Facts and fancies for the curious from the harvest-fields of literature

by Unknown

LEGENDARY LORE

Ilium Fuit

There is a radical change of opinion with regard to the Iliad. Those who have regarded Homer as a mere myth-collector, and the story of the siege of Troy as a figment of a fertile fancy, have learned that not only do the later critics concede that Homer was a true poet, but that Dr. Schliemann has conclusively proved that he sang of a real Troy and an actual war. How comprehensive the work of critical research has been may be seen in a single incident. A Glasgow surgeon, named Wolfe, reinforced by Mr. Gladstone, has shown that Homer had an ocular defect, that form of amblyopia known as color-blindness, the evidence of which is gathered from the treatment of colors in the Iliad.

A Marred Destiny

At Pevensey is the beach on which the Norman Conqueror landed. The castle on the cliff of Hastings marks the spot where he first planted his standard. From that place it is easy to trace his line of march till he saw Harold with the English army facing him on the fatal hill of Senlac. The battle-field is as well-marked as that of Waterloo, and fancy can recall the charges of the Norman cavalry up the hillside against the solid formation and the shield wall of the Saxon precursors of the British infantry. The ruins of Battle Abbey, the religious trophy of the Conqueror, are still seen, and the site of the high altar exactly marks the spot where the fatal arrow entering Harold’s brain slew not only a king, but a kingdom, and marred the destiny of a race. We are on the scene of one of the great catastrophes of history. Had that arrow missed its mark, Anglo-Saxon institutions would have developed in their integrity, the Anglo-Saxon tongue would have perfected itself in its purity, Anglo-Norman aristocracy would never have been, or have left its evil traces on society, the fatal connection of England and France, and the numerous French wars of the Plantagenets would have been blotted out of the book of fate.

Robinson Crusoe

Dr. Edward Everett Hale has observed a curious feature in “Robinson Crusoe.” He says: “Readers who are curious in English history must not fail to observe that Robinson Crusoe was shipwrecked on his island on September 30, 1659. It was in that month that the English Commonwealth ended and Richard Cromwell left the palace at Whitehall. Robinson lived in this island home for twenty-eight years. These twenty-eight years covered the exact period of the second Stuart reign in England. Robinson Crusoe returned to England in June, 1687; the Convention Parliament which established William III. met in London at the same time. All this could not be an accidental coincidence. Defoe must have meant that the ‘true-born Englishman’ could not live in England during the years while the Stuarts reigned. Robinson Crusoe was a ruler himself on his own island, and was never the subject of Charles II. or James II.”

Macaulay in the Role of a Pickpocket

In clever sketches of social life in Rome, Mr. T. Adolphus Trollope repeats a story that was told during “A Moonlight Visit to the Coliseum,” showing how Lord Macaulay had once robbed a man there of his watch. One night, while strolling under the dark arches, all of a sudden a man in a large cloak brushed past him rather rudely, as Macaulay thought, and passed on into the darkness. Macaulay’s first impulse was to clasp his hand to his watch-pocket; and sure enough he found that his watch was not there. He looked after the man, who he doubted not had stolen his watch as he brushed past him, and peering into the darkness could just distinguish the outline of a figure moving farther away. Macaulay without the loss of a second rushed after him, overtook him, and seizing him by the collar demanded his watch. Macaulay could at that time speak very little Italian, and understood none when spoken. So he was obliged to limit his attack on the thief to a violent shaking of him by the collar and an angry repetition of the demand, “Orologio! orologio!” The man thus attacked poured forth a torrent of rapidly-spoken words, of which Macaulay understood not one syllable. But he again administered a severe shaking to his captive, stamping his foot angrily on the ground, and again vociferating “Orologio! orologio!” Whereupon the detected thief drew forth a watch and handed it to his captor. Macaulay, satisfied with his prowess in having thus recaptured his property, and not caring for the trouble of pursuing the matter any further, turned on his heel as he pocketed the watch, and saw nothing more of the man. But when he returned to his apartment at night, his landlady met him at the door, holding out something in her hand, and saying, “Oh, sir, you left your watch on the table, so I thought it better to take care of it. Here it is.” “Good gracious! What is this, then? What is the meaning of it?” stammered Macaulay, drawing from his pocket the watch he had so gallantly recovered in the Coliseum. It was a watch he had never seen before. The truth was plain: he had been the thief! The poor man he had so violently attacked and apostrophized in the darkness and solitude of the Coliseum arches had been terrified into surrendering his own watch to the resolute ruffian who, as he conceived, had pursued him to rob him. The next morning Macaulay, not a little crestfallen, hastened to the office of the questor with the watch and told his story. “Ah, I see,” said the questor; “you had better leave the watch with me. I will make your excuses to the owner of it; he has already been here to denounce you.”

A Minister’s Messenger and What He Saw

At the moment when his soldiers were entering Strasburg, the Roi Soleil started out from Fontainebleau to take possession in person of his new conquest. The day before—that is to say, on the 29th of September, 1681—Louis XIV. had announced to his court in the presence of the German Ambassador that he had made up his mind to go to Strasburg, in order to receive the oath of fealty which the treaty of Nimègue gave him the right to exact from the city. It was a coup de théatre and no mistake. But how happened it that the king was so well informed as to the actual condition of affairs at so distant a point? Well, the story runs as follows:

One evening the Minister Louvois sent for a young man who had been recommended to his good graces and said,—“Sir, you will get into a post-carriage which you will find at my door. My servants have exact instructions what to do. You will proceed to Bâle without stopping and you will reach there about two o’clock to-morrow. You will proceed immediately to the bridge which crosses the Rhine. You will remain there until four o’clock. You will carefully notice all that you may see there. You will then again get into the carriage, and without losing a minute will return and report to me what you may have seen.” The young man bowed and started at once. The day after the next day at two o’clock he reached Bâle, and at once hastened to take up his station on the bridge. Nothing extraordinary attracted his attention. It was market-day, and some peasants were passing and repassing, bringing vegetables and taking back their empty carts. A squad of militia passed. Townfolk crossed the bridge, talking of the news of the day, and a little man, wearing a yellow coat, leaned over the railing and amused himself by dropping stones into the water, as if to create circling eddies, which he watched with a satisfied look. Four o’clock struck, and the Minister’s messenger started on his return to Paris. Very late in the evening the young man, greatly disappointed at the result of his mission, arrived at the house of Louvois. The Minister was still awake and rushed to meet his protégé.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“I saw peasants going and coming; a squad of militia passed over the bridge; citizens who walked along discussing the day’s news, and a little man wearing a yellow coat, who was amusing himself by dropping stones into the water.”

The Minister had heard enough, and he hurried to the king. The little man in yellow was a secret agent, and the stones dropped into the water was a signal that all difficulties had been overcome, and that Strasburg belonged to France.

Tobacco in Diplomacy

The “herb of peace” has played an important rôle in politics and diplomacy during the last two hundred years in the history of the world, and its influence upon the course of public events has been almost invariably of a beneficial character. Not only have its narcotic properties tended to soothe the angry passions of those intrusted with the conduct of international relations, but it has also afforded them the opportunity of thinking before they spoke, and allowed time for those second thoughts which in statecraft, at any rate, are always best. People are often disposed to make fun of the so-called “pipe of peace” and to regard it as a mere form of speech originating with the red Indians. But tobacco, whether taken in the form of a pipe, a cigar, a cigarette or snuff, has proved a powerful and effective aid to peace, and as such its use deserves to be fostered and propagated by all patriotic and law-abiding citizens, in lieu of being condemned as noxious. The value placed by people in the eighteenth century and in the early part of the nineteenth upon snuff as a preventive of violence is shown by the German historian Jacoby, who, writing of his times, declares: “Whenever any one displays signs of temper the snuff-box is handed to him, and we all have too much self-control, even under the most trying circumstances, ever to resist the power.”

