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LETTER I. INTRODUCTION TO A SERIES OF ARTICLES ON THE GREAT WRITERS OF GREECE AND ROME, ETC. DEAR FRIENDS, It is related of an Italian lady, a poetess, who was addressed by a crowd of lovers, that her disposition was so good and charming, and inclined them all so much to resemble her, that they met one another in perfect harmony, and only contended who should please her best. The case is extraordinary, and will be thought not very possible. But there is one mistress who, in proportion as we love her heartily, is so truly a mistress for our soul, and tends to exempt us so much from those infirmities of envy and jealousy which beset the more animal passions, that all who profess themselves her admirers, may unquestionably be very good friends, and love one another the better, the more they love herself. This Mistress is Knowledge; and this is the reason why we of the London Journal venture to claim you all as friends; and to share with you such helps as we possess, towards the enjoyment of her society.

For "to like the same things, and dislike the same things, that (says a Roman historian) is the friendship after all."

"Namque, idem velle, atque idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est."-Sallust.

We give you a bit of Latin, that you may see the two languages together, and perhaps chuse to compare the words, and see where you can pick out a meaning. We have heard an intelligent woman say, that when she met with a passage in a book on a scientific or other subject which she could not thoroughly comprehend, she nevertheless made a point of reading it, because it piqued her understanding-made it curious to know more; and she sometimes found that she got a bit of knowledge by the way. In the days of our boyhood, and before we knew the Greek alphabet, we remember how thankful we used to be to Smollett and Fielding, in their novels, for writing their Greek quotations in Eng lish letters, and how we used to sound the words, and fancy them something fine. They gave us a regard for the language before we knew any thing about it; like a youth who hears a girl with a sweet voice speak, before he has seen her; and is pleased with her tone and manner, though he does not even know what she says. We have begun talking with you on other points, before we have stated the main object of our letter; but they are not unconnected with it; and we give you notice, that we shall probably take many of the like liberties of companionship, and endeavour in all respects to be as much at our ease as possible, in order to persuade ourselves that we are as much at home with you as this sort of private publicity will let us be, and that you regard the writer of these letters in the only light in which his addressing himself to you in this way could be bearable; namely, as one who is heartily in earnest for the good and sociality of the world, and who would fain take any steps not calculated to baulk themselves, to promote them. To this end, it has struck him, that by flinging himself without reserve into the field, and setting an open example of the bringing into public intercourse the same candour and simplicity that are practised between friends in private, he does something towards breaking down the barriers of many stiff and mistrustful conventionalities which serve to keep men asunder, and therefore assists, however remotely, in hastening the coming of that time, when all men shall say candidly and in friendliness, what they think, and [SPARROW AND CO. CRANE COURT.]

No. 3.

nobody shall be thought the better or worse of for speak-
ing in public, any more than he is now for talking in a
room, or telling his friends of something which he thinks
will please them. The example has been long set in
political and other such public matters. It is desirable
that public matters should no longer be supposed ex-
clusively to mean politics, or even parish matters (im-
portant as they are). They should comprise knowledge
of all sorts, entertainment, the interchange of every
kind of advantage; and knowledge is fast making them
do so.
We look upon ourselves but as a bringer of some
new means of enjoyment to that large party of friends,
the fellow-creatures who do not happen to have quite as
much of them as ourselves; just as a man might bring
to his native village some curious presents, or new games,
from abroad and fervent is our sincerity when we add,
that as hundreds of the scholars now living could go far
deeper into the learning of the subjects we are about to
handle than we shall go, so there are, of course, as
many readers among the average number of those to
whom we address ourselves, who, if they had enjoyed
the same advantages as the others, would have been our
masters in that respect as well as they; perhaps, like
many of those others, could have done them more jus-
tice on every point. We believe, however, that we
know enough to make our remarks welcome and useful ;
and if love can supply the want of knowledge in this
instance, as it does sometimes in others, assuredly
there will be no lack of that.


We propose, then, in these letters, from time to time, and with due intervals of other matter, to furnish those who have not had a classical education, and who have heart and sense enough to regret the want, with such help towards the appreciation and enjoyment of the great names of Greek, Roman, and other literature, as translations in general do not supply, and some know ledge, united with the aforesaid love, in some degree may. We shall begin with the most ancient or those who are nearest at hand, as the case may happen; and we shall help our helps with all the aids we can get from other men's criticism, and from translations that are really worth anything. To points of mere learning, and such as men who have learning and nothing else devote themselves, we shall, of course, pay no attention; not because they are without their value, but because, fortunately, they are not necessary to our purpose, which is to give the relish of the fruit, rather than the botany of it. We only wish we could give this better, like that of fruits eaten on the spot where they grow, or transplanted into the exquisite hot-houses that exist in the cells of some brains that we know of. And yet, how few readers are there even among the scholarly, who can pretend to thorough perceptions of that kind? and what multitudes are there that know no more of

them than the basket knows of its strawberries? We will venture to say, that even with no better helps than it is in our power to afford, and because we judge of the ancient poets as of the modern, and treat them as men and as geniuses, and creatures of perennial flesh and blood, and of wonderful imaginations, and not as things made up of nothing but schoolmasters, and collegecaps, and a "" gentlemanly reputation," our reader shall know more of them, before we have done, than half the educated men in England. And we look for the special encouragement, to this end, of real scholars, and shall be grateful for any helps with which they may be moved

to enrich us.

There are two supposed (for they are not real) extremes of pretension, upon the strange question whether a knowledge of the learned languages, is or is not of use, against which it behoves an uneducated man of sense


and modesty to be on his guard. One is the pretension of those who say that a man can have no idea of the ancient writers, without a deep intimacy with their language: the other, of those who affirm, with equal vehemence, that there is no necessity to know the language at all, and that translations do quite as well as the originals for giving you all that you need be ac. quainted with of the author's genius.

