CHAPTER XIV.

Egerton had thrown himself at full length on the sofa, a position

exceedingly rare with him; and about his whole air and manner, as Levy

entered, there was something singularly different from that stateliness

of port common to the austere legislator. The very tone of his voice was

different. It was as if the statesman--the man of business--had

vanished; it was rather the man of fashion and the idler, who, nodding

languidly to his visitor, said, "Levy, what money can I have for a

year?"

"The estate will bear very little more. My dear fellow, that last

election was the very devil. You cannot go on thus much longer."

"My dear fellow!" Baron Levy hailed Audley Egerton as "my dear fellow."

And Audley Egerton, perhaps, saw nothing strange in the words, though

his lip curled.

"I shall not want to go on thus much longer," answered Egerton, as the

curl on his lip changed to a gloomy smile. "The estate must, meanwhile

bear £5000 more."

"A hard pull on it. You had really better sell."

"I cannot afford to sell at present. I cannot afford men to say, 'Audley

Egerton is done up--his property is for sale.'"

"It is very sad when one thinks what a rich man you have been--and may

be yet!"

"Be yet! How?"

Baron Levy glanced towards the thick mahogany doors--thick and

impervious as should be the doors of statesmen. "Why, you know that,

with three words from you, I could produce an effect upon the stocks of

three nations, that might give us each a hundred thousand pounds. We

would go shares."

"Levy," said Egerton coldly, though a deep blush overspread his face,

"you are a scoundrel; that is your look out. I interfere with no man's

tastes and consciences. I don't intend to be a scoundrel myself. I have

told you that long ago."

The Baron laughed, without evincing the least displeasure.

"Well," said he, "you are neither wise nor complimentary; but you shall

have the money. But yet, would it not be better," added Levy, with

emphasis, "to borrow it, without interest, of your friend L'Estrange?"

Egerton started as if stung.

"You meant to taunt me, sir!" he exclaimed passionately. "I accept

pecuniary favors from Lord L'Estrange! I!"

"Tut, my dear Egerton, I dare say my Lord would not think so ill now of

that little act in your life which--"

"Hold!" exclaimed Egerton, writhing. "Hold!"

He stopped, and paced the room, muttering in broken sentences, "To blush

before this man! Chastisement, chastisement!"

Levy gazed on him with hard and sinister eyes. The minister turned

abruptly.

"Look you, Levy," said he, with forced composure--"you hate me--why, I

know not. I have never injured you--never avenged the inexpiable wrong

you did me."

"Wrong!--you a man of the world! Wrong! Call it so if you will then," he

added shrinkingly, for Audley's brow grew terrible. "But have I not

atoned it? Would you ever have lived in this palace, and ruled this

country as one of the most influential of its ministers, but for my

management--my whispers to the wealthy Miss Leslie? Come, but for me

what would you have been--perhaps a beggar?"

"What shall I be now if I live? _Then_ I should not have been a beggar;

poor perhaps in money, but rich--rich in all that now leaves my life

bankrupt. Gold has not thriven with me; how should it. And this

fortune--it has passed for the main part into your hands. Be patient,

you will have it all ere long. But there is one man in the world who has

loved me from a boy, and wo to you if ever he learn that he has the

right to despise me!"

"Egerton, my good fellow," said Levy, with great composure, "you need

not threaten me, for what interest can I possibly have in tale-telling

to Lord L'Estrange? As to hating you--pooh! You snub me in private, you

cut me in public, you refuse to come to my dinners, you'll not ask me to

your own; still there is no man I like better, nor would more willingly

serve. When do you want the £5000?"

"Perhaps in one month, perhaps not for three or four. Let it be ready

when required."

"Enough; depend on it. Have you any other commands?"

"None."

"I will take my leave, then. By the by, what do you suppose the

Hazeldean rental is worth--net?"

"I don't know, nor care. You have no designs upon _that_, too?"

"Well, I like keeping up family connections. Mr. Frank seems a liberal

young gentleman."

Before Egerton could answer, the Baron had glided to the door, and,

nodding pleasantly, vanished with that nod.

Egerton remained, standing on his solitary hearth. A drear, single man's

room it was, from wall to wall, despite its fretted ceilings and

official pomp of Bramah escritoires and red boxes. Drear and

cheerless--no trace of woman's habitation--no vestige of intruding,

happy children. There stood the austere man alone. And then with a deep

sigh he muttered, "Thank heaven, not for long--it will not last long."

Repeating those words, he mechanically locked up his papers, and pressed

his hand to his heart for an instant, as if a spasm had shot through it.

"So--I must shun all emotion!" said he, shaking his head gently.

In five minutes more, Audley Egerton was in the streets, his mien erect,

and his step firm as ever.

"That man is made of bronze," said a leader of the Opposition to a

friend as they rode past the minister. "What would I give for his

nerves!"

FOOTNOTES:

[M] Continued from page 692, vol. iv.

From Mr. Kimball's forthcoming "Sequel to St. Leger."

THE STORY OF DR. LINDHORST.

"Dr. Lindhorst has been an intimate friend of my father from the time

they were both together at Heidelberg. The Doctor was born in

Switzerland, and, after finishing the study of medicine, came back to

his native town to practise it. Before this, however, he had become

enthusiastically devoted to geology and its kindred sciences, botany and

mineralogy; and, indeed, to all those pursuits which have direct

relation to nature and her operations. His father dying soon after, and

leaving him a handsome patrimony, he had abundant opportunity to indulge

in them; which he did, without, however, neglecting his profession.

Indeed, he soon acquired a reputation for being skilful and attentive,

while every one spoke in terms of commendation of the young Doctor Paul.

Suddenly there was a change. He declined any longer to visit the sick,

excepting only the most poor and miserable. He absented himself for days

and weeks in the mountains, pursuing his favorite objects with an

unnatural enthusiasm. Then he left Thun for foreign countries, and was

gone two or three years, and returned with an accumulation of various

specimens in almost every department of natural science: with

note-books, herbariums, cabinets, strange animals stuffed to resemble

life, birds, fishes, petrifactions--in short, the air, the water, and

the earth had furnished their quota to satisfy his feverish zeal for

acquisition. He was still a young man, scarce five-and-twenty, yet he

bore the appearance of a person at least forty years old--"

"But the cause of this strange metamorphose?"

"No one pretends to tell," continued Josephine. "There is a report--and

my father, who, I am sure, knows all, does not contradict it--that Paul

Lindhorst was attached to a young girl who resided in the same town, and

that his affection was returned. On one occasion, a detachment of French

soldiers was quartered in Thun for a short time, and a sub-lieutenant,

who had in some way been made acquainted with her, was smitten with the

charms of the pretty Swiss. I suppose, like some of her sex, she had a

spice of coquetry in her composition, and now, possessing two lovers,

she had a good opportunity to practise it. Paul Lindhorst, however, was

of too earnest a nature to bear this new conduct from the dearest object

of his heart with composure, neither was it his disposition to suffer in

silence. He remonstrated, and was laughed at; he showed signs of deep

dejection, and these marks of a wounded spirit were treated with

thoughtless levity or indifference; he became indignant, and they

quarrelled. It is quite the old story; the girl, half in revenge, half

from a fancied liking for her new lover, married him: soon the order for

march came, and, by special permission, she was permitted to accompany

her husband, as the regiment was to be quartered in France, and not to

go on active service. Such," continued Josephine Fluellen, "is the story

which I have heard repeated, and to which was attributed the

extraordinary change in the young physician. His devotion to his

favorite pursuits continued to engross him, he grew more abstracted,

more laborious, more unremitting in his vocation. Again he visited

foreign lands, and was gone another three years. Returning, he brought,

in addition to his various collections, a little bright-eyed,

brown-haired child, a girl, some four years old; and taking her to his

house, which he still retained, he made arrangements for her

accommodation there, by sending to Berne for a distant relative, a widow

lady, who had but one child, also a little girl, about the age of the

stranger. She accordingly took up her residence with Dr. Lindhorst, and

assumed the charge of both the children, while the Doctor continued to

pursue his labors, apparently much lighter of heart than before."

"But the child?"

"I was about to add that I learned from my father the following account

of it. He told me (but I am sure this is not known to any out of our own

family) that as Dr. Lindhorst was returning home after his second long

absence, he entered a small village near Turin, just as a detachment of

'The Army of Italy' were leaving it. The rear presented the usual motley

collection of baggage-wagons, disabled soldiers, sutlers, camp-women,

and hangers-on of all sorts, who attend in the steps of a victorious

troop. As Paul Lindhorst stopped to view the spectacle, and while the

wild strains of music could be heard echoing and re-echoing as the

columns defiled around the brow of a mountain which shut them from his

sight, the rear of the detachment came up and passed. At a short

distance behind, a child, scarcely four years of age, without shoes or

stockings, and thinly clad, her hair streaming in the wind, ran by as

fast as her little feet could carry her, screaming, in a tone of agony

and terror, 'Wait for me, mamma!' 'Here I am, mamma!' 'Do dot leave me,

mamma!' '_Do_ wait for me!' Paul Lindhorst sprang forward, and taking

the child in his arms, he hastened to overtake the detachment, supposing

that by some accident the little creature had been overlooked. On coming

up, he inquired for the child's mother.

"'Bless me!' said one of the women, 'if there is not poor little

Annette!'

"'We can't take her; that's positive,' cried another.

"'How did she get here?' exclaimed a third.

"'Something must be done,' said a wounded soldier, in a compassionate

tone. 'Give her to me; I will carry her in my arms;' and taking the

little Annette, who recognized in him an old acquaintance, he easily

quieted her by saying her mamma would come very soon.

