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Russian miners. The coal in this place is dug from the sides of the hills above the drainage level; no steam-engines have consequently been used, but as the seams run deeper mechanical power will be required; at present there is only one engine of twelve horse-power on the works.

The best coal is dug from the mines of Lissitchia-Balka, or Fox-Dingle, where there are large and flourishing works, on which much labour and industry are constantly expended. In a vertical depth of 900 feet, the thickness of the coal is not more than 30 feet. The attention of the government has been chiefly directed to the coal-field at Uspensk, where the use of machinery is more frequent than at other places; the produce of these mines constitutes the principal supply to the adjacent foundries of Lugan.

In the Permian region, copper ore is met with, disseminated through various beds, in which at least twenty different species of plants are found. Concretions, often cupriferous, six to eight inches long, occur here and there, and they have been generally found around carbonised stems of plants. In these districts, 108 cubic feet of wood are consumed to extract a pood, or about 37 lb. English, of copper ore, and the cutting and converting the wood into charcoal cost 24 roubles. The pood of copper sells for from 32 to 34 roubles, and costs the government 23. The profit to the authorities of the establishments near Perm, is 160,000 roubles, or about £800 sterling per annum.

The intimate connexion of copper ore with the fossil vegetation, similar to that described at Perm, is most instructively displayed, particularly at the mines of Klutchefski near Bielebei, and at Kargala in the steppes north of Orenburg. So general, in fact, is the connexion of fossil wood and copper ore, that the discovery of the outcrop of the silicified trunk of a tree often leads the mining agent to follow it into the rock, and thereby to detect valuable cupriferous masses. Sometimes the copper ore interlaces with all the fibres of the silicified wood; at other times it is continuous through a mass of leaves, matted in sand, grit, or marl; and thus a small nucleus of vegetable matter has often proved a source of considerable wealth. In some peat-bogs in Wales there are instances of the formation of copper on, or but slightly below, the surface of the soil; but Sir R. Murchison considers the Russian deposits to have been formed beneath a sea fed by numerous mineral streams flowing from the Urals.

As the party approach the mountains, the dry scientific detail is interrupted by an interesting account of a visit to the great mine or quarry of rock-salt at IlletzkayaZastchita in the steppes of the Kirghis. 'It was in the early days of an unusually hot and parching month of August that we travelled from Orenburg to visit these famous salt-works, and were driven at a furious pace over the parched up and undulating steppe to the south of that city. Passing through caravans of Bukharians and Chivans, journeying to and from the great Russian entrepôt, the pretty little green oasis of Illetzkaya-Zastchita at length broke upon the sight. Its groves of trees, its fort, and well arranged buildings, announced the most remote of the imperial establishments in this wilderness.'

wood, which swings upon a triangle, and is worked to and fro by a company of the miners. Owing to the crystalline and brittle nature of the substance, a few violent jars only of this battering-ram are required to sever the mass from the parent rock, and thus a vast amount of labour is saved, which, at Wieliczka and other salt mines, is employed in the extraction of the mineral. This process of side-cutting and horizontal battering necessarily produces in the body of the salt a direct resemblance to many stone quarries, with their natural joints and floors.

Other external circumstances, resulting from existing causes, are worthy of notice in this great salt quarry. The upper surface of the salt having been corroded by longcontinued atmospheric action of the rain-water and melted snow, which percolates through the thin cover of red sand and marl, the result has been the formation of a number of needles, which are good miniature representatives of the snowy aiguilles' of the Alps. Again, on that side of the quarry which has been worked to the greatest depth and is now abandoned, the atmospheric action, smoothing away every irregularity, has left a vertical glassy cliff fifty to sixty feet high; and, lastly, the water lodged against its base during the spring period of Russian debâcle, has excavated and dissolved the salt to the height of the spring-floods, leaving a dark cavern, over which the saline mirror seems suspended, and hanging from the bottom of which are stalactitic crystals of salt.

'Besides the floor of salt, this spot is marked by two or three gypseous hillocks, one of which, on its south side, assisted by artificial excavation, is employed by the inhabitants as a cellar. This cavern has the very remarkable property of being so intensely cold during the hottest summers as to be then filled with ice, which, disappearing with cold weather, is entirely gone in the winter, when all the country is clad with snow.

