"I will leave you if you wish it, certainly. But I am bound to warn you. To-night you will see him."

I turned hurriedly away. She called after me, but I did not return. I felt that this assumption of mystery and this excitement of a vague hope was the best way to prepare her.

When I had gone some distance, I looked back. I saw her standing over the empty grave, with her head sunk upon her bosom. What prayer, what wish was she uttering?

66

I now made haste to get back to my own lodgings, so as to resume my real character, and prepare for the evening. I had scarcely entered the porte-cochere of the large house in which I had lived before my death, when I heard a joyful, uproarious barking in the yard. It was Cæsar, my own dog, my best friend. Ah !" thought I, "what is human friendship compared with this? All my friends, even Ida herself, have been deceived by a mere wig and moustache; but the dog we kick and beat and despise knows even the sound of my distant footsteps." I went to him, found him chained in the yard-he had never been chained when I was alive -received his wild caresses, and unloosed him.

"Ah!" I thought, "this is a strange way of fulfilling my dying injunctions. What does Master Karl mean by chaining the dog up ?"

I was not long left in doubt. As I mounted the stairs, I heard a noise of most unwonted merriment in my own apartment. I knew the reputation possessed by undertakers all the world over for joviality, but still I thought this going a little too far.

I found the outer door open, and, walking in, opened that of the diningroom; and there, to my amazement, amid an uproar of intoxication, with glasses rattling on the table, and the room filled with a dense smoke from some dozen pipes, stood my faithful valet, addressing a speech to some ten or twelve grooms, couriers, butlers, powdered mercuries, and sleek French cooks from the embassy and the houses of the nobility. I was certainly more amused than annoyed, and thinking it just possible that it might be the custom in Munich to hold a wake after a master's death, I bowed to the company.

"Don't let me disturb you, gentle

men," I said, very blandly, "my business will do at any time."

"I'm glad to hear it," cried Karl from the end of the room, and more than three parts drunk, "I'm not much in the humour for business just now. But don't go away, my friend. Come in, bring yourself to anchor, and take a glass of port-dayvilish fine port-too."

I took a seat meekly, and a "gentleman" in plush and powder did me the honour to pass me the decanter which contained my own superb wine, which had been bottled in 1795, and which these rascally varlets were pouring down their throats in tumblers! No wonder they were rather unsteady.

Meanwhile I was observing my very faithful valet. He was certainly magnificently got up. He was not content with having arrayed his person in the very cream of my wardrobe, in the most "chaste" of my "continuations" and the most delicate of my vests, but he had gone to the extent of mimicking my "getup" in every particular. By dint of a liberal supply of my macassar, he had given to his naturally stubborn hair all the elegant twists and curls of my own negligé locks, a style which was then just coming into fashion. The lace frill, the most recherché I possessed, was disposed in the same careful, careless manner which it was generally supposed I was wont to study; though with my dying breath I will assert that I never spent two minutes over its arrangements. Then he had drawn on with considerable difficulty a pair of my Paris gloves of the most delicate lavender hue, which I kept expressly for the purpose of going to court; in and in his hands thus reduced (he had not succeeded in bringing the buttons to meet)-he waved with all the abandon of a young exquisite, a handkerchief of the choicest cambric, which-tell it not in Munich-I had stolen from Ida herself. This was too much for me. But I was now accustomed to restrain my passions, and I bore it all with the most Christian humility.

In the other hand he waved one of my sixty-shilling Havannahs, took a slight puff at it, and then throwing it down with an inimitable air of disgust, exclaimed, "These cigars is not

worth a farden," a jest and phrase which elicited the admiration of all his compeers.

