ICE NECESSARY TO WINE.

Col topazio pigiato in Lamporecchio,
Ch'è famoso Castel per quel Masetto,

A inghirlandar le tazze or m' apparecchio,

Purchè gelato sia, e sia puretto,
Gelato, quale alla stagion del' gielo

Il più freddo Aquilon fischia pel cielo.
Cantinette, e cantimplore

Stieno in pronto a tutte l'ore

Con forbite bombolette

Chiuse e strette tra le brine
Delle nevi cristalline.

Son le nevi il quinto elemento
Che compongono il vero bevere:
Ben è folle chi spera ricevere
Senza nevi nel bere un contento:
Venga pur la Vallombrosa
Neve a josa;

Venga pur la ogni bicocea

Neve in chiocca;

E voi, Satiri, lasciate

Tante frottole, e tanti riboboli,
E del ghiaccio mi portate
Della grotta del Monte di Boboli.
Con alti picchi

Dè mazzapicchi

Dirompetelo,

Sgretolatelo,
Infragnetelo,
Stritolatelo,

Finchè tutto si possa risolvere
In minuta freddissima polvere,
Che mi renda il ber più fresco
Per rimfresco del palato,
Or ch' io son mortoassetato.

Bacco in Toscana.
You know Lamporecchio, the castle renowned
For the gardener so dumb, whose works did
abound;

There's a topaz they make there; pray let it go
round.

! Serve, serve me a dozen,

editions, and to recommend them to more general attention. A great poet cannot be too thoroughly studied:

"This circumstance of the damned suffering the extremes of heat and cold by turns, seems to be founded upon Job xxiv, 19, not as it is in the English translation, but in the vulgar Latin version, which Milton often used, ‘Ad nimium calorem transeat ab aquis nivium; Let him pass to ercesAnd so Jerome and other sive heat from waters of snow.' commentators understand it. The same punishments after death are mentioned by Shakspeare, Measure for Measure,' act iii. sc. i.—

-

and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.'"

-BISHOP NEWTON.

But let it be frozen;

Let it be frozen and finished with ice,
And see that the ice be as virginly nice,

As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies.
Coolers and cellarets, crystal with snows,
Should always hold bottles in ready repose.
Snow is good liquor's fifth element;
No compound without it can give content:
For weak is the brain, and I hereby scout it,
That thinks in hot weather to drink without it.
Bring me heaps from the Shady Valley *
Bring me heaps

Of all that sleeps

On every village hill and alley.

Hold there, you satyrs,

Your beard-shaking chatters,

And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli.

With axes and pickaxes,

Hammers and rammers,

Thump it and hit it me,

Crack it and crash it me,

Hew it and split it me,

Pound it and smash it me,

Till the whole mass (for I'm dead-dry, I think) Turns to a cold, fit to freshen my drink.

Bacchus in Tuscany.

Ice is such a luxury in the South of Europe, and has become also such a necessity, that in some places a dearth of it is considered the next thing to a want of bread. To preach tortures of ice at Naples, would be the counterpart of the mistake of the worthy missionary, who was warned how he said too much of the reverse kind of punishment to the Laplanders. Dante was a native of Florence, where they have winters hard enough; and where, by the way, during its delightful summers, we have eaten, for a few pence, ice-cream enough to fill three of our silver-costing glasses in England. They bring it you in goblets. The most refreshing beverage we ever drank, was a Florentine lemonade, made with fresh lemons (off the tree), sweetened with capillaire, and floating with ice,

But, if it were not for our subject, we ought to keep these ummer reminiscences for next August. We conclude with a proper winter picture, painted by one who has been thought (an is, compared with great ones) a very small poet, (Ambrose Philips), but who had a vein of truth in all he wrote, which would have obtained him more esteem in an age of poets, than it did in an age of Good-natured Steele, however, discerned his merits; and the before poem which Steele inserted It was in the Tatler,' was admired by them all. too new in its localities, and too evidently drawn from nature, not to please them; and was, furthermore, addressed to, and patronized by a wit-the Earl

wits.

of Dorset,

us,

A NORTHERN WINTER.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. From frozen climes, and endless tracks of snow, From streams that northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how so near the Pole attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects that to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, Nor birds within the desert region sing. The ships unmov'd the boisterous winds defy While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day, The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy vallies howl. For many a shining league, the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain :

• Vallombrosa, which an Englishman may call Milton's Vallombrosa. The convent is as old as the time of Ariosto, who celebrates the monks for their hospitality.

