The International Monthly Magazine Volume V to No II

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Some distinguished men have amused themselves, while living, by inditing
epitaphs for themselves. Franklin, and the great lawyer and orientalist,
Sir William Jones, have left characteristic performances of this kind in
prose, and from Matthew Prior we have a mock-serious one in verse. The
latter has been often quoted, but it will bear repetition:

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior:
The son of Adam and of Eve,
Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?

In the same spirit, but superior in tone and quality, is the following,
the authorship of which is unknown, "on a poor but honest man:"

Stop, reader, here, and deign to look
On one without a name,
Ne'er enter'd in the ample book
Of fortune or of fame.
Studious of peace, he hated strife;
Meek virtues fill'd his breast;
His coat of arms, "a spotless life,"
"An honest heart" his crest.
Quarter'd therewith was innocence,
And thus his motto ran:
"A conscience void of all offence,
Before both God and man."
In the great day of wrath, through pride
Now scorns his pedigree,
Thousands shall wish they'd been allied
To this great family.

The thought in Prior's is ludicrously expressed in the following, from a
monument erected in 1703, in the New Church burying-ground, Dundee, to the
memory of J. R.

Here lies a Man,
Com'd of Adam and Eve;
If any will climb higher,
I give him leave.

Amongst poetical epitaphs, of the more elaborate class, we must notice two
by Mason; one to the memory of his mother, in Bristol Cathedral, and the
other on a young lady named Drummond, in the church of Brodsworth,
Yorkshire. We have space for only the latter.

Here sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;
Grace, that with tenderness and sense combined
To form that harmony of soul and face,
Where brainy shines the mirror of the mind.
Such was the maid that, in the morn of youth,
In virgin innocence, in nature's pride,
Blest with each art that owes its charms to truth,
Sank in her father's fond embrace, and died.
He weeps; O venerate the holy tear!
Faith lends her aid to ease affliction's load;
The parent mourns his child upon the bier,
The Christian yields an angel to his God.

Of whimsical and satirical epitaphs--some actually inscribed on tombstones,
and others intended for pasquinades--a large collection might be made. We
have little taste for these anomalous compositions, nor do we consider it
creditable to the national character, that so many English churchyards can
be pointed out where they occur. But there are those who will make even
the tomb a subject of pleasant humors. The epitaph for the tomb of Sir
John Vanbrugh, distinguished as a dramatist and architect, and reflecting
on his achievements in the latter capacity, is as follows:

Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.

The original of the following is among the epigrams of Boileau:--

Here lies my wife; there let her lie;
She is at rest--and so am I.

We do not suppose that this was ever engraved on a tombstone, either in
French or English; but the following lines are said to have been copied
from a slab in an English church:--

Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,
Who as a wife did never vex one;
We can't say that for her at the next stone.

The next specimen is also known to have appeared on a tomb in Essex:--

Here lies the man Richard,
And Mary his wife;
Their surname was Pritchard;
They lived without strife;
And the reason was plain;
They abounded in riches,
They no care had nor pain,
And the wife wore the breeches.

We will not multiply examples of these compositions. Lines of the
description we have quoted have often found their way into print, and we
have selected one or two of the least offensive as examples of
eccentricity.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.

AN ADVENTURE WITH ROBBERS.

From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.

The world, since it was a world at all, has ever been fond of singing the
praises of the good old times. It would seem a general rule, that so soon
as we get beyond a certain age, whatever that may be, we acquire a high
opinion of the past, and grumble at every thing new under the sun. One
cause of this may be, that distance lends enchantment to the view, and
that the history of the past, like a landscape travelled over, loses in
review all the rugged and wearisome annoyances that rendered it scarcely
bearable in the journey. But it is hardly worth while to speculate upon
the causes of an absurdity which a little candid retrospection will do
more to dissipate than whole folios of philosophy. We can easily
understand a man who sighs that he was not born a thousand years hence
instead of twenty or thirty years ago, but that any one should encourage a
regret that his lot in life was not cast a few centuries back, seems
inexplicable on any rational grounds. The utter folly of praising the good
old times may be illustrated by a reference to the wretched condition of
most European cities; but we shall confine ourselves to the single case of
Paris, now one of the most beautiful capitals in the world.

