It might be worth while for some of our keenly its style and topics.

LITERARY REGISTER.

The Old Play-goer. By William Robson. Post Octavo. | Play-goer" belongs to the bright theatrical period of

Pp. 252. London: Masters.

To the great majority of the present generation this volume appears just twenty years too late. "The Old

brother.

Such is the vein of the old Play-goer; and in it he disports through the popular dramas and actors of his youth, the dramas of Sheridan, Tobin, Kenny, &c., as well as the plays of Shakspere, -exclaiming, "Gods! only think of Cooke, Emery, Johnstone, and Davenport in one scene!"

As a subject somewhat more fresh than the theatrical celebrities of the last age, we select Emery, though the dramatist here divides laurels with

and young buoyant Leigh Hunt. These were the palmy | to purchase a set of engravings of Charles in various days of the English stage; and, compared with the parts, because many of them belonged to his brother. I am quite aware I could giants who then trode the boards, even the greatest of see nobody now play the said parts so well as he, but I their successors appear, in the eyes of old play-goers, would as soon go see any body perform Coriolanus after "little men;" Kean, a vulgar ranter; Macready, an John Kemble; any body play Lady Macbeth, Conobstreperous mouther; Mathews, a low mimic, and pshaw! any of Siddons' characters after Siddons; any Liston, an abortive non-descript. The enthusiastic body play Sir Pertinax after George Cooke; Rosalind, or her Hoydens, after Jordan; Tyke or Caliban after "Old Play-goer," with whom the stage appears to Emery; the Copper Captain after Lewis; Job Thornhave been a passion and an absorbing amuse ment, is so berry after Fawcett;-stop, stop! I must have one fervent in admiration of the old players--so complete an more-hear the Storm by any body after Incledon,-as out-and-outer, that his work is rather an eulogy of his see Charles Kemble play one character rendered sacred, favourites than an analysis of their powers, or critique and perfect in my mind, by the performance of his on their separate performances. John Kemble is his perfect model of an actor; his beau-ideal of histrionic perfection; while the majestic Siddons, in " gorgeous pall," and the exquisitely fascinating Jordan, are exalted into something far above mere stage humanity. That we shall not soon look upon their like again may be true; but, in the lapse of time, it is to be feared that play-goers have degenerated as much as actors. They may not have lost the perception of excellence, but the spirit of theatrical enjoyment has been deadened for lack of proper aliment. The youth of modern times are not so fortunate as "The Old Play-goer," who was every night repairing to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, when "Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, Coriolanus, Lady Macbeth, Katherine and Constance," were "moving, living, and breathing in noble and lovely shapes ;" and when the love of the stage was an elevating sentiment; the acted drama an intellectual pleasure. When we get back the Kembles, and Jordans, and Siddons, it will become so again. In the meanwhile, it is delightful to hear an intense admirer, and no mean judge, talk over, and exult in, achievements of which he was, night by night, the charmed witness. This, having first inscribed his work to the last star of the constellation, Charles Kemble, he does, in the convenient form of a series of letters, addressed to another Charles. By reflection, the reader, in spite of himself, catches some spark from the glow of the veteran,

"Shouldering his crutch to show how fields were won." Speaking, or eloquently raving of those golden days, he says of the Kembles : :

the actor :

Emery requires a master's hand to throw him out in the light he deserves. I cannot satisfy myself with treating of him as a Dan, or any other broad Yorkshire or comic character; for I feel convinced that whatever might have been his real position or assumed personation, he was stamped with nature's nobility, and was a man of genius.

