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its celebrity, and the students of their former valour,
in breaking the windows of the citizens and trying
the strength of their own skulls during their nightly
orgies. One sees groups of them here and there
smoking their cigars very peaceably, while grass and
weeds are beginning to grow up in the streets, and
the town itself gradually assuming a very solitary
and sombre appearance.
Different, indeed, is the town of Weimar, at no
great distance. This delightful spot has long been
the head-quarters of the German literati, where the
grear Schiller died a few years ago, and where the il.
lustrious Goethe finished his glorious career in March
1832. I saw him in 1827, when he did me the honour
to receive me in the most friendly manner in his own
house. He was then seventy-nine years of age, tall
and well made, with large dark eyes, even at that
period of life beaming with fire and intelligence; and
with the mild and urbane manners of the courtier,
he united a certain measure of German gravity, very
becoming an old man, and characteristic of his coun-
try. His acquaintance was of itself a passport into
the choicest circles, and his interest procured a per-
son an immediate entrance into the best library in
Germany.

I do not know a more desirable residence than Weimar for a person of moderate income, and having a relish for literary pursuits. It lies in the very heart of the Continent, and where the real German cha

racter is preserved entire, uncontaminated by those vicious principles which prevail more and more as we approach the banks of the Rhine in a westerly direc

tion.

It contains within itself a most extensive and delightful garden, open to the public at all times; and, to crown the whole, the reigning Great-Duke and Duchess, who are most exemplary in the practice of every thing that is amiable and praiseworthy, receive strangers properly recommended with the most ointed attention, and do the honours of their high station with a degree of condescension and goodness, which a person must see to have an adequate idea of, and which I had the good fortune of experiencing.

Such is Weimar !"

DEER SHOOTING.

[From "Wild Sports of the West." Bentley, London.] A SHEPHERD in breathless haste has just entered our cabin (situated in the western wilds of Ballycroy in Ireland), and by expressive signs and few words, he has conveyed the intelligence to Mr Hennessey that three outlying deer are at this minute in a neighbouring glen. He saw them in the valley as he crossed the brow above. Nothing short of the landing of a French army or a smuggler could occasion such confusion. The chamber of state is invaded, rifles are uncased, shot exchanged for bullets, a basket with refreshments packed; all is hurry and preparation, and in an incalculably short time we are ready for the fray, and in full march for the mountains.

The day is particularly favourable, the sun shines brilliantly, the sky is without a cloud, and if we even miss the deer, I trust that the prospect from the mountain-top will more than repay our labour in ascending it. The party comprises three guns, and some ten or twelve drivers, with our guide. My kinsman and Hennessey have rifles; I am no marksman with a bullet, and I declined to take one, and therefore must put my trust in honest John Manton. We bend our course directly to the mountain cleugh, where the deer were seen by the peasant; but when we reach the base of the hills, we must diverge to the left, and make a considerable detour; and judging from the appearance of the heights to be surmounted, we have work cut out, which, before our return to the hut, will tell what metal we are made of.

twenty steps, and then falling into a steep and stony
ravine, rolled lifelessly over, until he reached the very
spot where the astonished fisherman was standing.
Before his surprise had time to abate, a man armed
with a French gun, leaped upon the bank over which
the deer had fallen, and was joined immediately
by a companion, armed also with a fowling-piece.
Then, for the first time, they observed the startled
angler. The discovery was any thing but agreeable;
for, after a momentary pause, they rushed down
the hill together, and presenting their long guns at
Cooney's breast, ordered him to decamp, in terms
that admitted of no demur. The angler absconded
forthwith. On looking round, he saw the deer-
stealers place the carcase on their shoulders and as-
cend the heights, over which they quickly disappeared.
The feat is almost incredible, and it required an
amazing effort of strength and determination to trans.
port a full-grown red-deer over a precipitous moun
tain, which we, in light marching order, and with no
burden but our guns, found a difficult task enough to
climb.

From its very base, Carrig-a-binniogh presents a
different surface to the moorlands which environ it:
heath is no more seen, and in its place the mountain's
rugged sides are clothed with lichen and wild grasses.
The face of the hill is broken and irregular, and the
ascent rendered extremely disagreeable by multitudes
of loose stones, which, being lightly bedded in the soil,
yield to the pressure of the traveller's foot, and of

course increase his difficulties.

After the first hundred yards had been gallantly surmounted, we halted by general consent to recover breath. Again we resumed our labour, and, with oc casional pauses, plodded on "our weary way." As we ascended, the hill became more precipitous, the grass shorter, and the hands were as much employed as the feet. The halts were now more frequent; and each progression towards the summit shorter after each pause.

"To climb the trackless mountain all unseen," is very poetical, no doubt; but it is also, I regret to add, amazingly fatiguing, and a task for men of thews and sinews of no ordinary strength. But we were determined, and persevered" forward" was the order of the day; on we progressed, slowly but continuously; the steepest face of the hill was gradually overcome, and a wide waste of moss and shingle lay before us, rising towards a cairn of stones, which marks the apex of the mountain. We pressed on with additional energy; the termination of our toil was in view in a few minutes we gained the top, and a scene, glorious beyond imagination, burst upon us at once, and repaid tenfold the labour we had encountered to obtain it.

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which they had been first discovered, and were now within one thousand yards of the place where we were resting. Hennessey and the boy advanced in double quick, and where the ridge is steepest between the highlands and the valley, we observed them make a sudden halt, and creep gingerly forward to what seemed the brow of a precipice. We followed more leisurely, and adopting a similar method of approach; stole silently on, and looked over the chasm.

The precipice we were on forms the extremity of a long but narrow ravine, which, gradually rising from the lowlands, divides the bases of Carrig.a binniogh and Meelroe. It was a perpendicular rock of fearful height. At either side the valley was flanked by the sides of the opposite hills; and they sprang up so rugged and precipitous as to be quite impracticable to all but "the wild flock which never needs a fold;" and yet the cleugh below was like a green spot upon a wilderness. To the very bases of the ridges it was covered with verdant grass and blooming heather, while, at the upper end, streams from several wellheads united together and formed a sparkling rivulet, which wandered between banks so green and shrubby, as formed a striking contrast to the barren heaths be low and the blasted wilderness above.

We put our hats aside, and peeped over. The wave of Hennessey's hand proved the boy's report to be correct, and we were gratified with a sight of those rare and beautiful animals which formed the object of our expedition. They were the same leash which the peasant had noticed in the lower valley-an old stag, a younger one, and a doe.

The great elevation of the precipice, and the cantion with which we approached the verge, permitted us, without alarming them, to view the red-deer leisurely. They appeared to have been as yet undis turbed, for, after cropping the herbage for a little, the younger stag and the hind lay down, while the old hart remained erect as if he intended to be their sen.

tinel.

The distance of the deer from the ridge was too great to allow the rifle to be used with any thing like certainty; and from the exposed nature of the hills at either side, it was impossible to get within pointblank range undiscovered. Hennessey had already formed his plans, and drawing cautiously back from the ridge, he pulled us by the skirts, and beckoned us to retire.

