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"Don't take on so piteously, Master Beppo," said the doctor; " perhaps I may hit on the means to conjure back this runaway piece of silver. But, to begin with the beginning, a practice I heartily recommend to all who want to see the end of anything, let us hear what you have to say, signor."

Thus encouraged, I proceeded to tell my story, fully convinced that if my judge were really an honest man, which was more than I expected, the relation must overwhelm my accusers. I repeated with minuteness the various speeches made by Giuseppe; pointed out their concealed meaning, as I had at first interpreted them; and showed how strongly I was borne out in my ideas by the subsequent facts.

No actor could have portrayed amazement better than did my faithless host and his family during the first part of this detail. “Santa Marias," "Diavolos," and sundry other sonorous ejaculations, burst from them at every fresh proof I brought forward of their atrocity. But this only inspired me with greater eloquence. I went on, expatiating on each fact, and dissecting each word, with the minuteness of a special pleader, who tears to pieces the conduct of some unhappy culprit, well knowing that both fame and fee depend upon conviction. To my great surprise, however, the more I harangued and the more pregnant became my proofs, the more decidedly did my auditors exchange their first looks of amazement for ill-repressed laughter. The women tittered, mine host smiled, the young man in fustian grinned, and the doctor's lip curled up after the sardonic fashion. This piqued me; alarmed as I was for my eventual safety, I did not choose to be treated like a child, and to have my tale made a subject of ridicule, as if I were one of those simple-minded travellers, who, as the proverb says, make mountains of molehills. Assuming, therefore, an air of dignity, to give the greater weight to my words, I said, "Believe me, sir, you are deceived in these people: notwithstanding they want to make the whole appear no more than a joke, I can assure you it is anything but a laughing matter. I saw the banditti in the kitchen-I saw them open the trap-door"

But at this part of my story I was interrupted by a general shout of laughter.

"Don't be angry," said the doctor, seeing that I was to the full as wroth as I dared

to be; "don't be angry, signor, but listen to me while I let you into the secrets of the trap-door and the banditti."

"Doctor!" cried Giuseppe, hastily, "would you ruin me?"

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our

Tilly vally, man," said the doctor, you have nothing to fear on that score; the signor is an English traveller, and cares no more about your smuggling concerns than the Cham of Tartary; for, to tell you the truth," he added, turning to me, worthy friend here, though indifferently honest in other matters, pays no more regard to the revenue laws than a Jew does to Sunday. But let that pass; you can easily guess now who your banditti were, and the use of the secret cellar?"

"And the man who came in at the window?" I exclaimed, with more warmth than prudence, "who was he?"

"Myself," replied the young fellow in fustian.

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"The devil it was!" said mine host. Yes; I meant to-nay, it's of no use, Bettina, all must out, rather than uncle Beppo should come to any harm. The fact is, I meant to pay a visit to Bettina, not being aware of the change of rooms."

"And pray," asked I, incredulously, "whom am I to thank for the vision in the blue chamber?”

At this question, Giuseppe and his family crossed themselves with every symptom of horror. Fine hypocrites!

"The figure," I continued, “in the slouched hat, the blue cloak”"And red hose," added Giacomo, eagerly piecing out my sentence.

I was thunderstruck-"The very same, though how you should come to the knowledge of”

But without waiting to hear me out, the doctor shouted triumphantly, "We have him! we have him! Away with you, Pietro; scour the ruins, Luigi. Via, my lads, and put feathers to your heels, for if he once escape from us into the forest, we may have another night of it."

Away scampered the pretended doctor and his myrmidons, for, that it was a pretence, I had no doubt whatever. I was not to be duped by any of their tricks or explanations, and felt that the whole scene had been got up merely to cloak the bloody occupation of the banditti, as they were afraid I might otherwise betray them into the hands of justice, while yet they did not dare to murder me in the broad day

light. But, though such was my conviction, I thought it most prudent to seem satisfied. “I am perfectly contented," I said, “with your explanation of the night's mysteries, and I pledge you my honour I will never breathe a syllable about them to any human being."

"I believe that if I believe nothing else," said mine host, with a sarcastic sneer.

"You may, indeed," I repeated still more emphatically.

sorry for having handled you so roughly, but we had all drunk of the same cup, I fancy; and, since you took me for a robber, you may the more readily forgive my blunder in taking you for a thief. After all, there is no great harm done, at least not more than our doctor here will easily set to rights with two pennyworths of ointment."

Here the doctor broke in with "Favete linguis-hold your tongue, Beppo; I'll

"I were an infidel to doubt it," said have no interlopers in the shop, no meddlers Giuseppe.

