man.

his clerk, named Leofric, who visited his prison in the disguise of a milkAt length, Leofric brought them intelligence, that on a certain day, Hereward was to be conducted to the castle of Buckingham, to be delivered to the keeping of his old and greatest enemy, Ivo Taillebois. Having obtained exact information, by means of spies, of the road by which he was to be carried, the Saxons placed themselves in ambush in a wood, through which the convoy was to pass, suddenly attacked Hereward's guard, who were defeated, after a desperate struggle, and the hero was delivered from his chains by his old and faithful followers. Robert de Horepole, who had been an indulgent keeper to Hereward, was taken prisoner in the scuffle; but he was immediately liberated, and, in consequence of his representations to the king, Hereward was again pardoned, and restored to his lands.

But although Hereward had thus obtained the peace of the king, it did not secure him that of the Norman barons, his enemies, who sought every opportunity of attacking him. He was more than once besieged in his own house, and he could not venture abroad without a strong body of armed soldiers to defend him; even at his meals, when it was the hospitable custom to eat with open doors, he was obliged to place a vigilant watchman at a short distance from his house, to warn him against the approach of his foes. One day his chaplain, Ailward, who acted as sentinel during Hereward's dinner, fell asleep at his post. A strong party of Normans and Bretons took advantage of this circumstance to carry their long-cherished designs into execution. Hereward was totally unarmed, but he seized upon a shield, a lance, and a sword which lay near, and rushed out with his old companion-in-arms, named Winter, to meet his assailants. "Traitors," he said, "your king has given me his peace, yet you come here to take my goods, and slay me and my friends. Though you have taken me unarmed, at my dinner, you

shall have no cheap bargain of me!" The first to advance was a knight, who sought to revenge many of his friends and companions-in-arms slain by the Saxon insurgents, but Hereward at the first blow thrust his spear through his body, and he fell a corpse to the ground. Then the Normans attacked Hereward from all sides, with lances and swords; but, though soon covered with wounds, he defended himself "like a wild boar;" when his spear was broken he betook himself to his sword, and when that was also rendered useless, he took his shield in his right hand and used it as a weapon. Fifteen of the assailants had already fallen by his arm, when four of his enemies came behind him, and buried their spears in his back. Hereward fell upon his knees, but with his last effort he hurled his shield at a knight of Brittany, named Ralph de Dol, who was advancing to attack him. The Saxon hero and the Breton knight fell dead at the same instant. A Norman cut off Hereward's head, and carried it away as a trophy. Such was the end of the last champion of Saxon liberty.* "It was commonly supposed," says the writer who has preserved the account of his death," that had there been only four such men, the Normans would have been long ago driven out of the land."

This account of Hereward's death, which appears to be the most authentic, is given by Geoffrey Gaymar. The compiler of the Latin life of the hero leaves us to suppose that he ended his days in peace; but other authorities give us better reason for believing that he came to a violent death. One writer says that he was slain in a broil with his son-in-law.

July.-VOL. LXXIV. NO. CCXCV.

2E

THE OPERA.

JULY is the autumn of the Opera season, pressing hard upon August, which is its absolute winter. March has all the hopefulness of the early spring-the old habitué turns over his glazed programme, speculates on the result of the coming period, on the probable merits of this or that débutant or débûtante. With Easter begins the Opera summer, for all the season before Easter is one rather of expectation than accomplishment, and April belongs to spring or summer, accordingly as Easter falls earlier or later. May and June form the acme of brilliancy-the cloudless sky, and uninterrupted sun. But in July-but in July the season begins to wear fearfully-the Hanover-square Rooms are hung with fewer concert-room placards-small paragraphs in the newspapers tell us that members are " pairing off," and we feel that the change has been sudden. We have been whirled, hurried, squeezed, pushed, and driven through a number of glittering weeks, till the rattle of carriage-wheels, the crash of an orchestra, the roulade of a prima donna has become as a second nature to our ears, while the blaze of a full Opera-house, the vast group assembled for a finale, the languishing slow movement of a pas, and the sudden pirouette, become as a second nature to our eyes. And all at once we are told this is to cease! We are to wake from our long complicated dream of Spanish libertines, Italian tyrants, mad lady-loves, interesting naiads, fascinating demons, and to ruralise as we may—the winter of the Opera being succeeded by the autumn of Nature. We are to sit before clumps of veritable trees, and wonder that they do not change into transparencies, through which we may see the Dryads of "Eoline," or before some green slope-not the result of boards and the paint-pot -asking why Cerito does not bound down into the fore-ground.

