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ISAILTIEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXX, NUMBER 2.1
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING
Office in Carper Hull, North-west corner of
jEront and Locust streets. -
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ilattrg.
My Psalm.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
/ mourn no more my vanished years;
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
Bly heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run,
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hone and fear;
But, grateful, take the good I Mid,
The beet of »ow and here.
I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff. I lay
Mole the toiling our;
The angel sought PO far away
I welcome at my door.
The tura of Spling may never play
Among the r peniug corn,
Nor freehnees of ihe flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn.
Yet FhnH the hlue•e}ed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,
And the pale aster I n the hrook
Shutt see its Image given.
The woods shall wear their robe of pral , e,
The South winds softy sigh,
And sweet ca'm ttas ut golden haze
11Ie1t down the amber sky;
Net le•s shall manly deed and word
Rebuke to age orwrong; • .
gr .vg , t flowers shall wreath the sword,
\lake• t.ot the blade less strong.
flu! smiting hauds shall learn to hcnl,
o tiui.ti as to destroy;
Ivor lei• my heart forothers feel,
") hat I the more enjoy.
An A • Cod will., who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold.
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!
Enottyli that blessings undeserved
Have marked my en ing track—
That wheresoe'cr my feet base swerved,
His chastening turned me back—
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
31aking the springs of lime and sense
Sweet with eternal good—
That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light.
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's eight—
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overlies',
In purple distance (air—
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending ti: a psalm,
And all the angles of strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And 1.0 the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And ail the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
[Atlantic Monthly, August
grautitto.
A. Spiritual Subcepna
Some dozen years ago I passed a coaple
of early summer months in Devonshire, fish
ing; changing one picturesque scene of sport
for another, always disbelieving that I
should find so fair n place as the last quit
ted, and always having pleasantly to tick
noweldge myself wrong. There is indeed
an almost inexhaustible treasure of delicious
nooks in that fertile county, which compre
hends every element of landscape beauty—
coast and inland, hill and valley, moor and
woodland—and excels in nothing more than
ate curved rivers IVbat cliff-like and full
foliaged banks about their sources, and
what rich n.endows sprinkled with unrival
ed kine as they broaden towards the sea!
At the close of my tour I was lodging in a
farm-house near a branch of the Exe, rath
er regretful at the thought of so soon hav
ing to shoulder my knapsack and return to
native Dorset, near a certain provincial town
.of which county, and in a neighborhood
without a tree within sight, or a stream with
in eounh, it wps my lot to dwell. we had
lately thrown out a bow window to the
drawing-room there, but why I cannot tell,
for there was certainly ,nothing to see from
it. What a difference 'between such a spot
and my then abode, from the windows of
which a score of miles of undulating and
:varied landscape could be discerned, with
the old cathedral towers of the capital city
standing grandly up against the southern
sky!
It is not true that people who live in pic
turesque places do not appreciate them, but
only that they require to be made to under
stood their good fortune. Michael Cour
tenef, the good man of the farm, and like
all hie class, a thorough stay-at-home, could
not discover what I found in that look-out
from Ms house to make such a fuse about;
but his wife, who bad Dace paid a visit to
her son when in business at Birmingham,
knew perfectly well. Concerning which
son Robert, by the by, there was a Ead tale.
lie was the only son of the good pair, and
one who should have been there at Cowlees,
the right hand of his father, and the com
fort of his loving mother; but the young
man had decided otherwise. He had never
taken to farming, but had grieved his father
hugely by a hankering after mechanical
studies, which the old agriculturist asso
ciated with the black art itself. Thinking
himself to have a gift for the practical sci
ences, Robert had got apprenticed in Bir
mingham, and for some time bade fair to
acquit himself well. But it had not been
farming to which he was in reality averse,
so much as to restraint of any kind; and
finding, after a little, that he could not
be his own master at the lathe any more than
at the plow, he forsook his second calling
likewise. This had justly angered Michael
and drawn from him, on the return of the
lad, certain expressions which his young
spirit undutifully resented. There was a
violent scene in that peaceful homestead of
Cowlees one day; and the next morning,
when the house was astir, it was found that
Robert had gone away in the night-time,
nor had he since either returned home or
written of his whereabouts.
