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deepens into certainty, as soon as the lover in question is brought upon the scene. He is poor, handsome, and virtuous, as a matter of course, yet, by no means, that paragon of perfection whom one would have looked for, as the fitting mate for such a woman as the Barone. His faults are ever dwelt upon-just those faults which a man would pick out in his own character, for the purpose of exposing to the world. He is fond of play, women, &c. His affection is reciprocated by the Barone, but the latter is forced by her father into a marriage with the Marquis, whose object is, of course, to secure her fortune. The domestic interior of the newly-married couple is painted in the most gloomy colours. The coldness which has, from the first, existed on both sides, is, before long succeeded, by a mutual loathing. The Marquis is constantly chafed by the idea that his wife's fortune cannot be made to descend to his own eldest son, the only being in the world for whom he entertains the semblance of an affection. A mutual separation for a time is agreed upon between the ill-assorted couple. The Marchioness pays a visit to the baths of Aix, in Savoy. Soon after her arrival, she meets with her old lover, the Count de Rastignac. What follows is hardly susceptible of appearing in an English dress. Conversations, a good many pages in length, in which the universe, the eternity of love, the reciprocity of two hearts united by nature, and the other watchwords of false sentiment, are made to figure, naturally tend to an event without which it would appear that a French novel, whether representing real or fictitious circumstances, is hardly complete. Under an evening sky-the moon, of course, looking down-in an arbour of the Marchioness's lovely garden -the two lovers breathe their vows, until their burning conversation is interrupted by five asterisks across the page. Eight months after the period at which the asterisks are supposed to occur, the Marchioness is delivered of a son. (The tale which had hitherto only excited a smile, from its absurdity, began now to have a serious interest for me; I read on breathlessly.) The Marquis, perfectly acquainted with the real state of facts, behaves in a manner which, had it been only sincere, the writer appears rather to hold up as a model for the imitation of married men in general. He accepts the child as his own, and asks no questions. But beneath this seeming fairness of conduct, projects of vengeance are already brooding in his heart-terrible projects; he can give them no definite shape or direction at present, but with patience, time, and circumstances, must assuredly turn up something to favour his designs. At last, though not till the boy is nearly grown up to manhood, and is studying at the University of Heiselberg, the Marquis is warned of a marriage contemplated by young Victor with a vulgar adventuress. (My interest, as may be supposed, became at this point extremely great). While pretending to put obstacles in its way, the Marquis actually favours the union. It takes place. The first act of his vengeance is accomplished. The Marchioness, who dotes upon her son, is nearly heart-broken. But a more signal and more ingenious vengeance is prepared by the course of events leading, as it were, to the Marquis's hand. The young couple go to reside in Italy, and stay for some time at Aix. The Marquis, through his emissaries, learns that his

daughter-in-law, vain and fickle in disposition, is already disposed to view with contempt her sickly, studious husband. Her conduct before marriage has been suspected of being light; a spark is only wanting now to set fire to her dormant sensibilities. Through the agency of the Marquis, a certain Chevalier de Caredo, a handsome profligate young Piedmontese, is thrown in her way. The result may be imagined. The five asterisks again occur. The Marquis obtains conclusive proof that the child of which his daughter-in-law is delivered is the child of the Chevalier de Caredo. Armed with the damning evidence, he seeks his unhappy wife, strikes her to the earth by the exhibition of it, and then destroys it for ever! "You hugged yourself in the knowledge," he exclaims, "that the son born of your guilty connection with a paramour was the recognised heir to your titles and possessions; not a drop of my blood was to flow in the veins of the future Seigneurs of Lavernie! My vengeance is this not a drop of your blood shall flow in their veins. Descended from the vulgar intrigue of a German dancing-girl and an Italian adventurer, they shall perpetuate my vengeance as long as the noble family of De Lavernie retains its place among the Seigneurs of France !" The effect of this terrible announcement upon the Marchioness was such, that, for many days her life was despaired of; she only struggled back into life to bear with her the burthen of a broken heart. The book ended here. It had evidently been written immediately after the communication just referred to had taken place

that is to say, immediately after Lord Flintshire had struck his wife to the earth by a communication similar to that just put into the mouth of his representative, the Marquis de Beaufort.

The sounding of the dinner-gong found me still sitting on my highbacked chair, reflecting on the incidents of the book before me, and comparing them with circumstances which floated, one by one, into my memory, in connection with poor Walter Hilliard and his family. The tale evidently related to events in the married life of Lord and Lady Flintshire, and it served to throw a light upon occurrences which had taken place since the period when it had been written. I could understand the unusual attentions paid by the Earl to his daughter-in-law and her child in the presence of the Countess; his ceremonious introduction of them to the grander of his acquaintance; the "your future landlord” to the farmers, and all the other mysterious parts of his conduct. It was easy to understand, too, how the double secret, of his own and little Walter's birth, coming suddenly upon Hilliard, by a casual perusal of this very book-(was this part of the Earl's vengeance?)— would produce a terrible outbreak in the family, prove a death-blow to the Countess, and hurry the unfortunate Mrs. Hilliard into a premature and fatal confinement. But how came the book to be written at all? Who could have amused himself with its composition? Neither Lord nor Lady Flintshire could have had a hand in it—that was clear. secret was in the possession of somebody else. F. was able to give me some information on this head: "It was the work," said he, "of the very 'Chevalier de Caredo,' mentioned in the course of it, as the instrument used by Lord Flintshire for effecting the ruin of Walter's wife. It ap