'Standing on the heated ground (the thermometer in the shade being then at 90 deg. Fahr.) we can never forget our sensations, when the poor woman to whom the cave belonged unlocked a frail door, and let loose a volume of such piercing cold air, that we could not avoid removing our feet from the influence of its range. We afterwards, however, subjected our whole bodies to the cooling process by entering the cave, which, it must be recollected, is on the same level as the roadway or street of the village. At three or four paces from the door, on which shone the glaring sun, we were surrounded by the half-frozen quass and provisions of the natives; and a little further on, the chasm (bending slightly) opened into a natural vault about twelve to fifteen feet high, ten or twelve paces long, by seven or eight feet in width. The roof of the cavern was hung with undripping solid icicles, and the floor might be called a stalagmite of ice and frozen earth. As we had no expectation of meeting with such a phenomenon, we had left our thermometers at Orenburg, and could not, therefore, observe the exact degree of cold below the freezing point. The proofs of intense cold around us were, however, abundantly decisive for our general purpose, and we were glad to escape in a few minutes from this icebound prison, so long had our frames been accustomed to a powerful heat.'

stant, the cold being greatest in the hottest and driest weather, while the peasants asserted that in winter they could sleep in the cave without their sheepskins.' The most natural explanation is that offered in connexion with surrounding circumstances: the climate, extremely wet in winter and spring, is succeeded by the very dry Asiatic summer, which produces rapid refrigerating effects.

The original inhabitants had for many years made use of the salt which rose above the surface, under which it extends for a length of two versts and a mile in width. Some attempts have been made by scientific men in this 'Selecting one of the most favourable situations within this country, to account for this remarkable phenomenon, but space, the Russian miners have now exposed a broad sur-unsatisfactorily the effect, however, appears to be conface of salt and have cut into the rock to the depth of about seventy feet. This mass is crystalline, of white colour, without a stain, and so pure that the salt is at once pounded for use without any cleansing or recrystallising process. Upon first viewing this bright white mass from above, we were impressed with the notion that it was composed of horizontal beds; but on descending into the quarry, we found that this appearance was caused by the method employed to extract the salt. Long lozenge-shaped pieces in process of extraction at different levels are seen to be divided from the mass by lateral, vertical joints, which have been cut open with the hatchet. The block, thus squared, is then completely separated from the body of the rock beneath, by heaving against its free end a huge beam of

THE FROZEN DEAD AT THE HOSPICE OF THE GRAND ST

BERNARD.

The scene of the greatest interest at the Hospice-a solemn, extraordinary interest indeed-is that of the Morgue, or building where the dead bodies of lost travellers are deposited. There they are, some of them as when the

breath of life departed, and the Death Angel, with his instruments of frost and snow, stiffened and embalmed them for ages. The floor is thick with nameless skulls, and bones, and human dust heaped in confusion. But around the walls are groups of poor sufferers in the very position in which they were found, as rigid as marble, and in this air, by the preserving element of an eternal frost, almost as uncrumbling. There is a mother and her child, a most affecting image of suffering and love. The face of the little one remains pressed to the mother's bosom, only the back part of the skull being visible, the body enfolded in her careful arms, careful in vain, affectionate in vain, to shield her offspring from the elemental wrath of the tempest. The snow fell fast and thick, and the hurricane wound them both up in one white shroud and buried them. There is also a tall, strong man, standing alone, the face dried and black, but the white, unbroken teeth firmly set and closed, grinning from the fleshless jaws-it is a most awful spectacle. The face seems to look at you, from the recesses of the sepulchre, as if it would tell you the story of a fearful death-struggle in the storm. There are other groups more indistinct, but these two are never to be forgotten, and the whole of these dried and frozen remnants of humanity are a terrific demonstration of the fearfulness of this mountain pass, when the elements, let loose in fury, encounter the unhappy traveller. You look at all this through the grated window; there is just light enough to make it solemnly and distinctly visible, and to read in it a powerful record of mental and physical agony, and of maternal love in death. That little child, hiding its face in its mother's bosom, and both frozen to death: one can never forget the group, nor the memento mori, nor the token of deathless love.-Dr Cheever's Wandering of a Pilgrim.

PUNCTUATION.

