Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 2, No. 12, May, 1851.

Well habituated to hear of the English as victors in every naval engagement, I yet went on hoping against hope itself, that Fortune might for once have favored us; nor was it till the falling night prevented my being able to trace out distant objects, that I could leave the spot and turn homeward. With wishes so directly opposed to theirs, I did not venture to tell my two friends what I had witnessed, nor trust myself to speak on a subject where my feelings might have betrayed me into unseemly expressions of my hopes. I was glad to find that they knew nothing of the matter, and talked away indifferently of other subjects. By daybreak, the next morning, I was at my post, a sharp nor'wester blowing, and a heavy sea rolling in from the Atlantic. Instinctively carrying my eyes to the spot where I had heard the cannonnade, I could distinctly see the tops of spars, as if the upper rigging of some vessels, beyond the horizon. Gradually they rose higher and higher, till I could detect the yard-arms and cross-trees, and finally the great hulls of five vessels that were bearing toward me.

For above an hour I could see their every movement, as with all canvas spread they held on majestically toward the land, when at length a lofty promontory of the bay intervened, and they were lost to my view. I jumped to my legs at once, and set off down the cliff to reach the headland, from whence an uninterrupted prospect extended. The distance was greater than I had supposed, and in my eagerness to take a direct line to it, I got entangled in difficult gorges among the hills, and impeded by mountain torrents which often compelled me to go back a considerable distance; it was already late in the afternoon as I gained the crest of a ridge over the Bay of Lough Swilly. Beneath me lay the calm surface of the lough, landlocked and still; but further out, seaward, there was a sight that made my very limbs tremble, and sickened my heart as I beheld it. There was a large frigate, that, with studding-sails set, stood boldly up the bay, followed by a dismasted three-decker, at whose mizen floated the ensign of England over the French "tri-color." Several other vessels were grouped about the offing, all of them displaying English colors.

The dreadful secret was out. There had been a tremendous sea fight, and the Hoche, of seventy-four guns, was the sad spectacle which, with shattered sides and ragged rigging, I now beheld entering the Bay. Oh, the humiliation of that sight! I can never forget it. And although on all the surrounding hills scarcely fifty country people were assembled, I felt as if the whole of Europe were spectators of our defeat. The flag I had always believed triumphant now hung ignominiously beneath the ensign of the enemy, and the decks of our noble ship were crowded with the uniforms of English sailors and marines.

The blue water surged and spouted from the shot holes as the great hull loomed heavily from side to side, and broken spars and ropes still hung over the side as she went, a perfect picture of defeat. Never was disaster more legibly written. I watched her till the anchor dropped, and then, in a burst of emotion, I turned away, unable to endure more. As I hastened homeward I met the elder of my two hosts coming to meet me, in considerable anxiety. He had heard of the capture of the Hoche, but his mind was far more intent on another and less important event. Two men had just been at his cottage with a warrant for my arrest. The document bore my name and rank, as well as a description of my appearance, and significantly alleged, that although Irish by birth, I affected a foreign accent for the sake of concealment.

"There is no chance of escape now," said my friend; "we are surrounded with spies on every hand. My advice is, therefore, to hasten to Lord Cavan's quarters – he is now at Letterkenny – and give yourself up as a prisoner. There is at least the chance of your being treated like the rest of your countrymen. I have already provided you with a horse and a guide, for I must not accompany you myself. Go, then, Maurice. We shall never see each other again; but we'll not forget you, nor do we fear that you will forget us. My brother could not trust himself to take leave of you, but his best wishes and prayers go with you."

Such were the last words my kind-hearted friend spoke to me; nor do I know what reply I made, as, overcome by emotion, my voice became thick and broken. I wanted to tell all my gratitude, and yet could say nothing. To this hour I know not with what impression of me he went away. I can only assert, that, in all the long career of vicissitudes of a troubled and adventurous life, these brothers have occupied the chosen spot of my affection, for every thing that was disinterested in kindness and generous in good feeling.

They have done more, for they have often reconciled me to a world of harsh injustice and illiberality, by remembering that two such exceptions existed, and that others may have experienced what fell to my lot.

