and then he professes to wonder that a Government which was engaged in a continual conspiracy against the constitution of the country-a conspiracy which he can only palliate by the extraordinary plea that it was conceived and carried out with as much weakness as wickedness, was the object of popular indignation. What other feeling could any human being have towards a wretched knot of priests, who passed their time in making treasonable suggestions to a timid old man, who was trying to expiate a youth of folly and sin by an old age of superstition. To say that the Bourbons had given liberty to France, just after a relation of the means which they took to suppress it when given, and without any sort of notice of the fact that neither the French people nor the allies ever would have endured the re-establishment of the old régime, is one of those graces of argument which are only to be found in Sir Archibald Alison. It is what might have been expected, not only from the ingenious difficulty' by which he is exercised, but from the wonderful solution at which he arrives. Sir Archibald himself admits that the 'Bourbons would never have ascended the throne' but for the victories of the Allies; and then he charges the French with confusing post hoc and propter hoc, because they drew this very inference. If his own admission is true, how could it be faise that the double capture of Paris and the replacing of the ancient dynasty' stood in the relation of cause and effect? Because,' says Sir Archibald, the Bourbons were not responsible for the wars of the Empire, which were undertaken against their wishes.' That is, the wars could not have restored the Bourbons because the Bourbons did not cause the wars. Can no one profit by, or form a part of the humiliation of a country but those who were the causes of it? We had supposed that the receiver was as bad as the thief.

6

Sir Archibald wonders that the assertions of the Royalist writers, that the king had no connexion with the wars of the Empire, and the disasters in which they terminated, were in vain.' What right

has any man to write the history of France, who does not see that this was the very fact which cut that party off from the sympathies of their countrymen? What is to be thought of a man who wonders that Frenchmen, of all people in the world, should consider it insulting to be told, 'We had no part in your glory, no sympathy with your disasters, and our strongest claim upon your affections is that we had sufficient influence with your conquerors to induce them to allow us to ascend the throne, and, in consideration of that, to grant you favourable terms of peace.' dynasty which used this language maintained itself for fifteen years. It fell at last through its own wickedness, in an attack upon the very liberties which it had made a merit of conceding; and Sir Archibald 'wonders,' not at the patience of the country which endured such a dynasty so long, but at the unalterable enmity to the Bourbons which resulted from the changeable character of the French nation.

The

We have not gone out of our way to find fault with Sir Archibald Alison. We have tested his understanding upon the broadest subjects which we could find, and those to which he himself attaches the greatest importance. A man who makes all history depend upon the currency, and who writes the History of Europe from 1815 to 1852 cannot complain of the incompleteness of his critic's observations if they fairly represent his opinions upon the Currency, Catholic Emancipation, the Reform Bill, and the French Revolution of 1830. No doubt it would be easy to extend our remarks almost indefinitely. In a book so very voluminous as the History of Europe, there must of course be a good deal that is true; but we do not think that any writer with whom we are acquainted has been so often, so inconsistently, so ingeniously wrong. Sir Archibald has contradicted himself, his neighbours, and common sense, in almost every direction, and on almost every possible subject.

Of his literary and critical merits we shall speak on a future occasion; for the present we shall only observe that his book is so constructed as to

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afford him the widest possible opportunities for error, and that that talent at least has been well employed. If it survives in no other it will down to posway, go terity as one of the most vast and various exhibitions of bad argument and contradictory common-place which the world has ever witnessed. It is one of those books which no gentleman's library should be without, for without some acquaintance with it, no one will hereafter be able to understand the completeness of that reductio ad absurdum which the course of events during the first half of the nineteenth century administered to that not inconsiderable class of persons who looked upon the representation of one of the most wonderful dramas in which men and angels have ever been the actors, without awe, without reverence, without surprise, with a firm faith in nothing except a few contradictory platitudes and an inconvertible currency.