ei Se
IN 38
It was a year ago and more by this time,
during which Mrs. Courtenay had grown
older than in the half-dozen years before,
while the old man himself, said the farm
people, had altered to the full as much as
she, although, for his part, he never owned
to it. It was not he who told of the matter
but the gudewife, who was fond of me—as
my vanity was obliged to confess—mainly
because I was of the age of her lost lad,
and so reminded her of him. I slept in the
very room which had furmerly been her
Robert's, and a very comfortable little room
it was.
Here it was, very early one May morning,
before even the earliest risers of the farm
were up, that I was awakened by these
three words, pronounced close by me in the
distinctest tones: "The ferryman waits!"
So perfectly conscious was I of having
been really addressed, that I sat up in my
bed at once, and replied: "Well, and what
is that to me?" before the absurdity of the
intimation had time to strike me. The
show-white curtains of the little bed were
completely undrawn, so that no person
could have been hidden behind them. Al
though it was not broad daylight, every
object was clearly discernible, and through
the half-opened window came the cool, de
li cious summer air with quickening fra
grance. I heard the dog rattle his chain
in the yard as he came out of his kennel
and shook himself, and then returned to it
lazily, as though it was not time to bo up
yet. A cock crew, but very unsatisfactorily,
leaving off in the middle of his performance
as though he had been mistaken in the hour.
My watch, a more reliable chronicler, in
formed me that it wanted a quarter of 4
o'clock. I wos not accustomed to ho
awakened at suat an hour as that, and
turned myself somewhat indignantly on
the pillow, regretful that I had eaten clot
ted cream for supper tho proceeding even
ing. I lay perfectly still, with my eyes
shut, endeavoring since I could not get to
sleep again, to account for the peculiar na
ture of my late nightmare, as I had made
up my mind to consider it, until the cuckoo
clock on the oaken stair outside struck four.
The last note of the mechanical bird had
scarcely died away, when again, close to my
pillow, I heard uttered, not only with
distinctness, but with a most unmistakable
earnestness, the same piece of information
which had once 1,0 startled me already: "The
ferryman waits."
Then I got up and looked under the little
bed, and behind it, into the small cupboard
where my one change of boots was kept, and
and where there was scarcely room for any
thing else. I sounded the wall nearest my
bed's head, and found it solid enough ; it
was also an outside wall; nor from any of
the more remote ones could so distinct a
summons have come. Then I pushed the
window casement fully back, and thrust my
head and bare neck into the morning air.—
If I wee still asleep, I was determined to
wake myself, an then, if I should hear
the mysterious voice again, I was deter
mined to obey it. I was not alarmed, nor
even disturbed in my mind, although
greatly interested. The circumstance of my
position precluded any supernatural terror.
The animals in the farm-yard were lying in
the tumbled straw close by, and near
enough to be startled at a shout of mine;
some pigeons were already circling round
the dovecote, or pacing, sentinel-like, the
little platform before their domicils; and
the sound of the /ashe”, by whose circling
eddies I had so often watched for trout,
came cheerily and with inviting tone across
the dewy meadows. The whole landscape
seemed instinct with new-born life, and to
have thoroughly shaken off the solemnity
of dreary night. Its surpassing beauty and
freshness so entirely took possession of me,
indeed, that in its contemplation I abso
lutely forgot the inexplicable occurrence
which had brought me to the window. I
was wrapped in the endeavor to make out
whether those tapering lines, supporting as
it appeared, a mass of southern cloud, were
indeed the pinnacles of the cathedral,
when close by my ear, close by as though
the speaker had his face close to the case
ment likewise, the words were a third time
uttered: "The ferryman wain."
