Raj The Making And Unmaking Of British India

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Raj The Making And Unmaking Of
British India

ISBN: 9780312263829
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 Raj The Making And
Unmaking Of British India

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.
 ———
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
———
Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more
The golden mist of waning Autumn lies;
The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore,
And phantom isles are floating in the skies.
They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand
Hushes, expectant, for thy lingering tread;
The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair;
Inward, the silent land
Lies with its mournful woods—why art thou dead,
When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair?

Why art thou dead? O, glorious Child of Song,

Whose brother-spirit ever dwells with mine,
Feeling, twin-doomed, the burning hate of Wrong,
And Beauty’s worship, deathless and divine!
Thou art afar—wilt thou not soon return,
To tell me that which thou hast never told?
To grasp my throbbing hand, and by the shore
Or dewy mountain-fern,
Pour out thy heart as to a friend of old,
Tearful with twilight sorrow? Nevermore.

Why art thou dead? My years are full of pain—

The pain sublime of thought that has no word;
And Truth and Beauty sing within my brain
Diviner songs than men have ever heard.
Wert thou but here, thine eye might read the strife—
The solemn burthen of immortal song—
And hear the music, that can find no lyre;
For thou hast known a life,
Lonely, amid the Poets’ mountain-throng—
Whose cloudy snows concealed eternal fire!

I could have told thee all the sylvan joy

Of trackless woods; the meadows, far apart,
Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy,
 I thought of God; the trumpet at my heart,
When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm
And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand:—
Oh, more than all, with low and sacred breath
And forehead flushing warm,
I would have led thee through the summer land
Of my young love, and past my dreams of Death!

In thee, immortal Brother! had I found

That voice of Earth for which my spirit pines;
The awful speech of Rome’s sepulchral ground,
The dusky hymn of Vallambrosa’s pines!
From thee the noise of ocean would have taken
A grand defiance round the moveless shores,
And vocal grown the mountain’s silent head.
Canst thou not still awaken
Beneath the funeral cypress? Earth implores
Thy presence for her son—why art thou dead?

I do but rave—for it is better thus:

Were once thy starry heart revealed to mine,
In the twin-life which would encircle us,
My soul would melt, my voice be lost in thine!
Better to mask the agony of thought
Which through weak human lips would make its way,
’Neath lone endurance, such as men must learn:
The Poet’s soul is fraught
With mightiest speech, when loneliest the day;
And fires are brightest, that in midnight burn.

MARION’S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

———
BY FRANCIS S. OSGOOD.
———
Away with you, ye musty tomes!
I’ll read no more this morning!
The wildwood rose unlessoned grows—
I’m off—your sermons scorning!

I found a problem, yester eve,

In wondering where the brook led,
More pleasant far for me to solve
Than any one in Euclid.

I heard a bird sing, sweet and low,

A truer lay than Tasso—
A lay of love—ah! let me go,
And fly from Learning’s lasso!

I saw a golden missal, too,

’Twas writ in ancient ages,
And stars—immortal words of light—
Illumined all its pages!

The hand of God unclasped the book,

And oped its leaves of glory;
I read, with awed and reverent look,
Creation’s wondrous story.

I will not waste these summer hours,

The gift that He has given;
I’ll find philosophy in flowers,
Astronomy in heaven!

Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves,

A worm creeps out from under;
Ye volumes, take the hint she gives,
And let the book-worm wander!

I’ll scan no more old Virgil’s verse,

 I’d rather scan the heavens;
I’ll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three
At sixes and at sevens;

The only sum I’ll cipher out

Shall be the “summum bonum;”
My only lines—shall fish for trout,
Till Virgil wouldn’t own ’em!

A costly cover has my book,

Rich blue, where light is winding;
How poor, beside its beauty, look
Your calf and cotton binding.

Away! the balmy air—the birds—

Can teach me music better
Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.

The waves will tell me how to play

That waltz of Weber’s rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance, with grace and lightly.

Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird,

I’ll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I’m off—your sermons scorning!

ALL ABOUT “WHAT’S IN A NAME.”

———
BY CAROLINE C——.
———
 ’Tis folly to think of life’s troubles, yet they have the most inconvenient
faculty of forcing themselves on the minds of men! An. Phi.

