man of courage and skill. Blinded by fury, the bull generally rushes at once on his adversary, who awaits the shock at the extremity of the arena. No one dare breathe; but the gardian so exactly calculates the moment when the animal will reach him, that without changing his place he takes hold with his left hand of the horn which is lowered to toss him, and resting strongly upon it, seizes one of the legs in his right, and throws the animal all his length on the ground. The enthusiasm of the spectators know no bounds: clapping of hands and frantic hurrahs interrupt the sport for a quarter of an hour. That bull is led off conquered, and another takes his place.

The scene varies with each course. The next that enters is adorned all over with rosettes of ribbon. The two combatants are face to face in the lists, immovable, and as if nailed to the ground. The bull fixes his burning eyes on his adversary, who with his supple body and light foot, ready to follow the slightest movement, this time takes the offensive, and uttering a wild cry darts towards the animal before he is prepared, and tears the cockade from his forehead. "Bravo," cry the crowd, and every eye in the circle bends forwards curiously, to see which fair girl will be the recipient of the trophy; more than one heart flatters itself that it deserves the honour the ribbon is thrown, and carefully pinned on the breast and then one by one all must be torn from the bull. Advancing, retiring, jumping, the gardian seems to trifle with danger, as if on a spring-board: he bounds from the soil of the arena, and every time the spectators -cry, " "He is killed!" but he replies by throwing fresh cockades to his lover at length the moment comes when, despoiled of all his ribbons, the bull finds himself black and unadorned as in his native marsh: he has been conquered, and is led away, whilst everyone descends into the arena to applaud and admire the conqueror

Another favourite meeting takes place at the end of spring, and is denominated the muselade; an operation which consists in placing a muzzle on the nose of the calves to prever their sucking, and yet leaves them the power of feeding in the marshes; it is, in fact, a new kind of weaning. The place chosen for the muselade forms an immense circle of sand between the pine forest of Sauvage and the sea. Sprinkled by the waves which, blown by the mistral, spread over the land, a large herd of cattle stand watched by their gardians on horseback; in the middle crowd the calves, the heroes of the day, seeming to comprehend the danger which menaces them, and, pressing anxiously against their mothers' sides; some of them, already strong and well grown, gaze with a savage eye on the multitude, scattered on the edges of the forest. From the previous evening whole families have encamped here: tents arranged in circles, and waggons in a line, form a barrier, behind which they can shelter themselves in case of accident. The bold gardian gallops towards the black, savage

troop he commands, with a red handkerchief tied over his head, as if to brave their anger; a white flowing blouse, and his legs closely encased in gaiters; keeping a firm seat in his saddle, and carrying a trident in his hand. With his eye he commands the furious bulls, and, quick as lightning, slightly touching one of the calves with his trident, separates it from the troop; whilst the other gardians, standing in the middle of the circle, throw it on the sand, by seizing the budding horns, and fix on the muzzle. As soon as this is done the animal shakes its head thus strangely imprisoned, and flies to the pine forest, where its lowing mother awaits it with haggard eyes. Some even follow their young into the circle, lick them tenderly, and threaten with their horns the gardians who are waiting.

More dangerous, but equally popular, are the ferrades; when the calves have to be branded with their owners' marks. The circle, as usual, is formed by the carriages, whilst a burning brazier and branding irons are the central objects. The gardians, themselves, look anxious; no music is heard; instead of the joyous spectacle of the course, it is a serious piece of work for which they must summon all their presence of mind. Armed with their tridents, a few old men watch around the herd to keep order: the others dash in and endeavour to separate the young animals; but when driven into the arena they recover their courage, and furious and foaming rush against their gardians, who are trying to throw them down. It is a real mélée: the heavy bodies of the bulls and the lighter ones of their keepers are rolled in the dust; the dull roars of the former mingle with the sharp cries of the latter, whilst the call for "les fers, les fers," every minute, announces the overthrow of a fresh animal. After two or three hours passed in this desperate struggle, the master announces that the ferrade is ended; the wounded animals have fled towards the pine forest, bearing for ever, graven in their smoking flesh, their master's initials. A few are still left, which are considered too strong to be marked without danger, but the most skilful of the gardians sets himself to the task: the trident in one hand, the branding iron in the other, he separates one from the herd, and pursues it à l'outrance. The horse, perfectly understanding its part, manœuvres without direction from reins, voice, or spur; his wild nature loves this animated chase; he sees an enemy his master would conquer, and together they make but one being. At length the gardian strikes the trident against the animal's shoulder, throws him down, holds him there with one hand and applies the irons with the other-a bold proceeding, which calls forth loud approbation from the spectators.

