wife were still living in the little cottage at Furth, but they had grown feeble and infirm and could not expect to survive much longer. Reifstein's hammer was seldom heard by the passers by. His tools hung idly in the workshop, for his arm was weak, and his hand unsteady. He had now little to enjoy save his thoughts of Annette-and though all he had heard of her was of the most favorable import, he longed to see her face once more, and obtain from her own lips an as-remembered to have lent him such an instrument surance that she was happy. Ten years after the mysterious disappearance of Annette, a skeleton was discovered near the dwelling which Reinhoff had occupied during his residence in Hofchen. The dwelling itself was examined with care, and a close inspection revealed, upon the floor and wainscot of the priest's apartment, faint traces of blood, which even the cutting of a plane had vainly attempted to obliterate. A neighbor of Reinhoff's several years before, having at the time been curious Evening advanced, the sun set, twilight faded into to discover the use to which he designed to apply it. darkness, but she did not come. "She will surely be Above all, a young girl, who when quite a child had here to-morrow," said Frederick, but the morrow came, lived with her sister as a servant in the house of the went, and still Annette did not return. Two or three priest, declared the murder to have been committed days passed-each beginning in expectation, but end-by him, and said that the inmates of his household ing in disappointment. Madame Kuhner became alarıned for her safety, and Frederick resolved to visit Furth. were threatened with instant distruction if they should dare to reveal his guilt. He was immediately apprehended, and the strictest At twilight, on the ensuing day, he stood before the investigation was made to elicit further testimony. gate-way of the carpenter's cottage. The old man Madame Kuhner identified a ring found in the prisat at the door in his father's chair, smoking as usual, soner's possession; but with this exception no addiand thinking of the past. He fancied he could al- tional information could be obtained. The accusation most see Annette sporting on the lawn before him, as rested mainly upon the story of the prisoner's former he had seen her every summer evening years ago, ere attendant; but as she was very young at the time, and she had ever dreamed of leaving his household. And as no motive could be adduced to account for such an then a feeling of gratitude rose freshly in his heart-act of barbarous cruelty, very little confidence was a tear glistened in his sunken eye, a prayer of thanks- reposed in her testimony; particularly as the prisoner, giving trembled on his lip, for " Heaven had abundantly in his defence, charged the crime upon her sisterblessed him." His daughter had found a home in Hofchen. She loved Madame Kuhner with almost filial love. He could now die happy-he had seen her face again. Frederick soon made known the object of his visit. "Was Annette ill? Would she return no more to Hofchen? Had she forgotten her promise to her friends?" The old man trembled with emotion. For a moment he could not utter a word. The youth saw at once that all was not right, and his heart sunk within him as he heard that bitter lamentation, "My child! my child !" She was seen by them no since dead-whose reputation, doubtless, she would be most desirous to defend. The priest acknowledged that he had discovered the crime, at the time of its commission, and sincerely regretted that he had allowed himself to assist in its concealment. He could not resist the prayers and tears of one who had nursed him in sickness, and served him in health. He had borrowed the plane to obliterate the bloody stains, and had retained the ring as a remembrance of one who had long been under his spiritual care. The deceased had stopped at his house on her return from Furth; he was absent at the time, and, on his return, found her weltering in her Weeks were spent in fruitless attempts to penetrate blood. As a motive for the crime, he alleged that the mystery. Father Francis, Reinhoff, the old car-jealousy had existed in the mind of his attendant. penter and Frederick, all exerted their efforts to the utmost, but no trace of her anywhere appeared. The police were equally at fault. In sorrow they finally gave up the sad task, and resigned themselves to the belief that she could be no more. The associate of Father Francis soon after removed from Furth. more. CHAPTER VI. She suspected Annette of having prejudiced him against herself. She had consequently refused her admittance. An altercation arose, in which the fatal blow was struck, and the priest returned to find his house the scene of a murder-to behold an assassin in the person of his servant. As we have seen, eighty distinct examinations had failed to establish the prisoner's guilt. In consideration of his previous good character, he was at length discharged, no other punishment being assigned than his removal from the sacred office. He soon after disappeared, and though once seen at the Saviour's tomb, for many long years his fate remained un Ten years had passed since the mysterious disappearance of Annette, when circumstances occurred which seemed to throw a sudden light upon the mat-known. ter. All hope of ascertaining her fate with certainty, About a mile from the monastery of St. Clement, had long since been abandoned by her friends. Her in the northern part of Italy, there dwelt for many parents, never recovering from the shock, occasioned years a grey haired old man, who had renounced by her sudden loss, lingered heart-broken for a few for ever