THE INTERN~TIONAL MAGAZINE Vol. II. NEW YORK, DECEMBER 1, 1850. No. I. OUR DIPLOMATIC SERVANTS. CHARLES B. HADDOCK, CHARGE ]9AFFAIRES FOR PORTUGAL. [0 itJ~ a Portrait, Engraved by J. Andrews.] OLD notions of diplomacy are obsolete. The plain, straightforward, and masterly manner in which Daniel Webster and Lord Ashburton managed the difficult affairs which a few years ago threatened war between this country and England have taught mankind a useful lesson on this subject. We perceive that the London Times has been engaged in a controversy whether there should be diplo- matists or no diplomatists, whether, in fact, the profession should survive; arguing from this case conducted by our illustrious Secre- tary and Lord Ashburton, that negotiation in foreign countries is plain sailing for great men, and that common agents would do the necessa- ry business on ordinary occasions. We are not prepared to accept the doctrine of the Times, though ready enough to admit that it is to be preferred to the employment of such persons as many whom we have sent abroad in the last twenty yearsmany who now in various capacities represent the United States in foreign countries. Upon this question how- ever we do not propose now to enter. - It is one which may be deferred still a long time until the means of intercommunication shall be greater than steam and electricity have yet made them, or until the evils of unwor- thy representation shall have driven people to the possible dangers of an abandonment of the system without such a reason. We design in this and future numbers of the International simply to give a few brief per- sonal sketches of the most honorably distin- uished of the diplomatic servants of the ~nited States now abroad, and we commence with the newly-appointed Gliarge dAffaires to Lisbon. CHARLES BRICKETT HADDOCK was born at Salisbury (now Franklin), New Hampshire, on the 20th of June, 1796. His father, Wil- liam Haddock, was a native of. Haverhill, Massachusetts. His paternal grandfather re- moved from Boston to Haverhill, and mar- ried a sister of Dr. Charles Brickett, an emi- nent physician of that town. The family, VOL. 11.NO. iI according to a tradition among them, are de- scended from Admiral Sir Richard Haddocke, one of ten sons and eleven daughters of Mr. Haddocke, of Lee, in England. Richard Had- docke was an eminent officer in the Royal Navy. He was knighted before 1678, and returned a member of Parliament the same year, and again in 1685. He died in 1713, and was buried in the family vault at Lee, where there is a gravestone, with brass plates on which are engraved portraits of his father, his fathers three wives, and thirteen sons and eleven daughters. The mother of Dr. Haddock was Abigail Webster, a favorite sister of Ezekiel and Dan- iel Webster, who, with Sarah, were the only children of the Hon. Ebenezer Webster by his second wife, Abigail Eastman, who sur- vived her husband and all her daughters. Mrs. Haddock was a woman of strong char- acter, and greatly beloved in society. She died in December, 1805, at the age of twen- ty-seven, leaving two sons, Charles and Wil- liam, one about nine and the other seven years of age. Her last words to her husband were, I leave you two beautiful boys: my wish is that you should educate them both. The inj unction was not forgotten; both were in due time placed at a preparatory school in Salisbury, both entered Dartmouth College, and without an academic censure or reproof graduated with distinction. The younger, having studied the profes- sion of the law, married a daughter of Mills Olcott, of Hanover, and after a few years, rich in promise of professional eminence, died of consumption at Hanover, in 1835. The elder, Charles B. Haddock, was born in the house in which his grandfather first lived, after he removed to the river, in Frank- lin; though his childhood was chiefly spent at Elms Farms, in the mansion built by his father, and now the favorite residence of his uncle, Daniel Webster,a spot hardly equaled for picturesque and tranquil beauty in that part of New England. How much of his rural tastes and gentle feelings the professor owes to the place of his nativity it is not for us to determine. It is certain that a fitter scene to inspire the sentiments for which he is distin- guished, and which he delights to refresh by 2 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. frequent visits to these scenes, could not well the general consent of his classmates, and by be imagined. Every hill and valley, every the appointment of the faculty, he held the rock and eddy, seem to be familiar to him, first place at each public exhibition through and to have a legend for his heart. His ear- the four years in which he wasa student, and at liest distinct recollections, he has often been the last commencement was complimented heard to say, are the burial of a sister younger with having the order of the p arts, according to than himself, his own baptism at the bedside which the Latin salutatory had hitherto been of his dying mother, and the death of his first, so *anged that he might still have pre- grandfather; and the first things that awaken- cedence and yet have the English valedictory. ed a romantic emotion were the flight of the During his junior year, his mind was first de- night-hawk and the note of the whippoorwill, cidedly turned toward religion, and with both uncommonly numerous and noticeable Wheeler, Torrey, Marsh, and some forty there in summer evenings, others, he made a public profession. The two From 1807 he was in the academy during years after he left college were spent at Ando- the summer months, and attended the com- ver, in the study of divinity. While here, mon school in winter, until 1811, when, in his with Torrey, Wheeler, Marsh, and one or two sixteenth year, he tau~ht his own first winter more, he joined in a critical reading of Virgil school. lt had been his fortune to have as in- an exercise of great value in enlarging a structors persons destined to unusual eminence: command of his own language, as well as his Mr. Richard Fletcher, now one of the justices knowledge of Latin. At the close .of the of the Superior Court of Massachusetts; Jus- second year he was attacked with hemorrhage tice Willard, of Springfield; the Rev. Edward of the lungs, and advised to try a southern L. Parker, of Londonderry; and Nathaniel H. climate for the winter. He sailed in October, Carter, the well-known poet and general writ- 1818, for Charleston, and spent the winter in er. It was under Mr. Carter that he first that city and in Savannah, with occasional felt a genuine love of learning; and he has visits into the surrounding country. The fol- always ascribed more of his literary tastes, to lowing summer he traveled, chiefly on horse- his insensible influence, as he read to him Vir- back, and in company with the Rev. Pliny gil and Cicero, than to any other living teacher. Fisk, from Charleston home. To this tour he ear iest Latin book was the iEneid, over ascribes his recovery. He soon after took his the first half of which he had, summer after masters degree, and was appointed the first summer, fatigued and vexed himself, before Professor of Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres in the idea occurred to him that it was an epic Dartmouth College. From that time a change poem; and that idea came to him at length was obvious in the literary spirit of the in- not from his teachers, but from a question of struction given at the institution. The de- his uncle, Daniel Webster, about the descent partment to which he was called became very of the hero into the infernal re~ions. When soon the most attractive in the college, and a proper impression of its design was once some of the most distinguished orators of our formed, and some familiarity with the lan- country are pleased to admit that they obtain- guage was acquired, Virgil was run through ed their first impressions of true eloquence and with great rapidity: half a book in aday.So a correct style from the youthful professor. also with Cicero: an oration at a lesson. He introduced readings in the Scriptures, and There was no verbal accuracy acquired or at- in Shakspeare, Milton, and Young, with on- tempted; but a ready mastery of the current ginal criticisms by his pupils on particular of discoursea familiarity with the point and features of the principal works of genius, as spirit of the work. In August, 1812, he was the hell of Virgil, Dante, and Milton; and the admitted a freshman in Dartmouth College. prominent characters of the best tragedies, as It was a small class, but remarkable from the Jew of Cumberland and of Shakspeare; having produced a large number of eminent and extemporaneous discussions of sesthetical men, among whom we may mention George A. and political questions. as upon the authen- Simmons, a distinguished lawyer in northern ticity of Ossian, the authorship of Homer, the New York, and one of the profoundest phi- sincerity of Cromwell, or the expediency of losophers in this country; Dr. Absalom Peters; the execution of Charles. ~He also exerted his President Wheeler, of the University of Ver- influence in founding an association for mont; Governor Hubbard, of Maine; and familiar written and oral discussions in litera- Professor Joseph Torrey, of the University ture, in which Dr. Edward Oliver, Dr. James of Vermont. since so honorably known as the Marsh, Professor Fiske, Mr. Rufus Choate, learned translator of Neander, and as being Professor Chamberlain, and others, acted a without a superior among American scholars prominent part. in a knowledge of the profounder German lit- He retained this chair until August, 1838, erature. The late illustrious and venerated when he was appointed to that of Intellectual Dr. James Marsh, the editor of Coleridge, and Philosopby and Political Economy, which he the only pupil of that great metaphysician who now holds, but, which, of course, will be oc- was the peer of his master, was of the class cupied by another during his absence in the below his, and was an intimate companion in putlic servicethe faculty having declined study. on any account to accept his resignation or From the beginning of his college life it to appoint a successor. was his ambition to distinguish himself. By Dr. Haddock has been invited to the profes. OUR DIPLOMATIC SERVANTS. 3 ~orship of rhetoric in Hamilton College, and to the presidency of that institution, the pres- idency and a professorship in the Auburn The- ological Seminary, the presidency of Bowdoin College, and, less formally, to that of several other colleges in New England. In public affairs, he has for four successive years been a representative in the New Hamp- shire Legislature, and in this period was active in introducing the present common school sys- tom of the State, and was the first commission- er of common schools, originating the course of action in that important office which has since been pursued. He was one of the fathers of the railroad system in New Hampshire, and his various speeches had the effect to change the policy of the State on this subject. lie ad- dressed the first convention called at Lebanon to consider the practicability of a road across the State, and afterward a similar convention at Montpelier. For two years he lectured every Sabbath evening to the students and to the people of the village, on the historical portions of the New Testament. For several years he held weekly meetings for the inter- pretation of Scripture, in which the ladies of the village met at his house. And for twenty years he has constantly preached to vacant parishes in the vicinity. He has delivered anniversary orations before the Phi Beta Kap- pa Societies of Dartmouth and Yale, the Rhe- torical Societies of Andover and Bangor, the Religious Society of the University of Vermont, the New Hampshire Historical Society, and the New England Society of New York; numerJus lyceum lectures,in Boston, Lowell, Salem,Ports- mouth, Manchester, New Bedford, and other places; and of the New Ham shire Education society he was twelve or teen years secre- tary, publishing annual reports. The principal periodicals to which he has contributed are the Biblical Repository and the Bibliotheca Sacra. A volume of his Addresses and Miscel- laneous Writings was published in 1846, and he has now a work on rhetoric in p reparation. He has been twice marriedthe last time to a sister of Mr. Kimball, the author of St. Leger, & c. He has three children living, and has buried seven. In agriculture, ga~dening, and public im- provements of all kj~ds, he has taken a lively interest. The ruratqrnaments of the town in which he lives ow& much to him. He may be said to have introduced the fruit and hor- ticulture which are now becoming so abun- dant as luxuries, and so remarkable as orna- ments of the village. In 1843 he received the degree of D. D. from Bowdoin College. Of Dartmouth College nearly half the graduates are his pupils. While ~ommissioner of common schools, he published a series of letters to teachers and students which were more generally republished in the various papers of the country than anything else of the kind ever before written. Perhaps no one in this country has discussed so great a variety of subjects. His essays upon the proper standard of education ~br the pulpit, addresses on the utility of certain proposed lines of railway, orations on the duties of the citizen to the state, lectures before various med- ical societies, speeches in the New Hampshire House of Representatives, letters written while commissioner of common schools, contribu- tions to periodicals, addresses before a great variety of literary associations, writings on agriculture and gardening, yearly reports on education, lectures on classical learning, rhet- oric ai~d belles-lettres, and sermons, deliver- ed weekly for more than twenty years, illus- trate a life of remarkable activity, and dedi- cated to the best interests of mankind. Un- moved by the calls of ambition, which might have tempted him to some one great and en- grossing effort, his aim has been the general good of the people. The following extract from the dedication, to his pupils, of his Addresses and Miscellaneous Writings, evinces something of his purpose: It is now five-and-twenty years since I adopted the resolution never to refuse to at- tempt anything consistent with my profes- sional duties, in the cause of learning, or re- ligion, which I might be invited to do. This resolution I have not at any time regretted, and perhaps 1 may say, I have not essentially violated it. However this may be, I have never suffered from want of something to do. Professor Haddocks style is remarkable for purity and correctness. His sentences are all finished sentences, never subject to an inju- rious verbal criticism, without a mistake of any kind, or a grammatical error. We have not written of Dr. Haddock as a politician; but he is a thoroughly informed statesman, profoundly versed in public law, and familiar with all the policy and aims of the American government. He is of course a Whig. He has been educated, politically, in the school of his illustrious uncle, and prob- ably no man living is more thoroughly ac- quainted with Mr. Websters views, or more capable of their application in affairs. It is therefore eminently suitable that he should be on the list of our representatives abroad, while the foreign department is under Mr. Websters administration. The Whig party in New lfampshire have not been insensible of Dr. Haddocks surpassing abilities, of his sagacity, or his merits. Could they have done so, they would have made him Governor, or a senator in Congress, on any of the occasions in many years in which such officers have been chosen. Considered without reference to party, we can think of no gentleman in the country who would be likely to represent the United States more worthily at foreign courts, or who by his capacities, suavity of manner, or honorable nature, would make a more pleasing and desirable impression upon the most highly cultivated society. Those who know him well will assent to the justness of a classification which places him in the same list of intellectual diplomat~ which embraces Bunsen, Guizot, and our own Everett, Irving, Bancroft and Marsh. 4 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. No. I.WIN~ED HUMAN-HEADED BULL. DR. LAYARDS RECENT GIFTS FROM NIMROUD. THE researches of no antiquary or traveler in modern times have excited so pro- found an interest as those of AUsTEN HENRY LAYARD, who has summoned the kings and people of Nineveh through three thousand years to give their testimony against the skeptics of our age in support of the divine revelation. In a former number of The In- ternational we p resented an original and very interesting letter from Dr. Layard him- self, upon the nature and bearing of his dis- coveries. Since then he has sent to London, where they have arrived in safety, several of the most important sculptures described in his work republished here last year by Mr. Putnam. Among them are the massive and imposing statues of a human-headed bull and a human-headed lion, of which we have en- gravings in some of the London journals. The Illustrated London News des~ribes these specimens of ancient art as follows: No. I. is the Human-Headed and Eagle- Winged Bull. This animal would seem to bear some analogy to the Egyptian sphynx, which represents ~the head of the King upon the body of the lion, and is held by some to be typical of the union of intellectual power with physical strength. The sphynx of the Egyptians, however, is invariably sitting, whereas the Nimroud figure is always repre- sented standing. The apparent resemblance being so great, it is at least worthy of considera- tion whether the head on the winged animals of the Ninevites may not be that of the King, and the intention identical with that of the sphynx; though we think it more probable that there is no such connection, and that the intention of the Ninevites~was to typify their god under the common emblems of intelli- gence, strength and swifthess, as signified by the additional attributes of the bird. The spe- cimen immediately before us is of gypsum, and of colossal dimensions, the slab being ten feet square by two feet in thickness. It was situ- ated at the entrance of a chamber, being built into the side of the door, so that one side and a front view only could be seen by the spectator. Accordingly, the Ninevite sculptor, in order to make both views perfect, has given the animal five legs. The four seen in the side view show the animal in the act of walking; while, to render the representation complete in the front view, he has repeated the right fore leg again, but in the act of standing motionless. The countenance ia noble and benevolent in expression; the fea ~zII~

4 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. No. I.WIN~ED HUMAN-HEADED BULL. DR. LAYARDS RECENT GIFTS FROM NIMROUD. THE researches of no antiquary or traveler in modern times have excited so pro- found an interest as those of AUsTEN HENRY LAYARD, who has summoned the kings and people of Nineveh through three thousand years to give their testimony against the skeptics of our age in support of the divine revelation. In a former number of The In- ternational we p resented an original and very interesting letter from Dr. Layard him- self, upon the nature and bearing of his dis- coveries. Since then he has sent to London, where they have arrived in safety, several of the most important sculptures described in his work republished here last year by Mr. Putnam. Among them are the massive and imposing statues of a human-headed bull and a human-headed lion, of which we have en- gravings in some of the London journals. The Illustrated London News des~ribes these specimens of ancient art as follows: No. I. is the Human-Headed and Eagle- Winged Bull. This animal would seem to bear some analogy to the Egyptian sphynx, which represents ~the head of the King upon the body of the lion, and is held by some to be typical of the union of intellectual power with physical strength. The sphynx of the Egyptians, however, is invariably sitting, whereas the Nimroud figure is always repre- sented standing. The apparent resemblance being so great, it is at least worthy of considera- tion whether the head on the winged animals of the Ninevites may not be that of the King, and the intention identical with that of the sphynx; though we think it more probable that there is no such connection, and that the intention of the Ninevites~was to typify their god under the common emblems of intelli- gence, strength and swifthess, as signified by the additional attributes of the bird. The spe- cimen immediately before us is of gypsum, and of colossal dimensions, the slab being ten feet square by two feet in thickness. It was situ- ated at the entrance of a chamber, being built into the side of the door, so that one side and a front view only could be seen by the spectator. Accordingly, the Ninevite sculptor, in order to make both views perfect, has given the animal five legs. The four seen in the side view show the animal in the act of walking; while, to render the representation complete in the front view, he has repeated the right fore leg again, but in the act of standing motionless. The countenance ia noble and benevolent in expression; the fea ~zII~ DR. LAYARDS RECENT GIFTS FROM NIMROUD. tures are of true Persian type; he wears an egg-shaped cap, with three horns and a cord round the base of it. The hair at the back of the head has seven ranges of curls; and the beard, as in the portraits of the King, is divided into three ranges of curls, with inter- vals of wavy hair. In the ears, which are those of a bull, are pendent ear-rings. The whole of the dewlap is covered with tiers of curls, and four rows are continued beneath the ribs along the whole flank; on the back are six rows of curls, and upon the haunch a square bunch, ranged successively, and down the back of the thigh four rows. The hair at the end of the tail is curled like the beard, with intervals of wavy hair. The hair at the knee ,joints is likewise curled, terminating in the profile views of the limbs in a single curl of the kind (if we may use the term) called croche crnr. The elaborately sculptured wings extend over the back of the animal to the very verge of the slab. All the flat sur- face of the slab is covered with cuneiform in- scription; there being twenty-two lines be- tween the fore legs, twenty-one lines in the middle, nineteen lines between the hind legs, and forty-seven lines between the tail and the edge of the slab. The whole of this slab is unbroken, with the exception of the fore-feet, which arrived in a former importation, but which are now restored to their proper place. No. 11. represents the Human-Headed and Winged Lionnine feet long, and the same in height; and in purpose and position the same as the preceding, which, however, it does not quite equal in execution. In this relievo we have the same head, with the egg- shaped three-horned head-dress, exactly like that of the bull; but the ear is human, and not that of a lion. The beard and hair of the head are even yet more elaborately curled than the last; but the hair on the legs and sides of the animal represents that shaggy appendage of the animal. Round the loins is a succession of numerous cords, which are drawn into four separate knots; at the ex- tremities are fringes, forming as many dis- tinct tassels. At the end of the tail, the claw on which we commented in a former arti- cleis distinctly visible. The strength of both animals is admirably and characteristic- ally conveyed. Upon the flat surface of this slab, as in the last., is a cuneiform inscrip- tion; twenty lines being between the fore- legs, twenty-six in the middle, eighteen be- tween the hind legs, and seventy-one at the back. On the subject of Eastern languages, an No. 1iWIN~ED HUMAN-HEADED LION. 8 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. understanding of which is necessary to the just apprehension of these inscriptions, that most acute antiquary, Major Rawlinson, re- marks: My own impression is that hundreds of the languages at one time current through Asin are now utterly lost; and it is not, there- fore, to be expected that philologists or etlinol- ogists will ever succeed in making out a gene- alogical table of language, and in affiliating all the various dialects. Coming to the Assy- nan and Babylonian languages, we were first made acquainted with them as translations of the Persian and Parthian documents in the trilingual inscriptions of Persia; but lately we have had an enormous amount of histor- ical matter brought to light in tablets of stoiie written in these languages alone. The languages in question I certainly consider to be Semitic. I doubt whether we could trace at present in any of the buildings or inscrip- tions of Assyria and Babylonia the original primitive civilization of manthat civilization which took place in the very earliest ages. I am of opinion that civilization first showed itself in Egypt after the immigration of the early tribes from Asia. I think that the hu- man intellect first germinated on the Nile, and that then there was, in a later age, a refiux of civilization from the Nile back to Asia. I am quite satisfied that the system of writing in use on the Tigris and Euphrates was taken froni the Nile; but I admit that it was car- ried to a much higher state of perfection in Assyria than it had ever reached in Egypt. The earliest Assyrian inscriptions were those lately discovered by Mr. Layard in the north-west PALACE at NIMROUD, being much earlier than anything found at Babylon. Now, the great question is the date of these inscriptions. Mr. Layard himself, when he published his book on Nineveh, believed them to be 2500 years before the Christian era; but others, and Dr. Hincks among the num- ber, brought them down to a much later date, supposing the historical tablets to refer to the Assyrian kings mentioned in Scripture (Shalmaneser, Sennacherib, & c.). I do not agree with either one of these calculations or the other. I am inclined to place the earliest inscriptions from Nimroud between 1350 and 1200 before the Christian era; because, in the first place, they had a limit to antiquity; for in the earliest inscriptions there was a notice of the seaports of Phoenicia, of Tyre and Sidon, of Byblus, Arcidus, & c.; and it was well known that these cities were not founded more than 1500 years before the Christian era. We have every prospect of a most important ac- cession to our materials, for every letter I get from the countries now being explored an- nounces fresh discoveries of the utmost im- portance. In Lower Chaldea, Mr. Loftus, the geologist to the commission appointed to fix the boundaries between Turkey and Persia, has visited many cities which no European had ever reached before, and has everywhere found the most extraordinary remains. At one place (Senkereh) he had come on a pave- ment, extending from half an acre to an acre, entirely covered with writing, which was en- graved upon baked tiles, & c. At Wurka (or Ur of the Chaldees), whence Abraham came out, he had found innumerable inscriptions; they were of no great extent, but they were exceedingly interesting, giving many royal names previously unknown. Wurka (Ur or 9rchoe) seemed to be a holy city, for the whole country, for miles upon miles, was nothing but a huge necropolis. In none of the excavations of Assyria had coffins ever been found, but in this city of Chaldea there were thousands upon thousands. The story of Abrahams birth at Wurka did not ori- ginate with the Arabs, as had sometimes been conjectured, but with the Jews; and the Orientals had numberless fables about Abra- ham and Nimroud. Mr. Layard in excavat- ing beneath the great pyramid at Nimroud, had penetrated a mass of masonry, within which he Itad discovered the tomb end statue oJ SARDANAPALUS, accompanied by full annals of the monarchs reign engraved on the walls! He had also found tablets of all sorts, all of them being historical; but the crowning dis- covery he had yet to describe. The palace at Nineveh, or Koynupih, had evidently been destroyed by fire, but one portion Gf The build- ing seemed to have escaped its influence: and Mr. Layard, in excavating in this part of the palace, had found a large room filled with what appeared to be the archives of the em- pire, ranged in successive tablets of terra cotta, the writings being as perfect as when the tablets were first stamped. They were piled in huge heaps from the floor to the ceiling. From the progress already made in reading the inscriptions, I believe we shall be able pretty well to understand the contents of these tablets; at all events, we shall ascertain their general purport, and thus gain much valuable information. A passage might be remembered in the book of Ezra where the Jews, having been disturbed in building the Temple, prayed that search might be made in the house of records for the edict of Cyrus permitting them to return to Jerusalem. The chamber recently found there might be presumed to be the house of records of the Assyrian kings, where copies of the royal edictswere duly deposited. When these tablets have bech examined and deci- phered, I believe that we shall have a better acquaintance with the history, the religion, the philosophy and the jurisprudence of As- syria. 1500 years before the Christian era, than we have of Greece or Re me during any period of their respective histories. Besides the gigantic figures of whi~ch we have copied engravings in the preceding p ages, Dr. Layard has sent to the British Museum a large number of other sculptures, some of which are still more interesting for the light they reflect upon ancient Assyrian history. For these, as for the Grecian mar- bles and Egyptian antiquities, a special gal- lery is being fitted up. JONATHAN SWIFT AND HIS AMOURS. JONATHAN SWIFT. DEAN SWIFTS CHARACTER AND HIS the curious novel of Stella and Vanessa, AMOURS. in which a Frenchman has this year essayed THE name of Swift is one of the most fa- his defense against the common judgment in miliar in English history. Of the twen- the matter of his amours, and we copy in the ty octavo volumes in which his works are following pages an article from the London printed, only a part of one volume is read; Times, which was suggested by this perform- but this part o a volume is read by every- anee. body, and admired by everybody, though M. De Waillys Stella and Vanessa is un- singularly enough not one in a thousand ever questionably a very ingenious and brilliant thinks of its real import, or appreciates it fictionin every sense only a fictionfor its for what are and what were meant to be its hypotheses are all entirely erroneous. Even highest excellences. As the author of Gul-M r. Roscoe, whose Memoir has been called liver~s Travels, Swift is a subject of general an elaborate apology, and who, as might interest; and this interest is deepened, but have been expected from a man of so amia- scarcely diffused, by the chain of enigmas ble and charitable a character, labors to put which has puzzled so many of his biogra- the best construction u.pon all Swifts ac phers. tions, even he shrinks from the vindication The most popular life of Dean Swift is of the Deans conduct toward Miss Van- Mr. Roscoes, but since that was written sev- homrigh and Mrs. Johnson. In treating of the eral works have appeared, either upon his charges which are brought agaiast Swift whole history or in elucidation of particular while he v. as alive, or that have since been portions of it: one of which was a careful in- urged agLinst his reputation, the elegant vestigation and discussion of his madness, historian calls to his aid every palliating cir- published about two years ago. In the last cumstance; and where no a iating circum- ui.unber of The Interrwiional we mentioned stances are to be found, seeks to enlist our

JONATHAN SWIFT AND HIS AMOURS. JONATHAN SWIFT. DEAN SWIFTS CHARACTER AND HIS the curious novel of Stella and Vanessa, AMOURS. in which a Frenchman has this year essayed THE name of Swift is one of the most fa- his defense against the common judgment in miliar in English history. Of the twen- the matter of his amours, and we copy in the ty octavo volumes in which his works are following pages an article from the London printed, only a part of one volume is read; Times, which was suggested by this perform- but this part o a volume is read by every- anee. body, and admired by everybody, though M. De Waillys Stella and Vanessa is un- singularly enough not one in a thousand ever questionably a very ingenious and brilliant thinks of its real import, or appreciates it fictionin every sense only a fictionfor its for what are and what were meant to be its hypotheses are all entirely erroneous. Even highest excellences. As the author of Gul-M r. Roscoe, whose Memoir has been called liver~s Travels, Swift is a subject of general an elaborate apology, and who, as might interest; and this interest is deepened, but have been expected from a man of so amia- scarcely diffused, by the chain of enigmas ble and charitable a character, labors to put which has puzzled so many of his biogra- the best construction u.pon all Swifts ac phers. tions, even he shrinks from the vindication The most popular life of Dean Swift is of the Deans conduct toward Miss Van- Mr. Roscoes, but since that was written sev- homrigh and Mrs. Johnson. In treating of the eral works have appeared, either upon his charges which are brought agaiast Swift whole history or in elucidation of particular while he v. as alive, or that have since been portions of it: one of which was a careful in- urged agLinst his reputation, the elegant vestigation and discussion of his madness, historian calls to his aid every palliating cir- published about two years ago. In the last cumstance; and where no a iating circum- ui.unber of The Interrwiional we mentioned stances are to be found, seeks to enlist our S THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. benevolent feelings in behalf of a man deep- he thought most likely to make him a bishop, ly unfortunate, persecuted by his enemies, and deserted it when he discovered that neglected by his friends, and haunted all his it was losing ground. He studied govern- life by the presentiment of a fearful calam- ment not as a statesman but as a partisan, ity, by which at length in his extreme old as a hardy, active, and unscrupulous Swiss, age he was assaulted and overwhelmed. On who could and would do much dirty work some points Mr. iioscoe must be said to have for a minister, if he saw reason to antici- ~ucceeded in this advocacy, so honorable pate a liberal compensation. He however al- alike to him and to its subject; but the more ways extravagantly exaggerated his own serious charges against Swift remain un- powers, and so have his biographers, and so touched, and probably will forever remain so, has the writer of the following article from by whatever ability, or eloquence, or generous The Times, who seems to have accepted partiality, combated. To speak plainly, with too little scrutin the estimate he made y swift was an irredeemably bad man, de- of himself. The complacency with which he voured by vanity and selfishness, and so com- frequently refers to his supposed influence pletely dead to every elevated and manly over the ministers is simply ludicrous. He feeling, that he was always ready to sacrifice entirely loses sight of both his own position those most devotedly attached to him for the and theirs. Shrewd as he shows himself gratification of his unworthy passion for pow- under other circumstances, he is here as ver er and notoriety. dant as the greenest peasant from the forest. Swifts life, though dark and turbulent, I use the ministers like dogs, he says in a was nevertheless romantic. He concealed letter to Stella, but in reality the ministers the repulsive odiousness of an unfeeling made a dog of him, employing him to fetch heart under manners peculiarly fascinating, and carry, and bark, and growl, and show which conciliated not only the admiration his sharp teeth to their enemies~ and when and attachment of more than one woman, the noise he had made had served their pur- but likewise the friendship of several emi- posewhen he had frightened away many nent men, who were too much dazzled by the of their assailants, and by the dirt and stench splendor of his conversation to detect the he had raised had compelled even their base qualities which existed in the back- friends to stand aloof, they cashiered him, ground. But these circumstances only en- a~ they would a mastiff grown toothless and hance the interest of his life. At every page incapable of barking. With no more dirty there is some discussion which strongly in- work for him to do, they sent him over t& terests our feelings: some difficulty to be re- Dublin, to be rid of his presence. moved, some mystery to keep alive curiosity. When fairly settled down in a country We neither know, strictly speaking, who which he had always hitherto affected at least Swift was, what were the influences which to detest, he began to feel perhaps some gen- raised him to the position he occupied, by uine attachment for its people, and on many what intricate ties he was connected with occasions he exerted himself vigorously for Stella, or what was the nature of that sin- their advantage; though it is possible that gular grief, which, in addition to the sources the real impulse was a desire to vex and em- of sorrow to which we have alluded, preyed barrass the administration, which had so galled on him continually, and at last contributed his self-conceit. Whatever the motive, how- largely to the overthrow of his reason. On ever, he undoubtedly worked industriously and this account it is not possible to proceed with great effect, for the benefit of Ireland. with indifference through the circumstances His style was calculated to be popular: it was of his life, though veryfew careful examiners simple, transparent, and though co~pious, will be able to interpret them in a lenient pointed and energetic. His pamphlets, in the and charitable spirit, midst of their reasoning, sarcasm, and solemn Mr. Roscoe appears to believe that every- banter, displayed an extent, a variety and bedy who regards unfavorably Swifts genius profundity of knowledge altogether unequaled and morals, must be actuated by envy or in the case of any other writer of that time. party spirit, but very few of the later or ear- But the action of his extraordinary powers her critics are of his opinion. In the first was never guided by a spark of honorable place, most honorable men would rather re- principle. The giant was as unscrupulous as main unknown through eternity than accept the puniest and basest demagogue who the Deans reputation. As Savage Landor coined and scattered lies for our own last dcc- says, he was irreverential to the great and tion. He would sOem to be the model whom to God: an ill-tempered, sour, supercilious half a dozen of our city editors were striving man, who flattered some of the worst and with weaker wing to imitate. He never ac- maligned some of the best men that ever knowledged any merit in his antagonists, he lived. Whatever services he performed for scattered his hibels right and left without the party from which he apostatized, there is mercy, threw out of sight all the charities and. nothing in his more permanent writings even decencies of private life, and affirmed the which can be of the slightest advantage to most monstrous propositions with so cool, calm English toryism. Indeed, in politics and in and solemn an air, that in nine cases out of morals, he appears never to have had any ten they were sure to be believed. fixed principles. He served the party which Without further observation we proceed JONATHAN SWIFT AND HIS AMOURS. 9 with the interesting article of The Times, veal the brilliancy of sharpened wit, yet it occasioned by M. Leon de Waillys curious is recorded of the man that he was never and very clever romance of Stella and Va- known to laugh. His friendships were strong nessa. and his antipathies vehement and unrelent ing, yet he illustrated friendship by roundly abusing his familiars and expressed hatred by bantering his foes. He w~s economical and saving ~o a fault, yet he made sacrifices to the indigent and poor sternly denied to himself He could begrud~e the food and wine consumed by a guest, yet throughout his life refuse to derive the smallest pecun- iary advantage from his published works, and at his death bequeath the whole of his for- tune to a charitable institution. From his youth Swift was a sufferer in body, yet his frame was vigorous, capable of great endur- ance, and maintained its power and vitality from the time of Charles II. until far on in the reign of the second George. No man hated Ireland more than Swift, yet he was Irelands first and greatest patriot, bravely VAII~SSA. ~1~SS VANHO~~~IGH.) standing up for the rights of that kingdom [From the London Times.] when his chivalry might have cost him his THE AMOURS OF DEAN SWIFT. head. He was eager for reward, yet he re- GREATER men than Dean Swift may have fused payment with disdain. Impatient of ~ved. A more remarkable man never left advancement, he preferred to the highest his impress upon the age immortalized by honors the State could confer the obscurity his genius. To say that English history sup- and ignominy of the political associates with plies no narrative more singular and original whom he had affectionately labored until they than the career of Jonathan Swift is to as- fell disgraced. None knew better than he the bert little. We doubt whether the histories stinging force of a successful lampoon, yet of the world can furnish, for example and in- such missiles were hurled by hundreds at his struction, for wonder and pity, for admiration head without in any way disturbing his bod- and scorn, for approval and condemnation, a ily tranquillity. Sincerely religious, scrupil- specimen of humanity at once so illustrious lously attentive to the duties of his holy of- and so small. Before the eyes of his con- fice, vigorously defending the position and temporaries Swift stood a living enigma. To privileges of his order, he positively played posterity he must continue forever a distress- into the hands of infidelity by the steps he rag puzzle. One hypothesis and one alone took, both in his conduct and writings, to ex- gathered from a close and candid perusal pose the cant and hypocrisy which he de- of all that has been transmitted to us upon tested as heartily as he admired and practiced this interesting subject, helps us to account unaffected piety. To say that Swift lacked for a whole life of anomaly, but not to clear tenderness would be to forget many passages up the mystery in which it is shrouded. From of his unaccountable history that overflow the beginning to the end of his days Jonathan with gentleness of spirit and mild humanity; Swift was more or less MAD. but to deny that he exhibited inexcusable Intellectually and morally, physically and brutality where the softness of his nature religiously, Dean Swift was a mass of contra- ought to have been chiefly evokedwhere dictions. His career yields ample materials the want of tenderness, indeed, left him a both for the biographer who would pronounce naked and irreclaimable savage-is equally apanegyric over his tomb and for the censor impossible. If we decline to pursue the con- whose business it is to improve one genera- tradictory series further, it is in pity to the tion at the expense of another. Look at reader, not for want of materials at corn- Swift with the light of intelligence shining on mand. There is, in truth, no end to such his brow, and you note qualities that might materials. become an angel. Survey him under the Swift was born in the year 1667. His dark cloud, and every feature is distorted father, who was steward to the Society of the into that of a fiend. If we tell the reader Kings Inn, Dublin, died before his birth and what he was. in the same breath we shall left his widow penniless. The child, named communicate all that he was not. His vir- Jonathan after his father, was brought up on tues were exaggerated into vices, and his vices charity. The obligation due to an uncle was were not without the savour of virtue. The one that Swift would never forget, or remem- originality of his writings is of a piece with her without inexcusable indignation. Be- the singularity of his character. He copied cause he had not been left to starve by his no man who preceded him. He has not been relatives, or because his uncle would not do successfully imitated by any who have fol- Inore than he could, Swift conceiVed an eter- lowed him. The compositions of Swift re- nal dislike to all who bore his name and a jo THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. haughty contempt for all who partook of his ages of Laracor and Rathbeggan. In the nature. He struggled into active life and pre- year 1700 he took possession of the living at sented himself to his follow-men in the tem- Laracor, and his mode of entering upon his per of a foe. At the age of fourteen he was duty was thoroughly characteristic of the admitted into Trinity College, Dublin, and man. He walked down to Laracor, entered four years afterward as a special gracefor the curates house, and announced himself his acquisitions apparently failed to earn the as his master. In his us3Ial style he af- distiuctionthe degree of Bachelor of Arts fected brutality, and having sufficiently was conferred uuoa him. In 1688, the year alarmed his victims, gradually soothod and in which the war broke out in Ireland, Swift, consoled them by evidences of undoubted in his twenty-first year, and without a sixpence friendliness and good will. This, says Sir in his pocket, left colle~e. Fortunately for Walter Scott, was the ruling trait of Swifts him, the wife of Sir Wi ham Temple was re- character to others; his praise assumed the lated to his mother, and upon her application appearance and language of complaint; his to that statesman the friendless youth was benefits were often prefaced by a prologue of provided with a home. He took up his abode a threatening nature. The ruling trait with Sir William in England, and for the space of Swifts character was morbid eccentricity. of two years labored hard at his own im- Much less eccentricity has saved many a provement and for the amusement of his pa- murderer in our days from the gallows. We tron. How far Swift succeeded in winning approach a period of Swifts history when we the good opinion of Sir William may be learnt must accept this conclusion or revolt from the from the act that when King William hon- cold-blooded doings of a monster. ored Moor Park with his presence he was per- During Swifts second residence with Sir mitted to take p art in the interviews, and William Temple he had become acquainted that when Sir William was unable to visit with an inmate of Moor Park very different the King his prot~g~ was commissioned to to the accomplished man to whose intel- wait upon His Majesty, and to speak on the lectual pleasures he so largely ministered. patrons authority and behalf. The lads fu- A young and lovely girlhalf ward, half ture promised better things than his begin- dependent in the establishment engaged fling. He resolved to go into the church, the attention and commanded the untiring since preferment stared him in the face. In services of the newly-made minister. Es- 1692 he proceeded to Oxford, where lie ob- ther Johnson had need of education, and tamed his Masters degree, and in 1694, quar- Swift became her tutor. He entered upon reling with Sir William Temple, who coldly his task with avidity, condescended to the o~ered him a situation worth 100 a year, he humblest instruction, and inspired his puj~il quitted his patron in disgust and went at with unbounded gratitude and regard. Swift once to Ireland to take holy orders. He was was not more insensible to the simplicity ordained, and almost immediately afterward and beauty of the lady than she to the kind received the living of Kilroot in the diocese offices of her master; but Swift would not of Connor, the value of the living being about have been Swift had he, like other men, re- equal to that of the appointment offered by turned everyday love with ordinary affec Sir William Temple. tion. Swift had felt tender impressions in Swift, miserable in his exile, sighed for the his own fashion before. Once in Leicester- advantages he had abandoned. Sir William shire he was accused by a friend of having Temple, lonely i~thout his clever and keen- formed an imprudent attachment, on which witted companion, pined for his return. The occasion he returned for answer, that his prebend of Kilroot was speedily resigned in cold temper and unconfined humor would favor of a poor curate for whom Swift had prevent all serious consequences, even if it taken great pains to procure the presentation; were not true that the conduct which his and with 80 in his purse the independent friend had mistaken for gallantry had been clergyman proceeded once more to Moor merely the evidence of an active and rest- Park. Sir William welcomed him with open less temper, incapable of enduring idleness, arms. They resided together until 1699, and catching at such opportunities of amuse- when the great statesman died, leaving to ment as most readily occurred. Upon an- Swift, in testimony of his regard, the sum of other occasion, and within four years of the 100 and his literary remains. The remains Leicestershire pastime, Swift made an abso- were duly published and humbly dedicated to lute offer of his hand to one Miss Waryng, the King. They might have been inscribed vowing in his declaratory epistle that he to His Majestys cook for any advantage that would forego every prospect of interest for accrued to the editor. Swift was a Whig, the sake of his Varina, and that the but his politics suffered severely by the neg- ladys love was far more fatal than her cru- lect of His Majesty, who derived no partica- elty. After much and long consideration Va. lar advantage from Sir William Temples rina consented to the suit. That was enough remains. I for Swift. He met the capitulation by Weary with long and vain attendance upon charging his Varina with want of affection, Court, Swift finally accepted at the hands o~f by stipulating for unheard-of sacrifices, and Lord Berkeley, one of the Lords Justices of concluding with an expression of his willing. Ireland, the rectory of Agher and the vicar- I ness to wed, though she had neither fortune JONATHAN SWIFT AND HiS AMOURS~ 11 nor beauty, provided every article of his let- ter was ungrudgingly agreed to. We may well tremble for Esther Johnson, with her young heart given into such wild keeping. As soon as Swift was established at Lara- cor it was arranged that Esther, who pos- STELLA. (ESTHER JOHNSON.) sessed a small property in Ireland, should take up her abode near to her old preceptor. She came, and scandal was silenced by a stipulation insisted upon by Swift, that his lovely charge should have a matron for a constant companion, and never see him ex- cept in the presence of a third party. Es- ther was in her seventeenth year. The vi- car of Laracor was on his road to forty. What wonder that even in Laracor the for- mer should receive an offer of marriage, and that the latter, wayward and inconsistent from first to last, should deny another the happiness he had resolved never to enjoy himself? Esther found a lover whom Swift repulsed, to the infinite joy of the devoted girl, whose fate was already linked for good or evil to that of her teacher and friend. Obscurity and idleness were not for Swift. Love, that gradually consumed the unoccu- ied girl, was not even this mans recreation. I~mpatient of banishment, he went to Lon- don and mixed with the wits of the age. Addison, Steele, and Arbuthnot became his friends, and he quickly proved himself wor- fhy of their intimacy by the publication in 1704 of his Tale of a Tub. The success of the work, given to the world anonymously, was decisive. Its singular merit obtained for its author everlasting renown, and effec- tually prevented his rising to the l4ghest dignity in the very church which his bo6k la bored to exalt. None but an inspired mad- man would have attempted to do honor to religion in a spirit which none but the infi- del could heartily approve. Politicians are not squeamish. The Whigs could see no fault in raillery and wit that might serve temporal interests with greater advantage than they had advanced interests ecclesiastical; and the friends of the Revo- lution welcomed so rare an adherent to their principles. With an affected ardor that sub- sequent events proved to be as premature as it was hollow, Swifts pen was put in harness for his allies, and worked vigorously enou~h until 1709, when, having assisted Steele in the establishment of the Tatler, the vicar of Laracor returned to Ireland and to the duties of a rural pastor. Not to remain, however! A change suddenly came over the spirit of the nation. Sacheverell was about to pull down by a single sermon all the popularity that Marlborough and his friends had built up by their glorious campaigns. Swift had waited in vain for promotion from the Whigs, and his suspicions were roused when the Lord-Lieutenant unexpectedly be- gan to caress him. Escaping the damage which the marked attentions of the old Government might do him with the new, Swift started for England in 1710, in order to survey the turning of the political wheel with his own eyes, and to try his fortune in the game. The progress of events was rapid. Swift reached London on the 9th of Septem- ber; on the 1st of October he had already written a lampoon upon an ancient associate; and on the 4th he was presented to Harley, the new Minister. The career of Swift from this moment, and so long as the government of Harley lasted, was magnificent and mighty. Had he not been crotchety from his very boyhood, his head would have been turned now. Swift reigned; Swift was the Government; Swift was Queen, Lords, and Commons. There was tremendous work to do, and Swift did it all. The Tories had thrown out the Whigs and had brought in a Government in their place quite as Whi~gish to do Tory work. To moderate the wishes of the peo- ple, if not to blind their eyes, was the pre- liminary and essential work of the Minis- try. I hey could not perform it themselves. Swift undertook the task and accomplished it. He had intellect and courage enough for that, and more. Moreover, he had vehement passions to gratify, and they might all par- take of the glory of his success; he was proud, and his pride reveled in authority; he was ambitious, and his ambition could at- tain no higher pitch than it found at the right hand of the Prime Minister~ he was revengeful, and revenge could wish no sweeter gratification than the contortions of the great who had neglected genius and de- sert, when they looked to them for advance- ment and obtained nothing but cold neglect. Swift, single-handed, fought the Whigs. For 12 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. seven months he conducted a periodical pa- per, in which he mercilessly assailed, as none but himself could attacl, all who were odious to the Government and distasteful to himself. Not an individual was spared whose sufferings could add to the tranquil- lity and permanence of the Government. Resistance was in vain; it was attempted, but invariably with one effectthe first wound grazed, the second killed. The public were in ecstasies. The laugh- ers were all on the side of the satirist, and how vast a portion of the community these are, needs not be said. But it was not in the Examiner alone that Swift offered up his vic- tims at the shrine of universal mirth. He could write verses for the rough heart of a nation to chuckle over and delight in. Per- sonalities to-day fly wide of the mark; then they went right home. The habits, the foi- bles, the moral and physical imperfections of humanity were all fair game, provided the shaft were tipped with gall as well as venom. Short poems, longer pamphletswhatever could help the Government and cover their foes with ridicule and scorn, Swift poured upon the town with an industry and skill that set eulogy at defiance. And because they did defy praise, Jonathan Swift never asked, and was ever too grand to accept it. But he claimed much more. His disor- dered yet exquisite intellect acknowledged no superiority. He asked no thanks for his labor, he disdained pecuniary reward for his match- less and incalculable serviceshe did not care for fame, but he imperiously demanded to be treated by the greatest as an equal. Mr. Harley offered him money, and he quar- reled with the Minister forhis boldness. If we let these great Ministers, he said, pre- tend too much, there will be no governing them. The same Minister desired to make Swift his chaplain. One mistake was as great as the other. My Lord Oxford, by a second hand, proposed my being his chaplain, which I, by a second hand, refused. 1 will be no mans chaplain alive. The assump- tion of the man was more than regal. At a later period of his life he drew up a list of his friends, ranking them respectively under the heads Ungrateful, Grateful, Indiffer- ent, and Doubtful. Pope appears among the grateful. Queen Caroline among the un- grateful. The audacity of these distinctions is very edifying. What autocrat is here for whose mere countenance the whole world is to bow down and be grateful! It is due to Swifts imperiousness, however, to state that, once acknowledged as an equal, he was prepared to make every sacrifice that could be looked for in a friend. Concede his position, and for fortune or disgrace he was equally prepared. Harley and Bolingbroke, quick to discern the weakness, called their in- vulnerable ally by his Christian name, but stopped short of conferring upon him any benefit whatever. The neglect made no dif- ference to the haughty scribe, who contented himself with pulling down the barriers that had been impertinently set up to separate him from rank and worldly greatness. But, if Swift shrank from the treatment of a client. he performed no part so willingly as that of a patron. He took literature under his wing and compelled the Government to do it hom- age. He quarreled with Steele when he de- serted the Whigs, and pursued his former friend with unflinching sarcasm and banter, but at his request Steele was maintained by the Government in an office of which he was about to be deprived. Congreve was a Whig, but Swift insisted that he should find honor at the hands of the Tories, and Harley hon- ored him accordingly. Swift introduced Gay to Lord Bolingbroke, and secured that noble- mans weighty patronage for the poet. Rowe was recommended for office, Pope for aid. The well-to-do, by Swifts personal interest, found respect, the indigent, money for the mitigation of their pains. At Court, at Swifts instigation, the Lord Treasurer made the first advances to men of letters, and by the act made tacit confession of the power which Swift so liberally exercised, for the ad- vantage of everybody but himself. But what worldly distinction, in. truth, could add to the importance of a personage who made it a point for a Duke to pay him the first visit, and who, on one occasion, publicly sent the Prime Minister into the House of Commons to call out the First Secretary of State, whom Swift wished to inform that he would not dine with him if he meant to dine late 3 A lampoon directed against the Queens fa- vorite, upon whose red hair Swift had been facetious, prevented the satirists advance- ment in England. The see of Hereford fell vacant in 1712. Bolingbroke would now have~paid the debt due from his Govern- ment to Swift, but the Duchess of Somerset, upon her knees, implored the Queen to with- hold her consent from the appointment, and Swift was pronounced by Her Majesty as too violent in party for promotion. The most important man in the kingdom found himself in a moment the most feeble. The fountain of so much honor could not retain a drop of the precious waters for itself. Swift, it is said, laid the foundations of fortune for upward of forty families who rose to distinction by a word from his lips. What a satire upon power was the satirists own fate! He could not advance himself in England one inch. Promotion iii Ireland began and ended with his appointment to the Deanery of St. Patrick, of which he took possession, much to his disgust and vex- ation, in the summer of 1713. The summer, however, was not over before Swift was in England again. The wheels of government had come to a dead lock, and of course none but he could right them. The Ministry was at sixes and sevens. Its very existence depended upon the good understand- ing of the chiefs, Bohngbroke and Harley, and the wily ambition of the latter, jarring against the vehement desires of the former, a pro- JONATHAN SWIFT AND HIS AMOURS. 