the stubborn Bohemian; the darkness of immoveable fatalism, which will take no part in anything, because it is totally devoid of interest for all. "It is all one!" That is the watchword; the conclusion of every argument; the darling sentiment of all who live under the sceptre of Austria. I tremble when I reflect upon this stagnation of energies; it seems to me like a motionless sea, beneath the smooth surface of which are slumbering fearful monsters. Who can tell what forms of horror will come to light, when a storm arises to agitate those deceitful depths? A good-natured looking man stepped up to me as I turned away from my strange companion, and advised me not to have much to say to him. "If he ever had any sense," he remarked, "he has destroyed it by drinking." I now obtained an explanation of the mystery. The old man had been sexton in several village churches, and had been discharged from them all. He had been found a very useful servant; but wherever he had been, the supply of sacramental wine had been stolen. He drank whatever he could find, and did not even spare the consecrated element upon the altar. Admonition, rebuke, penance, were in vain; and the parish priests had all been obliged to send him about his business. "The Protestant faith," said I, the national faith of Bohemia, purchased with precious blood. Two thirds of the people were Protestant.' "It is all one, "" said the good man, and turned his back. All one! again the conclusion of Austrian logic. A religious war is certainly an evil; but surely if with the loss of faith, all freedom of thought, and all activity of the noblest powers have disappeared, then a conflict of spirits would be a blessing, as compared with this universal intellectual death. This thought made me melancholy, and I sought distraction in the adjoining room, where they were dancing polka, waltz, and rodowak. There was nothing in the music to soothe my feelings; they dance even their national dance to Viennese music. Strauss, Lanner, and Labitzki, were played; not a isngle Bohemian melody. I looked round for the old man, and saw a girl standing by him, whom I had previously observed traversing the room, and inviting the various groups, by nods and signs, to purchase the goods which she offered for sale. She was of the short, stout race of Bohemian women, the dazzling white of her face and neck seemed at variance with the fullness of her form; her dark auburn tresses, partly confined with a large pin, hung down her back; and glass beads ornamented her throat. Her whole manner betrayed something very like to the timidity of a wild animal, which had been hunted from its lair. It was clear that she stood in some relation to the old man; for she gave him the money that she had received, which he counted and put into an old leathern purse; in the meanwhile she drank with almost greedy eagerness from his cup. As I entered, she came towards me and held out the bundle of Dschischka-canes, which she had for sale. The head of Dschischka, the old Hussite warrior, with his helmet, and a bandage over his right eye, in which he was blind, was carved in wood, so as to form the handle of each of these canes. "I should prefer a Dschischka-song," said I, "cannot you sing a song of the blind hero?" She shook her head. "She does not speak," said the old man, as I was about to address her again. "Does she only speak Bohemian?" I asked. 66 She does not speak at all," he replied, and laid his finger on his mouth. "Dumb?"-"Miserable," he muttered, driven away, cast out, because she cannot confess what weighs upon her mind." I looked at her again, and I thought that I discerned in her figure the reason of her timid manner. At this moment a young dandy, one of those who come among the people because they can there gratify their passions at a cheap rate, had seized her arm and tried to draw her into the circle of the dancers. She resisted, and as he put his arm around her waist, he exclaimed to the bystanders, "Why should she refuse to dance? we all know that Kascha is no prude." The maiden regarded him with a look as fixed as that of a marble statue; but he would not leave her, and again threw his arm around her in order to draw her towards him. In a moment, like a Judith who sees her victim ready, she hurled him from her and brandished her bundle of canes. A severe blow on the forehead felled him to the ground, and as he sank down with a loud cry, he dragged with him one of the bystanders, whose arm he caught in trying to save himself. A couple of dancers, who came racing along, stumbled and fell over those who were already down, a second couple followed, and in a moment there was a melée of persons screaming, struggling, and rolling over each other on the floor. The music ceased, and all the guests crowded together to see what had happened. For a time the maiden with the canes appeared to have been forgotten, but soon her name was exclaimed aloud. It was the young man whom she had struck down; he had risen and cried out "it is the mad Kascha; hold her fast, she shall suffer for it." shout of laughter broke the sudden silence which the entrance of the policemen had created. No one thought of pursuing her, and the host with a few of the more sensible guests easily succeeded in restoring peace. There was no charge against the old man, who returned to his seat, finished his tankard, and then, after paying his score, left the house