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING. AUGUST 6, 18
There was a deeper seriousness in its
tone on this occasion, an appeal which
seemed to have a touch of pathos as well as
of gloom; but it was the same voice, and one
which I shall never forget. I did not hesi
tate another moment, but dressed myself
as quickly as I could, and descending the
stairs, took down the vast oaken door-bar
and let myself out, as I had been wont to
do when I went betimes a-fishing. Then I
strode southward along the footpath leading
through the fields to where the river-ferry
was, some three miles off, now doubting,
now believing, that the ferryman did wait
there at such an unusually early hour, and
for me. I made such good use of my legs
that it was not five o'clock when I reached
the last meadow that lay between me and
the stream. It was higher ground than its
neighbor land, and every step I took I was
looking eagerly to come in eight of the fer
ry-house, which was on the opposite bank,
and by no means within easy hailing dis
tance. At last I did so, and observed, to
my astonishment, that the boat was not at
its usual moorings. it must needs, there
fore, have been already brought over upon
my own side. A few steps further brought
me into view of it, with the ferryman
standing up in the stern leaning on his
punt-pole, and looking intently in my di
rection. lie gave a great "hallo" when ho
recognized me, and I returned it, for we
were old acquaintances.
"Well, Master Philip," cried he, as I
drew nearer, "you are not hero so very
much betimes, after all. I have been wait
ing for you nigh upon half an hour."
"Waiting fur me!" echoed I. "I don't
know how that can be, since nobody knew
that I was corning; and indeed 1 didn't
know myself till—" And there I stopped
myself upon tho very verge of confessing
myself to have been fooled by a voice. Per-
I ha: s the ferryman himself may be con
cerned in the trick, thought I, and is now
about to charge me roundly for being taken
across out of hours.
“Well, sir,” returned the Genius of the
River, turning his peakless cap hind before,
which was his fashion when puzzled, and
certainly a much more polite one than that
common to his brethren of the land, ol
scratching their heads—"all I eau say
as I was roused at half-pint three or so by
a friend of yours, saying as though you
would be wanting me in a little un the
north hank."
"What friend was that?" inquired I
"Nay, sir, for that matter, I can't say,
since I did'nt see him, but I heard him
well enough at all events, and as plain as I
low hear you. I was asleep when he first
called me from outside yonder, and could
scarcely make any sense of it; but the sec
ond time I was wide awake; and the third
time, as I was undoing the window, there
could be no mistake about —'Be ready for
Philip Renton on the nor' bank,' he said."
"And bow was it you missed seeing my
friend?" inquired I, as carelessly as I could.
"He was in such a hurry to be gone, I
reckon, that as soon as he heard my window
open, and he knew he had roused me, he
set off. /Ls voice came round the east cor
ner of the cottage, as though ho went Exeter
way. I would'nt have got up at such a time,
and such a summons, for many other folks
but you, I do assure you, Master Philip."
"Thank you," said I, though by no means
quite convinced; "you're a good fellow, and
here's five shilling., for you. And now, put
me across, and show me the nearest way by
which I can go to the city."
Now, if by some inscrutable means, the
ferryman—who had become the leading fig
ure in my mind because of the mysterious
warning—or any accomplice of his had
played me a trick, and trumped up a story
for my further bewilderment, they had not,
I flattered myself, very much cause for boast
ing. I had evinced bat slight curiosity
about the unknown gentleman who had her
alded my approach at daylight, and I had
given them to understand that I had a real
object in my early rising—that of reaching
the capital city, at least ten miles away.—
But my own brain was for all that, a prey
to the most conflicting suggestions, not one
of which was of final service towards an ex
planation of the events of the morning.