13 duced jealousy, suspicion, and now threatened immediate disorganization. A thousand voi- ces called the Dean to the scene of action, and he came full of the importance of his mission. He plunged at once into the vexed sea of po- litical controversy, and whilst straining every effort to court his friends, let no opportunity slip of galling their foes. His pen was as dam- aging and industrious as ever. It set the town in a fever. It caused Richard Steele to be expelled the I-louse of Commons, and it sent the whole body of Scotch peers, headed by the Duke of Argyle, to the Queen, with the prayer that a proclamation might be issued for the discovery of their libeller. Swift was more successful ia his assaults than in its media- tion. The Ministers were irreconcilable. Vex- ed at heart with disappointment, the Dean, after his manner, suddenly quitted London, and shut himself up in Berkshire. One at- tempt he made in his strict seclusion to uphold the Government and save the country, and the composition is a curiosity in its way. He pub- lished a proposition. for the exclusion of aliDis- senters from power of every kind, for disqual- ifying Whigs and Low Churchmen for every possible office, and for compelling the presump- tive heir to the throne to declare his abomina- tion of Whigs, and his perfect satisfaction with Her Majestys present advisers. Matters must have been near a crisis when this modest pam- phlet was put forth; and so they were. By his intrigues Bolingbroke had triumphed over his colleagues, and Oxford was disgraced. The latter, about to retire into obscurity, ad- dressed a letter to Swift, entreating him, if he were not tired of his former prosperous friend, to throw away so much time on one who loved him as to attend him upon his melancholy journey. The same post brought him word that his own victory was won. Bolingbroke triumphant besought his Jonathan, as he loved his Queen, to stand by her Minister, and to aid him in his perilous adventure. Nothing should be wanting to do justice to his loyalty. The Duchess of Somerset would be reconciled, the Queen would be gracious, the path of honor should lie broad, open, and unimpeded before him. Bolingbroke and Harley were equally the friends of Swift. What could he do in his extremity I What would a million men, taken at random from the multitude, have done, had they been so situated, so tempt- ed I Not that upon which Swift in his chiv- alrous magnanimity, at once decided. He abandoned the prosperous to follow and con- sole the unfortunate. I meddle not with Lord Oxfords faults, is his noble language, as he was a Minister of State, but his per- sonal kindness to me was excessive. He dis- tinguished and chose me above all men when he was great. Within a few days of Swifts self-denying decision Queen Anne was a corpse, Bolingbroke and Oxford both flying for their lives, and Swift himself hiding his unprotected head in Ireland amidst a people who at once feared and hated him. During SwifCs visit to London in 1710 he VOL. 11.NO. i.2 had regularly transmitted to Stella, by which name Esther Johnson is made known to pos- terity, an account of his daily doings with the new Government. The journal exhibits the view of the writer that his conduct invariably p resents. It is full of tenderness and confi- dence, and not without coarseness that startles and shocks. It contains a detailed and minute account, not only of all that passed between Swift and the Government, but of his change- ful feelings as they arose from d2 yto day, and of his physical infirmities, that a:e commonly whispered into the ear of the physician. If Swift loved Stella in the ordinary acceptation of the term, he took small pains in his diary to elevate the sentiments with which she re- garded her hero. The journal is not in har- mony throughout. Toward the close it lacks the tenderness and warmth, the minuteness and confidential utterance, that are so visible at the beginning. We are enabled to account for the difference. Swift had enlarged the cir- cle of his female acquaintance whilst fighting for his friends in London. He hadbecome a con- stant visitor, especially, at the, house of a Mrs. Vanhomrigh, who had two daughters, the eld- est of whom was about twenty years of age, and had the same Christian name as Stella. Esther Vanhomrigh had great taste for reading, and Swift, who seems to have delighted in such occupation, condescended, for the second time in his life, to become a young ladys instructor. The great mans tuition had always one effect upon his pupils. Before Miss Vanhomrigh had made much progress in her studies she was over head and ears in love, and, to the astonishment of her master, she one day de- clared the passionate and undying character of her attachment. Swift met the confession with a weapon far more potent when opposed to a political foe than when directed against the weak heart of a doting woman. He had recourse to raillery, but, finding his banter of no avail, endeavored to appease the unhappy girl by an offer of devoted and everlasting friendship, founded on the basis of virtuous esteem. He might with equal success have attempted to put out a conflagration with a bucket of cold water. There was no help for the miserable man. He returned to his dean- ery at the death of Queen Anne with two love affairs upon his hands, but with the stern res- olution of encouraging neither, and overcom- in g both. ~I3 efore quitting England he wrote to Esther Yanhomrigh, or Vanessa, as he styles her in his correspondence, intimating his intention to forget everything in England and to write to her as seldom as possible. So far the claims of Vanessa were disposed of. As soon as he reached his deanery he secured lodgings for Stella and her companion, and reiterated his determination to pursue his intercourse with the young lady upon the prudent terms origi- nally established. So far his mind was set at rest in respect of Stella. But Swift had scarcely time to congratulate himself upon his plans before Yanessa presented herself in Dublin, and made known to the Dean her res- olution to take up her abode permanently in Ireland. Her mother was dead, so were her two brothers; she and her sister were alone in the world, and they had a small property near Dublin, to which it suited them to retire. Swift, alarmed by the proceeding, remonstrat- ed, threatened, denouncedall in vain. Va- nessa met his reproaches with comphiints of cruelty and negi~ct, and warned him of the consequence of leaving her without the solace of his friendship and presence. Perplexed and distressed, the Dean had no other re- source than to leave events to their own de- velopment. He trusted that time would mitigate and show the hopelessness of Vanes- sa s passion, and in the meanwhile he sought, by occasional communication with her, to pre- vent any catastrophe that might result from actual despair. But his thoughts for Vanessa s safety were inimical to Stellas repose. She pined and gradually sunk under the altera- tion that had taken place in Swifts deport- ment toward her since his acquaintance with Vanessa. Swift, really anxious for the safety of his ward, requested a friend to ascertain the cause of her malady. It was not difficult to ascertain it. His indifference and public scandal, which spoke freely of their unac- countable connection, were alone to blame for her sufferings. It was enough for Swift. He had passed the age at which he had resolved to marry, but he was ready to wed Stella provided the marriage were kept secret and she was content to live apart. Poor Stella was more than content, but she overestimated her strength. The marriage took place, and immediately afterward the husband withdrew himself in a fit of madness, which threw him into gloom and misery for days. What the motives may have been for the inexplicable stipulations of this wayward man it is impos- sible to ascertain. That they were the mo- lives of a diseased, and at times utterly irre- sponsible, judgment, we think cannot be ques- tioned. Of love, as a tender passion, Swift had no conception. His writings prove it. The coarseness that pervades his compositions has nothing in common with the susceptibility that shrinks from disgusting and loathsome images in which Swift reveled. In all his prose and poetical addresses to his mistresses there is not one expression to prove the weak- ness of his heart. He writes as a guardian he writes as a friendhe writes as a father, but not a syllable escapes him that can be attributed to the pangs and delights of the lover. Married te Stella, Swift proved himself more eager than ever to give to his intercourse with Vanessa the character of mere friendship. He went so far as to endeavor to engage her affections for another man, but his attempts were rejected with indignation and scorn. In the August of the year 1717 Vanessa retired from Dublin to her house and property near Cellbridge. gwift exhorted her to leave Ire- land altogether, but she was not to be per- 14 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. suaded. In 1720 it would appear that the Dean frequently visited the recluse in her re- tirement, and upon such occasions Vanessa would plant a laurel or two in honor of her guest, who passed his time with the lady read- ing and writing verses in a rural bower built in a sequestered part of her garden. Some of the verses composed by Vanessa have been preserved. They breathe the fond ardor of the suffering maid, and testify to the imper- turbable coldness of the man. Of the inno~ cence of their intercourse there cannot be a doubt. In 1720 Vanessa lost her last remain- ing relativeher sister died in her arms. Thrown back upon herself by this bereave- ment, the intensity of her love for the Dean became insupportable. Jealous and suspicious, and eager to put an end to a terror that pos- sessed her, she resolved to address herself to Stella, and to ascertain from her own lips the exact nature of her relations with her so-called guardian. The momentous question was asked in a letter, to which Stella calmly re- plied by informing her interrogator that she was the Deans wife. Vanessas letter was forwarded by Stella to Swift himself, and it roused him to fury. He rode off at once to Cellbridge, he entered the apartment in which Vanessa was seated, and glared upon her like a tiger. The trembling creature asked her visitor to sit down. He answered the invita- tion by flinging a packet on the table, and riding instantly away. The packet was open- ed; it contained nothing but Vanessas letter to Stella. Her doom was pronounced. The fond heart snapped. In a few weeks the hopeless, desolate Vanessa was in her grave. Swift, agonized, rushed from the world. For two months subsequently to the death of Vanessa his place of abode was unknown. But at the end of that period he returned to Dublin calmer for the conflict he had under- gone. He devoted himself industriously again to affairs of State. His pen had now a nobler office than to sustain unworthy men in un- merited power. We can but indicate the course of his labors. Ireland, the country not of his love, but of his birth and adoption, treated as a conquered province, owed her rescue from absolute thraldom to Swifts great and unconquerable exertions on her behalf. He resisted the English Government with his single hand, and overcame them in the fight. His popularity in Ireland was unparalleled even in that excited and generous-hearted land. Rewards were offered to betray him, but a million lives would have been sacrificed in his place before one would have profited by the patriots downfall. He was worshiped, and every hair of his head was precious and sacred to the people who adored him. In 1726 Swift revisited England, for the first time since the death of Queen Anne, and published, anonymously as usual, the famous satire of Gullivers Travels. Its immediate success heralded the universal fame that mas- terly and singular work has since achieved. Swift mingled once more with his literary AUTHORS AND BOOKS. lb friends, and lived almost entirely with Pope. Yanessa. To prove his case M. de XVailly Yet courted on all sides he was doomed again widely departs from history, and makes his to bitter sorrow. News reached him that hypothesis of no value whatever, except to Stella was ill. Alarmed and full of self-re- the novel reader. As a romance, written by proaches, he hastened home to be received by a Frenchman, Stella and Vanessa is worthy the people of Ireland in triumph, and to meet of great commendation. It indicates a famil and he was grateful for the sightthe im- iar knowledge of English manners and char- proved and welcoming looks of the woman acter, and never betrays, except here and for whose dissolution he had been prepared. there in the construction of the plot, the hand In March, 1727, Stella being sufficiently re- of a foreigner. It is quite free from exagge- covered, the Dean ventured once more to ration, and inasmuch as it exhibits no glaring England, but soon to be resummoned to the anachronism or absurd caricature, is a lite- hapless couch of his exhausted and most rary curiosity. We accept it as such, though miserable wife. Afflicted in body and soul, bound to reject its higher claims. The mys- Swift suddenly quitted Pope, with whom he tery of Swifts amours has yet to be cleared was residing at Twickenham, and reaching up. We explain his otherwise unaccounta- his home, was doomed to find his Stella npon ble behavior by attributing his cruelty to the verge of the grave. Till the last moment prevailing insanity. The career of Swift was he continued at her bedside, evincing the ten- brilliant, but not less wild than dazzling. derest consideration, and performing what The sickly hue of a distempered brain gave consolatory tasks he might in the ~ick chain- a color to his acts in all the relations of life. ber. Shortly before her death part of a con- The storm was brewing from his childhood; versation between the melancholy pair was it burst forth terribly in his age, and only a overheard. Well, my dear, said the Dean, moment before all was wreck and devasta- if you wish it, it shall be owned. Stellas tion, the half-distracted man sat down and reply was given in fewer words. It is too made a will, by which he left the whole of late. On the 28th of Januar~t, writes one his worldly possessions for the foundation of of the biographers of Swift, Mrs. Johnson a lunatic asylum. closed her weary pilgrimage, and passed to that land where they neither marry nor are frnlr given in marriage, the second victim of one and the same hopeless and consumiiig passion. Swift stood alone in the world, and for his Wx find in the Deutsche Zeiturig aus Blibmen, punishment was deemed to endure the crush- an account of a- visit to the great German ing solitude for the space of seventeen years. satirist and poet HENRY HEINE, who lives The interval was gloomy indeed. From his at Paris, where, as is known, he has long been youth the Dean had been subject to painful confined to his bed with a lingering illness. fits of giddiness and deafness. From 1736 We translate the following for the Interna- these fits became more frequent and severe. tional In 1740 he went raving mad, and frenzy It is indeed a painful or rather a tern- ceased only to leave him a more pitiable idiot. ble condition in which Heine now is and has During the space of three years the poor been for the past year; though the paraly- creature was unconscious of all that passed sis has made no progress, it has at least ex- around him, and spoke but twice. Upon the perienced no alleviation. He has now lain 19th of October, 1745, God mercifully remov- near two years in bed, and during that time ed the terrible spectacle from the sight of has not seen a tree nor a speck of the blue sky. man, and released the sufferer from his He cannot raise himself, and scarcely moves. misery, degradation, and shame. His left eye is blind, his right can just per- The volumes, whose title is found below,* ceive objects, but cannot bear the light of and which have given occasion to these re- day. His nights are disturbed by fearful ton- niarks, are a singular comment upon a singu- ments, and only morphine can produce him lar history. It is the work of a Frenchman the least repose. Hope of recovery ha~ long who has ventured to deduce a theory from been given up, and he himself entertains no the data we have submitted to the readers illusions on that subject. He knows that his notice. With that theory we cannot agree: sufferings can end only with death. He it may be reconcilable to the romance which speaks of this with the utmost composure. NI. de Wailly has invented, but it is alto- The writer goes on to contradict, as calum- gether opposed to veritable records that can- nious, the report that Heine had become reli- not be impugned. M. de Wailly would have gious, saying, that he bears his tortures with- it that Swifts marriage with Stella was a de- out the assistance of saints of any color, and liberate and rational sacrifice of love to prin- by the inward power of the free man. lie ciple, and that Swift compensated his sacri- does not regard himself as a sinner, and has ficed love by granting his principle no human nothing to repent of, since he has but rejoiced indulgences; that his love for Vanessa, in like a child, in everything beautifulchasing fact, was sincere and ardent, and that his butterflies, finding flowers by the way-side, duty to Stella alone prevented a union with and making a holiday of his whole life. He Stetla a Ja~ ssa: a Romance fiwn the Fr ch. By has, however, often called himself religious, Lady Duff Gordon. In two vols. Bentley. i5~O. by way of contradiction, and from antipathy

AUTHORS AND BOOKS. lb friends, and lived almost entirely with Pope. Yanessa. To prove his case M. de XVailly Yet courted on all sides he was doomed again widely departs from history, and makes his to bitter sorrow. News reached him that hypothesis of no value whatever, except to Stella was ill. Alarmed and full of self-re- the novel reader. As a romance, written by proaches, he hastened home to be received by a Frenchman, Stella and Vanessa is worthy the people of Ireland in triumph, and to meet of great commendation. It indicates a famil and he was grateful for the sightthe im- iar knowledge of English manners and char- proved and welcoming looks of the woman acter, and never betrays, except here and for whose dissolution he had been prepared. there in the construction of the plot, the hand In March, 1727, Stella being sufficiently re- of a foreigner. It is quite free from exagge- covered, the Dean ventured once more to ration, and inasmuch as it exhibits no glaring England, but soon to be resummoned to the anachronism or absurd caricature, is a lite- hapless couch of his exhausted and most rary curiosity. We accept it as such, though miserable wife. Afflicted in body and soul, bound to reject its higher claims. The mys- Swift suddenly quitted Pope, with whom he tery of Swifts amours has yet to be cleared was residing at Twickenham, and reaching up. We explain his otherwise unaccounta- his home, was doomed to find his Stella npon ble behavior by attributing his cruelty to the verge of the grave. Till the last moment prevailing insanity. The career of Swift was he continued at her bedside, evincing the ten- brilliant, but not less wild than dazzling. derest consideration, and performing what The sickly hue of a distempered brain gave consolatory tasks he might in the ~ick chain- a color to his acts in all the relations of life. ber. Shortly before her death part of a con- The storm was brewing from his childhood; versation between the melancholy pair was it burst forth terribly in his age, and only a overheard. Well, my dear, said the Dean, moment before all was wreck and devasta- if you wish it, it shall be owned. Stellas tion, the half-distracted man sat down and reply was given in fewer words. It is too made a will, by which he left the whole of late. On the 28th of Januar~t, writes one his worldly possessions for the foundation of of the biographers of Swift, Mrs. Johnson a lunatic asylum. closed her weary pilgrimage, and passed to that land where they neither marry nor are frnlr given in marriage, the second victim of one and the same hopeless and consumiiig passion. Swift stood alone in the world, and for his Wx find in the Deutsche Zeiturig aus Blibmen, punishment was deemed to endure the crush- an account of a- visit to the great German ing solitude for the space of seventeen years. satirist and poet HENRY HEINE, who lives The interval was gloomy indeed. From his at Paris, where, as is known, he has long been youth the Dean had been subject to painful confined to his bed with a lingering illness. fits of giddiness and deafness. From 1736 We translate the following for the Interna- these fits became more frequent and severe. tional In 1740 he went raving mad, and frenzy It is indeed a painful or rather a tern- ceased only to leave him a more pitiable idiot. ble condition in which Heine now is and has During the space of three years the poor been for the past year; though the paraly- creature was unconscious of all that passed sis has made no progress, it has at least ex- around him, and spoke but twice. Upon the perienced no alleviation. He has now lain 19th of October, 1745, God mercifully remov- near two years in bed, and during that time ed the terrible spectacle from the sight of has not seen a tree nor a speck of the blue sky. man, and released the sufferer from his He cannot raise himself, and scarcely moves. misery, degradation, and shame. His left eye is blind, his right can just per- The volumes, whose title is found below,* ceive objects, but cannot bear the light of and which have given occasion to these re- day. His nights are disturbed by fearful ton- niarks, are a singular comment upon a singu- ments, and only morphine can produce him lar history. It is the work of a Frenchman the least repose. Hope of recovery ha~ long who has ventured to deduce a theory from been given up, and he himself entertains no the data we have submitted to the readers illusions on that subject. He knows that his notice. With that theory we cannot agree: sufferings can end only with death. He it may be reconcilable to the romance which speaks of this with the utmost composure. NI. de Wailly has invented, but it is alto- The writer goes on to contradict, as calum- gether opposed to veritable records that can- nious, the report that Heine had become reli- not be impugned. M. de Wailly would have gious, saying, that he bears his tortures with- it that Swifts marriage with Stella was a de- out the assistance of saints of any color, and liberate and rational sacrifice of love to prin- by the inward power of the free man. lie ciple, and that Swift compensated his sacri- does not regard himself as a sinner, and has ficed love by granting his principle no human nothing to repent of, since he has but rejoiced indulgences; that his love for Vanessa, in like a child, in everything beautifulchasing fact, was sincere and ardent, and that his butterflies, finding flowers by the way-side, duty to Stella alone prevented a union with and making a holiday of his whole life. He Stetla a Ja~ ssa: a Romance fiwn the Fr ch. By has, however, often called himself religious, Lady Duff Gordon. In two vols. Bentley. i5~O. by way of contradiction, and from antipathy 16 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. to a certain clique who openly proclaim them- vulture, but still confronting fate unappalled, selves atheists, and under that sonorous title and there alone on the sea-shore caressed by seek to exercise a certain terror on others. sea-nymphs. Yes, this is the sick-bed and the It seems that Heine has lost a great deal death-bed of a great and free man; and to of property through various speculators who have come near him is not only a great hap- have persuaded him to join in their schemes. piness but a great instruction. The writer says: Heines friends are en- Heine has never been well known in this raged at many of these individuals, and urge country. The only work by him we have him to attack them publicly, and show them seen in English is his Beitrage zur Deutsclten up in their true light. He owes this satisfac- Literatur-Gescijicitte, translated by Mr. G. NV. tion to himself and to us; at the same time Haven, and published in Boston, in 1846. It it would conciliate many who have not par- is remarkably clever, and audacious, as the doned him the cavalier air with which he has productions of this German-Frenchman gene- turned off the most respectable notabilities of rally are. He is now fifty-three years of age, literature and patriotism, in order to amuse having been born at Dusseldorff, in 1797. himself in the company of some adventurer. As several wealthy bankers, and other per- By this love for out-of-the-way characters, the sons of substance, in Paris, are related to writer thinks that Heine must have collected him, and he has a pension from the French the materials for a humorous novel, which Government, he is not likely to suffer very could equal the best productions of Mendoza, much from the losses of property referred to Smollet, or Dickens; his experiences in this in the Zeitung aus Bdhmen. line have cost him a great deal of money. We translate-the conclusion of the article : IDa. OTTO ZIRCXEL has just published at We shall be asked if Heine really con- Berlin a volume called Sketches from and tinues to write l Yes; he writes, he works, concerning the United States, which has some he dictates poems without cessation; perhaps curious peculiarities to the eyes of an Amer- he was never in his whole life as active as ican. It is intended as a guide for Germans now. Several hours a day he devotes to the who wish either to emigrate to this country or composition of his memoirs which are rapidly to send their money here for investment. Jt advancing under the hand of his secretary. begins with a description of the voyage to His mind still resembles, in its wonderful America and of the East, West and South of fullness and vigor, those fantastic ball-nights the Union ; next it describes the position of of Paris, which, under the open sky, unfold the farmer, physician, clergyman, teacher, an endless life and variety. There rings the jurist, merchant, and editor, and the chance of music, there rushes the dance, and the love- the emigrant in each of these professions. It liest and . grotesquest forms flit hither and is written with s irit and humor, and a good thither. There are silent arbors for tears of deal of ractica judgment and wisdom are happiness and sorrow, and places for dancing, p concisely and clearlyexpressed. The curious with light, full of loud bold laughter. Rock- part is the advice given to speculators who ets after rockets mount skyward, scattering wish to invest their money here at a high rate millions of stars, and endless extravagance of of interest. The author seems t~ think Amer- art, fire, poesy, passion, flames up, showing ica a perfect Eldorado for money lenders, the world now in green, now in purple light, and his book cannot fail to produce a con- till at last the clear silver stars come out, and siderable increase in the amount of German fill us with infinite delight, and the still con- capital employed in this country. The various sciousness of lifes beauty. Yes, Heine lives state and national loans are described correctly, and writes incessantly. His body is broken, showing that Dr. Zirekel might venture safely . but not his mind, which, on the sick bed into the mazes of Wall Street. The history rises to Promethean power and courage. of repudiation he has studied with care, and His arm is impotent ; not so his satire, which the necessity of final resumption of payments still in its velvet covering bears the fearful even in Mississippi he estimates with justice. knife that has flayed alive so many a Maryas. He suggests as the safest means of managing Yes, his frame is worn away, but not the matters, that a number of wealthy families grace in every movement of his youthful should combine their funds and send over a spirit. Along with his memoirs, a com- special agent in whom they can confide, to plete volume of poems has been written in manage the same in shaving notes, speculat- these two years. They will not appear till ~ ing in land, lending on bond and mortgage, after the death of the poet ; but I can say ofi and making money generally. Thus they can them that they unite in full perfeetion all the get a high return and live comfortably in Eu- admirable gifts which have rendered his rope on the toil of Americans, all of which former poems so brilliant. So struggles this will be much more grateful to the ca italists extraordinary man against a terrible destiny, than useful to this country. Better or us o with all the weapons of the soul, never de- have no foreign capital at all than to have the spairing in this vehement suffering, never de- interest thereon carried away and consumed scending to tearsbidding defiance to the in Europe. worst. As I stood before that sick bed, it seemed as if I saw the sufferer of the Cau EMILE SILvEsTRF. has sent forth a new easus bound in iron chains, tortured by the volume, Un Philosoplie sous les Toits. AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 17 THE WORK ON AEROSTATION, by Mr. Green, THE Journal des Debats announces for rub recently published in Philadelphia, has been lication two works from the pen of Guizot. much noticed in Europe, whereparticularly The hero of the first is General Monk. Its in Francethe subject has attracted large title is The Downfall of the Republic in Eng- attention, in consequence of the death of Gale, land in 1660, and the Reestoblishment of the (formerly a player at our Bowery Theater,) Monarchy: A Historic Study. It may be re- near Bordeaux, and the recent wicked and garded as new, though part has been pub- ridiculous ascents with horses, ostriches, & c. lished before in the form of articles in the from the Hippodrome in Paris, and some cx- Revue Fran~aise. These articles appeared in periments iu ballooning at Madrid. In an 1837. M. Guizot has carefully revised them, interesting paper in the Revue des Deux and added a great deal of new matter. The Mondes, for the fifteenth of October, we have work is also to be enriched with a number of an account of numerous theories, experiments, curious documents never before published, and accidents, constituting an entertaining such as a letter from Richard Cromwell to resumi of the whole matter. Few instances of General Monk, and seventy dispatches from intrepidity, danger, and escape, excite live- M. de Bordeaux, then French Ambassador lier emotion than the crossing from England at London, to Cardinal Mazarin. These dis- to France by Blanchard, and Dr. Jeifries, patches have been found in the archives of an American, on the seventh of January, the Foreign Office, at Paris. The work has 1785. When, by the loss of gas, the balloon a new preface, which the Debats says will descended rapidly over the channel, and ap- p rove to be no less important in a proached near the surface of the sea, after liticalthan a historical point of view. 1 he everything bad been thrown out, even to their sccond book is that so well known in this clothes, Jeifries offered to leap into the sea, country upon Washington. We do not un- and by thus lightening the balloon further, derstand that anything new is added to it. afford Blanchard a chance of safety. We Itwas in tbe first place issued as the intro- must both be lost as the case is, said he; duction of the tr~nslation into French of if you think your preservation is possible, I Sparkss Life of Washington,which the French am ready to sacrifice my life. The French journalist says is the most exact and complete military ascents are particularly described, work yet published on the war of independ- Companies of aeronauts were formed and ence and the foundation of the United trained, and Bonaparte took one of them with States. Monk and Washington, adds the him to Egypt, but the British captured all the Debuts: on the one side a republic falling apparatus for the generation of gas. The and a monarchy rising again into existence, First Consul caused ascents in picturesque on the other a monarchy giving birth to a balloons to be made on occasionS of public republic; and M. Guizot, formerly the prime rejoicing for victories, in order to strike the minister of our monarchy, now amid the imaginations of the Egyptians, and an aeros- perplexities of our own republic the histo- tatic academy was established near Paris. nan of these two great men and these two The writer mentions that Lieutenant Gale, great events! Were contrasts ever seen like poor Sam Patch, so famous for a similar more striking, and more likely to excite a absurdity, and for a similar and not less powerful interest 3 miserable end, had drank too much brandy This is very well for the Debats. But the for self-possession in a dangerous predicament. omissions by Mr. Sparkssometimes from He thinks that the problem of the direction or carelessness, sometimes from ignorance, and government of balloons cannot possibly be sometimes from an indisposition to revive solved with the mechanical means which memories of old feuds, or to cover with dis- science now commands; and that, as they grace names which should be dishonored; may be usefully employed for the study of and his occasional verbal alterations of Wash- the great physical laws of the globe, all cx- ingtons letters prevent that general satisfac- periments should be restricted to the object of tion with which his edition of Washington advancing science. He dwells on what might would otherwise be regarded. We are soon be accomplished toward ascertaining the to have histories of the Revolution, from both true laws of the decrease of temperature in Sparks and Bancroft, in proper form. The the elevated regions of the air, of the decrease best documentary history is not, as the De- of density of the atmosphere, of the decrease bats fancies, this collection of Washingtons of humidity according to atmospheric heights, letters, but Mr. Forces Archives,of and of the celerity of sound. After all the which, with its usual want of sagacity or re- experiments, and all that has been written gard for duty, Congress is publishing but one upon the subject, we are confident that the tenth of the edition necessary, since eve;y direction of a balloon is quite impossible, cx- statesman in our own country, and every cept by a process which we have never yet writer on American history at home or seen suggested; that is, by the rapid decom- abroad, needs a copy of it, and from its cx- position of the air in its way, so that a tube tent and costliness it will never be reprinted. extended in the direction in which it is de- sired to move, shall open continually a vacuum THE RABBI CAHEN has published at Paris into which the pressure of the common atmo- the Book of Job, which concludes his learned sphere shall impel the carriage. version of the Hebrew Bible. 18 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. WORKS ON THE GERMAN REVOLUTION AND GERMAN Potirics.An excellent book on the Prussian revolution is now being published at Oldenburg. It is from the pen of Adolf Stahr, a writer of remarkable force and clearness. He belongs to the party most bit- terly disappointed by the turn affairs have taken in Germany. We mean the demo- cratic monarchists, who labored under the il- lusion that they might see Prussia converted into a sort of republic with a hereditary chief, like BeLium. T hey desired a monar- chy, with a parliament elected by universal suffrage, and democratic institutions of every kind. Stahrs book breathes all the bitterness of their rage at the success of absolutism in snatching from them every slightest vestige of hope. His book is published serially, four parts having already been issued. As a rec- ord of facts it deserves the praise of great in- dustry and lucidity in collection and ar- ra~ngement, while on every page there glows in suppressed eloquence the indignation of a generous and manly heart. Of course Stahr cannot be called a historian in the usual sense of the term. lie is. rather a political pamphleteer, maintaining at length the ideas and chastising the foes of his party. Another and a more permanently valuable work on this subject is the Revolutions-Cliro- nik (Revolutionary Chronicle) of Dr. Adolf Wolff, published by Hempel of Berlin. This is a collection of authentic documents, such as proclamations, placards, letters, legislative acts, & c., connected with the revolution. They are not only arranged in due order, but are combined with a elcar and succinct narrative of the events and circumstances to which they relate. We know of no man more competent than Dr. Wolff to the success- ful execution of so important ,an undertaking. Without being a partisan, his sympathies are decidedly on the popular side, and the clear- ness of his judgment cannot be blinded by any of the feints and stratagems in which the period abounded. He is now engaged upon the revolution in Prussia, but intends to treat all the manifestations of the time throughout Germany in the same thorough and reliable manner. His work will be invaluable to fu- ture historians of this eventful period; at the same time it reads like a romance, not only from the nature of the events, but from the spirit and keenness of the style. Two other striking contributions to the his- tory of this stormy epoch have been made by Bruno Bauer, the well known rationalist. Bauer treats the political and religious par- ties of modern Germany with the same scorn- ful satire and destructive analysis which ap- pear in his theological writings. He delights in pitting one side against the other and mak- ing them consume each other. His first book iscalled the Bfirgerliche Revolution in DeiLtsch.. land, (the Burghers Revolution in Germany); it was published above a year ago, and at- tracted a great deal of attention from the fact that it took neither side, but with a sort of Mephistophelian superiority, showed that every party had been alike weak, timid, hes- itating, short-sighted, and useless. The New- Catholics of Ronges school were especially treated with unsparing severity. Bauer has now just brought out his second book, which is particularly devoted to the Frankfort Par- liament. In this also the Hegelian Logic is applied with the same result. The author proves that all that was done in that body was worth nothing and produced nothing. There is not a p article of sympathetic feeling in the whole book; but only cold and con- temptuous analysis. It has not made very much of an impression in Germany. Both these works, and, indeed, the whole school of ultra-Hegelian skeptics generally, are a sin- gular reaction upon the usual warmth and sentimentality of German character and lit- erature. They are the very opposite extreme, and so a very natural product of the times. For our part we like them quite as well as the other side of the contrast. GERMANY is the richest of all countries in historical literature. Nowhere have all the events of human experience been so vari- ously, profoundly, or industriously investi- gated. Ancient history especially has been most exhaustively treated by the Germans. One of the best and most comprehensive works in this category is that of DR. Zii~i- MEn, the seventh edition of which, revised and enlai~ged, has just been published at Leipzic. Dr. Zimmer does not proceed upon the hypotheses of Niebuhr and others, but conceives that the writing of history and ro- mance ought to be essentially different. The whole work is in one volume of some 450 pages, and of course greatly condensed. It discusses the history of India, China, and Japan ; the western Asiatic States, Assyria, Babylonia, Syria, Phcenicia, India, down to the fall of Jerusalem ; the other parts of Asia; Egypt to the battle of Actiftm, with a dissertation on Egyptian culture; Carthage; Greece to the fall of Corinth; Rome under the emperors down to the year 476; and concludes with an account of the literature of classical antiquity. As we have no manual of this sort in Eng- lish, that is written up to the latest results of scholarship, we hope to see some American undertaking a version of Dr. Zimmers book. There is considerable learning and talent in the two octavos on the same subject by Dr. Hebbe, and published last year by Dewitt & Davenport; but we strongly dislike some of the doctrines of the work, which are not de- rived from a thorough study. THE seventh volume of Professor ScHLos- SER s History of the Eighteenth Century, and of the Nineteenth till the overthrow of the French Empire, appeared, in translation, in London, on the first of November. Volume eighth, completing the work, with a copious index, is preparing for early publication. AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 19 Tur DISCOVERY OF A LOST MS. OF JEAN LE erty is more equally distributed and enjoyed. BEt is mentioned in the Paris papers, as hay- Capital assists men in their efforts to improve ing been made by M. Polain, keeper of the this magnificent inheritance; competition is a Archives at Liege, among the MSS. in the powerftil lever with which they set in move- Biblioth~que de Bourgogne, at Brussels. It is ment and render useful the gratuitous gifts of on the eve of publication, and will be com- God; the social instinct leads them to make prised in an octavo volume, in black letter. a continual exchange of services; and even This work was supposed to be irretrievably now, though the powers of nature enter into lost. It was found by M. Polain, transcribed these services, those who receive them pay only and incorporated into a prose Chronicle de for the labor of their fellows, not for natural Liege, by Jean des Pres, dit d Ontremeuse. products; and the accumulation of capital It comprises a period between 1325 and 1340, constantly diminishes the rate of interest and which are embraced in one hundred and forty- enables the laborer to derive a greater return six chapters of the first book of Froissctrt. It from his toil. M. Bastiat also gives a new therefore contains only the first part of Le definition of value, which he says is the relation Bels Chronicle: nevertheless it is a fragment of two services exchanged. This is all, we be- of much importance. Froissart cannot be lieve, that he claims to offer as perfectly new, considered as a contemporary historian of the the main part of his book appearing as a events recorded in his first book, but Le Bel clearer exposition of the doctrine of Adam was connected with the greater portion of Smith. It will be seen that the theory of the them, and was acquainted with them either book is infinitely superior to that of Ricardo or from personal knowledge or through those Malthus; it has borrowed truths from the who had authentic sources of information, advanced thinkers of the age; but he would be a bold critic who should affirm that it had not mingled far-reaching errors with them. MONSIEUR BASTIAT, the political economist, (who has shown more economy in the matter of credit for the best ideas in his books, than M. ROMIEUs book in defense of despotism, in anything else we know of,) is not dead, as (lately published in France,) sounds as if it in the last International was stated. The had been written for the North American Re- Courier and Enquirer correspondent says: view, but it never could have been sent to its I am glad to say that the report which reached editor, or it would have been ado p ted and Paris from Italy, of the death of F. BASTIAT, a published by him. It is entitled The Era of noted writer on political economy, is unfounded. the Ciesars, and its argument is, that history, That gentleman is recovering his health, and it is ancient and modern, and the situation of the now believed will be able, at the opening of the contemporary world, prove that force, the session, to resume his seat in the Assembhy.~~ sword, or Ccesarism, has ultimately decided, Since his return from Italy he has published and will prevail, in the affairs of the nations. at Paris a new edition of his latest production, Representative assemblies, Monsieur Romien the Harmonies Economiques, in which he has considers ridiculous, and mischievous, and in availed himself in so large a degree and in so the end fatal: such, at least, he contends, is discreditable a manner of the ideas of Mr. the experience of France; and as for the lib- Henry C. Carey, of New Jersey, who, since he erty of the press, it means a form of tyranny first gave to the public the essentials of NI. which destroys all other liberty. At the be- Bastiats performance, has himself, in a volume, ginning of the century, M. de Fontanes said entitled The Harmonq of Interests, published what (he thinks) multitudes of the soundest some three or four months ago in Philadelphia, minds would reecho, I shall never deem largely and forcibly illustrated his just and myself free in a country where freedom of the admirable doctrines. In the Harmonies Eco- press exists.~ He would convert all journals nomiques M. Bastiat seeks to prove that the into mere chronicles, and have them strictly interests of classes and individuals in society, watched. Force, he says, is the only prin- as now constituted, are harmonious, and not ciple, even in governments styled free. He antagonistic as certain schools of thinkers includes Switzerland and the United States. maintain. Commercial freedom he avers, in- The condition and destinies of France he han- stead of urging society toward a state of gen- dles with special hardihood. Ciesarism is eral misery, tends constantly to the progres~ here already desired and inauguratednot sive increase of the general abundance and monarchy, which requires faith in it, nor con- well being. In sustaining this proposition M. stitutional government, which is an expedient Bastiat teaches the optimism of the socialists, and an illusion, but a supreme authority en- and holds that injustice is not a necessary pable of maintaining itself, and commandino thing in human relations, that monopoly and respect and submission. Mr. Walsh reviews pauperism are only temporary, and that things the work in one of his letters to the Journal must come right at last. The powers of na- of Commerce; and judging from Mr. Walshs. ture, the soil, vegetation, gravitation, heat, correspondence on the recent attempts to es- electricity, chemical forces, waters, seas, in tablish free institutions in Europe, we might short the globe and all the endowments with suspect him of a hearty sympathy with M. which God has enriched it, are the common Romieu, whom he describes as an erudite~ property of the entire race of man, and in pro- conscientious personage, formerly a prefect of portion as society advances this common prop- a department, and a member of the Assembly. 20 TilE Gernian poet, ANASTASIUS GRjN, has just published, at Leipzic a collection of the popular songs of Carinthta, translated from the original. Carinthia, as, perhaps, all our readers are not aware, is one of the southerly provinces of the Austrian empire, on the bor- ders of Turkey; and, during all the wars of Austria with the Moslems, had to bear the brunt of the fighting. And even after peace was concluded the Carinthians kept up a sort of minor war on their own account, being con- stantly exposed to incursions from the other side of the frontier. Thus for centuries their coun- try was one extended fortification, and the whole population in constant readiness to rush to arms when the signal fires blazed upon the hills. Then every house was a fortress, and even the churches were surrounded with pal- isades and ditches, behind which the women and children sought refuge with their mova- bles when the alarm came too near. From this period of constant and savage warfare the popular songs of the country date their or- igin. Curious to say, man~y of their heroes are borrowed from the traditions and history of neighboring lands. Thus the Servian champion Marko figures a good deal in this poetry, while the figure which has more im- portance than all the others is a foreign and almost fabulous being, called King Mathias; wherever this mystic personage can be laid hold of and historically identified, he appears to be Mathias Corvin, king of Hungary. The Carinthians attribute to him not only all the exploits of a variety of notable characters, but also the vices of some celebrated illustra- tions of immorality. Nor is his career ac- complished; according to the tradition of the southern Slavonians, King Mathias is not yet dead, but sleeps in a grotto in the interior of Hungary, waiting for the hour of waking, like Frederick the Redbeard in the Kyffhiiuser, Charlemagne in the Uniersberg at Salzburg, Holger the Dane near Kronburg, and King Arthur in a mountain of his native country. There sits King Mathias with his warriors, by a table under a linden tree. Another song makes him, like Orpheus with Eurydice, go down to hell with his fiddle in his hand to bring thence his departed bride. But he has no better luck than Orpheus: on the way out she breaks the commanded silence by saying a word to her companion, and so is lost for- ever. These songs are still sung by the Ca- rinthian soldiers at night, around their watch- fires. There are others of more modern origin, but they are weak and colorless compared with these relics of the old heroic time. MR. BRTANrs delightful Letters of a Traveler, of which we have heretofore spoken, has been issued by Mr. Putnam in a new and very beautiful edition, enriched with many exquisite engravings, under the title of The Picturesque Souvenir. It is a work of perma- nent value, and in the style of its publica- tion is hardly surpassed by any of the splen- did volumes of the senson. THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. DR. LAING, one of those restless English travelers who have printed books about the United States, is now a prominent personage in Australia, where he has been elected a member of the newly instituted Legislature, for the city of Sidney. Upon the conclusion of the canvass he made a speech, after which he was dragged home in his carriage by some of the more energetic of his partisans, the horses having been removed by them for that purpose. He is opposed to the Government. THE HIsToRy OF LIBERTY, by Mr. Samuel Elliot, of Boston, is examined at considera- ble length and in a very genial spirit, in the last number of the Revue des Deux Mondesa review, by the way, in which much more attention appears to be p aid to our lite- rature than it receives in the orth American. The writer observes, in the beginning, that the two initial volumes of Mr. Elliots great work, now published, in which the Liberty of Rome is treated, would be a superhuman per- formance, if Niebuhr, Muller, Heeren, Grote, and Thirlwall, had not written, and compares the work of our countryman with the poem on the same subject by Thomson, the author of Ithe Seasons. He says Mr. Elliots work breathes a lofty morality; a grave and masculine reserve; a deep and con- stant fear of not having done the best. He may be subject,like other Americans more or less ideologists and system-mongers,to illusions; but he has the true remedy: his ideal is well placed; he can sympathize fervently with all the pursuits and employments of human activity he cherishes a profound respect for prudence, and moderation; for an enlarging survey and indulgence of human necessities; for that generosity and virtue which is tender above all of what has life, and seeks to conciliate a complete transformation in the ideas of men. Until now, it would have been difficult to find a thinker who, in judging the Romans, would not have celebrated their inordinate patriot- ism, as their chief glory. Their heroes were ad- mired precisely for the ardor with which they sacrificed everythingeven their children or their conscienceto the interests of country or party. Mr. Elliot, on the contrary, discovers in this heroism only a lamentable deficiency of true virtue and honor; of a sound moral sense and equitable liber- ality. To our apprehension, a great reforman historical eventis to be recognized in this new moral repugnancethis new tendency to deem the spirit of party an evil and a danger. Formerly, nothing was conceived to be nobler than to serve your party, without stint or reservation ;nothing more disgraceful than to abandon it even when you could not entertain the same opinions. The con- demnation and reversal of this doctrine would be a moral advancement more important for human futurity, than many of the occurrences or the revo- lutions of the last sixty years, that have made the most noise. We believe Mr. Elliots leisure is not to be seriously interrupted by public employments, and trust, therefore, that he will proceed, with as much rapidity as possible, with his grand survey of the advance of Liberty, down even to our own daywhich it is not unlikely will conclude a very important era of his subject. AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 21 Da. BOWRING, who is now, webelieve, Brit- ably faithful abstracts, and its readers would ish Consul at Canton, was the editor of the be glad if its writers would confine themselves last and only complete edition of Jeremy to such labors. But we read an article in it not Benthams works; he has been one of the long ago, under the title of Mr. Careys Past most voluminous contributors to the Westmin- and Present, which contained no further al- ster Review, and he is eminent as a linguist, lusion to this book, nor the slightest evidence though if we may judge by some of his per- that the reviewer had ever seen it. On formances, not very jusI~ly so. He translated the other hand, the last number contains a and edited specimens of the poetry of several I paper on the Homeric question, purporting to northern nations, and it has often been charg- have been occasioned by Mr. Grotes History ed as an illustration of his dishonesty, that he of Grecce, but deriving its learning, we under- omitted a stanza of the sublime hymn of Derz- stand, altogether from Mr. Mares History of haven, a Russian, to the Deity, because it re- Greek Literature, a work so extensive that it is cognized the divinity of Christ, as it is held by not likely to be reprinted, or largely imported. Trinitariansthe Doctor being a Unitariafi. This custom which now obtains, of reprint- He is sharply satirized, and treated frequently ing reviewals, we believe was begun in this with extreme and probably quite undeserved country, where Mr. Emerson brought out a contempt, in the Diaries and Correspondence collection of Carlyles Essays, Andrews Norton of the ate Hugh Swinton Legar~. one of Macaulays, Dr. Furness one of Profes- sor Wilsons, Mr. Edward Carey one of Lord MR. HENRY ROGERS, of Birmingham, has Jeffreys, & c. several years before any such published in London two stout volumes of his collections appeared in England. contributions to the Edinburgh Review. They are not the best things that ever appeared RESPECTING THE HOLY LAND, no work of so under the old buff and blue, though they much absolute value has appeared since Dr. are neat and very readable. Hitherto Pro- Robinsons, as the Historical and Geographi- fessor Rogers has not been known in literature, cal Sketch by Rabbi Joseph Schwartz, in a except by an edition of the works of Burke. large and thick octavo, with numerous illus- The reviewals or essays in this collection are trations, lately published in Philadelphia by divided into biographical, critical, theological, Mr. Hart. Rabbi Schwartz resided in Pales- and political. 1 he first volume consists grin- tine sixteen years, and he is the only Jew of cipally of a series of sketches of great minds, eminence who has written of the country in the style, half-biographical, half-critical, of from actual observation, since the time of which so many admirable specimens have Benjamin of Tudela. The learned author adorned the literature of this age. Indeed, wrote his work in Hebrew, and it has been such demonstrations in mental anatomy have translated by Rabbi Isaac Leeser, one of the been a favorite study in all ages. Among ablest divines in Philadelphia. It is address- Mr. Rogerss subj ects, are Pascal, Luther, ed particularly to Jewish readers, to whom Leibnitz, and Plato, and he promises sketches the translator remarks in his preface, It is of Descartes, Malabranche, ilobbes, Berkeley, hoped that it may contribute to extend the and Locke. The first article, on Thomas knowledge of Palestine, and rouse many to Fuller, may look rather dry at first; but the study the rich treasures which our ancient interest increases, we admire the quaintness literature affords, and also to enkindle sym- of old Fuller, and not less the fine, accurate, pathy and kind acts for those of our brothers and complete picture given of his life, charac- I who still cling to the soil of our ancestors and ter, and works. In this, as in the other bio- love the dust in which many of our saints graphical articles, Mr. Rogers tells his story sleep in death, awaiting a glorious resurrec- fluently. If he has nott~ e wit of Sydney tion and immortality. Smith, nor the brilliance of Macaulay, he has not the prosiness of Alison, nor the bitterness Mn. JOHN R. THOMPSON, the accomplished of Gifford. tIe is witty with Fuller, sarcastic and much esteemed editor of the Southern with Marvell, energetic with Luther, phi- Literary Messenger, whose genuine and intel- losophical and precise with Leibnitz, quietly ligent love of literature is illustrated in every satirical with Pascal, and reflective and intel- number of his excellent magazine, has just lectual with Plato. Dead as a last years published a wise and eloquent address on the reviewal is no longer among the proverbs, present state of education in Virginia, which Books are too numerous to be read, and people was delivered before the literary societies of make libraries of the quarterlies,thanks to Washington College, at Lexington. It dis- the facilities afforded by Mr. Leonard Scott! closes the causes of the ignorance of reading And reviews, properly writtenevincing some and writing by seventy thousand adults in knowledge of the books which furnish their Virginia, and forcibly and impressively urges titles, are very delightful and useful reading, the necessity of a thorough literary culture to frequently more so than the productions which I the common prosperity. sug~est them, of which they ought always to give an intelligible description. And this A NEW PLAY BY MR. MARSTON, founded condition is fulfilled almost always by the on the story of Philip Augustus of France and reviews published in London and Edinburgh. Marie de M dranie, has been put into rehearsal Our North American sometimes gives us toler- at the Olympic Theater in London. 22 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. THE Leipzic Grenzboten notices Mrs. Ma- GUSTAVE PLANCHE, a clever Parisian critic, berlys new romance of Fashion (which we has in the last number of La Revue des Deux believe has not yet been republished in Mondes, an article on Lamartines novels and America) with great praise, as a work of Confessions, issued within the year. He spares striking power and artistic management. neither the prose nor poetry of the romantic Nevertheless, says the critic, this romance has statesman. He classes the History of the excited in England as much anger as atten- Girondists with the novels. On the whole tion, and this he attributes to the truth he thinks there is less of fact, or more of with which the authoress has depicted the transmutation of fact, than in Sir Walter aristocratic world. He then makes the fob Scotts Waverley series: as in Scotts Life of lowing remarks, which are curious enough to Napoleon there was less of veracity than in be translated: The meaning of the word any even of his professed fictions founded up- fashion cannot be rendered in a foreign on history. These romancists are never to be language. La mode and its tyranny ap- trusted, except in their own domains. proach somewhat to the sense, but still it re- mains unintelligible to us Germans, because PROSPER MfRIMIE, known among the poets we have no idea of the capricious, silly, and by his Theatre de Clara Gazul, and who by despotic laws of fashion in England. They his Chronique du TI?mps de Charles IX. and do not relate, as with us, to mere outward Colombc, was entitled to honorable mention in things, as clothes and furniture, but espe- literature, has written a very clever book cially to position and estimation in high so- about the United Statesthe fruit of a visit ciety. In order to play a part on that stage to this country last yearwhich an accom- it is necessary to understand the mysterious plished New-Yorker is engaged in translating. conditions and requirements which the god- His last previous performance was a Life of dess Fashion prescribes. High birth and Pedro the Cruel, which has been translated riches, wit and beauty, find no mercy with and published in London, and is thus spoken her if her whimsical laws are not obeyed. of in the Literary Gazette In what these laws consist no living soul can The subject hardly yields in romantic variety, say: they are double, yes three-fold, the je strange turns of fortune, characters of strong ex- ne sais quoi of the French. The exclusive- pression, and tragedies of the deepest pathos, to ness of English society is well known, a anything created by the imagination. Within the peculiarity ia which it is only excelled by period and in the land which was marked by the its copyist the American society of New York fortunes of Pedro of Castile, the scene is crowded Boston. But it is ~iot enough to have with figures over which both history and song and have thrown a lasting interest. The names of obtained admission into the magic circle : Planche of France, Inex de Castro of Portugal, Du there, too, fashion implacably demands its Guesclin,the Black Prince, the White Company victims, and to her as to Moloch earthly and belong alike to romance and to reality. lahe heavenly goods, wealth, and peace of soul, very Don Juan~ of Mozart and Byron plays his are offered up. part for an hour as no fabulous gallant at the court of Seville; Moors and Christians join in the coun- JOHN RusiuN, who has written of painting, cii or in the field here, as well as in the strains of sculpture and architecture, in a manner more the Romancero; and the desperate game played attractive to mere amateurs than any other for a crown by the rival brothers whose more heban strife w author, will soon ublish his elaborate work than T as surrounded by such van The Authors of~Tenice.