unmolested. A brilliant moon was pouring a flood of light over the slumbering streets of Prague, as I sallied forth to return to my home. Unmindful of my purpose, I strolled towards the river, and found myself standing upon the bridge of the Moldau. The lights were reflected in the stream; the gray spire of the cathedral, towering above the terrace-like bastions of the palaces, seemed to reach up into the silver night. I leaned against the parapet and thought of the glorious past of Prague, and of her miserable present destiny. Before the niche of Saint Nepomucius, on the bridge, two figures were discernible. The one had climbed up to the statue, perhaps to place there another light in honor of the saint. Several tapers were already burning on both sides of the stone shrine. A shaggy dog was standing with his fore paws against the parapet, and watching her intently. In the middle of the footpath stood a man in a ragged mantle and a broad-brimmed hat. I approached and recognized the old sexton. You here?" I exclaimed, in surprise. The old man and the girl had taken refuge in a corner behind a table. He was grasping a huge knotted stick in his right hand, prepared for the attack, and the great shaggy mastiff had leaped upon the table, and was looking inquiringly from his master to the gathering crowd, uncertain, as it seemed, whether he ought to assume the offensive or not. I had the presentiment of a bloody tumult, but I had no alternative, and I ranged myself on the side of the weaker party, on the side of the girl who had undeservedly been insulted. The host, a heavy, broad shouldered fellow, with sleeves turned up, and a pair of fists which inspired great confidence, joined our forces with one or two of the waiters; we stood between the table and the advancing multitude, who were mostly armed with legs of stools. "Give up the mad Kascha! throw the girl out of the window," was shouted by many voices. Throwing out of the window is still the national ultima ratio in Bohemia. I said a few words to the host who seemed somewhat undecided, in order to arouse in him a sense of honor. "But," he whispered in my ear, "the girl does not bear the best character.""No matter," said I, "she was repelling unprovoked insolence." I mounted a chair, and endeavored to make myself heard but was assailed with cries of "Njemetz, Njemetz!" a term of reproach for Germans. "No mat-pathy. ter," I cried," whether German or Bohemian; it would be inhuman to punish a maiden who defended herself with her own hand against an impudent aggressor." At this moment the door opened, and a body of policemen entered. The sight of these armed pacificators was instantaneously effectual. The Bohemians dispersed, and were perhaps well pleased to deliver up the persecuted maiden to the guardians of the public peace. But this was no longer possible; Kascha had mounted from the table upon the window-sill, and had jumped out of the open window. When the attention of the public was again turned in that direction, the dog was in the act of following, and a loud He pointed to the girl who was standing on the parapet by the side of the image, with her eyes fixed upon the saint. "Do not disturb her," he said, anxiously; "she comes here every night to say her prayers. She is considered dishonored by men, but it is all one! "Does the girl belong to you?" I asked. "My daughter," he said, and cast a look of defiance at me. I laid my hand upon his shoulder, and he understood my honest sym 66 She was a servant in the house of the rich prelate yonder," he muttered. One of the kinsmen feigned love for her, deceived and deserted her. First made unhappy, then pronounced dishonored; that is the way of the world. Since then she has become dumb, has lost the faculty of speech from shame and fear. And because she cannot confess,-she cannot speak, you see, she cannot obtain absolution, and does not know where to seek help. But it is all one!" The maiden was now standing so close to the edge of the parapet, that a single false step would have precipitated her into the stream below. "For God's sake-" I whispered to the old man. "No danger," he replied, quietly; the dog will take care of her." The faithful animal was indeed close behind her, and had now seized the skirt of her dress between his teeth. "She will make away with herself," I said, tremblingly. 'No danger," answered the old man again; "she cannot be saved, if she dies without absolution." How terrible, when this is the only feeling which restrains from suicide! Kascha had leaned over the edge of the parapet, as though she would measure the height of the arch down to the very bed of the river. Then she stepped back, looked up to the pure moon, as if to seek aid and understanding, and bowed her head once more before the image of the saint, muttering unintelligible words. They were sounds as if she had lost all human speech, and was in search of another, which she could not yet find. Then she turned round, laid her hand upon the dog's head, and leaped upon the ground. The creature howled for joy, and seemed to understand its duty better than either of us. It seized the bundle of canes which was lying on the ground, and set out on its homeward way. I knew not what to do, except to put the small sum of money which I had by me, into the old man's hand. It is ill when man has nothing to give but a piece of money; but it is yet worse when the want of it is the cause of misery among men, and the source of what we upbraid as sin. I returned home, and the three companions went in the opposite direction; their dwelling was among the wretched hovels which lie along the bank of the river. Kascha crossed herself and bent once more before the image of the saint, on quitting the spot, and the old man turned round and made a motion with his hand, as though he would say, It is all one; there is no help for her." I stood yet a moment on the spot where the holy John, the Catholic hero, was hurled into the Moldau by the lawless Wenzel, angels looking down upon him from heaven the while, and calling him to them. The dog, and a half-witted drunkard,-no angels,-were the only guardians of poor Kascha.