to the resolution, to which I might as well have come of whatever it may have consisted, was of excellent at first, that he should choose for me. "Only, don't flavour. We despatched it merrily, and, when it had let there be any frogs, Tonto," said I; "I have tried || been cleared away, returned to our cigars with a capithem in France, and don't like them." I then thought tal bottle of Italian wine. Under such circumstances, I might venture to come to the point at which I had most men become communicative-at least my new all this while been driving, which was, to ascertain friend did so. He related to me his birth, parentage, whether there were not some travellers in the inn who and education; described his travels, and explained his would like to join me at supper. views on all the great questions which can interest humanity. He was a man of all but unlimited know Tonto reflected for a moment, and then, clapping his hand against his right thigh, he cried, "I have it!|| ledge-familiar with the whole history of the human Yes; there is a gentleman who made the same inquiry of me two or three nights ago, Count Z-.' Here I interrupted Tonto. "If he is a Count," said I, "pray leave him to the enjoyment of his dignity. I hate counts, and would rather go on supping and smoking alone for a month than be troubled with them." “That need not stand in the way," answered Tonto; "for he is no more a count than I am. He only calls himself so in order to heighten his consequence." "That alters the case," I observed; "but still my taste this evening is very unambitious, and I would rather, if possible, find a companion who would consider it no honour to be thought a count." "There is," answered Tonto," but you won't like him, I'm sure—there is an odd sort of man, who is neither young nor old; neither fat like me, nor lean like you. There is, I say, a traveller lodging in this house, who would, I dare say, be glad enough to smoke a cigar with you." "Is he a gentleman ?" "Yes." "Rich or poor ?" "Don't know, sir; but he pays for everything he has." "Well, present my compliments to him, Tonto; and say it would give me very great pleasure if he would do me the honour to sup with me this evening.' I was If he be an original, thought I, he must be pleased with originality, and come without ceremony. quite right. In a few minutes Tonto returned, usher ing in a stranger about my own height, but old enough, as it seemed at first, to be my great-grandfather. His hair, white as snow, hung over his coat-collar. He had a white beard, and mustachoes which fell in waves over his lips and chin, but his voice was that of a young man, and his eyes were full of fire and vivacity. His dress was that of no country in particular, but would have been thought genteel anywhere. I could not, therefore, guess of what nation he was from his ap pearance; neither could I, when he spoke, from his voice or language. He addressed me in Italian, mentioning the invitation Tonto had given him in my name, and saying it would give him much satisfaction to dissipate his ennui in my company, especially, he added, glancing at the heap of cigars on the table, as I perceive you smoke. On looking narrowly at the stranger, I felt convinced he was quite a young man-that is, little more than thirty; and there was likewise in his countenance something which induced me to think he must be English. I immediately told him my suspicion, and he replied laughing, "You are quite right; I am an Englishman, though I have been several years from the old country, and begin to forget the language a little." Tonto was not long in bringing up the supper, which, I VOL, XVI.-NO, CXCI. race, deeply versed in philosophy, experienced in the ways of the world, and thoroughly acquainted with the theory of the passions. In politics he belonged to what is now called the Red school, having taken his principles from the fiery cauldron of the French Revoution. "You are going into the East," said he; "and you are right. It is well to see the worst state to which ignorance and tyranny can reduce men. I have myself been in Egypt, and several parts of Asia, and have everywhere found humanity oppressed and degraded beneath the feet of kings. Their misery and corruption, however, do not begin with their political institutions, but with their religion and morals, which are utterly despicable. The thing they believe in is not God; and their ethics are a bundle of ridiculous practices, none of which tends to the promotion of human happiness. Nor is it much better with us here in Europe. We know not what we believe, or why we believe it. Our creed is a tradition, our churches are fabrics of imposture; our governments are despotisms variously disguised; our morals are mere rude approximations to philosophical ethics. We act by routine -we follow in the footsteps, and repeat, like mockingbirds, the language of others. We have no original philosophy, no arts, little literature of our own. persons we encourage and enrich are a sort of literary cooks, who take a number of commonplace ideas, and dress them up palatably to