For a mile or two my way lay through the mountains, but after reaching the high road, I had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a jaunting-car, on which a gentleman was seated, with his leg supported by a cushion, and bearing all the signs of a severe injury.

"Keep the near side of the way, sir, I beg of you," cried he; "I have a broken leg, and am excessively uneasy when a horse passes close to me."

I touched my cap in salute, and immediately turned my horse's head to comply with his request.

"Did you see that, George?" cried another gentleman, who sat on the opposite side of the vehicle; "did you remark that fellow's salute? My life on't he's a French soldier."

"Nonsense, man – he's the steward of a Clyde smack, or a clerk in a counting-house," said the first, in a voice which, though purposely low, my quick hearing could catch perfectly.

"Are we far from Letterkenny just now, sir?" said the other, addressing me.

"I believe about five miles," said I, with a prodigious effort to make my pronunciation pass muster.

"You're a stranger in these parts, I see, sir," rejoined he, with a cunning glance at his friend, while he added, lower, "Was I right, Hill?"

Although seeing that all concealment was now hopeless, I was in no wise disposed to plead guilty at once, and therefore, with a cut of my switch, pushed my beast into a sharp canter to get forward.

My friends, however, gave chase, and now the jaunting-car, notwithstanding the sufferings of the invalid, was clattering after me at about nine miles an hour. At first I rather enjoyed the malice of the penalty their curiosity was costing, but as I remembered that the invalid was not the chief offender, I began to feel compunction at the severity of the lesson, and drew up to a walk.

They at once shortened their pace, and came up beside me.

"A clever hack you're riding, sir," said the inquisitive man.

"Not so bad for an animal of this country," said I, superciliously.

"Oh, then, what kind of a horse are you accustomed to?" asked he, half insolently.

"The Limousin," said I, coolly, "what we always mount in our Hussar regiments in France."

"And you are a French soldier, then?" cried he, in evident astonishment at my frankness.

"At your service, sir," said I, saluting; "a Lieutenant of Hussars; and if you are tormented by any further curiosity concerning me, I may as well relieve you by stating that I am proceeding to Lord Cavan's head-quarters, to surrender as a prisoner."

"Frank enough, that!" said he of the broken leg, laughing heartily as he spoke.

"Well, sir," said the other, "you are, as your countrymen would call it, 'bien venu,' for we are bound in that direction ourselves, and will be happy to have your company."

One piece of tact my worldly experience had profoundly impressed upon me, and that was, the necessity of always assuming an air of easy unconcern in every circumstance of doubtful issue. There was quite enough of difficulty in the present case to excite my anxiety, but I rode along beside the jaunting-car, chatting familiarly with my new acquaintances, and, I believe, without exhibiting the slightest degree of uneasiness regarding my own position.

From them I learned so much as they had heard of the late naval engagement. The report was that Bompard's fleet had fallen in with Sir John Warren's squadron, and having given orders for his fastest sailers to make the best of their way to France, had, with the Hoche, the Loire, and the Resolve, given battle to the enemy. These had all been captured, as well as four others which fled, two alone of the whole succeeding in their escape. I think now that, grievous as these tidings were, there was nothing of either boastfulness or insolence in the tone in which they were communicated to me. Every praise was accorded to Bompard for skill and bravery, and the defense was spoken of in terms of generous eulogy. The only trait of acrimony that showed itself in the recital was, a regret that a number of Irish rebels should have escaped in the Biche, one of the smaller frigates; and several emissaries of the people, who had been deputed to the admiral, were also alleged to have been on board of that vessel.

"You are sorry to have had missed your friend, the priest of Murrah," said Hill, jocularly.

"Yes, by George, that fellow should have graced a gallows if I had been lucky enough to have taken him."

"What was his crime, sir?" asked I, with seeming unconcern.

"Nothing more than exciting to rebellion a people with whom he had no tie of blood or kindred! He was a Frenchman, and devoted himself to the cause of Ireland, as they call it, from pure sympathy – "

"And a dash of popery," broke in Hill.

"It's hard to say even that; my own opinion is, that French Jacobinism cares very little for the pope. Am I right, young gentleman – you don't go very often to confession?"

"I should do so less frequently if I were to be subjected to such a system of interrogatory as yours," said I, tartly.

