Chapter 4

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That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and which bore the name of its architect King David, was esteemed the most strongly fortified district of Jerusalem—being situated upon the steep and lofty hill of Zion. Here a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench—hewn from the solid rock—was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square towers of white marble—the lowest sixty—the highest one hundred and twenty cubits in height. But in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin the wall arose by no means immediately from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary, between the level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart, sprang up a perpendicular cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits—forming part of the precipitous Mount Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived on the summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the beseiging army—they looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an eminence excelling, by many feet, that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by several, that of the Temple of Belus.

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"Verily"—sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice—"the uncircumcised are as the sands by the sea shore—as the locusts in the wilderness! The valley of The King hath become the valley of Adommin."

"And yet"—added Ben-Levi—"thou canst not point me out a Philistine—no, not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the wilderness to the battlements—who seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!"

"Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!"—here shouted a Roman soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the regions of Pluto—"lower away the basket with that accursed coin which it has broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince your gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The God Phœbus, who is a true God, has been charioted for an hour—and were you not to have been on the ramparts by sunrise? Ædepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say—and see that your trumpery be bright in color, and just in weight!"

"El Elohim!"—ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against the Temple—"El Elohim!—whois the God Phœbus?—whomdoth the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!—is it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?—or Ashimah?—or Nibhaz?—or Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or Succoth-Benoth?—or Dagon?—or Belial?—or Baal-Perith?—or Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?"

"Verily, it is neither—but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too rapidly through thy fingers—for should the wicker-work chance to hang on the projection ofyonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the holy things of the Sanctuary."

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By the assistance of some rudely-constructed machinery, the heavily-laden basket was now lowered carefully down among the multitude—and, from the giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen crowding confusedly around it—but, owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of their operations could be obtained.

A half-hour had already elapsed.

"We shall be too late"—sighed the Pharisee, as, at the expiration of this period, he looked over into the abyss—"we shall be too late—we shall be turned out of office by the Katholim."

"No more"—responded Abel-Shittim—"no more shall we feast upon the fat of the land—no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense—our loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple."

"Raca!"—swore Ben-Levi—"Raca!—do they mean to defraud us of the purchase-money?—or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?"

"They have given the signal at last"—roared the Pharisee—"they have given the signal at last!—pull away! Abel-Shittim!—and thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to place therein a beast of good weight!" And the Gizbarim pulled away, while their burthen swung heavily upwards through the still increasing mist.

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"Booshoh he!"—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—"Booshoh he!"—was the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.

"Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of Engedi, and as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!"

"It is a firstling of the flock," said Abel-Shittim—"I know him by the bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are more beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral—and his flesh is like the honey of Hebron."

"It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan"—said the Pharisee—"the Heathen have dealt wonderfully with us—let us raise up our voices in a psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm and on the psaltery—on the harp and on the huggab—on the cythern and on the sackbut."

It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the Gizbarim that a low grunt betrayed to their perception ahogof no common size.

"Now El Emanu!"—slowly, and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as, letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the Philistines—"El Emanu!—God be with us!—it is the unutterable flesh!"

"Let me no longer," said the Pharisee wrapping his cloak around him and departing within the city—"let me no longer be called Simeon, which signifieth 'he who listens'—but rather Boanerges, 'the Son of Thunder.'"

Lucian calls unmeaning verbosity,anemonæ verborum. The anemone, with great brilliancy, has no fragrance.

The gentleman whose words I have just used, maintained on all occasions the superiority of modern over ancient literature. He prefers the better portions of Milman's "Samor, Lord of the Bright City," to the better portions of the Odyssey; and contends that "Scott's description of the battle of Flodden Hill, the midnight visit of William of Deloraine to Melrose Abbey, &c., are unequalled by anything in the Iliad or Æneid."