Proprietor of the visual organs now scanning this page, which the
publisher, with the still but potent voice of print, proclaimeth
henceforth and forever mine, do you love music? rejoice you in the
melody of singing voices? If you reply in the affirmative, then most
heartily do I wish that you occupied my place at this present
moment; for over the way—oh, most uncomfortable proximity!—
there is a “Hall,” where regularly meet a number of vocalists, whose
chief object in life, for all I can discover, seems to be to ascertain to
a certainty the exact power of their individual lungs—perhaps a
secondary intent may be to edify this usually calm neighborhood; in
case this latter should be at all an influential motive, I hereby
proclaim that I, being the neighbor most concerned, am fully
satisfied, and far from following the pernicious example of the world-
renowned Oliver, I will not cry for “more,” on the contrary, I would
much rather stoop to compromise; and if they will but cessate, I will
henceforth and forever maintain a most unbreakable silence on all
musical subjects, though in doing so, you can hardly conceive what
a sacrifice I would be making.
Oh, could you but hear them shout “I will praise the Lord!”
perhaps if you are a good Christian you might put up with the
nuisance, after having given utterance to only a partial sigh; but
possessing as I do so small a share of the Christian graces, I can
only say in answer, though with all reverence, “if you call this praise,
beseech you, expedite your glorifyings, and have done.”
Perhaps I owe an apology, at least a reason, for opening this
chapter in such an exceedingly unamiable style: here it is then. I
came into my “sanctum” with the express purpose of thinking of one
I would fain tell you all about, but with thoughts so distracted as
mine are at present, I fear I shall hardly do justice to any body in
giving them utterance to night, and yet I feel constrained so to do;
remember, in mercy, how I have been outraged by the explosion in
yonder “Hall,” and so proceed.
 My heroine lived and lives in this most beautiful of all villages in
the Empire State, which, as perhaps you know, is footed by the most
charming of lakes imaginable, and is, though a “sleeping beauty,”
(the village I mean,) when taken all together quite perfect in its way.
To avoid being convicted of speaking of any body in particular, I
shall treat of this lady as though she were one of the has beens;
perhaps afterward I may tell you what she is.
Well, then, in her young days she was a maiden very much like
other maidens, (American, of course,) pretty, graceful, intelligent,
and interesting. No one ever thought her a great beauty, but the
expression of her countenance was decidedly good. She was very
fair, indeed, so fair that her face seemed pale, in contrast with the
glossy black hair which was not usually arranged with very great
regard for effect. Her eyes also were black—not the detestable,
twinkling, beady, black orb, nor the very opposite, dull, heavy black;
but a soft, spiritual eye, filled with mild, cheerful light, quite pleasing
to behold; and yet I have seen them glowing actually with what
might be called the fire of determination, which was quite
astonishing to see in one most every body took to be the most
placid, and amiable, and soft-hearted creature in the world.
In a crowd of brilliants, or of ordinary fashionable people even,
this little lady would have been in her earlier days hopelessly lost to
all observation. It was amid the fire-side circle she was calculated
pre-eminently to shine. In her own home, among familiar friends,
what an affectionate child she was; the arms of her spirit seemed to
be continually out-stretched, seeking and asking for love and
kindness and sympathy; it was a craving of her nature, a necessity
to her happiness, that all should love and esteem her.
A pale-faced, quiet girl, whom, because of her goodness and
gentleness, every body liked—there, you have her. You have seen
hundreds such, but in all your promiscuous travels, I will guaranty,
not many of you have met with one of whom you have such a tale
to tell as I am going to unfold.
In order that I may continue this story with any degree of
satisfaction to you, patient(?) bearer with my many digressions, or
with any comfort or propriety to myself, it is absolutely necessary
that I should give this amiable and loveable maiden “a name,” as I
have already given her a “local habitation.” I have not delayed doing
this for so long without reason, so far from that, it is with
inexpressible reluctance that I proclaim to you the cognomen of this
friend of mine. I have tried to get up a little interest in her on your
part before mentioning her title, the world is so cold-hearted, and
possesses so little power of appreciation, that I fear me it will
imagine no manner of interest could attach itself to the owner of
such a name.
Poor dear, (do not look at me so earnestly, my tongue falters while
I speak,) poor, dear Delleparetta Hogg, all honor to thee for bearing
the burden of such a nomenclature so meekly and so well! Let me
tell you all about her, (for really I am coming to the point,) and you
will see what other burdens she bore nobly, beside that odious
appendage to her identity.
Her childhood passed much in the manner of the childhood of
other people. From the time when she was a little wee thing till she
was twelve years old, Delleparetta, or Delle, as we used to call her,
went with all the rest of the village children to the village-school; she
played with us, and rode, and walked, and went nutting with us, and
was in all respects as we, only a great deal better, and more
obliging, till, as I have said, she approached ’teen hood. Then
“trouble came down upon” the young child.
One day the sun, which had always shone so cheerfully upon her,
went behind a dark and hateful cloud, and an evil genius passing by
her home, stamped upon the door the cross of poverty. From that
day there was a sad change in little Delle; her voice became more
hushed than ever in its tone, she rarely came to join us in our
merry-makings—and there spread a thoughtful, sad expression over
the face of the gentle child, which told she had heard unpleasant
changes in the aforetime harmony of her life.
The father of Delle had started in life with a purse alarmingly full
of nothingness, but by slow and patient toil and care, he had worked
himself into the possession of a comfortable living. Not content with
this, one ever-to-be-lamented day he entered into a wild
speculation, which, instead of at once doubling his fortune, left him
in a far worse predicament than he was placed in at the beginning of
life forty years before, when he had played a bare-footed boy in the
streets, with scarcely a home to boast of. Yes, he was a great deal
worse off than he was then, despite his present respectability, and
his fine noble wife, and five children; because then he was but a
boy, brimful of hope, eager to enter into the contest of life, fearful of
no failure, feeling he had “little to lose, and all to win.” Now his
habits of ease and quiet had been so long fastening upon him, it
really required no little strength of mind and purpose to rouse and
labor as he had done in the days of his youth; his eagerness and
hopefulness of spirit were gone—his ambition was departed; and
when he looked on his five helpless little ones, the eldest but twelve
years old, he felt as though the weight of a mountain were on his
hands.
Temptation comes well armed to such a mind, and not with
unheard footsteps, or disregarded smile drew she nigh to him. She
held the wine-cup to his lips—his eyes grew red with looking on the
burning poison, and he tasted, and was lost! Not a hand lifted he to
avert the dread calamity which he alone could avert; not an effort
did he make to re-establish once more the happiness of that
household, when smiles and kind words were all the little group
cared to have. About this time Sickness passed on heavy wing by
this home of our little friend; she saw the cross her sister Poverty
had marked upon the lintel, and she knew where she might rest.
The poor have no power to shut out the dark angel, when she
pauseth before their open door.
The mother, who, during one of the longest and hardest of winters
had exerted herself daily and nightly far beyond her strength to
provide for the wants of her children, who had in reality no other
support but her, drooped when the “life-inspiring” spring came round
again. The health which was so shattered by the struggles and
heart-sorrows of the winter, was not restored again when the
sunlight streamed so richly through her cheerless home. With the
blossoming trees, and the violets, her hope did not strongly revive.
The voices of the returning birds did not bring to her the lightness
and happiness of spirit she had known in other days—for every day
the brand of drunkenness was graven deeper and deeper on the
forehead of the lover of her youth. Long, long after all her natural
strength had failed, the mother’s love, and the wife’s devotion
sustained, supported her. Long after her voice was faltering with
weakness, did she supplicate that husband to rouse him to his
former manliness, to exert himself once more. Long after her hands
were trembling with disease, did she continue to ply the needle,
whose labor was to bring them their daily food.
And heavy debts hung over them. Then the creditors, who saw no
probability of these being ever satisfied, determined to liquidate
them by selling off the little farm and residence of Mr. Hogg. And so
they were sold. With the miserable remnant of their household
goods which was left them, they removed to a smaller and less
