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"Come, come, sir," cried Sir Harry, "this won't pass with us, after what we have heard-____”

"And seen," added Carrington. "Sir Harry and I will take care you have fair play, Mr. Law, but fight you must."

66 Ay, that he must, and quickly," cried the old beau, stamping the ground with rage. "I will suffer no further delay."

"Well, since there is no help for it, I comply," said Law, drawing. "But I announce beforehand that I shall merely act on the defensive."

"And I announce beforehand that I mean to kill you," rejoined Wilson. "So, have at your heart!"

Next moment they were engaged. The watchman held up his lantern, and its glimmer enabled them to discern each other's movements. But for this light they must have fought completely at hazard. The old beau's infuriated condition deprived him of his customary skill. He made several desperate lounges at his opponent, laying himself repeatedly open to a riposte, but Law contented himself with parrying the thrusts.

The conflict was proceeding in this way, when the glass door already alluded to was suddenly thrown open, and Lady Kate, followed by three or four lackeys bearing lights, rushed forth, screaming, "Belinda is dead-poisoned by her husband!"

At this appalling cry both combatants stood still.

"What is this I hear?" said Law. "Belinda poisoned, and by you? If you are, indeed, guilty of this inhuman deed, you shall perish by the hangman's hand, not by mine."

"I will not die till I have had my full measure of revenge," cried Wilson.

And he again assailed Law, and with such fury, that the latter, unable to act longer upon the defensive, made a thrust in return, and his sword passed through the madman's body.

At this fatal juncture Lady Kate rushed up, but recoiled with horror on seeing Wilson fall. Law, however, seized her by the hand, and drew her towards the dying man.

"Tell him," he said, "while he can yet hear you, that Belinda was innocent."

"She was!-she was!" cried Lady Kate. "She never wronged you."

"Why, then, did she meet Law here?" demanded the dying man, faintly.

"She never did meet him," rejoined Lady Kate. "It was who came here-I, his wedded wife." "What!-guiltless! and I have murdered her!" cried the old man, raising himself by a supreme effort. Heaven!"

Then sinking backwards, he expired.

66 Mercy!-mercy,

I

1

End of the Prologue.

THE FRENCH ALMANACKS FOR 1864.

NEVER, perhaps, even in the times of the great Napoleon, was the political atmosphere more troublous than in the present day. The whole of the Western nations in Europe are boiling with indignation at the atrocities committed by the semi-barbarian Muscovites upon the unfortunate Poles; the prolonged and sanguinary warfare between the Federals and the Confederates, the overt hostility of the former to the Western powers, and their alliance with the Oriental despotism of the Russian Czar, may lead them to open rupture at any moment; the occupation of Mexico by the French is a sore upon the side of the Anglo-Americans that they will not put up with quietly. The bellicose aptitudes of the Japanese will entail far more serious labours on both French and English than the discordant element of Chinese insurrections, or the bootless resistance proffered by the unwarlike Annamites—a change from a French to a Spanish garrison at Rome would only hasten the anticipated collision between young Italy and the incubus of the middle ages; but of all these stirring incidents of the past, and of all these dark prospects for the future, there is, except in the " Almanach de l'Illustration"-and every rule has its exception-no illustration either by pen or pencil in the French Almanacks. Politics are as utterly tabooed from their pages as an Englishman from a Maori pah! True that in the "Almanach de Napoléon" we have some account of the "Expédition Française au Mexique," with curious illustrations of bivouacs, defiles, reconnaissances, combats, and banquets, in which the pet Zouaves are generally placed in the foreground, but all such articles are either "inspired" or under a careful censorship. We have not, with the exception before mentioned, one allusion to Poland or to the Poles in the whole series; nothing referring to the "Sun-Land," nor even to the Annamite embassy; and as to the holy person of the sovereign-pontiff, it is surrounded with a halo that appears to be utterly impenetrable and unapproachable.

We are thus thrown back upon the purely literary resources of the country; not that they are not as praiseworthy as its political turbulence -to many, who get quite enough of politics with that matutinal broad sheet, which modern civilisation might surely reduce to a more convenient form, they will most likely prove a very agreeable change; and there is, indeed, a decided relief in those lively and amusing sketches given by the Parisians of themselves-a style of composition in which they are wondrous adepts-to the more serious and gloomy preoccupation of politics.