suit the taste of the vulgar. There must be a revolution, sir-not a mere armed insurrection-though that may form part of it--but a revolution in opinions throughout the whole of Christendom. Everything among us is worn out, and society cannot choose but be dissolved, and reconstructed.” CHAPTER XXX. PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. The What I said in reply to my bearded friend need not be repeated. We took a fancy to each other, and during my stay were much together. He told me there was a capital table d'hote in the house, at which I should meet some very clever people, Maltese and Sicilians, Neapolitans and Venetians, Spaniards and Frenchmen, Elamites, Jews, and Parthians. I promised he should see me there. Next morning at breakfast, which I took in a room looking out into the Via Grande, my attention was attracted by a very particular sort of music. This was the clanking of a number of chains against the pave||ment below. I went and looked out at the window. Before me was a long file of men, some dressed in orick-dust red, others in dirty yellow, all with brooms or spades in their hands, cleansing and sweeping the street. They were galley-slaves, felons, assassins, murderers, manacled and chained, like wild beasts, one 3 K crimes against property with the same severity as crimes against life. Property is a fiction of society— life is the work of God. The injuries committed against the one are capable of reparation; those against the other, once done, can never be recalled. There should, therefore, be a difference in the apportioning of punishment. Severe chastisement will suffice in the one case-death alone in the other. The equilibrium of nature is, as it were, destroyed by murder, and can never be restored while the murderer is suffered to live. The continuance of his existence is a triumph over justice, and an insult to the best feelings of humanity. to another, and guarded by soldiers. I caught theed of being, in this place, the apologist of bad laws, eyes of the gang, who all turned upon me a look-which, confounding all justice and equity, punish and such a look. It reminded me of their kindred whom I had once seen on the Monte St. Michael, tigers in human shape, who all their life long thirsted only for blood. Let not the reader rashly accuse me of inhumanity if I confess that I shuddered with horror at the sight of those hideous countenances. I know it is fashionable to sympathise with men of this caste, the Thugs and Dakoits of European society. And such sympathy must, no doubt, be very praiseworthy, since it demands from those who experience it an extraordinary effort. For myself I can lay but little claim to this virtue. My sympathies, such as they are, cling rather to the innocent and hapless victims of these incorrigible ruffians--to the wives whom they have made widows, to the children whom they have made fatherless, to the parents whom they have deprived of the only support and consolation of their old age. I behold in them the natural enemies of society, and would sternly hunt them down, like any other sort of noxious animals. I afterwards inquired into the reason of the red and yellow costumes. The wearers of the former, I was told, were condemned to a limited term of captivity, while the latter were to be in chains for ever—that is, I mean, till death should release them. And did they pant for death? Did they, as the advocates of perpetual imprisonment assert, long for the coming of the King of Terrors for their deliverance? Not they. In their ghastly captivity they laughed and chatted together; not insensible, perhaps, of the misery of their condition, but disliking it chiefly because it checked them in the indulgence of their evil passions. CHAPTER XXXI, THE TABLE D'HOTE. Who has not, at one time or another, dined at a table d'hote, at Boulogne, or Dieppe, or Ostend, or Brussels? What, consequently, is there to be said about it? The reader has tasted its soup, tried to carve its fowls-older than the Deluge-sipped a little of its vinegar under the name of "Vin ordinare," and, in conclusion, paid so many franes for the privilege of talking learnedly on the subject. He is, therefore, I trust, disposed to sympathise with me when I say that I endured the pangs of this purgatory, at Leghorn, for a whole fortnight. In Spain they roast or stew cats, and serve them up to you as hares or rabbits, but roast and stew them cleverly, so that you are inclined to smile at the deception. It signifies nothing that your dinner has purred upon your knee-that parted an air of comfort to the huge chimney corner. Transformed by cookery, you no longer recognise it. You know its tricks and purrings have been over for some hours-that its spirit has been restored to the great ocean of vitality—and that, consequently, there can be no great harm in your regaling yourself upon its remains. In Italy one knows not what one eats; at least I never did. One puts his faith in the cooks, and takes the good the gods provide him-or evil, as the case may be-especially as he commits his acts of semi-cannibalism in