Caxton had the merit of introducing the Roman pointing, as used in Italy; and his successor, Pinson, triumphed by domiciliating the Roman letter. The dash, or perpendicular line, thus, was the only punctuation they used. It was, however, discovered that the craft of poynting well used makes the sentence very light.' The more elegant comma supplanted the long uncouth |; the colon was a refinement, showing that there is more to come;' but the semicolon was a Latin delicacy, which the obtuse English typographer resisted. The Bible of 1592, though printed with appropriate accuracy, is without a semicolon; but in 1633 its full rights are established by Charles Butler's English Grammar. In this chronology of the four points of punctuation, it is evident that Shakspeare could never have used the semicolon; a circumstance which the profound George Chalmers mourns over, opining that semicolons would often have saved the poet from his commentators. -D'Israeli's Amenities of Literature.

FOOD OF HEDGEHOGS.

In the beginning of June (says a correspondent of the Gardener's Chronicle) I procured a hedgehog, which I placed in my garden, with a view to its destroying insects, &c., which abounded there; it proved with young, and about a month after produced three, having made a snug nest amongst the artichokes. Three weeks afterwards I observed the young ones in different parts of the garden in a very weak state, and one morning I found the skin of one in the nest, the mother having eaten the body. In two days I found another nearly eaten up, and two mornings ago the third was found dead, but untouched, except one hind leg, which had been bitten off a day or two before. Since this, it has eaten a kitten every night, which I had placed for its repast. It has eaten three of these. It also eats a good lump of bullock's lights, and I have several times put twenty or thirty shell snails near its abode; these are devoured, as I find the shells left strewed about. I offered one of the young ones both snails and lights, which it attacked eagerly; and I have repeatedly seen a half-grown hedgehog crack the shell of a large snail, and devour the body with great relish. Though the hedgehog eats flesh when it can get it, it is too sluggish in its motion

to be able to procure a subsistence by hunting. I believe it to subsist chiefly on snails and insects, and perhaps earth-worms.

LINES AMONGST THE LEAVES.

BY M. C. COOKE.

Why do they fall, those yellow leaves,
And on the ground decay?
Why does the spell that nature weaves
So quickly pass away?

Few days are fled since trees were green,
And life spread over all;
Now scarce an emerald leaf is seen-

Why did those bright ones fall?

Why do they fall, and on the earth
Surround their parent tree?

Why have they ceased their rustling mirth,
And hush'd their harmony?
Birds lately hid amongst those leaves
Where now the earthworms crawl;
The lonely sparrow twittering grieves,
And asks-why did they fall?
Why do they fall? The winter comes,
With step resolved and bold;
Down from the icy north he roams,

And brings his snow and cold.
This nature knows, and so provides
For earth a leafy pall:
Beneath the leaves the roots she hides,
And bids them thickly fall.

Why do they fall? and why runs down
The sap to fill the root,

Save that in spring, with vigour grown,
Increasing buds may shoot?

So man, like leaves, must droop and die
Beneath death's wintry pall;

He gathers strength to spring on high,
Improving by the fall.

THE STARS.

BY JAMES HEDDERWICK.

The weary day has folded up its wing,
And closed its lid beneath night's curtaining,
Nought stirs the landscape, drowsing by degrees,
Save a soft lullaby among the trees.

Ye little stars! do you not need repose
That you should ope your eyes when others close-
That you should court our gaze when stealthy sleep,
In poppy-juice, lays sense and soul asleep?

It may be when the sky is fill'd with day
Your infant beams can find no room to play;
It may be you have soft and tender eyes
And veil them when the sun is in the skies.
So now shine out, fair children of the night!
The sky is free wherein to sport your light:
No haughty king forbids you to advance,
Or turns you pale beneath his fiery glance!
I know not if to you our spirits flee,
Or if you rule our earthly destiny,
But in your silent gazing from above
I read a language of divinest love.

To soothe the sick, to solace those who mourn,
In night's dull chamber your small tapers burn-
A light too mild man's needful rest to break,
And yet a light to cheer him if he wake.
All may not slumber when the night comes on,
And these the stars look kindly down upon,
Like sweet religion speaking silently

To many a watchful, many a weeping eye.

The maid lovelorn-the stars were made for her;
A gift, God gave them to the mariner;
The houseless poor-to them the stars were given,
To show, when earth is dark, there's light in heaven.

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WEEKLY

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No. 97.

INSTRUCTOR,

EDINBURGH, SATURDAY, JANUARY 2, 1847.

POPULAR PHILOSOPHY.

FIRST ARTICLE.

