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other feelings; and he may be said to have inherited it from his family. In this point Cromwell and Buonaparte showed no weakness.

The circumstances of the public life of the latter enable us to contemplate them from a point of view which does not occur with respect to the other two. They were each tempted by the offer of a crown, though the prize, or rather the name, was only obtained by one of them. Now in a situation so singular-so far removed from any thing of ordinary occurrence, we should not be surprised to observe a similarity of deportment. The temptation, the greatest that could be offered to human wishes, in which ambition had any share, was infinitely alluring. It presented it self in the shape of a gift, but a gift obviously not to be proffered until there existed the power and inclination to take it. But to the stimulus there was an opposing consideration: mankind are not a little ruled by names, and they do not willingly (by name, at least) acknowledge a master in one whom they have considered an equal. Hence we should expect the lofty aspirations of ambition accompanied by a large share of caution, and veiled under expressions of diffidence, unmerited elevation, scruples, the necessity of yielding to the course of events, and such like. Much of this, accordingly, we recognise in the picture. Cromwell coquetted with the offer-spoke of his unworthiness, his scruples-heard with humility the committee sent to confer with him-failed to be persuaded by their discourse-declined the offer, and was disappoint ed that more urgency was not used. He had more than the power of an English monarch, but the name most covetously desired he thought it unsafe to assume, looking to the consequences which so glaring inconsistency might produce among the instruments of his power-the army. His address to the committee is much too long for insertion. Buonaparte's response had the same hypocrisy, but the moment was more favour able: "Il m'en coute beaucoup de me placer ainsi en evidence; j'aime mieux ma situation actuelle. Toutefois la continuation de la republique n'est plus possible, on est blasé sur

ce genre-la; je crois que les François veulent la royauté. J'avois d'abord pensé à rappeler les vieux Bourbons; mais cela n'auroit fait que les perdre et moi aussi. Ma conscience me dit qu'il faut a la fin un homme a la tête de tout ceci : cependant peutêtre vaudroit-il mieux encore attendre. J'ai vieilli la France d'un siecle depuis quatre ans: la liberté, c'est un bon code civil, et les nations modernes ne se soucient que de la proprieté. Cependant si vous m'en croyez, nommez une comité, organisez la constitution, et je vous le dis naturellement, ajouta-t-il en souriant, prenez precautions contre ma tyrannie, prenez en croyez moi." The most assiduous study of Machiavel could have produced nothing more finished than this.

In one other particular we take the two together: Cromwell," the sagest of usurpers," was the most prosing, tiresome, tortuous, and incomprehensible of writers and speakers.

"His thoughts were theorems, his words a problem,

As if he thought that mystery would en

noble 'em."

Take the following extract from his discourse to the Crown Committee, which is a fair specimen of the whole: "I say, I would be understood, that in this argument I do not make parallel betwixt men of a different mind, and a parliament which shall have their desires. I know there is no comparison, nor can it be urged upon me, that my words have the least colour that way, because the parliament seems to give liberty to me to say any thing to you, as that that is a tender of my humble reasons and judgment and opinion of them; and if I think they are such and such, and will be such to them, and are faithful servants, and will be so to the supreme authority, and the legislative wherever it is. If, I say, I should not tell you, knowing their minds to be so, I should not be faithful; if I should not tell you so to the end, you may report it to the parlia ment.' The committee, it must be allowed, if they could report any thing from such a speech, were men of penetration. They would find it casier to state the result, which they

would have no difficulty in reaching, than the reasons on which it was founded. Cromwell's connection with the sectaries of the day might be supposed to have shed its obscuring influence on his style, and, partly, it might be thought matter of design to speak thus mystically for the better concealing his real views. This

would account for occasional obscurity, but not for that which we discover in all that he wrote or spoke. But whatever solution may be adopted, the fact is indispensable, that he was voluble without clear ness, wordy without being profound, and mysterious without having any thing to conceal. “In soul so like,"

yet in all that concerned style, how different was Buonaparte ! He is always clear, vigorous, rapid, and sententious. With something of bombast, his bulletins and addresses to his armies were admirable for their spirit and brevity; and in his conversations at St. Helena, who does not acknowledge the clearness, terse ness, and depth of his remarks? His promptitude of style is equal to his promptitude in action; the one fully reflects the other; while the style of Cromwell stands in broad opposition to his character, except in one solitary particular-his devotional exercises.