in his history; another, still more powerfully, fixes One great author marks his "first play" as an epoch upon his first perusal of Schiller's "Robber" as his most exciting moment; for myself, amidst a thousand cherished and never-to-be-forgotten theatrical recollections, I scarcely know one that exceeds in deep interest, the the performance, and ruminated over the character, I first time I saw Emery's Tyke! As I walked home after was astonished at the effect it had produced upon methe play connected with it was nothing; it might have been comedy, farce, or pantomime. I saw nothing but Emery glaring in agony at Lord Avondale-here was a new vista of nature opened up that I had never dreamt of! When it had been before me, I could not sit still upon my seat; my flesh crawled, my hair rose, my pulsations were suffocating, and the tears streamed down my then young cheeks. I had witnessed the storms of passion in lofty spirits; I had wept at the pity-stirring sorrows of the fair, the weak, the aged, or the oppressed; but here was the frantic working of remorse in a rude, uncultivated nature, deeply stained with crime, and debased by low dissipation-it was awful! I have seen all the stage has presented worth seeing during the last forty years, and I have witnessed no finer performance than when Emery, after glaring at his seducer, rushes from his presence, roaring, in his anguish, for " Brandy, brandy!" as his only protection from the furies that pursue him. Oh, how unlike was this to your boasted "Bill Sikes!"-the one was magnificent, instructive, affecting; the other, toad-like and loathsome. The one a Salvator Rosa picture, the other a Cruikshank illustration of a Pierce Egan blackguard! Emery, as a comedian, went gallantly through the ordeal to which I would subject every actor pretending to eminence. He understood and could play Shakspere. His Caliban was, by far, the best that has been seen since that of Charles Bannister.

How much more perfect was the Lear of John, when supported by Charles's Edgar! Who that recollects the beautiful scene, when the poor old monarch desires to have "some talk with the learned Theban," but must be aware of this! Oh! what a noble rivalry it was to see two such men seated on the ground, close to the foot-lights, each stimulated by the fine acting of the other to play up to his best! The one depicting poor outraged Nature, deprived of the jewel reason; the other, with an equally fine touch, showing, that though he played the part of a madman, the madness was but assumed. John and Falconbridge, Brutus and Mark Antony, Macbeth and Macduff, Othello and Cassio, Pierre and Jaffier, were all representations of the same kind; and I always fancied that the three Kembles were like the three Graces-they were never so great or so beautiful as when together in the scene. It was a spirit-stirring emulation-Lear, Edgar, Cordelia; Rolla, Alonzo, Elvira; Leontes, Florizel, Hermione; Macbeth, As a contrast to Emery and the great comic actors of Macduff, and the awful Lady; Wolsey, Cromwell, the golden age of the English stage, we select Liston Katharine; John, Falconbridge, Constance; Pierre, and Mathews. Both the passages quoted below have Jaffier, Belvidera. Oh, these were perfect pictures! a spice of truth; and the latter embodies profound complete in their parts, true in their keeping, nothing criticism, a moral lesson much wanted at a time wanting, genius was the touchstone to genius! I suppose my love of the stage may be different from that of when travesty and caricature crawl over and leave their other people, but I should deem it heresy to see Charles poisonous slime on the most tender or the most sacred in one of John's characters. I refused some time since, creations of genius :

You say I have spoken not well of Mathews; but vapour, and encircled you; or, as Shakspere has beauthere you wrong me, Charles: I only put forth a pro- tifully illustrated one sense by another, "it came o'er test against false and forced wit, and cited a letter of the ear like the sweet south that hath breathed upon a Mathews' as an instance of it. As an actor there were bank of violets." In accordance with such a voice, few I liked better than Mathews; but when he sank though comic characters might sometimes call forth a into an imitator of others, I closed my account with display of a different and more airy nature, her songs him. He was, there is no doubt, exceedingly amusing; were mostly plaintive. Poor Barbara's "Willow!" but that kind of amusement not jumping with my was, perhaps, the sweetest; but, no, the sweetest was humour, I never sought it. I was a lover of the stage the last heard, and twenty lovely lays sound soft music as an intellectual recreation and lesson, therefore I could in my memory's ear, to reproach me for the preference. not possibly admire imitations or travesties. I look upon Mrs. Jordan's might be called natural acting with a mimic to be the very lowest description of actor: he more propriety than any I ever saw; but it was not the always fixes upon the faulty peculiarities of the person natural acting which dispenses with study; for no one he mimics. I read in the papers that Mathews had could be more correct in her knowledge of the text; it given masterly imitations of Kemble's acting and Incle- flowed from her mouth so smoothly, and seemed so endon's singing. I knew very well that he could neither tirely true, that she never appeared to be acting. There act so well as the one nor sing as well as the other: if was no undue understanding between her and her he could, it would have been a better fortune to him audience; she gave herself up to the illusion, and went than his own talent. What did this conviction tell me, through her part as if she and her playfellows, if they then? Why, that Mathews, in order to set on a were not really the persons they represented, were playquantity of barren spectators to laugh," would throwing the scene to gratify themselves, without regard to, himself into a few of Kemble's rigid attitudes, and would spout out a passage or two in a monotonous sameness of tone-these being, like Homer's nods, the great tragedian's occasional faults; and that, as regarded Incledon, he would lick his lips, speak thickly, hurriedly, and broadly, and sing as Charles did after the second bottle--for as to giving any idea how he could sing when quite sober, Mathews might as well have tried to emulate Tom of Lincoln. Now, all this to me is detestable; and if I could have laughed at him, my laughter would have fallen under the severe self-reprehension which I described to you in a former letter. If, of which there is no doubt, that "no man can be great by imitation," how infinitely less than little must he be who avails himself of a correct eye and flexible muscles to hold up his brother performers to ridicule. No one admired Charles Mathews more than I did, while he was engaged, and worthily, in my beloved legitimate drama; but when he sank, for the sake of gain, or for the applause of ill-excited laughter, to a mimic and a teller of stories, I went not near him.

