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to develop among them a propensity for gallantry, and give birth to a multitude of intrigues and romantic adventures. Nothing, however, is more rare, and this is the reason. The Turks, in their relation to the harem, display the most scrupulous delicacy. 'Such is the idea of sanctity which they attach even to the word, that uttering it is a sacrilege. At the present day, among the old Osmanli, it is contrary to the rules of good society to ask any one about the welfare of his harem: themselves, in those very rare cases when they are obliged to allude to their wives or daughters, employ metaphorical expressions, and evince extreme care in the avoidance of the actual word. Thus, when a father wishes to announce the birth of a daughter, he will say, "A veiled one has been given unto me: a mucafir (guest) has entered beneath my roof." We find among the ancient Greeks traces of this refined susceptibility as regards women. Among them, even to praise woman was a species of moral brand. "The virtuous woman," says Thucydides, "is one who is never mentioned, either for good or evil." How could an Osmanli hit on the idea of making love to women not belonging to his harem? He even avoids looking at those he meets in the street. Melling, architect to the Sultana Khadidge, sister of Sultan Selim, relates that he had free access to the harem of that princess, and that he talked with her women unveiled, while the officers of the palace who accompanied him only addressed them with downcast eyes or averted faces. With the Turks, "videre est habere," in the truest sense of the word.

verting the gardens into veritable pounds.
Thus, then, the question of the virtue of the
women becomes a branch of architecture.
Nor must we forget the muezzin, who, from
the summit of the minar, which he ascends
four times daily to announce the hour of pray-
er, can see into all the adjoining houses and
gardens. There is no tuft of trees too dense
for his watchful eye. But the muezzin is the
avenger, and not the accomplice, of immoral-
ity. One day one of them perceived in an
adjoining house the wife of a rich and pow-
erful Agha entering secretly a kiosque, in
which she had given a rendezvous to a young
Armenian baker. Incapable of mastering his
indignation, he denounced the sacrilege of
which he was witness by mixing up with the
formula of the Ezan the anathema against the
faithless wife and the Ghiaur, her accomplice.
All the quarter was up in arms.
The neigh-
bors collected, the women yelled, the dogs
barked; at last the kavasses burst into the
house, and gave over the two criminals to the
justice of the Cadi.

Frequently have we heard stories of the liaisons between Turkish women and Europeans; but they are generally fictions. Bayle St. John, in his "Village Life in Egypt," has made a capital allusion to this, which we may be permitted to quote, although it refers to Cairo and not to Constantinople: "Adventures of every kind are rare in Cairo; and as to the intrigues which some imagine themselves to have been engaged in, they are, so far as I know, ludicrous deceptions. There are a few ladies of quality' who are always falling in love with Franks, supposed to be gulliWhether the women think on this subject ble or rich; and So-and-So, who allowed himlike their husbands, is quite a different thing. self to be dressed as a woman, and nearly Many among them would not be very vexed injured his spine by the exaggerated walk of to be spoken of, even if it were in bad terms. a true Masriyeh, may be assured that the Virtuous, in spite of their teeth, it is not the adventure was known beforehand in his hotel, fear of the sin that restrains them, but the and known all over Cairo the next day. The occasion which they want. All conspires, heroine was merely the commonplace girl of besides, to preserve the honor of families: the the too-celebrated Stamboolina. Egyptian woseverity of the law, which punishes with death men certainly are, according to all accounts, the adulteress and her accomplice; the urban licentious and prone to intrigue; and many of police, vigilant guardians of morality; the them have had affairs with Franks even during very structure of the houses. Thus, there the months of Ramadhan. But if a person's are no windows looking on the streets, no taste lead him to these equivocal adventures, Spanish balconies; the windows are few, and he must qualify himself by a very long resicarefully grated; and the garden where the dence in the country, and not merely don the women walk is not commanded by any neigh-national costume, but learn how to wear it boring window. If the walls are too low, -no easy matter—and, moreover, acquire a planks are raised vertically upon them, con- considerable knowledge of Arabic. As there

is nothing, however, very interesting to observe | called "La Turquie Actuelle," which has re

in the manners of this class of women, with whom it is only possible to have stolen interviews of short duration, there is no compensating advantage for the risk."