We stop at present, to resume the subject at some future occasion.

THE TWELVE NIGHTS.

A Tule from the German of the Baron Carl Von Miltig. "I CAN assure you, my dear master," said John, as he went on with the story," that infernal noise, which has been at rest now so long, has broke out again this year worse than ever—I myself last night—”

"Well, you saw something, I suppose," said the chief master of the forests; "come, let's hear all about it -what was it?"

"No, Sir, I did not see, to be sure, but then I heard it.”

"Oh! heard it-aye the old storyand when one asks what has been heard, it turns out to be some hollow knocking-or a rattling of chains, &c. we know all about that already, -John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

"But, my dear master, when I heard it with my own ears-"

"Never mind your ears-they have played you false-eyes, ears, nose, every thing deserts a man when he is once fairly terrified-he hears, sees, and smells, exactly as his fright makes him. And now let us have done with this nonsense; you know I am sick of it-I could lay my life the whole turns out to be the work of some wretched cat, or a few martins. I remember my father (rest his soul!) was once annoyed with some of these noises. He put a pair of good hounds into the ghost's room, and next day we had a whole family of martins lying on the floor. Some time after, a blockhead of a servant took it into his head to hear

more noises-my father ordered him to receive twenty strokes with the cat-o'-nine-tails. I remember the whole hunt turned out to witness the execution. After that we heard no more of ghosts."

"I daresay," said John, grinning, "nobody would care to see any, after such a reception." He saw, however, it was needless to contest the matter at the time: "besides," thought John, "though it roar and bellow, what then? The wing is uninhabited, we need not disturb ourselves about the matter." With this reflection, which he kept to himself, the old man left the room. He found several peasants waiting in the ante-chamber, who had business with Schirm wald, the head forest-master's Secretary, and returned to announce them to his master.

he.

"Send the Secretary here," said "He is not in the office," said John; "I saw him stepping across the court, with his music-books, to Miss Eleonora's room, more than an hour ago. I daresay they are singing or playing together, for he was there the whole of yesterday afternoon. Shall I call him?" The Baron muttered to himself.

"The devil has certainly sent that cursed smooth-faced versemaker into my house. To think that this pale, moonshine-looking countenance of a fellow, without religion, and without conscience, should make its way into a girl's heart, and such a

girl as my Eleonora. And is it possible that, for him, the noble, excellent Saalburg should be forgotten? Oh, woman! woman!-But I will expose the fellow-I will open her eyes-or my name is not Neideck."

The Baron, who had a bad custom of speaking before he thought, was promising more than he found it easy to perform. He was completely the slave of his daughter Eleonora, a beautiful girl, the image of his wife, with whom he had enjoyed eighteen years of uninterrupted happiness. Whatever Eleonora chose to command was done; he found it impossible to refuse her a single request, or to make use of a harsh word towards her. He saw the necessity, however, of exerting himself at present, and determined that Schirmwald should leave the house the moment that Saalburg, who had been fixed on, even from his childhood, as the husband of his daughter, should arrive. "Once let me see her Saalburg's wife," thought he," and all will go well."

The door opened. Tall and slender, with something of a sorrowful and solemn expression in her countenance, Eleonora Von Neideck entered the room. Her dignified air, her dark clustering locks, shadowing her pale countenance, and falling on her shoulders, gave her the appearance rather of a sybil than the daughter of a German nobleman. But in the midst of the grace which characterized her movements, an attentive observer might perceive something of a theatrical cast-an affected elevation of language and manner, which in some measure impaired the impression which the first glance was calculated to produce. She was dressed in a black velvet robe, fitted closely to her figure, and fastened round the waist by a rich gold band and clasp. Long white plumes trailed downwards from her dark hat, and in her hand she held a riding-switch. "Whither so fast, my daughter?" said old Neideck, feeling his resolution melting away at the sight of this beautiful vision." To the free air," answered Eleonora ; "I come to kiss your hand." Oh, you are going to ride," said the father ;-" quite alone ?" "Schirmwald goes with me; you need be under no appre

66

hensions." "Really!"" He who once saved me," continued Eleonora with dignity, raising her dark melancholy eyes to heaven, "who, at the peril of his own life preserved mine, inay well be allowed to accompany me in a short ride."

