duchess is the creation as new as it is beautiful. The royal slave is brought from her courtly cloister, proud; but what a lovely pride!-ignorant, but only of the actual-with talents that need only the necessity of exertion—and, above all, a heart, feminine in all the poetry and passion of that word.

There is one of those touches in the description of the review, which marks the first-rate conceiver of character. The eye of the daughter of a high-born and martial race flashes at the warlike pageantry. The descendant of Maria Theresa is keenly alive to the " pomp and circumstance of glorious war;" and in truth there is nothing more exciting than a discharge of artillery. The physical effect is wonderful when along the air leaps the live thunder;"-it brings with it an awe mingled with conscious power, while the spirits are completely carried away by the mighty music.

Another quality of Mr. D'Israeli's mind is his command over the grotesque. Nature has her fantasies that few know how to scize. In the material world, they are shown by strange combinations; rocks, caverns, and trees, are fashioned after the wildest caprices. In the mind of man this wayward fancy is equally evident,-out of it grows the eccentric and the humourist; and a finer sketch of the latter was never flung upon paper than Beckendorf,-the recluse yet powerful minister. After all, it is little marvel that he who has much to do among men, should turn away from them in utter disgust, and find better companionship in the painted tulip and the singing bird. "Contarini Fleming was the next, and one of the most remarkable works ever produced. We are not aware of any other attempt in our language to develope the formation of the poetical character-or to trace the effects of " years that bring the inevitable yoke "on that sensitive and impassioned temperament which is inseparable from the poetical. It was written at Grand Cairo, and how much is there in it that bears evidence of the glowing East, with its golden summers-golden as if they did not shine but upon decay and desolation! "The marble wastes of Tadmor" are but an allegory of what a few years inevitably produce in every gifted and ardent mind. Never does it accomplish the object of its early dreams; the lofty arch, the noble column, fall to earth one after the other, and the hopeful spirit is gone that alone could rebuild. The remains of our greatest minds, what are they but wastes ?-albeit the wastes are of marble.

Mr. D'Israeli has travelled a great deal, and it is interesting to note the countries in which his various works were produced. The first part of "Vivian Grey was written in England-the first eager launch of the youth into London society. The second was written in Germany, and there we find the deeper tone that attends on awakening reflection, and the magnificent power of description which is peculiarly Mr. D'Israeli's own. "The Young Duke" was also the result of his leisure-a brilliant collection of epigrams springing up from remembered follies and pleasures. After a brief sojourn in England, Mr. D'Israeli again commenced travelling; he went to the south of Spain, proceeded to the Ionian Isles and Greece at a time of great action; he was at Yanina, the capital of Albania, and in the camp of the Grand Vizier, during the revolt of the Beys; thence he reached Constantinople, and left it to pass through Asia Minor and Syria; he next visited Egypt, and followed the course of the Nile to. the Cataracts. The "Tale of Alroy was planned amid the sepulchres of the kings of Judah, and the

conception breathes of their lofty inspiration. It is a poem full of noble pictures; the vision of the young prince amid the tombs is as grand as the mighty and mysterious temples that yet remain to tell of the glories of architecture, when architecture was the first science of the world. It is greatly to be regretted that Mr. D'Israeli has never published his travels in a collected form. We should like to have a journal; his personal adventures as far as possible-told with his own dramatic power. His impressions fresh from the scenes, together with whatever train of thought such impressions might inspire-add to these his descriptions, which give the colours of the painter with the associations of the poet-and these would form one of the most fascinating works ever produced.

Mr. D'Israeli had expressed an intention of remaining some years in Egypt, when the disturbed state of political affairs in England hastened his return. The tumult of reform had reached even to the Pyramids. At that time the House of Commons was the arena to which every young and ambitious man turned his hopes. It may now be more than doubted whether such excitement is not among "remembered things." But, towards the end of 1832, Mr. D'Israeli stood for the borough of High Wycombe, near which town his family reside. His successful opponent was the Hon. Colonel Grey, younger son of the then Premier. He was again defeated in 1834 by his influential opponent, though each time by trifling majorities. We have heard much of Mr. D'Israeli's eloquence from those who were present during his addresses to the electors. It is fervid, flowing, and eager, with a vein of fiery sarcasm which suited to its impetuous yet penetrating character.

Since that period our author has produced his "Revolutionary Epic," a poem full of noble thoughts, a fine specimen of versification, but certainly too allegorical, and too much apart from the present day. Still, how well can we comprehend its composition! The abstract is such a relief to the actual.

