ish in volume and power, apparently as a direct result of the stimulant. Or again, no sane physician would order venesection as a remedy for collapse from a drain upon the blood, yet it has been a puzzle to physicians in India that blood-letting in cholera does not produce syncope, but often a relief that seems miraculous. A man struck by cholera was brought to one physician unable to move a limb, and, except that he could speak and breathe, to touch and sight a corpse. Free bleeding enabled him in half an hour to walk home with his friends. Sir Ranald Martin tells how his farrier major was reported dying of cholera, and he found, using the language of the theory now happily disposed of, "that during the night he had been drained of all the fluid portion of his blood." Sir Ranald opened a vein. The blood oozed at first like a dark treacle, presently flowed freely, of its own natural red color, and he who had been dying a moment before, stood up and said, "Sir, you have made a new man of me. tral fact "that the passage of blood through the lungs from the right to the left side of the heart is, in a greater or less degree, impeded." This fact is also demonstrated by the appearances observed in the heart, blood-vessels, and lungs after death. The right side of the heart, and the pipes leading thence to the lungs, are filled, often distended, with blood; the left side of the heart is almost or entirely empty. The tissue of the lungs is pale and dense, containing less than the usual amount of blood and air. That is the state of things when death has occurred from collapse; and, on the other hand, there is a great engorgement of the lungs when death has occurred in the febrile stage, which often follows reaction. In the state of collapse, venesection, by relieving the over-distension of the right cavities of the heart, restores to them their contractile power. And it is this impediment to passage of blood through the lungs that, reducing the flow through the arteries to a minimum, causes shrinking of the skin, collapse of the features, and sinking of the eyeballs by reason of the more or less complete emptiness of the branches of the artery that brings them their supply of blood. Such experience, which represents the rule, not the exception, is utterly incompatible with the old doctrine that loss of blood, or of constituents of blood, is the cause of the fatal collapse in cholera. But what is the cause of this blockade of the cir In the cholera epidemic of 1849, the cases brought culation? Not mechanical thickening by loss of into King's College Hospital were treated, in accord- fluids, for we have seen how untenable that notion ance with accepted doctrine, by liberal doses of is. And the occurrence of collapse is often remarkbrandy and opium, to stimulate the circulation and able for suddenness. Sir William Burnet, in his to check discharge. Under this treatment the mor- Report on Cholera in the Black Sea Fleet, gives tality was very great, and it was changed for an the account of a surgeon who says, "the attacks were administration of large quantities of salt and water. in many cases so sudden, that many men fell as if This excited frequent vomiting, and rather increased they had drunk the concentrated poison of the upasthe purging, but it increased the number of recov- tree." Blood-thickening by drain of fluid cannot eries. Observation of the results of these two op- happen thus in a minute or two. Thickening there posite modes of treatment produced the train of is, but as a necessary consequence, not as a cause, thought which led Dr. George Johnson, when he of the arrest of circulation in the vessels that conhimself had charge of the hospital during the epi-vey the blood from the right side of the heart into demic of 1854, to act on his conclusion that the commonly received theory of choleraic collapse is erro- Dr. George Johnson's explanation of the stopneous. He gave emetics and purgatives with fair page is, that the poison of the disease, having ensuccess, and in all cases of premonitory symptoms tered into the blood, acts as an irritant upon the in medical officers, pupils, nurses, or other patients muscular tissue, as is shown by the painful cramps of the hospital, he gave castor oil, a treatment inva-it occasions; that it thus acts in producing contracriably followed by recovery. During the epidemic of 1849, several nurses and patients so seized had been promptly treated by opiates, passed into collapse, and died. In a number of the British Medical Journal, Mr. Watkins tells that having observed in 1854 the mortality under treatment by opium, at a time when the epidemic was increasing both in number of cases and severity, he treated twenty-one cases by repeated doses of castor oil, and nineteen recovered. His colleague treated seven cases by full doses of opium, and every one