desire to produce a greater effect than heretofore, as to act much worse than heretofore. He overdid every thing. He was too violent; his contrasts were too marked; the elaboration was painful. People lamented his exaggeration, and began to whisper that his day was gone. Franz appeared. Young, handsome, ambitious, full of hope and energy-around him the charm which always belongs to novelty, and within him the inappreciable wealth of genius -how could he fail to produce a deep impression? The calculation of his rival turned out a mistake: so far from the public keeping away because they had so recently seen the pieces performed, they flocked to the house because they wished to compare the two rivals in the same parts. As in the case of all well-known plays, the attraction was in the actor, not in the piece. Berlin never witnessed such a debut. Franz was called sixteen times before the curtain to receive their boisterous homage. The whole town was in a state of excitement. Every body talked about him; every body compared him with Schoenlein-to the general disadvantage of the latter; and the secret of the relationship soon transpired, which led to endless discussion. The actors mostly stood by Schoenlein they do not like new favourites. But the public, undisguisedly, unequivocally preferred Franz. : Exasperated by what he called the fickleness of the public, Schoenlein went to Dresden, there to eclipse the remembrance of his son. He played to crowded houses. But if at Berlin he overacted, at Dresden he "tore the passion to tatters." Instead of crushing Franz's reputation he nearly ruined his own. One paper had the malice to recommend him to retire from the stage. He did retire; but not till after a fearful struggle with himself, and many a bitter reflection on the world's ingratitude, and the worthlessness of his efforts. He was deeply hurt. He secluded himself from every one. In the practices of devotion, and in brooding solitude, he endeavoured to forget the world and its frivolities. He tried to find occupation in study, and solace in religion. But to the one he did not bring a studious mind; to the other he did not bring a religious heart. Lacerated with envy and humiliation, his soul found no comfort in books. He could not forget the past; he could not shut the world from his heart. The solemn organ strains, which stirred his soul when in church, recalled to him the stage; still more so did the inflections of the preacher's voice recall it to him; he could not refrain from criticising the preacher's declamation. He ceased to go to church, and tried the efficacy of lonely prayer. In vain! The stage was for ever present before his mind. He tried to renounce the world, but the world held possession of his heart. His renunciation was not prompted by weariness, but by rage: the world weighed not too heavily and sorely upon his spirit, making him weary, making him yearn "for the wings of the dove, to flee away and be at rest;" on the contrary, he was only angry at his unjust appreciation. His retreat was not misanthropy but sulking. He could not forget his defeat. Months passed away in this unavailing struggle. Suddenly he reappeared upon the stage. His reappearance created intense interest, and the theatre trembled with applause. The public was so glad to see its old favourite again! Schoenlein's heart bounded, as of old, responsive to that thunder of applause; but the joy was transient: his pride was soon once more to be laid low. That very public, which had welcomed him so enthusiastically, grew indifferent by the end of the week. In truth his acting had lost its former grandeur. Flashes of the old genius there still were, from time to time, but they only served to make more obvious the indifference of the whole performance. People shook their heads, and said, "He was certainly grown too old for the stage." He never reappeared. Meanwhile Franz continued his triumphant career. He played at almost every town in Germany; and even the old men thought him superior to the actors of "their day." The greatest triumph an actor can achieve is to make the "laudator temporis acti" forget for a moment the illusions of his youth, and confess that, even seen through the magnifying mist which envelops and aggrandises the past, this living actor is as great as those who are no more. But Franz, amidst his brilliant success, was far from happy. The stage was the scene of his triumphs, but home was the scene of his despair. He was in a false, a very false position. Petted and idolised by the loveliest women in Germany, he had learned to look upon his wife as what she was a woman past her prime, faded in beauty, insignificant in mind. He began to blush for her! This is perhaps the cruellest torture a husband can know, because it affects his self-love as keenly as his love. It is a torture which generally results from such ill-assorted unions. Slowly had the conviction dawned upon him-but it had come. He struggled against it, but it would not be set aside; it pressed on and on, till at last it fairly gained admittance into his mind, and made him wretched. For observe, it was not her faded beauty which made him blush-it was not that she was so much older it was because this faded insignificant woman was fretful, jealous, ungenerous, and unprincipled. The perception of these faults of disposition opened his eyes to the perception of her faults of person; they raised the question in his mind-who is this whose jealousy irritates, whose fretfulness distresses me? He began to scrutinise her, and the scales fell from his eyes! My dear Clara," he said to her one day, "what in heaven's name has changed you so? You used to be cheerful-now you are unbearably peevish." And what has changed you so, Franz ?" "I am not aware of any change!" "You used to be fond and attentive, and now you are cold and neglectful." "If I am so, whose fault is it?" "Lieschen Flemming's. Oh, yes! pretend astonishment; but I see clearly enough. Your tenderness on the stage with her is so well acted, VOL. LXIV.