They both took my impertinent speech in good part, and laughed heartily at it; and thus, half amicably, half in earnest, we entered the little town of Letterkenny, just as night was falling.

"If you'll be our guest for this evening, sir," said Hill, "we shall be happy to have your company."

I accepted the invitation, and followed them into the inn.

(To be continued.)

THE UNNAMED SHELL

At the corner of the boulevard Montmartre, near the angle of the faubourg, is situated a magazine of natural history, that continually draws around its windows groups of curious idlers. Open the door, walk in, and, in place of a mere merchant, you will be surprised to encounter an artist and a scholar. The man is still young, yet he has explored a portion of Southern Africa; and has joined in formidable chases of elephants, lions, and all the wild animals of those barbarous regions. He has sought his treasures of natural history in Java, Sumatra, Borneo, China, and Cochin-China; has visited Batavia, Samarang and Madura; and returned to Paris rich in knowledge and collections.

It is rarely that you will find him alone. The laboratory of the boulevard Montmartre is the rendezvous of all the scholars, travelers, naturalists, artists, and authors, who bask in the sunshine of celebrity. Temming, the old glory, yet with so much youth about him, of natural history; Wilson, collector for his brother in the immense undertaking of completing the museum of Philadelphia; Philippe Rousseau, who bestows life and animation on the animals which he paints; Ledieu, Léon Gozlan, Biard; Delgorgue, the intrepid chaser of elephants; Lagéronière, who was for one instant on the point of becoming the king of a savage tribe, and of whom Dumas, in his "Thousand and One Phantoms," has related in so improbable a manner a fabulous episode of real adventures; Gray, whom London cites with pride among its naturalists; Mitchell, director of the London Zoological Gardens; Henry Monnier, the sparkling reflection of Molière; Alphonse Karr; Deshayes, for whom conchology and the labyrinths of its classifications have no further mysteries; De Lafresnage, chief of ornithologists; Emile Blanchard, who spends his life in the dissection of living atoms, or beings almost microscopical; Delamarre-Piquot, who travels from one world to another, to gather the alimentary substances with which he wishes to endow Europe; M. Michelin, who consecrates his rare holidays to an unrivaled collection of polypi; there they are to be found, every day, studying, admiring, copying, describing, all the strange animals that come from every quarter of the globe to this little corner of the boulevard Montmartre, thence to be distributed among the collections of Europe and America.

There may one listen to sallies of fancy, scientific discussion, episodes of likely and unlikely adventures, tales that make one burst with laughter, histories that fill the eyes with tears, real dramas that freeze the soul with horror, and of which the historian is almost always the hero. In the midst of all this noise of conversation and going and coming, the master of the establishment loses not a moment. He issues orders, he lends a helping hand; he classes, describes, and attends to strangers: and occasionally sends as presents to other museums unparalleled treasures of natural history. Just let us mention, en passant, that the museum of Paris has been loaded for twenty years back with his precious gifts. At each step you take in the galleries, you may read his name inscribed upon numerous objects, before which the curious in such matters stop with surprise, and the learned with admiration.

One evening, he was laboring with his usual feverish activity to form collections of shells, according to their species, and after the method of Lamarck; for to popularize science is his fervent desire and constant aim. These collections would not nearly reimburse him for the trouble and cost bestowed upon them; but they would create a few conchologists the more; they would facilitate the studies of those who had already commenced their initiation into the marvels of a science so attractive, by the beautiful objects to which it consecrates itself, and this was what the enthusiastic savant wished above all.

"Ah!" said one of the visitors, taking up a shell, "I never see a spiral, without calling to mind a drama that was once enacted here, and which I will relate to you:

"It was eight or ten years ago, one evening, as it might be to-day. The smoke from five or six cigars filled the laboratory with its fantastic rings. A lamp, vailed under a semi-opaque shade, served only to render more visible the shadows of this strange chamber. Here and there, the glow from the hearth illuminated animals from all parts of the world, hung at random upon the walls, which they confusedly burdened. The master of the magazine took up a shell which chance placed under his hand, and presented it to a tall man, hoary with age, who was silently seated, according to his custom, a little on one side. The stranger approached the lamp, looked at the shell, smiled, sighed, and placed it in his pocket. A light crash was heard; he re-seated himself, and revived the fire of his half-extinguished cigar. Then, perceiving that every one was looking curiously at him – 'I have broken it,' said he; and he threw the fragments of the shell upon the floor, and ground them beneath his heel.

