home. In case these injunctions are obeyed, your lands will be speedily gladdened by a rich effusion from the sky. What may be the price of a good nimbus does not exactly appear, but doubtless there are people in Europe as well as in Africa who would pay a handsome sum if a really superior article could be procured whenever they wished. The Caffre rain-doctor, however, does not pretend to work on philosophical principles. Others, more learned and intelligent, have proposed to accomplish the same end by strictly scientific means. Several years ago Mr. Espy of the United States suggested that clouds might be produced by kindling large fires, and inducing the air to ascend in huge columns, which would draw in vapor and insure a precipitation of moisture. This opinion was supported by the fact that where large prairies have been set alight as in Louisiana, or extensive forests burnt as in Nova Scotia, heavy discharges of wet have invariably resulted. For the same reason great battles and sea-fights are said to produce rain, though Arago's observations on artillery-practice by no means favor the conclusion; and the tall chimneys of manufacturing towns may likewise tend to excite a drizzle such as that for which Manchester is distinguished. Mr. Rowell, however, considers that a stratum of moist air may be tapped by withdrawing its electricity, and for this purpose he suggests that conductors should be raised to the clouds by the agency of balloons. In confirmation of his views he quotes Mr. Weekes, of Sandwich, who states that on several occasions, whilst operating with electrical kites under a light fleecy cloud moderately elevated, after a current of sparks had passed from the apparatus for ten or twelve minutes, he found himself bedewed with a fine misty rain, and on looking up to the cloud, discovered that it was greatly reduced in its dimensions. Of course, if we adopt Mr. Rowell's theory of rain, there can be but little difficulty in admitting that masses of vapor may be broached like beer-barrels, and, as a matter of philosophical experiment, it might be very delectable to create a gentle though a transient mizzle in a time of obstinate drought, but as a practical question we fear that, if the smoke of a great conflagration is necessary to abstract the electricity of the vapor le jeu ne vaudra pas la chandelle, seeing that we have no spare forests to burn; or if the rain-making is to be accomplished by such conductors as balloons can carry, we could scarcely expect the drenching received by the soil to be either extensive or profound. Looking, then, at water as the great agent of fertility, as the chosen element by which the world is kept sappy and verdant, we ask whether the arrangements made for the regular distribution of this fluid are not singularly felicitous? Long ago the land would have been totally drained, and every river would have run itself dry, had there been any flaw in the machinery by which the floods are uplifted from their beds, and restored in needful quantities to the soil. But nature's gigantic water-works are never at fault. Every year whole lakes are hoisted into the atmosphere and lowered with such exquisite precision that seed-time and harvest, the former rain and the latter rain, are certain to arrive in due succession. The sea is ever laboring for the land. The traffic between the billow and the furrow is conducted by the ministry of the clouds. Pleasant to think of these beautiful carriers of moisture! Filled as it were by invisible hands at the storehouses of vapor, they catch the breeze, and make for the shore, where they deliver their load, some on the plains, that the fields may rejoice in the refreshing shower, some on the mountain slopes, that the brooks and streams may be fed; and then the surplus food which the ground rejects is rolled off to the ocean only that it may return with generous obstinacy, and thus pursue its never-tiring rounds. By the same means, too, the heat and electric fire which the vapor abstracts from the surface are transported into the upper regions of the air, and thrown out in the colder strata where some equalizing process is required. And not less useful is the rain in scouring the atmosphere, dissolving foreign ingredients, sweeping down impurities, and cleansing the ground itself from much that is feculent and unhealthy. Nor is it to be forgotten that this mild gentle meteor is an active agent in the great geological operations by which the level of land and ocean is altered, and the very aspect of the planet remodeled during the long run of ages; for the soft water-drops are chisels in the hand of Time with which he indents the vales, seams the sides of the hills, and even abrades the granite rocks, and where accessible, lowers the pride of their craggy crowns. Spite, then, of all the discomforts which are incident to turbid skies and muddy paths and splashy streets, let us admit that rain is one of the finest and most fascinating phenomena in the universe. Touching as well as beautiful was the dying request of Saint Swithin, Bishop of Winchester in the reign of Egbert, who departed this life in the year 836: "Let me," said he, "be buried where the raindrops may water my grave." For a hundred years, accordingly, the clouds were permitted to weep