We fell back about a pistol-shot from the cliff, and under a rock, and held our council of war. There were two passes, through one of which the deer, when roused and driven from the glen, would most likely retreat. The better of these, as post of honour, was, more politely than prudently, entrusted to me; my kinsman occupied the other; and Hennessy having ensconced us behind rocks, which prevented our ambush from being discovered, crossed to the other side of the ridge, and I lost sight of him. Meanwhile the boy had been dispatched to apprise the drivers that the deer were in the ravine, and to notify the spot where we were posted, to enable them to arrange their movements according to our plans.

We stood upon the very pinnacle of the ridge, two thousand feet above the level of the sea. Clew Bay, that magnificent sheet of water, was extended at our feet, studded with its countless islands: inland, the eye ranged over a space of fifty miles; and towns and villages beyond number were sprinkled over a surface covered with grass, and corn, and heath, in beautiful alternation. The sun was shining gloriously, and the variety of colouring presented by this expansive land. I will not pretend to describe the anxious, nay, scape, was splendidly tinted by the vertical rays of agonising hour, that I passed in this highland ambuslight. The yellow corn, the green pasturage, the cade. The deep stillness of the waste was not broken russet heaths, were traceable to an infinite distance, by even the twittering of a bird. From the place while smaller objects were marked upon this natural where I lay concealed, I commanded a view of the depanorama, and churches, towns, and mansions, occa- file for the distance of some eighty yards, and my eye sionally relieved the prospect. We turned from the turned to the path by which I expected the deer to interior to the west; there the dark waters of the approach, until to gaze longer pained me. My ear Atlantic extended, till the eye lost them in the horiwas equally engaged; the smallest noise was instantly zon. Northward lay the Sligo highlands; and south-detected, and the ticking of my watch appeared sharper ward, the Connemara mountains, with the noble and louder than usual. As time wore on, my nervousislands of Turk and Boffin-nearer objects seemed ness increased. Suddenly a few pebbles fell my heart almost beneath us: Achill was below-Clare Island beat faster but it was a false alarm. Again I heard a faint sound, as if a light foot pressed upon loose shingle-it was repeated it is the deer! They have entered the gorge of the pass, and approach the rock that covers me, in a gentle canter!

stretched at our feet-while our own cabin looked like

Nor is the garrison during our absence left without a speck upon the canvass, distinguished only by its protectors. The Colonel, the Priest, the Otter-killer, spiral wreath of smoke from the hillocks that encircled and old John, there keep watch and ward. Old John, it. There was an indescribable loneliness around, "the last and trustiest of the four," has assumed his that gave powerful effect to all we saw. The dreariculinary apron, and from the strength and array of ness of the waste we occupied was grand and imposhis "materiel," it is clear that he calculates little uponing: we were far removed from every thing human; the red-deer venison we shall bring home.

A smart walk of some three miles over an undulating surface, of gentle but regular ascent, brought us to the deep and circular lake, which lies at the base of Carrig-a-binniogh; it seems the boundary between the hill country and the moorlands. Here we halted, and held with the peasants a council of war, on the course of operations to be pursued.

The situation of this mountain lough is extremely picturesque; on three sides it is embosomed in the hills, which rise boldly from the water's edge, and for many hundred feet appear to be almost perpendicular. Its depth is considerable, and hence, bright as the day is, the waters have a dark and sombre look. It abounds with trout of moderate size and excellent flaThey were rising fast at the natural fly, and appeared generally to be herring-sized. While resting here, preparatory to attempting to ascend the heights, Cooney, the guide, related a very apposite adventure.

vour.

Late in the autumn of the preceding year, the peasant had visited the lake with his fishing-rod. The trouts took well, and Cooney had nearly filled his basket, when he was startled by the report of a gun at no great distance up the hill. While he looked in the direction from whence the shot appeared to have been discharged, a fine full-grown stag crossed the brow above him, tottered downwards for some

we stood above the world, and could exclaim with
Byron, "This, this is solitude!"

How long we might have gazed on this brilliant
spectacle, is questionable. Hennessey, less romantic
than we, reminded us that it was time to occupy the
defile, by which the deer, if found, and driven from
the lowlands, would pass within our range. Thus
recalled, we looked at the immediate vicinage of the
cairn. It was a wilderness of moss, and bog, and
granite, barren beyond description, and connected
with the upper levels of the Alpine ridge, which ex-
tended for miles at either side, by a narrow chain of
rock, which seemed more like the topping of a para-
pet than the apex of a line of hills. Indeed, a more
desolate region could not be well imagined; no sign
of vegetation appeared, if scathed lichens, and parched
and withered flag-grass, be excepted the mountain
cattle were rarely seen upon these heights, and the
footmarks upon the softer surface were those of deer
and goats.
While we still cast a "longing lingering look" at
a scene, which, I lament to say, I shall most probably
never be permitted to view again, a boy rose from the
valley towards the south, and hastened at full speed
to join us. His communication was soon made, and,
like the shepherds at the cabin, pantomime rather
than speech conveyed its import. His tidings were
momentous: the deer had moved from the place in

a

To sink upon one knee and cock both barrels, was moment's work. Reckless of danger, the noble animals, in single file, galloped down the narrow pathway. The hart led the way, followed by the doe, and the old stag brought up the rear. As they passed me at the short distance of twenty paces, I fired at the leader, and, as I thought, with deadly aim; but the ball passed over his back, and splintered the rock beyond him. The report rang over the waste, and the deer's surprise was evinced by the tremendous rush they made to clear the defile before them. I selected the stag for my second essay; eye and finger kept excellent time, as I imagined. I drew the trigger-a miss by every thing unfortunate! The bullet merely struck a tyne from his antler, and, excepting this trifling graze, he went off at a thundering pace, uninjured.

Throwing my luckless gun upon the ground, I rushed to the summit of a neighbouring rock, from which the heights and vallies beyond the gorge of the pass were seen distinctly. The deer had separated the hart and doe turned suddenly to the right, and were fired at by my cousin, without effect. The stag went right ahead; and while I still gazed after him, a flash issued from a hollow in the hill, the sharp report of Hennessey's piece succeeded, and the stag sprang full six feet from the ground, and, tumbling over and over repeatedly, dropped upon the bent-grass with a rifle-bullet in his heart.

I rushed at headlong speed to the spot where the noble animal lay. The eye was open-the nostril ex.

panded, just as life had left him. Throwing his rifle down, Hennessey pulled out a clasp-knife, passed the blade across the deer's throat, and requesting my assistance, raised the carcase by the haunches, in order to assist its bleeding freely.