Many of the stories were however well worth telling; full of character; comedies in little.- -We can hardly resist the old Play-goer's Mrs. Jordan, the most charming, beyond a doubt, of all the actresses that ever skimmed the English boards. Passing his somewhat incoherent, because lover-like raptures, we copy out a few of the concluding sentences :-

Truthfulness was her great charm; for, whether she was Peggy, torturing her" Bud," with her naire impressions of men and things; or Rosalind, with her two fingers saucily held up over the head of Orlando, while she warbled and laughed " Cuckoo" in his ear; whether she was Nell, kissing Bannister's dirty face, and calling him her "Pretty Jobson," or screaming out that "the sheets were sarsnet," and ordering, as a lady's breakfast, "a rasher on the coals and a little small beer;" whether, as Master Pickle, with a kite at her back, she teased her aunt with her tricks, or melted the hearts of her auditors with, "Since then I'm doomed;" or the broken-hearted Cora wept over her babe-all was reality.

She was no stage-romp, she was Nature's; when her figure possessed the lightness of Romney's portrait of her, what a revelry must have been her comedy! She was not what is generally called a singer; the extent of her knowledge of music was the power of accompanying herself simply and pleasingly on the guitar; when the character allowed her not to do so, she generally sang without accompaniment of any kind. And there was no need of helping strain to eke out voice or fill up deficiences: the full, sweet sound stole around the largest theatres, and called soft echoes from their most secret recesses. I say stole, for Mrs. Jordan's voice was not like that of Mrs. Wrighten or others, which by their power and brilliancy could penetrate every where; there was not the least sharpness in it; it rolled like a mild

or a knowledge of auditors, to praise or blame. And such is ACTING; but such was not Mr. Kean's; such is not Mr. Macready's!

No, no; none of your degenerate moderns are deserving of a word, save a passing or severe one : not even the last Kemble, Miss Fanny. The veteran would fain say a kind word for Miss O'Neil; but unfortunately she was not a Siddons, nor of the Classic School. Young was; but then he was rather a fine declaimer than a fine actor; which may perhaps be quite true, and besides "the pupil of John Kemble should not degrade himself by speaking at dinners given to Mr. Macready." We meet with much genial criticism on the popular stage singers of the past day; much that is felt to be just, whatever improved science and musical taste may sing or say to the contrary.

But we must lay aside this pleasant piece of oldworld, egotistical gossip about plays and players, and "the days that we have seen." The Old Play-goer has earned the privilege of talking in more ways than one, and he does not forego it.

As some small return for the entertainment which the "Old Play-goer" has afforded us, we beg to inform him that the Opium Eater, an Opium Eater no longer, continues to write "much and well;" that Charles Wolfe, the author of the "Ode to Sir John Moore," has, besides that exquisite poem, written "many lines worthy of print," and would doubtless have written many more, had he not unhappily been cut off in the midst of his labours of love, as an Irish Protestant parish priest, ere his short and bright career was well begun ; and finally, that the whole world of Scotland at all events, is familiar with the history of "Lowe," the author of " Mary's Dream," and with the fact of the ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" having been written by Lady Anne Lindsay. In brief, the young generation knows much more than old Play-goers give it credit for; though great histrionic excellence had undoubtedly passed away before it came into existence.

The Nature of the Scholar, and its Manifestations. By
Johann Gottlieb Fichte. Translated from the German,
with a Memoir of the author, by William Smith.
London: John Chapman.