There solid billows of enormous size,

Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet, but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose;
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn seemed wrought in glass.
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds the watery marshes yield
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field.

The stag in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,

Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
That wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies:

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends;
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees.
Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bowers, and thro' delicious meads
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue;
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

CHARACTERS OF SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS.

BY WILLIAM HAZLITT.

NO. III.MACBETH.

(Concluded from last week.)

IN speaking of the character of Lady Macbeth, we ought not to pass over Mrs Siddons's manner of acting that part. We can conceive of nothing grander. It seemed almost It was something above nature. as if a being of a superior order had dropped from a higher sphere to awe the world with the majesty of her appearance. Power was seated on her brow, passion emanated from her breast as from a shrine; she was tragedy personified. In coming on in the sleeping-scene, her eyes were open, but their sense was shut. She was like a person bewildered and unconscious of what she did. Her lips moved involuntarily all her gestures were involuntary and mechanical. She glided on and off the stage like an apparition. To have seen her in that character was an event in every one's life, not to be forgotten.

The dramatic beauty of the character of Duncan, which excites the respect and pity even of his murderers, has been often pointed out. It forms a picture of itself. An instance of the author's power of giving a striking effect to a common reflection, by the manner of introducing it, occurs in a speech of Duncan, complaining of his having been deceived in his opinion of the Thane of Cawdor, at the very moment that he is expressing the most unbounded confidence in the loyalty and services of Macbeth. "There is no art

To find the mind's construction in the face:
He was a gentleman, on whom I built
An absolute trust.

Sight of nothing that could in any way give relief or heightening to his subject, is the conversation which takes place between Banquo and Fleance, immediately before the murder-scene of Duncan.

66

Banquo. How goes the night, boy?

Fleance. The moon is down: I have not heard
the clock.

Banquo. And she goes down at twelve.
Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir.

Banquo. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heav'n,

Their candles are all out.

A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep: Merciful Powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose."

In like manner, a fine idea is given of the gloomy coming on of evening, just as Banquo is going to be assassinated.

"Now spurs the lated traveller apace
To gain the timely inn."

Macbeth (generally speaking) is done upon a stronger and more systematic principle of contrast than any other of Shakspeare's plays. It moves upon the verge of an abyss, and is a constant struggle between life and death. The action is desperate, and the re-action is dreadful. It is a huddling together of fierce extremes, a war of opposite natures, which of them shall destroy the other. There is nothing but what has a violent end or violent beginnings. The lights and shades are laid on with a determined hand; the transitions from triumph to despair, from the height of terror to the repose of death, are sudden and startling; every passion brings in its fellow-contrary, and the thoughts pitch and jostle against each other as in the dark. The whole play is an unruly chaos of strange and forbidden things, where the ground rocks under our feet. Shakspeare's genius here took its full swing, and trod upon the farthest bounds of nature and passion. This circumstance will account for the abruptness and violent antitheses of the style, the throes and labour which run through the expression, and from defects will turn them into beauties. "So fair and foul a day I have not seen," &c. "Such welcome and unwelcome news together." "Men's lives are like the flowers in their caps, dying or ere they sicken." "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it." The scene before the castle gate follows the appearance of the Witches on the heath, and is followed by a midnight murder; Duncan is cut off betimes by treason leagued with witchcraft; and Macduff is ripped untimely from his mother's womb to avenge his death. Macbeth, after the death of Banquo, wishes for his presence in extravagant terms, "To him and all we thirst," and, when his ghost appears, cries out, "Avaunt and quit my sight," and being gone, he is "himself again." Macbeth resolves to get rid of Macduff, that "he may sleep in spite of thunder;" and cheers his wife on the doubtful intelligence of Banquo's taking-off with the encouragement-" Then be thou jocund: ere the bat has flown his cloistered flight; ere to black Hecate's summons the shard-born beetle has rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done-a deed of dreadful note." In Lady Macbeth's speech, "Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done 't," there is murder and filial piety together, and in urging him to fulfil his vengeance against the defenceless king, her thoughts spare the blood neither of infants nor old age. The description of the Witches is full of the same contradictory principle; they "rejoice when good kings bleed," they are neither of the earth nor the air, but both; "they should be women, but their beards forbid it :" they take all the pains possible to lead Macbeth on to the height of his ambition, only to betray him in deeper consequence, and after showing him all the pomp of heir art, discover their malignant delight in his dis

appointed hopes, by that bitter taunt, " Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly?" We might multiply such instances everywhere.