PRICE 1d.

general capacity. Why does this anomaly of self-ignorance exist amidst so much acquaintance with outward nature? The answer is interesting, and, if successful, may perhaps stimulate a few minds to the better pursuit of mental science. Dearly do we love a community of knowledge. Let us see whether there be any good reason for discouraging the approach of the multitude to the streams of philosophy.

WHAT a busy workshop is the human mind! ever receiving, by the inlets of the senses, impressions from the outward world, and again sending them forth in action, modified by its own character and dispositions. Secluded from the view of the bodily eye, and inaccessible but to God and its own consciousness, it yet so manifests itself in what it causes to be done, as to reveal its presence and mode of activity. Silently it plans and regulates; but its power is seen in the ever-shifting events of the race. Generations come and go, under its administration; each advancing or receding, and one shooting beyond or falling behind the rest, as it toils for one class of ends or for another. Even the most unobservant pause at intervals, and mark this world which lives within us. Thoughts, feelings, glimpses of imagination, weave themselves into a web, of which the threads are gathered from every quarter and age, and together furnish ths fabric which we call human life. In a single mind, even the humblest, what germs of future greatness! What an apparatus for eternal evolution! What capacities of joy and sorrow, of uprising towards the infinite God or of downfalling in the abysm of sin and folly! Nothing that takes place, on however large a scale, is interesting, except as it may be brought into a relation to this mind, into the possession of which each individual has partially entered. The revolutions of the beautiful world which ministers to our senses, are subordinate in grandeur and moral intention to those of the invisible spirit which constitutes man the image of his Maker. And yet these changes are conducted according to law; they are daily becoming more calculable; they are yielding to the mind of which they are the servants; and most if not all of them may yet be subdued as time rolls on with the freight of humanity on its bosom. Does the spirit itself, then, act without law? Or are its laws incapable of determination? The whole analogy of nature forbids the former supposition, and the familiar experience of men, if they observe it, refutes the latter. Considering the importance of mind, its unspeakable interest, and the vast issues which hang upon its prosperous activity, we might have hoped that all men would at least recognise the position of mental philosophy as a science; and since the materials for the successful prosecution of inquiry lie within the easy and permanent reach of every man, we might have expected that a theory of philosophy would oftentimes ere this have emerged from out of the popular heart. All men might be philosophers; and in proportion to our love of everything really popular, is our disappointment that the laws of mind are so often discredited as a subject of inquiry for the

It is impossible to deny that the suspicion with which a theory of mind is so generally received arises, in great part, from the unhappy pride which of old led philosophers to place themselves as if upon pedestals above the common level of human kind. Venerated as beings possessed of something not possible of communication to the masses, a distinction, sharp and undeviating, was drawn between the cultivators of mental science and those whom providence had more scantily endowed or put in less favourable circumstances. From this lofty eminence philosophers uttered their oracles, scorning anything more than mere enunciation; while far below, scarcely within reach of the faintest sounds, stood the race itself, pursuing its heedless way, and only pausing as for a moment to yield its ignorant wonder at what it could not understand. Christianity broke in upon this state of things, and preached the most spiritual truths of the soul to the wayfaring and the uninitiated. But its kindly aspect towards the whole family could not at first be relished by philosophers, as it offered nothing sufficiently flattering to that desire of power and superiority which lodges essentially in the mind as long as it remains unimbued by the Christian spirit. The reception of Paul at Athens was characteristic of the old condition of matters; and it would have been scarcely necessary even thus briefly to have alluded to the philosophers of the pagan world, if it were not certain that a good deal of the existing misapprehension respecting philosophy is to be traced to notions inherited from the past, and not yet felt to have been equally foolish and sinful. The identity of the human mind, however various in its individual capacity and circumstances, is a truth unutterably dear to every friend of human progress. With this fact, what may we not hope of the future! No single man is excluded from any thought or emotion which is possessed by any other; if he be void of it, he excludes himself. Not that all men are equal; but, since they are sprung from one parent, it is not possible to assign a limit to a community of knowledge and emotion. A more universal language, better habits of observation, holier aspirations after truth, and profounder sympathies with one another, may yet so simplify the relations of men as that the philosopher may find his disciples among those who now minister only to his bodily wants. We must not

despond, or suffer the early history of philosophy to prescribe bounds to its future progress and diffusion.

