against him. He was an unscrupulous liar; he was extraordinarily vain; he was utterly destitute of reverence; he had an impure imagination which was not checked by the slightest sense of even external decency; he was given to filthy lucre; he was spiteful and revengeful in the extreme toward his personal enemies. This is an ugly catalogue, and it is unfortunately true that no single article in it can be struck out entirely by the most uncompromising defender who knows and respects the facts. Mitigating pleas are all that is possible. His lying, which is a very unpleasant feature to English examiners of his character, has to be taken in conjunction with the fact that it was, so to speak, official and professional lying for the most part. The absurd and iniquitous political and social system of the time and country necessitated and in a manner recognized it. It was little more than the conventional "not guilty," not so much as the equally conventional "not at home." The charge of vanity must be admitted sans phrase, but it is not a very damning one. The lack of reverence also is not contestable, though there are some circumstances on the other side, notably the mountain-top story, which I have not noticed in Mr. Parton, and his lifelong cult of the starry heavens. This was, however, a distinct and inevitable consequence of his peculiar faculty of ridicule, which must also excuse as far as it can (and that is not very far) the uncleanness of his writings. I shall frankly own that that uncleanness is to me the most unpleasant variety of the disease that I know, with the possible exception of Dryden's. His carrying out of the maxim non olet is another blot on his character. There is nothing inexcusable, though perhaps there is something rather undignified, in a poet's making money by stockbroking and moneychanging; but the Hirsch matter, as to which something has been said already, cannot be defended, and the persistent way in which the author of "L'Homme aux Quarante Ecus" and a hundred other protests against financial mismanagement allowed himself to profit by contracts, loans, and so forth, where the profit was due to corrupt administration, is a still greater blot. With respect to Fréron, Desfontaines, et Cie.,

perhaps the worst thing that can be said about Voltaire is that in point of malignity there is sometimes nothing and generally very little to choose between himself and his adversaries. And yet I have not the least intention of admitting that Voltaire was a wretch, or anything of the kind. All the worst of his faults were emphatically the faults of his time and his education. His merits, on the other hand, were personal and his own, a distinction which, however hackneyed it may be, is almost the only one available in this world of ours. These merits Mr. Parton's book ought to make clear to everybody who is not hopelessly prejudiced. One of the chief of them was an extraordinary kindness of heart and affection for his friends, relations, and, indeed, everybody with whom he was not brought into violent collision. Madame du Châtelet and Madame Denis, the feminine plagues of the greater part of his long life, certainly had nothing to complain of in him. Notwithstanding his occasional fits of ill-temper all his servants and dependents were fond of him, and even the passionate Collini did not find those fits intolerable. His friendship for Thieriot, a person of very doubtful merit, and not unfrequently, as in the Desfontaines affair, and in the matter of the employments which Voltaire sought to procure for him from Richelieu, a troublesome and even treacherous friend, was unwearying. No one, even of his enemies, fails to acknowledge his remarkable benevolence to oppressed or unfortunate persons of every degree of merit, from Calas and Lally to La Barre and Desfontaines. Something, perhaps must be allowed for his love of playing the grand seigneur in estimating his good. deeds at Ferney; but even when that allowance is made a solid amount will remain to his credit. Unscrupulous as he was in some ways in the getting of money, he neither spent it unworthily nor hoarded it for the mere sake of hoarding; his object being, as has been said, the securing of independence, which in his time and country no man, who was neither a priest nor a noble, could hope for without a competent estate. These things are, of course, perfectly well known to students of French literature and French history; but the

general reader is less likely to be acquainted with them. Such a reader will find in Mr. Parton's book a good deal to amuse him, and a good deal to correct and heighten his idea of Voltaire as a man. It has been hinted that the merits of the book, as a literary commentary, are hardly equal to its merits

as a repository of fact. In the former respect, however, as has also been suggested, more than one scriptor haud paulo melior quam ego aut, Mr. Parton has supplied the deficiency in English by anticipation, and it is therefore superfluous to say any more on that score. Fortnightly Review.

She

CLELIA is alone sings in a low

It is night in Venice.
in her balcony.
voice lazily:

Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,
O dear Death that art dear to me-
Love of my heart, the wide waste land,
O my lost love, holds nought but thee!
There is nought in the land, or sea, or
sky,

But thou, and the man that once was I.

A pretty farrago of love and death! Whether this youth be singing to death or to his lady-love; whether love be death, or death love; whether his lady be dead, or he be dead, or both; let my little Florio say, if he can, for he made the verses and the music. How these children lisp of love and death! One would think they cared not a jot which of the two came to kiss them. It is all a matter of the minor key. If a roundshot knocked the mandolin from young master poet's fingers, would he not crouch behind the chair with his milkteeth chattering? I have not seen my little poet, my singer of love-lorn songs for days. He makes pretty verses, and not too powerful. They are not so weak either. Wonderful is the power of song. I have but to sing this rhyme of love and death a little louder, only a little louder; and at the signal, from the low black arch opposite creeps noise less a gondola. So slight a thread may draw a strong man, one who dare sing of death and face him too. Three notes of this poor melody-of dear death, forsooth-would bring Duke Angelo from his great black palace. So one may lure spiders. But I will sing to myself only-softly-softly

No perfume is left on the fair broad earth
But the scent of thy raiment passing
No gold of price, no-
[sweet;

What man is that?

