Fanny, I thought of our delicious ice-cream, and your sponge-cake, and wondered how people could eat such stuff! Well, to go on, the ladies stood in groups, and their partners helped them; but to such loads of food! And to see how they tippled! Why, child, your uncle don't drink as much in one month as these women in a night; and sometimes they drank out the same glass with a gentleman. . Oh, I can't tell you how shocked I was! I insisted on going back to my room; and, tired to death, I did sleep, in spite of the hard pillows.

"Well, next morning I was waked by hearing a man's voice call out, Mrs. Jones! Mrs. Jones! will you go bathing this morning? Mrs. Armor is ready, and we are only waiting for you.' I sat up in bed, and looked around. Your uncle had gone down, and there I was alone, a man at my door asking me to go and bathe with him and some one else! I sprang out of bed and latched the door, trembling from head to foot; and, after a while, the impudent creature went down. Joanna came up and dressed me, and I sat waiting for your uncle, intending to make him call this person to account, if he could discover him. Some one knocked at the door, and Joanna opened it. There stood a waiter with a glass of julep that held a quart, and a long straw stuck into it. This is Mrs. Jones's julep,' said he, bowing to me. 'Mr. Hall sends it with his compliments, and hopes she does not feel badly after her bath.' I was furious. I have not bathed this morning, and do not drink; you must make a mistake. Shut the door, Joanna.' And he went to the next door. I could hardly keep from crying at this fresh insult; and, when your uncle came, could scarcely find words to tell him what had passed. My dear, he laughed at me, and said I must have been dreaming!"

Here, Uncle Jones threw himself back in the chair and shook with laughter. My aunt looked reproachfully at him, and I tried hard not to join in his mirth, but smile I must, I could not help it.

"I went down to breakfast-Fanny, listen to me -and couldn't eat a thing. The table-cloth was dirty, and the butter a smash. There must have been two hundred in the room, and their loud talking deafened me. I went back to my room, and tried to swallow some of my pills; but they made me sick. I lay down to rest, and, about eleven, your uncle told me to go down and bathe, as the bath-house was empty. So down I went, and had been there about fifteen minutes, when a perfect swarm of women and children rushed in. I wanted to get out of the water, but thought I would wait until they were all in, so that I could dress in peace. Such a clatter and screaming, as they all plunged in, hooting and hallooing! Some could swim, and some were learning, so they kicked about manfully, looking at me as if I were a crocodile, and talking French. I got out, and dressed as well as I could, and went up to the hotel. They sent up a lunch of

bread and smashy butter, with a few streaks of ham. I ate this with pleasure, for I was hungry, and your uncle brought me a glass of India ale that was very nice. The place was quiet enough, for all the people were out to bathe, and I fell asleep over that nice book, 'David Copperfield.' I was waked by a knock at the door: Mrs. Jones, here's a capital cocktail for you! The same voice that was after me in the morning. What he meant by a cocktail, I don't know; but I would't answer, and he went off. Cocktail is a mixture of brandy and bitters, child, I found out afterwards; for every day this same insolent creature came to my door, invit ing me to bathe, and sending me juleps and cocktails."

Here my uncle set off again, and this time I joined him, and laughed heartily, for my aunt's indignation was irresistible. She looked at us steadily, but did not call Joanna for ether, as was her wont; and, after a pause, went on with her story.

"Well, you would never laugh, Fanny, if you were to go to a public place and see women dancing in their petticoats, bathing with anybody, and drinking things with such low names as cocktails. For two good weeks I endured this, and being every morning roused out of my sleep by that monster calling me to go and bathe with him. For two good weeks I saw more flirting and parleyvooing, more skipping, hopping, and drinking than a woman of my character and principles ever ought to witness; and I never had spirits during all the time to take my medicines; for I was afraid to ring the bell for Joanna, lest the eternal julep and cocktail man should answer it. So one thing I've gained by my journey, I find I can do without them and feel very well."

"Eureka!" cried my uncle, jumping up and giving her a hearty kiss. "Here is my own Milly come to life! And now, my dear, I'll tell you a secret: your morning visitor and your julep offers, were all intended for your neighbor in the next room, another Mrs. Jones."

"Why, John! why did you not undeceive me? I was so very much annoyed."

"Well, Milly, to tell you the truth, I thought I would allow you to be as much disgusted with watering-places as you really are. I knew that you would not have time to faint and stuff yourself with bread pills."

