No. 11. PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 18, BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF M. COR- they retired without having formed themselves VISART. BY BARON CUVIER. JEAN NICOLAS CORVISART was born on the 15th February, 1745, at Dricourt, a village in the department of the Ardennes, whither his father, an attorney at Paris, had retired, during one of those banishments of the parliament, which the quarrels of that body with the clergy so frequently occasioned during the reign of Louis XV. The duties of an attorney, exercised with talent and probity, yielded sure profits, and would have enriched M. Corvisart, the father; but he is said to have had a passion for painting, without knowing much about it, and, what he gained by defending his clients, he laid out in purchasing bad pictures. Being not more skilled in human nature, he, for a long time, persisted in wishing his son to follow his own profession, and kept him for whole days copying law papers. The young man, who was of a lively and ardent disposition, felt that he had been born for less monotonous occupations. A vague uneasiness disquieted him, his law studies became every day more insupportable, and, perhaps, he would have fallen into great irregularities, had he not, on one of those festive rambles in which he indulged himself, whenever he could escape the eye of his father, entered by chance the lecture room of Anthony Petit, one of the most eloquent men who have been professors of anatomy and medicine during the eighteenth century. On hearing the impressive discourse of that master, and attending to the majestic development of ideas, whose novelty equalled their extent, the young Corvisart recognised the profession for which he was designed. He longed to study the animal economy, and for this purpose he determined to be a physi cian. From this moment, despatching early in the morning the writings which his father had prescribed for him as the work of the day, and requesting the clerks, his companions, to keep his secret, he occupied all the hours that he could spare in attending the lectures of Petit, Louis, Dessault, Vicq d'Azyr, and our estimable fellow member M. Portal. His father at length perceiving his want of assiduity, inquired into the cause of his conduct, and discovered it; but, finding that it was now too late to restrain him, he permitted him to direct his whole attention to his new career. The Academy has possessed many members, whom an irresistible propensity has thus led to escape from the more humble plans which their relations had formed for them, and this perseverance in seeking a profession, in defiance of all obstacles, would undoubtedly be a good test for the choice of one; but how many young persons would be found whom these obstacles would not completely arrest, or who would not enter on courses worse than idleness or irresolution? The mode of teaching medicine was then very far removed from the extent and regularity which it has since attained. The Faculty of Paris, an ancient body, organized in the middle ages, had scarcely made any change in a system of government that dated back five centuries. With the title of Doctor, all its members received the right of teaching; but they did not become bound to teach. It was only by chance that a sufficient number ever by practice. Besides, there were no public lectures at the beds of the sick. In order to see a few patients, the students accompanied the elder physicians in their visits; afterwards, when these elder physicians were unwell, or too much busied with practice, they acted for them, and thus they continued, till at length they, too, slowly attained their professional rank. M. Corvisart, to whose ardent genius this tedious progress could not fail to be singularly disagreeable, had yet the patience to conform himself to it in every point; but he chose his masters as a man destined to become one himself. Desbois de Rochefort, chief physician of La Charité, and Dessault, chief surgeon of the Hôtel-Dieu, in the healing art two of the most eminent men of their time, became his principal patrons. It is well known that Desbois de Rochefort had the great merit of first showing the example of regularly delivering clinical lectures in his hospital. Under his guidance, M. Corvisart for several years occupied himself in the observation of diseases, and in the opening of bodies. For this task he had a real passion. The melancholy spectacles which it displays, the dangers to which it is liable, neither repelled nor discouraged him. A puncture which he had received while dissecting, brought him almost to the point of death, and he is said to have escaped only through the assiduous care which Dessault lavished on him. He also, at a very early period, delivered in his own house lectures-not on medicine properly so called (for he did not think that so young a doctor could conscientiously do so), but on anatomy and physiology; and his perspicuity and ardour attracted a crowd of hearers. Nothing more was wanting to him, but to be himself at the head of an hospital, where he could freely pursue the views which his growing experience suggested to him. The first masters of the art judged him worthy of one, and he thought himself on the point of attaining this object of his wishes, when a cause the most trifling in the world kept him back for several years. The customs and dress of physicians were scarcely less antique than the system of government of the Faculty. If Molière had made them lay aside the gown and the pointed cap, they had at least preserved the full-bottomed wig, which no one else any longer wore, and it was on entering into office that they had to muffle themselves in it. It is affirmed that M. Corvisart and M. Hallé were the first who gave the scandal of not assuming it, and that this levity, as it was called, proved very hurtful to them. It is at least certain, that, on the occasion of which we speak, it was the cause of M. Corvisart's disappointment, and that through the person from whom he had least reason to expect it. A celebrated lady, whose husband was the cause, at least the incidental cause, of the greatest innovations that have taken place in France since the establishment of the monarchy, had just founded an hospital, and M. Corvisart ardently wished to obtain the charge of it; but he presented himself in his natural hair, and this innovation she dared not take upon herself to countenance. At the first word she declared to