"The Doctor at length discovered that the poor child's mother had died

in the village they were just leaving. He learned also that she was the

wife of an officer who had been wounded some time before, and that she

had made a long journey, just in time to see him breathe his last, and

had remained with the camp until her own death. Some charitable person,

attracted by the sprightly appearance of the little girl, had

volunteered the charge of it, and, the halt at an end, the detachment

had marched on its victorious course. Paul Lindhorst felt a shock, like

the last shock which separates soul from body. He had inquired and been

told the name of the deceased officer; he buried his face in his hands

and wept. Little Annette had fallen asleep in the old soldier's arms,

and the heavy military wagon lumbered slowly on its way. It was more

than he could bear, to give up the child into the hands of

strangers--_her_ child. Old scenes came back to his recollection. He

forgot every resentment. He remembered but his first, his only love. He

walked hastily after the wagon, and readily persuaded the old soldier to

give the little girl to him. Then taking her in his arms while she still

slept, he walked almost with a light heart into the village. It was of

course difficult at first to pacify the little creature; but kindness

and devotion soon do their office, and all the love which she had had

for her mother was transferred to her kind protector. She has always

borne his name, and, I believe, is unacquainted with her history, at

least with the more melancholy portions of it. Do not ask me any more

questions. I know you want to speak of your friend Maclorne. I must not

show you too much favor at one time; besides, we must visit Lina a few

moments. I have quite neglected her of late."

From the New Monthly Magazine.

A DARK DEED OF THE DAYS GONE BY.

I.

In one of the sunniest spots of sunny Tuscany, that favored department

of Italy, may still be seen the ruins of a strong, ancient-built castle,

or palace, surrounded by extensive grounds now run to waste; and which

was, a century or two ago, one of the proudest buildings in that balmy

land.

It was on an evening of delicious coolness, there so coveted, that a

cavalier issued on horseback from the gates of the castle, which was

then at the acme of its pride and strength. Numerous retainers stood on

either side by the drawbridge their heads bared to the evening sun,

until the horseman should have passed, but he went forth unattended; and

the men resumed their caps, and swung to the drawbridge, as he urged his

horse to a quick pace. It was the lord of that stately castle, the young

inheritor of the lands of Visinara. His form, tall and graceful, was

bent occasionally to the very neck of his horse, in acknowledgment of

the homage that was universally paid him, though he sat his steed

proudly, as if conscious that such bearing befitted the descendant of

one of Italia's noblest families. In years he had numbered scarcely more

than a quarter of a century, and yet on his beautiful features might be

traced a shade, which told of perplexity or care.

Turning down a narrow and not much frequented way, which branched off

from the main road, a mile or two distant from his residence, he urged

his horse to a fast pace, and at length came in view of one of those

pretty places, partly mansion, partly cottage, and partly temple, at

that period to be seen in Italy; but which we _now_ meet with rarely

save in pictures. Fastening the bridle of his charger to a tree, he

walked towards the house, and passing down the colonade, which ran along

the south side of it, entered one of the rooms through the open window.

A lady, young and beautiful, sat there alone. She had delicate features,

and a fair, open countenance, the complexion of which resembled more

that of an English than an Italian one, inasmuch as a fine, transparent

color was glowing on the cheeks. The expression of her eyes was mild and

sweet, and her hair, of a chestnut brown, fell in curls upon her neck,

according to the fashion of the times. She started visibly at sight of

the count, and her tongue gave utterance to words, but what she

apparently knew not. "So you have returned, signor?"

"At last, Gina," was the count's answer, as he threw his arm around her

slender waist, and essayed to draw her affectionately towards him.

"Unhand me, Count di Visinara!" she impetuously exclaimed, sliding from

his embrace, and standing apart, her whole form heaving with agitation.

He stood irresolute; aghast at this reception from her, who was his

early and dearest love. "Are you out of your senses?" was his

exclamation.

"No, but I soon shall be. And I have prayed to Heaven that insanity may

fall upon me rather than experience the wretchedness of these last few

days."

"My love, my love, what mean you?"

"_My love!_ you call _me_ your love, Count di Visinara! Be silent,

hypocrite! I know you now. Cajoled that I have been in listening to you

so long!"

"Gina!"

"And so the honorable Count di Visinara has amused his leisure hours in

making love to Gina Montani!" she cried, vehemently. "The lordly

chieftain who----"

"Be silent, Gina!" he interrupted. "Before you continue your strange

accusations, tell me the origin of them. My love has never wandered from

you."

"Yet you are seeking a wife in the heiress of Della Ripa! Ah, Sir Count,

your complexion changes now!" Gina Montani was right: the flush of

excitement on his face had turned to paleness. "Your long and repeated

journeys, for days together, are now explained," she continued. "It was

well to tell me business took you from home."

"I have had business to transact with the Prince of Della Ripa," he

replied, boldly, recovering his equanimity.

"And to combine business with pleasure," she answered, with a curl of

her delicate lip, "you have been wont to linger by the side of his

daughter."

"And what though I have sometimes seen the Lady Adelaide?" he rejoined.

"I have no love for her."

Gina was silent for awhile, as if struggling with her strong emotion,

and then spoke calmly. "My mother has enjoined me, times out of mind,

not to suffer your continued visits here, for that you would never marry

me. You never will, Giovanni."

"Turn to my own faith, Gina," he exclaimed, with emotion, "and I will

marry thee to-morrow."

"They say you are about to marry Adelaide of Della Ripa," she replied,

passing by his own words with a gesture.

"They deceive you, Gina."

"_You_ deceive me," she answered, passionately; "you, upon whose

veracity I would have staked my life. And this is to be my reward!"

"You are like all your sex, Gina--when their jealousy is aroused,

good-by to reason; one and all are alike."

"Can you say that in this case my suspicions are unfounded?"

"Gina," he answered, as he once again would have folded her to his

heart, "let us not waste the hours in vain recriminations: I have no

love for Adelaide of Della Ripa." And, alas! for the credulity of woman,

Gina Montani lent ear once more to his honeyed persuasions, until she

deemed them true: and they were again happy together, as of old. But

this security was not to last long for her. As the weeks and months flew

on, the visits of the count to her mother's house grew few and far

between. He made long stays at the territory of Della Ripa, and people

told it as a fact, no longer disputable, that he was about to make a

bride of the Lady Adelaide.

They had come strangers into Tuscany, the Signora Montani and her

daughter, but a year or two before. The signora was in deep grief for

the loss of her husband, and they lived the most secluded life, making

no acquaintances. They were scarcely known by name or by sight, and,

save the Count di Visinara, no visitors were ever found there. The

signora was of northern extraction, and of the Reformed faith, and had

reared her daughter in the principles of the latter, which of itself

would cause them to court seclusion, at that period, in Italy. And the

Lord of Visinara, independent and haughty as he was by nature and by

position, would no more have dared to take Gina Montani to be his wedded

wife, than he would have braved his Mightiness the Pope in St. Peter's

chair.

II.

It was on a calm moonlight night, that a closely-wrapped-up form stood

in the deep shade of a grove of cypress-trees, within the gates of the

Castle of Visinara, anxiously watching. Parties passed and repassed, and

the figure stirred not; but now there came one, the very echo of whose

footsteps had command in it, and the form advanced stealthily, and

glided out of its hiding-place, right upon the path of the Lord of

Visinara. He stood still, and faced the intruder. "Who are you--and what

do you do here?"

"I came to bid you farewell, my Lord; to wish you joy of your marriage!"

And, throwing back the mantle and hood, Gina Montani's fragile form

stood out to view.

"You here, Gina!"

"Ay; I have struggled long--long. Pride, resentment, jealousy--I have

struggled fiercely with them; but all are forgotten in my unhappy love."

He folded her to his heart, as in their happy days. "You depart

to-morrow morning on your way to bring home your bride. I have seen your

preparations; I have watched the movements of your retainers. No

farewell was given me--no word offered of consolation--no last visit

vouchsafed." It would seem that he could not gainsay her words, for he

made no reply. "Know you how long it is since we met?" she continued;

"how long--"

"Reproach me not," he interrupted. "I have suffered more than you, and,

for a farewell visit, I did not dare to trust myself."

"And so this is to be the end of your enduring love, that you said was

to be mine, and only mine, till death!"

"And before Heaven I spoke the truth. I have never loved--I never shall

love but you. Yet, Gina, what would you have me do? I may not speak to

you of marriage; and it is necessary to my position that I wed."

"_She_ is of your own rank, therefore you have wooed her?"

"And of my own faith. Difference in rank may be overcome; in faith,

never."

"Oh that the time had come when God's children shall be all of one

mind!" she uttered; "when the same mode of worship, and that a pure one,

shall animate us all. In the later ages, this peace may be upon the

earth."

"Would to the saints that it were now, Gina; or that you and I had never

met."

"What! do _you_ wish it?" she contemptuously exclaimed; "you, who

voluntarily sever yourself from me?"

"I have acted an honorable part, Gina," he cried, striding to and fro in

his agitation.

"_Honorable_, did you say?"

"Ay, honorable. You were growing too dear to me, and I could not speak

of marriage to you." There was a long pause. She was standing against

one of the cypress-trees, the moon, through an opening above, casting

its light upon her pure face, down which were coursing tears of anguish.

"So henceforth we must be brother and sister," he whispered.

"Brother and sister," she repeated, in a moaning voice, pressing the

cold tree against her aching temples.

"After awhile, Gina, when time shall have tamed our feelings down. Until

then, we may not meet."

"Not meet!" she exclaimed, startled by the words into sudden pain. "Will

you never come to see us? Shall we never be together again--like brother

and sister, as you have just said?"

"Nay, Gina, I must not do so great wrong to the Lady Adelaide."

"So great wrong!" she exclaimed in amazement.

"Not real wrong, I am aware. But I shall undertake at the altar to love

and cherish her; and though I cannot do the one, I will the other.

Knowing this, it is incumbent on me to be doubly careful of her

feelings."

"I see, I see," interrupted the young lady, indignantly; "_her_ feelings

must be respected whilst mine--Farewell, Giovanni."

"One word yet, Gina," he said, detaining her. "You will probably hear of

me much--foremost in the chase, gayest in the ballroom, last at the

banquet--the gay, fortunate Lord of Visinara; and when you do so,

remember that that gay lord wears about him a secret chain, suspected by

and known to none--a chain, some links of which will remain entwined

around his heart to his dying day, though the gilding that made it

precious must from this time moulder away. Know you what the chain is,

Gina?"

The suffocating sobs were rising in her throat, and she made no answer.

"_His love for you_. Fare thee well, my dearest and best. Nay, another

instant; it is our last embrace in this world."

III.