Even women in those days who did not take snuff kept boxes for the purpose of averting quarrels among their admirers, and it was universally regarded as one of the most efficacious aids to the maintenance of friendly and agreeable intercourse. Nowadays snuff has gone out of fashion, and, as a rule, cigarettes have supplanted tobacco in its powdered form in what has been described as “diplomatic machinery.” The statesman or the ambassador who could formerly conceal his embarrassment and collect his thoughts for an appropriate answer during the slow and stately process of taking a “prise,” is now enabled to do so while breathing out nicely distanced rings of fragrant Turkish tobacco. Indeed, the cigarette proves perhaps a more effective ally in a moment of difficulty than the pinch of snuff. For whereas you cannot indefinitely prolong the process of inhaling the latter, it is always possible to gain time with a cigarette by letting it go out and then having to relight it. To-day there is scarcely any foreign minister or diplomat who is not provided with his cigarette-box, which he regards, not in the light of an object of personal luxury, but as part and parcel of the most indispensable paraphernalia of his office. It is worthy of note that the Russians, who devote more attention and importance to the study of diplomacy than any other Western nation, are always provided with finer cigarettes than any of their foreign colleagues, while one of the reasons why the late Khedive was subject to so much bullying and badgering by the various ministers and consuls accredited to his court was because his cigarettes were so execrable that it required the strongest dose of courtesy possible to make even a pretence of smoking them, the result being that he had to bear the full brunt of every disagreeable first thought that came into the mind of his foreign visitors, his cigarettes offering no inducement for them to reflect before speaking, and tending, moreover, to irritate rather than to soothe their tempers.

It is a peculiar fact that all women who have achieved fame in diplomacy, such as Princess Pauline Metternich, Princess Lise Troubetskoi, the late Princess Leopold Croy, Mme. de Novikoff, etc., have all been inveterate consumers of cigarettes, and each of those just mentioned has availed herself with signal advantage of the opportunity afforded by toying with a fragrant papilletto to reflect before speaking, which women, as a rule, alas! so seldom do. Apparently it is with the hope of encouraging women who are not, like Mme. de Novikoff and Princess Lise Troubetskoi, professed diplomats, to think before speaking, and thereby avert a goodly portion of the trouble which befalls man, that several of the governments of Continental Europe are encouraging the use of tobacco among the fair sex by providing smoking apartments for women on all the state railroads. And we even find that solemn and august functionary, the Speaker of the British House of Commons, the living embodiment of all that is most time-honored, old-fashioned, and ultra-respectable in the English Parliament, turning a deaf ear to the protest raised of late years in certain of the London newspapers against the now frequent spectacle offered on summer nights of women in full evening dress sitting out on the riverside terrace of the palace of Westminster puffing at their post-prandial cigarette. “The First Commoner of the Realm” is, like his predecessor, Lord Peel, apparently of the opinion that the weed, first dedicated to England’s “Virgin Queen,” is infinitely more effective and less injurious to high-strung feminine nerves than chloral, morphine or alcohol. The easiest-tempered and most tractable women of the universe are those of the Orient, who smoke all day long, and the same may be said of the women of Southern Europe. With the exception of the present Czarina of Russia, Queen Alexandra, and the Queen of the Netherlands, nearly all the women of the reigning houses of the Old World smoke.

The Mystery of the Dauphin

The story, according to which the Dauphin, son of King Louis XVI. and Queen Marie Antoinette, was done to death in the Temple prison by his brutal jailer Simon and the latter’s wife, has long since been exploded. It has been definitely established on the most incontrovertible evidence that the Dauphin did not die in the Temple at the hands of the Simons. The latter were not ignorant brutes, but well-to-do people, Simon being a member of the “Conseil Général” of the Seine, and, moreover, he resigned his guardianship of the Dauphin in January, 1794, eighteen months before the royal lad’s alleged death. There is abundant evidence to show that the Prince escaped, and that several members of the Royalist party were concerned in his flight.

The Dauphin eventually, after all sorts of adventures, when the star of Napoleon was on the wane, went to Berlin—he was about twenty-nine years old at the time—with a view of putting forward his claims for recognition as a member of the house of Bourbon. His uncles, the Comte de Provence (afterward King Louis XVIII.) and the Comte d’Artois (subsequently King Charles X.) were in receipt of handsome allowances from the Prussian, Russian, and English governments, and the Dauphin hoped that he, too, might be provided for in a similar way. The Prussian government, however, was committed to the Comte de Provence, and the chief of the Berlin police forced the Dauphin to surrender to him all the papers establishing his identity, and then furnished him with a passport describing him as a native of Weimar. These papers were never returned to him, in spite of all his efforts to recover them, and they remain at Berlin to this day. Eventually he made his way to Holland. The Dutch authorities, who are the most strict in the world in all matters relating to the assumption of unauthorized names and titles, not only permitted him to figure on the marriage and death registry at Delft as “Louis of Bourbon, son of King Louis XVI. and Queen Marie Antoinette,” but likewise allowed his sons and grandsons to serve under the royal name of Bourbon in the Dutch Army.

True, the Duke of Orleans, like his father before him, denounces the claims of these Dutch Bourbons, now established at Paris in the wine business, as ridiculous, and stigmatizes the alleged Dauphin as having been an impostor. Yet, in spite of all the efforts, and the large amount of money spent by Louis XVIII., Charles X., King Louis Philippe, and the Comte de Paris, no one has ever succeeded in finding out who the alleged Dauphin could possibly have been, if not the son of the ill-fated Queen Marie Antoinette.

It was natural that the brothers of Louis XVI. refused to recognize the alleged Dauphin as their nephew, since by their recognition he would have become an obstacle in the way of their accession to the throne of France on the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty. Moreover, they had always been among the most bitter enemies of Marie Antoinette, insisting that her children were the offspring of another man instead of their eldest brother. There is, however, evidence to the effect that they provided for the lad’s maintenance after his escape from the Temple, on the understanding that he should be kept in the background, being unwilling that any personage should be appealed to in the matter. But when he grew up, they denounced him as a fraud.

It may be remembered that the Vatican, when asked in 1826 for a permit of consecration of the Chapelle Expiatoire at Paris, erected over what was understood to be the remains of King Louis XVI., of his queen, and of their son, only granted it on the condition that the name of the Dauphin was removed, taking the ground, set forth in an official dispatch, which is on record, that it could not lend itself to the comedy of consecrating a memorial chapel to a living person.

That the Prussian government or the Prussian crown have among their archives papers proving the usurpation of the French throne by Louis XVIII., the escape from prison of the Dauphin, and his identity with that Louis Bourbon who died at Delft, and to whom the president of the Berlin police had given a passport as “Naundorff,” a citizen of Weimar, where, by the by, no such person had ever been born or lived, has long been known. The Russian imperial archives and those of the Vatican are likewise known to possess equally conclusive documentary evidence upon the subject, and the attitude of the papacy toward the Dutch Bourbons has always been particularly considerate.

The Sistine Madonna and La Fornarina

People who are not content to accept the old-fashioned traditions concerning pictures and artists will be pleased with some recent discoveries about Raphael made by the art critics. These ingenious persons have practically exhausted Leonardo da Vinci, who for many years was their favorite quarry, having proved to their own satisfaction that nearly every picture ascribed to him was painted by some one else. They have now turned upon Raphael, and in the merciless but scientific dissection of his works and his life not only the authenticity but the fame of his Sistine Madonna has been placed in question. The chain of circumstantial evidence, it is true, seems incomplete in parts, but the missing links will be supplied by that faith which science often demands no less than legend.