In the thirteenth century the streets of Paris were not paved; they were
muddy and filthy to a very horrible degree, and swine constantly loitered
about and fed in them. At night there were no public lights, and
assassinations and robberies were far from infrequent. At the beginning of
the fourteenth century public lighting was begun on a limited scale; and
at best only a few tallow candles were put up in prominent situations. The
improvement, accordingly, did little good, and the numerous bands of
thieves had it still pretty much their own way. Severity of punishment
seldom compensates the want of precautionary measures. It was the general
custom at this period to cut off the ears of a condemned thief after the
term of his imprisonment had elapsed. Thia was done that offenders might
be readily recognized should they dare again to enter the city, banishment
from which was a part of the sentence of such as were destined to be
cropped. But they often found it easier to fabricate false ears than to
gain a livelihood away from the arena of their exploits; and this measure,
severe and cruel as it was, was found inefficient to rid the capital of
their presence.

Among the various adventures with thieves, detailed by an author
contemporaneous with Louis XIII., the following affords a rich example of
the organization of the domestic brigands of the time, and of the wretched
security which the capital afforded to its inhabitants.

A celebrated advocate named Polidamor had by his reputation for riches
aroused the covetousness of some chiefs of a band of brigands, who
flattered themselves that could they catch him they would obtain
possession of an important sum. They placed upon his track three bold
fellows, who, after many fruitless endeavors, encountered him one evening
accompanied only by a single lackey. Seizing fast hold of himself and
attendant, they rifled him in a twinkling; and as he had accidentally left
his purse at home, they took his rich cloak of Spanish cloth and silk,
which was quite new, and of great value. Polidamor, who at first resisted,
found himself compelled to yield to force, but asked as a favor to be
allowed to redeem his mantle. This was agreed to at the price of thirty
pistoles; and the rogues appointed a rendezvous the next day, at six in
the evening, on the same spot, for the purpose of effecting the exchange.
They recommended him to come alone, assuring him that his life would be
endangered should he appear accompanied with an escort. Polidamor repaired
to the place at the appointed hour, and after a few moments of expectation
he saw a carriage approaching in which were seated four persons in the
garb of gentlemen. They descended from the vehicle, and one of them,
advancing towards the advocate, asked him in a low voice if he were not in
search of a cloak of Spanish cloth and silk. The victim replied in the
affirmative, and declared himself prepared to redeem it at the sum at
which it had been taxed. The thieves having assured themselves that he was
alone, seized him, and made him get into the carriage; and one of them
presenting a pistol to his breast, bade him hold his tongue under pain of
instant death, while another blindfolded him. As the advocate trembled
with fear, they assured him that no harm was intended, and bade the
coachman drive on.

After a rapid flight, which was yet long enough to inspire the prisoner
with deadly terror, the carriage stopped in front of a large mansion, the
gate of which opened to receive them, and closed again as soon as they had
passed the threshold. The robbers alighted with their captive, from whose
eyes they now removed the bandage. He was led into an immense saloon,
where were a number of tables, upon which the choicest viands were
profusely spread, and seated at which was a company of gentlemanly-looking
personages, who chatted familiarly together, without the slightest
demonstration of confusion or alarm. His guardians again enjoined him to
lay aside all fear, informed him that he was in good society, and that
they had brought him there solely that they might enjoy the pleasure of
his company at supper. In the mean while water was served to the guests,
that they might wash their hands before sitting at table. Every man took
his place, and a seat was assigned to Polidamor at the upper and
privileged end of the board. Astonished, or rather stupefied at the
strange circumstances of his adventure, he would willingly have abstained
from taking any part in the repast; but he was compelled to make a show of
eating, in order to dissemble his mistrust and agitation. When the supper
was ended and the tables were removed, one of the gentlemen who had
assisted in his capture accosted him with polite expressions of regret at
his want of appetite. During the interchange of courtesies which ensued,
one of the bandits took a lute, another a viol, and the party began to
amuse themselves with music. The advocate was then invited to walk into a
neighboring room, where he perceived a considerable number of mantles
ranged in order. He was desired to select his own, and to count out the
thirty pistoles agreed upon, together with one for coach-hire, and one
more for his share of the reckoning at supper. Polidamor, who had been
apprehensive that the drama of which his mantle had been the occasion
might have a very different _denouement_, was but too well pleased to be
quit at such a cost, and he took leave of the assembly with unfeigned
expressions of gratitude. The carriage was called, and before entering it
he was again blindfolded; his former conductors returned with him to the
spot where he had been seized, where, removing the bandage from his eyes,
they allowed him to alight, presenting him at the same moment with a
ticket sealed with green wax, and having these words inscribed in large
letters, _"Freed by the Great Band_." This ticket was a passport securing
his mantle, purse, and person against all further assaults. Hastening to
regain his residence with all speed, he was assailed at a narrow turning
by three other rascals, who demanded his purse or his life. The advocate
drew his ticket from his pocket, though he had no great faith in it as a
preservative, and presented it to the thieves. One of them, provided with
a dark lantern, read it, returned it, and recommended him to make haste
home, where he at last arrived in safety.

