given to understand that Edward I. was a tall man; and that he was designated in his own time by the name of Long-shanks. Baker, in his Chronicle of the Kings of England, says of him that he was tail of stature, exceeding most other men by a head and shoulders. We have not been able to find Sir Joseph Ayloffe's account of the examination, and no other mode of reconciling the discrepancy, but by supposing a typographical error of a figure in the account which has been quoted.

Edward I. died at Burgh-upon Sands in Cumberland, on his way to Scotland, July 7, 1307, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. Another instance of partial preservation, is that of the body of King Charles I. The remains of this unfortunate monarch are known to have been carried to Windsor, and there interred by his friends, without pomp, in a hasty and private manner. It is stated in Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, that when his son, Charles II., was desirous to remove and re-inter his corpse at Westminster Abbey, it could not by any search be found. In constructing a Mausoleum at Windsor in 1813, under the direction of George IV., then Prince Regent, an accident led to the discovery of this royal body. The workmen, in forming a subterraneous passage under the choir of St. George's chapel, accidentally made an aperture in the wall of the vault of King Henry VIII. On looking through this opening it was found to contain three coffins, instead of two, as had been supposed. Two of these were ascertained to be the coffins of Henry VIII., and one of his queens, Jane Seymour. The other was formally examined, after permission obtained, by Sir Henry Halford, in presence of several members of the Royal family, and other persons of distinction. The account since published by Sir Henry, corroborates the one which had been given by Mr. Herbert, a groom of King Charles's bed-chamber, and is published in Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses.

"On removing the pall," says the account, "a plain leaden coffin presented itself to view, with no appearance of ever having been inclosed in wood, and bearing an inscription, 'King Charles, 1648,' in large, legible characters, on a scroll of lead encircling it. A square opening was then made in the upper part of the lid, of such dimensions as to admit a clear insight into its contents. These were, an internal wooden coffin, very much decayed, and the body, carefully wrapped up in cere-cloth, into the folds of which a quantity of unctuous matter, mixed with resin, as it seemed, had been melted, so as to exclude, as effectually as possible, the external air. The coffin was completely full; and from the tenacity of the cere-cloth, great difficulty was experienced in detaching it successfully from the parts which it en

veloped. Wherever the unctuous matter had insinuated itself, the separation of the cere-cloth was easy; and where it came off, a correct impression of the features to which it had been applied, was observed. At length the whole face was disengaged from its covering. The complexion of the skin of it was dark and discoloured. The forehead and temples had lost little or nothing of their muscular substance; the cartilage of the nose was gone; but the left eye, in the first moment of exposure, was open and full, though it vanished almost immediately; and the pointed beard, so characteristic of the period of the reign of King Charles, was perfect. The shape of the face was a long oval; many of the teeth remained; and the left ear, in consequence of the interposition of the unctuous matter between it and the cere-cloth, was found entire.

"When the head had been entirely disengaged from the attachments which confined it, it was found to be loose, and without any difficulty was taken out, and held up to view. The back part of the scalp was entirely perfect, and had a remarkably fresh appearance; the pores of the skin being more distinct, and the tendons and ligaments of the neck were of considerable substance and firmness. The hair was thick at the back part of the head, and in appearance nearly black. A portion of it, which has since been clean ed and dried, is of a beautiful dark brown colour. That of the beard was a redder brown. On the back part of the head it was not more than an inch in length, and had probably been cut so short for the convenience of the executioner, or perhaps by the piety of friends soon after death, in order to furnish memorials of the unhappy king.

"On holding up the head, to examine the place of separation from the body, the muscles of the neck had evidently retracted themselves considerably; and the fourth cervical vertebra was found to be cut through its substance transversely, leaving the surfaces of the divided portions perfectly smooth and even, an appearance which could have been produced only by a heavy blow, inflicted with a very sharp instrument, and which furnished the last proof wanting to identify King Charles the First."