There was I, at a little after 5 A. M.,
with a walk before me of ten, and a _walk
behind me of three good Devon miles, break
fastless, without the loast desire to reach the
place I was bound for—and all because of
a couple of vox-cl-prceterea-nihil s, voices
without a body between them. I consumed
the way in mentally reviewing ull the cir
cumstances of the case again and again,
and by no means in a credulous spirit; bat
when I at length arrived at the city upon
the hill, I was at far from the solution of
the matter as when I started. That the
ferryman himself, 'a simple countryman,
should be concerned in any practical joke
upon me, a were fly-fishing acquaintance of
a couple of weeks' standing, or that such
persons as the Courtenays should bare per
mitted the playing of it upon a guest at
Cowlces, was only less astonishing than the
perfection of the trick itself—if trick it
was. But neither my feelings of anger,
when I looked on it in that light, nor those of
mystery, when I took the more supernatural
view of it, in anywise interfered with the
gradual growth of appetite; and when I
turned into a private room of the Bishop's
/lead in the high street, the leading idea. in
my mind, after all my cogitations, was
breakfast. If seven-end-forty mysterious
voices had informed me that the ferryman was
waiting then, I should have responded:
"Then let him wait—at all events, while I
eat a beef-steak and sondries."
Although Exeter is as picturesque and
venerable a city as any raven could desire
to dwell in, it is not a lively town by any
means, in a general way. A quiet, saintly,
solemn spot, indeed it is; excellently adapted
for a sinner to pass his last days in—al
though he would probably find them among
the longest in his life—and peculiarly
adapted to that end in its very great benefit
of (episcopal) clergy; but for a halo young
gentleman of nineteen to find himself therein
at nine o'clock on a fine summer morning,
with nothing to do, and all the day to do it
in, was an embarassing circumstance.
"Nothing going on, as usual, I suppose?"
inquired I, with a yawn, of the waiter, when
I had finished a vast refection.
••Going on, sir? Yes•sir. City very gay,
indeed, sir, just now. Assizes, sir, now
bitting. Murder case—very interesting for
a young gentleman like yourself, indeed,
sir."
"Hew do you know what is interesting?"
retorted I, with the indignation of hobble
dehoyhood, at having its manhood called in
question. "Young gentleman, indeed! I
am a man, sir. But what about this mur
der? Is the prisoner convicted?"
"Convicted, sir? Nossir; not yet, sir.—
We hope he will be convicted this morning,
sir. It's a very bad case, indeed, sir, A
journeyman carpenter, one Robert Moles,
hare been and murdered a toll-keeper—
killed him in the dead of night, sir, with a
'atchet, and his wife's the witness against
him."
"That's very horrible," remarked I. "I
didn't know a wife could give evidence."
"NoQsir, nut his wife sir; it's the toll-kee
per's wife sir. She swears to this Mules, al
though it happened two monthsago or more,
sir. Murder will out, they say; and how
true it is! he'll be hung in front of
the jail, sir, in a hopen place upon an 'ill,
so as almost every body will be able to see
it' bless ye!"
"I should like to hear the end of this trial
—very much, indeed, waiter."
"Should you sir?" fondling his chin. "It
couldn't be done, sir—it could not be done;
the court is crowded into a mash alrea , ty.
To be sure, I'%e got a cousin a But
no, sir, it Could no/ be done."
"I suppose it's merely a question of 'llow
much?' " said I, taking out my purse.
"Didn't you say you had a--"
"A cousin as is a javelin-mnn, yes sir.
Well, I don't know but what it might be
done, sir, if you'll just wait till I've cleared
away. There, they're at it already!"
While ho spoke, a fanfaronade of trum
pets without proclaimed that the judges
were about to take their seats, and in a few
minutes the waiter and I were among the
crowd. The javelin-man, turning out to be
amenable to reason and the ties of rela
tionship, as well as not averse to a small
pecuniary recompense, I soon found stand
ing-room for myself in the court house,
where every scat had been engaged for
hours before. As I had been informed, the
proceedings were all but concluded save
some unimportant indirect evidence, and
The speech of the prisoner's counsel. This
gentleman had been assigned to the accused
by the court, since he had not provided
himself with any advocate, nor attempted
to meet the tremendous charge laid against
him, except by a simple denial. All that
had been elicited from him since his ap
prehension, it seemed, was this: that the
toll-keeper's wife was mistaken in his
identity, but th:.t he had led a wandering
life of late, and could not produce any ;per
son to prove an alibi; that he was in Dorset
shire when the murder was done, miles
away from the scene of its commission; but
at what place on the particular dny in
question—the sth of March—he could not
recall to mind. This, taken in connection
with strong condemnatory evidence, it was
clear, would go sadly against him with the
jury, as a lame defence indeed; although,
as it struck me, who had only gleaned this
much from a bystander, nothing was more
natural than that a journeyman carpenter,
who was not likely to have kept a diary,
should not recollect what place he had
tramped through upon any particular date.
