bear's movements, and the almost winged spring and bound of some other wild beasts of the larger class. It would be better for any one belonging to a hunting party, such as that of which we speak, not to reckon too confidently on this presumed inferiority in the bear. While we were at St. Petersburg, an English gentleman had fearful occasion to learn the brute's agility. He had gone, about the end of December, with a company of ten or a dozen, to hunt bears in Finland for a few weeks. One morning the sportsman received word from a Mujik that a fine specimen was ruminating in the dell of a rather clear wood, of fir-trees; and thither our hunters repaired. The quarry was soon roused from those sad and solitary meditations, in which he would have passed the winter. Finding, after he had made a few shambling paces, that there was around him a distant ring of men, he halted, and doubtingly eyed the array. Wishing to make a surer shot, the sportsmen called to each other, and slightly narrowed the diameter of their circle,-all advancing a few paces simultaneously towards the centre. It was at this moment that three or four guns rose to as many shoulders; the English gentleman to whom we refer was among those who fired. For about ten seconds it seemed uncertain whether any of the shots had taken effect, so perfectly still stood the bear. Then, suddenly, uttering a strange sound, he rushed straight towards that one individu al, whom we will call Mr. Horner, quite disregarding and disdaining the rest of the field. Hastily aiming with his other barrel, the hunter, of course, turned and fled. We may remark, that after the beast is killed, it is generally ascertainable by the position of the leaden messengers in his body, and by his own place in the field, from what direction they must have come, and who, therefore, were the successful marksmen. In the present case, from the strength and velocity of the bear's charge, an inexperienced spectator would have certainly concluded that no wound had been yet inflicted. The fact was otherwise. Both the barrels of the man, now running for his life, had been well and truly aimed, and the wild beast, which seemed to have wings, so rapid was his course, was bearing, nevertheless, at that moment, two balls in his body-back to him from whom he had received them. Horner's first shot had pierced the lower part of the bear's neck crosswise, making two very small opposite holes, corresponding with each other exactly, only that the puncture on the left or near side was plastered and lined at the edges with some of the hair dragged into the orifice by the entering bullet, and that the further orifice bled a little more. The second ball, fired after the bear had begun his dash, hit the breast-bone slantingly, curved round beneath the hide, and lodged in the left flank, producing a long, ragged, and formidable interior damage. Horner was fast losing his distance, when his left-hand comrade in the huntingring, getting an opening, sent a crashing ball from fortyfive yards into the centre of the bear's ribs. A short savage howl acknowledged the receipt; and for a second the brute seemed slightly to reel, but only for a second. He took up the pursuit with fresh fury and speed; for even the last blow could not now induce him to forsake for another enemy his first assailant. Not more than ten yards separated Mr. Horner from the brute whose very breath, he afterwards declared, he felt upon his shoulder, when, at that instant, his foot struck the transverse root of a tree, and he fell headlong. When a bear cannot hug you, or before he does, he strikes out with his paw, aiming at your forehead; and where his paw descends, the scalp of your head parts, and he drags it down, peeling off the forehead, the eyes, the nose, and the entire skin and flesh of the face, like a mask. And so incredibly quick and sudden is the operation, that a person standing by would not know what had happened till he saw the effect. The movement itself is as rapid as a flash of lighting; and then "the human face divine" has entirely disappeared. One would think that the brute, awed by the countenance of man, was obliged first to remove it before proceeding to suck the bones of his victim, which is what he does at leisure, if victorious and unmolested, beginning often with the little finger of one of the hands. He does not bite off that finger, but makes a small puncture in the tip of it, and so draws forth his repast. Horner, endeavouring to rise, half faced the bear; and instinctively raised an arm to guard his head. In that decisive and fearful emergency, a ball, more effective than any of the rest, struck the animal behind the ear and entered the brain. Nevertheless, this timely shot arrested not wholly that tremendous coup de patte, or paw stroke, which it weakened indeed and deadened. The arm of the gentleman whom we have called Horner for the convenience of narration, was fractured by the descending blow which he had tried to intercept; his guard was beaten down like a roll of thin paper, and he fell back scalped to the eyes, the dead bear rolling