him that her hospital should never have a physician without a wig, 1830. and it was for him to choose between that head-dress and his exclusion. He preferred keeping his hair. By a happy contrast, and when probably ho had not greater expectations, it was a monk who, on another occasion, did him more justice. On the death of Desbois de Rochefort, which happened in 1788, the superior of the ecclesiastics attached to the Hôpital de la Charité, a man held in great estimation for his wisdom and his zeal in favour of the sick, and who had been daily witness of M. Corvisart's assiduous cares, employed his credit in getting him attached to that house, and succeeded in the endeavour. From this time, M. Corvisart, continuing the clinical instructions of his predecessor, saw all the young physicians attend his lectures. He excited admiration by possessing in an eminent degree the talent of discovering from the first moment the nature of diseases, and of foreseeing their progress and event. His fellow-practitioners were not slow in doing him full justice, and he was already considered as one of the first masters in the capital, when, in 1795, Fourcroy procured a chair to be founded for him in the New School of Medicine. Two years after, in 1797, he was appointed to the professorship of medicine in the College of France, and there found himself in the capacity of teaching the art in a theoretical point of view, as he had hitherto shown it practically. The same pupils who heard him in the one school explain the general principles, went to see in the other their happy application, and in all things found him correct, ardent, and obliging in the highest degree. In every thing his pleasing eloquence, his lively temper, his sure and quick tact, excited the highest admiration. If any one had a feeling of repugnance to an art condemned to witness such melancholy scenes, he had only to hear M. Corvisart for some time to become an enthusiast in it. Already all Europe rung with his fame, when, in 1802, he was raised to the highest post in his profession, and yet this elevation was not alone the result of his renown. Every one remembers that it was put to the proof, and that, on being called into consultation respecting an affection of the chest, which threatened the chief of the government, he first discovered its cause, and effected its removal. His success, however, had not inspired him with an explicit faith in medicine. It is even said that the mistakes which, notwithstanding his great sagacity, sometimes happened to him, gave him the greatest vexation, and made him, in those moments of discouragement, speak ill of his art; nor did he like those works in which it was pretended to assign precise characters, and a regular progress to each disease, and from which young persons might form of medicine an idea similar to that afforded by the physical sciences, properly so called, and still less those in which it is presented in a deceit. ful simplicity, under the idea of referring diseases and remedies to a small number of forms,-it was not thus that he viewed it. Organized beings have their certain laws, each of of them conforms to the type of its species; but the disorders which introduce themselves into their organization, are subject to endless combinations; each day this may assume a different complication; and it is from the whole symptoms of each moment, taken together, that they are to be judged of, and combated. Nor did any one pay more attention to these sensible signs. The best physician, according to him, was he who had succeeded in giving to his senses, the greatest delicacy. He did not attend solely to the pains felt by the patient, to the variations of his pulse, or of his respiration. A painter could not have better distinguish ed the shades of colour, nor a musician all the qualities of sounds. The slightest alterations of the complexion, of the colour of the eyes and lips, the different intonations of the voice, the smallest differences in the muscles of the face, fixed his attention. Even the variations of the breath and transpiration were carefully measured by him, and, in the judgment which he formed, nothing of all this was a matter of indifference. The innumerable openings of bodies, which he had made, had enabled him to remark the correspondence of the slightest external appearances with the internal lesions. He is said to have distinguished, at the distance of several beds, the disease of an individual that had just come to the hospital; and, with respect to the disorganizations of the heart, and great vessels in particular, he had attained to a truly wonderful accuracy of divination. His decisions were irrevocable, like those of destiny. Not only did he predict the fate that awaited each patient, and the period at which the catastrophe was to happen, but he gave, beforehand, the measure of the swellings, dilatations, and contractions of all the parts; and the opening of the bodies scarcely ever refuted his announcements. The most experienced, it is said, were utterly astonished by them. His two principal works, the Treatise on the Diseases of the Heart,* and the Commentary on Auenbrugger, are celebrated testimonies of the manner and genius of M. Corvisart. In the first, the inflammations of the pericardium, the dropsies which fill its cavity, the thickening and attenuation of the walls either of the heart in general, or of each of its cavities, the hardening of its tissue, its ossification, its conversion into fat, the contraction of its orifices, its tumours, its inflammations, and its ruptures, are presented, together with their melancholy symptoms, and their fatal results, with an order and clearness that nothing in medicine can surpass. This book so occupied the minds of the young physicians who were eager for instruction, and their imagination was so powerfully struck by it, that, for some time, it is said, they saw nothing but diseases of the heart, as at other times, they have seen every where gravel, bile, asthenia, or inflammations. The effect which it would have on the sick would be still more cruel. His epigraph itself, Hæret lateri lethalis arundo, tells how disheartening the reading of it is; but medical books are not made for those who are not physicians; and it is well that those who are so, should know positively when nothing remains for them to do. This unhappy certainty prevents them at least from tormenting their patients with useless remedies. tiful and legitimate discovery that