"Gentlemen," he then began, still waving the sacred cambric, and with his eyelids evidently weighed down by the fumes of my old port, "I will resume my observations. I was say ing, gentlemen, that our departed friend, Mr. G, regarded me in the light of a brother-a brother, did I say? Gentlemen, I should rather say a [hiccup a thingimbob-you know what I [hiccup] mean, gentle. men-in the light of his buzzom friend. You will understand, gen. tlemen, that it was impossible for him [another hiccup] to leave his property to any one else; and in my hands, you will admit, gentlemen, that it is better lodged than in his own. As long as it lasts, gentlemen, -and there's wine in them cellars down stairs as will keep us going many another night like this-as long as it lasts you will always find in this house, gentlemen, that beverage which inebriates, though it does not mean to say Well, gentlemen, I will not detain you. I have only to propose a toast, in which I am sure you will all unite, To my late friend, Mr. G., and may he rest in peace for ever." "

I

For about ten minutes after this lively discourse, there was a continuous uproar of applause and healthdrinking, mingled with numerous epithets applied to myself, which were neither choice nor flattering, and one individual near me remarked that "he was doosed glad the old boy was under the ground, and he hoped a certain gentleman in black would take care of him," to which I replied, "Indeed, are you?"

When the uproar had subsided a little, I got up.

"I rise to return thanks," I began; but here I was assailed with an indiscriminate clamour, and cries on all sides of "Shut up," "Turn him out," "Hold your jaw," and "Put his nose in a bag, do," from the Englishmen, while phlegmatic "Donnerwetters" and "Potztausends," from the Germans, kept me silent for some minutes. At length I began again :

"I am sorry, my good men, to disturb your very innocent amusements, and put an end to the agreeable position of Mr. Karl, over there. But VOL. XLVIII.-NO. CCLXXXVII.

unfortunately the gentleman over whose death you are now so amiably rejoicing is not dead at all."

Another volley of interjections now stopped me again, but at length the majority seemed interested in what appeared to them the originality of my remarks, and silence was restored.

"The best proof of what I say," I continued, "will be to introduce him personally to you. I believe most of you know Mr.G by sight." Here, to the utter amazement of all present, I pulled off the wig, " and most of you would know him again, if you were sober enough to have your senses about you;" and this time I pulled off the false moustachios, and stood in propria persona before them.

My faithful valet reeled in horror and fell back. The other servants, most of whom had seen me often enough to recognize me at once, turned pale as death, and jumping up from their seats, pushed frantically, tumbling one over the other, to where their quondam host lay gasping, and shouted, "Fire! robbery! it's his ghost, it's his ghost!"

It was as much as I could do to keep my countenance at their dismay, but the tables were doomed to be turned. Two or three of his associates helped the luckless Karl to his legs. He stared at me in bewilderment for a moment or two, and then, seizing a decanter from the table, flung it at my head with all his might.

I bent down and avoided the blow which would certainly have killed me. But the next minute the rascal shouted with exultation, "Never mind him, you fools, it's all a hoax, it's a flam; some fellow as wants to frighten you. It's not Gat all. He's made a mess of it this time, for he's for gotten the whiskers, and G was too fond of his to come without them."

"Now, you scoundrels," I cried, "you pretend to doubt my identity, but I'll show you that I am really myself, and the dog shall put you to shame. Here, Cæsar-here, boy."

In a minute the faithful beast jumped up, and, putting his paws on my shoulders, poked his broad nose into my face.

"There, you rascal," I cried to Karl. "Do you remember what you promised me on my death-bed? and instead of performing it, while you get drunk off my wine two days after my death, you chain up this poor dog that never had a collar round his neck before. Are you not ashamed of yourself?"

"Ashamed of myself!" cried the scoundrel, emboldened by a fresh tumbler of old port. "Ashamed of myself to you! Who are you? I should like to know. Why of course you have been making friends with the dog down stairs."

"Of course he has," cried the others, with one voice. "Let's duck him-let's take him down and pump over him. Serve him right."

I tore off my coat, and then, with all the coolness I could muster, turned up my wrist-bands, and prepared for fight.

'Now, then, you rascals," I said, showing a practised fist. "The first man that comes a foot nearer me will feel the weight of this."

Another uproar succeeded to this invitation. Chairs were knocked over, glasses rattled down, decanters smashed, candles thrown over, and a general scramble and pell-mell ensued. One or two of the younger Englishmen showed fight like Britons, but I had the advantage of being sober, and sent them reeling and rolling among the dead men. The din and uproar, the oaths and shouts, were deafening, and a general rush was made at me, and, being in a corner, and assailed by half a dozen at once, I was just running the risk of being smothered, if I escaped being murdered, when the door was burst open, and, pale and breathless, the porter of the house rushed in.

