"You see, then," continued the baron, after a pause, "how needful it is to be more indulgent to others, and less confident of yourself. All men have the germ of the same weaknesses, though different positions may develope them differently. Forgive the rich man his neglect and harshness, and he will forgive you your ill-will and envy. It is not by placing the one class in opposition to the other that any improvement can be effected, but by enlightening each according to its wants."

"And it was for this reason that Monsieur de Robach has exposed me to such freaks of fortune?" said Bardanon bitterly. "He has made me a subject of observation; he wished to experiment on the living subject, without troubling himself as to what might be the result of such a trial."

"Pardon me, Master Bardanon," answered Monsieur de Robach, "Madame de Randoux, who has been aware of all this, has already repaired the wrong you had done yourself; and to prove it she has brought Nicette back to you," he added, as the innkeeper's daughter entered with the widow.

The poor girl had been casily consoled by being told that Bardanon's breaking their engagement was merely an experiment; that the estate of Rovembourg did not belong to him, and that he loved her more than ever. Nicette believed all that it was desirable for her to believe; and the Provençal, ashamed of his behaviour, received her with so much tenderness and humility, that she was affected even to tears.

During this reconciliation, the baron spoke to Topfer, and got his consent to the marriage of the hairdresser and Nicette, to whom he gave a dowry of 6,000 florins.

The party set out the same evening for Oberhausberg, where the marriage was celebrated a month afterwards. Bardanon profited by the lesson, but was not entirely cured of his critical propensities. At times he would commence a violent fit of invective against the rich and powerful; then his young wife would bring accidentally the name of Rovembourg into the conversation, and the Provençal would instantly cease.

AUTHORS AND ARTISTS AT FLORENCE. A LETTER from Florence, published in the Newark Advertiser, has the following:

"Among the English authors living here are Mrs. Somerville, the Brownings, Charles Lever; Mr. Kirkup, the antiquarian; Mr. Tennyson, brother of the poet laureate, and who has himself a volume of poems now in the press; and Mrs. Trollope, who made her début in authorship through her libellous work on America. Since then her prolific brain has produced eighty-nine volumes of tales. Not unproductively, however, for her, since she has reaped therefrom an abundant pecuniary harvest, and now occupies a beautiful villa, built by herself and son, who is also a successful story-teller. Mrs. Trollope has one of the largest and choicest of the private libraries in the city. The library-room is an expansive Gothic hall, the furniture being all after the antique, and decorated with statuary and paintings. In this hall she holds her Saturday morning receptions, and, strange to say, she affects Americans so much as to hunt them up and load them with hospitalities. She is an affable, pleasant old lady, of about seventy, and was probably more disgusted with her pecuniary misadventures in the United States than with the people she ridiculed in her spleen.

"Mrs. Somerville is now about seventy-three years old, in an excellent state of preservation, and is altogether a remarkable woman. She rises early, devotes her time till noon to scientific study and writing, and at other times occupies herself much with sketching from nature, painting in oil, and embroidery; thus showing that the

pursuit of mathematics is not incompatible with a love for the fine arts. No living woman ever received more flattering compliments from her own government, and from great men of all nations, than Mrs. Somerville; her bust stands in the British Academy by the side of Sir Isaac Newton's, and Baron Humboldt has called her 'the greatest of women.' She is perfectly simple and unostentatious in her manners, and never refers to her own labours, which, notwithstanding the extensive circulation of her works, have yielded her small pecuniary benefit. But she has a pension from the British Crown and lives here with her husband, a retired surgeon of the navy, and their two daughters, going much into society, being welcomed everywhere and admired for her quiet manners and agreeable conversation. Mr. Lever lives generously in a palace; gives dinners sparkling with his wits and wines; loves horses, like a true Irish Englishman; rides on the cascine with his rosy-cheeked daughters on either side of him, and is literally a good fellow,' his conversation being as full of humour as his Irish tales.

