me told me that the king now appeared on the terrace only at stated hours, but that formerly he was to be seen at any time for five francs. For five francs! I cried, with amazement; 'does he then show himself for money?' 'No; but he is shown for money, and it happens in this way: There is a society of claqueurs, marchands de contremarques, and such riff-raff, who offered every foreigner to show him the king for five francs; if he would give ten francs, he might see the king raise his eyes to heaven, and lay his hand protestingly on his heart; if he would give twenty francs, the king would sing the Marseillaise. If the foring under the king's windows, and his Majesty appeared on the terrace, bowed and retired. If ten francs, they shouted still louder, and gesticulated as if they had been possessed, when the king appeared, who then, as a sign of silent emotion, raised his eyes to heaven, and laid his hand on his heart. English visitors, however, would sometimes spend as much as twenty francs, and then the enthusiasm mounted to the highest pitch: no sooner did the king appear on the terrace, than the Marseillaise was struck up and roared out frightfully, until Louis Philippe, perhaps only for the sake of putting an end to the singing, bowed, laid his hand on his heart, and joined in the Marseillaise. Whether, as is asserted, he beat time with his foot, I cannot say.'" First, this book is written in German. Secondly, in order to read this book a man must understand German. Thirdly, M. Cousin does not understand German. . . . I fear I am passing unawares from the sweet waters of praise into the bitter ocean of blame. Yes, on one account I cannot refrain from bitterly blaming M. Cousin; namely, that he who loves truth far more than he loves Plato and Tenneman, is unjust to himself when he wants to persuade us that he has borrowed something from the philosophy of Schelling and Hegel. Against this self accusation, I must take M. Cousin under my protection. On my word and conscience! this honorable man has not stolen aeigner gave five francs, they raised a loud cheerjot from Schelling and Hegel, and if he brought home any thing of theirs, it was merely their friendship. That does honor to his heart. But there are many instances of such false accusation in psychology. I knew a man who declared that he had stolen silver spoons at the king's table; and yet we all knew that the poor devil had never been presented at court, and accused himself of stealing these spoons to make us believe that he had been a guest at the palace. No! In German philosophy M. Cousin has always kept the sixth commandment; here he has never pocketed a single idea-not so much as a salt-spoon of an idea. All witnesses agree in attesting that in this respect M. Cousin is honor itself. I prophesy to you that the renown of M. Cousin, like the French Revolution, will go round the world! I hear some one wickedly add: Undeniably the renown of M. Cousin is going round the world, and it has already taken its departure from France." One more quotation, and it must be our last: "O the women! We must forgive them much, for they love much-and many. Their hate is properly only love turned inside out. Sometimes they attribute some delinquency to us, because they think they can in this way gratify another man. When they write, they have always one eye on the paper and the other on a man; and this is true of all authoresses, except the Countess HahnHahn, who has only one eye." WHEN I was a boy, I lived with my | I think I should have gone like the rest, father and mother, in a little cottage, in a if it had not been for a neighbor's son, village in Warwickshire. He was a farm-named George, who was most uncommon laborer; my mother had enough to do with her family, but at harvest and hay-time she worked in the fields, and what she earned was a great help. She had a good many children; but one way or other, they all died except me and my brother. kind to me; he helped my mother nurse me when I was ill of a fever, and he was good to me ever after. He was some years older than me, and what made him take to me, I am sure I cannot tell; but that I should love him in return is no won der at all. I worshipped him, and that is the only word to use for it. He used to tell me no end of stories about robbers and wild beasts; but above all about battles. He used to make me windmills, and boats, and kites, and gave me endless balls of string and knives; but what I cared for most of all, was, that he let me follow him about wherever he went, and take his dinner to him out in the fields, and send me on all his errands. I felt very proud to go; for I would have laid myself down under his feet if he had wanted me. Though I was quite a little chap, he used to talk to me as if I were his equal. He told me how he hated a dull country life, and how he longed to go away, and to seek his fortune in distant parts. He would have enlisted for a soldier, if it had not been for his mother, who would have broken her heart. She was a meek, good woman, who had been tyrannized over by a brutal husband, who had been groom to a gentleman. He broke his neck, trying to break in a vicious horse. Although, being drunk at the time, it was his own fault, the gentleman pensioned the widow; so that George had all the money he earned for himself. He did not take after his father, but held himself aloof from the other fellows in the village, and never set foot in an ale-house -not