But stop! even while the ink is drying on our paper, an advertisement catches our eye, which tells us that we must check this leavetaking tone. Taglioni is yet to come; Rossi Caccia, the delight of Lisbon, Baroilhet, the baritone of Paris, are yet to be heard-and by the time this is in print, our readers will have thrown bouquets at the first, and acquainted themselves with the merits of the second and third. The uninitiated into magazine mysteries, who see "July" printed on our cover will think we ought to have recorded events that occurred in the last days of June. Ah! to the magazine-writer, June terminates before it reaches its 30th--our calendar is totally different from that of our readers. Lady-perusers of our pages, who never use the pen but to invite to balls and to accept invitations on the tiniest notepaper, ask not why we divide the year so differently from our neighbours. We should be obliged to say something about "going early to press," and "want of copy," and you would find the expressions not only barbarous but unintelligible. Lift not the veil from the image at Sais.

Mr. Lumley, the ever-to-be-recorded manager of the Opera, having thrown great lustre into the autumn of his short year, let us under its genial influence look back upon the period we have passed. We cannot venture on a clear definition of individual figures, and if by a little

management we can produce a Turnerish sort of effect, indicating much and finishing little, we must be contented.

In the remotest back-ground, we see an imperial train, and an assemblage of Spanish plumes and hats, reminding us that the season commenced with Verdi's "Ernani," founded on Victor Hugo's tragedy -(by the way, reader, have you read Hugo's "Hernani ?" If you have not, do!)—and upon our mental ears breaks the sound of an old controversy as to the merits of the new Italian maestro. Thy débût was respectable (unpoetical word!) oh, Guiseppe Verdi, and far as our memory serves us, we looked upon thee as a skilful musician, without being astounded at thy genius. We bow our head to thee in respect, oh, son of Venice! we will even bring the palms of our hands together in loud collision, but we will fling after thee, neither the antique laurel, nor the modern bouquet. A light form floats over the head of Ernani and his companions-it seems to belong to the air, but the oak-leaves turned around its brow, form a link binding it to the earth. This is Lucile Grahn, the beautiful Dryad, whose step is so light, that the grass would scarcely curve under it, and who beneath that lightness conceals a mine of power and of energy. She bounds sportively among the other Dryads in her native forest; she faints with voluptuous agony in the Mazurka d'Extase. Heed not that listnessness of the spectators, who as yet cannot appreciate the poetry of thy conceptions, the delicacy of thy art. The apathy shall soon pass away, and clad in Norwegian attire, as Kaya of the Snowy Mountains, thou shalt soon win that applause, which is to the artist as the element of life.

That powerful voice, those carefully executed passages, indicate the débût of the accomplished Adelaide Castellan, who, coming without prestige, awakens the fastidious stalls to an acknowledgment of her talents. There is a nice insinuating propriety, a sedulous love of her art, a modesty of demeanour in the young debûtante. Be contented therewith, habitués, and insist not upon the Promethean fire of inspiration.

But lo! what a spangled, sparkling, variegated, restless throng rushes upon our view! What a world of flower-wreaths, of Sclavonic caps, of chains united, of chains broken, of wheat-sheaves, of revolving circles, of animated crosses, of large groups, and little groups. Stay, we can catch them all combined in a single mass. No! the mass disperses-throws itself off in countless particles, and our eye cannot follow them. These are the Danseuses Viennoises-so long the pets of the Opera-house-and the air is darkened with showers of bon-bons as they go through their magical evolutions.

That sweet torrent of mellifluous music, that now rolls along with mighty though voluptuous force, now breaks into a spray of tiny notes, that play lightly upon the ear-and those deep, thunder-like sounds, that now dart forth wrath, now swell with the heartiest mirth, show that Easter has passed, and that Grisi and Lablache have arrived, while those clear plaintive tones that rise upon us, so clearly and so tenderly, tell that Mario is singing his serenade, or "Il mio tesoro." A number of well-known operas, supported by the first artists in the world, pass in rapid succession. Call not for novelty, ye habitués! We question much whether there be novelty worth having. And is it not an indolent

pleasure to listen to well-known airs so executed? It is an approach to the felicity of Vishnu on his lotus-leaf. Have you not the most perfect band?-the most perfect vocalists? Are not all the details of scenery and costume in a most improved condition? Think of that before you insist upon Mr. Lumley giving another " Ernani" or another "Corrado d'Altamura."

