-rode wearily along the rocky path, which, following the valley of the Lignon, leads to the Mountain keep of Euguerrand de Montemar, the chastelain of Issengeaux.

The knight was a tall, powerful figure, sheathed cap-a-pie in armour of linked mail, partially covered by the white surcoat of a crusader. He sat with practised grace, on a superb blood bay Arabian, sixteen hands high, at least, and powerful enough—unusual as such stature is among the generally slight coursers of the East-to bear a knight in complete panoply, throughout the longest day that ever yet was spent in battle. The noble steed was not caprisoned for battle, but decorated with the lightest furniture then used; as though the practised eye of his owner was aware that every thing which tended to conceal the exquisite proportions of the aniinal, must be a blemish rather than an ornament. Yet, light as was the saddle, and all the corresponding housings, a heavy battle-axe of steel, magnificently wrought with carvings of Damascus, was slung on one side of the pummel, while from the other was suspended, as if to balance it, a yet more ponderous mace of similar material, workmanship, and decoration-these, save the dagger at his belt, were the offensive weapons which the rider bore; for one of the esquires, in addition to his own arms, carried the long lance and heater-shaped shield of the knight; while the other led a coal-black Andalusian, fully barbed for battle, to whose steel saddle was attached, besides the usual mace and battle-axe, his long two-handed broadsword. The face of the warrior, as, also, his strong hands, were bare, for his casque and gauntlets hung with his battle-axe at the saddle-bow, while his head was protected only by a low cap of scarlet cloth, with a long drooping plume, leaving his strongly-marked and noble features exposed to the eye, which there might read strange tales of pride, and energy, and passion. Short coal-black hair, curled round a forehead unusually high and massive, worn away, somewhat, at the temples, by the pressure of the helmet, and closely cut behind, that it might not impede the fastenings of the mail hood, displayed a set of high, thin features; the predominant expression of which was overruling and all-mastering pride, although the thick and corded veins upon the forehead, and the deep lines furrowed by the hot ploughshare of an excitable and ever restless soul, betokened other and more fiery impulses, that well might aspire for preeminence against the master passion. The mouth was shadowed by a thick black moustache, which quivered, as it were, instinct with life, at every transient emotion, while, to complete the picture, a deep scar crossing the forehead, and narrowly missing the right eye, gave an expression of additional sternHess to a countenance, which, in spite of its

fierce and audacious character, could not be looked upon without both admiration and respect. The age of this formidable-looking person was, probably, not more than six or seven and twenty, although exposure to the fierce suns of the East, while it had burnt his naturally dark complexion to almost negro blackness, had given him the appearance of being several years farther advanced toward the mid vale of life.

"That is the fortress, Amelot," he said, in deep, sonorous tones, "that is the fortresswe shall be there anon-the ascent turns abruptly beyond that mighty chestnut, which has not yet lost all its leaves."

"And in good time here comes a woodcutter, Sir Brian!" answered the man-atarms, a favourite esquire, whom he had ad> dressed. "Were I not best inquire ?"

46

Inquire what?" retorted the knight. "Inquire what, fool, what?" he once again repeated, as the esquire, little encouraged by his manner, hesitated to speak out.

"Whether the Chastelain be at the fort," at length he faltered out.

"Why, where else should he be, thou dolt?" returned his master. "He hath no other castle-he dwells even here."

For, strange though it may seem, it yet was most characteristic of the determined, reso. lute, and yet enthusiastic character of Brian de Latouche, that since he had returned to France, he had made no inquiry-had asked no question, concerning her whom he loved so devotedly. He would have deemed it ominous of evil to inquire of her health, and, as to asking of her constancy, he would have spurned the very thought, as something nearly allied to sacrilege-and equally dishonourable to her and to himself, as auguring the existence, on his own part, of a most base and narrow-minded jealousy, and authoriz. ing a suspicion against her of the most shameful fickleness. And, therefore, though his heart might throb at mention of the name of Montemar, he had repressed his doubts, his terrors, his emotions, within that most inscrutable of mysteries, the heart of a strongminded, crafty man. Nor, indeed, had he asked, would he have found any one to answer; for so small was the consequence of Euguerrand de Montemar, and so small the renown of his daughter, except in so far as it had been promulgated by the deeds of Latouche himself, that scarcely any one in France, except the dwellers in their close vicinity, could have afforded him the smallest tidings of the object of his anxiety.