from pride, but because he took pleasure in other things. He was always studying at one thing or other every leisure moment; especially he tried to pick up all he could about battles, and he used to draw plans of battles upon an old slate. At last a change came over him—a sort of fever and he grew desponding and unhappy. He used to talk to me a great deal, but I could only feel very sorry for him; I could say nothing to comfort him. His mother, poor body, saw that all was not right, and feared he would take after his father. She used to preach to him out of the catechism, and tell him, it was his duty to be content in the state of life to which he was born; it was all very good, but not suitable to his case. He hated his occupation, and yet, oddly enough, it was only in his work he seemed to find any relief. He did as much as three men, and then asked for more. Well, the truth must come out at last -George turned poacher. Poaching is a breach of the law of the land. I say no more about that; but I believe myself, that gentlemen who have a regular license to shoot, and who preserve their own game, have not half the enjoyment in a whole season's shooting, that there is in one night's good poaching. However, you see poaching has this drawback: the fellows who take to poaching leave off honest hard work; they slink out of daylight, and haunt public houses, and take to low, idle habits of every kind. The love of adventure kills the habit of steadygoing industry. They would do capitally out in the Australian bush, or at the diggings; but they plague the life out of churchwardens, overseers, constables, and squires. So they make a mess of it, and get into trouble; which is a pity, for you would not believe what fine, likely young fellows many of them are, to begin with. George, for his part, was too proud, and respected himself too much, to fall into disreputable ways. He never would take me with him; though when I saw him preparing his tackle, and cleaning his gun, I used to beg very hard that he would let me go; but he was always quite stern and resolved. However, he used to let me take care of his things, and I was very proud to do that. We made a hiding-place under some furze bushes, where no keepers would think of looking, and where every thing could be kept quite dry. I had the charge of his dog, tooa knowing, sensible brute, who loved the sport as much as his master; he was a strong, lean, yellow, cross-bred dog, with long hair and a feather tail: he knew as well as we did that he must keep quiet during the day; and, though I sometimes did my best to 'tice him, I could never prevail upon him to have a game of play. As soon as he had eaten his dinner, he would curl himself up, with his nose under his tail, and go off to sleep as sensible as a Christian; he knew that his master would give him exercise enough at night. We had made a place for him to live under the bushes close by where the tackle was kept, and we knew that nobody could meddle with it so long as he was there. Things went on in this way for some months. George's mother, who had always been ailing, fell into a kind of waste, and the doctors said she could not last long. George was always a good son, and he watched and waited on his mother like a woman. He would not have had her know any thing of his going out at nights for the world; and, though it was well known in the village, the neighbors had too much good feeling to tell her. George was greatly cut up by his mother's illness, but he told me that when she was taken he would not stay in the place a day, but would go for a soldier. I nearly broke my heart when he said this, but he comforted me by saying, that he would send for me, and we should share our fortune together. But this was not to be. One night a party of men asked George to head them on an expedition into the woods of Lord Capelcurry, where there was to be a battue the next day. Of course all the keepers were on the alert, but that was a temptation rather than not. George asked me to be with his mother for that evening, and to read to her to keep her from asking questions. I consented, though I would much rather have gone with the party. I saw George go away, and then went to the cottage of his mother, to whom I told a natural story to account for his absence. She soon grew weary of the reading, and talked and maundered on about former days, before she was married, and about her first meeting with her husband, and how much he was in love with her, and what a good husband he had been before he was led astray by bad company. I was thinking of George; but I was a good listener, and remained with her till she went to bed, and then I went home. Early the next morning I was awakened by bad news: there had been a desperate affray with the poachers the night before; one of Lord Capelcurry's keepers was killed, and another seriously wounded. All the poachers had made their escape except George, who had been taken, and was dreadfully hurt. The news spread like wild-fire; the constables were abroad; three of the poachers were secured, but the others managed to find safe hiding. It was impossible to keep the news from George's mother, and you may fancy the misery it caused. I was nearly frantic, and walked all the way to the jail in the next town, which was fif teen miles off, in the hopes of seeing George. Of course I was not admitted, but I learned that he was in the infirmary, and his wounds were doing well. I was