-unseen My son! mine only son! my child,- ARN.-Hah!-Barony?-Ar't sure 'twas Barony? ERN.-What matters it? I've term'd the spirit's child Noble-he was of high descent; th' estate Which rapine from him held, -an earldoom were Can'st thou have known Perchance :-but wherefore ask? Or, ARN. (hesitating)-Nay, -I think not, and yet, somewhere I have heard, A something similar-and then? ERN. Then sir, The spectre-parent told his harrow'd child, Lur'd to that chamber in the old grim tower, ARN.-(furiously)-Hold, Ernest, hold! Suffice, the father of my friend expired, ERN. Hapless one,-she died I' the hour that gave her babe to light! Deep grief For her lord's sudden dissolution, (all Unfathomable unto her its cause,) Render'd that dread hour premature. ARN.-(discomposed) — Her son? ERN.-Lives, to avenge both parents' wrongs: for know, Meanwhile, Sir Baron, that the boy was rear'd Far from his patrimonial towers; and know o 3 ARN. That guilty one? And the man,-how fares Oft had the youth beheld His fiendish kinsman; oft rever'd and lov'd ARN. What troubles thee? Wherefore this tale to me?-Why burns thine eye ERN. Who mention'd thee? The vision of a friend did I narrate, Which, whether dream or waking intercourse As truly, much it doth, mine own,-oh! why (In an altered tone, and with a slow distinct enuncia- Sirrah!-I know it,-and thou know'st it too,- Thou guiltiest one!-thou Cain!-thou blackest curse with BROTHER's blood! (Arnheim, choking with passion and uttering unintel- Off, villain! off!-Thus, thus, am I prepared, (Officers of justice rush in and secure ARNHEIM) ERN. Now my caged linnet, learn, The pale, the spiritless, the heavy-ey'd, Rode many a mile, ere slumber fled thy couch: Learn traitor,-FRATRICIDE!-thy brother's child (To the officers)-Bear him off, gentlemen! My loathing eyes Are darken'd by the vision of that fiend, The brother of my sire;-his MURDERER! (Officers exeunt with ARNHEIM.) THE FIACRE. A SKETCH. You would imagine that a fiacre dragged on but a misera. ble existence. No such thing I promise you! He emulates the great and the rich, and reckons the peer and the elégant among his every day associates. At day-break he rises and crawls out of his stable door to see what sort of a morning it is. "The deuce take it," says he, yawning, "it is delightful weather!"– -or else "Thank God, we shall have a pelting day!" Are not these the lofty and patriotic sentiments of a rich speculator on perusing the public journals? Peace is proclaimed-alas! his countenance falls, and disappointment rankles in his breast. A rupture is talked of war is declared and see! his eyes sparkle with selfish joy; for in the impending disasters of his country, he beholds only visions of personal profit and aggrandisement. With imprecations, the fiacre drives up his horses; with taunts and curses he harnesses them to the carriage; and then, with furious and loud cracks of his whip, impells them to the stand. Thus, too frequently, does man "dressed in a little brief authority," exert it but to gall and fret those who are subject to his influence; thus when crosses and disappointments have maddened him, he vents his rage upon the luckless wretches whom fate has compelled to truckle to his iron yoke. A person is perceived at a distance, who seems to be looking for a coach. Six of them gallop up to him at full speed. He chooses the best, but he takes it by the hour, and now the fiacre drawls from street to street at a snail's pace. So men are swift and supple as the greyhound in their endeavours to obtain an appointment, and slow and supine as the tortoise when securely installed in office. The gentleman who has hired the fiacre calls to pay a visit to a friend. On his return he finds the horses unbridled, and the driver in the alehouse; the picture of a government office when its principal is not expected for the day. The fiacre now rolls on; a waggon heavily laden, passing too near to him, he is threatened with destruction. His dexterity, however, aided by the unmerciful use of the whip, extricates him at length from his peril, and, at the same instant, he himself overturns a light cabriolet, about the fate of which he gives himself no sort of concern. Is it not thus that the sordid and brutal worlding, ever ready to denounce and vituperate, when his own rights are in the smallest degree infringed upon, thrusts, in his turn, the weaker to the wall, without thought or feeling? Nobody in the world enjoys more freedom in the selection of his associates in life, or at least for the day, than the fiacre. At nine in the morning, for instance, he can choose, in Paris between a lovely female memorialist, animated with the pure and laudable desire of freeing her lover from the conscription, or of obtaining an appointment for her husband; a curious foreigner rising betimes to make a day's tour to the lions of Paris; a candidate for a vacant seat in the Academy, who has one hundred and thirty visits to pay, and to talk of the books which he has not written, but which he intends to write; and a Jew-broker, who coaches it about to exchange money for paper. At noon, there is another series of fares; the old theatrical amateurs proceed to the rehearsals; a couple of young Exquisites repair to bagatelle, to bluster about an affair of honor that will end in smoke; or a quartetto of gourmands make a party to La Rappee to feast on fresh-water fish and kidneys stewed in champagne. At three, the ladies repair to the gardens of the Thuilleries to see the sun rise, and thence drive to the Palace-Royal, to collect the scandal of the day from the mantuamakers. At five o'clock the dinners commence. Lucky the fiacre that chances to be in the Faubourg St. Germain at that hour; he is sure of a fare to the Chausée d' Antoine. At seven, the theatres present their multifarious attractions, and the fiacre chooses both his route and his company. An Elégant, beau comme le jour, dressed in a Spanish mantle, with an opera hat under his arm, and his hair evidently but just released from the papillotes that have held it in durance vile the whole of the day, drops, as from the clouds, into the middle of the street. The canaille gape and stare and wonder what duke it is, for they did not see him emerge from the neighbouring court, wherein he occupies a miserable chamber, au cinquième. He calls a coach with an air-Jarvie is engaged he knows his customer; a hollow, heartless villain; and what is far worse in his eyes, a man without a single sous. No, no, a Chevalier d' Industrie is no companion for a fiacre -let him trudge it a-foot if he will go to the opera, and spunge upon the inexperienced and the vain. The fiacre waits not long for a fare; a rosy-cheeked soubrette beckons him to a door, and in a few minutes he rolls away the Académie Royal de Musique with talent and beauty in his charge. At eleven the plays are over. Then the soirées commence, and dancing is kept up till one, while roulette and rouge-etnoir engage the votaries of the fickle goddess till the morning; when the fiacre is called to carry home the ill-gotten booty. It is evident, therefore, that nothing important can occur in the metropolis of a powerful kingdom, in which the fiacre does not take a conspicuous part;-add to this, that now-adays, the fiacres rival in splendor the equipages of the wealthiest of the nobility, dash into the court-yards in the same style, and almost drive into the saloons ;-while the masters of these equipages and the fiacres seem occasionally to revive ancient intimacies. S. TO A LADY. Why place that jewel on thy brow, |