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see that sudden flood of light, and as it fell across thy bed, did no voice come to tell thee that it marked the moment of thy daughter's death? Watch no more ; the night is coming on, she never can return. Beneath the wild waves now she sleeps with him she loved; yet think not of her lying there ; think rather, when the golden sunlight streams upon thee, that she is looking down on thee through it.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

Oh, God, forgive you!” and she fell on her knees, covering her face.

“No, no, she's not sinking. Come, cheer up, my girl -it may all be well yet: whatever's possible will be done, but we can't launch the life-boat. In such a sea it would be mere madness to attempt it."

“ Then what are they to do ?” she cried, despairingly; but the only answer was a quick, “ Be quiet now, my good girl," as he shook her hand off, and turned away.

She was quiet, pressing her hands upon her bosom to still the terrible beating of her heart. No word, nor cry, nor sob fell from her ; she stood motionless, entranced, like one turned into stone ; her lips apart, her wild eyes fastened on the ship, her face livid like death.

Bufleted wildly to and fro, the boat yet came on, dashed forwards on the crest of each swelling waveonwards and onwards towards the great tongue pier that stretched a hundred feet out into the sea. All eyes were watching her: all hearts were standing still : many a voice as well as Annie's was hushed in this great moment of suspense. On, on, still !--another second now! Not yet-she is driven back — a retreating wave has caught her-her decks are under water ; she is rising once more - a great sea lifts her up -- it bears her forward-it flings her on the pier — she has struck-she has separated-she is sinking! A cry like the cry of one voice breaks from the whole assembled crowd-a wild shriek that spreads far even over the raging sea—a shriek from wives who are made widows-from fathers and mothers who are made childless from hearts which are made desolate.

Who can

save them - who can save them, struggling in those surging waters ? A cry for help is rising there --- a cry as wild, as full of agony as that which burst upon the shore, and has broken now into innumerable sounds of woe. But what avails it?--who can save them ? They are going down-the waves are wrapping them in their strong, cruel arms-their cries are coming up suffocating from amidst the raging waters.

One woman has broken from the crowd and rushed upon the pier. They try to hold her back, but, laughing wildly, she bursts from them : the wind is madly helping her on--on, on, she cannot return : forward through the spray of the breaking waves--forward to the wreck of the Valentine. Wildly she rushes on – one name alone, repeated like a cry, upon her lips – one naine, rising ringing on the wind, echoing amidst the waves' deep thunder, calling for an answer, with wrung hands,—with pale, despairing eyes piercing the troubled sea.

Hark! Not in vain--oh, Annie, not in vain-thy prayer is heard-listen !-look down!

Faint, like an echo of her cry--feeble, like a falling breath the answer comes; from the worn battler's dying lips, with passionate death tenderness, her name has broken, and upward-stretching arms are calling to her. She sees — ah, hears: a shout of maniac laughter, wildly joyous-then a low sob

- a moaning, trembling cry, and then a spring, and she is with him. Together they go down--together, locked in one another's arms they sink, and the water closes over them : the dark water wraps them in its arms for evermore.

The leaden storm clouds break in the far west--one single clift, through which a flood of crimson light shoots forth across the sea. The white foam sparkles up like silver, the tumultuous waves are glittering like hills of gold: there, where the lovers sank, the heaving sea appears to be on fire. Deep, intense, beautiful, the radiance falls around, playing like golden lightning on the water. They lie below, cold and dead, locked in that long, last, passionate embrace ; but, as that crimson glory fades away, perhaps upon its wing it bears their spirits to enter with it through the golden gates.

Low watcher in the cottage on the hill, thou too didst

HARRIET MARTINEAU is one of the ablest and most vigorous of our living prose writers. We cannot call to mind any woman of modern or of past times, who has produced a larger number and variety of solid, instructive, and interesting books. She has written well, on political economy, on history, on foreign travel, on pschycology, and on education ; she has produced many clever tales and novels ; her books for children and for men are alike good. She has been a copious contributor to the monthly and quarterly reviews, and she is at present a regular writer of leading articles in one of the best conducted of our morning daily papers. Her life has been one of hard work, and she seems to work for the love of it, as well as for love of her kind. Even when laid on her bed by sickness, she went on writing, as if it had become habitual to her, and then produced one of her most delightful books, her Life in the Sick-room.