freely over his resting-place; but at the expiration of that time the monks resolved to convey the defunct prelate into the interior of the church. It was an honor for which the episcopal shade had no desire. Dead as he was, he took measure (so the tradition runs) to frustrate the pious scheme, and at the period appointed, the fifteenth of July, the floods began to descend so lavishly that the work of exhumation was postponed. Next morning, when the attempt was renewed, the clouds gave out their contents as before. For forty days did the windows of heaven continue open; until at length, discovering that the good saint entertained a strong objection to the translation of his remains, the monks were fain to abandon their project, and leave him to his rainy repose. And if there could be any sense of poetry in the tomb, would it not be sweeter to rest where the clouds might cast their shadows on the grassy grave, where the showers might softly descend like the tears of lamenting friends, where the smiling sunshine might gild the fallen drops, as Faith alone can gild the griefs of life, where the winds might come and go, whispering peace and murmuring their gentle dirges for the dead-sweeter far, we say, thus to lie, than to be imprisoned in lonely state in a splendid mausoleum, like a captive lodged mockingly in some dark dungeon of marble? WHEN, enveloped in a cloud, folded up by the tender care of his Goddess Mother, that pious hero Æneas, hidden from his friends, enjoyed the privilege of watch ing all their proceedings, he was tasting the pleasures of reserved character; they standing in the light to him and he in the dark to them. He knew all that they were about, and they knew nothing about him. Nay, they did not even know that they knew nothing; for though they were aware that their eyes did not behold him, they were not aware that he was near enough to them in the relations of space to admit of the possibility of his being seen. He was experiencing the delight without the danger of a reservation; for he was not suspected of withholding himself. Had he been suspected-had there entered into the mind of any one of that MAN. PEOPLE. troop of friends the dimmest, remotest, faintest notion of the cloud that concealed him, what efforts would have been made to rend it, what cries, what clamors, what supplications to the goddess to unvail him before the appointed time; for human nature has a detestation of concealmenta detestation which proceeds from many causes. There is curiosity, in itself a strong impulse; there is pride, and there is suspicion. Curiosity longing to peep behind the curtain, pride resenting the absence of confidence, and suspicion suggesting that where the lock is so rigidly secured, there must be some blue chamber with its unpleasant contents behind it. The reserved man, therefore, is an object of dislike and distrust; but he is also a subject of interest. He repels confidence, but he excites attention; and he has the whole enjoyment of his own individuality. He rejoices in the superiority of an unimparted knowledge. Is it not agreeable from a high window to survey the movements of a crowd below?-dancing, laughing, leaping, fighting, crying, kissing-to analyze their agitations-to smile at their disturbances-to be yourself secure and still a looker-on who is not looked at-to be audience to a drama, and to criticise the actors who can not criticise you? This is the privilege of the reserved man. "Why didst thou send me here? It was part of her penalty that she was obliged to express herself. Men have been distinguished from beasts, say the loquacious, proudly, by the gift of speech. True; but have they not also been distinguished by the gift of silence? They are not constrained to purr, or to wag their tails when they are pleased, or to howl and caterwaul when they are in extremities; they are allowed to reserve their emotions. The human countenance, the most delicate indicator of feeling, the dial that may with its record fix the shadow of every flitting passion, can silence its indications at will, and become a mere blank. A decent gravity of expression may cover anger; tenderness may hide itself securely behind the wall of compressed lips; exultation may bury itself under downcast eyelids; a movement of joy may shelter itself beneath the wrinkles of the brow, or the whole features in combination may be They wonder, they fear, they admire-ordered by the commanding officer to and they admire with good reason. The stand at ease in a position of total repose power of concealment is in itself worthy while the thoughts are full of war and of admiration; the man who wears so tumult. No other creature but man has strong an armor must needs be a strong this power; it is a high privilege which man, and it is the consciousness of a valu- must be used by all men more or less. able possession that suggests the necessity for a defense. He conceals his emotions, he buries his feelings, he masks his passions. He controls his features: every muscle is under his command; there is no such thing with him as a spontaneous movement. He revels in a continual victory. He baffles curiosity, he defeats expectation, he destroys hope. He wears his shroud before he is in his tomb. The inquisitive crowd will pluck at it, but will