Why, where had I myself been on the sth
of March? thought I. It took me several
minutes to remember, and I only did so by
recollecting that I had left Dorsetshire on
the day following. partly in consequence
of some alterations going on at home.
Dorsetehire, by the by, did the prisoner
say? Why, surely I had seen that face
somewhere before, which was now turned
anxiously and hurriedly around the court, '
and now, as if ashamed so many eyes,
concealed in his tremulous hands! Robert
Moles? No, I had certainly never heard
that name; and yet I began to watch tke
poor fellow with a singular interest, beget
ten of the increasing conviction that ha was
not altogether a stranger to me.
The evidence went on, and concluded; the
counsel for the prisoner did his beat, but
his speech was, of necessity, an appeal to
mercy rather than to justice. All that bad
been confided to him by his client was
this: that the young man was a vagabond,
who had deserted his parents, and run
away from his indentures, and was so far
deserving of little pity; that lie had, how
ever, only been vicious, and not criminal:
as for the murder with which ho was now
charged, the commission of much a hideous
outrage bad never entered his brain. "Did
the lad look like a murderer? Or did he
not rather resemble the Prodigal Son, peni
tent for his misdeeds indeed, but not
weighed down by the blood of a fellow
creature?"
All this was powerfully enough express•
ed, but it was not evidence; and the jury,
without retiring from their box, pronounced
the young man "Guilty," amid a silence
which seemed to corroberate the verdict.
Then the judge put on the terrible black
cap, and solemnly inquired for the last
time whether Robert Mole:- had any reason
to urge why sentence should not be passed
upon him.
"My lord," replied the lad in a singularly
low soft voice, which recalled the utterer to
my recollection on the instant, "I am wholly
innocent of the dreadful crime of which Ism
accused, although I confess I see in the doom
that is about to be passed upon me a fit
recompense fur my wickedness and disobe
dience. I was, however, until informed of
it by the officer who took me into custody.
as ignorant of this poor man's existence as
of his death."
"My lord," cried I, speaking with an
energy and distinctness that astonished my
self, "this young man has spoken the truth,
as I can testify."
There was a tremendous sensation in the
court at this announcement, and it was
some minutes before I was allowed to take
my place in the witness box. The counsel
for the crown objected to my becoming evi
dence at that period of the proceedings at
all, and threw himself into the legal ques
tion with all the indignation which he had
previously exhibited against the practice of
midnight murder; but eventually the court
overruled him, and I was sworn.
I stated that I did not know the prisoner
by name, but that I could swear to his
identity. I described how, upon the sth of
March last, the local builder, beingin want
of hands, had hired the accused to assist in
the construction of a bow-window in the
drawing-room of our house in Dorsetshire.
The counsel for the prosecution, affecting
to dibbelieve my sudden recognition of the
prisoner, hero requested to known whether
aoy particular circumstance had recalled
him to my mind, or whether I had only a
vague and general recollection of him.
"I had only that," I confessed, "until the
prisoner spoke; his voice is peculiar, and
I remember very distinctly to have heard
it upon the occasion I speak of; he had the
misfortune to tread upon his foot-rule and
break it while at work upon the window,
and I heard him lamenting the occurrence."
Here the counsel for the accused reminded
the court that a broken foot-rule had been
found upon the prisoner's person at the
time of his apprehension.
Within some five minutes, in short, the
feelings of judge, jury, and spectators, en
tirely changed; and the poor young fellow
at the bar, instead, instead of having sen
tence of death passed upon him, found him
self, through my means, set very soon at
liberty. lie came over to me at the inn to
express him sense of my prompt interference,
and to beg to know how he might show his
gratitude. "I am not so mean a fellow as I
seem," said he; "and I hope, by God's
blessing, to be yet a credit to the parents
to whom I have behaved so ill."