We are bound to add, in conclusion, that we are indebted for the greater portion of these details to a very amusing work by Ubicini,

cently appeared in Paris, and gives most trustworthy accounts of the Turkish people -a nation which deserves a thorough study, from the possible fact that it will speedily be enumerated among the list of the lost peoples of Europe.

THE FIRST TELEGRAPHIC MESSAGE.

PROFESSOR MORSE now returned to his native land, from Europe, and proceeded immediately to Washington, where he renewed his endeavors to procure the passage of the bill, granting the appropriation of thirty thousand dollars. Towards the close of the session of 1844, the House of Representatives took it up and passed it by a large majority, and it only remained for the action of the Senate. Its progress through this house, as might be supposed, was watched with the most intense anxiety by Professor Morse. There were only two days before the close of the session, and it was found, on examination of the calendar, no less than one hundred and forty-three bills had precedence to it. Professor Morse had nearly reached the bottom of his purse; his hard-earned savings were almost spent; and, although he had struggled on with undying hope for many years, it is hardly to be wondered at if he felt disheartened now. On the last night of the session he remained till nine o'clock, and then left without the slightest hope that the bill would be passed. He returned to his hotel, counted his money, and found that after paying his expenses to New York he would have seventyfive cents left. That night he went to bed sad, but not without hope for the future, for, through all his difficulties and trials, that never forsook him. The next morning, as he was going to breakfast, one of the waiters informed him that a young lady was in the parlor waiting to see him. He went in immediately, and found that the young lady was Miss Ellsworth, daughter of the Commissioner of Patents, who had been his most steadfast friend while in Washington.

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"Am I the first, then," she exclaimed, joyfully, "to tell you?"

"Yes, if it is really so."

"Well," she continued, "father remained till the adjournment, and heard it passed, and I asked him if I might not run over and tell you."

"Annie," said the Professor, his emotion almost choking his utterance, "Annie, the first message that is sent from Washington to Baltimore shall be sent from you."

"Well," she replied, "I will keep you to your word."

While the line was in process of completion Professor Morse was in New York, and upon receiving intelligence that it was in working order, he wrote to those in charge, telling them not to transmit any messages over it till his arrival. He then set out immediately for Washington, and on reaching that city sent a note to Miss Ellsworth, informing her that he was now ready to fulfil his promise, and asking her what message he should send.

As soon

To this he received the following reply: What hath God wrought?"-words that ought to be written in characters of living light. The message was twice repeated, and each time with the greatest success. as the result of the experiment was made known, Governor Seymour, of Connecticut, who is at present United States minister to St. Petersburg, called upon Professor Morse, and claimed the first message for his state, on the ground that Miss Ellsworth was a native of Hartford. We need scarcely add that his claim was admitted, and now, engraved in letters of gold, it is displayed conspicuously in the archives of the Historical "On the passage of your bill," she re- Society of Connecticut.

"I come," said she, "to congratulate you."

"For what?" said Professor Morse.

.

to those who dwell in the fool's paradise which islanders, living on patrimonial property and patrimonial fame, so easily make for themselves, but it will be deemed such by no one who is aware of the way in which at this hour England is spoken of throughout the Continent. Travelling abroad, or keeping

From The Economist, 13 Oct. ENGLAND'S DANGER AND DISCREDIT. THIS war may prove a signal blessing or a heavy curse to England according as we neglect or use the occasion and the warning it has given. It is a critical moment in our fortunes and our history: it may be the com-up foreign correspondence, is no pleasant ocmencement of our decline, or the event from cupation for Englishmen now. Partly from which to date our rescue and our rise. It may facts which can neither be contradicted nor open our eyes, or it may seal our fate. If we concealed, partly from the somewhat extravaread its lessons and profit by its opportunity gant manner in which those facts have been -and the lessons are as plain as the oppor- blazoned, colored, and added to by our retunity is golden-our children and our chil- lentless Press, the impression has spread wide dren's children will be eternally grateful to through Europe that the events of this war the shock which has roused us from our self- have exposed the weakness and decline of our complacent lethargy before faults and follies country; and this impression has diffused had congealed into incurable habits, before through nearly all lands an ominous and marust had irrevocably clogged all the wheels lignant joy. It is not long since we ourselves of the machine, before the sagacity to per- conversed with two of the most eminent pubceive, the manliness to avow, and the energy lic men of France, the one a vehement parto rectify our blunders had utterly died out tisan, the other a consummate statesman. from the heart of the nation. If our failures, Both considered it as proved that our strength shortcomings, and mortifications shall stir us and glory had departed, that our institutions as they would have stirred our fathers; shall were so rusty and our government so systemscatter to the winds our besotted vanity and atically bad as to render our wealth, our our long-suffering patience; snall teach us to courage, and our stubborn vigor of no avail; see our peril without exaggeration or without but one gloated over the picture with vuldisguise; shall awaken both the government gar exultation, while the other deplored it as and the people rudely enough to induce them a grievous blow to the hopes of freedom and to apply the needed remedies, however severe civilization. Caricatures and conundrums, those remedies may be, and to break through hampering and paralyzing etiquette, though that etiquette may be the most rigid, ancient, and consecrated folly of the land; - then the day of our danger may become the day of our redemption and our security as well.

