Harper's New Monthly Magazine

With animals it is the same as with men; some enjoy an unmerited reputation, while others find themselves the subjects of an undeserved opprobrium.

Among the victims of popular prejudice, I would mention the Toad.

Yes! at this name alone, you begin to exclaim against the ugliness of the animal, the venom he ejaculates, and a thousand other calumnies with which the poor beast is very unjustly charged.

I will not seek to disguise the fact-granted, the toad is ugly; but, then, I do not think that ugliness hinders those who are afflicted with it from possessing a crowd of excellent qualities and virtues. The negro Eustache and M. de Monthyon were not handsome, and yet the former, with the acclamations of all France, has been crowned by the Academy; the latter has consecrated his immense fortune to charitable institutions. We could further cite, in support of our opinion, a great number of politicians, nay even of artists, who have attained renown far otherwise than by the regularity of their features or by their personal attractions; but we would not pain any one.

Now, as to the toad, though he is ugly and calumniated he does not the less possess a multitude of domestic virtues, which ought to place him far higher in the esteem of impartial persons, than the dove, whom we cite so often as a model of tenderness, yet who, let it be noticed in passing, employs one half of her life in quarreling with her mate, and the other in exchanging with him blows of the beak, often bloody.

If you doubt the truth of my assertions, be kind enough to follow me into the forest of Meudon, where toads are found in greater abundance perhaps than any where else in the environs of Paris.

And first, do you hear in the distance that strange chant which is not wanting in melody and charm, when it rises afar in the air, like the plaint of love? That little cry, flute-like, short, monotonous, repeated several times in succession, at brief intervals, varies in such a manner, that one seems to hear it retire and approach on one side or another, like the sound of a trumpet by which the motions of a flag are directed. The greater part of the time one can not determine whence proceeds this strange music, often attributed to some bird, and without our being willing to acknowledge the obscure and unknown singer who produces it. It is the announcement of the betrothal-it is the love-song of the Batrachian.

Never was love more sincere, or more devoted. When once the toad has pledged his faith to a spouse, not only does he exhibit toward her a romantic fidelity, but he, moreover, protects her at the peril, and often even at the sacrifice of his life. If any one attacks a female, the male rushes in front of the aggressor, provokes him swells himself out in sign of defiance, and endeavors to irritate him, in order to give his companion time to fly, and take refuge in a safe asylum.

If, on the other hand, nothing disturbs him, he quits not his spouse for a moment; he surrounds her with anxious and tender attentions, lays before her the most delicate morsels of the prey he hunts for her, only eats after she has finished, and altogether acts in a manner, that might make many a Parisian husband blush. Further, he is fiery, jealous; he permits no rival to approach her to whom he is united. Woe to the audacious one who would seek to win her affection! almost invariably he pays with his life for his impudent endeavors.

This model husband, when he becomes a father has no less tenderness for his children than for their mother. When the hour, dear to the ancient Lucina, arrives, it is he who performs for his companion, the tender duties of the occasion; he takes the eggs in his arms, and places them along the body of the female, to which they remain attached till the period of hatching.

At this epoch alone, the female approaches the water, in it she deposits her eggs, and therein the eggs undergo the different transformations peculiar to the Batrachians. Then the double mission of father and mother is ended.

You see, that in writing an eulogium on the toad, and in seeking to re-install him in public favor, we have not been utopian.

Besides, the toad is a very sociable animal, and readily becomes the companion and the friend of man. Often, he establishes his dwelling in our houses. Pennant relates the history of a toad, who took up his abode under a staircase, and who, every evening as soon as he saw the lights, came into the dining-room. He suffered himself to be taken up and placed on the table, where they fed him with worms, flies, and wood-lice. He took these insects delicately, inflated himself to express his gratitude, and knew very well how to ask them to put him on the table, when they pretended not to be willing to do so. This toad lived thirty-six years, and then was the victim of an accident.

It was the strangest and most beautiful sight in the world-certainly the most beautiful they had ever seen or dreamt of; and the party, after surmounting the perils of the ascent, stood gazing in astonished amazement.

"The Falls of Niagara may be very grand," observed they; not that they could speak from experience, never having crossed the Atlantic to view them; the sight of the Pyramids of Egypt, worth a pilgrimage thither, and all the other known wonders of the earth, natural and artificial, equally imposing and sublime, but it was scarcely to be conceived that any one of them could vie in beauty with the Glaciers of Switzerland.