-Europa. 66 MARY BARTON. A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. How far it may be kind, wise, or right, to with a delicate and pretty daughter, who has make fiction the vehicle for a plain and matter-longings for fine-lady-ism. Her mother's death of-fact exposition of social evils, is a question has been hastened by anxieties concerning a of limitations which will not be unanimously sister-a coarser Effie Deans; and this calamisettled in our time. The theory and practice ty is the first of many which sour the widower. of "Agitation" are, as all the world knows, Mary, being admitted as a milliner's workadjusted by a sliding scale, on which "Chol- woman, becomes the object of pursuit to a rich eric word," and Flat" Blasphemy" indicate manufacturer's son; and her head is turned every conceivable degree of heat and excite- for a passing moment by his flatteries, to the ment, according to conscience, convenience, point of making her reject the love of a young or chances of success-as may be. But we engine-maker, Jem Wilson, who has courted have met with few pictures of life among the her honestly and long. For this fit of coquetry working classes at once so forcible and so fair she is doomed to suffer deeply. Meanwhile, Mary Barton." The truth of it is terri- her father's fortunes are sorely darkened by ble. The writer is superior to melo-dramatic bad times. He becomes sullen-savage-and seductions, and has described misery, tempta- listens to the worst counsels of the wildest tion, distress, and shame, as they really exist. agitators. From the collision of so many eleOnly twice has he (?) had recourse to the ments of disturbance, crime is pretty sure to worn-out machinery of the novelist,-and then be struck out. But here we leave the plot of he has used it with a master's hand. But he is the story, since its nature must be guessed by excellent in the anatomy of feelings and mo- the experienced, while fresher readers would tives, in the display of character, in the life- not thank us for forestalling interest. The like, and simple use of dialogue;-and the accessory characters are touched with the fidelresult is, a painful interest, very rare in our ity of a daguerreotype. Wilson's irritable, experience. exacting mother-her true woman's heart setting her fractiousness to rights-placid, relig ious Alice-the shameless milliner's apprentice as The events of the tale are of the commonest quality. John Barton is a factory operative, 44 Sally and the poor castaway Esther have very seldom been surpassed. Many tears. have been wept over Nancy Sykes in Oliver Twist," but there is nothing in the tragedy of her life and death, in deep, dreary sadness, surpassing the scene where the outcast visits her niece at midnight; counterfeiting respectability, swallowing down hunger, and concealing her own cravings for commiseration and help, in order that she may rescue her sister's child from her own fearful lot. For power, delicacy, and nature, it is a masterpiece. The author of "Mary Barton," however, is not of necessity confined to distress in Art. He has a power over what is quaint and whimsical, no less than over the deepest emotions of pity and terror. We must treat the reader to a tea-party-premising that Will, "the lion" of it, is a sailor just come home from foreign parts, with his kit crammed full of travellers' tales, suited to an unscientific audience. In place of this, however, he has to satisfy Job Legh, one of those exact and eager collectors in Natural History, who are so frequent in manufacturing towns : and such like perils). So some of the men took the long boat, and pulled for the island to see what 1 it were like; and when they got near, they heard a puffing, like a creature come up to take breath; you've never heard a diver? No! well! you've heard folks in th' asthma, and it were for all the world like that. So they looked around, and what should they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning herself. The water is always warmer when its rough, you know, so I suppose in the calm she felt it rather chilly, and had come up to warm herself.' What was she like?' asked Mary, breathlessly. Job took his pipe off the chimney piece and began to smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were not worth listenaudible puffs, as if the ing to.- 'Oh! Jack used to say she was for all the world as beautiful as the wax ladies in the barbers' shops; only, Mary, there were one little difference, her hair was bright grass green.' I should not think that was pretty,' said Mary, hesitatingly; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of anything belonging to such an acknowledged beauty.