"And now, before I take my leave of you, allow me to pay,-no, not pay, but to testify my gratitude by offering you these few pieces of gold."

"I'll allow no such thing," he replied bluntly; "I have already told you this is no inn, nor am I a man to bring a reckoning for a night's board or a night's lodging; but, before you take your leave, as you phrase it, I must be sure you have not taken my silver tankard."

"And the ten silver spoons, husband; don't forget the ten silver spoons."

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"Here he is! we have him!" shouted the doctor, who now re-appeared upon the scene. Bring him along, lads. Here is your ghost, signor, and your thief, Beppo, and my mad patient, all in one, three faces under one hood. We found him moaning and groaning in the room under the turret oratory, where he seems to have got by a way of his own, videlicet, through the rotten floor. By the bye, Beppo, the rats and the damps are playing the deuce with this castle of yours; if you don't leave it soon, I shall have to dig you out of the ruins some windy morning.-What? you would give us the slip again, would you? Draw that cord a little tighter about his arms, Blaise-tighter yet-you have given us trouble enough, my fine fellow; but, basta-you fast a month for it on bread and water, with a handsome pair of bracelets to your feet, and a smart allowance of whip to refresh your memory."

During this long tirade of Signor Giacomo's, which, I must confess, was delivered with so much appearance of truth as almost to deceive myself, the woman had pounced upon the recovered silver like an eagle upon its quarry, and Giuseppe, turning to me, pretended to treat the whole affair as a tissue of laughable blunders on either side.

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with the mysteries of the trade. What should you know of ointments except in the case of a sick hound, or a horse that has got the glanders? Let me feel your pulse, signor."

"Not the least occasion," I said, anxious to get away from them, if that were possible; "I feel no inconvenience whatever from the-the-the late affair, and, were Momolo returned, should be glad to set off with as little delay as might be."

ever.

66 Set off again!" exclaimed Giuseppe ; "that were to shame our hospitality for No, no, my worthy guest, you'll spend a day or so in the old ruins, if it were only to convince yourself that we don't make a practice of cutting throats"

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Except in the way of business," interrupted Giacomo. "But I forgot, signor, it wont do to jest with you on such matters, seeing that you have a marvellous fancy for interpreting things after a fashion of your own. Let me, therefore, make it known to you, that our worthy host excepts the human genus from his practice; his scientific knife meddles with nothing of higher quality than the wild boar or the red deer, and upon these he is licensed to operate by virtue of his office."

"Yes, yes, doctor, I leave the human bipeds, whether dead or living, to your

care.

But come, signor, you must not refuse to be our guest for one day at least, or I shall fancy you bear an angry will to us on the score of our night's blunders, and I should not like to part on such terms either."

"Well advised, honest Beppo," said the doctor; "the whole faculty in conclave could not counsel more to the purpose. List to him, sir stranger; you have come abroad procul dubio-beyond doubt-to see sights, or it may be to compound a book, for you English are desperate tourists, always travelling well armed, not with Faith, signor," he said, "I am heartily spear in rest, but with pen in hand. If so,

this is locus locorum, the very spot for you, seeing that it has seldom been visited by any of your countrymen, and has all the materials out of which your quartos are concocted. Here we have, as you may see, abundance of mountains, forests, torrents, and ruins, and, I dare say, if you particularly wished it, we could accommodate you with the sight of a bandit in full uniform." How you do go on, Master Giacomo!" exclaimed the old woman; "there are no such vermin in these parts, I thank heaven and the saints for it."

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Then," said the doctor, "your excellent guest, whose fancy is of the quickest, shall fashion a robber for himself out of the shadow of a rock or the stump of some old tree; it will answer your purpose just as well, signor; and, moreover, Beppo is the very man to be your help in this matter. He knows every inch of the country for thirty miles round!"

"That I do," said Giuseppe," and most ready am I to be the signor's guide. Or if

it like him better-and to my mind it is the more rational way of spending one's timeI'll lend him as good a gun as ever brought down deer, and we'll have a day's sport upon the mountains. How say you, signor?"

But finely as the snare was woven, I was not to be so deceived-"fare ye well, gentlemen," quoted I, putting spurs to my horse.

"Adieu, Signor,” replied the whole gang with villanous shouts of laughter-the rascals!-I was safe-safe-a few hours' hard riding brought me to the town, which had been my original destination. Oh, how my supper relished after the events of the day. But the best of all the dishes that were set before me, was a letter borne upon a salver. It came from England—“Hurrah! I may return to my Penates,—my household Gods-Sir Phelim O'Connor is dead— shot in a duel-blessed be the ball that gave him his quietus."

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VICTOR HUGO AND THE FRENCH DRAMA.