HENRY PRENTICE, AN EARLY CULTIVATOR OF
THE POTATO.

thereof, let the plain above mentioned, stretched out, "if need be," in yet wider circumference, be crowned with a fitting canopy of those lugubrious trees that THIS man was at one time a pedlar, at another time love our soil and climate-the Norway fir, the mouna market-gardener, and at all times a very eccentric tain pine, the yew-tree's "venerable shade," and character. He introduced the field culture of the Having performed this necessary operation, and ob- every son of the forest-a grove tremendous and in- potato into Lothian in 1746, seven years after it had violable for ages. tained the assistance of two of our companions from Here might the generations of the been first tried in the parish of Kilsyth by Mr Graham the valley, whence they had been driving the deer, we dead-the departed millions that once toiled from of Tamrawer; but it was in consequence of seeing the root in Ireland or in Lancashire, in the course of his proceeded to transport the dead stag to the lowlands. morning to night in the vast workhouse below, find a It was no easy task, but we accomplished it quickly; stern, but deep and inviolate repose. Why bring wandering profession, that Prentice thought of makand perceiving some horses grazing at no great dis- roses, or plant myrtles, to mock with a smile the ing the attempt. As the field was advancing to ripetance, we determined to press one for the occasion. A graves of those on whom nothing ever smiled in life?ness, Lord Minto, eminent for his patriotic benevolence, stout pony was unceremoniously put in requisition,[The writer has forgot to mention that the English asked him how it was getting on; to which Prentice the deer laid across his back, and after emptying flask have no time to spare for lounging in burying-grounds answered, "Very well, my lord; but I do not know and basket joyously beside a stream of rock-water, we -an excuse sufficient in itself for declining to esta how I shall get them carried to town for sale.” “I'll turned our faces to the cabin, where the news of our blish a Père-la-Chaise.] give you a cart and horse," said Lord Minto, and he was as good as his word; but Prentice, after dispos success had already arrived. ing of his produce, sold the cart and horse for his own behoof, alleging that his lordship had given them to him as a present. Having scraped together the sum of a hundred and forty pounds, he sank it with the managers of the Canongate Charity Workhouse, in 1784, for a weekly subsistence of seven shillings, which he enjoyed in a humble lodging in the Abbey. During his latter years, he was in the practice of going every Wednesday to the Cross of Edinburgh, to converse with the farmers, who were very kind to him; but he would never shake the hand of any person above two years of age. Nine years before his death, he purchased for himself a coffin at two guineas, taking the joiner bound, by a written obligation, to screw him down with his own hands gratis; and this dismal memorial of mortality, which was inscribed only with the year of his birth (1703), he suspended from the ceiling of his apartment, like a bird-cage. He also bargained with the managers of the Charity Workhouse for a grave in the Canongate Churchyard, to which they were bound to convey him in a hearse with four mourning-coaches; and there he accordingly erected an anticipatory monument, bearing the words :

A PERE-LA-CHAISE IN LONDON.
On this frequently broached subject, a writer in the
Spectator-one of the best-conducted newspapers in
the kingdom-has the following observations :—

It would be vanity to attempt a Père-la-Chaise in the suburbs of London; the myrtle blooms not there, and the cypress grows as a stranger. The genius of the people is even more opposed to it than the climate. Ours is a branch of the great European family very different from that of the French-to whom the Franks have left little but their name, and in whose veins the Celtic blood is mixed, but not tempered with Gothic and Burgundian. By whatever name they be called -Saxon, Jute, or Dane-Northmen, Norwegian, or Normau-our fathers are from northernmost Germany, and the yet remoter wilds of Scandinavia; and the genius of our countrymen, sombre and pensive, still savours of the primeval forests whence issued the founders of their lineage. Their fancy crowns not death with roses, nor strives to subdue his sternness into a smile, as is attempted, and not without success, in Père-la-Chaise. There, not a skull, nor a bone, nor the image of one, is to be seen Death's hollow eyes are lighted up with lilies-they have screened his bald pate with myrtle-they have plumped out his fallen chaps and flushed them with roses-that he smiles and smiles, and knows himself not. The Teutonic imagination, on the contrary, invests him with a gloom deeper than his own, and solaces itself by adding to his terrors.

"Black he stands as Night, Fierce as ten Furies,

And shakes a dreadful dart."

It courts him in the aisles of cathedrals, in vaults where the cheerful day is a stranger all too wanson for admission. It conjures him up in all his blackness; and to divest him of his thick clouds and dark, were to rob him of his dignity, and forfeit the pleasing horror which the contemplation of him inspires. Superstition is feeble among the Parisians, and religion still feebler. Their temperament is equal, their sensibility small, their vivacity excessive: they laugh much-a "passion hateful" to the poet as to the pietist: they are uniquely and ardently occupied with the present, they look not forward to what is to come, and make haste to forget what is past. Reverence for antiquity they have none; the organ of veneration I take to be very little, if at all, developed among them; and the anxious foresight that would penetrate the mystery even of death and the grave, is precluded by a thoughtless and reckless disposition. "Hang sorrow, care killed a cat"-such, in homely phrase, is their motto; tight, whole, and sound, they are ever ready, ever on the qui vive. The tear, if it spring, is chased by the laugh that hurries after; and spleen and hate, and care and forethought, are alike forgotten in the ardour of pursuit, or drowned in the uproar of merriment. Let the English attempt no pretty funeral garden in the vicinity of London. What would it be but a miserable account of dripping shrubs and moss-grown walks, edged with dank grass; rows of square slabs bearing stonecutter formulas by way of inscription, with large provision of deaths' heads and thigh-bones; and here and there a heavy sarcophagus, garnished with a coat of arms supported by blubbering cherubs; the whole reflecting neither the sentimental elegance of the French, nor the simple gravity of the English character? Were they who execute what should be the will of the British people, inspired with the sentiment of greatness which belongs to the nation, they would attempt no parody of Parisian elegancies, but accomplish something more in unison with the character, and on a scale more proportioned to the extent of the great city whose dead were to find there an adequate repository. On the east of the British metropolis, or more near east by south, rises an eminence bearing on its shoulders a plain of wide extent; the ground for the most part unenclosed, and in every respect adapted to the purpose, even to the name, which is Blackheath. Thence may the traveller's eye discover with a feeling not unlike dismay, more near, a forest of masts—beyond, a boundless Pandemonium of buildings, here dimly descried in the gloom, there lost and buried in the blackest night of Tartarusthe modern Babylon, unique of cities, every thing great and every thing mean, sublime in smoke, and fog, and vastness-London! How ill, mighty queen, would a pendant like Père-la-Chaise, pretty and sentimental, become thy swart and colossal neck! Instead

NUMBER ONE.
[From Hood's Comic Annual, 1830.]
"It's very hard! and so it is,
To live in such a row,
And witness this, that every Miss
But me has got a beau.
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun:
I'm sure he has been ask'd enough
To call at Number One!

"I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!
At Number Three I often see
A lover at the door;

And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun-

It's very hard they come so near,

And not at Number One!

"Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,

By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,

Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don't take at Number One!

"'Tis hard, with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by-
There's nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;
And Mrs Smith across the way

Has got a grown-up son,
But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!
"There's Mr Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf;
And, though he's pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.

At Number Seven there was a sale-
The goods had quite a run!
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One!
"My mother often sits at work,
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days!
The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun-
The sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One!

"Once only, when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,

Young Mr Long came kindly in,

And told me not to swoon.
Why can't he come again without
The Phoenix and the Sun ?
We cannot always have a fluo
On fire at Number One!
"I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait!