nearly mad. I could have beaten down the gates to get at him; and when I was turned away, I thought I would set the town on fire to revenge him. Some friends of the other men who had been taken were very kind to me, and kept me from doing mischief to myself or any one else. There lived in the town a very clever man, who was looked up to as a sort of prisoner's friend; for if a man got into trouble, Mr. Messent was always ready to take his part; and he often got a prisoner off, when there had not seemed a chance in the world for him. We all went to him and told him our case. He spoke kindly, and seemed to be very sorry about George and the other men. He talked of the game laws in a way that was a real comfort to us, and we went home in better heart. All the village joined to help to pay the money for the defense. After Mr. Messent had been admitted to see the prisoners, he drove over to our village to collect evidence and examine witnesses. He called to see George's mother. He brought her a message from her son. He brought me a kind word from him too. Altogether he kept up our spirits wonderfully. When, at last, the assizes came on George was recovered enough to take his trial. All the prisoners were found guilty, and George was declared to be the one who fired the shot that had been the actual cause of the gamekeeper's death. The judge, in his address, declared it to be one of the most aggravated cases he had ever tried, and called upon the prisoners to rejoice in the lenity of the sentence; which was, that George was to be transported for the term of his natural life, and all the others for fourteen years. I saw George once-for one moment. I and the friends of the other prisoners were allowed to stand in the yard as they were conveyed to the van. I sprang forward and grasped one of his hands; he said cheerfully: "Good-by, old fellow; we will meet again." George's mother never looked up again: she died before the week was out. The gang of poachers was entirely broken up, and Lord Capelcurry and his keepers had their hares and partridges in peace. The keepers had killed George's dog; but I gathered together all the odd matters that had belonged to him, and which nobody disputed with me. I then turned my back upon the place where I had lived, and went to seek for work elsewhere. I might have been then about sixteen. The gardener at Squire Munsford's had The gentleman took no notice of my looks, but quietly asked, if he could be shown over the house-he had a card to view it. He alighted, and I walked behind him like a person in a dream; the more I looked at the stranger the more perplexed I was with the resemblance. He was evidently a military man, and had the mark of a sabre-cut across his forehead. He addressed me as a perfect stranger, and asked many questions, which I answered without well knowing what I said. That George should have become a gentleman and ride in his carriage was quite likely enough; but I felt sure that, however grand he might become, he would never change towards me. At last he drove away, and I did not know whether to feel glad or sorry. married my mother's sister; so I went | believed that it was George himself I saw there first, to see if he could give me a before me. place. It was ten miles on the other side of the village where all these things had taken place. Both he and my aunt received me very kindly. I was made under-gardener and helper to my uncle; it was a good place, and I lived there for five years. My uncle was a Scotchman, and he took pains with my learning; for he was a man of some education himself. At the end of that time, he went to be head gardener to Sir Robert Palmer, and I was promoted by Squire Munsford to his place. This was considered a great piece of good luck, and so it was; but you see, I only cared for one thing in this world, and that was, to save money enough to be able to join George across the water. I went home sometimes to see my father and mother at the old place. My brother-I told you I had one-did not turn out comfortably, and ended by running away to sea; so I had to help the old people, which kept me from saving so much as I might otherwise have done. One time, when I was down there, I heard a rumor that George had escaped from the gang of convicts, and had got clear off, along with two others, after killing the overseer. This state-fashioned, and would have fetched nothing ment had made the round of the newspapers; yet Botany Bay was so far off, no one could rightly tell whether to believe this or not; but every body who had known him wished George well; and, after I had been gardener it might be about ten years, Madam Munsford died, and the Squire broke up his establishment and went to live in another part of England. I was left in charge of the place, with a man under me, to keep the grounds in order; and an old servant was left in the house. After Squire Munsford's deathwhich followed that of his wife in a couple of years the place came into the market to be sold; and the estate was divided into lots, some of which went with the house, and others separate. A good many parties came to view the house; but for some it was too large and for others too small, and from one cause or other it remained a couple of years unlet. One morning, as I was mowing the lawn, I saw a grand travelling-carriage stop before the gate. A gentleman who was inside beckoned me to come to him. I went; but when I reached the window, I nearly dropped