The former of these pretenders is generally a shallower man than the other, though sometimes it is pure vanity and self-will that makes him talk as he does; he has an over-estimation of his advantages, simply because they are his. He is as proud of his learning as another pompous man might be of his park and his mansion. Such is the case, when he really has anything like an intimacy with his authors; but in both instances he would fain make out his possession to be unapproachable, by all who have not had the same golden key. The common run of the class consists of men who really know nothing of their authors but the words, and who unconsciously feel that, on that account, they must make the best of their knowledge, and pretend it is a wonderful matter. Such a man smiles when you speak of getting some insight into the character of Homer's genius, or Virgil's, by dint of some happy bit of version, or some masterly criticism. He says, triumphantly, that "even Pope" is acknowledged not to give a right idea of him, much less Chapman, and those other "old quaint writers :" for "old," observe, is a term of contempt with him; though "ancient," he thinks, comprises every thing that is respectable. But "old" means a man who lived only a few hundred years back, and who did not write either in Latin or Greek; whereas "ancient" means a man who lived upwards of a thousand, and wrote perhaps a dull book in one of those languages, which has contrived to come down to us, owing to some curious things it contains relative to customs and manners, or to the influence of a succession of these sort of critics, and the long fashion they have kept up by dint of the connexion that has hitherto subsisted between the power of receiving a classical education and the advantages of wealth and rank. When all the world come to share in that education, some singular questions will take place, both as to the genius of the ancient writers, and the moral benefits derivable from portions of them. If our friend, of the above class, is a man of consequence, he looks upon his learning as forming an additional barrier between him and the uneducated. He quotes Greek in parliament, and takes it for an argument. Or he forgets both his Greek and Latin, but thinks he could recover it when he pleases, and that is the same thing. If he is a professed scholar, he is ignorant of every thing in the world but scholarship, and therefore ignorant of that too. He is a pompous school-master, or a captious verbal critic, or in his most respectable capacity, a harmless and dreaming pedant,-a Dominie Sampson. If England had existed before Greece, he would have been an idolater of Shakspeare and Milton, at the expense of Homer and Euripides; or he would have known just as much of the former as he does of the latter! that is to say, nothing. In short, you may

describe him as a man who knows that there is another man living on the upper side of his town, of the name of Ancient; and a very wonderful gentleman he takes Ancient to be, because he is rich, and has a large library, and has given him access to it; but what sort of a man Ancient really is, what is the solidity of his understanding, the subtlety of his imagination, or the contents of the books in his library, except that they are printed in certain kinds of type, of all that, our learned

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of nature's wealth to herself,-the blossoming of the fruit trees, the leafing of the trees in general, the return of the singing birds, and the re-appearance of the butterflies. She is the elder and slenderer sister of May, dressed in more virgin apparel, and her fingers are dabbled with wet; but her colder cheek has still a bloom on it, and she prepares the country for her buxom sister with a world of good will.

Of the three principal leaders of the spring and summer birds, the swallow, the nightingale, and the cuckoo, we spoke in our first number. The trees (if our own leaves last long enough, and thicken into bowers for the reader,- -as we have reason to hope they will,) we shall keep till June or July, when their shade will be desirable; and brown and thick shall be a whole wood of them, by the help of their human birds, the poets. The present week, by the help of a book, of which it is difficult to take leave, even for a time, we devote to the song of birds in general, and shall proceed to lay before our readers the following interesting speculations on nature's intention in it, from the pages of the writer to whom we are already so much obliged. "The purpose (says Mr. Mudie) which the song of birds answers in the economy of nature, is one of those mysteries, which, like the differences of tint in their plumage, human ingenuity has not yet been able to explain. It is not, however, a mere pairing cry, because it is continued till the birds break the shell, and, in some instances, till they are able to fly. We may be sure, however, that it has its use; and, as we can observe that the females of all birds which have that cry, whether it be what we call song or not, are excited when it is uttered by the male, it may be that it produces in the female that beat which is necessary for hatching the eggs. In ourselves there are many sounds which make the heart beat, the blood dance, and the whole body glow, we know not why; and thus we have at least no ground for denying without proof, that the other animals may be affected in a similar manner. Perhaps the more philosophical way of considering it is to suppose that it produces general excitement, and a power of more energetic performance in all the labour which the birds can undertake.

friend knows nothing, and therefore he concludes, that nobody else can know.

Of the other extreme of pretenders, who dogmatize on this subject, that is to say, who pronounce peremptory judgments of Yes and No, and Possible and Impossible, without a due knowledge of the subject,-the best and most intelligent portion sometimes contains persons who know so much on other points, that they ought to know better on this but out of a resentment of the very want of the other's advantages, affect to despise them. For herein the exalters of a classical education, as the only thing needful, and the decriers of it as a thing altogether unnecessary, set out from precisely the same ground of self-sufficiency. The former unduly trumpet up the education, merely because they have had it, (or think they have), and the latter as rudely decry it, merely because they have not. These latter argue, that you may know all that is useful in ancient books, by means of translations; and that the poetry "and all that" may be got equally out of them, or is of no consequence. Their own poetry, meanwhile, such as it is, that is to say, their caprices, their imaginary advantages, and the colouring which their humour and passions give to every thing near them, is in full blossom.

To cut short this question, which we feel more loth to touch upon in the latter instance than in the former, (because more sympathy is due to the resentment of a want than to the arrogance of a possession), we may, perhaps, illustrate the point at once to the readers' satisfaction, by the help of no greater a passage than a jest out of "Joe Miller."


It is related of Archbishop Herring, that when he was at college, he fell one day into a gutter, and that a wag exclaimed as he got up, Ah, Herring, you're in a pretty pickle!" Upon which a dull fellow went away, and said, "So and so has been bantering poor Herring. Herring fell into the gutter, and so, says Dick, says he, Ah, Herring, my boy, you're in a pretty situation."

Now the pedant, who is all for the original language, and is of opinion that no version of their writers or account of them can give you the least idea of their spirit, is bound to maintain, on the same principle, that it would be impossible to convey the smallest real taste of this joke out of English into Latin or Greek; while every real scholar knows that the thing is very possible. On the other side the bigotted no-scholar is bound to insist, that the stupid version of the joke is quite as good as the original, or at any rate supplies us with all that is really wanted of it,-that the word situation is as good as the word pickle, and that, therefore, no utility is lost sight of-no real information. It is true, the whole joke is lost, the whole spirit of the thing, but that is no matter. As to confining the notion of utility to matters of information, useful in the ordinary sense of the word, however important; we will not waste our room, at this time of day, after all which has been said and understood to the contrary, with shewing you what you know already. The more we really know of any thing, languages included, the more, as it has been finely said, do we" discipline" our "humanity;" that is, teach our common nature to know what others have thought, felt, and known, before us, and so enable our modesty and information to keep pace with each other.

It will not be supposed by the reflecting reader that we mean to compare the sufficiency of a translation in the above instance with its being all that might be wanted in others, or that the spirit and peculiar fragrance (so to speak,) of such poetry as Shakspeare's, could be trans ferred through a Greek medium without losing any thing by the way; unless a Shakspeare himself were the operator, or even then. Undoubtedly the peculiarity of the medium itself, the vessel, will make a difference. All that we mean to say is, that some real taste of the essence of ancient genius, far better than what is afforded by the specimens generally on sale, can be given by means of great care and lovingness; and that those who are so insanely learned as to take the vessel itself for the whole merit of the contents, have no taste of it at all.