Then come the preparations for returning : the mules and asses are harnessed to the carts, the women tie up their petticoats, the men grasp their walking-sticks, the young girls are crowded into the taps, the children into the asses' panniers, and all set off home. These caravans

offer a singular spectacle, guiding their steps on all sides in the midst of immense plains and pine forests, where, without a single path, the practised eye of the peasant, finds certain landmarks amidst the reeds and heather. Attached as the people of the Camargue are to their animals, it will not be so surprising that they make them share in their marriage festivities. When the merry bells are ringing for the approach of the wedding, groups of peasants line the edge of the marsh speculating on the point whether the husband will for once rise above his rank and wear a black hat; but here he comes, mounted on his horse, which, more spirited than ever, neighs joyously, with a red handkerchief, as usual, tied over his broad brim, and scarlet scarf rolled round his waist. Then comes the car of the bride's father, covered with new cloth in it are two chairs, on each of which the old man and woman are seated grave and upright; the bride standing beside her father. This custom of not sitting as she goes to church is to show that she is not elevated by her prosperity and knows how to endure fatigue. The whole herd of the bridegroom, calves, cows, heifers, and bulls, escort the car with their regular tread: on the other side the tame animals belonging to the bride form a trembling column; the timid pet lamb, the home-loving stork, the cat, and the old blind horse. This custom of bringing all the animals which have shared the life of the fiancés is one of patriarchal simplicity. In the towns they boast of the train of carriages, the bride's dress, and number of guests. In the Camargue they know but of the escort of cattle. No firing of pistols, grand provisions, dances, or fetes, on these humble steppes; but friends accompany them, perhaps more faithful and devoted than

men.

Having reached Saintes-Maries the bridegroom jumps from his horse, and, drawing a long line on the ground, assembles his herd on the one side, and his bride's on the other: he approaches his bride, saying, “Doumaïselette," pointing to her part; "the moment of farewell has come." The bride, jumping lightly out of the car, and drawing a large piece of bread from her pocket, crumbles it among her favourites; then, unable to control her tears, she enters the church, leaning on her father's arm. After the service is over, the bridegroom mounts his horse, takes his bride " 'en croupe," and rallying his herd with his voice, sets off at a gallop to reach his home in the evening.

GOOD FRIDAY - THE CHRISTIAN VIEW OF THE CROSS.

It nerves my soul fresh conflicts to begin
With those most deadly foes, the foes within;
To quell the evil thought to evil kin;
To leave the dross and strive the crown to win.
Teach me to yield Thee all, most dear, most fair;
Then, shouldst Thou keenly smite or gently spare,
Teach me the very cross Thou giv'st to bear,
Nor weakly murmur, "Lay Thy hand not there!
Another trial or another care,
Some other danger, would I bravely dare."

I'll count my sorrows nought while Thou art nigh,
To treasure up each tear, to soothe each sigh:
While unforsaken on Thy breast I lie,
Grief but for time, joy to eternity.
Thou has endured, that I might never cry,
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!"

EVELINA.

THE OVER-WROUGHT MIND.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Bards, sages, and moralists daily are found
The various evils of sloth to expound;
They speak of the mind languid, listless, and void,
of talents unused, and of time unemployed.
I blame not their zeal-I have frequently shown
My theme is just now of a different kind,
How much my opinion concurs with their own:
I speak of the ills of an Over-wrought Mind.

I speak of the highly-toned mind, that is fraught
With all the rich treasures of study and thought,
Whose owner, alas! is too frequently prone
To centre his powers on one subject alone.
The earth's secret treasures he brings to our eyes,
Or tracks the bright stars in their course through
the skies;

In rest or in pastime no joy can he find,
Still adding fresh stores to his Over-wrought Mind.
But Nature, though slow in asserting her cause,
Avenges the careless contempt of her laws;
She waits for a season, but strikes down at length
The strong man who gloried too much in his
strength :

The knowledge he laboured so hard to attain-
Can it still the wild pulse? can it cool the hot

brain?

Dear Lord! thy sad, thy broken-hearted cry,
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani,"
Pierces my inmost soul; I feel that I
Have sinned those hateful sins which made thee die
Have wrung from Thee that lonely anguished sigh,
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!"