over him. It might have been worse; a skilful operation was performed in London, whither he repaired at once, and he recovered his former health in a few months, though not his former appearance. He will always carry that day's mark, and be able to preface his story by saying, See what I got once when bear-hunting in Finland." We have been told of the following extraordinary process, and have been assured that it is frequently practised by the Russian mujiks, or peasants, who cannot easily procure fire-arms. The facts, if true, are exceedingly curious and interesting; but we will not vouch for them --we see that a certain French traveller does, which is one reason for our own caution; that charming writer having this peculiarity, that his asseverations are generally the most solemn when the most unfounded. Some of our readers, who are learned both in field sports and in natural history, will, no doubt, be good enough to let us know the real amount of " strange truth" that the amusing account may contain. Thus, then, runs the statement. The bear, as everybody is aware, has the greatest liking for honey. From a prodigious distance he will track his way to the hollow tree where the wild bees have hived. Once arrived, he pokes his long mouth into the hole, and with marvellous dexterity licks up, even to the last little cell, the produce of the industrious and indefatigable swarm which for a whole season have been laying all the herbs and flowers of the forest under contribution. He cares nothing for the stings of the despairing defenders. His skin, for the sake of which man hunts him, is here not the source of his danger, but the means of his protection. In a forest known to contain bears, the hunters examine all the hollow trees, till they discover a wild bee-hive. A branch of the tree is then chosen, directly above the hole; if there be no such branch, a stout peg is driven into the trunk. To this peg a strong cord is fastened, and by the end of the cord a heavy stone, or a cannon-ball, is securely suspended at about half a foot from the ground. The bear in his researches comes upon the treasure of honey. The pendulous barrier obstructs and incommodes him a good deal. He is an irritable brute,-in such cases one of the most irritable as well as one of the most stupid in the forest. He begins by shoving the stone or weight aside; but it presses against his head, and he gives it a slight knock to free himself from the inconvenience. It recoils in a moment, and he receives a smart tap on the ear. His temper is roused, and he again pushes off the hard and heavy mass, but more violently; he gets a rather severe blow, in the side of his skull, on its return. He becomes furious, and with a powerful jerk sends the rock swinging away. The pendulum cannot be the first to tire of this game; and it is a game in which all the blows are felt on one side exclusively. The bear alone suffers; and the point is, that he suffers as much by the strokes he gives as by those he gets. He takes double punishment. His very retaliations are all against himself; and for every furious push which makes his skull ache, he is sure to receive an immediate equivalent which makes it ache again. At last his rage is unbounded; he hugs the block, he strikes it, he bites it; but whenever he would thrust his head into the hive, back on his ear falls the obstruction, against which neither his terrible hug nor the blows of his paw are of any avail. The brute is maddened. He faces his strange and pertinacious tormentor, and makes it once more rebound from his skull. But back it swings, like a curse, which returns upon the head from which it started. The bear falls exhausted under these reiterated blows, one more violent than another; and if he be not dead, the hunters who have watched the singular contest from their hiding-place, soon despatch him. Such is the alleged process which we promised to describe. We shall be grateful to any one who will certify to us how far the statement is in accordance with well-attested facts. SONGS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. SONG has played a very important part in the revolutions of France. Each one of them has been celebrated by a song, which marks the epoch. Some of these revolutionary songs have gained battles-they are themselves battles in words. The Ça ira (meaning It will do) was first chanted—a most innocent song on the Champ de Mars, to an air called Le Carillon National, in July, 1790, whilst the people were preparing it for the celebration of the General Confederation of France. The tune was that of a contredanse then in fashion, a great favourite with Marie Antoinette, who often played it on the harpsichord, little thinking that one day the same air would accompany her to the scaffold. The confederation which was celebrated in the Champ de Mars arose out of the poetic aspirations for liberty which, yet unsullied by blood, all France then sighed for. The regeneration of the human race was supposed to be at hand. Universal peace, universal brotherhood, liberty, equality, and fraternity were in every