At long intervals in the history of the world have the fountains of the great deep been broken up. Three times this has happened to Western Europe since the birth of our Lord. It happened first when the huge Roman Empire, the growth of 1200 years, broke the silent monotony of a long decay by the most frightful disasters that ever overwhelmed mankind. The dikes gave way, and the ocean of barbarians rolled in upon the land, wave after wave, till the old throne, the old laws, the old manners were overwhelmed in the deluge from which a new society was to spring. By degrees the

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conquering races learnt new habits, felt new wants, established new nations and new dynasties, and, above them all, uniting, or trying to unite them in one common body, rose a second Roman Empire, wider, and in some respects stronger, than the first. Again a stone was cut from the mountain, again the image was broken, again the iron and the miry clay were sifted and separated. Three centuries more passed away, and a third time all existing systems were remodelled, all common opinions questioned. A third time men were tormented by fire and gnawed their tongues with pain; and after the vast heavings had become more regular, though scarcely less deep, when men had time to breathe again, and to ask how and why this had happened, what it meant, and what it had done, what were, after all, the foundations upon which society stood, how it had been displaced from them, and how it was to be replaced upon them-then there came a prophet in Israel. He was a man bred amongst a people who of all others had the highest name for soberness, for strength of understanding, for diligence, for faith. He studied long, and he wrote much, and at last he spoke; and this was the message that he delivered to mankind in the only idiom with which he was familiar: - The cause of all this is just the want of one-pound notes.

This is the mystery

Of the wonderful history,
And the way to find it out.
F. S.-I. T.

THIS

IS collection of criminal trials has already reached its second series and its twenty-third volume. So long as human nature is subject to the workings of violent passions, or until some remedy be found by religion, philosophy, or philanthropy to check the natural tendency of man to criminal excess, we do not see why the collection should ever come to an end.

The editors are Dr. J. C. Hitzig, a criminal judge of considerable repute, and Dr. W. Häring, who began life as a jurist, but deserted the thorny career of the law for the more flowery paths of literature: he is better known, as a novelist, under the pseudonyme of Williebald Alexis. Dr. Hitzig died during the progress of the work, and we fancy we can trace in the volumes published since his death, the predominance of the romantic over the judicial element.

The title, we need scarce remind our readers, is taken from the name of Guyot de Pitaval, the author of the Causes Célèbres, from which, as well as from Feuerbach's work, the most striking materials have been selected; interspersed with cases taken from the criminal records of ancient and modern times in France, England, Germany, and Spain.

Dr. Hitzig was in England, and present at the trial of Courvoisier; he expresses his admiration at the manner in which irrelevant matter is excluded in an English court of justice. From some observations, however, on the trial of Abraham Thornton-the last case on record where wager of battle was demanded -his colleague seems to think that this eliminating process is occasionally carried to an excess in this country. In England, a strong light is thrown upon the conduct of the accused just before the occurrence of the crime for which he is arraigned. Dr. Häring would be better pleased if, as in Germany, the inquiry took a larger scope, and

criminal's

was extended to the former life. It is obvious that, although an English trial affords admirable mental exercise, it does not present the same features of dramatic or psychological interest as a criminal suit in Germany or in France. We will not, however, detain our readers with a discussion on the relative merits of English or German procedure, but will at once proceed to the book.

He

The first case we will select is that of Bernhard Hartung. In the original German it occupies 154 pages, but we have considerably condensed the details. Hartung was born on 18th Sept., 1819, at Burg, in Prussia; and was sent, at the age of fifteen, to England, to learn the trade of a merchant. then went to Magdeburg, where, some years afterwards, he married his first wife, Emma Bünger. He entered into various unsuccessful speculations. In 1849 his first wife died of the cholera; and in 1850 he married his second wife, Marie Braconnier, who died in the same year, and to whom we shall have to revert. He subsequently married a third wife, who survived him.