It was a princely cavalcade that bore the heiress of Della Ripa to her

new territories, and all eyes looked out upon it. The armor of the

warlike retainers of the house of Visinara sparkled in the sun, and the

more peaceful servitors were attired with a gorgeousness that would

have done honor to an Eastern clime. The old Prince of Della Ripa, than

whom one more fierce and brave never existed in all Italy, had that

morning given his daughter's hand to Giovanni of Visinara; and as she

neared the castle that was henceforth to be her home, every point from

which a view of the procession could be obtained was seized upon.

"By my patron saint, but it is a goodly sight!" exclaimed one of a group

of maidens, gathered at a window beneath which the bridal cavalcade was

prancing. "Only look at Master Pietro, the seneschal."

"And at the steel points of the halberds,--how they shine in the crimson

of the setting sun."

"Nay, rather look at these lovely dames that follow--the Lady Adelaide's

tire-women. By the sacred relics! if her beauty exceed that of her

maidens, it must be rare to look upon. See the gold and purple of their

palfreys' horsecloths waving in the air."

"Hist! hist! it is the Count of Visinara in his emblazoned carriage! How

haughtily he sits; but the Visinara is a haughty race. And--yes--see--by

his side--oh, how lovely! Signora Montani, look! That face might win a

kingdom."

Gina Montani, who stood in the corner of the lattice, shielded from view

by its massive frame, may possibly have heard, but she answered not.

"Say what you will of his pride, he is the handsomest man that ever

lived," exclaimed a damsel, enthusiastically. "Look at him as he sits

there now--he rides bareheaded, his plumed cap resting on his

knee--where will you find such a face and form as that!"

"What is _she_ like?" interrupted an old duenna, snappishly, who,

standing behind, could not as yet obtain a view of the coveted sight;

"we know enough of his looks, let us hear something of hers. But you

girls are ever the same: if a troop of sister angels came down from

heaven, headed by the Virgin Mother herself, and a graceless cavalier

appeared at the other side, you would turn your backs to the angels and

your eyes upon Beatrice. Is she as handsome as the young Lady Beatrice,

the count's sister, who married away a year agone?"

"Oh, mother, she is not like her. Beatrice of Visinara had a warm

countenance, with eyes black as the darkest night, and brilliant as a

diamond aigrette."

"And are the wife's not black," screamed out the duenna. "They ought to

be; her blood is pure Italian."

"They are blue as heaven's sky, and her face is dazzling to behold from

its extreme fairness, and her golden hair droops in curls almost to her

waist--it is a band of diamonds, you see, that confines it from the

temples. But you can see her now, mother; remember you one half so

lovely?"

"_Dio mio!_" uttered the woman, startled at the beautiful vision that

now came within her sight; "the Lord of Visinara has not sacrificed his

liberty for nothing."

"Mark you her rich white dress, mother, with its corsage of diamonds,

and the sleeves looped up to the elbow with lace and jewels? And over

it, nearly hiding her fair neck, is a mantle of blue velvet, clasped by

a diamond star. And see, she is taking her glove off, and her hand is

raised to her cheek--small and delicate it is too, as befitteth her rank

and beauty. And--look!--he lays his own upon it as she drops it, but she

would draw it from him to replace the glove. Now he bends to speak to

her, and she steals a glance at him with her blushing cheeks and her eye

full of love. And now he is bowing to the people--hark how they shout,

'Long life to the Lady Adelaide--long life and happiness to the Count

and Countess of Visinara!'"

"She is very beautiful, Bianca; but--"

"Ay, what, you are a reader of countenances, _madra mia_; what see you

there?"

"That she is proud and self-willed. And woe be to any who may hereafter

look upon her handsome husband with an eye of favor, for she loves him."

"Can there be a doubt of that?" echoed Bianca; "has she not married him?

And look at his attractions: see this goodly lot of cavaliers speeding

on to join his banquet; can any there compare with him?"

"Chi é stracco di bonaccie, si mariti," answered the lady; "and have

you, Bianca, yet to learn that the comeliest mates oftentimes bring any

thing but love to the altar?"

Bianca made a grimace, as if she doubted. "It will come sure enough,

then," she said aloud; "for none could be brought into daily contact

with one so attractive and not learn to love him."

"And who should this be in a holy habit, following the bridal equipage

on his mule? Surely the spiritual director of the Lady Adelaide--the

Father Anselmo it must be, that we have heard speak of. A faithful man,

but stern, it is told; and so his countenance would betray. Bend your

heads in reverend meekness, my children, the holy man is bestowing his

blessings."

"How savage I should be if I were the Lady Beatrice, not to be able to

come to the wedding after all," broke in the giddy Bianca. "She reckoned

fully upon it, too, they say, and had caused her dress for the ceremony

to be prepared--one to rival the bride's in splendor."

"She has enough to do with her newly-born infant," mumbled the good

duenna. "Gayety first, care afterwards; a christening usually follows a

wedding. Come, girls, there's nothing more to see."

"Nay, mother mine, some of these dames that follow lack not beauty."

"Pish!" uttered a fair young girl who had hitherto been silent; "it

would be waste of time to look at their faces after the Lady

Adelaide's."

"Who is that going away? The Signora Montani? Why, it has not all

passed, signora. She is gone, I declare! What a curious girl she seems,

that."

"Do you know what they say?" cried little Lisa, Bianca's cousin.

"What do they say?"

"That her mother is a descendant of those dreadful people over the sea,

who have no religion, the heretics."

The pious duenna boxed her niece's ears.

"You sinful little monkey, to utter such heresy!" she cried, when anger

allowed her to speak.

"So they do say so!" sobbed the young lady, dancing about with the

passion she dared not otherwise vent. "And people _do_ say," she

continued, out of bravado, and smarting under the pain, "that they are

heretics themselves, or else why do they never come to mass?"

"The old Signora Montani is bedridden; how could she get to mass?"

laughed Bianca.

"Don't answer her, Bianca. If she says such a thing here again--if she

insinuates that the Signora Gina, knowing herself to be in such league

with the Evil One, would dare to put her head inside a faithful house

such as this, I will cause her to do public penance--the wicked little

calumniator!" concluded the good duenna, adding a few finishing strokes

upon Lisa's ears.

III.

Long lasted the bridal banquet, and merrily it sped. Ere its conclusion,

and when the hours were drawing towards midnight, the young Lady

Adelaide, attended by her maidens, was conducted to her

dressing-chamber, according to the custom of the times and of the

country. She sat down in front of a large mirror whilst they disrobed

her. They took the circlet of diamonds from her head, the jewels from

her neck and arms, and the elegant bridal dress was carefully removed;

and there she sat, in a dressing-robe of cambric and lace, while they

brushed out and braided her beautiful hair. As they were thus engaged,

the lady's eyes ran round and round the costly chamber. The furniture

and appurtenances were of the most _recherché_ description. One article

in particular attracted her admiration. It was a small, but costly

cabinet of malachite marble, exquisitely mounted in silver, and had been

a present to the count from a Russian despot. In the inner part was

fixed a mirror, encircled by a large frame of silver, and on the

projecting slab stood open essence-bottles of pure crystal, in silver

frames, emitting various perfumes. As she continued to look at this

novelty--the marble called malachite was even more rare and costly in

those days than it is in ours--she perceived, lying by the side of the

scent-bottles, a piece of folded paper, and, wondering what it could be,

she desired one of the ladies to bring it to her. It proved to be a

sealed letter, and was addressed to herself. The conscious blush of love

rose to her cheeks, for she deemed it was some communication or present

from her husband. She opened it, and the contents instantly caught her

eye, in the soft, pure light which the lamps shed over the apartment:

"_To the Lady Adelaide, Countess of Visinara._

"You fancy yourself the beloved of Giovanni, Count of Visinara,

but retire not to your rest this night, lady, in any such vain

imagining. The heart of the count has long been given to

another, and you know, by your love for him, that such passion

can never change its object. Had he met you in earlier life, it

might have been otherwise. He marries you, for your lineage is

a high one, and she, in the world's eye and in that of his own

haughty race, was no fit mate for him."

The bridegroom was still at the banquet, for some of his guests drank

deeply, when a hasty summons came to him. Quitting the hall, he found,

standing outside, two of his bride's attendants.

"Sir Count, the Lady Adelaide--"

"Has retired?" he observed, finding they hesitated, yet feeling somewhat

surprised at so speedy a summons.

"Nay, signor, not retired, but--"

"But what? Speak out."

"We were disrobing the Lady Adelaide, Sir Count, when she saw in the

chamber a note addressed to her. And--and--she read it, and fainted, in

spite of the essence we poured on her hands and brow."

"A note!--fainted!" ejaculated the count.

"It was an insulting letter, signor; for Irene, the youngest of the Lady

Adelaide's attendants, read the first line or two of it aloud, before we

could prevent her, it having fallen, open, on the floor. Our lady is yet

insensible, and the Signora Lucrezia desired us to acquaint you, my

lord."

Without another word he turned from them, and passing through the

various corridors, entered the dressing-chamber. The Lady Adelaide was

still motionless, but a faint coloring had begun to appear in her face.

"What is this, signora?" demanded the count of the chief attendant,

Lucrezia.

"It must be owing to this letter, my lord, which was waiting for her on

the cabinet," was the lady's reply, holding out the open note. "The Lady

Adelaide fainted whilst she was perusing it."

"Fold it up," interrupted the count, "and replace it there." Lucrezia

did as she was bid. "You may now go," said Giovanni to the attendants,

advancing to support his bride. "When the countess has need of you, you

shall be summoned."

"You have read that letter?" were the first connected words of the Lady

Adelaide.

"Nay, my love, surely not, without your permission. Will you that I read

it?"

She motioned in the affirmative.

"A guilty, glowing color came over his face as he read. Who could have

written it? That it alluded to Gina Montani there was no doubt. Who

_could_ have sent it? He felt convinced that she had no act or part in

so dishonorable a trick--yet what may not be expected from a jealous

woman? Now came his trial.

"Was it not enough to make me ill?" demanded Adelaide.

He stammered something. He was not yet sufficiently collected to speak

connectedly.

"Giovanni," she exclaimed, passionately, "deceive me not. Tell me what I

have to fear: how much of your love is left for me--if any."

He tried to soothe her. He told her an enemy must have done this; and he

mentioned Gina Montani, though not by name. He said that he had

sometimes visited her house, but not to love; and that the letter must

allude to this.

"You _say_ you did not love her!" she cried, resentment in her tone, as

she listened to the tale.

