spectacles the evils that manifest themselves in all | given, and the result is directly the reverse. The reporter does not aim to address the conscience; he does not therefore select those aspects of the scene that have the most power for the conscience, and which are precisely the ones that may have the least power for the imagination. His object is not the moral, but the sentimental. The very feeling which is condemned as a motive when it leads a man to witness an execution, is the one he seeks to gratify. He would produce a thrilling picture; his object is to make us shudder; his great ambition is to set forth his graphic power as a sketcher of the terrible, the exciting, and often the revolting. Sometimes he attempts to moralize, but it is generally some nauseously hypocritical diatribe on the bad effects of public executions, or an affected wonder that any curiosity should lead men to gaze upon a spectacle which he, the humane reporter, suffers to pain his eyes only out of a sense of duty to the public. His purpose, we say, is to paint a thrilling scene, and in such a picture, of course the animal is predominant over the moral. The whole, as a whole, is discolored and distorted. What may be truly stated in itself is false in the relations it has assumed in passing through his own mind and his There is a moral power-there must be a moral power-in a public execution conducted with those imposing solemnities which the judicial authorities of the State might throw around it. Even amid all defects the true lesson, we have no doubt, has been often and impressively taught. Men who think at all, can not help feeling that they stand in the pres-own imagination. Other parts are left out; and ence of a higher power and a higher principle than much is the pure creation of one whose very occuthat of expediency, or any merely private or social pation leads him, perhaps unconsciously, to make utility. Crimes have been committed in sight of the scenic predominant over the real. There is the gallows, but this does not go to disprove the fact thus produced that most demoralizing result-the of a deep moral impression upon the multitudes excitement of the sensitive or animal nature, conwhose outward demeanor presents no visible fact nected with no moral association, and grounded on which the reporter or the news-vendor could make no true moral principle. For these (the moral asthe subject of some exciting paragraph. Human pects) are either wholly thrown in the background, depravity may exhibit itself under almost any cir-or, it may be, if mentioned at all, called by a false cumstances; but who knows in how many minds the dread spectacle to the sense may have produced that indelible association of ideas which no speculative ethical teaching could have so impressed upon the soul-that true moral suasion which henceforth makes crime and retribution one thought, one feeling-conceptively as well as logically indivisible? This may not perhaps be tested by outward evidences, but all reasoning from the established laws of moral associations goes to show that such must be the general tendency at least, while contrary appearances only present the inconsider able yet prominent exception. name, and actually denounced in the reforming cant of the day. Let the If justice must conceal herself-if executions must be private-let them be wholly so. only public knowledge be the sworn certificate of the sheriff, and the magistrate, that the deed has been done. Beyond this, let the curtain be wholly dropped. Above all, let there be a total exclusion of any one connected with the newspaper press, or of any other person who goes there for the immoral purpose of picturing to the unregulated imagination what is declared to be wrong for the eye, under the dominion of the conscience, to behold. This is de putting a stop to the demoralizing hypocrisy which it causes to abound in the reasonings of those who defend the practice. The occupation is a base one, full as much so, we think, as that of the despised hangman who is hired to perform his painful work. There is no consistency in it. Why should it be forbidden as demoralizing for a man to see truly with his own eyes, what he is permitted to see, more or less falsely, through the refracting eyes and discoloring imagination of another? It is the contrary practice which is demoralizing-manded, if on no other ground, for the purpose of demoralizing in its very nature and principle, without any corresponding and balancing benefit. In a former Number of our Editor's Table, many months ago, we dwelt upon the difference of moral effect produced by the actual sight of an event or a stage representation of it. The same distinction may be taken here between the actual spectacle of a public execution and the reading a newspaper account, dressed up to produce a dramatic effect. In the one case we have the naked truth; the moral power comes to us undisturbed by any factitious senti- We are happy to think that there is a very rementalism. In the other the scene rises to the spectable portion of the press to whom these reimagination with the hue and savor of another mind, marks do not apply. And yet it is most evident whose aim has not been the moral impression, but that, since the passage of the law requiring private what is called a thrilling effect upon the sensitive, executions, there has arisen a new department of or, in other words, the animal nature. In the spec- newspaper writing, which may not inaptly be styled tacle itself there is both the moral and the animal our "Gallows Literature." We have a specimen