The party, some half-dozen in number, and of the English nation, had arrived at Chamouny in the night, later by some hours than they ought to have done, owing to the break-down of their nondescript vehicle, called a char-à-banc, just after they had quitted St. Martin, a quiet little village, whence the view of Mont Blanc is splendid in the extreme.

They were weary with traveling, and sought their beds at once, the earliest riser among them-and he not until the sun was up-rushing to his window, before his eyes were half open, to see if any view was to be obtained.

He pulled aside the curtain, and stood transfixed; utterly regardless of the bipeds, male and female, human and animal, whose attention might be attracted upward by the unusual apparition of a gentleman exhibiting himself at the open window in his costume de nuit, his tasseled nightcap stretching a yard into the air. But John Rayner was a man much more accustomed to act from impulse than from reflection, and it is possible that in this instance the scene he beheld excused it.

The Glacier de Bosson was before him-the large, unbroken Glacier de Bosson-with its color of bright azure, and its shining peaks of gold, rising to a sky more deeply blue than we ever see it in England, glittering along as far as the eye could reach. A glimpse of the Mer de Glace was caught in the distance, its white surface presenting a contrast to the blue of the glaciers.

John Rayner soon summoned his party; and, after a hasty breakfast, they commenced preparations for a visit to the Mer de Glace. They were soon ready-considering that some of the party were ladies, and one a staid damsel of five-and-forty, methodical and slow: another, a fair young bride, indulged in every wish and whim. The usual appendage of mules and guides accompanied them, and they were a long while ascending the mountain-five hours at the least-but the road was sufficiently exciting, and to some minds sufficiently dangerous, to keep away ennui. The young girl, too, and indeed she was little more, was perpetually throwing them into a state of agitation with her sudden screams of terror, although the guides, with their Alpenstocks, seeing her fears, were more attentive to her than to all the rest of them put together. Once they thought she had certainly gone over, mule and all: it was when a descending party appeared almost right above their heads, advancing toward them, and she was just at a broken and rugged corner, where there was scarcely room for one mule to step, without being precipitated into the depths below. But the danger was surmounted, and on they went, the mules nearly on end; for it is scarcely possible to conceive a more perpendicular ascent. Part of the way lay through groves of tall pine-trees, and flowers and wild strawberries were growing around.

But now they gained the height, and how strangely beautiful was the scene that broke upon them! it certainly, as the gazers observed, could have no rival in nature. It was one of the sunniest days, too, that ever rose on that picturesque land: had it been less fine, the greater part of the scene's beauty would probably have been lost.

The azure-tinted plains of ice, in their rugged sublimity, were stretched out broad and large, their surface glittering as if all sorts of precious stones were thrown there. The bright-green emerald, the pale sapphire, the gay amber, the purer topaz, the sweet-tinted amethyst, the richer garnet, the blue turquoise, the darker lapis lazuli, the rare jacinth, the elegant onyx, the delicate opal, the gaudy gold, and the brilliant diamond. All gay and glittering colors were there, presenting a dazzling profusion of tints such as the eye had never yet rested on. Pinnacles of snow rose up to the heavens, and frozen torrents, arrested midway in their course, hung over the waves of ice below. Plains, plains of ice, were extended there, clear and transparent; masses of white, shining snow, in all fanciful shapes, were crowded, as if they were rocks, one above another, and magnificent pinnacles, or aiguilles, as they are appropriately termed, raised their golden tops to the dark blue sky, numbers of them upon numbers, as far away in the distance as the eye could reach. It is impossible to do justice in description to the exquisite coloring of these heaps or rocks of ice, between each of which yawned a fissure or abyss, fearful to look down upon. You may have witnessed the blue of a Southern sky, and the rich blue of the Rhone's waters-wondrously dark and rich as they roll on from Geneva's lake; you may have seen the bright plumage of rare birds, rivaling the exquisite tint that is known as "ultramarine," but never, never have you imagined any thing so lovely as the transparent azure of portions of these masses of ice.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Hamlet tells us, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. It is very probable; and there are certainly more places. When John Rayner's geographical master at school expounded to him the dreamy, repellant attributes of the Icy Sea, making him shiver as he listened, he little thought there was another icy sea nearer home, one that he might some time visit, and whose strangely magnificent beauty would cling to his recollections for all his future years.

