tion and natural capabilities, it had been gradually rising from the time of Francis the First, and by degrees eclipsing its neighbour Dieppe ; but it was not until Louis the Sixteenth lent it his especial countenance, enlarging the harbour, strengthening the fortifications, and originating many other improvements, that its ancient rivals sunk under the competition. Nantes and Bordeaux declined into comparative unimportance, and Dieppe was reduced to a mere fishing-port. One antiquity Havre does possess; that is the fair of Ingouville, which is still held in the eastern suburb. It is, however, now but a shadow of what it was,-a poor collection of toy booths and merry-go-rounds. Here, again, is the Present elbowing out the Past. It was fairs that gave the first rude idea of the great system to which traffic was reducible, and suggested the means of its development. In their arms, as it were, the spirit of commerce was born, nursed, and introduced to the world. Here we find the offspring grown to gigantic maturity, while the mother that gave birth and nursed, is despised and put by. Ever in the presence of the more powerful life of Havre's commerce, the fair of Ingouville is dwindling away, and soon will become extinct. The defences of Havre present an admirable specimen of modern fortification. They were designed and executed under the superintendance of that consummate master in the art, Napoleon. To the uninitiated these defences have anything but a formidable appearance; and as I leaned over the yacht's side I amused myself in conjecturing the astonishment of a warrior of the twelfth or thirteenth century, could he have looked upon them with me, at hearing that this town was almost impregnable. He would see nothing between its suburbs and the surrounding country but low, circular mounds, and slopes of slight elevation. "Where," he would ask, "is the massive towerwhere the lofty battlement enabling you to command an approaching enemy? Where the high wall which alone can secure a town against surprise?" His astonishment, however, would cease when I led him to view the component parts of the defences; the moat so wide and deep, the high wall unseen until you are close beside it, and the rows of mysterious hollow tubes, every one of them following your change of position, like the eyes of a portrait, all seeming placed on purpose to guard the particular point you are approaching-he would cease to be surprised when he inspected these details, and learned the modern contrivances for destruction; and, above all, that subtle agent which has rendered this new style of fortification necessary, and, at the same time, made it so effective. He would see that the towers and battlements, on which a tempest of stones and arrows might have rained for years, would be altogether ineffectual against artillery, and he would understand that the elevation to command the enemy's approach must be attained by a rampart of such material as to be insensible to the tremendous missiles of modern invention. It is true that a town is as liable to surprise now as in the middle ages, and therefore a high wall remains as essential an ingredient of modern, as it was of medieval fortification. While, then, it is necessary to retain this feature common to the defences of both periods, it becomes also necessary to conceal the wall so as to protect it from the new agent which human ingenuity has placed in the power of the besiegers of to-day. This difficulty the anti-gunpowder warrior would see, on inspecting these defences closely, has been mastered by the cunning of modern fortification in this simple manner. Instead of the slight arrow-proof parapet wall of the middle ages, the parapet is now a huge bank of earth twenty feet thick. This is faced externally by a wall, which must be so high as to render the chance of an enemy entering by surprise hopeless, and so concealed that no part of it can be seen from any spot in the neighbourhood within range of artillery. To effect this the foundation rests in the bottom of a ditch, so deep that one half of the wall is sunk below the level of the country; the remaining half which rises above the general surface of the ground is protected by raising the outer edge of the ditch, and in order that the cannon of the garrison may command this elevated portion, as well as the whole surrounding country within its range, the rampart is raised somewhat above the summit of the wall with which it is faced, consequently the besiegers are everywhere open to the fire of the fortress, and cannot approach without being exposed to almost certain destruction. On the other hand the very summit of the rampart is all that is visible to an advancing party, and as the rampart is composed of earth with an external slope, it is very little affected by cannon shot, which merely bury themselves in the earth and do hardly any damage. Thus have the arts of defence kept equal pace with those of destruction; but between them both all that was picturesque in military architecture has vanished for ever. Here, as in other departments, each step of progress has trampled upon some flowers of the Past. The frowning castle is no more; and huge mounds of earth have succeeded to the lofty ramparts of the