Miss Martineau is a woman with a manly heart and head. In saying this, we neither desire to cast a reflec. tion on the sex to which she belongs, nor upon herself. It would be well for women generally, did they cultivate as she has done, the spirit of self-help and self-reliance. We believe it would tend to their greater usefulness as well as happiness, and render them more efficient cooperators with men in all the relations of life. In ordinary cases, unmarried daughters are a burden in a

genteel” family of slender means ; but in Miss Martineau's case, she has throughout been a mainstay of support to herself and family. Her father was a manufacturer at Norwich, descended from a French refugee family-French Protestants having settled down there in considerable numbers after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Commercial embarrassments having overtaken the Martineaus, the sons and daughters were under the necessity of bestirring themselves in aid of their family, which they did, honourably and successfully. Miss Martineau, who had first taken to writing as a recreation, afterwards followed it as a pursuit and a profession ; and in so doing she realized a competency. What was more, she carefully cherished her independence as a writer ; and when, overtaken by illness, her political friends, then in power, bestirred themselves to help her, and, in 1840, obtained for her the offer of a considerable government pension, - with a conscientious and high-minded feel. ing, which in these modern times finds few if any imitators, she declined to receive it,-holding it to be wrong that she, a political writer, should receive a pension which was not offered by the People, but by a Government which, in her opinion, did not represent the people. She sincerely preferred retaining her independence and entire freedom of speech with respect to Government and all its affairs,--a decision which, however much it may be at variance with our ideas of worldly prudence, we cannot but respect and admire. More recently, also, she has displayed her force of character in another direction ; we mean by the publication, in conjunction with Mr. Atkinson, of the Letters on Man's Developement, &c. With her views, as set forth in that book, we have no sympathy; and we cannot but deplore, in common with her numerous friends, that she was so ill-advised as to publish it. Nevertheless, it was a thoroughly honest act on her part: done at the risk of her popularity, reputation, and good name. She had arrived at conclu. sions opposed to those generally entertained on certain points; and as a public writer, she conceived that the

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cause of truth” required that she should make a clean breast of it. Here, we think, she committed a grievous mistake; for it can form no part of the duty of any public writer to publish whatever crude notions may get uppermost in her head. The crror has, however, been committed ; and we merely allude to it here as furnishing a striking illustration of Miss Martineau's character ; somewhat similar to her defence of Mesmerism in the Athenaum, when scarcely a voice, except that of Dr. Elliotson, had been raised in its favour.

Miss Martineau displayed reflective powers at an early age. Possibly her deafness, to which she was subject as a child, by shutting her out to some extent from conversational intercourse with those about her, encouraged habits of reflectiveness. She was a timid child, bnt a quick and accurate observer. Her excellent work on Household Education, contains some autobiographical revelations of her childhood, of a most curious and interesting character. One of these--describing the feelings of wonder and almost awe, with which she contemplated a newly born sister, when she herself was about nine years of age--lets us into a remarkable phase of an observant and thoughtful child's mind. Here is an account of her early reading, from the same interesting book:-

“One Sunday afternoon, when I was seven years old, I was prevented by illness from going to chapel,-a circumstance so rare, that I felt very strange and listless. I did not go to the maid who was left in the house, but lounged about the drawing-room, where, among other books which the family had been reading, was one turned down upon its face. It was a dull-looking octavo volume, thick, and bound in calf, as nutempting a book to the eyes of a child as could well be scen: but, because it happened to be open, I took it up. The paper was like skim-milk,-thin and blne, and the printing very ordinary. Moreover, I saw the word

Argument,' a very repulsive word to a child. But my eye caught the word “Satan;' and I instantly wanted to know how anybody could argue about Satan. I saw that he fell through Chaos, found the place in the poetry; and lived heart, mind, and soul in Milton from that day till I was fourteen. I remember nothing more of that Sunday, vivid as is my recollection of the moment of plunging into Chaos : but I remember that from that time till a young friend gave me a pocket edition of Milton, the calf-bound volume was never to be found, because I had got it somewhere; and that, for all those years, to me the universe moved to Milton's music. I wonder how much of it I knew by heartenough to be always repeating some of it to myself, with every change of light and darkness, and sound and silence,--the moods of the day and the seasons of the year. It was not my love of Milton which required the forbcarance of my parents, - except for my hiding the book, and being often in an absent fit. It was because this luxury had made me ravenous for more. I had a book in my pocket,--a book under my pillow; and in my lap as I sat at meals; or rather on this last occasion it was a newspaper. I used to purloin the daily paper before dinner, and keep possession of it, with a painful sense of the selfishness of the act ; and with a daily pang of shame and self-reproach, I

