that he was the murderer. In short, he was unanimously found guilty, and condemned to be shot.

"Alas, for poor Adolphe! I had an interview with him an hour before the fatal event. Knowing him from a child,-knowing, as it were, all the secrets of his soul,-my heart acquitted him. Yet was I the only one in camp who believed in his innocence. Though young and unwilling to leave the world, it was the thought of infamy, of his mother, of his betrothed, that gave poignancy to his anguish, and made the bitterness of death more bitter. To me he consigned the task of making his last adieus to those so dear to him,-of rescuing his memory, at least to them, from the ignominy attached to it; and, having mingled our tears, he prepared to meet his Maker.

"Nothing is so imposing, so awful, as a military execution!-the muffled drum, the firing party with their lowered arms,-the drawnup line, round which the criminal marches, stript of his sword, and with bare head,-the deep silence that reigns, suggesting that of the grave, weigh upon the heart of the coldest and most insensible.

Adolphe had summoned all his firmness for the occasion; his step was sure, his cheek had regained its natural hue, his eyes were raised to heaven, where he was about to be welcomed as a blessed spirit! I have him even now before me on his knees; the attitude in which he presented himself to the muskets of his comrades has never passed away! Methinks the fatal word of command to fire still rings in my ears; and then, transfixed with many wounds, he falls without a groan."

As the stranger concluded in these terms, deep and heavy groans and wild shrieks filled the room. The landlord of the inn lay struggling in strong convulsions on the floor. What had before seemed suspicion was now converted into certainty. The officer regarded him attentively; a sudden recollection flashed upon his mind; and, gnashing his teeth with concentrated vengeance as he hung over him and watched his distorted countenance, he muttered,

"Tis he! 'tis the bandit of the Alps! the innkeeper of Andermatt! the assassin of my friend!"

Shakspeare knew well the human heart when he makes Hamlet present to the eyes of his father's murderers the representation of the act in a play, so to self-convict them of their crime. But, thus related, it came still more keenly to the breast of the hardened wretch before us, and struck his conscience as with a knife! Never shall I forget the countenance of that man, or his words! During his ravings he betrayed his secret. Some dreadful spectre seemed to haunt him; he waved his hands wildly as though to drive it away! Thus was he carried by his wife and daughter to his chamber.

We sate up during the remainder of the night; and, the next morning, instead of prosecuting our journey, applied for a warrant to the juge de pays of Lugano, and had him apprehended. Like many murderers, who at the eleventh hour have found remorse make existence a burthen,-and have thought that if death will not reconcile them to their God, it will at least be an atonement to the injured laws of their country in the eyes of man,-the innkeeper of Andermatt made an ample and voluntary confession, and paid the forfeit of his sins upon the scaffold.

149

A POET'S FRENZY.

Sweet is a kiss from rosy lips,
Sweet the dew the honey-bee sips,
Sweet the cooing of the dove,
Sweet the memory of love..
Sweet the milkmaid's merry song
As she treads the glades among,
Sweet an injury's redress,
Sweet is Beauty's loveliness,
Sweet is to a miser-gain,

Sweet is music's dulcet strain,

Sweet the voice of mirth and gladness,
And sweet is sometimes pensive sadness;
But sweeter still than these,-than all
Supremely intellectual,—

Is the mental exultation
Of the poet's inspiration.

Yes! a poet's frenzy rises

Far above earth's vulgar blisses:

It is a touch Promethean glowing,—

A chaunt from Heaven's orchestra flowing,-
A vivid flash of heavenly flame

Illumining

see, I see the goddess: lo! she wears

A crown of dazzling spendour;

'Tis gemm'd with heaven's own golden stars,*

A diadem of wonder:

And in her hand a sceptre, brightening

With flashes of the beamy lightning.
Purple clouds her drapery form :
Her ministers, sunshine and storm.

Well! if this be not the frenzy, I
Am seized with a strange phantasy.
It must be so, without further proem,
I'll just commence a little poem.

While in the grove, at eventide,
My thoughts were thus to verse applied,
An Owl, perch'd on the opposite tree,
Thus from his roost accosted me.

"Your frenzy on a very fine

Pinion may be rising;

But take advice,-go home to bed,

And cease your poetising."

Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven.-BYRON.

150

PORTRAIT GALLERY.-No. V.

CANNON FAMILY AT BOULOGNE.

