Once only, Edgar ;

But that thought lasted long.

And still entreating him to wed the Princess, and so save himself for usefulness and honour, she puts the poison to her lips, and dies as she joins their hands. Poor Oulita judged that by thus unselfishly sacrificing herself, she would make the Count feel himself free.

It was a useless sacrifice. He tells the Princess he loves her now for her true love for the dead; but he has no heart to offer. No word says the

Princess, her haughty spirit quite cowed and broken; Ermolar receives his master's last request to bury Oulita where she died, and to mark her grave; and as the sad song of the exiles is resumed, the Count, seemingly stunned beyond present sense of his utter desolation, kisses Oulita's face, and resumes his march towards Siberia. Ah, the agony and wildness of grief will be upon him to-morrow! And by the fair serf's corpse, in whose sad lot and noblest heart we have grown to feel an interest so profound, there sits, with covered face, the Small Wise Man;-a jester to smile at no more, but a figure of overwhelming pathos.

L'honneur oblige! How hard some men would find it to understand the invisible restraints that drove the Count into exile, while fortune, fame, and power were beckoning him back if he would but

A A

come! And how hard, too, to understand Oulita's noble self-devotion; and the self-devotion of the Princess, scarcely less complete!

And now, as we draw our notice of the tragedy to a close, we turn over the pages once more: and, as at every opening of the volume, our eye falls upon some beautiful felicity of expression, some life-like incident that almost startles by the everyday reality it gives the story, some thought so deep, gentle, and kind, wherein the author's own mind speaks to his reader,-we feel how far such an abstract as our space enables us to give, falls short of the effect which would be produced by the perusal of the play itself on the heart of every generous man and gentle woman. We do not think that our nerves are shattered into a morbid facility of emotion, and the hand that writes these lines is not a woman's; yet we should hardly like to tell how often the tear has started as we read this book,-how many hours it kept sleep away,or even how often and how long we have paused and mused with the finger in the half-closed volume. We do not pretend to much acquaintance with stage-craft; and it is possible enough that the very thoughtfulness which makes Oulita so fascinating to the solitary scholar, might detract from its power of popular effect were it represented on the stage. For ourselves, we do not think it would. There is incident rapid and stirring enough to keep attention

ever on the stretch: and the reflections are such that, while arresting the thoughtful reader who can follow the track along which they point, they will touch the mind and heart of average humanity. Of course, if Hamlet were published at the present day, many critics would call it dull and heavy, and many theatrical managers would not risk its presentation on their boards. And the variety of rhythm and cadence, the occasional abruptness and deviation from common metrical rules, which render the versification of a vigorous drama such as some judges would call unmusical, seem to our mind a beauty and an excellence in verse which is meant to be spoken and heard, rather than to be read; which represents real and passing life; which is put in the mouth of many diverse characters; and which is to be listened to without intermission. for two or three successive hours. Smoothness, in Pope's use of the word, would pall and disgust by so long continuance. And only great variety of metrical character-even the occurrence of occasional discords-can furnish the similitude of life. When one goes to the Opera, one must be content to leave common sense at the door, and to take for granted that all that passes shall go on the basis of an extreme conventionality. But in the case of a tragedy, if the writing and the presentation be worthy, the spectator should forget that he is not looking at reality. The author of Oulita has kept

this in view. Yet while remembering that unvaried melody of rhythm would result in satiety and tediousness, no one knows better how to add the charm of music to thoughts with which it accords. Very beautifully, in the lines which follow, have we Mr. Thackeray's ever recurring theory of the prevalence of the affections even in the trimness of modern life:

So dear that in the memory she remains,

Like an old love, who would, indeed, have been
Our only love, but died; and all the past

Is full of her untried perfections, while
Amidst the unknown recesses of our hearts
Enthroned she sits, in tenderest mist of thought,
Like the soft brilliancy of autumn haze,
Seen at the setting of the sun and such
Is Venice-to pronounce her name is sweet,
Just as I love to say the word 'Oulita.'

R

IX.

THE ORGAN QUESTION.*

EPUBLICANS are born, not made,' says the lively author of Kaloolah; and so, we have long held, are those persons who may be called true-blue or divine-right Presbyterians. A certain preponderance of the sterner elements, a certain lack of capacity of emotion, and disregard of the influence of associations, -in brief, a certain hardness of character to be found chiefly in Scotland, is needed to make your outand-out follower of the bold, honest, but narrow Covenanters. The great mass of the educated members of the Church of Scotland have no pretensions to the name of divine-right Presbyterians:

The Organ Question: Statements by Dr. Ritchie and Dr. Porteous for and against the Use of the Organ in Public Worship, in the Proceedings of the Presbytery of Glasgow, 1807-8. With an Introductory Notice, by Robert S. Candlish, D.D. Edinburgh. 1856.