I wish to These words of themselves describe a cha- M. Corvisart had applied on himself his inexorable talent of foresight, and had obtained from it but a very melancholy augury. His conformation, and the instance of his father, had given him a presentiment of the apoplexy which threatened him, and which did not fail to come on nearly at the time that he had foretold it. This cruel disease at first only affected his motions; his judgment remained sound, and the first use which he made of it was to renounce all exercise of his art, and give himself up entirely to repose. But this precaution delayed only for a very short time an attack which proved fatal. He died on the 18th September, 1821, leaving no family. His place in the Academy of Sciences has been filled up by M. Magendie, and his chair in the College of France had for several years been occupied by M. Hallé. limited, he had not some opportunities of giving him advice that might have been useful to himself, and have perhaps spared some of the blood of Europe? It is certain that he did not allow himself to sink so much as many personages who appeared externally in a higher position, and that whenever, for example, the master showed a disposition to banter him on his profession, a smart reply quickly checked the attempt; but it is also certain, that he never conversed about any thing of general interest. On matters of indifference, every familiarity was allowed him; but a cold look, or a harsh word, stopped him the moment he tried to break this circle. He himself related, that, at the period of a birth, which, coming But he was sensible that at the height which especially from such a marriage, seemed calcuthe sciences had reached, the exclusive influ-lated to satisfy the most ambitious hopes, he ence of one individual, were he the most skil- permitted himself to ask if any thing more ful in his profession, could only restrain their could be desired. Toujours Champenois Docflight. So far was he from wishing to gain any teur! was the only reply he received, and the pre-eminence, that he did not take a higher speaker turned his back. rank in his hospital than was due to him in point of seniority. On the other hand, contrary to the example of those zealous persons who think they shine so much the more when they are surrounded only by obscure individuals, he appointed to the different situations in the medical house the physicians who enjoyed most reputation in the city. There were in the number some who had written and spoken against him; for even this was not to him a motive of hesitation. Those whose memory alone remained to be honoured, the Bichats and the Dessaults, obtained, at his solicitation, monuments, the only mark which he wished to leave of the favour which he enjoyed. I forget, he has given another,-in founding at his own expense, in the Faculty, prizes for the young persons who distinguish themselves by good clinical observations. It has been remarked that many men, on attaining distinction, have remembered the obstacles which poverty opposed to them in their early years, and by a very natural feeling have sought to render less difficult the progress of some of their successors. M. Corvisart was led to this the more willingly, that to his enthusiasm for his profession, he joined a true friendship for those who were possessed of the same feeling. He was jealous of none of his fellow practitioners, and always did them whatever services lay in his power. His greatest pleasure was to see himself surrounded by young physicians who exhibited talent, and it was not with his advice, and with his lectures alone, that he encouraged them; he made them partake the enjoyments of his fortune, and the diversions which a secret inclination to melancholy appear to have rendered necessary to him. It is In the Commentary on Auenbrugger, it is said, that, when he had performed the duties the diseases of the chest, the fluids which of his profession, if he did not give himself up fill its cavity, the tumours which obstruct to the amusements of gay and enlivening societhe bronchia, or the cellules of the lungs, ty, he fell into depression of spirits, and painthat he teaches us to distinguish, by the dif- ful melancholy; that in him the active and ferent sounds which the walls of that cavity busy physician of the morning, became the emit when struck. The form given to this evening of a man of pleasure, who would not work ought to be remarked as the proof of a permit either his art or his patients to be noble generosity. In it M. Corvisart sacrificed spoken of,-a disposition unfortunately too his fame, a kind of property of which men are common among men of ardent genius, and less disposed to be lavish than of any other, to which greatly diminished the services which a delicate feeling of justice towards an un- M. Corvisart might have rendered to science. known individual, and one who had been long Without hurting his zeal for teaching, which dead. He had already, from the suggestions identified itself with his passion for his art, it of his own mind, made most of the experiments made him a rather negligent academician, and contained in this commentary, and had intend- an unproductive author. After having keenly ed to collect them in a single work, when there desired to be admitted among us, he scarcely fell into his hands a dissertation, published in ever assisted at our meetings. His treatise on 1763, by a physician of Vienna, translated in the diseases of the heart, although his own in 1770 by a French physician, and yet almost en- the ideas and in all that forms the essence of a tirely forgotten, in which he found part of what work, did not come from his pen, but was he had observed. I could have sacrificed Aven-drawn up by one of his pupils, M. Horeau; brugger's name, says he, to my own vanity, but I did not choose to do so it is his beau and if it may be regretted that any one should It is asked, and the question naturally sug- Peculiar Cultivation of Potatoes.-A French soldier placed half a dozen potatoes at the bottom of a cask upon a layer of sand and fresh earth, three or four inches thick; when the stalks had risen a few inches, he bent them down and covered them, four or five inches deep, with the same mixture. He continued this operation until the cask was full. Six or seven months after, upon emptying the vessel, (which stood in a court-yard,) he found that the half dozen potatoes had produced an enormous quantity of new ones from the portions of the mother stems which had been successively laid down and covered.