Raphael has the unusual distinction of having had an excellent reputation among his contemporaries. He was a hard worker, and his private life was so uneventful as to excite no comment. This was hardly artistic, so, fifty years after his death, Vasari supplied him with a nameless mistress, a baker’s daughter, “La Fornarina,” whom the painter saw and loved in her father’s garden, near the Church of Santa Cecilia, in the Trastevere quarter at Rome. In another fifty years this story had grown into the well known tale of the painter’s passionate love bringing about his early death, and the beautiful, sensuous face of “La Fornarina” in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence made it credible. Sentimental persons looked on her portrait and then on Raphael’s own, and had no doubts.

Then came the critics. They proved that it was not Raphael but Sebastian del Piombo who had painted the portrait, and that it represented not “La Fornarina” but an entirely different woman, a beauty of Bologna. Their scepticism, however, stopped short of rejecting the whole story. They cling to that in all its details, and one of them, Signor Valeri, of Rome, has just confirmed it by discovering “La Fornarina’s” name. His method is interesting.

First, he found in somebody’s manuscript life of Goethe that “La Fornarina’s” Christian name was Margarita; next, in a census of Rome made in 1518, two years before Raphael’s death, kept in the Vatican library, he discovered that a baker named Francesco, from Siena, kept a bakery near the Church of Santa Cecilia; finally, he searched in the registers of the nunnery of Santa Apollonia, and found there under the date August 18, 1520, four months after Raphael’s death, the name of “Margarita, daughter of the late Francesco Luti of Siena,” as having been received into the convent as a nun. Therefore this Margarita Luti or Luzzi must necessarily be “La Fornarina.”

This demonstration was hardly needed by the art critics, whose faith in the existence of the Fornarina was unshaken. Having discredited the Uffizi portrait, they looked around among Raphael’s other paintings for her features. For a time they inclined to the “Veiled Woman” in the Pitti Gallery, but finally settled on the Sistine Madonna as representing the painter’s beloved. The evidence for the identification is of the slightest, and surely the simple peasant girl, whose innocence and loveliness alone the painter has transmitted to us, might have been left unsmirched. Such as it is, however, the identification is shaken by another art critic. A lynx-eyed young German iconoclast has cast doubts on the authenticity of the Dresden Gallery’s treasure, and declares boldly that the picture is not the “Madonna di San Sisto,” and that in all likelihood Raphael never painted it. His attack is backed by such a display of erudition that the director of the gallery went to Italy to find out if there might not be some foundation of truth in it.

While critics wrangle over unessentials, however, the Sistine Virgin, the loveliest creation of Raphael’s genius, will grace our homes, the most overpowering figure known to the tablets of art.

The Letter M

Napoleon I. was a fatalist, and among his superstitions was a firmly-rooted notion that places and persons whose names began with the letter M possessed immense power over his fortunes for good or for evil. An ingenious Frenchman, evidently inclined to believe that there was some good ground for Napoleon’s faith, makes up the following strange list of M’s: Six Marshals—Massena, Mortier, Marmont, Macdonald, Murat, and Moncey—without counting twenty-six division Generals. Moreau betrayed him. Marseilles was the place where he encountered the greatest difficulties at the commencement of his career. Marbœuf was the first to suspect his genius and to shove him ahead. His most brilliant battles were Montenotte, Mantua, Millesimo, Mondovi, Marengo, Malta, Mont Thabor, Montmirvil, Mormans, Montereau, Méry, Montmartre (assault), Mont-Saint-Jean, the last at Waterloo. At the siege of Toulon his first point of attack was Fort Malbousquet. There he singled out Muiron, who covered him with his body on the bridge of Arcole. Milan was the capital of his new kingdom. Moscow was the last town that he took. Menon made him lose Egypt. Miollis was selected to capture Pius VII. Malet conspired against him. Metternich beat him diplomatically. Maret was his secretary and his confidant. Montalivet was his Minister, and Montesquin his first Chamberlain. In March, 1796, he married Josephine, and in March, 1810, he married Marie Louise. In March, 1811, the King of Rome was born. Malmaison, a well-named unlucky house, was his last residence in France. He surrendered to Captain Maitland. At Saint Helena, Montholon was his companion in captivity and Marchand his valet de chambre. He died in May, 1821. The letter M also comes to the front in the career of Napoleon III. He married the Countess de Montijo. Morny is not forgotten. In the war of the Crimea we find Malakoff and Mamelon. In the Italian campaign we find Montebello, Marignon, Magenta, Milan, Mazzini. Toward the close of his career Mexico appears with Maximilian, Méjia, and Miramon. In the war with Germany he pinned his faith upon the mitrailleuse, and the names of Moltke and Metz are conspicuous enough in the history of that campaign.

The Iron Maiden

The “Torture Chamber” in the five-sided tower of the old burgh was for many years one of the show-places of Nuremberg. The collection of instruments of fiendishness, made by a Franconian nobleman, numbered between five and six hundred. There were all sorts of repulsive contrivances,—racks, wedges, hammers, clubs, pulleys, thumb-screws, iron boots to crush the limbs, metal collars for the neck, brass masks for the head, copper boilers for scalding water, and headsmen’s axes. Their removal, by purchase, has served as a reminder of the wisdom of the clause in the Constitution of the United States (Art. viii.) forbidding the infliction of “cruel and unusual punishments.”

The central jewel, the Kohinoor of the relics of barbarism and diabolism, is one of the most awful graven images it ever entered into the heart of men to conceive, the world-infamous Eiserne Jungfrau, the “Iron Maiden,” of Nuremberg. This monstrous invention was an improvement in ferocity upon the brazen bull into which the ancient tyrant, after heating it red hot, was wont to thrust his naked victims. Many Americans have seen the Iron Maiden; all Americans ought to see her. The sight of the hideous figure is an excellent tonic for young Yankees of both sexes suffering from “over-culture,” and seduced into a fit of moonlit mediævalism by the picturesque and romantic attractions of such “quaint old towns of art and song” as the city of Hans Sachs and Albert Dürer. For the Iron Maiden was no ingenious toy devised to amuse the idle and frighten the thoughtless into good behavior. Clasped in her stifling embrace, pierced in all parts of the human body not absolutely vital by the sharpened spikes set into the steel valves which had closed upon him, a living man, many a wretch yielded up the ghost in torments not to be conceived of adequately save by the imagination of an Edgar Poe. And this not by the edict of a despot mad with unbridled power, but in the normal course of justice, or of religious persecution, as justice and religion were understood and administered during the “good old times.”