"For several instants there was a profound silence, caused by the surprise of the company at this gratuitous destruction. The old man continued, with a melancholy smile, 'I will tell you, gentlemen, wherefore I broke the shell. Science, or rather its fanaticism, leads to strange weaknesses. If my folly can any where find indulgence, surely it will be among you, who are all, more or less, collectors. Perhaps, I shall even meet with some auditor not only capable of comprehending, but likewise of imitating me. This shell is a spiral that has never been either named or copied. I possess in my collection the only similar one that is known to the scientific world. I procured it, ten years ago, from this magazine. The first time that I saw this unique shell, my heart beat with joy,' continued the old man, with a voice that had regained all the energy of youth. 'I was poor, but I must have it at whatever price. I carried it home with me, and passed entire days in contemplating it, and examining its minutest details. Two years were necessary to make up its price – two entire years of privation. Each month, I carried the dealer small sums, often spared from my most pressing necessities. What mattered it? I possessed the shell; it was mine alone; no one could show me its like. I would not permit any one to describe it. When, on rare occasions, I displayed it to some initiated ones, it was upon the condition that they would not speak of it in their faunas. A lover madly enamored, is not more jealous than I then was, than I still am, of this treasure. When the two years of which I have spoken had elapsed, and I had paid the price of my dear spiral, I came here one evening as usual. On opening, according to my custom, one of the boxes that contain the shells, I uttered a cry. I had found another spiral similar to that which I possessed! Judge of my sorrow, of my despair. My shell was no longer unique. Another collection possessed a treasure similar to mine. A cold sweat bathed my forehead. Though very poor, though I had resigned the little employment which I had held in an office, and my humble allowance was transformed into a pension more humble still, I hesitated not. I bought the shell, and carried it with me, but this time without joy. I possessed several good pictures, dear and old heirlooms belonging to my family. I sold them to pay for the shell, which I broke as soon as I had made up the price. Three years more elapsed, and poverty weighed down my old age more and more. The failure of a bank had deprived me of a little sum of money, the interest of which, added to my pension, had enabled me to live, and to augment, from time to time, my collection of a few good shells. Deprived of this enjoyment, the only one that remained to me, I had no consolation but in the possession of the treasure-hoard which I could no longer increase. My precious spiral often detained me before it for hours. One evening (never shall I forget, the sorrow the sight cost me), I beheld here – there – in that box – three spirals like mine! Maledictions hovered about my lips. I took the shells in my fingers, I slowly examined them, and returned them to my friend. 'I can not buy them,' I said. He raised his eyes, he saw my palor and my tears – my tears, gentlemen, for I wept! He smiled, took a hammer, and pulverized the three precious shells. You saw what he did just now. God bless him for his disinterestedness, and his devotion to an old friend! I should die of despair, gentlemen, if, during my life, another possessed a spiral like mine.'

"Speaking thus, the old man rose, and left us, enveloping himself, as well as he could, in his fragmentary cloak."

One morning, three or four years ago, God separated the fanatic conchologist from the collection that was his life. They found the aged man seated before his cabinet, opposite to his unique spiral. He had died alone, with his eyes fixed upon that which had possessed his affections during so many years. His collection has now reverted to the friend who showed so much sympathy with his jealousy and insensate passion.

By a strange caprice of fortune, no other spiral similar to his has since arrived in Europe. It still remains unique and nameless, as when he possessed it. For the rest, this spiral, which occupied so large a place in the existence and affections of a scientific man, has, for a common eye, nothing in its appearance to justify the intense passion that it inspired. Its rarity constitutes its value. One of our most learned conchologists is now engaged, in describing, classing, and publishing a drawing of it. We hope that, in memory of its first possessor, he will give it the name of l'hélice innominata, the "nameless spiral."