The foregoing are two of the most successful instances of posthumous preservation.The care taken in regard to some other distinguished personages has been less fortunate in its result. The coffin of Henry VIII. was inspected at the same time with that of Charles, and was found to contain nothing but the mere skeleton of the king. Some portions of beard remained on the chin, but there was noteing to discriminate the personage contained in it.

During the present century, the sarcophagus of King John has also been examined. It contained little else than a disorganized

mass of earth.

The principal substances found, were some half-decayed bones, a few vestiges of cloth and leather, and a long rusty piece of iron, apparently the remains of the sword-blade of that monarch.

The rapidity with which decomposition takes place in organic bodies, depends upon the particular circumstances under which they are placed. A certain temperature, and a certain degree of moisture, are indispensable agents in the common process of putrefaction, and could these be avoided in the habitable parts of our globe, human bodies might last indefinitely. We shall be excused for dwelling a short time on the infinence of some of these preservative agents. Where a certain degree of cold exists, it tends powerfully to check the process of destructive fermentation, and when it extends so far as to produce congelation, its protecting power is complete. Bodies of men and animals are found in situations where they have remained frozen for years, and even for ages. Not many years ago, the bodies of some Spanish soldiers were found in a state of perfect preservation among the snows of the Andes, where they were supposed to have perished in attempting to cross these mountains, nearly a century ago; their costume, and some his torical records, indicating the probable period of their expedition. At the Hospice of the Grand St. Bernard in the Alps, some receptacles of the dead are shown to travellers, in which, owing to the effect of perpetual frost, together with the lightness of the atmosphere, but little absolute decay has taken place in the subjects deposited during a lapse of years. But the most remarkable instance of preservation by frost of an animal body, is that of an elephant of an extinct species, discovered in 1806 in the ice of the polar sea, near the mouth of the river Lena, by Mr. Michael Adams. This animal was first seen by a chief of the Tonguse tribe, in the year 1799, at which time it was imbedded in a rock of ice about 180 feet high and had only two feet, with a small part of the body, projecting from the side, so as to be visible. At the close of the next summer, the entire flank of the animal had been thawed out. It nevertheless required five summers, in this inclement region, to thaw the ice, so that the whole body could be liberated. At length, in 1804, the enormous mass separated from the mountain of ice, and fell over upon its side, on a sand-bank. At this time it appears to have been in a state of perfect preservation, with its skin and flesh as entire as when it had existed, antecedently to the deluge, or to whatever convulsion of the globe may have transported animals apparently of the torrid zone to the confines of the Aretic circle. The Tonguse chief cut off the tusks, which were nine feet long and weighed 200 pounds each. Two years after this

event, Mr. Adams, being at Yakuttk and hearing of this event, undertook a journey to the spot. He found the animal in the same place, but exceedingly mutilated by the dogs and wolves of the neighborhood, which had fed upon its flesh, as fast as it thawed. He however succeeded in removing the whole skeleton, and in recovering two of the feet, one of the ears, one of the eyes, and about three-quarters of the skin, which was covered with reddish hair and black bristles. These are now at the museum at St. Petersburgh.

The foregoing facts are sufficient to show that a low degree of temperature is an effectual preventive of animal decomposition. On the other hand, a certain degree of heat combined with a dry atmosphere, although a less perfect protection, is sufficient to check the destructive process. Warmth, combined with moisture, tends greatly to promote decomposition; yet, if the degree of heat, or the circumstances under which it acts, are such as to produce a perfect dissipation of moisture, the further progress of decay is arrested. In the arid caverns of Egypt, the dried flesh of mun mies, although greatly changed from its original appearance, has made no progress towards ultimate decomposition during two or three thousand years. It is known that the ancient Egyptians embalmed the dead bodies of their friends, by extracting the large viscera from the cavities of the head, chest, and abdomen, and filling them with aromatic and resinous substances, particularly asphaltum, and enveloping the outside of the body in cloths impregnated with similar materials. These impregnations prevented decomposition for a time, until perfect dryness had taken place. Their subsequent preservation, through so many centuries, appears to be owing, not so much to the antiseptic quality of the substance in which they are enveloped, as to the effectual exclusion of moisture and air.