mouth; and people believed that the reign of justice and mercy was at length begun. The Catholics fraternized with the Protestants, the soldiers with the civilians, the priests with the people, the princes of the blood royal with the sans-culottes. The revolution was as yet but of rose-water, though the Bastille had fallen. France smiled in contentment, and thought to sit down quietly to enjoy its newly-found liberty. The whole nation had been enfranchised, and every town, village, and commune had its self-elected magistrates. Fêtes were everywhere held, even in the villages, to celebrate the new order, under the tri-colour flag. Statues of Liberty were set up and decorated with flowers, and young maidens headed the processions; sometimes bearing palms with the inscription thereon of "To the best citizen." Liberty had become the new religion throughout France. At Sous-le-Saulnier, the poor people closed the ceremony of the day by drinking "To all men, even our enemies, whom we swear to love and defend." Such was the dream of France in 1790, which even the stolid Kant, in his home in Konigs. berg, on the south shore of the Baltic, hailed as an indication of that spiritual unity forming itself by the heart and instinct of man, which till then he had sought for by scientific methods in vain. These French people then proposed to meet under the auspices of the National Assembly on the Champ de Mars at Paris, there to celebrate the Grand Confederation of France. So an immense concourse of people converged thither from all parts of the kingdom to inaugurate their new birth. And they marched to the Ca ira, then the song of love and brotherhood. Here is M. Michelet's graphic account of it : "As these bands of patriots tramped through the towns and villages, they chanted with all their might and with heroic cheerfulness a song which all the inhabitants reechoed from their thresholds. That song, the most national of all, with its emphatic and powerful rhymes, ever recurring in the self-same tone (like the commandments of God and the Church), admirably sustained the weary steps of the traveller by shortening his journey, and the energy of the labour by showing him the progress of his work. It faithfully kept time with the progress of the Revolution itself, using a more rapid movement when that terrible traveller increased her speed. Abridged and comprised in a rondo of fury and madness, it became the murderous Ça ira of 1793. That of 1790 was of a very different character: Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète : (Ah! ça ira! ça ira! ça ira!) "For the traveller who was slowly journeying towards Paris, from the Pyrenees or the extremity of Brittany, under the burning sun of July, this song was a viaticum, a support, like the proses chanted by the pilgrims who, in a revolutionary spirit, built up the cathedrals of Chartres and Strasbourg, in the middle ages. The Parisian sang it in quick time, and with violent energy, in digging up the Champ de Mars, to prepare it for the field of the confederation. From being a flat plain, it was to assume the fine majestic form which we now behold. The city of Paris had sent thither a few thousand idle workmen who would have required years to execute so great a task. The people saw through this ill-will, and the whole population set to work. It was an extraordinary spectacle to behold, both day and night, men of every class and every age even children, but all citizens,-soldiers, abbés, monks, actors, sisters of charity, noble ladies, market women, all handling the pickaxe and mattock, rolling barrows, or driving carts. Children walked in front bearing torches, perambulating musicians played to enliven the workmen, and they themselves, whilst levelling the earth, continued still to chant their levelling songAh! ça ira! ça ira! ça ira!'-He that exalteth himself, shall be abased." ་ And thus was the Champ de Mars, as it now stands formed to the Ca ira. The fête was held in the grand theatric style so usual in France; nevertheless the Revolution went on, faster and more furious, and the Ça ira changed with the times. Every club extemporised versions for itself. The song became full of bitter sarcasms against aristocrats and kings, and it soon became recognised as the war-cry of the faubourgs. When the tumultuous mob burst into the National Assembly on the 20th of June, 1792, brandishing pikes and muskets-a hideous crowd of men, women, and children,—they defiled through the hall in procession, all repeating in chorus the Ca ira. And when Louis and Marie Antoinette were borne to the scaffold amidst howling crowds, this was the song that was sung-the same that had beguiled their happier hours in the royal apartments at Versailles. The Carmagnole was another of the horrible popular ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL. songs of the revolutionary epoch. It was composed in Often was it danced and sung round the guillotine. Thus the recollection of this air is in France full of horror, and when better times came round, it fell into disrepute. Napoleon, as first consul, forbade both the