The chief keeper of his Majesty's forests bit his lips. "Saalburg," said he, "will be here immediately." "You told me so yesterday." "He loves you, Eleonora." "You told me that too." "And what will you say to him if it is so?" "I will tell him the truth." "Of course -but what is that-yes or no?" "No, father." "No! by Heaven!" He stopped for a moment. do not love Saalburg?" all." "You love,-you love,-what the devil is the use of going about the bush-you love this Schirmwald. Is it not so?" "It is so," said Eleonora, casting her eyes down.

"You "Not at

"No, girl! It is not, it shall not be so I shall bear it no longer. You forget your own honour and mine. It is the talk of the whole house: you sit, and sing, and harp, and make verses together continually. At first, I was pleased at your intercourse, for I thought it might be a means of improving your taste for music: I allowed the man who had been your preserver to be the companion of your amusements and your walks; but I could not have suspected that your infatuation could ever have proceeded to this length, and I feared to warn you, lest the warning itself might increase the danger;-and thus it is that you reward my delicacy and my confidence! Leonora, you know I love you more than I can express-you know I hate all compulsion, all unnecessary exertion of authority; but make up your mind, dismiss Schirmwald-marry Saalburg."

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Never, father, my heart, my whole existence, are Schirmwald's.'

"He is a miserable, deceitful wretch." "Calumny-calumny-it is the lot of the great and the good." "I have proofs, my daughter." "Forgeries, framed by the malice of his enemies." "But when you read the "I shall not believe papers

them."

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There was a moment's pause. The Baron resumed-" Promise me, at

the

least, that Saalburg-" "O see, father," said Eleonora, interrupting 66 request, see how impatiently my pony arches his delicate neck, and beats with his hoofs on the ground to call me! And this clear, sparkling sun, and this blue heaven, and every thing so smiling, I can stay no longer.'

She was gone. In a few moments -the Baron saw her flying through the gate, with Schirmwald by her side. "There they go," cried the old man," and I am left alone." A tear gathered in his eye. Accursed delusion, that thus expels from the heart its best, and purest, and dear est feelings!"

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He continued in deep thought, till the sound of a carriage awakened him from his reverie. He looked down into the court. A cavalier sprung out. "Saalburg!" cried the old man, in an extacy of delight; "it is he himself!" and he ran down stairs like lightning.

"Welcome, my dear, excellent young friend-welcome! Whom have you brought with you?" "Frau von Rehfield, most excellent forest-master ?" "Is it possible? What! my sister, and Miss Rose, and Miss Lise, and all of them!" "Dear brother," "Dear uncle," resounded from all sides. "Paul, Christian, John," bawled Neideck; “where are all the fellows?"

The whole household soon surrounded the carriage, and found ample employment in unloading its contents. Besides the human inhabitants of the ponderous vehicle, a cat, two lap-dogs, a canary bird in a cage, and a whole pile of trunks and band-boxes, were dug out. At last, however, the whole party were safely landed.

"Where is Leonora-where is our dear cousin ?" cried all of them, speaking at once. Her father was just commencing an apology, when she galloped up to the door. She welcomed her visitors, and while she thus gave way to the natural ease of disposition, she was enchanting. Saalburg could not withdraw his eyes from her beauty. She, too, seemed at first a little surprised to see the raw, wild stripling changed into a handsome man; but that emotion seemed to disappear, and she took

VOL. XV.

no further notice of him. The father seemed only to admire him the more. His graceful figure, his countenance, in which sweetness was blended with firmness, his good hu mour and strong feeling, tempered by a knowledge of the world, enchanted the old man. He was determined that no other person should be the husband of Eleonora, and felt almost distracted with anxiety, till he should find an opportunity of tellling him how matters stood. He had not long to wait, for the young man was as impatient as himself. But what were Saalburg's feelings, when the Baron informed him, that all the old ties of youth between him and Eleonora were dissolved, and that another now possessed her affections! Pride and anger contended in his heart, when he learned who it was that Leonora thus preferred to him. But Saalburg was prudent, as well as noble and honourable. Before deciding on his plans, he wished to know from the Baron whether there was any thing to be hoped for. Neideck told him, that, during the disturbances occasioned by the war, Leonora had been sent to reside with a relation in town, the young wife of old Count Horst; that, during her resi dence there, the round of idle amusements in which she mingled, the flatteries to which she was constantly exposed, and the influence of fashionable example, had entirely altered the native artlessness and modesty of her character. The tenderness of her feelings had disappeared, she had become cold and affected,-the coun try wearied her, the affection of her father she seemed to receive almost with indifference; she was also at that critical period when the heart must have employment.