Cl. 'Twere pity, Florio.

I

Fl. Only a few days have gone; only a few nights like this night, accursed, which burns me like a shirt of fire; and I am here again. Yesterday I was far from this place. I had left you. thought that I was free. And now I am here here with you. Venice breathes flame to-night; and you are Venice. How beautiful you are!

Cl. Yes, in the shadows; beautiful as this night. Yes, I am Venice. She is a queen in tarnished gold, is she not? Venice and I are growing old, and are most beautiful in the loving shadow of a night that half conceals. And this night is like fire to you? Boy, it is full of coolness and softness, bountiful, tender, sweet. I am young to-night. Sing to me.

Fl. I have forgotten how to sing since you taught me to love.

Cl. Song without love is a cup without wine. If you had ever loved, your heart would be full of melodies, as the night is full of stars.

Fl. Cut like a gallant's love into a myriad little fires.

Cl. Often so-not always. There are many stars, but only one moon.

Fl. I am full of one love, as this night is filled to overflowing by one

moon.

Cl. You are too young to love.
Fl. Why am I here, then?
Cl. To be with me.

Fl. And is that not love?

Cl. Or habit. There are many kinds of love. Listen, Florio. There is the love of a child for sweetmeats. Is yours such a love? There is the love of a youth for himself-a vanity which needs feeding by girls' glances; and this the young do for the most part mistake for love. Then there is the love of a man, -but that is terrible.

Fl. Is there no love of women? Cl. Women are loved. They like to be loved. They love love. Florio, on such a night as this, I feel that every girl in Venice dreams that she is loved. Breathless she awaits her lover. There is a sound of the guitar and mandolin; the whisper of a song; the soft lisp of the gondolier's oar, and the drip of silver drops from the blade that turns in the moonlight. Then in the black shadow a little window opens; there is a faint light in the room; half hidden behind the curtain she stands trembling; she wishes him away, and she wishes him anear; her lips speak without her will, and she hears his name in her ears, and her ears grow hot with shame. Angelo," she whispers" Angelo !"'

Fl. Angelo !

Cl. Or Beppo or Pippo or Cecco: it matters not a jot who the man is, so he be man and lover. There is a girl. I have painted her, complete from head to heel-a girl of Venice.

Fl. The night is sultry. I am stifled. Cl. Ah, little one, you cannot feel the passion of this night. You cannot be a woman, poet though you be.

Fl. Poet! I was a bird with one note. You tamed me to your hand; and I am dumb.

Cl. Then I shall whistle you away. What! keep a songless thrush! Pipe to me, pipe. Think of all the maidens dreaming around us, dreaming all of love; think of them; dream of them; sing for them. Sing to me.

Cl. My Florio.

Fl. My love! (He falls at her feet, and the hand which she yields him is wet with his tears.)

Cl. And you tried to leave me? Ungrateful. You will not leave me. This hour is for us. Is not this hour beautiful? Beautiful for me and thee? Fl. For me and thee.

Cl. Sing to me, my bird with the sweet voice-sing to me

Fl. I cannot sing. It is so good to be silent when I am near you.

Cl. Sing; and I will give you this rose from my breast. See! It is pale in the moonlight, but the scent is sweet. Sing to me, Florio; and as your song, like this queen rose, fills the night full with perfume; so like a rose my heart will open to love, as my arms open now. (She stretches her arms to the dark palace opposite.)

Fl. Drop your arms. They strangle me. They are great white snakes.

Cl. See how I obey you! Obey me. Sing to me-sing to me of love; but not of love and death-not yet.

Fl. Ah! why do you laugh? It is horrible.

Cl. It is the song of a young monk. A pretty pale face to look into a dreaming woman's dream, and make her sleep the sounder. This is a night too exquisite for sleep. It is a night of all the loves.

Fl. Of all the infamies! The hot air stifles me. It is full of the sighs of men, who lie deep in slime below these creeping waters. Every breath is heavy with awful memories; of secret judgment, and noiseless murder; foul love and quick revenge; blood of a thousand knives; fumes of a thousand cups, and in each cup poison; poison in the very flowers of God-in this rose poison ! (He sets his foot upon the rose; she laughs again.)

Cl. Do you think that I would kill you ?

Fl. Have you not killed me? You have killed hope in me; you have killed my faith in woman. And here you stand close to me-your gown touches me and smile, as if a smile could warm the dead to life. You cannot warm me to life.