The moment he saw me, he pointed at me, and gasped out: "There, there he is; there there. Oh! Karl, Karl, it's your master, man; he's come to life again; he's risen up; he's never been dead. Oh Lord! Oh Lord!

Fritz at the cemetery told me it himself."

I cannot and will not describe the scene that followed. My resurrection was fully confirmed, and the convicted rascals hung their heads in despair. I had better pass over the disgusting servility of the faithful Karl, who swore that it was all unintentional, that "it was the drink as had done it," that "Oh! he was so delighted to see me again," and so forth. I contented myself with taking him into my room, and making him strip off everything that belonged to me, aud then quietly informed him that his services were dispensed with. It was in vain that he went down on his knees and implored forgiveness, and begged me to keep him in my service. I forgave him his conduct, but I told him that I wanted a faithful servant, and I was afraid he was too much attached to my memory to be sufficiently devoted to myself.

I soon found that the news had spread like wildfire through the town. The man at the cemetery had not been able to keep the secret from his wife, and she, of course, had published it widely abroad, so that when I was ushered up into the drawing-room at the Frankensteins, I felt a pair of the softest, roundest, dearest arms thrown round my neck, and hot tears of joy poured thick and fast upon my bosom. Ida was mine, and three weeks afterwards the worthy, heavy, conceited but good-hearted Stockenheim officiated as my bridegroom's man.

But the best part of the joke is to come. The faithful valet, when he found that nothing would induce me to take him back into my service, in spite of all his protestations, actually sued me in court for the recovery of the personal effects which I had left him by word of mouth on my deathbed. At that time the German law was in a fearful state of complication, and though the case was as clear as daylight, I found that in all probability it would either go against me or the cause would continue for some six or seven years, and ruin me in costs. I therefore offered to make a compromise, when the devoted Karl quietly bearded me to my face, and told me he was not to be done out of a penny of his own. This happened just after my marriage, when I was in all the glow of perfect happiness, and wished

to be at good will with every living creature; and you will laugh to hear that rather than go on squabbling about the matter, I handed every single thing out of my wardrobe and dressing-case to the rapacious scoundrel, and actually paid him five pounds for the cambric handkerchief which I valued so much as an old token.

with a

"And now," said Mr. Gdeep sigh, "forty years are passed, and Ida is gone to a fitter home, and I am longing for the day when I shall be called to follow her; and yet, somehow, I dread the thought of death, for I feel that the next time it will not be so amusing to attend my own funeral."

THE year 1856 has witnessed the publication of three new works peculiarly interesting to Englishmen. M. De Montalembert's Political Future of England, M. De Tocqueville's France before the Revolution of 1789, and the American work which stands at the head of our article. M. De Tocqueville, while shewing us how the liberty of France was destroyed, sheds a broad light on the customs and institutions by which the liberty of England has been preserved. M. De Montalembert, doubtless inspired by the same lessons as his countryman, and seeing in the English constitution the nearest approach to his ideal of good government, has devoted much anxious thought to the question how that freedom may still combine development with security; while Mr. Emerson has more especially directed his attention to the causes which underlie the prosperity of England, as well as those phenomena which may possibly contain the seeds of her decline. The firstnamed author bids us reflect on our political institutions, the second on our political conduct, the third upon our national character. Of course these divisions will occasionally run into one another, but the classification is correct in the main. Within the limits, then, of these three volumes, an Englishman may find his entire self and country dissected and lectured upon with admirable penetration, comprehensive wisdom, and some not unwholesome severity. We do not mean to say that the conclusions of these writers are always correct or their opinions always fair; for, notwithstanding the proverb,

English Traits; by R, W. Emerson.

we do not think that other people, as a rule, know us much better than we know ourselves. They see things in us which we do not see, but there is much also which it is out of their power to discover. Generally speaking, in the case of an individual, he knows one half of himself best, and his acquaintances the other. Neither know the whole man.