I am not crooked like the bride
That went from Number Eight!
I'm sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun!
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!

"At Number Six, they say, Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.

The imp they show with bended bow-
I wish he had a gun!
But if he had, he'd never deign

To shoot with Number One!
"It's very hard! and so it is,

To live in such a row!
And here's a ballad-singer come
To aggravate my woe:

O take away your foolish song
And tones enough to stun-
There is nae luck about the house,'
I know, at Number One !"

EVIL SPEAKING.-If you hear that people speak ill of you, do not therefore be in a passion; and if you are told that they speak favourably of you, let it not transport you. If another person be calumniated in your presence, encourage not the calumniator. Should a person be praised in your hearing, join in it if you know him deserving. The poet says, "When I hear a man spoken ill of, it pains me as much as though sharp thorns were piercing my heart; and when another is commended in my presence, the pleasure is as exquisite as the smell of fragrant flowers."

HENRY PRENTICE,
Died

Be not curious to know how I lived,
But rather how yourself should die.

But this churchyard being frequently open, the mo-
nument in time was much damaged by boys, and
Prentice thought proper to remove it to the secluded
old cemetery at Restalrig, where, at his death, January
25, 1788, he was interred in the manner contracted
for.*

* Mr George Robertson, an useful topographical and genealo gical writer, recently deceased, says, in his Rural Recollections (Irvine, 1829). "The earliest evidence that I have met of potatoes in Scotland, is an old household book of the Eglintoune family in 1733, in which they appear at different times as a dish at supper.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.-Soon after his arrival at Naples, Sir Walter went with his physician and one or two friends to the great museum. It happened that on the same day a large collection of students and Italian literati were assembled, in one of the rooms, to discuss some newly discovered manuscripts. It was soon known that the "Wizard of the North" was there, and a deputation was sent immediately to request him to honour them by presiding at their session. At this time Scott was a wreck, with a memory that retained nothing for a moment, and limbs almost as helpless as an infant's. He was dragging about among the relics of Pompeii, taking no interest in any thing he saw, when their request was made known to him through his physician. "No, no," said he, "I know nothing of their lingo. Tell them that I am not well enough to come." He loitered on, and in about half an hour after, he turned to Dr H. and said, "who was that you said wanted to see me?" The doctor explained. "I'll go," said he; "they shall see me if they wish it ;" and against the advice of his friends, who feared it would be too much for his strength, he mounted the staircase, and made his appearance at the door. A burst of enthusiastic cheers welcomed him on the threshold; and, forming in two lines, many of them on their knees, they seized his hands as he passed, kissed them, thanked him in their passionate language for the delight with which he had filled the world, and placed him in the chair with the most fer. vent expressions of gratitude for his condescension. The discussion went on, but not understanding a syllable of the language, Scott was soon wearied, and his friends observing it, pleaded the state of his health & an apology, and he rose to take his leave. These enthusiastic children of the south crowded once more around him, and with exclamations of affection and even tears, kissed his hands once more, assisted his tottering steps, and sent after him a confused murmur of blessings as the door closed on his retiring form. It is described as the most affecting scene he had ever witnessed.-New York Mirror.

LONDON: Published, with Permission of the Proprietors, by Os & SMITH, Paternoster Row; and sold by G. BERGER, Holy well Street, Strand; BANCKS & Co., Manchester: WRIGHTSON & WEBB, Birmingham; WILLMER & SMITH, Liverpool; W. E. SOMERSCALE, Leeds; C. N. WRIGHT, Nottingham; M. BINGHAM, Bristol; S. SIMMS, Bath; C. GAIN, Exeter; J. PU DON, Hull; A. WHITTAKER, Sheffield; H. BELLERBY, York; J. TAYLOR, Brighton; GEORGE YOUNG, Dublin; and all other Booksellers and Newsmen in Great Britain and Ireland, Canada, Nova Scotia, and United States of America,

Complete sets of the work from its commencement, or nut bers to complete sets, may at all times be obtained from the Pub lishers or their Agents.

Stereotyped by A. Kirkwood, Edinburgh.
Printed by Bradbury and Evans (late T. Davison), Whitefrist

[graphic]

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM CHAMBERS, AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK OF SCOTLAND," &c., AND BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, AUTHOR OF "TRADITIONS OF EDINBURGH," "PICTURE OF SCOTLAND," &c.

No. 190.

THE OLD HAT,

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1835.

A THIRD TALE OF THE TABLE D'HÔTE. In the course of my rambles through the narrow streets of Paris, I was occasionally amused with the oddity of the signs over the doors and passages, though I daresay they are not more remarkable for grotesqueness of expression than those of our own country. The chief peculiarity of the French signs seems to be an affected solemnity-a use of big or fine words to express very mean ideas. There was a sign of this description which puzzled me for several days in Paris. I could make nothing of it. I observed that it was usually painted on a lantern hanging over the entrance to common stairs. The words were Mont-de-Piété which literally signify the mountain of piety. It was clear, however, that this could not be the meaning of the words; neither was it likely, considering the situation and appearance of the places, that they referred to any establishment of a religious nature. As my pocket-dictionary was silent on the subject, I at last took the liberty of inquiring for a translation from a gentleman who sat beside me at the table d'hôte.

The gentleman to whom I applied on this occasion was an Englishman belonging to the higher orders of society, who had chosen to reside for several years in Paris, where he mingled, as I was informed, in the best circles; and for the purpose of seeing new faces and hearing gossiping news from England, he very frequently attended the table d'hôte of the hotel at which I happened to take up my quarters. In his manners he was affable and agreeable, besides being exceedingly communicative regarding Parisian manners and usages, and therefore I could not have applied to a more promising source of information.

"Why, my dear sir," said he in answer to my interrogatory, "Mont-de-Piété, although a high enough sounding phrase, means neither more nor less than pawnbroking establishment. It has somehow got the idea of piety attached to it, from the profits being devoted to the benefit of certain hospitals. There is one great Mont-de-Piété in Paris which possesses the exclusive privilege of lending money on moveable articles, and all the other Monts are only subordinate to it." "This," I replied, "appears to me to be a most improper kind of monopoly-but perhaps, in practice, it has nothing injurious about it is it understood that the persons who are appointed to superintend the taking of pledges, are kind and considerate in their dealings that is to say, do they attempt to discriminate between the really unfortunate and well-meaning and the reckless improvident?" "Oh, as for that, I believe there is no such tenderness-no such discrimination. The whole affair is a matter of business. There are certain laws for protecting both the lender and pledger, as in England, and from these regulations there is no departure. I believe, that, on the whole, pledgers are better off, as regards terms, than they are in Great Britain. The administration of the Monts-de-Piété are bound to give four-fifths of the value of gold and silver articles, and two-thirds of the value of all other effects." "These seem to be exceedingly liberal terms," said I; "why, at such a rate, I should expect that at least one-half of all the moveables in Paris would be continually in pawn." "A stranger would naturally think so," replied my informant; "but many causes conspire to prevent such a calamity. In the first place, the people, thoughtless as they may be, are not abandoned to the horrid vice of dram-drinking, which works such deplorable results in Great Britain-hence there is little pawning for the sake of drink; and in the second place, no one is at liberty to offer a pledge unless he or she be known