AFRIL is full of the beauteous evidences of Spring. March has enough of them to make us grateful, but April, with her profusion of white and green, of her songs, and her bright little wings, confirms the promise. She may be said to have four charming manifestations

"The connection between the song and the plumage, and the silence and the moult, is also a curious matter, and shows that the whole bird is subject to some general law, which, though it lies deep beyond the power of our divination, governs ever the minutest circumstance, -the production of a new spot or gloss on a feather, of courage into birds naturally timid. the reddening of a comb or a wattle, or the inspiration The birds, in fact, blossom in the spring as well as the plants; and when the purpose of nature is accomplished, the bloom of one is shed as well as that of the other. But if the purpose of nature in continuing the race, is not accomplished, the bloom lingers. If the east wind shrivel the anthers of the peach blossoms, the petals do not come down perfect in that powdery shower which is the sign of a plentiful crop; they cleave to the tree, and languish slowly there. "Wo be to the wind of the black northeast," says the cultivator; "it sheds no blooms;" and so also may the lover of birds lament, if the songs of his favourites are continued through the summer. If the bird continues its song, it at the same time continues its plumage; and the moult, when it does, takes place, partly because it is at a later and colder season, and partly from that part of physiology which has not yet peculiarity of the male, and more resembles that of the become a science; the new plumage has less of the female and the young, than if the bird had been mute and had moulted, in due course.

"That song of sorrow (though to the bird it is rather a song of hope delayed) has not the spirit of the natural song. It is true, that by Midsummer, nature is muffled by drooping leaves, and fallen blooms, and downy anthers; and it waxes fat and rank, so that though it may murmur, it will not "ring clear," (like a moistened flute,) as it does in the season of vernal song, when all is fresh and full of sap; but we also can perceive a falling off in the note itself; and we have a corroboration in caged birds, which never give their song with the full glee and power of that of the woodlands. Even in the most admired song that is warbled from the prison-house of wire, an ear tuned and habituated to the free strains of nature, can recognize a blending of the cry of irritation and distress. Nor can it be otherwise. The bird is the child of nature as much as man is, and it loves liberty as well-better, for it will not voluntarily exchange that to be a pampered slave in a palace. It puts one in mind of that exquisitely mournful delineation of the children of Israel, in painful servitude and restraint, even on the palmy shores of the wide-rolling Euphrates; and one cannot contemplate the imprisoned bird, without thinking on the mossy tree, the little nest, and the chirping brood, and feeling the force of the unanswerable interrogatory-" Ah! how can we sing the song of our God in the place of our captivity?"- Feathered Tribes of the British Islands. Vol. 1. p. 244.

In another part of his book, where he speaks of the nightingale (respecting whose song we venture to think him on the unorthodox side), Mr. Mudie says, that men

sing in many moods, "but birds sing only when they are merry." Is there not some inconsistency between this assertion and the remarks above quoted? Does he not show us, that birds, as well as human beings, may be moved in their song by melancholy as well as mirthful excitement-not without pleasure, it is true-but still a mournful one, or something allied to it? They sing, he tells us (in this and other passages of his work) from "hope delayed," from want of their mates, and other uneasy circumstances; and he adds an affecting piece of information-worthy the regard of the thoughtful-that an experienced ear can discern a mingling of distress and irritation in the tones of their imprisoned song. Now, in what we cannot help in all this, there is no such pain and melancholy as we need contemplate with any misgivings of nature's good will; for birds generally realize their hopes and their mates, and we heartily agree with the opinion implied by the poet respecting the grounds and intentions of all her works, that

"In nature there is nothing melancholy." What is unalterable, we may conclude to be best for the general energy of health and pleasure which it includes; what is otherwise, man (and, for aught we know, other creatures too), but man evidently, is incited to alter. Let us never lose sight of that manifest and important fact. But as lovers and bereaved persons sing to their guitars and piano-fortes, not always a song of mirth, so nightingales and other birds may surely warble in the like shadow of a sweet thought, and feel the shade of it as well as the sweetness.

We proceed to give two more extracts from Mr. Mudie's attractive work-the first on the subject of the birds more particularly called the Warblers, or those who return to us from warmer climates with songs unknown to our homesteads; the other, on that joyous herald of the spring, the lark.


"Though all the little birds are interesting, as associated with nature, with innocence, and with beauty, there is a peculiar interest about the warblers. The birds, which remain constantly with us and come around our dwellings in the inclement season, give that season sprightliness by their appearance, and hail with their songs any warm day that breaks out. But the constancy of their appearance takes off some of the interest which, if they were as novel as they are beautiful, they would more certainly command; and as their songs, breaking out as they do in the intervals of the storms, are no certain signs that the life of the year has begun, we do not listen to them with the same attention and satisfaction as to the migrant warblers. The song, or the other demonstrations of spring, given by the resident bird, tells us merely of the state of the season in our own country, of which we have other means of judging; but the summer, or rather the spring migrant brings us tidings from afar-intimates that the plains of Africa are burned up with drought, or that the season of growth is advancing in the south of Europe, and will speedily reach us. They are visitants from afar, but they are not strangers; they are our own native birds that retired during winter, leaving the groves, the fields, and the river banks to other races, driven from our own wilds, or from more inclement regions further to the north, so that in the season of penury there might be plenty for those whose structure and powers did not adapt them for flights so far to the southward; and now, when the time of plenty is again coming round, and vegetation is approaching that state in which there is danger to it from those creatures on which birds feed, they return to resume those labours which are alike useful, and those songs which are alike cheering, to themselves and to us.

"They come also to be our near associates, when those that we had with us in the winter are beginning to seek their way to the woods and the wilds. All the warblers love shade and shelter; but, with few exceptions, they seek these among the cultivated lands, or close on their margins. Some are in the grove, others in the coppice; some by the ridgy stream, or the reedy pool, and others in the brake; but they are not found on the wide waste, or in the upland forest; and, generally speaking, a man always partakes in the benefit of their labours, and may bear the melody of their notes. The spaces of which they extend vary, and so do the characters of those places which they most frequent; but it is a general rule, that where the air is most pure, and the soil most fertile, and in the highest state of cultivation, there the warblers are found, in the greatest variety of species, and the greatest number of individuals. Even their voices partake of the characters of their localities. The nightingale sings more sweetly over the gravel in Surrey, than over the clay in


"There are considerable differences of appearance in the warblers, answering to the haunts in which they are found; but there seems a general likeness through all the genera. They are delicate in their outlines, without any of the full or abrupt curves that are found in many other genera. Their plumage is delicate, and, though there be some exceptions, their colours are sub

one, nor in the finest taste; but it appears to us, that with allowance for the conceit, and keeping in mind the liquid sharpness of the French pronunciation, especially in the last line, the "echo to the sense" is really not unhappily sounded. Here are the lines. Translation is out of the question


dued, and without any very strong markings or contrasts. The feathers on the shoulders and the wing coverts are short, so that the wings are light. Their whole expression is soft, but not dull; and their manners, though gentle, are rather sprightly. They have not, indeed, any organs which can be regarded as offensive weapons; their bills are tender, suited only for the capture of insects and their larvæ, or for bruising berries, or other small pulpy fruits. They are not all song birds, but they comprise the finest of our songsters, and their notes run more on the minor keys than those of any other birds."-Vol. I. p. 313.