-Oh! but it is when you're used to it. I always think when first we get sight of land, there's no color so lovely as grass green. However, she had green hair, sure enough; and were proud enough of it, too; for she were combing it out full length when first they saw her. They all thought she were a fair prize, and may be as good as a whale in ready money, (they were whale-fishers you know). For some folk think a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do.' This was a hit at Job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and puffs. So, as I were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking to catch her. She were all the while combing her beautiful hair, and beckoning to them, while with the other hand she held a looking-glass.'-How many hands had she?' asked Job. Two, to be sure, just like any other woman,' answered Will, indignantly. Oh! I thought you said she beckoned with one hand, and combed her hair with another, and held a looking-glass with a third,' said Job, with provoking quietness.—No! I did n't! at least if I did, I meant she did one thing after another, as any one but' (here he mumbled a word or two) could understand. Well, Mary,' turning very decidedly towards her; when she saw them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened at their fowling-pieces, as they had on board, for a bit o' shooting on the island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did not rightly know her own mind (which, secing one half of her was woman, I think myself was most probable), but when they were only about two oars' length from the rock where she sat, down she plopped into the water, leaving nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up for a minute, and then that disappeared too.'-' And did they never see her again?? asked Mary. Never so plain: the man who had the second watch one night, declared he saw her swimming round the ship, and holding up her glass for him to look in; and when he saw the little cottage near Aber in Wales (where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his wife standing outside, shading her eyes, as if she were looking for him. But Jack Harris gave him no credit, for he said he were always a bit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted chap.'-'I wish they had caught her,' said Mary, musing. They got one thing as belonged to her,' replied Will, and that I've of "While he moved about he was deeply engaged in conversation with the young sailor, trying to extract from him any circumstances connected with the natural history of the different countries he had visited. Oh! if you are fond of grubs, and flies, and beetles, there's no place for 'em like Sierra Leone; I wish you'd had some of ours; we had rather too much of a good thing; we drank them with our drink, and could scarcely keep from eating them with our food. I never thought any folk could care for such fat green beasts as those, or I would ha' brought you them by the thousand. A plate full o' peas soup would ha' been full enough for you, I dare say; it were often too full for us.'-' I would ha' given a good deal for some on 'em,' said Job. Well, I knew folk at home liked some of the queer things one meets with abroad; but I never thought they'd care for them nasty slimy things. I were always on the look-out for a mermaid, for that I knew were a curiosity.-You might ha' looked long enough,' said Job, in an under tone of contempt, which, however, the quick ears of the sailor caught. Not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. It stands to reason th' sea hereabouts is too cold for mermaids; for women here don't go half naked on account of climate. But I've been in lands where muslin were too hot wear on land, and where the sea were more than milk-warm; and though I'd never the good luck to see a mermaid in that latitude, I know them that has.'-Do tell us about it,' cried Mary.'Pooh, pooh!' said Job, the naturalist.-Both speeches determined Will to go on with his story. What could a fellow who had never been many miles from home know about the wonders of the deep, that he should put him down in that way? 'Well, it were Jack Harris, our third mate, last voyage, as many and many a time telled us all about it. You see he were becalmed off Chatham Island (that's in the Great Pacific, and a warm enough latitude for mermaids, and sharks, ten seen with my own eyes, and I reckon it's a sure proof of their story, for them that wants proof.'What was it?' asked Margaret, almost anxious her grandfather should be convinced.Why, in her hurry, she left her comb on the rock, and one o' the men spied it; so they thought that were better than nothing, and they rowed there and took it, and Jack Harris had it on board the John Cropper, and I saw him comb his hair with it every Sunday morning.'- What was it like?' asked Mary, eagerly, her imagination running on coral combs, studded with pearls. Why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging to it, you'd never ha' noticed it from any other small-tooth comb.'-'I should rather think not,' sneered Job Legh.-The sailor bit his lip to keep down his anger against an old man. Margaret felt very uncasy, knowing her grandfather so well, and not daring to guess what caustic remark might come next to irritate the young sailor guest. Mary, however, was too much interested by the wonders of the deep, to perceive the incredulity with which Job Legh received Wilson's account of the mermaid; and when he left off, half offended, and very much inclined not to open his lips again through the evening, she very eagerly said,-Oh, do tell us something more of what you hear and see on board ship. Do, Will!'