pleasant company. This is not the place for entering into the meta-you have stroked it and fed it with your own handphysics of crime, for attempting the solution of that that it has hummed you to sleep at night on your pilproblem which constitutes the greatest enigma of ex-low, or played with the strings of your shoes, or imistence the responsibility or irresponsibility of man. If we are answerable for our actions, we are answerable to each other as well as to God. The acts we commit secretly in contravention of his will, are sins unpunishable by human laws, and to be atoned for only by the pangs of conscience. The acts we commit, whether secretly or openly, against the good of society, are crimes; and these, in self-defence, society may punish. If man be responsible, he must be free; that is, must be able to commit, or refrain from, any action as it shall seem best to himself. If the criminal be not free, then is society not free; because it is governed by precisely the same metaphysical laws which regulate the thoughts and conduct of the individual. Now, presuming the individual to be free, society has the right to punish the offences he commits voluntarily against it; and if there be no freedom in the case, then society is under the absolute necessity of proceeding as it does. It is simply a question between right and fate. Whatever is meant to enjoy permanent existence must be invested with the power to set aside everything which would destroy that existence. Nothing is crime but that which tends to the dissolution of society. In proportioning the chastisement to the offences, society is obviously invested with the privilege to take all the precautions necessary to ensure its well-being-in extreme cases even to cut off those who have made war upon it, and seek to accomplish its destruction. Let me not be suspect At our table d'hote we saw assembled daily a set of the pleasantest fellows in the world; at the head of whom was a Neapolitan captain, as brave as Hercules or the Nemaan lion, according to his own testimony. He was exceedingly voluble and eloquent on this topic; and as I had the happiness to sit next to him, on the left side, it was often with much difficulty that I could defend my eyes against his fork, during the more violent paroxysms of his oratory. He then literally foamed at the mouth. His eyes flashed fire, while the state and colour of his physiognomy threatened apoplexy. It was only accidentally that I learned the philosophy of these Ciceronian outbreaks; he took me for a Frenchman, and for that reason politely indulged in all manner of invectives against the great nation. A Maltese gentleman-not Count Z-one day politely insinuated the propriety of reserving his store of anathemas till I should be fairly on my way to the East; upon which I observed, that as this indulgence appeared to be good for the gentleman's health, I begged he would by no means refrain from it on my account-more especially as I was, in point of fact, not a Frenchman. This considerably disconcerted our Neapolitan hero, who hoped to gain a little glory at my expense. I added, however, that as there were no Frenchmen present-in which supposition, as it turned out, I was much mistaken-I did not care if they continued to regard me as one, since, in case of necessity, I was ready to defend France against all impugners. had no sooner said this than a gentle man on the opposite side of the table rose, and filling a bumper, passed it across to me, saying as he did "Roderick Random" had afforded them, knelt humbly on the greensward, while they inscribed their own names in pencil, observing as they did so, that it was proper to show all reverence to genius. This is And was Smollett then a man of genius? a question which will not be asked by any who have read and understood the humour of "Humphrey Clinker," or "Peregrine Pickle." Commodore Trunnion, and Lishmahago, and Winnifred Jenkins, and Mr. Matthew Bramble, and Humphrey Cliuker himself, are all rich originals in their way, that could be called into existence by no power but genius. Yet, reading Smollett is like travelling through a fine country over a dirty road. You admire the noble prospect on either hand, and derive great pleasure from it, but are unable, nevertheless, to forget that you are half-leg deep in "Allow me the honour to drink to your health.mire all the while. And in himself, Smollett was esI am a Frenchman, and am ready in any way that any ||sentially unamiable. In politics, a mercenary and gentleman pleases to maintain the honour of my worthless partisan, and in private life, harsh and repulcountry." sive. He seems to me one of those persons whose He then filled his own glass, and we drunk to each biographies should never be written. The less you other, with an enthusiasm which astonished my Nea-know about them the better. All that is valuable in politan friend. He immediately made numerous him is his books, and even in these you find much that apologies, protesting that he meant no offence to indi-is not only valueless, but detestable. He presents to viduals, at which