In literary as in political life, obstinate perseverance will ensure success for splendid errors. This is the secret of the power which Victor Hugo has deservedly won, and which he is likely to retain during the present generation. He is the Napoleon of the literary world, trampling an all the forms of ancient legitimacy, but substituting himself for a system; he has founded a dynasty which will have no heir, as it had no ancestor; we cannot complete the parallel by quoting any glorious extravagance to serve as the literary despot's Russian campaign, nor can we venture to speculate on an author's St. Helena, but intellectual joins with political history in assigning determined limits to the sway of a selfish principle. The very sources of Victor Hugo's strength are also those of his weakness; he has based his edifice on ideality, and on it alone-not the ideality arising from the comparison and generalization of realities-but the ideality of isolation, the dreams of solitude, the visions of a hermit. Take a small room, close the shutters, make a small aperture, place in it a convex glass of irregular focus and imperfect purity; the images on the wall will VOL. X.-NO. IV.-APRIL, 1837.

be discoloured and distorted, but they will be uniformly so; they will give an erroneous representation of the great drama of life, but the representation will be consistent. Just such is Victor Hugo's delineation of humanity; he has closed the shutters on the real world of life and business, he views it through a clouded and distorted medium, he laughs history to scorn, and sets probability at defiance. No writer ever drew so largely and determinately on the stores of his own consciousness, or has more sternly refused to compare the images of his solitary fancy with living humanity.

Victor Hugo's style is as peculiar as his conceptions; his genius is essentially lyrical; he is prone to exaggerations, abrupt transitions, reflections generally startling and sometimes profound, singular forms of expression, and extraordinary metaphors and figures. His most humorous delineations have in them something Pindaric; no other writer would have said of Quasimodo, "He looked like a giant that had been broken in pieces and badly soldered together." He has written odes, novels, dramas, essays, dissertations, and criticisms, at least works that come nominally under

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these heads, but, with the exception of the odes, all his works should rather be called Hugoisms, for they have a common spirit and substance, a very slight difference in form, and they violate every rule that has hitherto been deemed stringent on the novelist, the essayist, and the dramatist. In fact, his tales are irregular odes, with the commentary worked into the text; his dramas are lyrical ballads of action, and his criticisms are Pindaric essays. In England Victor Hugo is chiefly known as a novelist; Hans of Iceland, Bug Jargal, and above all that extraordinary production Notre Dame de Paris, have been the chief sources from which our countrymen have drawn an estimate of his power; but in France he is far more remarkable as a dramatist, he has devised plans for restoring the theatre to its former supremacy, and every one who possesses a taste for dramatic literature is deeply engaged in speculating on his certain success or assured overthrow. Indeed, it is on his dramas that the author himself rests his claims to fame; he deems that it is his destiny to become the Martin Luther of the stage; he believes that the theatre ought to be, and may be, made the great school of civilisation, the chief instrument of moral advancement; but that it should be able to discharge such functions, he deems that it must be regenerated, and he unhesitatingly offers himself to work out the difficult task of its renovation.

Now before we examine how far Victor Hugo has succeeded, it is necessary to make some preliminary inquiry respecting the feasibility of his project. Can the theatre be restored to its former eminence in the scale of civilisation;—is it capable of such an application to the present state of society as would render it so efficient for the instruction of this generation as it was for the teaching of the grandfathers of our grandfathers? The hermit of the dark room, the observer through the imperfect convex glass, never dreams of mooting the question; though it is the most essential consideration in his enterprise. We have no hesitation in declaring that the revival of theatrical influence appears to us just as hopeless, and every whit as absurd, as Don Quixote's efforts to restore chivalry. The drama was at one time the sermon, the newspaper, the novel, and even the history; it concentrated in itself all the means by which intellectual power can work on mind; the priest preached in the mys

teries, the statesman roused popular feeling by dramatic representations of the national enemy; the strolling story-teller and balladsinger of a former age added acting and scenery to his tales and songs; and it was almost exclusively on the stage that ancestral records had "a local habitation and a name." Can such a state of things be restored? Will popular preachers descend from the pulpits and close their chapels? Will the Times dismiss its corps of editors and reporters, the Chronicle burn its presses, and the Herald melt down its types? Will Murray, Colburn, Bentley, and Saunders migrate in a body to Covent Garden and Drury Lane, give up the publishing trade, and devote themselves to the speculations of Bunn and Osbaldiston? Whether has Bulwer derived the greater share of fame or profit from Rienzi or the Duchess de la Vallière? These are questions assuredly of no difficult solution; the theatre was allpowerful when it stood alone; it is now surrounded with competitors, its monopoly is gone for ever, and, consequently, every effort to invest it with the influence which monopoly alone could confer must prove a hopeless failure.