beelement, but the former is most likely to be the strong-fore us, which was put out on a very recent occaest. In the fearful reality the imagination, instead of demanding stimulants, is awed into sobriety, while Conscience has thus a chance to become predominant. Let the same scene be made the subject of a newspaper report, especially as they are usually sion, and may serve as a representative of the whole class. It is got up with all that species of clap-trap which is sometimes found in the bookmaking craft. Captions and titles are presented in such a way as to catch the eye, and exert a spuri ous "thrilling" influence upon the imagination. | priests and monks are sober men; there is no posThe opening section or paragraph is headed, "The sibility of laughter indicated upon their serious Condemned Cell;" next comes the "Watch with faces: the spectator feels that these are the porthe Convict;" then, in graphic order, the "Striking traits of those whose lives dedicated them to solemoff the Chains," the "Entrance of the Sheriff," the nity. Nor can it be matter of surprise that, learn"Procession to the Gallows," the "Prayer," the ing by experience the exceeding sinfulness of sin, "Drawing down the Cap," the "Adjustment of the men of an ascetic temperament were persuaded Rope." Along with this we are told how the that there could not be an exclusive devotion to wretched man looked, and when he trembled, and holy offices, to ghostly meditations, and sharp, hard when and how long convulsions writhed his limbs; penances, so great that it could balance the colossal all winding up perhaps with the usual homily about woe and sin of the world. the "vindictiveness of the law," and the usual wonder that men could ever have brought themselves to witness the spectacle of a public execution. Yet every vocation believes strongly in itself; and, for our part, sitting, observant and critical, in our Easy Chair, we are not disposed to allow that any class of men are so familiar with the foibles, if Few things, we think, are doing more really to not sins, of their fellow-men, as editors. They are demoralize the public mind and pollute the public the presiding genii of publicity. Therefore, every imagination than this same "Gallows Literature," man who has a theory or a plan whereby to benefit whether found in the pages of a novel, or the vile mankind, and to damage or not, as it chances, his newspaper that has its circulation in the lowest own purse and reputation; every man who has porter-houses. But space will not permit us to contemplated his own navel until he is solemnly pursue the theme. Some things we have stated convinced that he has seen to the bottom of it; evmay be liable to misconstruction; the argument is ery man who, being unable to help himself, is cockof necessity imperfectly stated, but we would trust sure that he can help the world; every man who the intelligent reader to follow it out in its more is going to lecture, or sing, or act, or preach, or extended bearings. It may be thought, too, that criticise, is sure to beg the good offices of the edsome aspects of the doctrine presented have a harshitor, and to expose himself, his spirit, and the seand forbidding appearance, and some may call them cret of his projects, to carry his point of being anPharisaical; but we assume no untenable ground nounced to the public. when we affirm, that they are not only consistent with, but the only views that are consistent with, the most humbling sense of each man's individual | desert, as well as the purest spirit of human brotherhood or universal philanthropy. Editor's Easy Chair. Sitting quietly in his Easy Chair, the editor sees it all; he hears the asseverations of sincerity, integrity, patriotism, devotion, and the long catalogue of amiable virtues, with singular equanimity. Flute, the bellows-mender, trusts that his honesty will not be questioned, while the air is still ringing with the sonorous appeals to his past career and his well-known probity, of Snout the tinker. Editors N Editor who plants his Easy Chair in the never care to go to the theatre-they are never elec A York, sees trifed by touched by pee much more than he tells, and much more than oth- try; the simple virtues seem to them hum-drum; ers believe. If a confessor could reveal the thou- the great excellencies, artificial. That distinguishsand-hued experience which is laid bare before ed statesman, the Honorable Thomas Tit, seems him; if he could report to the world the eager, to them a bag of wind; and that fervent divine, the trembling whispers of hope, the terrible threats, the Rev. Balm Salve, a milksop: they do not believe idiotic hatreds, black malice, despair, and unchari- in your superior medicated soap, and they turn a tableness, which smooth red lips or rough-bearded deaf ear to Signora Sirena, the delicious prima ones breathe in his sacred ear, we should not will-donna; they do not read books, and an author bores ingly believe him, or we should all look upon each other with doubt and sadness. People often say, with a self-satisfied shrug of conscious virtue, "Oh! the world is so much better than you think." But what man does not secretly witness to himself, from his own peculiar and unsuspected experience, that it is much worse? That the tree of knowledge bears unhappiness for its fruit, is an axiom old as the Bible. The modiste drapes Lady Macbeth with the graceful splendors of the last fashion; the physician takes care that the physical functions shall have their proper play; but what physician can minister to the mind diseased, or what