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crowd the figures of Queen Mary, Elizabeth, Philip of Spain, Gardiner, Archbishop Cranmer, Cardinal Pole, Simon Renard (the Spanish Embassador), and Sir Thomas Wyatt, stand forth conspicuously prominent, while the story takes its essential unity from the life of Mary herself.

The first act is a long one and decidedly business-like, being occupied chiefly with positing the several leading characters, and twining together the threads of the subsequent story; but even thus early we come upon the main-springs of the drama-Mary's infatuation for Philip, the opposition of the English to her marriage with him, and the persecuting tendencies of the Roman Catholic revival. Scene v. of this act, in which Mary communes with herself over the miniature of Philip, shows it to her attendants and questions them regarding it, and avows to Gardiner her unalterable determination to have Philip and none other, is one of the most successful in the play; but it is too long to quote entire, and its parts are too interdependent to be separated.

The whole of the secoud act is devoted to the "Kentish insurrection," headed by Sir Thomas Wyatt, which came so near costing Mary her throne, and the complete defeat of which enabled her to triumph over all opposition, and to carry out her pet plans of marrying Philip and reëstablishing the Romish worship in England. This act is spirited and dramatic, and contains some of the most skillful writing in the play.

Before the third act opens an interval of a year or more has elapsed, during which Wyatt and Lady Jane Grey have been beheaded, Elizabeth consigned to prison as a "suspect," and the queen married to her Philip, who by his haughty bearing and insolent Spanish airs has already awakened bitter hostility against himself both at court and among the people. In this act the story makes rapid progress. Pole, as Papal Legate, absolves England from the guilt of heresy, and takes her back once more into the fold of Holy Church; under the pressure of Gardiner and Bonner-Mary being a willing coadjutor-the baleful enginery of religious persecution is set in motion, and Elizabeth is partially reinstated at court. In the closing scene Philip, disgusted with the English climate, and tired of a wife whom he had never loved, and whom he had accepted only from motives of state policy, is on the point of leaving England. This scene is long; but, as it summarizes in a manner the controlling motif of the play, we venture to quote a considerable portion of it:

PHILIP.

But, Renard, I am sicker staying here
Than any sea could make me passing hence,
Though I be ever deadly sick at sea.
So sick am I with biding for this child.
Is it the fashion in this clime for women
To go twelve months in bearing of a child?
The nurses yawned, the cradle gaped, they led
Processions, chanted litanies, clashed their
bells,

Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests Have preached, the fools, of this fair prince to come,

Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool.
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus?

RENARD.

I never saw your highness moved till now.

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Ay, but, my lord, you know what Virgil sings, Woman is various and most mutable."

PHILIP. She play the harlot! never. RENARD. No, sire, no, Not dreamed of by the rabidest gospeler. There was a paper thrown into the palace, "The king hath wearied of his barren bride." She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, With all the rage of one who hates a truth He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you

What should I say, I cannot pick my words-
Be somewhat less-majestic to your queen.
PHILIP.

Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard,
Because these islanders are brutal beasts ?
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer,
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of hers?
RENARD.

Brief-sighted though they be, I have seen

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The parting of a husband and a wife

Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half Will flutter here, one there.

PHILIP.

You say true, madam. MARY. The Holy Virgin will not have me yet Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince. If such a prince were born and you not here! PHILIP.

I should be here if such a prince were born.

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I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, So you will have me with you; and there watch

All that is gracious in the breath of heaven Draw with your sails from our poor land, and pass

And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you. PHILIP. And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers. MARY. Methinks that would you tarry one day more (The news was sudden), I could mould my

self

To bear your going better; will you do it?
PHILIP.

Madam, a day may sink or save a realm.
MARY.

A day may save a heart from breaking, too.
PHILIP.
Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day?
RENARD.
Your grace's business will not suffer, sire,
For one day more, so far as I can tell.
PHILIP.

Then one day more to please her majesty.
MARY.

The sunshine sweeps across my life again. Oh, if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, As I do!

PHILIP.

By St. James I do protest, Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard,

I am vastly grieved to leave your majesty.Simon, is supper ready?