Now such comparisons are plainly unreasonable. "To read Homer's poems, is to look upon a brightly colored nosegay whose odor is departed," or, if not departed, at least lost to our dull and ignorant sense. The subtle odor of idiom and provincial peculiarity—the stronger odor of association are entirely lost to us. I may better illustrate my idea. Every one will recollect the following couplet in the description of William of Deloraine:

Reversing the order of things, suppose these lines read by a Greek of twenty-seven centuries ago; suppose him even well acquainted with the English tongue—could he appreciate their beauty? Let the Greek attempt totranslatethe lines into his own language. He begins withstark. The nice excellence of this word he knows nothing of. He finds that its meaning is somewhere betweenstoutandswift, and gives the Greek word "οχυς." The first downward step has been taken. He next pounces upon the term,moss-troopers. He translates this "Ληστης ιπποτʼ ανδρειο."Couched, is an idiom which he cannot translate; he gives us by way of equivalent, "εβαλλε."Border lance, is beyond his version. He contents himself with a simple "δορυ,"—for how is the wordBorderto be translated? It is a word depending on collateral matters for its meaning. These matters—involving the storied reyd and feud—must be known before the word can be understood; and twenty centuries would blot out all remembrance of the Percy and Douglas feuds. The wordBorderis therefore, wholly lost in the version.

The Greek version would read when completed—

which may be re-translated into

—verses as little resembling the original as "an eyas does a true hawk."

Translated into Latin, the original lines would read

as great a failure as the Greek.

If Scott would suffer so much in the eyes of the Greek and Latin reader, it is only fair to presume that Homer and Virgil suffer as much in our eyes.

We perceive the merits of our modern poet; we are blind to the merits of the ancient. We are consequently incapable of judging between them. Mr. Grimckè's comparison is unreasonable.

"Humility is certainly beautiful, but vanity is not always uncomely."—Anon.

It is singular how little we appreciate the humility of some men. Launce says, "I am an ass," and we, coinciding with him in the sentiment, scarcely think of giving him credit for his humility. We perhaps take the trouble to approve of his want of vanity—but this is only a negative sort of approbation. Humility seems such a man's province—as natural to him as the grass to a snail. To be appreciated, humility must manifest itself in high natures. We are captivated by the spectacle of highness contenting itself with lowliness. The grass is natural to the snail, but the home of the lark is the sky—and when he descends to the meadow, we, mindful of his fleetness of pinion, marvel at his descent and love him for his simple humility. The "great Lyttleton" was a man of the most perfect modesty. A fine specimen of this may be found in the last paragraph of his work upon the English laws, "And know, my son, that I would not have thee believe, that all which I have said in these bookes is law, for I will not presume to take this upon me. But of those things which are not law, inquire and learn of my wise masters learned in the law." Sir John Mandeville, who wrote in the fourteenth century, was also remarkable for his modesty as a writer. I will quote a fine sample of it. "I, John Maundeville, knyghte aboveseyd (alle thoughe I be unworthi) have passed manye londes, and many yles and contrees, and cerched manye fulle straunge places, and have ben in manye a fulle gode honourable companye, and at manye a faire dede of armes—alle be it that I dide none myself, for myn unable insuffisance—etc."

VANITYin a weak man is disgusting; all pretension is disgusting. But "vanity is not always uncomely." The vanity of a strong man is sometimes beautiful. I remember an instance or two of this beautiful vanity. Some lines of Spenser—a part, I believe, of the preface to his Dreams of Petrarch, occur to me.

Southey too has given us a magnificent specimen of vanity in the opening to "Madoc,"

The younger D'Israeli has placed in the mouth of Vivian Grey some expressions which, regarded as outbreaks of lofty confidence, and youthful reliance upon self, are strikingly beautiful. I refer more particularly to the page or paragraph ending with the words—"and have I not skill to play upon that noblest of all instruments—the human voice?"

"Love, despair, ambition, and peace, spring up like trees from the soil of our natures."—E. Irving.

This idea, by a "singular coincidence," has been carried out in the Chinese novel, 'Yu-Kiao-Li, or the Adventures of Red Jasper and Dream of a Peartree,'—traduit par M. Abel Remusat. I translate from the French translation.

"In a fresh soil under a pleasant sky—clouded, but spanned by a rainbow—grew a green tree. Its branches were beautifully fashioned, and wore leaves which seemed to be chiselled from emerald. The moonlight fell upon the tree, and so intense was the reflection that every portion of the surrounding scenery took upon itself a gaudy and happy coloring. This tree wasLove—it grew from the soil of a young nature. Alas! its life cannot be the life of the amaranth.