-NO. CCCXCV. because you have so often rehearsed it in private." "Clara! Clara! this jealousy is insupportable!" "Yes, yes-that is the answer I always receive; but it is no answer to my accusation." "Why, Lieschen is betrothed to Fechter!" "What matters that? Are you not married to me-and does that interfere with your making love to her?" "This is perfectly ridiculous! Last week you were jealous of Rosa Behr, because she played Juliet; now it is Lieschen Flemming, because she plays Gretchen. I presume every actress whom I have to make love to on the stage will come under your suspicions ?" "Every one to whom I see you making evident love. I know I am old. I have lost the charm I once had in your eyes." "This is not the way to regain it," he said, as he put on his hat and angrily left the room. He that day confessed to himself that she was old, that she had lost the charm which once had captivated him! But Franz was a man of honour; and although he found himself in this false position, he resolved to support his lot with courage. He was wedded to a woman too old for him, unsuited to him; but the wedding had been his act and desire. It had been the crown upon his hopes. He had loved her-been happy with her. He could not forget that. And although divorces are easily obtained in Germany, he could not bring himself to abandon her, to separate from her, now she was past her prime. He had offered her an independence if she wished to part from him; but she did not wish to part-she still clung to the idea of regaining his lost affection-and made home miserable as a means of regaining it! For five years did Franz drag about with him this load of wretchedness. To render his situation still more pitiable, he became conscious that he loved another. Madame Röckel's youngest daughter-a sweet innocent girl of eighteen-had conceived a passion for the young tragedian, which her artless nature had but ill con 2 A cealed. Franz read it in her eyes, in her tones, in her confusion; and reading it, he also read in his own heart that her passion was returned. He left Berlin in two days after the discovery, with bitter curses on his youthful error, which had yoked him to a woman he could no longer love, and which had shut him for ever from the love of another. Then, indeed, the thought of a divorce rose constantly before him; but he wrestled with the temptation, and subdued it. He resolved to bear his fate. His only hope was that death might interpose to set him free! CHAPTER VI. If in these brief sentences I have indicated the misery of Franz's condition-the depth of the shadows which accompanied the lustre of his success-if I have truly presented the main outlines of his domestic history, the reader will imagine Franz's feelings when a hand as friendly as that of death did interfere to set him free. Clara ran away with the low comedian of the troop! She had worn away in tears and fretfulness all the affection she once had felt for Franz, and having inspired a sort of passion in the breast of this comedian, lent a willing ear to his romantic proposal of an elopement. To a woman of her age an elopement was irresistible! She fled, and left Franz at liberty. The very day on which Franz received this intelligence he had to perform in Kotzebue's Menschenhass und Reue (our "Stranger.") He went to the theatre extremely agitated. Great as was his delight at being released from his wife, and released by no act of his own-he could not think without a shudder upon the probable fate which awaited her; and a remembrance of his former love and happiness with her returned to make him sad. It happened that old Schoenlein had that night been seized with a sudden impulse to see his son act, and had gone privately into the parterre. It was the first time he saw his son acting-for on that Dresden night he saw nothing-a mist was before his eyes. He was now sufficiently calm to be eritical. Franz played the wronged husband with such intense feeling, such depth of passion, such thrilling intonation of voice, that the old man shared the rapture of the audience, and wept tears of joy and of pride as he confessed that his son was really a great actor. The curtain had no sooner descended than Schoenlein, hurrying out of the house, went round to the stage-door, knocked at his son's dressing-room, and in another instant had fallen on his shoulders, sobbing-"My boy! my dear, dear Franz! you have conquered me!" "My dear father!" exclaimed Franz, pressing him convulsively to his heart. Franz, I retract all that I have said. I forgive you. You have a real vocation for the stage!" This happy reconciliation was soon followed by the betrothal of Franz Schoenlein to Matilda Röckel; and the old man had not only the delight of seeing his son wedded to a woman worthy of him, but also to hear him announce his intention of retiring for ever from the stage. He had realised an independence, and the stage was connected with too many disagreeable associations for him not to quit it on this opening of a new era in his life. THE MOSCOW RETREAT. "Ir is scarcely necessary," says Mr Rellstab, in the preface to an early edition of his romance of "1812," "for the author to confess how largely he has availed himself of Ségur's narrative of the Russian campaign. It will be evident to all readers that he has followed, at times almost word for word, the descriptions of that skilful historian." Without taxing Mr Rellstab with exceeding the romancewriter's legitimate privilege in thus largely helping himself from the pages of General Count Ségur, we may congratulate him on having had as a guide, in the historical