to be a householder, or possess a passport, or, in short, be a respectable character. This, you see, must tend vastly to limit pawning, and act as a considerable preventive of pocket-picking, and other kinds of theft. Speaking of these matters," continued the Englishman, "you have brought to my remembrance a story, which is, in some degree, illustrative of the system carried on at these Monts-de-Piété, and I will relate it to you, if you have no objections, just as I heard it at the salon of the Marchioness de Rivol." I instantly replied that I should be most happy to hear any thing he could tell me a sentiment responded to by two or three gentlemen who sat on the opposite side of the tableand our chatty companion forthwith commenced the following little tale, which I give, as nearly as I can remember, in the words in which it was spoken. One day-it was a number of years ago-a peasant entered a Mont-de-Piété, situated in the Place de Blancs-Manteau, and pulling his hat from his head, he laid it on the counter, begging that the pawn. broker would lend him six francs-that is, about five shillings-on it. "Six francs!" exclaimed the pawnbroker; "do you take me for a fool? Why, I would not lend you a sous on such an old worn-out thing." "Old and worn-out as it is," replied the humble applicant, "I would not part with it for twenty gold Louis, although at this moment I stand much in need of the money. Listen to what I have to say: Eight days since I sold some corn, and I expected to receive the payment this morning, with which I thought to have settled my taxes, and if I do not, my furni ture and other moveables will be seized; most unfortunately, I cannot get my money from my debtor; he is burying his son to-day; his wife is ill from grief, and they cannot pay for a week. As I have often dealt with you, and you know me to be an honest man, I thought you would make no difficulty in lending me what I stand so much in need of; it is but a trifle to you, but it will be a great blessing to me. At all events, here is my hat, which will answer for me; it is a better pledge than you suppose." At this the pawnbroker only laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and without pity turned his back on the applicant. The Count de Larron, who happened to be in the shop at the time looking at some old pictures which were shortly to be put up to auction and sold among the unredeemed pledges, and who had listened to the conversation of the peasant, struck with his frank and open countenance, approached, and putting six francs into his hand, said, "There, my friend, is the sum you require; since no one seems willing to oblige you, I shall have that pleasure." So saying, he quitted the establishment, and was out of sight before the peasant had recovered from his surprise.

About a month after this, as the count was driving across the bridge called the Pont Neuf, he heard a voice calling to the coachman to stop. On this, the count put his head out of the window, and saw a man running at full speed to overtake them. He pulled the check-string, and the carriage stopped just at the moment their pursuer, quite out of breath, reached them, exclaiming,

"Excuse me, Monsieur, excuse me; but I am quite out of breath in trying to overtake you. Was it not you, Monsieur, who, about a month ago, slipped six francs into my hand in a pawnbroker's shop?" "Yes, my friend, I remember it perfectly well."

"Very well, Monsieur, here is the money which you lent me. You did not give me time to thank you, or to ask your name and where you lived, and the pawnbroker did not know you, and I have been here every Sunday to try and find you. I am happy I have met you at last, for I never should have been

PRICE THREE HALFPENCE.

at peace till I had seen you. May heaven bless you and your children for the service you rendered me!" "I congratulate myself," said the count, "in having been of use to such an honest man. I confess I never expected to see my money again, and indeed I meant it as a gift."

"I know nothing about that, Monsieur," replied the peasant, "for I never in my life received any money without leaving a pledge for it. I have never done any thing for you, but you have done much for me in lending what I stood so much in need of: take it, Monsieur, I entreat you."

"No, no, it belongs neither to you nor to me; do me the favour to buy something for your children with it, and present it to them from me." "You are very kind, Monsieur, and it would be rude in me to refuse you." "Well, then, the thing is settled," said the count; "but pray explain one thing, which has excited my curiosity: How could you in conscience have the effrontery to ask six francs on a hat not worth six

sous ?"

I

I heard the

"It is worth all that money to me," replied the peasant. "How is that, my friend ?" "I will tell you its history, Monsieur. Some years since, the only son of the lord of our village, while skating on the ice, fell, and slipped under it into the water. chanced to be at work near the bank. cries of the child, and, running to the spot, threw myself into the water, and was fortunate enough to save him. I carried him home to his father, who was not ungrateful for this service. He gave me a piece of ground to build a cottage on, which he furnished; but this was not all: as I had lost my hat in the water, he took his own from his head, and put it upon mine, saying, he wished he could place a crown there; so you see, Monsieur, I have good cause to love my hat. I never put it on when I go to work in the fields; for although he is dead, every thing reminds me of my benefactor-my wife, my children, my cottage, my garden-all bring him to my recollection: but when I go to town, I always take my hat with me, that I may have something with me that belonged to him. I am only sorry now it is so much the worse for the wear; look how it is going: but as long as one bit hangs to another, it shall be without price in my eyes."

The count was much affected by this simple tale, and taking from his pocketbook a card with his address, he gave it to the peasant, saying, "There, my honest friend, I must leave now; but you have my address; come and see me to-morrow morning."

66

The peasant was faithful to his appointment. The moment he entered, the count took his hand, and said, "My good friend, you have not only saved the life of an only son, but you have rendered me a very great service, by making me think favourably of mankind, and by proving to me that there are still in the world hearts full of gratitude and honesty. As long as your hat can so honourably adorn your head, I do not ask you to replace it with another; but when you can no longer wear that of your kind benefactor, I request that you will accept of mine; and every year on this day, you will find another ready for you." This was the delicate mode the count took to save the honest pride of the worthy peasant; for he was well aware that one should always endeavour to preserve the self-esteem of those they oblige.

After having gained the confidence of the peasant, the count next took on himself the task of putting this good family in comfort, whom a train of misfortunes had almost brought to ruin: and it was difficult to decide which enjoyed the greatest happiness he in bestowing his benefits, or they in testifying their affection and gratitude for his gifts.

SCOTTISH SONGS.

FIRST ARTICLE.

SCOTTISH Song differs essentially from the English. As already pointed out, the vocal poetry of the latter people is exclusively the composition of well-known literary men, who rather aimed at a description of the feelings of others, than of their own, and whose verses have subsequently been set to airs by well-known composers. In Scotland, on the contrary, there has existed from time immemorial a body of unstudied melodies, mirthful and plaintive, and a corresponding body of song, the origin of which no one can trace: the whole, apparently, have sprung up, as flowers into the sward, or stars into the sky-unobserved. unchronicled-but yet there to remain for the solacement of the senses and sentiments of men.

How so fine an emanation of the popular intellect should be found in Scotland, and not among the lales of merry England, we cannot tell. Some might attribute it partly to the more pastoral character of the former country-for, somehow, shepherds and poetry are ideas which always go hand-in-hand together; others speak of the better education of the common people of Scotland; and an antiquary might point out, though he could not explain, that all the races which contain any large admixture of the ancient British or Celtic blood, have national poetry and music, while the descendants of the Saxons possess nothing of the kind. We suspect these mysteries to be deeper than is dreamt of by either antiquaries or metaphysicians. Enough, in the meantime, that they exist.