died. The morbid poison which is the exciting cause of cholera, and which may enter the blood either through the lungs or through the stomach, causes also that copious secretion from the mucous membrane of the stomach and bowels, by which nature endeavors to get rid of the perilous intruder. The secretion is, probably, as much a part of the natural process of cure as the eruption on the skin in case of small-pox. At any rate, no patient ever recovered from small-pox without the appearance of the eruption, and no patient ever recovered from cholera without some vomiting and purging. The blue skin, the more or less hurried and difficult breathing, the coldness and the great diminution of the volume and force of the pulse in choleraic collapse, point, says Dr. Johnson, to the great cen the lungs. tion of the minute capillary vessels of the lungs into which the heart injects the blood for aeration, and that the result of this contraction is entirely to arrest or to impede the flow of the blood through the lungs, whence it should pass revivified into the arterial system. We need not dwell upon further evidence that this arrest of blood at its entrance to the lungs is the true cause of the collapse in cholera, or on the way in which the chemistry of life will be affected by impediment to aeration of the blood. The blood in cholera is black and thick only during the stage of collapse, as a simple consequence of the deficient supply of oxygen. One curious fact, however, Dr. Johnson mentions, and shows how exactly it confirms his theory. While other secretions fail, that of milk, during collapse from cholera, remains abun dant. This has been observed by others, and variously accounted for. The explanation now given is, that the chief constituents of milk,-casein, sugar, oil, and water, may be obtained from the blood without the addition of oxygen. The fact that immediate but not permanent relief has been obtained by hot injections into the veins this theory accounts for by the mechanical action of the fluid in diluting the irritant poison, and the effect of its heat in overcoming for a little time the contractile force of the capillaries. The last link in the chain of the argument is evidence of the presence of a morbid poison in the blood as cause of cholera. But this fact is generally admitted, and the evidence by which it is supported we will take for granted. So we come to what is the main question for the public. If this be, as it surely is, the true theory of the action of cholera poison, of what practical use is it? It teaches the physician to walk in the light where he has hitherto walked in the dark. It tells him how to assist nature, and how he may avoid interfering with the process by which nature herself labors towards cure. AN ADVENTURE IN THE GREAT THE state of Coleridge's mind when he wrote his fragments of Kubla Khan must have nearly resembled that of any reasonably excitable person during a first visit to Cairo. Just a degree too vivid to be a natural dream; many degrees too beautiful and wonderful to be an ordinary daylight vision, the rich dim courts, the glorious mosques, the marble fountains, the showers of southern sunlight poured on stately palm-tree and slow-moving camel, and shifting, many-hued crowd, -all form together a scene such as no stage in the world may parallel for strangeness and splendor. One day spent in roaming aimlessly through the bazaars, and the gardens, and the mosques of Hassan and the Gama Tayloon, does more to reveal to us what Eastern life means what is the background of each great Eastern story, the indescribable atmosphere which pervades all Eastern literature- than could be gained by years of study. At least, I can speak from experience that it was such a revelation to me, and one so immeasurably delightful that, having performed the long journey to Egypt mainly with the thought of the attractions of the ruins of Thebes and Memphis, Karnak and Phila, I waited patiently for a fortnight within sight of the Pyramids without attempting to visit them, satisfied with the endless interest of the living town. At last the day came when the curiosity of some quarter of a century (since that epoch in a child's life, the reading of Belzoni) could no longer be deferred. I had a concern, as good folks say, to visit Cheops that particular morning, and to Cheops I went, mounted on the inevitable donkey, and accompanied by a choice specimen of that genus of scamp, the Cairene donkey-boy. Unluckily I had overnight ordered my dragoman to wait in Cairo for certain expected mails, and bring them to me in Old Cairo whenever they might arrive; and of course the order involved my loss of his services for the entire day, spent by him, no doubt, with my letters in his pocket, at a coffee-shop. Thus it happened that my little expedition wanted all guidance or