draw back shivering when they feel how cold it is. The habit of reserve has most often its origin in a disbelief in sympathy, in the existence of some qualities or some emotions with which those who are classed as fellow-creatures are not likely to have any fellow-feeling. There is in such characters, it may be, a sensibility fine and true, that sinks itself deep; too delicate to mix with vulgar streams. If you would taste the purity of this water you must dig laboriously for it. There is, it may be, a passionate power, fervent and concentrated; too full to dribble out; too strong to dissipate itself in petty phrases and agreeable expressions of sentiment; or perhaps an intelligence high and extended, to which views are granted infinitely beyond the horizon of the general eye. Cassandra knew too much. She was not reserved; and she was therefore thought to be mad. In her mental agony she struggled with the persecuting Phœbus. VOL. XLIX.-No. 1 Those who use it the less are recognized as the frank and open; those who use it the more as the reserved and close. The two characters are sometimes combined, and the skillful diplomatist is he who maintains his reserve under a free liberal semblance, whose smile is ready, whose hand is extended, whose words flow easily, but whose mind is locked up. "Right humanitie," says the wise Lord Burleigh in a letter to his son, "takes such deep root in the minds of the multitude, as they are easilier gained by unprofitable curtesies than by churlish benefits." Now, the unprofitable courtesy is not incompatible with reserve, although the disposition of the reserved man will frequently incline him to the practice of its opposite. The very summit of exterior politeness may be reached without any revelation from within; and the Frenchman who in the bitterness of impending suffocation could not forget the polite phrase, and gasped out to his host while he struggled with his mortal foe-"Sir, I have the honor to have a bone in my throat"-may have been as reserved in | Your gratitude overflows, you fling yourcharacter as any Englishman. Reserve, self before him and pour it out; you lay indeed, is rather an aristocratic charac- at his feet the rich abundance of your love teristic. And it is the ill-bred, coarse--to have it kicked away. He will not mannered man who is the most often stoop to pick it up; his glance is averted, garrulously given, who is glib and oily, and he turns his back upon you; disapwho noises his sentiments and enters into pearing again among those mists in which the detail of his domestic life, of his small it is his pleasure to dwell, though for a afflictions, and of his personal history, as moment he emerged from them, and stood soon as he makes your acquaintance. in that clear light of affection which made Such a man will talk to you of his diseases him look so radiant. and of his remedies, of his troubles with his servants, and of his quarrels with his wife, with unlimited and undesired freedom, if he do but meet you in a railroadcarriage. Such a man is too full of himself ever to doubt the full sympathy of his hearer. It is not, however, with the mere gentlemanly civility that friendship can be satisfied-politeness belongs to the early stages of acquaintance, and the courtesies that friendship asks are of a different kind. Friendship will ask for a soothing, kindly tenderness; and when trouble comes, will claim some demonstration of gentle charity, some drops of sacred pity; but the reserved man will not give them. Much else he may give, but not that; and if you attempt in such a sort to draw upon his sympathies, your bill will be dishonored. But if it be his pleasure to shroud himself again, why should you complain? What just grievance have you? Is the very nobleness of his nature to serve as a plea against him? Because he has made one sacrifice are you to claim another? Do you give him your love and then exact a penalty in return, calling upon him to give up in exchange his dear impenetrability? Should affection be a matter of barter? Should you not rather check for him the fullness of your own utterance, and do homage to his virtue by your selfrestraint? There are certain crystals which contain within them a hidden fire. Cold and silent for long, long centuries they may remain, but if you subject them to the action of heat they will gleam with a quick light-and every particle will show like a glow-worm in the night. The fire within His atmosphere is incapable of radia- them is only elicited at a raised temperation; the heats of emotion may travel to ture; they must be warmed into life. So his heart, but they will not flow back it is with some hearts. Their vitality is again; they will not pass out in either only to be recognized under the influence words or looks. As lamps in sepulchers, of a sudden glow-to be recognized only they remain unseen; yet not, as those, so, at least, by the general eye; but to useless. They will light the way to the the skilled and delicate observer, the act of sacrifice and self-denial; for the symptoms of that vitality are to be desame man who is so much a miser in ex-tected even in their normal condition. pression will be prodigal in action; will, with that noblest self-denial which denies its own existence, pour out his generous