Mr. D'Israeli's last work was "Henrietta Temple," one of the most agreeable love-stories ever written. There is nothing which people seem to know so little about as love, and yet it influences all. It matters not what may be the character on which it acts-for that character is utterly changed. Few have ventured to paint love with sufficient simplicity, and in hazarding that truth consists the great charm of "Henrietta Temple." The exquisite personification of the ancients is true. Love is a child. In what does its happiness exist? -in its eager belief,-in its sweet and simple faith in the good and the beautiful,-in narrowing the circle of its hopes, and confiding in their fulfilment. What is love but the childhood of the heart? "Heaven lies around us in our infancy," and the intellect and the affections can alone bring that time back again. It is an error-and worse, a grave fault-among the many writers, to associate love with the darker passions. "From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;" and only where it purifies and elevates, is the spiritual and enduring presence of love truly recognised. In the lighter portions of the work we distinguish the "keen artillery" of "Vivian Grey." The" cabless dandy" is a satire in a sentence. If deep observation, passionate eloquence, dramatic power of character, and the picturesque like a rich colour flashing over all; if these give-what they always give-fame, Mr. D'Israeli's place is already taken among the high and imaginative names of our literature.

THE HUMORIST.

THE RULE OF

CONTRARIES;

OR, A SPICE OF CONTRADICTION.

"HISTORY is philosophy teaching by examples." The history of one short evening in the life of a well known "original," now in contemplation, will richly illustrate the portentous "rule of contraries!" The song calls it "contráries," laying the stress upon the "d." But be it short or long, the long and the short of the matter is-that "contradiction" is the "burthen of the strain." From the motion of a universe, to the motion of a clacking housewife's tongue, all things are governed by its wayward sway. And never were seed-pearls strung more thickly on a silken thread, than were the contradictions of one disastrous evening strung on the thread of our "original's " existence. That evening, though short, was, doubtless, to him, long enough.

The subject of our memoir was known by the plain, rough name of Huffkinson, or Ignatius Huffkinson, as he was quite as often called. He lived by himself, without the "burthen of a family," in lieu of which, he not unfrequently found his greatest burthen was-himself.

It appears he had set his mind on spending the evening at the opera; and being a great lover of music, albeit not of too harmonious a disposition, he always delighted in being in time for the overture. It was "his way." Accordingly, he came home, fully expecting dinner to be ready, in order that there might be no delay.

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Well," he said, as he bounced into the dining-room, "what is there for dinner?" When, starting back in dismay, he exclaimed, "What! nothing ready? no fire lit? no cloth laid? And here am I, just come home, expecting to sit down to table!"

"Sir," replied the servant, with a stare of stupid surprise, "I thought you were to dine out to-day. I understood you Tuesday."

"What

"Tuesday week, blockhead!" cried out Mr. Huffkinson. business had you to think? Dine out, indeed! It seems you would drive me out amongst you to do so! This is always the way; when I come in particularly hungry, and expect to find everything ready, I am sure to find nothing."

"Very sorry, Sir, quite misunderstood; and so did Mrs. Gilliflower, too," (she was the cook,) muttered the submissive lacquey, confounded, as he well might be, at the disappointed clamours of his master's jejune stomach.

"There, go, make haste," continued Ignatius, "order dinner to be ready as fast as possible; scold Gilliflower for being such a fool as to keep you company in your blunder. Then go down to the cellar, bring up a bottle of hock, draw the cork, and light the fire."

So said, or rather scolded, Mr. Huffkinson, as he retreated to the library, grumbling and snarling the whole way like a bull-dog baffled in

the acquisition of a bone. He drew an arm-chair up to the fireside, and commenced raking the embers impatiently, while he gave vent to his disaffection in sundry exclamations betokening the amiability of his temper, and the goodwill with all mankind, in which his recent disappointment had placed him.

"Nuisance! pest! bore! A man has only to wish for a thing, to be sure not to obtain it! contradiction in everything! Why, in Heaven's name, was it not ordained things should run a little more smoothly? It matters not what it is one desires, there's sure to be some obstacle! Why, now, isn't it so? Here have I been all day, 'hacking and hoofing' about the town-refused luncheon at that fool S―'s, (what a bore that fellow is!) and now I am come home, and get nothing! and all because a stupid rascal of a servant chooses to think' for me! I'll turn that fellow away,-both him and that woman-that overfed hussey, Gilliflower. I did not want this, to put me out to-day,—I've been enough put out. To think, when I had just sat down to talk to the only woman in the world I have any fancy for, Lady B, that tiresome, dull, long-winded fellow, M, should intrude himself! a nuisance! But so it always is! I might have called a thousand times, and suffered no interruption from his odious presence; but by some malignant decree of destiny, the fellow is sure to come pestering, on the very day I made my call! I had a great many things to say! I wanted to ask how she left our friend, Lady L——, at Nice, and all about her stay there, -and whom she saw-and a thousand things; and just as we were launched in the agrémens of conversation, in must come this boring fellow, to drive me away in sheer vexation! Nine hundred and ninetynine times I might have missed calling; and the thousandth I should be sure to find some plague or another to interrupt the pleasure of the visit. Nuisance, and pest! Well, I had scarce got out into the street, when down came the rain, pouring cats and dogs!' Of course, there was no such thing as a cab or coach in the way, and I had forgotten my umbrella!"