We must, however, ere proceeding to these more sketchy articles, say a word or two as to what has been done in the general fields of literature and the drama during the past year. This not merely in accordance with an annual custom, but because such a little résumé may contain information that is desirable to some of our readers. The completion of Thiers's "Consulat et l'Empire" is looked upon by the French as the great literary event of the past year. They admit that it is the history of a "grande chute," but they say that it is narrated with "sympathy and justice." We cannot imagine how the two can go together; however much we may sympathise with the fall of a great man, justice compels

us to say that his fate was richly merited. Few French historians would write of "justice" in the present day in that sense-certainly not M. Thiers. M. Clement is not an historian of the calibre of Thiers, but he has produced a clever work on the minister Colbert, which is a kind of continuation of those ponderous tomes on the ministers Fouquet and Louvois, to which we have devoted our patient analytical capacities for the benefit of our more studious readers. It presents even "le grand Colbert" under the same characteristic and inevitable features of the day, and the great political sore of all administrations of all times, as grossly mercenary and venial, and as having his own interests and those of his family more constantly before him than even any bloated pasha surrounded by his Armenian sarafs. To a new volume of M. Louis Blanc's admirable history of the "Convention," a son of Carnot's has added a volume of memoirs on the revolutionary soldiers, which transports us from the sanguinary orgies of the metropolis to the brave yet ribald army which first chanted the Marseillaise to the affrighted provincials. In M. Renouvier's "History of Art during the Revolution" we find an aptitude for collecting the more minute features of history which are often more satisfactory to the mind than a mass of generalities, rounded periods, and startling paradoxes, too often indulged in at the sacrifice of truth. M. Duruy's "Histoire des Temps Modernes" deserves more than a passing notice; so also, indeed, of Amédée Thierry's "Histoire d'Attila," and Armand Baschet's "Princes de l'Europe au Seizième Siècle." Opinions differ as to the merits and demerits of M. Viennet's grand. epic "La Franciade." Jules Janin speaks of it as an heroic poem-a real poem. It may interest English readers as a mythical record of the surging forth of the Franks, from Trojans and Celts, enriched by the spoils of defeated Albion! M. Viennet is, we believe, eighty-five or six years of age, but if some men were to live two centuries it would not cure them of international detractions. As the end has, however, been so often sought in vain, it was perhaps wise to secure it at the onset.

There is no want of talent, style, or invention among the French writers of fiction; but we regret to say that moderation, prudence, and common sense, are not only becoming every year more and more rare, but the most grievous excesses on the opposite side are being almost daily committed. Take, for example, "Salammboo," the great work of the year, which was to supplant "Les Misérables;" it is one of the most strange and incredible productions that has ever disgraced a national literature. Nothing but orgies, wine, and blood: a barbarous nation sunk in shame. Yet such was its success, that the Carthaginian priestess became, for the time being, all and everything. There were Salammboo scarfs, and Salammboo colours; and certain enterprising ladies appeared in costume balls under the transparent tunic of the daughter of Amilcar. Salammboo did not, however, enjoy a long popularity; it was soon succeeded by " Madelon," which took Paris by storm. Madelon was not a type, she was a creature by herself-full of dangers, smiles, threats, and caresses. Everything she came in contact with she involved in ruin, and that amidst luxury and pleasures. "Nothing," says Jules Janin, "but ruins; pillage has less violence, incendiarism more pity." There was only wanting to "Madelon," to give it completeness, the dénouement of a work entitled "Une Drôlesse." At the end of that precious production of a similarly eccentric stamp, the author exhibits to us this other type of

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"Madelon " as a miserable, pilfering follower of the French armydespoiler of the dying and the dead in the funereal light of a December moon. Nothing is impossible to the "Madelons," and we suspect we shall yet hear more of them from the "gentil esprit" of Edmond About. "Le Comte Kostia" of M. Victor Cherbuliez is another of that class of works which make us regret that so much talent is devoted to exciting curiosity by extraordinary means, when the realities of life present so much to interest and to move us. M. Arthur Baignères's "Histoire Modernes" have more talent in them, and are less objectionable. His "Chevalier de la Joyeuse Figure" is most felicitous in the choice of subject and in its execution. It is to be hoped that this young romancer will keep to those good instincts which have already ensured him a large portion of public favour. So also with M. Xavier Marmier, only that he is an old favourite. The scene of his new work, "L'Avare et son Trésor," is laid in Alsatia, and it is replete with admirable local descriptions, as well as unobjectionable in point of narrative. The Magdalen, whose confessions M. Charles Dolfus has penned this year, is a relative to that other "Madeleine," whose long sufferings and victory over herself have been related by M. Fromentin. It is saying as much as we can upon such disagreeable subjects. "La Cause Secrète" of M. A. Gennevray is a kind of literary rival to Mr. W. Collins's "Woman in White," and "No Name"-" imitation" is, we suppose, the word. M. Camille Seldens's "Daniel Vlady" is an improbable picture of a great Hungarian musician, nurtured in a coarse, brutal atmosphere, yet himself as delicate and sensitive as the most tender exotic. "La Comédie du Printemps" is admittedly the best work of its author, M. Arnould Fremy, well known for his talent and resources. This is saying a great deal for it. "L'Histoire d'un Homme," by M. Amédée Achard, is much to be admired for its descriptive portions; nothing can be more pointed or graphic. "Les Confidences d'un Joueur de Clarinette," by M. Erckmann Chatrain; "Jacquet-Jacques," by M. Jérôme Bugeaud; "Les Femmes Sensibles," by M. Paul Deltuf; "Les Légendes Bretonnes," by M. Enault, are also all deserving of favourable mention. "Le Roman de la Femme à Barbe," with a rather repulsive title, is, nevertheless, very curious in its development. "Les Mémoires d'un Baiser," by M. Jules Noriac, are also cleverly told; but they have the common fault of a want of moderation. There are also "Les Cours Galantes," by Gustave Des noirterres; "Les Coudées Franches," by Ernest Serret; "Les Cousines de Satan," by Jules de Saint-Félix; "L'Amour Bossu," by M. Henri de Kock-all little books, characterised by more or less of Parisian grace and talent, not always subordinate to good taste; and last, not least, the Sibylle of Octave Feuillet," which, extolled by M. Vitet at the Academy, earned an eloquent reputation from the pen of George Sand.