He passed the angle of the road; and great was his astonishment when he perceived that there waved no pennoncelle above the battlements, glanced no light through the casements of the tower. Goaded almost to madness at the sight, he spurred his good horse to its utmost speed, and in a moment stood

within the shadow of the drawbridge. Raising his bugle to his lips, he blew a blast that made wood, rock, and river echo, for minutes, to its prolonged and piercing summons. And long ere any answer could have been returned, again he sent it forth again!and yet again!-waking the peasantry for miles around, yet bringing no response from the apparently deserted fortalice. At length, when Brian's patience was well nigh exhausted, a feeble light gleamed from a shot-hole near the summit of the tower-was lost-shone out again, a story lower, and at last reached the court. A moment after, it flashed from a crenelle in the watch-tower by the gate, displaying the white hair and well-known features of the old seneschal, who tremulously craved to know who claimed admittance.

"I!-death to your soul!" fiercely exclaimed the soldier. "I, Brian de Latouche! Up! up with your portcullis, and down drawbridge-why keep you me here shivering in the night wind?"

After a short delay, the bridge was lowered, and the gate opened. Recovering his good humour, the knight rode in, holding some gold coins in his right hand, about to throw them to the old faithful servant, whom he had known from his earliest boyhoodwhen, to his wonder, the old man stepped before him, and catching old of his rein

66

Stop! stop!" he cried, "Sir Brian, there be none here save I!"

"None here save thee?" exclaimed the surprised and now thoroughly alarmed crusader. "Why, where then, i' the fiend's name, be they? Speak! speak! old man-see you not I am choking? Where is Euguerrandwhere Adelaide de Montemar?"

"My master-my master Euguerrand, that is," faltered the old man, "has been dead -these two years, come Martinmas ! He lies up yonder in the chapel of St. Thomas, at Issengeaux? And as for my lady-as for my Lady Adelaide-"

"Well! well! Speak! speak! thou torturer! or I will wring it forth, if it be with thy life-blood. What of thy lady?"

"She hath been married-married these eighteen months, and better."

"Liar! Dog! Slave!" thundered the knight, leaping at one bound from the saddle, seizing him by the throat, and shaking him so furiously, that he had well nigh slain him. "Confess, confess, that thou hast lied, and I will pardon thee. Speak, speak, man "-still without relaxing his stern gripe on his throat -"speak! Say thou hast lied, and bless me," and with the words he loosed him, yet it was many minutes ere the terrified vassal could find breath to answer him.

"True! it is very true-true as the sun in heaven !"

"True!-the sun! The sun is not trueHeaven is not true! there is NO TRUTH!

If

this be so-all is lie! all, all! The sun in heaven, the heaven itself, the God that made them all! But speak, speak out. I am patient now, and can hear-very-calmly!" and he choked down his fury into his heart of hearts, and stood pale, firm, and motionless, without once interrupting him, till his tale was concluded.

Within one year after his sailing for the East, while the first tidings of his valour and his glory were fresh and rife about her, she had inclined a willing ear to the addresses of a poor, nameless, Norman squire, whom chance had brought to that vicinity, and thrown upon her father's hospitality! The splendid evidences of her lover's faith, and worth, and glory, availed not anything to restrain her; and eighteen months before, her father having died but ten or twelve weeks, she had espoused him, and set forth at once to his demesnes, near to Avranches, on the Western coast.

"Ha! well-it is WELL! And for this I have won wealth, such as kings might envy! Fame, such as never king attained, nor dreamed of-save the Lion-heart! For this, I refused the daughter of Lusignan. For this,-God of my fathers-was it for this?'' and he stamped furiously with his mailed heel upon the pavements, and bit his lip till the blood sprung. "But hear me, thou," he went on, turning his hands and eyes upward -"hear me, thou, for whose tomb I have fought-how, thou best knowest, hear me swear-that henceforth I live but for vengeance! Earth shall not drink her bloodnor the cold waters choke her breath-nor the tomb cover her! but she shall witherwither-wither!-accursed-desolate-bro ken-hearted! The boldest soul shall tremble-the manliest ear shrink from the story of my terrible revenge e! Grant me this-only this, and to thy service, and the warfare for thy temple and thy tomb, I do devote myself

for ever.

He turned abruptly, mounted his good horse, Zamor-rode many a mile toward Paris that same night. Within the week, he knelt to the grand master of the order-registered himself a Templar-swore to perpetual celibacy-and thenceforth never more on earth was the name heard of Brian de Latouche; but far and wide, both for good and for evil, was the more famous appellation spread abroad of Brian de Bois Gilbert!

LAST MOMENTS OF BEETHOVEN.