Carmagnole and the Ça ira to be played by the military bands. But in the progress of the Revolution a new popular song suddenly came into vogue, which threw all others completely into the shade. This was the famous Marseillaise Hymn, which was first heard in July, 1792, when the wild Marseillaise entered Paris by the Faubourg SaintAntoine, a black-browed mass, dusty and tattered after their long march, but full of savage determination, singing Aux armes! citoyens, formez vos bataillons, The entry of the Marseilleise into Paris was the signal for There is no doubt whatever that that Marseillaise "To The Prussians, the by Prussian shells and red-hot balls; but in the midst of The author of this widely-popular song, was Rouget de Lisle, a young officer of artillery, at Strasbourg. He was a republican, a musician, a poet, and a soldier; and he threw his whole soul into his song: he composed the words and the music together-he never could tell which was first in his mind; but the song was speedily taken up, sung out of doors, in Strasbourg, flew like lightning across the country; the Marseillaise adopted it as their hymn, to be sung at the opening and the close of the sittings of their clubs; and they carried it with them to Paris, whither it was spread over the world. De Lisle himself was afterwards proscribed as a royalist, and as he fled across the frontier, the strains of his own song everywhere followed and pursued him. Had he not escaped, he would doubtless have heard it at the scaffold. The Chant du Départ, a war hymn, by Joseph Chenier, almost divided popularity with the Marseillaise, on its first appearance in 1794. France was then drunk with the liberty which it had won, in the teeth of the embattled hosts of the kings of Europe; but it was still precipitating its armies upon the frontiers, threatened by their opposing troops, and every new levy of French conscripts went forth singing this Chant du Départ, each Frenchman deeming himself to be a hero, sent into the world to liberate the nations, and to build up the glory of France. Thus speaks the Chant du Départ : La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la barrière, Et du Nord au Midi la trompette guerrière La république nous appelle Pour elle un Français doit mourir! The Chant was set to admirable music by Mehul, who wrote it one evening amidst the gossip of a drawingroom. It was immediately hailed with an enthusiasm almost amounting to a delirium; and was carried out to every frontier amongst the French armies there. But like the Marseillaise, it was forbidden to be played by Napoleon, and it was rarely heard until after his fall in 1815. In 1830, and again in 1848, it sprang into renewed popularity; contributing with the Marseillaise and the Girondins (or Mourir pour la Patrie), to keep alive the patriotic enthusiasm of the days of February. The music of the song is very fine, though it is now much less known in England than the Marseillaise, which retains its popularity in all countries. The song of the Girondins belongs to the Revolution of 1848, during which it achieved a great and sudden popularity. Lamartine had published his history, and awakened great, interest on the subject, on which MM. Alexandre Dumas and Maquet composed this song, the burthen of which is- Mourir pour la patrie! C'est le sort le plus beau, le plus digne d'envie. The song was first sung on the stage, at the Théatre Historique, and immediately achieved immense success. In a short time, it was chanted everywhere in the streets, and it was sung by the combatants at the barricades of February. Casimir Delavigne, the dramatist, has also written several songs, which for the time achieved considerable popularity. The best known of these is La Parisienne, which the Times correspondent reports as having been sung in Athens but the other day, by turns with the Marseillaise. It must, therefore, be regarded as one of the revolutionary songs of France, and its spirit is akin to that which breathes in them-rebellious, martial, and redolent of "glory." Such were the songs of the French revolutions, forming part and parcel of the history of the last sixty years in France. Though several of them are married to excellent music, they are nevertheless mostly full of terrible recollections. OUR MUSICAL CORNER. We know the Thornberry family to be very worthy The Thornberrys were of that class of enthusiastic devotees to Apollo, known as "music mad." Their evening parties recognised no rational method of passing the hours but that of" singing and playing" unceasingly; and we always dreaded being invited to them, as we were certain of having "too much of a good thing;" but then we could steal away after an hour's appearance, and not be missed from the spacious rooms and crowded assembly; now the case is altered. The Thornberrys are sadly reduced in circumstances, and are obliged to live in one of those dreary, miserable-looking rows of eight-roomed houses found in the new streets about the Commercial Road, with one female drudge, who supplies their household demands, as a general shop does a country village, with