The popular songs and melodies of Scotland first began to attract the attention of the more refined part of the community, about the end of the seventeenth century. Ladies and gentlemen, in Scotland as well as in England, had, before that time, regarded both as suited exclusively to the taste of the common people, and were accustomed to seek enjoyment from the more complicated and refined, though comparatively spiritless, music of the fashionable composers of the day. In the reign of Charles II., we first find traces of a relish in the higher circles for those simple strains which had hitherto cheered the rustic fireside; and songs in the Scottish manner, as it was called, began to be presented on the English stage. Several persons of distinction in Scotland attempted, about the same time, to contribute to the treasures possessed by the humbler classes; a proof that those treasures were no longer contemned for presumed vulgarity. When the eyes of taste thus opened upon Scottish song, it was found in a condition by no means so well entitled to regard as it is at present. The melodies possessed the same grace as now, but much of the verse was very unworthy of the music, being rude in form, and mean and often indecent in ideas. Indeed, it is to be remarked of Scottish song at all times down to the present, that, while the music undergoes little progressive improvement, the poetry is in a ceaseless process of mutation, the old and the rude giving way to something better, and this again in time to something better still, till at length, perhaps, words really worthy of the divine airs are obtained. In the age during which our popular melodies first attracted the attention of polite circles, a great portion of the old poetry was exchanged for new, chiefly by persons of birth and edu. cation; and, contrary to what might have been expected, the alteration was generally an improvement.

regular versification of that period, but is quoted by dred guineas' value, if he would gratify the company. Iago in Othello, which was printed in 1611.

In winter, when the rain rain'd cauld,
And frost and snaw on ilka hill,

And Boreas, wi' his blasts sae bauld,
Was threat'nin' a' our kye to kill:
Then Bell, my wife, who lo'es na strife,
She said to me richt hastilie,
Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's life,
And tak your auld cloak about ye.
My Crummie is a usefu' cow,

And she is come of a good kin';
Aft has she wet the bairns's mou',
And I am laith that she should tyne;
Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time,

The sun shines frae the lift sae hie;
Sloth never made a gracious end;

Gae, tak your auld cloak about ye.
My cloak was ance a gude grey cloak,
When it was fitting for my wear;
But now it's scantly worth a groat,
For I have worn't this thretty year:
Let's spend the gear that we hae won,
We little ken the day we'll die;
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn
To hae a new cloak about me.
In days when our King Robert rang,
His trews they cost but half a croun;
He said they were a groat ower dear,
And ca'd the tailor thief and loon :
He was the king that wore a croun,
And thou the man of laigh degree;
It's pride puts a' the country doun;
Sae tak thy auld cloak about ye.
Ilka land has its ain lauch,

Ilk kind o' corn has its ain hool;
I think the world is a' gane wrang,
When ilka wife her man wad rule:
Do ye no see Rob, Jock, and Hab,
As they are girded gallantlie,
While I sit hurklin i' the asse ?-
I'll hae a new cloak about me.
Gudeman, I wat it's thretty year
Sin' we did ane anither ken;
And we hae had atween us twa

If

Of lads and bonny lasses ten:
Now they are women grown and men,
I wish and pray weel may they be;
you would prove a gude husband,
E'en tak your auld cloak about ye.
Now, Bell, my wife, she loes na strife,
But she would guide me, if she can ;
And, to maintain an easy life,

I aft maun yield, though I'm gudeman :
Nocht's to be gain'd at woman's hand,
Unless ye gie her a' the plea;
Then I'll leave aff where I began,

And tak my auld cloak about me.
stantial pastoral farmer riding forth on a courting
The fine picture in "Muirland Willie" of a sub-
expedition, is also worthy of quotation :-

On his grey yaud as he did ride,
With durk and pistol by his side,
He prick'd her on with mickle pride,
With mickle mirth and glee;
Out ower yon moss, out ower yon muir,
Till he cam to her daddie's door.
With a fal, dal, &c.
"Todlin Hame" is one of the bacchanalian rants
of our forefathers, in the days when honest burgesses
got innocently muddled on twopenny ale: it used to be
sung with such effect by an Edinburgh writer of the
last century, that his boon companions had him
painted in the appropriate attitude which he always
assumed in correspondence with the first line-

When I hae a saxpence under my thoom,
Then I get credit in ilka toun;
But when I am puir, they bid me gae by;
Oh, poverty parts gude company y!
Todlin but, and todlin ben,

It's time eneuch yet to gang todlin hame!
Fair fa' the gudewife, and send her gude sale!
She gi'es us white bannocks to relish her ale;
Syne, if her tippenny chance to be sma,
We tak' a gude scour o't, and ca't awa.
Todlin but, and todlin ben,

But he, sensible that the song in some parts would
not bear minute investigation before the company
then around him, put them off with an old proverb.
A verse or two of this strange ditty may be inserted.
Fy, let us a' to the bridal,

For there'll be liltin' there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

*

And there'll be Sandy the souter,
And Will wi' the mickle mou';
And there'll be Tam the bluter,

And Andrew the tinkler, I trow.
And there'll be bow-leggit Robbie,

Wi' thoomless Katie's gudeman;
And there'll be blue cheekit Dobie,

And Lowrie the laird o' the land.
And there'll be gude lapper-milk kebbucks,
And sowens, and farles, and baps,
And swats and scrapit painehes,

And brandy in stoups and in caups;
And there'll be meal-kail and castocks,
Wi' skink to sup till ye ryve;
And roasts to roast on a brander,
O' fleuks that were taken alive.

Scraped haddocks, wilks, dulse and tangle,
And a mill o' gude sneeshin' to prie;
When weary wi' eatin' and drinkin',

We'll rise up and dance till we die.

The serious songs are quite as remarkable for tenderness and melancholy, as the others are for their grotesque whimsicality. "The airs," according to the description of William Tytler, 66 are extremely simple and void of all art, generally consisting of only one measure. They must have been composed for a very simple instrument, such, perhaps, as the shepherd's pipe, of few notes, and the plain diatonic scale, without using the semitones or sharps and flats. What makes our old melodies soothing and affecting to a high degree, is a constant use of the concordant tones, the third and fifth of the scale, often ending on the fifth, and some of them on the sixth, of the scale." Several of these melodies appear, indeed, to have been composed for ballads, or narrative songs, which usually require but music for a stanza of four lines. most remarkable instances are "Cowdenknowes" and "The Ewe-buchts," the latter of which, both in respect of words and air, is the very perfection of pastoral simplicity and modest youthful affection— Will ye go to the ewe-buchts, Marion, And weire in the sheep wi' me? The sun shines sweet, my Marion, But he shines na sae sweet as thee.

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I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion,
A cow and a brawny quey;
I'll gie them a' to my Marion,
Just on her bridal day.