modiste drape with grace moral deformity? them; they seat themselves, yawning and disgusted, to pen resonant paragraphs about public probity and private honor, and call upon an indignant and outraged country to note that they are not as other men are; they save and lose mankind by rhetorical flourishes, and are the most weary, worn, desillusioné, and blasé of mortals. Now nothing is so natural as this chronic faithlessness and want of interest. It is because they perpetually see the skeleton of affairs. The public goes, after a successful dinner, and sits comfortably upon crimson velvet to hear the dulcet notes of a paragon of loveliness. But the editor has been wrangling all the morning with the miserly manager about bills and advertisements, and knows just how much the lovely paragon pockets by her charity concert. Seen from the front, there is a beautiful young Spanish woman serenaded by moonlight, in a stately palace, and the innocent daughter of your bosom is warmed with romance and vivid sympathy. But from the rear of the stage-alas! there are no palaces nor Spanish There is an old dispute among the professions upon this very point. Which reveals the greatest variety of experience? Is the lawyer, the physician, or the clergyman, the wiser man, by reason of the unrestrained play of human passion which he witnesses? We laugh at the clergyman as a man who is never admitted to the real secrets and sympathies of men. And yet, what other class of men see so much of man in moments when subter-houris, only a rouged grinning old woman, and a fuge and hypocrisy avail nothing? Is life to be learned in the counting-house, and not in the chamber of death? In the old Catholic pictures, the slab of daubed canvas, with cross-bars of rough wood. Unfortunately, an editor always sits behind the scenes. There are better plays in his of fice than you pay a half-dollar to see at the theatre. It is no wonder that he is weary and worn; it is only wonderful that he can compose such fine things about it all for his readers in the morning. "Threatening, sneering, scoffing, mad, merry, and ridiculous letters." "We know the ropes," continued we, compla cently. "But the best of all," proceeded Grayquill, smiling a shrewd and quiet smile, "is this: it is dated Smithville." "Where is Smithville?" "Well, nobody knows precisely. It's some little farming village up among the hills." "Very well, what says 'our man' from Smithville?" 46 Listen," said Grayquill. Now and then, of course, some of these fine things happen to operate like sparks in a magazine, and there is a great explosion, either of the public powder or of some very little private heap of some very little private man. If it is the former case, there is indignant renunciation by the great organs of public opinion-that is to say, Messrs. Ink, Blink, and Mink write three flaming editorials, which are published simultaneously, and the net result is called public opinion. If it is the latter case, and the little private man is a brave man, and believes "Smithville, May, 18-. himself wronged, he knows that the expression is "The ingratitude of the imbecile miscreants only that of another little private man, although it of New York, who are only suffered to live by the may be fifty or a hundred thousand times re-echoed supply of bad eggs from Smithville, outrages belief. by just as many copies of his paper as there are We've hatched you. We've done every thing for printed, and he calls for explanation. On such oc- you. We send you thin milk watered, we send casions, high words, horse-whippings, and evanish-you bran-new pine nutmegs. We send you ricketty ings from windows-what the poet calls "fallings beef. We send you all our offal, which is only too from us"-sometimes ensue. There is a general good for such puppies to live upon. We send you escape of steam, and every body feels better. bad eggs to support you-you live by our permission; and we honor you by spending your money, and allowing you to pay for every thing we want. And now, because we wish to make our bad eggs worse, you are trying to stop us, as if they wouldn't be too good for you, any way. You are all a pack of ungrateful, insolent scoundrels; and that you particularly, from whom we have borrowed more than from any one else, should talk about what you haven't the brains to comprehend, is just what such a deformed pup of an imperfect dam would be sure to do. Just you come by the train that leaves New York next Monday at five in the afternoon, and stop at Smithville, and you'll find what's thought of you by your masters, But if the offended little man happens not to be brave, nor manly, nor sensible, then he sits down and writes a furious letter, calling that unhappy editor very hard names, and threatening him with all kinds of conceivable perils and punishments. And if the little man is a very little man indeed, he is sure to keep at a great distance from the editor's Easy Chair when he writes his furious little letter, and, above all, takes great care not to sign his name. That is a truly formidable missile! There are always not less than a score of them discharged daily at every editorial Easy Chair. The first word betrays them, and pop they go, without a thought farther, into the waste-basket, with only a single glance to make quite sure that it is that most futile and foolish of weapons-an anonymous letter. Of all kinds of cheap courage, this is the cheapest. A man who personally confronts a supposed antagonist, and takes the consequences of an encounter-however hot, and wild, and enraged he may be carries a certain