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mayhap you do a streak in the hard line-I allow your razors are pretty." "You are quite mistaken, MrEwins. And, to be plain with you, I shall make no further revelations as to my calling or profession, leaving that for your ingenuity to discover; but I shall answer any questions you may be pleased to put upon other topics." "Now I guess you're getting stuffy, Squire! You needn't give me a socdolager that way; for if I've waked up the wrong passenger, I didn't mean it, and it's no use to fly off the handle. Darn it-what a time they are in getting breakfast! The morning's raw-what say you to step down and liquor?"

Declining the proposed conviviality, I moved to another part of the steamer, leaving behind me inadvertently a German edition of an English novel (it was Sir E. B. Lytton's Pilgrims of the Rhine), the pages of which were only partially cut open. I discovered afterwards that my Transatlantic acquaintance had pounced upon it, and, in his literary zeal, had used his finger as a paper-cutter, thereby mutilating the volume. Carlton, who had rested ill during the previous night, had gone down to the cabin to slumber, if possible, for an hour; and I, in order to avoid the attacks of two burschen, who seemed anxious to claim fraternity, entered into conversation with a middle-aged English gentleman, of highly respectable appearance and agreeable manners, who seemed very glad to embrace the opportunity of discoursing in his own language, and who certainly was a marked contrast to my recent acquaintance the Yankee.

I have forgotten now the point from which we started. Most probably it was an allusion to the weather, or to the scenery, or something of a similar kind, which gradually expanded itself into a discussion far more wide and extended, embracing Continental education, forms of government, the police system, consular establishments, and many other cognate subjects. I was, I shall fairly confess, quite fascinated by the demeanour of the man. Evidently a person of some rank or place in the scale of social consideration, he was not in the least degree supercilious; but, ac

knowledging the slightness of his acquaintance with foreign matters, he requested information, and listened to it in a way that could not fail to be greatly gratifying to a man so much his junior. He even asked permission to take notes, and did so and after breakfast, he requested that I would favour him by continuing the conversation.

Carlton, having benefited by his slumber, tried more than once to get me away; but I stuck to my new acquaintance. People say that à Scot is not easily humbugged-I fear it is otherwise. You can humbug him always, if, mingled with an encomium on his own individual sagacity, you introduce a compliment to the national shrewdness which marks the race. I, at any rate, was humbugged, for I was actually foolish enough to confide to this entire stranger more of my personal history and aspirations than prudence would have warranted me in disclosing. Men oftentimes, under the influence of vinous excitement, make similar revelations over-night, and next morning are heartily ashamed and sorry for having done so; but here was I, as sober as an anchorite, and considering myself all the while a very prudent personage, laying bare my inmost thoughts to a man who, for anything I knew to the contrary, might be a swindler or a Jesuit in disguise. My only excuse is the artful way in which he wormed himself into my confidence, and the deep interest which he professed to feel in my narrative. After I had told him that I intended to remain for some time in London, and that my prospects were uncertain, he said, after a brief pause-

"In so far as I can judge, or as my experience of the world dictates, your career is likely to be a distinguished one. You have in your favour youth, ability, industry, large information, and high principle, and when these are combined they must command success. We have need of such men as you for the public service. Attached as I am to the great Conservative party, and having held more than once offices of considerable trust and responsibility, I have often lamented that the Ministry of the day

did not take more pains to search for and encourage rising talent. Your genius, I can perceive already, is eminently of a practical kind. I cannot doubt that you will shine as a publicist or political writer, and I would advise you to concentrate all your thoughts and energies in that direction. I cannot hope to be of immediate service to you in London, for I must immediately go down to my county; but when Parliament meets, I shall expect to see you, and then, be assured, I shall use my utmost influence in promoting your views. Here is my card. I am called Sir George Smoothly, and have the honour of sitting for the borough of Effingham. I cannot express to you how much gratification I have derived from this agreeable and instructive colloquy, and from your confidence, which, I trust you will admit hereafter, has not been misplaced."

