l'Auxerrois and the drowning soldiers in an Irish river?"

“An accidental circumstance. Simply that, in the church of St. Germain, this night I saw the hero of the feat."

"Dear, what a prize. Be amiable Monsieur de Mortagne-give us a sight of this wild boy."

"Boy, madame. You forget"and de Mortagne glanced a look towards a large pier-glass-" you forget that we do not retain boyhood, or even first-youth, all our lives. It is some time since my hero became entitled to write himself down a man.'

"And you knew him-you knew him?"

"Certainly-circumstances like those in which I made acquaintance with this youth's face, grave a deep impression on the memory. Besides, I have seen him in Paris since the time of his Irish exploit."

"The when and the where, pray— another story?"

"Ah, madame, that is my secret. Instead of the story, I shall endeavour to render an Irish expression intelligible, and beg your indulgence to it. Unhappily, it was one of those untranslatable witticisms, called puns. Monsieur Carleton, I dare say, knows enough of the colloquial English spoken in Ireland to understand it. One of the boatmen, after pausing from his exertions, both of his craft and partyrowing and killing-leaned complacently on his oars, and looked up with a contemplative expression towards the high cliff; then, while a shade passed over his face, he said, with perfect seriousness Paddy, many's the good slip of a pig you bought and sold in your time; but, by my soul, you never saw so purty slips as them a while ago; no, nor so well sold. Two soldiers and a Christian paid down for a couple of slips of pigs. The same word in the Hibernian dialect of English means a fall and a species of swine. It is a name for the animal itself, as well as for the accident which the expression seems to denote.—

• Ay,' replied Paddy, I did not bring my pigs to a bad market at all.' This was the only moral drawn by my companions from the event of the morning -the only epitaph on their victims."

"Thanks for your explanation. If we happen to apprehend your Calenburg too slowly for enjoying the wit of it," said Madame de Valmont-" at

least it is valuable as a trait of character. You have satisfied us, too, that you will preserve your mystery.Agreed the secret shall remain your own. It is indispensable, indeed, in the rôle of every impostor. Signor Barbarini, who discoursed with so superb and mystic eloquence, insists that even nature would not have half her present attractions, if she were not careful to withhold her principal secrets from all but the deserving. Pray, Mr. Carleton, has this new science found favour in your land of thought?"

"I do not know, madame, that it has revealed its treasures to our present generation. Something of the kind was once introduced amongst us, but it did not flourish. It was not left to itself, or to such favourable influence and agencies as might have promoted its growth -but died of a satiric poem. now know the magic which accommodates itself to the necessity of labouring for a livelihood, more through the pictures of our poets than on its own showing."

We

"Here with us it has scarcely reached the dignity to provoke satire. I wish we had had the gratification to receive you at an earlier hour-Monsieur de Mortagne, too-but he has acquitted himself, and denies us an excuse to rail at him. Well, we may, perhaps, have better fortune on another evening."

"And why," said de Mortagne, "will madame leave her gratification dependent on a ' perhaps?' Is not this somewhat too much in the bourgeoise fashion? Why not visit the sagethis Sydrophel-so your Butler, Mr Carleton, calls him

Who deals in destiny's dark counsels, And strange opinions of the moon tells.

May we not visit him? If I am not mistaken, your poet, Monsieur, proves that even the pious may take such liberties."

"Yes-he does, but on a principle somewhat equivocal, and rather too comprehensive-not less than that

The godly may allege

For any thing their privilege.

But, indeed, to do the cause and the poet justice, he employs an argument more precise and pointed, in order to prove that men

To the d-1 himself may go,

If they have motives thereunto.

For,' he reasons, as there is a war between The d-1 and them, it is no sin

If they, by subtle stratagem,

Make use of him as he does them.'"

"You hear, Madame de Valmont," said de Mortagne, as he explained the passage. "What better justification could we need for a visit to your sorcerer of the salons?

But I do the gentleman injustice. No doubt he would reject the name of sorcererthe meanest appellation he would condescend to accept would be that of magician."