I hear Thy voice above the clamorous din
Of worldly pomp and wealth, of strife and sin:

Why burden the mind with superfluous wealth,
At the perilous cost of its peace and its health?
Arouse ye! the fetters that hold you so fast
By earnest resolve may be severed at last :
Come forth! take the blessings that Providence sends;
Seek cheerful communion with kindred and friends:
In simple enjoyments and services kind
The cure is best found for an Over-wrought Mind.

History is, or should be, the faithful record of the past; it holds up to the gaze of the living the actions of those who have preceded us; hence, it has always held a high rank in the republic of letters. Tacitus, Sallust, Hesiod, Xenophon, Machiavelli, Clarendon, and Burnett will always be read with great attention by the scholar, statesman, and political economist.

The vast libraries of Europe offer great inducements to prosecute this branch of study. Rare manuscripts, moth-eaten tomes, quaint drawings, and old pamphlets are treasures whence the diligent student extracts the gold and rejects the dross. But in the United States such collections do not exist, or are hampered with such restrictions that they are not within the reach of all. A stray memoir is occasionally seen, written by one of the actors of the revolution; but these are scarce, and mostly collected by private gentlemen; hence, the historian is sometimes at a loss for his materials. Two names, however, are now of world-wide reputeGeorge Bancroft and W. H. Prescott.

W. H. Prescott was the son of W. Prescott, a distinguished lawyer, and was born at Salem, May fourth, 1796. At the age of twelve his father removed to Boston, and young William was placed at the academy of Mr. Gardiner, who had been a pupil of Dr. Parr; whence he was transferred to Harvard College, where he graduated in 1811. While at the University one of his fellow-students, in sport, threw a crust of bread at him, which lodged in the eye, thus depriving him almost entirely of the use of that organ, and excessive study brought on a rheumatic inflammation in the other, which made it nearly useless. For years this was the situation of the great author. After a considerable time he was enabled to use the eye partially. He crossed the Atlantic, and visited the most celebrated oculists, but could obtain no relief. He commenced the study of the law, but was obliged to relinquish it in consequence of his defective sight, and he resolved, in 1819, to devote himself to literature. This was then a great undertaking; the communication with Europe was comparatively small; Leipsic and Brussels had not yet furnished their cheap reprints; books were extremely dear, and such was the case for several years. But Mr. Prescott was not to be turned aside from his purpose. He instantly began the study of French and Italian literature, and projected a life of Molière and a history of Italian literature, both of which he was compelled to abandon, as they demanded extensive research. The first, however, of some of his labours appeared in essays "On the Italian Narrative Poetry," "Poetry and Romance of the Italians," and "Moilière," in the "North American Review." These were subsequently collected in a volume,

and are published uniformly with his other works.

Undoubtedly, the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella was the most glorious period of Spanish history. The Moors had been driven out of the Peninsula, the New World opened to Europe; the best editions of the Holy Scriptures had been printed; commerce, arts, and manufactures flourished. It is an era which the Spaniard considers with pride, and the scholar with admiration. As yet no one had penetrated the dense mass of materials which were scattered on all sides, for, though ("Don Quixote" alone excepted) the Spanish authors have rarely been presented to the public in an English dress, they would amply repay a patient perusal. Some of the rough soldiers, who had fought hand to hand with the Indians, in their hours of leisure took up the pen, and left graphic narratives of what they had done, seen, and suffered. But these required careful sifting before they could be used. The laborious missionary, who, with crucifix and breviary, crossed the deserts and vast rivers of Mexico and Peru, jotted down the various incidents of his eventful journey. Sometimes these were printed, but as frequently they existed only in manuscript; nor were they all together. A few leaves were in one convent in Estremadura, the remainder in Andalusia. Some were concealed in family archives, and private and national jealousy combined in not permitting them to be examined, and least of all by an American. Such were but a few of the obstacles to be surmounted, but Mr. Prescott was eventually successful. Ten years were passed in the most laborious investigations. In 1837 a few copies of "Ferdinand and Isabella" were privately printed, and shown to discerning friends, who expressed their approbation, and encouraged the author, and the work finally appeared in London and Boston towards the close of 1837. The anticipations of the judicious critics were fully realized. The savans on both sides of the Atlantic hailed it as a literary treasure, and were loud in their applause. The English reviews, in a spirit of rare liberality published the most complimentary notices, and the most eminent scholar in Spain pronounced it "one of the most successful historical productions of our time." Nor were these commendations limited to barren praise. The work was translated into the chief European languages, and the author elected a member of the Historical Society of Madrid.

ingly attractive, and the romantic career of Iturbide had given a fresh interest to the soil over which he held a temporary sceptre. The materials for this were copious, but undigested, and many Spanish scholars were not aware that such documents existed as were brought to light by the unwearied toil of Mr. Prescott. After the colonies had thrown off the yoke of the mother-country, all the official papers were considered of no value, and allowed to be used as wrapping-paper. As many of these as possible were collected and classified, the dates accurately determined, and the proper authorities consulted before the work was commenced. This gave a great value to many works, of which only a few copies were extant, and the Spanish and French booksellers republished volumes concerning the early conquest, which at once met a prompt sale. The "Conquest of Mexico" was published in 1843, and the " Conquest of Peru" in 1847. Six years were devoted to the former, and four to the latter.