But though the theatre can not be restored to its ancient pride of place, we must not be understood to assert that it may not or ought not to possess a certain influence, and that too of a commanding nature. Such a speculation has floated through the minds of many able men, but every effort to realize it has been frustrated. We stop not to inquire the cause of these repeated disasters in others, we confine ourselves to Victor Hugo's plans. Let us just see what is the ideal form of drama by which he proposes to restore the dynasty of the stage.

"Were there any man who could realize the drama such as we comprehend it, that drama would be the human head, the human heart, the human passions, the human will it would be the resurrection of the past for the benefit of the present: it would be the history of our fathers contrasted with our own deeds; it would be the mixture on the stage of all that we behold commingled in life; it would be here an insurrection and there a peaceful chat between lovers; the lovers' conversation containing instruction for the people, and the insurrection an appeal to the heart: it would be laughter: it would be tears: it would be the good, the evil, the high, the low, fatality, providence, genius, chance, society,

the world, nature, life; with an undefinable sublimity hovering and flitting over all."

This description is not of course to be taken as a strict logical definition, but though it is thus freed from the rules of a severe analysis, it is open to the objection of being vague and rather unintelligible. We gather from it, however, that the poet has not accurately settled in his mind the relations of truth and fiction, and as this is one of the most important elements in the inquiry, we shall say a few words on the subject.

For some half dozen centuries it has been the fashion with novelists and penny scribblers to call upon the world to hold up their hands in wonderment at some circumstance illustrating the hackneyed truism, “Truth is often much stranger than fiction." To be sure it is: it would be exceedingly strange if it were not; nay, in a certain very important sense fiction ought to be generally more true than truth itself. Fiction is based on statistics, it has a calculus of its own, and its estimate of probabilities often presents problems more difficult than the solution of Cardan's rule. It is not enough for the novelist or dramatist to seize on circumstances that have happened, he must also choose such as are likely to happen again; fiction deals not in the exceptions but the generalities of life, it is more or less the estimate of the mean proportional of humanity according to the most approved tables of Quetelet and Babbage. Take Hamlet for instance, every word he speaks finds an echo in your bosom as he does in ours, but Hamlet is neither you, gentle reader, nor is he any one of us; he is at once all and none, Hamlet is not a man but MAN.

The imperfection of language misleads most people in this investigation: we are sadly in want of an intellectual alphabet; 66 every moral truth is a falsehood" sounds very oddly to the ear, yet it is only saying in other words "there is no general rule without an exception," the adherence of a dramatist or novelist to truths purely individual would change the exception into the rule and the rule into the exception. There was once a Methodist preacher haranguing in our presence on the immorality of the stage, "Does it not," said he, "begin and end in lies; a man comes in and says to another, not at all related to him,

"I am thy father's spirit, Doom'd for a certain time to walk the night,' &c.

Could the devil, who is the father of lies produce a more monstrous falsehood?" Every body with a grain of common sense in their heads of course sees and laughs at the stupid absurdity of the ranter; but many of the laughers fall into the self-same error when they speak of fiction as opposed to truth, when it is in fact an inference from truth.

The question then is not as Victor Hugo elsewhere puts it, "Should limits be assigned to invention?" because in strict accuracy, inference, not invention, is the foundation of fiction. The real question is, "Are the fictions true-do they give accurately the form and pressure of the time that they profess to portray?"

Tried by this test, Victor Hugo is found sadly wanting. It is not in history, it is not in human nature that we are to seek for the originals of his dramas, it is in the depths of the author's own mind. He does not profess to develop and reproduce any authentic event; he takes his models from his consciousness, he appeals neither to annals nor to chronicles, but to the most abstracted species of truth, and the most mysterious laws of human nature. In fine, he professes to have gone to the very highest point in mental analysis, to have abstracted not merely the limits of time and place, but of age, country, and condition. To examine productions so constituted we must, if possible, trace out the process of their development; let us for a time direct our attention to one of the author's most celebrated plays, “Le Roi s'amuse."

A very brief consideration of this drama reduces the number of actors to three; a king, a young girl, a father. The entire plot is concerned with these personages alone, the others are introduced only to aid the development. The king is introduced to us in the first act, a passionless libertine, a capricious despot, a debauchee whose heart has never been touched, and whose senses are ever excited, consequently, a wretch who scruples not to use every means to gratify unbridled passion.

The second act introduces us to a father who has no consolation, no earthly happiness but the beauty and chastity of a beloved daughter, whose pure bosom is a heaven on which his soul, tossed by the tempests and storms of the world, anchors assured of safety.

In the third act the father has lost his

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