assistance, such acquaintances as I possessed in Cairo being otherwise occupied on that particular morning, and not even knowing of my intention. Arrived at the ferry of the Nile, just above the Isle of Rhoda, it was with considerable satisfaction that I found a party of pleasant English ladies and gentlemen also proceeding to the Pyramids. Their time, however, was limited by the departure of the Overland Mail that day, and of course they could make no delay as they seemed kindly disposed to do to keep up with me and my wretched donkey, or rather donkey-boy. on a non-progressive donkey, unarmed with any available whip, stick, spur, or other instrument of cruelty, and wholly at the mercy of a treacherous conductor, who pretends to belabor your beast, and only makes him kick, and keeps you behind your party, when you have every reason in the world to wish to retain your place in it. Only one thing is worse, a mule which carries you through a whole day of weary Alpine climbing, just too far from all your friends to exchange more than a scream at intervals. If there chance on such an excursion to be ten pleasant people of your party, and one unpleasant one, whom you particularly wish neither to follow nor seem to follow, it is inevitably that particular objectionable person whose mule your mule will go after, and press past every one else to get at, and drag your arm out of its socket if you try to turn it back, and finally make you wish that an avalanche would fall and bury you and the demon-brate you have got under you in the abyss forever. On horseback you are a lord (or lady) of creation, with the lower animal subject unto you. On mule-back, or ass-back, you are a bale of goods, borne with contumely at the will of the vilest of beasts, not where you please, but where, when, and how, it pleases. To return to my expedition to the Pyramids. Very soon the English party were out of sight, and slowly and wearily I was led a zigzag course through fields of young growing corn, and palmgroves, and past the poor mud villages of the Fellah-Arabs. Mud, indeed, occupies in Egypt an amazing prominence in every view. Mud hovels, mud fields, where the rank vegetation is only beginning to spring through the deposit of the inundation, mud-dams across a thousand channels and ditches, and finally the vast yellow mud-banks of the mighty Nile. If man were first created in Egypt, it is small marvel that his bodily force should be a "muddy vesture of decay." In the course of my pilgrimage on this particular day my donkeyboy cleverly guided me into a sort of peninsula of mud, out of which there was no exit (short of returning on our steps) save by crossing a stream of some three or four feet deep. As usual in Egypt, two or three brown Arabs arose immediately when wanted, from the break of rushes, and volunteered to carry me across on their shoulders, their blackshish, of course, being divided with the ingenious youth who had brought me into the trap. What it costs to the olfactory organs to be carried by Fellah-Arabs, language altogether fails to describe. At last the troubles of the way were over; the sands of the Desert were reached, and the stupendous cluster of edifices, the three Pyramids of Ghizeh, the Sphinx, the Cyclopean Temple, and the splendid tombs, were before me and around. For miles off, in the clear air of Egypt, where there is literally no aerial perspective, I had been able to distinguish the ranges of stones which constitute the exterior of all the Pyramids, save the small portions of the second and third still covered with their original coating. It was hardly, as Longfellow Almost as soon as they come within the range of vision they are seen with their serrated edges and If there be an aggravating incident in this very the horizontal lines of the deep steps, marked sharptrying world, it is assuredly that of being mountedly with the intense shadows of the south. Of all these ruins of Ghizeh these earliest and mightiest of the records of our. race the one by far the most affecting and impressive, is assuredly the Sphinx. A human face, nay, an intensely human face, a portrait full of individuality even in its solemnity and colossal grandeur, -gazes at us with the stony eyes before which have passed Hebrew prophet and Greek philosopher, and Roman conquerer, and Arab khalif. Had Napoleon the Great, told his troops that sixty centuries looked on them through the Sphinx's eyes, he would have used no unmeaning metaphor. Even the very ruin and disgrace of the mighty countenance seems to render it more affecting. Half immeasurably sublime, half pitiful, nay, grotesque, in its desolation, it stands, with its brow calmly upturned to heaven, and a somewhat one might almost deem a ruddy flush upon its cheek, but with every feature worn and marred since it has stood there, a stony St. Sebastian, bearing