heroism in his conduct, and inspires a kind of respect. Or a man who, being known as the editor of a journal, speaks his mind freely in his paper, is respectable, because he assumes personally the responsibility of what he says. But a man who sends a tissue of ill-written ribaldry, who kicks painfully and pointlessly from under cover, simply writes himself down an ass, and to no one appears so amusingly imbecile as to him whom he sought to insult. We were forcibly reminded of this the other day, by a visit from our cool old contemporary, Grayquill, who, on his way to his Easy Chair, stopped for a moment to chat with ours. "Do you remember," said he, "my last leader against the Eccaleobion, or machine for hatching eggs by artificial heat?" 66 "Yes," said we, "perfectly, and a sound article it was." "I took the ground, you remember," he continued, "that the process injured the maternal instincts of the hen." "Yes." "BAD EGGS."" Grayquill laughed as he folded up this precious document. "Next Monday," said he, "when the train that leaves New York at five o'clock reaches Smithville, the population of that estimable village will be less by one person, and that is, the writer of this letter, who will be troubled by the conviction that a stranger may possibly arrive and ask for him. I rather think he will go out of town on business at five o'clock that afternoon." And old Grayquill departed, whistling Partant pour La Syrie. In our placid monthly cogitations and criticisms upon the world and its movements, we are so fortunate as not to have incensed the great bad-egg interest. It probably considers our periodical remarks not worth its notice, although we mean to oppose badness in eggs to the very last quill. The daily journals, like Grayquill's, have a constant teasing, stinging, spurring, hectoring influence which addles that great interest with a perfect frenzy. A daily paper is compelled to turn every thing to account. The demand for subjects and novelty is so constant, that an anonymous letter may often furnish a text for several squibs-except that they are usually too dull, and are cast into the basket, as we said, with a sigh that they were not piquant enough to point a paragraph. But to assault our Easy Chair would be a losing labor. It must be a double "And therefore tended to general fowl demoral- blow in the dark. "We," in this instance, are ization." "Perfectly," we answered. "Very well," continued Grayquill, "I have received all kinds of anonymous letters about it." more than usually mysterious. The "we" of most Journals is known. The "we" of this Easy Chair is not obvious. Of course you will say, perhaps in an anonymous way-that it is perfectly obvious. the world around us. There are no exaggerations, no surprises. The heroes and heroines do not suddenly burst into impossible feats of virtue, and the laws of nature are not suspended apropos of a woman's tears or a man's misfortunes. There is a steady, tragical persistence in the tale. If you smile, it is quite unawares. If you weep, the tears ooze, as when you sit in the parlor and see the young You will draw exasperating illustrations from the habits of the ostrich, that thrusts its head, &c. &c. It is a little trite, to be sure, but triteness is trite in anonymous assertions. You will say, "How could any one mistake?" and "it is perfectly clear that-" and "of all melancholy and amusing delusions to suppose-"&c. But if our assertion only procures us the novelty of an anonymous letter, we shall be quite satisfied. We promise to take it to Gray-people merrily dancing about the room. With the quill, and to compare it with the choice communication he showed us. And there are persons who believe that an Easy Chair is a seat of roses! Alas! is any coign of vantage such? If you could have magic spectacles, which, by merely putting upon your nose, would reveal to you not only what seemed, but what truly was, would you accept them? If, over the cradle of your first-born, two fairies hovered, one with the rosy vail of doubt, and hope, and wondering human ignorance, and the other with the melancholy magic which, once touching the eyes, stripped all shows from the solemn substance, would you drop over your child's eyes the vail, or touch them with the magic? Why, under the bloom of youth and beauty, should you wish to see the skeleton? Why, in the rose's heart, long to detect the worm? Why, through the warm ardor of first love, yearn to feel the shuddering forecast of coming coldness, neglect, despair, and death? To know, is the consuming ambition of man. But it is because a beneficent fate has laid him in the lap of mystery. They who know men best are not the gayest. We said that the fruit of the tree of knowledge was rather bitter than sweet. It is alluring by bloom and beauty. The apples of Sodom are grafted from the orchard of Eden. After all, would you in truth be an Editor? and do you fancy that a Chair is Easy because it is called so, or that knowledge satisfies because it constantly teases desire? Then listen to the story of the Elle-Maids, and remember that there are more Aasums and Odensees than are mentioned in mythology. "There lived a man in Aasum, near Odensee, who, as he was coming home one night from Seden, passed by a hill that was standing on red pillars, and underneath there was dancing and great festivity. He hurried on past the hill as fast as he could, never venturing to cast his eyes that way. But as he went along, two fair maidens came to meet him, with beautiful hair floating over their shoulders, and one of them held a cup in her