everything required, from bacon and butter to blacking and brickdust. The footman and the "scarlet we see no longer, but the "drab" remains painfully visible. The "green and yellow" page is gone, but the melancholy seems plentifully added. Coals are had in by the single ton-whether to accommodate the limits of cellar or purse we will not question. The girls' merino dresses are always "turned" for the second winter; and the boys' coats are evidently "revived" at collars and seams. They have a number of "make-up' dinners, which signifies six mutton-chops for seven appetites; and they have taken a wonderful fancy to talking by firelight, scrupulously keeping the candles unlighted for the perfect enjoyment thereof. Mrs. Thornberry is an elderly lady of great personal pride, which, contrary to that of the peacock, has always chiefly exhibited itself in the arrangement of her head. We can recollect her wearing such feathers and such ribbons as used to astonish our young mind, but lately she has often declared that quiet head-dresses are most becoming to her years; and she accordingly mounts a most unimposing model of a dark-coloured something, with an indication of floral ornament about it, which, from the length of time we have recognised the same, we should say belongs to the tribe of flowers known as "everlasting." Very praiseworthy are these economical sacrifices on the part of the Thornberrys, and we respect them highly for such conduct; but there is one inconsistency still persisted in by them, they will give "musical parties," and the possession of the wiry skeleton of one of Broadwood's pianos, coupled with their mania for singing and playing, are the causes of rather pitiable attempts at their olden entertainments. The manner in which they now "get up musical evenings inspires us with equal regret and dread. These evenings occur about once in three months, and we are always asked to join them. The Thornberrys now limit their invitations to the friends who are supposed to have a genuine love of music, and, unfortunately, we are among the number. They always muster three or four among the party who are as insanely devoted to harmony as themselves, but whose talent and voices are somewhat questionable, although they may be professionally educated, or enthusiastically ready. The last of these evenings spent there tried us to such a degree, that we fear we must be "indisposed" when our next invitation arrives. We will just give a sketch in few and light lines of the affair, for the full, Rembrandt depths of detail would be too wearisome to offer. It was a cold and rainy night. Five miles in a very objectionable cab did not add to our natural vital power, and, on our arrival, we shivered like a shaken blancmange, as we entered a fireless bed-room, where a solitary candle, before a small dressing-glass, was quivering and guttering, as though ashamed of beholding its reflected form. The cheerless gloom struck to our heart, and we felt as if we were going to a funeral, without hopes of a legacy. We descended to the front parlour without the slightest attempt to put ourselves "to rights," and there found about twenty persons, sitting in stately propriety, under the illuminating influences of dark grey paper, touched here and there with stone-coloured damp; dingy brown window-curtains, faded Turkey carpet, and four composites, two on the mantelpiece, and two on the remains of "Broadwood." A black teaboard, relieved with green tea, white sugar, and sky-blue milk, was at the end of its voyage round the room. We took a cup of fluid for ceremony's sake; but before we had finished it, the eldest Miss Thornberry made a move to the heap of music on a little side-table, and seemed vainly seeking for some particular composition, though we firmly believe she knew perfectly well where to put her hand upon it. Mr. Crackerly, an elderly gentleman, one of the Thornberrys' Cecilian band, with very red face and very curly wig, flew to assist her. Miss Selina Thornberry went to assist both; and, after a few moments of serious whispering, the announcement was made, that they were going to do' When Time was entwining." Accordingly, a profound stillness and silence were instantly observed, for it would affront the Thornberrys for ever to speak or stir while "music" was going on; and we had to embrace our cup and saucer without moving a muscle, until the glee was finished. We then hurried it on to the table, and took a long breath; but before we had time to brush away the imaginary cobwebs from our nose with our fulldress mouchoir, Miss Fitzquaver, of the R.A. took the vacated seat, and commenced the "Overture to Der Freyschutz." Now, this overture, above all others, requires at least one good instrument, and one good performer; but the poor old Broadwood was unequal to the task, and so was Miss Fitzquaver. However, what the lady wanted in science she made up in rapidity, which we secretly thanked Heaven for, and she was led in triumph from the stool by Mr. Crackerly, while every tongue expressed its sense of gratitude for her condescension, and admiration