RENARD.

Ay, my liege,

PHILIP.

I saw the covers laying.

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With the fourth act the drama takes on a deeper tone, and rises to loftier heights of poetry. The entire act is devoted to the religious persecutions, especially to the burning of Cranmer at the stake. The scenes preliminary to this most melancholy tragedy in the annals of the English Church-the abortive petition of the Lords for Cranmer's pardon,

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the procuring of the recantations, the meeting at St. Mary's Church, where Cranmer is expected to abjure his heresy, and abjures his recantations instead, the procession to the stake-all are described with exceeding vividness of detail. Cranmer's speech at St. Mary's is surpassingly fine, unequaled in vigor, simplicity, and pathos, by any thing of the kind in recent literature. The horror of the actual scene at the stake is spared us, but the following description of it is given by an eyewitness fresh from the burning:

PETERS.

You saw him how he passed among the crowd;
And ever as he walked the Spanish friars
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach:
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm
Steers, ever looking to the happy haven
Where he shall rest at night, moved to his
death;

And I could see that many silent hands
Came from the crowd and met his own, and
thus,

When we had come where Ridley burned with Latimer,

He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind Is all made up, in haste put off the rags

They had mocked his misery with, and all in white,

His long white beard, which he had never shaven

Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain

Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood

More like an ancient father of the Church Than heretic of these times; and still the friars

Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head,
Or answered them in smiling negatives;
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:
"Make short! make short!" and so they lit
the wood.

Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven,
And thrust his right into the bitter flame;
And crying, in his deep voice, more than

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Nay, but, my lord, he denied purgatory.
PAGET.
Why then to heaven; and God ha' mercy on
him.

In the fifth act the interest is concentrated on Queen Mary, who appears before us in her declining days, deserted by her husband, hopeless of an heir, involved by Philip in an unpopular war with France, conscious of being hated by her people, and racked with disease. The pathos of this act is profound and powerful; for, though Tennyson has made little effort to soften the hard and unlovely outlines of Mary's character, though he has represented her as she really was-a cold, selfish, cruel woman, in politics an incapable, and in religion a ferocious bigot-yet, recalling her ardent devotion to Philip and her sorrowful life with him, and looking upon the utter desolation of her latter end, we are moved to sympathy, and find ourselves regarding "the bloody queen" with infinite pity, if not with affection. This, indeed, is Tennyson's true triumph: that he has taken

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one of the most repulsive characters in modern annals, and, without violating the truth of history or attempting to confuse our judgment, linked her to her kind by simply exhib iting her under the influence of those pas sions and sorrows which are common to us all, and which, therefore, appeal to our most universal human sympathies. Henceforth, History's stern verdict upon Mary will be mitigated in the reader's mind by the recol lection of the scene (scene ii., act v.) of which we shall now quote a part: POLE (to MARY).

Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watched you dancing once
With your huge father; he looked the Great
Harry,

You but his cockboat: prettily you did it
And innocently. No, we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery:
Our bridesmaids are not lovely-Disappoint-
ment,

Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labor-in-vain.

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HEATH.

Her highness is unwell. I will retire.

LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. MARY.

Sir Nicholas? I am stunned-Nicholas Heath? Methought some traitor smote me on the head.

What said you, my good lord, that our brave English

Had sallied out from Calais and driven back The Frenchmen from their trenches?

HEATH.

Alas! no.

That gateway to the main-land over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again.

MARY.

So; but it is not lostNot yet. Send out: let England as of old Rise lion-like, strike hard and deep into The prey they are rending from her-ay, rend

and

The renders, too. Send out, send out, and make

Muster in all the counties; gather all
From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet;
Let every craft that carries sail and gun
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken

yet? HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet.

MARY.

There is yet hope.

HEATH.

Ah, madam, but your people are so cold;
I do much fear that England will not care.
Methinks there is no manhood left among us.
MARY.