"The second tree was in a soil torn up and bruised—the plants of which were freezing under a cold wind. Its branches were matted and black. No light penetrated them. The sky above was of ebony. The rainbow was not there. This tree wasDespair. Alas! for the beauty of Love! Is it not pushed from its stool by Despair?

"The third tree was in a soil firm to the eye, but undermined by the molewarp. Its scathed branches were entombed in the sky. Its peak, jealous of the eagle, out-towered him. About its stem, and through its haughty boughs a strange light played. It was neither the light of the sun nor yet the light of the moon. It was a false glare—a glare greatest about the region of decay. This tree wasAmbition. Alas! for the pride and the haughty yearning of mortal men!

"In the healthy soil of a valley, on which the eye of a bright day seemed ever open, grew the fourth tree. Its branches neither towered haughtily nor stooped slavishly. Health was in every bough; and lo! the rainbow which had fallen from the sky of Despair had surely been imprisoned among its leaves. The wind fanned these leaves healthily and their transparent cups teinted by the sunlight—as red wines teint the fine vases of porcelain—were beautiful to behold. This tree wasPeace. The moonlight of Love may grow dim; the sky of Despair is of ebony; the light of Ambition dies in the ashes of its fuel; but the sunlight of Peace is the light of an eye ever open. The head may be white and bowed down, but the threads of the angel-woven rainbow are wrapped about the heart of peaceful and holy Eld."

"The chiefest constituent of human beauty is the hair; after which in degree is to be ranked the eye; and lastly come the color and the texture of the skin. The varieties of these, cause it to happen that not unfrequently men differ in opinion as to what is comely and what is uncomely; this man maintaining black to be the better color for the hair as for the eye; that man maintaining a lighter color to be the better for both."—Burton.

Poets are generally persons of taste, and if we could find one of them certainly unbiassed by early recollections and the thousand trifles which warp taste, we might consider his judgment in regard to "the rival colors of the hair," as going far to exalt the color of his choice above its rivals. But the first of the modern philosophers loved squinting eyes because in his youth he had been in love with a little girl who squinted; and no taste is free from the influence of early recollections. Spenser's cousin, the lady who discarded him, "had hair of a flaxen hue." He ever after preferred this "hue," to all others. Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald was "of a stately person and gifted with pale glossy hair, with a sunny tinge about it." Lord Surrey sang of these "mixed ringlets" until the day of his death. I do not know that Ben. Jonson ever had a sweetheart, but he surely had a taste as good as if it had never been biassed by love for one. He speaks very well of—

Leigh Hunt says that Lucrecia Borgia had hair "perfectly golden." Neither auburn nor red, but "perfectlygolden." He has written some pretty verses upon a lock of this golden hair. He speaks of each thread as,

——"meandering in pellucid gold."

——"meandering in pellucid gold."

I forget the lines. This was the color beloved by a thousand poets; and one was found who forgot in contemplating the rare masses that, stained with it, lay upon the brow of Lucrecia Borgia, the "dark and unbridled passions" which led her to the bed of one brother and to the murder of another—and which have doomed her to "an immortality of evil repute."

Anacreon preferred auburn hair.

conveys nearly the same idea with that expressed in Jonson's "Gold upon a ground of black."

I have two or three more verses upon hair, which I recollect to have seen in an old English poem. They are descriptive of "Hero thenun of Venus—the lady beloved of Leander." These are the lines—three in number,

We often meet with double tastes. Tasso loved two Leonoras. Leonora D'Este had a fair skin. The other was a brunette.

It is difficult to decide between the rival colors of the eye. This difficulty is set forth in a little poem called the "Dilemma," which I find in an old number of the New England Magazine.