Here the soliloquy of Mr. Huffkinson was broken off by the welcome announcement that dinner was at length ready; so he adjourned to the dining-room, perhaps to be the sport of fresh "plagues."

Behold him then seated at table, the angry impatience of his countenance changed for a hungry impatience. He is determined, now, to console himself for the manifold crosses and cares of the day.

"Now for a little nice gravy-soup," he said, as he drew his chair under him, close to the table, " now for a little nice gravy-soup; ahem!" The tureen-cover was lifted up, when Ignatius started back in consternation. His displeasure mantled in crimson effulgence on his brow. The effect was quite tragical. John, meantime, affrighted John, trembled for his place. Mr. Huffkinson was plainly, most direfully "put out." 'Why, what in Heaven's name, has Gilliflower sent up? I ordered gravy soup; and, here, she has sent up turnip soup, or some abominable white-looking stuff, that, for what I know, may be the rinsings of an Irish dairy-woman's milk-pail! Away with it, I say! Yet no: plague on that Gilliflower, I'm so hungry I'm constrained to taste it. stuff! Let her know how annoyed I am," continued Ignatius, helping himself as though it were a dose of poison he was administering snicidally. "I must eat something after fasting all day, or I would have

'

Odious

ordered the drench to be tossed into the kennel, or served up to the pigs, for it is fitter for the trough' than the tureen'" and here he looked about for something to render it more palatable.

"I want the cayenne," he said to John, whose eyes were nearly starting from their sockets in mute amazement and terror, as he surveyed his master thus direfully flabbergastered. John bethought him, too, of a new disaster, and recollected that there was no cayenne! He dared not, however, avow the truth; and made a great racket in turning over the things on the sideboard, while his master impatiently exclaimed

"Well! well! can't you find it? What is the meaning of all this delay ?"

At length the poor lacquey was obliged to own the terrible truth! "Sir," he stammered out, "I'm sorry-but"Well, well," interrupted Mr. Huffkinson, "what is it? What is the matter? Is there none? I suppose not!" The monosyllable "not" was uttered with awful emphasis, and seemed big with fate to the luckless domestic. He would have permitted" silence" to speak consent in answer to it, so afraid was he to utter a word; but his master's countenance indicated that he waited for a reply, and he, therefore, delivered the melancholy truth that there was no cayenne;" and consequently that the soup must find its way down Ignatius's throat flavourless!

A storm of growls, and half-articulated strains of " tiresome," and pest," and "nuisance," rose from Ignatius's lips in the intervals of putting the spoon to his plate and raising it up to them. However, he managed to finish the contents of his plate, exclaiming, with increased waspishness, when he had concluded.—

"Here! take this stuff away! I've done with it."

He now sought consolation in a glass of hock. By some mischance, however, he was doomed to be disappointed here. John had placed Sauterne on the table on one side, and mocked his master with Moselle on the other. Mr. Huffkinson's fury knew no bounds.

How pro

"Now, if there's one thing above all others I wished to have to-day, it was a glass of the old hock. I particularly fancied it. voking, how detestable this endless contradiction is! I told you to bring up hock-not this!”

"I'm very sorry, Sir. I thought it was hock."

If

"There again! You thought, did you? This comes of your thinking! What business have you to think? Do just as I tell you. you think you're sure to blunder! Why you knew the hock had a green seal on it.”

John had nothing more to say for himself, so made his exit with the condemned soup, while his master was feign to put up with a glass of Moselle, as he ejaculated "Stupid rascal!" at the expense of the lacquey. By the way, with respect to the soup, it was really a very praiseworthy specimen of Dame Gilliflower's art, being no vulgar, clumsy concoction of ill-bruised turnips, but that agreeable preparation commonly yclept soupe à la crême." But the gentleman to whom it was served up was a little testy, and not too ready to look on the best side of things; so he managed wonderfully to multiply and aggravate the darker spots on April.-VOL. XLIX. No. CXCVI.

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