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I scorned to seek an asylum at that mo

ment.

I am now going to describe phantasms which, although they were the tricks of madness, I as vividly recall at this hour as though they were the realities of yesterday.

At last we reached the Astor House. Only the old gentleman and the lady I have mentioned were with me in the stage. Then, for the first time, my fear became so great that, for a moment, my insane firmness failed me. I asked the gentleman, with an air of indifferenco as good as I could command, whether he was going as far as Wall street? He replied no; that he was about to get out there. Accordingly, he stopped the omnibus, and descended with the lady. Fearing to be left alone in the vehicle, lest I should be taken at a disadvantage, I also alighted, and would have followed them. Immediately the other stage stopped, and my blood-hounds, numbering about a dozen, followed me.

As usual, the space in front of the Astor House was brilliantly illuminated by the lights of the hotel and those of Barnum's Muscum. To avoid the shade of St. Paul's church, I crossed Broadway diagonally; but my pursuers were close upon me, with hurried commands and ejaculations, such as: "keep close"

-“ stand by”—“take care to head him off"-" if he attempt to go into a house, down with him." As I advanced, they became more compact, and all were near me. At length we were within two doors of a hotel. Its front was brightly lighted, and knots of guests and other persons were seated or standing at the doors and windows. I resolved to take refuge there. I braced myself up with the intention of rushing in. My pursuers suspected my purpose; for I heard them cry, "don't let him enter there"-"knock him down!" But I determined to take that chance, and bring down upon my head, there and immediately, the worst that could happen. I carried in my hand a small whalebone

switch, having at the top a round leaden knob, covered with a sort of whip-cord. I grasped this about half way down, but continued to walk steadily forward, turning my face neither to the right nor to the left, to scrutinize the men who pressed close to my sides, not quickening my pace nor betraying the slightest alarm or anxiety, till I came upon a stream of light that fell toward me from the streetlamps before the hotel entrance. As I turned composedly to enter there, as one accustomed to the place, one of my devils cried, "Now, boys, close up, quick!" Hardly were the words uttered, when I flung myself upon the man who was nearest me, and, with all my force, dashed the heavy leaden head of the cane in his face, and struck him squarely between the eyes.

No time to be lost. I rushed through the vestibule. Fairly leaping over men seated at the door, over piles of baggage, over the office-counter, I ran through a small door and up some stairs, crying, "Stop them! Save me!" and at last found myself on the floor of a servants' room at the very top of the house, with servants, clerks, and guests around me, giving me water, bathing my temples, and rendering me such assistance as they could, whilst blood flowed copiously from my mouth and nose, and stained my clothing and the floor.

This was Delirium Tremens. All that I have here related, of the pursuit and conflict, was but an accusing vision. My abused brain had conjured up that horrid warning. And yet, that very night, walking the floor with my kind friends, I told them the story as circumstantially as I tell it now; as clearly aware, too, as I am at this moment, that my foes were spectres.

Since that day, the doctrine of universal salvation has had arguments as well as charms for me. So much of hell as was compressed into that stagetrip from Madison square to Barnum's Museum, has saved me from believing in an eternity of it.

Ν

A WORD WITH "SHAKESPEARE'S SCHOLAR."

CALCUTTA, EAST INDIES, Nov., 1856.

IN a recent work by Richard Grant White, esq., entitled "Shakespeare's Scholar," a copy of which fell into my hands a few days ago, I was surprised to find that a passage in the second scene of the second act of "Antony and Cleopatra," which had always appeared intelligible to me, was considered by all the editors and commentators, and by Mr. White also, as obscure, and in need of correction. The passage referred to occurs in the description given by Enobarbus of Cleopatra's barge, and stands thus in my copy:

"Eno. The gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings:

In his comments on the passage, Mr. White says: "There is undeniable obscurity intended her i' the eyes, and made their bends adornings;' and no attempt to dissipate it has been successful, to my apprehension; and," he adds, "these two lines are, doubtless, corrupted and hopelessly."