The

peared that this man, a clever scoundrel, whose real name it is not necessary to mention-indeed, I have forgotten it was in the habit of drawing heavy sums of money from the Earl, for he had been engaged in more than one dirty piece of work for his patron. They quarrelled at last, as to terms, and the Chevalier, it appears, by way of extorting compliance to his own demands, wrote, and caused to be privately printed, the book you have just read, setting forth, under a thin veil of fictitious names and places, all those details which he well knew that the Earl would be most anxious to keep from the public eye. He thought that the threat of producing them in a printed book, where the real personages intended would be easily detected by all the world, would be more efficacious than a mere mentor to tell all he knew. He accordingly sent this book to the Earl, with a request to hear, in return, whether he was to publish it, with a second volume, in an English translation. The Earl immediately retorted, by causing him to be arrested by the Sardinian government, on some charge of fraud—(it was not difficult to prove many such against him)-and a condemnation to the galleys, where facilities for printing and publishing do not exist, closed his lips for a period of some years. So far from the intended effect having been produced, Lord Flintshire appears to have grown quite fond of the volume, of which the one single copy remained in his possession; he was observed frequently to read and consult it in private. By what chance it fell into poor Walter's hand, and revealed to him the secrets of which he was ignorant, I am unable to enlighten you."

"If a chance reader," said I, "had happened to light upon this book, without possessing, what may be termed the key to it, he would assuredly have set down the whole story as a tissue of improbabilities -a tale of Italian vengeance born of the ingenuity of the author. Little would he have supposed that the incidents which it contains are founded on the real life of an English family, in the nineteenth century." "Truth," returned my friend F., "is certainly stranger than fiction."

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NOVEL AND EXTRAORDINARY ESTHETICAL PROPOSITION. A LITERARY gentleman, well known for his amazing fund of every intellectual faculty except humour, wit, learning, imagination, fancy, or reasoning power, was introduced the other day to an artist of our acquaintance, and, after the usual compliments, addressed him as follows: "Hum. Art's a-hah-nice thing, sir; very."

A DAY DRAMA.

SCENE-Interior of the Cheshire Cheese Tavern, Fleet Street. Young Griggs (to William, the head waiter).-Hi! Spurgeon! William turns sharply in the direction of box 4, in which young Griggs is seated, but does not answer his irreverent summons.

Young Griggs.-Come! Wake up there! What's to pay? Just offsteam's up-bell's a ringing.

William (reflectively).-Chop, bread, potatoes, nine; stout's eleven; stewed cheese and go of brandy, shilling and eightpence, sir.

Young Griggs-(who is of opinion that two-pence is lots for the waiter, but who loves a joke much better than coppers).-There (he puts down two shillings). Toss you for the full change.

William (putting the silver in his pocket).-Thank you, sir; much obliged. Never mind now, sir. Might hurt yourself, sir. Wait till you've growed up, sir, and then go into training.

(Young Griggs fails to perceive the humour of the repartee, and walks back to his office in a dejected mood.)

G. T.

peared that this man, a clever scoundrel, whose real name it is not necessary to mention—indeed, I have forgotten it was in the habit of drawing heavy sums of money from the Earl, for he had been engaged in more than one dirty piece of work for his patron. They quarrelled at last, as to terms, and the Chevalier, it appears, by way of extorting compliance to his own demands, wrote, and caused to be privately printed, the book you have just read, setting forth, under a thin veil of fictitious names and places, all those details which he well knew that the Earl would be most anxious to keep from the public eye. He thought that the threat of producing them in a printed book, where the real personages intended would be easily detected by all the world, would be more efficacious than a mere mentor to tell all he knew. He accordingly sent this book to the Earl, with a request to hear, in return, whether he was to publish it, with a second volume, in an English translation. The Earl immediately retorted, by causing him to be arrested by the Sardinian government, on some charge of fraud—(it was not difficult to prove many such against him)—and a condemnation to the galleys, where facilities for printing and publishing do not exist, closed his lips for a period of some years. So far from the intended effect having been produced, Lord Flintshire appears to have grown quite fond of the volume, of which the one single copy remained in his possession; he was observed frequently to read and consult it in private. By what chance it fell into poor Walter's hand, and revealed to him the secrets of which he was ignorant, I am unable to enlighten you.”

"If a chance reader," said I, "had happened to light upon this book, without possessing, what may be termed the key to it, he would assuredly have set down the whole story as a tissue of improbabilities -a tale of Italian vengeance born of the ingenuity of the author. Little would he have supposed that the incidents which it contains are founded on the real life of an English family, in the nineteenth century." "Truth," returned my friend F., "is certainly stranger than fiction."

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