through the ages the shafts and insults of sun and storm. I must not pause to muse over the Sphinx, nor yet to describe the gradual revelation which comes to the traveller of the enormous magnitude of the Pyramid, as he slowly wades at its foot through the heavy sand, and perceives when he has walked thrice as far as it seemed he need have done, he has but reached the half of the base. The English party, who had outridden me, were concluding their luncheon as I reached the Pyramid, and after declining their cordial offers to share it, I asked one of the ladies, Had she visited the interior and Cheops' chamber?" "No. Some of the ladies and gentlemen had done so. The Arabs were a wild set of men, and she did not like to put herself in their power." Deeming the lady's caution must be over-developed, and too intensely interested to make very serious reflections on what I was doing, I engaged the Scheik at the door of the Pyramid to provide me with proper guides so soon as the Engfish party had ridden away. Five strong Fellah-Arabs volunteered for the service, in spite of my remark that three were enough, and we were soon plunged into the darkness of the first entrance-passage. All the world knows how the Pyramid is constructed; a solid mass of huge stones, all so perfectly fitted that scarcely a penknife might be introduced in any place between them. The passages at the widest, scarcely permit of two persons going abreast, and are for long distances so low as to compel the visitor to stoop almost double. The angle at which these passages slope upwards is also one which, on the slippery, wellworn floor, renders progress difficult as on the ice of an Alpine mountain. But oh! how different from the keen pure air, the wide horizon, the glittering sunlight, of the Alps, this dark, suffocating cavern, where the dust, and lights, and breath of heated men, make an atmosphere scarcely to be breathed, and where the sentiments of awe and horror almost paralyze the pulse. Perhaps my special fancy made me then, as ever since, find a cave, subterranean passage, or tunnel, unreasonably trying to the nerves; but so it was, the awe of the place wellnigh overpowered me. The Arab guides helped me easily in their wellknown way. One or two carried the candles, and all joined in a sort of song at which I could not help laughing, in spite of both awe and lack of breath. It seemed to be a chant of mingled Arabic and English (a language they all spoke after a fashion), the English words being apparently a continual repetition: "Vera goot lady, backshish, backshish; Vera goot lady, give us backshish"; and so on, da capo. Twice we had to rest on our way from sheer exhaustion, and on one occasion, where there is a break in the continuity of the passage, there was an ascent into a hole high up in the wall by no means easy to accomplish. At last, after what seemed an hour, and I suppose was about fifteen minutes, since we left the sunshine, we stood in Cheops' burial-vault, the centre chamber of the Great Pyramid. As my readers know, it is a small oblong chamber, of course wholly without light or ventilation, with plain stone floor, walls, and roof, and with the huge stone sarcophagus (which once held the mummy of Cheops, but is now perfectly empty) standing at one end. The interest of the spot would alone have repaid a journey from England; but I was left small time to enjoy it. Suddenly I was startled to observe that my guides had stopped their song and changed their obsequious voices, and were all five standing bolt upright against the walls of the vault. "It is the custom," said one of them, "for whoever comes here to give us backshish." I reflected in a moment that they had seen me foolishly transfer my purse from the pocket of my riding-skirt to the walking-dress I wore under it, and which I had alone retained on entering the Pyramid. 66 6 Well," I said, as coolly as I was able, "I intend, of course, to give you backshish' for your trouble, and if you choose to be paid here instead of at the door, it is all the same to me. I shall give three shillings English (a favorite coin in Cairo), as I said I only wanted three men." "Three shillings are not enough. We want backshish!" "There they are. They are quite enough." "Not enough! We want backshish!" I must here confess that things looked rather black. The Fellahs stood like so many statues of Osiris (even at the moment I could not help thinking of it), with their backs against the wall and their arms crossed on their breasts, as if they held the flagellum and crux ansata. Their leader spoke in a calm, dogged sort of way, to which they all responded like echoes. "Well," I said, "as there are five of you, and I am rather heavy, I will give you one shilling more. There it is. Now you will get no more." Saying this I gave the man the fourth shilling, and then returned