~ Notwithstanding ~ admiration or terror, wants no his almost blind idolatry of Turner, and his fill the just commencement to its climax, to measure of a tragic theme. One more other heresies, Ruskin is one of the few writ- striking could scarcely have been desired by a ers on art who open new vistas to the mind; poet; yet M. M6rim~e, who claims that charac- vehement, paradoxical, and one-sided he may ter, has handled it with the judgment and dili- be, but no other writer clears the subject in the gence of an historian. same masterly mannerno other writer sug- gests more even to those of opposite opinions. THE FIR5T TWO VOLUMEs OF OEHLENscII- LAGERs Lebens Erinnerungen have appeared at Vienna, and attract more observation than anything else in the late movements in the German literature. The poets early strug- gles give one kind of interest to this work, and his friendship with illustrious litterateurs another. Madame de Stael, Goethe, Schil- ler the Schlegels, Steffens, Hegel, and other representatives of German thought, pass in auccession through these pages, mingled with pictures of Danish life, and criticisms on the Danish drama. Like most German biogra- phies, this deals as much with German litera- ture as with German life. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, the greatest liv- ing American writer born in the present cen- tury, has just published, through Ticknor, Reed and Fields, a volume for juvenile read- ers, in the preface to which he says: It has not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility. The author regards children as sa- cred, and would not for the world cast anything into the fountain of a young heart that might embitter and pollute its waters. And even in point of the literary reputidion to he aimed at, juvenile litera- ture is as well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by them till their own old agea far longer period of literary existence than is generally attained by those who seek immortality from the judgments of full grown AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 23 AN attentive correspondent of the Inter- national, at Vienna, mentions that letters have been received there from the eccentric but daring and intelligent American, Dr. MA- THEWS, formerly of Baltimore, who, some years since, assumed the style of the Arabs, with a view to discovery in Northern and Central Africa. We hope to obtain further information of Dr. Mathews, respecting whose adventures there has not hitherto been any- thing in the journals for several years. PROFESSOR G. J. ADLER, of the New York University, the learned author of the German and English Dictionary, is now printing a translation which he has just ~ompleted, of the Iphigesiia in Taurus, by Goethe. Of the eighteen that remain of the sixty to ninety plays of Euripides, the Ipliigenia at Tauri is one of the most remarkable. When Goethe returned from Italy, his spirit was infused with the love of ancient art, and his ambition tempting him to a rivalry of its masters, he selected this subject, to which he brought, if not his finest powers, his severest labor; and the drama of Iphigeniawhich is in many respects very diiferent from that of Euripides, is, next to Faust, perhaps the noblest of his works. We arenot aware that it has hither- to appeared in En~lish. The forthcoming translation, (which is in the press of the Ap- pletons,) strikes us very favorably. It is ex- act, and is generally flowing and elegant. THE OFFICIAL PAPER OF CHINA has a name which means the Pekin Gazette. [t is. inipos- sible to ascertain when its publication was first commenced, but it seems to be the oldest newspaper in the world. There is a tradition that it began under the Sung dynasty in the latter part of the tenth century. It is origin- ally a sort of handbill, containing official notices, posted up on the walls of the Capital and sent in manuscript to provincial officers. At Canton it is printed for the public at large and sold. It appears every other day in the form of a pamphlet of ten or twelve pages. It consists of three parts; the first is devoted to Court news, such as the health and other doings of the Imperial family; the second gives the decrees of the Sovereign; the third contains the reports and memorials of public functionaries made to the imperial government on all subjects concerning the interests of the country. The decrees are concise in style; the reports and memorials are the perfection of verbiage. The former have the force of laws, the Emperor being both legislative and executive. As a record of materials for his- tory the Gazette is of little value, for a little study shows that lies are abundant in it, and that its statements are designed as much to conceal as to make known the facts. Since the English war the number of documents published relating to affairs with foreign na- tions is very small. Something is given re- specting the finances, but that, too, is of very little value. MR. WILLIAMS, who wrote Shakspeare and his Friends, & c., has just published a novel entitled The Luttrells. It was very high praise of his earlier works that they were by many sagacious critics attributed to Savage Landor. 1-us novels on the literature of the Elizabethan age evince taste and feeling, and his sketches of the Chesterfield and Walpole period in Maids of Honor, are happily and rgracefully done. The Luttrells has pas- sages occasionally more powerful but hardly so pleasing as some in the books we have named. In mere style it is an improvement on his former efforts. In the early passages of the story there is nice handling of character, and frequent touches of genuine feeling. THE FIFTH VOLUME of Vaulabelles Ihstoire de la Restauration, a conscientious and care- fully written history of France and the Bourbon family, from the restoration in 1815 down to the overthrow of Charles X., has just been published at Paris. It receives the same p raise as the preceding volumes. M. Vaulabelle it may be remembered was for a brief period, in 1848, General Cavaignacs Minister of Education and Public Worship. CAPTAIN SIR EDWARD BELCIIER, C.B., R.N., & c., whose presence in New York we noted recently, is now in Texas, superintending the settlement of a large party of first class Eng- lish emicrrants. A volume supplemental to b his Voyage of H. M. S. Samarang, illustra- tive of the zoology of the expedition, has been published in London by Arthur Adams, F.L.S. M. GuIzoT, it is said, is going back to his old profession of editor. He is to participate in the conduct of the Journal des Debats, in which, of course, he will sign his articles. We do not always agree with M. Guizot, but we cannot help thinking him, upon the whole, the most respectable man who for a long time has been conspicuous in affairs in France. THE sixth and concluding volume of the life and correspondence of ROBERT SOUTHEY, edited by C. C. Southeyillustrated with a view of Southey s Monument in Crosthwaite Church, and a view of Crosthwaite, from Greta Hillwas published in London, early in No- vember, and will soon be reissued by Harpers. SOMEBODY having said that Bulwer had lost his hearing, and was in a very desponding way in consequence, he has written to the Morning Post to say he is by no means deaf, but that if he were he should not much despond on that account, for the quality and material of the talk thats going is not calculated to cause any great regret for the deprivation of one~s ears THE SECOND VOLUME OF THE COUNT DE CASTELNAUS Expedition into the Central Re- gions of South America, under the auspices of the French government, has just been pub- lished in Paris. 24 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. An eminent diplomatist of France has just published two volumes of most interesting revelations drawn from his own note-books and personal knowledge. We allude to the EtuJes Diplomatiques et Litteraire~ of Count Alexis de Saint Priest. On~ the partition of Poland especially, it casts an entirely new and conclusive light. M. Saint Priest shows that apart from the internal anarchy and weakness of Poland, the catastrophe was the work not of Russia as has been commonly supposed, but of Frederic the Great of Prus- sia. Russia had no interest in dividing Po- land; in fact she was already supreme in that country; and besides, her policy has never been that of an active initiative,she waits for the fruit to fall, and does not take the trouble of shaking the tree herself. The great criminal then in this Polish affair was Prussia, and the cause was the historic an- tagonism between Germany and Poland. M. Saint Priest sketches the character of Fred- eric with the hand of a master. We shall see him, he says in approaching that part of his subject, we shall see him as he was, both adventurous and patient, ardent and calm, full of passion yet perfectly self-pos- sessed, capable of embracing the vastest hor- izon and of shutting himself up for the moment in the most limited detail, his eyes reaching to the farthest distance, his hand active in the nearest vicinity, approaching his aim step by step through by-paths, but al- ways gaining it at last by a single bound. We shall see him employing the most in- defatigable, the most tenacious, the most per- severing will in the service of his idea, pre- paring it, maturing it by long and skillful preparation, and imposing it on Europe not by sudden violence, but by the successive and cunning employment of flattery and intimida- tion. And finally, when all is consummated, we shall see him succeed in avoiding the re- sponsibility and throwing it altogether upon his coadjutors, with an art all the more pro- found for the simplicity under which its hardihood was concealed, and the indiffer- ence which masked its avidity. To crown so audacious a maneuver, he will not hesitate to declare, that since he has never deceived any one, he will still less deceive posterity! And in fact he has treated them with a per- fect equality: he made a mock of posterity as well as of his contemporaries. With re- gard to the part of France in the division of Poland, M. Saint Priest attempts to prove that the French monarchy could not prevent the catastrophe; but that it was in the revolu- tionary elements then fermenting in France and opposed to the monarchy, that Frederic found his most powerful allies. Of course he defends the monarchy from blame in the matter, and we shall not undertake to say that he is wrong in so doing. Certainly the downfall of Poland cannot be regarded as an isolated event, but as a part of the great se- ries of movements belonging to the age, in which causes the most antagonistic in their nature often cooperated in producing the same effect. M. Saint Priest further reasons that the providential mission of Poland was to oppose Turkey and Islamism, and when the latter ceased to rise the former necessari- ly declined. But our space will not permit us to follow this interesting work any far- ther. The careful students of history will not fall to consult it for themselves. MARY LOWELL PUTNAM, a daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lowell of Boston, and sister of James Russell Lowell, the poet, is the author of an annihilating reviewal, in the last Christian Examiner, of Mr. Bowen on the Hungarian Struggle for Independence. The Tribune contains a resume of the controversy, in which it had itself been honorably distinguished, and furnishes the following sketch of Profee- sor Bowens antagonist: Without any ambition for literary distinction, leading a life of domestic duties and retirement, and pursuing the most profound and various studies from an insatiate thirst for knowledge, this admirable person has shown herself qualified to cope with the difficulties of a complicated his- torical question, and to vanquish a notorious Pro- fessor on his own ground. The manner in which she has executed her task (and her victim) is as remarkable for its unpretending modesty as for its singular acuteness and logical ability. She writes with the graceful facility of one who is entirely at home on the subject, conversant from long famil- iarity with its leading points, and possessing a large surplus of information in regard to it for which she has no present use. If she exhibits a generous sympathy with the cause of the op- pressed, she does not permit the warmth of l~er feelings to cloud the serenity of her judgment. She conducts the argument with an almost legal precision, and compels her opponent to submit to the force of her intellect. Harvard would certainly be a large gainer if Mrs. Putnam could succeed Mr. I3owen as professor of History, or,as the libeller of Kossuth fills so small a portion of the chair, if she could be made associate professor; but to this she would have objections. In LEIPsIc a monument has been erected by the German agriculturists to HERR THAER, who has done so much amongst them for agricultural science. It consists of a marble column nine feet high, on which stands the statue of Thaer, life size. It is surrounded by granite steps and an iron balustrade. The column bears the inscription, To their re- spected teacher, Albert Thaer, the German Agriculturists1550. A NEW Novxr~ by Bulwer Lytton is announ- ced by Bentley, to appear in three volumes. Dickens, having completed his David Cop- perfield, will immediately commence a new serial story. Thackeray, it is rumored, has a new work in preparation altogether different from anything he has yet published. The Lives of Shakspeares Heroines are announced to appear in a series of volumes. AUTHORS AND BOOKS. 26 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY: B~ THE SPEC- THE LIFE OF JOHN RANDOLPH, by Hugh A. TATOR, is one of the newest and most beautiful Garland, has been published by the Appletons books from the English press. It is illustrated in two octavos. It is interestingas much so by Thompson, from designs by Frederick perhaps as any political biography ever writ- Tayler, and edited with much judgment by tea in this countrybut the subject was so Mr. Henry Wills. The idea of the book lS an remarkable, and the materiel so rich and va- cxtremely happy one. It is not always easy rious, that it might have been made very much to pick out of the eight volumes of the Spec- more attractive than it is. Mr. Garlands style tator the papers which relate to Sir Roger de is decidedly badambitious, meretricious and Coverleq, when we happen to want them. vulgarbut it was impossible to make a dull Here we have them all, following close upon work upon John Randolphs history and char- each other, forming so many chapters of the acter. Coverlcy Chronicle, telling a succinct and charming story, with just so much pleasing THE BEST EDITION OF MILToNs POEMS ever extract from other papers as to throw light published in Americaa reprint of the best upon the doings of Sir Roger, and enough ever published in Englandthat of Sir Edger- graceful talk about the London of Queen ton Brydges, has just been printed by George Annes time (by way of annotation) to adapt S. Appleton of Philadelphia, and the Apple- one s mind completely to the de Coverley tone tons of New York. It is everything that can of sentiment. The Spectatorwe mean the be desired in an edition of the great poet, and modern gazette of that name-says of it : must take the i~2lace, we think, of all others The character of Sir Roger de Coverley is a cre- that have been in the market. We are also ation which, in its way, has never been surpassed~ indebted to the same publishers for an admi- never perhaps equaled except by the Vicar oj rable edition of BURNS, which if not as judi- Wakefield. The de Coverley establishment and ciously edited as the Milton of Sir Edgerton the Vicars family have a strong general likeness. Brydges, is certainly very mucl} better than They are the same simple-minded, kind-hearted any we have hitherto possessed. English souls, in different spheres of society. The thirty papers of the Spectator devoted to Sir Roger THE KEEPSAK~: A GIFT FOR THE HOLIDAYS, and his associates, now that we have them togeth- is one of the most splendidindeed is the most er, form a perfect little novel in themselves, from the reading of which we rise as we rise from that richly executed annual of th~ season. We of Goldsmith, healthier and happier. There never have not had leisure to examine its literary was so beautiful an illustration of how far mere contents, but they are for the most part by genuine heartiness of disposition and rectitude of eminent writers. In unique and variously purpose can impart true dignity to a character, as beautiful bindings, The Keepsake is desirabhi Sir Roger de Coverley. He is rather beloved than to all the lovers of fine art. esteemed. He talks all the way up stairs on a visit. He is a walking epitome of as many vulgar GRAYS POEMS, with a Life of the author by errors as Sir Thomas Browne collected in his book. Professor Henry Reed, has been published by He has grave doubts as to the propriety of not Mr HenryC 13 aird, of Philadelphia, in a vol- having an old woman indicted for a witch He is ume the most elegant that has been issued this brimful of the prejudices of his caste. He has grown old with the simplicity of a child. Captain year from the press of that city. The engrav- Sentry must keep him in talk lest he expose him- ings are specimens of genuine art, and the self at the play. And yet about all he does there typography is as perfect as we have ever seen is an unassuming dignity that commands respect; from the printers of Paris or London. and for strength and consistency in the tender pas- sion Petrarch himself does not excel him. Sir THE REV. DUNCAN HARKNESS WEIR, a dis- Rogers unvarying devotion to his widow, his in- tinguished alremnu.s of the university and au- cessant recurrence to the memory of his affection thor of an essay On the tenses of the Hebrew to her, the remarks relating to her which the char- verb, which appeared in Kittos Journal of acter of Andromache elicits Irom him at the play, Sacred Literature for October last, has been and the little incident of her message to him on his elected Professor of Oriental Languages, in the death-bed, form as choice a record of passionate fidelity as the sonnets of the Italian. How beau- College and University of Glasgow, in room of tiful, too is that death-scenehow quietly sublime! the late Dr. Gray. Let us add that the good Sir Roger is surrounded by people worthy of him. Will. Wimble, with DouaI~Ass JERROLD announces a republica- his good-natured, useless services; Captain Sentry, tion of all his writings for the last fifteen brave and stainless as his own sword, and nearly years, in weekly numbers, commencing on the as taciturn; the servant who saved him from first of January next a most becoming con- drowning; the good clergyman who is contented tribution to the Industry of Nations Congress to read the sermons of others; the innkeeper who of 1851 must needs have his landlords head for a sign; the Spcctator and his cronies: and then, and still, THE WIDow!~ TilE REV. ChRIsToPHER WORDSWORTH, a nephew of William Wordsworth, has nearly Mn. WILLIAM W. STORY, to whose sculp- completed the memoirs of the poet, which tures we have referred elsewhere, is engaged will be reprinted, with a preface by Professor in the preparation of a memoir of his father, Henry Reed, by Ticknor, Reed and Fields, of the great jurist. Boston. 26 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. the mould, King Louis and many of the ~trt~. magnates of Germany were present. The occasion was in fact a festival, which Muller, SCHWANTHALERS BAVARIA, AND THE THE- the inspector of the royal bronze foundry REsIENWIESE AT MUNICHOn the western and probably the first living master of the side of Munich several streets converge in a art of casting in bronze, rendered still more p lain which is the arena of the great popu- brilliant by illuminations and garlands of lar festival that takes place every October. flowers. V ocal music also was not wanting, Around this plain, which is called the The- as the artists of Munich were present in resienwiese, as well as around the whole dis- force, and their singing is noted throughout trict in which the city is placed, the land Germany. Since last July workmen have rises some thirty or forty feet. Near the spot been constantly engaged in transporting the where the green waters of the Iser break pieces of bronze weighing from 200 to 300 through this ridge, King Louis founded the cwt. to the place where the statue was to be Hall of Fame, which is to transmit to pos- erected. For this purpose a wagon of peen- terity the busts of renowned natives of the liar construction was used, with from sixteen country. This edifice is in Done style, and to twenty horses to draw it. On the 7th of with its two wings forms a court-yard, open- August the last piece, the head, was con- ing toward the city. In the center of this veyed; it was attended by a festal proces- court is placed upon a granite pedestal, sion. The space within the head is so great thirty feet high, a colossal statue of bronze, that some twenty-eight men can stand to- fifty-four feet high, representing Bavaria, gether in it. The body, the main portions to which we have several times referred in of which were made in five castings, weighs The Internetionalour European correspond- from 1300 to 1500 cwt., and has a diameter ence enabling us to anticipate in regard to of twelve feet; the left arm, which is ex- subjects of literature and art generally even tended to hold the wreaths, from 125 to 130 the best-informed foreign journals. cwt. ; its diameter is five feet, and the di- The Hall of Fame will not be completed for ameter of its index finger six inches. The i~ome years, but the statue is finished, and nail of the great toe can hardly be covered was first exposed to view on the 9th of Octo- with both a mans hands. A~ door in the ber. The execution of this statue was com- pedestal leads to a cast-iron winding stair- mitted by King Louis to Schwanthaler, who way which ascends to the head, within began by making a model of thirteen feet in which benches have been arranged for the height. In order to carry out the work a comfort of visitors, several of whom can sit wooden house was erected at the royal foun- there together with ease. The light enters dry, and a skeleton was built by masons, car- through openings arranged in the hair, penters, and smiths, to sustain the earth used whence also the eye can enjoy the view of the in the mould for the full-sized model. This city and the surrounding country with the was begun in 1838, and crc long the figure magical Alps in the background. The entire stood erect. The subsequent work on the mass of bronze, weighing about 2600 cwt., model occupied two years. The result was was obtained from Turkish cannon lost in the greatly praised by the critics, who wondered sea at Navarino and recovered by Greek at the skill which had been able to give divers. The value Qf the bronze is about l)eauty as well as dignity to a statue of so sixty thousand dollars. The sitting lion has large dimensions. It holds up a crown of a height of near thirty feet. It was cast in oak-leaves in the left hand, while the right, three pieces, and completes th~ composition resting upon the hip, grasps an unsheathed in the most felicitous manner. sword twined with laurel, beneath which The statue having been completed, the final rests a lion. The breast is covered with a removing of the scaffolding around it and its lions skin which falls as low as the hips; un- full exposure to the public took place on the der it is a simple but admirably managed 9th of October. This was a day of great fes- robe extending to the feet. The hair is tivity at Munich and its vicinity. A plat- wreathed with oak-leaves, and is disposed in form had been erected directly in front of the rich masses about the forehead and temples, statue for the accommodation of King Maximil- giving spirit to the face and dignity to the ian and his suite. The festivities began with form. Such was the model, and such is the an enormous procession of carriages, led by now finished statue. But the subsequent bands of music and bearing the representa- steps in its completion are worthy of a par- tives of the different industrial and agricul- ticular description. tural trades, with symbols of their respective The model was in gypsum, and the first occupations. As they passed before the thing done was to take a mould from it in Kings platform each carriage stoppe(l, saluted earth peculiarly prepared for the reception of his majesty, and received a few kindly words the melted metal. The first piece, the head, in reply. The procession was closed by the was cast September 11th, 1844. It weighs artists of Munich. The carriages took their one hundred and twenty hundred-weight, station in a half circle around the platform. and is five or six feet in diameter; the re- Soon after, accompanied by the thunder of mainder was cast at five separate times. cannon, the board walls surrounding the scaf- When the head was brought successful out of fold were gradually lowered to the ground.

26 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. the mould, King Louis and many of the ~trt~. magnates of Germany were present. The occasion was in fact a festival, which Muller, SCHWANTHALERS BAVARIA, AND THE THE- the inspector of the royal bronze foundry REsIENWIESE AT MUNICHOn the western and probably the first living master of the side of Munich several streets converge in a art of casting in bronze, rendered still more p lain which is the arena of the great popu- brilliant by illuminations and garlands of lar festival that takes place every October. flowers. V ocal music also was not wanting, Around this plain, which is called the The- as the artists of Munich were present in resienwiese, as well as around the whole dis- force, and their singing is noted throughout trict in which the city is placed, the land Germany. Since last July workmen have rises some thirty or forty feet. Near the spot been constantly engaged in transporting the where the green waters of the Iser break pieces of bronze weighing from 200 to 300 through this ridge, King Louis founded the cwt. to the place where the statue was to be Hall of Fame, which is to transmit to pos- erected. For this purpose a wagon of peen- terity the busts of renowned natives of the liar construction was used, with from sixteen country. This edifice is in Done style, and to twenty horses to draw it. On the 7th of with its two wings forms a court-yard, open- August the last piece, the head, was con- ing toward the city. In the center of this veyed; it was attended by a festal proces- court is placed upon a granite pedestal, sion. The space within the head is so great thirty feet high, a colossal statue of bronze, that some twenty-eight men can stand to- fifty-four feet high, representing Bavaria, gether in it. The body, the main portions to which we have several times referred in of which were made in five castings, weighs The Internetionalour European correspond- from 1300 to 1500 cwt., and has a diameter ence enabling us to anticipate in regard to of twelve feet; the left arm, which is ex- subjects of literature and art generally even tended to hold the wreaths, from 125 to 130 the best-informed foreign journals. cwt. ; its diameter is five feet, and the di- The Hall of Fame will not be completed for ameter of its index finger six inches. The i~ome years, but the statue is finished, and nail of the great toe can hardly be covered was first exposed to view on the 9th of Octo- with both a mans hands. A~ door in the ber. The execution of this statue was com- pedestal leads to a cast-iron winding stair- mitted by King Louis to Schwanthaler, who way which ascends to the head, within began by making a model of thirteen feet in which benches have been arranged for the height. In order to carry out the work a comfort of visitors, several of whom can sit wooden house was erected at the royal foun- there together with ease. The light enters dry, and a skeleton was built by masons, car- through openings arranged in the hair, penters, and smiths, to sustain the earth used whence also the eye can enjoy the view of the in the mould for the full-sized model. This city and the surrounding country with the was begun in 1838, and crc long the figure magical Alps in the background. The entire stood erect. The subsequent work on the mass of bronze, weighing about 2600 cwt., model occupied two years. The result was was obtained from Turkish cannon lost in the greatly praised by the critics, who wondered sea at Navarino and recovered by Greek at the skill which had been able to give divers. The value Qf the bronze is about l)eauty as well as dignity to a statue of so sixty thousand dollars. The sitting lion has large dimensions. It holds up a crown of a height of near thirty feet. It was cast in oak-leaves in the left hand, while the right, three pieces, and completes th~ composition resting upon the hip, grasps an unsheathed in the most felicitous manner. sword twined with laurel, beneath which The statue having been completed, the final rests a lion. The breast is covered with a removing of the scaffolding around it and its lions skin which falls as low as the hips; un- full exposure to the public took place on the der it is a simple but admirably managed 9th of October. This was a day of great fes- robe extending to the feet. The hair is tivity at Munich and its vicinity. A plat- wreathed with oak-leaves, and is disposed in form had been erected directly in front of the rich masses about the forehead and temples, statue for the accommodation of King Maximil- giving spirit to the face and dignity to the ian and his suite. The festivities began with form. Such was the model, and such is the an enormous procession of carriages, led by now finished statue. But the subsequent bands of music and bearing the representa- steps in its completion are worthy of a par- tives of the different industrial and agricul- ticular description. tural trades, with symbols of their respective The model was in gypsum, and the first occupations. As they passed before the thing done was to take a mould from it in Kings platform each carriage stoppe(l, saluted earth peculiarly prepared for the reception of his majesty, and received a few kindly words the melted metal. The first piece, the head, in reply. The procession was closed by the was cast September 11th, 1844. It weighs artists of Munich. The carriages took their one hundred and twenty hundred-weight, station in a half circle around the platform. and is five or six feet in diameter; the re- Soon after, accompanied by the thunder of mainder was cast at five separate times. cannon, the board walls surrounding the scaf- When the head was brought successful out of fold were gradually lowered to the ground. THE FINE ARTS. The admiration of the statue (which by the way is exactly fifty-four feet high), was uni- versal and enthusiastic. All bcholders were delighted with the harmony of its parts and the loveliness of its expression notwithstand- ing its colossal size. The ceremonies of the day were closed with speeches and music; thc painter Tischlcin made a speech lauding King Louis as the creator of a new era for German art. A very numerous chorus sung several festive hymns composed for the occa- sion, after which the multitude dispersed. THE DOMINICAN MONASTERY of San Marco at Florence has for centuries been regarded with special interest by the lovers of art for th~ share it has had in the history of their favorite pursuit. Nor has its part been of less importance in the sphere of politics. The wmderer through its halls is reminded not only of Fra Angdico da. FPisole and Fra Bartolommeo, to whose artistic genius the monastery is indebted for the treasures which adorn its halls, refectory, corridors, and cells, but of Cosmo de Medici, Lorenzo his great descendant, of Savonarola, and the long series of contests here waged against temporal and spiritual tyranny. The works of Giotto and Domenico Ghirlandajo are likewise to be found in the monastery, and there also miniature pictures of the most flourishing pe- riod of art may be seen ornamenting the books of the choir. Every historian who has written upon Florence has taken care not to omit San Marco and its inhabitants. We are glad to announce that a society of artists at Florence has undertaken to give as wide a publicity as possible to the noblest productions of art in this. monastery. A former work by the same men is a good in- dication of what may now be expected from them. Some years since they published copies of the most important pictures from the collection of the Florentine Academy of Art. They gave sixty prints with explana- tions. Among engravings from galleries this was one of the best, containing in moderate compass a history of Tuscan art from Ci- mabue to Andrea dcl Sarto. The new work, which has long been in preparation but has been delayed by unfavorable circumstances, will now be carried through the press with- out delay. Its title is, San Marco Convcrito dei Padri Predicatori in Fireaze illustrato e inciso priacipalmente nei dipinti del B. Gio- vanni Aagelico. Antonio Parfetti, the suc- cessor of Morghen and Garavaglia as profes- sor of the art of enjaving on copper at the Florentine Academy, has the artistic super- vision of the enterprise. Father Vinceuzo Marehese, to whom the public are indebted for the work well known to all students, on the artists of the Dominican order, is to fur- nish a history of the monastery, a biography of Fra Angelico, together with explanations of the engravings. Everything is thus in the most capable hands. The execution of the copperplates leaves nothing to be de 27 sired. The draughtsmen and engravers hav- ing had the best preparatory practice in the above-mentioned series from the Academy, have fully entered into the spirit of the ori- ginals; both outlines and shading are said by the best critics to combine the greatest deli- cacy with exactness, and to reproduce the ex- pression of feeling which is the difficulty in these Florentine works, with tact and truth. As yet they have finished only the smaller frescoes which adorn almost every cell ; but they will soon have ready the larger ones, which will show how this painter, whose sphere was mainly the pious emotions of the soul, was also master of the most thrilling effects. The same is proved by the powerful picture of the Crucifixion in the chapter hall, with its heads so full of expression, a selection from which has just been published by G. B. Noechi, who some years since issued the well-known collection of drawings from the Life of Jesus in the Academy. The im- pression of the frescoes on Chinese paper has been done with the greatest care. Forty plates and forty printed folio sheets will com- plete the work, which is to be put at a mod- erate p rice. These illustrations of San Mar- co will be nniversally welcomed with delight by the admirers of the beautiful, for there the painter who most purely represented Christian art passed the greater part of his~ife, leaving behind him an incomparable mass of the most characteristic and charming creations. Ma. WILLIAM W. STORY, who some time since abandoned a lucrative profession to de- vote himself to art, has recently returned from Rome, where he had been practicing sculp- ture during the past three years. Mr. Story, we understand, has brought home with him to Boston several models of classical subjects, the fruits of his labors abroad, which are spoken of in the highest terms by those who have had the privilege of inspecting them. Mr. Story is the only son of th~ late Justice Story of Massachusetts. Before going abroad he had distinguished himself by some of his attempts at sculpture, one of which was a bust of his father, which he executed in mar- ble. A copy of this work has been purchased or ordered by some of his fathers admirers in London, to be placed in one of the Inns of Court. Mr. Story also made himself known by a volume of miscellaneous poems, published in 1845. It is his intention, we learn, to return to Italy in the spring. LEs BEAUTES DE LA FRANCE 15 the title of a splendid new work now publishing at Paris. It consists of a collection of engravings on steel, representing the principal cities, cathe- drals, public monuments, chateaux, and pic- turesque landscapes of France. Each en- graving is accompanied by four pages of text, giving the complete history of tW edifice or locality represented. What is e .rious about it is that the engravings are matle in London. for what reason we are not informed. 28 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. THE FIRST EXHIBITION of paintings, such as THE FAMILY OF YERNETthe astonishing is now given annually by our academies, was family of Vernetis thus referred to by a Par- at Paris in the year 1699. In September of is correspondent of the Courier and En quirer: that year, at the suggestion of Mansart, the History, probably, does not show another in- first was held in the Louvre. It consisted of stance of so remarkable a descent from father to two hundred and fifty-three paintings, twenty- son, through four generations, of the possession, in four pieces of sculpture, and twenty-nine en- an eminent degree, of a special and rare talent. gravings. The second and last during the Claude Joseph was born in 1714, and was the son reign of Louis XIV. was opened in 1704. That of a distinguished painter qf his day, Antoine Ver- was composed of five hundred and twenty net. He excelled all his contemporaries in sea pie- specimens. During the reign of Louis xv., ces. His son, Antoine Charles Horace Vernet, was, after David, one of the first painters of the from 1737, there were held twenty-four expo- empire, excelling especially in battle scenes. His sitions. That of 1767 was remarkable for the Rivoli, Marengo, Austerlitz, Wagram, and his presence of several of the marine pieces of twenty-eight plates illustrative of the campaign of Claude Joseph Vernet. During the reign of Bonaparte in Italy, have secured a very high rep- Louis XVI., from 1775 to 1791 there were nine utation for A. C. H. Vernet. The greatest living expositions. The .Eoratii, one of the master French painterperhaps it may be truly said, pieces of David, figured in that of 1785. His the greatest painter of the dayis Horace Vernet first pieces had appeared in that of 1782. The son of the last named. He was born in 1789 in the Louvre He like former Republic, too, upon stated occasions and is , his father, excels in battle scenes remarkable for the vivacity and boldness of exposed the works of the artists forming the his conceptions. He is now covering the walls of general commune of the arts. It was in these the historic gallery at Versailles with canvas that David acquired his celebrity as a painter which will cause him to descend to posterity as the which alone saved his head from the revolu- greatest of his family. None of your readers who tionary axe. The Paris exhibition will this have visited Versailles, but have stood before and year commence on the fifteenth of December. admired till the picture seemed almost reality, his living representations of recent military events in Africa. His last admirable picture of Louis Napo- leon on horiebaclc will, it is stated, be one of the greatest attractions of the approaching exposition.~~ THE LARGE5T 5PECIMEN OF ENAMEL PAINTING probably in the world, has recently been com- pleted by Kl6ber and Martens at Berlin.. It is four and a half feet high, and eight feet broad, and it is intended for the castle church at Wittenberg. The subject is Christ on the Cross, and at his feet, on the right, stands Lu- ther holding an open bible and looking up to the Savior; and, on the left, Melanethon, the faithful cooperator of the great reformer. The tombs of both are in this church, and it is known that to those who, after the capture of the town, desired to destroy these tombs, the emperor, Charles V., answered, I war against the living, not against the dead ! It was to the portal of this church that Luther affixed the famous protest against indulgences which occasioned the first movement of the Reformation. The king has caused two doors to be cast in bronze, with this protest inscribed on them, so that it will now be seen there in imperishable characters. THE original portrait of SIR FRANCIS DRAKE wearing the jewel around his neck which Queen Elizabeth gave him, is now in London for the purpose of being copied for the Unit- ed Service Club. Sir T. T. F. E. Drake, to whom it belongs, carried to London at the same time, for the inspection of the curious in such matters, the original jewel, which, beyond the interest of its associations with Elizabeth and Drake, is valuable as a work of art. On the outer case is a carving by Valerlo Belli, called Valerio Vincentino, of a black man kneeling to a white. This is not mentioned by Walpole in his account of Vin- centino. Within is a capital and well-pre- served miniature of Queen Elizabeth, by Isaac Oliver, set round with diamonds and pearls. M. LEUTZE is expected home from Germany in the spring. He left Philadelphia, the last time, nearly ten years ago. He will accompa- ny his great picture of Washington crossing the Delaware. PowERss statue of CALHOUN. with the left arm broken off by the incompe- tent persons who at various times were en- gaged in attempting to recover it, upon being removed from the sea under which it had lain nearly three months was found as fresh in tone as when it came from the chisel of the sculptor. It has been placed in the temple prepared for it in Charleston. MR. RANNEY has completed a large picture representing Marion and his Men crossing the Pedee. KAULIIACH, according to a letter from Berlin in the November Art Journal, was to leave that city about the middle of October, in or- der to resume for the winter his duties as Di- rector of the Academy of Munich. The sum which he will receive for his six great frescoes and the ornamental frieze, will be 80,000 thalers (12,0001. sterling) and this is secured to him, as the contract was made before the existence of a constitutional budget. HOMERS OnYssEY furnishes the subjects for a series of frescoes now being executed in one of the royal palaces at Munich. Six halls are devoted to the work; four of them are alread~r finished, sixteen cantos of the poem being illustrated on their walls. The designs are by Schwanthaler, and executed by Hil- tensperger. Between the different frescoes are small landscapes representing natural scenes from the same poem. MUSIC AND THE DRAMA. 29 IF we credit all the accounts of pictures by the old masters, we must believe that they produced as many works as with ordinary en- ergy they could have printed had they lived till 1850. The Journal de Lot et Ga~onne states that in the church of the Mas-dAgenais, Count Eugene de Lonley has discovered, in the sacris- t~, concealed beneath dust and spiders webs, Dying Christ, painted byRubens in 1631. The head of Christ is said to be remarkable for the large style in which it is painted, for draw- ing, color, and vigorous expression. A PICTURE painted on wood, and purchased in 1848 at a public sale in London, where it was sold as the portrait of an Abbess by Le Brozino, has been examined by the Academy of St. Luke at Rome, to whose judgment it was submitted by the purchaser, and unani- mously recognized as the work of Michael Angelo, and as representing the illustrious Marchesa de Pescara, Victoria Colonna. THE NATIONAL ACADEMy OF DESIGN has re- solved, that the entire body of artists in this city should be invited to assemble for social intercourse, in the saloons of the Academy, on the first Wednesday evening of every month, commencing in December, and continuing until the season of the annual exhibition. THE FRENCH PRESIDENT has prescnted to the Museum of the Louvre Davids celebrat- ed painting of Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps. This work was for many years at Bordentown, New Jersey, in possession of Jo- seph Bonaparte. ____ THE Art Journal for November contains an engraving on steel of the marble bust by Mr. Dunham of Jenny Lind. This bust, we be- lieve, was recently sold in New York, by Mr. Putnam, for four hundred dollars. - HERMANS series of pictures called Illustra- tions of German History, which gained..great praise in Southern Germany some two years since, are now being engraved on steel at Munich, and will soon be published. ~n~ir an~ 1~ lUnuirn. THE ASTOR PLACE OPERA WE have watched with interest the at- tempts which have been made for sev- eral years to establish permanently the Ital- ian opera in New York. Although we dis- approve of some of the means which have been used to accomplish this object, yet, upon the whole, those who have been. effi- cient in the matter, both amateurs and art- ists, are entitled to the hearty commendation of our musical world. To the enterprising Maretzek belongs the palm, for his energy, liberality, and discrimination, in bringing forward, in succession, so many great works, and so many artists of superior excellence. No man could have accomplished what has VOL. 11.NO. i.3 been accomplished by Maretzek, without a combination of very rare endowments. Let the public then see to it that one who has done so much for the cultivation and grati- fication of a taste for the most refining and delightful of the arts, does not remain ~unappreciated and unrewarded. Of the last star which has been brought forward by M. Maretzek, the musical criuio of The Ir~- ternational (who has been many years fa- miliar with the performances of the most celebrated artists in London, Paris, St. Pe- tersburgh and Vienna, and who, it is perti- nent to mention, never saw M. Maretzek or Mlle. Parodi except in the orchestra or upon the stage) gives these opinions. As an artist, Parodi ranks among the very best of Europe. Notwithstanding so few years have elapsed since her first appear- ance upon the stage, she has attained a rep- utation second only to that of Grisi and Per- siani. We have often had the pleasure of listening to both of these last-named celeb- rities, in their principal rOles, and have dwelt with rapture upon their soul.stirring repre- sentations. We have also listened to the Norma and the Luerezia Borgia of Parodi, and have been equally delighted and aston- ished. Her excellences may be briefly summed up as follows: With an organ of very great compass and of perfect register. she combines immense power and endurance, and a variety and perfection of intonation unsurpassed by any living artist. When she portrays the softer emotionsaffection, love, or benevolencenothing can be more sweet, pure, and melodious, than her tones; when rage, despair, hate, or jealousy, seize upon her, still is she true to nature, and her notes thrill us to the very soul, by their perfect truthfulness, power, and intensity of expres- sion. If gayety is the theme, no bird carols more blithely than the Italian warbler. What singer can sustain a high or a low tone, or execute a prolonged and varied shake, with more power and accuracy than Parodi? What prima donna can run through the chromatic scale, or daily with difficult caden- zas, full of unique intervals, with more ease and precision than our charming Italian? Who can execute a musical tour de force with more effect than she has so recentl~ done in Norma and Lucrezia? Persiani has acquired her great reputation by husbanding her powers for the purpose of making frequent points, and on this account she is not uniform, but by turn eleetri !ies and tires her audience. She passes through the minor passages, undistinguished from those around her, but in the concerted pieces, and wherever she can introduce a cadenza or a tour deforce, she carries all berore her. Pa- rodi is good everywherein tb dull recita- tive, and in the secondary and unimportant passages. Her magnificent acting. combined with her superb vocalization, eneh~in through the entire opera. Grisi, like Parodi, is always uniform and

MUSIC AND THE DRAMA. 29 IF we credit all the accounts of pictures by the old masters, we must believe that they produced as many works as with ordinary en- ergy they could have printed had they lived till 1850. The Journal de Lot et Ga~onne states that in the church of the Mas-dAgenais, Count Eugene de Lonley has discovered, in the sacris- t~, concealed beneath dust and spiders webs, Dying Christ, painted byRubens in 1631. The head of Christ is said to be remarkable for the large style in which it is painted, for draw- ing, color, and vigorous expression. A PICTURE painted on wood, and purchased in 1848 at a public sale in London, where it was sold as the portrait of an Abbess by Le Brozino, has been examined by the Academy of St. Luke at Rome, to whose judgment it was submitted by the purchaser, and unani- mously recognized as the work of Michael Angelo, and as representing the illustrious Marchesa de Pescara, Victoria Colonna. THE NATIONAL ACADEMy OF DESIGN has re- solved, that the entire body of artists in this city should be invited to assemble for social intercourse, in the saloons of the Academy, on the first Wednesday evening of every month, commencing in December, and continuing until the season of the annual exhibition. THE FRENCH PRESIDENT has prescnted to the Museum of the Louvre Davids celebrat- ed painting of Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps. This work was for many years at Bordentown, New Jersey, in possession of Jo- seph Bonaparte. ____ THE Art Journal for November contains an engraving on steel of the marble bust by Mr. Dunham of Jenny Lind. This bust, we be- lieve, was recently sold in New York, by Mr. Putnam, for four hundred dollars. - HERMANS series of pictures called Illustra- tions of German History, which gained..great praise in Southern Germany some two years since, are now being engraved on steel at Munich, and will soon be published. ~n~ir an~ 1~ lUnuirn. THE ASTOR PLACE OPERA WE have watched with interest the at- tempts which have been made for sev- eral years to establish permanently the Ital- ian opera in New York. Although we dis- approve of some of the means which have been used to accomplish this object, yet, upon the whole, those who have been. effi- cient in the matter, both amateurs and art- ists, are entitled to the hearty commendation of our musical world. To the enterprising Maretzek belongs the palm, for his energy, liberality, and discrimination, in bringing forward, in succession, so many great works, and so many artists of superior excellence. No man could have accomplished what has VOL. 11.NO. i.3 been accomplished by Maretzek, without a combination of very rare endowments. Let the public then see to it that one who has done so much for the cultivation and grati- fication of a taste for the most refining and delightful of the arts, does not remain ~unappreciated and unrewarded. Of the last star which has been brought forward by M. Maretzek, the musical criuio of The Ir~- ternational (who has been many years fa- miliar with the performances of the most celebrated artists in London, Paris, St. Pe- tersburgh and Vienna, and who, it is perti- nent to mention, never saw M. Maretzek or Mlle. Parodi except in the orchestra or upon the stage) gives these opinions. As an artist, Parodi ranks among the very best of Europe. Notwithstanding so few years have elapsed since her first appear- ance upon the stage, she has attained a rep- utation second only to that of Grisi and Per- siani. We have often had the pleasure of listening to both of these last-named celeb- rities, in their principal rOles, and have dwelt with rapture upon their soul.stirring repre- sentations. We have also listened to the Norma and the Luerezia Borgia of Parodi, and have been equally delighted and aston- ished. Her excellences may be briefly summed up as follows: With an organ of very great compass and of perfect register. she combines immense power and endurance, and a variety and perfection of intonation unsurpassed by any living artist. When she portrays the softer emotionsaffection, love, or benevolencenothing can be more sweet, pure, and melodious, than her tones; when rage, despair, hate, or jealousy, seize upon her, still is she true to nature, and her notes thrill us to the very soul, by their perfect truthfulness, power, and intensity of expres- sion. If gayety is the theme, no bird carols more blithely than the Italian warbler. What singer can sustain a high or a low tone, or execute a prolonged and varied shake, with more power and accuracy than Parodi? What prima donna can run through the chromatic scale, or daily with difficult caden- zas, full of unique intervals, with more ease and precision than our charming Italian? Who can execute a musical tour de force with more effect than she has so recentl~ done in Norma and Lucrezia? Persiani has acquired her great reputation by husbanding her powers for the purpose of making frequent points, and on this account she is not uniform, but by turn eleetri !ies and tires her audience. She passes through the minor passages, undistinguished from those around her, but in the concerted pieces, and wherever she can introduce a cadenza or a tour deforce, she carries all berore her. Pa- rodi is good everywherein tb dull recita- tive, and in the secondary and unimportant passages. Her magnificent acting. combined with her superb vocalization, eneh~in through the entire opera. Grisi, like Parodi, is always uniform and 30 THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY. accurate in her representations, and upon the whol~ should be regarded as thequeen of song; but with these exceptions we know of no person who deserves a higher rank as a true artist than Parodi. As yet she is not suffi- ciently understood. She electrifies her hear- ers, and secures their entire sympathies, but they have still to learn that silvery and me- lodious tones, and cool mechanical execution, do not alone constitute a genuine artist or a faultless prima donna. When the public un- derstand how perfectly Parodi identifies her- self with the emotions and passions she has to portray,when they appreciate the im- mense variety of intonations with which she illustrates her characters, and the earnestness and intensity with which she throws her whole nature into all she doesthen she will be hailed as the greatest artist ever on this continent, and one of the greatest in the world. MRS. E. OAKES SMITHS new tragedy called The Roman Tribute, has been produced in Philadelphia for several nights in succes- sion, with very decided success. The leading character in this play, a noble old Roman, is quite an original creation. He is represented as a mixture of antique patriotism, heroic valor, sublime fidelity, and stern resolution, tinged with a beautiful coloring of romance which softens and relieves his more command- ing virtues. Several feminine characters of singular loveliness are introduced. The pla~y abounds in scenes of deep passion and thrill- ing pathos, while its chaste elegance of lan- guage equally adapts it for the closet or the stage. It was brought out with great splen- dor of costume, scenery. proscenium, and the other usual accessories of stage effect, and presented one of the most gorgeous spectacles of the season. We are gratified to learn that the dramatic talent of this richly-gifted lady, concerning which we have before expressed ourselves in terms of high encomium, has re- ceived such a brilliant illustration from the test of stage experiment. Mrs. Oakes Smiths admirable play of Jacob Leisler will proba- bly be acted in New York during the season. LEIGH HUNT UPON G. P. R. JAMES. I HAIL every fresh publication of James, thou h I half know what ho is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings out of e d materials. I look on him as I look on a musi Aan famous for variations. I am gratef il for his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularl1 varied and vivid landscapes, for his painting women at once lady-like and loving (a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at nee beautiful and well-bred, and for the solac which all this has afforded me, sometimes ~er and over again, in illness and in convale~ cence, when I required interest without vi.Aence, and entertainment at once animated and mild HERR HECKER DESCRIBED BY MAD- AME BLAZE DE BURY. WE have heretofore given in the Interna- tional some account of Madame Blaze de Bury, a~nd have made some extracts from her piquant and otherwise remarkable book, Germania.* Looking it over we find con- siderable information respecting Herr Hecker, who, since his unfortunate attempt to revo- lutionize Germany, has lived in the United States, being now, we believe, a farmer some- where in the West. According to the adven- turous Baroness, Hecker was the first man in Germany to declare for revolution. He was born, near Mannheim, in 1811; he took a doctors degree in the University of Heidelberg, followed the profession of the law, and w~is elected a member of the Lower House in his 31st year. Thenceforth he was active in opposition. He possessed all the chief attri- butes of a popular leader, and his person was graceful and commanding, his temperament ardent, his eloquence impassioned. Although the Grand Duke Leopold was the gentlest and most paternal of sovereigns, according to Madame de Bury, still there were many radical defects in the constitution of Baden. Against these defects Hecker waged war, and with some success, which instigated him to further efforts against the government. At length he was beaten on a motion to stop the supplies, and he retired into France disgusted with his countrymen. After some time he returned impregnated with the reddest re- publicanism. He found sympathy in Baden, and when the revolution broke out in Paris, he resolved to raise the standard of Republic- ism in Germany. In April, 1848, he set out for Constance, with four drummers and eight hundred Badeners. He and they~ extravagant- ly dressed and armed, proceeded unopposed, singing Reeker-songs, and comparing their progress to the march of the French over the Simplon! They arrived at Constance, and called the people to arms, but the peopln wouki, not come. The slouched hats and huge sabers of the patriots did not produce the de- sired impression, and then it rained. In short, the movement failed. Finally, having beaten up all the most disaffected parts of the coun- try for recruits, Reeker arrived at Kandern with twelve hundred men. Here Gagern met him with a few hundred regular troops. Reeker attempted to gain them over with the cry of German brotherhood, but Gagern kept them steady until he fell;mortally wound- ed, on the bridge. Then there was a slight skirmish; both parties retreated, and act the first of the drama closed. Meanwhile the Vor Parlament had been summoned, and the National Assembly of Frankfort had met in the Paulskircke, to the number of four hundred de- puties; their self-constituted task was simply to reform all Germany. Frankfort was stirring and joyous upon this occasion, as it had used to be in former days, when within its walb~ Germania: its Courts, Camps, arid People. By tho Baroness Blaze de Bury. London: Colburn.