comfortable home. Then, as if evil days had not dawned on them
already, one morning found the toiling mother laid on the bed of
sickness and of death. To leave those helpless children thus! oh, it
had been hard to part with those little ones, when around each one
her heart-strings clung, even had their future been very bright, but
to leave them when darkness and dreariness of life was before
them, when a path so beset with sorrow and trial was all that she
could see in store for them! bitter, bitter it was, indeed! Pass we over
the sacredness of that hour, when the dying mother breathing the
few faint parting words in the ear of her eldest child, left them to
struggle on in their hard road alone. Words fail me to tell her
anguish, who, in the last moments of her life, was racked by the
thought of all that they might be called on to endure. No living voice
should essay to speak of all that was in her heart, when she clasped
the youngest, a bright-eyed boy, to her bosom, while his gay voice
broke forth in laughter, and he flung his arms about her neck, and
hid his face, all radiant with smiles, in her bosom. I am powerless
when I attempt to tell you of the girl who stood shuddering with
agony beside that bed, while the shadows of the coming night were
fast filling the little room, when, after a long, and to her terrible
silence, with trembling hands she lifted the boy from his mother’s
arms, and felt as her fingers loosened the parent’s grasp, that the
thin hands were icy cold, when she fell almost lifeless to the floor
with the little one in her arms, feeling that those children had no
mother or protector but her. I cannot tell you as should be told, if
told, indeed, at all, of the terrible sorrow that filled her soul, when
the little one said to her, “put me back with mamma, she is
sleeping!”
From that day Delle went with us no more to the village school,
neither joined us in our hours of gayety. While she was so young,
the cares and anxieties of a woman had overtaken her, and trials
which older heads and hearts find it hard to bear, were thick in her
path, all that delights the young and excitable, did she most
cheerfully forego; I never heard a murmur from her lips. The living
witnesses of her mother’s love and life-devotion surrounded her;
they forbade every expression, every feeling of impatience, or
envious regard of the happiness of others, no worthier than herself.
It was a heart-cheering sight, the firmness and perseverance of
that strong-minded girl, when the first wildness of her sorrow was
passed, and she stood amid that family group, a support, and a
counsellor, and guide, plying her little hands on the coarse work with
which the neighbors had supplied her. All the counsel and advice of
the dead mother she kept most religiously. Never for a moment did
she falter in her duty, but no one knows how much of sadness there
was in her heart.
At the time of his wife’s death, the father seemed to pause for a
little in his downward course, for he had loved her once, and
remembered well that happy time, and perhaps, but no, I cannot
dignify the affection with which still, in his sober hours, he thought
of her, with the name of love. No, he did not love her in her better
days, because love would have prompted him to deeds
commensurate with so ennobling and exalting a faculty. Yet when
she died, the husband sorrowed for her, and conscience reproached
him, too, when he looked for the last time on the care-worn, faded
countenance of his departed wife, who had always been his good
angel. Still it was not with such sorrow as he should have sorrowed
for her, that he followed her to the grave, and then led his little ones
back to his home; had it been, he would have sought then, in a
better life, to pay a fitting homage to her memory.
 For a few weeks he did labor with what little skill was left him, at
his old trade; but his was not the will, nor the mind, nor the heart to
pursue the good because it was right, and just, and his duty. His
recent excesses had shattered his constitution—his hands trembled,
and his feet went tottering, and ere long these evil inclinations quite
overcame him again. Poor Delle! she had no more hope for him
when she saw that the death of her mother was a thing so feebly
remembered and cared for by him. How strange it seemed to her
that he could ever forget the words of entreaty the dying woman
addressed to him. To the mind of the innocent child it was wonderful
that he should ever seek to drown those words of pleading and
warning that she had spoken to him in the horrible forgetfulness that
is bought by intoxication.
But aside from this great sorrow, there was another and a
different kind of care that weighed heavily on Delle’s mind. Her only
sister was ten years old at the time of her mother’s death. She had
been always a puny, sickly little thing—the object of that mother’s
unceasing and peculiar care. It is said that the heart of the parent is
always filled with a deeper and tenderer sympathy and love for an
unfortunate child. Most true was this in the case of Jane. She had
never been much at school, and rarely had left her mother’s side. A
sober little creature she was, always seeking to make herself useful,
and quite unlike in all respects the romping boys who filled the
house with their noise. When Mrs. Hogg died, Jane, to use Mrs.
Jones’ expressive words, “wilted right down, just like a cabbage-
leaf;” and the scrofula, which had afflicted her for many years,
manifested itself in a fearful form. It seemed to Delle that the cup of
bitterness was running over when the village doctor, who was called
to the child’s aid, told her, for she would know the truth, that he
could do nothing for her—that her spine would be inevitably curved.
It might be, he said, that constant care and watching would in a
measure restore her health, and her life might be spared for years,
but she could never wholly recover.
All the tenderness and affection her mother had borne toward
little Jane, seemed to have centered itself in the bosom of Delle. A
most patient and untiring nurse was she, doing every thing so
cheerfully, sacrificing all her own wants that she might procure
comforts for the invalid, and never giving the child reason to
suppose for a moment that her, I mean Delle’s, constitution was not
made of iron. Often and often, after a day of exertion, would she sit
for half the night by the side of the little sufferer, who was writhing
in agony, watching her and supporting her with the fondest care;
and to all poor Jane’s anxious fears that she would weary out, the
gentle voice of Delle assured her it was not possible to weary in
doing for her.
Three years from the spring when the weeping children had
gathered around their mother’s grave, they stood together in the
church-yard again, and saw the dust and the sod heaped over the
dead body of their father. I would not say that it was not with much
sorrowing, with many tears, that Delle had nursed him through his
death-sickness; that it was not with love and a martyr’s patient
endurance she had ministered to his numberless wants; but I should
be far wrong (and you will not impute it to her sin) were I to say
that it was the same great sorrow which had bowed and well-nigh
crushed her gentle spirit when her mother died, that brought forth
those tears when she stood by her father’s death-bed. He was her
father; she remembered with affectionate gratitude the days of old,
when he was to his children a parent indeed, when he had been the
tender and devoted husband of his wife; but even that remembrance
was not strong enough to obliterate all recollection of the recent
past; and I say it was not in her nature, nor, indeed, in human
nature at all, to mourn very deeply over such a man. It was not with
such a dreadful sense of bereavement that she followed him to the
grave, as had once before swept over her. The “cloud had spent its
fury” upon her, the bolt had fallen the day her worshiped mother
died.
The children returned to their home, orphaned—four of them
dependent on the exertions of that frail young creature on whom
only the sun of sixteen years was beaming. There were no friends
on whom they might depend, for their mother’s relatives lived
somewhere in the far South; and had Delle even known where they
lived, there was far too much independence and self-reliance in her
nature to impose on them the maintenance of five strange children,
which she felt could not be a very agreeable accession to any family;
and her heart was so filled with almost parental affection for those
young beings, that she could not bear to think of subjecting them to
the possible hard treatment of unsympathizing relatives.
Delle’s next-door neighbor was an old woman, who, though poor
as the children themselves, and dependent upon her own feeble
exertions for support, had taken the deepest interest in this
parentless family. She it was who proposed to Delle that she should
go to her father’s brother, who lived in a town further to the west,
and pray that he would help them in their need. This was the day
after Mr. Hogg’s funeral, and the old “lady” had dropped in to
console the children, bringing with her provisions for them which she
could ill spare from her own little store. I was gone from home that
year, but many times since I have heard Delle speak with tears of
gratitude of the kindness of the good old Mrs. Jones at that crisis of
their lives. She came to advise with Delle, as I have said, and even
went so far in her Christian charity (by the way, though in the very
act of constructing a fit and proper sentence, I must pause to say
the ever-to-be-lamented Hood erred when he wrote so musically,

“Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian Charity
Under the sun;”

because there is plenty of charity and sympathy in the world, if

people were only so wise as to know where to look for it. Do you
think to find fragrance in the dahlia, and the bright-hued tulip-
flowers? Vain will be your seeking. Go into the woods and fields,
along the banks of the little stream—search in such places, you will
not return successless, you will come back with your hands filled
with fragrant violets and wild-roses!) as to offer to take charge of
the younger member of the family during her necessary absence,
and also to endeavor to gather from the neighbors sufficient funds
to carry her to those friends. But to all these kind proposals, greatly
astonished was the good woman by Delle’s firm refusal.
 “No,” said she, “Mrs. Jones, I remember when our misfortunes
overtook us three years ago; father wrote to uncle, and told him of
our necessities, begging him to assist us, but uncle made such
answer, that I will never repeat those requests; no, Mrs. Jones,
though I should starve! But we shall not starve, neither shall my
little ones come on the town. You know that after I left school, for
some time I taught Charley and Georgy, and Jane, and I have
learned them a great deal, beside improving myself, and this is what
I’ll do. I’ll open a small school for children, and the neighbors—will
they patronize me for my poor dear mother’s sake—oh, I will try,
and teach so well!”
Poor Delle’s voice was not quite firm as she disclosed these
projects to the kind-hearted old woman, but she did not cry; there
was not a tear in her soft, down-cast eyes—but Mrs. Jones did weep
outright when she looked on the excited young girl, and saw the
flashes of color which betrayed her emotion, deeply tinging her
cheek one moment, and the next leaving it colorless. She did weep,
I say, and for some minutes made no answer to Delle’s inquiry; this
sympathy which the old woman evinced, emboldened the maiden to
speak again, for she felt she had no time to weep then—she must
act.
“Do you think, dear Mrs. Jones, I shall succeed? Will the people be
afraid to send their children to me because I am so young? Oh, if
you will but speak to a few, just a few people, and tell them how I
will try to do justice to their little ones. And tell them, yes, tell them,
Mrs. Jones, that I do it to give bread to my children; they have
always known me, they need not fear I will neglect theirs.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, hurriedly, starting up and wiping
her eyes, “I’ll go this minute; bless your noble heart! they shall send
their children to your school. I’ll be bound you’ll do justice to ’em—
when shall I tell ’em you’ll open?”
“To-day—to-morrow—any day; let them come here, I shall be
ready for them, I have no time to wait or to waste.”
And in a moment old Mrs. Jones (blessed be her memory!) was
gone on her errand of mercy; and then, yes, as a true historian, I
must say, Delle’s tears did burst forth, resisted no longer. The
children left their broken toys and their play, when they saw their
sister weeping, and came softly and stood beside her—every little
face that had a moment before been covered with smiles, wore a
most touching, solemn expression, when they saw how grieved she
was; Jane laid her head on Delle’s knee and wept too, scarcely
knowing why; and little Willy crept into her arms, and while he
nestled there so lovingly, he brushed away her tears with his tiny
hand, saying, “Dear, dear Delle, don’t cry, we all love you so dearly.”
But the words and sympathy of the children only brought the tears
faster to her eyes, even while they fell like balm on her heart. Was
she not rich in the love of those children? What a pleasure would it
be to labor for them, and to see them guided by her hand, growing
up in goodness and knowledge; and again, in that home, before God
she vowed she would be unceasingly faithful to her dead mother’s
charge.
Two years passed away, and Delle’s school was continued with the
greatest success; indeed, it had become the child’s school of our
village. You should have seen her in the school-room of her now
comfortable home, amid the multitudes of youth who gathered
around her, whose “young ideas” she was teaching to “shoot” in the
right direction. You should have seen her in the hours when she was
alone in her home with her brothers and invalid sister. How unabated
was her tender and watchful care of the fragile Jane; how unceasing
her efforts to secure the comfort and happiness of the poor girl; how
happy she herself was when a smile and visible contentment on the
part of the sufferer was returned for all her pains. You should have
seen her encouraging, or mildly reproving, or joining the three light-
hearted boys in their sports, who regarded her with the deference
and affection they would have shown toward a parent. You should
have seen her on the Sabbaths when she went with the children,
whom her diligence and perseverance fed and clothed, to the village
church, teaching them by her example to “remember their Creator in
their youth.” You should have watched her when she went with them
to the church-yard, to the place where their parents were buried—a
little spot which their hands had made beautiful as a garden. You
should have seen Delle at such times to have rightly and fully
estimated her worth. Those only who saw her and knew her in all
these lights, could know her truly; for as she grew nigh to
womanhood, there was a dignity and reserve in her manners,
resulting from the manifold trials to which she had been exposed,
which made her not readily understandable to those who had not
known her from childhood.
Do you abominate parties? So do I. But follow me this once, ’tis a
beautiful moonlight night, to yonder well-lighted mansion. I have
trod through it oftentimes, and with me for your guide, there is no
possible danger of losing your way. Here we are in the midst of the
gay assemblage; what profusion of flowers, what pleasant voices
and bright smiles, and happy hearts; and, hark! there are sounds of
music and of dancing feet. Let us wander, now, through the rooms,
in spirit, and amuse ourselves for a moment with “seeing what is to
be seen,” and hearing what is to be heard; and if there be any
malice in our remarks, we can keep our own secret, and not expose
those “modern belles” to more ridicule than very naturally they draw
forth from common, ordinary observers; nor will we say any thing
aloud about that nondescript sort of personage yclept a fashionable
beau, whose culminated faculties emerge before the public in the
shape of unmitigated nonsense.
Ah, what an unexpected relief—the belabored piano is resting
now; the incessant battering and twisting of the keys, which, alas!
rarely open the real gates of glorious music, is stilled—the harp is
twanged no more—the guitar is silenced, yet the music-room is
filled, and every sound is hushed, and they await in expectancy a
somewhat—there it is! Heard you ever the like. That is music! keep
silent, it will not do to criticise such singing. How melodiously the
words gush forth; they are new, but how distinctly they are
pronounced! The song is finished. What, not one concluding,
prolonged trill of approved flourish? No—for it is finished.
See how they crowd round the pale, sweet-faced girl who has
filled the room with such melody, and all, excepting the performers
who have so prodigiously exerted themselves on the musical
instruments, entreat for one more song. And while she stands
silently for a moment, see the delighted countenance of the tall,
well-formed gentleman who stands near her; listen, he is saying in
the lowest possible tone, “pray, lady, sing once more.” And the lady
heard his words, and as she raises her eyes to the stranger, a
scarcely perceptible flush is on her pale face. Again her eyes are
drooping, and the rich voice is doing ample justice to Mrs. Heman’s
splendid poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.” Is not the wild,
drear scene before you—can you not see it all as she sings, how

