singed."-Through manhood, in the most complex relation, as poet, courtier, politician, man of business, man of speculation; in the middle of revolutions and counterrevolutions, outward and spiritual; with the world loudly for him, with the world loudly or silently against him; in all seasons and situations, he holds equally on his way. Old age itself, which is called dark and feeble, he was to render lovely: who that looked upon him there, venerable in himself, and in the world's reverence, ever the clearer, the purer, but could have prayed that he too were such an old man? And did not the kind Heavens continue kind, and grant to a career so glorious, the worthiest end? Such was Goethe's Life; such has his departure been. He sleeps now beside his Schiller and his Carl August of Weimar; so had the Prince willed it, that between these two should be his own final rest. In life they were united, in death they are not divided. The unwearied Workman now rests from his labours; the fruit of these is left growing, and to grow. His earthly years have been numbered and ended: but of his Activity, for it stood rooted in the Eternal, there is no end. All that we mean by the higher Literature of Germany, which is the higher Literature of Europe, already gathers round this man, as its creator; of which grand object, dawning mysterious on a world that hoped not for it, who is there that can measure the significance and far-reaching influences? The Literature of Europe will pass away; Europe itself, the Earth itself will pass away: this little life-boat of an Earth, with its noisy crew of a Mankind, and all their troubled History, will one day have vanished; faded like a cloud-speck from the azure of the All! What then is man! What then is man! He endures but for an hour, and is crushed before the moth. Yet in the being and in the working of a faithful man is there already (as all faith, from the beginning, gives assurance) a something that pertains not to this wild death-element of Time; that triumphs over Time, and is, and will be, when Time shall be no more.

And now we turn back into the world, withdrawing from this new-made grave. The man whom we love lies there but glorious, worthy; and his spirit yet lives in us with an authentic life. Could each here vow to do his little task, even as the Departed did his great one; in the manner of a true man, not for a Day, but for Eternity! To live, as he counselled and commanded, not commodiously in the Reputable, the Plausible, the Half, but resolutely in the Whole, the Good, the True: "Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu leben!"

THE WIFE OF SEVEN HUSBANDS.

A LEGEND OF LONDON.

In the beginning of the reign of Edward the First, of long-legged memory, there lived upon Corne-hille, over against the spot where the water-tonne was a few years afterwards built, a certain blythe and buxom widow, very wealthy, and as fair withal as she was wealthy; she was only in her twenty-eighth year, of a tall and stately shape and bearing, and with commanding and yet right modest features. Her father, and his fathers before him, for many generations back, had been rich and respectable goldworkers, citizens of London.

But be this as it may, Mistress Alice was a very handsome woman, and, as has been before said, very wealthy, for her father always petted her, and although he had two other children, sons, he quarrelled with them both and turned them out of doors, and very solemnly vowed he would disinherit them; and there is little doubt he would have kept his vow, but that they prevented him, the eldest by being drowned in the Fleet river, and the other by getting murdered in an affray with the city watch. At the old man's death, therefore, he left all his property to his "deare daughter Alice," who was then twenty-one years old, and had lately been married for the first time in her life. She has been already introduced to the reader as a widow, and if he was tempted to be surprised at her being so young a one, what will he think when he reads that she was a widow for the fifth time?-ay, and

was now on the eve of being married to her sixth husband-this was a Master Simon Shard, a draper of Cornehille, who had a well-filled purse, a rather corpulent figure, a round and ruddy face, and was about two-andthirty years of age. After living for about six months on the most seemingly loving and comfortable terms, Master Shard was one morning found dead in his bed, without any previous illness or indisposition: this was strange, at least strange it will probably seem to the reader, though it was not so to Mrs Alice's neighbours, for, wonderful to relate, all her other husbands had died in the same way, and under the same circumstances. Master Shard had been a man of great influence in the city-his connexions stood high in the eyes of men, and he had a cousin who was sheriff at the time of his death, and who declared when he heard it, "by cock's marrow, he would see into the matter that very moment," and accordingly next morning, for he was just going to sit down to dinner when he made the above declaration, he presented himself with a posse comitatus at Mrs Alice's door-and then the neighbourhood, as with one voice, spoke out against her: for their long held opinion of her now found the countenance of power-her piety had been hypocrisy, and they had thought so all along-even those that had benefited by her goodness, now found some hole to pick in her conduct, and in plain and pithy English they called her a murderess.

They found the widow by the bed-side of her departed husband; she not only did not fly from, but courted investigation, and accordingly the body was investigated, but not the slightest sign of violence was found upon it; no trace of steel or poison-all was right, and as unaccountable as it ought to have been. In a few days, orders were given for the burial of the late Master Shard in Mrs Alice's family vault, which was in St Michael's church, and which vault, though one of considerable extent, Mrs Alice seemed in a fair way of filling choke full with her husbands.