"What is your real name?" inquired 1,
struck by a sudden impulse.
"My real name," replied the young man,
blushing deeply, "is Courtenay, and my
home, where I hope to be to-night, is at
Coulees farm, across the Exe."
And 801. bad not been called so mysteri
ously at four o'clock in the morning, with.
out a good and sufficient reason, after all.
Touching (and Touched) Character
Some few years ago the reading room of
the Bibliotheque Royale, at Paris, was fre
quented by a personage whose quaint cos
tume could not fail to attract the notice of
every visitor. Dressed from top to toe in a
close-fitting garb of red, or blue, or yellow
cloth, with the grand cordon of some nn•
known order of knighthood around his neck,
and his hat adorned with artificial flowers,
bright beads, and tinsel ornaments of every
description, the strangely accoutred student
would sit all day long in one particular
place, with his bead beet over his book, ap.
parently wrapt in attention to the subject
before him. Ho was a man past middle
life, his hair and beard were gray, and his
countenance, which had evidently once been
handsome, bore traces of long and deep suf
fering, in the furrows with which it was
plentifully seamed. The curiosity excited
by the singularity of his dress could not fail
to be Increased by the ineffable sorrow ex•
pressed in his face; and if any one, inter
ested in his appearance, inquired who he
was, he probably obtained no other answer
than this: "It is Carnevale"
Indeed, Carnevale's history was so well
known to the habitues of the library, that
they thought no further answer was neces
sary; but if the inquirer pursued hir ques
tions ho might have heard the following ac
couut of him:
Carnevale was an Italian of a highly re
spectable family in Naples. Ile came to
Paris about the year 1826, young, hand
some, and wall provided with money. With
these advantages he had no difficulty in get
ting into society, and was received with open
arms by his fellow countrymen resident in
the French capital. Suddenly, however, he
disappeared, his friends lost eidelret him;
no one knew why or whither he had gone,
until some time atter wards it was disco,-
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT 1N ADVANCE.
ered that he had fallen passionately in love,
and had sought solitude in order to enjoy
undisturbed the sweet society of the mistress
of his affections. But his happiness was of
short duration; the lady died, and her death
robbed poor Carnevale not only of all that
was dearest to him on earth, but of his rea
son too.
When be had in some degree recovered
from the first violence of the shock, be went
daily to pray and weep at her tomb. The
watchman at the cemetery noticed that, at
every visit, he took a paper, folded in the
shape of a letter, from his pocket, and placed
it under the stone. This was communicated
to Carnevale's friends, one of whom went to
the grave, and found five letters hidden
there: one for each day since her burial.—
The last was to this effect, though it is im
possible to render in a translation all the
Tathetic grace of the original Italian:
DEAREST: You do not answer my letterrs,
and yet you know that I love you. Have
you forgotten me amid the occupations of
the other land. It would be unkind—very
unkind—if you had. But now, for five days
—five long days—l have waited for news of '
you. I cannot sleep, or if I close my eyes
for an instant, it is to dream of you.
Why did you not leave me your address?
I would have sent you your clothes and
trinkets. * * But no! do not send for
them: for pity's sake, leave them with me.
I have arranged them on chairs, and I fancy
you are in the next room, and that you will
soon come in and dress yourself. Besides,
these things which you have worn spread a
perfume through my little room; and so I
am happy when I come in.
I wish I had your portrait, very well done,
very much like you, so as to be able to com
pete with the other—for 'have one already.
It is in my eyes, and it can never change.
Whether I shut my eyes, or open them, I
see you always., * * All, my darling!
how skillful is the great artist who has left
me this portrait!
Farewell, dearest! Write to me to-mor•
row, or to-day, if you can. If you are very
busy, I will not ask you for a page, or even
for a line—only three words. Tell me only
that you love me. CARSEVA LE.