slipped away from the table when the dessert was set on, to read in another room. I devoured all Shaks. pere, sitting on a footstool, and reading by firelight, while the rest of the family were still at table. I was incessantly wondering that this was permitted ; and in. tensely, though silently grateful I was for the impunity and the indulgence. It never extended to the omission of any of my proper business. I learned my lessons ; but it was with the prospect of reading while I was brushing my hair at bed-time ; and many a time have I stood reading, with the brush suspended, till I was far too cold to sleep. I made shirts with due diligence, being fond of sewing ; but it was with Goldsmith, or Thomson, or Milton open on my lap, under my work, or hidden by the table, that I might learn pages and cantos by heart. The event justified my parents in their indulgence. I read more and more slowly, fewer and fewer anthors, and with ever-increasing seriousness and reflection, till I became one of the slowest of readers, and a comparatively sparing one."

Miss Martineau was born in June, 1802, and was already an author at twenty years of age, in 1822, when she published her first little volume, entitled Derotional Exercises, for the use of young persons. This book was soon followed by another of the same description, entitled Addresses, with Prayers and Hymns, for the Use of Families and Schools. These works were of the "orthodox Unitarian " school, to which class of religionists the Martineau family belonged. A number of minor publications followed, chiefly little tales---some of them in. tended for children ; but the writer's powers were grow. ing apace, and when, in March, 1830, the Monthly Repository published an advertisement by the Committee of the British and Foreign Unitarian Association, offering premiums for the production of three tracts, the object of which should be the introduction and promotion of Christian Unitarianism amongst the Roman Catholics, the Mahometans, and the Jews respectively, she determined to compete for the prizes. Three distinct sets of judges were appointed to adjudicate upon the essays sent in; and when their decision had been come to, much to their own surprise they found that the same writer had won all the three prizes! Miss Martineau was the successful essayist. It is not our business to enter upon the subject of these essays, which were, perhaps, such as Miss Martineau herself would not now write. They were, how. ever, much praised at the time they appeared, and exhibit a vigour of thought and a finish of style remarkable in so young a writer. But, previons to the production of these essays, Miss Martineau had been practising her hand er. tensively in the pages of the Monthly Repository, where we find her publishing Essays on the Art of Thinking in 1829, with numerous criticisms on books, articles on education, morals, and politics,-tales, chiefly religious, poems, and parables.

But Miss Martineau's name did not come prominently before the public as an author until the appearance of her Illustrations of Political Economy, which originated in the following way: a country bookseller asked her to write for him some little work of fiction, leaving the choice of subject to herself. About that time inachinebreaking riots were frequent in the manufacturing districts ; and as the subject would doubtless be a good deal discussed in the Martineau's home, the head of which was a manufacturer, an interesting plot was at once suggested. The Rioters, a story, was the result ; and it was followed by another in the following year, entitled, The Turn Out. In these tales the author afterwards confessed that she wrote Political Economy for the first time without knowing it. Some time after, on reading Miss Marcet's Conversations on Political Economy, the idea occurred to her of illustrating the principles of this science in a varrative form. She repeatedly discussed the

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Trarel, contained the results of an extensive tour made by her in the United States, with a view to the improvement of her health in the year 1834. These works are still ainongst the best of their kind, and have not been surpassed by later writers in description of scene manners, and incidents of travel, or in searching analyses of the social and domestic institutions of the United States. A later work of a somewhat similar character, published by Miss Martineau in 1848, on Eastern Life, contained the results of her travels in the East; but it was nothing like so well received as her previous books, jarring strongly upon the religious sympathies and convictions of the majority of her readers; and also, as we cannot but think, perverting and misrepresenting many important events in Egyptian and Hebrew history. The descriptive part of the work was, however, admirably executed ; and there are many passages in it which will bear comparison with even the most graphic descriptions in the marvellous Eothen.