The Value of Practical Knowledge

In the piazza before St. Peter’s, at Rome, stands the most beautiful obelisk in the world. It was brought from the circus of Nero, where it had lain buried for many ages. It was one entire piece of Egyptian marble, seventy-two feet high, twelve feet square at the base, and eight feet square at the top, and is computed to weigh above four hundred and seventy tons, and it is supposed to be three thousand years old. Much engineering skill was required to remove and erect this piece of art; and the celebrated architect, Dominico Fontane, was selected and engaged by Pope Sixtus V. to carry out the operation. A pedestal thirty feet high was built for its reception, and the obelisk brought to its base. Many were the ingenious contrivances prepared for the raising of it to its last resting place, all of which excited the deepest interest among the people. At length everything was in readiness, and a day appointed for the great event. A great multitude assembled to witness the ceremony; and the Pope, afraid that the clamor of the people might distract the attention of the architect, issued an edict containing regulations to be kept, and imposing the severest penalties on any one who should, during the lifting of the gigantic stone, utter a single word. Amidst suppressed excitement of feelings and breathless silence the splendid monument was gradually raised to within a few inches of the top of the pedestal, when its upward motion ceased; it hung suspended, and could not be lifted further; the tackle was too slack, and there seemed to be no other way than to undo the great work already accomplished. The annoyed architect, in his perplexity, hardly knew how to act, while the silent people were anxiously watching every motion of his features to discover how the problem would be solved. In the crowd was an old British sailor, who saw the difficulty and how to overcome it, and with stentorian lungs he shouted, “Wet the ropes!” The vigilant police pounced on the culprit and lodged him in prison; the architect caught the magic words; he put this proposition in force, and the cheers of the people proclaimed the success of the great undertaking. Next day the British criminal was solemnly arraigned before his Holiness; his crime was undeniably proved, and the Pope, in solemn language, pronounced his sentence to be—that he should receive a pension annually during his lifetime.

The Marseillaise

Rouget de l’Isle wrote only six of the seven verses of the “Marseillaise,” the last being the work of the Abbé Antoine Pessonneaux, in a moment of patriotic ecstacy. In its completed form the hymn was first sung at the opera in Paris, the members of the Convention being present. After the verses of Rouget de l’Isle had been sung a group of children appeared on the stage and gave the last verse, beginning “Nous entrerons dans la carrière,” which was wildly applauded. Not long after this the Abbé came near being guillotined at Lyons. One of the historians relates the event as follows: “The committee met in the Town Hall, which resembled a ‘funeral chapel,’ and sat round a table covered with black cloth. There was the president, who had three judges on each side of him. They all wore a little silver hatchet round the neck,—terrible emblem of their functions. There was a stool for the prisoner, and behind this a rank of armed soldiers awaiting the sign which decided the fate of the accused. If the judges spread out their hands on the black cloth, that signified acquittal; if they raised their hands to their foreheads, that meant that the prisoner was to be shot; if they touched the silver hatchet, he was to be guillotined. Few questions were asked, and the fate of the accused was generally known beforehand. The sentence of the court was immediately executed amid cries of anguish, despair, ‘Vive la République,’ and the howling of the ‘Marseillaise.’ A citizen, pale, but calm, in presence of almost certain death, had just been brought before the tribunal. His crime was flagrant; he was a priest. The president asked, ‘Who art thou?’ The accused drew himself proudly up, and said, ‘I am the Abbé Pesonneaux, author of the last stanza of the ‘Marseillaise.’’ There was a good deal of commotion in the court, and after some hesitation the judges stretched their hands out on the black cloth, which was the pollice verso of the Republic. Without saluting or thanking, the Abbé slowly withdrew. Forty years afterwards the Government of Louis Philippe gave Rouget de l’Isle a pension of £4 a month, and the Abbé Pessonneaux had some idea of applying also for aid, but he changed his mind, and died peacefully in Dauphiny in 1835.”

Shakespeare and Burbage

In that old book, “A General View of the Stage,” we are told that one evening when Richard III. was to be performed, Shakespeare observed a young woman delivering a message to Burbage in so cautious a manner as to excite his curiosity, and prompt him to listen. It imported that her master was gone out of town that morning, and her mistress would be glad of his company after the play; and to know what signal he would appoint for admittance. Burbage replied, “Three taps at the door, and, it is I, Richard the Third.” She immediately withdrew and Shakespeare followed till he observed her go into a house in the city; and inquiring in the neighborhood he was informed that a young lady lived there, the favorite of a rich old merchant. Near the appointed time of meeting, Shakespeare, anticipating Burbage, went to the house, and was introduced by the concerted signal. The lady was very much surprised at Shakespeare’s presuming to act Burbage’s part, but as he who had written Romeo and Juliet, we may be certain, did not want wit or eloquence to apologize for the intrusion, she was soon pacified, and they were mutually happy, till Burbage came to the door, and repeated the same signal; but Shakespeare, popping his head out of the window, bade him begone; for that William the Conqueror had reigned before Richard III.

A Circassian Legend

A man was walking along one road, and a woman along another. The roads finally united, and the man and woman reaching the junction at the same time, marched on from there together. The man was carrying a large iron kettle on his back; in one hand he held by the legs a live chicken, in the other a cane, and he was leading a goat. Just as they were coming to a deep, dark ravine, the woman said to the man,—

“I am afraid to go through that ravine with you; it is a lonely place and you might overpower me and kiss me by force.”

“If you were afraid of that,” said the man, “you shouldn’t have talked with me at all. How can I possibly overpower and kiss you by force when I have this great iron kettle on my back, and a cane in one hand, and a live chicken in the other, and am leading this goat? I might as well be tied hand and foot.”

“Yes,” replied the woman, “but if you should stick your cane into the ground and tie the goat to it, and turn the kettle bottom side up and put the chicken under it, then you might wickedly kiss me in spite of my resistance.”

“Success to thy ingenuity, oh, woman!” said the rejoicing man to himself. “I should never have thought of this expedient.”

And when he came to the ravine he stuck his cane into the ground and tied the goat to it, gave the chicken to the woman, saying, “Hold it while I cut some grass for the goat;” and then, lowering the kettle from his shoulders, imprisoned the fowl under it, and wickedly kissed the woman, as she was afraid he would.

General Grouchy at Waterloo

The question, “What part had Grouchy in Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo?” or, “was his failure to arrive in time the reason why the battle was lost?” is not satisfactorily answered in “Grouchy’s Memoirs.” The battle of Ligny was fought June 16, between the French and the Prussians under Blücher; on the same day the French manfully engaged the English at Quatre Bras; June 18, the battle of Waterloo was fought, which ended, by the timely arrival of Blücher on the battle-field, in the total rout of the French. It is claimed that Grouchy, who commanded the French right wing of 32,000, might either, by engaging the Prussians, have prevented them from appearing in time on the battle-field and wresting the hard-fought victory from the hands of Napoleon, or that he might have appeared on the battle-field himself in time to crush Wellington before Blücher could possibly be on the battle-field. Let us hear now what the French General says in his “Memoirs,” which is, in substance, as follows: “The French victory over the Prussians at Ligny had filled Napoleon with the greatest joy and a false feeling of security. He looked on the Belgian campaign as virtually won. Instead of turning his victory at Ligny to account and preparing for all eventualities, he rode to Fleure, about three miles back of Ligny, and went to bed, leaving Grouchy, the commander of the right wing, behind, without any positive orders. Grouchy followed Napoleon to Fleure, in order to call his attention to the critical state of affairs. He arrived early in the morning of the 17th in Fleure, but as Napoleon had given the strictest orders not to awaken him under any circumstances, he was not admitted to an audience of the Emperor before 1 o’clock P. M. of that day. The Emperor paid no attention to the General’s protestations, but repeated his orders to pursue and watch the Prussians. But this was simply impossible, because Blücher was ahead of him by a sixteen hours’ march, and had an array of 80,000 fresh troops. Moreover, in order to pursue Blücher, it would have been necessary for the right wing of the French army to withdraw far from the point where a conflict might come at every moment. All these reasons were strongly urged by the Marshal, but to no purpose; the Emperor repeated his orders to march toward Namour, saying that he knew that the Prussians would take their position on the Muse (Maas). With these instructions the Marshal retired, and the roar of cannon the next day satisfied him that a great battle was in progress. To hasten to the field of action was actually impossible, as his positive instructions had taken him to Namour, southeast of Ligny and farther off from Waterloo or Belle Alliance by fifteen English miles. Moreover, the terrain between Namour and Waterloo was marshy and without any passable roads, so that he could not have arrived on the battle-field before the action was over. Again, his avant guard had already engaged the Prussians, and to attempt to pass with 32,000 men, worn out by long marches, an enemy of 80,000 fresh troops, seemed to the Marshal too hazardous an enterprise; hence he did not make the attempt.”