His friend, imagining that he was suffer
ing from an illusive melancholy which
every day would tend to decrease, requested
the watchman to take away the letters as
Carnevale brought them; but the result was
not as he anticipated. On finding that his
lore did not send him any reply, Carnevale
fell into a state of gloomy despair; otter
having written thirty letters, he ceased his
visits to the cemetery.
It was about this time that, as he walked
along the Boulevards, be saw a variety of
bright-colored cloths displayed in a draper's
window. He smiled at seeing them, and
entering the shop, purchased several yards
of each sort of cloth. A week afterwards
he appeared in the streets in a complete
suit of red; hat, coat, waiscoat, trowsers
and shoes, all red, and of a fantastic cut.
A crowd soon gathered around him, and
he returned home with at least five hun
dred idlers at his heels. The next day he
came out in a yellow suit; the day after, in
a suit of sky-blue; each day he was follow
ed by a fresh crowd; but ere long the
Parisians became familiar with the eccen
tricity of his attire, and none but strangers
turned to gaze at him. It was noticed,
however, that /re varied his dress from day
to day, not in any regular succession, but
capriciously, and as if in accordance with
his frame of mind.
During the revolution of 1830, his strange
costume nearly proved fatal to him. As be
took no interest in passing events, never
conversing with any one, and never reading
a newspaper, he was perfectly unaware of
what was occurring, and had no idea that
Paris was in a state of revolution. On the
28th of July, as he was walking along the
quays, he fell in with a band of insurgents
from the faubourgs, who, not being famil
liar with his appearance and being misled
dy the cordon round his neck, took him for
a foreign prince, and were going to throw
him into the Seine. lie was fortunately
recognized by a cab-driver, who explained
who he was, and, obtained his liberation.—
It was with great difficulty that Carnevale
was brought to understand that Paris was
in an uproar, and that his gay habiliments
had brought him into peril of his life; but
when, the next day, he once more put on
black clothes, he relapsed into his former
sadness, lie felt his brain grow disturbed;
he remembered with painful acuteness the
death of his love; he was conscious that
day by day, his reason was abandoning
him. As soon as he found this was the
case, he betook himself, of his own accord,
to the hospital at Bicetre, and remained
there for some time, under treatment. The
physicians were amazed to hear a madman
reason as calmly as he did about his con
dition.
"Send for my colored clothes," said he
one day. His request was complied with;
and as soon as he had put on his red suit,
he resumed his former gayety.
"It was the black clothes," he said,
"that made me ill. 1 cannot endure black.
You aro all very foolish to sacrifice to so
ugly a fashion. You always look as if you
were going to a funeral. For my part,
when I am very joyful, I put on my red
suit; it becomes me so well—and, besides,
my friends know what it means. When
they see me in red, they say, 'Carnevale is
in a very goof humor to-day.' When I am
not in such good spirits, I put on my yellow
suit; that looks very nice also. And when
I am a little melancholy, and the sun does
not shine very brightly, I put on tiny blue
clothes."
When Le left the hospital, finding that
his fortune was somewhat diminished, Car-
[WHOLE NUMBER 1,511.
nevale determined to add to his means by
giving lessons in Italian. Ile soon obtaixed
a number of pupils; for his story became
known, and gained him many friends. His
manner of teaching, too, was excellent; he
never.scolded his pupils or gave them im
positions. If they knew their lessons well,
he would promise to come next time in his
apple-green dress; but if he were dissatis
fied with them, he would say, "Ah! I shall
be obliged to come:to-morrow in my cOffee
colored suit."
Thus lie rewarded and punished his pupils
always, and he could easily do it, for he
had more than sixty suits, each of one color
throughout; all ticketed and hung up, with
the greatest care, in a room which he al
lowed. no one to enter but himself.