Mr. Tennyson lives retired, though in easy and elegant circumstances, occupying a fine villa, filled with choice books and paintings. The Brownings still occupy the Casa Guidi, an old palace; never go into society, receive their friends quietly in the evening. Mrs. B. is physically as frail as her mind and verse are strong with such gentle, unpretending manners, and such a pleasant expression of face, that no one, to look at her, would believe that such force and passion could come out of such an apparently delicate, unperturbed nature. Mr. Browning is alive with good nature and humour, full of practical knowledge, and as plain and smooth in talk as he is obscure and rough in his writings; in short, as is the case with Mrs. B., the very opposite of the book."

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

ALTHOUGH We vastly admire Martin Tupper's book, and are accustomed to hold it up as a very high authority on all points whereof it treats, still we do not intend to plagiarise upon it further than for a title for our remarks.

Our present speculations refer to that philosophy which is to be found in those current sayings which are accustomed to be passed from mouth to mouth amongst us as observations which cannot possibly be contradicted. And a most unaccountably queer philosophy we think it is, undoubtedly. It is a common enough expression that "Proverbs are the wisdom of ages." In some cases, perhaps in the majority, we will admit that they are; but we must add that, in very many instances, they are also quite as certainly "the foolishness of ages." can find scarcely any course of action so base that we cannot find a proverb to justify it; scarcely any argument so absurd that we cannot find a proverb to support it; scarcely any single point disputed but proverbs can be brought up wholesale both pro and con.

We

Do we speak to the peace-at-any-price man, and tell him that tyranny in peace is worse than freedom in war, he shrugs his shoulders and answers "Anything for a quiet life." Do we tell him that it is not right to stand idly looking on and not stretch forth a helping hand when northern might is crushing eastern right? he draws himself up and mutters "Let every tub stand upon its own bottom." And yet such sentiments as these would, if acted upon, neutralize all incentives to exertion and effort, sanction wrong and oppression, and utterly sweep from the face of the earth all remnants of that race of "good Samaritans" who pass not by "on the other side," but

turn and bind up the wounds of those who have been illtreated.

Of course, as proverbs are so generally accepted, it is but natural that amongst them we should expect to find some which attempt to justify such acceptation. Hence, when we try to maintain any theory which appears contrary to generally received opinions, ten to one but we are told that "What everybody says must be true;" and it is useless to quote in return that "The mob has many heads, but no brains." One would think that the lives of Galileo, Columbus, and Stephenson had been written in vain, and that they were still deemed fit subjects for a commission de lunatico inquirendo, and their practical protestation against the inspiration of “everybody" utterly unheeded. Surely in vain did Dickens write "Everybody is often as likely to be wrong as right; and in the general experience everybody has been wrong so often, and it has taken in most instances such a weary while to find out how wrong, that the authority is proved to be fallible." The democrats still thunder "Vox populi vox Dei," and fruitlessly does Archibald Alison assert that quite as often we should say "Vox populi vox diaboli."

From the cradle to the grave we are plied, warned, puzzled, and taught with proverbs. We can fancy ourselves in frock and trowsers, just commencing our walk on the journey of life. There is a nurse or Mentor on either side of us well loaded with proverbs to discharge upon us at every corner which we turn. Here and there amongst those fired is a golden word which never fails, but generally it is met by some delusive counterpart calculated to undermine it. "Train up a child in the way he should go," says some one; "You cannot make a silk purse of a sow's ear," answers the other. And then we journey on again until we come into some juvenile dilemma from which we know not how to extricate ourselves, or whether it would be best to remain as we are. In one ear there is a whisper, "Anything for a change ;" and our other auricular catches the words "Never leap out of the frying-pan into the fire." After a while we fall aweary, and are inclined to rest, but are dissuaded from so doing by the sage information that "A rolling stone gathers no moss.' From this we suppose that the moss alluded to is something with which we must at all hazards avoid coming in contact, and therefore we inwardly resolve to keep continually upon the move. But, alas! no sooner is the resolution made than we are astounded by hearing the very same words used as an inducement to quietness, as if this moss were something wherewith to line our nests,-something without which we must not expect to get comfortably through the world. Therefore we are at last left in ignorance how the words really ought to be understood. We advance a little, and then we fall in love, and there is quite a war of proverbs on the subject.