Translated from the French, by Miss E. F. ELLET In the spring of the year 1827, in a house in one of the faubourgs of Vienna, some amateurs of music were occupied in decyphering the last quatuor of Beethoven, just published. Surprise mingled with their vexation, as they followed the capricious turns of this whimsi

cal production of a genius then exhausted. They found not in it the mild and gracious harmony, the style so original, so elevated, the conception so grand and beautiful, which had marked former pieces, and had rendered the author the first of composers. The taste once to perfect, was now only the pedantry of an ordinary counterpointist; the fire which burned of old in his rapid allegri, swelling to the close, and overflowing like lava billows in magnificent harmonies, was but unintelligible dissonance; his pretty minuets, once so full of gaiety and originality, were changed into irregular gambols and impracticable cadences.

"Is this the work of Beethoven ?" asked the musicians, disappointed, and laying down their instruments. "Is this the work of our renowned composer, whose name, till now, we pronounced only with pride andveneration? Is it not rather a parody upon the masterpieces of the immortal rival of Haydn and Mozart?"

Some attributed this falling off, to the deafness with which Beethoven had been afflicted for some years; others, to a derangement of his mental faculties; but, resuming their instruments, out of respect to the ancient fame of the symphonist, they imposed upon themselves the task of going through the work.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a man entered, wearing a black great-coat, without cravat, and his hair in disorder. His eyes sparkled, but no longer with the fire of genius; his forehead, alone, by its remarkable development, revealed the seat of intellect. He entered softly, his hands behind him; all gave way respectfully. He approached the musicians, bending his head on one side and the other, to hear better; but in vain, not a sound reached him. Tears started from his eyes; he buried bis face in his bands, retired to a distance from the performers, and seated himself at the lower end of the apartment. All at once the first violoncello sounded a note, which was c ught up by all the other instruments. The poor -man leaped to his feet, crying, "I hear! I hear!" then abandoned himself to tumultuous joy, applauding with all his strength.

66

Louis," said a young girl who that moment entered, " Louis, you must come back -you must retire; we are too many here."

He cast a look upon her-understood, and followed her in silence, with the docility of a child accustomed to obedience.

In the fourth story of an old brick house, situated at one end of the city, a small chamber, which had for its furniture, only a bed, with ragged coverlet, an old piano, sadly out of tune, and a few bundles of music, was the abode, the universe of the immortal Beethoven.

He had not spoken during their walk; but

when he entered, he placed himself on the bed, took the young girl by the hand, and said-" My good Louise! you are the only one who understands me. You think these gentlemen, who perform my music, comprehend me not at all. I observed a smile on their lips as they executed my quatuor; they fancy my genius is on the decline, whereas it is only now that I have become a truly great musician. On the way, just now, I composed a symphony, which shall set the seal to my glory, or rather, immortalize my name. I will write it down, and burn all my others. I have changed the laws of harmony; I have found effects of which nobody, till now, bas thought. My symphony shall have for bass a chromatic melody of twenty kettle drums; I will introduce the concert of an hundred bells; for," added he, bending his head towards the ear of Louise, "I will tell thee a secret. The other day, when you took me to the top of St. Stephen's steeple, I made a discovery; I perceived that the bell is the most melodious of instruments, and can be employed with the greatest success in the adagio. There shall be, in my finale, drums, and fusil-shots ;-and I shall hear that symphony, Louise; yes!" cried he, with enthusiasm, "I shall hear it! Do you remember," he resumed, after a pause, "my Battle of Waterloo ? and the day when I directed the performance, in presence of all the crowned heads of Europe? So many musicians, following my signal-eleven masters of the chapel superintending-a firing of guns-pealing of cannon! It was glorious -was it not? Well, what I shall compose will surpass even that sublime work. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of giving you an idea of of it."

At these words, Beethevon rose from the bed, seated himself at the piano, in which a number of keys were wanting, and touched the instrument with a grave and imposing air. After playing awhile, he struck his hand suddenly on the keys, and ceased.

"Do you hear?" said he, to Louise, "there is an accord nobody else has attempted. Yes, I will write all the tones of the gamut in a single sound; and will prove this the true and perfect accord. But I hear it not, Louise, I hear it not. Think of the anguish of him who cannot hear his own mu ic! And yet it seems to me, when I shall have blended all these sounds in a single sound, they will ring in mine ears. But enough! I have, perhaps, wearied you! I, also, am weary of every thing! As a reward for my sublime invention, I think I ought to have a glass of wine. What think you, Louise?"