Before ending this "scrap" I will quote some sentences written by a friend of my own long ago—a very eccentric man, and indeed a melancholy one. He had been crossed in love, and could rarely speak or write without recurring to the origin of his unhappiness. He had a great many faults, but he is dead now, and has been so for many years; I am not anxious to say any more about them. The paragraph which I copy from his manuscript, is a portion of a flighty book, the aim or meaning of which I could never discover. It owes its fanciful extravagance, I rather think, to the influence of opium upon the author's nerves. After pointing out the numerous particulars in which "nature imitates our women," he proceeds to observe after the following fashion,

"In the hair, nature is most an imitator. The cascade caressing the precipice with the threads of its silver locks, which the teeth of the granite comb have frizled, and which the winds play at gambol with, is only a copy. So with the vine on the rock—the great vine whose metallic tendrils I have looked on and wondered at when the sunshine spanned them with a cloven halo. So with the drooping moss—theBarba Espagna, with its drapery of gold held by threads of spun alabaster, hanging inhardfestoons from the tree beside the Lagoon and sighing when its hues die with the sunlight. And so with the boughs of our weeping trees. O, but are not these last most beautiful? Place your ear to the soft grass-blades on the brink of a valley brook, and listen to the monotone of the willow's stirred ringlets, and watch them as the wind lifts them from the eddy beneath to float, bejewelled by adhering globules. And then look upon them as with the abating wind they sink lower and lower, leaving their cool rain upon your cheek. See them trail in the pebbly waters and conjure up in each detached leaf an Elfin barque laden with its rare boatmen and tiny beauties. Hear the tinkle of the little bells and the shrieks of the wrecked mariners, as they cling to the hair of the willow (as Zal clung to the locks of his mistress) and splash the brook into foam. And now they leap to the backs of their skipper steeds, and ply the spur of the thistle seed, and gallop off for the green shore, wringing their hands and bewailing the ill fate of their holiday trim. Such marvellous fancies, if you are fanciful, will prick your brain until the drowsy sough of the tree-hair and the renewed trickle of the raining spray lend your eyes sleep and call forth the dream spirit, as the fly from its cocoon, and give it the wings of wilder vagary to flutter away withal—whither?Minewould return to my wanderings by Goluon with her whose tomb in the valley of sweet waters often pillows my head."

Alas for my poor friend Bob! He died of a broken heart—that is to saymediately. He diedim-mediately of hard drinking. Napoleon remembered the Seine on his death-bed and asked to be buried upon its sunniest bank; Bob remembered Goluon when his great temples had the death-damp upon them. His vision had failed him; his nose had become peaked; his body, like a jaded and worn hack, had fallen under the spirit, which like a stout horseman had long kept it to its paces; but the little abiding place of memory had not been destroyed, and poor Bob muttered at times of a dead lady with fair hair—of a valley of sweet waters—of a grave with two willows above it—of pleasant Goluon—and died with an unuttered prayer upon his lips, and with a strong desire at his heart. The prayer was, that I, his friend, would bury him between the two willows—on the evening bank of Goluon—side by side with Betty Manning his old sweetheart. Poor Bob! May God take kind care of his soul!

In the lines just quoted, the poet (old Philip Allen, a Welshman) strikes the proper key. When we have ceased to derive pleasure from that which once afforded it to us, we should regard the change asin ourselves. The grass of the hill is as green as it ever was, but the step once "light" has become "tame." The bird sings as sweetly as ever, but the "bright heart" into which the "honey drops of his constant song" once fell, has been dimmed and darkened by human passions. The berry-clusters are still in the fringe of the thicket, but the palate has no longer any relish for them.We have changed.Yet we are apt to believe the change any where rather than in ourselves. Indeed we are for the most part like Launcelot in the play.

Gobbo.—"Lord worshipped might he be! What a beard hast thou got! Thou hast more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill horse, has on his tail."

Launcelot.—"It would seem then that Dobbin's tail grows backward. I am sure that he had more hair on his tail than I had on my face when I last saw him."

It was the chin of Launcelot that had undergone the change, and not the tail of his father Gobbo's thill horse Dobbin.

THE LOYALTY OF VIRGINIA.

THE LOYALTY OF VIRGINIA.

In our last number, while reviewing the Ecclesiastical History of Dr. Hawks, we had occasion to speak of those portions of Mr. George Bancroft'sUnited Slates, which have reference to the loyalty of Virginia immediately before and during the Protectorate of Cromwell. Since the publication of our remarks, a personal interview with Mr. Bancroft, and an examination, especially, of one or two passages in his History, have been sufficient to convince us that injustice (of course unintentional) has been done that gentleman, not only by ourselves, but by Dr. Hawks and others.