Will that crushed rose open its heart again, because you smile? I am dead in a dead world. The world was all so beautiful to me a web of color, a fountain of sweet scent, its air all music. And then one day you smiled on me, as you are smiling now; and perfume, song, and color rushed together, and were one-were you; they found one exquisite form, and it was yours; and love found a language in your eyes. You held my heart in your hand, and you have frozen it. And have you killed truth too. I can believe no more; and you have made me lie. When I am away from you, I comfort my soul with lies, and find torture. prove to myself that you love me. have a thousand unmistakable proofs. Oh, I can argue with a fine subtlety. I explain to myself your every word, your slightest look. I show myself why may be sure that I am loved. These are all lies. I am never deceived. I know that you are cold to me, as the

I

I

I

Cl. And condemned? My Florio, look in my eyes, and tell me I am condemned. Look at me. Fl. 1 will not. I know your power. Cl. Why should I hurt you?

Fl. For knowledge.

Mine is the loving heart, and yours the surgeon's knife. You are cold and curious.

Cl. Cold on this night! I think it is the beating of warm hearts that makes this pulse of the air. And what if it be true?-what if I cannot love ?-should you not pity me? Pity me, my Florio. Fl. You did not pity me.

Cl. I almost love you for your scorn of me.

Fl. Yes, you can almost love. I pity you.

Cl. I am tired of men's praises. me more blame But no !

me.

Give Sing to

Fl. That you may laugh again. Cl. There will be no laughter. Sing before you go

Fl. I am to go, then?

Cl. All good things go. Sing me your song of Death and Love. Fl. It was the first song I ever sang to you that spring day on the island.

Cl. I remember. For my sake, Florio! Sing it to me now. (He begins to murmur the song, but she stops him.) Louder and clearer, Florio. Let the night hear it all.

Fl. (sings).Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,

O dear Death that art dear to meLove of my heart, the wide waste land, O my lost love, holds nought but thee !

There is nought in the land, or sea, or sky,

But thou, and the man that once was I.

No perfume is left on the fair broad earth

But the scent of thy raiment passing sweet;

No gold of price, no faine of worth,

But only the place where we did meet: O Death!-do I call on Death? Ah me!

sweet love to thee.

Cl. Do you know why you sang that song?

Fl. To please you.

Cl. To please me; yes.
Fl. What do you mean?

Cl. It is my signal to Duke Angelo.
Fl. What if he find you dead?

Cl. Put up your dagger. You dare not use it.

Fl. If I struck here, here in my heart, I should feel no more. You know me -you know I dare not strike. You have killed courage in me, as you killed faith, and hope, and love. There, take my dagger at your feet. God pardon you. (He leaps from the balcony. She leans her bosom on the edge and looks into the water below.)

Cl. Will he drown? No. rises; he swims. I knew it. but sing of death.

There, he They do

O Venice, mother of mine, what think you of the brood of men that crawl upon your waters ? Dukes and fishermen, blowers of glass or breathers of song, they are all men-and that's the pity. Florio has sung, and Angelo has heard his song. How sharply the black gondola severs itself from the darkness of the low archway! So death might steal from the shadows. It seems as I had seen this thing long ages since in some dead world. More music! (From the canal rises the Duke's voice singing the song of Florio.) Ah me, but I am tired of that song! (She tosses him the rose, which Florio's heel had crushed, and so begins to laugh again.)—Blackwood's Magazine.

I AGREE with Charles Lamb: “Everybody should have a hobby,' even though, like Lamb's friend John Tipp, that hobby should be only a fiddle. John Tipp of the Old South Sea House, as Elia tells us, "thought an accountant the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest accountant in it. And John was not without his hobby. The fiddle relieved his vacant hours"as it has done those of wiser and greater men than John Tipp. I could point at this moment to one of the most valuable and hard-worked of public servants who found in his hobby, a fiddle, "refreshment and almost rest''during the sixty years of his busy and most useful official life, and now, at upward of fourscore, finds in it a pleasant change from that "arrear of reading" which in his well-earned leisure he is trying to reduce.

More fortunate than John Tipp, I have had more than one hobby. How we get our hobbies is matter for curious speculation. Some, I suspect, are born with us, and we are indoctrinated with others from accidental circumstances, while my chief hobby was, I think, the result of that beautiful system of compensation on the part of Providence of which, as we pass through life, we see so many proofs.

I was always so extremely short-sighted that I was quite unfitted to take part in the majority of those athletic sports, such as cricket, in which boys delight. Indeed, there was only one branch of them in which I was at all an adept, and in these refined days I almost blush to refer to it; I was said to handle the gloves very nicely.

The consequence of my infirmity was, that almost as soon as I ceased to be one of the "spelling" public I became one of the reading public; and on our holidays at school, instead of investing my small weekly allowance at the tuck shop," I used to borrow from the small circulating library in the neighborhood materials for an afternoon's reading. I suppose I began with the "Mysteries of Udolpho," the "Scottish Chiefs," etc.; but before I left school in 1819 I had read and re-read all Scott's novels that had then appeared.

When I left school, and by the kindness of the late Lord Farnborough, received an appointment in the Civil Service, my wise and good father, disregarding Shakespeare's condemnation of