Send out. I am too weak to stir abroad;
Tell my mind to the Council-to the Parlia-

ment:

Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself

To babble of their coldness. Oh, would I

were

My father for an hour! Away now-quick!
[Exit HEATH.
I hoped I had served God with all my might!
It seems I have not. Ah, much heresy
Sheltered in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt
Your shrines, set up your broken images;
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not
That my brief reign in England be defamed
Through all her angry chronicles hereafter
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais.-Philip,
We have made war upon the Holy Father
All for your sake! What good could come

of that?

LADY CLARENCE.

No, madam, not against the Holy Father; You did but help King Philip's war with

France.

Your troops were never down in Italy.

MARY.

I am a byword. Heretic and rebel
Point at me and make merry. Philip gone!
And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too?
(Sees the paper dropped by POLE.)
There, there! another paper! said you not
Many of these were loyal? Shall I try
If this be one of such?

LADY CLARENCE.

Let it be, let it be. God pardor me! I have never yet found one. [Aside. MARY (reads). "Your people hate you as your husband hates you."

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what

sin

Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God,
Thou knowest never woman meant so well,
And fared so ill in this disastrous world.
My people hate me and desire my death.
LADY CLARENCE.

No, madam, no.

MARY.

My husband hates me, and desires my death. LADY CLARence.

No, madam; these are libels.

MARY.

I hate myself, and I desire my death.

We have little more to add. What we have already written will suffice, we trust, to give the reader a tolerably accurate idea of the scope and quality of the work. To characterize such a performance might savor of presumption; while it would certainly be fruitless to follow the example of the London Times (referred to last week), and institute a comparison between poets who have so little in common, even when they essay the drama, as Shakespeare and Tennyson. It is enough to say that "Queen Mary" is worthy of its author's fame; that its vigor, dramatic fire, simplicity of diction, and freedom from all effort at merely rhetorical effects, will surprise those whose knowledge of Tennyson is founded chiefly upon his later work, in which the singer has almost been lost in the artist; and that it will undoubtedly take a foremost place among the literary achievements of our time.

PROFESSOR J. E. CAIRNES, of University College, London, is now generally recognized as the leading living exponent of the orthodox school of political economy-the school founded by Adam Smith, and of which the late J. S. Mill was, perhaps, the most distinguished expositor. Whatever he chose to say, therefore, on politico-economical questions, would be entitled to respectful consideration; but, independent of this, his little collection of lectures on "The Character and Logical Method of Political Economy" (New York: Harper & Brothers) fills a place in the popular literature of the science that has been occupied by no previous book. It is not a systematic treatise on the principles of political economy; much less is it a complete survey of its phenomena and laws; but it stands alone in the precision with which it defines the nature, objects, and limits of economic science, and the method of investigation proper to it as a subject of scientific study. For this reason it is admirably adapted to serve as an introduction to the study of the science, or as the close of a course of reading when the time has come to coördi

nate, systematize, and classify the ideas that have been accumulated in the reader's mind.

Professor Cairnes thinks that the present state of instability and uncertainty even as to fundamental propositions in political economy, which has retarded and almost arrested the growth of the science in recent years, is owing partly to a want of precision in its definitions, but chiefly to an attempt on the part of many professed expounders of the science (the French school especially) to extend its boundaries so as to include in it all the various phenomena presented by society. Be

sides the controversies which this has caused, and the difficulty involved in thus grouping together phenomena which have no scientific relation to each other, the result has been to divert political economy from its proper field, the laws of the production and distribution of wealth, to a consideration of social interests and relations generally, in the discussion of which its exponents have taken sides and become the apologists or assailants of institutions which it was their business simply to analyze. As a consequence of these attempts to represent political economy in the guise of a dogmatic code of cut-and-dried rules, a system promulgating decrees, sanctioning one social arrangement, condemning another, requiring from men, not consideration, but obedience, it has awakened the repugnance, and even the violent opposition, not only of those who have all along regarded the science as "dismal," "unchristian," and "inhuman," but of that vast mass of people who have their own reasons for not cherishing that unbounded admiration of existing industrial arrangements which is felt by some popular expositors of so-called economic laws. The main object of Professor Cairnes in these lectures is to bring back the science to

its rightful limits, which, as we have already

said, are the laws of the production, distribution, and consumption of wealth, and to show that, within these limits, it is a true science, dealing with phenomena only, and not intruding at all upon the domain of morals, or either indorsing or condemning social arrangements or industrial schemes. The argument in which this proposition is enforced is a beautiful example of lucid, forcible, and convincing reasoning; and though the chain is too closely welded to be easily unlinked, we cannot refrain from quoting a single paragraph, bearing upon the points we have just mentioned:

"For those who clearly apprehend what science, in the modern sense of the term, means, this ought sufficiently to indicate at once its (political economy's) province and what it undertakes to do. Unfortunately, many who perfectly understand what science means when the word is employed with reference to physical Nature, allow themselves to slide into a totally different sense of it, or rather into acquiescence in an absence of all distinct meaning in its use, when they employ it with reference to social existence. In the minds of a large number of people every thing is social science which proposes to deal with social facts, either in the way of remedying a grievance, or in promoting order and progress in society: every thing is political economy which is in any way connected with the production, distribution, or consumption of

wealth. Now I am anxious here to insist upon this fundamental point: whatever takes the form of a plan aiming at definite practical ends-it may be a measure for the diminution of pauperism, for the reform of land-tenure, for the extension of cooperative industry, for the regulation of currency; or it may assume a more ambitious shape, and aim at reorganizing society under spiritual and temporal powers, represented by a high-priest of humanity and three bankers-it matters not what the proposal may be, whether wide or narrow in its scope, severely judicious or wildly imprudent-if its object be to accom

plish definite practical ends, then I say it has

none of the characteristics of a science, and has no just claim to the name. Consider the case of any recognized physical science-astronomy, dynamics, chemistry, physiologydoes any of these aim at definite practical ends? at modifying in a definite manner, it matters not how, the arrangement of things in the physical universe? Clearly not. each case the object is, not to attain tangible results, not to prove any definite thesis, not to advocate any practical plan, but simply to

In

give light, to reveal laws of Nature, to tell us

what phenomena are found together, what effects follow from what causes. Does it follow from this that the physical sciences are without bearing on the practical concerns of mankind? I think I need not trouble myself to answer that question. Well, then, political economy is a science in the same sense in which astronomy, dynamics, chemistry, and physiology are sciences. Its subject-matter is different; it deals with the phenomena of wealth, while they deal with the phenomena of the physical universe; but its methods, its aims, the character of its conclusions, are the same as theirs. What astronomy does for the phenomena of the heavenly bodies; what dynamics does for the phenomena of motion; what chemistry does for the phenomena of chemical combination; what physiology does for the phenomena of the functions of organic

life, that political economy does for the phenomena of wealth: it expounds the laws according to which these phenomena coexist with or succeed each other; that is to say, it expounds the laws of the phenomena of wealth."

In one lecture the Malthusian doctrine of population, and in another the theory of rent, are very carefully analyzed and explained; but the entire book is one which we can recommend warmly to all students of politicoeconomical questions. The fact that the lectures were delivered some seventeen years ago does not in any way lessen their value -the problems of that time are the problems of to-day-and, besides the introduction of entirely new topics, extensive changes have been made throughout in the form and treatment.

MRS. FRANCES ELLIOT is already known to readers of the JOURNAL, by her "Romance of Old Court-Life in France," as a forcible, vivid, and graceful writer, with a decided taste for the picturesque and personal side of history and an equally decided talent for brilliant, pictorial, and somewhat gorgeous description. Her latest work, "The Italians" (New York: D. Appleton & Co.), takes its chief interest from the same tastes and qualities. Though, in form, a novel, the story is exceedingly slight, and the characters are types rather than persons; the real

object of the book being to picture the Italian society of the period, with its proud old nobility, whose very names have an historic sound, and whose traditions link the present with the middle ages, but whose fortunes are grievously decayed, and its nouveaux riches whom the new order of things and the increasing importance of wealth have lifted to a social prominence which the hereditary caste bitterly resents but is obliged to tolerate. Mrs. Elliot has lived long in Italy, she writes from abundant knowledge of her subject, and her delineations have a "truthful seeming" quality which one hesitates to call in question; yet we cannot help hoping that the picture is exaggerated, and that the author has been led by her preference for the salient and the striking to select the exceptious and ignore the rule. Every generous mind throughout the world has been in hearty sympathy with the awakening and growth of the new Italy; but what can be hoped of a nation of whose society the following can be truthfully written? For it must be remembered that these "golden youth" are but the product, the illustration, the expression of the social life in the midst of which they are bred:

"Beside Count Nobili some jeunesse dorée of his own age (sons of the best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements. Like the liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff, and criticise the wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white headgear, freely. They smoke, and drink liqueurs and sherbet, and crack sugar-plums out of crystal cups on silver plates, set on embossed trays placed beside them. The profession of these young men is idleness. They excel in it. Let us pause for a moment and ask what they do this jeunesse dorée, to whom is committed the sacred mission of regenerating an heroic people? They could teach Ovid the art of love." It comes to them in the air they breathe. They do not love their neighbors as themselves, but they love their neighbors' wives. Nothing is holy to them. 'All the world for love, and the world well lost,' is their motto. They can smile in their best friend's face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink with him, and-betray him; they do this every day, and do it well. They can also lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with great skill, gamble and sing, swear, and talk scandal. They can lead a graceful, dissolute, far niente life, loll in carriages, and be whirled round for hours, say the Florence Cascine, the Roman Pincio, and the park at Milan-smoking the while, and raising their hats to the ladies. . . . They are ready of tongue and easy of offense. They can fight duels (with swords), generally a harmless exercise. They can dance. They can hold strong opinions on subjects on which they are crassly ignorant, and yield neither to fact nor argument where their mediæval usages are concerned. All this the Golden Youth of Italy can do, and do it well.

"Yet from such stuff as this are to come the future ministers, prefects, deputies, financiers, diplomatists, and senators, who are to regenerate the world's old mistress! Alas, poor Italy!"

Alas, indeed! for this is not the worst of it. Enrica, the heroine, is the only pure woman in the book; and her innocence is preserved first by a childhood and youth spent in almost conventual seclusion, and af

terward by an absorbing affection for the man who in the end wins her hand. The story of this affection is entirely unexceptionable, but the social background on which it is thrown is a perfect Vanity Fair of folly, hypocrisy, and vice.

Mrs. Elliot, as we have said, has a marked talent for description, and in the present work finds ample opportunity for indulging it. The old city of Lucca, as it nestles in the valley of the Serchio; its massive edifices, half palace and half fortress, relics of the old warlike times when the lords of Lucca struggled with Florence and Pisa for supremacy in Italy; its famous historical achievements; its venerable nobility, contrasting oddly with the modern insignificance of their town; its festivals and civic ceremonials; its fêtes and balls; the country around, with its oliveplantations, chestnut-forests, and cornfields; the peasants, beggars, village gossips, and priests-all are brought before us with a vividness that leaves little to be demanded of the reader's imagination. An actual visit to Lucca could hardly add much to the knowledge which we seem to have gotten of the picturesque old city and the life of its inhabitants.

Without being exciting, "The Italians" is a book which it is not easy to lay aside unfinished, and we can testify from experience as to the facility with which it induces one to sit into the wee small hours.

A WRITER in Cornhill on "Ballad Poetry" closes his paper with the following comments in regard to a few recent poets as ballad-writers: "Almost every poet, whether English or German, who fiourished at the close of last century or in the early years of this century, shows a profound sympathy with the feeling that gives life to the old ballads. In our country this sympathy directed the poetical course of Scott, dominated the genius of Coleridge and of Wordsworth, influenced in a considerable measure the rhythmical efforts of Southey,

and moved with a secret but irresistible force many a smaller poet, who, if there were still, as in days of the troubadours, a minstrel college, would be entitled to a certificate of merit.