30 THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY. accurate in her representations, and upon the whol~ should be regarded as thequeen of song; but with these exceptions we know of no person who deserves a higher rank as a true artist than Parodi. As yet she is not suffi- ciently understood. She electrifies her hear- ers, and secures their entire sympathies, but they have still to learn that silvery and me- lodious tones, and cool mechanical execution, do not alone constitute a genuine artist or a faultless prima donna. When the public un- derstand how perfectly Parodi identifies her- self with the emotions and passions she has to portray,when they appreciate the im- mense variety of intonations with which she illustrates her characters, and the earnestness and intensity with which she throws her whole nature into all she doesthen she will be hailed as the greatest artist ever on this continent, and one of the greatest in the world. MRS. E. OAKES SMITHS new tragedy called The Roman Tribute, has been produced in Philadelphia for several nights in succes- sion, with very decided success. The leading character in this play, a noble old Roman, is quite an original creation. He is represented as a mixture of antique patriotism, heroic valor, sublime fidelity, and stern resolution, tinged with a beautiful coloring of romance which softens and relieves his more command- ing virtues. Several feminine characters of singular loveliness are introduced. The pla~y abounds in scenes of deep passion and thrill- ing pathos, while its chaste elegance of lan- guage equally adapts it for the closet or the stage. It was brought out with great splen- dor of costume, scenery. proscenium, and the other usual accessories of stage effect, and presented one of the most gorgeous spectacles of the season. We are gratified to learn that the dramatic talent of this richly-gifted lady, concerning which we have before expressed ourselves in terms of high encomium, has re- ceived such a brilliant illustration from the test of stage experiment. Mrs. Oakes Smiths admirable play of Jacob Leisler will proba- bly be acted in New York during the season. LEIGH HUNT UPON G. P. R. JAMES. I HAIL every fresh publication of James, thou h I half know what ho is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings out of e d materials. I look on him as I look on a musi Aan famous for variations. I am gratef il for his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularl1 varied and vivid landscapes, for his painting women at once lady-like and loving (a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at nee beautiful and well-bred, and for the solac which all this has afforded me, sometimes ~er and over again, in illness and in convale~ cence, when I required interest without vi.Aence, and entertainment at once animated and mild HERR HECKER DESCRIBED BY MAD- AME BLAZE DE BURY. WE have heretofore given in the Interna- tional some account of Madame Blaze de Bury, a~nd have made some extracts from her piquant and otherwise remarkable book, Germania.* Looking it over we find con- siderable information respecting Herr Hecker, who, since his unfortunate attempt to revo- lutionize Germany, has lived in the United States, being now, we believe, a farmer some- where in the West. According to the adven- turous Baroness, Hecker was the first man in Germany to declare for revolution. He was born, near Mannheim, in 1811; he took a doctors degree in the University of Heidelberg, followed the profession of the law, and w~is elected a member of the Lower House in his 31st year. Thenceforth he was active in opposition. He possessed all the chief attri- butes of a popular leader, and his person was graceful and commanding, his temperament ardent, his eloquence impassioned. Although the Grand Duke Leopold was the gentlest and most paternal of sovereigns, according to Madame de Bury, still there were many radical defects in the constitution of Baden. Against these defects Hecker waged war, and with some success, which instigated him to further efforts against the government. At length he was beaten on a motion to stop the supplies, and he retired into France disgusted with his countrymen. After some time he returned impregnated with the reddest re- publicanism. He found sympathy in Baden, and when the revolution broke out in Paris, he resolved to raise the standard of Republic- ism in Germany. In April, 1848, he set out for Constance, with four drummers and eight hundred Badeners. He and they~ extravagant- ly dressed and armed, proceeded unopposed, singing Reeker-songs, and comparing their progress to the march of the French over the Simplon! They arrived at Constance, and called the people to arms, but the peopln wouki, not come. The slouched hats and huge sabers of the patriots did not produce the de- sired impression, and then it rained. In short, the movement failed. Finally, having beaten up all the most disaffected parts of the coun- try for recruits, Reeker arrived at Kandern with twelve hundred men. Here Gagern met him with a few hundred regular troops. Reeker attempted to gain them over with the cry of German brotherhood, but Gagern kept them steady until he fell;mortally wound- ed, on the bridge. Then there was a slight skirmish; both parties retreated, and act the first of the drama closed. Meanwhile the Vor Parlament had been summoned, and the National Assembly of Frankfort had met in the Paulskircke, to the number of four hundred de- puties; their self-constituted task was simply to reform all Germany. Frankfort was stirring and joyous upon this occasion, as it had used to be in former days, when within its walb~ Germania: its Courts, Camps, arid People. By tho Baroness Blaze de Bury. London: Colburn.

30 THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY. accurate in her representations, and upon the whol~ should be regarded as thequeen of song; but with these exceptions we know of no person who deserves a higher rank as a true artist than Parodi. As yet she is not suffi- ciently understood. She electrifies her hear- ers, and secures their entire sympathies, but they have still to learn that silvery and me- lodious tones, and cool mechanical execution, do not alone constitute a genuine artist or a faultless prima donna. When the public un- derstand how perfectly Parodi identifies her- self with the emotions and passions she has to portray,when they appreciate the im- mense variety of intonations with which she illustrates her characters, and the earnestness and intensity with which she throws her whole nature into all she doesthen she will be hailed as the greatest artist ever on this continent, and one of the greatest in the world. MRS. E. OAKES SMITHS new tragedy called The Roman Tribute, has been produced in Philadelphia for several nights in succes- sion, with very decided success. The leading character in this play, a noble old Roman, is quite an original creation. He is represented as a mixture of antique patriotism, heroic valor, sublime fidelity, and stern resolution, tinged with a beautiful coloring of romance which softens and relieves his more command- ing virtues. Several feminine characters of singular loveliness are introduced. The pla~y abounds in scenes of deep passion and thrill- ing pathos, while its chaste elegance of lan- guage equally adapts it for the closet or the stage. It was brought out with great splen- dor of costume, scenery. proscenium, and the other usual accessories of stage effect, and presented one of the most gorgeous spectacles of the season. We are gratified to learn that the dramatic talent of this richly-gifted lady, concerning which we have before expressed ourselves in terms of high encomium, has re- ceived such a brilliant illustration from the test of stage experiment. Mrs. Oakes Smiths admirable play of Jacob Leisler will proba- bly be acted in New York during the season. LEIGH HUNT UPON G. P. R. JAMES. I HAIL every fresh publication of James, thou h I half know what ho is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings out of e d materials. I look on him as I look on a musi Aan famous for variations. I am gratef il for his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularl1 varied and vivid landscapes, for his painting women at once lady-like and loving (a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at nee beautiful and well-bred, and for the solac which all this has afforded me, sometimes ~er and over again, in illness and in convale~ cence, when I required interest without vi.Aence, and entertainment at once animated and mild HERR HECKER DESCRIBED BY MAD- AME BLAZE DE BURY. WE have heretofore given in the Interna- tional some account of Madame Blaze de Bury, a~nd have made some extracts from her piquant and otherwise remarkable book, Germania.* Looking it over we find con- siderable information respecting Herr Hecker, who, since his unfortunate attempt to revo- lutionize Germany, has lived in the United States, being now, we believe, a farmer some- where in the West. According to the adven- turous Baroness, Hecker was the first man in Germany to declare for revolution. He was born, near Mannheim, in 1811; he took a doctors degree in the University of Heidelberg, followed the profession of the law, and w~is elected a member of the Lower House in his 31st year. Thenceforth he was active in opposition. He possessed all the chief attri- butes of a popular leader, and his person was graceful and commanding, his temperament ardent, his eloquence impassioned. Although the Grand Duke Leopold was the gentlest and most paternal of sovereigns, according to Madame de Bury, still there were many radical defects in the constitution of Baden. Against these defects Hecker waged war, and with some success, which instigated him to further efforts against the government. At length he was beaten on a motion to stop the supplies, and he retired into France disgusted with his countrymen. After some time he returned impregnated with the reddest re- publicanism. He found sympathy in Baden, and when the revolution broke out in Paris, he resolved to raise the standard of Republic- ism in Germany. In April, 1848, he set out for Constance, with four drummers and eight hundred Badeners. He and they~ extravagant- ly dressed and armed, proceeded unopposed, singing Reeker-songs, and comparing their progress to the march of the French over the Simplon! They arrived at Constance, and called the people to arms, but the peopln wouki, not come. The slouched hats and huge sabers of the patriots did not produce the de- sired impression, and then it rained. In short, the movement failed. Finally, having beaten up all the most disaffected parts of the coun- try for recruits, Reeker arrived at Kandern with twelve hundred men. Here Gagern met him with a few hundred regular troops. Reeker attempted to gain them over with the cry of German brotherhood, but Gagern kept them steady until he fell;mortally wound- ed, on the bridge. Then there was a slight skirmish; both parties retreated, and act the first of the drama closed. Meanwhile the Vor Parlament had been summoned, and the National Assembly of Frankfort had met in the Paulskircke, to the number of four hundred de- puties; their self-constituted task was simply to reform all Germany. Frankfort was stirring and joyous upon this occasion, as it had used to be in former days, when within its walb~ Germania: its Courts, Camps, arid People. By tho Baroness Blaze de Bury. London: Colburn. ORIGINAL POETRY. 31 was elected the Head of the Holy Roman Em- pire. Bells were rung, cannon fired, trium- p hal arches raised, green boughs and rain- bow-colored banners waved, flowers strewn in the streets, tapestries hung from windows and balconies, hands stretched forth in greet- ing, voices strained to call down blessings; all that popular enthusiasm could invent was there, and one immense cry of rejoicing sa- luted what was fondly termed the Regene- ration of Germany. The tumults, the misery, the bloodshed, and the disappointment that followed, until the Rum p of this magnilo- quent Parliament sought shelter at Stutt- gnrdt, are fresh in our memory. Hecker, having done his utmost to agitate his country, and having failed to inspire a dastard populace with the spirit of the ancient Roman people, as Madame expresses it, he fled to America. But his name was still a tower of strength to his Red brethren and the Freicorps of the Schwartzwald and the Rhine. In Western Germany a year ago last summer his return was enthusiastically expected by the revolutionary army. When Hecker comes, said they, we shall be invincible. He came: his followers crowded round him and implored him at once to lead them on to victory! Victory be dd, was the reply of the returned exile; go home to your plows and your vines an d your wives and children, and leave me to attend to mine. Hecker had only come to Europe for his family, and he returned almost immediately to America. Meanwhile the war blazed up for a little while and then expired, leaving behind it the Deutsche Verwirrureg,* as it now presents itself in Germaniat ~f~rigitrn{ 4~nrtr~. THE GRIEF OF THE WEEPING WILLOW. ROUND my cottage porch are wreathing Creeping vines, their perfume breathing To the balmy breeze of spring. Near it is a streamlet flowing, Where old shady trees are growing; But of one alone I sing. Oer the water sadly bending With the wave its leaflets blending, Stands a lonely willow tree. And the shadow seems eerlasting, That its boughs are always casting Oer the tiny wavelets glee. Oft Ive wondered what the sorrow, That neer know a gladsome morrow, In the mourners heart was sealed; But no bitter wail of sadness, Nor low tone of chastened gladness, Had the willow tree revealed. Literally, the Geissan entanglement. Hecker seems to have been a sincere enthusiast; and it is always observed by his friends that he renounced ease and comfort for the cause that he espoused. We append a single verse from one of the Hecker songs that were in 1849 in the mouth of every Badish repub- lican Look at Hecker wealth.renouncing, Oer his head the red plume waves, Tb awakening peoples will announcing, For the tyrants blood he craves! Mud boots thick and solid wears he, All round Heckers banner come, And march at sound of Heckers dssss,s. When the breeze its leaves was lifting; When the snows were round it drifting, Seemed it still to grieve the same. Round its trunk a vine is twining, But its tendrils too seem pining For a hand to tend and claim. Type of love that bears lifes testing, They earths rudest storms are breasting; Harmed notso together borne; And like girl to lover clinging, Passing time is only bringing Strength for every coming morn. Of one summer eve I ponder, When I musing chanced to wander By the streamlets margin bright. Moonbeams thro the leaves were streaming, And each leaping wave was gleaming With a paly, astral light. Oer me hung the weeping willow; Mossy bank was balmy pillow, And in slumber sweet I dreamed: Dreamed of music round me gushing, That as winds oer harp.strings rushing, Eer like angels whisper seemed. Oh, those low.breathed tones of sorrow; Would that mortal tongue could borrow Power to sing their sweetness oer Here and there a sentence gleaming, Soon my spirit caught the meaning That the mournful numbers bore. Sleeper, who beneath my shade, Hath thy couch of dreaming made; Listen as 1 breathe to thee All my mournful history. Childhood, youth, and womanhood, Have beneath my branches stood; And of each as pass thy slumbers, Speak my melancholy numbers. Of a fair.haired child I tell, Who, ere evening shadows fell, Many a bright and gladsome hour Passed mid haunt of bird and flower; Oer the grassy mend ow straying, By the stream lets margin playing, Free from thoughts of care and sadness, Full of life, and joy, and fladness. Where my branches low y hung Oft her fairy form hath swung, And methinks her laugh I hear, Gaily ringlug sweet and clear, As with adingli~ht of day, Tripped her dancsng feet away. With many smiles and fewer tears, Thus flew childhoods sunny years. Soon she in my shadow stood, On the verge of womanhood: Oer her pain and thoughtful brow Sunny tress was braided now; Softer tones her lips were breathing, Calmer smiles around them wreathing, Than in childhoods gayer day, Sported from those lips away. Often with her came another; But more tender than a brother Seemed he in the care of her Who was his perfect worshiper. His the hand that trained the vine Round my mossy trunk to twine Twas the parting gift of one, Whom no more I looked upon. Memories of bygone hours Seemed to her its fragile flowers. And each bursting, fragrant blossom Wore she on hnr gentle bosom, Till like them in sad decay, Pasased her maiden life away. Once, and only once again, To the trysti ng place she came: Sad and tearful was her eye. And I heard a mournful sigh, Breathed from out the parted lips, Whose smile seemed quenched by griefs eclipse. Leaf and flower were fading fast, Neath the autumns chilling blast. And all nature seemed to be Kindred with her misery. Winter passedbut springs warm sun Brought not back the long.missed one. And though vainly, still I yearn For that stricken ones return. HE5MSJ5~ - Rt,,erii& ~ Nov. 10, 1850.

ORIGINAL POETRY. 31 was elected the Head of the Holy Roman Em- pire. Bells were rung, cannon fired, trium- p hal arches raised, green boughs and rain- bow-colored banners waved, flowers strewn in the streets, tapestries hung from windows and balconies, hands stretched forth in greet- ing, voices strained to call down blessings; all that popular enthusiasm could invent was there, and one immense cry of rejoicing sa- luted what was fondly termed the Regene- ration of Germany. The tumults, the misery, the bloodshed, and the disappointment that followed, until the Rum p of this magnilo- quent Parliament sought shelter at Stutt- gnrdt, are fresh in our memory. Hecker, having done his utmost to agitate his country, and having failed to inspire a dastard populace with the spirit of the ancient Roman people, as Madame expresses it, he fled to America. But his name was still a tower of strength to his Red brethren and the Freicorps of the Schwartzwald and the Rhine. In Western Germany a year ago last summer his return was enthusiastically expected by the revolutionary army. When Hecker comes, said they, we shall be invincible. He came: his followers crowded round him and implored him at once to lead them on to victory! Victory be dd, was the reply of the returned exile; go home to your plows and your vines an d your wives and children, and leave me to attend to mine. Hecker had only come to Europe for his family, and he returned almost immediately to America. Meanwhile the war blazed up for a little while and then expired, leaving behind it the Deutsche Verwirrureg,* as it now presents itself in Germaniat ~f~rigitrn{ 4~nrtr~. THE GRIEF OF THE WEEPING WILLOW. ROUND my cottage porch are wreathing Creeping vines, their perfume breathing To the balmy breeze of spring. Near it is a streamlet flowing, Where old shady trees are growing; But of one alone I sing. Oer the water sadly bending With the wave its leaflets blending, Stands a lonely willow tree. And the shadow seems eerlasting, That its boughs are always casting Oer the tiny wavelets glee. Oft Ive wondered what the sorrow, That neer know a gladsome morrow, In the mourners heart was sealed; But no bitter wail of sadness, Nor low tone of chastened gladness, Had the willow tree revealed. Literally, the Geissan entanglement. Hecker seems to have been a sincere enthusiast; and it is always observed by his friends that he renounced ease and comfort for the cause that he espoused. We append a single verse from one of the Hecker songs that were in 1849 in the mouth of every Badish repub- lican Look at Hecker wealth.renouncing, Oer his head the red plume waves, Tb awakening peoples will announcing, For the tyrants blood he craves! Mud boots thick and solid wears he, All round Heckers banner come, And march at sound of Heckers dssss,s. When the breeze its leaves was lifting; When the snows were round it drifting, Seemed it still to grieve the same. Round its trunk a vine is twining, But its tendrils too seem pining For a hand to tend and claim. Type of love that bears lifes testing, They earths rudest storms are breasting; Harmed notso together borne; And like girl to lover clinging, Passing time is only bringing Strength for every coming morn. Of one summer eve I ponder, When I musing chanced to wander By the streamlets margin bright. Moonbeams thro the leaves were streaming, And each leaping wave was gleaming With a paly, astral light. Oer me hung the weeping willow; Mossy bank was balmy pillow, And in slumber sweet I dreamed: Dreamed of music round me gushing, That as winds oer harp.strings rushing, Eer like angels whisper seemed. Oh, those low.breathed tones of sorrow; Would that mortal tongue could borrow Power to sing their sweetness oer Here and there a sentence gleaming, Soon my spirit caught the meaning That the mournful numbers bore. Sleeper, who beneath my shade, Hath thy couch of dreaming made; Listen as 1 breathe to thee All my mournful history. Childhood, youth, and womanhood, Have beneath my branches stood; And of each as pass thy slumbers, Speak my melancholy numbers. Of a fair.haired child I tell, Who, ere evening shadows fell, Many a bright and gladsome hour Passed mid haunt of bird and flower; Oer the grassy mend ow straying, By the stream lets margin playing, Free from thoughts of care and sadness, Full of life, and joy, and fladness. Where my branches low y hung Oft her fairy form hath swung, And methinks her laugh I hear, Gaily ringlug sweet and clear, As with adingli~ht of day, Tripped her dancsng feet away. With many smiles and fewer tears, Thus flew childhoods sunny years. Soon she in my shadow stood, On the verge of womanhood: Oer her pain and thoughtful brow Sunny tress was braided now; Softer tones her lips were breathing, Calmer smiles around them wreathing, Than in childhoods gayer day, Sported from those lips away. Often with her came another; But more tender than a brother Seemed he in the care of her Who was his perfect worshiper. His the hand that trained the vine Round my mossy trunk to twine Twas the parting gift of one, Whom no more I looked upon. Memories of bygone hours Seemed to her its fragile flowers. And each bursting, fragrant blossom Wore she on hnr gentle bosom, Till like them in sad decay, Pasased her maiden life away. Once, and only once again, To the trysti ng place she came: Sad and tearful was her eye. And I heard a mournful sigh, Breathed from out the parted lips, Whose smile seemed quenched by griefs eclipse. Leaf and flower were fading fast, Neath the autumns chilling blast. And all nature seemed to be Kindred with her misery. Winter passedbut springs warm sun Brought not back the long.missed one. And though vainly, still I yearn For that stricken ones return. HE5MSJ5~ - Rt,,erii& ~ Nov. 10, 1850. 32 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.* WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. CHAPTER 1. ET me take you into an old-fashioned iJeountry house, built by architects of the early reign of James the First. It had all the peculiaritiesI might almost say the oddities of that particular epoch in the building art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only cuows what rooms they ventilated; but their name must have been legion. The windows were not fewer in number, and much more irregular: for the chimneys were gathered together in some sort of symmetrical arrange- ment, while the windows were scattered all over the various faces of the building, with no a p parent arrangement at all. Heaven knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were intend- ed to light, for they very little served the pur- pose, being narrow, and obstructed by the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age. Each too had its label of stone superincumbent, and rojecting from the brick-work, which might eave the peric of construction somewhat doubtfulbut the gables decided the fact. They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected indetached masses, and joined together asbest the builder could; so that there were no less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west, with four right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were surmountedtop- ped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of steps, coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the architect had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or anothcr, have to climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his place upon the crowning stone. It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees, as if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three sides, leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man amidst a gay society. On the fourth side, indeed, an avenuethat is to say, two rows of old elmscrept cau- tiously up to it in a winding and sinuous course, as if afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at the distance of some five or six hundred yards, clumps of old trees, beeches and ever- green oaks, and things of somber foliage, dot- ted the park, only enlivened by here and there a herd of deer. Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market, a peasant, or a game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown expanse of grass, and but rarely Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerks office of the Flo. trif,t Court of the United States, for the Southern Diotrict of New York. deviating from a beaten path, which led from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all somber and monotonous: the very spirit of dullness seemed to hang over it; and the clouds themselvesthe rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the sky, and playmates of the wind and sunbeamappeared to grow dull and tardy, as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to proceed with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the pres- ence of stern old age. Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior, reader, and into one particular roomnot the largest and the finest; but one of the highest. lt was a little oblong chamber, with one window, which was ornamentedthe only ornament the chamber hadwith a decent curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the door, and between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A walnut-tree table and two or three chairs were near the window. In one corner stood a washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another a chest of drawers; and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven into the wall, two or three shelves of the same material as the table, each supporting a row of books, which by the dark ~lack covers, brown edges, and thumbed corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some antiquity and much use. At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you look over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin. Yet he reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the dictionary. It is the Cato Major of Cicero. Ileaven! what a book for a child like that to read! Boyhood studying old age! But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more closely. See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it. Look at that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes. Remark those eyesthemselves, withtheir deep eager thought; and then the gleam in themsomething more than earnestness, and less than wildnessa thirsty sort of exprcssion, as if they drank in that they rested on, and yet were unsated. The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to support the heavy weight of thought with which the brain is burdened. He marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in the eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall, venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach him. He reads on, till the old mans Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and his hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts uplooks around but says nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely cut lip; but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the face that bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in heart ~ It is clear that the old manthe old cler- gyman, for so lie evidently is-has no very

32 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.* WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. CHAPTER 1. ET me take you into an old-fashioned iJeountry house, built by architects of the early reign of James the First. It had all the peculiaritiesI might almost say the oddities of that particular epoch in the building art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only cuows what rooms they ventilated; but their name must have been legion. The windows were not fewer in number, and much more irregular: for the chimneys were gathered together in some sort of symmetrical arrange- ment, while the windows were scattered all over the various faces of the building, with no a p parent arrangement at all. Heaven knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were intend- ed to light, for they very little served the pur- pose, being narrow, and obstructed by the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age. Each too had its label of stone superincumbent, and rojecting from the brick-work, which might eave the peric of construction somewhat doubtfulbut the gables decided the fact. They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected indetached masses, and joined together asbest the builder could; so that there were no less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west, with four right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were surmountedtop- ped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of steps, coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the architect had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or anothcr, have to climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his place upon the crowning stone. It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees, as if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three sides, leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man amidst a gay society. On the fourth side, indeed, an avenuethat is to say, two rows of old elmscrept cau- tiously up to it in a winding and sinuous course, as if afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at the distance of some five or six hundred yards, clumps of old trees, beeches and ever- green oaks, and things of somber foliage, dot- ted the park, only enlivened by here and there a herd of deer. Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market, a peasant, or a game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown expanse of grass, and but rarely Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerks office of the Flo. trif,t Court of the United States, for the Southern Diotrict of New York. deviating from a beaten path, which led from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all somber and monotonous: the very spirit of dullness seemed to hang over it; and the clouds themselvesthe rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the sky, and playmates of the wind and sunbeamappeared to grow dull and tardy, as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to proceed with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the pres- ence of stern old age. Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior, reader, and into one particular roomnot the largest and the finest; but one of the highest. lt was a little oblong chamber, with one window, which was ornamentedthe only ornament the chamber hadwith a decent curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the door, and between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A walnut-tree table and two or three chairs were near the window. In one corner stood a washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another a chest of drawers; and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven into the wall, two or three shelves of the same material as the table, each supporting a row of books, which by the dark ~lack covers, brown edges, and thumbed corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some antiquity and much use. At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you look over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin. Yet he reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the dictionary. It is the Cato Major of Cicero. Ileaven! what a book for a child like that to read! Boyhood studying old age! But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more closely. See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it. Look at that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes. Remark those eyesthemselves, withtheir deep eager thought; and then the gleam in themsomething more than earnestness, and less than wildnessa thirsty sort of exprcssion, as if they drank in that they rested on, and yet were unsated. The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to support the heavy weight of thought with which the brain is burdened. He marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in the eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall, venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach him. He reads on, till the old mans Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and his hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts uplooks around but says nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely cut lip; but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the face that bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in heart ~ It is clear that the old manthe old cler- gyman, for so lie evidently is-has no very A STORY WITHOUT A NAME. 33 tender nature. Every line of his face forbids the supposition. The expression itself is grave, not to say stern. There is powerful thought about it, but small gentleness. He seems one of those who have been tried and hardened in some one of the many fiery furnaces which the world provides for the test of men of strong minds and strong hearts. There has been much persecution in the land; there have been changes, from the rigid and severe to the light and -frivolousfrom the light and frivolous to the bitter and cruel. There have been tyrants of all shapes and all characters within the last forty years, and fools, and knaves, and madmen, to cry them on in every course of evil. In all these chances and changes, what fixed and rigid mind could us- cape the fangs of persecution and wrong ~ He had known both; but they had changed him little. His was originally an unbending spirit: it grew more tough and stubborn by the habit of resistance; but its original bent was still the same. Fortuneheavens willor his own inclina- tion, had denied him wife or child; and near relation he had none. A friend he had: that boys father, who had sheltered him in evil times, protected him as far as possible against the rage of enemies, and bestowed upon him the small living which afforded him support. lie did his duty therein conscientiously, but with a firm unyielding spirit, adhering to the Calvinistic tenets which he had early received, in spite of the universal falling off of compan- ions and neighbors. He would not have yield- ed an iota to have saved his head. With all his hardness, he had one object of affection, to which all that was geutle in his nature was bent. That object was the boy by whom he now stood, and for whom he had a greatan almost parental regard. Perhaps it was that he thought the lad not very well treated; and, as such had been his own case, there was sympathy in the matter. But be- sides, he had been intrusted with his educa- tion from a very early period, had taken a pleasure in the task, had found his scholar apt, willing, and affectionate, with a sufficient touch of his own character in the boy to make the sympathy strong, and yet sufficient diver- sity to interest and to excite. The old man was tenderer toward him than toward any other being upon earth; and he sometimes feared that his early injunctions to study and perseverance were somewhat too strictly followedeven to the detriment of health. I-Ic often looked with some anxiety at the increasing paleness of the cheek, at the too vivid gleam of the eye, at the eager nerv- ous quivering of the lip, and said within him- self, This is overdone. He did not like to check, after he had en- couragedto draw the rein where he had been using the spur. There is something of vanity in us all, and the sternest is not with- out that share which makes nian shrink from the imputation of error, even when made by his own heart. lie did not choose to think that the lad had needed no urging forward; and yet he would fain have had him relax a little more, and strove at times to make him do so. But the impulse had been given: it had carried the youth over the difficulties and obstacles in the way to knowledge, and now he went on to acquire it, with an eagerness, a thirst, that had something fearful in it. A bent, too, had been given to his mindnay, to his character, partly by the stern uncom- promising character of him to whom his edu- cation had been solely intrusted, partly by his own peculiar situation, and partly by the sub- jects on which his reading had chieflyturned. The stern old Roman of the early republic; the deeds of heroic virtueas virtue was un- derstood by the Romans; the sacrifice of all tender affections, all the sensibilities of our nature to the rigid thought of what is right; the remorseless disregard of feelings implant- ed by God, when opposed to the notion of duties of mans creation, excited his wonder and his admiration, and would have hardened and perverted his heart, had not that heart been naturally full of kindlier affections. As it was, there often existed a strugglea sort of hypothetical strugglein his bosom, be- tween the mind and the heart. He asked himself sometimes, if he could sacrifice any of those he knew and lovedhis father, his mo- ther, his brother, to the good of his country, to some grave duty; and he felt pained and roused to resistance of his own affections when he perceived what a pang it would cost him. Yet his home was not a very hap y one; the kindlier things of domestic life l~ad not gathered green around him. His father was varying and uneven in temper, especially to- ward his second son; sometimes stern and gloomy, sometimes irascible almost to a de- gree of insanity. Generous, brave, and up- right, he was; but every one said, that a wound he had received on the head in the wars, had marvelously increased the infirmi- ties of his temper. The mother, indeed, was full of tenderness and gentleness; and doubtless it was through her veins that the milk of human kindness had found its way into that strange boys heart. But yet she loved her eldest son best, and unfortunately showed it. The brother was a wild, rash, reckless young man, some three years older; fond of the other, yet often pleased to irritate-or at least to try, for he seldom succeeded. He was the favorite, however, somewhat spoiled, much in- dulged; and whatever was done, was done for him. He was the person most considered in the house; his were the parties of pleasure his the advantages. Even now the family was absent, in order to let him see the capital of his native land, to open his mind to the general world, to show hun life on a more ex- tended scale than could be done in the country; and his younger brother was left at home, to pursue his studies in dull solitude. Yet he did not coniplain; there was not 34 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. even a murmur at his heart. He thought it will flag and the spirit droop. I am going for all quite right. His destiny was before him, a walk. Come with me; and we will con- He was to form his fortune for himself, by his verse of hi~h things by the way. own abilities, his own learning, his own ex- Study is my task and my duty, sir, repli- ertions. It was needful he should study, and ed the boy; my father tells me so, you have his greatest ambition for the time was to en- told me so often, and as for health I fear not. ter with distinction at the University; his I seem refreshed when I get up from reading, brightest thoughtsof pleasure, the comparative especially such books as this. It is only whea freedom and independence of a collegiate life. I have been out long, riding or walking, that Not that he did not find it dull; that gloomy I feel tired. old house, inhabited by none but himself and A proof that you should ride and walk the a few servants. Sometimes it seemed to op- more, replied the old man. Come, put on press him with a sense of terrible loneliness; your hat and cloak. You shall read no more sometimes it drove him to think of the strange to-day. There are other thoughts before you; difference of human destinies, and why it you know, Philip, he continued, that by should be thatbecause it had pleased Heav- reading we get but materials, which we must en one man should be born a little sooner or us~ to build lip an edifice in our own minds. a little later than another, or in some other If all our thoughts are derived from others p lacesuch a wide interval should be placed gone before us, we are but robbers of the dead, between the different degrees of happiness and live upon labors not our own. and fortune. Elder sons, replied the boy, with a laugh, He felt, however, that such speculations who take an inheritance for which they toil- were not good; they led him beyond his depth; ed not. he involved himself in subtilties more com- Something worse than that, replied the mon in those days than in ours; he lost his clergyman, or we gather what we do not way; and with passionate eagerness flew to employ rightlywhat we have every right to his books, to drive the mists and shadows from possess, but upon the sole condition of using his mind. Such had been the case even now; well. Each man possessed of intellect is bound and there he sat, unconscious that a complete to make his own mind, not to have it made for and total change was coming over his destiny, him; to adapt it to the times and circumstan- Oh, the dark workshop of Fate! what ces in which he lives, squaring it by just rules, strange things go on therein, affecting human and employing the best materials he can find. misery and joy, repairing or breaking shackles We~l,sir,~ am ready, replied the youth, for the mind, the means of carrying us for- after a moment of deep thought; and he and ward in a glorious cause, the relentless weights his old preceptor issued forth together down which hurry us down to destruction! While the long staircase, with the slant sunshine you sit there and readwhile I sit here and pouring through the windows upon the une- write, who can say what strange alterations, qual steps, and illuminating the motes in the what combinations in the most discrepant thick atmos p here we breathe, like fancy bright- things may be going on aroundwithout our enin& the idle floating things which surround will, without our knowledgeto alter the us in this world of vanity. whole course of our future existence ~ Doubt- They walked across the park toward the less, could man make his own fate, he would stile. The youth was silent, for the old mans mar it; and the impossibility of doing so is last words seemed to have awakened a train good. The freedom of his own actions is suf- of thoughlVultogether new. ficient, nay, somewhat too much; and it is His companion was silent also; for there well for the world, aye, and for himselfthat was something working within him which there is an overruling Providence which so embarrassed and distressed him. He had shapes circumstances around him, that he something to tell that young man, and he cannot go beyond his limit, flutter as he will. knew not how to tell it. For the first time There is something in that old mans face in his life he perceived, from the difficulty he more than is common with hima deeper experienced in deciding upen his course, how gravity even than ordinary~ yet mingled with little he really knew of his pupils character. a tenderness that is rare. There is something He had dealt much with his mind, and that like hesitation, tooay, hesitation even in him he comprehended wellits depth, its clear- who during a stormy life has seldom known ness, its powers; but his heart and disposition what it is to doubt or to deliberate: a man of he had not scanned so accurately. He had a strict and ready preparation, whose fixed, surmise, indeed, that there were feelings clear, definite mind was always prompt and strong and intense within; but he thought competent to act. that the mind ruled them with habitual sway Come, Philip, my son, he said, laying his that nothing could shake. Yet he paused and hand, as I have stated, on the lads shoulder, pondered; and once he stopped, as if about to enough of study for to-day. You read too speak, but went on again and said nothing. hard. You run before my precepts. The At length, as they approached the park body must have thought as well as the mind; wall, he laid his finger on his temple, mutter- and if you let the whole summer day pass ing to himself, Yes, the quicker the better. without exercise, you will soon find that under Tis well to mingle two passions. Surprise the weight of corporeal sickness the intellect wfll share with grlefif much grief there be. A STO~Y WITHOUT A NAME. 35 Then turning tothe young man, he said, Phil- others. To say the truth, he was but little ip, I think you loved your brother Arthur P inchned to believe that any one who differed He spoke loudly, and in plain distinct tones; from him had conscientious views or sincere but the lad did not seem to remark the past op~ions at all; and certainly the demeanor, tense he used. Certainly, sir, he said, I if not the conduct, of the worthy Colonel did love him dearly. What of that ? not betoken any fixed notion or strong princi- Then you will be very happy to hear, ples. He was a man of the Courtgay, live- replied the old man, that he has been singu- ly, even witty, making ~ jest of most things, larly fortunateI mean that he has been re- however grave and worthy of reverence. moved from earth and all its allurements He played high, generally won, was shrewd, the vanities, the sins, the follies of the world complaisant, and particular in his deference in which he seemed destined to move, before to kings and prime ministers. Moreover, he he could be corrupted by its evils, or his spirit was of the very highest of the High Church receive a taint from its vices. p artyso high, indeed, that those who be- The young man turned and gazed on him longed to the Low Church party, fancied he with inquiring eyes, as if still he did not com- must soon topple over into Catholicism. prehend what he meant. In truth, I believe, had the heart of the He was drowned, said the clergyman, Colonel been very strictly examined, it would on Saturday last, while sailing with a party have been found very empty of anything like of pleasure on the Thames ; and Philip fell real religion. But then the king was a Ro- at his feet as senseless as if he had shot him. man Catholic, and it was pleasant to be as ____ near him as possible. It may be asked, why then did not the Colonel go the same length as his Majesty ~ The answer is very simple. Colonel Marshal was a shrewd observer of the signs of the times. At the card table, after the three first cards were played, he could tell where every other card in the pack was placed. Now in politics he was nearly as discerning; and he perceived that, although Kin~ James had a great number of honors in his hand, he did not hold the trumps, and would eventually lose the game. Had it been otherwise, there is no saying what sort of religion he might have adopted. There is no reason to think that Transubstantiation would have stood in the way at all; and as for the Council of Trent, he would have swallowed it like a roll for his breakfast. For this man, then, Sir John Hastings had both a thorough hatred and a profound con- tempt, and he extended the same sensations to every member of the family. In the esti- mation of the worthy old clergyman the Colo- nel did not stand much higher; but he was more liberal toward the Colonels family. Lady Annabella Marshal, his wife, was, when in the country, a very regular attendant at his church. She had been exceedingly beau- tiful, was still handsome, and she had, more- over, a sweet, saint-like, placid expression, not untouched by melancholy, which was very winning, even in an old mans eyes. She was known, too, to have made a very good wife to a not very good husband; and, to say the truth, Dr. Paulding both pitied and es- teemed her. He went but little to the house, inde~I, for Colonel Marshal was odious to him; and the Colonel returned the compli- ment by never going to the church. Such were the reasons which rendered the thought of carrying young Philip Hastings up to The Courtas Colonel Marshals house was calledanything but agreeable to the good clergyman. But then, what could he do~ He looked in the boys face. It was like that of a corpse. Not a sign of return- CHAPTER ii. I MUST not dwell long upon the youthful scenes of the lad I have just introduced to the reader; but as it is absolutely needful that his peculiar character should be clearly un- derstood, I must suffer it to display itself a lit- tle farther before I step from his boyhood to his maturity. We left Philip Hastings senseless upon the ground, at the feet of his old preceptor, struck down by the sudden intelligence he had re- ceived, without warning or preparation. The old man was immeasurably shocked at what he had done, and he reproached himself bitterly; but he had been a man of action all his life, who never suffered thought, whether pleasant or painful, to impede him. He could think while he acted, and as he was a strong man too, he had no great difficulty in taking the slight, pale youth up in his arms, and carrying him over the park stile, which was close at hand, as the reader may remember. He had made up his mind at once to bear his young charge to a small cottage belonging to a laborer on the other side of the road which ran under the park wall; but on reaching it, he found that the whole family were out walking in the fields, and both doors and win- dows were closed. This was a great disappointment to him, although there was a very handsome house, in modern taste, not two hundred yards off. But there were circumstances which made him unwilling to bear the son of Sir John Hastings to the dwelling of his next neigh- bor. Next neighbors are not always friends; and even the clergyman of the parish may have his likings and dislikings. Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings were political opponents. The latter was of the Calvinistic branch of the Church of Eng- landnot absolutely a non-juror, but suspect- ed even of having a tendency that way. He was sturdy and stiff in his political opinions, too, and had but small consideration for the conscientious views and sincere opinions of 36 THE INTERNATIONAL M~AGAZINE. ing aitimation showed itself. He had heard of persons dying under such sudden affec- tions of the mind; and so still, so death-like, was the form and countenance before him, as he laid the lad down for a moment on the bench at the cottage door, that his heart mis- gave him, and a trembling feeling of dread came over his old frame. He hesitated no longer, but after a moments pause to gain breath, caught young Hastings up in his arms again, and hurried away with him toward Colonel Marshals house. I have said that it was a modern mansion; that is to imply, that it was modern in that day. Heaven only knows what has become of it now; but Louis Quatorze, though he had no hand in the building of it, had many of its sins to answer forand the rest belonged to Mansard. It was the strangest possible contrast to the old-fashioned country seat of Sir John Hastings, who had his joke at it, and at the owner toofor he, too, could jest in a bitter wayand he used to say that he wondered his neighbor had not added his own name to the building, to distinguish it from all other courts; and then it would have been Court Marshal. Many were the windows of the house; many the ornaments; pilasters running up between the casements, with sunken panels, covered over with quaint wreaths of flowers, as if each had an embroid- ered waistcoat on; and a large flight of steps running down from the great doorway, deco- rated with Cupids and cornucopias running over with this most indigestible kind of stone- fruit. The path from the gates up to the house was well graveled, and ran in and out amongst sundry parterres, and basins of wa- ter, with the Tritons, & c., of the age, all spouting away as bard as a large reservoir on the top of the neighboring slope could make them. But for serviceable purposes these basins were vain, as the water was never suf- fered to rise nearly to the brim; and good Dr. Paulding gazed on them without hope, as he passed on toward the broad flight of steps. There, however, he found something of a more comfortable aspect. The path he had been obliged to take had one convenience to the dwellers in the mansion. Every window in that side of the house commanded a view of it, and the Doctor and his burden were seen by one pair of eyes at least. Running down the steps without any of the frightful appendages of the day upon her head, but her own bright beautiful hair curl- ing wild like the tendrils of a vine, came a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen, just past the ugly age, and blushing in the spring of wom- anhood. There was eagerness and some alarm in her face: for the air and haste of the worthy clergyman, as well as the form he ~~arried in his arms, spoke as plainly as words 4~ould have done that some accident had hap- pened; and she called to him, at some dis- tance, to ask what was the matter. Matter, child matter ! cried the clergy- man, I believe I have half killed this poor boy. Killed him ! exclaimed the girl, with a look of doubt as well as surf rise. Ay, Mistress Raehae, replied the old man, killed him by unkindly and rashly tell- ing him of his brothers denth, without prep- aration.~ You intended it for kind, I am sure, mur- mured the girl in a sweet low tone, coming down the steps, and gazing on his pale face, while the clergyman carried the lad up the steps. There, Miss Marshal, do not stay star- ing said Dr. Paulding; but pray call some of the lackeys, and bid them bring water or hartshorn, or something. Your lady-mother must have some essences to bring folks out of swoons. There is nothing but swooning at Court, I am toldexcept gaming, and drink- ing, and profanity. The girl was already on her way, but she looked back, saying, My father and mother are both out; but I will soon find help.