He hesitated a single second; but, he reasoned to himself, he ought at

all risks to lull her suspicions--it was his duty. So he replied firmly,

though the flush of shame rose to his brow, for he deemed a falsehood

dishonorable. "In truth I did not. My love is yours, Adelaide."

"Why did you visit her?"

"I can hardly tell you. I hardly know myself: want of thought--or of

occupation, probably."

"You surely did not wrong her?" was the next whispered question, as she

turned her face from him.

"Wrong _her!_ Had you known her, you could not have admitted the

possibility of the idea," he answered, resentment in his tone now. "She

has been carefully reared, and is as innocent as you are."

"Who is she?--what is her name?"

"Adelaide, let us rather forget the subject. I have told you I loved her

not: and I should not have mentioned this at all, but that I can think

of nothing else to which that diabolical letter can have alluded.

Believe me, my own wife"--and he drew her to his bosom as he

spoke--"that I have not done you so great an injury as to marry where I

did not love."

"Oh," she exclaimed, wringing her hands, and extricating herself from

him, "that this cruel news had not been given me!"

"My love, be comforted--be convinced. I tell you it is a false letter."

"How can I know it is false?" she lamented--"how can you prove it to

me?"

"Adelaide, I can but tell you so now: the future and my conduct must

prove it."

"Giovanni," she continued vehemently, and half sinking on her knees

before him, "deceive me not. If there be aught of truth in this

accusation, let me depart. I am your wife but in name: a slight ceremony

only has passed between us, and we both know how readily, with such

influence as ours, the Church at Rome would dissolve that. Suffer me to

depart ere I shall be indeed your wife."

"Adelaide," he replied mournfully, as he held her, "I thought you loved

me."

"I do--I do. None, save God, know how passionately. My very life is

bound up in yours; but it is because I so love you, that I could not

brook a rival. Let me know the truth at once--even though it be the

worst; for should I trust to you now, and find afterwards that I had

been deceived, it would be most unhappy for both of us. My whole

affection would be turned to hate; and not only would my own existence

be wretched, but I should render yours so."

"You have no rival, Adelaide. You never shall have one."

"I mean not a rival in the vulgar acceptation of the term," she replied,

a shade of haughtiness mixing with her tone--"but one in your

heart--your mind--this I could not bear."

"Adelaide, hear me. Some enemy, wishing to do me a foul injury, has

thrust himself between us; but, rely on it, they are but false cowards

who stab in the dark. I have sought you these many months; I have

striven to gain your love; I have now made you mine. Why should I have

done this had my affections been another's? Talk not of separation,

Adelaide." She burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "Adelaide," he

whispered, as he fondly clasped her to his heart, "believe that I love

you; believe that you have no rival, and that I will give you none. I

have made you my wife--the wife of my bosom: you are, and ever shall be,

my only love."

Sweet words! And the Lady Adelaide suffered her disturbed mind to yield

to them, resolutely thrusting away the dreadful thought that the heart

of her attractive husband could ever have been given to another.

V.

Months elapsed, and the Lady Adelaide was the happiest of the happy,

although now and again the remembrance of that anonymous letter would

dart before her mind, like a dream. That most rare felicity was, indeed,

hers, of passionately idolizing one from whom she need never be

separated by night or by day. But how was it with him? Love is almost

the only passion which cannot be called forth or turned aside at will,

and though the Count di Visinara treated his wife in all respects, and

ever would, with the most cautious attention, his heart was still true

to Gina Montani. But now the Count had to leave home; business called

him forth; and to remain away fifteen days. In those earlier times women

could not accompany their lords every where, as they may in these; and

when Giovanni rode away from his castle gates, the Lady Adelaide sank

in solitude upon the arm of one of her costly sofas, all rich with

brocaded velvet; and though not a tear dimmed her eye, or a line of pain

marked her forehead, to tell of suppressed feelings, it seemed to her

that her heart was breaking. It was on the morrow, news was brought to

the countess that one craved admission to her--a maiden, young and

beautiful, the servitor said; and the Lady Adelaide ordered her to be

admitted. Young and beautiful indeed, and so she looked, as, with

downcast eyes, the visitor was ushered in--_you_ know her, reader,

though the Lady Adelaide did not. She began to stammer out an incoherent

explanation; that news had reached her of the retirement of one of the

Lady Adelaide's attendants, and of her wish to fill the vacant place.

"What is your name?" inquired the countess, already taken, as the young

are apt to be, with the prepossessing manners and appearance of her

visitor.

"Signora, it is Gina Montani."

"And in whose household have you resided?"

A deep shade rose to Gina's face. "Madam, I am a stranger as yet to

servitude. I was not reared to expect such. But my mother is dead, and I

am now alone in the world. I have heard much, too, of the Countess of

Visinara's gentleness and worth, and should wish to serve her."

Some further conversation, a few preliminary arrangements, and Gina

Montani was installed at the castle as one of the countess's maids in

waiting: a somewhat contradistinctive term, be it understood, to a

_waiting-maid_, these attendants of high-born gentle-women being then

made, in a great degree, their companions. Gina speedily rose in favor.

Her manners were elegant and unassuming, and there was a sadness about

her which, coupled with her great beauty, rendered her eminently

interesting.

VI.

The Lady Adelaide stood at the eastern window of the Purple Room--so

called from its magnificent hangings--watching eagerly for the

appearance of her husband, it being the day and hour of his expected

return. So had she stood since the morning. Ah! what pleasure is there

in this world like that of watching for a beloved one! At the opposite

end of the apartment were her ladies, engaged upon some fancy work, in

those times violently in vogue, like that eternal knitting or

crotchet-work is in ours. "Come hither, Lucrezia," said the lady, at

length. "Discern you yon trees--groups of them scattered about, and

through which an occasional glimpse of the highway may be distinguished?

Nay, not there; far, far away in the distance. See you aught?"

"Nothing but the road, my lady. And yet, now I look attentively, there

seems to be a movement, as of a body of horsemen, Ah! now there is an

open space, and they are more distinct. It should be the count, madam,

and his followers."

"I think it is, Lucrezia," said the Lady Adelaide, calmly, not suffering

her emotion to appear in the presence of her maidens, for that haughty

girl brooked not that others should read her deep love for Giovanni.

"You may return to your embroidery."

The Count di Visinara rode at a sharp trot towards his home, followed by

his retainers; but when he discerned the form of his wife at the window,

he quickened the pace to a gallop, after taking off his plumed cap, and

waving his hand towards her in the distance. She pressed her heart to

still its throbbing, and waited his approach.

She heard him rattle over the drawbridge, and was turning to leave the

apartment to welcome him home, when he entered, so great haste had he

made. Without observing that she was not alone, he advanced, and,

throwing his arms round her, drew aside her fair golden curls, and

kissed her repeatedly, like many a man possessed of a lovely wife will

kiss, though his love may be far away from her. But she shrank from his

embrace, the glowing crimson overspreading her face; and then the count

turned and saw they were not alone. At the extreme end of the apartment,

out of hearing, but within sight, were the damsels seated over their

embroidery. "Gina," murmured one of the girls, still pursuing her work,

"what has made you turn so pale? You are as white as Juliette's dress."

"Is the Signora Montani ill?" demanded Lucrezia, sharply, for she liked

not Gina.

"A sudden pain--a spasm in my side," gasped Gina. "It is over now."

"Is he not an attractive man?" whispered another of the ladies in Gina's

ear.

"He?"

"The Count di Visinara: _you_ never saw him before. They are well

matched for beauty, he and the Lady Adelaide."

"Pray attend to your work, and let this gossiping cease," exclaimed

Lucrezia, angrily.

Giovanni and his wife remained at the window, with their backs towards

the damsels. She suffered her hand to remain in his--they could not see

_that_--and conversed with him in a confidential tone. Then she began

chattering to him of her new attendant, telling how lovely she was, when

a servant entered and announced the mid-day meal.

"Now you shall see my favorite," she exclaimed, as he took her hand to

conduct her to the banquet-hall. "I will stop as I pass them, to look at

their work, and you shall tell me if you do not think her very

beautiful."

"Scarcely, Adelaide, when beside you."

"She is about my age," ran on Adelaide, whose spirits were raised to

exuberance. But it had never entered the mind of that haughty lady to

imagine the possibility of the Lord of Visinara, _her husband_, looking

upon an attendant of hers with an eye of real admiration; or she might

not have discussed their personal merits.

"How do you get on with the work, Lucrezia?" demanded the Lady Adelaide,

stopping close to her attendants.

"Favorably, madam," answered the signora, rising from her seat.

"That is a beautiful part that you are engaged upon, Gina. Bring it

forward, that we may exhibit our handiwork."

Gina Montani, without raising her eyes, and trembling inwardly and

outwardly, rose, and advanced with the embroidery. The Signora Lucrezia

eyed her, covertly.

"Is it not a handsome pattern?" exclaimed Adelaide, her thoughts now

really occupied with the beauty of the work. "And I was so industrious

while you were away, Giovanni. I did a good portion of this myself--I

did, indeed; all the shadings of the rosebuds are my doing, and those

interlaces of silver."

The Lady Adelaide stopped, for, on looking to his face for approbation,

she was startled by the frightful pallor which had overspread it. "Oh,

Giovanni, you are ill!--my husband, what is it? Giovanni--"

"It is nothing," interrupted the count, leading her hurriedly from the

room. "I rode hard, and the sun was hot. A cup of wine will restore me."

But not less awake to this emotion of the count's than she had been to

Gina's, was the Signora Lucrezia, and she came to the conclusion that

there was some unaccountable mystery at the bottom of it, which she

determined to do all in her power to find out.

VII.

Days passed. The count had not yet seen Gina alone, though he had sought

for the opportunity; but one morning when he entered the Lady Adelaide's

embroidery room--so called--Gina sat there alone, sorting silks. He did

not observe her at the first moment, and, being in search of his wife,

called to her, "Adelaide!"

"The Lady Adelaide is not here, signor," was Gina's reply, as she rose

from her seat.

"Gina," he said, advancing cautiously, and speaking in an under tone,

"what in the name of all the saints brought you here--an inmate of my

castle--the attendant of the Lady Adelaide?"