“The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.”

And again they are beseeching for but one more song; but see
how mildly, yet so firmly, that they cannot doubt she means to sing
no more, does she decline. No one essays to charm the ear now
after such singing—and already they are beginning to pour out of
the music-room, whither her voice had drawn them. But, see! there
is one who remains standing, as spell-bound, beside the lady. Who is
this stranger? A city gent, but to-day arrived from the East, at the
residence of his relative, our hostess. How refined he is in manner
and dress, and apparently not tinged with coxcombry at all, yet this
may be the effect of an education conducted solely with the intent to
please and catch the world’s eye, as well as of good sound common
sense. At all events, if he is puffed up with inordinate vanity because
Heaven has suffered him to attain the ordinary stature of manhood,
in the possession of a fine, intelligent face, he conceals it with
consummate skill, does he not? That is one thing in his favor, for a
proper appreciation of the rarity of such an instance vide the Book of
Human Life. They are in the midst of a most agreeable conversation;
happily, the gentleman touches on the right topics to interest the
maiden; you can tell that by her manifest attention, and pleasure, as
well as by the spirit with which she carries on her part of the
conversation. Suddenly and abruptly he has left her. Ah! the hostess
has entered the room, and he is speaking with her rapidly. Now,
leaning on his arm, she approaches the pale little lady standing
beside the piano, and makes Mr. Alfred Livingstone, whose most
unreserved admiration she had won, acquainted with Miss
Delleparetta Hogg! Do but see that sudden lifting of the gentleman’s
eyebrows, the half frown on his forehead, and the ill-concealed smile
of his lips, which even his “good breeding” cannot wholly banish, as
he listens to her name; fortunate for Delle is it that her eyes are just
now cast down; but never seemed she more fair, graceful and
lovable than now, while she stands confessing to that outrageous
name!
Despite this little drawback, the city gentleman seems in a fair way
of falling desperately in love with Delle. Not for a moment since her
first song has he left her side; and now she has gone so early from
the gay company, because she thinks of the dear ones at home,
waiting to hear all about the party—and he accompanies her. Delle
seldom appears in such scenes—but the heart beating beneath
those eyes which never shone so brightly before is not weary; she
feels no fatigue because of the unwonted excitement. And to-
morrow, when she sits in her pleasant school-room again, initiating
her pupils in the mysteries of common-sense, which no teacher ever
knew how to teach more successfully, perhaps those words which
Alfred Livingstone has spoken to her, will not be quite forgotten.