The warblers, besides the nightingale, include the

sedge and reed songsters, the red-start, the white-throat, the petty-chaps, titmouse, black-cap, &c. The thrush, with its beautiful mellow wildness, sings to us nine months out of the twelve. Now for the sky-lark, respecting whose movements, during its song, Mr. Mudie enters into some curious particulars.

"Larks, from their vast numbers, flock much and fly far in the winter, and flock more to the uplands in the middle of England, where much rain usually falls in the summer, than to the drier and warmer places near the shores; but so true are they to their time, that, be it in the south, the centre, or the north, the lark is always ready on the first gleamy day of the year to mount to its watch tower in the upper sky, and proclaim the coming of the vernal season. It is in fact more joyant then in the sun, more inspirable by the life which the solar influence diffuses through the atmosphere, than almost any other creature: not a spring air can sport, not a breeze of morn can play, not an exhalation of freshness from opening bud or softening clod can ascend, without note of it being taken and proclaimed by this all-sentient index to the progress of nature.

"And the form and manner of the indication are as delightful as the principle is true. The lark rises, not like most birds, which climb the air upon one slope, by a succession of leaps, as if a heavy body were raised by a succession of efforts, or steps, with pauses between ; it twines upward like a vapour, borne lightly on the atmosphere, and yielding to the motions of that as other vapours do. Its course is a spiral gradually enlarging; and, seen on the side, it is as if it were keeping the boundary of a pillar of ascending smoke, always on the surface of that logarithmic column, (or funnel rather,) which is the only figure that, on a narrow base, and spreading as it ascends, satisfies the eyes with its stability and self-balancing in the thin and invisible fluid. Nor can it seem otherwise, for it is true to nature. In the case of smoke or vapour, it diffuses itself in the exact proportion as the density, or power of support in the air diminishes: and the lark widens the volutions of its spiral in the same proportion; of course it does so only when perfectly free from disturbance or alarm, because either of these is a new element in the cause, and as such must modify the effect. When equally undisturbed, the descent is by a reversal of the same spiral; and when that is the case, the song is continued during the whole time that the bird is in the air.

"The accordance of the song with the mode of the ascent and descent, is also worthy of notice. When the volutions of the spiral are narrow, and the bird changing its attitude rapidly in proportion to the whole quantity of flight, the song is partially suppressed, and it swells as the spiral widens, and sinks as it contracts; so that though the notes may be the same, it is only when the lark sings poised at the same height, that it sings in a uniform key. It gives a swelling song as it ascends, and a sinking one as it comes down; and if even it take but one wheel in the air, as that wheel always includes either an ascent or a descent, it varies the pitch of the song.

"The song of the lark, besides being a most accessible and delightful subject for common observation, is a very curious one for the physiologist. Every one in the least conversant with the structure of birds, must be aware that, with them, the organs of intonation and modulation are inward, deriving little assistance from the tongue, and none, or next to none, from the mandibles of the bill. The windpipe is the musical organ, and it is often very curiously formed. Birds require that organ less for breathing than other animals having a windpipe and lungs, because of the air cells and breathing tubes with which all parts of their bodies (even the bones,) are furnished. But those diffused breathing organs must act with least freedom when the bird is making the greatest efforts in motion; that is, when ascending or descending: and in proportion as these cease to act, the trachea is the more required for the purposes of breathing. The sky lark thus converts the atmosphere into a musical instrument of many stops, and so produces an exceedingly wild and varied song-a song which is, perhaps, not equal either in power or compass, in the single stave, to that of many of the warblers, but one which is more varied in the whole succession. All birds that sing ascending or descending, have similar power; but the skylark has it in a degree superior to any other."-Vol. II. p. 6.

Mr. D'Israeli, in the second volume of his Curiosities of Literature, lately republished, (p. 69,) has a quotation about the lark, from the fantastic, but not unpoetical pages of the old French poet, Du Bartas, in which he thinks the imitation of the bird's song not a happy one. of attempting to do justice to the song is not a happy

The mode

La gentil alouette, avec son tirelire,
Tirelire, a lire, et tireliran tire,

Vers la vonte du ciel, pius son vol vers ce lieu
Vire et desire dire, adieu Dieu, adieu Dieu.

"The lark that tirra-lirra chaunts," says Shakspeare. For an ode to the sky-lark, full of the bird's own extatic

spirit, see the poems of Mr. Shelley. Spenser has a charming image of Cupid bathing and dressing his wings, under the eyes of a weeping beauty :


The blinded archer-boy
Like lurk in show'r of rain,
Sate bathing of his wings;
And glad the time did spend
Under those crystal drops,
Which fell from her fair eyes,
And at their brightest beams
Him proyned in lovely wise.

OUR present week is rich in birth-days.

April 16, 1588. At Malmsbury, in Wiltshire, whence he is called the Philosopher of Malmsbury, Thomas Hobbes, who originated much of the philosophy that was afterwards broached with more popularity by Locke and others, the supposed opinions of their master on questions of religion and government having kept his name in the back-ground. Though fearless in intellect Hobbes was personally, a timid man, and very anxious to keep clear of church and state troubles. He was one of the ornaments of the tribe of smokers, being fond of soothing his meditations with a pipe. His attempts at poetry form an extraordinary and ludicrous contrast with his prose works. Dryden good-naturedly says that he took to poetry when he was too old; but the truth is, He his philosophy was too material to make a poet of. wanted the fine elements of imagination and sentiment. his translation of Homer, one of the most ridiculous The following (from memory,) is a specimen or two of mistakes ever committed by a great man. Speaking of the sound of Apollo's arrows in his quiver, as the god moved along in his wrath, (which is a passage prodigiously noble and characteristic in the Greek,) he says—

His arrows chink as often as he jogs!

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Paradise Lost.

April 18, 1483, at Urbino, in Italy, Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio) the prince of painters; so called, because he possessed the greatest of requisites for the art of painting in their highest characters, particularly that of expression, or the power of exhibiting the thoughts and emotions of men in the face and figures. And he could do this alike in gentle subjects and in grand. Raphael was as prosperous in fortune as in art, and appears to have been beloved by every body; but died young-at the age of thirty-seven; yet he produced' an astonishing heap of works. But this it is to have a pursuit which we perfectly love. "And the more a man does," says Mr. Hazlitt, "the more he can do," which is a saying that looks like a contradiction, but, on a little inspection, will be found to contain a very evident and encouraging truth. Habit produces readiness. An excellent idea of one of Raphael's finest productions, the death of Ananias, has been given in one of the energetic wood-cuts of the Penny Magazine.