portions of his book, so admirable a work as the Histoire de Napoleon et de la Grande Armée. As interesting as any romance, it at the same time conveys the conviction that the author has determined to merit the character of historian, and to avoid that of the retailer of campaigning gossip and anecdotes. Indeed one often feels disappointed and almost vexed at the extreme brevity with which the Count refers to all matters not strictly essen tial to the history of the grand army and great chief whose history, during the brief existence of the former and the first reverses of the latter, he undertakes to portray. He dismisses in three lines many an incident of strange romance or thrilling horror, whose details one would gladly see extended over as many pages. Mr Rellstab has cleverly availed himself of this dignified and military conciseness, improving upon hints, and filling up blanks. With a few bold dashes of his graphic pen, Count Ségur furnishes the rough sketch; this his German follower seizes, adds figures, tints, and names, and expands it into a picture. The account in "1812" of the retreat from Moscow to Wilna is, in fact, a poetical paraphrase of that given in Ségur's history; and this paraphrase Mr Rellstab, seduced by the excellence of his text, allows somewhat to impede the progress of his plot; or rather it proin tracts the book after the plot has, all essential respects, been wound up. Nevertheless, as we have already said, this paraphrase, which may be con sidered in some degree supplementary The chief ground of apprehension natural that the clumsy fables of the priests should lose credit with their dupes. But, on our approach, the nobles recede with their serfs into the interior of the land, as from the advance of some mighty contagion. Riches, habitations, all that could delay them or serve us, are sacrificed. They place hunger, fire, the desert, between us and them; for it is as much against their serfs as against Napoleon that this great resolution is executed. It is not a mere war of kings, but a war of classes and of parties, a religious war, a national war, every kind of war united in one." Stimulated to hatred of the intruding foreigners by those they most feared and respected-by their owners, namely, and their priests-the peasantslaves of Russia perpetrated frightful cruelties upon those unfortunate Frenchmen who fell into their hands; cruelties admitted and abundantly illustrated by Mr Rellstab, although his predilections are upon the whole rather Russian than French. It is only justice to say, however, that in all the historical portions of his romance he displays great impartiality, and puts himself above national antipathies, taking a cosmopolitan view of the causes, conduct, and progress of the great struggle. Led away by his captors to a bivouac of armed peasants in the glades of a vast forest, Ludwig at first almost regrets having escaped the volley of the French firing-party. A colossal Russian stretches out his hand to appropriate his prisoner's foraging-cap, and, upon the imprudent resistance of the latter, raises a club to dash out his brains. Ludwig deems himself no better than a dead man, when suddenly a woman's scream is heard, and a figure clad in costly furs rescues him from the fierce savage. A veil is thrown back, and Ludwig beholds Bianca, who possesses a castle in the neighbourhood, the same which the Polish lancers had surprised upon her wedding-night. It is not quite clear what has brought her into the forest among beastly Cossacks and bloodthirsty peasants, unless it were to meet Ludwig. The sights she there meets are not all of the most agreeable kind. Whilst the enraptured Ludwig kneels before her, kissing her hand and weeping, a horseman, whose noble steed and rich dress bespeaks the man of rank, dashes into the circle, and sternly inquires the reason of this strange scene between the lady and the captive dragoon. It is Count Dolgorow, who interrupts Bianca's explanation by suddenly springing from his horse, and seizing the scoundrel Beaucaire, his former secretary, whom his quick eye has distinguished in the group of prisoners. By a strange fatality, his betrayer and his rescuer are together delivered into his hands. He gratifies revenge before showing gratitude, and has the traitor precipitated into one of the huge bivouac fires that blaze around. Before this we have met with a French grenadier impaled alive in a wood, and with a party of Russians setting up their captives as targets. There is no scarcity of the horrible in Mr Rellstab's pages, but without it the retreat from Moscow could not be faithfully described. After Beaucaire has been roasted, Bianca recovered from her swoon, and Ludwig presented to the Count-who admits, but with no very good grace, his claims to gratitude and consideration-the other prisoners are sorted. The able-bodied are sent to the Count's hunting-seat, thence to be forwarded to the mines. To those unfit to work, Russia, says Dolgorow, can afford no other nourishment than two ounces of lead. One man only is put aside as too old for labour. This is St Luces, Beaucaire's employer and Ludwig's persecutor. "St Luces, not having understood the Count's words, fancied that, from his appearance and fine linen, and from his clothes (of which, however, he was by this time pretty well stripped,) his captors had discovered him to belong to the higher classes. The pallid horror which had spread over his features since the terrible fate of Beaucaire, was replaced by a faint gleam of hope. He ventured to address the Count in French. "I trust, sir,' he said, 'I shall be treated in conformity with those laws of war which all civilised nations respect. I am not a military man, but belong to the civil service; my rank-' "You are a Frenchman,' sternly interrupted Dolgorow-one of those |