of this study. Immersed in the forms of matter from our infancy, the effort of reflection is at first to all a new one; one, indeed, which, except in its ruder attempts, is often left unperformed by whole tribes and nations. Even among a civilised people, the great body of men are, unless in very limited measure, unused to mental analysis. It is not undertaken by such for its own sake, because its utility is neither so obvious nor so immediate as that of other pursuits. Individual efforts, so long as they stand in a state of isolation, are incapable of application, and scarcely possible of retention. Progress and gain are seen rather in retrospect than by instant acquisition. Looking over the past, and comparing the point on which we now stand with that which we formerly occupied, we observe an inproved elevation of view and a general renovation of the faculties. Our estimates of things have varied. Now we despise what we formerly esteemed, and respect what once we considered below contempt. But, before we are in a condition to look thus pleasantly back and count our gains, we must first prosecute inquiry in the faith of ultimate success; and this few men are willing to do so long as the prizes of the senses, however inferior, appear more sure and closer at hand. No wonder, then, that multitudes stop short with a knowledge of matter, and decline to advance towards the possession of mind.

Still, however, it is easy to see that other causes have conduced to produce the neglect of philosophy among the people. Heretofore, the only occasions on which the generality of men have come at all into acquaintance with it have been the most unpropitious for recommending it as either real or useful. These have usually been the disputes of philosophers, or when some theory, more quaint and startling in its expression than common, has incidentally been brought before the public mind as a curiosity to be looked at and then laughed at. Moreover, nothing seems to be agreed upon by all; one school rises on the ruins of another; the belief of one epoch is the byword of the next. Philosophy is supposed to be, not a venerable pile to which each generation has added one or more stones, but a column of sand, which, though care and elaborate skill may raise it a little way, must, on the hands which reared it being removed, return into its primitive elements. So long as notions of this sort prevail, it is impossible that mental science should be viewed with any feeling but suspicion or contempt. Either it is an instrument of scepticism, by which the firm faith of men is shifted off its base, or it is a flimsy, aërial, cloudy, vague, intangible hobgoblin, fit for a nursery story when decked out in suitable garb from the wardrobe of imagination. But the greatest, perhaps, of those inward causes of But that it should have a real existence in nature, or be detention from the study of philosophy, is the restraint capable of ministering to the noble stock of human know- which the knowledge of law would impose on desultory ledge, is not for a moment supposed by many men. To and irregular activity. So long as everything internal apsuch nothing seems more fanciful than the hope of realis. pears to result from chance, or law can be imagined ining any general good from a science which deals with ab- capable of discovery, the indulgence of each predominant stractions, as the subject-matter is called, and has hitherto desire seems at least innocent if not commendable. It brought forth, it is said, only strife and dire chimeras. however, law be discovered, it implies the subordination of inferior to superior tendencies; the selection of means according to spiritual intellect, and not as will or faney dictates; the pursuit of objects allowed and recommended by our higher nature, the avoidance of those which the lower only enjoins. Such a system of checks and pauses, now remonstrating against one impulse and now against another, while it ever called on us to submit our lives to the judgment of an impartial judge, would impose restraint ¦ where formerly license existed. Instead of pursuit following close behind desire, law would step in between them, ¦ and either authorise or forbid the sequence. Truly, indeed, as we exchange law for license, we are taking liberty in the room of bondage; for law puts us in possession of ourselves, whereas, in its absence, we are the mere sport of every whiff of passion which blows by us as we journey on the way of life. But the mind is naturally incredulous of this truth, being preoccupied by the senses, which, like all tyrants, use every means, whether good or bad, whereby they can keep rule over their slaves. It is easy to see how a consciousness of this result of law, if known, will dissuade in many cases from the attempt to discover it. The conclusion is anticipated, and men refuse to investigate the premises.

If, indeed, there were no tendencies in the mind itself to repel the advances of philosophy, the traditional sentiment and other circumstances alluded to would scarcely have availed to prevent just opinions on this subject. But a few considerations will satisfy us that many obstacles to the general prosecution of mental study lie within ourselves. What, for instance, is more likely to deter men from the exercise than the conscious confusion in which they find everything in the mind when first, and by intermittent glances, they attempt to trace variety to law, and educe lessons for their future guidance? Action is seen to emerge rather from instinct and feeling than from principles the result of inquiry; and, accordingly, it wants the explanation of itself which we are sensible that it ought to be possessed of. Impulse drives us into this or the other course of action. Custom may have led us by the hand, prompting us now to act one way and now another, even although on both occasions the same reason for action existed and should have dictated a uniform mode of effort. In short, each separate attempt seems to originate from a different source, having no proper connexion with any other, nor capable of accounting for itself on any principle of design. And thus the language of mind, instead of spreading out like a tree, resting on roots, shooting up into a trunk, dividing into boughs, and again multiplying itself into branches and twigs with a rich foliage for a clothing, is kindred to the Chinese symbol, requiring a new type for each idea that realises itself in action. Details possess the mind in such vast numbers, and seemingly in so inextricable confusion, that we quit the subject with the same speed that we should use in closing a book of advanced mathematics which, knowing nothing of the matter, we had opened at the middle.