Shortly afterwards I rejoined Carlton, who was filling his sketch-book with heads of Jews, burschen, militaires, and peasant-girls, in the forepart of the vessel.

"So, Master Norman !" said he, you seem to have taken a mighty fancy to that pleasant gentleman yonder. I have not seen you so animated for a long time. May I venture to ask what were the principal topics of your conversation?"

I felt the colour rise to my cheeks; for, to say the truth, I stood somewhat in awe of Carlton's satirical turn. However, I replied

"Well ;-I don't mind telling you that I have been rather communicative to him about myself; and that I have found him most kind and encouraging."

"Hum!-there is an Italian proverb which prescribes caution in trusting the friend of an hour. Do you know who or what he is?"

"Here is his card."

"Sir George Smoothly? That's so far well. He is an M.P., and on the right side, though they do say he is but a slippery fellow. And he has offered to assist you, eh?"

"With every appearance of cordiality and interest.'

"Did you tell him anything about your conne real or presumed, with Lord

"Not a word. That would have been a violation of confidence, as well as a gross act of egotism."

"I am glad to hear you say so. But, Norman, take my advice, and keep yourself to yourself as much as you can, except with assured friends. There are many men who walk in masks, and the prettiest mask of all is that of philanthropy, and the desire of doing good. You know, of course, that glorious parable of old John Bunyan, the Pilgrim's Progress? It is a valuable study, not only for Christian development, but for human character. Take care that you have not fallen in with a Mr Worldly Wiseman."

"Have you talked with the Yankee?"

"A first-rate fellow! He has nearly killed me with some of his stories. The best of the joke is, that, not knowing our intimacy, he took you off to the life as an impenetrable Caledonian."

"The devil he did!"

"Of course--and I wish you had kept up the character. But what American impudence could not achieve, I suspect English plausibility has accomplished. Never mind, Norman there's no harm done as yet. Let us cultivate our Jonathan's acquaintance, and certainly we shall extract some fun."

Carlton was right. We had great fun out of Mr Ewins, who related to us various dodges, commercial and civil, which, in England, would certainly have been brought under the notice of the Old Bailey Court, but, in America, seemed to be considered as the mere eccentricities of genius. He intended, he said, before recrossing the Atlantic, to have a peep at the Britishers with the view of compiling a volume on their national peculiarities, which he guessed

would be nip and tuck to the tarnal old woman," for so he irreverently denominated Mrs Trollope. And so, having by this time passed through the grand scenery of the Upper Rhine, and entered into the monotonous reaches of Holland, we wiled away the hours with jest and banter, until we arrived at Rotterdam, where we went on board of the London steamer

POETIC ABERRATIONS.

WE are strongly of opinion that, for the peace and welfare of society, it is a good and wholesome rule that women should not interfere with politics. We love the fair sex too well, to desire that they should be withdrawn from their own sphere, which is that of adorning the domestic circle, and tempering by their gentleness the asperities of our ruder nature, to figure in the public arena, or involve themselves in party contests. The Duchess of Devonshire, who canvassed Westminster for Fox, and hesitated not to give kisses as an electoral bribe, was, to our humble thinking, little better than a female Judas; and, to fall back upon more ancient instances, what a hideous spectre of a harridan arises in our minds when we attempt to form a fancy sketch of Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi! We have a tender side for ladies who delight in enveloping their pretty ancles in azure. Whether, inspired by verse, they warble like larks in the firmament, or dole like doves in a coppice, or coo like pigeons in spring-whether, in less ambitious prose, they conduct hero and heroine through a love-story, "passing sweet and amorous withal," through three octavo volumes, to the inevitable hymeneal altar-or whether they apply themselves to the exposition of the finer arts, or the collection of culinary maxims—we listen, read, comment, perpend, and approve without the slightest feeling that they have in any degree overstepped the pale of propriety. And when we see them engaged in deeds of true charity-in visiting the sick, relieving the distressed, providing food for the hungry and clothing for the naked, or praying at the lonely deathbed,-we acknowledge that it is no vain figure of poetry, no fanciful association of thought, that likens women to the angels!