Between the appearance of these works a host of other books from her pen were turned off, almost too numerous to mention. Among her minor works we would particularly mention one comparatively little known, entitled, How to Obserre-Morals and Manners. In a small compass, it exhibits a prodigious amount of observation, as well as of reading and reflection. It is a model of composition, full of wisdoin, beauty, and quiet power. We recommend those who have not yet seen it to read the book, and they will rise from its perusal with a better idea of the moral and intellectual powers of Miss Martineau, than we can convey by any description of our

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subject with her mother and brother, now the Rev. James Martineau, of Liverpool. She had neither authors nor booksellers to consult; nevertheless she began her series, and wrote her Life in the Wilds, with which the series of proposed Illustrations commenced. But the great difficulty was to find a publisher. No bookseller would take the thing in hand; and many dissuaded her from the project, prophesying that it was sure to fail. She endeavoured to raise a subscription amongst her friends for the purpose of publishing the first tale; but the subscription broke down. She offered the tale to the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, but they rejected it at once. The work went "the round of the trade," but no bookseller of any standing would entertain the idea of publishing it. At last, after great difficulty, Miss Martineau succeeded in inducing a comparatively unknown publisher to usher the first Illustration into the world, but not before she had surrendered to him those advantages which, in virtue of the authorship, she ought to have been able to retain for herself. The book appeared, and its extraordinary success surprised everybody--none more than the numerous publishers who had refused it. Other and better tales followed, which sold in large editions ; and their mcrit was extensively recognised abroad, where they were translated into French and German, and soon be. came almost as popular as they were at home. The Society for the Diffusion of Useful knowledge afterwards applied to Miss Martineau to write a series of tales illustrative of the poor-laws ; but they were not so successful as her earlier tales, perhaps on account of the nature of the subject. Nor had she afterwards any difficulty in finding publishers for her numerous future works,

The list of successful books rejected by publishers would be a curious one. Milton could with difficulty find a publisher for his Paradise Lost ; Crabbe's Library, and other poems, were refused by Dodsley, Beckett, and other London publishers, though Mr. Murray many years after purchased the copyright of them for £3,000. Keats could only get a publisher by the help of his friends. That everwonderful book by Dc Foe, which is the charm of boyhood in all lands, Robinson Crusoe, was refused by one publisher after another, and was at last sold to an obscure bookseller for a mere trifle; whereas if De Foe could have published it at his own risk, it would have made his fortune. Bulwer’s Pelham was at first rejected by Mr. Bentley's reader ; but fortunately Mr. Bentley himself read it and approved, by mere accident. The Vestiges of Creation, which has passed through ten large editions within a few years, was repeatedly refused. Thackeray's Vanity Fair was rejected by a magazine. Mary Burton and Jane Eyre went the round of the trade. Howitt offered his Book of the Seasons to successive publishers, and was at length so disgusted with their repeated refusals that he was on the point of pitching the MS. over London Bridge to sink or swim. Even Uncle Tom's Cabin could scarcely find a publisher in London ; but at last a respectable printer got hold of a copy, and was so riveted by it that he sat up half the night reading it, then woke up his wife, and made her read it too; after which he determined to reprint it, and leis steam-engine and printing presses were kept going by Uncle Tom for many months after. It would thus appear that “the fathers, as Southey called the publishers, are not always a wise and far-sighted race,-though the many failures of books accepted render them somctimes preternaturally cautious, as in the case of Miss Martineau's oft-rejected, but eventually highly successful Illustrations of Political Economy.

The number of excellent works which Miss Martineau has since produced, has been very great, all of them indicating careful preparation and study, close observation, and conscientious thinking. The two able works, in three volumes each, on Sociely in America and Western

To Knight's series of Guide-books she contributed The Vaid of All Work, The Lady's Maid, and The llonesemaid (guides to service) ; and The Dressmaker (guide to trade). She also found time to write several good novels Deerbrook, The Hour and the Man, and four volumes of The Playfellow, a scries of tales for children ; besides numerous able articles in Tait's Magazine and the Westminster Reriew. When the People's Journal was started, she became a copious contributor to it, and there published the principal portion of her excellent work on Household Education. Long illness confined her to her bed and her room, during which she wrote her Life in the Sick-room. She then lived at Tynemouth, overlooking the sea, the coast, and the river, near Shields, the scenery about which, as viewed from her chamber window, she vividly describes in that book. Take, for instance, the following charming passage ::