In our own review alluded to above, we concluded, in the following words, a list of arguments adduced,or supposed to be adduced, in proof of Virginia's disloyalty.

"6. Virginia was infected with republicanism. She wished to set up for herself. Thus intent, she demands of Berkeley a distinct acknowledgment of her Assembly's supremacy. His reply was 'I am but the servant of the Assembly.' Berkeley, therefore, was republican, and his tumultuous election proves nothing but the republicanism of Virginia." To which our reply was thus.

"6. The reasoning here is reasoning in a circle. Virginia is first declared republican. From this assumed fact, deductions are made which prove Berkeley so—and Berkeley's republicanism, thus proved, is made to establish that of Virginia. But Berkeley's answer (from which Mr. Bancroft has extracted the words, 'I am but the servant of the Assembly,') runs thus. 'You desire me to do that concerning your titles and claims to land in this northern part of America, which I am in no capacity to do: for I am but the servant of the Assembly: neither do they arrogate to themselves any power farther than the miserable distractions in England force them to. For when God shall be pleased to take away and dissipate the unnatural divisions of their native country, they will immediately return to their professed obedience.'—Smith's New York. It will be seen that Mr. Bancroft has been disingenuous in quoting only aportionof this sentence.The wholeproves incontestibly that neither Berkeley nor the Assemblyarrogated to themselves any power beyond what they were forced to assume by circumstances—in a word it proves their loyalty."

We are now, however, fully persuaded that Mr. Bancroft had not only no intention of representing Virginia as disloyal—but that his work, closely examined, will not admit of such interpretation. As an offset to our argument just quoted, we copy the following (the passage to which our remarks had reference) from page 245 of Mr. B.'s only published volume.

"On the death of Matthews, the Virginians were without a chief magistrate, just at the time when the resignation of Richard had left England without a government. The burgesses, who were immediately convened, resolving to become the arbiters of the fate of the colony, enacted 'that the supreme power of the government of this country shall be resident in the assembly, and all writs shall issue in its name, until there shall arrive from England a commission which the assembly itself shall adjudge to be lawful.' This being done, Sir William Berkeley was elected governor, and acknowledging the validity of the acts of the burgesses, whom it was expressly agreed he could in no event dissolve, he accepted the office to which he had been chosen, and recognized, without a scruple, the authority to which he owed his elevation. 'I am,' said he, 'but a servant of the assembly.'Virginia did not lay claim to absolute independence; but anxiously awaited the settlement of affairs in England."

It will here be seen, that the words italicized beginning "Virginia did not lay claim," &c. are very nearly, if not altogether equivalent to what we assume as proved bythe wholeof Berkeley's reply, viz.that neither Berkeley nor the Assembly arrogated to themselves any power beyond what they were forced to assume by circumstances. Our charge, therefore, of disingenuousness on the part of Mr. Bancroft in quoting only a portion of the answer, is evidently unsustained, and we can have no hesitation in recalling it.

At page 226 of the History of the United States, we note the following passage.

"At Christmas, 1648, there were trading in Virginia, ten ships from London, two from Bristol, twelve Hollanders, and seven from New England. The number of the colonists was already twenty thousand; and they, who had sustained no griefs, were not tempted to engage in the feuds by which the mother country was divided. They were attached to the cause of Charles, not because they loved monarchy, but because they cherished the liberties of which he had left them in undisturbed possession; and after his execution, though there were not wantingsomewho favored republicanism,the government recognized his son without dispute. The loyalty of the Virginians did not escape the attention of the royal exile.From his retreat in Breda he transmitted to Berkeley a new commission, andCharles the Second, a fugitive from England, was still the sovereign of Virginia."

This passage alone will render it evident that Mr. Bancroft's readers have been wrong in supposing him to maintain the disloyalty of the State. It cannot be denied, however, (and if we understand Mr. B. he does not himself deny it,) that there is, about some portions of his volume, an ambiguity, or perhaps a laxity of expression, which it would be as well to avoid hereafter. The note of Dr. Hawks we consider exceptionable, inasmuch as it is not sufficiently explanatory. The passages in Mr. B.'s History which we have noted above, and other passages equally decisive, were pointed out to Dr. Hawks. He should have therefore not only stated that Mr. B. disclaimed the intention of representing Virginia as republican, but also that his work, if accurately examined, would not admit of such interpretation. The question of Virginia's loyalty may now be considered as fully determined.