"Bread pills, John Jones! What do you mean?" cried Aunt Milly.

"Simply that you have swallowed nothing but bread pills since your maladies showed themselves," said he, dryly, resorting to his old way of thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Is it possible! How abominable!" Aunt Milly was ready to cry. "One thing, then, I will say, you have all treated me shamefully; but I have been well punished by hearing this, and my visit to that horrid watering-place."

"And yet it cured you, aunty," said I, mischievously.

"Now, Fanny Bracy!-now, Fanny Bracy!" and

my aunt looked daggers; but from that day she has been as active as a squirrel, as busy as a bee, and as merry as a lark. So, at least, says my uncle, and he ought to know.

PLANTS COMPOSED OF A SINGLE ROW OF CELLS.In this case, the cell is multiplied by division combined with subsequent expansion, which takes place in one direction only. A cell is first elongated, and a partition is seen to project across its middle, by which it is divided into two cells; one of these cells again elongates, and is again subdivided in a similar manner in this way, a plant is produced consisting of a simple or branching series of cells placed end to end. Such plants can be seen in any shallow stream of water which is exposed to the light. They appear like threads of vegetable matter, and, collectively, form that bright green ooze which attaches itself to the stones and pebbles of the stream. The extension of the parts of plants or vegetable growth, in all ordinary cases, is effected by this mode of cell-multiplication.

In the simplest plant in nature, the plant-cell, both the reproductive and nutritive processes are carried on by the same cell. So also in the Diatomaceæ, a species of marine alge, where the union of plant-cells is only temporary, the organs of nutrition and reproduction are still identical. The cells of these plants are at first united, but afterwards spontaneously disarticulate and break up, exhibiting well-marked spontaneous movements, insomuch that some naturalists have referred them to the animal kingdom, to which they certainly approximate. The cells thus separated, under suitable conditions, individually develop into new and independent plants.

But when plant-cells unite together permanently, as they do in the higher forms, the organs of nutrition and reproduction are no longer identical or confined to the same cell; on the contrary, some of the cells are specialized or set apart for nutrition, and others for reproduction.

When plant-cells combine together, and a line or plane of cells is produced, they form what physiologists call a tissue. It must be evident that such plants are more composite in their mode of growth. A tree, philosophically considered, is not an individual, as is commonly supposed, but a community of individuals. Every bud which develops on the branch is, in fact, a phyton, or new plant, and is capable of forming the germ of an independent existence it is but a repetition of the same process of growth, and of the plant itself, from which it difVOL. XLV. 40

fers only in having no free radical extremity, like the parent plant, developed in the soil. Now, when plant-cells combine into a simple or branching series of cells, their union with each other evidently corresponds to the union of the phytons in the flowering plants, the growth of each cell being, as we have already shown, simply a repetition of the same process, or of the same plant-cell; and, although each plant-cell in the series thus united together is capable of propagating the species, which it actually does when they are separate from each other naturally, yet, when they remain together, certain cells are specialized for propagation and others for. nutrition.

This is beautifully exemplified in the Mucar, or bread-mould (Fig. 1), which consists, as to the

It

2

creeping part at its base, of long, thread-like and branching cells, the partitions of which have been wholly absorbed, so that they form continuous tubes, whilst its upright portion, or stem, is composed of a single row of cells, formed by the process of division already explained, the terminal cell containing the reproductive matter or spores. In Fig. 2, the Penicillum glaucum, another mould, we have a somewhat different arrangement of the reproductive cells, which, instead of being inclosed in a solitary terminal cell, are arranged side by side, forming a number of bead-like branches at the summit of the stem. These cells ultimately separate, and grow into new individuals.

Let us pause for a few moments, and reflect on the simplicity and beauty of these admirable productions of nature. Think of the Liriodendron tulipifera, or tulip-tree, the pride of the American

forests. Its wide-spread and powerful roots, its tall and massive stem, its glorious and far-extended canopy of foliage and flowers; this is the result of centuries of assimilation from inorganic matter, of the evolution of countless myriads of cells. Now look at the little bread-mould, which nature constructs from decaying organic matter in a few short hours. In this plant, we have the problem of vegetable nutrition and reproduction reduced to the last degree of simplicity: the whole process is seen in these interesting plants, as it were, in miniature, beneath the microscope. The basis, or foundation of the plant corresponding to the root, consists of a few interwoven tubular cells, the upright portion the analogue of the stem of a few cells strung end to end, and the terminal cell at its summit is the humble representative of the flowering or reproductive part of the plant, the most highly organized and striking portion of the fabric of all plants, and

to which the vegetable creation owes all its splendor.