the world and its works. He lived alone in years, then-died in sorrow. Madame Kuhner still cherished her memory with maternal fondness, but even she had ceased to originate conjectures respecting her fate. Frederick, a prey to despairing melancholy, had wandered into distant lands, where perchance, amid new scenes and new associations, the intensity of his grief might at length be diminished. the forest, devoting his time alternately to study and to prayer, preparing himself for that last great change, which he was well aware he must soon undergo. The monks of the neighboring monastery were familiar with his appearance and his habits, and to their charity he was often indebted for protection against the vicissitudes of climate, and for means of subsistence in times of scarcity and famine. With only one of them, however, was he by any means intimate. In the presence of others he was distant and reserved with this one he was frank and familiar. Every evening at sunset they might be seen beneath the trees of the forest, conversing together in a low voice, the monk more generally listening to the words of his companion, whom he evidently regarded with the utmost respect. There was no very great disparity in their ages, yet the monk was manifestly the younger of the two. Though he could not account for the interest he took in the hermit, who had evidently seen much of life, and who had employed his powers of observation to the best purpose, he never allowed a day to pass without visiting him in his retirement, and listening to his eloquent conversation. as death approached, he grew more and more fond of the monk's society. He even ventured to reveal to him some events in his own history, and at last disclosed the motives by which he had been actuated in retiring from the world. He had committed a heinous crime-one at which human nature shuddered. He describes it all. He describes the object of his fiendish passions, the victim of his fearful crime. He has visited the Holy Sepulchre. He has lived a life of sorrow and repentance. He dies at last in humble hope. 66 May God forgive you as I do," cried the monk, "my name is Frederick Kuhner." He could say no more. The heart that had long been bursting broke itself at last. The murderer and his second victim lie buried in The old man at length felt his end draw near, but one grave. HARRIET NEWELL. BY CAROLINE C [ORIGINAL.] Speak not to me of deeds that shine in the sun-glare of light, I wot of nobler deeds than swell the trumpet voice of Fame, are there Her native home-oh! ne'er till now seem'd it one half so fair! And asks of Heaven to guide her into the path of right; heaven, God had commission'd her-and forth in his great cause she went. 'Twas not the love of glory-'twas not that men might hear Of them who from life's earliest dawn had watched her with She went forth from her happy home-a year-and where was she? God took her-oh! He knew how far the will surpass'd the deed! Can'st thou not speak one warning word, nor guide one foot Can'st thou not break one cloud that turns the noonday into night? Can'st not direct one blinded soul to the great source of Light? The field-it spreaderh o'er the world-it compasseth the earth→→→ With parting words-God's strength alone her struggling soul It gathereth in its vast embrace each child of mortal birth! drew near might cheer, Then while the sun shines o'er thee, and shows thee work to do, When she looked upon the bended forms, and on the snow-white I bid thee, woman! in His name, unto thyself be true- Of them who gave her life within a world so passing fair, THE Original Somerset House, which was first built by the ambitious Earl of that name three centuries since, and afterwards inhabited by various queens and other royal personages, among them Queen Bess, stood on the site which the present building occupies. The Somerset House, of which the above engraving gives a correct view of the street front, was never occupied as a palace. It is one of the finest buildings in London, and makes a much better appearance when seen from the river than the street view exhibits. It has always been used by government for public offices, excepting certain parts which have been given for the use of learned societies. The Royal Academy held its first exhibition of paintings in Somerset House, where they were continued until the erection of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, a view of which we shall give in a succeeding number of our magazine. The architect of Somerset House was Sir William Chambers. From a Parliamentary return printed in 1790, it appears that a sum of 334,703 pounds, had been expended, and a further sum of 33,500 pounds was still required. The site occupies an area of 800 feet by 500 feet, being a few feet less than the area of Russell-square. The front towards the Strand consists of a rustic basement of nine arches supporting Corinthian columns, and an attic in the centre with a balustrade at each extremity. Emblematic figures of Ocean and the eight principal rivers of England, in alto-relievo, adorn the key-stones of the arches. Statues of Justice, Truth, Valor, and Moderation, divide the attic into portions; the summit is crowned by the British arms supported by Fame and the Genius of England. (Cut, No. 4.) Opposite the entrance, in the court, is a bronze statue of George III, and at the foot of the pedestal a bronze figure emblematic of the Thames, by Bacon. The entrance on the western side of the vestibule leads to the apartments used by the Board constituting the University of London; and by the same staircase you ascend to the rooms appropriated to the Government School of Design. The whole of