my purse to my pocket. แ It won't do. "This won't do. We want backshish!" "It must do. You will get no more backshish." We want backshish!" Each moment the men's voices grew more resolute, and I must avow that horror seized me at the thought that they had nothing to do but merely to go out and leave me there in the solitude and darkness, and I should go mad from terror. Not a creature in Cairo even knew where I was gone. I should not be missed or sought for for days, and there I was unarmed, and alone, with these five savages, whose caprice or resentment might make them rush off in a moment, leaving me to despair. Luckily I knew well it would be fatal to betray any alarm, so I spoke as lightly as I could, and laughed a little, but uncomfortably. 66 Come, come. You will have no more backshish, you know very well; and if you bully me, you will have stick from the English Consul. Come, I've seen enough. Let us go out." May 12 1896. "We want backshish!" said all five of the vil- | M. Guizot, on whose body floats his black clothes, lains in one loud voice. still wears his satin scarf; but he wears it like a hero It was a crisis, and I believe if I had wavered a who, out of modesty, conceals his wounds, and the moment I might never have got away; but the ex-dried, bony, valiant hand which protrudes from his tremity, of course, aided one's resolution, and I sud-over-large sleeve is that of a combatant, whom nothdenly spoke out, angrily and peremptorily,- ing but death can disarm. "I'll have no more of this. You fellow there, take the light, and go out. You give me your hand. Come along, all of you." It was a miracle; to my own comprehension, at all events. They one and all suddenly slunk down like so many scolded dogs, and without another syllable did as I ordered them. The slave habit of mind doubtless resumed its usual sway with them the moment that one of free race asserted a claim of command. Any way, it was a simple fact that five Arabs yielded to a single Anglo-Saxon woman, who was herself quite as much surprised as they could be at the phenomenon. At last, -a victory for which French Statuary and painting will forever congratulate themselves! M. Guizot has thrown aside the green wig, which, since Alfred de Musset's and Emile Augier's election, is no longer regarded as indispensable to the dignity of an academician. His long, sparse, fine white hair, with silver shadows playing on it, surrounds his face as with some gentle, serene light, and gives to this Dante-like countenance of a wild, almost divine melancholy the tranquil majesty which the green, luminous laurel gives to that of the old Ghibelline. The green wig, I beg pardon for insisting on this particular, but no detail is insignificant which touches an historical character, the green wig was long the despair of Paul Delaroche. This cold and correct painter was then painting the dry, stiff, most Protestant, but after all excellent portrait of M. Guizot. The hair, so long dead, inert, disgraced by creases, twisted into irritated, motionless locks O, how I rejoiced when the square of azure sky appeared at the end of the last of the passages, and when I at last emerged safe and sane out of the Great Pyramid! Dante, ascending out of the Inferno, "a riveder le stelle," could not have been half so thankful. Away I rode, home to Old Cairo on my donkey, and could spare a real laugh under the sun-like the serpents of a sculptured Eumenides, foiled shine, when I found that the wretched old Arab Scheik, with whom I had left my riding-skirt, had quietly devoured my intended luncheon of dates, and then carefully replaced the stones in my pocket! M. GUIZOT. [Translated for EVERY SATURDAY from L'Evénement.] "NEVER judge by appearances," says a proverb evidently invented for near-sighted people. I say, on the contrary, Always judge by appearances, if you have good eyes. The vices, grandeurs, hesitations, of our soul are written on our countenance, in perfectly legible characters to him who knows how to read. Look at M. Guizot's last photograph, wrinkled, seamed, deeply furrowed by Age's inexorable finger; tortured by a thousand pangs, that head has not lost a single iota of its noble and, it may be said, epic appearance. The eyelid is violently contracted, but the eye is full of fire. The jaw and chin are ploughed by numberless lines; but the bold nose, the mournful, rigid, proud mouth, on which, even when it is silent, eloquent words swarm ever ready to take their flight, are grand. When we look at that oaken-man, who has so visibly and so firmly remained standing, though the thunderbolt has fallen upon him, we cannot help thinking of Victor Hugo's lines, "Naught hath conquered, naught hath tamed, naught hath bowed this old Titan." It is only recently M. Guizot has really acquired the last Beauty of the old man, which at the present moment