So far the Marshal. If he tells the truth, if every statement made by him is according to facts, every unprejudiced reader will readily admit that the Marshal’s reasons for non-action were sufficient to justify his conduct, even in the absence of treasonable designs.

But where did the real fault lie? Who committed it? Even if the battle of Waterloo had remained indecisive, or even if it had been won by Napoleon, it might have retarded the sinking of his star, but would not have prevented it. Napoleon had taught the nations of Europe his own tactics; the French Republicans had filled all Europe with an abhorrence of their professed principles, and Napoleon had shown himself during his whole reign an unmitigated despot, whose only god was ambition, and who stooped short of nothing in order to carry out his designs.

But if the battle of Waterloo was lost through any one’s fault, that fault was Napoleon’s. He overrated his own victory, looking upon the Prussian army as crippled, disabled for the time being, while it had merely been pushed by sheer force from the battle-field. The French army was as much used up as the Prussian, being unable to pursue, while the Prussian army took all its baggage and wounded away and retired with such dispatch and order that Napoleon, sixteen hours after the close of the battle, did not even know which direction Blücher had taken.

Napoleon had said of the Bourbons that they had not learned anything nor forgotten anything; the same remark may be applied to himself with equal justice. He knew neither the newly awakened spirit of the different German peoples nor the wants and desires of France. All the battles he fought after his Russian campaign, even those he won, were hotly contested, for him bare of fruits; had he understood the signs of the times, he would have known that a nation manifesting such patriotism as the Prussians did in 1813 could, indeed, be annihilated, but not conquered; he would have known that Blücher was his most formidable opponent, and as a wise man he would neither have called him the drunken huzzar nor treated him as such. Of all Generals that fought Napoleon, Blücher seems to have been the only one that was not afraid of him; this Napoleon either knew not or was too proud to admit, hence his defeat and ruin.

Victor Hugo settles the question in very laconic and magisterial fashion. After his glowing description of Waterloo in “Les Misérables,” he says,—

“Was it possible that Napoleon should win this battle? We answer no. Why? Because of Wellington? Because of Blücher? No. Because of God.

“For Bonaparte to be conqueror at Waterloo was not in the law of the nineteenth century. Another series of facts were preparing in which Napoleon had no place. The ill-will of events had long been announced. It was time that this vast man should fall.

“Napoleon had been impeached before the Infinite, and his fall was decreed.

“He vexed God.

“Waterloo is not a battle; it is the change of front of the universe.”

Acadia

The first successful attempt at colonization in Nova Scotia was made in 1633, when Isaac de Razilly and Charnisay brought out some families from France. These were the progenitors of the Acadian race. Very capable people they were,—though for a time they suffered much during the winters. Yet they kept up bravely, and barred out the sea, and felled the forests, and cultivated the marshes. They increased and multiplied, so that by-and-by we find them holding all the valley from Port Royal to Piziquid. They spread also round the head of the Bay of Fundy. Their great achievement was reclaiming thousands of acres where formerly the salt waves ranged at will. Their system of dike-building was remarkable for strength and durability. They did not pay much attention to things extraneous, and could not at all understand the inexorable law of race-conflict which brought the English against them.

This struggle, and the events connected therewith, forms the most striking period of Nova Scotian history. The whole subject is shrouded with a mist of controversy, of which the end is not yet. But this is of small consequence to the romancer. Of course we have had the great romance of the Acadians,—the tale of “love that hopes, and endures, and is patient.” Evangeline is a very charming (if very unhistorical) heroine, and the poem shows how much can be made by an artist out of good material. Yet Longfellow’s work has by no means exhausted the possibilities of that exciting period. There is a strong dramatic value in the opposition of the Acadians and English, and the vast background of the Anglo-French war.

That war presents many opportunities to the story-writer. The time was pregnant with fate; the destiny of three nations hinged upon the outcome. A striking work of fiction lies in the power of him who can read and weigh musty archives, who has an eye for effective incident and the skill of a literary craftsman. Beauséjour, Grand Pré and Louisbourg call up memories that loom large and are lit with battle-fires.

Francis Parkman, in his account of the Acadian exile, says:

“In one particular the authors of the deportation were disappointed in its results. They had hoped to substitute a loyal population for a disaffected one; but they failed for some time to find settlers for the vacated lands. The Massachusetts soldiers, to whom they were offered, would not stay in the province, and it was not till five years later that families of British stock began to occupy the waste fields of the Acadians. This goes far to show that a longing to become their heirs had not, as has been alleged, any considerable part in the motives for their removal.

“New England humanitarianism, melting into sentimentality at a tale of woe, has been unjust to its own. Whatever judgment may be passed on the cruel measure of wholesale expatriation, it was not put in execution until every resource had been tried in vain. The agents of the French court—civil, military, and ecclesiastical—had made some act of force a necessity. With their vile practices they produced in Acadia a state of things intolerable and impossible of continuance. They conjured up the tempest, and when it burst on the heads of the unhappy people, they gave no help. The government of Louis XV. began with making the Acadians its tools, and ended with making them its victims.”

Wolfe at Quebec

On the 12th of September, 1759, General Wolfe’s plans for the investment and attack of Quebec were complete, and he issued his final orders. One sentence in them curiously anticipates Nelson’s famous signal at Trafalgar. “Officers and men,” wrote Wolfe, “will remember what their country expects of them.” A feint on Beauport, five miles to the east of Quebec, as evening fell, made Montcalm mass his troops there; but it was at a point four miles west of Quebec the real attack was directed.

This point, near the village of Sillery, was a ravine, since called Wolfe’s Cove, running from the shore of the St. Lawrence up to the Plains of Abraham, and guarded on the heights by a company of Bougainville’s men. It was selected under the advice of Major Robert Stobo (the name given by Gilbert Parker, in “The Seats of the Mighty,” is Moray), who, five years before, as Parkman says, in “Montcalm and Wolfe,” had been given as a hostage to the French at the capture of Fort Necessity, arrived about this time in a vessel from Louisbourg. He had long been a prisoner at Quebec, not always in close custody, and had used his opportunities to acquaint himself with the neighborhood. In the spring of this year he and an officer of rangers named Stevens had made their escape with extraordinary skill and daring; and he now returned to give General Wolfe the benefit of his local knowledge.

At two o’clock at night two lanterns appeared for a minute in the main-top shrouds of the “Sunderland.” It was the signal, and from the fleet, from the Isle of Orleans and from Point Levis, the English boats stole silently out, freighted with some three thousand seven hundred troops, and converged towards the point in the wall of cliffs agreed upon. Wolfe himself was in the leading boat of the flotilla. Suddenly, from the great wall of rock and forest to their left, broke the challenge of a French sentinel: “Qui vive?” A Highland officer of Fraser’s regiment, who spoke French fluently, promptly answered the challenge: “France.” “A quel regimént?” “De la Reine,” answered the Highlander.