the left wing of Somerset House was left incomplete by Sir W. Chambers: but in 1829 this part of the edifice was completed from the designs of Sir R. Smirke, and it now forms King's College. The parts of Somerset House which are appropriated to science, learning, and the arts, are superior in magnitude to those applied for several departments of the Government. Passing by the offices belonging to the Duchy of Cornwall, there are those connected with the Navy, which are subordinate to the Central Board of Admiralty in Whitehall. First is the Admiralty Civil Department, &c. A PREDICTION. Translated from the French for Holden's Magazine. his anecdote, his fun, or his motto to this edifice of sarcasm and mockery. The great name of Voltaire was uttered, and loud eulogisms showered upon the patriarch of Ferney. It was he who compelled superstition and fanaticism to give place to reason, and they began to calculate the probable epoch of the approaching revolution. There were some present, who like Bailly, feared that their age would not permit them to witness it. In the midst of the general mirth, one alone, of all the guests, had taken no part in the oration thus tumultuously decreed to Voltaire. This guest, who by his sadness seemed to protest against the general en JACQUES Cazotte, after having passed a part of his life at Martinique, as overseer of the Leeward Islands, returned to France, where he was engaged in a famous law suit with the Society of Jesuits, who refused to pay a bill of exchange which he had received from Pere Lavalette, to whom he had sold his goods and possessions in Martinique. Having gained his suit, he established himself in the borough of Pierry, near Epernay, where he devoted himself to literature, in the bosom of his family, to which he was warmly attached. He would have been completely happy if his business had not called him, from time to time, to Paris. At each visit he returned more and more dejected. The revolution, of which he had a presenti-thusiasm, was Cazotte. ment, was advancing with gigantic strides. The "Yes," cried Cazotte, we shall all behold this death of his wife increased his melancholy, and he resigned himself to the practice of a devotion which bordered upon the ascetic. The aspirations of his youth had become reality for him. He asserted that he had visions, and that he could penetrate the mysteries of the future. He had undertaken, himself alone, to convert the eighteenth century, and he believed firmly in his mission. This monomania for conversion gained Cazotte no enemies, as every one was convinced that it was harmless; it had the effect, on the contrary, of drawing a number of friends around him. Cazotte's presence in Paris was the signal for a kind of literary festival. On his last visit Champfort invited him to a grand dinner, at which all the wits of the city were to be present. After much persuasion the hermit of Pierry consented to be a guest. grand and sublime revolution. Nothing can change the decrees of Providence. The spirit has told me that we shall all behold it!" Having uttered these words, he relapsed into the gloomy revery into which he had been plunged during the repast. "We hope, indeed, to be both witnesses and actors in this great drama of deliverance," replied the guests. "Here is a fine prophet!" Prophet! yes, I am one !" replied Cazotte, roused by these words from his revery. "The drama of the revolution has just passed before me; I know that which is doing, and that which will be done. And you, who are around me, would you know in what manner you will be both actors and witnesses!" Let us hear," said Condorcet, with the gloomy smile which was peculiar to him, "Habacuk has the floor." Cazotte rose, and gazing sadly for some moments at the speaker, he stretched his arm towards him in an attitude of menace, and exclaimed: 66 'You, M. de Condorcet, overwhelmed with indignation and calumnies, will expire upon the pavement of a dungeon, enraged at having delivered over your country to the tyranny of the populace; you will die from poison, which you will take to escape the scaffold." The dining hall was magnificently furnished. The ceiling, hung with garlands, sparkled with the light of a thousand tapers. The walls were covered with sumptuous tapestry. A numerous and select company had taken their seats around the table. Among the guests were seen Condorcet, Vicq d'Azyr, de Nicolai, Bailly, de Malesherbes, Roncher, and La Harpe. The Duchess of Grammont and several other women, equally celebrated in the annals of the times, displayed all the elegance and luxury of their apparel. As The company were silent. The wine, however, usual, their revelry was joyous and brilliant. At the was still fermenting in their heads; the domestics dessert the wines of Malvoisie and of Constance, the came to renew the tapers, and the guests refilled their nectar of Epernay, as it was then called, gave to their glasses; they now recollected that Cazotte was subpolished gaiety that air of freedom which sometimes ex-ject to hallucinations of this kind, and they gave loose ceeds the bounds of propriety. It was a genuine petit to their merriment. "M. Cazotte," said they, "the souper, of the eighteenth century, with its bold jests, its tale that you give us is not as amusieg as your Diable sallies of gallantry, its songs slightly ambiguous. The amoureux." guests conversed of everything, of politics, of religion, of philosophy, and even a little about the Deity-but this, as one can readily imagine, only to express doubts of his existence. Champfort, who kept up a famous correspondence with Mirabeau, related, without the slightest disguise, the life of this man, who was celebrated as yet only for his excesses; then he read several of his impious and licentious tales, a thorny task, to which the high dames listened without resorting to their fans. The tone once given, nothing more restrained the guests; one recited a tirade from La Pucelle, another repeated a chapter from Diderot, each contributed "I prefer the Lord impromptu," cried another. "I prefer the Thousand and one follies," added Champfort. "You, M. Champfort," resumed Cazotte, "you will open your veins with two-and-twenty cuts of the razor, and still you will survive your two-and-twenty wounds for two months." 