By powerful recommendations, Schirmwald had contrived to get admittance into her father's house. He had heard of her beauty and her fortune, and was resolved to hazard every thing to make the lady his own.

Neideck had received more than one anonymous intimation of his views, but he had paid little attention to them, partly because he be lieved it almost impossible that Eleonora could forget Saalburg, or give pain to her father by any opposition to his choice, and partly because he 4 C

thought it still more improbable that any danger was to be apprehended from such a man as Schirmwald. And yet this Schirm wald, vain, ignorant, selfish, and (as he had inore lately had occasion to discover) unprincipled, had succeeded, by an affectation of peculiar softness of manner, and a pompous display of fine feeling, in captivating the unsuspecting heart of Leonora.

It happened, also, towards the end of autumn, that Schirmwald, during one of his walks near the castle, had the good fortune to rescue Eleonora from the attack of a marauding ruffian, who had assaulted her in the wood. From this moment, the heart of Eleonora seemed to glow with the fire of affection. She seemed to think that even the warmest love towards her deliverer could scarcely repay the service she had received. She would no longer hear of her marriage with Saalburg. She admitted the goodness of his disposition, but he wanted mind, and mind alone could make her happy.

"My dear Saalburg," said the Baron, as he concluded his recital, 66 so stands the case. You see you have little to hope. Eleonora's character, and the strength of this passion, make me fear that opposition" "Would be in vain," cried Saalburg; "you know, my dear father, that passion was never cured by contradiction. If it is possible to win back Eleonora's heart, it can only be by taking care that not the smallest symptom of my design should appear. Promise me then not to allude in any way to our union. My relationship will account for my staying here a month or two. In that time, I shall be able to ascertain what I have to expect."

The Baron promised the strictest silence on the point, and after agreeing to communicate to each other any thing that should happen, they separated.

At Neideck, every one was master of his time. The Baron went about his ordinary employments, without concerning himself about the movements of his guests, to whom an excellent library, a billiard-room, and every convenience for walking, riding, or hunting, offered a constant fund of amusement. From break

fast-time, when they all met together, every one might employ himself as he pleased until two, when the sound of the hunting-horn summoned them to table. They enjoyed equal liberty during the afternoon, till they met again at eight o'clock to tea.

Saalburg saw Eleonora daily, and met her with an air of composure and indifference. During their rides, in which he occasionally accompanied her, he was attentive, but not officious; and he seemed to pay no attention to the marked distinction with which she treated Schirm wald. Thus the connection between them seemed to have subsided into the calm, easy intercourse of mere acquaintance and politeness. The aunt and the young ladies, however, were not disposed to take the matter so coolly, and Saalburg found considerable difficulty in prevailing on them to be silent, as to the long-proposed union, and to leave him quietly to mature his plans.

One evening, he observed that Eleonora had evidently been weeping. Her eyes appeared inflamed, and during the whole evening it was impossible to draw her into conversation.

He soon ascertained the cause from Neideck. The Baron, he found, had taken Schirm wald soundly to task, and had told him decidedly that he might look for another situation. Ill humour, and scarcely-concealed indignation, sat upon the Secretary's brow when he appeared at table, and Eleonora seemed to share his feelings. Saalburg gave up every thing for lost.

Grieved to the heart at the consequences of the Baron's impatience, he left the room. It was the close of a winter afternoon, as he directed his steps towards the waste and dreary park that surrounded the castle. The snow crisped and crackled under his feet, in the clear frosty air. The winter wind rustled through the bare boughs of the willows, where the ice-flakes now hung in place of the vanished leaves. The deep, melancholy stillness of Nature harmonized with his dejection. In this thoughtful mood he continued to saunter on till he reached a grove of dark pines, under whose boughs, still green amidst the surrounding desolation, a

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