In the crypt under the cathedral of Milan, travellers are shown the ghastly relics of Carlo Borromeo, as they have lain for two centuries, enclosed in a crystal sarcophagus, and bedecked with costly finery, of silk and gold. The preservation of this body is equal to that of an Egyptian mummy, yet a more loathsome piece of mockery than it exhibits, we can hardly imagine.

It will be perceived that the instances which have been detailed are cases of extraordinary exemption, resulting from uncommon care, or from the most favourable combination of circumstances; such as can befall but an exceedingly small portion of the human race. The common fate of animal bodies is to undergo the entire destruction of their fabric, and the obliteration of their living features in a few years, and sometimes even weeks, after their death. No sooner does life cease than the elements which constituted the vital

body, become subject to the common laws of inert matter. The original affinities, which had been modified or suspended during life, are brought into operation, the elementary atoms re-act upon each other, the organized structure passes into decay, and is converted to its original dust. Such is the natural, and we may add, the proper destination, of the material part of all that has once moved and

breathed.

The reflections which naturally suggest themselves in contemplating the wrecks of humanity, which have occasionally been brought to light, are such as lead us to ask, of what possible use is a resistance to the laws of nature, which, when most successfully executed, can at best only preserve a defaced and degraded image of what was once perfect and beautiful? Could we by any means arrest the progress of decay, so as to gather round us the dead of a hundred generations in a visible and tangible shape; could we fill our houses and our streets with mummies, what possible acquisition could be more useless, what custom could be more revolting? For precisely the same reason the subterranean vaults, and the walls of brick, which we construct to divide the clay of humanity from that of the rest of creation, and to prcserve it separate for a time, as it were for future inspection, are neither useful, gratifying, nor ultimately effectual. Could the individuals themselves, who are to be the sub jects of this care, have the power to regulate the officious zeal of their survivors, one of the last things they could reasonably desire would be, that the light should ever shine on their changed and crumbling relics.

On the other hand, when nature is permitted to take its course, when the dead are committed to the earth under the open sky, to become early and peacefully blended with their original dust, no unpleasant association remains. It would seem as if the forbidding and repulsive conditions which attend on decay, were merged and lost in the surrounding barmonies of the creation.

When the body of Major André was taken up, a few years since, from the place of its interment, near the Hudson, for the purpose of being removed to England, it was found that the skull of that officer was closely encircled by a network, formed by the roots of a small tree, which had been planted near his head. This is a natural and most beautiful coincidence. It would seem as if a faithful sentinel had taken his post, to watch, till the obliterated ashes should no longer need a friend. Could we associate with inanimate clay any of the feelings of sentient beings, who would not wish to rescue his remains from the prisons of mankind, and commit them thus to the embrace of nature? Convenience, health, and decency require that the dead should be early removed from

our sight. The law of nature requires that they should moulder into dust, and the sooner this change is accomplished, the better. This change should take place, not in the immediate contiguity of the survivors, not in frequented receptacles provided for the promiscuous concentration of numbers, not where the intruding light may annually usher in a new tenant, to encroach upon the old. It should take place peacefully, silently, separately, in the retired valley or the sequestered wood, where the soil continues its primitive exuberance, and where the earth has not become too costly to afford to each occupant, at least, his length and breadth.

Within the bounds of populous and growing cities, interments cannot with propriety take place beyond a limited extent. The vacant tracts reserved for burial-grounds, and the cellars of churches which are converted into tombs, become glutted with inhabitants, and are in the end obliged to be abandoned, though not perhaps until the original tenants have been ejected, and the same space has been occupied three or four successive times. Necessity obliges a recourse at last to be had to the neighbouring country, and hence in Paris, London, Liverpool, Leghorn, and other European cities, cemeteries have been constructed without the confines of their population. These places, in consequence of the sufficiency of the ground, and the funds which usually grow out of such establishments, have been made the recipients of tasteful ornament. Travellers are attracted by their beauty, and dwell with interest on their subsequent recollection. The scenes which, under most other circumstances, are repulsive and disgusting, are by the joint influence of nature and art rendered beautiful, attractive, and consoling.