St Michael's church stood at the period of this tale at the eastern end of Cornhill; and about mid-way between this church and Mrs Alice's house, there was a pothouse or tavern, known by the name of the "Sevenne Starres ;" in the tap room of this tavern, upon the afternoon when Master Shard was to be carried to his long home, there was assembled a very merry company of some dozen worthy citizens, who were getting full of good things and gratitude towards the giver of the feast, Master Martyn Lessomour, a young merchant, whose safe return from a long and successful voyage to the Mediterranean they were met to celebrate. Master Lessomour was not yet thirty, though hard upon it; tall, strongly, and well-built.

On the afternoon in question, he and his boon companions were at the height of their merriment, when one who was sitting in the bay window, that jutted out into the street, observed the funeral of Master Shard approaching, and gave notice thereof to the others. Most of the party present being acquainted with the circumstances of the case, at once recognised whose funeral it was, and the ignorant and anxious ears of Master Lessomour were greedily drinking in sundry marvellous tales of the rich widow of Corne-hille, when she herself passed immediately by the window, looking becomingly downcast and sorrowful.

"Be she what she may," exclaimed my young merchant," by the pillars of St Hercules, she is a lovely wench, and steps out like an emperatrice."

"A witch, Master Martyn," replied one, the oldest of his companions, " a wicked witch is she, take an honest man's word for it, who should know something about such things."

He requested the company to tell him something more about her, as they seemed to know so much, and he nothing, having been so long away from home-and accordingly, Master Andrews, with the assistance and interruption of his companions, when they thought he had not made enough of a good point, went through a relation of Mrs Alice's life and adventures. During all this while, Martyn Lessomour spoke not a word; and, when at length the narration was ended, he slapped his hand lustily on the window-sill, and cried out" By the seven

tive to him, but in no way hinted at his conduct of the foregoing evening. In two or three days he repeated the experiment, and with nearly the same success, saving that Mrs Alice seemed a little more gloomy the following day. He tried a third time, and a fourth, and that night she did not come to bed at all. The next morning she spoke to him for the first time, upon the subject; she expressed more sorrow than anger-talked kindly to him -said she had hoped once, twice, and even thrice, that his coming home full of liquor might have been a mishap; but she now felt forced to fear that drunkenness was becoming an usage with him; and she begged him, with tears in her eyes, as he prized her happiness, to stop in good time ere it did in truth become an usage. He was moved by her earnestness, and promised her, and, at the same time, determined to disquiet her no further on this head; but an impulse, which somehow he could not resist, urged him in two days to break his word. Twice more his conduct called forth pressing entreaties from his wife the last time, indeed, they were mingled with some reproaches; but it all was of no effect upon Lessomourhe continued in the career he had begun. The day after he had returned home, for the seventh time, in a pretended state of drunkenness, his wife said to him, "Martyn, I have prayed thee till I am wearied: I now warn thee-take heed. As my husband, I owe thee love and duty; but I can pay neither to a drunkard. Heed my warning, or woe upon us both!"

And did Martyn still go on with the pursuit of his experiment? He did. Again, therefore, he transgressed, and was again threatened; again he reiterated his offence, and then his wife said to him the next day, "Goest thou forth to-day, Martyn ?"

"I must, indeed, Alice," he answered, "I have weighty business to do to-day."

"Then mark me, Martyn. I am not going to pray thee; but I have warned thee once, and I have warned thee twice, and I now warn thee for the third and for the last time."

"Nay, nay, I needs must go, Alice"

"There needs no plea, Martyn, but thine own will thine own stubborn will-that will not bend to thy wife's prayer. Ay! I said I would not pray thee, but I do now. Look! see, Martyn! I am on my knees here to thee and there are tears in mine eyes!--and, kneeling and weeping thus, I pray thee go not forth to-day. I have had dreams of late-dreams of bad foretoken, Martyn; and only last night I did truly dream that-" [Here she gulphed, as if for breath.] "Thou wilt lose thy life, an thou go forth to-day, Martyn."

But Martyn Lessomour, like Julius Cæsar, was not to be frightened from a fixed purpose by a wife's dreams, and he answered her

"Wife, wife, thou art a fearful woman, and makest me fear thee; but, natheless, I shall go."