"Of all modern writers, Scott retains, we think, in the largest degree the force and picturesqueness of style which distinguish the old minstrels. His description of Flodden Field, while exhibiting an artistic skill unknown in earlier times, has the spirit and movement, the directness and heartiness, which delight us in the balladists, and, as a writer in the Times has lately remarked, his "Bonnie Dundee" is, of all Jacobite ballads, "one of the most spirited and soul-stirring." In "Young Lochinvar," a modern version of an old story, Scott gives another fine specimen of rapid and vigorous narrative which would have delighted the wandering singers of an earlier age. Lord Macaulay, too, caught with singular felicity the strain of the ballad-singers, and there is not a school-boy in England who has not read, we had almost said who cannot recite, "The Battle of Naseby," or the glorious story of

"How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old."

"And in some of the poets who have lately passed away, as well as in others who are happily still able to receive our love and homage,

there are similar signs of affection for the ballad. Mrs. Browning displays them frequently, although it must be acknowledged that the high effort exhibited in her verse is generally opposed to the directness and simplicity demanded from the balladist. Mr. Browning is never more picturesque, more vigorous, more able to stir the pulses, than when he surrenders himself to the emotion of the ballad. Truly says a writer in the Spectator, that Mr. Browning's ballads are among his most spirited poems. "They throb with a keen, sharp pulse of tense energy and excitement, which makes the eye and heart of his readers converge on the one point of sight of his narrative, and never dare to withdraw themselves till that point is reached." These ballads are by no means the finest works produced by the poet, but they are the most popular, and even persons who obstinately refuse to admire Mr. Browning's poetry will do justice to "The Ride from Ghent to Aix," and to the noble story of "The Breton Pirate, Hervé Riel." The poet-laureate, too, has given us some charming examples of what a writer of the highest culture and of exquisite taste can produce in this direction. So have Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Kingsley, the late Sidney Dobell, and other poets, who are all more or less indebted to the ballad-singers of earlier days.

"There is a mighty difference, of course, between the ballad of literary culture and the ballad produced in an untutored period, but the "one touch of Nature" makes the resemblance stronger than the diversity; and no one who reads Lady Anne Lindsay's "Auld Robin Gray," or Mr. Rossetti's "Stratton Water," can doubt that the inspiration which gave birth to the rude minstrelsy of a rude age is as potent as ever. Indeed, it would be possible to make a charming selection of ballads-Mr. Palgrave would call them "ballads in court dress"-dating from the beginning of the century, and among them might be included a number of humorous pieces from the pen of Mr. Thackeray and other well-known writers, which would impart a racy flavor to the volume. The element of humor is rarely perceptible in the old ballad, but in the ballad produced by men of letters it is a frequent characteristic, and many an admirable specimen is to be met with in the recent literature both of England and of America."

M. ARSÈNE HOUSSAYE, who is himself credited with an ambition to secure a place among the Forty Immortals, makes the following reference, in his last letter to the Tribune, to the recent elections at the Academy: "There has just been a duel at the Academy. People said even in the eighteenth century, 'The French Academy is an illustrious company where they receive men of the sword, men of the church, men of the law, men of the world-and even men of letters.' At present the Academy is an illustrious company where they receive nothing but politicians. Therefore, before the duel of which I am speaking the Academy had given the chair of Jules Janin to M. John Lemoinne, and editor of the Journal des Débats, a courteous gentleman, who will recall under the cupola of the Institute the appearance and the wit of PrévostParadol, who was minister of France among you. Rivarol, who was not an academician, said, 'To be one of the Forty you must have done nothing;' but he added, 'You must not carry this too far.' M. John Lemoinne has made no books, but he has fought valiantly against darkness and prejudice. I give him my vote. My son, who is also an editor of the Débats, assures me that he was the only candi

in Canada," the Spectator says: "The book bears marks of very great industry and research upon the part of Mr. Parkman; he appears to have consulted every available original document in the Archives of the Marine and Colonies at Paris and elsewhere, and he has undoubtedly given to the world a great mass of facts of the most interesting kind re

date worthy of the chair. This is what is called preaching for one's saint. But for the chair of M. Guizot there was a real duel in four combats. On the one side the Republic, on the other the Empire and Orleanism; M. Jules Simon, formerly Minister of Public Instruction under the governments of the 4th September and of M. Thiers, and M. Dumas, Perpetual Secretary of the Academy of Sci-lating to the French administration of Canada, ences and Senator of the Empire. The struggle was very hot. Each required only one vote to pass to the Immortality of the Quarantaine.