"Strike while the iron's hot," says Dexter. "Marry in haste and repent at leisure," makes answer Sinister. "Happy is the wooing that is'nt long in doing," is the ready reply. And equally ready come the words, "Hottest love is soonest cold." And then the Spectator is opened, and the authority of Addison brought forward to tell us that "Those marriages generally abound most in love and constancy that are preceded by a long courtship. The passion should strike root, and gather strength before inarriage be grafted on it. A long course of hopes and expectations fixes the idea in our minds, and habituates us to a fondness of the person beloved." And how long Addison would go on we know not, for we cannot bear to listen to him upon this subject, knowing how notably he himself set aside his own marriage precepts when he married the old countess for her title. As may be supposed, we are on the whole very little enlightened on the question by the several remarks. We consider to marry, or not to marry, as the case may be. We are parted

from our beloved. Again proverbs come to bother us. Hope whispers us, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." But Fear makes answer, "Out of sight, out of mind." We are, therefore, just as much in the dark as ever, and, for light, must "bide our time." Suppose, however, that we have not married; then we are anxious to be doing something, to be stirring ourselves, and making our way in the world. We are not content with tying ourselves down to one hum-drum occupation, we would be many things at once, we would be different men in one, so we give a ready ear to the advice, "Keep two strings to your bow;" but then there is a counter-croak, "Between two stools you come to the ground." We weigh the matter for a while, and are unsettled till again we hear, "Kill two birds with one stone;" and even this fails to establish us for a long time, for our equilibrium is again disturbed by the words, "If you have too many irons in the fire, some of them will burn ;" and we are at last in desperation, and in firm resolve to have our own way, are obliged to resort to Dr. Clarke, and energetically read, "The old adage of 'Too many irons in the fire' is a great mistake. You cannot have too many; poker, tongs, and all-keep them all going."

On the other hand, we will suppose that we have married. Then, perchance, there come the cares of a family. We are anxious to know what to do with our boys. We hold a discussion on the subject with our other self. Perhaps we become rather heated in that discussion, and she must needs say, "Think twice before you speak once;" quite forgetting, dear soul, that though such words sound well as a maxim, still, if they were acted upon, there would be very little talking in the world. Perhaps, we are wishful to lead our child in some unfrequented path, where he will not be jostled by too many fellow strugglers, where he will have elbow room, where he can make himself seen and known, and not be lost in the vast crowd of similarity. We represent how worn out are all the ordinary occupations of life, how it is almost impossible in any of them to rise above mediocrity. She is anxious to agree with us, and says, "Yes, Everything is the worse for wearing.' "No, no," we answer; "not everything. We don't want so much concession as that. Surely virtue, goodness, kindness, and love, are not the worse for wearing. Why, then, say everything? She sees that she is equally wrong both when she agrees with and when she differs from us; so probably she concludes to leave the matter entirely in our own hands. Not so is it, however, with the Mentors at our elbows. They will not let us make our children anything out of the common way. They will keep whispering, "Never wade in unknown waters:" and vainly do we urge that it has only been by "wading in unknown waters" that all great discoveries have been made, all great deeds achieved, since the world began.

Still travelling on, we become anxious to withdraw from the turmoil and bustle of the world, and in some quiet corner find that peace and rest we long for. There is a speculation which we think an eligible investment" for our spare cash, and one which will probably enable us to put in operation our darling plan of "retiring." The one of our companions says,-"Venture a small fish to catch a large one;" but the other sternly says,-"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ;" so to settle the matter we read of what the "Dreamer of Elston" saw of the little boys in the house of the interpreter, and at last we decide to "venture the small fish."

And thus we dodge along throughout the journey until at length we come in sight of "the bourne from whence no traveller returns." Then we hear a solemn voice on our right hand warn us to "prepare," for "as the tree falleth so it lies." Yet again on our left we are tempted to procrastinate by the words, "It is never too late to mend.” But we are assured of the fallacy of this latter

assertion, we listen and again we hear, "Never too late! Oh yes, there is a time when it is too late." "There is no repentance in the grave." And when at last the curtain falls for good or ill, it falls to the tune of "A good maxim is never out of season;" with the refrain of Hell is paved with good intentions."