Yet, after all, although nature has thus beautifully simplified the common laws of vegetable life for our instruction, how little do we in reality know about it! We do not know how the cells of the breadmould originate, why they are developed in this particular form, why they are so few in number, and why the terminal cell should be specialized or set apart for reproduction. Could we but answer these simple questions, we could explain the formation of vegetable out of mineral matter, and those mysterious and sublime operations by which nature clothes the earth with this endless variety of vegetable form. But, although the acutest philosophers have directed their closest scrutiny to the problem of vegetable development, and particularly of cellgrowth, a thick cloud still continues to rest over this department of physiological science.

CHAPTER I.

THE noble Chevalier Herman, of Meringer, loved the young and beautiful Matilda, of Malsbourg. He was fortunate in being also beloved by her. It was during the time of the Crusades, that great heroic era of Christianity, when Europe and Asia, the Christian and Mussulman federations, Rome and Bagdad, Christ and Mohammed, Pope and Caliph, had shown themselves under the walls of the city of David, to determine an old quarrel of five centuries; and the two rival worlds equally collected their subjects in the prosecution of a holy war. Roused by the ardent summons of a passionate friar, the people of Christian Europe started and awoke. Their souls were full of enthusiasm, and, in a moment, at the supposed voice of religion, her multitudes, seeking glory and adventure, covered the thousand pathways of France, England, and Germany, lance in hand, red cross on white tunic, and banner waving in the wind. Kingdoms were to be conquered; the oppressed to be rescued and sustained; the holy sepulchre to be delivered; and, above all, that beautiful sun of Asia, that magnificent country of the East, filled with marvels, and abounding in light and perfumes, was to be yielded up to Christian keeping.

The noble Herman was among the rest to cry, "Deus Vult!"-"It is the will of God." He shared in the enthusiasm, had taken up the cross, and sworn at Notre Dame to accomplish the warlike pil

grimage, now almost enjoined by the Church as a Christian duty, to the holy sepulchre. No wonder, then, if the young Matilda should be sad, sad as an autumnal evening; if the tears were seen to stream from her blue eyes down her fair, soft cheeks; if her eyes were now, from time to time, raised towards Heaven in as much despondency as hope, as if there seeking the aid and protection which earth seemed only to deny.

It was, in those days, an old and pious custom among those who loved, to make, at parting, certain mutual gifts, which should keep them in remembrance: a glove, a scarf, a jewel, some toy or trifle, which, however valueless in itself, might possess a precious significance in the eyes of love. Not that those who truly love have any need of such remembrance; but that, by these visible symbols, the fond eyes keep always before them a token which prevents them from wandering, as certainly as the heart. Our lovers did not differ from the rest of the world. They, too, had little treasures to exchange, upon which affection had set her name and seal, and from which sympathy could always gather sufficient provocation for her tears. The gift of our Crusader to his betrothed was a splendid missal, exquisitely embellished and illuminated by one of the most skilful artists of the neighboring abbey. In return, he received from her a scarf embroidered with a blue cross, which she cautioned him never to discard, as it possessed a nameless virtue. They then renewed the most tender assurances at parting,

swearing, as most lovers do on such occasions, eternal love; and, having for the last time embraced the sad and blushing fair one, the noble Herman took the road to Venice, that cherished daughter of the Adriatic Sea, from whence he embarked for the Holy Land.

The seas sped his progress. He was soon landed on the shores profaned by the pagan; and very brief was the interval before the struggle followed between the iron-clad soldiery of Europe with the light-armed, but vigorous and elastic chivalry of the East.