shines with all its majesty in him. Do not laugh at this word Beauty; every artist will understand it. Ten years ago a little, peaked, odd-looking abdomen, a green wig, (the true traditional wig of the French Academy,) a satin scarf, which was the neckcloth in fashion during Louis Philippe's reign, and clothes of old fashion, gave him a strange and unexpected appearance. But old age, real old age, (M. Guizot is 77 years old,) has rearranged all that, and has clothed this imposing figure with everything which commands adiniration and respect. Become absolutely and definitively thin, straight as a sword and a lily, the skill of the conscientious artist. He delivered a special lecture to his pupils on the subject of this celebrated and unlucky wig. "Gentlemen," said he, "pay me particular attention, and do not smile, for what I am about to say merits all your attention. Look at this! This wig is ridiculous, ugly, frightful. Now, as I am a faithful depicter of nature, I must represent it as it is, with its awkward and decrepit motion, with its graceless lines, with its peculiar arrangement, which is exclusive of everything like beauty. But, nevertheless, as I am and as I must be, above all, an historian, it is indispensably necessary I take care this trivial accessory in nowise diminishes the visage of this great man, whose image I would transmit to posterity with the lofty and haughty character belonging to him intact. This, gentlemen, demonstrates to you, in a clearer manner than all theories, how necessary it is the painter as well as the poet should possess that quality which is precious among the precious, and which has been called-style!" It will History will act like Paul Delaroche. strive to keep the figure of the statesman, whose strength and indefatigable ardor were unconquered by fifty years of labor and struggle, pure and grave. History will be sure to do so; but even were it averse to doing so, it will be obliged to do this act of justice. It is not the least originality of M. Guizot, that this austere, haughty enemy of everything like popularity, who, more than anybody in France, has borne the attacks of a licentious press and caricature, has never been wounded, nor so much as touched by the potent arms of Ridicule. A great many men have opposed him, a great many have hated and do so still hate him; - nobody has laughed at him. Let us add, nobody has been, or can be, able to refuse their respect to his antique probity, which has remained as impregnable and as brilliant as a pure diamond. M. Guizot escapes, and has always escaped, ridicule. M Champfleury, in his excellent History of Modern Caricature, notices this with rare sagacity. Examine, for instance, a collection of caricatures, in which a whole nation of wittty men have strained their invention to exhibit M. Guizot in the least respectable and least sublime situations, and ] where Calumny itself many a time slipped in un- | he rose, intellectual M. Villemain had negligently known to the generous and impassioned spirits whom harangued the sparse audience with the dandyism the intoxication of a pitiless war carried to excesses of a tenor, who, knowing nobody is listening to him, which were then excusable. You are astonished, tries to avoid shining more than is necessary. when you close the collection, to find the impression M. Guizot spoke in turn, and involuntarily, withleft on you is one of respect and involuntary admira-out having formed an intention of being so, was tion for M. Guizot. powerful, earnest, fascinating, and, as he had done in his best days, lavished unexpected effects and impassioned turns. An avaricious attention seized the audience. He has had, he has, that ardor of conviction, that faith in himself, that steady obstinacy in what he believes to be the truth, whose influence no one can escape. Daumier, whose invincible pencil has been able with certainty to doom so many men to be objects of derision, not only to their contemporaries, but to posterity,- Daumier has not been able to make anybody smile at M. Guizot. It was beyond expression astonished to hear such admirable things so well said, in connection with so threadbare and monotonous a subject. His success was immense, wonderful, unprecedented. Three rounds of furious, enthusiastic applause reverberated like thunder under the peaceful cupola of the Academy. It seemed as if the applause would never cease. M. Guizot stood pale as a MR. THOMPSON'S UMBRELLA. "AUGUSTA, I wish you would practise Chopin's Daumier has not been able to do it, and object worthy of note-life, with its ridiculous hazards, has had no more power to make him a butt of laughter. In 1848, during the first effervescence of the Rev-sheet, pale with emotion, pale with delight. He had olution, a celebrated artist amused himself writing a once more found the excitement and the