and she has niver, until the last wake, heard whither he was dead or alive. Ter. Go on, me darlint,-go on, it's very interesting; where did he carry the lady the dirty black geard! Biddy. Och! it turned out a very sorry affair! Her father and mother died soon afther; they were opposed to the marriage, sir; and wanted the lady to marry the Spaniard. Indade, it turned out very bad for me poor misthriss! Ter. Why didn't she write letters to Capt. Effingham? Biddy. She did; but niver had any answer. She supposed he died of his wounds, and determined niver to marry another. Her father, whin he found her misfortune, gave Morales all her fortune if she did not git married, within five years afther his death, to the same Capt. Effingham, who had lift me misthriss in a—a— Ter. In a what, did you say? Biddy. Dilicate situation. It was a wakeness, sir; and whin Morales found it out, he stormed like a madman; he swore he'd expose her, and now he watches her until the five years are up to get her fortune. Ter. Faith, and it's meself that's puzzled more and more; what was the wakeness you spake of, honey, eh? Biddy. It's me misthriss's darlin boy, sure; an' he's the very image of his father; it's the child that Morales has taken from his mother; he's taken her jewels, too! and her swate dhress, in which she was to be married, and carried thim all to the convint. Many's the time I've seen me poor dear lady cry over that same beautiful dhress, in which she was to have been privately married. Ter. Och! sure, it's clear as mud, your misthriss had a― Biddy. Yis, indade! it was a great wakeness. It was all owing to the climate, I believe. Ter. And the little boy is my captain's son, is he? Ter., (rises.) Say no more! I'm off this instant; I'll storm the convint; I'll frighten the nuns; I'll run away wid thim; I'll capture thim, and take thim all aboard; I'll play the divil wid the whole counthry, if they don't give up the prize, and surrinder at discretion! (pauses.) Till me, darlint, how did that same climate affect you? Eh! Had you a touch of that same wakeness? (Biddy nods her head.) Och! I see how it is! What a pity Capt. Effingham and Mr. O'Dougherty hadn't a commission for recruiting the light infantry sarvice of their counthry! Till me, darlint, is it a boy, too? Biddy, (nodding.) Two! Ter. What? two boys! Thin the Commissioner beats the Captin two to one. (To Biddy.) It's all thrue yer telling about the boys? two, eh? (Biddy nods.) Now, thin, I must be off, and lay sage to the convint, and whin we return victorious, if our chaplain be sober, you shall be Misthriss Commissioner C'Dougherty this night. Now, thin, swateheart, a kiss from yer swate lips, and off for duty. (To be continued.) [Exit. A SURPRISE. I WISH to give you a sensation, Mr. Editor, similar to what I underwent a few months since, at Paris-a sensation of deep surprise. But in order that you may feel it in all its length and breadth, I must first wade through a full account of the incidents that preceded it. I don't know whether you particularly have any taste for gossip, all wrapped up, as you really are, in politics, and finance, but I trust some goodly portion of your readers are made of milder stuff, and that they will bear my garrulity with patience. I must have my own way of telling my story, else I would rather keep it to myself. You must print, therefore, all that I shall write in the nature of a preface, and then you shall have for your reward the surprise I spoke of just now. What do I mean by a preface? are you disposed to ask. Nothing more than a full, and rather particular account of a very singular, and very superior person who is so closely connected with the denouement of my narration, that I must stop, and dwell on her for awhile. I feel no small hesitation at my hardihood in thus presuming, not merely to sketch the portrait, but to introduce in propria persona, before your readers, an individual, and that of the softer sex, well known in the London world, and not less known by many distinguished persons here. By suppressing, of course, all names, I avoid much risk. Besides, my clumsy limning will, probably, prevent anybody recognizing a single feature or trait of the interesting person referred to. But if the worst comes to the worst, and suspicions are entertained; and, even, should the party herself sooner or later discover that she has figured in print, why, I have no reason to care for myself, for I am only a contributor, and you, therefore, Mr. Editor, must bear the brunt, and like the immortal Andrew of AntiBank memory, "take the responsibility." A woman, Mr. Editor, permit me to remark, is a very strange and incomprehensible creature after all. I mean even the very best of them. This is, I hope, in no way disparaging to the sex, but it is so true, that there is a comfort in expressing it. Perhaps, it is only because of the stupidity of us obtuser, and thicker-headed men. But if all women are, in the abstract, odd, and hard to be understood, how much, by a hundred times, odder, and harder of comprehension, is an English woman of intellect, of position, and of fortune. But why particularly such an one, do you ask? Because, in rank-trodden England none of low degree dare be odd. I don't mean to declare, that all women of rank are necessarily eccentric, for most are very stupid and very frigid; but I speak more especially of those rare few, who happen to have more than the national share of blood and enthusiasm about them. In the moist land of England, where eternal saturation keeps the head cool, and the heart refrigerating; where, therefore, all is planned, methodized, and calculated, it may be inferred that Convention rules the land. Everything has its standard of propriety; rules of conduct branch out right and left, like canals in Holland, across every action of life: and even over the language that is spoken, is drawn a measure that shapes it down into tiresome uniformity. Through VOL. XXVI.