In 1852, Hartung was living in Magdeburg, and was considered by his fellow-citizens a man of decent fortune, and of more than average ability. Great was the consternation in Magdeburg when it was reported that he had poisoned his aunt; it was then rumoured that his second wife, besides various other people,-had been poisoned by him. As he was supposed to be rich, his crime was put down to the instigations of the Evil One.

Those, however, who had a more intimate knowledge of his affairs, ceased to wonder. They knew that Hartung was a distressed man, and his crime was taken at once out of the category of romance, and sank into the class of commonplace murders; and yet there were circumstances that invest Hartung's case with no ordinary interest.

1856.]

On the evening of the 21st January, 1852, Bernhard Hartung returned home later than usual. He had been to several of his friends for pecuniary assistance. So low was he reduced that he had even asked his partner for a loan of ten thalers -about thirty shillings-and had been refused. He was therefore in urgent want of money, when, on returning home, he found his aunt, a certain Emma Schröder, sitting with his wife.

The two women welcomed him with playful allusions to the lateness of the hour. The aunt, a woman of an excitable and lively temperament, related to him how the children had kept her a long time listening to their prattle, and ended by saying, 'As I was going to leave them, I told them to lie down and go to sleep; they answered me, 'Papa has not yet been to see us, or to hear us say our prayers. them say their little prayers one after another.

The aunt then heard

During this conversation, Hartung's eye wandered round the room; and on his wife suggesting that they should have some supper, he said he must go out again, which he did, after eating one mouthful: he promised to return instantly.

Before the women expected it he returned, and not empty-handed: he brought back some open tartlets, of which dainty Emma Schröder was extremely fond.

;

He laughingly asked his wife to give him twodessert plates, and placed one plate with a tartlet in it on the right, nearly opposite his aunt's seat, the other he placed not far from where his wife was going to sit. Each took the plate nearest to her Hartung stood watching the pleased look with which the two women ate the tartlets. Meanwhile he took another tartlet out of his pocket, of which he ate the greater part, leaving a bit for his wife. He incidentally mentioned to them the precarious position of the confectioner where he had bought the tartlets, who was ruined for the want of a few hundred thalers. The conversation then turned to music, and his aunt, who gave lessons in singing, spoke of some new songs which she could sing. She sat down, at Hartung's request, to the piano, and

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played a piece of music, while Hartung turned the leaves for her. He then sat down to the piano, and played from recollection something which his aunt had just played, his aunt approvingly standing by, and praising him for his musical talent. They became more interested in the music; Hartung's wife sat neglected on the sofa, and a feeling of melancholy came over her, which at last found relief in tears. Hartung rushed to comfort her, and on asking why she was crying, whether he had annoyed or hurt her, she said that she was thinking of the unhappy confectioner, ruined for the want of a few hundred thalers. Little did she think of the results which the want of a few hundred thalers would produce in her husband's case.

Meanwhile, what with music, talking, crying, and administering comfort, the hours fled rapidly, and at ten the aunt rose to go, promising to come again the next day. Hartung was going to accompany his aunt down stairs, but she stopped him, saying he was heated with playing, and he saw her go with a perfectly impassive face.

Shortly after midnight his aunt, Emma Schröder, was awakened by terrible cramps and spasms, which lasted till morning, when she sank into a state of torpor. When the doctor came, he gave no hopes. Hartung was sent for, but did not answer the summons, as she had often been subject to similar spasms, which had passed. He went quietly to his office. But on messages coming in rapid succession, that she was worse, he hurried to her, towards three o'clock in the evening, when it was just too late-she was dead. Hartung rushed into the room, and threw himself, overpowered with grief, on the bed where she lay. After his first paroxysms of grief were passed, he asked the probable cause of her illness. Some one remarked that the deceased had attributed it to the tartlet, and had said she was poisoned. Hartung did not change a muscle, but attributed her remark to delirium, and so thought all the bystanders.

Hartung inquired after the state of his aunt's money, and on re