A fortnight passed away, and three weeks, and a month, still

young Livingstone tarried in our dull village; and every night his tall
figure might be seen wending its way up our beautiful street to the
tasteful, cheerful home of Delle. And it grew at last to be not the
most wonderful sight in the world to see the poor school-teacher
taking the walk she so much needed, after the close confinement of
the day, not with her usual companion, her oldest brother, but with
the stately youth already named. It was a happy month to Delle, if
we might judge from appearance. One could not but see there was a
certain lightness in her step, and a general joyousness in her whole
appearance, that was alone wanting in former times to make her
beautiful. But at the end of the month it became necessary that
Livingstone should return to his city home; and the last we to the
opposite saw of him, he was emerging from the cottage-home of
Delle, as the whistle of the approaching cars was heard—and he was
gone; and the children had a holyday!
They who prided themselves on being learned in such matters,
said that every week brought with it regularly a letter from —— to
Delle, and that very often the western mail bore a most lady-like (in
its outward garb) epistle to the eastern city. Then, when all this was
currently reported and believed, some wise head, judging from
appearances, added to the story the information, that early in the
spring Delle was to discontinue her school altogether.
How near “they” came to the right of the story, let us try and find
out, which I think having earnestly set ourselves about it, we shall
do suddenly.
Just imagine Alfred Livingstone, two or three months after his
return from his country sojourning, seated, alone, in his exquisitely
furnished apartment at the Astor, before a table covered with writing
materials. The paper over which his pen is hovering is unstained yet
by the ink—for he is arrested by voices speaking in the adjoining
room, which are neither hushed nor moderate, they are speaking
with all the freedom of tone one is wont to indulge in at home. Do
but hear them and watch him!
“Where in all the world did you hear that?” asked one.
“What?” responded the other, carelessly.
“That you were speaking about at Howard’s, that Fred Livingstone,
prince of beaux and gentlemen, is going to marry a dowdy little
country Miss?”
“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.”
“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be
beyond the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—”
“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What
an inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your
curiosity is laudable. First, as to who she is? She is the daughter of
some miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty.
Second, what is she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days
in teaching a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a
beauty? Don’t know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and
you know music was always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates
this fashionable singing.”
“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.”
“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to
pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of
this captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’ is—
Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think of his asking, in his bland voice,
Miss Hogg, to favor him with a song!”
“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s
silence, for he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then
the hopeful conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as
quite drowned the noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s
hand was brought down on his writing-desk, making in its
descending progress the most dreadful marks on his paper, which, in
their confusion and blackness, perhaps resembled closely the color
and confusion of his thoughts at that present moment.
Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had
been the sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it
had instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there
agitated for a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion
that he would marry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could
win her consent. But to be jested with by his city friends, and in his
circle, on such a subject, the very thought was insupportable. He
had hoped with all his heart that her name would never elapse till he
introduced her, to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone.
But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a trial
—such a mortification he thought it—for her name was a most
indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies
might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a
desperate one it was—but there was no other remedy, or way of
escape. It took him not long to concoct and despatch that letter
which he had meant to fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle,
she never quite understood that cruel epistle; but there was one
thing about it she could sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed
that ever could pass between her and Alfred Livingstone.
 The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, and
heart,(?) and fortune, and name, at the feet of the most
accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely
need say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the
greatest match in town,” was without hesitation accepted.

Delle’s school was carried on as usual; there was no cessation or

holyday when that letter of renouncement came to her. She had
lived through and borne nobly sharper griefs than was hers when
she read his strange, cold words. With renewed diligence she turned
to her occupation—that was not “gone”—but it was a hope that
struggled long in her heart, that the recreant would at least write to
explain—that he would tell her there was no meaning to his words.
Such an explanation never came, however. The school continued, I
said, and it continues still; and one would scarcely think, to look on
the self-possessed, noble young lady at its head, that she had had
such an experience in love matters.
There is another report circulating extensively in our neighborhood
just now, relative to Delle’s movements in the coming spring. I will
not vouch for its truth. I have not dared ask her if it be true; but
people do say that a rich bachelor in our neighborhood, is then to
relieve her of that odious name which is now so indisputably hers;
and that at that happy time she will take up her abode, with the
children who are her constant care, in his beautiful mansion. If this
be true, it is hardly necessary for me to ask what kind of wife you
think she’ll make. I know your thoughts already on this subject; and
if you be a gentleman, I fancy that I hear you “heaving a sigh,” and
longing for just such a wife, because you are, of course, far too
sensible to think there’s any thing in a name!
Some say this is no love match—that Delle will only marry this
bridegroom elect for the purpose of ridding herself of the fatigues of
school-teaching, arguing from the fact, I suppose, that he is so
unlike Alfred Livingstone in all respects; and that he is so much older
than she—and his hair is already tinged with gray; beside he is an
odd sort of man, as is usually the case with old bachelors. Be this as
it may, whether Delle is so foolish as to marry for love (which
generally turns out to be such a delusion) or not, of this thing be
convinced, reader, the marriage will be a happy one, for everybody
knows he is as “kind as kind can be;” and she—but I’ve already said
enough about her; and after all, if she derives but one benefit from
the union, it will not be a small one—for will not that name, that
horrid name of hers, be merged in partial forgetfulness? Don’t call
names trifles! By hers she lost him whom she did truly love, and
who, perhaps, was not, strange as it may seem that I should say so,
wholly unworthy of her love; for in very deed and truth, he had but
one weak side, and that was most mortally pierced by the sharp
arrow pointed with her name.
If there be one whose eyes have followed the jottings of my pen
thus far, let me say to such an one another word about proper nouns
in particular. If with most philosophic indifference you have, after
mighty struggles, brought yourself to repeat with the chiefest of
bards, on thinking of your own high-sounding misfortune,

“What’s in a name?”

please let me advise you “lay your mouth in the dust,” remembering,
my word for it, that there is something “considerable, if not more,” in
a name—especially in such an one as Miss Delleparetta Hogg—poets
and philosophers “to the contrary notwithstanding,” which I hope
and pray for your edification and enlightenment I have satisfactorily
proved.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. XII.

 THE DUNLIN. (Tringa Variabilis. Temminck.)