The leading features in the character of Macbeth are striking enough, and they form what may be thought at first only a bold, rude, Gothic outline. By comparing it with other characters of the same author, we shall perceive the absolute truth and identity which is observed in the midst of the giddy whirl and rapid career of events. Macbeth in Shakspeare no more loses his identity of character in the fluctuations of fortune or the storm of passion, than Macbeth in himself would have lost the identity of his person. Thus he is as distinct a being from Richard III as it is possible to imagine, though these two characters in common hands, and indeed in the hands of any other poet, would have been a repetition of the same general idea, more or less exaggerated. For both are tyrants, usurpers, murderers, both aspiring and ambitious, both courageous, cruel, treacherous. But Richard is cruel from nature and constitution. Macbeth becomes so from accidental circumstances. Richard is from his birth deformed in body and mind, and naturally incapable of good. Macbeth is full of "the milk of human kindness," is frank, sociable, generous. He is tempted to the commission of guilt by golden opportunities, by the instigations of his wife, and by prophetic warnings. Fate and metaphysical aid conspire against his virtue and his loyalty. Richard, on the contrary, needs no prompter, but wades through a series of crimes to the height of his ambition from the ungovernable violence of his temper and a reckless love of mischief. He is never gay but in the prospect or in the success of his villanies: Macbeth is full of horror at the thoughts of the murder of Duncan, which he is with difficulty prevailed on to commit, and of remorse after its perpetration. Richard has no mixture of common humanity in his composition, no regard to kindred or posterity, he owns no fellowship with others, he is "himself alone." Macbeth is not destitute of feelings of sympathy, is accessible to pity, is even made in some measure the dupe of his uxoriousness, ranks the loss of friends, of the cordial love of his followers, and of his good name, among the causes which have made him weary of life, and regrets that he has ever seized the crown by unjust means, since he cannot transmit it to his posterity—

"For Banquo's issue have I 'fil'd my mindFor them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings."

In the agitation of his thoughts, he envies those whom he has sent to peace. "Duncan is in his grave; after life's fitful fever he sleeps well."—It is true, he becomes more callous as he plunges deeper in guilt, "direness is thus rendered familiar to his slaughterous thoughts," and he in the end anticipates his wife in the boldness and bloodiness of his enterprises, while she, for want of the same stimulus of action, is "troubled with thick-coming fancies that rob her of her rest," goes mad and dies. Macbeth endeavours to escape from reflection on his crimes by repelling their consequences, and banishes remorse for the past by the meditation of future mischief. This is not the principle of Richard's cruelty, which resembles the wanton malice of a fiend as much as the frailty of human passion. Macbeth is goaded on to acts of violence and retaliation by necessity; to Richard, blood is a pastime.-There are other decisive differences inherent in the two characters. Richard may be regarded as a man of the world, a plotting, hardened knave, wholly regardless of everything but his own ends, and the means to secure them--Not so Macbeth. The superstitions of the age, the rude state of society, the local scenery and customs, all give a wildness and imaginary grandeur to his character. From the strangeness of the events that surround him, he is full of amazement and fear; and stands in doubt between the world of reality and the world of fancy. He sees sights not shown to mortal eye, and hears unearthly music. All is tumult and disorder within and without his mind; his purposes recoil upon himself, are broken and disjointed; he is the double

thrall of his passions and his evil destiny. Richard is not a character either of imagination or pathos, but of pure self-will. There is no conflict of opposite feelings in his breast. The apparitions which he sees only haunt him in his sleep; nor does he live like Macbeth in a waking dream. Macbeth has considerable energy and manliness of character; but then he is "subject to all the skyey influences." He is sure of nothing but the present moment. Richard in the busy turbulence of his projects never loses his self-possession, and makes use of every circumstance that happens as an instrument of his longreaching designs. In his last extremity can we only regard him as a wild beast taken in the toils: we never intirely lose our concerns for Macbeth; and he calls back all our sympathy by that fine close of thoughtful melancholy,

"My way of life is fallen into the sear, The yellow leaf; and that which should accompany old age,

As honour, troops of friends, I must not look to have;

But in their stead, curses not loud but deep,
Mouth-honour, breath, which the poor heart
Would fain deny, and dare not."