So it is with the character of a nation; and we believe we shall be as near the truth as possible, in saying that just about one-half of Mr. Emerson's volume is reliable. He sees about half way through our character with sufficient clearness, but the rest is beyond his ken.

He

Whether, however, the mistakes of Mr. Emerson be few or many, they are in one respect less excusable in him than any into which his two Gallican contemporaries may be supposed by some persons to have fallen. maintains throughout the attitude of an unconcerned spectator. The French authors write with a certain stern, and ardent, and, as it were, gesticulative earnestness, characteristic of men deeply, practically, and immediately interested in the correctness of their own theories. But about Mr. Emerson there is all the calmness of secure contemplation-of one who seems to feel that in the vastness of American life there is safety for all who choose it-and who, therefore, treats the spectacle presented by this country as a subject for curious and unimpassioned disquisition, but with no more bearing on his own future prospects than the skeleton of a mammoth, or the traditions of the Pharaohs.

London: Routledge and Co., 1856.

But to concede the question of partiality or prejudice, we might at least have expected that in a work so free from perturbations, and so little affected by the pressure of surrounding circumstances, care would have been taken to ensure unity of design, and to avoid confusion of statement. Such, however, is not the case, and we have seldom, within the same number of pages, encountered such numerous inconsistencies and contradictions. We will supply our readers with a few specimens of these before proceeding to a more special examination of opinions. In the chapter upon manners, Mr. Emerson says :—

The English power resides also in their dislike of change.

In the chapter upon religion, after some compliments to the tolerance and beauty of the English Church, he adds, obviously by way of qualifica

tion :

But its instinct is hostile to all change in politics, literature, or social arts.

Why allege, in detraction of the Church's excellence, the existence of that very quality on which he confesses the power of the commonwealth is founded?

At page 66 he writes :

Their practical power rests on their national sincerity.

At page 67 :—

They confide in each other. English believes in English. The French feel the superiority of this probity.

But in the conclusion of the same chapter (the chapter upon Truth), he says:

This English stolidity contrasts with French wit and tact. The French, it is commonly said, have greatly more influence in Europe than the English. What influence the English have is by brute force of wealth and power; that of the French by affinity and talent.

Is the French nation, then, the only one in Europe which "feels the superiority of our probity;" or do nations become predominant in virtue of their bad qualities instead of their good ones?

In the chapter upon Character, we have:

Of that constitutional force which yields the supplies of the day, they have the more than enough, the excess which creates courage on fortitude, genius in poetry, &c., &c.

But in the chapter on Literature he implies that, with the exception of Wordsworth, our poetry is destitute of genius.

Page 126, he says :—

The Church has not been the founder of the London University, of the Mechanics' Institutes, of the Free School, or whatever aims at diffusion of knowledge. The Platonists of Oxford are as bitter against this heresy as Thomas Taylor.

Page 134, we read :

Bacon, in the structure of his mind, held of the analogists, of the idealists, or (as we popularly say, drawing from the best example) Platonists. Whoever discredits anslogy, and requires heaps of facts before any theories can be attempted, has no poetic power, and nothing original or beautiful will be produced by him. Locke is as surely the influx of decomposition and of prose, as Bacon and the Platonists of growth.

Page 145:

It was no Oxonian, but Hafiz, who said, "Let us be crowned with roses; let us drink wine; and break up the tiresome old roof of heaven into new forms""'—a stanza of the song of nature the Oxonian has no ear for, and he does not value the salient and curative influence of intellectual action, studious of truth, without a by-end.

Now let us see in what these statements will result:

The Platonists of Oxford are opposed to progress.

But Platonism is the creed of growth.

Therefore, the creed of growth is opposed to progress.

Or again:

Oxonians are Platonists.

Oxonians do not value the salient and curative, &c.

Therefore Platonists do not value the salient and curative, &c.

Platonism is Platonism; and as Mr. Emerson has wisely shrunk from propounding that the Platonism of Oxford is spurious, we cannot allow him that loophole of escape.