The meaning of the passage has always been clear to me; and, therefore, through the medium of your valuable and widely-circulated Monthly, I now venture, modestly, to offer the following explanation for Mr. White's consideration, observing that this solution continues to satisfy my own mind, unless it can be shown that the phrase, “in the eyes," was not used when Shakespeare wrote, in the sense in which I believe it to be employed in this passage.

If Mr. White will turn to Webster's Dictionary, he will find, under the article "Eye" a phrase "the eyes of a ship," and the definition that they "are the parts which lie near the hawse-holes ;" and any of his nautical friends will tell him that it is a phrase in common use, at present, among mariners, when speaking of the interior bows of a vessel. Now, let us carefully read and examine the entire description given of the barge by Enobarbus-bearing in mind the above definition, and also that "tended" may be an abbreviation of "attended" (the printer having carelessly dropped the apostrophe which originally marked the elision of the syllable "at")—and I think we shall experience no difficulty

in reading the passage as it now stands. But I wish to show that both the context and the truth of the description to the original require that we should believe her gentlewomen" to have been stationed in the bows of the vessel; and my first proposition is, that the barge was too small to accommodate them elsewhere.

Plutarch tells us that "Antonius, going to inake war with the Parthians, sent to command Cleopatra to appear personally before him, when he came into Cilicia; and," he continues, “so she furnished herself with a world of gifts, store of gold and silver, and of riches, and other sumptuous ornaments;" also, "when she was sent unto by divers letters, she disdained to set forward otherwise, but take her borge in the river of Cydnus." Now the barge, in which Cleopatra came up the said river. must have been a much smaller vessel than the one which bore her from Egypt to Cilicia, with all her attendants, and that "world of gifts and store of gold and silver," etc., as is evident from Plutarch's description of it, which Enobarbus follows almost literally; in fact, he is describing her small pleasurebarge, perhaps redecorated for this occasion, with its "pavilion of cloth of gold (of tissue)"-a style of canopy which could hardly have afforded proper protection on a long voyage from Egypt. Let us now follow Enobarbus, as he sketches, for Mecænas and Agrippa, the gorgeous spectacle, and we shall see that the size and interior arrangements of the barge were such as to allow no other space for "her gentlewomen" to occupy; and also that the completeness of the picture requires that they should be stationed in the bows. He commences with the general outward appearance of the barge:

"The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burnt on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails,

"" the oars were silver."

Then follows a sketch of the interior and of the occupants, so far as visible from the shore, and here he commences with the principal object on the poop:

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"At the helm

A seeming mermaid steers:" There can be no space for the majority of the gentlewomen near the pavilion, as a sketch will readily show; of while, stationed in the bows, or eyes the barge, their various and ever-changing attitudes and movements (either while waiting on Cleopatra's commands, or when gazing on the crowd that lined the shore), added to and improved the general effect of the scene; or, Shakespeare, in his clear, graphic manner says, they

66 made their bends adornings ;"

as

It must be remembered that Enobarbus is only sketching a picture, and he speaks of her gentlewomen in the aggregate; undoubtedly there may have been one more near the pavilion, but the greater number were stationed "in the eyes," and it was this collection that made a point in the scene, and, consequently, attracted his attention.

But there is yet another method of showing this solution to be in accordance with the whole context of the description. Let any of my readers sit down to make a finished sketch, with pencil or brush, after Shakespeare's perfect word-picture. Do not make such a monstrosity in the way of "illustration" as disgraces the last page in this act, in Mr. C. Knight's pictorial edition-where "the barge she sat in" is a modern whale-boat, with something.