The rattle of drinking-cups against tables by a boisterous set of Bohemians-the light tinkle of the tambourine in the distance announces the appearance of Carlotta Grisi, the enchantress of the "Cour des Miracles." The soldiers marching across the rustic bridge, usher in the Neapolitan Cerito as La Vivandière. Nor does Lucile Grahn retire before these august personages, but the three remain together in Her Majesty's Theatre. Never was Terpsichorean brilliancy more vivid ! Cerito, if advised by us, would dance in ballets rather than construct them. As an inventress of pas, she is exquisite; but the arrangement of plots is another affair. The "Rosida," lately produced, was embellished with some charming dances—but as a ballet it was not worth much, and soon dwindled down into "selections."

Verily, we find we have come down to our present date. At what a railroad pace have we travelled through the season! As the idle habitant of the boxes, after using his lorgnette to bring the artists nearer to his view, will turn it the wrong way, so as to make stage and performers excessively little-so have we acted with our mental lorgnette, and have reduced three months into a very small space, containing, we hope, some vividness of colouring.

Yes, here we are at the end of our June-(ours, mind), having finished our retrospection, and are looking forward to Taglioni, Rossi Caccia, and Baroilhet.

LITERATURE.

THE LADY HESTER STANHOPE.*

THE time is probably not far distant when Syria will become a place of frequent temporary, if not permanent residence, more especially among European invalids. At present its incomparable advantages of air and climate, and the great beauty of its scenery, are more than counterbalanced by the insecurity offered by a rude and incompetent govern

ment.

In the case of Lady Hester Stanhope, however, no such considerations influenced her movements. It was a peculiarity of mental constitution, combined with annoyance at the selfishness and meanness of those whom she could no longer influence or control, that led her to abandon her own country to dwell at the sunny foot of Mount Lebanon. The niece of Fitt, and partner of his secret counsels, was neither drawn

* Memoirs of the Lady Hester Lucy Stanhope, as related by Herself in Conversations with her Physician; comprising her Opinions and Anecdotes of some of the most Remarkable Persons of her Time. 3 vols.

to the Syrian coast by its genial air, nor seduced by its scenic beauties, nor was she held there by historical or religious associations.

But in that country, an exorbitant vanity could find humble slaves to minister to its demands; a spirit of domination could obtain human beings to rule over, or trample upon, as the case might be; the love of absolute power could be indulged in to almost any extent without the control of opinions, social conventionalities, or even legal restraints; and the munificence and generosity which would be brought to temper these indulgences, would possess an additional charm as contributing to extend the sphere of that very power and dominion.

This is a somewhat extraordinary ambition for a lady, and in this particular case, it gains very much in interest from the fact, that in opposition to reports often promulgated to the contrary, it does not appear that this love of irresponsible rule ever outstretched the boundaries of propriety. There is, throughout, a vexatious and petty irritability, which must have been partly constitutional; a constant tyrannical treatment of servants, and an imperious and unreasonable conduct towards all in dependence upon her; but we have only met in these memoirs with one instance, against which scruples might be raised, as a positive abuse of power; while, on the other hand, the goodness, the charity, and the munificence, which accompanied all Lady Hester Stanhope's acts and doings, were beyond praise; and the peculiarities of her genius, the great powers of her intellect and judgment, her clear insight into human nature, and consequent natural, as well as cultivated, political capacity; and the indomitable courage and resolution of her purpose; even to the very eccentricities which sprang from so much talent and imagination; confer upon the whole character an air of romance, and an aspect of originality, which is only to be met with in those occasional instances that leave the sublimest inventions of fiction in shade and obscurity.

Many of these peculiarities were derived from circumstances appertaining to her birth and education, and to her history and position previous to her emigration to the East; others, however, resulted from the new circumstances in which she became placed, partly from the necessities of the country, and partly from her own pertinacity; thus her biographer justly remarks in his final summary, that in respect to her tyrannical treatment of servants, that she carried with her from England, the disposition to conciliate, by kindness and forbearance, the fidelity and obedience of her domestics; but she was eventually led into undue harshness towards them, which became more and more exaggerated in her by the idleness, the ignorance, and irritating vices of her eastern household.

It would require, indeed, a more intimate acquaintance with the manners and feelings of the East than is generally possessed, to enter into the influences which these exercised upon so imaginative, energetic, and passionate a mind as Lady Hester Stanhope's; and one of the most extraordinary of which was her love of clothing ordinary facts, and still more so political events, with mystery; a feature in her character, which has been hitherto little understood.

To her physician and biographer's great surprise, Lady Hester said to him one day, being in a somewhat affectionate mood:

"I must send you to the chief of the Serpents. You don't know what that means -I'll tell you. There is a cavern in a distant part of this country, inhabited by a