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not of French origin, swarmed in the private circles of Paris, representing our supposed incapacity in every variety of ingenious device. We have now lying before us, too, a letter from a continental politician, not a Frenchman nor specially attached to France, in which he says: I think this war will be little profitable to the power of your country. France has gained, and will gain immensely, by it. God forbid that it should turn to the prejudice of England! A statesman in high office was saying to me last Saturday: The best result of this war is, that we now know the weakness of England.''

But if we wrap ourselves in the blindness of a fatuous pride; if we slumber on in reliance on our insular position, on our ancient fame, or our unquestioned energy, or our vast resources; if we refuse to draw the obvions inferences from our sad calamities, our humiliating rebuffs, and our clumsy victories, and leave those inferences to be drawn by envious rivals and exulting foes; if we alone, of all Now, we do not for a moment share the Europe, are not enlightened by the facts feeling which dictated these various remarks, which we ourselves furnish; if we are not yet or admit the justice of the inference which sufficiently alarmed and startled to declare our foes have drawn from our positive sufferthat such things must go on no longer; if we ings and our comparative non-success. Their still are content to blunder and stagger on as mistake is to fancy that our "weakness" is we have done, so long as we stumble on some- inherent and not merely accidental. But if thing like success at last, - permitting our we did not know that we possess a sure remgenerals to win victories by lavish bloodshed edy for all deficiencies, and if we did not instead of by skilful strategy, and our states- believe that as soon as we are angry or men to gain their ends by enormous expendi- alarmed enough we shall apply the remedy, ture instead of by wise foresight and conscien- we should draw very nearly the same tious appointments, then assuredly we shall have cause to rue the day when by entering the lists with Russia we unveiled our weak points to Europe, while refusing to see them or to remedy them ourselves.

This may sound like exaggerated language

disgraceful and disheartening conclusion. Everything depends upon whether we shall be sufficiently aroused, and aroused in time. We have unbounded confidence in the capacities of Englishmen for government and war as for the ingenuities and enterprise of peace

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And some there were right faithful found, Who 'mid the faithless world around

Gave all to God they had:

'Mid such was she who dwelt beside
Fair Lichfield's mere, her Saviour's bride,
The lady of St. Chad.

The hungry courtiers longed to share
The pleasant woods and meadows fair,
Down sloping to the Trent;
Which, as a gift to Christ, her spouse,
Gave the last daughter of a house
Ennobled ere the Conqueror came,
And foremost in the roll of fame,
Alice of Bullivent.

The upstart Lord of Beaudesert
Would fain have been the Church's heir,

But Treebrook said him nay ;
Treebrook, who, though he stoutly cursed
The spoilers, was himself the worst,
A very wolf for prey.

And such a ready tool was he
For Harry's lust and cruelty,
That nought might ever hope to stand
Between Lord Treebrook and the land,
Balking his greedy maw,

Had not Sir Mark preferred a claim
Which roused the despot's latent shame
Sir Mark of Aldershaw.

He told him how his sire, Gervase,
To Bosworth's bloody fight

Led up

the men of Cannock Chace,
Quick marching through the night.
He told him how that squadron round
Lord Richmond formed a ring,
Nor left him till the Earl was crowned
A conqueror and a king.
And now he urged no great request,
Earl's coronet or ducal crest;

He would be well content

With some few fields which used to bound His Celtic father's hunting-ground,

In the broad vale of Trent.