The tears ran down the cheeks of the poor girl. She, alone, of all Beethoven's pupils, had not forsaken him, but supported him by the labour of her hands, under pretence of taking lessons. The produce of her work

was added to the slender income yielded by the compositions of the master. There was no wine in the house, there scarcely remained a few pence to buy bread! She turned away to hide her emotion, then poured out a glass of water and offered it to Beethoven.

"Excellent Rhenish wine!" said he, as he tasted the pure beverage; "'tis wine good enough for an emperor. 'Twas drawn from my father's cellar; I know it; it grows better every day!"

He then began to sing, with hoarse voice, but with true tone, the words of Mephistopheles, in the Faust of Goethe;

"Es war einmal ein Konig der hatt, einen grossen Floh,"

but returned, from time to time, to the mystic melody he had composed, formerly, for the charming song of Mignon.

"Listen, Louise," said he, returning her the glass. "The wine has strengthened me; I feel better. I would fain compose, but my head grows heavy again; my ideas are confused; a thick mist seems before my eyes. I have been compared to Michael Angelo, and properly; in his moments of ecstasy, he struck great blows with the chisel on the cold marble, and caused the hidden thought to leap to life under the covering of stone; I do the same, for I can do nothing with deliberation. When my genius inspires me, the whole universe is transformed for me into one harmony; all sentiment, all thought, becomes music; my blood revels in my veins; a tremor pervades my members; my hair stands on end;-but hark! what do I hear?"

Beethoven sprang up and rushed to the window, threw it open, and sounds of music, from the house near, were plainly audible.

"I hear!" he cried, with deep emotion, falling on his knees and stretching his hands towards the open window; "I hear! 'Tis my overture of Egmont! Yes, I know it; hark! the savage battle-cries; the tempest of passion. It swells-it towers-it threatens! Now all is calm, again. But lo! the trumpets sound afresh; the clamor fills the world -it cannot be stifled."

*

Two days after this night of delirium, a crowd of persons were passing in and out of the salon of W. the Councillor of State, and Prime Minister of Austria, who gave a grand dinner.

"What a pity!" said one of the guests, "Beethoven, director at the Theatre Imperial, is just dead, and they say he has not left enough for the expense of his funeral."

His words passed unnoticed. The rest of the company were absorbed in listening to the discourse of two diplomatists, who were talking of a controversy which had taken place between certain persons at the palace of a certain German Prince.

THE PAINTER'S REVELATION. "I CANNOT paint it!" exclaimed Duncan Weir, as he threw down his pencil in despair.

The portrait of a beautiful female rested on his easel. The head was turned as if to look into the painter's face, and an expression of delicious confidence and love was playing about the half-parted mouth. A mass of luxuriant hair, stirred by the position, threw its shadow upon a shoulder that but for its transparency you would have given to Itys, and the light from which the face turned away fell on the polished throat with the rich mellowness of a moonbeam. She was a brunette

her hair of a glossy black, and the blood melting through the clear brown of her cheek, and sleeping in her lip like colour in the edge of a rose. The eye was unfinished. He could not paint it. Her low, expressive forehead, and the light pencil of her eyebrows, and the long melancholy lashes, were all perfect; but he had painted the eye a hundred times, and a hundred times he had destroyed it, till, at the close of a long day, as his light failed him, he threw down his pencil in despair, and resting his head on his easel, gave himself up to the contemplation of the ideal picture of his fancy.

I wish all my readers had painted a portrait, the portrait of the face they best love to look on-it would be such a chance to thrill them with a description of the painter's feelings. There is nothing but the first timid kiss that has half its delirium. Why-think of it a moment! To sit for hours gazing into the eyes you dream of! To be set to steal away the tint of the lip and the glory of the brow you worship! To have beauty come and sit down before you, till its spirit is breathed into your fancy, and you can turn away and paint it! To call up, like a rash enchanter, the smile that bewilders you, and have power over the expression of a face, that, meet you where it will, laps you in Elysium!-Make me a painter, Pythagoras!

A lover's picture of his mistress, painted as she exists in his fancy, would never be recognised. He would make little of features and complexion. No-no-he has not been an idolater for this. He has seen her as vo one else has seen her, with the illumination of love, which, once in her life, inakes every woman under heaven an angel of light. He knows her heart, too-its gentleness, its fervour; and when she comes up in his imagination it is not her visible form passing before his mind's eye, but the apparition of her invisible virtues, clothed in the tender recolleetions of their discovery and development. If he remembers her features at all, it is the changing colour of her cheek, or the droop of her curved lashes, or the witchery of the smile that welcomed him. And even then he