66

which is an abortive attempt at the
"antique," built up at the bow and
stern-but take, for the model of your
hull, the lines of one of the Egyptian
boats given in the illustrations to Wil-
kinson's Ancient Egyptians"-you
can safely be assured that they built
on the same model in the days of Cleo-
patra as when the pyramids were
reared-or take the lines of one of the
small passage-boats of the Ganges; add
the " poop of beaten gold;" be sure you
carry the stern high in air, and, half way
up its inclined plane, station the "seem-
ing mermaid," who steers, not with til-
ler in her gentle grasp, but with a
long-handled, broad-bladed oar, such as
eastern boatmen use to-day; on the
poop, and, occupying the greater part
of its length, place the " pavilion of
cloth of gold, of tissue;" fill it accord-
ing to your fancy, but no outsiders are
allowed, save those "pretty, dimpled"
punkah-wallahs; you cannot see the
rowers, but you can sketch the "silver
oars, which, to the tune of flutes, kept
stroke;" slightly 'aft of midships, place
the mast, and set the "purple sails," with
their silken tackle ;" and now, I think
you will find that, to perfect your pic-
ture, you must, in sailor parlance, trim
your boat, not for safety nor for speed,
but for pictorial effect. But how? By
adding, "in the eyes" (on a slightly raised
deck, if you choose)," her gentlewo-
men," clothed to suit your fancy, and
in accordance with the scene, but in
various and picturesque attitudes; and
then, I think you will read the text
with me:

"Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,

So many merinaids, 'tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends, adornings ;"—

And now, my dear Editor, having
trespassed so long on your space and pa-
tience, permit me to make my "sâlaam,"
merely pausing to remark, that I hope
this explanation has been entirely su-
perfluous to yourself and to many of
your readers, as explaining that which
was already clear. And,
I remain, dear sir,

Your obliged servant,
C. F. B.

HA

ABOUT DOGS.

AVING spent much time in ethical and religious studies-having made a full and curious harmony of the Gospels for my own use-I am reluctantly obliged to say, that I cannot explain why the Apostle Paul should have written, so dogmatically, to the Corinthians—

"BEWARE OF DOGS!"

Nor do I remember ever to have seen in Neander, or Fichte, or Strauss, or Barnes, any allusion to it whatever, nor have I ever heard a sermon preached from the text "Beware of Dogs." It is certainly inexplicable so far; and I, therefore, presuming upon my venerable years, do respectfully commend this text to my beloved pastor, as well as to all other reverends, having full and implicit faith that the illumination of their minds will flood even this dark saying with light. Do not let me, in my old age, be misunderstood. I do not present them as a sort of patent ecclesiastical Bude lights, made up of a concave and plated surface, small bits of lime, and a stream of oxygen gas-far, very far, are they from that concave illuminator; but, having eaten and digested words from their youth up, and their minds having grown light and lovely, they are the ones to whom we look in every difficulty-they can resolve our doubts.

It is surely an evidence of goodness now, if not of civilization, that men are fond of animals, considerate of them, companionable with them. We love to see children and dogs playing together -we wish the cat's sleep on the rug to be undisturbed-we love to see wellfed, gentle cattle-we love to know of Arab horses, who are as brothers (not slaves) to their riders-of the elephant, who stands all day and fans away the flies from the baby, forgetting his own stings. On all hands we see a thousand evidences, that animal life is from God, full of uses and full of beauty; that some of it, having answered its ends, has vanished; that some of it must become the helper, the friend, the companion, or defender of man. Indeed, we see how man is the crowning creature in the animal world, and that all the rest is truly in relation with, and a part of, him.

So much for philosophy-rather prosy, as philosophy is apt to be-and now for dogs.

I am told that good men have lived who hated them; but I am glad to say I never knew one, and shall, therefore, deny the statement. On the contrary, good dogs always like good men, and good men like good dogs. I mean by a good man a genial man-one who loves -one who has instincts and sympathies; and any man who has lost these in metaphysics, or science, or money-getting, is on the high road to perdition. He should stop at once, buy a well-bred dog, be friends with him, and learn the lesson he teaches. Whoever appre

ciates a dog's character, will better understand himself and other men; and, when he walks abroad in the evening sky, and enjoys the tender lights and delicious shadows, he will be accompanied by a friend, whose healthy animal nature will help to quicken and restore his own.

Why say that dogs have no souls? What is instinct? What is it, but the very first element of soul-the essence which underlies all the rest-thought and reason?

Why, because reason in them is imperfect, say they have none? James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, had a dog which always went about with him, and, of course, was always attacked by strange dogs, and was in a continual row. The Shepherd said to his wife one evening

"To-morrow I am going to Blank," (a familiar town), "and Jack mustn't go."