WE left two of the ladies in a semi-classic state, clasped in the arms of two Gauls! What a situation!-what a condition for modest chaste Englishwomen! What could have caused such an outrage, --such a breach of common decorum? Simply one word-one monosyllable though often reiterated. What momentous events, what fearful results may, or may not, arise from one single word!

An ingenious author, well versed in philology, and philosophy, and metaphysics, might indite a dozen folios to relate the life and adventures of a word! As Balzac says,

"J'ai fait de delicieux voyages, embarqué sur un mot, dans les abymes du passé, comme un insecte qui flotte au gré d'un fleuve sur un brin d'herbe."

Monosyllables are unquestionably more eloquent, more conclusive, more convincing, than all the circumlocutions of oratory. Yes, no; ja, nein; oui, non,-what bliss, what misery have not these two short words occasioned, when irrevocably pronounced! All your proclamations, your manifestos, your protocols are idle, compared to them. They come out sometimes boldly, at other times drawling, from the resolute and determined most masculine of feminine woman, or the timid maiden, hiding her downcast and burning cheek with her cork-screw undulating curls, and wafting her lover's imagination to the seventh paradise of Mahomet by a languishing ye-e-e-e-s. I beg your pardon, miss,-that's not it; lay a proper emphasis on your s-thus, Y-ee-ee-ss. Thus will your consent come hissing hot, and fire your suitor with unquenchable ardour.

But surely the chaste Miss Cannon could never have said yes, short or long, to these insolent Frenchmen! What, then, could have been the mystic word?-who could have pronounced it?

It was Sukey Simper,-in a moment of terror. Sukey had also partaken of the soupe à l'oseille; Sukey had also suffered from the effects: but she was in an attic room, without a light, without a bell, without a knowledge of the language; she was in a fever, burning, parched with the thirst of Tantalus! She rushed to the head of the stairs, bawled out "Water!" screeched out WATER!" roared out "WATER!" The great Frederic said that there were only three things required to wage war,-MONEY, MONEY, MONEY! Suke only wanted to be pacified,-WATER, WATER, WATER!—she knew not the French for it. Although pain made her repeatedly exclaim "Oh!" in various modulations, no one heard her; or, if they heard, they heeded not. Indignant, despairing, cursing the Franks from Pharamond down to the Bourbons, she exclaimed, "You vagabonds, you won't give me water!--but I'll be if you don't!" She recollected the French for fire, and, with a voice that would have roused the Seven Sleepers, she bellowed out " Feu ! feu! feu !"

Now, when a man is awakened by the cry of " Water," it bears with it a chilling, cold character, which makes him, with an egotistical feeling, coddle himself more comfortably and warmly in his nest. Not so when the terrific roar of "Fire!" rouses him from his slumbers.

Next to Sukey's room there happened to sleep two commis voyageurs, or commercial travellers. They were, perhaps, dreaming of samples, patterns, bargains, perhaps of love, when her cries made them jump out of their virtuous beds, like peas out of a popgun. They must have been dreaming of love, for incontinently they rushed down stairs, re-echoing the alarm of fire; and as the devil, they say, will occasionally throw temptation in our path, they beheld Miss Lucy Cannon and Miss Kitty Cannon, shivering and shaking, at their chamber door, and exclaiming with great trepidation, "Quoi? quoi? quoi?" "Feu! feu! feu!" was the reply of the travellers, who being, besides men of business, men of consummate gallantry, whipped up the two ladies, and, as we have seen, carried them out into the yard.

In a moment, heads, night-caps, and candles were peeping out from every window: there was a guard-house in the neighbourhood; the drum beat to arms, the fire-bell was set ringing, all Boulogne was in commotion.

What the world calls modesty is clearly an artificial feeling, originating from civilization, and perhaps coquetry. If a proof were wanting to convince the incredulous that our notions on this subject are most erroneous, let him, like Sukey, roar out "Fire!" in the middle of the night in a crowded hotel, and he will soon perceive that every one in the house will burst from the shackles of original sin, and display the unsophisticated innocence of our first parents. A learned philosopher very wisely maintained that the only class of society who derived benefit from the first transgression were tailors.

Sam Surly alone proved himself a sinner-(he had once been tried for horse-stealing). He also slept near Sukey; and when she gave the alarm, with a true patriotic feeling he rushed out, having first wrapped himself up in a blanket, and performing the same kind office for Sukey, seized her in his brawny arms and bore her away as vigorously as Æneas carried his aged father from the Trojan conflagration.