This volume forms a part of what is called the Catholic Series,-a very good name, but one, unfortunately, not so intelligible or definite, as is desirable in a gene

ral title.

From the style and spirit in which the Memoir is composed, it may be inferred that, in Mr. Smith, Fichte has found a deeply-revering and congenial

"Fichte appeared, to deliver his introductory lecture on the Destination of Man. This short, strong-built man, with sharp commanding features, made, I must confess, a most imposing appearance, as I then saw him for the first time. Even his language had a cutting sharpWell acquainted with the metaphysical incapacity of his hearers, he took the greatest possible pains fully to demonstrate his propositions; but there was an

ness.

minded English exponent, both of his philosophy and of his remarkable character.-Those who, following" the exclusively practical tendency of English intellect,' may disregard, or fail in appreciating the philosophy of that disciple of Kant, who is believed by some to have surpassed his master, will yet dwell with delight upon the personal character, the visible manifestation of the SCHOLAR, as displayed in the Life of Fichte. The Me-air or authoritativeness in his discourse, as if he would moir is carefully and elegantly written, with deep appreciation of the noble qualities of the Man described, and that fervent love and admiration which, where they are felt to be sincere, never fail to engage the reader's sympathies, even when it leaves his judgment unconvinced.

was curious to see the evident confusion and embarrassment that now arose. Many of his audience seemed to be utterly unable any where to find him who had thought the wall.-Fichte's delivery was excellent, being marked throughout by clearness and precision."

remove all doubts by mere word of command. 'Gentlemen,' said he, collect yourselves-go into yourselves for we have here nothing to do with things without, but simply with the inner self.' Thus summoned, the auditors appeared really to go into themselves. Some, to facilitate the operation, changed their position, and stood up; some drew themselves together, and cast their eyes upon the floor: all were evidently waiting under high And do the passing glances which such works as this excitement for what was to follow this preparatory sumMemoir enable us to obtain of the interior life of those mons. Gentlemen,' continued Fichte, think the wall.' dreamy Germans, never bring doubt upon some of the re-(Denken Sie die Wand.) This was a task to which sults of "the exclusively practical tendency of English in- the hearers were evidently all equal; they thought the tellect?" The memoirs of nearly all the illustrious men of then, gentlemen, think him who thought the wall.' It wall 'Have you thought the wall?' asked Fichte. Well Germany, and the familiar correspondence of their female friends, the Letters of Klopstock's second wife, the Autobiography of Stilling, the Memoirs of Niebuhr, and his correspondence with his Amelia and her sister, and the remarkable Love Letters before us, those of Fichte to Johanna Rahn, indicate a moral and spiritual condition which so far transcends our ordinary imaginings, as to beget unpleasant doubts, discreditable perhaps only to the doubter, as to what, in these effusions, may be genuine, and what mere manner of speaking. But there can be no scepticism regarding the sincerity of the early letters of the young German student, Fichte, and the Swiss maiden. After having studied at Jena, Fichte came to Zurich as a private tutor. He was the first-born of a very large family, and his parents, though respectable, were not rich, so he had early resolved to maintain himself by his own exertions, and not encroach on the narrow means of seven young sisters. His residence in Zurich, the turning-point of his early fortunes, introduces his future partner, Johanna Rahn :—

Of all the friendships which he formed here, the most important in its influence upon his future life was that of Rahn, whose house was in a manner the centre of the society of Zurich. Rahn was brother-in-law to Klopstock, with whom he had formed a strong friendship during Klopstock's visit to Switzerland in 1750, and with whose eldest sister, Johanna, he was afterwards united. From this marriage, with Klopstock's sister, sprang, besides other children, their eldest daughter, Johanna Maria, who became Fichte's wife. Her mother dying while she was yet young, she devoted herself entirely to her father, and to his comfort sacrificed worldly show and many proffered alliances. The foundation of her character was deep religious feeling, and an unusual strength and faithfulness of affection. As her family occupied a much higher station in point of worldly importance than any to which Fichte could reasonably aspire, her engagement with him was the result of disinterested attachment alone. Fichte's love was worthy of the noble-minded woman who had called it forth. It was a devotion of his whole nature-enthusiastic like his love for his country, dignified like his love of knowledge, but softened by the deepest tenderness of an earnest and passionate soul. But on this subject he must speak for himself.