hand, which she reached out to him that he might drink of it. The other then asked him if he would come again, at which he laughed, and answered, Yes. But when he got home, he became strangely affected in his mind, was never at ease in himself, and was continually saying that he had promised to go back. And when they watched him closely to prevent his doing so, he at last lost his senses, and died shortly after." It is our impulse every month, as we seat ourselves in the Chair, to speak of The Newcomes. We are restrained by the conviction that many of our readers are not yet interested in the fortunes of that "most respectable family," and that too much mention wearies. But the charm of the book is constantly renewed. It makes its impression, like life, silently and unsuspectedly. There are no fierce and stirring scenes, and points, and culminations, and crises; there is none of the old hack machinery of novels; but as we sit in our Chair and read the story, it is quite the same thing as reading conscience of a great artist, the author says: "Nature is our mistress and our model. If she can touch and teach us, let us attend to her lessons, and be wiser and sadder men. There shall be no clap-trap; no forced contrasts; no impossibly good men, and incredibly beautiful angels stepping about in petticoats, and diffusing millennial splendors. If you choose you shall rail, because in drawing a heroine I do not conjure such a figure to your mental eye, as the mantua-maker displays to your outward vision in her sumptuous window. You shall swear that I am a cynic, because I write what you believe and act upon. You shall cry, To arms! because I expose the strong sanctity which serves to cover rank sin, even as Lady Whittlesea's chapel is built over Mr. Sherrick's secure wine-vaults." Now, we understand that in some quarters the cry to arms! has been heard. It is asserted that an assault is made upon sacred proprieties, because that sleek sinner, the Rev. Charles Honeyman, is presented to the derisive gaze of an attentive and discriminating world. We are suspicious at this, because we had supposed that if any body of men would have hailed the author of The Newcomes as their sturdy and invincible ally, it would have been the clergy. Is any class so interested in the exposure of that smooth pretense which apes and assumes Christian rectitude and simplicity? Is it so directly the concern of any body that quacks should be exposed, as of the medical profession? From the beginning of literature and art, have not the most purgative processes, the most searching and successful applications, for the benefit of every thing and every body, been the publication of frauds, shams, and humbugs, to which the meanness and selfishness of men so incessantly tend? Doubtless, the truth may sometimes be spoken unwisely. A heated denial may seem to be as furious as a hot assertion. The line between contemptuous exposure of the simulation and the appreciative recognition of the thing simulated may be too obscurely drawn. But we venture to say that the sympathy of a thoughtful and sober man is so closely engaged to the simplicity and sanctity of the right, that he will tolerate to the last touch any picture of this most monstrous and most universal sin of hypocrisy and pious pretense. It is for the very reason that the thing is so important and essential, that he will hail every thing which may tend to keep it pure, so it be wisely and well done. The question now is simply this: Is more harm done to the cause of pure religion and undefiled, by the fact of the existence and constantly-spreading contagion of such characters as the Rev. Charles Honeyman, or by their exposure? For ourselves, we can not have any doubt. It does not even seem to be a question at all. And to say that their exposure serves to bring true morality and religion into contempt, seems to be a forgetfulness of "Woe unto ye! Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!" What is such an assertion but a confession that the whole commonwealth of religion is so infected that the exposure of a traitor will lead to a discovery of general decay? We reject the idea and the infer ence. It is not to be considered a moment. No | marches away to its basement, whence, should it cause of real importance has any true power or in-happen to be a gala day, those tall gentlemen at fluence when it is not sincerely supported by wise present attired in Oxford mixture, will issue forth men. It is in vain that there is a conspiracy to preserve appearances. The cause will crumble as fast as you try to patch, and its blackness will glare the more you whitewash. To shudder lest a probe touch it, is to confess either its real stability or your want of faith in it. with flour plastered on their heads, yellow coats, pink breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, silver lace, buckles in their shoes, black silk bags on their backs, and I don't know what insane emblems of servility and absurd bedizenments of folly. Their very manner of speaking to what we call their masters and mistresses will be a like monstrous masquerade. You know no more of that race which inhabits the basement floor, than of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to whom some among us send missionaries. If you meet some of your ser moment that the reader is a person of high fashion and a great establishment), you would not know their faces. You might sleep under the same roof for half a century, and know nothing about them. If they were ill, you would not visit them, though you would send them an