The gate having been thrown open, the yard was soon thronged with soldiers, firemen, policemen, all roaring "Feu !" though not a spark was seen, or a smell of smoke perceivable. All stood amazed; the ladies looked aghast, and fled in every direction to their chambers; the Garde nationale and the sapeurs pompiers were conjugating and declining their favourite ejaculations with all the vehemence of the abbess of Andouillets, insisting, like most of their countrymen, on being paid for doing nothing, and wanted to drag old Commodus Cannon and his male offspring before the commissaire de police as perturbateurs du repos public. The landlord's interference alone prevented this diabolical outrage, by promising, in the name of the voyageurs, that they should be duly rewarded. Suke and Sam during this confusion were quietly seated in the salie à manger, discussing a bottle of ordinaire, where they were soon joined by several Frenchmen, who, regardless of the maiden's blushes, crowded in the room, as the soldiers say, as you were," to refresh themselves with la goutte-Anglicè, a glass of cognac,-served by the trembling waiters, who were cordially cursing Jean Bull, and all his generation, for routing them out of bed.

66

The parties were gradually withdrawing to rest, some swearing, some laughing, when the most outrageous cries once more broke through the silence of the night.

Whatever foreigners may say of British architecture, if we do not display a proper classic taste in the exterior of our public edifices, the interior of our dwelling-houses fully compensates, by the comfortable distribution of our apartments, for the lack of that grandiose of our neighbours' palaces and hotels. But of all the evils of outlandish accommodation, corridors are the most fearful, nay, the most dangerous. The doors do so resemble each other, that mistakes are not only excusable, but unavoidable. They are only proper in monasteries-in nunneries-where each cell opens on a common passage. Even in nunneries mistakes have sometimes taken place; and a travelled friend of mine assured me that in a certain convent in Spain a distinctive mark was affixed over each door, according to the age or attractions of the secluded tenant of the narrow chamber; and while a portrait of the Virgin, with the inscription of "Ave Maria purissima, sin pecado concebida," were displayed on the cells of the young novices, a death's head and marrow-bones were depicted on the entrance of the aged nun's abode. But, alas! in the corridor of the hotel where the Cannons were lodged, no distinctive mark, saving the number, could guide the quivering traveller, returning to his warm bed, after having been by various causes turned out in the cold; moreover it was scarcely grey morning. Aurora had only opened one eye, and was gaping; Apollo had just pulled the bell to order his horses to be harnessed; Nox was only tucking up the skirts of her sable and stellated mantle; the bell-ringer had only tossed off a petit verre de rogomme, to pull his matins. How then could Commodus Cannon, through this crepuscular medium, find out the chamber in which his terrified better half had crept from the horrible scene that we have endeavoured to describe?

Commodus opened the door. Imprudent traveller!-why was it not locked, bolted, doubly bolted? He groped his way, shivering as though he laboured under a tertian, a quartan, a quotidian ague. Had Domitian, or Nero, or Robespierre, beheld the poor old gentleman, they would have given him a dose of quinine, in mercy. In bed he got, and he coiled himself up, and he gathered himself up to warm himself with his own caloric: but it was too latent. Loth as he was to disturb Mrs. Cannon, whose slumbers, like a good husband, he ever respected, although he was not a chemist or a natural philosopher, he sought on this occasion to increase his temperature by a little of the specific warmth of his bed-fellow, little thinking at the time what combustion he was about producing, when, stretching out his hand over the person he fancied was Mrs. Cannon, his icy hand lighted on a long grisly beard!

Cannon had read Don Quixote, and various marvellous stories of sorcery and enchantment; but to find a beard as long as any capuchin's, or any Jew Rabbi's, on his darling better half, was more than mortal man could bear. He could not recoil as from a rattle-snake or a boa constrictor; he could not jump out of bed, as when but recently the alarm of fire had been spread; he was seized with a convulsive movement-what the French call a crispation de nerfs, and instinctively, mechanically, grasped the hairy appendage which he fancied affixed to Mrs. Cannon's chin, and loudly uttered-I shall not say an oath-he was not sufficiently learned to swear by Jove, Minerva, or Apollo,-by Isis, like an Athenian,- —or Osiris, like a Theban; he was too religious a man to swear by G--; but he roared out, "My wig!"