"You shall hear the truth," she gasped, leaning against the wall for

support. "I have lived long, these many months, in my dreary home,

unseeing you, uncared for, knowing only that you were happy with

another. Giovanni, can you picture what I endured? My mother died--you

may have heard of it--and her relations sent for me into their distant

country, and would have comforted me; but I remained on alone to be near

you. I struggled much with my unhappy passion. My very soul was wearing

away with despair. I would see you pass sometimes at a distance with

your retainers--and that was heaven to me. Then came a thought into my

mind; I wrestled with it, and would have driven it away--but there it

was, ever urging me; it may be that my better angel sent it there; it

may be that the Evil One, who is ever tempting us for ill, drove it on."

"What mean you?" he inquired.

"It suggested," she continued in a low voice, "that if but to see you at

a distance, and at rare intervals, could almost compensate for my life

of misery, what bliss would be mine were I living under the roof of your

own castle, liable to see you any hour of the day; hence you find me

numbered amongst your wife's waiting-maids. And blame me not, Giovanni,"

she hastily concluded, seeing him about to interrupt her; "you are the

cause of all, for you sought and gained my love; and such love! I think

none can have ever known such. And yet I must suppress this love. The

fiercest jealousy of the Lady Adelaide rages in my heart--and yet I must

suppress it! Giovanni, you have brought this anguish upon me; so blame

me not."

"It is a dangerous proceeding, Gina. I was becoming reconciled to our

separation; but now--it will be dangerous for both of us."

"Ay," she answered, bitterly, "you had all. Friends, revelry, a wife of

rare beauty, the chase, the bustle of an immense household--in short,

what had you not to aid your mental struggles? I but my home of

solitude, and the jealous pictures, self, but ever inflicted, of your

happiness with the Lady Adelaide."

"I still love but you, Gina," he repeated, "but I will be honorable to

_her_, and must show it not."

"Do I ask you to show it? or think you I would permit it?" she replied

quickly; "no, no; I did not come here to sow discord in your household.

Suffer me to live on unnoticed as of these last few days, but, oh! drive

me not away from you."

"Believe me, Gina, this will never do. I mistrust my own powers of

endurance; ay, and of concealment."

"You can think of me but as the waiting-maid of your lady," she

interrupted, in a tone of bitterness. "In time you will really regard me

as such."

"There would be another obstacle, Gina," he returned, sinking his voice

to a lower tone, as if fearful even to mention the subject--"how can you

live in my household, and not conform to the usages of our faith? You

know that yours must never be suspected."

"Trust to me to manage all," she reiterated; "but send me not away from

you."

"Be it so, Gina," he observed, after reflection; "you deserve more

sacrifice on my part than this. But all confidence must cease between

us: from this time we are to each other as strangers."

"Even so," she acquiesced. "Yet if you deem my enduring affection

deserves requital, give me at times a look as of old; a smile,

unperceived by others, but acknowledged by, and too dear to, my own

heart. It will be a token that you have not driven away all remembrance

of our once youthful love, though it is at an end for ever."

He took her hand and clasped it tenderly, but the next moment he almost

flung it from him, and had turned and quitted the room. Gina burst into

a violent fit of weeping, and slowly retreated to seek the solitude of

her chamber.

Scarcely had the echo of her footsteps died away in the gallery, when

the door of a closet appertaining to the room was cautiously pushed

open, and out stepped the Signora Lucrezia, her eyes and mouth wide

open, and her hair standing on end.

"May all the saints reject me if ever I met with such a plot as this!"

she ejaculated. "I knew there was something going on underneath, but the

deuce himself would never have suspected this. So the innocent-faced

madam has not been winding herself round the Lady Adelaide for

nothing--the she-wolf in sheep's petticoats! Something was said, too,

that I could not catch, about her irreligion. The hypocrite dare not go

to confession, probably, and so keeps away. The letter of the wedding

night is explained now, and that changing, as they both did, to the hue

of a mort-cloth at sight of each other. May I die unabsolved if so sly a

conspiracy ever came up. However, I shall not interfere yet awhile. Let

my baby-mistress look out for herself: she has not pleased me of late,

showering down marks of favor upon this false jade. _Her_ rival! if she

did but know it! I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Two lovers cannot live

for ever under the same roof without betraying their secret; and there

will be an explosion some day, or my name is not Lucrezia Andrini."

From Household Words

A FASHIONABLE FORGER.

I am an attorney and a bill discounter. As it is my vocation to lend

money at high interest to extravagant people, my connection principally

lies among "fools," sometimes among rogues "of quality." Mine is a

pursuit which a prejudiced world either holds in sovereign contempt, or

visits with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness; but to my mind,

there are many callings, with finer names, that are no better. It gives

me two things which I love--money and power; but I cannot deny that it

brings with it a bad name. The case lies between character and money,

and involves a matter of taste. Some people like character; I prefer

money. If I am hated and despised, I chuckle over the "per contra." I

find it pleasant for members of a proud aristocracy to condescend from

their high estate to fawn, feign, flatter; to affect even mirthful

familiarity in order to gain my good-will. I am no Shylock. No client

can accuse me of desiring either his flesh or his blood. Sentimental

vengeance is no item in my stock in trade. Gold and bank-notes satisfy

my "rage;" or, if need be, a good mortgage. Far from seeking revenge,

the worst defaulter I ever had dealings with cannot deny that I am

always willing to accept a good post-obit.

I say again, I am daily brought in contact with all ranks of society,

from the poverty-stricken patentee to the peer; and I am no more

surprised at receiving an application from a duchess than from a pet

opera-dancer. In my ante-room wait, at this moment, a crowd of

borrowers. Among the men, beardless folly and mustachioed craft are most

prominent: there is a handsome young fellow, with an elaborate cane and

wonderfully vacant countenance, who is anticipating, in feeble follies,

an estate that has been in the possession of his ancestors since the

reign of Henry the Eighth. There is a hairy, high-nosed, broken-down

nondescript, in appearance something between a horse-dealer and a

pugilist. He is an old Etonian. Five years ago he drove his

four-in-hand; he is now waiting to beg a sovereign, having been just

discharged from the Insolvent Court, for the second time. Among the

women, a pretty actress, who, a few years since, looked forward to a

supper of steak and onions, with bottled stout, on a Saturday night, as

a great treat, now finds one hundred pounds a month insufficient to pay

her wine-merchant and her confectioner. I am obliged to deal with each

case according to its peculiarities. Genuine undeserved Ruin seldom

knocks at my door. Mine is a perpetual battle with people who imbibe

trickery at the same rate as they dissolve their fortunes. I am a hard

man, of course. I should not be fit for my pursuit if I were not; but

when, by a remote chance, honest misfortune pays me a visit, as

Rothschilds amused himself at times by giving a beggar a guinea, so I

occasionally treat myself to the luxury of doing a kind action. My

favorite subjects for this unnatural generosity, are the very young, or

the poor, innocent, helpless people, who are unfit for the war of life.

Many among my clients (especially those tempered in the "ice-book" of

fashion and high-life--polished and passionless) would be too much for

me, if I had not made the face, the eye, the accent, as much my study as

the mere legal and financial points of discount. To show what I mean, I

will relate what happened to me not long since:--

One day, a middle-aged man, in the usual costume of a West-End shopman,

who had sent in his name as Mr. Axminster, was shown into my private

room. After a little hesitation, he said, "Although you do not know me,

living at this end of the town, I know you very well by reputation, and

that you discount bills. I have a bill here which I want to get

discounted. I am in the employ of Messrs. Russle and Smooth. The bill

is drawn by one of our best customers, the Hon. Miss Snape, niece of

Lord Blimley, and accepted by Major Munge; whom, no doubt, you know by

name. She has dealt with us for some years, is very, very extravagant;

but always pays." He put the acceptance--which was for two hundred

pounds--into my hands.

I looked at it as scrutinizingly as I usually do at such paper. The

Major's signature was familiar to me; but having succeeded to a great

estate, he has long ceased to be a customer. I instantly detected a

forgery; by whom? was the question. Could it be the man before me?

experience told me it was not. Perhaps there was something in the

expression of my countenance which Mr. Axminster did not like, for he

said, "It is good for the amount, I presume?"

I replied, "Pray, sir, from whom did you get this bill?"

"From Miss Snape herself."

"Have you circulated any other bills made by the same drawer?"

"O yes!" said the draper, without hesitation; "I have paid away a bill

for one hundred pounds to Mr. Sparkle, the jeweller, to whom Miss Snape

owed twenty pounds. They gave me the difference."

"And how long has that bill to run now?"

"About a fortnight."

"Did you endorse it?"

"I did; Mr. Sparkle required me to do so, to show that the bill came

properly into his possession."

"This second bill, you say, is urgently required to enable Miss Snape to

leave town?"

"Yes; she is going to Brighton for the winter."

I gave Mr. Axminster a steady, piercing look of inquiry. "Pray, sir," I

said, "could you meet that one hundred pounds bill, supposing it could

not be paid by the acceptor?"

"Meet it?" The poor fellow wiped from his forehead the perspiration

which suddenly broke out at the bare hint of a probability that the bill

would be dishonored: "Meet it? O no! I am a married man, with a family,

and have nothing but my salary to depend on."

"Then the sooner you get it taken up, and the less you have to do with

Miss Snape's bill affairs, the better."

"She has always been punctual hitherto."

"That may be." I pointed to the cross-writing on the document, and said

deliberately--"_This_ bill is a forgery!"

At these words the poor man turned pale. He snatched up the document;

and, with many incoherent protestations, was rushing toward the door,

when I called to him, in an authoritative tone, to stop. He paused. His

manner indicating not only doubt, but fear. I said to him, "Don't flurry

yourself; I only want to serve you. You tell me that you are a married

man with children, dependent on daily labor for daily bread; and that

you have done a little discounting for Miss Snape out of your earnings.