His circle of acquaintance, towards the
end of hie life, became very large. His
gentle manners and harmless eccentricities,
made him welcome everywhere. At the Ne
apolitan embassy he was a constant guest,
and with the artists of the Italian theatre
he was a special favorite. Though not tieh
his income more than sufficed his moderate
wants, and he gave away a great deal in
charity. No poor Italian ever applied to
him in vain for assistance; many have owed
Success to his zealous recommendation of
them to his influential friends. He delight
ed in being of service. His habits were
very simple. Every morning he rose at
five o'clock from the leathern armchair in
which he slept; for he would not sleep in a
bed. After a visit to the fish market, to
make purchases for his friends, he would re•
turn home, and prepare with his own hands,
a dish of potatoes for his breakfast. Hie
day was spent with his pupils, or at the li
brary, and ended with a walk in the boule
vards. In walking, if he met any one he
knew, he would take his arm, and enter in
to a long conversation about Italy, music,
or some other favorite topic; and he would
fancy that the person that he had thus casu
ally encountered was Bellini, Napoleon,
Malibran, or some equally illustrious decea
sed. This hallucination was a source of
great pleasure to him; it was in vain to tell
him that Napoleon, Malibran, end Bellini
were dead. "They are dead to you, I ad
mit," he would answer, "but not to me. I
am endowed with senses that you do not pos
sess. I assure you they are,not dead; they
love me, and. frequent my company." Poor
Carnevale! May the sun shine brightly on
his grave.
The Gorilla
In Dickens' All The rear Round, we find
the following description of this animal,
which is said to be more closely allied, in
structure, to the human form of any than
the brute creation:
"The gorilla is of the average height or
man, five feet six inches; his brain case is
low and narrow, and, as the fore part of
the skull is high, and there is a very promi
nent ridge above the eyes, the top of the
head is perfectly flat, and the brow, with
its thick integument, fora2sa scowling pent
house over the eyes. Couple with this a
deep lead-colored skin, much wrinkled, op
prominent jaw with the canine teeth (in the,
males) of huge size, a receding chin; and
we have an exaggeration of the lowest and
most forbidding type of human physiognomy.
The neck is short; the head pokes forward.
The relative porportions of the body and
limbs are nearer those of man, yet they,
are of snore ungainly aspect, than in any
other of the .brute kind. Long shapeless
arms, thick and muscular, with scarce any
diminution of size deserving the name of
wrist (for at the smallest they are fourteen
inches round while a strong man's wrist is
not above eight;) a wide, thick hand, the
palm long, and the fingers short, swollen
and gouty-looking; capacious chest; broad
shoulders; legs also thick and shapeless,
destitute of calf, and very muscular, yet
short; a hind like a foot with a thumb to
it, 'of huge dimensions and portentous
power of grasp.' No wonder the lion
skulks before before the monster, and even
the elephant is based by his malicious
cunning. activity and strength. The teeth
indicate a vegetable diet, but the repast is
sometimes varied with eggs, or a brood of
young birds. The chief reason of his en
mity to the elephant appears to be, not that
it ever intentionally injures him, but that
it merely shares his taste for certain favor
ite fruits. And when from his watch-tower
in the upper branches of's tree he perceives
an elephant helping himself to the delica
cies, he steals along the bough, and striking
its sensitive proboscis a violent blow with
the club with which he is almost always
armed, drives off the startled giant, shrink
ing with rage and pain.
"Towards the negroes, the gorilla seems
to cherrish an implacable hatred; heattacka
theta quite unprovoked. If a pasty of
blacks approach unconsciously within range
of a tree haunted by one of these wood-de
mons—swinging rapidly down to the lower
branches, he clutches, with his thumbed
foot, at the nearest of them; his green eyes
dash with rage, his hair stands on end, and
the skin above the eyes draws rapidly up
and down, giving him a fiendish scowl.--.
Sometimes daring their excursions in quest
of ivory in those gloomy forests the natives
will first discover the proximity of * gotilla
by the sudden mysterious disappesststme of
one of their companions, The brute; sag
ling for him with this horrible foot, dropped
from a tree while his strong arm gratigiedit
firmly, stretches down his hap binir-hind,
seizes the helpless wretch by the' threat;