double, and his pale and wrinkled head, which the insensibility of the tomb seemed already to have enveloped, resembled one of those angular figures, in sculptured oak, which ornamented the back of his large arm-chair. His feet were resting before a fire of vine-cuttings, though the sun was warm, and a bright ray falling upon his white head made it shine like silver. How shall I describe to you what the attitude of Edmée made me feel? She was bending over her tapestry, and from time to time raised her eyes to her father as though to question the slightest movement of his sleep. But what patience and resignation pervaded her whole being! Edmée did not like needlework; her mind was too serious to attach importance to the effect of shade upon shade, and the agreement of one stitch with another. Moreover her blood was impetuous; and when her mind was not absorbed by intellectual labour, she needed exercise and the open air. But since her father, a prey to the infirmities of old age, had scarcely left his arm-chair, she never quitted him a single moment; and, not being able always to read and live by the intellect alone, she had felt the necessity of adopting these feminine occupations, which are,' she said, 'the amusements of captivity.' She had then conquered her natural disposition in an heroic manner. In one of those obscure struggles which often take place beneath our eyes without our suspecting their merit, she had done more than conquer her natural disposition, she had even changed the very circulation of her blood. I found her thinner, and her complexion had lost that first blush of youth which is like the bloom that the breath of morning deposits upon fruit, and which is gone at the least exterior touch, though the ardour of the sun has respected it. But there was in this precocious paleness, and the attenuation almost sickly, an indefinable charm; her deep and always impenetrable look had less of pride and more of melancholy than of old; her mouth, more flexible, wore a more delicate and less disdainful smile. When she spoke, it seemed as though I saw two persons in her, the old and the new; and, instead of having lost her beauty, I found that she had attained the ideal of perfection; I often, however, heard it said by several persons that she was greatly changed; which meant to say, according to them, that she had lost a great deal of her beauty. But beauty is like a temple whose exterior riches are all that are seen by the profane. The divine mystery of the artist's thought reveals itself only to minds in sympathy with his own, and the smallest detail of a sublime work contains an inspiration which escapes the perception of the vulgar. One of your modern writers has said this, I believe, in other and better words. As for me, in no one moment of her life did I ever find Edmée less beautiful than in another; even in hours of suffering, when beauty seems to be effaced in its material form, hers became divine in my eyes, revealing a new moral beauty whose reflection inspired her face. For the rest, I am but little gifted in the arts, and, had I been a painter, I should never have produced more than one type, that with which my soul was filled; for in the course of a long life, one woman only ever seemed beautiful to me, and that was Edmée.” And with this we must close. But, deeply as we feel the merit of Sand, we have two regrets to express, with regard to this noble production. We wish, in the first place, that she had taken a larger canvass -that she had given herself greater scope, that she might have delineated the characters of the relations of Mauprat more in detail. It is strange, and somewhat annoying, to know that the French novelists of an unworthier kind indulge in the utmost prolixity, and to find that so powerful and teeming a writer as Sand condenses to a fault. Her works are essences. The second objection we have, is, that she has troubled herself to be ingenious, in unravelling the plot, and complicated it with invention that would win her the ecstatic applause of the admirers of the Porte de St. Martin dramas. It is extremely well managed, and very clearly told; but it is as if Minerva-Athene should come off her pedestal, and dance the bolera. Her theme is so high, her powers so great, that they are alone sufficient to fill the mind and govern the emotions. Timely arrivals, shots mistaken, disguises assumed, are not necessary to Sand, in order to create an interest. It is indeed wonderful to see how she invests these tricks with energy and power; and the delineation of character is never lost sight of. We have said thus much to show we are not blind worshippers of this gifted woman's writings. We are anxious to introduce her to those who wish to separate the true from the false, the conventional from the natural, and the really great from the pretentious small. Of the translator we can say that which is the highest praise. She translates with a kindred feeling-with a sympathising mind that lends vigour to every line. It may be, as has been said, that a few peculiar or provincial expressions have been mistaken; but we are quite sure no mere lexicographer, however correct in his literal rendering, could have imparted the nervous, racy, and vigorous tone to a translation, that Miss Hays has. She has a kindred sensibility and imagination; and Sand is fortunate in having so able a transferer of her sweet and powerful fictions. A HISTORY OF SERVIA, AND THE SERVIAN REVOLUTION, from original MSS. and Documents. Translated from the German of Leopold Ranke, by Mrs. Alexander Kerr. 8vo. John Murray. THE old and almost worn-out adage, for we have not met with it very lately, that "one half the world does not know what the other is doing," is applicable in a more extensive sense than is usually assigned to it. "The Servians are too little known to the rest of Europe," says Mrs. Kerr; but as regards England, and probably all the western and southern portions of the Continent, she might have said, nothing is known of Servia. Here is a nation, professing the Christian religion, and lying like a frontier between it and Mahometanism, of which a few sentences in a school geography furnish all that is known to nine hundred and ninety nine English, or Frenchmen, out of a thousand-a brave and noble branch of the great Sclavonian family, who have worked out for themselves their freedom and nationality, by twenty years of fierce contest with their remorseless masters. Diplomatists and politicians have, of course, closely watched the struggle, and alternately availed themselves of the vicissitudes of the war. Russia has talked of brotherly love, Austria of paternal affection, and France of kindred sympathies; all of which professions have been turned and twisted about as the fortunes of the combatants changed. The people of any of these countries, who would assuredly have sympathised with them, knew nothing of the struggle in its details nor as to its objects. In the mean time, chieftains who could not read, swine-dealers from amongst the oppressed and despised peasants, men who were as dirt in the opinions of their barbarian rulers, have achieved victory after long years of commotion, misery, and