"And the difference-what is it?" "Much-very much-not less than the difference between master and slave-between good and evil. Magicians, free of their craft, are masters of the spirits of air. Sorcerers, by the terms of their compact, are slaves to the spirits of earth. Magicians are free to exercise their authority for good-sorcerers have hired themselves to work evil. Magicians belong to the race of those who are said to have visited Messiah in his cradle-sorcerers make their closest approach to superior power, when they hold their Sabbath of Beelzebub. The spells of sorcerers are sins ugly and venemous'- and those of magicians, like your own, madame, are charms."

"Well, now that you have charmed away my scruples, if I had any, may I exert my power to charm? May I command your presence for Monday? Shall we have your escort, gentlemen?"

A general assent was given.

"And, Monsieur de Mortagne, come without a prejudice-you are sceptical, I know, in matters more certain than the fire philosophy." "Alas, madame, you misapprehend

me.

My scepticism arises out of my

belief. I have a firm conviction that there is a religion born in us-the ele. ment which unites our being with that of another world; it is because in received forms of religion I find this primeval principle disowned or disregarded, that I am an unbeliever. My firm conviction in a real religion of the heart-a religion of heavenof God-makes me a bad Catholic. As to charlatans like this, I beg your ladyship's pardon, of whom you speak, they are the agents through whom the neglected cravings of the spirit assert

vings the Catholic religion is afraidthe world of pleasure or business will not pause to hear them; but most hearts are conscious of them, and because religious systems do not allot them a recognised place and occupation-because they are uncared for in the spirit-left without rule, or scope, or plan, they seem to show mysteries when they are observed, and prepare the way for jugglers to travel and profit by."

"Can it be Monsieur de Mortagne we have heard," said madame; "has he come to mysteries and revelations."

"Monsieur de Mortagne, madame," he replied, "is better, or perhaps I should say, worse than you may have thought him. If possible I am more averse to the philosophy, as it is styled, of the day, than to our poor gew-gaw religion. Believe me, if I could discern an honest intention and a believing heart under the gaudy ceremonies of the church, I would at least tolerate a religion which could boast of faithful worshippers. Even as it is, I think it better than a philosophy-what a name!-that weighs humanity by the pound, and thinks of man only as an organization of physical substances. Against them both I would take up the quackery that appeals to the superstitious, that is to say, the neglected spiritual affections-the heart's mystery within us. Your Rosicrucian may be, as others of his tribe who have thriven, a knave. No matter, his success is a proof that there is something within us better than has been dreamed of in your philosophy." A better philosophy will in due time arise. Meanwhile I accept these juggleries as presumption that the general heart of man expects it. Empiricism, in material things, was once a harbinger of chemical science, (among alchemists, the dupes of their own fancies were more numerous); now, I would hope it is preparing the way for a true science of the human mind. Madame, I shall be charmed to have the honour of attend

ing you on Monday, and Monsieur Carleton, who has already bowed his graceful acceptance of your invitation, will be, I am persuaded, happy to join the party."

And thus the company separated.

ABOUT five years back, as our readers may remember, Ferdinand Freiligrath published his first volume of poems. It was a rather wild and clever affairall seas and sand-spouts-whales and buffaloes-Hottentots, Troglodytes,

"Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Did grow beneath their shoulders,"

and it produced, accordingly, an extensive sensation. The German people were electrified by it. The king of Prussia placed its author on the pension list.

Most miraculous fact of any, even the reviewers praised it! A few transcendental cynics, alone, laughed in derision, but their mirth met no response, for there really were in the book,

"Thoughts that did often lie too deep for sneers."

In short, it succeeded. The origi nality of such an idea as that of poetising topography and natural history, took the public by surprise; and Ferdinand was in a fair way of making his fortune.

He had formerly been in trade: here was now a golden opportunity for him to regain the position he had forfeited. He might go back to the shop, and set up in the huckstery line under the brilliantest auspices. However, he did no such thing. He had other views than could be obtained from inspecting the interior of a butter-firkin. His grand ambition was to take the shine yet brightlier as an author. He would bring out another book, all wild-cats and hurricanes again, but still not quite the same as the former; and so he sat down, with half-a-hundred weight of paper before him, to think how he should manage that job.