We can conceive a common actor to play Richard tolerably well; we can conceive no one to play Macbeth properly, or to look like a man that had encountered the Weird Sisters. All the actors that we have ever seen, appear as if they had encountered them on the boards of Covent Garden or Drury Lane, but not on the heath at Forres, and as if they did not believe what they had seen. The Witches of Macbeth indeed are ridiculous on the modern stage, and we doubt if the Furies of Eschylus would be more respected. The progress of manners and knowledge has an influence on the stage, and will in time perhaps destroy both tragedy and comedy. Filch's picking pockets in the Beggars' Opera is not so good a jest as it used to be: by the force of the police and of philosophy, Lillo's murders and the At last, ghosts in Shakspeare will become obsolete. there will be nothing left, good nor bad, to be desired or dreaded, on the theatre or in real life. A question has been started with respect to the originality of Shakspeare's Witches, which has been well answered by Mr Lamb in his notes to the Specimens of Early Dramatic Poetry :'

His

"Though some resemblance may be traced between the charms in Macbeth, and the incantations in this play (the Witch of Middleton), which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. Witches are distinguished from the Witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman, plotting some dire mischief, might resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's he is spell-bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These Witches can hurt the body; those have power over the soul.-Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low buffoon: the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem to be without human relations. They come with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them.-Except Hecate, they have no names, which heightens their mysteriousness. The names, and some of the properties which Middleton has given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are serious things. Their presence cannot co-exist with mirth. But, in a lesser degree, the Witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scurf o'er life."

THE WEEK.

OUR present week is as barren of birth-days, as the last was otherwise. The date assigned to that of Ben Jonson in some of the Almanacs,' is a mistake. He was born, not on the 31st of January, but on the 11th of June. So say, at least, all the lives of him that we are acquainted with; some of them adding, that he has said so himself; though we cannot find where. Have the Almanacs' got any ntelligence later than Chalmers?

As severe weather is to be expected about this time (if we are to have any at all), we take the opportunity of inserting the following pleasant verses which have been sent us by a Reader, and which we like for many reasons: first, because of their own merit; second, because of the Scottish dialect, which is an old favourite of ours, ever since we read Allan Ramsay' (we really believe that archness and good sense never go so well together in a song, as when it is written in Scotch); third, because of their seasonable and hearty logic; and fourth, because our Correspondent is candid enough to tell us they have been published before, though in a periodical not likely to have forestalled many of our English readers :

A NEW POEM,

IN THE SCOTTISH TONGUE,

:

VIII.

Lang icicles hung frae his chin,
His een were bleared, his mouth fa'en in,
He looked fu' wae;

His nose was red, his cheeks were blue,
His mottled legs o' every hue, 4

Were bare and blae.

IX.

"Gudeman," said he, "as I gaed past, Your door was opened by a blast,

Ay gangs beside me, And, oh! it gives me muckle pain, To hear my subjects flout my reign, And canna bide me.

X.

"Ye're just ane o' the senseless pack,
Misca's me sair behint my back,
Black be their fa'!
Sae I've, to vindicate my fame,
And clear frae spot my blemish'd name,
Gi'en you a ca'."

XI.

Thinks I, I maun the carle fleech,
For weel, gude certie, can he preach,
The cunning body;
Says I, "auld sir, just take a waff
O' that gude fire, we'll hae a laugh

Ower a drap toddy."

XII.

"Gudeman," said he, wi tone sae snell,
"Think not with such as you I'll mell,
Or drain a tumbler,
Until I've shown baith far and wide,
That ye deserve a weel-pay'd hide,

Ye senseless grumbler.,

XIII.

"Wi friendly hand and tender care,
I send my storms to clear the air,
And raging flood;

To wisest purposes they tend,
And may you find that in the end,
They're for your good.

XIV.

"I mind, alas! the days of old,
When men were hardy, brave, and bold,
Nor feared my rigour,
Who would o' snaw their pillow make,
Nor ever think to grane or quake,
So strong their vigour

XV.