'Twas granted, and men blamed the Knight For that he showed a petty spite In robbing of her ancient right

A dame whom he had wooed;

And more, when armed with Henry's law,
He cited her to Aldershaw,
There to give up the title-deeds

Of her corn-lands and clover-meads :
It was a summons rude;

But the meek lady bowed her head,
And straightway on her journey sped,

Careless of earthly loss,

If she might only bend her knee
And tell her hallowed rosary

Before her Saviour's cross.
Sir Mark was in his garden fair,
Beside the sullen moat;
And Lady Alice joined him there,
Deep blushing to her throat;
For underneath a tree they stood,
It was a goodly beech,
Wherein the Knight, in loving mood,
Had carved the name of each;
But never since that happy day
When first she owned the gentle sway

Of all-pervading love,

Had Mark and Lady Alice met,
For he had gone a name to get,
And she, ere his return, had set

Her heart on things above;
But now they met, and for a space
Each looked upon the other's face,

Recalling bygone days;

Then downwards sank their glistening eyes, Fearing the thoughts which might arise

If longer they should gaze.

To greet her strove the Knight in vain,
For wildly reeled his teeming brain,

But Lady Alice spake :

"Sir Mark, I came at your command
To yield my manor-house and land,
And I am glad, since it must be,
That they have passed to one like thee,

Who, haply for my sake,
Will still be kind to Ruth and Hugh,
To my old nurse, and Reuben too;

If not, my heart would break. "
A deadly struggle with a foe,
When life depended on a blow,

Sir Mark had ofttimes known;
But never such a strife as now
Swelled the blue veins upon his brow,
For he had crushed beneath his might
Inferior souls, but now the fight

He waged was with his own.
The present faded from his brain,
He lived but in the past again—
It was the day, the happy day,

When he was young, and loved, and gay,
And in that old beech-tree

He carved her name, with his entwined,
And she was young and fair and kind :
Now where and what was she?
Beneath the beechen-tree again,
But bound with such an awful chain,
He might not set her free.
The fiery burst of passion passed,

And Aldershaw replied at last : "Fair Alice, thou hast injured me In deeming I could injure thee,

I care not for thy land.
There was a time-yes-I have bent
Before the maid of Bullivent,

But it was for her hand.
And that has passed. An empty dream,
Or like a bubble on a stream,

Which bursts and is no more.
Yet, Lady, I have done for thee,
More than I deemed might ever be ;

Alice, I've bent my haughty knee

Fierce Henry's throne before.
I bent it that I might resign

Thy lands to thee, and they are thine.
But now in humble guise I sue,
Lady of Bullivent, to you.
I will not ask thee for thy heart,
I know it chose the better part,

When thou didst rend my own;
But let thy prayers ascend for me,
A man of sin and misery,
At matin and at evensong,
Thy virgin choristers among,

Up to the Eternal's throne."

The fair recluse upraised her head,

And, speaking through her tears, she said: "We should not thus have met.

Nor should you thus have tempted me
To listen once again to thee,

"Twere better to forget.'

The words were kind, and kinder still
The tone, as though against her will

Her convent vow she kept.

And who can tell what might have been,
What bitter pangs, a deadly sin,

If whispering through those bending boughs
Which once had listened to their vows,

A sweet voice had not swept?

A voice, and yet no form was there
Which human eye could view,
Or hovering on the evening air,
Or tripping o'er the dew.

It seemed to issue from that place
In the old beech tree's bark,
Where still the eye might faintly trace
"Alice" entwined with "Mark.'
"And see," it said, "how quickly fade

Records of earthly pleasure, The growing rind has overlaid The characters so fondly made,

Entombing a heart's treasure.
And thus it is when Man essays

Fair Nature's face to mar
With a memorial of his days,
Which few and evil are.
It may be written on the shore,
Beside the swelling sea,

But not upon the mountain hoar,
Or on the living tree.

For they were graven long before

With better things to be."

Thus spoke the warning woodland sprite.
Parted the lady and the knight,
Though ever near, no more to meet,

Save at the world's great Judgment-seat.
Fair Alice sleeps the sleep of death
In Lichfield's holy fane;

The brave Sir Mark drew his last breath
Fighting for Lady Jane.

And many a gallant knight in turns

Has reared the banner of the Bernes

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