Such unintermitting toil demanded some relaxation, and in 1850 the learned writer visited Belgium, and there collected the materials for a Life of Philip the Second;" three volumes of this only were published, for he did not live to finish it.

Having thus summarily disposed of the histories, as they came out, we will glance, for a moment, at their composition. But here Mr. Prescott shall tell his own story. The author himself could scarcely read at all, nor was he in the commencement of his labours so fortunate as to obtain an assistant who was acquainted with the Castilian idiom. Here it must be remembered that many of the ancient chroniclers scarcely observed the rules of grammar and orthography. The writer some time since translated one of Cervantes' stories, and was sometimes at a loss to extract the full meaning of a sentence. Words and phrases which passed current in the sixteenth century are scarcely intelligible now. "I taught him, (my reader)," says Prescott, "to pronounce the Spanish in a manner suited, I suspect, much more to my ear than that of a Spaniard. And we began our wearisome journey through Mariana's noble history. I cannot, even now, call to mind without a smile the tedious hours in which, seated under some old trees at my country residence, we pursued our slow and melancholy way over pages which afforded no glimmering of light to him, and from which the light came dimly struggling to me through a half intelligible vocabulary; but in a few weeks the light became stronger, and I was cheered by a consciousness of my own improvement. And when we had toiled our way through seven quartos I found I could understand the book when read about two thirds as fast as ordinary English."

This was but the beginning; the next difficulty was to transfer the matter to paper. The books and manuscripts were read till their contents were impressed on the memory; and a frame about the size of a quarto sheet of letter paper

was crossed by as many brass wires as there were lines on the page, and a sheet of carbonated paper was pasted on the reverse side; the characters were then traced with an agate or ivory stylus on the sheet; these were again copied on paper with a very wide margin, and read over; corrections were made, and the whole copied a second time. Mr. Prescott was exceedingly solicitous about facts and dates, but did not care so much for style, though the most discriminating critic could scarcely find a dozen faults in as many pages. He is always impartial and often philosophical. Himself a Puritan and descended from ancestors who had sought a home in the wilds of America for conscience' sake, he is yet extremely free from any tinge of bigotry or religious bitterness, and eulogizes the disinterested zeal and unworldly piety of some of the Dominicans and Franciscans, who sought to evangelise the recently discovered countries. One sentence deserves to be written in letters of gold, and should be inscribed on every history: "It is impossible to estimate the actions of the fifteenth century by the lights and philosophy of the eighteenth." There is also a new plan adopted in all these histories which, apart from their high literary merits, would make them of great value. Every author that could throw any light on the subject matter has been carefully consulted, and is quoted in the original at the foot of the page. At the close of every book there is a brief memoir of any annalist whose labours are worthy of such mention. The same plan can be remarked in Thiers's "French Revolution," but not to such an extent. It is a singular fact, that a copy of any of Prescott's works can rarely be purchased except from a regular bookseller.

Mr. Prescott was exceedingly methodical and regular in the distribution of his time. He rose early, and walked five miles daily, preferring then to be alone, as he commonly reflected on the dictations made and authors heard the day before; five hours were devoted to literary pursuits, and two to listening to the works of some great novelist. Scott, Dumas, Dickens, or Sue were generally preferred. From the middle of November to the middle of June the great author resided at No. 55 Beacon street, Boston, where he had accumulated a large and valuable library, particularly on American history and in foreign languages. In summer he occasionally lived at Nahant, but during the last years of his life the hotter months were spent at Swampscott. His books, however, accompanied him wherever he went, and his avocations were never changed.

His private character was unspotted and no one could escape the influence of his genial fascination. His voice was particularly musical and his conversation instructive and witty, but never pedantic. His general disposition was playful, but marked by a vein of seriousness. He was exceedingly liberal, and one tenth of his income was set aside for charitable purposes. He was tall and slender, with a florid complexion, and an exceedingly agreeable countenance. He