-NO. CXLII. 5 all classes in England, from the lord to the pot-boy, there is but one expression for strong admiration. Capital, is the word that one lisps and the other shouts ; but neither think of saying or adding more. A milder sensation finds relief in the phrase of nice, to which the universal opposite is nasty. In such a country, where all that is done and said, is required to be said and done according to ready-made codes, and which has its cause in the commercial nature and habits of the ruling class, you may suppose that now and then rise up intrepid souls, both he's and she's, that, guarantied by their position, and stimulated by their contempt of restriction, dare give way to natural impulse, and "be themselves," like Richard in the play. It would make the funniest volume ever written, to record a tithe of the peculiarities of people of rank and wealth in England, and henceforth, I trust, the cause will be more or less apparent. There is a great difference, to be sure, in the development of their fantasies depending on the character of the individual. Some are low and ignoble, like your knocker-wrenching Marquis of Waterford. Some are light and capricious, like your actress-marrying Earl of Harrington, and Duke of St. Albans. Some are incomprehensible, like your kaleidescopic Lord Brougham. Others are harmless, singular, but elevated, like the lady I am now going to treat of I will begin with the substantial part of her at once-her intellect― which in a man would be extraordinary, but in a woman reaches to the wonderful; not but in this remarkable age there are enough women of genius to frighten us men from our propriety, and make us apprehend, in the future, a division of power, where there is already an approaching equality of mind. But in the woman I am alluding to, if her genius is less brilliant than a George Sand, a Martineau, or a Bremer, it is, at least, of that solid and practical kind, which is less to be expected in one who has not daily commerce with the world. She is, in short, the ablest political female writer in England, probably in Europe. I remember some years ago, when I used to read her essays and articles in the English Reviews and Journals, that I was at first amazed, and then humiliated to think how immeasurably I was surpassed by a woman at a man's business. Politics is her most serious passion, and chief occupation. She is mixed up to no small extent with the political intrigues of Europe, and no American dreams to what a degree politics in the old world are influenced by women. It has always been to me a real satisfaction to engage in political discussion with my fair English friend; for political problems with her are only studied as means to promote the happiness of mankind. With men, for the most part, politics are a mere matter of business, where the only end sought is the acquisition of power, reputation, or money. Many of the pursuits, however, of my lady-politician, are strictly feminine, and of the gracefullest kind. She paints charmingly; she plays and composes music with true skill; and I have seen her dance a minuet to make La Valliere, even, grow envious. She excels in horsemanship, and drives a four-in-hand with a quiet ease that would elicit admiration from even so nice a connoisseur as Sam Weller's dexterous dad. These are some of her tastes, but to classify her caprices would be a more difficult task. There is only one she is greatly prone to, and that from motives always creditable to her heart; I mean her fondness for a class of persons, too harshly treated by society-artistes of all kinds, but more especially of the stage. This is a peculiarity I have always shared in common, and has brought me into closer intimacy. She would say― "You are almost the only person I ever met, fully capable of compre hending the romantic disposition of these sensitive children of art, and of making a tolerant concession to the trials and dangers that surround, and too often betray them. The artistic nature is one apart, and how few there are who sympathize with it as you and I do." This language is the best index that could be offered to her character. It reveals at once her kindly disposition and humane judgment, mingling, in spite of her good sense and worldly sagacity, with a keen love of romance. Nothing delights her more than to encounter a person whose career, talents, and character, fires her imagination and awakens her interest. She has more than once made the "West-End" ring again with her undisguised partialities for well-known persons, but apparently unconscious of the curiosity excited, she pursues her way, persists in her fancy, and outlives the wonder. She has so decided an aversion to everything common-place, that I have sometimes wondered that I have so long succeeded in preserving her regard; and it is only to be explained by the notion she luckily got into her head at the beginning of our acquaintance, that