Now, although I am a bill discounter, I don't like to see such men

victimized. Look at the body of this bill: look at the signature of your

lady customer, the drawer. Don't you detect the same fine, thin,

sharp-pointed handwriting in the words, 'Accepted, Dymmock Munge.'" The

man, convinced against his will, was at first overcome. When he

recovered, he raved: he would expose the Honorable Miss Snape, if it

cost him his bread: he would go at once to the police office. I stopped

him, by saying roughly, "Don't be a fool. Any such steps would seal your

ruin. Take my advice; return the bill to the lady, saying simply that

you cannot get it discounted. Leave the rest to me, and I think the bill

you have endorsed to Sparkle will be paid." Comforted by this assurance,

Axminster, fearfully changed from the nervous, but smug hopeful man of

the morning, departed. It now remained for me to exert what skill I own,

to bring about the desired result. I lost no time in writing a letter to

the Honorable Miss Snape, of which the following is a copy:

"Madam: A bill, purporting to be drawn by you, has been offered

to me for discount. There is something wrong about it; and,

though a stranger to you, I advise you to lose no time in

getting it back into your own hands.--D. D."

I intended to deal with the affair quietly, and without any view to

profit. The fact is, that I was sorry--you may laugh--but I really _was_

sorry to think that a young girl might have given way to temptation

under pressure of pecuniary difficulties. If it had been a man's case, I

doubt whether I should have interfered. By the return of post, a lady's

maid entered my room, profusely decorated with ringlets, lace, and

perfumed with _patchouli._ She brought a letter from her mistress. It

ran thus:

"_Sir_--I cannot sufficiently express my thanks for your

kindness in writing to me on the subject of the bills; of which

I had also heard a few hours previously. As a perfect

_stranger_ to you, I cannot estimate your kind consideration at

too high a value. I trust the matter will be explained; but I

should much like to see you. If you would be kind enough to

write a note as soon as you receive this, I will order it to be

sent to me at once to Tyburn Square. I will wait on you at any

hour on Friday you may appoint. I believe that I am not

mistaken in supposing that you transact business for my friend

Sir John Markham, and you will therefore know the inclosed to

be his handwriting. Again thanking you most gratefully, allow

me to remain your much and deeply obliged,

"JULIANA SNAPE."

This note was written upon delicate French paper, embossed with a coat

of arms. It was in a fancy envelope: the whole richly perfumed, and

redolent of rank and fashion. Its contents were an implied confession of

forgery. Silence, or three lines of indignation, would have been the

only innocent answer to my letter. But Miss Snape thanked me. She let

me know, by implication, that she was on intimate terms with a name good

on a Westend bill. My answer was, that I should be alone on the

following afternoon at five.

At the hour fixed, punctual to a moment, a brougham drew up at the

corner of the street next to my chambers. The Honorable Miss Snape's

card was handed in. Presently, she entered, swimming into my room,

richly yet simply dressed in the extreme of Parisian good taste. She was

pale--or rather colorless. She had fair hair, fine teeth, and a

fashionable voice. She threw herself gracefully into the chair I handed

to her, and began by uncoiling a string of phrases, to the effect that

her visit was merely to consult me on "unavoidable pecuniary

difficulties."

According to my mode, I allowed her to talk; putting in only an

occasional word of question, that seemed rather a random observation

than a significant query. At length, after walking round and round the

subject, like a timid horse in a field, around a groom with a sieve of

oats, she came nearer and nearer the subject. When she had fairly

approached the point, she stopped, as if her courage had failed her. But

she soon recovered, and observed: "I cannot think why you should take

the trouble to write so to me, a perfect stranger." Another pause--"I

wonder no one ever suspected me before."

Here was a confession and a key to character. The cold gray eye, the

thin compressed lips, winch I had had time to observe, were true indexes

to the "lady's inner heart:"--selfish, calculating, utterly devoid of

conscience; unable to conceive the existence of spontaneous kindness;

utterly indifferent to any thing except discovery; and almost

indifferent to that, because convinced that no serious consequences

could affect a lady of her rank and influence.

"Madam," I replied, "as long as you dealt with tradesmen accustomed to

depend on aristocratic customers, your rank and position, and their

large profits, protected you from suspicion; but you have made a mistake

in descending from your vantage ground to make a poor shopman your

innocent accomplice--a man who will be keenly alive to any thing that

may injure his wife or children. His terrors--but for my

interposition--would have ruined you utterly. Tell me, how many of these

things have you put afloat?"

She seemed a little taken aback by this speech, but was wonderfully

firm. She passed her white, jewelled hand over her eyes, seemed

calculating, and then whispered, with a confiding look of innocent

helplessness, admirably assumed, "About as many as amount to twelve

hundred pounds."

"And what means have you for meeting them?"

At this question, so plainly put, her face flushed. She half rose from

her chair, and exclaimed, in the true tone of aristocratic

_hauteur_--"Really, sir, I do not know what right you have to ask me

that question."

I laughed a little, though not very loud. It was rude, I own; but who

could have helped it? I replied, speaking low; but slowly and

distinctly:--"You forget. I did not send for you: you came to me. You

have forged bills to the amount of twelve hundred pounds. Yours is not

the case of a ruined merchant, or an ignorant over-tempted clerk. In

your case a jury" (she shuddered at that word) "would find no

extenuating circumstances; and if you should fall into the hands of

justice, you will be convicted, degraded, clothed in a prison dress, and

transported for life. I do not want to speak harshly; but I insist that

you find means to take up the bill which Mr. Axminster has so

unwittingly endorsed!"

The Honorable Miss Snape's grand manner melted away. She wept. She

seized and pressed my hand. She cast up her eyes, full of tears, and

went through the part of a repentant victim with great fervor. She would

do any thing; any thing in the world to save the poor man. Indeed, she

had intended to appropriate part of the two hundred pound bill to that

purpose. She forgot her first statement, that she wanted the money to go

out of town. Without interrupting, I let her go on and degrade herself

by a simulated passion of repentance, regret, and thankfulness to me,

under which she hid her fear and her mortification at being detected. I

at length put an end to a scene of admirable acting, by recommending her

to go abroad immediately, to place herself out of reach of any sudden

discovery; and then lay her case fully before her friends, who would, no

doubt, feel bound to come forward with the full amount of the forged

bills. "But," she exclaimed, with an entreating air, "I have no money; I

cannot go without money!" To that observation I did not respond;

although I am sure she expected that I should, check-book in hand, offer

her a loan. I do not say so without reason; for, the very next week,

this honorable young lady came again; and, with sublime assurance and a

number of very charming, winning speeches (which might have had their

effect upon a younger man), asked me to lend her one hundred pounds, in

order that she might take the advice I had so obligingly given her, and

retire into private life for a certain time in the country. I do meet

with a great many impudent people in the course of my calling--I am not

very deficient in assurance myself--but this actually took away my

breath.

"Really, madam," I answered, "you pay a very ill compliment to my gray

hairs; and would fain make me a very ill return for the service I have

done you, when you ask me to lend a hundred pounds to a young lady who

owns to having forged to the extent of one thousand two hundred pounds,

and to owing eight hundred pounds besides. I wished to save a personage

of your years and position from a disgraceful career; but I am too good

a trustee for my children to lend money to any body in such a dangerous

position as yourself."

"Oh!" she answered, quite unabashed, without a trace of the fearful,

tender pleading of the previous week's interview--quite as if I had been

an accomplice, "I can give you excellent security."

"That alters the case; I can lend any amount on good security."

"Well, sir, I can get the acceptance of three friends of ample means."

"Do you mean to tell me, Miss Snape, that you will write down the names

of three parties who will accept a bill for one hundred pounds for you?"

Yes, she could, and did actually write down the names of three

distinguished men. Now I knew for certain, that not one of those

noblemen would have put his name to a bill on any account whatever for

his dearest friend; but, in her unabashed self-confidence, she thought

of passing another forgery _on me_. I closed the conference by saying "I

cannot assist you;" and she retired with the air of an injured person.

In the course of a few days, I heard from Mr. Axminster, that his

liability of one hundred pounds had been duly honored.

In my active and exciting life, one day extinguishes the recollection of

the events of the preceding day; and, for a time, I thought no more

about the fashionable forger. I had taken it for granted that, heartily

frightened, although not repenting, she had paused in her felonious

pursuits.

My business, one day, led me to the establishment of one of the most

wealthy and respectable legal firms in the city, where I am well known,

and, I believe, valued; for at all times I am most politely, I may say

most cordially, received. Mutual profits create a wonderful freemasonry

between those who have not any other sympathy or sentiment. Politics,

religion, morality, difference of rank, are all equalized and

republicanized by the division of an account. No sooner had I entered

the _sanctum_, than the senior partner, Mr. Precepts, began to quiz his

junior, Mr. Jones, with "Well, Jones must never joke friend Discount any

more about usury. Just imagine," he continued, addressing me, "Jones has

himself been discounting a bill for a lady; and a deuced pretty one too.

He sat next her at dinner in Grosvenor Square last week. Next day she

gave him a call here, and he could not refuse her extraordinary request.

Gad, it is hardly fair for Jones to be poaching on your domains of

West-end paper!"

Mr. Jones smiled quietly, as he observed,

"Why, you see, she is the niece of one of our best clients; and, really,

I was so taken by surprise, that I did not know how to refuse."

"Pray," said I, interrupting his excuses, "does your young lady's name

begin with S.? Has she not a very pale face, and cold gray eye?"

The partners stared.

"Ah! I see it is so; and can at once tell you that the bill is not worth

a rush."

"Why, you don't mean--?"

"I mean simply that the acceptance is, I'll lay you a wager, a forgery."

"A forgery!"

"A forgery," I repeated as distinctly as possible.

Mr. Jones hastily, and with broken ejaculations, called for the

cash-box. With trembling hands he took out the bill, and followed my

finger with eager, watchful eyes, as I pointed out the proofs of my

assertion. A long pause was broken by my mocking laugh; for, at the

moment, my sense of politeness could not restrain my satisfaction at the

signal defeat which had attended the first experiment of these highly

respectable gentlemen in the science of usury.

The partners did not have recourse to the police. They did not propose a

consultation with either Mr. Forrester or Mr. Field; but they took

certain steps, under my recommendation; the result of which was that at

an early day, an aunt of the Honorable Miss Snape was driven, to save so

near a connection from transportation, to sell out some fourteen hundred

pounds of stock, and all the forgeries were taken up.

One would have thought that the lady who had thus so narrowly escaped,

had had enough; but forgery, like opium-eating, is one of those charming

vices which is never abandoned, when once adopted. The forger enjoys not

only the pleasure of obtaining money so easily, but the triumph of

befooling sharp men of the world. Dexterous penmanship is a source of

the same sort of pride as that which animates the skilful rifleman, the

practised duellist, or well-trained billiard-player. With a clean

Gillott he fetches down a capitalist, at three or six months, for a cool

hundred or a round thousand; just as a Scrope drops over a stag at ten,

or a Gordon Cumming a monstrous male elephant at a hundred paces.