"But now, ye are a feckless race, There's hardly ane can 'bide my face,

Though happ'd wi' claise ; Ye are unlike these men of might, Whose arms were powerful in the fight. Ay! these were days.

XVI.

"I mind me oft how blythe and sweet, The leddies fear'd na me to meet

On causeway's crown; Wi' wee made cloaks, and elbows bare, Silk mittens on their arms sae fair, And scrimpit gown.

XVII.

"But now the misses look sae gaucy, As they sail by wi' air sae saucy,

Smoor'd to the nose; Wi' boas, tippets, cloaks, and muffs, Lang veils, and nicely crimpit ruffs, And Shetland hose.

XVIII.

"Poets and lovers make a fraise
About the Summer's golden days,
And sunny bowers;
And haver about buzzing bees,
And meadows green, and waving trees,
And blushing flowers.

XIX.

"But certie they would look gay queer, Were Sol to rule through a' the year, Their skins to roast;

They'd glad exchange their bees, and bowers, Their shrubs, and plants, and fragrant flowers, For clinking frost.

XX.

"Suppose, gudeman, I took the gee, And no set foot ayont the sea, Whare a' your joys? Ay, whare would be your skaiting, curling, Your sliding, snawba's, and your hurling, And heartsome plays?

XXI.

"From Arthur's Seat, I oft did watch,
To see the merry curling match;
Aft at their dinners
I've seen the round of beef and greens
Encircled by a band of friends,

Losers and winners.

XXII.

"And whiles, upon the Calton Hill
I lang hae stood, and laughed my fill,
Till shook my shanks,
To see the school-boys at their plays,
And far ower scant my langest days

For a' their pranks."

XXIII.

Auld Winter, brimming wi' vexation,
Was here cut short in his narration,
For sic a din
Got up-a perfect hobbleshew,
For wife and weans, a merry crew,
Came thronging in.

XXIV.

Cauld Winter would nae langer sit. "Certie," said he, "it's time to flit;

My loudest blast

Is naething to a woman's tongue." And, saying this, awa' he flung,

And out he past.

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

NO. LV.A PRIVATE GENTLEMAN OBSTINATELY RESISTS BEING MADE A KING.

We take this narrative of one of Lucien Bonaparte' throne-refusing encounters with his brother, from the Memoirs of Madame d'Abrantes,' who said she had heard corresponding statements of it from two That such quarters, both in perfect accordance. passages, sometime or other, must have taken place between the brothers, is clear enough; and the core of the romance remains unquestionable,-viz. that Lucien did prefer his independence and his poetry to a crown, with what judgment we have all seen by the event! His romance turned out to be the His world of books highest proof of his good sense. contained, after all, a larger and nobler world than Napoleon could hope to conquer; and there, among his treasures, he is found still ruling his magical domain of fancy and domestic peace, while the soldier is in his narrow grave.

"We were informed one morning that the Emperor had set out at four o'clock on a journey, the object and destination of which were alike impenetrable. Yet Italy was the only direction which he could have taken, and, in fact, the principal, though latent, motive of this journey was a reconciliation with Lucien. The Emperor was at length convinced, or rather he had never doubted, that, of all his brothers, Lucien alone could understand and act in concert with him. But Lucien was far from condescending, and the Emperor, who knew his character, was resolved himself to see and converse with him; the brothers consequently gave each other the meeting at Mantua.

Lucien arrived about nine at night in a travelling carriage with M. Boyer, cousin-german of his first

wife, and the Count de Chatellon, a friend who resided with him.

Do not put up; I shall probably return to night,' said Lucien, as he alighted to join his brother.

I have heard the particulars of this extraordinary interview from two quarters, both in perfect accord

ance.

Napoleon was walking in a long gallery with Prince Eugene, Murat, and Marshal Duroc. He advanced to meet his brother, and held out his hand with every appearance of cordiality. Lucien was affected. He had not seen the Emperor since the day of Austerlitz; and, far from being jealous of the resplendent blaze of his brother's glory, as it now passed before his mental vision, his noble heart heaved with tumultuous joy. For some moments he was incapable of speaking. At length having expressed to Napoleon his pleasure in this meeting, the Emperor made a signal, and the rest of the party withdrew. 'Well, Lucien,' said Napoleon; what are your projects? Will you at last go hand in hand with me?'