Surely, then, our proverbial code greatly needs revision. At present it is about as accommodating as the oracles of old, and will say anything whatever, just as we may wish it. If proverbs are to pass current, if they are to be counted undeniable pieces of verity, then by all means let us have some mint-mark upon them which shall show that they have been submitted to the inspection of the proverb-tester-generals, and cannot be gainsayed. Let all forgeries be called in by general proclamation, and remelted in the crucible of discrimination, so that when re-issued they may stand the test of the scales of judg ment, and the aquafortis of criticism. Let not, above all things, the new and improved coinage (that is to be) be of that gloomy kind which talks of "Misfortunes seldom coming alone;" of their "Coming by the pound and going away by the ounce." Let us have the word changed to Pleasures," for we humbly think that it is the truer statement, and that to talk otherwise is to evince a thankless spirit, and to show that the fault lies in ourselves alone for looking on all things with a jaundiced eye.

We would have no proverbs but those which are plain, pithy, well-digested, untwistable maxims of truth and uprightness; those that shall earn and claim for themselves the universally recognised title of "Words of Wisdom."

THE WAGER.
(Translated from the French.)

"DECIDEDLY you are mad, my dear de Marsan," said the
Count de Tévilly to a young officer of light cavalry, who,
holding a glass of vin d'Espagne in his hand, seemed to
challenge a dozen of young companions, whom a table
splendidly served excited at once to appetite and gaiety.
"Mad as much as you please," answered de Marsan,
"but I still renew my proposal: I defy you to take from
me this snuff-box, either by force or stratagem. Do you
take it?"

"How many days do you allow me to prove to you your folly?"

was forgotten; however it was, the two young men separated.

That night, towards eleven o'clock, not far from his house, de Marsan was accosted by two servants, who begged him respectfully to be good enough to stop a moment. At the same time, a man, enveloped in a long dressing-gown, brown with red stars, and preceded by two torch-bearers, appeared in the middle of the street, an enormous beard flowed nearly to the waist of this singular personage, who, approaching de Marson, bowed, and, in a strongly-pronounced nasal tone, said, "How do you do, sir?"

"That is a very extraordinary question," said de Marsan, after a moment's silence, caused by his astonish

ment.

'My dear sir, listen: my question is commonplace, I allow it, but here is what I would come to. You have a watch, ah! how happy you are! I have not, and I take medicine to-night, at two o'clock,-not a minute more, not a minute less; you can understand that for the exactitude of the thing I must have your watch

"Ah! ah!" cried de Marsan, who began to believe, he had encountered a mad man, and hoped to get away by frightening him. "It is then an ambush! Just waitHe was about to draw his sword,-the man with the beard made a sign,-in an instant four pistols were pointed at the young man, who, seeing this unanswerable argument, trembling with rage, drew out his watch. There, sir," said he, abruptly.

"A thousand thanks, dear sir," said the unknown; "I feel much indebted to you for your generous haste," added he, laughing.

"Now let me go."

This: to-morrow I have a duel, I require a sword, and have taken a fancy to yours; therefore, be so polite as not to refuse me, if not- he pointed to the armed domestics. De Marsan flung his sword at the feet of this mysterious personage.

"And now?"

Now, my dear sir, you are perfectly free."
It is very fortunate."

"Your way is direct; first to the right, second to the left, then third door to the right

Impertinent!"

"Too well-bred to contradict you. Accept, my dear sir, the assurance of my profound esteem, and my most sincere gratitude."

De Marsan had scarcely made ten paces, before a voice called him, "Sir!"

"Again! What do you want?

Will you be good enough to give me a pinch of snuff?"

"The plague stifle you! Here, take it!"

"Oh! the beautiful snuff-box! How splendidly it glitters in the moonlight! It belongs to you, sir!” Why do you ask?"

There, then! may the devil take you!"

"Heaven be with you! I am happy, sir, to have made your acquaintance in such an agreeable manner."

Freed at length from his tormentor, M. de Marsan made semblance to return home, but, instead, concealed himself in the angle of the street; from thence he saw his thief stop before a porte-cochère of sumptuous appearance, enter mysteriously into the house, then, nothing more, silence complete.