genius of pantomime for the Théâtre des Funambules. In his old fighting days. this pantomime King Louis Philippe, with his whiskers and historical wig, were parodied by an actor wearing the costume of Robert Macaire, and a flower-sprinkled Pierrot, habited in the stiff and austere costume of a Protestant clergyman, repre-march. Mr. Thompson likes music." sented M. Guizot. Debureau, the well-known Pierrot of this theatre, has a regular and delicate face, which, especially when arranged to produce an effect of this sort, is not without some analogy to M. Guizot. What happened? Did M. Guizot, represented by a beflowered Gille, seem ridiculous? No, far otherwise. The Gille, costumed to look like M. Guizot, was subdued by seriousness, and, despite the author and the actor, seemed to play a noble char acter. Oh! how sick I was of hearing about Mr. Thomp son! My poor aunt, she meant it very kindly, of course, but she little knew how she made me hate those single gentlemen whom she so wished me to please. I was an orphan, and had forty pounds a year, and my aunt's annuity died with her; so I suppose her anxiety to see me married was both commendable and natural, but to me it was dreadful. Moreover, perhaps because I was a proud girl, and perhaps, too, because I was a foolish one, the mere Writer, professor, linguist, author of immense fact of a man, young or middle-aged, for only the historical works universally known, and which are old and wedded were excluded, coming to the in everybody's hand, M. Guizot has been violently house on my account, made him detestable in my attacked, and, more than all, denied every merit in eyes. I should not wonder if that were not the reaall of these characters. He has been praised, too, son why I pleased none. I was said to be pretty,— and often without measure. What share really be- I may say that now, alas! it is so long ago, but longs to him in these denials and these praises, plainer girls, with no greater advantages than I had, what must definitive criticism (which places every-went off at a premium in the marriage market, and thing in its true place) really think of the famous professor, of the author of the History of the English Revolution, of Essays on the History of France, of the translator of Gibbon and Shakespeare, of the statesman who remained so long in the breach? Here there is no embarrassment, no hesitation. In M. Guizot there is nothing but an orator, but he is, with M. Berryer, the greatest modern orator. As soon as M. Guizot speaks in public, he becomes clear, luminous, powerful; he commands attention; he has striking images, draws and animates portraits of masterly grandeur which will live hereafter. As our master Sainte Beuve has judiciously said, the artist of style exists in M. Guizot only in the second place, and because the artist has been created by the orator. But the orator does really exist, and by his admirable genius tames, enchains, delights, and carries away audiences. After M. Guizot had quitted the political theatre, he had spoken but once at the French Academy, at the reception of Father Lacordaire.* It happened that, in one of those summer audiences from which the public of Paris was absent, (and which was like a summer performance in our theatres,) and which was devoted to the solemn fatigue of the Monthyon prizes, M. Guizot had to speak. Before *The writer is mistaken. M. Guizot received Count de Montalembert before Father Lacordaire.-ED. Every Saturday. I remained Augusta Raymond, uncared and unsought for. I did not care, not I. I only lamented that aunt would worry both these unfortunate gentlemen and me with vain efforts to make them admire me, and make me like them. She was my best friend, however, and I loved her dearly. So I now sat down to the piano and played Chopin's march, and practised for the benefit of the devoted Mr. Thompson, who was to come this evening, and who little knew, poor fellow, he had been invited to spend a week with us for the express purpose of falling in love with his second cousin's niece. I had not seen him since I was a child. He was a young man then, tall, dark, and grave, and already on the road to prosperity. He was a rich man now, at least, rich for such a poor girl as I was, but he was Mr. Thompson, and I hated him; besides, he must be old, quite old. I thought of all these things whilst I was playing, and then I forgot them, for the divine music bore me away, and music was a passion to me then. We lived in the country, and a small but beautiful garden enclosed my aunt's cottage. It was a low one, with broad rooms, a little dark perhaps, yet strangely pleasant. At least, they seemed so to me. I dearly liked the room in which I now sat playing. It was our best room, but it was also our sitting-room. A central table was strewn with books, some of which were dear old friends, and |