-'What's the use, Mary, if folk won't believe one. There are things I saw with my own eyes, that some people would pish and pshaw at, as if I were a baby to be put down by cross noises. But I'll tell you, Mary,' with an emphasis on you, some more of the wonders of the sea, sin' you're not too wise to believe me. I have seen a fish fly.-This did stagger Mary. She had heard of mermaids as signs of inns, and as sca-wonders, but never of flying fish. Not so Job. He put down his pipe, and nodding his head as a token of approbation, he said,-Ay, ay, young man. Now you're speaking truth. Well, now! you'll swallow that, old gentleman. You'll credit me when I say I've seen a critter half fish, half bird, and you won't credit me when I say there be such beasts as mermaids, half fish, half woman. one's just as strange as another.'-You never saw the mermaid yoursel,' interposed Margaret, gently. But love me, love my dog,' was Will Wilson's motto, only his version was believe me, believe Jack Harris;' and the remark was not so soothing to him as it was intended to have been. It's the Exocetus; one of the Malacopterygii Abdominales,' said Job, much interested. -Ay, there you go! You're one of them folks as never knows beasts unless they're called out o' their names. Put 'em in Sunday clothes, and you know 'em, but in their work-a-day English you never know naught about 'em. I've met wi' many o' your kidney; and if I'd ha' known it, I'd a christened poor Jack's mermaid wi' some grand gibberish of a name. Mermaidicus Jack Harrisensis; that's just like their new-fangled words. D'ye believe there's such a thing as the Mermaidicus, master?' asked Will, enjoying his own joke uncommonly, as most people do. Not I! tell me about the--Well!' said Will, pleased at having excited the old gentleman's faith and credit, at last. It were on this last voyage, about a day's sail from Madeira, that one of our men-'-'Not Jack Harris, I hope,' muttered Job-Called me,' continued Will, not noticing the interruption, to see the what d'ye To me, call it-flying fish I say it is. It were twenty feet out o' water, and it flew near on to a hundred yards. But I say, old gentleman, I ha' gotten one dried, and if you'll take it, why, I'll give it you; only,' he added in a lower tone, I wish you'd just give me credit for the mermaidicus.'-I really believe if the assuming faith in the story of the mermaid had been made the condition of receiving the flying fish, Job Legh, sincere man as he was, would have pretended belief; he was so much delighted at the idea of possessing this specimen." Job's blind daughter Margaret, possesses a great reputation in "her own circle," as a songstress; and by way of courteous return for the proffered fiying-fish, she is desired to let her voice be heard. This has the effect upon the dashing sailor of a real syren song. "Mary was amused to see how the young sailor sat entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch every breath of sound. His very lids refused to wink, as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval to lose a particle of the rich music that floated through the room. ** Job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new guest. The flying fish went a great way, and his undisguised admiration for Margaret's singing, carried him still farther. It was amusing enough to see these two within the hour so barely civil to each other, endeavoring now to be ultra-agreeable. Will, as soon as he had taken breath, (a long deep gasp of admiration) after Margaret's song, sidled up to Job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone, You wouldn't like a live Manx cat, would you, master?'- A what?' exclaimed Job. I don't know its best name,' said Will humbly. But we call 'em just Manx cats. They're cats without tails.' Now Job, in all his natural history, had never heard of such animals; so Will continued, Because I'm going afore joining my ship, to see mother's friends in the island, and I would gladly bring you one, if so be you'd like to have it. They look as queer, and out o' nature as flying fish, or,'-he gulped the words down that should have followed. Especially when you see 'em walking a roof top, right again the sky, when a cat, as is a proper cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a slack-rope dancer a-balancing, but these cats having no tail, cannot stick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. If you'll allow me, I'll bring one for Miss there, jerking his head at Margaret. Job assented with grateful curiosity, wishing much to see the tailless phenomenon." Honest Will's gratitude is unparagoned. What has been said and shown, we imagine, will direct not a few readers-and those of the best class-to the tale we must now leave. In yet another respect, "Mary Barton" deserves praise. The author has made use of the Lancashire dialect-a vigorous and racy, but in some districts scarcely intelligible patois, with ease, spirit, and nicety in selection. By all who have paid any attention to kindred subjects-and, as an instance, have compared Sir Walter's Scotch with the Scotch of any other northern novelist-this will be accepted as commendation.—Athenæum. -- |