Another internal cause of repulsion from philosophy is the felt difficulty of introverting the mind upon itself, fixing its fleeting forms, and tracing the resemblances and differences of these among one another. This difficulty has, indeed, been overstated as well as misstated, as it will be our object to show afterwards. Meanwhile, it must be admitted that indolence, aversion in particular to efforts of abstraction, and the seductive force of the senses as they ever tend to fly after their several objects floating past us in nature and society, are formidable hindrances to the species of exertion requisite to the successful prosecution

Meantime, however, a truce to these remarks. Having in the present paper directed our readers to the subject, and illustrated a few preliminary obstructions in the way of a popular philosophy, we shall, in another article, unfold more amply the topic, and endeavour to show both what a popular philosophy is, and what are the most available means of realising it.

THE CHILD-SLAYER'S STORY. THERE are few miseries in this world more dreadful than that which it has been my lot to endure throughout a brief period of my existence-brief in point of absolute duration, but unutterably long in apparent extension of time. The misery of which I speak is, happily, seldom endured by any one, and, therefore, can scarcely be appreciated except in imagination. It is the knowledge that you are the object of another's deadly vengeance-that there is one of your fellow-creatures living for no other earthly purpose than to consummate your destruction-one who has registered a vow to sacrifice you to the cravings of a demoniac thirst

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for your blood-whose eyes are upon you wherever you turn, in the gay morning, in the sunny noon, in the quiet evening, in your most secret retirement, in the festive scene -one who, at one time, lurks in your shadow, and at another meets you face to face-your evil genius-your destiny! This is wretchedness enough; to have the rosy colour of your life blanched into the ashy hue of fear; to find the sparkling nectar of the cup of youth and hope made turbid and bitter with the wormwood of perpetual apprehension. But what if you have given your enemy cause for the entertainment of this deadly malice? What if you have yourself planted in his breast the poisoned arrow which goads him to revenge-the inextinguishable fire in which he longs to consume yourself? What if, in addition to your fear, you are also the victim of remorse, and compelled in some degree to justify the wrath which pursues you? Find me out in the great catalogue of woes, à compound misery so terrible as this.

About twenty years ago, my father, who was an opulent London merchant, took us to Hamburgh to spend the summer months at a residence which he possessed in that city, for the convenience of meeting his numerous correspondents at certain periods-a very large branch of his business being carried on there. We spent a very gay summer in Hamburgh, either giving or accepting all kinds of amusements evening after evening; and at length autumn came on, and the sky was reflected in a redder flame upon the basin of the Alster, and the trees which overshadowed the 'Lady's Walk' assumed the melancholy brown of decay. These indications warned us that the time was rapidly approaching for our return to England; but my father had a warning of a different kind; for he had received a circular from the British consul to the effect that it was thought the French were about to occupy Hanover, and prevent English ships from ascending the Elbe. This was in the commencement of the present century. My father at once caught the alarm, and no time was lost by him in taking the necessary steps to secure both his property and his liberty before the trouble came on. It was the very evening before our intended departure, and we were entertaining some kind friends who had called to take leave of us, perhaps for ever, longing in vain to escape with us the wretchedness which they knew was about to invade their happy and prosperous city under the domination of a French garrison. To cheer their spirits we had some music and dancing, which commenced while the yellow sunshine still flowed on the antique wooden gables opposite. At this time I was about fourteen years of age-a shy, silent lad, avoiding observation, and not much observed or caressed in consequence. There were but few boys of my own age or country in Hamburgh with whom I could associate in the common sports of youth, and as I could speak the language of the place but indifferently, I could not enjoy the company of the young Hamburghers who assembled occasionally at our house. I was sitting in a little balcony outside one of the drawing-room windows, pitying the passers-by beneath, whose anxious faces, foretelling the coming disasters, contrasted somewhat ludierously, it must be confessed, with their cupolas of hats and plethoric nether garments. The company inside were forgetting their concern in the waltz and contre danse, when suddenly I heard the sounds of tumult in the lower end of the street. I leaned further out to catch a view of the place whence the sounds proceeded, and I saw a wild mob rushing on, with three or four angry-looking and apparently drunken men in front, dragging along a poor Jew with the utmost violence, kicking and cuffing him at every step, and insulting him with every kind of word and gesture calculated to give pain and annoyance. It is well known that, at this period, in no part of the world were the Jews more persecuted than in Hamburgh. The blood rose to my cheeks when I saw the brutality of the poor Jew's tormentors, and, as they passed by, I cried out, For shame! for shame!' at the top of my voice. I was heard above the din of the crowd, and the ruffians stopped short before our windows. Our guests were all by this time looking out from the balconies, and endeavouring by their earnest gestures to obtain some better treatment for the