April 21, 1583, at Delft, in Holland, Hugo Grotius, a statesman, theologian, and law writer, all (considering the time he lived in) on the side of liberality and a Christian benevolence. During the struggles in his country with a less generous system, he got into prison, and his wife delivered him by an ingenious stratagem, putting him into a chest which used to go to and fro

between him and his friends with books in it. Grotius had a fine taste in poetry, and was of social and pleasant manners. A French writer, who often supped with him, says that he never called his servants by


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But true and earnest, all too happily
That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy;
For noble now he smote the exulting strings,
And bade them march before his stately will;
And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid
Endearment on them, and took pity sweet;
And now he was all mirth, or all for sense
And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose
After his poetry; or else he laid

His own soul prostrate at the feet of love,
And with a full and trembling fervour deep,
In kneeling and close-creeping urgency,
Implor'd some mistress with hot tears; which past,
And after patience had brought right of peace,
He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope,
Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains
And elegant composure; or he turn'd
To heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'r
So earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad,
Mighty with want and all poor human tears,
That never saint, wrestling with earthly love,
And in mid-age unable to get free,
Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold
In his despair, (for such, from what he spoke
Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem)
Jump would he into some strange wail uncouth
Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin
And palsied nods-mirth wicked, sad, and weak.
And then with show of skill mechanical,
Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow
That vision with a show'r of notes like hail,
Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things
Never yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now,
In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine
Into some almost tip of minute sound,
From which he stepp'd into a higher and higher
On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him :
Or he would fly as if from all the world

To be alone, and happy, and you should hear His instrument become a tree far off,

A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,
A cottage-bow'r or he would condescend,
In playful wisdom which knows no contempt,
To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight,
A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb,
The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens
In household fidget muttering evermore,
And rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer,
Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow.
Then from one chord of his amazing shell.
Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight
Of the built organ; or some two-fold strain
Moving before him in sweet-going yoke,
Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state
Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar;
And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw
Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt
Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes
From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps
Of pebbled water, sprinkling in the sun,
One chord effecting all-and when the ear
Felt there was nothing present but himself
And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs,
Then would his bow lie down again in tears,
And speak to some one in a pray'r of love,
Endless, and never from his heart to go:
Or he would talk as of some secret bliss;
And at the close of all the wonderment
(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would come
Into the inmost ear, and whisper there
Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life,
Touch'd beyond sense, and only to be borne
By pauses which made each less bearable,
That out of pure necessity for relief

From that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,
The thunder of th' uprolling house came down,
And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.

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have required any such stimulus to his good-nature); to a notice so deeply kind, that it becomes us to be silent before it, in the classical pages of the Examiner; to a very particular one, calculated to be extremely useful, in the Spectator; to another, of singular gallantry and handsomeness on the part of the Age, which we are quick to acknowledge; to the Northampton Herald for a paragraph in which we recognize the friendly and graceful mind of a writer in another journal; to the Bucks Gazette for sending us its brotherly furtherance of the paragraph; to other papers, which we have heard of, but cannot with certainty specify; and last, not least, to our modest but valued friend the Ladies' Penny Gazette, whose verses on the occasion, for the sake of the genuine things they contain, we would extract into our Journal, if we had not retained some little modesty of our own,-to these, and all friends, we return our best thanks; and we return them, not only for our own sakes, however flattered and animated, but for the sake of that humanity at large which such evidences of good will tend to promote, and which, we hope and believe, will every day more and more be drawing the world together, to compare notes for its advancement. We have nothing to do with politics in this journal, in a certain sense, directly or indirectly; but the fact is, that Politics, in their noblest and most universal sense, have to do, remotely or otherwise, with every fresh movement in society, small as well as great; and it is in the name of a large principle, and not of our own little pretensions, we speak, when we say, that even from so small a seed as we have attracted this sunshine of good-will to, some others may arise, which may be transplanted, from time to time, and from spot to spot, till they unite with the harvests of greater cultivators, and of awful toil, to clothe the world in glad


Conclusion of last week's Extract from Mr. Bentham's unpublished Work.

Praise and Censure.-In the conveying approbation to another for meritorious conduct, let the expressions be warm and cordial. Let the recompense be as much as the circumstances of the case justify. Sincerity and candour, indeed, are modifications of veracity; or rather veracity is a modification of sincerity; but veracity has its shapes more or less attractive; and when it has the matter of pleasure at its disposal, let its distribution be made as welcome as possible to the receiver. That a favour denied may be made, by the grace of its denial, almost as pleasurable as a benefit conferred, has almost passed into a proverb; and that the language of approval may lose all, or almost all its acceptableness by its forms of expression, or manner of utterance, is within the observation of every man's experience. Let your praise then, when given, be given with all the accompaniments which make praise most delightful. The exercise which conveys approbation is in itself most salutary. Let it be the expression of truth combined with warm-heartedness; one sentence so characterized, will be worth many in which such qualities are wanting.

And where extra-regarding prudence requires that disapprobation should be conveyed to another, let only so much of pain be created as is necessary for the accomplishing the object you have in view. If you create too little pain, indeed, that which you do create is wasted; because the purpose for which it was created fails. But the common error is on the other side. Vindictiveness frequently mingles with the rewards of justice. The disposition of power to display itself, usually leads to the infliction of more suffering than prudence or benevolence warrant. And in ordinary cases, disapprobation is conveyed in that moment when passion has enfeebled the power of judging how much of pain is demanded. As a general rule, avoid the expression of disapprobation when you are angry. The violent expressions to which irritation gives birth, are those which will be least adapted to the end; for the blindness of anger prevents it from seeing and seizing the fit object for the accomplishment of its end.

Love of having the "last word."-Some men have a failing which is a source of great annoyance to others, and for which they pay the penalty by making the conversation less agreeable, and even at times making their conversation intolerable; it is the habit of stickling for the final word. Right or wrong in the controversy, subdued or victorious, there are persons who insist on exercising the petty and vexatious despotism of uttering the last sentence that is uttered. This disposition is the out-break of pride in a very offensive shape; it is the usurpation of dominion over the self-love of other men, on a ground where men are ordinarily most sensitive. It is, in fact, a determination to humiliate him with whom you have been holding intercourse-to humiliate him, not by the success of an irresistible argument, but by the intrusion of a tyrannic power. Avoid then the act, lest the act should create the habit; and if the habit exist, extra-regarding prudence requires that it should be got rid of. Watch yourself, and inquire of any friend on whose sincerity you can relyinquire, if you are quite sure that you will not be hurt by his reply, whether the infirmity is exhibited by, or has been observed in you; and if it be, correct the infirmity. Discovery of the valuable part of the minds of others.-Acts of benevolence cannot be better exercised on occasions where we are forced, as it were, into the company of others, than by the choice of pleasurable topics of conversation. A little attention will discover those topics. To detect what are the peculiar riches of another man's mind, or experience, or knowledge, is among the happiest of resources, Its exercise is alike complimentary to the other party. and instructive to ourselves.