If M. Dumas had not had Alexandre Dumas against him, he would have been safe enough; but the author of The Demi-Monde' thought that there were enough Dumases there already. The duel is postponed for six months. About that time-for things do not go rapidly at the Academy-M. Lemoinne will have had his green embroidered coat made. People will say, of course, 'L'habit ne fait pas Lemoinne.' His rivals have already said that he had better put on a harlequin's coat to represent the different opinions which he has defended."

MR. RUSKIN has fulfilled the promise made in "Fors Clavigera," and opened a shop in London for the sale of pure tea to all who care to have the article in an unadulterated state.... The Duchess of Edinburgh is an accomplished linguist. It is said that at the czar's court she was able to speak with all the foreign embassadors, except the Turkish, in their own language. Charles Desilver &

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Sons, of Philadelphia, announce a new edition of Sanderson's "Biographies of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence," revised and edited by the Hon. Robert T. Conrad. Lord Houghton, better known here, perhaps, as Monckton Milnes, expects to pay us visit early in the autumn.. Mr. George Ripley has had the degree of LL. D. conferred upon him by the University of Michigan-a well-deserved compliment. . . . Speaking of Captain Lawson's "Wanderings in the Interior of New Guinea," about the authenticity of which a controversy has been raging in London recently, the Spectator says: "The charm of this strange narrative is very great. If New Guinea, according to Captain Lawson, be not a mirage, or such a dream as the hasheesheater summons up at will, it must be an earthly paradise, slightly tempered by natives, serperts, and 'yagi' spiders." . . . The French papers announce that Prince Richard von Metternich is preparing his father's memoirs for publication. . . . The Athenæum has discovered that the American publishers of General Sherman's "Memoirs "paid "the enormous sum of seventy-three thousand dollars for the copyright." . . . Mr. Trevelyan's "Life of Lord Macaulay," to be published shortly in London, will be much more social than political in character. . . . It is whispered that, in spite of assertions to the contrary, Sir Arthur Helps has left behind him a diary which, though not "official," contains many singular political revelations, and that it will be published about the beginning of next winter. ... John Bright is reported to be writing his autobiography. The Athenæum says that in "Miss Angel" Miss Thackeray has "given us in the guise of a story a most interesting picture of that Georgian time which her father appreciated so well, and which, in spite of faults, both moral and political, produced, on the whole, the best specimens of our race which England has seen for the last two centuries. We cannot hear too much of the age which produced Johnson and Reynolds."

In a long review of Parkman's "Old Régime

which would probably have otherwise long remained hidden in dusty strong boxes. He has given any one who cares any thing at all about the colonies an opportunity of forming his own opinion upon the methods by which the monarchical administration of France 'strove to make good its hold, why it achieved a certain kind of success, and why it failed at last.' But with all Mr. Parkman's industry and with all the facts which he spreads before us, he is unable to paint an harmonious historical picture. The work contains a vast amount of material, but it lies before us in disjointed masses, and instead of a consecutive story, arranged in a clear, chronological order, with certain points standing well out, based upon symmetrically arranged facts, we have a pile of very interesting information, but not a properly moulded historical work. Therefore, valuable as this book undoubtedly is, we cannot praise its form."

THE

From Abroad.

OUR PARIS LETTER.