the Parisian, the Maltese, and myself, laughed heartily. His knife and fork were then diligently applied to the uses for which they were intended, and my eyes were in less danger from his oratorical flourishes. the world that rare combination of coarseness and genius, of boldness and subserviency, of intellectual power and personal meanness, in the existence of which one finds it so difficult to believe. Yet, so much fascination is there in the creative faculty, that even refinement itself would be unable to stand with indifference by the grave of Smollett. Peace be to his ashes. He has amused me as far back as I can remember, and if I have often been disgusted by bis want of delicacy, I have never failed to be enlivened by his wit. CHAPTER XXXII. THE TURKISH BEY. When, in Homeric phrase, "the rage of hunger had been appeased," and the greater number of the guests had ebbed out of the apartment, I observed two individuals, who had been silent during dinner, seating themselves comfortably near the window, as though they intended to remain, and commence a conversation in English. Having just then nothing better to do, I joined them, and when we had conversed for some time they complimented me on the goodness of my English, from which they inferred, they said, that I must have been in their country. Of course I explained at once. They were captains of ships, right good fellows, who had come up the Mediterranean in search of freights; and when I mentioned to them my place of destination, they each in his turn offered to take me gratis to Alexandria, and I make no doubt they were perfectly in earnest. I could not, however, avail myself of their kind intentions, but thanked theming rascals both, professed it to be their intention to sincerely for the generous offer-and now do so once more, in print. Every day saw me busy in the port in search of a vessel bound for Egypt. There were no steamers in these days-I mean that traversed the whole bread:h of the Mediterranean; and the trade between Italy and the East, once so flourishing, is now to the last degree trifling and insignificant. At length, however, I found two brigs, the masters of which, sinister-look set sail in a few days for Alexandria. The accommcdations they had to offer were none of the best. But one of their craft, which had been a pirate, was of a beautiful build, and reputed to be the fastest sailer in the Mediterranean. I selected that partly, perhaps, on account of its piratical character, and was invited to spend the evening at the house of my future padrone. I went at the hour appointed, and found my way as well as I could. In their company I strolled one day to the English cemetery a place presided over by the very spirit of melancholy-where the monuments of youth and beauty lie thickly strewn, on all sides-where the last object of parental love has found a grave-where the husband has wept over a beloved wife, and where many a foud wife has seen the earth close for ever over the man she loved. In the midst of these mulLeghorn is a sort of bastard Venice, intersected titudinous monuments, stands the tomb of Smollett-with canals, docks, and ditches, as stagnant and una small, elegant obelisk of white marble, erected by a number of friends who cherished his memory. I had forgotten that he was interred here, and discovered the tomb by accident. From top to bottom it was covered with the names of visitors from England, from Scotland, from Sweden, Switzerland, and America. I added my own to the number; and my friends, the sea captains, in gratitude, doubtless, for the pleasure || savoury as any under the patronage of St. Mark. After coasting along one of these for some time, I arrived about dusk at my captain's dwelling, and, upon being ushered into the principal room, found that a portion of the East had come to meet me all the way to Leghorn. This was a Turkish Bey, a genuine Osmanli, with ponderous inexpressibles, antiquated turban, and beard of the largest calibre. He was smoking when king of all tobaccos. No one, however, can be said to have truly tasted of its fragrance who has not smoked it in pipes kept in order by Orientals in new bowls, and lighted with acacia charcoal. Let no one ima mouthpiece is set, as they flash and sparkle through the smoke, appear to improve its flavour, as do the crimson sheath and silken tassels, which amuse the eye and excite the imagination. The slave Kafoor was exceedingly adroit in all that appertained to the pipe. He piled up the gebelee, with singular skill, in the shining bowl. He placed the kindled charcoal exactly in the centre, and taking himself two or three whiffs, brought the pipe into complete action. The person for whom it was intended, therefore, had no trouble; but, lounging lazily on his divan, had the fount of luxury placed in his mouth. I entered, from one of those costly pipes in which the Orientals chiefly display their opulence. A magnificent young slave, about six feet high, stood near his master's extempore divan, ready to fill and light his pipe, or obey any other of his orders. The Beygine this is