of her execution. "Now Mr. Sweetman, will you kindly oblige us?" said Mrs. Thornberry, with a sort of coaxing dignity; and a pale youth, with a blue waistcoat and white satin straight-jacket about his neck, immediately produced an elegant Concertina, and hinted his acquirement of some exquisite variations on Annie Laurie." Of course, every one would be delighted to hear them; but alas! the young gentleman was either nervous, or had neglected to practise sufficiently, for he made a mess of poor "Annie;" and even Mr. Crackerly, with all his good nature, advised him to "try something else;" and we had another ten minutes of very inferior enter. tainment to listen to. We had hoped at the conclusion to have a chance of some "talk" with Mrs. Flowerflounce, who is "well up" in all the private scandal of Belgravia, and always makes herself “a charming companion," at the mere expense of truth and reputationWe had only just learned from her that Sir William Spooney had got himself into Jewish bondage to a fearful extent, and that Miss Flashem had eloped with her papa's groom, when the first notes of "The Standard-bearer" "sad struck us dumb, and we were all stock-still for another quarter of an hour. Mr. Crackerly had just handed the small young lady, who had most appropriately essayed this fine song, to her seat; and we ventured to walk across the room, with the intention of getting out of a strong draught, and speaking to Mrs. Thornberry on some interesting domestic topic. We had only arrived at the important declaration, that we thought her son Edward was somewhat stouter, when the old lady managed to place herself on half of her seat, and whispered, “Just sit down on my chair, my dear, and give me your opinion of Mr. Suckling's voice. He is intended for the stage, I believe, and they say he has a superb 'tenor." " As Mr. Suckling had already commenced work, and dear Mrs. Thornberry's hand was on our shoulder, we could do nothing less than sit in a state of wretched cramp while Mr. Suckling strained and struggled through an air from Robert le Diable, which we had heard Sims Reeves sing a few evenings before. We were waxing somewhat wrath at the continuous stretch of our patience; but, alas! we were doomed to "music," and nothing else, for another hour, when "supper" was spoken of. Mr. Edward Thornbery took us into the back parlour, and confidentially informed us during our route over the three yards of passage, that his brother Henry, a lad of sixteen, was going to give a solo on the violin in the supper-room. We felt in a sort of dry cold bath, and swallowed a sandwich of unknown constituency with desperate deglutition, attempting, as desperately, to drown its memory in a glass of mysterious beverage, recognised at parties by kindhearted and amiable people as sherry." "Do try a "Thank you," custard," said some one at our elbow. we replied; "we have had enough of the tart; and at this moment Mr. Crackerly knocked a knife-handle on the table to demand silence for the solo. The fiddle was out of tune, the fiddler was more conceited than competent; and sixteen pages of growl, squeak, and scrape, sent us into the extremity of impatience. No sooner had Mr. Henry retired from congratulations, and flung himself into the neighbourhood of the tipsy cake, than Mr. Edward, who had managed to take family liberties with the decanters, volunteered, in the exuberance of his elevation, to favour us with "The Glasses sparkle on the Board." We began to gasp for sheer want of breath, and contemplated a polite escape from the harmonic meeting, when the last-named gentleman, on the strength of another glass of port, which from its very opaque and sombre character must certainly have come from the "Shades," intimated that he had lately taken to study the Sax horn. We arose from our chair, pushed three ladies rather more into the wall, and hastened upstairs to muffle ourselves, and depart before we lost all command over our temper. As we descended, Mrs. Thornberry entreated us to listen to Edward, who was about to try a Swedish melody on his horn. We believe we uttered some slight untruths about a sudden pain in our chest, and fought our way into a cab with nervous intrepidity. Oh, what a relief it was to get out of that densely musical atmosphere; how earnestly we vowed never to accept another invitation to the Thornberrys' parties, and how we mean to keep that vow. We will go and see them under any reasonable state of discomfort; we will put up with "cold shoulder," weak tea, lengthened twilight-in short, with anything, saving an "entirely " musical evening. What a pity it is that people attempt what they have not the means to carry out properly. Our respect for the Thornberrys is unabated; but they must excuse our being again martyred at the shrine of a morbid infatuation. that we have vented our grumbling we will proceed to business, though we have a suspicion that "our boy Tom" holds our criticising duties in as sad a light as we do the Thornberry's Apollonian feasts; for we hear that he has remarked as to our playing, a precious lot of stupid, 66 Now |