assistance. Let there be a definite, tangible good to give, and he will give it at any cost to himself. Devotion of time, of strength, of money, of thought; the sacrifice of his own pleasure, of his own comfort, his own desires-the secret sacrifice-these things may come from him in good measure, pressed down and shaken together and running over: he will shrink from no service but that of admitting an acknowledgment of his service. He is a friend in ambush. In the moment of danger and anguish when you are about to be cut down, he starts from his hiding-place to your rescue. The philosopher understands the secret sign, and through the subtle structure he discerns the mystery of that complex nature. He discerns it with a deep and loving wonder. It is remarkable how the impulsive nature will cling to the controlled, how the eager and flowing will do homage to the superiority of a compressed calm. Shakspeare's Horatio is an essentially reserved man, cool and constant in exterior-a man of few words. Hamlet, impulsive, eager, swayed by contending passions, amazed with doubts, and thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, turns to him with trust, feels a security in his repose, a dependence on his quiet judgment. "Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal. A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Whose blood and judgment are so well co- That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger Such a man Horatio is, till the last dire extremity arrives, when at the fatal moment of his friend's advancing death, the secret passion of his nature is revealed. The silent depths of his sensibility are disclosed-the affections rise in revolt against the despotic rule-the emotions defy the master hand, and the man, distracted, clutches at the poisoned cup. "I am more an antique Roman than a Dane; Here's yet some liquor left." Hamlet arrests him: "As thou art a man, give me the cup- behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, tacks of the base, from the rust and moth that corrupt, and from the thieves who break through and steal to instruct, with a view to this end, the yet unknowing world how these things came about, not when the blow has once fallen passing into the extravagances of grief and mourning, recital of facts, and addressing himself but entering immediately upon a plain to Fortinbras with the settled composure which is becoming to a faithful messenger. Particular qualities distinguish families, races, and nations; the northern races are the more restrained, the southern the more demonstrative. The English are noted at once as a reserved and as a poetical people. "La nation Anglaise," says M. Ch. de Rémusat, with a just acknowledgment of our national qualities rare in a French writer, "est loin d'être un peuple sans imagination. Quel pays moderne plus fertile en grands poëtes?" The French, with their profuse words, their love of attitude, their natural tendency to display, diffuse their emotions over a wide surface, and their writers are sentimental and epigrammatic rather than And in this harsh world draw thy breath in passionate and poetical. pain To tell my story." Horatio obeys. The obedience is evidently consistent with the whole character; but the momentary triumph of an intense suffering is not less so. Hamlet loved in Horatio, not an insensible man, but a man whose sensibilities were under a fixed control. It was natural that he should appeal to such a man to be the vindicator of his fame. The silent, reserved, just man, would speak only to convince, he would not waste his force, he would live to tell the story truly and faithfully, and his story would be believed. Hamlet appeals in the first instance to that strong manhood, which he with his more passionate and feminine characteristics clings to; but in the next, to the self-denying tenderness which his own fine susceptibilities have been able to recognize. And so we see Horatio survive to fulfill the last wish, to take upon himself the sacred office (and what is more sacred than this?) to defend the dead from slander, to keep the name that remains pure from taint as the life was that is gone-to preserve a high reputation from the at The sang froid Anglais, which, being truly translated, is English reserve, is at once a theme for the satire and the respect of the French authors. The well got-up English gentleman in French comedy is ludicrous in his composure. With a sandy wig, sandy whiskers, an eye-glass, and a stoop of the neck, he walks quietly through the most agitated scenes, never hurrying his step nor altering his favorite position. And when things have reached their dramatic climax, in the general torrent and whirlwind of passion, continuing to take his cool observation of proceedings, and uttering nothing more than these two monosyllables, "Oh! yes." But the most eloquent, ardent, and imaginative of French writers has chosen a calm Englishman for the hero of her romance. While Lord Nevil is sailing away in serene dignity, Corinne is beating her head against a stone. The impulsive nature is undoubtedly the more popular, but the reserved commands a higher and a deeper love. The impulsive, ardent in profession, eager in expression, in action can do no more than keep pace with promise, and more com |