fancy. Even the jewels with which the saluted me with exquisite politeness, and then offered me his pipe, which I, of course, accepted, taking care not to wipe the large amber mouthpiece through which he had been inhaling the smoke. To have done otherwise would have been to offer him a deadly affront The Turks, however, are very delicate about their smoking, and place their lips so nicely against the amber, that they scarcely ever moisten it at all. When another had been filled for him by his slave, and I had taken my place beside him on his divan, we began, as he spoke Italian, to enter into conversation together. The captain's wife, a little, brown, lively, plain Italian woman, brought us coffee, and we were soon upon the best of terms. Ali informed me that we were to be fellow-passengers, and then launched forth in praise of our captain, who, he assured me, had saved his life by the display of extraordinary courage and humanity. I own I should never have suspected him of either of these virtues. But one must not trust to appearances. Ali himself was a fat, punchy, little man, extremely undignified in gait and figure, but with a countenance full of character. His eye was large || and commanding, and the beard imparted to his look something almost majestic. This was my first acquaintance with Gebel Latakia, which I have since smoked so frequently, and with so much pleasure. It is the Sinking into an ocean of soft cushions, I yielded myself up to the intoxication of the moment, puffing around me delicious clouds, and imagining myself already beneath the palm-tree. We were both bearded to our heart's content, and Ali immediately took a fancy to me on that account. He imagined I was going to reside in the East, and promised me the enjoyment of many a pipe on the banks of the Nile. Little, poor fellow, did he know what disappointment was in reserve for him; but of that hereafter. We now laughed and chatted, as Turk and Christian seldom laugh and chat together; and as the tobacco and the coffee were both of the best quality, we were really very much to be envied. A CHILD among the graves THE CHILD AMONG THE GRAVES. Play'd ever through the summer days' increase, Till to his heart the plot of ground Death craves, Became a court of peace.* All day, with busied fret, The toiler bee clomb round the blossoms there, On high, from some tall bloomy minaret, Calling the child to prayer. The prayer of joy-of joy Through innocence-rejoicing thankfulness, Unlanguaged-to a child without alloyRedundant in excess. One of the world pass'd by One of the world, in all the power of life; He marvell'd much to find A child-a litttle child, in spirit glad-- He pass'd-in manhood's might To join the crowd, where man Time's working braves. Sometimes recurr'd-a wonder, yet a light The child among the graves. *"Court of peace," the literal translation of the German "Friedhof," a cemetery, or place of burial, THE STRICKEN DEER. BY CAROLINE HILL. (Intended as an accompaniment to CHARLES WILTON's Poem, "A Vision in a Dream."--See Tail's Magazine for May last.) "Through much tribulation only shall ye enter into the kingdom of heaven." THE hunter's horn had ceas'd to sound, The bird slept in the wind-rock'd tree, And silence, in her deep profound, Reign'd o'er the hour of mystery. The moon lay mirror'd on a lake That not a ripple dar'd to stirShedding her light on bower and brake, From briar-bush to lofty fir. Faint, on the stillness of the night, And what at first seem'd pale moonlight And angels, from the flow'ry sod, Along the cloudless way. Their filmy forms more brilliant grew, Then came the answ'ring note of joy : Had found a heart without alloy, Borne on a cloud, his radiant feet Back to the land that overflows He bears aloft a mighty scroll, Had traced that spirit-pen. He whose imperishable lines Had blazon'd good and ill, Where nought but truth for ever shines, Why art thou there, thou Beautiful, Why hast thou pass'd the eternal bound Why point to that unsullied page? Deep silence reign'd; each seraph-voice Soft was the tone-in cadence soft- "List, thou dear son of Jesse's might The bright, the morning Star : "I watch'd a young and gentle child A thing so pure, so sweetly mild, "I mark'd a stern and warrior form, One who had brav'd the battle storm Who stood that child beside. "A silken tress of sunny hair Wav'd o'er her infant brow: Though shrunk and wither'd from despair, That face is lovely now- "Lovely as when her father's arm Shook rudely back the tress That on his bosom had been lain "And words were spoken-words that fall A warm heart's love refus'd, betray'd- "O God! thy ways are wonderful, The road of sorrow saw her pure "Was there no tongue to kindly give To bid the drooping spirit live- "Not one-by wedlock's holy cup A husband's high and sacred right "The heart that Nature form'd for love Yet still she sought, and inly pin'd, "Trembling, my God, thy servant held The everlasting Book Pray'd, when the tree of hope was fell'd, "Her child, the one bright, joyous thing "Again came back the gloomy hour The self-same scene of cold neglect— |