1

Lucien regarded him with astonishment, for inquiries about his projects addressed to him who never indulged in any, appeared most strange.

I form no projects,' replied he at length. As for going hand in hand with your Majesty, what am I to understand by it ?'

An immense map of Europe lay rolled up on a table before them; the Emperor seized it by one hand, and throwing it open with a graceful action, said to Lucien,

Choose any kingdom you please, and I pledge you my word, as a brother and an Emperor, to give it you, and to maintain you in it for I now ride over the head of every king in Europe. Do you understand me?'

He stopped, and looked expressively at Lucien. 'Lucien, you may share with me that sway which I exercise over inferior minds; you have only to pursue the course that I shall open to you, for the establishment and maintenance of my system, the happiest and most magnificent ever conceived by man; but to insure its execution I must be seconded, and I can only be seconded by my own family of all my brothers, only yourself and Joseph can efficiently serve me. Louis is an obstinate fool, and Jerome a mere child without capacity. My hopes, then, rest chiefly in you; will you realize them?'

:

Before this explanation is carried further, I ought to advertize you,' said Lucien, that I am not changed; my principles are still the same as in 1799 and 1803. What I was on my curule chair on the 18th Brumaire, I am at this moment beside the Emperor Napoleon. Now, brother, it is for you to consider how you will proceed.'

You talk absurdly,' said Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders. 'New times should give a new direction to the ideas. You have chosen a proper opportunity, truly, to come here and rave of your Utopian republic! You must embrace my system, I tell you; follow my path, and to-morrow I make you the chief of a great people. I acknowledge your wife as my sister. I crown her as well as you. I make you the greatest man in Europe next to myself, and I restore you my intire friendship, my brother;' added he, lowering the emphatic tone in which he had just uttered the preceding sentences, to that soft and caressing accent I have never heard but from his lips, and which makes the heart vibrate to its mellow This man and powerful chords. was altogether seducing. Lucien loved him, he started as he listened, and grew pale.

'I do not sell myself,' said he, in an agitated voice. Hear me, my brother, listen to me; for this is an important hour to both of us. I will never be a prefect. If you give me a kingdom, I must rule it according to my own notions, and, above all, in conformity with its wants. The people whose chief I may be shall have no cause to execrate my name. They shall be happy and respected; not slaves, as the Tuscans and all the Italians are. You yourself cannot desire to find in your brother a pliant sycophant, who for a few soft words would sell you

the blood of his children; for a people, after all, is but one large family, whose head will be held responsible by the King of Kings for the welfare of all

its members.'

The Emperor frowned, and his whole aspect proclaimed extreme dissatisfaction.

'Why then, come to me?' said he at last, angrily; ' for if you are obstinate, so am I, and you know it; at least as obstinate as you can be. Humph! Republic! You are no more thinking of that than I am; and besides, what should you desire it for? You are like Joseph, who bethought himself the other day of writing me an inconceivable letter, coolly desiring I would allow him to enter upon kingly duties. Truly nothing more would be wanting than the re-establishment of the papal tribute.'

And shrugging his shoulders, he smiled contemptuously.

And why not,' said Lucien, if it conduced to the national interests? It is an absurdity, I grant; but, if it was beneficial to Naples, Joseph would be quite right in insisting upon it.'

riage had produced. Lucien who had hoped to see the happy days of the forum restored, and could now only look for those of Augustus, was vehement in his reproaches; accused the Emperor of being faithless to him, and of violating his word; in short, the discussion ended in an open quarrel.

You are determined to destroy the republic !' said the enraged Lucien; 'well, assassinate her, then ; -mount your throne over her murdered remains and those of her children-but mark well what one of those children predicts: This empire, which you are erecting by force, and will maintain by violence, will be overthrown by violence and force, and you yourself will be crushed, thus !' and seizing a screen from the mantel-piece, he crushed it impetuously in his hand, which trembled with rage. Then, as if still more distinctly to mark his resentment, he took out his watch dashed it on the ground, and stamped upon it with the heel of this boot: Yes-crushed ground to powder, thus.'

THE CAT BY THE FIRE, AND PICTURES IN ONE'S ROOM.