apothecary, and of course order that they lacked for nothing. You are not unkind, you are not worse than your neighbors. Nay, perhaps if you did go into the kitchen, or to take the tea in the servants' hall, you would do little good, and only bore the folks assembled there. But so it is. With those fellow Christians who have just been saying Amen to your prayers, you have scarcely the community of Charity. They come, you don't know whence; they think and talk you don't know what; they die, and you don't care, or vice versa. They answer the bell for prayers as That the author of The Newcomes in no manner they answer the bell for coals: for exactly three offends taste, delicacy, propriety, nor any the most minutes in the day you all kneel together on one airy of the lighter graces of conduct, in his treat-carpet-and, the desires and petitions of the serment of subjects which have elicited sharp criti-vants and masters over, the rite called family worcism; but that he is, on the contrary, just, gener- ship is ended." ous, thoughtful, and humane, with only the natural human and kindly feeling of a human heart, which smiles with pity in the midst of its sighing over the sickly glare of gilded goodness, we shall show, by quoting from Chapter XIV., published in our April number, the description of the performance of family prayers; and if any reader supposes that a simple and hearty piety is traduced by it, he must also suppose that to nail a counterfeit note to the counter is to injure the credit of the bank which is sought to be defrauded by it. For ourselves, we hail every fresh exposure of deceit and corruption, wherever it may be. The old church militant doctrine of the end justifying the means, does not prevail with sober men. Whoever believes in God can never despair of man, and will certainly never suffer any Charles Honey-vants in the streets (I respectfully suppose for a mans to throw obloquy by their lives upon the names they bear and the principles they profess. Whoever believes thus, also, will have no fear that the truth, which is eternal, will be shaken or shivered by the scathing anathemas of purient vice. The expression of such fear is treason to the righteous cause. What weapon so deadly can be put into the hands of a man who is really skeptical of the right, as the opportunity of saying to those who profess to believe-" You have so little real faith in truth that you tremble to have hypocrisy exposed!" Every manly mind courts the most searching scrutiny. Every confident heart dares malice, wit, learning, and sarcasm to do their worst, that the weakness of their worst may be made evident to the whole world, and remain a recorded triumph of the truth. The family of Sir Brian Newcome are summoned for family prayers in the morning. The household all poured into the room. The author continues: In our last month's chat we had something to say about a metropolis, what it was, and what it was not. It is clear that mere size and wealth do not constitute metropolitan character. But there are certain points in which New York is gradually growing up to that character; or, we will say, to the appearance of a metropolis. Fine architecture is essential to an imposing city. No city so small is so splendid and so memorable as Venice. In fact, all the Italian cities have a beauty and character which separate them in remembrance from many much larger places. And of old Athens"Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon its zone." Street architecture is a subject daily more interesting to us. Its value and beauty are every day, also, more elaborately illustrated. Broadway is fast becoming a street of palaces. There is such a street in Genoa, very narrow, and lined with pal "I do not sneer at the purpose for which, at that chiming eight o'clock bell, the household is called together. The urns are hissing, the plate is shining; the father of the house standing up, reads from a gilt book for three or four minutes in a measured cadence. The members of the family are around the table in an attitude of decent rev-aces, broad eaves and arching doors, and recessed erence, the younger children whisper responses at windows and balconies overflowing with luxuriant their mother's knees; the governess worships a olives, and bits of garden, hanging-gardens, bloomlittle apart; the maids and the large footmen are in ing with oranges and oleanders. And as you a cluster before their chairs, the upper servants per- saunter along in the deep shadow, or in that happy forming their devotion on the other side of the side-hour when the sun shines into that long, narrow board; the nurse whisks about the unconscious fissure among marble cliffs, for so must the strada last-born, and tosses it up and down during the cere- Balbi seem to Uriel in the sun, you believe that mony. I do not sneer at that at the act at which plumed and doubleted gentlemen, and ladies with all these people are assembled-it is at the rest of gorgeous stomacher and ample train will issue from the day I marvel; at the rest of the day, and what the lofty doors and pass on to some princely feast, it brings. At the very instant when the voice has while pages, balancing falcons upon their wrists, ceased speaking and the gilded book is shut, the lean over the lofty balustrades of the court withinworld begins again, and for the next twenty-three longing to be, each, a Fridolin. hours and fifty-seven minutes, all that household is given up to it. The servile squad rises up and We have not quite reached this pitch of romantic suggestion in Broadway. Yet any man walking |