The guides began pointing out to him some of the glistening peaks by name: the Aiguilles Rouges, the Col de Baume, the Grands Periades, the Grands Mulets, the Egralets, and others. And-strange, strange scene! in the midst of this region of petrifaction, this enduring ice of ages, the green banks, verdant as our plains in the spring-time, lay on the edge of the white waters; causing them to think of the blending of climes that they would never see blended-the smiling pastures of Arcadia in the midst of the desolation of the North Pole.

They were gathered in a group close to the little chalet, as it is called, partaking of the refreshments they had brought with them, all save that pretty plaything the young bride, who, her terrors subsided, sat twisting some wood-strawberries round her straw-bonnet, much to the staining and detriment of its white ribbons, as John Rayner's staid aunt kept assuring her, when some fresh comers appeared upon the scene. They consisted of a lady and gentleman, a man servant, in undress livery, and some guides. He, the gentleman, was young and remarkably handsome, aristocratic to the last degree, and there was an air of reserve and hauteur about him, conspicuous at the first glance. But he was forgotten when his companion, whom he had assisted from her mule and placed upon his arm, turned her countenance to their view. Seldom has a human face been formed so classically faultless, and though there was not the slightest coloring in her features, the delicate beauty of their form was such, that could a painter have transferred them to canvas, he would need to toil for fame no more. Her hair was of the deepest shade, next to black, and her eyes were blue, but such a blue-dark and lovely as were the edges of the masses of ice she was looking at. They did not advance toward our party, preferring, no doubt, to shroud themselves in their habits of aristocratic reserve, and keep themselves aloof from promiscuous travelers. Once she withdrew her arm from his, and began slipping about on the waves of ice, trying hard to climb them; and, as she thus amused herself, he strolled away and approached nearer the other party. But he took no notice of it, save one or two involuntary glances of admiration which shot from his eyes as they fell upon the fair young wife before mentioned, who still sat weaving her strawberries, not quite consistent, as John Rayner's maiden aunt stiffly observed, with his devotion to his young wife down there.

"I wonder if they are English?" quoth Miss Rayner-the first "wonder" an Englishwoman expresses, and that invariably, when strangers appear in sight in a foreign land.

"English! of course not!" retorted her young lady-relative, pushing up the wreath to see how many stains she could count upon her bonnet, and who, since she crossed the channel, had been pleased to express a mania for every body and every thing that was foreign.

But the day at length wore away, with its pleasure, toil, and excitement; and not sorry were they, after their perpendicular descent, to find themselves safe in the inn at Chamouny.

Early the next morning they went out to visit the source of the Arveyron; but it calls for little notice here, and its description would scarcely be read after that of the Icy Sea. They were standing by the grove of pines that skirts the rivulet, bargaining with some little children for the minerals they so anxiously displayed, when the same couple they had seen the day before, amid the glaciers, advanced toward them, but this time quite unattended. The gentleman was attired in a sort of shooting-coat, his tall slender form appearing to advantage in this mode of dress; and the young lady was enveloped in a Cashmere, her lovely features colorless as ever; but she hastily shook her vail over them as she neared the strangers.

They had scarcely passed, when the gentleman, in drawing something from his pocket-a sketch-book it looked like-let fall a gold pencil-case, probably out of the book. It was unperceived by him, and he continued his way, the pencil-case rolling to the feet of John Rayner. He picked it up, and stepping after the stranger, returned it into his hand.

He proffered his thanks politely and very courteously. There was something extremely prepossessing in his manner when he spoke, and in his smile also, in spite of the hauteur visible in his features when they were at rest.

"He is an Englishman, then!" cried John's good aunt, who had been watching and listening.

"And a nobleman to boot," added John.

On the blood-red stone of the chased pencil-case was engraved an elaborate coat-of-arms, surmounted by a viscount's coronet.

During their quiet journey back to St. Martin, in the char-à-banc, they, having nothing better to do, began discussing the episode, as John Rayner himself named it. Miss Rayner, who, many years before, had owned a real countess for a godmother, and still boasted of a cousin-she did not say how many removes-in an embassador's lady, had, as a matter of course, all the peerage at her fingers' ends, and knew the names and ages of every body in it, as well as she did the Church Catechism. So she began speculating upon which of the peers' sons it was, and trying to recollect who among them had recently wedded.

"I have it!" she cried at last, "It is Lord L--. He was married just before we left England-to that old admiral's daughter, you know, John, with the wooden leg: he is something at the Admiralty. An exceedingly fine young man is Viscount L--, but so was his father before him, though I dare say he is altered now. He stood for our county in early life, and I saw him ride round the town the day of his election."