And ye'se get a green sey apron,
And waistcoat o' London brown;
And wow but we'se be vap'rin

The

When we gang to the town.
The Broom of the Cowdenknowes, as mentioned,
was originally the air of a ballad-one descriptive of
an affair of gallantry, and not by any means worthy
of such divine strains. The pastoral song to which
but more simply beautiful than the Ewe-buchts.
the air was afterwards adapted, is less romantically

How blythe was I, ilk morn, to see
My swain come ower the hill!
He skipt the burn, and flew to me,
I met him with good will.

Oh the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes!

I wish I were with my dear lad,
With his pipe and my ewes.

I wanted neither ewe nor lamb,
While his flock near me lay;
He gathered in my sheep at night,
And cheered me a' the day.

He tuned his pipe, and played sae sweet,
The birds stood listening by ;
Even the dull cattle stood and gazed
Charmed with the melody.

Owing to the traditionary character which both the airs and songs maintained down to the commencement of the last century, it is now hardly possible to establish the antiquity of any one of either. It may only be conjectured from their primitive and simple character, and from the fact of their having been then found faAs round as a neep we'll gae todlin hame! miliarised to the universal people, that they were of One of the most humorous of all the old Scottish date much earlier than the time referred to. In the songs is one entitled "The Blythsome Bridal," which Tea-Table Miscellany, published by Allan Ramsay would appear to have been written by Sir William in 1724, about twenty of the old songs were printed, Scott of Thirlstain, ancestor at four removes of the probably for the first time; and in a work called Or- late Lord Napier, and who died in 1725, after having The Cowdenknowes have been celebrated in several figured for many years as a man of wit and convivia-other songs, though in none of equal tenderness. pheus Caledonius, published in London in the ensuing year, a number of the airs were for the first time ty, and as a writer of Latin verse, some specimens They are two hills of unequal height in the vale of of which were published by Ruddiman. Lord Napier the Leader, near Earlston, but are now entirely ditaken down. These songs and airs were of two dis- had been assured by his father and grandfather that vested of the "lang yellow broom" which once cotinct kinds, the merry and the plaintive, each in the Sir William wrote this song, and James Hogg relates vered them, and which is said to have been so luxuextreme of the character. While, of the merry songs, a curious traditionary anecdote connected with the riant, that a man on horseback might pass through it circumstance. however, many were old, most of the plaintive and private assembly in London, with very little effect The author sang it once in a large without being visible. tender were of the renovated kind already alluded to. upon the general audience, who could understand Of these humorous old songs, we do not scruple to little of its vernacular drolleries, but to the infinite say that the humour is as good as that of any class of amusement of three Scottish noblemen, who laughed compositions in existence. We would instance "Tak immoderately. The author was requested to sing it once more, but positively refused, when several nobles, your auld cloak about ye," a composition, probably, calculating upon the cupidity of the Scotch, went up of the sixteenth century, as it not only exhibits the ❘ and formally offered him a present of plate to a hun

The fine song of "Waly, Waly," relates to an affecting tragical circumstance in the Scottish peerage. Lady Barbara Erskine, daughter of John ninth Earl of Marr, and grand-niece to the hero of the above song, was married, in 1670, to James, second Marquis of Douglas, but was soon rendered miserable, in conse quence of a plot by a disappointed lover to awaken a causeless jealousy in the bosom of her husband. This

base design having taken effect, her ladyship was taken away from her husband's house, immediately after recovering from the birth of her first child, in the year ensuing upon her marriage. Innocence could not be thus wronged without exciting the compassion of the muse, and accordingly a ballad was composed, in which the lady was made to relate the whole of the circumstances. The first verses of this composition

have latterly been detached, as a song, and certainly breathe the very soul of pathos.

Oh, waly, waly, up yon bank,
And waly, waly, down yon brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak;
And sae did my fause love to me.
O waly, waly, love is bonnie,

A little time, while it is new;
But when it's auld, it waxes cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,

The sheets shall ne'er be press'd by me,
St Anton's Well shall be my drink,

Since my true love's forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O, gentle death, when wilt thou come ?
For of my life I am wearie.

"Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;
Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry:
But my love's heart's grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I wed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I myself were dead and gane,

And the green grass growing over me! This ill-starred lady died early, and her son, Lord Angus, who had raised and taken the command of the celebrated Cameronian regiment, fell at the battle of Steinkirk, in 1692. The marquis, by a second wife, had, besides other children, the celebrated Lady Jane Douglas, whose son, Lord Douglas, was the cause of is curious to find that a gentleman so recently deceased the famous law-plea, and died so lately as 1827. It should have been the grandson of a gentleman married in 1670.

BIOGRAPHIC SKETCHES.

HERNANDO CORTEZ.

when Velasquez, too late convinced of the impru dence of his choice, made an attempt to recall him, which Cortez openly disregarded. He thus entered upon his task in the disadvantageous character of a rebel against authority, and without any hope, even of life, except in the success of his expedition. at a natural harbour, to which he gave the name of On the 2d of April 1519, he disembarked his troops St Juan de Uloa. The Indians surveyed their strange visitors with fear and wonder: the size of the ships, the thunder of the artillery, and, above all, the strength and swiftness of the horses, filled them with amazement, and led them to regard the Spaniards with a superstitious awe, of which the latter were not slow to take advantage. Cortez soon learned that the country in which he had arrived formed part of the dominions of Montezuma, whose extensive empire stretched from sea to sea, and embraced the territories of thirty powerful caciques. The Spaniards insisted on being conducted to the presence of the Indian prince; but the prudence or boding apprehensions of the Mexicans were opposed to such a step: every argument was enforced, every art employed, that was thought likely to divert Cortez from his design. Rich presents were sent to him from the court, consisting of finely wrought utensils of gold and silver, cotton stuffs, and pictures formed of feathers; and as they offered a tempting evidence of the wealth and civilisation of the country, the effect produced by them on the deliberations of the Spaniards was directly the contrary of that which was intended. The heroic Cortez, undaunted by the accounts which he received of the power and character of Montezuma, who ruled with despotic sway a rich and populous empire, now consolidated by a political existence of a hundred and thirty years, and who was able to lead into the field an army of two hundred thousand men, resolved to meet all dangers rather than relinquish so glorious a prize, and to attempt at once a conquest worthy of his daring ambition.

THIS enterprising and energetic person, whose conquest of Mexico added to the history of mankind one of its most wonderful and exciting chapters, was born in 1485, at Medelin, in Estremadura, of a noble but not wealthy family. Being intended for the bar, he received a good education; but, as he grew up, the extreme ardour of his temper disqualified him for all except the military profession, and he was only prevented by sickness from seeking employment in the wars then carried on in Italy. At the age of nineteen, he proceeded to Hispaniola, then newly colonised by his countrymen, and being well received by the governor Ovando, who was his relation, he soon began to attract attention. As he advanced in years, his original impetuosity subsided into habits of persevering activity, and, in 1511, being employed by Velasquez in the expedition to Cuba, he won the esteem of that officer by his application to business. This paved the way for his being selected to take the command of a small armament which was fitted out in 1518, for the conquest of New Spain or Mexico, then just discovered. In choosing Cortez, Velasquez was in some measure guided by a consideration of his hitherto subordinate character, as a more elevated individual would, he supposed, be apt to act too much on his own account. It soon appeared that he could not have made, for himself, a more unfortunate choice. Cortez was no sooner entrusted with the commission, than his native ambition and energy of character began to be manifested. Having succeeded in gathering above six hundred men, many of whom were gen. tlemen adventurers, together with eighteen horses (then a most valuable property in the New World) and a few pieces of artillery, he embarked, November 18, 1518, on board ten small ships, and proceeded towards the Mexican coast. He had scarcely sailed,

believed to be the child of the sun, the most submisas supernatural beings, and paid to Cortez, whom they

sive reverence.