We regard the relics of our deceased friends and kindred, for what they have been, and not for what they are. We cannot keep in our presence the degraded image of the original frame, and if some memorial is necessary to soothe the unsatisfied want, which we feel when bereaved of their presence, it must be found in contemplating the place, in which we know that their dust is hidden. The history of mankind, in all ages, shows that the human heart clings to the grave of its disappointed wishes, that it seeks consolation in rearing emblems and monuments, and in collecting images of beauty over the disappearing relics of humanity. This can be fitly done, not in the tumultuous and harassing din of cities, not in the gloomy and almost unapproachable vaults of charnel-houses;-but amidst the quiet verdure of the field, under the broad and cheerful light of heaven,-when the harmonious and ever changing face of nature reminds us, by its resuscitating influences, that to die is but to live again.

BUONAROTTI.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET,

Author of "THE CHARACTERS OF SCHILLER," etc. It was an evening of festivity in the palazzo Barberini of Rome, 1525. All that luxury in that most luxurious age could devise, or wealth and power command, was there to delight the guests; the nobles of the papal city, ambassadors from Venice, Mantua, Florence, and other states, together with many distinguished by their learning or their works -generals, jurists, poets, architects and painters. The vast saloon was adorned with noble frescoes, and hung with shields and banners, that gleamed in the rays of Gothic, lamps suspended by chains of gold: paintings, of the earlier schools of Italian art, decorated the walls; the cornices were wrought with emblematic devices; and the mirrors of Murans, that flashed back the light-the carpets from the looms of the East- the velvetcushioned seats, covered with armorial blazonry-the marble tables, bearing silver vases, crowned with flowers, and medals, gems, intaglios, etc., long afterwards the wonder and admiration of Europe-the buffets of dark marble of Porto Venere, with their gilded capitals and crystal decorations, and the store of massive plate they displayed, all VOL 1

proved the taste as well as the magnificence of the lordly entertainer.

"On my life, Flaminio," said a young man, who, while the newly-arrived guests were successively announced, had been gazing on a young lady, the centre of a group near him,

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on my life, I never saw any thing so lovely!"

And he might well say so; the face was exquisite, the contour of the head, just then elevated and inclined a little, was perfectly Grecian; yet it was not the lovely outline, or the transparence of her complexion, or the rose on her lips, that charmed, so much as the etherial atmosphere of modesty, grace and refinement that floated about her. She wore a close vest of silver stuff, and a robe of white, with long silken sleeves, broidered with gold. Her girdle was woven with pearls, and fell as low as the hem of her robe, where the ends were joined in a large rose formed of precious stones. A camicetta of the finest and thinnest cambric shaded a neck white as alabaster, and suffered part of her finelyrounded shoulders to be visible. A monile of rich pearls was the only ornament of her neck, save her bright ringlets, which were allowed to escape the partial confinement of a wreath of pearls..

"It is the lady Claudia de Barberini," replied Flaminio to his friend's remark. "She

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is beautiful beyond compare, and the star of fashion. And yonder is the happy man on whom destiny bestows her hand."

"The handsome cavalier who stands beside her?"

"You are just from Milan, or you would know better. That is Alberto di Cordona, the most gallant of our captains. He won distinction at the battle of Paria; his bravery promised to render his name as famous as that of his noble kinsman, Raymond. It were well if the future husband of the Lady Claudia had as strong an arm and as bold a heart. She has been affianced from infancy to the Conte d'Orsini."

"What-that man of low stature, with black moustaches, his dress so sedulously bedecked with jewels?"