~ When the lad opened his eyes, there was something very near, which seemed to him exceedingly beautifulrich, warm coloring~ like that of a sunny landscape; a pair of liquid, tender eyes, deeply fringed and full of sympathy; and the while some sunny curls of bright brown hair played about his cheek, moved by the hay-field breath of the sweet lips that bent close over him. Where am I 3 he said. What is the matter 3 What has happened 3 Ah! now I recollect. My brother-my poor brother! Was it a dream ~ Hush, hush ! said a musical voice. Talk to him, sir. Talk to him, and make him still. It is but too true, my dear Philip, said the old clergyman; your brother is lost to us. But recollect yourself, my son. It is weak to give way in this manner. I announ- ced your misfortune somewhat suddenly, it is true, trusting that your philosophy was stronger than it isyour Christian fortitude. Remember, all these dispensations are from the hand of the most merciful God. He who gives the sunshine, shall he not bring the clouds 3 Doubt not that all is merciful; and suffer not the manifestations of His will to find you unprepared or unsubmissive. I have been very weak, said the young man, but it was so sudden! Heaven! how full of health and strength he looked when he went away! He was the picture of lifeal- most of immortality. I was but as a reed be- side hima weak, feeble reed, beside a sap- ling oak. One shall be taken, and the other left said the sweet voice of the young girl; and the eyes both of the youth and the old clergy- man turned suddenly upon her. Philip Hastings raised himself upon his arm, and seemed to meditate for a moment or two. His thoughts were confused and indis- tinct. lie knew not well where he was. The impression of what had happened was vague A STORY WITHOUT A NAME. ~37 and indefinite. As eyes which have been seared by the lightning, his mind, which had lost the too vivid impression, now perceived everything in mist and confusion. ihave been very weak, he said, too weak. It is strange. I thought myself firm- er. What is the use of thought and example, if the mind remains thus feeble l But I am better now. I will never yield thus again ; and flinging himself off the sofa on which they had laid him, he stood for a moment on his feet, gazing round upon the old clergyman and that beautiful young girl, and two or three servants who had been called to minis- ter to him. We all knowat least, all who have dealt with the fiery things of lifeall who have felt and suffered, and struggled and conquered, and yielded and grieved, and triumphed in the end-we all know how short-lived are the first conquests of mind over body, and how much strength and experience it requires to make the victory complete. To render the soul the despot, the tyranny must be habitual. Philip Hastings rose, as I have said, and gazed around him. He struggled against the shock which his mere animal nature had re- ceived, shattered as it had been by long and intense study, and neglect of all that contrib- utes to corporeal power. But everything grew hazy to his eyes again, lie felt his limbs weak and powerless; even his mind feeble, and his thoughts confused. Before he knew what was coming, he sunk fainting ou the sofa again, and when he woke from the dull sort of trance into which he had fallen, there were other faces around him; he was stretched quietly in bed in a strange room, a physician and a beautiful lady of mature years were standing by his bedside, and he felt the oppressive lassitude of fever in every nerve and in every limb. But we must turn to good Doctor Paulding. He went back to his rectory discontented with himself, leaving the lad in the care of Lady Annabella Marshal and her family. The or- dinaryas the man who carried the letters was frequently called in those dayswas to depart in an hour, and he knew that Sir John Hastings expected his only remaining son in London to attend the body of his brother down to the family burying place. It was impossible that the lad could go, and the old clergyman had to sit down and write an ac- count of what had occurred. There was nothing upon earth, or beyond the earth, which would have induced him to tell a lie. True, his mind might be subject to such self-deceptions as the mind of all other men. He might be induced to find ex- cuses to his own conscience for anything he did that was wrongfor any mistake or error in jud~,,ment ; for, willfully, he never did what was wrong; and it was only by the re- sults that he knew it. But yet he was eager- ly, painfully upon his guard against himself. He knew the weakness of human naturehe had dealt with it often, and observed it shrewdly, and applied the lesson with bitter severity to his own heart, detecting its shrink- ing from candor, its hankering after self-de- fense, its misty prejudices, its turnings and windings to escape conviction; and he dealt with it as hardly as he would have done with a spoiled child. Calmly and deliberately he sat down to write to Sir John Hastings a full account of what had occurred, taking more blame to himself than was really his due. I have called it a full account, though it occupied but one page of paper, for the good doctor was anything but profuse of words; and there are some men who can say much in small space. He blamed himself greatly, anticipat- ing reproach; but the thing which he feared the most to communicate was the fact that the lad was left ill at the house of Colonel Marshal, and at the house of a man so very much disliked by Sir John Hastings. There arc some menmen of strong mind and great abilitieswho go through life learning some of its lessons, and totally neg- lecting otherspre-occupied by one branch of the great study, and seeing nothing in the course of scholarship but that. Dr. Paulding had no conception of the change which the loss of their eldest son had wrought in the heart of Sir John and Lady Hastings. The secondthe neglected onehad now become not only the eldest, but the only one. His illness, painfully as it affected them, was a blessing to them. It withdrew their thoughts from their late bereavement. It occupied their mind with a new anxiety. It withdrew it from grief and from disappointment. They thought little or nothing of whose house he was at, or whose care he was under; but leaving the body of their dead child to be brought down by slow and solemn p recession to the country, they hurried on before, to watch over the one that was left. Sir John Hastings utterly forgot his ancient feelings toward Colonel Marshal. He was at the house every day, and almost all day long, and Lady Hastings was there day and night. Wonderful howwhen barriers are broken downwe see the objects brought into prox- imity under a totally different point of view from that in which we beheld them at a dis- tance. There might be some stiffness in the first meeting of Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings, but it wore off with exceeding ra- pidity. The Colonelskindness and attention to the sick youth were marked. Lady Anna- bella devoted herself to him as to one of her own children. Rachnel Marshal made her- self a mere nurse. Hard hearts could only withstand such things. Philip was now an only child, and the parents were filled with gratitude and affection. CHAPTER III. THE stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of sunshine, streaming through the church 38 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. window, found its way across the mouldy vel- one or two shriveled men, tottered forth from vet of the old coffins as they stood ranged the cottages, which lay scattered about the along in solemn order, containing the dust of church, and made their way into the church- many ancestors of the present possessors of yard, there to hold conference upon the dead the manor. There, too, apart from the rest and upon the living. were the coffins of those who had died child- Ay, ay ! said one old woman, he has less; the small narrow resting-place of child- been taken at an early time; but he was a hood, where the guileless infant, the fathers fine lad, and better than most of those hard and mothers joy and hope, slept its last sleep, people. leaving tearful eyes and sorrowing hearts be- Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself hind, with naught to comfort but the blessed if he were dcad, said an old man, leaning on thought that by calling such from earth, God a stick, though she has never a good word peoples heaven with angels the coffins, too, for the living. The boy is taken away from of those cut off in the early spring of manhood, mischief, that is the truth of it. If he had whom the fell mower had struck down in the lived to come down here again, he would have flower before the fruit was ripe. Oh, how his broken the heart of my nieces daughter Jane, scythe levels the blossoming fields of hope! or made a public shame of her. What busi- There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose ness had a gentlemans son like that to be al- life had been given up to his countrys service, ways hanging about a poor cottage girl, fol- and who would not spare one thought or mo- lowing her into the corn-fields, and luring her mont to soften domestic joys; and many an- out in the evenings P other who had lived, perhaps and loved, and Faith! she might have been proud enough passed away without receiving loves reward. of his notice, said an old crone; and I dare Am.ongst these, close at the end of the line, say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit, stood two tressels, ready for a fresh occupant Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pre- of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily tend to be; and we may see something come above, while the old sexton looked forth from of it yet. the door of the church toward the gates of At all events, said another, he was bet- the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed ter than this white-faced, spiritless boy that to menace rain. is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier Happy the bride the sun shines upon; than his brother, for he looks as if breath happy the corpse the heaven rains upon ! would blow him away. said the old man to himself. But the rain He will live to do something yet, that will did not come down; and presentiy, from the make people talk of him ; said a woman older spot where he stood, which overlooked the than any of the rest, but taller and straighter; park-wall, he saw come on in slow and solemn there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, procession along the great road to the gates, that is not for death so soon. the funeral train of him who had been lately Ay! theyre making a pomp of it, I war- heir to all the fine property around. The rant, said another old woman, fixing her eyes body had been brought from London after the on the high road under the park wall, upon career of youth had been cut short in a mo- which the procession now entered. Marry, ment of giddy pleasure, and father and there are escutcheons enough, and coats of mother, as was then customary, with a long arms! One would think he was a lords son, line of friends, relations, and dependents, now with all this to do! But there is a curse upon conveyed the remains of him once so dearly the race anyhow; this man was the last of loved, to the cold grave, eleven brothers, and I have heard say, his Only one of all the numerous connections father died a bad death. Now his eldest son of the family was wanting on this occasion, must die by drowningsaved the hangman and that was the brother of the dead; but he something, perchancewe shall see what lay slowly recovering from the shock he had comes of the one that is left. Tis a curse received, and every one had been told that upon them ever since Worcester fight, when it was impossible for him to attend. All the the old man, who is dead and gone, advised to rest of the family had hastened to the hall in send the poor fellows who were taken, to work answer to the summons they had received, for as slaves in the colonies. though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, As she spoke, the funeral procession ad- he wa~ much respected and somewhat feared van ced up the road, and approached that cu at least, the deference which was p aid to rious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, him, no one well knew why, savored some- erected probably to shelter the clergyman of what of dread. the church while receiving the corpse at the It is a strange propensity in many old per- gate of the burial- groun d, which was then sons to hang about the grave to which they universally to be found at the entrance to all are rapidly tending, when it is opened for an-~. cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as if other, and to commentsometimes even with there was something still on her mind which a bitter pleasantryupon an event which she had not spoken, and ranging themselves must soon overtake themselves. As soon as on each side of the church-yard path, the old ~t was known that the funeral procession had men and women formed a lane down which ~et out from the hall door, a number of aged good Dr. Paulding speedily moved with book people, principally women, but comprising in hand. The peopLe assembled, whose num A STORY WITHOUT A NAME. 39 bers had been increased by thc arrival of sonu~ has smitten you. It may, perhaps, have thirty or forty young and middle-aged, said touched your heart. You know the land is not a word as the clergymen marched on, but mine, it was taken from my husband by the when the body had passed up between them, usurper because he fought for the king to and the bereaved father followed as chief- whom he had pledged his faith. It was given mourner, with a fixed, stern, but tearless eye, to your father because he broke his faith to betokening more intense affliction perhaps, in his king and brought evil days upon his a man of his character, than ifhis cheeks country. Will you give me back the land, I had been covered with drops of womanlj say 3 Out man~ Itisbut a garden of herbs, sorrow, several voices were heard saying alou but it is mine, and in Gods sight I claim it. God bless and comfort you, Sir John. Away out of my path, replied Sir John Strange, marvelously strange it was, that Hastings angrily. Is this a time to talk of these words should come from tongues, and such things 3 Get you gone, I say, and choose from those alone, which had been so busily some better hour. Do you suppose I can engaged in carping censur~i and unfeeling listen to you now 3 sneers but the moment before. It was the Youhave never listened, and you never old men and women alone who had just been will, replied the old woman, and suffering commenting bitterly upon the fate, history, him to pass without further opposition, she re- and character of the family, who now uttered mained upon the path behind him muttering the unfelt expressions of sympathy in a beg- to herself what seemed curses bitter and deep, gar-like, whining tone. It was those who but the words of which were audible only to really felt compassion who said nothing. herself. The coffin had been carried into the church, The little crowd gathered round her, and and the solemn rites, the beautiful service ~jf listened eagerly to catch the sense of what the Church of England, had proceeded some she said, but the moment after the old sexton way, when another person was added to the laid his hand upon her shoulder and pushed congregation who had not at first been there. her from the path, saying, Get along with All eyes but those of the father of the dead you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. and the lady who sat weeping by his side, What business have you here scandalizing the turned upon the new-coiner, as with a face as congregation, and brawling at the church pale as death, and a faltering step, he took his door 3 You should be put in the stocks ! place on one of the benches somewhat remote I pity you, old worm, replied the old from the rest. There was an expression of feeble woman, you will be soon among those you lassitude in the young mans countenance, but feed upon, and with a hanging head and de- of strongresolution, which overcame the weak- jected air she quitted the church-yard. ness of the frame. He looked as if each mo- In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had re- ment he would have fainted, but yet he sat out mained gazing down into the vault, while the the whole service of the Church, mingled with stout young men who had come to assist the the crowd when the body was lowered into sexton withdrew the broad hempen bands by the vault, and saw the handful of earth which the coffin had been lowered, from be- hurled out upon the velvet coffin, as if in neath it, arranged it properly upon the tres- mockery of the empty pride of all the pomp sels in its orderly place among the dead, and and circumstance which attended the burial then mounted by a ladder into the body of of the rich and high. the church, again preparing to replace the No tear came into his eyesno sob escaped stone over the mouth of the vault. He then from his bosom; a slight quivering of the turned to the church door and looked out, and lip alone betrayed that there was strong a gi- then quietly approached a pew in the side aisle. tation within. When all was over, i~nd the Philip, this is very wrong, he said; your father still gazing down into the vault, the father never wished or intended you should be young lad crept quietly back into a pew, coy- here. ered his face with his hand, and wept. He did not forbid me, replied the young The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust man. Why should I only be absent from to dust were committed. Sir John Hastings my brothers funeral 3 drew his wifes ar~i through his own, and Because you are sick. Because, by com- walked with a he~y, ~eadfTast, and unwaver- ing, you may have risked your life, replied ing step down the aisle. Everybody drew the old clergyman. - back respectfully as he passed; for generally, What is life to a duty 3 replied the lad. even in the hardest hearts, true sorrow finds Have you not taught me, sir, that there is reverence. He had descended the steps from no earthly thingno interest of this life, no the church into the burying ground, and had pleasure, no happiness, no hope, that ought passed half way along the path toward his not to be sacrificed at once to that which the carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old heart says is right 3 woman whom I have mentioned thrust herself Truetrue, replied the old clergyman, into his way, and addressed him with a cold almost impatiently; but in following precept look and somewhat menacing tone so severely, boy, you should use some discri- Now, Sir John Hastings, she said, will mination. You have a duty to a living father, you do me justice about that bit of land 3 By which is of more weight than a mere imagin- your sons grave I ask it. The hand of heaven ary one to a dead brother. You could do no 40 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. good to the latter; as the Psalmist wisely said, You must go to him, but he can never come back to you. To your father, on the contrary, you have high duties to perform; to console and cheer him in his present afflic- tion; to comfort and support his declining years. When a real duty presents itself, Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to your country, or to your Godl say again, as .1 have often said, do it in spite of every possible affection. Let it cut through everything, break through every tie, thi-ust aside every consideration. There, indeed, I would fain see you act the old Roman, whom you are so fond of studying, and be a Cato or a Brutus, if you will. But you must make very sure that you do not make your fancy create un- real duties, and make them of greater imp or- tance in your eyes than the true ones .B ut now I must get you back as speedily as possible, for your mother, ere long, will be up to see you, and your father, and they must not find you absent on this errand. The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with Dr. Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old mans arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he felt already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and the first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once more of every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates. The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that house, met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the mo- ment they entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was wandering about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the youth, she ran toward him, ex- claiming, Oh, Philip, Philip, this is very wrong and cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere. You should not have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paul- ding 3 I did not let him, my dear child, replied the old man, he came of his own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him to bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the fever-water he was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash act to any one. The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away into the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of his rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up in his bo- som toward her during the next few hours which were never to be obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of all womanly traces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that no one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he con- tinued to think so for many a long year after. CHAPTER IV. ENOUGH of boyhood and its faults and fob lies. I sought but to show the reader, as in a lass, the back of a pageant that has past. h, how I sometimes laugh at the foolsthe criticsGod save the mark! who see no more in the slight sketch I choose to give, than a mere daub of paint across the canvas, when that one touch gives effect to the whole picture. Let them stand back, and view it as a whole; and if they can find aught in it to make them say Well done, let them look at the frame. That is enough for them; their wits are only fitted to deal with leather and prunella. I have given you, readerkind and judi- cious readera sketch of the boy, that you may be enabled to judge rightly of the man. Now, take the lad as I have moulded himbake him well in the fiery furnace of strong pas- sion, remembering still that the form is of hard ironquench and harden him in the cold waters of opposition, and disappointment, and anxietyand bring him forth tempered, but too highly tempered for the world he has to live innot pliablenot elastic; no watchspring, but like a gravers tool, which must cut into everything opposed to it, or break under the pressure. Let us start upon our new course some fif- teen years after the period at which our tale began, and view Philip Hastings as that which he had now become. Dr. Paulding had passed from this working day world to another and a betterwhere we hope the virtues of the heart may be weigh- ed against vices of the heada mode of deal- ing rare here below. Sir John Hastings and his wife had gone whither their eldest son had gone before them; and Philip Hastings was no longer the boy. Manhood had set its seal upon his brow only too early; but what a change had come with manhood a change not in the substance, but in its mode. Oh, Time! thy province is not only to de- stroy! Thou worker-out of human destinies thou new-fashioner of all things earthly thou blender of racesthou changer of insti- tutionsthou discovererthou concealer thou builder upthou dark destroyer; thy waters as they flow have sometimes a petrify- ing, sometimes a solvent power, hardening the soft, melting the strong, accumulating the sand, undermining the rock! What had been thine effect upon Philip Hastings 3 All the thoughts had grown manly as well as the body. The slight youth had been de- veloped into the hardy and powerful man; somewhat inactiveat least so it seemed to common eyesmore thoughtful than bril- liant, steady in resolution, though calm in ex- pression, giving way no more to bursts of boy- ish feeling, somewhat stern, men said some- what hard, but yet extremely just, and reso- lute for justice. The poetry of lifeI should have said the poetry of young lifethe bril- liancy of fancy and hope, seemed somewhat dimmed in himmark, I say seemed, for that which seems too often is not; and he might, perhaps, have learnt to rule and con- ceal feelings which he could not altogether conquer or resist. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME. 41 Still there were many traces of his old self visible: the same love of study, the same choice of hooks and subjects of thought, the same subdued yet strong enthusiasms. The very fact of mingling with the world, which had taught him to repress those enthusiasms, seemed to have concentrated and rendered them more intense. The course of his studies; the habits of his mind his fondness for the school of the stoics, it might have been supposed, would rather have disgusted him with the society in which he now habitually mingled, and made him look upon mankindfor it was a very corrupt agewith contempt, if not with horror. Such, however, was not the case. He had less of the cynic in him than his fatherin- deed he had nothing of the cynic in him at all. He loved mankind in his own peculiar way. He was a philanthropist of a certain sort; and would willingly have put a considerable por- tion of his fe1low-creatures to death, in order to serve, and elevate, and improve the rest. His was a remarkable characternot alto- gether fitted for the times in which he lived; but one which in its wild and rugged strength, commanded much respect and admiration even then. Weak things clung to it, as ivy to an oak or a strong wall: and its power over them was increased by a certain sort of ten- dernessa protecting pity, which mingled strangely with his harder and ruder qualities. He seemed to be sorry for everything that was weak, and to seek to console and comfort it, under the curse of feebleness. It seldom of- fended himhe rather loved it, it rarely came in his way; and his feeling toward it might approach contempt but never rose to anger. He was capable too of intense and strong affections, though he could not extend them to many objects. All that was vigorous and powerful in him concentrated itself in sepa- rate points here and there; and general things were viewed with much indifference. See him as he walks up and down there be- fore the old house, which I have elsewhere described. He has grown tall and powerful in frame; and yet his gait is somewhat sloven- ly and negligent, although his step is firm and strong. He is not much more than thirty-one years of age; but he looks forty at the least; and his hair is even thicklysprinkled with gray. His face is pale, with some strong marked lines and indentations in it; yet, on the whole, it is handsome, and the slight habitual frown, thoughtful rather than stern, together with the massive jaw, and the slight drawing down of the corners of the mouth, give it an ex- pression of resolute firmness, that is only con- tradicted by the frequent variation of the eye, which is sometimes full of deep thought, some- times of tenderness; and sometimes is flash- ing with a wild and almost unearthly fire. But there is a lady hanging on his arm which supports her somewhat feeble steps. She seems recovering from illness ; the rose in her cheek is faint and delicate; and an air of languor is in her whole face and form. Yet she is very beautiful, and seems fully ten years younger than her husband, although, in truth, she is of the same ageor perhaps a little older. It is Rachaci Marshal, now become Lady Hastings. Their union did not take place without op- position; all Sir John Hastings prejudices against the Marshal family revived as soon as his sons attachment to the daughter of the house became apparent. Like most fathers, he saw too late; and then sought to prevent that which had become inevitable. He sent his son to travel in foreign lands; he even laid out a scheme for marrying him to another, younger, and as he thought fairer. He con- trived that the young man should fall into the society of the lady he had selected, and he fancied that would be quite sufficient; for he saw in her character, young as she was, traits, much more harmonious, as he fancied, with those of his son, than could be found in the softer, gentler, weaker Rachael Marshal. There was energy, perseverance, resolution, keen and quick perceptionsperhaps a little too much keenness. More, he did not stay to inquire; but, as is usual in matters of the heart, Philip Hastings loved best the con- verse of himself. The progress of the scheme was interrupted by the illness of Sir John Hastings, which recalled his son from Rome. Philip returned, found his father dead, and married Rachaci Marshal. They had had several children; but only one remained; that gay, light, gossamer girl, like a gleam darting along the path from sunny rays piercing through wind-borne clouds. On she ran with a step of light and careless air, yet every now and then she paused suddenly, gazed earnestly at a flower, plucked it, pored into its very heart with her deep eyes, and, after seeming to labor under thought for a moment, sprang forward again as light as ever. The eyes of the father followed her with a look of grave, thoughtful, intense affection. The mothers eyes looked up to him, and then glanced onward to the child. She was between nine and ten years old not very handsome, for it is not a handsome age. Yetthere were indications of future beautyfine and sparkling eyes,rich, waving~ silky hair, long eyelashes, a fine complexion, a light and graceful figure, though deformed by the stiff fashions of the day. There was a sparkle too in her lookthat bright outpouring of the heart upon the face which is one of the most powerful charms of youth and innocence. Ah! how soon gone by! How soon checked by the thousand loads which this heavy laboring world casts upon the buoyancy of youthful spiritsthe chilling conventionalitythe knowledge, and the fear of wrongthe first taste of sorrowthe anxi- eties, cares, fearseven the hopes of mature life, are all weights to bear down the pinions of young, lark-like joy. After twenty, does the heart ever rise up from her green sod and sing at Heavens gate as in childhood l Never 42 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. ah, never! The dust of earth is upon the wing of the sky songster, and will never let her mount to her ancient pitch. That child was a strange combination of her father and her mother. She was destined to be their only one; and it seemed as if na- ture had taken a pleasure in blending the char- acters of both in one. Not that they were in- timately mingled, but that they seemed like the twins of Laconia, to rise and set by turns. In her morning walk; in her hours of sport- ive play; when no subject of deep thought, no matter that affected the heart or the im- agination was presented to her, she was light and gay as a butterfly; the childthe happy child was in every look, and word, and move- ment. But call her for a moment from this bright land of pleasantnesspresent some- thing to her mind or to her fancy which rouses sympathies, or sets the energetic thoughts at work, and she was grave, meditative, studious, deep beyond her years. She was a subject of much contemplation, some anxiety, some wonder to her father. The brightness of her perceptions, her eagerness in the pursuit of knowledge, her vigorous res- olution even as a child, when convinced that she was right, showed him his own mind reflect- ed in hers. Even her tenderness, her strong affections, he could comprehend; for the same were in his own heart, and though he believ- ed them to be weaknesses, he could well un- derstand their existence in a child and in a woman. But that which he did not understand that which made him marvelwas her light- ness, her gayety, her wild vivacityI might almost say, her trifling, when not moved by deep feeling or chained down by thought. This was beyond him. Yet strange! the same characteristics did not surprise nor shock him in her mothernever had surprised or shocked him; indeed he had rather Loved her for those qualities, so unlike his own. Perhaps it was that he thought it strange, his child should, in any mood, be so unlike himself; or perhaps it was the contrast between the two sides of the same character that moved his wonder when he saw it in his child. He might forget that her mother was her parent as well as himself; and that she had an inheritance from each. In his thoughtful, considering, theoretical way, he determinet studiously to seek a rem- edy for what he considered the defect in his childto cultivate with all the zeal and per- severance of paternal affection, supported by his own force of character, those qualities which were most like his ownthose, in short, which were the least womanly. But nature would not be baffled. You may divert her to a certain degree; but you cannot turn her aside from her course altogether. He found that he could notby any means which his heart would let him employcon- quer what he called the frivolity of the child. Frivolity! Heaven save us! There were times when she showed no frivolity, but, on the contrary, a depth and intensity far, far beyond her years. Indeed, the ordinary cur- rent of her mind was calm and thoughtful. It was but when a breeze rippled it that it spark- led on the surface. Her father, too, saw that this was so; that the wild gayety was but oc- casional. But still it surprised and pained himperhaps the more because it was occa- sional. It seemed to his eyes an anomaly in her nature. He would have had her alto- gether like himself. He could not conceive any one possessing so much of his own char- acter, having room in heart and brain for aught else. It was a subject of constant won- der to him; of speculation, of anxious thought. He often asked himself if this was the only anomaly in his childif there were not ~ other traits, yet undiscovered, as discrepant as this light volatility with her general char- acter: and he puzzled himself sorely. Still he pursued her education upon his own principles; taught her many things which women rarely learned in those days; imbued her mind with thoughts and feelings of his own; and often thought,. when a sea- son of peculiar gravity fell upon her, that he made progress in renderin~ her character all that he could wish it. This impression never lasted long, however; for sooner or later the bird-like spirit within her found the cage door open, and fluttered forth upon some gay excursion, leaving all his dreams vanished and his wishes disapnointed. Nevertheless he loved her with all the strong affection of which his nature was ca- pable; and still he persevered in the course which he thought for her benefit. At times, indeed, he would make efforts to unravel the mystery of her double nature, not perceiving that the only cause of mystery was in him- self: that what seemed strange in his daugh- ter depended more upon his own want of power to comprehend her variety than upon anything extraordinary in her. He would endeavor to go along with her in her sportive moodsto let his mind run free beside hers in its gay ramble: to find some motive for them which he could understand; to reduce them to a system; to discover the rule by which the problem was to be solved. But he made nothing of it, and wearied conjec- ture in vain. Lady Hastings sometimes interposed a lit- tle; for in unimportant things she had great influence with her husband. He let her have hor own way wherever he thought it not worth while to oppose her; and that was very often. She perfectly comprehended the side of her daughters character which was all darkness to the father; and strange to say, with greater penetration than his own, she comprehended the other side likewise. She recognized easily the traits in her child which she knew and admired in her husband, but wished them heartily away in her daugh- ters case, thinking such strength of mind, joined with whatever grace and sweetness, somewhat unfeminine. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME. / Though she was full of prejudices, and where her quickness of perception failed her, altogether unteachable by reason, yet she was naturally too virtuous and good to at- tempt even to thwart the objects of the fathers efforts in the education of his child. I have said that she interfered at times, hut it was only to remonstrate against too close study, to obtain frequent and healthful re- laxation, ~nd to add all those womanly ac- complishments on which she set great value. In this she was not opposed. Music, singing, dancing, and a knowledge of modern lan- guages, were added to other branches of edu- cation, and Lady Hastings was so far satisfied. CHAPTER V. THE Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a few words in de- scription. He was tall and thin, but well built; and his face had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style, which, by the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The nose was now large and conspic- uous, the eyes bright, black, and twinkling, the mouth good in shape, but with an animal expression about it, the ear very voluminous. He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was speckled with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and fur- rows, and in gait he was firm and upright. At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like to have him there. It was against the grain he admit- ted him into the house. He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some degree to the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to the customs of society. But the Signor was a shrewd and world- taught man, accustomed to overcome preju- dices, and to make his way against disad- vantages; and he soon established himself well in the opinion of both father and mother. It was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the consideration of all those who seek les moijens de parvenzr. In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a happy middle tone,a grave reticent manner, which never compromised him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served to harmonize him with the gay and viva- cious; a serious tranquillity, unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of menwhether pure at heart or nothave always overestimated decency of exterior. All this was in public however. In pri- vate, in a t~te-d-t~te, Signor Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every t~te-d-t~te he was a different man from what he appeared in the other. Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his apparent character harmonize with his public and open appear- ance. Or rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed by his character. No.. thing could exo ify this more strongly than the different i ions he produced on Sir Philip and La y ;Hastings. The lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a few light gay~sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of persiflage, completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difil- cult to w~ - Nevertheless, in a few short senten ardly longer than those which Stern endicant whispered in the ear of t~e/~ssengers, he succeeded in disarming iMi~y prejudices. With him, the Signor was a stoic; he had some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read sufficient of the history of his own land, to have caught all the salient points of the glc~rious past. Perhaps he might even feel a certain inter- est in the antecedents of his decrepit land not to influence his conduct, or to plant am- bitious or nourish pure and high hopes for its regenerationbut to waken a sort of touch- wood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the stronger powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to com- municate to him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said made great progress in his esteem. In five minutes conversation he had established f.r himself the character of one of a higher and nobler character whose lot had fallen in evil days. In other years, thought the English gen- tleman, this might have been a great man the defender unto death of his countrys rightsthe advocate of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand. What was the secret of all this ~ Simply that he, a man almost without character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the characters of others; an a without diffi- culty his pliable nature and easy principles would accommodate themselves to all. He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although their conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater progress still with the mother. But with the daughter he made noneworse than none. What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say-how did he demean himself so as to prodtzce in her bosom a feeling of horror and disgust toward him that nothing could remove ~ I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that his after erhaps his previous life would evince. here is a touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and highminded woman that detects all baser metals: they are discov- ered in a moment: they cannot stand the test. Now, whether his heart-cankering corru~- tion, his want of faith, honesty, and trut made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the index of that fine barometer, without any overt act at allor whether he gave ac 44 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. tual cause of offense, I do not knownone has ever known. Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparent- ly somewhat wayward girl, now between fif- teen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her fathers and mothers eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she would take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but sbe added no explanation. Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; butthegirlwasfirman~resolute. She heard her mothers argument, and an- swered in soft and humble tones that she would not,could not learn to sing any longerthat she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but she had learned long enough, and would learn no more. More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the father then, in a calmer spirit, in- quired the cause of her resolution. She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of bewildered look upon her face as she replied, I know no cause I can give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will never see him again. Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none. Guardini had not said anythin~ nor done anything, she admit- ted, to give her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any longer. There are instincts in fine and deliente minds, which, by signs and indications in- tangible to coarser rmtures, discover in oth- ers thou~hts and feelings, wishes and designs, discordantrepugnant to themselves. They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis, incapable of explanation the warning voice of God in the heart, bid- ding them beware of evil. Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to al- low aught for such impulsesto coneeive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse, but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he could not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind. He did not understand his daughters con- duct at all; but he would not press her any farther. She was in some degree. a mys- terious being to him~ Indeed, as I have be- fore shown, she had always been a mystery; for he had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the unknown lan- guage. Yet, did he love or cherish her the less 3 Oh no! Perhaps a deeper interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and form her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a strange caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy that her resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor Guardini arose from her distaste to what he himself considered one of the friv- olous pursuits of fashion. Yet she showed no distaste for singing; for somehow every day she would practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste, acquired a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her father, notwith- standing his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond of music; his nature was a vehement one, though ctirbed by such strong restraints; and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He would sit calm- ly, with his eyes fixed upon a book, but. lis- tening all the time to that sweet voice, with feelings working in himemotions, thrilling, deep, intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose to any human eye. All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious; and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and ask, What is below 3 That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had been refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a gleam of heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and coloring. The form too ,had nearly reached perfection. It was full of symmetry and grace, and budding charms; and while the~ mother marked all these attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in the world, the father felt their influence in a different manner with a sort of abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went no farther than a proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was beautiful indeed. To him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a bcautiful possession, which he had no thought of ever parting withsomething on which his eyes would rest well pleased until they closed forever. How blessed he might have been in the possession of such a child could he have comprehended hercould he have divested his mind of the idea that there was some- thing strange and inharmonious in her char- acter! Could he have made his heart a womans heart for but one hour, all mystery would have been dispelled; but it was im~ possible, and it remained. No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of anothers char- acter are very dangerous things. Everything is seen through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That which produced no fruit at the time, had very im- portant results at an after period. But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It is upon the characters of two of them that all the inter- est if there be any depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader would derive pleasure from what follows. TO BE CONTINtED. COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. [From The Album, Manchester, November, 1850.] THE POETS LOT. B Y PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF FESTUI,~~ ETC. MATURE in the poets heart is limned II In little, as in landscape stones we see The swell of land, and groves, and running streams, Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance The imaged hint of antemundane life, A photograph of preexistent light, Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind The broad conditions of the world are graven, Thgrou~hly and grandly; in accord wherewith His life so ruled to be, and eke to bear. Wisdom he wills not only for himself, But undergoes the sacred rites whereby The privilege he bath earned he may promulge, And all soon make the partners of his light. Between the priestly and the laic powers The poet stands, a bright and living link; Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells Now with fine magic, holy and austere, Inviting angels or evoking fiends; And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow With golden fillet bounden roundalone, Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates The games nownow the mysteries of life, With truths ornate and Pleasures choicest plea. Thus he becomes the darling of mankind, Armed with the instinct both of rule and right, And the worlds minion, privileged to speak When all beside, the medley mass, are mute: Distills his soul into a songand dies. THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.5 TIIAROLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DR ST. GEORGES. Continued from Page 512. BOOK SECONDTHE VIPERS NEST. RIGHTLY enough had the young girl been called The White Rose of Sorrento. IVionte-Leone had based on her his most ar- dent hopes and tenderest expectations. No- thing in fact could be more angelic than the expression of her face. She seemed the vir- go immaculate of Rubens, the virgo of divine love. What would first attract attention at Amintas appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of Ca- rara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great master. We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan, the ob- server would have discovered an expression of firmness and decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be arous- ed, what she wished must be, God willing. Nothing in nature is more persevering and irresistible than woman~s will, especially if the woman be an Italian. Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerks office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. VOL. 11.NO. i.4 then felt an interest in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of Fernando IV. The restoration of the lat- ter had crushed his ambition and broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli whom we have described in the last book. While this well-beloved son of an affec- tionate mother, this brother so idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone, Madame Rovero and her daugh- ter in their quiet retreat fancied that Tad- deo was en.joying at Naples all the pleas- ures of the Carnival and abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure. Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said to her mother, Taddeo forgets us. It is not ~deasant to enjoy this beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it would be ! Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite author, and wander alone amid the fields. The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of those burn- ing ones, whi6h make us even in winter fan- cy that an eternal spring exists in that heaven-protected land. ma add that the winter of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most luxuriant vegetation. The favor- ite haunt of Aminta was a green hill, behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of the poet in terra cotta yet adorned the faqade of the house, which though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not existthe sea had swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of his habitation. Th& tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious wor- ship to them, and The White Rose of Sor- rent6 went toward The House of Tasso. Amintas mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant excursions. She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful i~inaginable. A fore- head over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth; small eyes, sad and green, which were however insup~ portably bright when they were lit up by an-~ ger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a short and square bust,ahL united to make a being so utterly ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nick- named him Scorpioneso like that reptiles was his air. The morale of Scorpione was worthy of his physique. The true name of this child was Tonio. Being the son of Amin- had never in his life been sep- arated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became more beautiful. He

COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. [From The Album, Manchester, November, 1850.] THE POETS LOT. B Y PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF FESTUI,~~ ETC. MATURE in the poets heart is limned II In little, as in landscape stones we see The swell of land, and groves, and running streams, Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance The imaged hint of antemundane life, A photograph of preexistent light, Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind The broad conditions of the world are graven, Thgrou~hly and grandly; in accord wherewith His life so ruled to be, and eke to bear. Wisdom he wills not only for himself, But undergoes the sacred rites whereby The privilege he bath earned he may promulge, And all soon make the partners of his light. Between the priestly and the laic powers The poet stands, a bright and living link; Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells Now with fine magic, holy and austere, Inviting angels or evoking fiends; And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow With golden fillet bounden roundalone, Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates The games nownow the mysteries of life, With truths ornate and Pleasures choicest plea. Thus he becomes the darling of mankind, Armed with the instinct both of rule and right, And the worlds minion, privileged to speak When all beside, the medley mass, are mute: Distills his soul into a songand dies. THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.5 TIIAROLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DR ST. GEORGES. Continued from Page 512. BOOK SECONDTHE VIPERS NEST. RIGHTLY enough had the young girl been called The White Rose of Sorrento. IVionte-Leone had based on her his most ar- dent hopes and tenderest expectations. No- thing in fact could be more angelic than the expression of her face. She seemed the vir- go immaculate of Rubens, the virgo of divine love. What would first attract attention at Amintas appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of Ca- rara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great master. We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan, the ob- server would have discovered an expression of firmness and decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be arous- ed, what she wished must be, God willing. Nothing in nature is more persevering and irresistible than woman~s will, especially if the woman be an Italian. Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerks office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. VOL. 11.NO. i.4 then felt an interest in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of Fernando IV. The restoration of the lat- ter had crushed his ambition and broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli whom we have described in the last book. While this well-beloved son of an affec- tionate mother, this brother so idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone, Madame Rovero and her daugh- ter in their quiet retreat fancied that Tad- deo was en.joying at Naples all the pleas- ures of the Carnival and abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure. Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said to her mother, Taddeo forgets us. It is not ~deasant to enjoy this beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it would be ! Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite author, and wander alone amid the fields. The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of those burn- ing ones, whi6h make us even in winter fan- cy that an eternal spring exists in that heaven-protected land. ma add that the winter of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most luxuriant vegetation. The favor- ite haunt of Aminta was a green hill, behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of the poet in terra cotta yet adorned the faqade of the house, which though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not existthe sea had swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of his habitation. Th& tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious wor- ship to them, and The White Rose of Sor- rent6 went toward The House of Tasso. Amintas mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant excursions. She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful i~inaginable. A fore- head over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth; small eyes, sad and green, which were however insup~ portably bright when they were lit up by an-~ ger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a short and square bust,ahL united to make a being so utterly ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nick- named him Scorpioneso like that reptiles was his air. The morale of Scorpione was worthy of his physique. The true name of this child was Tonio. Being the son of Amin- had never in his life been sep- arated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became more beautiful. He

COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. [From The Album, Manchester, November, 1850.] THE POETS LOT. B Y PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF FESTUI,~~ ETC. MATURE in the poets heart is limned II In little, as in landscape stones we see The swell of land, and groves, and running streams, Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance The imaged hint of antemundane life, A photograph of preexistent light, Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind The broad conditions of the world are graven, Thgrou~hly and grandly; in accord wherewith His life so ruled to be, and eke to bear. Wisdom he wills not only for himself, But undergoes the sacred rites whereby The privilege he bath earned he may promulge, And all soon make the partners of his light. Between the priestly and the laic powers The poet stands, a bright and living link; Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells Now with fine magic, holy and austere, Inviting angels or evoking fiends; And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow With golden fillet bounden roundalone, Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates The games nownow the mysteries of life, With truths ornate and Pleasures choicest plea. Thus he becomes the darling of mankind, Armed with the instinct both of rule and right, And the worlds minion, privileged to speak When all beside, the medley mass, are mute: Distills his soul into a songand dies. THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.5 TIIAROLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DR ST. GEORGES. Continued from Page 512. BOOK SECONDTHE VIPERS NEST. RIGHTLY enough had the young girl been called The White Rose of Sorrento. IVionte-Leone had based on her his most ar- dent hopes and tenderest expectations. No- thing in fact could be more angelic than the expression of her face. She seemed the vir- go immaculate of Rubens, the virgo of divine love. What would first attract attention at Amintas appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of Ca- rara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great master. We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan, the ob- server would have discovered an expression of firmness and decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be arous- ed, what she wished must be, God willing. Nothing in nature is more persevering and irresistible than woman~s will, especially if the woman be an Italian. Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerks office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. VOL. 11.NO. i.4 then felt an interest in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of Fernando IV. The restoration of the lat- ter had crushed his ambition and broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli whom we have described in the last book. While this well-beloved son of an affec- tionate mother, this brother so idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone, Madame Rovero and her daugh- ter in their quiet retreat fancied that Tad- deo was en.joying at Naples all the pleas- ures of the Carnival and abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure. Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said to her mother, Taddeo forgets us. It is not ~deasant to enjoy this beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it would be ! Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite author, and wander alone amid the fields. The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of those burn- ing ones, whi6h make us even in winter fan- cy that an eternal spring exists in that heaven-protected land. ma add that the winter of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most luxuriant vegetation. The favor- ite haunt of Aminta was a green hill, behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of the poet in terra cotta yet adorned the faqade of the house, which though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not existthe sea had swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of his habitation. Th& tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious wor- ship to them, and The White Rose of Sor- rent6 went toward The House of Tasso. Amintas mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant excursions. She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful i~inaginable. A fore- head over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth; small eyes, sad and green, which were however insup~ portably bright when they were lit up by an-~ ger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a short and square bust,ahL united to make a being so utterly ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nick- named him Scorpioneso like that reptiles was his air. The morale of Scorpione was worthy of his physique. The true name of this child was Tonio. Being the son of Amin- had never in his life been sep- arated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became more beautiful. He 46 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. became so devoted to Aminta that he never left her. This whimsical intimacy was not that of children, the attachment of brother and sister, but that of the intellectual and brute being, of the master and dog. He was the dog of Aminta. He accompanied and watched over her in all her long walks. Did a dangerous pass occur, he took her up and carried her across the pool or torrent, so that not a drop of water touched her. If any one chanced to meet her and sought to speak to her, he first growled, and then having looked at Aminta, made the bold man understand that like a mastiff he would protect her against all assailants. During the winter evenings when Aminta read to her mother, Tonio lying at the fair readers feet, warmed them in his bosom, where she suffered them toremain with as much carelessness as she would have let them rest on the back of a dog. She became so used to his horrid features, that she no longer thought them repulsive. No contrast was stronger than that these two presented. It was like the association of an angel and a devil. The young girl had in vain attempted to impart some knowledge to Scorpione: his na- ture did not admit of it. Had he been able to comprehend anything, if the simple idea of right and wrong could have reached his heart, Aminta would have accomplished much. This Cretin,* however, knew but three things in the world, to love, to serve, and to defend Aminta. Nothing more. Accompanied by her faithful dog one day, the fair creature had walked to the house of Tasso. She had perhaps twenty times gone through those magnificent ruins, and read over again and again the inscription every tourist fancies himself obliged to engrave with his daggers point on the tesselated walls of the poets home. One which seemed new attracted her attention. Thus it read: One must have suffered as much as the lover of Leonora, to be unhappy in the para- dise of & rrento. These three lines were signed by the MAR- QUIS DE MAULEAR. Aminta read the inscription two or three times, without fancying that it related to her. The simple style touched her heart, and with no slight emotion, she left the wall. At that moment the sun was at the height of its power, and shed it~ burning rays over nature. Amintas straw hat sheltered her from the torrents of lava which seemed to fall from heaven and a few drops of perspiration stood on her marble forehead. While she was seeking in the ruined house for some shadowed nook, Scorpione amused himself be- hind a wall in torturing a gray lizard he had found, and which had taken refuge in a hole, from which it could not get out. The cruel child made numerous blows at the timid animal whenever it attempted to escape. He The cretins arc a miserable, feeble and almost idiotic race, fouud not unfrequently in the south of France. They have sometimes been horribly persecuted. was perfectly delighted when he had beaten out the eyes of the animal, and the poor crea- ture, rushing out, surrendered himself. One thrust completed the work, and it died in con- vulsions. Aminta found Scorpione thus en- gaged. Fie, fie, said she, you deserve to suffer as much am as you have inflicted on this poor I am no lizard, but a scorpion, as the children of Sorrento say. I have a sting al- ways ready for those who seek to injure me. He showed his dagger. Aminta left, and Tonio, glancing at his mistress like a dog which has been punished, placed his back against the wall and pre- tended to sleep. Before long he really did sleep. Not far from Tassos house there was a grotto, beneath which ran a little stream, overgrown with aquatic herbs, and which beyond doubt in other days fed the fish-ponds of the house. It however had insensibly dried up, and only a feeble thread could henceforth be traced. This was the grotto which gave Aminta the refuge she sought. A mossy bench was placed by the side of a stream. She sat on it, took her book, and recited aloud the harmonious verses of her favorite bard. She gradually felt the influence of the heat. For a while she contended against the approach of sleep, which, however, ere long surrounded her with its leaden wings. The. sight of Aminta became clouded, and shad- owy mists passed before her eyes. Her brow bowed down, her head fell upon the rustic pillow. She was in oblivion. It was noon. All at this hour in Italy, and especially in Naples, slumber, except, says the proverb, certainly not complimentary to my country- men, Ji~enchrnen and (logs. The fart is, that Frenchmen, when they travel, pay no atten- tion to the customs ofthe country. A French- man who travels unfortunately insists that everything should be done a la Fror~aise, in countries and clilnates where such a life as ours is inipossible. A profound silence covered all nature. The indistinct humming of insects in the air for a while troubled him; then all was silent. The wind even was voiceless, and the wave which beat on the rock seemed to repress every sound to avoid interrupting the repose of earth and heaven. All at once, distant steps were heard. At first they were light, then more positive and distinct as they resounded on the calcined rock which led to Tassos house. A young man of twenty-five approached. He was al- most overcome by the sultriness. A whip and spurs showed that he had just dismounted. He had left his horse in an orange grove. Overcome, he had sought a shelter, and remem- bering the ruins he had seen a few days be- fore, hoped to find freshness and repose there. The poets mansion, the roof of which had fallen in, did not answer his expectations. He hurried toward the very place where COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. 47 Aminta slept. His eyes, dazzled by the bril- heads in the folds of her dress. One of them liant light, did not at first distinguish the again coiled himself up, passed his thin young girl in the darkness of the grotto. Af- tongue through his lips like a gourmand af- ter a few moments, however, his sight became ter a feast: the head was drawn back and the stronger, and he was amazed at the white form creature assumed the form of a spiral urn, which lay on the mossy seat. Gradually the exhibited all its rings of ruby and malachete, form became more distinct, and finally the and then drawing back in a line full of grace, young stranger was able to distinguish a beau- disappeared among its fellows, and sank to tiful girl. Just then a brilliant sunlight sleep as if it were exhausted with its own passed over the top of the crumbling wall and efforts. fell on her, enwrapping her in golden light, During this terrible scene, Maulear could and, as it were, framing her angelic head like a not breathe. The very pulsation of his heart glory round one of Raphaels pictures. was stopped, his soul having left his body to Henri de Maulear, such was the young protect Aminta. For the nonce she was safe. mans name, fancied that an angelic vision But a terrible death yet hung over her. stood before him. Had the princess Leonoras Maulear did not ~lose sight of her. Ere long ghost visited the scenes Tasso loved so well? he saw her bosom heave; he saw her gasp, Had a great sculptor, Canova, in one of his and her face gradually become flushed. She charming deliriums reproduced the features was dreaming. Should she make any motion, of Tassos mistress and placed his work in the she would disturb the vipers. This idea ex- grotto where the great poet sighed 3 Marble cited him so much that for a while he thought alone could compete with Amintas whiteness. they were awakened. Their hisses sounded in 11cr round and waxen arms seemed to have his ears, and he eagerly looked aside to avoid been formed of the purest Carara marble. the terrible spectacle. His glance however Aniinta uttered a sigh and dissipated the fell on an object which as yet he had not illusion of the stranger. It was not an ad- perceived. So great was his jo~r that he could inirable statue exhibited to him, but a work with difficulty refrain from crying aloud. He of nature. It was such a woman as a poetic saw an earthen vase full of milk, in a dark and tender heart dreams ofa woman not to portion of the cave, left there by some shep- be loved, but adored. Love is earthly; adora- herd anxious to preserve his evening meal tion belongs to heaven, from the heat of the summer sun. He re- Henri de Maulear, fascinated by increas- membered what naturalists say of the passion ing admiration, did not dare to advance. He entertained by reptiles for milk. The well- held his breath and was afraid, so great known stories of cows, the dugs of whom was bis excitement, that this wonderful beauty had been sucked dry by snakes, were recalled would faint away. Another sentiment, how- to his mind. Rushing toward the vase, he ever, soon took possession of him. A mortal seized it and bore it to the mossy rock. Just terror filled his souldeath and sleep were then Aminta awoke. united. A fearful danger menaced the maiden, whence it seemed no human power I 11.sCORPiONE. could rescue her. In the folds of Amintas HAVING looked around her, Aminta saw dress, in her very bosoni, Henri saw a strange Maulear, pale and with an excited face. He obj ect, whose whimsical colors contrasted could not restrain his terror and surprise. By strangely with the whiteness of her dress. It a motion more rapid than thought, he pointed was one of those strange things known in Italy out to her the terrible beings that nestled in as pointed-headed vipers. Their bite takes effect her bosom, and said earnestly and eagerly: so rapidly, their poison becomes so soon infused Do not move or you will die ! He could in the blood, that victims die within a few make no choice as to the means of saving her. minutes. Aminta had lain down near a nest It became necessary for him to rescue her at of these dangerous reptiles. The warmth of once, to confront her with danger, and rely on her body had gradually attracted them to her, her strength of mind to brave it, by remain- and while she slept they had nestled in her ing motionless. He thought possibly she very bosom. She had been motionless. They might succumb beneath its aspect. This was had not as yet moved. Any change of posture the result. She looked toward the terrible however would bring on a terrible catastrophe, reptiles Maulear pointed out to her. Horror a compulsory witness of which Henri de Mau- took possession of her. Her heart ceased to lear would from necessity be. What assist- beat, and her blood curdled. She fainted. ance could he render her? How could he Luckily, however, this happened without any arouse her without awaking the reptiles also? motion, without even a nervous vibration With a pale face and icy sweat on his brow, sufficient to awake the serpents. Henri ut- he thought in vain to contrive a means to tered a sigh of happiness and delight, for save her. What however was his terror as beyond doubt Heaven protected Aminta and he saw her make a slight movement! She himself. Approachin~ the vase of milk, he reached out one of her arms, held it in the placed it near her. Dipping his fingers in it, air, and then let it fall on her breast which he scattered a few drops over the reptiles. was covered with reptiles. Her motion aroused They moved. The milk directly attracted the vipers. For a moment they became agi- their attention, and as soon as they had tated, then uncoiled themselves, and hid their tasted it they became aware of its pres 48 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. ence. Lifting up their pointed heads to re- ceive what was offered them, they directed their eyes toward the vase. When they had once seen it, they began to untwine their coils and to crawl toward it, like young girls hur- rying to the bath. The mossy bench was near the rock. To remove her from the grotto Henri had to displace the vase. He had courage enough to wait until the last vi- per had gone into it. Seizing it then, he placed it gently on the ground. Passing his arms under the inanimate body of the girl he sought to carry her away. Just then she recovered from her fainting. Aware that she was in the arms of a strange man, she made a violent effort to get away, and cast herself from her bed on the ground to escape from this embrace. In her disorder and agitation, and contest with Maulear, who sought to re- strain her, in the half obscurity of the grotto her foot touched the coil of vipers. She fell shrieking on his bosom. He left the grotto with his precious burden. I-Icr cry had revealed to him the new misfortune, to which at first he paid no attention, but which now terrified him. The cry awoke Scorpione. His ear being familiarized with all the tones of his mistress, he would have recognized this amid a thousand. Quicker than the thunderbolt he rushed from the house, and stood at the door just when Mau- lear seized her. Scorpione fancied the stranger bore away his foster-sister, and rushed on him as furi- ously as he would have done on a midnight robber. He seized Maulear in the breast with his right hand, the nails of which were trenchant as a needle, while with the left he sought to thrust the dagger in his heart. Aminta herself was however a shield to his bosom, and he clasped her closely. In the appearance of the horrid monster, Maulear almost forgot the perilous situation from which he had just extricated himself. For a time he fancied he was under the spell of some terrible vision, being unable to believe one person could unite so many deformities. With terror then he saw Scorpione seize on him and seek to snatch the body of Aminta from him. A second cry of Aminta, less dis- tinct however than the first, changed the scene and recalled two of the actors to their true interest. Wretch ! said Maulear to Tonio, if you wish gold I will give it you. Wait how- ever till I resuscitate this girl. Aminta needs the care of none, when I am by ~ said Scorpione. She is my mis- tress, my sister: I watch over her. At all events you watch over her very badly, said Henri, placing Aminta on a broken stone. I found her asleep here, with the vipers nestling in her bosom. A groan escaped from the throat of Scor- pione as he heard these words. LIe fell at Amintas feet, with such an expression of grief, such cruel despair, that Maulear de- spite of himself was moved. Vipers pointed-headed! Have they stung her tell me, said Tonio to Maulear. I ~vill die if she does He sunk on the ground, mad with rage and terror. The eyes of Maulear glittered with somber horror. A nervous terror seized him, and, paralyzed by fright, he pointed out to Tonio the white leg of Aminta, around which a viper had coiled itself. Scorpione sprang forward and tore the reptile away, throwing it far from him. This took place in less than a second. Maulear would have done pre- cisely what Scorpione had done, but thought was not more rapid than the movement of Arnintas foster-brother. Above the buskin of the girl a spot of blood appeared on her silk stocking. This came from the bitc of the serpent. It was death. Maulear, kneeling before Aminta, reached forth his hand to touch the wound. Tonio rudely pushed him aside. No one, said he in a sharp harsh voice, mingled with which was an accent of indignation, may touch Aminta! Tonio alone has that right, and Madame ito- vero would drive him away if he permitted it! But she will die unless I aid her And how can you ? said Scorpione, look- ing impudently at him. What do you know about pointed-heads 3 You do not even know the only remedy. But I do, and will cure her. There was such conviction in the words that Maulear almost began to entertain hope. What probability however was there that this kind of brute would find means en- ergetic and sure enough to restore the warmth of life to one over whom the coldness of death had already begun to settle, to stop the flow of poison which already permeated her frame 3 Maulear doubted, trembled, and entertained again the most miserable ideas. If you would save her, said he to Scorpi- one, there is but one thing to do. Hurry to the nearest physician and bring him hither to cauterize the wound and burn out the poison.~~ Physicians are fools ! said Scorpione. When my mother was thirty years of beautiful and full of life, they let her die. Though she was only my mother, I would have strangled them. If they were not to save Aminta, however, I would kill them as I would dogs ! Nothing can give an idea of his expression as he pronounced the words, though she uas only my mother. It be- tokened atrocious coldness and indifference. The glance however he threw on the maiden at the very idea of her death was full of in- tense affection. Save her then ! said Maulear, seizing the idea that this half-savage creature was perhaps aware of some secret means fur- nished by nature to work a true miracle in favor of the victim. The features of Aminta began to be disturbed; a livid pallor took possession of her; light contractions agitated her features ; her lids became convulsive, COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. 49 opening and shutting rapidly. Scorpione guished tournure, advanced with an expres- observed all these symptoms. Well, said sion of intense terror. Looking all around, he, placing his hand on her heart, it beats she seemed much terrified. She soon saw yet. The poison moves on: let us stop it. the three characters of our somber drama. Kneelin~, before her, he grasped the wound- Passing hurriedly and rapidly as if she had ed limb, and took off the light silk stock- been a girl toward Aminta, who lay extended ing. Then taking his dagger from his bo- on the ground, she seized and convulsively som, he made a slight incision with the sharp clasped her to her heart, without however point where the reptile had bitten her. She being able to utter a word. Her tearful eyes uttered a cry of pain. What are you declared however that she was aware some about f said Maulear, offended. great misfortune had befallen her child. Do you not see replied Scorpione, that This woman was Madame Rovero. Those who I am openin~ the door for the escape of the accompanied her were old servants of the poison l family, and surrounded Aminta. They were Without speaking a word, he leaned over ignorant as Madame Rovero was of the dan- the wound applied his lips, and sucked the ger the young girl had undergone. Aminta blood which ran from it. Twice or thrice he however had begun to recover, and pointed spat out the blood and resumed the occupa- to Tonio, who lay in convulsions in Maulears tion of sublime courage. The ugliness of arms. What, monsieur, has happened ~ Scorpione entirely disappeared from Maulears said Madame de Rovero to Maulear. Hay- eyes, and the monster seemed to him a say- ing become uneasy at my daughters pro- ing ~ngel descended from heaven to rescue longed absence, I have come to her usual re- another angel fi om death. A few seconds sort and find her dying and this lad writhing passed by in terrible and solemn silence, in your arms. ~corpmone supported Amintas head, and at- Madame, excuse me, said Maulear, if I tempted to read in her face the effect of his do not now make explanation in relation to heroism. Henri de I\iaulear also knelt, and the cruel events which have taken place. glanced from heaven to the girl, invoking Time at present is too precious. Your daugh- aid from one, and feeling profound anxiety ter I trust will live. But this poor fellow for the other. demands all our care. He has sacrificed Aminta sighed, but not with pain. An himself to rescue your child, and to him you internal relief was already experienced by owe now all your happiness. Near this place her. Scompione seized her hand in his, and I have two horses. Suffer me to place your feeling her pulse, laughed aloud. He said, daughter on one, and do you return with her to The Scorpion has overcome the viper: Amin- your house. I will on the other hurry with ta will live ! Tonio as fast as possible to Sorrento. But you ~ you ~ said Maulear, as he 1-lenri took a silver whistle from his pocket saw Scorpiones strength give way. and sounded it. A groom soon appeared with IVle? oh, I perhaps will diethat how- two horses. What he had proposed was soon ever is a different matter. Though he did executed, not however without difficulty, for not know it, Scorpione might have been Aminta was much enfeebled, and Scorpione right.. Felix Fontana, the great Italian, one contended violently with those who sought to of the most (listinguished physicians of the place him in front of Maulear, who had eighteenth century, in his celebrated Riserche already mounted. Madame Rovero went sad- Cheiniche Soprcm ii Veieno della Viperce, affirms ly toward Sorrento, bearing pale and bloody that to suck out the poison of the viper, even the young girl who had gone on that very when it does not touch the vital organs, suf- morning from her mothers villa so joyous, flees to cause such an inflammation of the happy, and beautiful. Maulear hurried to organs of the mouth that death always re- the house of the physician which had been sults from it. pointed out to him. While they were bring- Boundless admiration and profound pity ing in AmintmCs foster-brother, Henri told the appeared in the heart of Maulear when he doctor what had taken place. He examined heard the answer of Tonio. He even forgot the lad, and his brow became overcast. Aminta, and hurried to her generous libera- Scorpione was speechless, and but for the tor. He took him in his arms, and sustained faint pulsations of his heart one might have his head, which in nervous spasms he heat thought him lifeless. No external symptom violently against the rock. This deformed betrayed time effect of the poison except the creature became really a friend and brother head of the patient, which was terribly swol- to Maulear; he had saved one whom even len His mouth and especially the lower jaw Heaven abandoned. He had accomplished appeared tIme seat of suffering, and with a the most admirable sacrifice, that equal al- sensation of horror Maulear saw between the most to Christ, who gave his life to ransom violet lips of the patient a green and tense that of his fellows, tongue, at the appearance of which the phy Just then steps were heard in the distance, sician exhibited much emotion. and many persons approached the solitude What do you think of his condition P where such terrible scenes were occurring, said Maulear. A woman of about fifty years of age, with The great Felix Fontana says, in such dignified and beautiful features and distin- cases there is no safety. Lazarus Spallan THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. zini, however, another savant of the eigh- tion of the unsold portion of his estates, cold teenth century, published at Venice, in 1767, and harsh in behavior, the Prince returned in the Giornole DItalia, an admirable disser- from exile in 1815, with the same ideas he tation on wounds caused by the bite of rep- had borne away in 1788. The Prince de tiles, especially on those of the vipers. Treat- Maulear was the true type of those un- ing of suction and its consequences, he points changeable prejudices which can neither learn out a means of cure for it. It is however so nor forget. lie was educated in France by a terrible and dangerous that I know not if I sister of his mother, the Countess of Grand- should use it. nesnil, an ancient canoness, a noble lady, Use it, sir. There is, said Maulear, who was a second mother to the young Mar- only the alternative of it and death.~ quis after death had borne away his own. The man will live, but in all probability The Countess had not emigrated like her will never speak again. He waited for Mau- brother-in-law. The care demanded by the lears answer. delicate health of the heir of the family could May I consult the family ? said the not admit of the fatigue of endless travel, young man. I will have returned in an made necessary by emigration. Therefore, hour. the heir of the Maulears remained under the In ten minutes, said the doctor, he will charge of the Countess. When he grew up, be dead. - beneath the algis of the Countess, he com- Act quickly, then, monsieur: all his pleted his education, and at a later day en- friends would act as I do.~ tered society. She exercised over his mind The physician left: in a few minutes he and heart that influence which affection and returned with one of his assistants, bear- the usage of familiar intercourse confer. ing a red hot iron. Maulear shuddered. Watching over him with maternal care, seek- The physician placed the patient in a great to ascertain arm-chair, to which he astenedhin~ with in~ his wishes that she might be ab e to gratify them, making him happy in strong straps of leather. Then, when he was every way in her power, she was beloved by satisfied that no spasm or motion of the un- the Marquis with all his heart. He could fortunate man would interrupt the operation, not have loved a mother more. he placed a speculum in his mouth. The The consequence of this education by a speculum in its expansion tore apart the jaws woman was that the moral had somewhat of Tonio, and kept them distended, so that stifled the intellectual. Besides, this kind of the interior orifice of the throat could be seen. fanaticism of the Countess for her nephew, Seizing the hot iron, he plunged it into the her constant attention to gratify every ca- throat of the unhappy man, turned back the price, her readiness to excuse his faults, even palate from the tongue, and moved it several when she should have blamed them se~verely, times about, while the agonizing guttural made his education vicious as possible, and cries of the patient were mingled with the brought out two faults with peculiar promi- sharp hissing of the iron. Torrents of tears nence. His character was very weak; and filled his eyes. At this terrible spectacle he had great self-confidence; [he Prince de Maulear fainted. Maulear found the son he had left a child in the cradle, a man of twenty-six, and was lit- 111.THE CONCERT. erally forced to make his acquaintance. HENRI MARQUIS dx MAULEAR was scarcely The noble bearing and distinguished man- twenty-six, and was what all would have ners of the young man pleased him espe- called a handsome man. A flue tall person, cially. He was also graceful, gallant and delicate features, and a profusion of rich brave, and the Prince saw himself restored to blond hair, curling naturally, justified the youth in the person of his son. He did not appellation which the world, and especially make himself uneasy about his sentiments, the female portion of it, conferred on him, being satisfied that his son was learned in To these external advantages, was united a stable lore, a good rider, skillful in the use of brilliant education, rather superficial than weapons, heroic and enterprising. He re- serious, and more graceful than solid. He joiced at his fortune, as it would make Henri had dipped without examination in every- happy, and anticipated a brilliant and fortun- thing. He, however, knew it to be essential ate career for his son. Henri had no profession, to seem to understand all the subjects of and the Prince procured for him the appoint- French conversation, in the saloons of Paris: ment of secretary of legation to Naples. He nothing more. had held this post six months when he ap- The Prince Maulear, the only son of whom pears in our history. Henri was, had accompanied the Bourbons Henri had never loved. Much ephemeral in their exile, and been one of the faithful at gallantry, and many easy cbnquests, which Mettau and Hartwell. After having undergone soon passed away, had occupied his time with- banishment with the Princes, his illustrious out touching his heart, an~ this was his situ- friends, he returned to France with LouisXVIIl. ation when for the first time he saw the White and shared with Messieurs d~ Blacas, Vi- Rose of Sorrento. As we have said, he be- trolles, dEscars and others, the favor and confi- came sick at the terrible surgical operation. dence of the king. A widower, and the re- He did not revive until all was over. The un- cipient of a large fortune from the restora- fortunate Tonio had been placed in one of the COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. 61 rooms of the doctors house, and the latter de- j He will live, but that is all science can do. dared, that in consideration of the import-i Do not neglect one who has so absolute a anee of the case, he would himself attend to right to my gratitude. the patient, and would not leave him until he Turning then to Maulear, she said, In a should have been completely restored, unless, few days, Monsieur, my daughter and myself added he, death should remove the responsi- will expect you. She will soon be restored, bility. The Marquis being satisfied that the and we will thank you for your services. savior of Aminta would not be neglected, Maulear bade adieu to Mine. Rovero, not as hurried with the doctor to Madame Roveros a stranger or acquaintance of a few minutes, villa. Nothing could be more simple and but as a friend who leaves a family with charming, and nothing in Italy had struck whom he is intimate. He left them with him so forcibly. The very look of the house regret, as persons to whom he was devoted, told how happy were its inhabitants. At the and with whom he was willing to pass his life. extremity of Sorrento, it was surrounded by XVitliin a few hours, a strange change had large trees, and winter seemed never to in- been wrought in him. Struck with admira flict any severity upon it. tion atAminta, the danger withwhichhe found An old servant admitted the strangers. her surrounded, the successive agitations of the He recognized Maulear, for he had been with scene, the sweet influence exerted by her on Madame when she recovered her daughter. his heart, the alternations of hope and fear, Madame expects you, gentlemen, said everything combined to disturb the placidity he, when he saw the young Marquis and the of his withered and somewhat b1az~ soul which Doctor. 1 will accompany you to the room. scarcely seemed plastic enough to receive a He went before them to a pretty room on the profound and tender expression. He thea ground floor, where he left them a short time. experienced for Aminta what he had not Maulear carefully examined it. All be- amid all that terrible.... The features of tokened elegant tastes in its occupants. In the young girl he had borne in his memory, the middle was an elegant grand piano of contracted as they,were by pain, did not seem Vienna; on the desk the Don Giovanna of Mo- to him less charming, and excited a warmer zart; and on a pedestal near the window an interest than ever. Never before had the exquisite model of Tassos house. A round most beautiful in all the eclat of dress and table of Florentine workmanship, of im- manners appeared so attractive as the pale ~nense value, stood near one side of the a art- Aminta in her mortal agony. To sum up all, ment. The valuable Mosaics were, ow- he was in love, and in love for the first time. ever, hidden by a collection of albums, keep- Henri left Sorrento with a painful sensation, sakes, and engravings. There were also on and returned to Naples, where pleasure and it vases of alabaster, filled with perfumed warm receptions awaited him, from the many flowers, and the whole room was lit up by beauties on whom he expended the small the rays of the setting sun, the brilliancy of change of his heart. As he said himself, he which were softened as they passed across never was ruined by sensitiveness, keeping all the park. Madame Rovero entered with a the wealth of his heart for a good opportunity. servant. Take the Doctor, said she, to That opportunity was come. He returned to my daughters room, whither I will come in- the palace of the embassy, far different in his mediately. You, sir, said she, pointing Mau- condition from what he was when he left. lear to a chair, will please to tell me for With the most perfect sang-froid therefore what I am your debtor. I am sure your he read the following note which his valet had claims are large. He gave Madame Rovero given him when he came in a detailed account of what had happened The Duke de Palma, minister of police, since he met Aminta in the grotto, until the requests the Marquis de Maulear to pass the ~ruel devotion of Tonio. evening with him. Tonio has toLd you the truth, Monsieur, Lower down in another hand was written said Madame Rovero; the terrible remody ~ Do not fail. La Felina will sing, and at he had the courage to em ploy is known in two oclock we will have a supper of our intimate the country to be infallible, though, as yet, friends. You know whether or not you are one few examples of such heroism have occurred. of the number. The doctor alone can satisfy us of the safety The Duke of Palma, minister of police of of my daughter. Madame Rovero moved the kingdom of Naples, was one of the friends toward the door to satisfy herself in relation of Fernando IV. He was not a great minis- to this engrossing subject, when the doctor ter, but was young and intellectual. His prin- entered. She trembled before him like a cipal merit was that he amused his master, criminal before a judge, when he seeks to di- by recounting secret intrigues, whimsical ad- vine the nature of a terrible sentence. The ventures, and delicate affairs, a knowledge of young lady is in no danger. I have ex- which he acquired by means of his position. ainined the wound carefully; no trace of Thus he found favor with Fernando, who was poison remains. The poor lad has entirely not servod, but amused and satisfied. Sove- exhausted it. The mother lifted her eyes to reigns who are amused are indulgent. Mau- heaven in inexpressible gratitude. lear hesitated a long time before he accepted What hopes have you, doctor, of the poor the invitation. His soul was occupied by new 1~~d P and delicious emotions. It seemed to him to 52 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. be profanity to transport them to such a dif- The name of Monte-Leone, so well known ferent and dissipated scene. He however in Naples, created the greatest sensation. shrunk from solitude, and the idea of living All were silent and listened to the Duke of apart from Aminta for whole days, made him Palma. La Felina became strangely pale. desire the amusement and excitement prom- ised by the invitation. The entertainment IV.THE DUKE OF PALMA. was superb. All the noble, elegant and rich You know, said the Duke to his friends, of Naples were bidden. The concert began. that the Count Monte-Leone has for a long The first pieces were scarcely listened to, in time professed opinions entirely opposed to the consequence of the studiously late entries of government of our sovereign king Fernando. many distinguished personages, and of many The heir of the political errors of his unfor- pretty women, who would not on any account tunate father, he seems to travel fatally to- enter incognito either a drawing-room or a ward the same sad fate. The king long ago theater, and were careful never to come thither bade us close our eyes to the guilty conduct of until the moment when their presence would the young Count. His Majesty was unwilling attract attention or produce interruption, to continue on the son the rigors to which his Silence however pervadled in a short time all father had been subjected. A revelation of the assemblage. The crowd which a moment great importance forced us to act, and we before had been so agitated became at once caused the offender to be arrested for an calm and mute. A fairy spell seemed to have offence of which he must make a defence before transfixed them. A fairy was really come the appointed tribunal. During many months that of music.... The Queen of the the- the Count contrived to avoid all efforts made ater of Italy, La Bella Felirtathat strange to arrest him. At last, however, in conse- sibyl of the ball at San Carlo. The excite- quence of a youthful escapade in which he ment to hear her was great, and the prima should by no means have indulged, his retreat donna had immense success. The young was revealed to us. The house which con- woman, by coming to his ~oiree, did the mm- cealed him and his accomplices was found out ister of poic e a great favor: The singer had on the night of the last ball of San Carlo. during the whole year refused the most bril- The countersign of his associates had been liant invitations and the largest sums to sing revealed to us by a traitor, and our precautions any where but at San Carlo. Thrice she had were so skillfully taken, that the three friends appeared on the concert gallery, and thrice of Monte-Leone were arrested one after the descended amid immense applause. other, at the very door of his house, without Great is the triumph of song. Yet its suc- in the least rendering the arrest of the Count cess is fleeting and ephemeral, and may be doubtful. Two hours after, Monte-Leone, annihilated by the merest accident. The arrested by our agents, was borne to the glory is frail, the fortune uncertain, of all that Castle del Uovc, a safe and sure prison, emanates from the human throat. whence as yet no prisoner ever escaped. The The concert was over and all left. Henri and report of the chief of the expedition, con- the intimate friends alone, of whom the Duke tinued the Duke, ~states, that he saw a spoke, passed into an elegant and retired room woman fainting on the floor. He adds, that into which the minister led La Felina. Mes- he thought he had nothing to do with it, his sieurs, said he, the Signora honors me by orders relating entirely to the four of whom partaking of our collation. Let us bow before he obtained possession. the Queen of Song and thank her for the honor During this preamble La Fehina more than she confers on us. The cantatrice exhibited once inhaled the perfume of her l)ouquet. no embarrassment at being alone amid so When, however, she looked up, her face ex- many of another sex, so notorious for the vola- pressed no trouble or change. tility of their manners. Her habitual calm The three friends of Count Monte-Leone, and dignity did not hide a kind of restraint said the Duke, are a Frenchman, a German, from the observation of Maulear. She replied and an Italian. The first is the Count of Har- by a few graceful words to the gallantries of court, son of the Duke, one of the noblest and which she was the object. They then all sat most powerful men of France. We cannot down. Many witty remarks were made by fancy ~ow the heir of so noble a family has the guests. Champagne increased Neapolitan become involved in such a plot, where persons volability, and heads were beginning to grow of his rank have all to lose and nothing to light, when the minister seeing that La Fehina gain. He is a brilliant young madcap, ami- was ill at ease at the conversation, said, able and adventurous, like almost all of his The supper, Signora, of a minister of police countrymen, and became a conspirator merely sh9uld be unique as that of a banker or for recreation and to while away the time he senator. Where else would one learn of cannot occupy with love and pleasure. The piquant adventures, scandal, hidden crimes, second is a graver character: the son of a but at myhouse, for I am the keeper of all re- Bohemian p astor, imbued with the philoso- cords and the compulsory confessor of all. I phic and ~tical opinions of his countrymen, wish then to give you another fruit and to tell Sand, Koerner, and the ideologists of his ~you of a strange adventure, the hero of which country, he dreams of leveling ideas which is a person all of you know. That man is would set all Europe in a blaze. He has Count Monte-Leone. become a conspirator from conviction, is COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. ____ a madman full of genius, but one of those who On this formal declaration made by three must be shut up, before they become furious. I well-known inhabitants of the town of Torre The fanatical friendship of this young man del Greco, devoted to king Fernando, the to Monte-Leone involved him in the party of Count was sought for by the police, arrested which he is the shadow and the reflection. as I have told you, and imprisoned in the Cas- He is a conspirator, ex necessitate, who will I tie del Uovo. Every means was taken to never act from his own motive, and who, con- make sure of the person of the prisoner. The sequently, is a subject of no apprehension to us, garrison of the castle was increased, lest there as long as he has no head, no chief to nerve his should be some daring coup de main to deliver arm, and urge him onward. We have with- him. The charge of him was intrusted to the out any difficulty exonerated Italy from the most stern and incorruptible of the jailers, who reproach of containing these three men, with- was however carefully watched by the agents out any scandal or ~olence.... The German of the government. This excess of precau- on the very night of his arrest was sent to tion had nearly cost the life of the prisoner, the city of Elbogen, his native city, with re- from the fact that he was placed in a dungeon commendations to the paternal care and sur- into which the sea broke. Judge of my veillance of the friendly governments through surprise when yesterday, two of the accusers which he was to pass. The Count of Harcourt of the Count, the Salvatori, came to my hotel has already seen the shores of France. When insisting that two days before, just as the this brilliant gentleman placed his foot on population of Torre del Greco was leavinn the deck of the vessel, he was informed that church, their eldest brother Stenio Salvatori henceforth he was forbidden ever to return to had been poignarded at his door by Count Naples, under penalty of perpetual imprison- Monte-Leone. meat. Young Rovero was confined in this This evidence, continued they, will be identical palace, until such time as the trial confirmed by all the inhabitants of the town, of Count Monte-Leone shall be terminated, in the presence of whom the affair hap- I am informed that he does nothing but sigh pened. I refused to believe anything so im- after a mysterious beauty, the charms and probable. I told them the Count had been voice of whom are incomparable. a prisoner several days, and assured them I La Felina again put her bouquet to her face. would have been informed of his escape. I am now come, Messieurs, to the true Overcome by their persuasions, shaken in my hero of this romance. conviction by their oaths, I determined to Just then he was interrupted by the sudden satisfy myself that the Count was at the entrance of one of his secretaries, who whis- I prison, and went thither. pered briefly to him, and placed before him a The Duke had not deceived the auditors by box mysteriously sealed, with this superscrip- his promises, for the interest had rapidly in- tion To His Excellency Monsignore the creased, and every one listened to his words Duke of Palma, minister of police, and to him with intense curiosity. A single person only alone. seemed listless and uninterested. This was The countenance of the minister expressed La Felina, whose eye never lost sight of the surprise, as his secretary said, Read, Mon- box which the secretary had given the Duke, signore, and verify the contents of the box. amid which he had shut, so that no one knew The Duke requested his guests pardon, and the nature of the contents. The Duke re- unsealed the letter, which he rapidly read. sumed his story: He then opened the box, examined it with cu- The new governor of the Castle, whom 1 riosity, and without taking out the objects it had appointed after the inundation, was not contained, said, It is unheard of: it is almost informed of my visit. No one expected me, miraculous. yet all was calm and in good order. The ministers exclamations put an end to Signore, said I to the governor, I am all private conversations, and every eye was informed that the prisoner I have confided to turned upon him, Messieurs, said he with your charge, the Count Monte-Leone, has es- emotion, I thought I was about to teli you caped from the fortress. If this be so, you a strange thing, but all that I know has be- know the severity of military law, and must come complicated by so strange an accident, expect its utmost rigor. As lie heard this that I am myself amazedused as I am to menace, the governor grew pale. I fancied mysterious and criminal events. his chang~m of color came because he was At a signal, the secretary left, and the Duke aware of some error, and I awaited his an- continued: The trial of Count Monte- swer with anxiety. If the Count has es- Leone was prepared. Vaguely accused of be- caped, Monsignore, he replied, it must have ing the chief of the secret soemety, the object been within an hour, for it is not more than of which was the overturning of the monar- twice that time since I saw him. - chy, he might have been acquitted from want I was amazed. Unwilling as I was to be of proof of his participation in this dark and face to face with the Count, the violence and guilty work, when three witnesses came for- exasperation of whom I was aware, of, I or- ward to charge him with having presided in dered myself to be led to his cell. The jailer their own sight over one of the assemblages threw back the door on its hinges, and far which in secret discuss of the death of kings from finding the room unoccupied, I saw him by the enemies of law and order. stretched on a bed, and reading a book, which 54 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. seemed very much to interest him. He ap- trial, and I retired satisfied with the mistake peared pale and thin. A year had passed or falsehood of Monte-Leones accusers. since I had seen him, brilliantly and carefully I found the Salvatori at my palace. I dressed, giving tone to the saloons, the cyno- told them that they played a terrible game. sure of which he was. Dignified and haughty, I said, If you had brought a false charge and always polite, even in the coarse dress lie against a young man at liberty, and on the wore, the Count rose, recognized, and bowed head of whom there lay no accusation, your to me. I did not, said he, expect the hon- crime would be capital, and you would be or of a visit from his excellency the minister vulgar calumniators, such as are too often of police, and would have wished to receive made infamous by our criminal records. This him in my palace. As the state of affairs is, niatter is however so complicated by revenge however, he must be satisfied with the rude that it will excite general horror, and draw hospitality of the humble room I occupy. on you all the severity of the law. Count He offered me his only stool. I said, Not I, Monte-Leone, whom you accused of having Count, but yourself, have been the cause that poignarded your brother, is now in the Cas- you are thus situated. If you had chosen, tie del Uovo, which I left a few minutes ago, you might have lived happy, free, and es- and where I saw him. teemed, as your rank and birth entitled you. Nothing can describe the singular expres- Heniember that all must be attributed to sion of the faces of the two men as they lis- yourself, if you exchange all these advantages tened. But they still persisted that they for the solitude of a prison and the dangers had spoken the truth, and were sternly dis- which your opinions have brought on you. missed by me, affirming that they would Shall 1 dare to ask, Monsignore, is the visit prove all they had said. They have kept I receive an act of benevolence, or of official their word, and here is the evidence, said duty ~ I am come hither, Count, from the Duke, opening the box and exhibiting a duty. The rumor of your escape is spread glittering ring, on which was engraved the everywhere. A crime committed on the day escutcheon of Monte-Leone. before yesterday in the vicinity of Naples is This ring, said he, is acknowledged to attributed to you, and I am come to ascertain be one of the chef dauvres of Benvenuto Ccl- here if there be any foundation for the accu- lini. It has an historical fame, and is con- sation. The Count laughed. Monsignore, sidered one of the most admirable works of said he, one never leaves this place except that great artist. Twenty times the govern- under the charge of keepers. As for the new ment has sought to buy it, but the Monte- crime of which I am accused, and of which I Leoni have uniformly refused to part with it. know nothing, I trust that the good sense of This letter accompanied the precious jewel: the judges will think me innocent as of the Monsigriore: Heaven has come to our imaginary offenses which brought me hither. aid. Since our evidence, corroborated by that The calmness and sang-froid of Monte- of all Torre del Greco, could not convince Leone, the improbability of the story told you of the truth of our accusation since me, excited a trouble and confusion which you refuse to believe that Count Monte-Le- did not escape the observation of the prisoner, one, to avenge himself, wounded our brother, Monsignore, said he, we have met under we send you this ring, engraved with his happier circumstances. I expect and ask a arms, which he lost in his contest with Ste- favor from no one. I can however ask an nio Salvatori, and which God has p laced in indulgence from so old an acquaintance as our hands to confound and to punish him. yourself. Hurry on my trial! The prehim- RAPHAEL AND PAOLO SALvATORI. mary captivity I undergo is one of the great- Allis lost ! said La Felina. est outrages of the law. While a man is What now shall we believe l said the uncondemned he should not be punished. Duke to his guests. God does not send any one to hell untried and uncondemned. lVIy life is sad here. VTHE VISIT. This book, the only one allowed me, said he, THE story of the Duke of Palma was con- presenting me with it open at the page where cluded by the last question. All seemed he had been reading when I entered, this wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular great book, De Consolatione Philosophic~ of incident. The night was far advanced, and Anicius Severinus Boethius, does not console the company separated. but afflicts me; for in spite of myself I re- The Duke escorted La Fehina to her car- member that the author, imprisoned by a ty- riage. Just however as the door was about rant at Pavia, terminated in torture a life of to close on him, he said: Would you not glory. If such be my fate, signore,if I am like, beautiful Fehina, to know the name of guilty, the punishment is great enough: if the woman at Count Monte-Leones on the 1 am not guilty, it is too great. night of the ball 3 I was touched by this logical reasoning. Why ask that question 3 said she. Far more influence however was exerted on Because, he said, I know no one more me by his noble tranquillity and time natural beautiful or more attractive. dignity misfortune often kindles up in the Her name 3 said the singer, with emotion. noblest souls. Count, said I, be assured Is La Felina ! said the Duke. What that within a few days you will be placed on surprises you 3 he added; a minister of i-wi- COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. lice, from his very office, knows everything. presence of Aminta. The White Rose of Sor- La Felina said to herself, But he does not ! rento never vindicated more distinctly her The spirited horses bore the carriage rap- right to the name. idly away. Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Aminta was wrapped in a large dressing-gown, Taddeo Rovero had especially arrested the at- the vaporous folds of which hung around tention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation her. Her face, become yet more pale from or connection of Aminta ~ During the few suffering, was, as it were, enframe in light minutes he had passed at Sorrento lie had clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked a beautiful alabaster statue, but for the two no questions of Aminta. Allied however by beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous the heart to this family already, he naturally hair which were drawn around her charming enough took interest in the danoers its mem- face. bers incurred. He therefore & Yetermined to My child, said Signora Rovero, as she return at once and ascertain this fact from led Henri forward, the Marquis of Maulear the minister, when a note handed to him proves that he is not insensible of the value of drove the matter completely from his mind, our thanks, since he has come so promptly to Thus ran the note: receive them. Monsieur: My daughter now knows how Alas! Signora, said Henri to the mother much she is indebted to you, and the efforts of Aminta, the true savior of your daughter you made to rescue her from the fearful dan- is not myself, but. the generous lad who risked ger which menaced her. The heroic remedy his own life for hers. God, however, is my employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. witness, that had I been aware I could have Aminta is entirely recovered and is unwilling thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to to delay any longer the tribute of gratitude. employ the means. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. The chivalric and impassioned tone with If you will deign to receive them in our poor which these words were pronounced, made villa, we will be delighted to see you there to- both mother and daughter look at Henri. day. Your grateful, The latter, however, immediately cast down ANTONIA RovERo. her eyes, confused by the passionate expression The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at of his. these words. He would in the course of a few Monsieur, said Aminta, with emotion, hours see Aminta, the impression of whose I might doubt such devotion from you, to beauty had so deeply impressed his heart, and a person who was a stranger, were I not from whom he had fancied he would yet be aware of the nobility and generosity of the separated for days. He mounted his best 1~ rench character. horse and rapidly crossed the distance which For the first time Maulear heard Aminta separated him from Sorrento. Two hours speak. She had one of those fresh and sweet after the receipt of the letter he knocked at voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant every word she spoke had the air of a caress again admitted him. one of those delicious voices with which The Signorina is in no danger, said he a few chosen natures alone are endowed, to Maulear, as soon as he saw him. Nothing which are never heard without emotion, is more graceful than this familiarity of old and are always remembered with pleasure. servants, who as it were are become from de- If the head and imagination of the Marquis votion a portion of the family of their masters. were excited by her charms, his heart sub- We know, added the good man taking and mitted to the influence of her angelic voice, kissing Maulears hand respectfully, that we for it emanated from her soul; and Maulear, owe all to your Excellency, who drove away as he heard her delicious notes, thought there the vipers which otherwise had stung her on was in this young girl something to love be- the heart, and allowed Tonio no time to res- sides beauty. cue her. The physician had ordered the patient to There was such an expression of gratitude repose. He feared the wound made by in the features of the old man, that Maulear Tonios dagger would re-open if she walked. was deeply moved. By the side of her sofa, therefore, the honrs of The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Maulear rolled by like seconds. Count, to thank you. The old man ~et tears The father, an educated and dignified man, drop on the hand of the Marquis. had superintended, in person, the education What noble hearts must the mistresses of of his two children. Wishing neither to such servants have, thought Maulear as he separate nor to leave them, for he loved them stood in waiting. both alike, his cares were equally divided be- Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but tween them, so that Aminta, profiting by the not with a cold ceremony. The stranger lessons given to her brother, shared in his who had contributed to the salvation of her masculine and profound education, and ac- daughter henceforth was a friend to her. quired information far surpassing that ordi- Come, come, said Signora Rovero, she cx- narily received by her sex. The seeds of pects you. science had fallen on fertile ground. A stu- The door was opened, and they wcrc in the dious mind had developed them in meditation 56 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. and solitude, and this beautiful child conceal- ed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled and amazed. A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulears visit. He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversa- tion, one thought was ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom the minister had spoken i The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy, might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy himself. Sirnora, said he to the mother, there is in ~aples a young man named Taddeo Rovero. My sonthe brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant. The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her sons pleasures. My brother is the soul of honor and courage, said Aminta, but his head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his best friends. My daughter means his best friends, said Signora Rovero, gaily, the brilliant Count I\Ionte-Leone, one of the proudest no- bles of Naples. Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him. The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Ro- vero speak thusand he admired the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition, foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo. The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blush- ed to see one of her sentiments thus dis- played before a stranger. In the impenetra- ble sane t uary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affec- tions. Besides, by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason, of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for 1addeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison. I am astonished. said the Signora, that my son is so long absent without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fif- teen days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible. I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you. As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out. It is heit is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of agony. It is no- thing, said she, immediately. I thought myself strong enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio. Sig- nora Rovero passed into the next room. It is he, said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. It is my savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair did he think we forgot him. Signora Rovero returned. The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible, said she; his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die. The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appear- ance, however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and save him her I~retty hand with an ex- pression of deep gratitude. Thank you, Monsieur, said she, for your compassion for Tonio. A heart like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you have shed. These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfujly on the hand offered to him, he bade adieu to Signora Ro- vero, and set out for Naples, bearing with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, antici- pation, and wishesof everything, in fine, which composes the first and most adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charm- ing preface to the yet unread book. On the next day Maulear visited the Duko COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. of Palma. Monsignore, said he to the chapel we have mentioned, and in which minister, I am about to ask you a favor to Rovero was shut up. which I attach immense value. The pardon Before we relate what follows, we must ac- of young Rovero, who has been, your Excel- quaint the reader with the secret sentiments lency tells me, rather imprudent than guilty. of young Rovero. All had done justice to the The Duke laughed. His liberty! On my seductive grace, which attracted so many word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if adorers to the feet of the singer. Rovero, he would accept it. the youngest of the band of four, felt far more What does this mean, Monsignore ~ than admiration for the prima donna. His said Maulear. soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became That Rovero refuses liberty~ The king, aware of an emotion of which it had not been fancying that mildness would cure his folly, cognisant, at the sight of the great artist, the ordered me to dismiss the novice to his fain- fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so ily. I told Rovero. He replied, 1 refuse a powerful expression to her glances. Rovero pardoni ask for justice: 1 am innocent or had hitherto thought of women only under guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid innocent, let them acquit me. I will not modesty and grace which seem to call on the leave this prison except by force, as I entered ruder sex for protection,as charming crea- it. Thus I have a prisoner in spite of my tures whom God has formed to command in wish to release him. obeying, to triumph by weakness. The youn~, I will see him, said the Marquis, and and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers will speak to him of his mother. of twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The native nobility vITHE PRISONER. of Felina, her elegant habits the ardent ma- THE Hotel of the Minister of Police at Na- gination which had expanded the love of her pies had been constructed on the site and on art, the very practice of her profession which the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of of Palma, ancestors of the present Duke. the great masters, with the royal sovereigns Amid the vestiges of the old palace, which she represented, had enhanced her natural still existed, was an ancient chapel, connect- dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, ed with the new edifice. This chapel, aban- which so perfectly harmonized with her per- doned long before, had been changed into a son, so entirely consorted with her habits, prison, for the reception of persons arrested form and queenly bearing, that she might secretly by the Minister of Police, into the have been fancied a Juno or a Semiramis offences of whom he wished to inquire per- disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather sonally, before he turned them over to just- than the reverse, which really was the case. ice. Of this kind was young Rovero. King Glittering with these attractions to which Fernando, wearied of foolish and ephemeral Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she ap- conspiracies which disturbed, without en- peared to him: like an enchantress and the dangering his monarchy, combated with all modern Circe, dragging an enthusiastic peo- his power the disposition of his ministers to be pIe in her train, and ruling in the morning in rigorous, and the Duke of Palma to please his her boudoir, which glittered with velvet and master suppressed the various plots which arose gold, and in the evening making three thou- everywhere. This indulgent and pacific sys- sand people fanatical with her voice and ma- tem did not at all comport with the revolution- gic talent, it was not unnatural that she sub- ary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the de- dued him. The impression produced on Tad- position of the brothers Salvatori, united to deo by La Felina on the evening they were at public rumor, made the arrest of the Count un- the Etruscan house, was so keen, so new, so full avoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to of surprise and passion, that the young man the annoyance ofF ernando IV. and his minis- left the room, less to ascertain what had be- ter. An example was needed. One criminal come of the two friends who had preceded must be severely punished to terrify all the him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on apostles ofdark sedition. The more exalted the him by the eyes of La Felina. He had not rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the seen her since example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing Like Von Apsberg and dilarcourt, taken his pardon, subjected the Duke of Palma to a in the snare which had been set for him by new annoyance. His refusal made a trial ne- the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured at~ cessary, or he would be forced to release him, ter a brief but violent contest. It seemed to contrary to his own protestations, and therefore him that his soul was torn from his body subject the government to the odium of arbi- when he was separated from La Felina. lie trary injustice and a criminal attack on the had however previously heard her at San liberties of the people. This would be a new Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and theme of declamation for malcontents. The wonderful beauty, the illusion was so perfect motives assigned, by Taddeo for insisting on that he fancied lie saw the Juliet of Zinnarelli a trial were specious and dignified. We will, or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a however, soon see that they had no reality, woman to be herself adored,in one word, and only masked the plans of the prisoner, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the A strange event ha a en place in the old Neapolitan was enkindled by the eyes of the 58 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. Neapolitan. He did not love, but was con- sumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days, he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero thought only of his love. Concen- trating all power in his devotion, he evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In his fancy he ran over all the per- fections of this beautiful being. It seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the im- potence of which he cursed. Religious exal- tation, like the enthusiasm of love, assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man and most devoted lover living in the world. Lon~ days and endless nights occupied with one idea, fixed and im- mutable, rising before us like the ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais. Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occu- pied his mind. Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he could scarcely distin- guish fiction from reality, and after a troubled sleep he asked if he had addressed his burn- ing declarations to the phantom of the sing- er or to La Felina herself. Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with which Monte- Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to com- plain of their fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is true only by means ~of a doubtful light which reached him through the stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through the glory of the Vir- gin. Still it was the light of day, which is half the sustenance of a prisoner. On the fourth ni~ht after Roveros arrest, he reposed rather t an rested on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, It is either he, or I am mistaken. The shadow moved on. After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero, who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night. It is a woman ! said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and delicate hand was placed on his lips. If you are heard, I am lost ! said his visitor, in a trembling voice. Who are you 3 and what do you want 3 said Taddeo, suffering his voice to escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips. I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to pene- trate it. Then by a rapid movement, the vis- itor pulled the vail again over her face. Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly, lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe form of her who held him captive. One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La Felina to ren- der it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not the singers hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to think. Lift up your vail, Felina, said he. But at the evidence of terror which she exhibited, he resumed. Do not attempt to deceive me. In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it med- itates by day and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided you hither, in pity of the torment 1 have endured since I left you. An hour, Fehina, in your presence, has sufficed to en- slave my soul forever. Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void in my heart been completely filled. He loves me ! murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep pity. This however was uttere4 in so low a tone that the prisoner did not hear her. k-lear me, said Rovero. You told us at Monte-Leones that you loved one of the four. True, said the singer, in a feeble voice. You said that for him you would sacrifice your life. True. That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life. I also said, Fehina answered, that my love would ever be unknown, and that the secret would die with me. Well, said Rovero, I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you, is at your feet. COUNT MONTi-LEOXE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY. 59 How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your friends ~ Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul. Hear me, said she; time is precious. Watched, and the object everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy my- self that you were really the person I sought for, and, hid den beneath this vail, and by a yet greater concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my pur- pose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. 1 was ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would have kept my secret. Why fear my love ? said Rovero; think you Lsellmy devotion? A love which hesi- tates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying you. But let your re- quests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that you may estimate me by my deeds. You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant your capa- city fall not below your courage. In four days you will know what I expect from you. And will you, said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, tell me which of the four you Jove ~ You will then know. To you alone will reveal the secret. How can I live until then ! said Rovero, with a sigh. The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It was grow- ing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to the door to listen to what was passing~ she disappeared like a shadow behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the walls, attempt- ing to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible, there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to be informed of his pardon. The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria, Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of the Museo Borbonico, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been pressed by the feet of La Feina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the prints of her footsteps. Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. Excuse me, sir, said he to the prisoner, that I have thus intruded without an introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have learned it. Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police agent. I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and are incon- solable in your absence. Two ladies ! said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of passion, he added~ Signor, I love but one. He paused and was much confused by the avowal he had made. At least, said the stranger, you love three; for in a heart like yours family affec- tions and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies of whom 1 speak, Signor, are your mother and sister. The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were exiled from his mem- ory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty. Signor, said he, you have thought correctly. Notwith- standing the forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what they expect from me. They expect you to return, said the stran- ger. A service 1 rendered them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf. Signor, said Rovero, tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may know to whom I must utter it. Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your strange rejec- tion of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly grasp at. The minister has in- formed me of your motives, and, though honor- able, permit me to suggest that you do not for- get your duty. Did your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice. Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of discussion nor of reply. Signor, continued Maulear, what prin- ciple, what opinions can combat your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the logic of passion and politi- cal hatred be still, and hearken only to duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget every scruple which now retains you. Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes on those of Manlear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts. Marquis, said he, I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it. Swear on your honor not to be- tray me, and I will tell you all. I swear. Well, said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that he might be sure he was not overheard; I accept the 130 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. liberty offered me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and be- fore sunset on the third, I will have returned with you to Sorrento. Henri, surprised, could not help looking at iRovero. Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I can. and not one other word shall leave my mouth. I may then tell Signora Hovero, that you will return. Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in three days, poe will place me in her arms. Taking Maulears hand he clasped it firmly. Thanks, Signor, said Maulear, I accept your friendship. With people like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover that it has not on that account less flavor and value. Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection i~n Taddeo. Never did time appear so long to Amintas brother as that which intervened between iXinulears departure and the night he was so anxious for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal, lie did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her precious visit. Remembering that his pre- ceding nights had been agitated and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be over- come by weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself.. Like most of the Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which the peo- ple of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed something to keep him awake, and asked for wine. He approached the table on which his even- ing meal was placed, he took a flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his veins. He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded, he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid grad- ually made his eyelids grow heavy and that though he sought to overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he was forced to sit down. I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those situa- tions when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor, rapidly took posses- sion of the young man. Then commenced a painful contest between mind and body,the latter succumbed. He felt his body power- less, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy which sought to make him senseless inert and powerless. His head fell upon his bosom and he sankto sleep. Just then, he heard a light noise, the rust- ling of a silk dress, and a timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Roveros face to assure herself that he was in reality asleep. zND OF PART II. [From the Gem.] THE TWICKENHAM GHOST. fIOME to the casement to-night, 1) And look out at the bright lady.moon; come to the casement to-night, And Ill sing you your favorite tune! Where the stream glides beside the old tower, Mv boat shall be under tlse wall, Oh, dear one! be there in your bower, With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl. Oh! come where no troublesome eye can look on the vigil love keeps; When there is not a cloud in tlse sky, Wlsat maid, inst an eld maiden, sleeps? And you know not how sweet is the tone Of a song from a lip we have pressd, Whess it breathes it by moonlight alone To the ear of the sac it loves best. Oh ! daylight loves music but mars, (As it breaks up the dance of the elves!) The moon, and the stream, and the stars, Should hear it alone with ourselves: And whod be content with Imay, If they only would think of I might ? Or whsd listen to music by day, That had listened to music by night? The Operas over by one, Lady Jerseys grows stupid at two; Ill dance just one waltz, and have done, Then be oft; on the pony, for Kew! My boat holds a cloaka guitar, And it waits by that dark bridge for me: And Ill row, by the light of one star, Loves own, to the old tower, by three! Ill bring you that sweet cauzonette, That we practiced together last year; And my own little miniature, set Rousid with emeraldstis such a dear! You promised youd love me as long As your heart felt me close to it, there; And, dear one! for that and the song, Wont you give me the locket of hair? Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright, Should your grandmamma bid you beware Of a youth, who was murdered one night, And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there: For you know, ever since his decease, a armless young ghost thats allowd To go, by the River Police, Serenading about in his shroud!

130 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. liberty offered me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and be- fore sunset on the third, I will have returned with you to Sorrento. Henri, surprised, could not help looking at iRovero. Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I can. and not one other word shall leave my mouth. I may then tell Signora Hovero, that you will return. Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in three days, poe will place me in her arms. Taking Maulears hand he clasped it firmly. Thanks, Signor, said Maulear, I accept your friendship. With people like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover that it has not on that account less flavor and value. Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection i~n Taddeo. Never did time appear so long to Amintas brother as that which intervened between iXinulears departure and the night he was so anxious for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal, lie did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her precious visit. Remembering that his pre- ceding nights had been agitated and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be over- come by weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself.. Like most of the Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which the peo- ple of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed something to keep him awake, and asked for wine. He approached the table on which his even- ing meal was placed, he took a flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his veins. He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded, he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid grad- ually made his eyelids grow heavy and that though he sought to overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he was forced to sit down. I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those situa- tions when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor, rapidly took posses- sion of the young man. Then commenced a painful contest between mind and body,the latter succumbed. He felt his body power- less, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy which sought to make him senseless inert and powerless. His head fell upon his bosom and he sankto sleep. Just then, he heard a light noise, the rust- ling of a silk dress, and a timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Roveros face to assure herself that he was in reality asleep. zND OF PART II. [From the Gem.] THE TWICKENHAM GHOST. fIOME to the casement to-night, 1) And look out at the bright lady.moon; come to the casement to-night, And Ill sing you your favorite tune! Where the stream glides beside the old tower, Mv boat shall be under tlse wall, Oh, dear one! be there in your bower, With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl. Oh! come where no troublesome eye can look on the vigil love keeps; When there is not a cloud in tlse sky, Wlsat maid, inst an eld maiden, sleeps? And you know not how sweet is the tone Of a song from a lip we have pressd, Whess it breathes it by moonlight alone To the ear of the sac it loves best. Oh ! daylight loves music but mars, (As it breaks up the dance of the elves!) The moon, and the stream, and the stars, Should hear it alone with ourselves: And whod be content with Imay, If they only would think of I might ? Or whsd listen to music by day, That had listened to music by night? The Operas over by one, Lady Jerseys grows stupid at two; Ill dance just one waltz, and have done, Then be oft; on the pony, for Kew! My boat holds a cloaka guitar, And it waits by that dark bridge for me: And Ill row, by the light of one star, Loves own, to the old tower, by three! Ill bring you that sweet cauzonette, That we practiced together last year; And my own little miniature, set Rousid with emeraldstis such a dear! You promised youd love me as long As your heart felt me close to it, there; And, dear one! for that and the song, Wont you give me the locket of hair? Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright, Should your grandmamma bid you beware Of a youth, who was murdered one night, And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there: For you know, ever since his decease, a armless young ghost thats allowd To go, by the River Police, Serenading about in his shroud! THE MYSTIC VIAL. 61 [From the Dublin University Magazine.] THE MYSTIC VIAL: OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURQ. 1.THE GAME OF BOWLS. MORE than a century agowe know not whether the revolution has left a ves- tige of itthere stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and funereal forest, and ap- proached through an interminable straight avenue of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and visible from the great high road to Rouen. The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a princely scale; ex- tensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit- trees, fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover for all man- ner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach. But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal dependency of the seigno- rial domain, seemed to have sunk with the fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melan- choly the village of Charrebourg that was de- caying beneath it. The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient seigneurs, was still liv- ing, and though not nnder the ancestral roof of his chateau, within sight of its pro- gressive ruin, and what was harder still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a measure or two of the other badly enough. Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the en- joyment of tolerable health, and of a pen- sion of nine hundred francs (~36) per an- num, paid by the Crown. His creditors per- mitted him to occupy, besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were attached two or three liliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an English acre altogether. Part of it, be- fore the door, a scanty bit we allow, was laid out in a little parterre of flowers, and be- hind the dwelling was a small bowling-green surrounded~ by cherry-trees. The rest was cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of three mdi- vidualsthe Visconte himself, his daughter VOL. 11.No. Lucille (scarcely seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her nursenow cook, housemaid, and all the rest. Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most splendid among the satellites of a splen- did court. He had married rather late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his dear and sainted helpmate, who never could re- sist play and jewelry. The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had himself poured into the laps of mis- tresses, and squandered among the harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely beg- gared. Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who, together with Lu- cille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both fallen, one in a duel, the other in a mad- cap adventure in Naples. And thus of course ended any hope of see ing his fortunes even moderately recon structed. We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five oclock in the afternoon of a summers day. Dame Marguerite has already commenced her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the war- ren to shoot rabbits for to-morrows dinner. Two village lads, who take a pleasure in obliging poor old Margueriteof course nei- ther ever thinks of Lucillehave just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook. he carries to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought mulberries for the family, from a like motive. The old woman has pronounced Jacques mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes the other; each un derstands what his rival is about perfectly well; neither chooses to go while the other remains. Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well fa- vored, sallow, flat-faced, with lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequal- ly matched. Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue, the hues ~f the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong to her. When ~rst he appears before her in

THE MYSTIC VIAL. 61 [From the Dublin University Magazine.] THE MYSTIC VIAL: OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURQ. 1.THE GAME OF BOWLS. MORE than a century agowe know not whether the revolution has left a ves- tige of itthere stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and funereal forest, and ap- proached through an interminable straight avenue of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and visible from the great high road to Rouen. The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a princely scale; ex- tensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit- trees, fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover for all man- ner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach. But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal dependency of the seigno- rial domain, seemed to have sunk with the fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melan- choly the village of Charrebourg that was de- caying beneath it. The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient seigneurs, was still liv- ing, and though not nnder the ancestral roof of his chateau, within sight of its pro- gressive ruin, and what was harder still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a measure or two of the other badly enough. Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the en- joyment of tolerable health, and of a pen- sion of nine hundred francs (~36) per an- num, paid by the Crown. His creditors per- mitted him to occupy, besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were attached two or three liliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an English acre altogether. Part of it, be- fore the door, a scanty bit we allow, was laid out in a little parterre of flowers, and be- hind the dwelling was a small bowling-green surrounded~ by cherry-trees. The rest was cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of three mdi- vidualsthe Visconte himself, his daughter VOL. 11.No. Lucille (scarcely seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her nursenow cook, housemaid, and all the rest. Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most splendid among the satellites of a splen- did court. He had married rather late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his dear and sainted helpmate, who never could re- sist play and jewelry. The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had himself poured into the laps of mis- tresses, and squandered among the harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely beg- gared. Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who, together with Lu- cille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both fallen, one in a duel, the other in a mad- cap adventure in Naples. And thus of course ended any hope of see ing his fortunes even moderately recon structed. We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five oclock in the afternoon of a summers day. Dame Marguerite has already commenced her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the war- ren to shoot rabbits for to-morrows dinner. Two village lads, who take a pleasure in obliging poor old Margueriteof course nei- ther ever thinks of Lucillehave just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook. he carries to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought mulberries for the family, from a like motive. The old woman has pronounced Jacques mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes the other; each un derstands what his rival is about perfectly well; neither chooses to go while the other remains. Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well fa- vored, sallow, flat-faced, with lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequal- ly matched. Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue, the hues ~f the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong to her. When ~rst he appears before her in THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. these tell-tale ribbons, the guilty knees that wear them tremble beneath him. He thinks that now she must indeed understand him that the murder will out at last. But, alas! she, and all the stupid world beside, see nothing in them but some draggled rib- bons. He might as well have worn buckles nay, better; for he suspects that cursed Jacque understands them. But in this, in- deed, he wrongs him: the mystery of the ribbons is comprehended by himself alone. He and Jacque passed round the corner of the quaint little cottage; they were crossing the bowling-green. And so, sighed poor Gabriel, I shall not see her to-day. Hey! Gabriel! Jacque! has good Mar- guerite done with you 3then play a game of bowls together to amuse me. The silvery voice that spoke these words came from the coral lips of Lucille. Through the open casement, clustered round with wreaths of vine in the transparent shade, she was looking out like a portrait of Flora in a bowering frame of foliage. Could any- thing be prettier 3 Gabriels heart beat so fast that he could hardly stamm~r forth a dutiful answer; he could scarcely see the bowls. The beautiful face among the vine-leaves seemed every- where. It would have been worth ones while to look at that game of bowls. There was something in the scene at once comical and melancholy. Jacque was cool, but very clum- sy. Gabriel, a better player, but all bewil- dered, agitated, trembling. While the little daughter of nobility, in drugget petticoat, her arms resting on the window-sill, looked out upon the combatants with such an air of unaffected and immense superiority as the queen of beauty in the gallery of a tilting- yard might wear while she watched the feats of humble yeomen and villein archers. Some- times leaning forward with a grave and haughty interest; sometimes again showing her teeth, like little coronels of pearl, in ringing laughter, in its very unrestrainedness as haughty as her gravity. The spirit of the noblesse, along with its blood, was undoubt- edly under that slender drugget bodice. Small suspicion had that commanding little damsel that the bipeds who were amusing her with their blunders were playing for love of her. Audacity like that was not indeed to be contemplated. Well, Gabriel has won, and I am glad of it, for I think he is the better lad of the two, she said, with the prettiest dogmatism conceivable. What shall we give you, Ga- hriel, now that you have won the game 3 let me see. Nothing, Mademoisellenothing, I en- treat, faltered poor Gabriel, trembling in a delightful panic. Well, but you are hot and tired, and have won the game beside. Marguerite shall give you some pears and a piece of bread. I wish nothing, Mademoiselle, said poor Gabriel, with a melancholy gush of courage, but to die in your service. Say you so 3 she replied, with one of those provokingly unembarrassed smiles of good-nature which your true lovers find far more killing than the cruelest frown; it is the speech of a good villager of Charre- bourg. Well, then, you shall have them another time. But, as your excellence is so good as to observe, I have won the game, said Gabriel, reassured by the sound of his own voice, and to say I should have something asas a token of victory, I would ask, if Mademoi- selle will permit, for my poor old aunt at home, who is so very fond of those flowers, just one of the white roses which Mademoiselle has in her hand; it will give her so much pleasure. The poor old woman! Surely you may p luck some fresh from the bush; but tell Marguerite, or she will be vexed. But, Mademoiselle, pardon me, I have not time: one is enough, and I think there are none so fine upon the tree as that; be- sides, I know she would like it better for hav- ing been in Mademoiselles hand. Then let her have it by all means, said Lucille; and so saying, she placed the flow- er in Gabriels trembling fingers. Had he yielded to his impulse, he would have re- ce~ved it kneeling. He was intoxicated with adoration and pride; he felt as if at that mo- ment he was the sultan of the universe, but her slave. The unconscious author of all this tumult meanwhile had left the window. The rivals were t~te-d-t~te upon the stage of their re- cent contest. Jacque stood with his hand in his breast, eyeing Gabriel with a sullen sneer. He held the precious rose in his hand, and still gazed at the vacant window. And so your aunt loves a white rose bet- ter than a slice of bread 3 ejaculated Jacque. Heaven! what a lieha, ha ha Well, I won the game and I won the rose, said Gabriel, tranquilly. I cant won- der you are a little vexed. Vexed 3bah! I thought she would have offered you a piece of money, retorted Jacque; and if she hod, I venture to say we should have heard very little about that nice old aunt with the pencIiar~t for white roses. im not sordid, Jacque, retorted his ri- val; and I did not want to put Mademoi- selle to any trouble. How she laughed at you, Gabriel, your clumsiness and your ridiculous grimaces; but then you do makeha, ha, ha !such very comical faces while the bowls are rolling, I could Pot blame her. She laughed more at you than at me, retorted Gabriel, evidently nettled. You talk of clumsiness and grimacesupon my faith, a pretty notion. Tut, man, you must have been deaf. You amused her so with your writhing, and THE MYSTIC VIAL. 63 ogling, and grinning, and sticking your on both cheeks; I am going to pick straw- tongue first in this cheek and then in that, berries. according as the bowl rolled to one side or Ah, ma chere mignonne, I wish I could the other, that she lau~hed till the very again see the time when the lackeys in the tears came; and after al that, forsooth, she Charrebourg blue and salmon, and covered wanted to feed you like a pig on rotten all over with silver lace, would have marched pears; and thenha, ha, ha the airs, the behind Mademoiselle whenever she walked command, the magnificence. Ah, la! it was into the park. Parbleu, that was magnifi- enough to make a cow laugh. cence You are spited and jealous; but dont Eh bien, nurse, said the little lady, deci- dare to speak disrespectfully of Mademoi- sively and gravely, we shall have all that selle in my presence, sirrah, said Gabriel, again. fiercely. I hope so, my little petwhy not ~ she Sirrah me no sirrahs, cried Jacque, giv- replied, with a dreary shrug, as she prepared jug way at last to an irrepressible explosion to skewer one of the eternal rabbits. of rage and jealousy. Ill say what I Ay, why not ~ repeated the demoiselle, think, and call things by their names. Youre serenely. You tell me, nurse, that I am an ass, I tell youan ass; and as for her, beautiful, and I think I am. shes a saucy, impertinent little miax, and Beautifulindeed you are, my little prin- you and she, and your precious white rose, cess, she replied, turning from the rabbit, may go in a bunch to the devil together. and smiling upon the pretty questioner un- And so saying, he dealt a blow with his til her five thin fangs were all revealed. hat at the precious relic. A quick movement They said your mother was the greatest of Gabriels, however, arrested the unspeak- beauty at court; but, ma foi! she was never able sacrilege. In an instant Jacque was like you. half frightened at his own audacity; for he Well, then, if that be true, some great knew of old that in some matters Gabriel man will surely fall in love with me, you was not to be trifled with, and more than know, and I will marry none that is not made up in spirit for his disparity in richer than ever my father, the Yisconte, strength. Snatchin a ieee of fire-wood wasrely upon that, good Marguerite. in one hand, and with the other holding the Well, my little pet, bear that in mind, sacr~ed flower behind him, Gabriel rushed at and don~t allow any one to steal your heart the miscreant Jacque, who, making a hideous away, unless you know him to be worthy. grimace and a gesture of ridicule, did not At these words Lucille blushedand what choose to await the assault, but jumped over a brilliant vermilionaverted her eyes for the low fence, and ran like a Paynim coward a moment, and then looked full in her old before a crusader of old. The stick flew nurses face. whizzing by his ear. Gabriel, it was plain, Why do you say that, Marguerite ~ was in earnest; so down the woody slope to- Because I feel it, my pretty little child, ward the stream the chase swept headlong; she replied. Jacque exerting his utmost speed, and Gabri- No, no, no, no, cried Lucille, still with a el hurling stones, clods, and curses after him. heightened color, and looking with her fine When, however, he had reached the brook, eyes full into the dim optics of the old woman; it was plain the fugitive had distanced him. you had some reason for saying thatyou Pursuing his retreat with shouts of defiance, know you had ! he here halted, hot, dusty, and breathless, By my word of honor, no, retorted the inflamed with holy rage aad chivalric love, old woman, in her turn surprised no, my like a Paladin after a victory, dear; but what is the matterwhy do you a Jacque meanwhile pursued his retreat at blush so slackened pace, and now and then throw- Well, I shall return in about an hour, ing a glance behind him. said Lucille, abstractedly, and not heeding The fiend catch him ! he prayed. Ill the question; and then with a gay air she break his bird-traps and smash his nets, and tripped singing from the door, and so went Ill get my big cousin, the blacksmith, to gaily down the bosky slope to the edge of the drub him to a jelly. wood. But Gabriel was happy: he was sitting under a bush, lulled by the trickling of the liTHE GENTLEMAN IN BLUE AND SILVER. stream, and alone with his visions and his LUCILLE had no sooner got among the rose. mossy roots of the trees, than her sylvan The noble demoiselle in the mean time task commenced, and the fragrant crimson took her little basket, intending to go into the berries began to fill her basket. Her little wood and gather some wild strawberries, head was very busy with all manner of mar- which the old Visconte liked; and as she velous projects; but this phantasmagoria never took a walk without first saluting her was not gloomy; on the contrary, it was gor- dear old Marguerite geous and pleasant; for the transparent Adieu, ma bonne petite maman, she green shadow of the branches and the mel- Baid, running up to that lean and mahogany- low singing of the birds toned her day- complexioned dame, and kissing her heartily idreams with their influence. 64 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. In the midst of those airy pageants she not inquire wherefore people smile. But this was interrupted by a substantial and by no seems plain to me~that I have done very means unprepossessing reality. A gentleman wrong in Conversing alone with a gentleman of graceful form and mien, dressed in a suit of whom I know nothing beyond his name. of sky-blue and silver, with a fowling-piece You must think so yourself, though you will in his hand, and followed closely by a bare- not say it; and as you profess your willing- legged rustic, carrying a rude staff and a ness to oblige me, I have only to ask that all well-stored game-bag, suddenly emerged from these foolish conversations may be quite for- behind a mass of underwood close by. It gotten between us. And now the petit pan- was plain that he and Lucille were acquaint- nzer is filled, and it is time that I should re- ed, for he instantly stopped, signing to his turn. Good evening, Monsieur Duboisfare- attendant to pursue his way, and raising his well. three-cornered hat, bowed as the last cen- This is scarcely a kind farewell, consider- tury only could bow, with an inclination that ing that we have been good friends, Made- was at once the expression of chivalry and moiselle de Charrebourg, for so long. ease. His features were singularly hand- Good friendsyesfor a long time; but some, but almost too delicate for his sex, you know, she continued, with a sad, wise pale, and with a certain dash of melancholy shake of her pretty head, I ought not to in their noble intelligence, allow gentlemen whom I chance to meet You here, Monsieur Dubois ! exclaimed here to be my friendsis it not so ~ This Lucille, in a tone that a little faltered, and has only struck me recently, Monsieur Du- with a blush that made her doubly beauti- bois; and I am sure you used to think me ful. What strange chance has conducted very strange. But I have no one to advise you to this spot ~ me; I have no mothershe is dead; and My kind starmy geniusmy good an- the Visconte seldom speaks to me; and so I gel, who thus procures me the honor of be- fear I often do strange things without in- holding Mademoiselle de Charrebourgan tending; andand I have told you all this, honor than which fortune has none dearer to because I should be sorry you thought ill of menonone half so prized. me, Monsieur Dubois. These are phrases, sir. She dropped her eyes forj~moment to tho Yes; phrases that expound my heart. I ground, with an expression at once very se~ beseech you bring them to the test. rious and regretful. Well, then, she said, gravely, let us Then am I condemned to be hencefor- see. Kneel down and pick the strawberries ward a stranger to dear Mademoiselle do that grow upon this bank; they are for the Charrebourg ~ Visconte de Charrebourg. I have told you all my thoughts, Mon- I am too grateful to be employed. sieur Dubois, she answered, in a tone whose You are much older, Monsieur, than I. melancholy made it nearly as tender as his No doubt. own. But, perhaps, some idea crossed her And have seen more of the world, too. mind that piqued her pride; for suddenly True, Mademoiselle, and he could not recollecting herself, she added, in a tone it forbear smiling. . may be a little more abrupt and haughty Well, then, you ought not to have tried than her usual manner. to meet me in the park so often as you did And so, Monsieur Dubois, once for all or indeed at allyou know very well you good evening. You will need to make baste ought not. But, Mademoiselle, what harm can the to overtake your peasant attendant; and as most ill-natured of human critics discov- for me, I must run home nowadieu. Dubois followed her hesitatingly a or er two, but stopped short. A slight flush o~ cx- Oh, but listen to me. I begin to fear I citementit might be of mortificationhov- have been wrong in talking to you as I have ered on his usually pale cheek. It subsided, done; and if so, you ought not to have pre- however, and a sudden and more tender sented yourself to me as you did. I ha~e character inspired his gaze, as he watched reflected on it since. In fact, I dont know her receding figure, and followed its disap- who you are, Monsieur IJubois. The Charre- pearance with a deep sigh: bourgs do not use to make companions of But Monsieur Dubois had not done with everybody; and you may be a roturier, for surprises. anything I can tell. Holloa! sira word with you, shouted Monsieur Dubois smiled again, an imperious voice, rendered more harsh by I see you laugh because we are poor, the peculiar huskiness of age. she said, with a heightened color and a flash- Dubois turned, and beheld a figure, which ing glance. penetrated him with no small astonishment, Mademoiselle misunderstands me. I am advancing toward him with furious strides. incapable of that. There is no point at which We shall endeavor to describe it. ridicule can approach the family of Charre- It was that of a very tall, old man, lank bour~? and upright, with snow - white mustaches, at is true, sir, she said, haughtily; beard, and eyebrows, all in a shaggy and and she added, ~ and on that account I need neglected 5tate. He wore an old coat of THE MYSTIC VIAL. dark-gray serge, gathered at the waist by a belt of undressed leather, and a pair of gai- ters, of the same material, reached fully to his knees. From his left hand dangled three rabbits, tied together by the feet, and in his right he grasped the butt of his antiquated fowling-piece, which rested upon his shoulder. This latter equipment, along with a tall cap of rabbit skins, which crowned his head, gave him a singular resemblance to the old prints of Robinson Crusoe; and as if the tout ensem- ble was not grotesque enough without such an appendage, a singularly tall hound, appar- ently as old and feeble, as lank and as gray as his master, very much incommoded by the rapidity of his pace~ hobbled behind him. A string scarce two yards long, knotted to his masters belt, was tied to the old collar, once plated with silver, that encircled his neck, and upon which a close scrutiny might have still deciphered the armorial bearings of the Charrebourgs. There was a certain ludicrous sympathy between the superannuated hound and his master. XVhile the old man confronted the stranger, erect as Don Quixote, and glaring upon him in silent fury, as though his eye- balls would lea p from their sockets, the de- crepit dog raised his bloodshot, cowering eyes upon the self-same object, and showing the stumps of his few remaining fangs, approach- ed him with a long, low growl, like distant thunder. The man and his dog understood one another perfectly. Conscious, however, that there might possibly be some vein of rid- icule in this manifest harmony of sentiment, he bestowed a curse and a kick upon the brute, which sent it screeching behind him. It seems, sir, that you have made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Charre- bourg ~ he demanded, in a tone scarcely less discordant than those of his canine attendant. Sir, I dont mean to consult you upon the subject. Robinson Crusoe hitched his gun, as though he was about to let fly at the invader of his solitudes. I demand your name, sir. And I dont mean to give it. But give it you shall, sir, by . It is plain you understand catching rab- bits and dressing their skins better than con- versing with gentlemen, said the stranger, as with a supercilious smile he turned away. Stay, sir, cried the old gentleman, per- emptorily, or I shall slip my dog upon you. If you do, Ill shoot him. You have insulted me, sir. You wear a couteau de chasseso do I. Destiny condemns the Visconte de Charrebourg to calamity, but not to insult. Draw your sword. The Visconte de Charrebourg ! echoed Dubois, in amazement. Yes, sirthe Visconte de Charrebourg, who will not pocket an affront because he happens to have lost his revenues.~~ Who would have thought that any pro- cess could possibly have metamorphosed the gay and magnificent courtier, of whose splen. did extravagance Dubois had heard so many traditions, into this grotesque old savage. There are some houses, and foremost among the number that of Charrebourg, said the young man, with marked deference, rais- ing his hat, which no loss of revenue can possibly degrade, and which, associated with the early glories of France, gain but a pro- founder title to our respect, when their an- nals and descent are consecrated by the no- bility of suffering. Nebuchadnezzar smiled. I entreat that Monsieur le Visconte will pardon what has passed under a total ignor- ance of his presence. The Visconte bowed, and resumed, gravely but more placidly I must then return to my question, and ask your name.~~ I am called Dubois, sir. Dubois! hum! I dont recollect, Mon- sieur Dubois, that I ever had the honor of being acquainted with your family. Possibly not, sir. However, Monsieur Dubois, you appear to be a gentleman, and I ask you, as the father of the noble young lady who has just left you, whether you have established with her any understanding such as I ought not to approve in short, any understanding whatsoever ~ None whatever, on the honor of a gentle- man. I introduced myself to Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, but she has desired that our ac- quaintance shall cease, and her resolution up- on the subject is, of course, decisive. On the faith of a gentleman, you have there the en- tire truth frankly stated. Well, Monsieur Dubois, I believe you, said the Visconte, after a steady gaze of a few seconds; and I have to add a request, which is thisthat, unless through me, the acquaintance may never be sought to be re- newed. Farewell, sir. Come along, Jon- quil ! he added, with an admonition of his foot, addressed to the ugly old brute who had laid himself down. And so, with a mutual obeisance, stiff and profouud, Monsieur Du- bois and the Visconte de Charrebourg departed upon their several ways. When the old Visconte entered his castle, he threw the three rabbits on the table before Marguerite, hung his fusil uncleaned upon the wall, released his limping dog, and stalked past Lucille, who was in the passage, with a stony aspect, and in total silence. This, how- ever, was his habit, and he pursued his aw- ful way into his little room of state, where seated upon his high-backed, clumsy throne of deal, with his rabbit-skin tiara on his head, he espied a letter, with a huge seal, ad- dressed to him, lying on his homely table. Ha! hum. From M. Le Prun. The os- tentation of the Fermier-General! the vul- garity of the bourgeois, even in a letter Alone as he was, the Visconte affected a sneer of tranquil superiority; but his hand 66 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. trembled as he took the packet and broke the seal. Its contents were evidently satisfac- tory: the old man elevated his eyebrows as he read, sniffed twice or thrice, and then yielded to a smile of irrepressible self-compla- cency. So it will give him inexpressible pleasure, will it, to consult m~ wishes. Should he be- come the purchaser of the Charrebourg es- tate, he entreatsay, that is the word-that I will not do him the injustice to suppose him capable of disturbing me in the possession of my p resent residence. The Vise onte meas- ured the distance between the tiled floor and the ceiling, with a bitter glance, and said, So our bourgeois-gentilhomme will permit the Visconte de Charrebourgha, hato live in this stinking hovel for the few years that re- main to him; but, par bleu, that is fortun& s doing, not his. I ought not to blame this poor bourgeoishe is only doing what I asked him. lie will also allow rite whatever privileges I have hitherto enjoyedthat of killing roach in the old moat and rabbits in the warren: scarce worth the powder and shot I spend on them. Eh, bien! after all what more have I asked for 3 He is also most desirous to mark, in every way in his power, the profound re- spect he entertains for the Visconte de Char- rebourg. How these fellows grimace and caricature when they attempt to make a com- pliment! but he cant help that, and he is trying to be civil. And, see, here is a post- script I omitted to read. He readjusted his spectacles. It was thus conceived P. SI trust the Visconte de Charre- bourg will permit me the honor of waiting upon him, to express in person my esteem and respect; and that he will also allow me to present my little niece to Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, as they i~re pretty nearly of the same age, and likely, moreover, to be- come neighbors. Yes, he said, pursuing a train of self- gratulation, suggested by this postscript; it was a coup of diplomacy worthy of Richelieu himself, the sending Lucille in person with my letter. The girl h as beauty; its magic has drawn all these flowers and figures from the pen of that dry old schemer. Ay, who knows, she may have fortune before her: were the king to see her But here he paused, and, with a slight shake of the head, muttered, Apage sa- thanas ! 