On the day before, two deserters from the camp of Bougainville had given information that at ebb tide a night convoy of provisions for Montcalm, to meet the necessities of the camp at Beauport, would be sent down the river. As the men stationed at the various outposts were expecting fresh supplies, it was easy to deceive the guard at Sillery, and, after a little further dialogue, in which the cool Highlander completely blinded the French sentries, the British were allowed to slip past in the darkness. The cove was safely reached, the boats stole silently up, twenty-four volunteers from the Light Infantry leaped from their boat and led the way in single file up the path, that ran like a thread along the face of the cliff. Wolfe sat eagerly listening in his boat below. Suddenly from the summit he saw the flash of the muskets and heard the stern shout which told him his men were up. A clear, firm order, and the troops sitting silent in the boats leaped ashore, and the long file of soldiers, like a chain of ants, went up the face of the cliff, Wolfe amongst the foremost, and formed in order on the plateau, the boats meanwhile rowing back at speed to bring up the remainder of the troops. Wolfe was at last within Montcalm’s guard!

When the morning of the 13th dawned, the British army, in line of battle, stood facing the citadel. Montcalm quickly learned the news, and came riding furiously across the St. Charles and past the city to the scene of danger. He rode, as those who saw him tell, with a fixed look, and uttering not a word. The vigilance of months was rendered worthless by that amazing night escalade. When he reached the slopes Montcalm saw before him the silent red wall of British infantry, the Highlanders with waving tartans and wind-blown plumes—all in battle array. It was not a detachment, but an army.

The discord and jealousies of divided authority were at once apparent. Vaudreuil, the governor, failed to send reinforcements to the support of Montcalm, to meet the crisis, and the struggle was soon ended. Fifteen minutes of decisive fighting transformed New France into British territory.

The Chien d’Or

On the Rue Buade, a street commemorative of the gallant Frontenac—says Kirby, in his “Romance of the Days of Louis Quinze in Quebec”—stood the large imposing edifice newly built by the Bourgeois Philibert, as the people of the colony fondly called Nicholas Jaquin Philibert, the great and wealthy merchant of Quebec, and their champion against the odious monopolies of the Grand Company favored by the Intendant. The edifice was of stone, spacious and lofty; it comprised the city residence of the Bourgeois, as well as suites of offices and ware-rooms connected with his immense business. On its façade, blazing in the sun, was the gilded sculpture that so much piqued the curiosity of every seigniory in the land. The tablet of the Chien d’Or—the Golden Dog—with its enigmatical inscription, looked down defiantly upon the busy street beneath, where it is still to be seen, perplexing the beholder to guess its meaning, and exciting our deepest sympathies over the tragedy of which it remains the sole, sad memorial.

Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog, gnawing the thigh bone of a man, is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as if for all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning,—

Je suis un chien qui ronge l’os,

En le rongeant je prends mon repos;

Un temps viendra, qui n’est pas venu,

Que je mordrai qui m’aura mordu.

1736.

Or in English,—

I am a dog that gnaws a bone,

I couch and gnaw it all alone;

A time will come, which is not yet,

When I’ll bite him by whom I’m bit.

1736.

Maximilian at Queretaro

On the 10th of June, 1864, an assembly of notables in the city of Mexico tendered the crown to Maximilian, the Archduke of Austria. On the 12th he was crowned Emperor. On the 3d of October Maximilian, at the instance of Bazaine, made the fatal mistake of publishing a decree declaring all persons in arms against the Imperial Government bandits, and ordering them to be executed. On the 21st, under this cruel decree, Generals Felix Diaz, Arteaga, Salazar, and Villagomez were shot at Uruapam. Time, which at last “makes all things even,” proved by its reprisal that this was “a game that two could play at.”

On November 6, 1865, the United States, through Secretary Seward, sent a dispatch to Napoleon III. protesting against the presence of the French army in Mexico as a grave reflection against the United States, and notifying him that nothing but a Republic would be recognized. In November, 1866, Louis Napoleon ordered the evacuation of Mexico by his troops, and their departure meant the withdrawal of support from Maximilian. In the face of formidable resistance to his usurpation he refused to abdicate. With the restoration of the authority of Juarez, and the rising of the Mexican people, he was confronted with an empty exchequer and dwindling followers. He made his last stand against the Mexican army at Queretaro, where he was basely betrayed by Colonel Lopez, a Spaniard and an officer in his own army. Through this treachery General Escobedo gained access to the city at night, and captured Maximilian as he attempted to escape from his head-quarters in the old convent of La Cruz, and with him Generals Miramon and Mejia.

The date of this arrest was May 15, 1867. On June 14th, a court-martial was convened at 10 o’clock, A. M., based on the law which provided for the execution on the spot of capture of all caught bearing arms against the government. At 10 o’clock, P. M., on the 15th, sentence of death was pronounced, and at once approved by General Escobedo, who ordered the execution to take place next day, but a telegram from Juarez, at San Luis Potosi, postponed it till the 19th.

The morning of the execution dawned bright and beautiful, and Maximilian remarked, “I always wished to die on such a day.” With Father Soria he left the convent at 6 A. M., in a carriage, and was driven to Cerro de las Campañas, beyond the western limits of the city, Mejia and Miramon following in other carriages. Arrived at the “Hill of Bells,” the prisoners were placed against a low wall of adobe erected for the purpose. Maximilian was expected to occupy the centre, but he stepped to the right and placed Miramon in the centre, saying, “A brave soldier must be honored by his monarch even in his last hour; therefore, permit me to give you the place of honor.” An officer and seven men stood only a few yards away. The Emperor went to them, took each soldier by the hand, gave each a piece of gold, saying: “Muchachos (boys), aim well, aim right here,” pointing to his heart. Then stepping back to his place in the line, he expressed the hope that his blood might be the last to be shed. Truly, a sad end for a prince of the house of Hapsburg, and a weary life of mental alienation for Carlotta.

The Thieves’ Market

Tradition has it—and most happily for romance in this fascinating Mexican land, traditions in most cases are still as good coin as fact—that the “Thieves’ Market,” in the City of Mexico, stands on the grounds of what was once a part of the spacious gardens of the “new house” of Montezuma. In the days long gone by, this garden, of spacious proportions, was the scene of many dark and dismal crimes, and many were the robberies and acts of violence that occurred there, for it was on a highway much used, and when night had fallen was very dark and dangerous.

The tale goes of the murder by a powerful officer of the sweetheart of one of his retainers, a crime that rankled in the breast of the poor Indian until, not long afterward, he took his revenge, and his master lay dead, killed in a drunken stupor by the wronged servant. The wronged man, rifling the master’s pockets, carried away with him from the house all the trinkets and valuables on which he could lay his hands. Then he hied himself to the protecting shade of Montezuma’s gardens, where he hid himself under the trees until the coming day should waken the city and he could pass beyond the guard without molestation. But when he had been hidden only a short while, the alarm having spread, a servant more zealous in his own interests than to revenge his master’s murder, found the guilty man and quickly and thoroughly dispatched him.

A neighboring gully, which had perhaps served a similar purpose before in these thrilling days, concealed the body, and the third murderer made away with the goods, this time to keep them safe and secure until the excitement had blown over.

Then, on the very spot which he had stained with the blood of his fellow servant, the wretch set up a tiny stand, with the twice stolen goods as the basis of a little stock, which he sold to the tourists of that day as they passed by the stand in their visits to the famous gardens.

From this rather thrilling beginning grew a classic market, until to-day there is the world-famed “Volador,” where things fly in and out, once and for many long centuries truly a “thieves’ market.” It is not so many years ago that one counted this market as one of places wherein to look for goods that had flown away from the house in some mysterious fashion, but that day is past.