"My good madam," interrupted a gentleman, leaning down from his seat by the driver to speak, "the party we saw this morning is just as much like Lord L-- as you are like me. He is a regular dwarf, is L--; stands five feet one in his boots."

"How do you know Viscount L--?" snappishly demanded the lady, vexed at finding herself, with all her aristocratic lore, at fault.

"I was at college with him," was the reply, as the speaker threw away the end of his cigar.

"It is useless to discuss the matter further," observed John Rayner. "We have seen the last of them, and the prospect here is worth all the coronets in Europe."

They were leaving the Glacier de Bosson, with its form of grace, and its color of brilliant blue shading itself off above to snowy whiteness; but shining cataracts, silvery and beautiful, were rushing down from the heights, amid the trees, the rocks, and the green, green banks. And further on, as the char-à-banc continued its way out of the valley, the snowy range of mountains appeared, their outline sharply cut against the clear summer sky, and the pinnacles, domes, and obelisks, as they might be fancied, shooting up to it; with Mont Blanc-Mont Blanc so splendidly radiant-seen from thence, standing forth in all its glory.

It may have been several months prior to the date of the events recorded above, that a family-party were gathered one evening in the drawing-room of a handsome house, situated near to one of those parts of London much frequented by lawyers. A lady of advancing years sat in an easy-chair; the worsted-work with which she had been occupied was thrown aside, and she had placed her hand fondly upon the head of a young girl, who knelt before the recently-lighted fire, enjoying its blaze, for the autumn evenings were growing chilly. A stranger would have been struck at once with the girl's beauty.

Had a masterly hand sculptured out her features from marble, they could not have been more exquisitely moulded, and they were pale as the purest ivory. She seemed to be about eighteen, and a cherished, petted child.

Two ladies, each more than thirty years of age, sat also in the apartment. They were quiet-looking women, dressed with a plainness which formed a contrast to the elegant attire of the younger lady. One sat before her desk, the other-having drawn close to the window, for she was near-sighted-sat reading attentively.

"Louisa, my dear," observed the mother, removing her hand from her youngest daughter's head, "I think you should put your writing aside: it is getting too late to see."

"In a few minutes, mother: my epistle is just finished, and I want to send it by to-night's post."

"Is it for the convent?" inquired the youngest girl.

"It is."

"As a matter of certainty," she rejoined; a saucy smile-in which might be traced a dash of derision-illuminating her features.

The expression was observed, and a deep sigh broke from the two elder sisters; the one looking up from her book, which was a Roman-Catholic edition of the "Lives of the Saints," to give vent to it.

At the same moment a servant entered, and presented a salver to his mistress. She took a note from it, and broke the seal. The man quitted the room, and Frances, like a spoiled child, leaned her head upon her mother's lap to look at the handwriting.

"It is from your papa, my dearest, written from the office; but a couple of lines. He says he shall bring home a client to dinner-a nobleman, who will probably take a bed at our house. It may be as well, perhaps, that I order some trifling additions to the table."

"The dinner is very well, madam," meekly observed one of her elder daughters. "It is handsome and good: will not the enlarging of it savor much of worldly vanity?"

"Additions! to be sure, mamma!" cried Frances. "What are you dreaming of, Mary? it is a nobleman who is coming, did you not hear?" And bending forward, she pulled hastily the bell, that Mrs. Hildyard might issue her orders.

But while they are up-stairs dressing, it may be as well to give a short intimation of who the parties are.

Mr. Hildyard was an eminent lawyer, ranking high in his profession, of unblemished character, and of great wealth. He was of the Roman Catholic persuasion. His family consisted but of the three daughters we have already seen. The two elder ones, Louisa and Mary, had been placed in early childhood at a convent in one of the midland counties. Merry-hearted girls they were when they entered it; but at their departure, after a sojourn there of several years, their joyous spirits had been subdued to gloom. The world and all its concerns was to them a sin; and they decidedly deemed that no person was worthy to live in it, save those who were continually out of it "in the spirit," and whose time was passed in the offices of religion, and in ecclesiastical acerbities. They returned home young women, while their little sister, the willful child, Frances, was but eight years of age. Most passionately fond of this child, coming to them so many years after the birth of the others, were Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard; and, like too many fond parents, they merged her future well-being in present indulgence. Oh! better had it been for Frances Hildyard to have turned into stone her heart's best feelings, and to have lived a life of contented gloom as her sisters did, than to have grown up the vain, self-willed girl which she had done, reveling in the world and its vanities as if it were to be her resting-place forever.