There is a class of works which are neither history nor fiction, which still remain to be noticed, and which have been unusually numerous during the past year. Among such may be classed Eugène Pelletan's "Nouvelle Babylone," a brilliant piece of declamation; Edmond Texier's "Choses du Temps Présent," very ably done; Maxime Du Camp's "Expédition des Deux Siciles," a sparkling book; Auguste Vacquerie's "Mieltes de l'Histoire," and " Victor Hugo raconté par un Témoin de sa Vie," would, together, furnish materials enough for a life of the author of the "Orientales" and the "Misérables." The "Mémoires de Littéra

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ture Ancienne," by the learned Egger, may be placed side by side with Cuvillier-Fleury's "Historiens, Poëtes et Romanciers." "Les Amours de Madame de Sévigné," by Hippolyté Babou, and "Les Médecins au Temps de Molière," by Maurice Raynaud, carry us back, but by very different roads, to the anecdotic portion of the reign of Louis XIV. Paul de Musset has written the "Histoire des Extravagants du Dix-septième Siècle." The extravagant people of our age will be found equally depicted in the "Mémoires d'un Vaudevilliste," by De Rochefort. Nor must we pass over "La Littérature Indépendante" of Victor Fournel; Cinq Semaines en Ballon," by Jules Verne; "Les Champs d'Or du Bendigo," by Henri Perron d'Arc; "Musique et Musiciens," by Oscar Comettant; "Les Anecdotes des Cafés et Cabarets de Paris," by Alfred Delvan; "Le Roman de Molière," by Edouard Fournier; "Windsor," by Louis Depret; "L'Hotesse du Connétable," a terrible historical romance by Emmanuel Gonzalés; "Les Majorats Littéraires," by P. J. Proudhon; "La Grève de Samarez," by M. Pierre Leroux; the "Histoire de l'Amour dans l'Antiquité," by Louis Deville; "Une Aventure sur la Mer Rouge," by Madame Louise Collet; "L'Italie des Italiens;" "Les Dernières Conversations de Goethe," by Henri Richelot; and the "Histoire d'Une Bouchée de Pain," by Jean Macé.

Most assuredly the year 1863 has not been unproductive of new books in as far as Paris is concerned, and yet we have not enumerated one-half even of the most successful. Poetry has also had its successes even in these most prosaic of ages. Gospels and Psalms have been set in verse, the one by Brun, the other by Créhange. These two works come from the renowned press of Lyons. So also with the "Echos" of Hector Fleury, the "Pauvrettes" of Léandre Brocherie, and "Les Poëmes et Poésies" of Théophile Poydenot. M. Poydenot declaims against the "Utilitarians," in a poem of that name; as if the sacred flame could ever die away in the country of Victor Hugo and De Lamartine. Duclesieux in his "Voix de la Solitude," and Ernest Gervais in his "Sœur de Charité," are alone proofs to the contrary. We will, however, spare the reader an enumeration even of the most remarkable poetical productions of the past year. He will most probably not order them on our recommendation, nor on that of the veteran critic Jules Janin, or of the more enthusiastic M. Cuvillier-Fleury. With abundance of taste, talent, and feeling, still there is nothing that rises much above an average amount of perfection.

In entering upon his annual disquisition upon theatrical matters, M. Jules Janin justly admits that it is the subject of all others that most preoccupies the mind of Parisians. This is not as it ought to be; but, alas! literary men have to do with the world they live in, not with the world as hey would wish it to be. An extravagant devotion to the stage, such as met with in the modern Nineveh, is not creditable to the metropolitan caste; luckily for France, its great political, military, literary, and artistic forces are recruited from the provinces, and albeit matured, as also too often corrupted, in the capital, they drew their sap and blood from the unpolluted atmosphere of the country. "What are those good people," asks Jules Janin, "talking about in that room, so well adapted for conversation? They are talking of the new comedy or the new drama. Have you heard the new singer? Have you applauded Mademoiselle Agar in her part of Phèdre? Is it true that Mademoiselle Victoria

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