"It was a spectacle of surpassing beauty," writes one who beheld it, "the first combat which followed between the opposing armies. In the distance, the morning sun is lighting up the blue mountains and the widely rolling sea. Before us, the plain is covered with the warlike thousands who are about to meet. There they rush careering on their steeds, their glittering equipage and armor multiplying and casting back, with sinister lights, the dazzling glances of the sun. Anon, there is a terrible rush, as of the waters of the raging sea-a noise, confused and undefinable, but which fills the heart with unspeakable apprehensions. Suddenly, the sound subsides. A silence follows quite as terrible as was the storm; a silence like that of the same ocean, when the tempest has sunk into repose. Again the tumult rises, swells, grows as it proceeds, while dense clouds of dust envelop the contending armies, and almost shut from sight the soft beauties of the far blue sky above. Death, that child of darkness, that mother of silence, is accomplishing her work. Another, and a deeper silence ensues. At a distance only is it broken, while at intervals burst forth the cries of triumph and exultation of those who stand among and above the slain. The pure winds of heaven once more break over the bosom of the earth. They sweep the dust from the field of conflict. The cloud disappears, and unveils the dead and dying. The survivors have sped in pursuit, leaving horror and blood behind them, with the loathsome jackal alone to prey upon the unconscious kinsman and the friend. Oh, surely, the field of battle is a most glorious spectacle!"

But what became of our Herman, the betrothed of the fair Matilda, on that bloody field of Palestine, for which his eager soul had thirsted so long? Alas, the question! Sudden are the changes in the sky of March, but still more suddenly change our destinies. The noble Lord of Meringer has fallen into the hands of the infidels. His fate was a cruel one. For six dreary hours he had fought, almost entirely unsupported, against a crowd of enemies; at length a mighty stroke, breaking in pieces his armor, left him incapable of defence and of movement, beneath the feet of his horse. The stroke, however, supposed to be mortal, did but stun him; a marvellous circumstance; not even shedding a drop of his blood! The sword of the pagan war

rior, though tempered in the living waters of the Baraddi, which runs by Damascus, could not cut through the scarf of the fair Matilda; that scarf of white with the blue cross, which our hero always carried next to his bosom. "There was magic in the web of it."

Become a prisoner, he was, with his unfortunate companions, degraded to the labors of the field. Our poor French captives were thus doomed to till the lands they had only come to reap, and were driven to the work with strokes, which not unfrequently moistened the furrows with their blood. Herman bore his lot with the meek submission of a Christian. He neither complained of the labor, nor resented the blows and bonds of his tormentors. Their strokes, indeed, fell unharming upon the scarf of Matilda.

This was a miracle! The curious circumstance at length reached the ears of the youthful prince, into whose hands the noble Lord of Meringer had fallen. He was curious to behold the man of whom he had heard this matter, and Herman was accordingly brought before him, when he demanded to know the history of his magic scarf. The chevalier meekly told his story, saying frankly that the scarf had been given him by the damsel whom he loved, the virtuous and beautiful Matilda of Malsbourg, of whose continued chastity and truth, the captive declared the sanctity and whiteness of the scarf to be a sufficient evidence of its power for his own preservation, the proofs were every day apparent.

:

CHAPTER II

THE young prince, being rich and powerful, with an excitable imagination, and fond of the marvellous, was naturally a seeker after adventure: just such a person as we so frequently read of among the caliphs and viziers of the Thousand and One Nights. He was impressed by the description given of Matilda, and determined secretly to visit France, and to spare neither gold nor presents in the attempt to win the affections of the betrothed of our captive knight; and, by this means, to see if the scarf would lose its virtue and change its color. He was not slow in carrying his resolution into effect. With great secrecy and diligence, he passed into the Christian country. It was a cold, bleak evening in winter when he arrived at the foot of the tower where dwelt the young heiress of Malsbourg. He was fortunate in beholding her the very first moment of his arrival. Heedless of the cold and biting winds, she was even then leaning out from the turret, sending her eyes afar, as if seeking to discern, amidst the whiteness of the snow which covered the vast plain before her, the black plume of her knight faintly glimmering in the distance; striving to distinguish, amidst the noise of the wind,

the sound of a well-known bugle. The form of the visitor appeared before her, and, for a moment, inspired her with a hope; which was, however, soon dissipated when the faithful warder, Dietrich, throwing open the gates of the castle, admitted our adventurous sultan. The sight of a stranger, whose features told her nothing but that they were bronzed by the intense sun of Asia, only filled her heart with new terrors and apprehensions, which the deep sigh which he uttered as he surveyed her person only tended to increase. She had everything to fear from a messenger coming from the East, in place of Herman; but the stranger only implored hospitality, and made no present revelations. His prayer was necessarily granted. The inclemency of the season was a sufficient plea to the heart of charity for the lonely wayfarer at such a bitter time.