"Go, then," she said, and rose and left him; and he shortly after went from the house. He returned in the evening in the same assumed state as before, and went to bed. He was aroused by his wife's getting up; yet, although he at once started into thorough wakefulness, he had the presence of mind to pretend to be still asleep, and lay still and watched her. She had thrown a nightgown around her, and held a small knife in one hand. Slowly and stilly, like a ghost-she glided on--but away from him; and going up to the place where she had hung her gown up when she undressed, she took it down, and ripped open one of the sleeves of it, and took something out; she then went to the hearth, where there was a fire burning, for it was winter, and having laid the knife and whatever else she held in her hand, beside the lamp upon the table, she seemed searching for something about the hearth. At last Martyn heard her mutter, "Not here how foolish-heedless of me-I must go and fetch it from below." She moved towards the door-laid hold of the latch, but did not raise it-and continued in a low mutter, "Not here, mayhap it was for some good end that I forgot it-mayhap that I should give him one more trial yet-shall I? I shall-one more trial I will give thee, dear Martyn, dear still, though lost, I dread-one more-one more ;" and saying this, she hurried back to

her bed, and leaning her head upon Martyn's shoulder, sighed and sobbed, not loudly indeed, but as if her heart were cracking-and he-he lay deadly still by her side, for he really feared to speak to her. In the morning he took care to rise before her, and woke her in so doing; he went up, as if by accident, to the table, and saw that beside the knife there lay a smallish round dump of lead. "What is this for, Alice?" he said in a careless tone, for he knew she was watching him.

"What is it?" she replied. He took it to her bedside. "That," she continued, is a weight from the sleeve of my gown; I cut it out last night, to put in a smaller, for I find it too heavy."

Martyn laid it down, and presently left the room. It was some time before his wife joined him below stairs, and when she did at last come, her eyes looked so swollen and red, that Martyn was pretty sure she had been weeping: he said nothing about it, however, but in a few minutes rose, and took down his cap and said, "I am bidden forth to dinner again to-day, Alice." "Good bye, then, Martyn, good bye," was all her answer, and that was said in a low, very solemn, and yet kind tone of voice. He went at once to his next door neighbours, and requested them to hold themselves in readiness, in case he should want for their assistance in the night, for he had some idea, he said, that there would be an attempt to rob, or perhaps to murder him that night. This greatly alarmed his neighbours, and they promised to do what he requested, and the moment he had left them they sent for a reinforcement of their friends, and also begged of the fitting authorities that there might be an additional watch set in the neighbourhood that night.

Lessomour returned earlier by some hours than usual, and, to his wonder, found his door was not fastened within. He entered, and called-but no one answeredhe fastened the door, and went up to his bedroom, where he found his wife already in bed, and seemingly fast asleep:-this was the first time she had not sat up for him. Really believing she was asleep, he got into bed, and pretended himself to sleep, and to snore-still she lay quiet. For two hours after he got into bed she never moved, but then she quickly but silently slipped from the bed, hurried, but still without noise, to a stool near the fire, took from under one of the cushions, a small iron ladle, and, what Martyn knew again for the leaden weight he had seen in the morning; this she put into the ladle, and kneeling on one knee, set it upon the fire; in about a minute she turned her face to the bed, and then raised it up, and Martyn saw that though her features were frightfully writhen with bad passions, there were tears in her eye that bespoke an inward struggle. Just as she brought this forward so as to pour it into her husband's ear, he started up with a loud outcry, seized her hand, and jumped out of bed, at the same time saying, "Shameless assassin! have I caught thee? Help, ho! help, neighbours! Help-murder!" Alice did not screamnor start even-but stared in her husband's face, and with a strong effort freed her hand, flung the ladle into the fire, sank on a stool behind her, and hid her face in her hands. Lessomour continued calling for help, which call his neighbours, to do them justice, were not slow to obey-but to the number of two score and odd, well armed, they forced the outer door, and were hastening up stairs. As they were close upon the bed-room door, Alice took her hands from her face, and with a hollow voice said, " Martyn Lessomour, before the ever living God, I am glad this hath so happened." Before he could reply, his neighbours and the watch were in the room, and, upon his charge, seized his wife.

The next day the coffins of her former husbands were all opened, and in the skulls of each was found a quantity of lead, which had plainly been poured in through one of the ears. Mrs Alice was soon after tried upon the evidence of her living husband, and that of her dead ones, which though mute was no less strong. She would say nothing in her defence; indeed, after the words she spoke to her husband in their bed-room on the night of her apprehension, she never uttered another; only, in the court, during her trial, when Lessomour was bearing witness that he had pretended drunkenness to try what effect it

CONSUMPTION AMONG MINERS, &c.* THE BLACK PHTHISIS, or Consumption, is a disease chiefly incident to colliers, and proceeds from the matter they inhale into their lungs in the course of their operations in the mines, whether in digging coals, or blasting and removing rock. It appears to proceed chiefly from inhaling the soot of their lamps, mixed, no doubt, with the other impurities attending their operations, but particularly from inhaling the vapours left by the explosion of gunpowder in their ill-ventilated mines; and the consequences are so frightful so far as the colliers are concerned, and the deductions from their very marked experience are so generally important, that we cannot but solicit attention to them in the most earnest manner.