-Jour. des Connais. Usuelles, 1829, p. 66. On the Vegetating Wasp of Guadaloupe, by M. J. B. Ricord-Madianna-Botanists and entomologists know that particular productions which have been recognised as cryptogamous plants, many of which have been referred to the genus Sphæria, are frequently met with on dead insects, and are preserved in collections; but it has been thought that these plants developed themselves on insects deprived of life. M. Ricord, however, states, that he has observed at Guadaloupe a nest of Wasps, the greatest number of which were encumbered with these excrescences. As they quitted the nest, they fell upon the ground, and could not rise again on account of the weight of the plant, which had taken root on some part or other of their body, particularly on the sternum. Having observed the larvæ contained in the cells, M. Ricord remarked, that they also had this small cryptogamous appendage, but then it was very small. This species appears to be the Sphæris entomorbiosa of the English botanists.-Journal du Pharmacie. Militia Trainings.-A court martial was recently held at Northampton, Mass. upon some privates for disorderly conduct. One witness declared the criminals cut up "monkey tricks;" upon which an ambitious private retorted that "they were only imitating the officers!" JACK THE SHRIMP. BY MRS. S. C. HALL. lage; poor Crab would not desert his trust, and to save him appeared impossible, even to his master, who had just descended the cliffs, as the intermediate waters became deep and dangerous. I never saw any man in greater agony than Jack on this occasion; repeatedly did he call to the faithful animal-yet it would not quit the spot. Neptune was never particularly quick, but when he did comprehend, he was prompt in doing all things for the best; suddenly he understood the entire matter, plunged fearlessly among the waves, and soon returned, bearing Crab between his teeth to the shore; not content with this exploit, he twice re-entered and brought the baskets to the feet of the grateful man of shrimps. I do believe the poor fellow would, to use his own words, at the moment, have walked "barefoot to Jericho, to sarve me or mine." He snatched the dripping animal to his bosom, and called it his only friend; ever after, Jack and I were intimate acquaintances. Not so Neptune and the black cur; the latter never forgot his obligations; but Neptune only returned the humble caresses of the little creature by a slight movement of his stately tail, or a casting down of his small dark eye, as well as to say, "I sec you!" Still there was something about "Jack the Shrimp," I could not make out; his mornings, from the earliest dawn, in fair or foul weather, were employed in catching the unwary fish; at mid-day he attended his several customers, and in the evenings he again repaired to his haunts among the wild birds, and amid the ocean spray: his general place of repose was a hollow rock, called the OTTER'S-HOLE; and there he used to eat his lonely meal, and share his straw bed at night, with his faithful dog. I saw him one morning, as usual, poking after shrimps; and was struck by the anxiety and energy of his movements; notwithstanding his seeming employment, he was intensely watching every sail that appeared on the blue waters: when he saw me he rapidly approached. "The top of the morning to ye, young lady, and may every sunrise increase y'er happi SOME ten or fifteen years ago, there lived in the neighbourhood of Bannow, a long, lean, solitary man, known by no other appellation, that ever I heard of, than that of "Jack the Shrimp." He was a wild, desolate-looking creature; black lank hair fell over his face and shoulders, and either rested in straight lines on his pale hollow cheeks, or waved gloomily in the passing breeze; his eyes were deep set and dark; and there was something almost mysterious in his deportment;-some persons imagined him to be an idiot; but others, who knew Jack better, asserted that his intellects were of a superior order; however, as few enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance, the former opinion prevailed. Jack could be found every where, except in a dwelling-house; he had a singular antipathy to dry or sheltered abodes; and never appeared at home, except when on the rocky sea-shore, scrambling up the cliffs, or in clear weather, looking out for the scattered vessels that passed into Waterford harbour. Nobody seemed to know how he came to our isolated neighbourhood; his first appearance had created a good deal of village gossip, but that had gone by, and his gentle and kindly manner endeared him to the peasantry; the affectionate greeting of "God save ye""God save ye kindly,"-was frequently exchanged between the solitary shrimp-gatherer, (for such was Jack's ostensible employment,) and the merry "boys and girls" who, at all seasons, collect sea-weed, and burn it into kelp, on the sea-shore. Often have I seen him in the early morning, at low water, his bare, lank legs tramping over the moist sand, or mid-way in the rippling wave; his pole, some six feet long, the net full of shrimps at one end, and the heavy hook at the other, balancing it over one shoulder, while from the opposite were suspended two wicker baskets frequently filled with lobsters, or smaller shell-fish, which he contrived to hook out of their holes with extraordinary dexterity. The sole companion of his rambles was a little black-I really know not what to call it so as to distinguish its tribe -but it may be sufficient to state that it was a black ugly dog; who, by way of economy, usually walked upon three legs, was blind of an eye, and, like its master, lonely in its habits, and shy in its demeanour. This animal, who appropriately enough answered to the name of Crab, was the means of my introduction to its taciturn lord. Even in childhood I was devotedly attached to the sea; somewhat amphibious; fond, when I dare, of getting off my shoes and stockings, and dabbling in the fairy pools which the receding ocean left in the hollow clefts of the rocks; and fonder still of chasing the waves as they rolled along the sloping beach. My affection for this dangerous amusement was so well known, that I was never permitted to go to the strand, although it was considerably within a mile of our house, unattended by an old steady dependant of the family. But there was another who loved to accompany me on all my excursions; my