An instant after, De Marsan thunders at this door in a manner to wake the dead. They open; a servant shows his face only half-awake.

"What do you want?" "Your master?"

"Is in bed."

"Tell him I must see him." Impossible."

"I must, his life is menaced," said De Marsan, in a whisper.

"Oh! in that case follow me."

They mount, De Marsan enters a handsome apartment, and sees a man already of a certain age, preparing to enter his bed.

"Hush!" said De Marsan. "Hush! sir; dress yourself, and give me arms."

"What does that signify ?"

"It signifies that there are assassins hidden in the house; the wretches have just robbed me of everything."

'Oh, heaven!" cried the old man; "and when ?" "This instant, even; the thief and assassin, for I suppose that his intention is to murder you to-night, had on a dressing-gown, brown, with red stars."

"A dressing-gown," stammered the old man, struck.

"Yes, sir."

"Brown?"

"Yes, sir, with red stars."

horror

"Merciful heaven!" groaned the old man, striking his forehead in despair. My son, a robber! like that infamous d'Aubuisson.* Oh, my friend! come up with me, and confound this miserable Etienne." "Etienne!" thought De Marsan. "Oh! the infamous

There is then where his passion for play has led him. Come."

They reach his room; they enter. De Marsan nearly falls over a long black beard lying on the carpet, while from behind an alcove they hear loud peals of laughter.

"Do you dare," cried the old man, in a voice of thunder.

"Ah! my father, let me laugh," said a voice from the alcove; at the same time the owner of the voice made himself visible, a young man advanced. It was de Tévilly.

M. d'Aubuisson, a nobleman of ancient family, waylaid travellers with the armed hand, and carried to the gaming-table the proceeds of this dangerons mode of gaining money.

"Here, take back your snuff-box," said he to de Marsan, who stood stupified, and a little ashamed.

The supper gained by the Count de Téville took place; and the adventure was long talked of in the gay circles of Paris.

RECIPE FOR A NOVEL OF A CERTAIN SORT.
TAKE a fine summer's eve, with the sun's parting ray,
On a grove in the distance, rock, woodland, or bay;
Two companions benighted,-the elder, of course,
Tall and fair, is dismounted, and leading his horse;
Take a rustic adventure, a streamlet below,

A boat, a guitar; or if that does not do,

A designing mamma, and a nice morning call,
A few parties, a pic-nic, a dinner, a ball:

A girl of eighteen, with her smiles and her sighs,
With such light auburn hair, and such pretty blue eyes;
An ensign or colonel: a little fracas,

A run-a-way match, and the wrath of papa :
For an episode-well (let it not be too long),
Put a sonnet to Love or the Moon, and a song-
These materials provided-the ends made to meet-
Write away, and you'll find that your novel's complete,
In three volumes, post-Colburn, Marlborough Street.
E. W.

A PEEP AT SECRETS.

As the setting sun throws a hue of beauty and sublimity over clouds that would otherwise be but dull, heavy, unattractive masses, so poetry by a similar effect lends lustre to thoughts and feelings that would under any other auspices be even repulsive. Grumbling is excessively unpleasant when coming from an ordinary individual in ordinary language; and if persisted in is apt to cause him to be dubbed a bore; but hear Byron grumble—all Childe Harold is one long growl, and yet how enchanting it is. "But," cries some unhappy lover who has just been sighing over sad remembrances, "Byron's is melancholy sentiment-it is that which charms us so much." Exactly so, but are they not synonymous terms? however much the fact may argue against the old saying, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." When Byron declares his weariness of life, how different the effect produced by that declaration and the common grunt, "I wish I was dead." But grumbling is far from being the only mortal frailty canonised by poetry. Anger has been equally fortunate; how differently is it treated in fairy-land life and in commonplace life; one can hardly imagine that he was witnessing the same passion when "Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye," and when Jack called Bill a clumsy fool, and told him he would like to punch his head; and yet in both cases the impulsive agent was essentially the same. There are numerous other examples of the same fact, so apparent that any one may, with a moment's consideration, detect them. When the poet leaves his native shore he breathes a fond adieu, which delights us because arrayed under the Muse's banner; but under other circumstances the unfeeling world terms him home-sick. A tear has a most tender effect in poetry, but how we hate to witness blubbering in reality.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

THE HALF-PAY LIEUTENANT.