“Between my window and the sea is a green down, as green as any field in Ireland; and on the nearer half of this down, hay-making goes forward in its scason. It slopes down to a hollow, where the prior of old picserved his fish, there being sluices formerly at either end, the one opening upon the river, and the other upon the little haven below the Priory, whose ruins still crown the rock. From the prior's fishpond the green down slopes upwards again to a ridge ; and on the slope are cows grazing all suminer, and half way into the winter. Over the ridge I survey the harbour and all its traffic, the view extending from the lighthouses far to the right, to a horizon of sea to the left. Beyond the harbour lies another country, with, first, its sandy beach, where therc arc frequent wrecks—too interesting to an invalid---and a fine stretch of rocky shore to the left; and above the rocks a spreading heath, where I watch troops of boys flying their kites : lovers and friends taking their breezy walks on Sundays; the sportsman with his gun and dog; and the washerwomen converging from the farmhouses on Saturday evenings to carry their loads, in company, to the village on the yet further height. I see them, now talking in a cluster, as they walk each with her white burden on her head, and now in file, as they pass through the narrow

lane; and finally, they part off on the village green, each the anthor much credit, and we trust she will long be to some neighbouring house of the gentry. Behind the spared to produce books of equally unexceptionable quality village and the heath stretches the railroad, and I watch and character. the train triumphantly careering along the level road and puffing forth its steam above hedges and groups of trees, and then labouring and panting up the ascent till

AUSTRIAN SALT MINES.* it is at last lost between two heights, which at last bound my view. But on these heights are more objects ; a HIAving enjoyed an excellent opportunity for exploring windmill, now in motion and now at rest; a lime-kiln,

the curious mineral treasure-house near Salzburg, it is in a picturesque rocky field ; an ancient church tower, natural to desire that others should be interested in the barely visible in the morning, but conspicuous when the

same scenes, and if possible drawn into a region which setting sun shines upon it; a colliery, with its lofty Sir Humphrey Davy pronounced unequalled by Switzerland wagon-way, and the self-moving wagons running hither itself for romantic views, sublime mountain-heights, and and thither, as if in pure wilfulness; and three or four lakes that Italy might envy. Intelligent travellers, who farms, at various degrees of ascent, whose yards, pad- have tired of the hackneyed route by railroad, and crossed docks, and dairies I am better acquainted with than from the Danube by way of Lintz and Gonünden to their inhabitants would believe possible. I know every Salzburg, have wanted words to express their admiration stack of the one on the heights. Against the sky of scenery continually changing from sublimity to loveliI see the stacking of corn and hay in the season, and ness—the greenest and best tilled fields, the most can detect the slicing away of the provender, with an

picturesque little lakes, the marble crests of snow-clad accurate eye, at the distance of several miles. I can fol- Alps, the frowning gloom of vast forests, uniting the low the sociable farmer in his summer-evening ride, prick.

beauty of various lands in one. ing on in the lanes where he is alone, in order to have Salzburg, the nearest city to the principal salt-mines, more time for the unconscionable gossip at the gate of is really unequalled for beauty of position by any inland the next farm-house, and for the second talk over the

town in the world. A romantic castle, once belonging to paddock fence of the next, or for the third or fourth before the archbishops, and built 800 years ago, towers over the the porch or over the wall where the resident farmer comes city-in one of the dungeous of which an archbishop out, pipe in mouth, and puffs away amidst his chat, till suffered a long confinement for having taken to himself a the wife appears, with a shawl over her cap, to see what wife: in other apartments many of the instruments of can detain him so long; and the daughter follows, with torture remain by which Protestants were worried out of her gown turned over her head (for it is now chill even- life not very long ago. A better memorial of their pious ing), and at last the sociable horseman finds he must be lordships is a tunnel cut through the native rock more going, looks at his watch, and, with a gesture of surprise, than 100 feet long, bearing the bust of its builder, Archturns his steed down a steep broken way to the beach, bishop Sigsmund, with the inscription, “ The rocks tell and canters home over the sands, left hard and wet by

of thee!" I was still more interested by an ordinary, the ebbing tide, the white horse making his progress comfortable-looking house, the birthplace of Mozart, visible to me through the dusk.”

whose bronze statue by Schwanthaler struck me as one of While Miss Martineau was thus confined to her sick- the noblest in Europe. Nor is this the only master of room, gazing upon such pictures as these, she heard at a song whose memorials Salzburg rejoices to treasure: a distance of the wonders of mesmerism, how that it had

mean-looking tomb was shown in one of the city churches raised the palsied from their couch, cured the epileptic, as that of the great Hadyn, but I suspect it is some other and soothed the nerves of the distracted. Having tried personage of his name, as the composer of The Creation every imaginable remedy, she determined to try this; and died at Vienna, and would hardly have remained to this whether from the potency of the remedy or the force of time with so poor a monument. the patient's imagination, certain it was that she was All the walks and gardens of the town are arranged so shortly after restored to health. The cure has been as to display the magnificence of surrounding nature, variously accounted for, some avowing that nature had showing how busy the hand of taste has been ; while ruder accomplished a crisis, and worked out a remedy for her- art has carved half a street of dwellings out of the lime self; others, with Miss Martincau, insisting on the cura- rock, erected two imposing castles and a famous old tive power of the mesmeric passes. The subject was well riding-school of solid stone. discussed in the Atheneum a few years since, by Miss