The Westphalian tea-unions, meanwhile, were nearly as anxious as himself on the score, but they were more

It

in the dark, for they couldn't tell what sort of book he intended to write. was, of course, clear that he wouldn't repeat himself-that he wouldn't mind catching any more Tartars. But what he would do was the question. Would he full back on forms and conventionalities with Goethe, or ascend into the "Ideal," like Schiller? People shook their heads. Was he likely to try his hand at the construction of gingerbread gimcracks of castles, after the manner of Uhland ? A universal horselaugh negatived the notion. Had he, then, a decided inclination to descend into Hades with Kerner, and study the mysteries of caco-magnetism among demons and incubi ? appeared an out-and-out improbability. In a word, all agreed that he was too much of a genius to copy.

This

"His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart"

from the cloudy tabernacles of the whole tribe of metrical push-pinplayers. As Selber tersely observes,

"He had once beat all of them by chalks,"

and there seemed no valid reason why he shouldn't go on beating them to the end of all the chapters. He, at least, was not a bag of chaff, a make-believe, a wire-and-pulley get-up, but an unmistakeable specimen of muscle and sinew; and he would shew that he

was.

Well, and did he shew that he was? We shall answer that query in, perhaps, our next anthology. At present all that we can say is that he came out in due season, armed to the teeth, and scowling like ten thunder-clouds. He had become a young Germanist! It was even so. He who, in 1841, had thus expressed himself in a poem on the execution of the unfortunate Don Diego Leon:

II

His book was entitled "Ein Glaubensbekenntniss," (A Confession of Faith,) and was in two parts-one part containing some poems written while he was an Old German, and the other, those concocted by him after he had been ground Young by the heartless tyranny of the aristocracy. We quote a portion of his preface:

"I have always been of a confiding and hopeful character; and the turn which affairs have lately taken in Prussia has inflicted so much the more painful a shock on my mind. It is to this that the reader owes the large number of poems in the second part of my volume, as compared with those of the first. None of those poems were concocted,' as the phrase is-[well, then, we beg his pardon]-each of them arose out of some circumstance of the moment; and all were alike the result of deep-rooted and thorough conviction on my part. Before I penned them, I had resigned to the king all further claims on his bounty. My much-talked-of pension was bestowed on me in the beginning of 1842; and since the termination of 1843, I have ceased to receive it.

"In trustfully commending this volume to the hearts of the German people, I am certain that the reflective and candid will be able, from its contents, accurately to trace the progress of my faith and feelings. They will perceive that my conversion was not sudden, but gradual; not the product of levity, or wild enthusiasm, but the result of enquiry and enlightened persuasion. And it will come to this with the entire nation before long! We are all engaged in a blind struggle for the attainment of political consciousness: light will, byand-by, break in upon us. In the

mean time, the severest reproach that can be addressed to me, is, that I have suffered my catholic soul' to be bound by party-ties.' I admit that I have! I have gone over, without shrinking or faltering, to the ranks of those brave men who are exerting themselves to stem the tide of tyranny with breast and brow. For me, henceforth, no existence without liberty! Whatever be the fate of this book-whatever be my own fate as long as the system of oppression under which I behold my fatherland groaning shall endure, so long shall my voice and arm be raised in support of the efforts of all who are labouring for national regeneration. So help me, next to GoD, the confidence of my countrymen! My face is turned towards the Future."

Noble fellow! How we should wish to have witnessed the interview between him and the king!" Take back the remnant of your bribe-money !" we may suppose him to have exclaimed with the air of a hussar, as perhaps he handed three groschen-four pence halfpenny-in a piece of twisted paper to Frederick William, who probably fainted on the spot. Honour to such heroism! With what a lofty air of independence Ferdinand must that day have stalked into the humble ordinary at the corner of Hochstrasse, and demanded, for the first time in his life, a dinner of rolls and radishes on tick!

We purpose to extract at some length from his volume in a future article.

For the present we shall confine ourself to a translation of one of its poems-a ballad on the "Weisze Frau," or White Lady, who, as the petrel shews itself before the tem