Amulets and Talismans

The amulet, and its astrological expression, the talisman, may be traced far back in the mists of antiquity to the prehistoric flint arrowhead. The one, wrought in a great variety of significant and suggestive forms out of precious gems, and of amber, agate, jasper, and carnelian; or metal, particularly gold, oxidized silver, and bronze, or wood, or parchment, is worn as a remedy for or a preservative against disease, or poison, or accident, or calamity, or bad luck, or the evil eye, or witchcraft, and is supposed to exert a constant protective power while suspended from the neck, affixed to the bosom, or other part of the body, or carried in a pocket. The other is a charm consisting of a magical image, usually of a planet engraved under carefully regulated observations of the configuration of the twelve constellations forming the circuit called the Zodiac, the sign, seal, or figure of the heavenly body being supposed to receive benign influence therefrom, and thereby produce under special conditions desired results for the wearer, especially in averting evils, such as disease or sudden death. Unlike the amulet, it was not usually worn on the person, but deposited in a safe place. Many of the varied forms of the amulet were credited with specific virtues. The old abracadabra, for instance, (the name of the supreme deity of the Assyrians), written on parchment, and suspended around the neck by a linen thread, was regarded as an infallible cure for intermittent fevers, dysentery, and toothache. Certain gems were believed to possess specific powers. The emerald, for example, was an antidote to poison and a preventive of melancholy, and the amethyst was a security against intoxication. The coins of St. Helena, the mother of Constantine, were reputed in the Middle Ages to be efficacious in epilepsy. A piece of paper on which the names of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus and their dog were inscribed, pasted on the wall of the house, was believed to afford protection against ghosts and demons. In one of Sir Walter Scott’s tales of the Crusaders, called “The Talisman,” we are gravely told that the famous talisman which in the hands of the Sultan wrought such marvellous cures, is “still in existence, having been bequeathed to a brave Knight of Scotland, the Laird of Lee, in whose ancient and honored family it is still preserved; and although charmed stones (continues Sir Walter) have been dismissed from the modern pharmacopœia, its virtues are still applied to for arresting hemorrhage, and as an antidote to hydrophobia.” A charm made of heliotrope, or bloodstone, was also used to stop hemorrhage, and in some countries, including England, it is still used to check bleeding of the nose. A favorite signature on the parchment to counteract the bite of a mad-dog was pax, max, and adimax. This was considered quite irresistible. For a fracture or a dislocation, the magic restorative was araries, dandaries, denatas, and matas. The absurd theory known as the “doctrine of signatures” is traced back to the Chaldeans. It is based upon external natural markings or symbolical appearances of a plant, mineral, or other substance, indicating its special medicinal quality or appropriate use. Boyle says in his Style of the Holy Scriptures, “Chemists observe in the book of Nature that those simples that wear the figure or resemblance (by them termed signature) of a distempered part are medicinal for that part of that infirmity whose signature they bear.” Butler says in “Hudibras,”—

“Believe mechanic virtuosi

Can raise them mountains in Potosi;

Seek out for plants with signatures,

To quack (boast) of universal cures.”

The amulet appears to have been a favorite charm in the early periods of the history of Assyria, Egypt, Arabia, Persia, and Judea. Judging by the multitudinous collections in European museums, as well as by the traditions of centuries, it must have been universally worn in ancient times. In the Pompeiian section of the National Museum, at Naples, many thousands of the charms worn in the first century of the Christian era are preserved. Their use is still prevalent in Asiatic countries and in some of the South American republics. In Rio Janeiro the jewelers keep them for sale in large numbers and in great variety. Some of the old favorites show remarkable vital tenacity. There is the three-pronged red coral, for instance, which was considered possessed of the power of keeping off evil spirits, and neutralizing the malignity of the evil eye. Paracelsus directed it to be placed around the necks of infants as a protective against convulsions, sorcery, and poisons. We still find coral necklaces encircling the necks of infants in evidence of the abiding faith of fond mothers and cautious nurses. In the West Indies the negroes wear strings of red coral as a guard against the mischievous influence of the fetish known as Obi or Obiism. In other cases we see necklaces of amber or of white bryony on the little ones as a preventive or remedy for inflamed eyes. In the old days it was a frequent custom to enclose the amulet in the shell of a hazel-nut as a preservative. May we not trace to that usage the modern fashion of stowing in an inside pocket a buckeye or horse-chestnut? Or to go further, the habit of carrying a potato for its alleged power of absorption in rheumatic conditions? Those who treasure the rattles of a snake, or a rabbit’s left hind foot, which is a favorite mascot, especially if the rabbit is killed at midnight in a country graveyard, may find prototypes three thousand years old. Among the German people may often be noticed a ring of brass on the middle finger, or a ring of steel on the little finger, worn, as they say, to prevent cramps.

In a recently published little volume entitled, “What They Say in New England,—a book of old signs, sayings, and folk-lore,” will be found a chapter devoted to this sort of absurdity. Half a dozen citations will serve as specimens. To keep off rheumatism, wear an eel-skin around the waist. To prevent cramps, wear an eel-skin around the ankle. Another preventive of rheumatism is to wear a red string around the neck. To prevent cramps in a child, tie a black silk cord around its neck. To avoid the itch, wear sulphur in a bag around the neck. To prevent fits, carry an onion in the pocket.

Christmas Observances

Out of the customs, practices, and ceremonies in the observance of the Feast of the Nativity, for hundreds of years, we have sifted and saved what is worth keeping. In the changes that have been wrought, the new Christmas is better than the old, better in itself, better for the time in which we live. It is not so picturesque, but it is imbued with more of the spirit of charity and fraternity, of the love that warms and the kindness that cheers, of thoughts and things that win us from ourselves to human fellowship, of peace on earth and good will to men. From hall to hovel, from childhood’s playthings to the touching pledges of later life, its passing moments are the brightest of the year. From the stately temple, with its “long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,” its “gules and or and azure on nave and chancel pane,” to the little meeting-house with its severe simplicity and lack of adornment alike, as

“* * beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.”

Reference is often made to Walter Scott as by far the best of the descriptive poets of the Old Christmas. Says he, in closing his lines in “Marmion,”—

“England was merry England, when

Old Christmas brought his sports again.

’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;

’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;

A Christmas gambol oft would cheer

The poor man’s heart through half the year.”

But when it comes to delightful description of the later Christmas, our own Washington Irving is the Laureate. In the Sketch Book he shows in his admirable way how this kindliest of seasons is pervaded and irradiated with the brotherhood which is the essential spirit of Christianity. In its gifts, its symbols, its gracious influences, its blessings, and benedictions, he sees nothing doctrinal, or dogmatic, or theological, but only mouldings to newer forms of the old faith; only the message which leads men and women and children to step aside from their own paths of pleasantness and peace, and go out on a mission of love and mercy into a world which knows more of the darkness of adversity than of the sunshine of happiness. In a letter written by Charles Dickens to Irving, in 1841, it is apparent that Bracebridge Hall made a very strong impression upon him, and it was manifest afterwards that Irving’s sketches served as the prototype of the Christmas scenes at Dingley Dell in the Pickwick Papers, and the forerunner of a series of Christmas stories commencing with the Christmas Carol in prose. The elders who, years ago, when Mr. Dickens visited this country, heard him read with dramatic force the closing chapters of the Carol, detailing the softening influences which metamorphosed the miserly Scrooge into a benefactor, and lifted Bob Cratchit’s family with his crippled boy, Tiny Tim, out of the depths of depressing poverty, will never forget the pathos which he threw into the last line, the invocation of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.” These stories, however, started a flood-tide of Christmas editions of daily papers, pictorial papers, class papers, and monthly magazines, to the point of wearisome superfluity. They contain nothing pertaining to the Christmas season, and in respect to such absence are like Thackeray’s “Christmas Books.” In the Kinkleburys, Thackeray himself says, “Christmas Books are so called because they are published at Christmas.” As to the bibliography of Christmas, with the embodiment of songs, hymns, carols, legends, stories, comedies, myths, sermons, customs and usages, its magnitude is such that a reviewer would hardly know where to begin or where to end.