there was something remarkable about me. As she never explained, I could never find it out, and so I left her to the illusion, glad of her acquaintance on her own terms. There was this I discovered at that time, some ten years ago, in common between us, a curious interest in the intricacies of the human heart. On her part, it might have been more, a love of the marvellous; on mine, it was, chiefly, an ardent desire to know more of human nature. She may, perhaps, have sought excitement, whilst I was bent on gathering knowledge; but sure it is, that a joint sympathy animated us both, to hunt up all that was rare in men and women; and the results have been, in many instances, singular, serious, and sometimes sad. I will not enter on that chapter, Mr. Editor, though there are materials enough for a novel that would be worth, perhaps, the reading. It happened a few months since that I found myself in one of the European capitals with this very lady that I have been so freely themeing upon, and no sooner did I hear of her arrival, than I determined to visit her. But, first, I thought it prudent to write her, expressing my wish, for several years had elapsed since I had seen her, and I knew not what direction her fancy might have taken in the meanwhile. I was sensible, too, that time had wrought its changes, and that whilst I had become more grave and less credulous, she had, probably, cooled down in equal proportions, and would look on me, as on all things, in a very different light. I wrote, and her reply amused me not a little. There she was, exactly the self-same person, full of "thick-coming fancies," like my Lady Macbeth, but only of a lovelier texture. She still clung to her old persuasion, that I was a singular creature; but, fortunately, instead of imagining me the reckless and impetuous individual she insisted on of yore, she now took it in her head that I was quite "a new man." What kind of one, precisely, she forbore analyzing, and again I determined to leave her to her conceit. I set off next day to visit her, and was received with extreme cordiality. We contemplated each other, on meeting, with no small interest, and mu tually satisfied with each other's looks, that was warmly expressed on both sides, we sat down for a chat. Well, I am delighted to see you again," she began; "and let me hope that I am right in believing you no longer to be the violent, headstrong person, I remember you were in past times." "Oh, no," I replied, humoring her bent; "I am greatly improved in that respect, at least; you may depend on it." 66 "Truly, I am glad to hear it," she continued, drawing her breath, as though relieved by the assurance; for, certainly, I never met your match at one time. No sooner did you take an idea in your head, or fix upon an object, than, without stopping to consider ways or means, you set off like a mad bull, and run a muck at it. Plunging and butting, right and left, you managed to knock down everybody in your way, and pretty generally ended by flooring yourself." I could not help laughing at her droll conceit, but thought it best not to quarrel with her fancy. Yes," she added, "it is true, though it may seem absurd to you now. None of the restraints that ordinarily influence people, I remember, had any weight with you. I used to call you, just what you were, a perfect "red man." 66 What did you mean by that?" I inquired, smiling; one of the red men of the day; one of the French democrats, that are now called rouge (red?") No, I meant one of your own red men, that your novelist, Cooper, describes so well; an Indian, a downright savage. But I trust that you are altered at last, and that you are less of an American than formerly. A violent, impetuous, headlong set, you all are!" "If I am in any degree improved," I answered, "it is only because I have become more of an American; that is, I have learnt by experience to mingle with some energy, a little more discretion. In other words, I have put on the spring of the clock a heavier weight, and, consequently, I keep better time. But a truce to these egotisms. Let us talk on politics. What do you think of the state of things in France?" First, let me ask what you think of them?" remarked my suspicious friend, "that I may be properly on my guard; for I suppose you see everything through Bonaparte spectacles." "Of that you shall be the judge. My opinions are very simple and positive. I think, in a word, that all that is, will not be much longer; and that something very unlike will follow." "You call that being clear," said my fair questioner, somewhat puzzled; "at all events, it is very comprehensive. Then it is evident that you fear that the star of Louis Napoleon is waning. Well, I agree with you there; and I regret it, as far as he is concerned personally, for I dare say he means well. No one, however, can inform me better than yourself on that point." "There is no doubt," I replied firmly, "that the President means well; but his great difficulty is to find out what well really means. Every party, every clique and coterie around him, give him a different interpretation of that mysterious word, and amid ten thousand explanations, he is so thoroughly bothered, he is likely to stand still, and do nothing at all. This will be his ruin. He must do something, or be lost. And if, even, he should make up his mind to act, I don't see what chance he has. For what can he do, if the majority of the Chamber is opposed to |