telling him it was time to go home. But he seemed rather refractory, and quite unwilling to re-enter his prison. “What”—said she—chastising him with two or three smart taps—“won’t you go in.—Areyoua rebel too!”—The serpent stood rebuked; and then obediently hurried back into his hole. And we laughed as in duty bound—also with some admiration at the old lady’s slight of hand in managing the reptile.

MissCatherine, having completed the exhibition of her snake, now addressed Miss Mary, and proposed that her sister should show us an extraordinary trick, “which always astonished the ladies.” To this MissMary made some objection, lest we should have her taken up and hanged for a witch. On our promising not to do so, she took a scrap of white paper which she tore into four little bits, and then laid them in a row on the table. Having done this, she left the room, shutting the door closely after her, so as to convince us, that while remaining outside it was impossible for her to see or hear anything that was done in her absence. Miss Catherine now desired me to touch, with my finger, one of the bits of paper—any one I pleased. I touched the second—and Miss Mary was then called in by her sister, who said to her, as she entered,—“Be quick.”—Miss Mary immediately advanced to the table, and unhesitatingly designated the second paper as that which I touched while she was out of the room. Being unacquainted with the trick, I was really surprised; and wondered how she could have guessed so correctly. The trick was several times repeated, and every time with perfect success.

After I had been thoroughly astonished, and declared my utter inability to fathom the mystery, the sisters explained to me its very simple process. The four bits of paper, arranged on the table in a row, denoted the four first letters of the alphabet.—When I touched the second, (which signified B,) Miss Catherine directed her sister to it by saying, as she returned to the room—“Be quick.”—When I touched the third—D—Miss Mary, on her entrance, was saluted by her sister with the words—“Do you think you can tell?”—After I had touched the first paper, A, Miss Mary was asked—“Are you sure you can guess?”—and when I touched C, Miss Catherine said to Miss Mary, “Come and try once more.” And thus, by commencing each sentence with the letter that had just been touched, she unfailingly pointed out to her sister the exact paper. To succeed in this little trick, there must, of course, be an understanding between the two persons that exhibit it: and to most of the uninitiated it appears very surprising. By adopting a similar plan of collusion, some of the professors of Mesmerism have contrived to obtain from their magnetized sleepers, replies which, to the audience, seemed truly astonishing.

We now arose to take our leave; and our attention was then directed to a square pine table standing by one of the windows, and covered with particularly uninviting specimens of pincushions, needle-books, emery-bags, &c. The old ladies informed us that this was a charity table, which they kept for the benefit of “the poor.” I had thought that the Miss Byleses were their own poor. However, we gratified them by adding a trifling sum to their means of doing good: and I became the proprietor of the ugliest needle-book I had ever seen. But I magnanimously left the less ugly things to tempt the choice of those persons who really make an object of their purchases at charity tables.—“Dear good little me.”

The Miss Byleses were very urgent in inviting me to repeat my visit, saying, that any time of the day after nine o’clock, they were always ready to see company, and would be happy to receive me and such friends as I might wish to bring with me. And they enumerated among their visiters, from other parts of the Union, some highly eminent personages.

While we were listening to the “more last words” of Miss Catherine, her sister slipped out into the very short passage that led to the house door, and then slipped back again. We, at last, paid our parting compliments, and Miss Mary escorted us to the front door, but seemed to find it locked, and seemed to find it impossible to unlock. This gave her occasion to say wittily—“The ladies will have to send home for their night-caps; as they are likely to be kept here all night.” Luckily, however, this necessity was obviated, by the key yielding as soon as it was turned the right way: and finally Miss Mary Byles curtsied and smiled us out.

(To be concluded.)

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