Salon has closed at last, and we are left lamenting. Never again shall we set eyes upon the greater part of the pictures exhibited there, and it was with an actual feeling of sadness that I went to take one last long, lingering farewell look at my favorites. All this week and the next will be devoted to the removal of the paintings, and then the Palais d'Industrie will be fitted up for the great Exhibition of Fluvial and Maritime Industries, which is to open on the 10th of July and remain open till November. Looking back on the glories of the vanished Salon, one recalls many of the witticisms which the pictures called forth from among the more facetious of the critics. Thus Bouguereau's lovely "Holy Family" was dubbed "a Raphael varnished with cold cream;" Brion's "Baptism' 99 Was styled "a remarkably well-painted satin coverlet, with infantile accessories;" Munkacsy's "Harem Scene" "should have had the lantern in the centre lighted to let the spectators see what was going on," etc., etc. The most popular picture with Americans has undoubtedly been the aforesaid "Holy Family." Had it not become the property of the lucky proprietor of the Bon Marché, M. Aristide Boucicault, before the exhibition opened, it would undoubtedly have speedily found its way to our shores. The finest picture in the Salon was probably the noble portrait of Madame Pasca, by Bonnet, though the vigor and intelligence displayed in the "Respha" of George Becker have met with due appreciation. The painter of this painful, powerful, and gigantic picture is said to be the smallest artist in Paris, being scarcely taller than a boy of twelve years of age. The American artists made a remarkably creditable display this year, Mr. Wylie's two fine pictures being much commended, as were also the contributions of Messrs. Knight and Healy. The panic in America will probably have the effect of lowering the prices of pictures as well as of other articles of luxury. It is a strange fact that the rising artists over here have not one particle

of sense about the sums they ought to ask for their works, particularly when an American prices them. Not an unfledged artist, not a debutant who has achieved his first upward step by gaining admission to the Salon, but imagines that he would do well to compete, if not with Meissonier, and Cabanel, and Gérôme, at least with Merle and Bouguereau, in the matter of prices though in nothing else. An American gentleman one day while strolling through the Salon took a fancy to a small picture by a totally unknown artist; the work was one of no particular merit, but he was pleased with the subject, and thought he would like to become its possessor. He consulted a friend of some art-experience as to its probable price, and was told that four thousand francs (eight hundred dollars) would be more than its value. He wrote, therefore, to the artist about it, and received the answer that twenty thousand francs (four thousand dollars) was the price of the picture. That reply at once and definitely closed all negotiations, and the artist will probably have the pleasure of keeping his picture in his studio for some time to come. The Figaro gives the following dialogue of two artists strolling through the exhibition. One asks of the other:

"How are you getting along?'

"Oh, very well,' is the answer. 'I ask now twelve thousand francs'" (twenty-four hundred dollars) "for a head, and twenty thousand'" (four thousand dollars) "for a full-length portrait.'

"Those are my prices also.'
"They walk on a little farther.

"How many orders have you got at those prices?'

"Not one. And you?'

"Not one either.""

It is said that the elder artists of France are responsible for these absurd prices, as they give insidious and of course bad advice to the rising members of the profession, wishing to avoid competition. I have been told that a foreign rival was once adroitly extinguished by the confraternity in the following manner: A young and gifted Belgian artist was engaged, during the sunny days of the empire, in painting a view of the Salle d'Apollon in the Louvre. His work attracted the attention of the Duke de Morny, who not only ordered a picture from him, but recommended him to the notice of the empress, who gave him a commission for two pictures, for which he was to fix his own price. The work finished, he consulted some of his artist friends in Paris as to the price he ought to ask. A distinguished Italian portrait-painter, then residing in Paris, advised him to fix no sum, but to leave the amount to the well-known generosity of his imperial patroness, "Nonsense!" cried his French advisers; "charge high for your pictures, it is the government that pays, and governments are always expected to pay largely." In an evil hour he followed the advice of his French counselors. The sum that he demanded was far beyond the value of such paintings from so youthful and comparatively inexperienced a hand, and the empress, disgusted at his apparent rapacity, never gave him another order.

A monument to the memory of Théophile Gautier is to be inaugurated in the Cemetery of Montmartre, on Thursday next. This monument, the work of one of the friends of the deceased poet, M. Godebski, a Russian sculptor, is composed of a sarcophagus in Carrara marble, on which is placed a statue of Poetry, | leaning on a medallion portrait of Gautier, which is said to be a striking resemblance. The monument was gotten up by a subscrip

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