noble favourite Neptune, a tall, stately, Newfoundland dog, thoughtful and sagacious. It was not to be supposed that so highborn an animal would condescend to associate with a low-bred tyke; and no mark of recognition, that ever I perceived, passed between him and Crab, any more than between myself and the shrimp-gatherer, who, I dare say, thought a noisy laughing girl of ten, a sad disturber of his solitude. One morning, during spring-tide, having just bathed, I had quitted the box to take my accustomed stroll along the shore; when, on a rock a considerable distance from land, and which the inflowing rapid waves were covering fast, I saw and heard poor Crab in evident distress: the fact was, that part of his master's tackle wanted some alteration; and Jack, forgetting it was spring-tide, had placed his lobster baskets on a high rock, and directed his dog to watch them until his return from the vil-keeper won't know-that she won't-just ax ness. "Thank ye, Jack; have you caught many shrimps this morning?" "Yarra no, my lannan-sorra a many-Ye would'nt have much company at the big house day?" to "I believe we expect some friends." "Ye wouldn't know their names?" he inquired, looking at me, while his sunken eyes sparkled with feelings which I could not understand. the master who's to dine wid ye to-day, particular about the officers; but don't Miss, darlint, don't say I bid ye; ye don't know what harm might come of it if ye did; it might cost me my life; besides, it would bemean ye to turn informer. Now, Miss machree, young as ye are, yo'r the only one about the big house I'd trust wid that; and so God be wid ye, I depind on your honour." I was ten years old, and it was a glorious thing to think that a secret (although I hardly knew in what the secret consisted,) was in my keeping, and it was still more glorious to be told that my honour was depended on. Jack was, moreover, a favourite with the household, and I had never been forbidden to speak to him. Grandmamma and mamma were, I knew, busied with the housekeeper in the preparation of jellies and pastries, in the manufacture of which, adhering to the fashion of the good old times, they themselves assisted, on those days of confusion in country-houses, called company days. I was consequently aware that I should hardly see them until dressed for the drawing-room. During my conversation with Jack, my biped attendant, Nelly Parrell, had been busily employed in packing up my bathing dress, and locking "the box;" so she knew nothing of Jack's anxiety. I saw the old man watch me attentively, until I ascended the upper cliff on my way home, and then he returned to his occupation. I did not fail to ask my grandfather, at the breakfast table, if he expected any of the officers from Duncannor to dinner that day; the kind man laid down "The Waterford Chronicle," which he was perusing, and smiling one of those sweet and playful smiles, that tell more than words can do, of peace and cheerfulness; inquired, in his turn, if "my head was beginning to think about officers already." I was old enough to blush at this; but returned to my point, and was told that none had been invited. Soon after I saw Jack, and little Crab, the one striding, the other trotting down the avenue; as he passed the open casement, he stopped, and I told him that grandpapa did not expect any officers; the old man crossed his forehead, and muttered, as he reverently bowed, and passed to the kitchen offices, "May heaven be y'er bed at the last, and may ye niver know either sin or sorrow.' Poor Jack! I have often since thought of his benediction. Dinner was at last over, and dessert fairly placed upon the table, when the feet of one or two horses were heard clattering into the court-yard; and, in a few seconds, the servant announced the captain of the detachment of a regiment then quartered at Duncannon; a gentleman who accompanied him, but who was not announced, entered at the same "Some, Jack, I know-Mr. Amble and Mr. Cawthorne, and father Mike, and the rector." "Any of the red-coat officers from Duncan-time; he was a gigantic, gloomy, harsh-looknon, Agra?" "Not that I know of." ing man, and when the servant retired, the officer introduced him as Mr. Loffont, the new "Are ye sure?" he continued, peering earchief of the Featherd and Duncannon police. nestly into my face, "Ye wouldn't, sure you This man was universally disliked in the counwouldn't tell a lie to poor ould Jack, Miss, dar- try, and Captain Gore knew it well; he in lint,-you, whom he'd go tin pilgrimages to some measure apologised for the intrusion of sarve if ye were to die to-morrow;-you, who both, by stating, he had been that mornhave so often spoken kindly to him, when y'ering called upon by Mr. Loffont, to give assistvoice fell on his ear, like the song of a mermaid-sure ye wouldn't desave me, mavour neen!" "Indeed, Jack, there is no reason to deceive you on the subject-the matter cannot concern you; but, to make your mind perfectly easy, 1 will ask the housekeeper; she knows who are expected, and I will let you know when you bring the lobsters to the house." ance to the police, in a rencontre with the smugglers, which was that night expected on our side the coast: this was, I believe, unwelcome intelligence to all, but to none more than myself; an undefined dread of some evil that might happen to my poor friend, the shrimpgatherer, took possession of my mind; and to the astonishment of grandmamma, even my pine-apple was untasted. I have since learnt, that when the ladies withdrew, Captain Gore informed the company that he expected some of his men to meet them at the termination of our oak belting; and, he added, " he was convinced Mr. Herriott would render every assistHis lip curled in bitter scorn as he uttered ance to the king's men in such a cause." Mr. the last sentence, and his eyes grew brightly Herriott was peaceably inclined, and only dark under the shadow of his beetle brows. agreed to go to the beach with the soldiers beAfter a moment's pause, he continued, "Ax cause he thought it likely he might act as a the master himself, dear-ax the master if any mediator between the parties. Well do I reof the officers are to be wid ye; the house-member the breathless anxiety with which I watched for his passing through the great "God bless ye, and God help y'er innocent head; sure d'ye think I'm such an ould fool entirely to be bothering myself about what's no business of mine?