By" extra-regarding" prudence, the author means prudence as regards others, and its re-action on ourselves.


Not only do we continue to receive from our correspondents the most animating expressions of kindness, but the press, of all parties, has honoured and delighted us with a singular unanimity of encouragement. We are aware how much of this honour is done us for our good intentions; and how natural it is for men of spirit and talent, to let their praises run over in full measure when they are pleased; but we are the more delighted with their approbation for those very reasons, because it shews what a fund of good will there is towards a good intention, in the bosoms of all men, especially the ablest; and how ready they are to confirm by their own actions (the most valuable of all proof), any genuine evidences of belief in the possibility of a more harmonious world.

To the Times for setting the powerful example of its good will; to the Morning Chronicle, which (we understaud) followed it, (though our old brother book-worm, and able, and estimable friend, the Editor, would not


In our last week's article, under the present head, subjects. It is not our object to do this, though we may we entered too much into critical details on particular be occasionally tempted to it (as we were then) by a particular book or picture. The main objects of our Journal are explained by the general appearance of it, and by its resemblance in certain points to Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. In the articles under the head of London, which are an addition to the plan of that paper, we do not profess to give reviews, or to notice everything; but simply to catch the spirit of what is passing, sometimes as persons present, sometimes as mere recorders of the leading opinions of the town; though always with an attention and responsibility of We write them chiefly for our friends in the country, and would have them be regarded as the letters of a London correspondent, who makes the subjects of them a portion of his ordinary communications by the post, having friends who like to know a little of what is going forward, ou points interesting to the advancement of knowledge.

our own.

We have to commence then our memorandums of the London week, with another congratulation on the increasing exchanges of good offices between England and foreign countries. The cause is no greater, this time, than an acknowledgment on the part of the University of Tubingen, in Wirtemburgh, of the receipt of a " Collection of Historical Documents," from the Speaker of the English House of Commons, "printed under the direction of the Record Commission." But even this is an addition to the stock of promises for the world, and for the growth of general intelligence and good will. How much better to see the official authorities of the globe corresponding with one another on the subject of books and useful presents, instead of requesting to know which means to insult the other first, and when they shall go to war, and play all sorts of absurd enormities!

The opera season is improving by the addition of Mademoiselle Giulietta Grisi, and the return of our old acquaintances Rubini and Tamburini, the one with his rubies of notes, of which he is a little too lavish ; the other with a talent for almost anything, at once brilliant and solid. Mademoiselle Grisi (whom we have not heard) is highly praised by the newspapers.

*We understand (for we have not yet seen the articles) that to the list of our kind contemporaries and good wishers, we are to add the Weekly Despatch and the Literary Gazette, but that the latter objects to our entire abstracts of new novels, as doubting whether they are entirely fair. This, to be sure, is a consideration "to give us pause." We can only say, that we will enquire into it amongst the parties most concerned, and if we have made an erroneous judgment of their feelings on the point, make haste to alter it, and act accordingly.

A masquerade is occasionally got up at this theatre, but with little success. One has just taken place. Our beloved countrymen, in fact, as a body, are not yet lively and off-hand enough in the art of sociality, to make these exhibitions tell. They want a few more London Journals! together with some other things which graver journals will help to bring them. We never saw an English masquerade but once, and then its mirth was so melancholy, that it made us go away. Half of the people seemed "afraid of committing themselves,” and the other half bent upon showing that they were simply not afraid. There was no genuine vivacity in any quarter. Even a real pantomime-clown who was there, gave but one somerset, and then stood still for the evening, with his hands in his pockets, as if petrified by the place.

They understand Mathews, however,-the masterly exhibitions of the humourous and absurd in the person of one man, who has all the show to himself; and accordingly they are now flocking to a selection from his former best pieces, at the Adelphi Theatre; we need not say with what delight. You may go to see whole comedies in which all the persons concerned do nothing worth seeing. Matthews is a whole comedy in himself, of many persons; and all his characters bave something good in them, mostly a great deal that is adFace, manner, mind, are all done to the



Of Paganini and his marvellous violin which is now to be heard at the Adelphi, glorifying, praying, laughing, lamenting, making love, we dare not trust ourselves to speak in these brief notices. But we have given an extract, in another column, from a manuscript we have by us, in which there is an attempt to express some of the feelings he has given us every time we heard him We are sorry to observe by the newspapers, that he has just fallen ill.

WE see, in the news from Scotland, that at the interment of the venerable widow of Burns, ("bonnie Jeanie Armour," who, we believe, made him a very kind and considerate wife,) the poet's body was for a short time exposed to view, and his aspect found in singular preservation. An awful and affecting sight! We should have felt, if we had been among the bye-standers, as if we had found him in some bed in the night of time and space, and as if he might have said something! grave but kind words of course, befitting his spirit, and that of the wise placidity of death: for so the aspect of death looks. A corpse seems as if it suddenly knew everything, and was profoundly at peace in conse


THE water-colour exhibition, in Bond-street, was meant as a kind of supplement to the one in Pall Mall east. There are few very few pictures in the room worth seeing; and those one would wish to see in some better place. V. Bartholomew has presented us with some of beautiful, lively colours. How lively those parrots! how beautifully intense that convolvulus! There are some landscapes by the same artist in the room; but in scenery, that liveliness of colour for which he is remarkable in his flowery pieces, is not to be perceived. Sidney Shepherd is fertile but more tasty than powerful. Barbank has furnished some very clever, highly-finished studies of animals. His larger picture is not so good. Two Studies of Pigs,'by J Thorpe, are admirable; we can only object to the background, which is a little too forward. Scene from Moore's Lalla Rookh,' of the dead Arab girl at the bottom of the sea, by Kearney, is exceedingly fanciful and pretty, with a nice feeling of colour. Absent, but not forgotten,' does great credit to the youth of the of the table is somewhat out of order. The lady in the artist, Miss Fanny Corbeaux; though the perspective picture is a little like the fair painter. 'Just Caught,' being captive fish, and a fruit-piece, by Spry, are near Bartholomew in brilliancy of colour. And last, for a bonne-bouche, Lance's Study of Fruit' is rich, brilliant, and fresh as nature.

Our limits restrict us to noticing the most striking pictures in the collection, or we should have mentioned a few others; while, on the other hand, we could wish that some of the attempts in the room had been left out altogether. They are surely not "weeds of glorious feature," but "weeds that have no business there.".

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We spoke in our last of cheap music. There is to be a grand Musical Festival. Sincerely do we hope that in addition to the other merits of its arrangement, we may have the pleasure of announcing that such a scale of prices has been determined on as will admit all classes to a participation. If so, it will be a most happy opportunity for those, whose only incapacity for music is an incapacity to enrich their taste by the payment of seven and sixpence, at the door of a Concert Room. The price for seats of the best kind, on each morning, is to be fixed, we understand, at one guinea. This may not be unreasonable, considering what is offered, and who are likely to be subscribers; but from this price downwards we trust we shall hear of various terms of admission, calculated to the means of all ranks of people. Why should there not be a shilling gallery? Though it were amongst the very rafters of the ceiling, who would not be glad to see it filled with happy faces?