But we must hasten to Hallein, the salt-village, over Martinean on the one side and by the editor on the which towers the salt mountain Durnberg, which we have other; nor would it be an easy matter to sum up the net first to walk up on the outside, and then descend through results of the controversy. With all Miss Martineau's its hollow heart. Fortunately again for a lonely traveller, amount of unbelief on some points, we cannot but regard

the Church had availed herself of the constant necessity her as extremely credulous on others; and though she is of ascending this lofty hill, and erected what she calls “a liberal to the fiul on general questions, there are topics Calvary” along the way, and, being at the right season on which she seems to us (particularly in her book on

when the Catholic heart of Gerinany pours itsclf out with Man's Development) to be a considerable bigot. It is

a peculiar and refreshing enthusiasm, fair village maidens, quite possible to be bigoted against bigotry, and to be

and sometimes tottering village sires were my companions superstitious in the very avoidance of superstition. There up the steep road; and, every little while, a rude shrine was a good deal of force in the rough saying of Luther, stood at my side, with a crucifixion rudely carved, and that the human mind is like a drunken peasant on horse

some scene from the “ Last Suffering” painted beneath. back, set him up on one side and he falls down on the And here this unsophisticated devotion gave free vent to other.

itself in groans, and prayers, and sighs, and tears, then Miss Martineau's best book is the History of England passed on refreshed and lightened to the next lowly altar, during the Peace, published by Charles Knight. It is where another picture carried the Saviour still nearer to an extremely able, painstaking, and, we think, impartial,

his crucifixion-agony. And so I had company enough, history of England since 1815. It exhibits the results of and of those who, though differing from me entirely in great reading and research, as well as of accurate obser- opinion, I could have fellowship with at the heart-not vation of life and manners. It is unquestionably the questioning their sincerity, and rejoicing, as I did, at the best work of the kind-indeed it may be said to stand by

joy which their religion evidently gave their child-souls. itself, as a history of our own times. Its execution docs

* From Putnam's Magazine.

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And so the four miles were soon finished, and I was in the way. These ponds must sometimes lie very near together, office asking permission to inspect subterranean works and directly above one another ; besides, as their roofs are which were six centuries old ; and though I was entirely flat, freqnently destitute of artificial support, and en solitaire, and my visit would require just as many what rock there is crumbles to the touch, we might expect attendants and nearly as much artificial light as the usual these wide sheets of water would sometimes break through. quota of twelve, I was at once robed in a miner's dress of Accidents, however, are rare, though there are sometimes white duck, my right hand guarded by a thick mitten, forty excavations in a single mountain. and my head protected by a well wadded cap of coarsest How parties of pleasure feel in crossing over this deathfabric.

like lake at such a funeral pace, with not a sound to The first process was to walk through a long, narrow, break the oppressive stillness, and rarely a single crystal dark, cool passage way, gently descending for 3,000 feet, reflecting the feeble twinkle of the illumination for which into the mountain's heart. As the workmen passed me you have paid, I cannot say: but, to a lone voyager like on their way to dinner, we had to make the best of our myself, it was one of the most solemn moments of life poor candlelight to get by one another in the confined darkness seemed to rest like a tombstone upon me; none path, and each said "laub,” a hasty contraction for the but fearful images filled my visions; the repose of my German with your leave, sir.” And now came the body added to the gloom of my mind ; and it was a blessed curiosity of this underground journey. The gently sloping relief when I could use my own limbs on what seemed path, sustained by boards and beams, and just wide and solid earth again. high enough for one beef-eating Englishman at a time, Still other slides came, one at an angle of fifty degrees, made a sudden dip, and the guide threw himself down and one, the longest in all the works, of 468 fect. This and made me do the same; slipped his right leg over a brought me as far down as the four miles of winding road smooth wooden rail, and grasped with his right hand a had carried me up; but as there were none of its sudden cable supported on rollers; and thus we slid down as fast changes of view, no wild forest, merry mountain-stream, or slow as we pleased, a depth of 140 feet at an angle of knot of cherry-faced peasant-girls, laughter of happy 41 degrees. It was not very funny to see your only de