Early in the seventeenth century the Parisian rogues availed themselves of
the regulations against the use of snuff to pillage the snuff-takers. As
the sale of this article was forbidden by law to any but grocers and
apothecaries, and as even they could only retail it to persons provided
with the certificate of a medical man, the annoyance of such restrictions
was loudly complained of. The rogues, ever ready to profit by
circumstances, opened houses for gaming--at that period almost a universal
vice--where "snuff at discretion" was a tempting bait to those long
accustomed to a gratification all the more agreeable because it was
forbidden. Here the snuff-takers were diligently plied with wine, and then
cheated of their money; or, if too temperate or suspicious to drink to
excess, they were unceremoniously plundered in a sham quarrel. To such a
length was this practice carried, that an ordinance was at length issued
in 1629, strictly forbidding all snuff-takers from assembling in public
places or elsewhere, "_pour satisfaire leur gout_!"

The thieves of the good old times were not only more numerous in
proportion to the population than they are at present, but were also
distinguished by greater audacity and cruelty. They had recourse to the
most diabolical ingenuity to subdue the resistance and to prevent the
outcries of their victims. Under the rule of Henry IV. a band of brigands
arose, who, in the garb, and with the manners of gentlemen, introduced
themselves into the best houses under the pretext of private business, and
when alone with the master, demanded his money at the dagger's point. Some
of them made use of a gag--a contrivance designated at the period the
_poire d'angoisse_. This instrument was of a spherical shape, and pierced
all over with small holes; it was forced into the mouth of the person
intended to be robbed, and upon touching a spring sharp points protruded
from every hole, at once inflicting the most horrible anguish, and
preventing the sufferer from uttering a single cry. It could not be
withdrawn but by the use of the proper key, which contracted the spring.
This device was adopted universally by one savage band, and occasioned
immense misery not only in Paris but throughout France.

An Italian thief, an enterprising and ingenious rogue, adopted a singular
expedient for robbing women at their devotions in church. He placed
himself on his knees by the side of his intended prey, holding in a pair
of artificial hands a book of devotion, to which he made a show of the
most devout attention, while with his natural hands he cut the watch or
purse-string of his unsuspecting neighbor. This stratagem, favored by the
fashion, then general, of wearing mantles, met with great success, and of
course soon produced a host of clumsy imitators, and excited the vigilance
of the police, who at length made so many seizures of solemn-faced
devotees provided with wooden kid-gloved hands, that it fell into complete
discredit, and was at last abandoned by the profession.