Jack heard him, and the next morning was not to be found; but when Hogg reached the town, there sat Jack, on a rising ground, with his tongue hanging out, and his mouth drooling with satisfaction, tempered with doubt, for he had got there first, and now, what was to come?

Hogg laughed outright, saying

66

Why, Jack, you rascal dog!"-and Jack came creeping along a little ashamed.

Did Hogg whip him? Not hehis name was bad, but his nature was good.

That Jack knew the name of the

town, there is not much question, whether he knew anything more or not.

Marryatt, among various interesting stories, tells one of some elephants, which more clearly brings out the fact of reason in animals than anything I now remember. It was in India, that some English officers and soldiers were trying, through all one morning, to load heavy timbers into trucks, without success; they and the elephants, their beasts of burden, were tired out at noon, when the elephants were turned loose to browse. When the men came back from dinner, they found the elephants at work loading the timbers, having, themselves, laid slides over the wheels, upon which, pushing with their heads, they slid up, what before they could not lift. Now, they may have done this before, under the direction of others; but, even if memory told the way, there was some exercise of reason, too.

There is also no fact better established than that the educated habits of pointers, setters, Newfoundlands, and shepherds' dogs, are transmitted to their offspring-the children of well-trained parents being born nearly." broke," or trained, for hunting. Youatt, in his treatise on the dog, gives instances of the surprising education of which dogs are capable-in reading letters, playing cards, dominoes, etc.-and Liebnitz testified, before the French Academy, of a dog in Saxony, which he had heard pronounce many words. This seems incredible, and rests entirely upon the word of a philosopher. Some St. Bernard dogs (used by the monks to discover travelers in the snow) were sent to England as presents to the queen, and were put with the other animals in the Tower, where they had pups. A pair of these pups were given to a Scotch nobleman, who took them home. But, when the snow came, they at once showed the educated habit transmitted from their parents, and tracked people in the snow, as they had not done before it came.

Nor does the word "instinct," without "reason," explain the doings of bees, and ants, and beavers, or dogs and elephants.

I find that dogs are social, and that, in Cairo and Constantinople, they organize themselves with certain laws; but they are peculiarly social with man, and this is their charming charm. Their affection is constant, quick, profound, not altoVOL. IX.-19

gether destroyed by cruelty-it is ready in joy and in sorrow-it is ready by day and by night; a dog will suffer and die to defend his friend; and will die of grief and a broken heart when his friend dies. It is a singular fact that, in these fast days, we can't find time to love people very much. Now, my friend Paul loves me, because ho used to when he was younger, and we both had time to do it fairly and generously, rather than to gratify and satisfy any craving of his nature now; and my dear old wife, she loves me, but it is at intervals-it rather fills up the interstices of her many cares, and plans, and works-and so compacts life surely.

But my dog, now, my Snap, I can rely upon him; he has plenty of time to love me, and he does it-and I love him. Snap is not one of your "Gen'l'man's dogs"-not at all. So far as I can judge, he is of no breed, and I doubt if he had ever a father; and, certainly, he was abandoned by his mother early in life; for one stormy night the shivering little baby-dog lay down at my door, and yelped as though his heart would break; so I let him in, and he sat between my legs and enjoyed the fire, and lolled out his tongue, and warmed it, and then went to sleep. And he has been my dog, and done just so, night after night, ever since. He is not a handsome dog, and he is not intelligent, and he is, so far as I know, entirely useless-not good for a thing -but he loves me and I love him, and he growls for me, and I growl for him, and wherever I go he goes, and I am never desolate or forsaken. Now, that is a great thing for an old man, who has had losses, to say. Is it not, “gentle reader?" as the literary men call you.

I often wonder what Snap thinks of me-whether he looks upon me as another ill-favored, useless cur like himself-as in fact I am, for now I don't do anything but enjoy my life, and the good blessings of God, and that's all Snap does; so I think that he and I, and Dorothy and Paul must somehow get to heaven together; because, you know, gentle reader, that heaven is within us, even at our doors, if we would only seek for it there.

Notwithstanding all this. Dorothy sometimes says to me, very quietly to be sure: "Mr. Wallys, when are you going to sell Snap?" and, I only say, "Good heavens, my dear, sell Snap ?"

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