The Dunlin, or Ox-bird, or Purre, is well entitled to the epithet

“variabilis,” from the great difference between its summer and winter
plumage. It is the Purre in summer and the Dunlin in winter in
England, while in the United States it is called most commonly the
Red-backed Sandpiper. In winter these birds assemble in small
parties, following the tide on the oozy shores and estuaries near the
sea. When undisturbed they run rather swiftly, and utter a sort of
murmuring note, but when they are alarmed and forced to take
wing, they utter a querulous and wailing scream. In the autumn they
are seen around Vera Cruz, and may be bought in the markets of
Mexico, while many, in their winter dress, remain throughout the
winter within the limits of the Union. At times they frequent the
coast of the Carolinas in great numbers about February, leading a
vagabond life, and swayed hither and thither by every change in the
temperature.
In the Middle States, the Dunlins arrive on their way to the North
in April and May, and in September and October they are again seen
pursuing the route to their hybernal retreat in the South. At these
times, according to Nuttall, they mingle with the flocks of other
strand birds, from which they are distinguishable by the rufous color
of their upper plumage. They frequent the muddy flats and shores of
the salt marshes, at the recess of the tide, feeding on the worms,
insects and minute shell-fish which such places generally afford.
They are very nimble on the strand, frequenting the sandy beaches
which bound the ocean, running and gleaning up their prey with
great activity on the reflux of the waves. When, says Nuttall, in their
hybernal dress they are collected in flocks, so as to seem at a
distance like a moving cloud, performing their circuitous waving and
whirling evolutions along the shores with great rapidity, alternately
bringing its dark and white plumage into view, it forms a very grand
and imposing spectacle of the sublime instinct and power of Nature.
At such times, however, the keen gunner, without losing much time
in contemplation, makes prodigious slaughter in the timid ranks of
the Purres, while, as the showers of their companions fall, the whole
body often alight, or descend to the surface with them, until the
greedy sportsman becomes satiated with destruction.
Length of the Dunlin is eight inches and a half; extent, fifteen
inches; bill black, longer than the head, which would seem to rank it
with the snipes, slightly bent, grooved on the upper mandible, and
wrinkled at the base; crown, back, and scapulars bright reddish rust,
spotted with black; wing coverts pale olive; quills darker; the first
tipped, the latter crossed with white; front cheeks, hind head, and
sides of the neck quite round; also the breast, grayish white, marked
with small specks of black; belly white, marked with a small crescent
of black; tail pale olive, the two middle feathers centered with black;
legs and feet ashy black; toes divided to their origin, and bordered
with a slightly scolloped membrane; irides very black.
The males and females are nearly alike in one respect, both
differing greatly in color, even at the same season, probably owing
to difference of age; some being of a much brighter red than others,
and the plumage dotted with white. In the month of September
many are found destitute of the black crescent on the belly; these
have been conjectured to be young birds.
 SEMIPALMATED SNIPE, OR WILLET. (Scolopax
Semipalmata.)

Willets breed in great numbers along the shores of New York, New
Jersey, Delaware and Maryland, and afford the sportsman an easy
prey and excellent eating. The experienced gunners always select
the young birds, which are recognized by the grayness of their
plumage, in preference to the older and darker birds, which are not
so tender and well flavored. In the month of October they generally
pass on to their winter-quarters in the warmer parts of the
continent. Their food consists chiefly of small shell-fish, aquatic
insects, their larvæ and mollusca, searching for which they may be
found on the muddy shores and estuaries at low water. The Willet is
peculiarly an American bird, its appearance in the north of Europe
being merely accidental, as is also that of the Ruff in America. The
Willets wade more than most of their tribe, and when disabled by a
wound they take to the water without hesitation, and swim with
apparent ease.
The length of the Willet is about fifteen and a half inches; length
of the bill to the rictus two and a half inches, much shorter in the
young bird of the season; tarsus two inches eight lines. In the
summer plumage, according to Nuttall, the general color above is
brownish gray, striped faintly on the neck, more conspicuously on
the head and back, with blackish brown; the scapulars, tertiaries and
their coverts irregularly barred with the same; tail coverts white, tail
even, whitish, thickly mottled with pale ashy brown, that color
forming the ground of the central feathers, which are barred with
dusky brown toward their extremities; spurious wing, primary
coverts, a great portion of the anterior extremities of the primaries,
the axillary feathers, and under-wing coverts black, with a shade of
brown; the remaining lower and longer portion of the primaries, and
the upper row of under-wing coverts white; the posterior primaries
tipt with the same; secondaries and the outer webs of their greater
coverts white, marbled with dusky; wings rather longer than the tail,
the lower with a spotted liver-brown streak, bounded above by a
spotted white one; eyelids, chin, belly and vent white; the rest of the
under plumage brownish white, streaked on the throat and
transversely barred, or waved on the breast, shoulders, flanks, and
under tail coverts with clove-brown, the bars pointed in the middle.
Female colored like male, but an inch longer. Legs and feet dark lead
color, the soles inclining to olive, the toes broadly margined with a
sort of continuation of the web; iris hazel. Winter dress with fainter
spots on the upper plumage, and without the dark waving
transverse bars below, only the fore part of the neck and breast of a
cinereous tint, marked with small brown streaks.

VISITANTS FROM SPIRIT-LAND.

———
BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
———
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,
The loved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit us once more.
—Longfellow.

They are ever hovering round us,

A mysterious, shadowy band,
Singing songs, low, soft and plaintive
They have learned in Spirit-Land.
Bright their wings as hues elysian,
Blended on the sunset sky,
By unseen, but angel-artists,
That concealed behind it lie.

Sweet their soft and gentle voices

Mingle with each passing breeze,
And the sorrowing heart rejoices,
As amid the leafy trees
In the green and verdant summer,
Tones long-hushed are heard again,
And the quick ear some new-comer
Catches joining in their strain.

Sceptics say ’tis but the breezes

Wandering on their wayward way—
That the souls of the departed
Rest in peace and bliss for aye.
But I know the fond, the loved ones,
Cleansed from every earthly stain,
Who have passed away before us,
Come to visit us again!

True, our eyes may not behold them,

Nor the glittering robes they wear.
True, our arms may not enfold them,
Radiant phantoms formed of air!
 ad a t p a to s o ed o a
But I often hear them round me,
And each gentle voice is known,
When some dreamy spell hath bound me,
As I sit at eve alone!

Playmates of my joyous childhood,

Wont to laugh the hours away,
As they roamed with me the wildwood,
In life’s beauteous break-of-day;
They are spirits now, but hover
On bright pinions round me still,
Tender as some doting lover,
Warning me of every ill.

And among them comes one, brighter,

Fonder far than all beside,
Sunlight of my young existence,
Who in life’s green springtime died.
Music from her lips is gushing,
Like the wind-harps plaintive tune,
When the breeze with soft wing brushes
O’er its strings in flowery June.

O, thou white-browed peerless maiden,

Holiest star that beams for me!
Thou didst little dream how laden
Was this heart with love for thee!
Once fair garlands thou didst weave me,
But to gem Emanuel’s throne
Thou didst soar away and leave me
In this weary world alone!

But in dreams thou comest often,

Hovering saint-like round my bed,
Telling me in gentle whispers
Of the loved and early dead!
 O t e o ed a d ea y dead
Once, methought, thou didst a letter
Bring from one remembered well,
Who has left this world of sorrow,
In the Spirit-Land to dwell!

Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken,

Strange the characters within,
For ’twas penned in language spoken
In a world devoid of Sin;
Told, no doubt, of joys that wait them
Who shall enter spotless there,
But before I could translate them
I awoke, and found them air!

Deem not that the soul reposes

In its radiant home for aye,
On the fragrant summer roses
Sunset beams may sadly play;
But they whisper “banish sorrow,
And from bitter thoughts refrain,
On the bright and glorious morrow
We will gild your leaves again!”

HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,

DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY.

———
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
———

People grieve about the departure of the good old times, and
prate of the days of chivalry, which Mr. Burke sixty years ago said
were gone. That they are gone the world may well rejoice at, not
only because they were times of ignorance and cruelty, but also of
discomfort and inconvenience. In the diary of a court-officer of the
days of Henry VII. is the note of a charge for cutting rushes, to
strew on the floor of the Queen-closets; and another one mentions
the number of under-garments belonging to Henri III. of France as
considerably less than any one of the better orders in our own time
would require. In those days, the downy couch meant a bed of
goose-wing feathers; gloves were not; and when a gentleman
needed a new doublet or head-piece, he went not to a tailor or the
hatter of the day, but to a blacksmith. Let the lovers of romance talk
as they please, there was little true poetry, and less feeling, in the
minds of the heroes they wish to extol, than of the veriest apostles
of commerce of our own age. Rightly enough do we date civilization
from the times when men laid aside the rugged manners of old with
the bronze and iron armor, and doffing the hammered helmet,
assumed the cap of velvet and the hat of plush; when they laid aside
the iron gauntlet for the chamois glove, and assumed the Cordovan
boot in place of the leg-pieces of steel.
The feelings of chivalry yet lingered as late as the days of the
English Charles I. and the French Louis XIII. in the minds of the
nobility. A new series of ideas, however, had arisen in the breasts of
the people at a date long previous to this. Printing had become
general, and the learning previously the property of the priests had
become the heir-loom of humanity: As a natural consequence, new
ideas and new wants were unfolded, and these same ideas had
become more general. At this crisis France took the lead, and not
only in philosophy but in the minor things of life, French manners
and habits were copied. Consequently, in describing costume, Paris
will be perpetually referred to, from the fact that from that great city
emanated the fashions which controlled the costume of the world.
It is true that other nations had their peculiar costume, handed
down and preserved by the tradition of courts, as the Norman dress
continues even now the court uniform of the state officials of the
British kingdom; Spain had her peculiar doublet, hose and cloak, and
Holland her own court apparel. If, however, we look nearer and
closer, we shall discover each of these were dresses imported from
France at some particular crisis, and retaining position and
importance in their new home, when they were forgotten in the land
whence they were adopted.
The most highly civilized of all the nations of Europe at the time
that this supremacy over the costume of the world was exerted by
France, it might have been expected that its selection would have
been guided by good taste and propriety. This was not however the
case, for in spite of the progress the world has made, the women of
France and our own country, and the men also, are not to be
compared to the members of the most savage tribes, either in
gracefulness of form or propriety of dress. If the Chinese distort the
foot, or the Indians of the North West Coast of America the
forehead, the civilized women of to-day compress the waist, and
men commit not less enormities.
These matters are, however, incontestable; and though we might
regret we cannot prevent them. They simply therefore give us a clue
in treating our subject, of which we will avail ourselves. They teach
us, that to Paris belongs the incontestable empire of that mysterious
power known in France as la mode, and in our own land as Fashion.
Possibly this may be a remnant, the sole vestige, of that tone of
pretension which led France in other days to aspire to universal
empire. If so, the pride of other nations which led them elsewhere to
resist French assumption here has been silent. Though not the rulers
of the world by the power of the sword; though the French idiom be
not so universal as the English, even the denizens of “Albion perfide”
submit to the behests of the controlling powers of the French mode.
Let the French language be universal or not, is to us now of no
importance; that French fleets will drive English and American
squadrons from the seas, is doubtful, but it is very certain
Englishmen and Americans for all time to come will wear French
waist-coats, and Germans both in London and Philadelphia will call
themselves French bootmakers. How fond soever a people may be
of its national garb, ultimately it must submit to the trammels
devised in Paris. Ultimately all men will wear that most inconvenient
article called a hat, will insert their extremities into pantaloons, and
put their arms into the sleeves of the garment, so short before and
so long behind, they are pleased to call a coat. When all nations
shall have come to this state of subserviency, the end of the world
will certainly be at hand, whether because the ultima perfectio has
been reached, or because God, who created man after his own
likeness, will be angry at the ridiculous figure they have made of his
features, better theologians than I must decide. We certainly are not
very near this crisis, for hundreds of yellow-skinned gentlemen are
yet ignorant of the art and mystery of tying a cravat, and never saw
a patent leather boot.
Like great epidemics, the passion for dress often leaps over
territorial boundaries, and ships not unfrequently carry with the
cholera and vomito bales of articles destined to spread this infection
among lands as yet ignorant of it; so that some day we may live to
hear of Oakford sending a case of hats to the Feejees, and of
Watson making an uniform for the general-in-chief of the King of the
Cannibal Islands.
Possibly this passion for our costumes is to be attributed to the
deterioration of the morals of the savages, and if so, even dress has
its historical importance and significance, and is the true reflection of
morale. It may be that the days of the iron garb were days of iron
manners, and also of iron virtue, and that in adopting a silken
costume we have put on, and they may be about to adopt a silken
laxity of virtue and honor.
We will begin to treat of costume as it was in the days of Louis
XIV., the solemn mood and ideas of whom exerted their influence
even on dress, and the era which saw all other arts become
pompous and labored, also saw costume assume the most
complicated character. Costume naturally during this reign was
permanent in its character, and when Louis XV. succeeded to the
throne he found his courtiers dressed entirely as their fathers had
done, and the young king, five years of age, dressed precisely like
his great-grandfather, with peruke, cane and breeches. When he had
reached the years of discretion, Louis XV. continued to devote
himself more to the trifles of the court than to affairs of state.
 The following engraving is an illustration taken from a portrait of a
celebrated marquis of that day.