Cunning as were the rogues of a past age, they were liable to capture like
their modern successors. A gentleman having resorted to Paris on business,
was hustled one day in the precincts of the palace, and robbed of his
well-filled purse. Furious at the loss of a considerable sum, he swore to
be avenged. He procured a clever mechanic, who, under his directions,
contrived a kind of hand-trap for the pocket, managed in such a manner as
to preclude the possibility of an attempt at purse-stealing without
detection. Having fixed the instrument in its place, impatient for the
revenge he had promised himself, he sallied forth to promenade the public
walks, mingled with every group, and stopped from time to time gazing
about him with the air of a greenhorn. Several days passed before any
thing resulted from his plan; but one morning, while he was gaping at the
portraits of the kings of France in one of the public galleries, he finds
himself surrounded and pushed about, precisely as in the former instance;
he feels a hand insinuating itself gently into the open snare, and hears
immediately the click of the instrument, which assures him that the
delinquent is safely caught. Taking no notice, he walks on as if nothing
had happened, and resumes his promenade, drawing after him the thief, whom
pain and shame prevented from making the least effort to disengage his
hand. Occasionally the gentleman would turn round, and rebuke his
unwilling follower for his importunity, and thus drew the eyes of the
whole crowd upon his awkward position. At last, pretending to observe for
the first time the stranger's hand in his pocket, he flies into a violent
passion, accuses him of being a cut-purse, and demands the sum he had
previously lost, without which he declares the villain shall be hanged. It
would seem that compounding a felony was nothing in those days; for it is
upon record that the thief, though caught in the act, was permitted to
send a messenger to his comrades, who advanced the money, and therewith
purchased his liberty.

The people were forbidden to employ particular materials in the
fabrication of their clothing, to ride in a coach, to decorate their
apartments as they chose, to purchase certain articles of furniture, and
even to give a dinner party when and in what style they chose. Under the
Valois regime strict limits were assigned to the expenses of the table,
determining the number of courses of which a banquet should consist, and
that of the dishes of which each course was to be composed. Any guest who
should fail to denounce an infraction of the law of which he had been a
witness, was liable to a fine of forty livres; and officers of justice,
who might be present, were strictly enjoined to quit the tables of their
hosts, and institute immediate proceedings against them. The rigor of
these regulations extended, even to the kitchen, and the police had the
power of entry at all hours, to enforce compliance with the statutes.

But it was during the prevalence of an epidemic that it was least
agreeable to live in France in the good old times. No sooner did a
contagious malady, or one that was supposed to be so, make its appearance,
than the inhabitants of Paris were all forbidden to remove from one
residence to another, although their term of tenancy had expired, until
the judge of police had received satisfactory evidence that the house they
desired to leave had not been affected by the contagion. When a house was
infected, a bundle of straw fastened to one of the windows warned the
public to avoid all intercourse with the inmates. At a later period two
wooden crosses were substituted for the straw, one of which was attached
to the front door, and the other to one of the windows in an upper story.
In 1596 the provost of Paris having learned that the tenants of some
houses infected by an epidemic which was then making great ravages, had
removed these badges, issued an ordinance commanding that those who
transgressed in a similar manner again should suffer the loss of the right
hand--a threat which was found perfectly efficient.

By an ordinance of 1533, persons recovering from a contagious malady,
together with their domestics, and all the members of their families, were
forbidden to appear in the streets for a given period without a white wand
in their hands, to warn the public of the danger of contact. Three years
after the authorities were yet more severe against the convalescents, who
were ordered to remain shut up at home for forty days after their cure;
and even when the quarantine had expired, they were not allowed to appear
in the streets until they had presented to a magistrate a certificate from
the commissary of their district, attested by a declaration of six
householders, that the forty days had elapsed. In the preceding century
(in 1498) an ordinance still more extraordinary had been issued. It was at
the coronation of Louis XII. when a great number of the nobles came to
Paris to take part in the ceremony. The provost, desiring to guard them
from the danger of infection, published an order that all persons of both
sexes, suffering under certain specified maladies, should quit the capital
in twenty-four hours, _under the penalty of being thrown into the river_!

THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.

From Household Words.