down with surprise, for I surely A few days afterwards, he returned, accompanied by a man of business; and, after much examination of documents and comparing of deeds, Major Rutherford (as George's Double was called) became the owner of the house and certain lots of land lying around. A nice, compact little property it was. The furniture was old Be at a sale; but it suited the house, and was If I had expected the Major to be like what I recollected of George, I was much mistaken: he was like George certainly; but it was George possessed by a devil. All the gloomy, moody discontent which had overshadowed him in the latter days of our intercourse, seemed to be hardened and exaggerated in the Major into a bitter, grinding sense of wrong and injustice. He had evidently lived a stormy, adventu rous life; and although he had conquered fortune and position, yet he was scornful As for myself, I was much attached to him, partly for his own sake, and partly for the sake of old times, which he so strangely brought back to me, though he never, by the most trivial word or deed, recognized any former state of intercourse. A year passed on without any remarkable occurrence; but then, there befell a curious adventure. The Major and I went to attend an agricultural dinner that took place in the next town, which is a cathedral town, As we returned home, it was a bright moonlight night. The streets were deserted; every body was in bed; but, as we drove past the cathedral, I distinctly saw a figure at one of the lower windows, fluttering a handkerchief, and I fancied I heard a faint voice cry, "Help!" I do not believe in ghosts, but I confess my heart beat thick. and contemptuous-unthankful, one might | was too much of a reformer, and made no say, for all the comforts and advantages allowance for the natural unwillingness of he had won in his battle of life. It was men to walk in new ways. He liked to understood that he was a gentleman by be in the opposition, and would any day birth, of good though decayed family; have preferred to fight for his own way, that he had entered the East India Com- rather than obtain it uncontested. pany's service when very young, and had won his promotion by heading more than one forlorn hope. The means by which he had obtained his fortune was not exactly known; but men in those days always made their fortunes in the East. The neighboring gentlemen all called upon him; but his opinions and theirs clashed at all points; they were all good, steady church and king men, tories of the old school-the Major had brought home with him startling political notions about reform in parliament, and extension of the suffrage, which he propounded with a reckless audacity that nearly sent some of his most respectable visitors into fits of apoplexy. He also took the earliest opportunity of quarrelling with the rector of the parish, who was a magistrate as well as a clergyman; and, in that capacity, had committed three men for some trifling trespass upon his own property. The Major declared that this was a most unchristian proceeding, and refused to attend. church; the large family pew in the pretty village church consequently remained untenanted Sunday after Sunday, to the intense disgust of the rector, and the great scandal of the county-side. But the crowning act of his unpopularity was, that, at a supper which he gave to the tenants and farmers on his estate, he announced his intention of not preserving his game, and gave them all free permission to kill whatever they found on their own land. This proceeding was in such direct opposition to the customs of the county, that the gentry looked upon it as a reflection upon them, and resented it accordingly. They all cut the Major, and spoke of him as an infidel, a Jacobite, and a revolutionary democrat. The Major took all this with great indifference, and seemed, indeed, to enjoy exasperating their prejudices. To his own tenants, he made a kind, but strictly just landlord. All the fences, farm-houses, and buildings were kept in perfect repair; the cottages of the laborers were rebuilt. He showed the greatest desire to make the condition of all who depended on him as good as possible; but, in spite of the substantial benefits he conferred, he was any thing but popular; he "Good Heaven!" said the Major, "some one has been buried alive and is trying to escape!" "More likely some poor mad creature who has escaped from confinement, and has hidden herself there." Again we heard the cry of "Help." The Major sprang from the gig. I did not like him to go alone, but the horse was young and spirited, and could not be left. The Major soon returned. "We must find out the sexton," said he hastily; "it is a poor young woman who has been locked in by accident. She seems to be nearly mad with fear." There was not a soul to be seen about. We did not the least in the world know where the keys were kept; but we were obliged to do something. After knocking up several wrong people, who did not bestow blessings upon us for our pains, we at length discovered the clerk, and with some difficulty got him and his lantern into the street. The Major and he went together to the cathedral, and I remained with the gig. They soon returned, carrying between them a young girl, who seemed to be dead. They took her into the house, and the clerk's wife came down stairs; lights appeared in the various houses whose inmates we had disturbed, and night-capped heads were popped out |