As I before observed, my connection, especially lies among the

improvident--among those who will be ruined--who are being ruined--and

who have been ruined. To the last class belongs Francis Fisherton, once

a gentleman, now without a shilling or a principle; but rich in mother

wit--in fact a _farceur_, after Paul de Kock's own heart. Having in

bygone days been one of my willing victims, he occasionally finds

pleasure and profit in guiding others through the gate he frequented, as

long as able to pay the tolls. In truth, he is what is called a

"discount agent."

One day I received a note from him, to say that he would call on me at

three o'clock the next day, to introduce a lady of family, who wanted a

bill "done" for one hundred pounds. So ordinary a transaction merely

needed a memorandum in my diary, "Tuesday, 3 P.M.; F.F., 100_l._ Bill."

The hour came and passed; but no Frank, which was strange--because every

one must have observed, that, however dilatory people are in paying,

they are wonderfully punctual when they expect to receive money.

At five o'clock, in rushed my Jackall. His story, disentangled from

oaths and ejaculations, amounted to this:--In answer to one of the

advertisements he occasionally addresses "To the Embarrassed," in the

columns of the "Times," he received a note from a lady, who said she was

anxious to get a "bill done"--the acceptance of a well-known man of rank

and fashion. A correspondence was opened and an appointment made. At the

hour fixed, neatly shaved, brushed, gloved, booted,--the revival, in

short, of that high-bred Frank Fisherton, who was so famous

"In his hot youth, when Crockford's was the thing,"

glowing with only one glass of brandy "just to steady his nerves," he

met the lady at a West-end pastry-cook's.

After a few words (for all the material questions had been settled by

correspondence) she stepped into her brougham, and invited Frank to take

a seat beside her. Elated with a compliment of late years so rare, he

commenced planning the orgies which were to reward him for weeks of

enforced fasting, when the coachman, reverentially touching his hat,

looked down from his seat for orders.

"To ninety-nine, George street, St. James," cried Fisherton, in his

loudest tones.

In an instant, the young lady's pale face changed to scarlet, and then

to ghastly green. In a whisper, rising to a scream, she exclaimed, "Good

heavens! you do not mean to _that_ man's house" (meaning me). "Indeed, I

cannot go to him, on any account; he is a most horrid man, I am told,

and charges most extravagantly."

"Madam," answered Frank, in great perturbation, "I beg your pardon, but

you have been grossly misinformed. I have known that excellent man these

twenty years, and have paid him hundreds on hundreds; but never so much

by ten per cent, as you offered me for discounting your bill."

"Sir, I cannot have any thing to do with your friend." Then, violently

pulling the check-string, "Stop" she gasped; "and _will you_ have the

goodness to get out?"

"And so I got out," continued Fisherton, "and lost my time; and the

heavy investment I made in getting myself up for the assignation; new

primrose gloves, and a shilling to the hair-dresser--hang her! But, did

you ever know any thing like the prejudices that must prevail against

you? I am disgusted with human nature. Could you lend me half a

sovereign till Saturday?"

I smiled; I sacrificed the half sovereign, and let him go, for he is not

exactly the person to whom it was advisable to intrust all the secrets

relating to the Honorable Miss Snape. Since that day I look each morning

in the police reports, with considerable interest; but, up to the

present hour, the Honorable Miss Snape has lived and thrived in the best

Society.

From the Boston Atlas.

FRANCIS PULSZKY.

Francis Pulszky, de Lubocz and Cselfalva, was born in 1814, at Eperies,

in the county of Sáros. He is of an ancient and distinguished Protestant

family. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, all held the

office of Inspector of the Protestant College at Eperies; an office to

which Mr. Pulszky was himself appointed in 1840. His grandfather on the

mother's side was Fejèrváry, the Hungarian archæologist, whose valuable

collection has been incorporated with the National Library at Pesth.

After completing his college education, Mr. Pulszky visited Italy. While

in Rome he was made Fellow of the Archæological Institute of that city.

In 1834 he returned to his country, and attended the sittings of the

Diet, at Presburg, as Jurat. In 1835 he established, in conjunction with

Vukovics and Lovassy, the Debating Club which afterwards became the

object of the persecution of the Austrian Government. He formed, at this

time, a friendship with Kolcsey, the poet, with Deák, the celebrated

jurist, and with Kossuth.

In 1836, Mr. Pulszky once more quitted Hungary to travel through

Germany, France and England, in order to enlarge his experience by

observation of the manners and institutions of foreign countries, and

thus qualify himself to render more effectual service to his own. On his

return in 1837, he published an account of England, written in German,

which gained him a wide reputation. Soon after his return he was elected

a Fellow of the Hungarian Academy. During his absence from Hungary his

friend Lovassy, a young man highly distinguished for his brilliant

genius, and for the nobleness of his character, together with some other

members of the Debating Club, were subjected by the Austrian Government

to an imprisonment, under the rigors of which the intellect of Lovassy

was completely shattered. His release found him in a state bordering on

idiocy, in which he has ever since continued.

In 1839, Mr. Pulszky was sent as deputy to the Diet from his native

county of Sáros. In this Diet, the framing of a commercial code was

proposed. Mr. Pulszky was on the Committee appointed to consider this

subject. He was likewise a member of the Committee appointed for the

codification of the criminal law. After the close of the Diet, Mr.

Pulszky repaired to Heidelberg, to study more fully the subject of the

criminal law with the celebrated Mittermaier. The committee intrusted

with the work of the codification of the criminal law of Hungary,

closed its labors in 1843. Mr. Pulszky did not offer himself as a

candidate for re-election to the Diet. In Hungary, the deputies to the

Diet are obliged to vote in conformity with the instructions of their

constituents. The county of Sáros, which Mr. Pulszky had represented,

was a conservative county; and as his principles allied him with the

liberal party, he thus often found himself placed in a false position.

He therefore devoted himself to serving the cause of reform in Hungary,

by his pen. He wrote constantly for the _Pesti Hirlap_, the journal

edited by Kossuth. The character of this journal, and the objects of its

editor, are thus described by Szilagyi, a political opponent, in a work

published at Pesth in 1850; "In 1841 a strange thing happened. He

[Kossuth] who had been imprisoned for editing a journal, came out on the

1st of January of that year as editor of the _Pesti Hirlap_. The first

number of this paper betrayed that it was the organ of the Opposition,

and in a short time it had obtained a reputation which could hardly have

been expected. In reality Kossuth conducted the editorship with much

ability. His leading articles, the stereotyped publications of the

wishes of his heart, scourged the abuses which existed in the counties

and in the cities. The aim of these articles was to raise the importance

of the burgher class, to overthrow the privileges of the nobility--in a

word, _first_, Reform, _secondly_ Reform--a hundred times, Reform."

In 1848, after the Revolutions of Paris and Vienna, while the

ministerial question yet remained to be settled in Hungary, Mr. Pulszky

was sent to Pesth, together with Klauzal and Szemere, by the Archduke

Stephen, the Palatine of Hungary, to take suitable measures for the

maintenance of order. Some disturbances having broken out at

Stuhlweissenburg, Mr. Pulszky went thither to quell them. He was

recommended to take a military force with him, but he refused, confiding

in the power of reason and eloquence. The result showed that he was not

mistaken. He addressed the people with energy, and the disturbances were

appeased without the necessity of a resort to force. In May, 1848, Mr.

Pulszky was appointed Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Vienna.

On the 5th of October of the same year, when the Austrian government no

longer felt it necessary to observe any appearances in regard to

Hungary; and when war had been virtually declared against that country

by the Imperial proclamation of Oct. 3rd, which appointed Jellachich

Royal Commissary in Hungary, with full powers civil and military, Mr.

Pulszky was dismissed from his office.

Mr. Pulszky was with Kossuth at the battle of Schwechat, where he acted

as aid to the Hungarian commander, General Moga. He returned with

Kossuth to Pesth, where he was appointed a member of the Committee of

Defence, and was made Minister of Commerce. In December, 1848, he was

sent as accredited Envoy to England, to advocate the interests of

Hungary in that country. Speaking of his appointment to this office,

Schlesinger, the able and impartial historian of the Hungarian War,

says: "Kossuth could not have found a more active, able, and competent

man in Hungary for the post. All that a man could do Pulszky did.

Pulszky possesses the acuteness of a civilian, a penetrating intellect,

readiness of conception, inexhaustible powers of invention, and withal,

indefatigable activity, great knowledge of business, and a healthy and

sober spirit, which is not easily carried away by sanguine hopes." After

a perilous journey through Gallicia, Mr. Pulszky reached France, spent a

short time in Paris, and arrived in England early in March, 1849, where

he has since remained until the time of his embarkation for the United

States. During his residence in England, Mr. Pulszky has served the

cause of his country with equal zeal and ability. His character and his

talents have obtained for him a great influence there. He enjoys the

personal friendship of many of the most eminent men of England; and it

is in a great degree to be ascribed to his exertions, that the merits of

the Hungarian cause are so well apprehended by a large portion of the

British public.

Of the literary labors of Mr. Pulszky and of his wife, who accompanies

him in this country, the Transcript gives the following account, which,

though incomplete, is sufficiently accurate, so far as it goes: "Mr.

Pulszky is distinguished not only as a statesman and a diplomatist, but

as an author. Early in life he acquired a high reputation in his own

country, and in Germany, by various political, archæological and

philological writings. He wrote in German in a singularly pure and

forcible style. For the last two or three years he has resided in

London, where he has published several works in English, written in good

style, and exhibiting a rare combination of practical intellect and

creative imagination." He is a novelist as well as the historian and

vindicator of his country. The most elaborate production of his pen, in

English, is a novel in two volumes, 'The Jacobins in Hungary,' published

last spring. The London Examiner concludes its notice of this work, by

saying, "In a word, 'The Jacobins in Hungary' is a remarkably well told

tale, which will please all readers by the skill and pathos of its

narrative, and surprise many by its fairness and impartiality of tone to

opinions as well as men. But the majority of intelligent Englishmen have

not now to learn, that the closest parallel for a Hungarian rebel of the

nineteenth century, would be an English rebel of the seventeenth; and

they will not feel or express astonishment that what falls from Mr.