-may be, like the rest, ye think me a natural?” entrance hall-it was useless; he did not come out until near midnight, and then he was surrounded by gentlemen, who all spoke in an under tone; at last, with a palpitating heart, I heard the old butler ordered to bring the long double-barrelled gun. The company departed, and I seated myself in the nursery window, which overlooked the beautiful plantations, and the distant sea, that was tranquilly reposing in the beams of the full moon. Slowly and stealthily did the party proceed to the shore; and they stole in silence, and in safety, upon the unfortunate smugglers, who were, at the time, landing their cargo at the entrance to the OTTER'S HOLE. A few peacants were waiting, with empty cars, to convey away their purchases; and the gang was, evidently, unprepared for the attack; neither party, however, wanted courage; and they fought man to man, with desperate resolution. Loffont was foremost in the fray; youth, age, and manhood alike, felt the overpowering force of his muscular arm, or the unerring ball of his pistol. Silently and darkly did he fight, more like a destroying spirit than a mori ulan. At length, in the midst of a combat that had given him more than usual trouble, for he had engaged with a bold and daring anta, onist, he was arrested by a harsh, growling vce, like the deep but murmured anger of an African lion; and his arm was grasped by long bony fingers, that seemed the outcasts of the grave. "And ye're here, you, who crushed my brave-my eldest boy;--who seduced, from her innocent home, iny Kathleen-my daughter-my dear, dear girl, the stamp of her dead mother;-you, who drove us to wandering and want; stand back, James; drop y'er hoult of my only living child, ye hell fiend," continued the agonized old man, as he shook the huge frame of Loffont, even as a willow-wand; "once before, when my boy was murdered, I. struggled with ye for his life, and long it was; but ye cast me from ye as an ould tree, but now," his eyes glared fearfully upon his victim, and, for a moment, smugglers and soldiers remained silent, and motionless. Loffont trembled in every limb; he felt as if his hour were come, and turning from the shrimp-gatherer, he said, "pass on, John Doherty, enough of the blood of y'er house is already on my head." The old man, for a moment, replied not; but then exclaimed, "Revenge for my children!" Long and desperate was the struggle,-hand to hand, foot to foot,-until, as they neared the overhanging edge of the precipitous cliff, the shrimp-gatherer grappled the throat of his adversary; one step more; and both went crashing against the pointed rocks, until the deep, heavy splash in the ocean announced that the contest was over. Instant relief was afforded, and they were both dragged out of the water, still clasped, as in the death struggle. Loffont-his harsh and demon-like features blackened and swollen by suffocation-was indeed a corpse; and, although Doherty was living, and in full possession of his faculties, it was evident his spirit was on the wing. Still did he grasp his antagonist's throat-and, even when besought by Mr. Herriott to relax his hold; he raised himself slowly on his elbow, and turned a steady gaze upon the fentures of one he had hated even unto death. His son knelt by his side-his heart full, almost to bursting, with agonized feeling. In the meantime the contest between the people and the soldiery and police was renewed, and every inch of cliff was vigorously disputed. "James," said the dying man, as his glazed eye followed the bloody contest, upon which the full moon cast her bright and tranquil beams;"James-the boat-they'll be beaten off-but the boat-gain the ship. I do not blame the young lady (he continued, looking at Mr. Herriott), she tould me what she knew; nor am I sorry to say sorry-for my murdered children now can rest in their graves-their murderer is punished." "Jack, interrupted Mr. Herriott, "for God's sake think of the few moments you have to live-think of where you are going." Ay, Sir, if God would spare me to make my soul, now I might think and pray to him— --but before-could I think of any but thim, who are in heaven? Now God-God have mercy on a poor sinful man!"—his hands were clenched in prayer-when a loud shout from the peasantry, which was repeated by a thousand echoes along the rocky shore, announced that they had eaten their opponents fairly off; the old man started, waved his hands wildly over his head, as in triumph-fell back-and expired on his son's bosom. The smugglers escaped to the vessel, and the youth bore off to it the dead body of his father. Mr. Herriott was perfectly safe amid the lawless gang, for he was never known to commit an unjust, an unkind, or even an immoderate action. The ship's crew and the peasantry disappeared, as if by magic, carrying with them as much of the brandy and tobacco as had been landed, for they knew that the police would shortly return with a reinforcement; and in one or two moments Mr. Herriott found himself alone, with the corpse of Loffont, on the wild sea shore;-not quite alone, I should say; the dog of the shrimp-gatherer, poor Crab, came sinelling to the strand where his master's body had lain, raised his little voice in weak and pitiful howlings to the receding barque, and finally laid himself down at the feet of the watchful Neptune, who had never deserted his master's side. From that hour the noble animal became the protector of the w-born cur, and never suffered his humble triend to receive either insult or injury. The body of the wretched man, who had met with so shocking a death, was conveyed to our house-it was buried-but few attended the funeral, which in Ireland is always a mark of disrespect. It was not to be wondered at, for the history of poor Jack became generally known; he had once a home, and all the joys which home can give-a wife, two sons, and one lovely daughter, the pride of her father's life, and of her native village. She was seduced by this villain, this Loffont, under the promise of honourable union-her heart broke! She was found one morning a stiffened corpse at her father's door, with a snow shroud for her covering, and the cold ice of December for her bed. Then her mother quietly and calmly laid down and died; the fountain of her tears had dried-her heart withered within her bosom. The husband and father was rendered wild and desolate, and became a man of desperate fortunes, and swore that nothing but blood should wash out the memory of his daughter's shame. He joined a party of