wretched man whom they were so mercilessly buffeting. Presently one of the ringleaders let go his hold of the Jew, and stooping down, lifted a heavy stone, which he threw with all his force into the window before which I stood. The stone was evidently aimed at me, but it struck in the mouth my little sister Rachel, who was peeping out from behind me. I heard her cry out and fall. I turned round for an instant, and saw the girl's open mouth streaming with blood as she lay on the carpet. I looked hastily round the room for something which I could use as a missile, and my hand unluckily lighted upon a small Indian bronze figure, exceedingly heavy, and angular at all its surfaces. Before any one could prevent me, I hurled this piece of metal towards the head of the villain who had wounded Rachel. It struck him not, but to my horror I saw it fall upon the innocent, golden-haired head of a lovely child, whom a somewhat wild-looking man was hurrying across the street to get out of the way of the rioters. I think that, even in the stupifying anguish of the moment, I heard the dull, crushing stroke of the fatal weapon as it sank into the soft skull of the little creature-I think, in that instant, I saw the white brain spurting out upon the breast of the man who bore her-I think I had a glimpse of a broad crimson blotch in the midst of the clustering ringlets, which drooped, as the head drooped also, back from the plump and waxen shoulders. Ah! ah! I have that horrid picture before my eyes even now!

The man at first seemed scarcely to know the full extent of the mischief which had been done to his child, or from what quarter it had proceeded. But immediately he raised his burden high in his arms, and satisfying himself that he held in them nothing more than a dead body, he laid it at the feet of a shrieking woman who stood on the footway, and, with the eyes of a madman, looked from one to another amid the appalled and darkening crowd, as if among them he could discover the killer of his little girl. I perceived his perplexity; but as the crowd were directing their gestures towards me as I still leant against the rail of the balcony, fearful of meeting his gaze, I shrunk down to avoid it, and attempted to steal inside the window without being seen by him. I had nearly succeeded, when, with a desire to certify myself whether I was really safe from his observation, as the American antelope turns round to gaze after her baffled hunters, I turned my face towards the crowd. That instant I felt the fire of his ardent eyes shot upward upon mine. Again I attempted to creep in amongst my friends. But it was too late. My prophetic heart told me that ages could not obliterate from his memory the image which the steely point of his agony had graven upon it. I felt I was doomed to be the victim of his revenge. I remember nothing of what immediately followed. I learned afterwards that a desperate attack had been made upon our house, which was not repulsed until a strong military party had come to our aid. That party guarded us during the remainder of our stay in Hamburgh, which, much to the loss of my father, was necessarily extended to another week, to enable the authorities to hold an investigation into the unhappy circumstance. I have a feeble recollection of being brought before a magistrate in a solemn court, and of once more meeting the wild eyes of the father of the slaughtered girl, as he proved to be-but the fire of those eyes again made my brain giddy, and memory again failed me.

At the close of that week, and the night before we were at length to set sail for England, I first awoke wholly from my lethargy. I found myself lying in bed in the backroom of the second floor. A taper, just expiring, revealed to me the figure of a nurse-tender, fast asleep in an easy chair beside my couch. I shuddered at the recollection of what had befallen me, and, in a state far worse than that from which I had recovered, I watched the flickering waxlight flash more and more faintly until it went out altogether. At intervals I heard a wailing sound of the wind in the trees in the garden behind the house, one of which obtruded its crisping branches against the window sash of the apartment. In the pauses of these sounds, I could hear the heavy step of the guard in front of the house,

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