bloodshed. Such a history must be interesting, and written by such a man as Ranke, must be authentic. We are very glad to have it, and only regret that it is published in a form fitted for the library of the few rather than the many. Let us hope the sale of the present handsome edition will enable Mr. Murray to issue it in his half-crown library. Such histories, as exemplifications of individual humanity, and as interesting records of the struggles of a nation, are fit reading for the people. The conduct of the Servians, though heroic, is not faultless. Ages of oppression had hardened their characters, and their annals are stained with frightful atrocities and reprisals. Human nature is shown in its concrete state, a strange mixture of all that ennobles and all that debases it. Still, on the whole, it is an encouraging picture. The native capacity for goodness of the heart is proved, if circumstances and institutions do not depress and pervert it. The hero of the war and the book is Kara (or black) George. The following anecdote is illustrative of his career, and of the state of morals in the country : "George Petrowitsch, called Kara, or Zrni, the black, was born between the years 1760 and 1770, in the village of Wischewzi, in the district of Kragujewaz. He was the son of a peasant named Petroni; and in his early youth he went with his parents higher up into the mountain to Topola. In the very first commotion of the country-which was in the year 1787, when an invasion by the Austrians was expected-he took a part that decided the character of his future life. He saw himself compelled to flee; and not wishing to leave his father behind, amongst the Turks, he took him also, with all his moveable property and cattle. Thus he proceeded towards the Save, but the nearer they approached that river, the more alarmed became his father, who, from the first, would have preferred surrendering, as many others had done, and often advised him to return. Once again, and in the most urgent manner, when they already beheld the Save before them, 'Let us humble ourselves,' the old man said, and we shall obtain pardon. Do not go to Germany, my son: as surely as my bread may prosper thee, do not go.' But George remained inexorable. His father was at last equally resolved: Go, then, over alone,' he said: 'I remain in this country.' 'How!' replied Kara George, 'shall I live to see thee slowly tortured to death by the Turks? It is better that I should kill thee myself on the spot!' Then seizing a pistol, he instantly shot his father, and ordered one of his companions to give the death-blow to the old man, who was writhing in agony. In the next village, Kara said to the people, Get the old man who lies yonder buried for me, and drink also for his soul at a funeral feast.' For that purpose he made them a present of the cattle which he had with him, and then crossed the Save. "This deed, which was the first indication of his character, threw him out of the common course. He returned to his own district, with the rank of serjeant, in the corps of volunteers; but, believing himself unjustly passed over at a distribution of medals, he retired into the mountains as a Heyduc. However, he became reconciled in this matter with his colonel, Mihaljewitsch; went with him after the peace to Austria; and was made forest-keeper in the cloister of Kruschedol. But he did not rest satisfied in Austria; and as, under Hadschi Mustafa, he had nothing to fear in Servia, he returned thither, and from that time followed his business-that of a dealer in swine. The outrages of the Dahis hurried him into the movements in which he was destined to perform so important a part. "Kara George was a very extraordinary man. He would sit for days together without uttering a word, biting his nails. At times, when addressed, he would turn his head aside and not answer. When he had taken wine, he became talkative; and if in a cheerful mood, he would perhaps lead off a Kolo-dance. "Splendour and magnificence he despised. In the days of his greatest success, he was always seen in his old blue trowsers, in his worn-out short pelt, and his well-known black cap. His daughter, even whilst her father was in the exercise of princely authority, was seen to carry her water-vessel, like other girls in the village. Yet, strange to say, he was not insensible to the charms of gold." There are numerous episodes such as these which give a life and animation to the narrative, whilst the historical and political portions are distinguished by the accuracy and impartiality which are the distinguishing characteristics of Professor Ranke's historical writings. The romance of the subject may have somewhat evaporated under the severity of the political treatment, and we cannot say that we distinguish any of those profound or original remarks that would entitle the author to rank with those ancient historians, who, while they penned a narrative of individuals, characterised a race. Of history, in its highest form, we see nothing; but as a level and comprehensive narrative of important and interesting events, much that is to be commended. It is a section of history entirely new and well worth studying on every account, inasmuch as it treats of a people connected with a race probably destined to play a very prominent part in the future politics of Europe. The Sclavonian nations when united will avenge the outrages committed on that portion bought, sold, and destroyed in Poland. The translation is elegantly rendered, and the difficulties of the original remarkably well got over. The translatress has the advantage of being intimately acquainted with the subject and the country, and by her notes and her preface has added to the value of the original. MR. DOWNS'S HONEST JOHN-BULLISM.-ARCHER AND THE MISS LLOYDS TAKE CHARGE OF AN INVALID.-MR. WALTON AND HARDING VISIT DONNYBROOK FAIR. THEY MEET WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. "BRICKS-bricks-before all your moonshine!" ejaculated Mr. Downs, "bricks before all your fine feelings and fancies-bricks before all your sentiments and sciences, and-with a little mortar, before all your poetry and philosophy! I know my trade, and I stick to it, and thrive by it. Bricks are the things to build with at least in England: you may build with thoughts and dreams in Germany; but it won't do here. Here we show our true estimate of poets and philosophers by their treatment while alive among us, and we only make a fuss about them after death, out of national vanity; we weigh things by their value in the scales of the shop, and their use in the house, and how they improve our faces in the looking-glass; here we scout all newfangledness, and hold on, every dry chip of us, as long as we possibly can, to the good old blocks; here, everything we care for is good sense, and plain man's English, and wholesome diet-and all is mystery which is not beef. This is my mind; and a good sound English one it is, Mr. Karl Kohl—a mind in top-boots, sir, that never danced in French shoes, or had a German tailor to fit it with geometry and goose-skin." Mr. Kohl made no reply, but raised himself in his bed—where * Continued from page 315, Vol. VI. NO. XXXV.-VOL. VI. |