The first care of Cortez was to fortify himself in the palace assigned for his residence. His sole study was to contrive the means by which he might make himself master of this opulent empire. An event, the secret commands of Montezuma, had attacked the his ambitious plans. A Mexican general, acting by however, had occurred which threatened to disconcert feeble garrison left at Vera Cruz; and, although finally repulsed, had killed some of the Spaniards, and taken one prisoner. This unfortunate captive was put to death, and his head sent round to all the chief cities of the empire, in order to convince the people that their invaders, however formidable, were yet not immortal. The superstitious dread with which the Spaniards had inspired the natives, and which was the foundation of their power, was thus threatened with subversion. The spell once broken, by which they maintained their ascendant, they must soon sink, cipline, beneath the overwhelming numbers of their notwithstanding all the advantages of arms and disenraged enemies.

Cortez, whose eyes were fully open to the dangers vigilant, resolved to prevent all the dangers of his teof his situation, and whose spirit was as bold as it was merity by an act still more daring than any which he had as yet committed, and to decide the fate of Mexico before the people had learned generally to suspect his weakness. He proceeded, accompanied by his officers, proved fruitless, prevailed on that unhappy prince, by to the palace of Montezuma, and when persuasions threats and menaces, to accompany him to the quar ters of the Spaniards. When once master of the monarch's person, he in reality possessed all the authority of government. The Mexican general who had attacked the Spaniards was delivered up to his The Spanish conqueror was aware what a tendency vengeance, and cruelly sentenced to be burned alive. scenes of blood have to fortify the impressions of superstition; and his policy condemned to the most signal punishment those who had thrown a doubt on the inviolability of the Spaniards. Montezuma was loaded, for a time, with chains, and compelled to acknowledge himself the vassal of the Emperor Charles V. To this forced submission he was obliged to add a present of six hundred thousand marks of pure gold, besides a great quantity of jewels. But the oppressed could not be induced to change his religion, notwithprince, while thus stripping himself of his power, standing all the pious exhortations of the formidable Cortez. The Spaniards, however, put a stop to the abominable rites of human sacrifice; and for the piles tuted the images of the saints and of the holy Virgin. of human skulls which decorated the temples, substi

nant, he led the remainder of his forces with the greatest possible expedition against Narvaez. Some efforts which he made to gain over that commander were treated with disdain; but he was not so unsuccessful with some of the inferior officers. He was, nevertheless, only able to bring about two hundred and fifty men, aided by a few Indians, against eight hundred foot soldiers and four-score horse, commanded by his opponent. Making up by address what he wanted in force, he made a rapid march against Narvaez, and surprised him by night in the town of Zempoalla. His little army had penetrated almost to the headquarters of Narvaez before any alarm was given, and that general being wounded in the first encounter, was dragged to the ground and instantly put in fetthe troops readily yielded to Cortez, and consented to Confounded by the suddenness of the attack,

In order that his command might have some colour of regularity, he founded the town of Vera Cruz, and caused some of his officers to assume the character of a Spanish corporation, and, in that capacity, to confer upon him powers for prosecuting the war. He then burned all his ships, in order that his followers might have no alternative but conquest or destruction; and The triumph of Cortez now seemed secure, when he engaged in his interest some of the Indian caciques learned, on a sudden, that a Spanish army had distemper of Montezuma. These measures being taken, thority. He encountered this new difficulty with his who were dissatisfied with the violent and arbitrary embarked under the command of Narvaez, sent by Velasquez for the purpose of stripping him of his auhe commenced his march into the interior, with a usual promptitude and boldness. Leaving two hun little army of five hundred men, six cannons, and fif-dred men in Mexico, under the orders of his lieuteteen horses. The inhabitants of Tlascala, a sort of independent republic, alone offered him any resistance. That fierce tribe, who had successfully defied all the efforts of the Mexicans to subdue them, were now completely defeated in three successive battles by a handful of Spaniards, who did not even purchase their victories over greatly superior numbers by any loss on their side. The brave Tlascalans were obliged to sue for peace, and from enemies cheerfully consented to become the allies of those whose irresistible valour they had experienced. Thus strengthened by a union with the people, whose ancient hostility to the Mexicans was a pledge of their fidelity to him, Cortez continued his march to the capital of Montezuma. That prince, afraid to oppose the Spaniards openly, sent forward to acquaint them that they should be received in his dominions as friends. At Cholula, accordingly, they met with a gracious reception; but the suspicions of Cortez were awakened by the warnings of his Tlascalan friends: he seized the Mexican priests, and drew from them the confession, that preparations were making in secret to exterminate him and all his followers. The Spaniards, enraged at this scheme of treachery, took ample vengeance on the city: six thousand Cholulans perished in the slaughter that ensued; and the Indians were no less confounded by the discernment than by the strength and arms of their strange invaders.

To the Spaniards, who were hardly less astonished at their own success than the simple people over whom they triumphed, the view of the rich and boundless plain of Mexico, with its spacious lake, surrounded by populous towns, and the great capital itself, rising on an island near the shore, seemed to realise some vision of romance or dream of the imagination. At every step they found new cause to admire the riches of the country, and their own audacity. Montezuma received them with studious pomp, and with every manifestation of friendship. The people viewed them

ters.

serve under him.

In the meantime, Alvarado, whom he left in comof that city, who conceived that the time had come mand at Mexico, had been sorely pressed by the people for shaking off the thraldom imposed upon them by the Spaniards. He had further increased their hos tility by a needless act of severity, and, if Cortez had not marched back immediately to his rescue, his party must have been destroyed. On concentrating his perior to every effort of the Mexicans, that he no forces in the capital, Cortez conceived himself so sulonger was at pains to soothe them. Being now convinced that their country had been basely made a spoil, and their emperor a prisoner, they rose in prodigious force against the Spaniards, and, disregarding the slaughter made in their ranks by the superior weapons of Europe, poured mass after mass upon the Spanish quarters, which they very nearly carried. For two days, the streets of Mexico were deluged with the blood of these ill-armed multitudes, till the but to bring forward the captive monarch to harangue Spaniards, fatigued with slaughter, found no resource them into peace. Even this expedient was found useless, and Montezuma, wounded by the weapons of his subjects, died soon after of a broken heart. Cortez then resolved to retire from the city. In the dead of night, he led his forces in three divisions towards one of the causeways which crossed the surrounding lake, bearing a portable bridge of timber on which to cross the breaches made by the Mexicans to intercept their

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