It

We may premise that the disease is not new. has long been known to medical men, though we are bound to think not so distinctly as it is now made known, otherwise the public in general would have heard more of it. Yet even now, they merely make a few insignificant observations upon it, as if the disclosures furnished something rather curious than useful, but suggesting nothing of imminent practical importance. And such, in general, seems to be the segnities, or apathy, of purely professional men.

"It is about thirty years (says Dr M.) since miners in this (the East Lothian) district adopted the use of coarse linseed oil, instead of whale oil, to burn in their lamps, and it is very generally known, that the smoke from the former is immensely greater than from the latter; and many old miners date the greater prevalence of black spit to the introduction of the linseed oil. This change took place entirely on the score of economy! Any one can conceive how hurtful to the delicate tissue of the respiratory organs must be an atmosphere thickened with such a sooty

exhalation."

"All coal miners are engaged exclusively in either hewing coals, or in removing the various strata of stone, to open up roadways and break down obstructing dykes, by the aid of gunpowder; and the peculiar disease to which each class is liable varies considerably according to the employment. The disease is more severe and more rapid in those who work in the stone, than in those who are engaged in what is strictly coal mining, while, at the same time, both ultimately perish in consequence of it!

"The fact of the disease being more acute in stoneminers, I am disposed to attribute to the carbon, and other products of the combustion of gunpowder, being more irritating and destructive to the lungs.' He gives in evidence the case of " a great number of young vigorous men," employed at stone-mining in a coal adit near Tranent, "every one of whom died before reaching the age of thirty-five years! They

*❝ An Investigation into the Nature of Black Phthisis, or Ulceration induced by Carbonaceous Accumulation." By ARCH. MAKELLAR, M.D.

used gunpowder in considerable quantity, and all expectorated carbon."

"It was long a very general belief with medical writers, that the various forms of discoloration in change taking place in the economy or function of the pulmonary tissue were induced by some peculiar secretion, independently of any direct influence from without." But Dr M.'s researches have put an end to this idea. The men whose bodies were examined by him had almost all been "well formed, and robust in constitution;" but this does not last long. His first example was, when he first saw him professionally, only thirty-two. A few months previous to this, he had taken to the employment of stonemining, "and soon after being so engaged, he began to complain of uneasiness in the chest, and troublesome short cough, quick pulse, &c., especially at night and in the morning;" and no wonder, when it is stated in a previous page, that "the air of the coalpit is often so charged with carbon as to prevent the work ;" and in other places, it is stated to be often collier from distinguishing his neighbour when at so foul as that the lamps refuse to burn, when, of course, the collier must cease working! What is the end of this? On examining the body twentyfour hours after death, "the lungs were removed with difficulty, on account of the strong adhesive bands attaching them to the ribs; and in handling them they conveyed the impression of partial solidity! In transecting the upper lobe of the left lung, it was found considerably hollowed out (to the degree of holding a large orange), and containing a small quantity of semi-fluid carbon, resembling thick blacking."—"The inferior lobe was fully saturated with the thick black fluid, and it felt solid under the knife! and several small cysts containing the carbon in a more fluid state were dispersed throughout its substance, in which minute bronchial branches terminated, and by which this fluid was conveyed to the upper lobe, and thence to the trachea. In examining the right lung, the upper and part of the middle lobe were pervious to air, and carried on, the interlobular cellular tissue contained the infilthough defectively, the function of respiration, while trated carbon. The inferior portion of the middle, and almost the whole of the under lobe, were densely impacted, so that, on a small portion being detached, it sank in water! Both lungs represented, in fact, brought under the influence of the oxygen, and the a mass of moist soot! How any blood could be vital principle so long maintained in a state of such disorganization, is a question of difficult solution.

"In tracing the various divisions of the bronchi, particularly in the inferior lobes, some of the conwith solid carbon; and in prosecuting the investigasiderable branches were found completely plugged up tion still farther, with the aid of a powerful magnifier, the smaller twigs, with the minute structure substance, forming the most perfect racemes, some of of the cells, were ascertained to contain the same them extending to the surface of the lung, and to be felt through the pleura.

"During the greater part of the period this man black matter, of the consistency of treacle, mixed was under my charge, he continued to expectorate with mucus in considerable quantity; and I could suppose, taking the average of each week, that he expectorated from ten to twelve ounces daily, of thick treacle-like matter. I had the curiosity, during

my attendance on him, to separate the mucus from the carbon, by the simple process of diluting the sputa with water, and thereafter separating and drying the precipitated carbon. I was enabled by