But very different is the case when women addict themselves to politics. Then they resemble, to our shudder

ing fancy, in spite of all their charms, not angels, but so many tricoteuses in the gallery of the National Convention. Of all imaginable inflictions and torments, defend us from a domestic female partisan! Belinda on the ballot, Sophia on suffrage, Robina on reform, Barbara on the budget, Isabella on Italy, Henrietta on Hungary, Maggie on Mazzini, Gatty on Garibaldi, and Polly on the Poles-what unhappy male creature could hope to preserve his senses in the midst of so conflicting a concert? To reason they will not listen; to argument they are utterly impervious. They scour the plain like so many swift Camillas, only differing from that gifted damsel, who, according to Virgil, could run over a field of barley without depressing the awns, in this—that each is mounted on a heavy hobby, and that they tread down everything in their way. Before such a charge the most valorous of men is overthrown, utterly humiliated, and, for the remainder of his existence, becomes a Jerry Sneak.

The case is worse when women of real talent take part in political affray. Patriotism in woman we honour. If the integrity of our own country were assailed, or the sanctity threatened of our shores, we know that thousands of our women, overcoming mere feminine instinct, would with their own hands array their lovers, husbands, brothers, for the fight, and love them better than they did before if they fell upon the field of glory. But cosmopolitanism is quite another thing, and so is identification with foreign nationalities. We remember hearing, some years ago, with the deepest disgust, an apparent female lecturing for the avowed purpose of providing funds for furnishing insurgents with pikes. It was a seance that might have sickened Até, so undisguised was her appetite for blood; and, knowing what lengths men will go under the influence of excited passion, we al

Poems before Congress. By ELIZabeth Barrett BROWNING.

ways shudder to see women, who have far less power of restraint, committing themselves in matters with which it is most unbecoming for them to interfere.

We have not made those remarks without an appropriate text. We have just received a thin volume of verses for we cannot call them poems-by one who we are proud otherwise to style as a real poetess, and to whose high merit we have before now borne most willing testimony-Elizabeth Barret Browning; and very sincerely do we regret, for her sake, that she has fallen into the error of publishing anything so ineffably bad, if we regard it as poetical composition-so strangely blind, if we look upon it as a political confession of faith-or so utterly unfair to England and English feeling, as has been penned by one of England's most gifted daughters. Long residence in Italy, especially in Florence, has evidently given Mrs Browning strong Italian tendencies towards the reconstitution, or rather formation, of a nationality. To that we do not, and cannot object. For a long time, the political heavings and throes of Italy, like those of its principal volcanic mountain, indicated a coming eruption; and it may very well be, that the settlement which was made in 1815 could not be expected to last for ever. But, undeniably, it was the best settlement which could be made under the circumstances, and at that time; and the conclusive proof of that is the long period of peace which it procured for Europe. No doubt nationalities went on fermenting. They will always ferment whenever the subjected country can find any real or even fanciful ground for complaint-witness Ireland to indulgent Great Britain. But in Italy there was no nationality to restore. Time out of mind such a thing had not been heard of; and, if you came to test occupation, not by language, but by blood, the men of the north of Italy might be proved of the Teutonic race. However, we may fairly set aside all such considerations, and look to things as they are. The events of last year, and even more those of the present, have entirely overturned the

arrangements of the Treaty of Vienna; and the formation of the kingdom of Northern Italy, which is now in progress, by the annexation of Lombardy and the Romagna to Sardinia, and the absorption of the Duchies, has been purchased by the cession of Savoy and Nice, and the extension of the frontier of France. That was the price which Sardinia agreed to pay for French co-operation, which was paraded to the world as a spontaneous act of sublime generosity. The mask is now thrown away, because it can be worn no longer, and Louis Napoleon is calmly proceeding to the appropriation of his spoil. The farce of the Congress is now abandoned. France has the mastery of the position, and cares nothing for the opinion, and will not listen to the advice, of any other cabinet in Europe.