PAUL DE KOCK is the novelist of Parisian middle life, and with due allowance for the caricature to which comic novelists are subject, is famous for the truth and humour of his portraits, for the vivacity of his incidents and dialogue, for a certain Voltairesque turn in his style, an abundance of sense, of good nature, and now and then no little pathos. Two of his best novels have been made known to the English public by the excellent translations, entitled Andrew the Savoyard, and the Modern Cymon. The novel of which we here give an abstract is not one of his best; but it happened to be near at hand, and the author writes nothing which does not contain amusement and character; as the reader will see by our sketch. Madame Moutonnet, who persuades her husband she is "a fine woman," because she is large, and who is jealous of him though she never loved him-the little old clerk who has been trained into slavery without being reconciled to it, and who is tricked out of his involuntary coach and dollar-and the grand but mortified Monsieur Dupont, with his double watch-chain and his eyes a-top of his head, who is so astonished to find out that his wife loves him, and breaks his neck to return to her, are all portraits after general, as well as Parisian, life, though strongly and amusingly marked with the characteristics of their own country.

M. Eustache Moutonnet was a rich laceman of the Rue Saint-Martin. He was a man much esteemed in

his business, for he had never let his bills be protested, or failed in his engagements. For thirty years that he had been in business, he had regularly attended to his concern from eight o'clock in the morning till eight o'clock at night. He kept the day-book and ledger himself; Madame Moutonnet carried on the correspondence out of doors, and transacted business with the dealers; the shop and till were confided to the care of Mademoiselle Eugenie Moutonnet.

M. Moutonnet, notwithstanding the grandeur of his position, could not be said to command in his own house; his wife ruled, ordered, and disposed of every thing. When she was in a good humour (a rare occurrence) she would allow her husband to go and take his cup of coffee, provided that he went to the coffee-house at the corner of la Rue Mauconsill, because there they gave plenty of sugar with their coffee, and M. Moutonnet always brought home three lumps to his wife.

This regulated life did not prevent our portly laceman from finding himself the happiest of men; so true is it, that what is one man's meat, is another man's poison.' Moutonnet was a man of simple, peaceable tastes, and, like a child, it was necessary to his happiness to be

led. Madaine Moutonnet was past forty; but she had made up her mind to stop the encroachments of time at thirty-six. Madame Moutonnet was never pretty, but, being a large woman, she had persuaded Moutonnet that he had a very fine woman for his wife. She was no coquette, but she desired to bear the bell for wit and

beauty. She had never loved her husband; but would have torn out his eyes had he ever dared to prove unfaithful. Madame Moutonnet was very jealous of her rights. In fact she herself was a very "dragon of virtue." The fruit of this convenient union of domination and docility, was one pretty, unaffected, sensible, and tender-hearted girl, eighteen years of age at the commence. ment of our story, fond of her father and afraid of her mother. A kindly, stout young woman, named Jeanneton, and Bidois, an old clerk, completed the domestic establishment of the Moutonnets.

One day, at dinner, when Moutonnet was plying his knife and fork with vigor, that he might return presently to his ledger, Madame Moutonnet, "assuming an air almost amiable," said to her husband, Monsieur Moutonnet, to-morrow is the day of Saint Eustache.' No! really said the laceman, trying to seem astonished, though for eight days past he had kept a strict watch upon the barometer, to see if the weather mised to be fine on his name-day. Are we so near



*In France it is the custom, instead of the day on which a person is born, to keep that of the saint whose name they bear,

the 20th? Yes, sir, to-day is the 19th of September.' 'You are right, my dear.' I never forget that day, sir.' You are very good, Madame Moutonnet; and you know I never forget Sainte Barbe; - dear heart!' 'We are not talking at present of Sainte Barbe, sir, but of Saint Eustache, which we shall keep to-morrow.' 'You are right, my dear.' I have arranged a little pic-nic party for the Wood of Romianville; does that suit you, sir?' How, my dear? suit me! I am delighted! the Wood of Romainville, you know, I was always fond of!—

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"That charming wood, the lover's good.' 'We are not talking of lovers, Monsieur Moutonnet; you are always so foolish!' My dear, it is the fault of Saint Eustache now. Recollect yourself, sir;' and a severe look made M. Montonnet comprehend that his daughter sat next him, and could understand all he said upon such forbidden subjects; and so the good man was silent, and his wife continued:-'I have invited a good deal of company for to-morrow, and I have endeavoured to make a good choice among our acquaintI think you will be satisfied with my choice.' 'My dear, you know that I always am!' speak, M. Moutonnet; if you interrupt me so every instant, we shall never have done.' You are right, my dear.' Let us see who will be there. First, there will be we three, and Bidois: I shall not take Jeanneton, because 1 do not wish to leave the house empty; I should not be easy. M. Bidois will carry the baskets; besides, you know, it amuses him.' 'Yes, ma'am,' said the old clerk, forcing a smile to hide the face he could not help making at the notion of carrying the baskets. 'I warn you, Monsieur Bidois, that they will perhaps be a little heavy to-morrow, for we shall be a great many, and, except bread and wine, which we shall get at the guard-house, we shall take every thing with us, but, you are strong, you are active.' And I shall be able to relieve you too, sometimes,' said M. Moutonnet. Not at all, sir,' said Madame; 'I do not intend that; I do not wish you to tire yourself in the morning; by evening you would be good for nothing.' 'You are right, my dear.' 'Well, then, return to our company we shall have M. Bernard, the toyman, and his wife, their daughter Mimi, and their little clerk, Estève. Monsieur Bernard is a very agreeable man, full of wit and gaiety. When he is in company, he sets every thing going, and that is what we shall want; if we had no one but you, Monsieur Montonnet, to amuse the company!'But, my dear, it appears to me- Hush! I am going on: Madame Bernard is far from having her husband's spirit, though she has plenty of pretension, and is for ever putting in her word.'


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In addition to these, M. Gerard, a perfumer, his wife, his sister, and little boy came to the pic-nic; and bouring linendraper's, are introduced, to enlarge the party M. Dupont and M. Adolphe Dalville, a clerk in a neighbeyond the fatal number of thirteen.

of age, living in the Rue aux Ours. M. Dupont was a flourishing grocer, about forty years He wore a queue and powder, because he thought it became him, and because his perruquier told him that it gave him an air of distinction. His sky-blue coat and yellow waistcoat gave him a sort of fantastical appearance that quite agreed with the astonished expression of his eyes at the top of his head. He caressed with complacency two watch-chains that hung at his waist-band, and every word he spoke was listened to attentively; he believed himself seducing and witty, baving all the self-sufficiency of folly supported by riches; in fine, he was a batchelor of great importance to all who had daughters to marry.