We wish that we could give even a few extracts from these remarkable love-letters. Instead of this, or any part of Mr. Smith's exposition of the philosophy of Kant and of Fichte, of their similarity and their difference, we take from a contemporary a sketch of his personal appearance and manners, after he had been appointed a professor at Jena :

Before the final struggle which emancipated Germany, Fichte was settled in Berlin. In 1813, when the hospitals of the city were crowded with the wounded and diseased of the army, and the ordinary attendants quite unable to perform the necessary duties in waiting upon the sick, the authorities invited the assistance of the inhabitants; and the wife of Fichte was one of the first to respond to the call.

"A stout heart, and no submission," had at this time been the motto of her patriotic husband, and in her own sphere she was equally devoted. For five months she ministered to the sick and dying, but unfortunately was seized with fever, from which she recovered, though her husband caught the infection, and sunk within a few weeks. The brief account of his illness and death is most affecting.

resisted the effect of baths and the other usual remedies. Its first symptom was nervous sleeplessness, which Soon, however, the true nature of the malady was no longer doubtful; and, during the rapid progress of his illness, his lucid moments became shorter and less frequent. In one of these he was told of Blucher's passage of the Rhine, and the final expulsion of the French from Germany. The spirit-stirring information touched

a chord that roused him from his unconsciousness, and he awoke to a bright and glorious vision of a better future for his fatherland. The triumphant excitement mingled itself with his fevered fancies:-he imagined himself in the midst of the victorious struggle, striking for the liberties of Germany; and then again it was against his own disease that he fought, and power of will and firm resolution were the arms by which he was to conquer it. Shortly before his death, when his son approached him with medicine, he said, with his usual look of deep affection,-"Let it alone; I need no more medicine: I feel that I am well." On the eleventh day died. The last hours of his life were passed in deep of his illness, on the night of the 27th January, 1814, he and unbroken sleep.

His voice was often drowned by the trumpets of the French troops, and well-known spies frequently made their appearance among his auditory; but he continued, undismayed, to direct all the fervour of his eloquence against the despotism of Napoleon, and the system of spoiling and oppression under which his country groaned. It is somewhat singular, that while Davoust threatened the chief literary men of Berlin with vengeance if they should either speak or write upon the political state of

the only one who did speak out, openly and fearlessly, against the foreign yoke.

Germany, Fichte should have remained unmolested- increased popularity, reward the pains bestowed, it is not easy to say or at least not for those critics who look more to the matter than the manner of a book, — to the spirit, than the mere dexterity of execution.

Fichte died as he had lived, the priest of Knowledge, the apostle of freedom, the martyr of humanity. His character stands written in his life, a massive but severely simple whole. It has no parts;-the depth and earnestness on which it rests, speak forth alike in his thoughts, words, and actions. No man of his timefew perhaps of any time-exercised a more powerful, spirit-stirring influence over the minds of his fellow countrymen. The impulse which he communicated to the national thought extended far beyond the sphere of his personal influence;-it has awakened-it will still awaken-high emotions and manly resolution in thousands who never heard his voice. The ceaseless effort of his life was to rouse men to a sense of the divinity of their own nature-to fix their thoughts upon a spiritual life as the only true and real life-to teach them to look upon all else as mere show and unreality, and thus to lead them to constant effort after the highest ideal of purity, virtue, independence, and self-denial.

His life is the true counterpart of his philosophy;-it is that of a strong, free, incorruptible man. And, with all the sternness of his morality, he is full of gentle and generous affections, of deep overflowing sympathies. No tone of love, no soft breathing of tenderness, fall unheeded on that high, royal soul, but in its calm sublimity find a welcome and a home. Even his hatred is the offspring of a higher love.