Art has found no higher expression than in its perpetuation of the portraiture of the Madonna and the Child. The great masters who thus immortalized the trust committed to them, found no more inspiring subject than the Motherhood and the Childhood whose sacredness appeals to all hearts through the never-ending, still-beginning succession of the ages. As we gaze on these spiritual faces, with their transcendent beauty, their unclouded serenity, their heaven-reflected radiance, on the canvas of Raphael and Angelo and Guido and Murillo and Rubens and Titian and del Sarto and Carlo Dolce, we are reminded that though there was no room for the mother in the inn, she was exalted above all women, and though there was no cradle but a feeding-trough for the child, that manger, in the divinely-appointed time, was transformed into an everlasting throne.

What Language did Jesus Speak?

Dr. Gustav Dalman, Professor of Theology in the University of Leipzig, one of the most distinguished Orientalists of Europe, in a recently published work begins by setting forth the reasons for believing that Jesus spoke the Galilean dialect of the Aramaic language, and then proceeds to discuss from this point of view the meaning of the utterances attributed to Jesus in the synoptic Gospels. The evidence for the primary hypothesis is of several kinds. Professor Dalman adduces, for example, the custom which in the second century after Christ was represented as very ancient, of translating into Aramaic the text of the Hebrew Pentateuch in the synagogues of the Hebraists of Palestine. By Hebraists the author desires to distinguish from the Hellenistic Jews who spoke Greek, those who spoke, not Hebrew, but Aramaic. Attention is next directed to the Aramaic title for classes of the people in Palestine, and for feasts—titles that are attested by Josephus and the New Testament. Thus the words for pharisee, priest, high priest, Passover, Pentecost, and Sabbath used by Josephus and by the authors of the New Testament, are not Hebrew, but Aramaic. Then, again, there are traditions dating from a period considerably antecedent to Christ that John Hyrcanus heard in the sanctuary a divine voice speaking in the Aramaic language, and that in the temple the legends on the tokens for the drink offerings and on the chests in which the contributions of the faithful were deposited were in Aramaic. Moreover, there are old official documents in the Aramaic language.

These include, first, the “Roll Concerning Fasts,” a catalogue of days on which fasting was forbidden, first compiled in the time of the rising against the Romans, 66–70 A.D., and, secondly, the Epistles of Gamaliel II. (about 110 A.D.) to the Jews of South Judea, Galilee, and Babylon. Both of these documents were destined for the Jewish people, and primarily, indeed, for those of Palestine. A like inference as to the use of Aramaic in Palestine may be drawn from the language of the public documents relating to purchase, lease-tenure, debt, conditional betrothal, refusal of marriage, marriage contract, divorce, and renunciation of levirate marriage. The Mishna gives the decisive formulæ of these documents, which were important for securing legal validity for the most part, though not always in Aramaic, thus implying that this was the language commonly in use. Cumulative testimony is furnished by the unquestioned adoption, in the time of Jesus, of the Aramaic characters in place of the old Hebrew in copies of the Bible text. The change of character naturally presupposes a change of language. Stress is laid by Professor Dalman on the facts that the Judaism of the second century of our era possessed the Bible text only in “Assyrian,” i.e., Aramaic handwriting, and that even the Alexandrian or Septuagint translation had been based upon Hebrew texts in this character. It has further been observed by students of the Talmud that the syntax and the vocabulary of the Hebrew of the Mishna proved themselves to be the creation of Jews who thought in Aramaic. We observe, finally, that it was customary in the first century of our era for writers to call the Aramaic “Hebrew.”

Josephus, indeed, showed himself quite capable of distinguishing the language and written character of the “Syrians” from those of the “Hebrews.” Nevertheless, between Hebrew and Aramaic words he makes no difference. The “Hebrew” in which Josephus addresses the people of Jerusalem—the incident is recounted in his history of the Jewish war against the Romans—is even called by him his paternal tongue, though in the circumstances nothing but Aramaic can have been used. Again, in the Johannine Gospel, the Aramaic terms Bethesda, Golgotha, and Rabbouni are called “Hebrew.” Aramaic, too, must be meant by the “Hebrew tongue” in which Paul spoke to the people of Jerusalem (Acts xxi., 40; xxii., 2), and in which Jesus spoke to Paul (Acts xxvi., 14). Hellenistai and Hebraioi were the names, according to Acts vi., 1, of the two parts of the Jewish people as divided by language. But, if it were possible to characterize Aramaic as Hebrew, it is clear that Aramaic was the every-day speech of the Jewish people in the first century of our era; in so far, at least, as it was not Greek.

In Professor Dalman’s opinion the facts adduced do not justify us in drawing a distinction between Judea and Galilee, as if Hebrew was at least partially a spoken language in the former region. That Aramaic had at least a distinct predominance in Judea may be inferred with certainty from the place names in Jerusalem and its environs. The author of this book can find no ground for the belief expressed by another Orientalist that Hebrew was the language of the mother of Jesus, inasmuch as she belonged to South Palestine.

There is even less ground for supposing that Hebrew was the vernacular in Galilee. During the rising of the Maccabees the Jewish population in Galilee was so inconsiderable that Simon, about 163 B.C., had no other means of protecting them from their ill-disposed neighbors than by transporting them to Judea. John Hyrcanus (B.C. 135–105) appears later to have conquered Galilee and to have forced its inhabitants into conformity to Judaism; but, under the circumstances, the Hebrew language was not to be looked for. What is true of Galilee in general is true of little Nazareth in particular, to which has been wrongly attributed an isolation from intercourse with the outer world. As a matter of fact, Nazareth had on the one side Sippori (Sepphoris), the then capital of Galilee, and on the other, in close proximity, the cities of Yapha and Kesaloth, and it lay on the important highway of commerce that led from Sepphoris to the plain of Megiddo and onward to Cæsarea. Dalman points out that the actual discourses of Jesus in no way give the impression that He had grown up in solitude and seclusion. It is merely true that He, like the Galileans generally, would have little contact with literary erudition. The fact implies that from this side he did not come into contact with the Hebrew language. The Aramaic was the mother tongue of the Galileans, as of the people of Gaulonitis; and, according to Josephus, natives of Syria were able to understand it. From all these considerations the conclusion is drawn that Jesus grew up speaking the Aramaic tongue, and that He would be obliged to speak Aramaic to His disciples and to the people in order to be understood. Of Him, least of all, who desired to preach the Gospel to the poor, or, in other words, to people that stood aloof from the pedagogic methods of the scribes, is it to be expected that He would have furnished His discourse with the superfluous and, to his hearers, perplexing embellishment of the Hebrew form.

Royalty’s Family Names

The English royal family are frequently spoken of as Guelphs, just as the Russian imperial family are known as Romanoffs, the Portuguese as Braganzas, etc. Such statements are founded in error. Queen Victoria, for example, was originally Miss Azon von Este. She was descended, as were the other members of the House of Brunswick-Lüneburg and Hanover, from Azon, Margrave of Este. King Edward VII, the son of Prince Albert of Saxe-Cobourg, has naturally his father’s family name. Descended from the Wettins, a line founded in the 12th century, his actual name is Albert Edward Wettin.