Pulszky on any question of society or government, might with equal

propriety for its sobriety and moderation of tone, have fallen from Lord

Somers or Mr. Pym."

The English translation of _Schlesinger's War in Hungary_ was edited by

Mr. Pulszky, who prefaced it with a long and well-written historical

introduction, and added to it a masterly sketch of the life and

character of Görgey, who had been his school-fellow, and with whose

whole career he was intimately acquainted. The estate of the Görgey

family was in fact situated at no great distance from that of Mr.

Pulszky, who was also an intimate friend of the traitor's brother.

To the "_Memoirs of a Hungarian Lady_" by Theresa Pulszky, his wife, Mr.

Pulszky prefixed a most valuable Introduction, containing the best

history of Hungary which we have yet seen in English. It is a clear and

concise sketch of the annals of the nation, from the earliest period to

the year 1848, occupying about 100 pages of the American edition of the

Memoirs. Madame Pulszky, the heroine and author of these interesting

memoirs, is, we believe, a native of Vienna, where, in 1845, she was

married to Mr. Pulszky. She was residing on their estates in Hungary,

about 60 miles from Pesth, when the war broke out; and the _Memoirs_ are

principally devoted to a narrative of her sufferings and adventures in

that exciting and perilous time. They contain, besides, many graphic

descriptions of life and manners in Hungary, and a good historical

narrative of the Revolution and the war.

Besides the _Memoirs_, Madame Pulszky has published in English, a volume

of _Tales and Traditions of Hungary_, which we have not seen, but of

which highly favorable notices have appeared in the Examiner and other

English journals. She is not only a brilliant and powerful writer, but a

most lovely and accomplished lady, as we learn from very reliable

sources in Europe. Her talents and acquirements are said to be quite

extraordinary. In England her husband and herself enjoyed the highest

consideration, both in point of character and ability.

It may be remarked, in addition to this, that the _Memoirs of a

Hungarian Lady_ (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia, 1850) give a full

account of Mr. Pulszky's career during the war and the revolution, and

in chapters II. and III. a minute and most interesting sketch of his

estates and tenantry. His novel, the _Jacobins in Hungary_, is

understood to be written with constant reference to the recent history

of his country, though the events on which it is founded occurred sixty

years ago.

Authors and Books.

Henry Heine's long-promised _Romanzero_ has at last appeared in Germany,

where the first edition has been greedily snapped up. It is a collection

of poems of various name and nature, all after the true Heinian vein.

The great curiosity of the book is the preface in which the "dying

Aristophanes" discourses on his alleged conversion to religion, in a

strain which settles the question, so much discussed for the past two or

three years, whether such a conversion has actually taken place or not.

He declares that he has "returned to God, like the profligate son, after

having long kept swine among the Hegelians. Was it suffering that drove

me back? Perhaps a less miserable reason. The celestial home-sickness

came over me, and urged me forth through woods and ravines, over the

dizziest mountain paths of dialectics. On my way I found the God of the

Pantheists, but could not use him." Afterwards he says, that while in

politics his views have not changed, in theology he has gone back to

belief in a personal divinity. But he denies the report that he has

joined any church. "No," he says, "my religions convictions and views

remain free from all ecclesiasticism; no bell-ring has seduced me, no

altar-candle blinded me. I have played with no symbols, nor altogether

renounced my reason. I have sworn off from nothing, not even my old

heathen gods, from whom I have indeed parted, but in all love and

friendship. It was in May, 1848, the day when I last went out, that I

took leave of the gracious idols I had worshipped in the days of my

happiness. It was with difficulty that I dragged myself to the Louvre,

and I almost fainted as I entered the lofty hall where the blessed

goddess of beauty, our dear Lady of Milo, stands on her pedestal. I lay

long at her feet, and wept so vehemently that a stone must have been

filled with pity. The goddess, too, looked down piteously, as if to say,

'Seest thou not that I have no arms, and cannot help thee?'" It seems

evident from this, that whatever change has happened in Heine's notions,

there is no vital piety in his heart, but he is the same heathen as

ever. The _Romanzero_ is divided into three parts--Histories,

Lamentations, and Hebrew Melodies. The former are like the ballads he

has before published, except that many of them go farther in the way of

indecency, while many others are charming conceits, which are sure of

long popularity. The Lamentations are more expressive of the personal

state of mind and experience of the author. The Hebrew Melodies are the

best of all, and betray a profound affection for the Jewish race and

history, which he vainly seeks to hide with sneering and scoffs, and

which proclaims him a genuine son of Abraham as well as of the

nineteenth century. For the rest, the reader of this book will be

reminded of the sharp saying of Gutzkow about Heine: "He is a writer who

tries to disguise spoiled meat with a _sauce piquante_." Heine has also

published "_Doctor Faust_, a Dance Poem, with curious information about

the Devil, Witches and Poetic Art." This is intended to serve as the

ground-work of a ballet and presents the great problems of existence in

the form of a jest and a paradox. It was written for Lumley, the London

manager, but his ballet-master declared the performance of it

impossible.

* * * * *

The _Grenzboten_ contains a paper on German _Romanticism_, by Dr. JULIAN

SCHMIDT, written for the purpose of defeating the last attempts which

the romantic school of German writers is making to regain its former

ascendency. Baron Eichendorff, almost the last of the old school, has

lately brought out a pamphlet for that purpose. It has found a full

contradiction in Dr. Schmidt's essay, one which will doubtless be

satisfactory to all but the Baron himself.

* * * * *

We cannot too much commend a metrical German translation of the heroic

Sagas (_Heldensagen_) of Firdusi, the chief of Persian poets. It is due

to the learning and taste, we might even say the genius, of HERR VON SCHOCK, and has

lately been published at Berlin. Those who recollect the delicious

illustrations which our Emerson has dug out of this old mine of Persian

poetry, to adorn some of his more recent lectures with, can need no

additional inducement to seek the acquaintance of this book. It contains

ten distinct _sagas_, with an introduction by the translator.

* * * * *

A work bearing a somewhat attractive title has recently been published

for FRED BURAU, by Brockhaus, of Leipzig, entitled _The Secret History

of Enigmatic Men, a Collection of Forgotten Notabilities._ Among the

"odd ones" cited, are the Countess of Rochlitz, Dankelmann and

Wartenberg, natural children of the last Stuarts, and of Danish Kings,

Count Lewenhaupt, Lord Peterborough, the Duke of Ormond, Frederic

Augustus the First, John Lilburne, W. Ludwig Weckerlin, and various

other characters, too numerous to mention. We noticed this work while it

was in course of preparation last year.

* * * * *

A singular historical concert was given at Dresden, in November. It was

made up of works of distinguished Electoral and Royal Saxon

_Capellmeisters_, in chronological order. First appeared John Walther,

the friend of Luther, and the original master of Protestant Church

music. Next, Heinrich Schutz, the author of the first German opera. The

Italians, Lotti and Porpora, and Hasse (who composed in Italian style),

represented the golden period of the Electoral Court in the past half of

the eighteenth century. Naumann marked the transition to modern German

music, while the most recent schools were represented by Morlacchi,

Reissiger, Weber, and Richard Wagner.

* * * * *

The Michaelmas Fair of this year at Leipzig, is, according to its

catalogue, as rich as ever in literary wares. From the Spring Fair up to

September 30, there appeared in Germany 3,860 new books, and 1,130 more

are now in press. Of those published, 106 were on Protestant, and 62 on

Catholic theology; 36 on philosophy; 205, history and biography; 102 on

linguistic subjects; 194, natural sciences; 168, military sciences; 83,

commerce and industry; 87, agriculture and the management of forests;

69, public instruction; 92, classical philology; 80, living languages;

64, theory of music and the arts of design; 168, fine arts in general;

48, books for the people; 28, scientific miscellanies; bibliography, 18.

* * * * *

A History of Music in Italy, Germany, and France, from the beginning of

Christianity to the present day, has been published in Germany, from the

pen of PHILIP BRENDEL. It is not to be commended. It is not a real

history, such as indeed is greatly to be desired, but a collection of

sentimentalities and fancies, For instance, in speaking of Beethoven,

the author compares him with Schiller in respect to the substance of his

works, but says that in respect to his artistic form, he far excels that

poet, and even rises to the level of Jean Paul. This may do for

transcendental young people, but it is nonsense to all who like common

sense and real information.

* * * * *

About a year since, a society was formed in Germany for the publication

of the works of BACH, the great composer for the organ. Three hundred

and fifty subscribers were obtained, each paying five Prussian Thalers

($3.50), a-year, for which he receives a copy of the issues of the

society. They are not sold to music dealers, and are not intended for

the general market. Of the subscribers, six are in Paris, twenty-three

in London, ten in Russia, thirteen in Austria, but we see none from the

United States. The first publication was to appear in December. It will

contain ten cantatas not before published.

* * * * *

On the death of the great philologist LACHMANN JACOB GRIMM, for many

years his co-laborer and friend, was appointed to deliver an oration

before the Academy of Sciences in Berlin, which was done on the 3d of

July last. This speech, recently published, is said to be highly

interesting, as giving the characteristics of both the eulogist and the

deceased, each of them men whose names will henceforth be inseparably

allied in the history of German learning.

A biography of LACHMANN has been published at Berlin; it is by William

Hertz, and will interest those who care to look at the quiet but most

industrious life of a great scholar.

* * * * *

A Sketch of _Jona. Edwards and his Works_, has been published in German

at Leipsig.

DR. ANDREE, whose work on America we lately noticed, has commenced at

Bremen a periodical called _Das Westland_, devoted exclusively to the

diffusion of information respecting the new world. The idea is an

excellent one, especially in view of the great numbers of Germans who

are already established on this side the Atlantic, and the still greater

numbers that desire to come here. No man in Europe is so well fitted as

Dr. Andree to conduct such a work. The first number, which we have

received, contains articles on the Lopez Expedition, the Southern States

of the American Union in their relation to the North, Traditions of the

North American Indians, the navigation of the La Plata system of Rivers,

the Welland Canal, &c. Sold in New-York by Westerman Brothers, 240

Broadway.

* * * * *