"The same. He has just arrived from Florence, report says, to wed the lady. Observe with what an air of aristocratic negligence he leans against that column, playing with the diamond clasp of his mantle. His splendid self fills his whole soul; you know he is nearly related to the Medici."

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Is he not jealous of the favour his betrothed shows to others?" asked Bandello.

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Hush!" interrupted his companion, and he pointed to a distinguished-looking man who just then approached. "How do you, Caro Signor Ludovico? It is like the sunlight to behold your smiling face. Let me present to you my friend, Bandello; and you, comrade, I pledge mine honour, will gladly welcome to your acquaintance one who has so often delighted you-Signor Ariosto."

"Ariosto!" repeated Bandello, and with a depth of reverence that almost called a smile on the lively poet's face, he paid his salutation, and expressed the pleasure he felt in meeting with "the honour of Italy and of poesy." The individual he addressed was about the middle age, and the traces of past excesses made him appear even older, notwithstanding the vivacity that pleased so universally in his countenance. His figure was tall and noble, and inclining to the fulness of a free liver. His keen dark eyes were fixed, ever and anon, with an intensity of admiration that betokened the devoted worshipper of beauty, on some fair face or form. He replied with graceful ease to the compliments of Bandello, and immediately gave a new direction to the conversation, by remarking upon several visitors as they entered.

"That military figure, who wears his plume so gracefully, is the Ambassador of Mantua. Ha! the Count Guido Rangoni! he is a rare guest in these troubled times. Who is yon fair lady, to whom Vitello Vitelli is paying such chivalrous devotion? I warrant me she laughs within herself at his bearishness. Diana, full-orbed! could I not win more of those stately smiles? See, she gives her hand to Julian of Ferrara!"

"And there is the Venetian captain," said Flaminio. "He is high in favour with the Pope since May."

"It is said," carelessly observed the poet, "matters are brewing which will bring Clement to commit himself against the all-conquering Emperor."

"Had he done so a year since," said Bandello, "Italy might have been saved."

The discourse, which might have taken a political turn, was interrupted by an exclamation from Ariosto, "Lo! the queen of the feast!"

Two pages at the same instant announced the celebrated Marchesa di Pescara-Victoria Colonna. It was in honour of this lady, distinguished alike by her rank and genius, then on a visit to the heiress of Barberini, that the entertainment had been given. A radiant creature she was! Her bloom of girlhood had fled; but a brighter and loftier charmintellectual grace and dignity, the dignity of feminine virtue and loveliness, sat throned on her brow. Her dark, brilliant eyes and pure complexion, the noble contour of her features, and her symmetrical figure, vindicated her claims to a beauty that rivalled the vaunted charms of the stately Roman dames. A coronet of gems rested on her forehead; a rich veil was fastened in her braided hair, and relieving its darkness, floated in light folds over her shoulders. She wore a robe of rosecoloured satin, trimmed with lace, and confined at the waist by a girdle fastened with a spiral serpent, whose eyes were two large rubies.

The noble poetess was attended by the Duke di and Barberini. But she had a rival in the attention of the admiring guests; a man, apparently about forty years of age, though, in reality, ten years older. There was nothing peculiar in his dress or bearing; but the acute observer could trace in his bold and somewhat stern features, and the rapid changes of expression in his countenance, the energetic and daring intellect, the genius that no forms could direct or control. But not at the first glance could the eye measure the mental character of Michael Angelo Buonarotti. In repose his features had an aspect of austerity, if not of moroseness. But the quick kindling of the eye, the rapid play of expression, the bright smile, gave evidence to those with whom he deigned to converse, and they were but few, of the genial temper of his soul. He was welcomed with cordiality by the bland host; hundreds crowded to see and speak with him, for it was but seldom he appeared in society; and the place of honour was assigned him at the banquet. Between him and Ariosto, there subsisted the warmest friendship, notwithstanding the difference of their personal characters. The gaiety of the poet granted to his friend's asperity all it claimed; while the stern reserve of Michael