The Emperor of the French is Mrs Browning's favourite hero. In him she sees the incarnation of justice and of might, and hails him as the great deliverer of the nations. The following extract from the leading poem in the volume, entitled, "Napoleon III. in Italy," will exhibit, not only the extent of her adoration, but the fustian quality of the verse in which it is set forth :

"But now, Napoleon, now That, leaving far behind the purple throng Of vulgar monarchs, thou Tread'st higher in thy deed Than stair of throne can lead, To help in the hour of wrong The broken hearts of nations to be strong,

Now, lifted as thou art

To the level of pure song, We stand to meet thee on these Alpine snows!

And while the palpitating peaks break out
Ecstatic from somnambular repose
With answers to the presence and the
shout,

We, poets of the people, who take part
With elemental justice, natural right,

Join in our echoes also, nor refrain.
We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this height
At last, and find thee great enough to
praise.

Receive the poet's chrism, which smells beyond

The priest's, and pass thy ways;An English poet warns thee to maintain God's word, not England's :-let His truth And all men liars! with His truth respond To all men's lie. Exalt the sword and

be true

smite

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Having thus anointed him with her "chrism," which in our nostrils smells rather rancid, Mrs Browning proceeds with her worship. Plutarch says of the Pythoness, "that, going with great reluctancy into the sacred place to be inspired, she came out foaming at the mouth, her eyes goggling, her breast heaving, her voice undistinguishable and shrill, as if she had an earthquake within her labouring for vent." We grieve to say that Mrs Browning, under the influence of her Cacodæmon, has been seized with a like fit of insanity, and has uttered the following oracular raving, which it would puzzle an interpreting priest to adapt to common understanding:

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"What! did any maintain

That God or the people (think!)
Could make a marvel in vain ?-
Out of the water-jar there,
Draw wine that none could drink?
Is this a man like the rest,
This miracle, made unaware
By a rapture of popular air,

And caught to the place that was best?
You think he could barter and cheat
As vulgar diplomates use,

With the people's heart in his breast?
Prate a lie into shape

Lest truth should cumber the road;
Play at the fast and loose

Till the world is strangled with tape;

Maim the soul's complete
To fit the hole of a toad;
And filch the dogman's meat
To feed the offspring of God?

"Nay, but he, this wonder,

He cannot palter nor prate,
Though many around him and under,
With intellects trained to the curve,
Distrust him in spirit, and nerve
Because his meaning is straight.
Measure him ere he depart

With those who have governed and led;
Larger so much by the heart,
Larger so much by the head-
Emperor
Evermore."

We shall not ask whether there be any sense in this, for there can be but one opinion as to that; but it ther, by any stretch of courtesy, this may be worth while inquiring whesort of composition can be called poetry, or even verse. We pass on to another strophe:

"He will not swagger nor boast Of his country's meeds, in a tone Missuiting a great man most

If such should speak of his own; Nor will he act, on her side,

From motives baser, indeed, Than a man of a noble pride

Can avow for himself at need; Never, for lucre or laurels,

Or custom, though such should be rife, Adapting the smaller morals

To measure the larger life.

He, though the merchants persuade,
And the soldiers are eager for strife,
Finds not his country in quarrels
Only to find her in trade,-

While still he accords her such honour
As never to flinch for her sake
Where men put service upon her,
Found heavy to undertake
And scarcely like to be paid:
Believing a nation may act
Unselfishly-shiver a lance

(As the least of her sons may, in fact)
And not for a cause of finance--
Emperor
Evermore."

Without ocular demonstration we could not have believed that the authoress of the Rhyme of the Duchess May and the Cry of the Children could have penned anything so deplorable as this.

We observe that the Preface is dated "Rome, February 1860;" and we cannot help regretting that the publication of the volume had not been delayed for a little, since the revelations of March must, we think, have somewhat altered Mrs Brown

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