The wife of Fichte obtained a pension from the King of Prussia. She devoted herself to the education of their only son, and in five years slept by the side of her husband. English readers who may care little for the philosophy of Fichte, will yet be delighted and benefited by its practical results, as unfolded in his daily life. To this class we warmly recommend the volume. Pictures from Italy. By Charles Dickens. With vignette illustrations, by Samuel Palmer. London: published for the Author, by Bradbury & Evans. There are books, among many other things, which derive much of their value, not from any intrinsic or sterling worth which they may possess, but from the happy knack, or ingenious constructive process, by which they are got up or put together. A Holy Family painted by Raphael, and fifty portraits carved on a single cherry-stone, or the Lord's Prayer and the Creed written on a small watch-paper, are things of very different value; and yet the latter have their own peculiar merit of rarity and ingenuity, and will find and deserve admirers. Now, we humbly take leave to class Mr. Dickens, in works like these " Pictures," with those ingenious artists whose reputation rests upon doing something not very great, but which nobody else could hit off nearly so well. He went to Italy neither as an artist nor a philosophical speculator, but as a sharp, if not very deep, observer of manners, making little or no account of men, save as they presented individual peculiarities, or furnished pegs, of quaint or grotesque appearance, to hang notes upon.

Mr. Dickens was unfortunate in his book upon America. It rashly gave the admiring public the true gauge of his mind. His knowledge has increased, his intellect has ripened since then; and he has also learned the valuable lesson, that even an idol-though he were a popular ora. tor or preacher, instead of a writer of fiction-must take great pains to maintain the reputation which he may have obtained without much effort. On these "Pictures " Mr. Dickens has accordingly bestowed much greater pains than on the careless American running notes of the spoiled young author. Whether the result may, by

VOL. XIII.-NO. CLI.

Our object must be, to enable the reader, so far as we have the means, to judge for himself. For this purpose, he must be informed that Mr. Dickens, his wife and a sister, together with a large small family, two nurses, and other appurtenances and means, travelled through France, in the summer of 1844, to embark at Marseilles for Genoa, where he purposed to reside for some time. Wanting the characters of a story to dramatize and set in action, he finds those essentials to his pen in the couriers, landlords, and other personages whom he encountered in his route; and, wherever he goes, he diligently pokes about to watch for and catalogue small items unobserved by other men, in the original style of Boz. Thus, in passing through Paris, on a Sunday morning, we are told,

Shoe-blacks were busy on the bridges; shops were open; carts and wagons clattered to and fro; the narrow, up-hill, funnel-like streets across the River, were so many dense perspectives of crowd and bustle, parti-coloured nightcaps, tobacco-pipes, blouses, large boots, and shaggy heads of hair. Nothing at that hour denoted a day of rest, unless it were the appearance, here and there, of a family pleasure-party, crammed into a bulky old lumbering cab; or of some contemplative holiday-maker in the freest and easiest dishabille, leaning out of a low garret window, watching the drying of his newly-polished shoes on the little parapet outside, (if a gentleman,) or the airing of her stockings in the sun, (if a lady,) with calm anticipation.

The description of the generic French Postilion (one the type of all) is in the same style; and the face of the country, and its old towns, are neatly hit off.

Beggars innumerable there are, every where; but an extraordinary scanty population, and fewer children than I ever encountered. I don't believe we saw hundred children between Paris and Chalons. Queer old towns, draw-bridged and walled: with odd little towers at the angles, like grotesque faces, as if the wall had put a mask on, and were staring down into the moat; other strange little towers, in gardens and fields, and down lanes, and in farm-yards: all alone, and always round, with a peaked roof, and never used for any purpose at all; ruinous buildings of all sorts sometimes an hotel de ville, sometimes a guardhouse, sometimes a dwelling-house, sometimes a chateau with a rank garden, prolific in dandelion, and watched over by extinguisher-topped turrets, and blink-eyed little casements, are the standard objects, repeated over and over again. Sometimes we pass a village inn, with of out-houses: and painted over the gateway," Stabling a crumbling wall belonging to it, and a perfect town for Sixty Horses;" as indeed there might be stabling for sixty score, were there any horses to be stabled there, or any body resting there, or any thing stirring about the place but a dangling bush, indicative of the wine inside which flutters idly in the wind, in lazy keeping with every thing else, and certainly is never in a green old age, though always so old as to be dropping to pieces.

There is the Diligence, twice or thrice a-day; with the dusty outsides in blue frocks, like butchers; and the insides in white nightcaps; and its cabriolet head on the roof, nodding and shaking, like an idiot's head; and its Young-France passengers staring out of window, with beards down to their waists, and blue spectacles awfully shading their warlike eyes, and very big sticks with only a couple of passengers, tearing along at a real clenched in their National grasp. Also the Malle Poste, good dare-devil pace, and out of sight in no time. Steady old Curés come jolting past, now and then, in such ramshackle, rusty, musty, clattering coaches, as no

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