smugglers, with his eldest boy, whom, in an engagement with the police, he saw shot and stabbed by the same hand that had brought sin and death to his happy dwelling. He was so much injured himself in this engagement as to be unable to remain at sea; so he wandered along the sea shore, watching the movements of the officers stationed on the preventive service, and directing the movements of the vessel in which his youngest son had embarked. This will account for the great anxiety he manifested to ascertain who was to dine at our house on that eventful day-dreading, doubtless, that the officers were on the look out for the expected ship; he could not have known that Loffont was so near his usual haunts; for, from the fearful nature of his revenge, I am certain he would have stopped at nothing to shed his blood. Yet Jack had fine qualities; but his bad passions had been foully awakened, and the mild and beautiful doctrines of Christianity were to him almost unknown. Alas, that so little has been done by gentle means to instruct the noble peasantry of Ireland in the nature of religious and social duty! When reason and religion take the place of prejudice and bigotry, then, and not till then, will the Irish character burst forth in all its energy and splendour, and be as much distin guished for its wisdom and prudence, as it is now for its wit and bravery. From the New Monthly Magazine. BY FELICIA HEMANS. Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song. THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow, Thou hast fought with eddying waves; Thy cheek is pale and thy heart beats low, Thou searcher of Ocean's caves! Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old, Midst wrecks where the brave have striven; -The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, But thou its bars hast riven. A wild and weary life is thine, A wasting toil and lone! Though the treasure-grots for thee may shine, To all besides unknown. A weary life!-but a swift decay Soon, soon shall set thee free; In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, That glistening gem shall be; Where the passion-fountains burn, Gathering the jewels far below From many a buried urn: Wringing from lava-veins the fire That o'er bright words is pour'd: Learning deep sounds, that make the lyre A spirit in each chord! But oh! the price of bitter tears Paid for the lonely power, As flower-seeds far by the wild wind spread, And who will think, when the strain is sung Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd, None! none!-his treasures live like thine, O wrestler with the sea! Chinese Canal-A canal was opened in 1825, to the west of Sargan, in Cochin China, which connected that town with a branch of the river Cambodja. Its length was 23 miles, its width 80 feet, and its depth 12 feet. This canal was begun and finished in six weeks, although it had to be carried through large forests and over extensive marshes: 20,000 men were at work upon it day and night, and it is said that 7000 died of fatigue. The sides of the canal were soon covered with palm-trees, for the cultivation of which the Chinese pursue a particular method. 1 LAUSANNE, (Concluded from page 79.) Lausanne and its neighbourhood are also rendered illustrious by their having afforded a residence to Necker and his most celebrated daughter. In a country house, near Lausanne, before he removed to Coppet, Necker composed his "Treatise on the Administration of the Finances," and it was here that Gibbon became acquainted with the ex-minister. At that period Mademoiselle Necker was only a gay and giddy girl. "Mademoiselle Necker," says the historian in a letter to Lord Sheffield, "one of the greatest heiresses in Europe, is now about eighteen, wild, vain, but good-natured, with a much greater provision of wit than of beauty." It does not appear that Gibbon at this time appreciated the talents and the genius which afterwards shone forth so brilliantly in the writings and conversation of Madame de Stael. Not unfrequently the Neckers visited the historian in his humble mansion, where the great financier conversed freely with him on the subject of his administration and his fall. Occasionally also, Gibbon spent a few days with his friends at Coppet, and the correspondence, which has been published, between himself and Madame Necker, proves the very amicable terms on which they stood to one another, and from which, perhaps, the recollection of their youthful attachment did not detract. In visiting the scenes formerly illustrated by the lofty genius and graceful society of Madame de Stael, the traveller will regret that there is no adequate memoir of a person so truly distinguished. "Some one," it is well observed by Lord Byron, "some one of all those whom the charms of involuntary wit and of easy hospitality attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although they are said to love the shade, are in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets than seen in the outward management of family intercourse; and which indeed it requires the delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to describe the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the centre of a society ever varied and always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation to those around her. The mother, tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved; the friend, unboundedly. generous, but still esteemed; the charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most where she was known the best; and to the sorrow of very many friends, and of more dependents, may be offered the disinterested regret of a stranwho, amidst the sublime scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinna." Many amusing and interesting anecdotes of Madame de Stael are, however, given in the "Notice" prefixed to her "Euvres inedites" by Madame Necker Saussure. From her we learn that the "wild, vain, but good-natured" Mademoiselle Necker actually proposed to her parents that she should marry Mr. Gibbon in order that they might secure the uninterrupted enjoyment of his society! Her devotion to her father is said almost to have amounted to idolatry, as the following anecdote will sufficiently prove. Madame Necker Saussure had come to Coppet from Geneva in M. Necker's carriage, and had been overturned on the way, but without receiving any injury. On mentioning the accident to Madame de Stael on her arrival, she asked, with great vehemence, who had driven; and