It is impossible to tell you how Frances Hildyard was idolized-how indulged. This is no ideal story, and I speak but of things as they were. When only seven years of age, she dined at table with her parents, at their late dinner-hour. Her will was law in the house; the very servants, taking their tone from their superiors, made her their idol, or professed to do so. The most insidious flatteries were poured into her ear, and every hour in the day, one eagerly drank-in theme was whispered there-the beauty of Miss Frances. This indulgence, coupled with that fostered vanity, brought forth its fruits-and can you wonder at it? Good seeds were in her heart-good, holy seeds, planted in it by God, as they are in the heart of all; but in lieu of being carefully fostered and pruned, they were let run to waste, and the baneful weeds overgrew them.

A governess was provided for her, a kind, judicious Catholic woman. Send Frances to the convent, indeed! What object would Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard have had to doat upon had their precious child been removed from their sight? Mrs. Mainwaring was anxious for the welfare of her charge, and to do her duty; but Frances was the most rebellious pupil. The governess appealed to the mother, and Mrs. Hildyard, with showers of kisses and presents, implored Frances to be more attentive; but Frances heard her whisper to the governess not to be harsh with her darling child. It was a continued scene of struggle for mastery, and Mrs. Mainwaring threw up her engagement. A French lady was procured in her place, who had the accommodation, to use no more reprehensible term, to assimilate her views to those of Miss Frances. And so she grew up; her extreme beauty palliating to the household all her little willful faults, and the admiration she excited filling the very crevices of her heart. To hear the echo of the word "beautiful" coupled with Frances Hildyard, was of itself, to her, worth living for. But soon one was to come, for whose admiration she would alone care, one for whose step she would learn to listen, and in whose absence existence would be irksome.

She was the first, on the evening which has been mentioned, to enter the drawing-room, after dressing for dinner. Her attire proved she had not forgotten that a noble stranger was to partake of their hospitality. Mr. Hildyard was standing before the fire with a gentleman. They both moved as she advanced, and her father, taking her hand, said, "My love, allow me to introduce Lord Winchester. Your lordship sees my youngest daughter, Miss Frances Hildyard."

She saw that he was young and handsome-she saw that he was noble and courteous beyond any that she had hitherto formed acquaintance with, but she saw not the whole of his fascinations then.

He led Mrs. Hildyard in to dinner, and sat next to her; Frances was on his other hand. The two elder sisters, in their quiet gray silk dresses, sat opposite, and Mr. Hildyard occupied his customary place at the foot of the table.

Vain girl! She was looking her very best, and she tried to look it. She was conscious that he regarded her with no common admiration. She was used to that; but she was not used to this homage from a nobleman.

The secret of his visit was made known to the family-to no one else. Viscount Winchester, but following the example set him by many another noble viscount, had got himself into a scrape: plainly speaking, he had run headlong into debt, and was in the hands of the Jews. The respectable old earl, his father, shocked and astonished, had, in the first flush of anger, refused to assist him, and the viscount, threatened with arrest, and not daring to apply to the family-solicitor, had flown to Mr. Hildyard, of whom he had a slight knowledge. So here he was located, en famille, in the lawyer's house; it may be said, secreted, for the servants were left in ignorance of his name and rank, and the family were denied to visitors.

Upon Frances chiefly devolved the care of entertaining him. Louisa and Mary-even had the necessity of any task so vain and useless as that of amusing a handsome young gentleman occurred to their minds-possessed not the time to attend to it, what with their voluminous correspondence kept up with the convent, and their multifarious religious duties at home, and its ceremonies abroad; and Mrs. Hildyard was in delicate health, and rarely descended from her apartments until late in the day.

It was nearly a week before he left the house. For four days the earl had continued obstinate; and after he relented, it took two more to arrange matters, so that Lord Winchester might be free again. He and Frances had become very friendly with each other; it is too early yet to say, attached-but the seeds for that were sown. He quitted the house, but not to remain absent from it forever-now a morning visit, now a friendly dinner with them. Neither did it seem any thing but a natural occurrence that he should frequently return to his friends from whom he had received so much kindness. But it needed not his whisperings to Frances, to convince her that she was the magnet that drew him thither, for she saw it in every look, and traced it in every action.