It is related in the legend of Dr. Faustus, that, one day, Mephistopheles tempted the fair Margaret with rich ornaments of pearls and diamonds. The poor child trembled, hesitated, and finally allowod herself to become his victim; and this is the history of very many of the daughters of Eve. Our sultan resorted to a like influence to persuade the fair Matilda. She beheld, in one night, at her feet, all the riches of the East. She heard her pagan suitor swear that her betrothed, the noble Herman, would forever drag the plough of the infidel unless she yielded to his entreaties. The sultan was beautiful as a fallen angel, and as eloquent as the Devil when he tempted the mother of mankind in the garden; and yet-and yet he failed. The fair Matilda turned over the golden leaves of her missal, and remained faithful to her lover. When left to herself, she mourned over the cruel destiny under which Herman suffered in a heathen land, and prayed the Virgin to give her strength and means to deliver him from his enemies.

Did the Virgin listen to her prayer? Did the maiden leave it to prayer alone? We shall see.

Though swiftly roll the waves, yet still more swiftly pass our days. The infidel, hopeless of his arts, has returned to Syria with empty coffers. He has gained nothing by his adventure, and his gifts were all fruitless with the fair Matilda. Herman still labored with his companions at the plough, and his scarf still remained immaculate as the white wing of the cherubim.

Soon after this time, there arrived at the court of our sultan an unknown singing-master. His pale face, long, fair hair, smooth chin, and blue eyes-in short, his whole appearance showed that he was from the West, from those cold and melancholy countries so often hid from the entreaties of the

sun.

The stranger sang, accompanying himself with the sounds of an ebony harp, inlaid with ivory, which he brought with him. His sweet strains captivated the assembled crowd. He sang, in a pure and limpid voice, the joys of one's native country;

then he changed his notes, and the spirit of his muse became that of the clarion, as he sang the hymn of combat and the joys of triumph. In a more tranquil mood, he told of love-love which baffles all sorrows, and heals every wound. He detailed, for the delight of the fierce, but curious and story-loving Syrians, the original legends of the West-harmonious echoes of a marvellous and poetic past. He described the lovely Emma, the royal fiancée of a powerful monarch, who sacrificed a throne for a humble student-who encountered, on behalf of Eginhard, the fearful wrath of the great Emperor Charlemagne, her sire. This legend led to others. He told of a mysterious cavalier, who descended the green banks of the Rhine in a bark, which was drawn, with a chain of silver, by a swan of incomparable whiteness; who rescued the lovely orphan from the tower where she was kept, and, having espoused her, disappeared as suddenly as he came, like some sad and sombre spectre, only from being vexed by an imprudent question. Then followed the story of Nothurga, that beautiful and pious maiden, who, being betrothed to a knight who perished in a distant land, fled into exile rather than forget her faith, and buried herself in the remotest solitude. A white hind, which accompanied her to the desert, brought her daily, suspended about his neck in a basket, the nourishment which a faithful servant had procured. But when autumn arrived, and the last leaves and flowers had disappeared, the angels came with better nourishment, and transferred her pure spirit to a more certain refuge in Heaven. Still, however, though she herself no longer appears among the perishing flowers, her pure and lovely body preserves, though under its covering of hoar-frost, the germ of life in the beautiful little blue flower, the daisy, which she loved, and sleeps sweetly shrouded in roses that never fail to bloom at the proper season above her grave, on the pleasant banks of the Neckar.

With this plaintive romance, the minstrel ended his touching ballads, which declared the sufferings of the soul, and, with gracious symbols of hope, pointed to that celestial flower which alone defies the winds and the waves of life. The voice of the musician had varied with his song. It had become more thrilling than at first, while his eye grew more and more animated, his gestures more expressive; inspiration seemed to open from his soul the sweet secret of a better future, and he seemed to tremble with very excess of happiness-even as the swallow, who, after having fatigued his wings in traversing a stormy sea, perceives, at sunset, once more in view the precious spot of earth where it finds a home-the murmuring fountain, the green plain, the fresh shade, and the dear maternal nest.

It was like so much magic to the ears of the sultan and his court, the songs of the pale and lighthaired stranger. Poetry is naturally grand and powerful under the starry sky of the orient. There,