on being told that it was Richel, her father's ordinary coachman, she exclaimed, in an agony, "My God! he may one day overturn my father!" and rung instantly with violence for his appearance. While he was coming, she paced about the room in the greatest possible agitation, crying out at every turn, "My father! my poor father! he might have been overturned!" and turning to her friend, "at your age, and with your slight person, the danger is nothing; but with his age and bulk, I cannot bear to think of it." The coachman now came in; and this lady, usually so mild, and indulgent, and reasonable with all her attendants, turned to him in a sort of frenzy, and in a voice of solemnity, but choked with emotion, said, "Richel! do you know that I am a woman of genius?" The poor man stood in astonishment, and she went on louder: "Have you not heard, I say, that I am a woman of genius?" Coachee was still mute. "Well, then! I tell you that I am a woman of genius-of great genius-of prodigious genius! and I tell you more, that all the genius I have shall be exerted to secure your rotting out your days in a dungeon, if ever you overturn my father!" Even after the fit was over, she could not be made to laugh at her extravagance, and said, "And what had I to conjure with but my poor genius?" It is singular, that though her youth was passed amidst the most enchanting scenery of Switzerland, Madame de Stael had little relish for its charms. "Give me the Rue de Bac," | said she to a person who was expatiating on the beauties of the Lake of Geneva; "I would prefer living in Paris, in a fourth story, with a hundred louis a year." M. Simond has sketched with considerable ability the character of this celebrated woman. "I had seen Madame de Stael a child, and I saw her again on her death-bed. The intermediate years were spent in another hemis. phere, as far as possible from the scenes in which she lived. Mixing again, not many months since, with a world in which I am a stranger, and feel I shall remain so, I just saw this celebrated woman, and heard as it were her last words, as I had read her works before, uninfluenced by any local bias. Perhaps the impressions of a man thus dropped from another world into this may be deemed something like those of posterity. *** Madame de Stael lived for conversation; she was not happy out of a large circle, and a French circle, where she could be heard in her own language to the best advantage. Her extravagant admiration of the Paris society was neither more nor less than genuine admiration of herself; it was the best mirror she could get, and that was all. Ambitious of all sorts of notoriety, she would have given the world to have been noble and a beauty; yet there was in this excessive vanity so much honesty and frankness, it was so void of affectation and trick, she made so fair and so irresistible an appeal to your own sense of her worth, that what would have been laughable in any one else was almost respectable in her. That ambition of eloquence, so conspicuous in her writings, was much less observable in her conversation; there was more abandon in what she said than in what she wrote; while speaking, the spontaneous inspiration was no labour but all pleasure; conscious of extraordinary powers, she gave herself up to the present enjoyment of the deep things, and the good things, flow. ing in a full stream from her own well-stored mind and luxuriant fancy. The inspiration was pleasure-the pleasure was inspiration; and without precisely intending it, she was every evening of her life, in a circle of company the very Corinna she depicted, although in her attempts to personify that Corinna, in her book, and make her speak in print, she utterly failed, the labour of the pen extinguishing the fancy." An amusing anecdote is related by M. Simond of the early wit and vivacity which disguished Madame de Stael. "While at Cop pet, an anecdote told us by an intimate friend of the family (M. de Bonstetten) recurred to me. He was then five-and-twenty, she a sprightly child of five or six years old; and walking about the grounds as we were then doing, he was ruck with a switch from behind a tree; turning round he observed the little rogue laughing. "Maman veut," she called out, "que je me serve de la main gauche, et j'essayois!" Among the literary associations which Lausanne affords, it must not be forgotten that it was the last residence of that very amiable and highly accomplished man, John Philip Kemble. A few miles distant from Lausanne is the small town of Vevay, a place which, like a thousand other places near it, is associated with the recollection of one of the most singular and highly-gifted men of modern times, who has peopled these beautiful regions with the undying offspring of his own imagination. "J'allai à Vevay loger à la Clef," says Rousseau, "et pendant deux jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour que m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait établir enfin les heros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers à ceux qui ont du goût et qui sont sensibles-allez à Vevai-visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas." Lord Byron, with equal rapture, has celebrated this favoured spot in verse and in prose: 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found Where early Love his Pysche's zone unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. In reference to the passage from Rousseau just given, Lord Byron has said, "In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva, and as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his 'Heloise,' I can safely say that in this there is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Mei!lerie, Eivan, and the entrance of the Rhone,) without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with which it has been peopled." In surveying these scenes, it is, indeed, painful to reflect that they were rather polluted than sanctified by the presence of those whom the genius of Rousseau has invested with qualities so graceful and so captivating. It is still more painful to know that the character of Rousseau itself exhibited the same inconsistency, presenting an external surface of romance and sentiment, beneath which festered many of the meanest and most debasing of human passions. Moore has poured out in some very spirited lines his indignation against the blind worshippers of Rousseau. "Tis too absurd,-'tis weakness, shame, For attributes, his noblest, first- |