The day is fine, and the pic-nic prospers by favour of the relaxed severity of Madame Moutonnet. The first hide-and-seek. Eugenie Moutonuet and Adolphe Dalthing proposed upon entering the wood is a game at ville have some time regarded each other with an eye of inclination, though the vigilance and austerity of the lady's mother have prevented any familiar intercourse. The opportunities of hide-and-seek however enable them to avow a mutual passion, and swear eternal constancy. After dinner, during which Madame Moutonnet is incensed against her husband for attempting to carve a fowl, and quarrels with the toyman's wife who assists him, the younger part of the company join a village dance. The spirited toyman, something exalted by drinking, provokes the villagers to thrash him. This unpleasant circumstance draws upon him the displeasure of Madame Moutonnet, already angered against his wife, and she is at last enraged to that degree, that a total breach takes place between the families. A storm separates the remaining company into two parties, and the Moutonnet family with young Dalville seek shelter at a coffee-house. Adolphe goes out to find a coach, and Bidois is sent out soon after to assist in the search; Dalville however, with great zeal, succeeds in finding one first, and he and the Moutonnets leave the grin of the coffee-house keeper, without taking anything; inn, without for Bidois, and, to the great chafor Madame Moutonnet thought it would be superfluous to do so. Meantime Bidois returns unsuccessful, sheltered, as to his head, by one of the empty baskets. After dinner he had manœuvred so skilfully as to achieve the loss of the other with some bottles, part of the remains of dinner. Some turkey, and other broken viands are in his pockets, for Madame Moutonnet would have nothing left behind 'if she knew it. Where are my friends?' said he, replacing the basket under his arm. They went


away in a coach,' said the master of the coffee-house, with a sneer. 'Gone-in a coach!-without me?'

They called you. Is not your name Belloie?' Bidois, if you please." 'Bidois, Belloie,-it's the same thing.' 'No Sir, it's a very different thing.' Well-however, they have gone without you, finding you did not come back." Gone without me!-let me return on foot in


such weather, when I have broken my back all day with carrying their dinners!-Madame Bernard was right in calling Madame Moutonnet a tyrant!' They can't have got far,' said the coffee-house keeper, and if you run, I dare say you will catch them at the barrier; it was a yellow coach.'Do you think so-Let us see.' And Bidois ran out of the coffee-house.


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"At length, having passed the barrier, the old clerk sees a hackney coach. I see it!' he cried, 'I shall have some rest now; keep it up!' the sight of the coach redoubles his vigour. He jumps forward, running haphazard among the brooks and marshes into which the road-way turned, to the great detriment of his stockings. He overtakes the coach; and it is a yellow one. Stop, stop!' cried Bidois, running by the side of the coach, in a voice choaked with exhaustion. coachman, thinking some one was making game of him, paid no attention. Will you stop!' cried Bidois, again; you have got some people who were waiting for Ah! me, and I will give you something to drink.' that's another thing—if they are your acquaintance—' said the coachman, stopping his horses; so get up, master.' Bidois did not want this invitation repeated; directly the coach stopped, he ran and opened the door. A cry issued from within. Ah! my God! it is my husband!' said a strange voice. Her husband!' cried a man; quick let us be off!' The opposite door is opened, and the gentleman fled, leaving behind him his hat; while the lady saved herself at the expense of her shawl, her gloves, and her handkerchief, leaving Bidois dismayed upon the steps. Hallo! what does this mean, old fellow?' cried the coachman, surprised to see his passengers off in such a hurry. Hey! Parbleu !' responded Bidois, it means that bad luck follows me every where. I was mistaken, your passengers were none of my friends.' Oh, very well! you're a pretty humbug to play me such a game as this.' How do you mean? humbug!-do you think I did it for the pleasure of it.' Indeed I do, my man. But, you see, it can't pass in this way. You have frightened the two fares I was carrying, so that they have taken to their heels; but I can't do without my money. Its no use your speaking; I took them up at the pavilion Français, and as that is outside the barrier, they were to give me a dollar ; so, now then, you must give me a dollar.' I give give you a dollar?' 'Yes, my fine fellow, if it's agreeable t' ye.' Nonsense! you are joking. Why should I pay the fare for people I know nothing about?' We are not talking about whys and wherefores; you have made my passengers run away, and you must pay me my fare, or we shall see.' The coachman, fearing that Bidois would run away too, jumped from his box; but the old clerk had no strength left for running, and he quietly suffered himself to be seized by the arm. Come, pay us, and have done with it.' 'I will not pay,' said Bidois, with an air of decision; for lowe you nothing.' Very well! then let us go back to the guard of the barrier, and there we'll make you understand sense, my little man.' Saying this, the coachman backed his coach, and took Bidois before the clerk of the barrier. But,' said Bidois, to the coachman, you can pay yourself, for they have left some things in the coach. Do you take me for a pick-pocket? I shall go and give those up to the prefecture.' I'll undertake that no one will come to reclaim them.' That's no business of mine. What right have you to put people out in this way with your basket cap? I don't wonder you frightened them; they must have taken you for the devil.'


"There was a general laugh at the piteous appearance of Bidois when he heard himself condemned to pay. In rummaging his pocket for his purse, he let fall the remains of the turkey, which he had taken from the basket when he put it on his head. This added to the gaiety of the bystanders. It seems the gentleman does not lose any thing when he dines at the eating-house,' said the clerk of the barrier, laughing. Sir, that is my affair,' said Eidois, peevishly, putting the bird back into his pocket, don't you go and make me pay duty for this turkey's leg.' No, Sir, turkeys don't pay duty.' That's lucky. Come, coachman, if I pay, I hope at least I may ride,' That's all fair.' 'Where were you taking that gentleman and lady to?' 'I was to set them down at the Boulevard du Temple. Very well; you shall set me down at the Porte St. Martin.' That will do, come along.' They leave the barrier to go to the coach. It still rained, and Bidois said to himself, 'At least, if I do pay dear for it, I can stretch myself at my ease, and sleep to the Porte Saint-Martin.' Poor Bidois! It was doubtless written in the book of fate that be was not to reach Paris in a coach. Before they had got to where the coach stood, four officers, quicker than the old clerk, came up, opened the door of the




coach, and jumped in, exclaiming, At last we have
found one! this is not bad!'
What the devil now,'
cried Bidois, running to the door, they have found one,
have they? Very pretty, upon my honour,-stop a mo-
ment-Gentlemen, gentlemen,'-getting on the steps-
this coach has been waiting here an hour-for me.' 'I
have no pence, old man,' said one of the officers, taking
Bidois for the waterman; which was excusable, seeing
how the storm had deranged his dress. Another time,'
and he pushed him away roughly, shutting the door.

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