111.THE FERMIER-GENERAL. THE Visconte ate his supper in solemn si- lence, which Lucille dared not interrupt, so that the meal was far from cheerful. Short- ly after its conclusion, however, the old man announced in a few brief sentences, as much of the letter he had just received as in any wise concerned her to know. See you and Marguerite to the prepara- tions; let everything, at least, be neat. He knows, as all the world does, that I am mis- erably poor; and we cant make this place look less beggarly than it is; but we must make the best of it. What can one do with a pension of eight hundred francsbah The latter part of this speech wa~ muttered in bitter abstraction. The pension is too small, sir. He looked at her with something like a sneer. It is too small, sir, and ought to be in- creased. Who says so 3 Marguerite has often said so, sir, and I believe it. If you will petition the king, he will give you something worthy of your rank. You are a pair of wiseheads, truly. It cost the exertions of powerful friends, while I still had some, to get that pittance; were I to move in the matter now, it is more like to lead to its curtailment than extension. Yes, but the king admires beauty, and I am beautiful, she said, with a blush that was at once the prettiest, the boldest, and yet the purest thing imaginable; and I will present your petition myself. Her father looked at her for a moment with a gaze of inquiring wonder, which changed into a faint, abstracted smile; but he rose abruptly from his seat with a sort of shrug, as if it were chill, and, muttering his favor- ite exorcism, Apage sathanas ! walked with a flurried ste p up and down the room. His face was flushed, and there was some- thing in its expression which forbade her haz- arding another word. It was not until nearly half an hour had elapsed that the Visconte suddenly exclaimed, as if not a second had interposed Well, Lucille, it is not quite impossible; but you need not mention it to Marguerite. He then signed to her to leave him, intend ing, according to his wont, to find occupation for his solitary hours in the resources of his library. This library was contained in an old chest; consisted of some score of shabby volumes of all sizes, and was, in truth, a queer mixture. It comprised, among other tomes, a Latin Bible and a missal, in intimate proximity with two or three other volumes of that gay kind which even the Visconte de Charrebourg would have blushed and trem- bled to have seen in the hands of his child. It resembled thus the heterogeneous furniture of his own mind, with an incongruous ingre- dient of superinduced religion; but, on the whole, unpresentable and unclean. He took up the well-thumbed Vulgate, in which, of late years, he had read a good deal, but some- how, it did not interest him at that moment. He threw it back again, and suffered his fan- cy to run riot among schemes more exciting and, alas! less guiltless. His daughters words had touched an evil chord in his heart she had unwittingly uncaged the devil that lurked within him; and this guardian angel from the pit was playing, in truth, very ugly pranks with his ambitious imagination. Lucille called old Marguerite to her bed- THE MYSTIC VIAL. 67 room, and there made the astonishing disclo- sure of the promised visit; but the old woman, though herself very fussy m conse- quence, perceived no corresponding excite- ment in her young mistress; on the contrary, she was sad and abstracted. Do you remember, said Lucille, after a long pause, the story of the fair demoiselle of Alsace you used to tell me long ago ~ How true her lover was, and how bravely he fought through all the dangers of witch- craft and war to find her out again and wed her, although he was a noble knight, and she, as he believed, but a peasants daughter. Marguerite, it is a pretty story. I wonder if gentlemen are as true of heart now Ay, my dear, why not ~ love is love al- ways; just the same as it was of old is it now, and xviii be while the world wags. And with this comforting assurance their conference ended. The very next day came the visit of Mon- sieur Le Prun and his niece. The Fermier- General was old and ugly, there is no deny- ingit; he had a shrewd, penetrating eye, moreover, and in the lines of his mouth were certain unmistakable indications of habitual command. When his face was in repose, in- deed, its character was on the whole forbid- ding. But in repose it seldom was, for he smiled and grimaced with an industry that was amazing. His niece was a pretty little fair-haired girl of sixteen, with something sad and even funeste in her countenance. The fragile tim- idity of the little blonde contrasted well with the fire and energy that animated the hand- some features of her new acquaintance. Ju- lie St. Pierre, for that was her name, seemed just as unconscious of Lucilles deficient toi- let as she was herself, and the two girls be- came, in the space of an hours ramble among the brakes and bushes of the park, as inti- mate as if they had spent all their days to- gether. Monsieur Le Prun, meanwhile, con- versed affably with the Visconte, whom he seemed to take a pleasure in treating with a deference which secretly flattered alike his pride and his vanity. He told him, more- over, that the contract for the purchase of the Charrebourg estate was already completed, and pleased himself with projecting certain alterations in the Viscont& s humble residence, which would certainly have made it a far more imposing piece of architecture than it ever had been: All his plans, however, were accompanied with so many submissions to the Viscontes superior taste, and so many so- licitations of permission, and so many del- icate admissions of an ownership, which both parties knew to be imaginary, that the visitor appeared in the attitude rather of one suing for than conferring a favor. Add to all this that the Fermier- General had the good taste to leave his equipage at the park gate, and trudged on foot beside his little niece, who, in rustic fashion, was mounted on a donkey, to make his yisit. No wonder, then, that when the Crcesus and his little niece took their de- parture, they left upon the mind of the old Visconte an impression which (although, for the sake of consistency, he was still obliged to affect his airs of hauteur) was in the highest degree favorable. 17 he acquaintance thus commenced was not suffered to languish. Scarce a day passed without either a visit or a billet, and thus some five or six weeks passed. Lucille and her new companion became more and more intimate; but there was one secret recorded in the innermost tablet of her heart which she was too proud to disclose even to her gentle friend. For a daydays a weeka fortnight after her interview with Dubois, she lived in hope that every hour might present his handsome form at the cottage door to declare himself, and, xvith the Viscontes sanction, press his suit. Every morning broke with hope, every night brought disappointment with its chill and dark- ness, till hope expired, and feelings of bitter. ness, wounded pride, and passionate resent- ment succeeded. What galled her proud heart most was the fear that she had betrayed her fondness to him. To be forsaken xvas hard enough to bear, but to the desolation of such a loss the sting of humiliation super added was terrible. One day the rumble of coach-wheels was heard upon the narrow, broken road which wound by the Viscontes cottage. A mag- nificent equipage, glittering with gold and gorgeous colors, drawn by four noble horses worthy of Cinderellas state-coach, came roll- ing and rocking along the track. The heart of Lucille beat fast under her little bodice as she beheld its approach. The powdered ser- vants were of course to open the carriage- door, and iDubois himself, attired in the robes of a prince, was to spring from within and throw himself passionately at her feet. In short, she felt that the denouement of the fairy tale was at hand. The coach stoppedthe door opened, and Monsieur Le Prun descended, and handed his little niece to the ground; Lucille wished him and Dubois both in the galleys. He was more richly dressed than usual, more ceremonious, and if possible more gra- cious. He saluted Lucille, and after a word or two of commonplace courtesy, joined the old Visconte, and they shortly entered the old gentlemans chamber of audience together, and there remained for more than an hour. At the end of that time they emerged to- gether, both a little excited as it seemed. The Fermier-Gencral was flushed like a scar- let withered apple, and his black eyes glowed and flashed wit an unusual agitation. The Visconte too was also flushed, and he carried his head a little back, with an unwonted air of reserve and importance. The adieux were made with some little flurry, and the equipage swept away, leav- ing the spot where its magnificence had just been displayed as bleak and blank as the 68 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. space on which the pageant of a phantasma- goria has been for a moment reflected. The old servant of all work was charmed with this souvenir of better days. Monsieur Le Prua had risen immensely in her regard in consequence of the display she had just gloated upon. In the estimation of the de- voted Marguerite he was more than a Midas. His very eye seemed to gild everything it fell upon as naturally as the sun radiates his yellow splendor. The blue velvet liveries, the gold-studded harness, the embossed and emblazoned coach, the stately beasts with their tails tied up in great bows of broad blue ribbons, with silver fringe, like an Arcadian beautys chevelure, the reverential solemnity of the gorgeous lacqueys, the tout ensemble in short, was overpowering and delightful. Well, child, said the- Visconte, after he and Lucille had stood for a while in silence watching the retiring equipage, taking her .hand in his at the sarue time, and leading her with a stately gravity along the narrow walk which environed the cottage, Monsieur Le Prun, it must be admitted, has excellent taste; par bleu, his team would do honor to the royal stables. What a superb equipage! Happy the woman whom fortune will elect to share the splendor of which all that we have just seen is but as a sparkle from the furnace fortunate she whom Monsieur Le Prun will make his wife. He spoke with so much emotion, directed a look of such triumphant significance upon his daughter, and pressed her hand so hard, that on a sudden a stupendous conviction, at once horrible and dazzling, burst upon her. Monsieur !for the love of God do you meando you mean 3 she said, and broke off abruptly. Yes, my dear Lucille, he returned with elation, I do mean to tell you that you3Iou are that fortunate person. It is true that you can bring him no wealth, but he already possesses more of that than he knows how to apply. You can, however, bring him what few other women possess, an ancient lineage, an exquisite beauty, and the simplicity of an education in which the seeds of finesse and dissipation have not been sown, in short, the very attributes and qualifications which he most esteemswhich he has long sought, and which in conversation he has found irresisti- ble in you. Monsieur Le Prun has entreated me to lay his proposals at your feet, and you of course convey through me the gratitude with which you accept them. Lucille was silent and pale; within her a war and chaos of emotions were struggling, like the tumult of the ocean. I felicitate you, my child, said the Vis- conte, kissing her throbbing forehead; in you the fortunes of your family will be re- storedcome with me. She accompanied him into the cottage; she was walking, as it were, in a wonderful dream; but amidst the confusion of her ~enses, her perplexity and irresolution, there was a dull sense of pain at her heart, there was a shadowy figdre constantly before her; its presence agitated and reproached her, but she had little leisure to listen to the plead- ings of a returning tenderness, even had they been likely to prevail with her ambi- tious heart. Her father rapidly sketched such a letter of complimentary acceptance as he conceived suitable to the occasion and the parties. Read that, he said, p lacing it before Lucille. Well, that I think will answer. What say you, child 3 Yes, sir, she replied with an effort; it is true; he doesme indeed greathonor; and and I accept him; and now, sir, I would wish to go and be for a while alone. Do so, said her father, again kissing her, for he felt a sort of gratitude toward her as the prime cause of all those comforts and luxuries, whose long despaired-of return he now beheld in immediate and certain pros- pect. Not heeding this unwonted exuber- ance of tenderness, she hurried to her little bed-room, and sat down upon the side of her bed. At first she wept~passio~ately, but her girlish volatility soon dried these tears. The magnificent equipage of Monsieur Le Prun swept before her imagination. Her curious and dazzled fancy then took flight in specu- lations as to the details of all the, as yet, undescribed splendorsin reserve. Then she thought of herself married, and mistress of all this great fortune, and her heart beat thick, and she laughed aloud, and clapped her hands in an ecstasy of almost childish exultation. Next day she received a long visit from Monsieur Le Prun, as her accepted lover. Spite of all his splendor, he had never looked in her eyes half so old, and ugly, and sinis- ter, as now. The marriage, which was some- times so delightfully full of promise to her vanity and ambition, in his presence most perversely lost all its enchantment, and ter- rified her, like some great but un4scertained danger. It was however too late now to re- cede; and even were she free to do so, it is more than probable that she could not have endured the sacrifice involved in retracting her consent. The Viscontes little household kept early hours. He himself went to bed almost with the sun; and on the night after this decisive visitfor such Monsieur he Pruns first ap- pearance and acceptation in the character of an affianced bridegroom undoubtedly was Lucille was lying awake, the prey of a thou- sand agitating thoughts, when, on a sudden, rising on the still night air came a little mel- odyalas! too well knownagay and ten- der song, chanted sweetly. Had the voice of Fate called her, she could not have started more suddenly upright in her bed, with eyes straining, and parted lipsone hand pushing back the rich clusters of hair, and collecting the sound at her ear. and the other extended THE MYSTIC VIAL. 69 toward the distant songster, and softly mark- ing the time of the air. She listened till the song died away, and covering her face with her hands, she threw herself down upon the pillow, and sobbing desolately, murmured too late !too late ! IYTHE 5TRANGE LADY IN WHITE. THE visits of the happy Fermier-General occurred, of course, daily, and increased in duration. Meanwhile preparations went for- ~vard. The Visconte, supplied from some mysterious source, appeared to have an un- told amount of cash. He made repeated ex- cursiqns to the capital, which for twenty years he had not so much as seen; and hand- some dresses, ornaments, & c., for Lucille, were accompanied by no less important im- provements upon his own wardrobe, as well as various accessions to the comforts of their little dwellingso numerous, indeed, as speed- ily to effect an almost complete transforma- tion in its character and pretensions. Thus the time wore on, in a state of excite- ment, which, though checkered with many fears, was on the whole pleasurable. About ten days had passed since the pecu- liar and delicate relation we have described was established between Lucille and Monsieur Le Prun. Urgent business had called him away to the city, and kept him closely con- fined there, so that, for the first time since his declaration, his daily visit was omitted upon this occasion. Had the good Fermier- General but known all, he need not have offered so many apologies, nor labored so hard to console his lady-love for his involuntary absence. The truth, then, is, as the reader no doubt suspects, Lucille was charmed at finding herself, even for a day, once more her own absolute mistress. A gay party from Paris, with orders of ad- mission from the creditors, that day visited the park. In a remote and bosky hollow they had seated themselves upon the turf, and, amid songs and laughter, were enjoying a cold repast. Far away these sounds of mirth were borne on the clear air to Lucille. Alas! when should she laugh as gaily as those ladies, who, with their young compan- ions, were making merry 3when again should music speak as of old with her heart, and bear in its chords no tone of reproach and despair 3 This gay party broke up into groups, and began merrily to ramble toward the great gate, where7 of course, their car- riages were awaiting them. Attracted mournfully by their mirth, Lu- cille rambled onward as they retreated. It was evening, and the sunbeams slanted pleas- antly among the trees and bushes, throwing long, soft shadows over the sward, and con- verting into gold every little turf, and weed, and knob, that broke the irregular sweep of the ground. She had reached a part of the park with which she was not so familiar. Here several gentle hollows were converging toward the stream, and trees and wild brushwood in fresh abundance clothed their sides, and spread up- ward along the plain in rich and shaggy exu- berance. From among them, with a stick in his hand, and running lightly in the direction of her fathers cottage, Gabriel suddenly emerged. On seeing her at the end of the irregular vista, which he had just entered, however, he slackened his pace, and doffing his hat he ap- proached her. - A message, Gabriel 3, she inquired. Yes, if Mademoiselle pleases, said he, blushing all over, like the setting sun. I was running to the Viscontes house to tell Mademoiselle. Well, Gabriel, and what is it 3 Why, Mademoiseile, a strange lady in the glen desires me to tell Mademoiselle de Char- rebourg that she wishes to see her. But did she say why she desired it, and what she wished to speak to me about 3 No, Mademoiselle. Then tell her that Mademoiselle de Char- rebourg, knowing neither her name nor her business, declines obeying her summons, said she, haughtily. Gabriel bowed low, and was about to retire on his errand, when she added It was very dull of you, Gabriel, not to ask her what she wanted of me. Madame, without your permission, I dare not, he replied, with a deeper blush, and a tone at once so ardent and so humble, that Lucille could not forbear a smile of thQ pret- tiest good nature. In truth, Gabriel, you are a dutiful boy. But how did you happen to meet her 3 I was returning, Mademoiselle, from the other side of the stream, and just when I got into the glen, on turning round the corner of the gray stone, I saw her standing close to me behind the bushes. And I suppose you were frightened 3 she said, archly. No, Mademoiselle, indeed; though she was strangely dressed and very pale, but she spoke to me kindly. She asked me my name, and then she looked in my face very hard, as a fortune-teller does, and. she told me many strange things, Mademoiselle, about myself; some of them I knew, and some of them J never heard before. I suppose she is a fortune-teller; and how did she come to ask for me 3 She inquired if the Visconte de Charre- bourg still lived on the estate, and then she said, Has he not a beautiful daughter called Lncille 3 and I, Mademoiselle, made bold to answer, 0 yes, madame, yes, in truth. Poor Gabriel blushed and faltered more than ever at this passage. Tell Mademoiselle, she said, I have something that concerns her nearly to tell her. Let her know that I am waiting here; but I cannot stay long.~ And so she beckoned me away impatiently, and I, expecting to find 70 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. you near the house, was running, when Ma- demoiselle saw me. It is very strange; stay, Gabriel, I will go and speak to her, it is only a step. The fact was that Lucilles curiosity (as might have been the case with a great many of her sex in a similar situation) was too strong for her, and her pride was forced to bend to its importunity. Go you before, she said to Gabriel, who long remembered that evening walk in at- tendance upon Lucille, as a scene so enchant- ing and delightful as to be rather a mythic episode than an incident in his life; and Gabriel, she added, as they entered the cold shadow of the thick evergreens, and felt she knew not why, a superstitious dread creep over her, do you wait within call, but so as not to overhear our conversation; you under- stand me. They had now emerged from the dark cover into the glen, and looking downward toward the little stream, at a short distance from them, the figure of the mysterious lady was plainly discernible. She was sitting with her back toward them upon a fragment of rock, under the bouc,h of an old gnarled oak. Her dress was a sort of loose white robe, it might be of flannel, such as invalids in hospi- tals wear, and a red cloak had slipped from her shoulders, and covered the ground at her feet. Thus, solitary and mysterious, she sug- gested the image of a priestess cowering over the blood of a victim in search of omens. Lucille approached her with some trepida- tion, and to avoid coming upon her wholly by surprise she made a little detour, and thus had an opportunity of seeing the features of the stranger, as well as of permitting her to become aware of her approach. Her appearance, upon a nearer approach, was not su~h as to reassure Lucille. She was tall, deadly pale, and marked with the small- pox. She had particularly black eyebrows, and awaited the young ladys approach with that ominous smile which ascends no higher than the lips, and leaves the eyes and fore- head dark, threatening, and uncertain. Alto- gether, there was a character, it might be of insanity, it might be of guilt, in the face, which was formidable. Lucille wished herself at home, but there was that in the blood of the Charrebourgs which never turned away from danger, real or imaginary, when once confronted. So you are Lucille de Charrebourg 3 said the figure, looking at her with that ex- pression of malice, which is all the more fear- ful that it appears causeless. Yes, Madame, that is my name; will you be so good as to tell me, beside, the name of the lady who has been kind enough to desire an interview with me 3 For a name, my dear, suit yourself; call me Sycorax, Jezebel, or what you please, and I will answer to it. But what are you 3 There again 1 give you a carte blanche; say I am a benevolent fairy; you dont seem to like that 3 or your guardian-angel 3 nor that neither! Well, a witch if you pleas3, or a ghost, or a fortune-tellerny, that will do, a fortune-tellerso that is settled. Well, Madame, if I may not know either your name or occupation, will you be good enough at least to let me hear your busi- ness. Surely, my charming demoiselle; you should have heard it immediately had you not pestered me with so many childish ques- tions. Well, then, about this Monsieur Le Prun 3 Well, Madame 3 said Lucille, not a little surprised. Well, my dear, Im not going to tell you whether this Monsieur Le Prun is an angel, for angels they say have married women; or whether he is a Bluebeardyou have heard the story of Bluebeard, my little dearbut this I say, be he which he may, you must not marry him. And pray, who constrains my will 3 ex- claimed the girl, scornfully, but at the same time inwardly frightened. I do, my pretty pigeon; if you marry him, you do so forewarned, and if he dont punish you I will. How dare you speak in that tone to me 3 said Lucille, to whose cheek the insolent threat of the stranger called a momentary flush of red; you punish me, indeed, if he does not! Ill not permit you to address me so; besides I have help close by, if I please to call for it. All this time the woman was laughing in- wardly, and fumbling under her white robe, as if in search of something. I say he may be an angel, or he may be a bluebeard, I dont pretend to say which, she continued, with a perfectly genuine con- tempt of Lucilles vaunting, but I have here an amulet that never fails in cases like this; it will detect and expel the devil better than blessed water, vera crux, or body of our Lord, for these things have sometimes failed, but this can never. With the aid of this you cannot be deceived. If he be a good man its influence will be ineffectual against him; but if, on the other hand, he be possessed of evil spirits, then test him with it, and you will behold him for a moment as he is. Let me see it, then. Here it is. She drew from under the white folds of her dress a small spiral bottle, enameled with some Chinese characters, and set in a base and capital of chased gold, with four little spiral pillars at the corners connecting the top and bottom, and leaving the porcelain visible between. It had, moreover, a stopper that closed with a spring, and altogether did not exceed two inches in length, and in thick- ness was about the size of a swans quill. It looked like nothing earthly, but what she had described it. For a scent-bottle, indeed, it might possibly have been used ; but there was THE MYSTIC VIAL. 71 something odd and knowing about this little for Lucille. It was not till they had quite curiosity, something mysterious, and which vanished, and that she was left there alone, seemed as though it had a tale to tell. In that she felt something akin to terror steal short, Lucille looked on it with all the in- over her, and hurried from the scene of terest, and if the truth must be spoken, a good her strange interview as from a haunted spot. deal of the awe, which its pretensions de- A little way up the rising bank Gabriel was manded. awaiting her return, sorely disappointed that And what am I to do with this little bau- fortune had in no wise made her debtor to his ble 3 she asked, after she had examined it valor. for some moments curiously. Long before she reached home the sun had When you want to make trial of its effi- gone down, and the long dusky shadows had cacy, take it forth, look steadily in his face, given ~dace to the thin, cold haze of approach- and say, I expect to receive the counterpart ing night. Often as she glided onward of this; that is all. If he be a good man, as among rocks and bushes she felt an instinct- who can say, the talisman will leave him as ive impulse, something between terror and it finds him. But if he be, as some men are, aversion, prompting her to hurl the little the slave of Satan, you will see, were it but spiral vial far from her among, the wild for a second, the sufferings and passions of weeds and misty brakes, where, till dooms- hell in his face. Fear not to make trial of it, day, it might never be found again. But for no harm can ensue; you will but know the other feelings, stranger in their kind, deter- character you have to deal with.~ mined her at least to defer the sacrifice, and But this is a valuable bauble, its price so she reached her chamber with the mysteri- must be considerable, and I have no money. ous gift fast in her tiny grasp. Well, suppose I make it a present toyou. Here she again examined it, more minutely I should like to have itbutbut ~ than before it contained neither fluid nor But I am too poor to part with it on such powder of any sort, and was free from any terms, and you too proud to take itis that perfume or odor whatsoever; and excepting your meaning I Never mind, I can afford to that the more closely she inspected it, the give it, and, proud as you are, you can afford more she discovered in its workmanship to to take it. Hide it until the time to try him excite her admiration, her careful and curious comes, and then speak as I told you. investigation was without result. As she Well, I will accept it, said Lucille, cold- carefu fly folded up the curious souvenir, and ly, but her voice trembled and her face was secreted it in the safest corner of the safost pale; and this I know, if there be any vir- drawer, she thought over the interview again tue of any sort in the toy, it can only prove and again, and always with the same result Monsieur Le Pruns goodness. Yes, he is a as respected the female who had bestowed it, very kind man, and all the world, I am told, name~y~ that if not actually a lady, she had speaks of his excellence. at least the education and the manners of Very probably, said the stranger; but a person above the working classes. mark my words, don~t marry him; if you do, That night Lucill& was haunted with ugly you shall see me acrain. dreams., Voices were speaking t? her, in Halloa, devil! ~re you deaf 3 thundered threats and blasphemies trom the little vial. a sneering voice from a crag at the opposite The mysterious Lady in white would sit hud- side. Come, come, its time we were moving. dled up at the foot of her bed, and the more she The summons came from a broad, short, smiled the more terrible became her scowl, until swarthy fellow, with black mustaches and at last her countenance began to dilate, and she beard, arrayed in a suit of dusky red. He slowly advanced her face closer and closer, un- had one hand raised high above his head til, just as her smiling lips reached Lucille, she beckoning to her, and with the other he fun- uttered a yell, whether of imprecation or ter- ously shook the spreading branch of a tree ror she could not hear, but which scared her beside him; the prominent whites of his from her sleep like a peal of thunder. Then eyes, and his grinning teeth, were, even at a great coffin was standing against the wall that distance, seen conspicuous; and so shag- with Monsieur Le Prun in it dead and shroud- gy, furious, and unearthly did he seem, that ed, and a troop of choristers began singing a he might well have represented some wild requiem, when on a sudden the furious voice huntsman or demon of the wood. It seemed, she had heard that evening screamed aloud, indeed, as though a sort of witches dance To what purpose all this hymning, seeing the were to be held that night in the old park of corpse is possessed by evil spirits ; and then Charrebourg, and that some of the preter- sueh looks of rage and hatred flitted over the natural company had reached the trysting- livid face in the coffin, as nothing but hell place before their time. could have inspired. Then again she would The ill-omened woman in white hastily see Monsieur Le Prun struggling, his face all gathered up her mantle, without any gesture bloody and distorted, with the man in red and or word of farewell. With hurried strides the strange lady of the talisman, who scream- her tall figure glided off toward the apparition ed, laughing with a detestable glee, Come in red, and both speedily disappeared among bride, come, the bridegroom waits. Such the hazy cover at the other side. horrid dreams as these haunted her all night, The little hollow was now deserted, except so much ss that one might almost have fancied 72 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. that an evil influence had entered her chain- j spirits and scandalous anecdote was inex- ber with the little vial. But the songs of 1 haustible, and so Monsieur Le Prun conceived gay birds pruning their wings, and the rustle him very cheaply retained at the expense of of the green leaves glittering in the early sun1 allowing him to cheat him quietly of a few round fi er window, quickly dispelled the hor- score of crowns at an occasional game of rors which had possessed her little room in picquet. the hours of silence and darkness. It was, This fashionable sharper and voluptuary notwithstanding, with a sense of fear and dis- was now somewhere about five-and-forty; but like that she opened the drawer where the with the assistance of his dress, which was little vial lay, and unrolling all the paper exquisite, and the mysteries of his toilet, envelopes in which it was carefully folded, which was artistic in a high degree, and above beheld it once more in the clear light of day.I all, his gaycty, which never failed him, he Nothing, nothing, but a grotesque little might easily have passed for at least six years scent-bottlewhy should I. be afraid of it? younger. a poor little pretty toy. It was the wish of the benevolent Monsieur So she said, as she folded it up again, and Le Prun to set the Viscount quite straight i~ deposited it once more where it had lain all money matteis; and as there still remained, night. But for all that she felt a mysterious like the electric residuum in a Leyden vial sense of relief when she ran lightly from her after the main shock has been discharged, chamber into the open air, conscious that some few little affairs not quite dissi ate in the harmless little toy was no longer present. the explosion of his fortunes, and which, be- fore Ijis reappearance even in the back- VTHE CHATEAU DES ANGES. grounf of sqciety, must be arranged, he em- THE next day Monsieur Le Prun returned. ployed his agile aid-de-camp, the Sieur de His vanity ascribed the manifest agitation of Blassemare, to fish out these claims and settle Lucilles manner to feelings very unlike the them. distrust, alarm, and aversion which, siiice her It was not to be imagined that a young girl, last nights adventure, had filled her mind, perfectly conscious of her beauty, with a great He caine, howcver, armed with votive evi- deal of vanity and an immensity of ambition, dences of his passion, alike more substantial could fail to be delighted at the magnificent and more welcome than the gallant speeches presents with which her rich old lover had in which he dealt. He brought her, among that day loaded her. other jewels, a suit of brilliants which must She spread them upon the counterpane of her have cost alone some fifteen or twenty thou- bed, and when she was tired of admiring them~ sand francs. He seemed to take a delight in she covered herself with her treasures, hung overpowering her with the costly exuberance the flashing necklace about her neck, and of his presents. Was there in this a latent clasped her little wrists in the massive~ brace- distrust of his own personal resources, and an lets, stuck a pin here and a brooch there, and anxiety to astound and enslave by means of covered her fingers with sparkling jewels; his magnificenceto overwhelm his proud and though she had no looking-glass larger but dowerless bride with the almost fabulous than a playing-card in which to reflect her profusion and splendor of his wealth? Per- splendor, she yet could judge in her own mind haps there was, and the very magnificence very satisfactorily of the effect. Then, after which dazzled her was prompted more by she had floated about her room, and courtesied, meanness than generosity. and waved her hands to her hearts content, This time he came accompanied by a gen- she again strewed the bed with these delight- tleman, the Sieur de Blassemare, who appear- ful, intoxicating jewels, which flashed actual ed pretty much what he actually was-a sort fascination upon her gaze. of general agent, adviser, companion, and At that moment her gratitude effervesced, hanger-on of the rich Fermier-General. and she almost felt that, provided she were Iiie Sieur de Blassemare had his titres de never to behold his face again, she couldnot noblesse, and started in life with a fair fortune. love, but li/ce Monsieur Le Frun very well; she This, however, he had seriously damaged by half relented, she almost forgave him; she play, and was now obliged to have recourse to would have received with good-will, with that species of dexterity, to support his lux- thanks, and praises, anything and every- uries, which, employed by others, had been thing he pleased to give her, except his com- the main agent in his own ruin. The mil- pany. lionaire and the parvenu found him invaluable. Meanwhile the old Visconte, somewhat He was always gay, always in good humor; civilized and modernized by recent restora- a man of birth and breeding, well accepted, tions, was -walking slowly to and fro in the in spite of his suspected rogueries, in the world little bowling-green, side by side with Blasse- of fashionan adept in all its ways, as well as mare. in the mysteries of human nature; active, in- Yes, he said, with confidence I give my quisitive, profligate; the very-man to pick up child into his hands. It is a great trust, intelligence when it was neededto execute Blassemare; but he is gifted with those qual- a delicate commission, or to advise and assist ities, which, more than wealth, conduce to in any project of taste. In addition to all married happiness. 1 confide in him a great these gifts and perfections, his fund of good trust, but I feel I risk no sacrifice. THE MYSTIC VIAL. 73 A comic smile, which he could not suppress, illuminated the dark features of Blassemare, and he looked away as if studying the land- scape until it subsided. He is the most disinterested and generous of men, resumed the old gentleman. Ma foi, so he is, rejoined his companion; but Mademoiselle de Charrebourg happened to be precisely the person he needed; birth, beauty, simplicitya rare alliance. You un- derrate the merits of Mademoiselle de Charre- bourg. He makes no such presents to the Sis- ters of Charity. Pardon me, sir, I know her merits well; she is indeed a dutiful and dear child. And the Viscontes eyes filled with mois- ture, for his heart was softened by her pros- perity, involving, as it did, his own. And will make one of the handsomest as she will, no doubt, one of the most loving wives in France, said Blassemare, gravely. And he will make, or I am no prophet, an admirable husband, resumed the Viseonte; he has so much good feeling and so much So much money, suggested Blassemare, who was charmed at the Viscontes little hy- pocrisy; ay, by my faith, that he has; and as to that little bit of scandal, those mysteri- ous reports, you know, he added, with a ma- licious simplicity. Yes, I know, said the Visconte, shortly. All sheer fiction, my dear Visconte, con- tinued Blassemare, with a shrug and a smile of disclaimer. Of course, of course, said the Visconte, peremptorily. It wns talked about, you know, persisted his malicious companion, about twenty years ago, but it is quite discredited nowscouted. You cant think how excellently our good friend the Fermier-General is established in society. But I need not tell you, for of course you satisfied yourself; the alliance on which I felicitate Le Prun proves it. The Visconte made a sort of wincing smile and a bow. He saw that Blassemare was making a little scene out of his insincerities for his own private entertainment. But there is a sort of conventional hypocrisy which had become habitual to them both. It was like a pair of blacklegs cheating one another for practice with their eyes open. So Blassemare presented his snuif-box, and the Visconte, with equal bonhommie, took a pinch, and the game was kept up pleasantly between them. Meanwhile Lucille, in her chamber, the window of which opened upon the bowling- green, caught a word or two of the conversa- tion we have just sketched. What she heard was just sufficient to awaken the undefined hut anxious train of ideas which had become connected with the image of i\Ionsieur Le Prun. Something seemed all at once to sad- den and quench the fire that blazed in her diamonds; they were disenchanted; her heart no longer danced in their light. With a heavy sigh she turned to the drawer where the charmed vial lay; she took it out; she weighed it in her hand. After all, she said, it is but a toy. Why should it trouble me 3 What harm cen be in it 3 She placed it among the golden store that lay spread upon her coverlet. But it would not assimilate with those ornaments; on the contrary, it looked only more quaint and queer, like a suspicious stranger among them. She hurriedly took it away, more dissatisfied, somehow, than ever. She inwardly felt that there was danger in it, but what could it be 3 what its purpose, significance, or power 3 Conjecture failed her. There it lay, harmless and pretty for the present, but pregnant with unknown mischief, like a painted egg, stolen from a serpents nest, which time and tem- perature are sure to hatch at last. The strangest circumstance about it was, that she could not make up her mind to part with or destroy it. It exercised over her the fascination of a guilty companionship. She hated but could not give it up. And yet, after all, what a trifle to fret the spirits even of a girl! It is wonderful how rapidly impressions of pain or fear, if they be not renewed, lose their influence upon the conduct and even upon the spirits. The scene in the glen, the image of the unprepossessing and mysterious pyth oness, and the substance and manner of the sinister warning she communicated, were indeed fixed in her memory ineffaceably. But every day that saw her marriage approach in security and peace, and her preparations proceed without molestation, served to dissipate her - fears and to obliterate the force of that hated scene. It was, therefore, only now and then that the odd and menacing occurrence recurred to her memory with a depressing and startling effect. At such moments, it might be of weakness, the boding words, Dont marry him; if you do you shall see me again, smote upon her heart like the voice of a specter, and she felt that chill, succeeded by vague and gloomy anxiety, which superstition ascribes to the passing presence of a spirit from the grave. I dont think you are happy, dear Lucille, or may be you are offended with me, said Julie St. Pierre, turning her soft blue eyes full up- on her handsome companion, and taking her hand timidly between her own. They were sitting together on a wild bank, shaded by a screen of brushwood, in the park. Lucille had been silent, abstracted, and, as it seemed, almost sullen during their walk, and poor little timid, Julie, who cherished for her girlish friend that sort of devotion with which gentler and perhaps better natures are so often inspired by firmer wills, and more fiery tempers, was grieved and perplexed. Tell me, Lucille, are you angry with me 3 Iangry! no, indeed; and angry with you, my dear, deer little friend! I could not be: dear Julie, even were I to try. 74 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE. And so they kissed heartily again and again. Then, said Julie, sitting down by her, and taking her hand more firmly in hers, and looking with such a loving interest as nothing could resist in her face, you are unhappy. Why dont you tell me what it is that grieves you ~ I dare say I could give you very wise counsel, and, at all events, console you. At the convent the pensioners used all to come to me when they were in trouble, and, I as- sure you, I always gave them good advice. But I am not unhappy. Really i~ No, indeed. Well, shall I tell you ~ I thought you were unhappy because you are going to be married to my uncle. Folly, folly, my dear little prude. Your uncle is a very good man, and a very grand match. I ought to be delighted at a prospect so brilliant. Even while Lucille spoke, she felt a power- ful impulse to tell her little companion all her fondness for Dubois, her aversion for Monsieur Le Prun, the scene with the strange woman, and her own forebodings; but such a confession would have been difficult to recon- cile with her fixed resolution to let the affair take its course, and at all hazards marry the man whom, it was vain to disguise it from herself, she disliked, distrusted, and feared. I was going to give you comfort by my own story. I never told you before that I, too, am affianced. Affianced! and to whom P To the Marquis de Secqville. Hey! Why that is the very gentleman of whom Monsieur de Blassemare told us such wicked stories the other day. Did he 3 she said, with a sigh. Well, I often feared he was a prodigal; but heaven, I trust, will reclaim him. But you do not love him 3 No. I never saw him but once. And are you happy 3 Yes, quite happy now; but, dear Lucille, I was very miserable once. You must know that shortly after we were betrothed, when I was placed in the convent at Roucn, there was a nice girl there, of whom I soon grew very fond. 1-ler brother, Henri, used to come almost every day to see her. He was about three years older than I, and so brave and beautiful. I did not know that I loved him until his sister went away, and his visits, of course, ceased; and when I could not see him any more, I thought my heart would break. Poor little Julie I was afraid of being otserved when I wept, but I used to cry to myself all night long, and wish to die, as my mother used to fear long ago I would do before I came to be as old as I am now; and I could not even hear of him, for my friend, his sister, had married, and was living near Caen, and so we were quite separated. You were, indeed, very miserable, my poor little friend. Yes; but at last, after a whole year, she was passing through Rouen, and so she came to the convent to see me. Oh, when I saw her my heart fluttered so that I thought 1 should have choked. I dont know why it was, but I was afraid to ask for him; but at last, finding she would not speak of him at all, which I thoughtwasill-natured, though indeed it was not, I d~d succeed, and asked her how he was ; then all at once she began to cry, for he was dead; and knowing that, I forgot everythingI lost sight of everythingthey said I fainted. And when I awoke again there was a good many of the sisters and some of the pensioners round me, and my friend still weeping; and the superioress was there, too, but I did not heed them, but only said I would not believe he was dead. Then [was very ill for more than a month, and my uncle came to see me; but I dont think he knew what had made me so; and as soon as I grew better the superioress was very angry with me, and told me it was very wicked, which it may have been, but indeed I could not help it; and she gave me in charge to sister Eu- genie to bring me to a sense of my sinfulness, seeing that I ought not to have loved any one but him to whom I was betrothed. Alas! poor Julie, I suppose she was a harsh preceptress also. No, indeed; on the contrary, she was very kind and gentle. She was so youngonly twenty-threedear sister Eugenie !and so pretty, though she was very pale, and oh, so thin; and when we were both alone in her room she used to let me tell her all my story, and she used to draw her hand over her pretty face, and cry so bitterly in return, and kiss me, and shake me by the hands, that I often thought she must once have loved some one also herself, and was weeping because she could never see him again; so I grew to love her very much; but I did not know all that time that sister Eugenic was dying. The day I took leave of her she seemed as if she was going to tell me something about herself, and I think now if I had pressed her she would. I am very sorry I did not, for it would have been pleasant to me as long as I live to have given the dear sister any comfort, and shown how truly I loved her. But it was not so, and only four months after we parted she died; but I hope we may meet, where I am sure she is gone, in heaven, and then she will know how much I loved her, and how good, and gentle, and kind, I always thought her. Poor little Julie shed tears at these words. Now I do not love the Marquis, she con- tinued, nor I am sure does he love me. It will be but a match of convenience. I sup- pose he will continue to follow his amusements and I will live quietly at home; so after all it will make but little chan~e to me, and I will still be as I am now, the widow of poor Henri. You are so tranquil, dear Julie, because he is dead. Happy is it for you that he is iii his grave. Come, let us return. They began to walk toward the cottage. THE MYSTIC VIAL 75 And how would you spend your days, Julie, had you the choice of your own way of life l I would take the vail. I would like to be a nun, and to die early, like sister Eugenie. Lucille looked at her with undisguised as- toiiishment. Take the vail ! she exclaimed, so young, so pretty. Parbleu, I would rather work in the fields or beg my bread on the high-roads. Take the vailno, no, no. Marguerite told me I had a great-aunt who took the vail, and three years after died mad in a convent in Paris. Ah, it is a sad life, Julie, it is a sad life! It was the wish of the Fermier-General that his nuptials should be celebrated with as much privacy as possible. The reader, therefore, will lose not ing by our dismissing the cere- mony as rapidly as may be. Let it suffice to say, that it did take place, and to describe the arrangements *ith which it was immediately succeeded. Though Monsieur Le Prun had become the purchaser of the Charrebourg estate, he did not choose to live upon it. About eight leagues from Paris he possessed a residence better suited to his tastes and plans. It was said to have once belonged to a scion of royalty, who had contrived it with a view to realizing upon earth a sort of Mahomedan paradise. Nothing indeed could have been better devised for luEury as well as seclusion. From some Ro- mish legend attaching to its site, it had ac- quired the name of the Chateau des Anges, a title which unhappily did not harmonize with the traditions more directly connectedwith the bailding itself. It was a very spacious structure, some of its apartments were even magnificent, and the entire fabric bore overpowering evidences, alike in its costly materials and finish, and in the details of its design, of the prodigal and voluptuous magnificence to which it owed its existence. It was environed by lordly forests, circle within, circle, which were pierced by long straight walks diverging from common cen- ters, and almost losing themselves in the shadowy distance. Studded, too, with a series of interminable fishponds, encompassed by hedges of beech, yew, and evergreens of enor- mous height and impenetrable density, under whose emerald shadows water-fowl of all sorts, from the princely swan down to the humble water-hen, were sailing and gliding this way and that, like rival argosies upon the seas. The view of the chateau itself, when at last, through those dense and extensive cinctures oC sylvan scenery, you had penetrated to its site, was, from almost every point, picturesque and even beautiful. Successive terraces of almost regal extent, from above whose marble balustrades and rows of urns the tufted green of rare and rich plants, in a long, gorgeous wreath of foliage, was peeping, ran, tier above tier, conducting the eye, among statues and graceful shrubs, to the gables and chimneys of the quaint but vast chateau itself. The forecourt upon which the great avenue debouched was large enough for the stately muster of a royal levee; and at intervals, upon the balustrade which sur- rounded it, were planted a long file of stone statues, each originally holding a lamp, which, however, the altered habits of the place had long since dismounted. If the place had been specially contrived, as it was said to have been, for privacy, it could not have been better planned. It was literally buried in an umbrageous labyrinth of tufted forest. Even the great avenue com- manded no view of the chateau, but abutted upon a fountain, backed by a towering screen of foliage, where the approach divided, and led by a double road to the court we have described. In fact, except from the domain itself, the very chimneys of the chateau were invisible for a circuit of miles around, the nearest point from which a glance of its roof could be caught being the heights situated a full league away. If the truth must be told, then, Monsieur Le Prun was conscious of some disparity in point of years between himself and his beau- tiful wife; and although he affected the most joyous confidence upon the subject, he was nevertheless as ill at ease as most old fellows under similar circumstances. It soon became, therefore, perfectly plain, that the palace to which the wealthy bridegroom had transported his beautiful wife was, in truth, but one of those enchanted castles in which enamored genii in fairy legends are described as guard- ing their captive princessesa gorgeous and luxurious prison, to which there was no access, from which no escape, and where amidst all the treasures and delights of a sensuous para- dise, the captive beauty languished and sad dened. END OF PART i. [From the Examiner.] TO. CHARLES DICKENS. BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. CALL we for harp or song? Accordant numbers, measured out, belong Alone, we hear, to bard. Let him this badge, for ages worn, discard; Richer and nobler now Than when the close.trimmd laurel markd his brow, And from one fount his thirst Was slaked, and from none other proudly burst Neighing, the winged steed. Gloriously fresh were those young days indeed Cicar, if confined, the view: The feet of giants swept that early dew More graceful came behind, And golden tresses waved upon the wind, Pity and Love were seen In earnest converse on the humble green; Grief too was there, but Grief Sat down with them, nor struggled from relief. strong Pity was, strong he, nut little love was bravest of the three. At what the sad one said Often he smiled, though Pity shook her head. Descending from their clouds, The Muses mingled with admiring crowds: Each had her ear inclined, Each caught and spoke the language of mankind From choral thraldom free.. Dickens didst thou teach them, or they teach thee Srptesslrr, 18.10.

THE MYSTIC VIAL 75 And how would you spend your days, Julie, had you the choice of your own way of life l I would take the vail. I would like to be a nun, and to die early, like sister Eugenie. Lucille looked at her with undisguised as- toiiishment. Take the vail ! she exclaimed, so young, so pretty. Parbleu, I would rather work in the fields or beg my bread on the high-roads. Take the vailno, no, no. Marguerite told me I had a great-aunt who took the vail, and three years after died mad in a convent in Paris. Ah, it is a sad life, Julie, it is a sad life! It was the wish of the Fermier-General that his nuptials should be celebrated with as much privacy as possible. The reader, therefore, will lose not ing by our dismissing the cere- mony as rapidly as may be. Let it suffice to say, that it did take place, and to describe the arrangements *ith which it was immediately succeeded. Though Monsieur Le Prun had become the purchaser of the Charrebourg estate, he did not choose to live upon it. About eight leagues from Paris he possessed a residence better suited to his tastes and plans. It was said to have once belonged to a scion of royalty, who had contrived it with a view to realizing upon earth a sort of Mahomedan paradise. Nothing indeed could have been better devised for luEury as well as seclusion. From some Ro- mish legend attaching to its site, it had ac- quired the name of the Chateau des Anges, a title which unhappily did not harmonize with the traditions more directly connectedwith the bailding itself. It was a very spacious structure, some of its apartments were even magnificent, and the entire fabric bore overpowering evidences, alike in its costly materials and finish, and in the details of its design, of the prodigal and voluptuous magnificence to which it owed its existence. It was environed by lordly forests, circle within, circle, which were pierced by long straight walks diverging from common cen- ters, and almost losing themselves in the shadowy distance. Studded, too, with a series of interminable fishponds, encompassed by hedges of beech, yew, and evergreens of enor- mous height and impenetrable density, under whose emerald shadows water-fowl of all sorts, from the princely swan down to the humble water-hen, were sailing and gliding this way and that, like rival argosies upon the seas. The view of the chateau itself, when at last, through those dense and extensive cinctures oC sylvan scenery, you had penetrated to its site, was, from alm