childhood to "cheer the toil and cheer the way," I may pendence in human shape sinking out of your sight into be pardoned for wishing myself out. the bowels of the earth ; but I found the exercise delicious, But now came a new vehicle. I stood alone in the and would recommend it to all good people who have very heart of this mountain of limestone, gypsum, and mines to exhibit or sunken caves to explore, as certain to marl, when two wild boys mounted me between them bestow upon them an unprecedented popularity.

upon a wooden horse, on a rude enough wooden railway, This was succeeded by another gallery-walk, then a and in a moment my steeds began to show their mettle, second descending shaft; again a nearly horizontal foot- and I was run through a passage of a mile tunnelled in the path, followed by a third "coast” downwards ; and so on, solid stone: once only the ragged colts paused to take the longest walk being the first of about 3,000 feet, and breath, and to let me admire the light from the mouth, the greatest descent at one time falling short of 200 feet. which seemed nothing else than a bright blue star. Very In no part was the air unpleasant; the greater coolness soon genuine daylight came to our relief; and, but was compensated by the constant exercise and the thick slightly wearied, I bounded from the cavern mouth to miner's dress. Several times we came upon large take the Eilwagen on its return to Salzburg. chambers, which showed with no brilliancy as our poor I learnt little more of the salt trade in Austria. It is a candles made their darkness visible, because the saltspar Government affair, and 6,000 men are said to be cmployed, is mixed up with large masses of earth, though some fine some in preparing the rock crystal for the market, some crystals are shown at a little museum in the centre of the in boiling or evaporating the sea water, and more in conmountain. After this succession of similar passages had nection with mines like the Durnberg. The men did not begun to be monotonous, a number of little lights began seem very healthy, and one part of the process must often to spring up all around me, as if in fairy land; and the cause the sacrifice of life. At Ebensee I found them boil. guide to a flat boat, which an invisible Charon set in ing down the water brought from Hallein in thirty miles motion at once across this lake of salt, over 300 feet in of pipes, and I learnt that whenever the iron vat leaks, length. Here was the secret of secrets. A chamber is a workman is obliged to wade through the boiling liquid excavated, wooden pipes are led to it and from it, the first to the injured place upon a kind of stilts; if his feet of which bring the fresh water from mountain springs should slip he would certainly boil to death, and if not of which gradually impregnates itself with strong brine; strong lungs he is likely to stifle--a horrible fate either then after a period of months the lower pipes are opened, way. For more than a week these fires are continued day and the manufactured little ocean runs off to some place and night, eating sadly into the forest, the salt being rewhere wood is plenty, where I have already seen it a moved as fast as it is crystallized, and fresh brine poured distance of thirty miles boiling down into a beautiful, in. Then the fire is extinguished, the pan, which is a foot pearly white article for commerce. I was not a little deep and sixty round, thoroughly retinkered, the calcareous perplexed at first, and I find other travellers have come crust which adheres to the bottom and sides broken off, away without ascertaining how the salt was procured, by and poor plates replaced by new. not seeing the whole process going on at once, and from So much for the great salt mine of central Europe, a supposing that this pond was made by nature, and had no great source of wealth to its Government, and a main special concern with the Government manufacture. But dependence for a prime necessary of life of Southern as fast as this lake is formed and the fresh water dissolving Germany, and the countries to the eastward upon the the salt and separating it from the clay, another is pre

Mediterranean Sea. pared where the mineral is thought to be more abundant ; and only the worthless earth is seen in process of removal in little carts, while the precious salt carries itself

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. * out, silently and away from observation, in hollowed trunks of trees. The great care is to prevent the earth We presume that most metropolitan playgoers have seen from falling in upon the workmen and crushing them, as the lady whose autobiography is recorded in this volume. has been the case repeatedly; but the most surprising puzzle to an uninitiated observer is, why, in the process

Opinions greatly differ regarding her merits as an actress, of six nionths or a year, this water does not run off

Autobiography of an Actress; or Eight Years on the Stage. through some natural outlet, by dissolving the salt in its By Anna Cora Mowatt. Boston: Ticknor and Co. 1851.

*

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