A strange story was once told me by a Levantine lady of my acquaintance,
which I shall endeavor to relate--as far as I am able with the necessary
abridgments--in her own words. The circumstances under which she told it
were peculiar. The family had just been disturbed by the visit of a
ghost--a real ghost, visible, if not palpable. She was not what may be
called superstitious; and though following with more or less assiduity the
practices of her religion, was afflicted now and then with a fit of
perfect materialism. I was surprised, therefore, to hear her relate, with
every appearance of profound faith, the following incidents:--

There is an old house in Beyrout, which, for many successive years, was
inhabited by a Christian family. It is of great extent, and was of yore
fitted for the dwelling of a prince. The family had, indeed, in
early-times been very rich; and almost fabulous accounts are current of
the wealth of its founder, Fadlallah Dahan. He was a merchant; the owner
of ships, the fitter-out of caravans. The regions of the East and of the
West had been visited by him; and, after undergoing as many dangers and
adventures as Sinbad, he had returned to spend the latter days of his life
in his native city. He built, accordingly, a magnificent dwelling, the
courts of which he adorned with marble fountains, and the chambers with
silk divans; and he was envied on account of his prosperity.

But, in the restlessness of his early years, he had omitted to marry, and
now found himself near the close of his career without an heir to inherit
his wealth and to perpetuate his name. This reflection often disturbed
him; yet he was unwilling to take a wife because he was old. Every now and
then, it is true, he saw men older than he, with fewer teeth and whiter
beards, taking to their bosoms maidens that bloomed like peaches just
beginning to ripen against a wall; and his friends, who knew he would give
a magnificent marriage-feast, urged him to do likewise. Once he looked
with pleasure on a young person of not too tender years, whose parents
purposely presented her to him; but having asked her in a whisper whether
she would like to marry a withered old gentleman like himself, she frankly
confessed a preference for his handsome young clerk, Harma, who earned a
hundred piastres a month. Fadlallah laughed philosophically, and took care
that the young couple should be married under happy auspices.

One day he was proceeding along the street gravely and slowly--surrounded
by a number of merchants proud to walk by his side, and followed by two or
three young men, who pressed near in order to be thought of the company,
and thus establish their credit--when an old woman espying him, began to
cry out, "Yeh! yeh! this is the man who has no wife and no child--this is
the man who is going to die and leave his fortune to be robbed by his
servants or confiscated by the governor! And yet, he has a sagacious
nose"--(the Orientals have observed that there is wisdom in a nose)--"and a
beard as long as my back! Yeh! yeh! what a wonderful sight to see!"

Fadlallah Dahan stopped, and retorted, smiling: "Yeh! yeh! this is the
woman that blames an old man for not marrying a young wife. Yeh! yeh! what
a wonderful sight to see!"

Then the woman replied, "O my lord, every pig's tail curls not in the same
direction, nor does every maiden admire the passing quality of youth. If
thou wilt, I will bestow on thee a wife, who will love thee as thou lovest
thyself, and serve thee as the angels serve Allah. She is more beautiful
than any of the daughters of Beyrout, and her name is Selima, a name of
good augury."

The friends of Fadlallah laughed, as did the young men who followed in
their wake, and urged him to go and see this peerless beauty, if it were
only for a joke. Accordingly, he told the woman to lead the way. But she
said he must mount his mule, for they had to go some distance into the
country. He mounted, and, with a single servant, went forth from the
gates--the woman preceding--and rode until he reached a village in the
mountains. Here, in a poor little house, he found Selima; clothed in the
very commonest style, engaged in making divan cushions. She was a
marvellously beautiful girl, and the heart of the merchant at once began
to yearn towards her; yet he endeavored to restrain himself, and said,
"This beautiful thing is not for me." But the woman cried out, "Selima,
wilt thou consent to love this old man?" The girl gazed in his face
awhile, and then, folding her hands across her bosom, said, "Yes; for
there is goodness in his countenance." Fadlallah wept with joy; and,
returning to the city, announced his approaching marriage to his friends.
According to custom, they expressed civil surprise to his face; but, when
his back was turned, they whispered that he was an old fool, and had been
the dupe of a she-adventurer.

The marriage took place with ceremonies of royal magnificence; and Selima,
who passed unmoved from extreme poverty to abundant riches, seemed to
merit the position of the greatest lady in Beyrout. Never was woman more
prudent than she. No one ever knew her previous history, nor that of her
mother. Some said that a life of misery, perhaps of shame, was before
them, when this unexpected marriage took place. Selima's gratitude to
Fadlallah was unbounded; and out of gratitude grew love. The merchant
daily offered up thanks for the bright diamond which had come to shine in
his house.

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