THE STORY OF GIOVANNI BELZONI

One day in the beginning of the year 1803, Mr. Salt, whose name has since become so celebrated among the discoverers of Egyptian antiquities, observed before one of the public rooms of Edinburgh, a great crowd assembled. For almost every one there exists a mysterious attraction in the sight of a number of people, and Mr. Salt, no wiser than his neighbors, pushed his way, when the doors were opened, into the room. There, on a sort of stage, he saw a tall and powerfully-built young man, performing various gymnastic exercises, and feats of strength. While this Hercules in tinsel was lifting enormous weights, and jumping from a table over the heads of twelve men, a pretty, delicate-looking young woman, was arranging some hydraulic machines and musical glasses, with which the entertainment was to terminate. As the price of admission was nominal, she occasionally also handed round a small wooden bowl, in order to collect gratuities from the spectators.

Very few of those who were enjoying the exhibition gave any thing; and when the young woman approached her husband, and showed him the few coins she had received, he hastened to terminate his performance. Mr. Salt pitied the poor fellow, and as the young woman was passing, said to her:

"You forgot to present your bowl for my contribution. Here it is."

He slipped a silver coin into her hand. Both she and her husband thanked him warmly; the latter in broken English, and with an Italian accent.

Mr. Salt, who had but just returned from Rome, replied in Italian; and, perceiving in the stranger's manner of expressing himself a degree of refinement not to be expected from a mountebank, asked him whence he came, and what was his history?

"Six months ago, sir," replied the man, "if any man had told me that I should be reduced to earn my bread by exhibiting my strength in public, I should have felt greatly inclined to knock him down. I came to England for the purpose of making known some hydraulic machines of my invention; but the spirit of routine, and the love of ignorance, closed every avenue against me. Previously, before losing all my hopes of success, I married this young girl. Had I been alone in the world, I verily believe that the bitter destruction of my expectations would have rendered me careless of supporting life; but how could I leave her in misery?"

"But why not try to display your really extraordinary strength and dexterity under more favorable circumstances? Why do you not offer your services to some theatrical manager?"

"Hungry people, sir, can not wait. I did not think of resorting to this method of earning a piece of bread, until I saw my wife ready to perish for the want of it."

The kind Mr. Salt not only relieved his immediate wants, but offered to recommend him and his wife to the manager of Astley's Circus, in London. Gratefully and eagerly did the wanderers accept this offer; and while, in company with their benefactor, who paid for their places on the coach, they journeyed toward town, the man related his history. Born at Padua, the son of a poor barber, and one of fourteen children, Giovanni Battista Belzoni felt from his earliest youth a longing desire to visit foreign lands. This "truant disposition" was fostered, if not caused, by the stories of maritime adventures told him by an old sailor; who was strongly suspected of having, during many years, practiced the profession of a pirate.

The reading, or rather devouring, of a translated copy of "Robinson Crusoe" (and it is a most remarkable circumstance that the book which has for its avowed purpose the disheartening of restless adventurers, should have made wanderers and voyagers innumerable), gave form and fixedness to his purpose of rambling; and, in company with his youngest brother, the boy set out one fine morning, without any intention but the somewhat vague one of "traveling to seek their fortune." The young fugitives walked several miles, without knowing, in the least, whither they were going, when a peddler, who was riding slowly by in a cart, accosted them, and asked if they were going to Ferrara. Belzoni, although he never heard the name before, immediately answered in the affirmative. The good-natured merchant, pleased with the countenances, and pitying the tired looks of the children, not only gave them a place in his vehicle, but shared with them his luncheon of bread, cheese, and fruit. That night they occupied part of their companion's lodging; but next day, as his business required him to stop at the village where they slept, the two boys took leave of him, and pursued their journey. Their next adventure was not so fortunate. Meeting an empty return carriage, they asked the vetturino to give them a ride; and he consenting, they joyfully got in. Arrived at Ferrara, the vetturino asked them for money. Giovanni, astonished, replied that they had none; and the unfeeling man stripped the poor children of their upper garments, leaving them half-naked and penniless in the streets of an unknown city. Giovanni's undaunted spirit would have led him still to persevere in the wild-goose chase which had lured him from his home; but his brother Antonio wept, and complained so loudly, that he was fain to console the child by consenting to retrace their steps to Padua. That night, clasped in each other's arms, they slept beneath a doorway, and the next morning set out for their native city, begging their food on the journey.