A WAR ANECDOTE.

THE close of the campaign in Holland in 1799 brought back to the shores of Old England many a maimed and scarred soldier who had fought and bled for his country, and carried her standard through a succession of battles. About the time alluded to the metropolis swarmed with disbanded soldiery, and the public had to accustom themselves to the sight of "red coats" admixing in every street with the sober black and drab costumes of the citizens. Many of the returned warriors carried sad souvenirs of their bravery. There were among the disbanded troops a quantity of officers, chiefly of subaltern rank, to whom, or a considerable proportion of them, a peace establishment merely brought half-pay and an unemployed life, little consonant with their active energies.

A favourite resort with the officers now out of commission was the vicinity of the clubs at the West End. They were to be distinguished at a glance by their bronzed faces, tarnished epaulettes, and faded uniforms.

The scene became shifted: it was changed to Downing Street, where the levees of the ministers soon overflowed with place-hunters, whose numbers the military certainly had materially increased. The Government did not altogether forget applicants so deserving as the latter, albeit difficulties arose on distributing civil appointments amongst military men. Some hesitation occurred at placing pens into hands more accustomed to swords. However, the civil service was nevertheless recruited from the ranks of the military, perhaps to an extent beyond its legitimate needs. But the Government were unable to place one quarter of the applicants, and the name of the disappointed was "Legion."

Among these unfortunates was the individual whose story we are about to relate. It may be thought a fitting companion piece of portraiture to the Poor Captain of Elia.

We derive the subjoined anecdote from the Mémoires of M. Dutens, who was private secretary to the Right Hon. C. Mackenzie in 1799. "In this year (wrote M. Dutens) I daily met with an old Scotch officer of sixty years or more, named Campbell; he had a high military deportment, but was tall, thin, and lame-much, indeed, in appearance like the old captain whom Gil Blas' describes meeting with while in the service of the Count de Lerma. This poor military gentleman was one of

[PRICE 1 d.

those who thronged at the Treasury and the bureaus of the ministry after the peace. Lieutenant Campbell's object was to get a place under Government; not a high salaried office or a sinecure, but just some small appointment in the Revenue or the Customs, if possible in the country. For with regard to his provincial preference, he had a wife and family, and he thought he could live more economically in the country than in town. He was prepared to turn his sword into a ploughshare, and, like Cincinnatus, he was ready also to turn his back upon the capital.

"All that I could do for my poor subaltern was to obtain him the wished-for audience of the minister of state; but Lieutenant Campbell's request to be employed in some small way in the civil service was received and treated as every ten in the dozen of such applications were by the minister-received certainly with politeness and civility, never refused, but dismissed, forgotten from the moment the door of the bureau closed upon the applicant. Lieutenant Campbell was bowed out in the usual manner. He, however, would not, for a long time, believe in the possibility of his failure. He had no idea of the deceptive nature of the Deus ex machina he sought to propitiate. He came often to Downing Street to hear when he was likely to be appointed, and where would be the scene of his duties? His naïveté in persisting thus with his faith in a political patron whom, in fact, he had only once seen, excited my sympathy, and I could not help feeling interested in so unfortunate and credulous a suitor. His gentlemanlike bearing distinguished him from the horde of place-hunters besieging the Government offices, and I determined I would see what could be done for him, notwithstanding his want of the usual credentials from high political personages for getting a place or a sinecure.

"It was when the lieutenant was well nigh wearied with dancing (poor fellow! hobbling were the better word) attendance with his maimed limb and seedy uniform in the purliens of Downing Street, that one day he came into my office in such a state of depression, dust, and fatigue, that I really felt pained to see him, and hastened to hand him a chair. He, however, declined it, but said in a tone of anguish,

"Ah! Sir, you are too good to be offended if I say that it is not for me to take my ease when I ought to be working for my bread.'

"The truth was out, and I managed to so receive the sad communication as not to add to his troubles by