middle ages. Gunpowder was to military what dissent has been to ecclesiastical architecture. Little deemed Schwartz when engaged with his dread invention in the laboratory at Cologne, that he was making out the death-warrant of embattled tower and graceful parapet. Nor did Luther, when preaching his first sermon against indulgences, imagine that he was sounding the knell of the cathedral. No more shall we see the according piety of an entire district represented in one of those magnificent structures, that at once evidenced and called to unity, rebuked presumption, commanded humility, and raised to prayer. The minster and the battlement belong to other generations. Such will be raised no more! THE WANTON SUN-BEAM. I CAME upon her quickly! She was sitting All round about, the sun-beams bright were flitting, So they, as angels bright around a mortal, Did keep around and guard that lovely maid. And softly, as the zephyrs touch a flower, He fell into her arms, and o'er her bosom stray'd: MR. STRAGGLES IS PREVAILED UPON TO GO A SHOOTING. BY ALBERT SMITH. THERE are certain things, the appearance of which on the stage of a theatre, during the performance of a pantomime, ensures their doom, either to total destruction, insult, or treatment of the worst description. As examples, we may mention sedan-chairs, fryingpans, bandboxes, and old ladies. For the first, we know, will be broken in at its top by the reckless attempts of the clown to obtain a seat to which he has no right; the second will have its bottom knocked out in forming a species of pillory necklace for the maltreated pantaloon; the next will be crushed and comminuted to atoms in that ill-organized outburst of the popular fury, in which, at the same time, fish and images always come off so poorly; and the last-the defenceless old lady-will have to undergo such a series of frights, ill-usage, and even violence, in comparison with her years, that the extent of suffering which female heroism can support under certain circumstances is really marvellous to contemplate. Just as these things are upon the mimic stage, so was Mr. Straggles upon the theatre of real life. With every good intention and caution in the world, he was constantly in trouble. Whether acting for himself, or striving to stand in the shoe of another, he always, so to speak, put his foot in it. He was the sedan-chair that only led to the injury of the person he tried to succour: he was the frying-pan that was sure, somehow or another, to hamper those he associated with: he was, in a row, the human bandbox that always came off worst; and it is a question if the clown ever felt so wickedly towards the old ladies, as did the impudent boys in the street whenever he appeared. And so, with his constant dilemmas, it is a wonder he ever engaged in any expedition at all. But his nature was so inclined to festivity and relaxation, that his perpetual scrapes had little effect upon him; indeed, he was always ready for anything in the way of an excursion at the slightest hint,—a want of funds being his only stumbling block. It was a very slow time in town. The leaves had fallen at Vauxhall and such people as were left living on one side of the squares began to see those on the other, once more, through the withering foliage. Nearly all the theatres were shut; so there was nowhere to go at night, and it was too chilly and dreary to sit at home, and not cold enough to have a fire. People fought against coals and candles as long as they could, apparently in the belief that they could drive winter back by thus opposing his firmest allies: but the water was cold in the wash-hand stand in the morning, and the toilet was more hurried than in ordinary; and those, who still would not yet demean themselves by yielding to another blanket, were glad to throw their dressing-gown upon the bed. The paletot of last spring was pulled from its closet to see what it looked like: forgotten trowsers of once-loved winter check were hunted out from the depths of wardrobes; and collections of stout boots, discarded for the gaiety of the summer-sunlit pavements, once more came into favour, as they were passed in review with respect to their capabilities of new soling. Dingy muslin curtains, that it was not worth while washing, gave place to newly dyed moreen; and you began your dinner in daylight, went on with it in neutral gloom, and finished it with candles, which, as soon as lighted, made the black fireplace doubly gloomy, in spite of the dismal little soot-peppered ornament of snipped silver-paper that hung from its bars. Mr. Straggles sat at day fall, at this season, in his chambers, thinking what to do. Inclination said, "Go and have a mild cigar and opera at The Eagle;" prudence suggested it were better to stay at home and work. But everything looked so cheerless in the cold twilight, that he was about to rush out to avoid all chance of autumnal suicide, when he heard the wheels of a cart stop in front of his house, and two minutes after the porter brought him up three partridges, with a note tied round their necks. Having spent the usual time in wondering who could have sent them, he broke the seal, which bore the impression of a percussion-cap several times applied, and read as follows: "DEAR OLD STRAGS: par "Herewith you will receive a leash of birds-not 'three tridges,' as, I know, you will already have called them. And now to business. Where these came from there's more than you can have a notion of the poultry-shop at the bottom of Holborn Hill, if it was to rise and fly away wouldn't give you an idea of our coveys. So the governor hopes you'll come down and have a shy at them, in return for your kindness in seeing about his commissions in London. We can find you a gun, but you must bring everything else. The Brighton railway's the nearest line, and get down at Heyward's Heath. So, mind you come, and "Good afternoon, "Bramblesly, Oct." "Yours no end, "Jo E. The birds and the note put Mr. Straggles to much perplexity. For, in the first place, you cannot send a more distressing present to a man in chambers, who dines out, than a leash of birds. He does not know what in the world to do with them. The first day he hangs them up to look at, and hopes that somebody will call to see them, and believe in his connexions. On the second he begins to think whom he shall present them to, and the inquiry puzzles him until the third, when he wavers between six friends of equal claims upon his attention. Arguing the case occupies two days more, until at last they get very high: and not having any servant to send, on the instant, with them, and mistrusting other methods, he gives them to his laundress, who sells them to the poulterer, and where they go to after that, the dealer only knows. This was one cause of distress to Mr. Straggles; the other was, that his experience in shooting was limited. He knew that to let off a gun, you put a percussion-cap on a little knob, and pulled a thing underneath; and then, if you had previously rammed some powder down the barrel with a bit of paper, it made a bang and kicked against the shoulder, but to this was his knowledge confined. As to taking an aim at anything, he might as well have attempted to shoot the moon, at which, in its commonly received sense, he might have succeeded. So he made up his mind to go to a shooting-gallery, thinking that after a dozen shots, at three half-pence each, he should be ready for anything. So have we known landsmen about to take a voyage, go off quite contented with a sixpenny hand-book of swimming. There is, in Leicester Square, a remarkable establishment, appropriated to many purposes in its different compartments. It was once the repository of Miss Linwood's needlework-a popular exhibition which, however, we never saw ourselves, nor, remarkably enough, did we ever know anybody, who, being driven to the point, could say he had either; but which is believed to have been immensely popular with well-regulated country families visiting London once a year as a compulsory pleasure. At that time a little Turk upon horseback used to trot across three panes of glass in one of the windows every half minute, to the delight of the passengers, especially the boys, who always enter keenly into everything exhibited for nothing. But when the needlework went, the Turk went with it; and then the establishment became so divided by different interests, that few could tell whether it was a theatre, a wine vaults, a billiard-room, a coffee-shop, a gunsmith's, or a Royal Academy; or, if they could, they never knew, amidst the ascending and descending steps, and doors and passages, which one must take to get anywhere. The Egyptian Hall is as mystic in this respect as is the interior of the Pyramids. Nobody ever went to see Tom Thumb without finding himself amongst the Ojibbeways by a wrong door; and the visitor to the Model of Venice, having been so confused as to pay separately for the Speaking Machine, or the Fat, or Mysterious, Lady, ultimately, never got there at all. But the Piccadilly labyrinth is nothing to the one in Leicester Square. A confusion of sounds tends further to bewilder the visitor: the noise of everything is heard everywhere else. The click of billiard-balls; the music of poses plastiques; the thwacking of single sticks; the cracking of rifles, and the stamping of delighted Walhallaists, all mingle with each other; and it is only by taking refuge in the lowest apartment, which partakes of a coffee-room, a cabin, and a cellar, that you find repose. But Mr. Straggles had been told there was a good gallery here, and with some trouble he at last found his way to it. It was a large room, divided down the middle; one half being taken up with swings, ropes, bars, ladders, and various contrivances for performing fearful feats of strength with; and the other was appropriated to shooting against an iron target at the end. A gentleman in shirt-sleeves, whose life was passed in loading fire-arms, received Mr. Straggles as he entered. "I want to shoot," observed Mr. Straggles, with assumed indifference. "Yes, sir; rifle, sir?" said the assistant. "Yes, a rifle," replied Mr. Straggles, unconcernedly. He supposed it was all right, having some vague notions of rifles, and game, and Hurons, and dead shots, from Mr. Cooper's novels. But he would have answered the same had the man suggested a musket or a blunderbuss. "Stop a minute, sir," said the man, as he painted the target with whitewash. "Now it's ready." |