66 Each gazed at the others and endeavored to laugh. Vicq d'Azyr began to thunder forth a De Profundis. You do well, M. Vicq d'Azyr, you are chaunting your own funeral anthem. You will not open your veins, for you will fear lest your hand should tremble; you will require this service of a friend, to be more sure of the deed, and bathed in your blood you will expire in the agony of the gout, at midnight. Stay, look at yonder clock; it is about to strike the hour of your death!" The hand pointed to a quarter of one, upon the golden dial. By a movement which they were unable to control, all the guests rose one after the other. As they did so, Cazotte, like a shepherd counting his flock, numbered successfully his victims. "You will die upon the scaffold," he said to Nicolai; "you likewise, M. Bailly; you likewise, M. Malesherbes; you likewise, M. Boucher. The scaffold or suicide awaits you all." Terror began to gain upon the guests. Still, all endeavored to appear unconcerned. They whispered to each other: "You see he is mad! he jests, and he always blends something of the marvellous with his pleasantries. Cazotte is not one of the Illuminati for nothing." Notwithstanding these words of mutual encouragement, the women listened to these prophecies with more seriousness. The duchess of Vitre, in order to encourage her companions, inquired at what time all this would happen. "Six years will not pass away before all that I have told you will be fulfilled." "Here is a harvest of miracles," (it was La Harpe who now spoke,)" and do you count me for nothing among these marvels?" "What is that you say? Why, it is the end of the world you are preaching." "It is possible; but that which is certain, is this: you, Madame the Duchess de Grammont, will be conducted to the scaffold, you, and many other dames with you, with your hands bound behind your back." "I hope that, in that case, I shall at least have a carriage hung with black." "No, madame; ladies of higher rank than yourself will ride thither in a cart, and with their hands bound like yours." "Ladies of higher rank! What, princesses of the blood?" "Ladies of still higher rank!" Here there was a general movement in the assembly. No one insisted upon a more explicit answer. The tapers spread but a dim light through the apartment; fatigue and alarm were visible in the pale features of the guests; the remnants of the repast lay scattered about the table, across which fell, from time to time, the fantastic shadows of the dawn, as it crept through the lofty windows. Cazotte's voice broke the silence. He cried in a gloomy, hollow tone: "I have gone seven times about the ramparts, and I have cried: Woe to Jerusalem! woe to Jerusalem! woe to myself!" The duchess of Vitre dared not put another question to Cazotte. Madame de Grammont, in order "You will indeed be counted among them, and as not to appear alarmed, said with an evident effort: a marvel to the full as extraordinary as the rest. I "6 You will see! he will not have me even a conbehold you striking with your bare forehead the mar-fessor." ble pavement of the sanctuary; you kiss the hand of one of those priests at whom you mock to-day; you... seek after peace of heart in the gloom of the cloister, and after repose of conscience in the pardon which comes from the lips of a confessor." This prophecy, less sad, although perhaps more surprising than the rest, somewhat restored gaiety to this circle, which Cazotte's vision had just decimated. "I breathe again!" cried Champfort, "if we do not die until La Harpe is converted we are immortal!" The example given by the duchess of Vitre was soon followed by Madame de Grammont. "We are very fortunate, we women," she said, "to be counted for nothing in revolutions. When I say for nothing, I do not mean that we do not generally meddle a little with them, but it is agreed upon that we are not to be held to an account for it, and our sex," she added, turning to Cazotte with a careless tone, "will doubtless But the prophet was pitiless. protect you." "Your sex will not 66 No, madame," continued the inexorable seer, last victim who will enjoy this privilege will be'you will have none, neither you nor the others. The He paused for a moment. 66 this prerogative ?" "It is the last of his prerogatives which will remain to the King of France." After this prediction, since become so famous, for, the chance which had dictated, seemed to take pleasure in fulfilling it, in all its details, Cazotte saluted the company and departed, leaving his auditors sunk in profound stupor.* * Cazotte's sagacity was very remarkable; his connection with the Illuminati may have added a degree of enthusiasm to this bined with a perfect knowledge of the men and affairs of his age, faculty, and it is not impossible but that this enthusiasm, commay have given, at times, a singular correctness to his predictions. Prophets are not necessarily sorcerers; a little good sense is, often, all that is requisite. La Harpe, who was one of the actors in the singular drama which we have recounted, refers to it in his memoirs. |