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

It is with great pleasure, at the opportunity thus afforded us of correcting an error, that we give place to the following letter.

Philadelphia, March 25, 1836.

SIR,—A mistake, evidently unintentional, having appeared in the February number of your journal forthis year, we feel convinced you will, upon proper representation, take pleasure in correcting it, as an impression so erroneous might have a prejudicial tendency. Under the notice of the Eulogies on the Life and Character of the late Chief Justice Marshall, it is there stated that "for several years past Judge Marshall had suffered under a most excruciating malady. A surgical operation by Dr. Physick of Philadelphia at length procured him relief; but a hurt received in travelling last Spring seems to have caused a return of the former complaint with circumstances of aggravated pain and danger. Having revisited Philadelphia in the hope of again finding a cure, his disease there overpowered him, and he died on the 6th of July, 1835, in the 80th year of his age."

Now, sir, the above quotation is incorrect in the following respect: Judge Marshall never had a return of the complaint for which he was operated upon by Dr. Physick. After the demise of Chief Justice Marshall, it became our melancholy duty to make apost mortemexamination, which we did in the most careful manner, and ascertained that his bladder did not contain one particle of calculous matter; its mucous coat was in a perfectly natural state, and exhibited not the slightest traces of irritation.

The cause of his death was a very diseased condition of the liver, which was enormously enlarged, and contained several tuberculous abscesses of great size; its pressure upon the stomach had the effect of dislodging this organ from its natural situation, and compressing it in such a manner, that for some time previous to his death it would not retain the smallest quantity of nutriment. By publishing this statement, you will oblige

Yours, very respectfully,N. CHAPMAN, M.D.J. RANDOLPH, M.D.

To T. W. White, Esq.

MAELZEL'S CHESS-PLAYER.

MAELZEL'S CHESS-PLAYER.

Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think. Yet the question of itsmodus operandiis still undetermined. Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton apure machine, unconnected with human agency in its movements, and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster's Letters on Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly, the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced, into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down, a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M. Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps, closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original position.

The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy the following account of it from theLettersbefore mentioned of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the Edinburgh Encyclopædia.

"One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen, is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand in one hand, and a book in the other. A number of questions, ready prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator takes any of these he chooses, and to which he wishes an answer, and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with his wand, and consulting the book as if in deep thought, he lifts it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the proposed question, he raises his wand, and striking with it the wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all containing different questions, to which the magician returns the most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour, during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to the questions which they contained, were extremely simple."

The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was of the size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says Brewster, all the natural movementsand gestures, it eat and drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in the real duck had its representative in the automaton, and its wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.1

1Under the headAndroidesin the Edinburgh Encyclopædia may be found a full account of the principle automata of ancient and modern times.

But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps, be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the Chess-Player is apure machine, and performs its operations without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate. Certaindatabeing given, certain results necessarily and inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing, and are influenced by nothing but thedataoriginally given. And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case, we can without difficulty conceive thepossibilityof so arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting it in accordance with thedataof the question to be solved, it should continue its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards the required solution, since these movements, however complex, are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate. But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate their disposition at a different period. Let us place thefirst movein a game of chess, in juxta-position with thedataof an algebraical question, and their great difference will be immediately perceived. From the latter—from thedata—the second step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It is modelled by thedata. It must bethusand not otherwise. But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it proceeds towards solution, thecertaintyof its operations remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a consequence of thedata, the third step is equally a consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of the fourth, and so on,and not possibly otherwise, to the end. But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is theuncertaintyof each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,nostep is certain. Different spectators of the game would advise different moves. All is then dependant upon the variable judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose to call the former apure machinewe must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring it to be a "very ordinary piece of mechanism—abagatellewhose effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for promoting the illusion." But it is needless to dwell upon this point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton are regulated bymind, and by nothing else. Indeed this matter is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration,a priori. The only question then is of themannerin which human agency is brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel's exhibition.

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