To the Editor of the London Journal. MY DEAR MR EDITOR,--As a constant and delighted reader of the LONDON JOURNAL, I can no longer resist the inclination I have hitherto felt to assure you how eagerly expected, and feastingly perused by me, are the admirable leading articles of your Journal. not think I am insensible to the value of former and more erudite papers, when I declare your Cat by the Fire,' and 'Put up a Picture in your Room,' to be the two I love best. The former is a series of

Do

to evaporate.

'I am no subject of yours,' cried he, in his turn, 'and if you think to impose your iron yoke upon me, you are mistaken; never will I bow my head to it; and remember-hearken to my words, remember what I once told you at Malmaison.'

A long, alarming, almost sinister silence succeeded this bust of generous indignation. The two brothers faced each other, and were separated only by the table on which lay that Europe, the sport of Napoleon's infatuated ambition. He was very pale, his lips compressed, the almost livid complexion of his cheek revealing the tempest within, and his eyes darting glances of fury at Lucien, whose noble countenance must have shown to great advantage in this stormy interview, which was to decide his future fate; nor his alone, but perhaps that of Europe, for who shall conjecture what might have happened, had this really superior man been king of Spain, of Prussia, or of Poland. The Emperor was the first to break silence; he had mastered his passion, and addressed his brother with calmness :

'You will reflect on what I have told you, Lucien; night brings counsel. To-morrow I hope to find you more reasonable, as to the interests of Europe at least, if not your own. Good bye, and good night to you, my brother.'

He held out his hand. Lucien, whose heart was susceptible to every kindly impression, and whose reflections at that moment were of a nature powerfully to awaken them, took his brother's offered hand, and grasped it affectionately between both of his as he reiteratedGood bye, and a good night to you, my brother-Adieu.'

Till to-morrow!' said the Emperor.

Lucien shook his head, and would have spoken, but was unable; then opening the door, he rushed from the apartment, re-ascended the carriage, where his friends awaited him, and immediately quitted Mantua.

The brothers met no more till the hour of Napoleon's adversity.

The scene at Malmaison, to which Lucien alluded in this interview, took place shortly before the empire was proclaimed, when Napoleon's intentions were already known to his family, and disappointed in finding himself deceived in his calculations on making Lucien one of his powerful lieutenants, served to widen the breach which the latter's mar

of home, and English home-comforts and enjoyments. You will not lay aside your wonted kindliness to laugh at me for an old Tabby myself, when I confess that my eyes grew dim while reading your portraits of Pussy, for my rug has not now "a cat to it"-my old favourite is dead: he was given to me when he was a kitten, and I a child as playful. Poor Tom! many a game of romps have we had together, and for many a meat-stealing, and pigeon-killing misdemeanour have I, by tears and entreaties, gained thy pardon! I and my cat were faithful companions for ten years; and now, "I could have better spared some nobler friend." If busily engaged in writing, and neglectful of Pussy's gentle hints for notice, he would leap on the table behind my desk, and sit, peeping over the lid, with a look of staid and important gravity worthy of Minerva's owl, until espying a tempting feathered pen among the writing apparatus, after a few preparatory nods and aim-takings, bounce came my unruly companion among my scattered MSS., and with curving paw and frisking tail sent discomfited literature to the right-about. My cat was a sagacious cat, a gentle, docile, affectionate cat, and the finest and handsomest cat in the parish. Oh! a thousand thanks for your Cat by the Fire!'

Put up a Picture in your Room.' Now, my dear Mr Editor, if you could for one moment look into the "sanctum of your present Correspondent, a glance would prove how perfectly we coincide in opinion on this head. Yet am I no rich picturecollector, with money at the command of every covetous feeling-no resident in an old Baronial mansion, with dozens of courtier-ancestors looking out of their carved frames and elaborate big wigs. No; I am a poor, literature-loving artist, "in a small way," whose (almost) only inducement to the profitable exercise of her own pencil, is the desire to possess transcripts of the glorious works of greater ones; and, in some instances, my own small proficiency has served me, when an opportunity offered, of copying in miniature a picture which pleased or interested me. Yet to your admirable remarks on the utility and luxury of "putting up pictures in one's room," do I owe much of the gratification my little studio now yields me. Being a great admirer of the beauty and grace of Lawrence's heads (though my present estimate of him as a great painter falls short of what it was), I have many of his fair creations around me; but, for the most part, they fail of exciting thoughts or feel.