not, when fitting, how to weep too; and that tears shed from such eyes are touching as showers in sunshine that revive the Spring.

Servillaka is one of those mixed characters which, when naturally delineated, always please by the perpetual appeals they make to every man's own experiences of his better and worser nature. We are no cracksmen. Never broke we into a house (outhouses, perhaps, excepted) with felonious intent; and never out of one without the owner's acquiescence; yet we are burglars in posse, and cannot regard Servillaka's exploits without some sympathy, and much admiration. He robs to relieve; and by a purloined casket manumits a slave. He takes unlawful liberties with Charudatta's goods and chattels, that he may take lawful liberties with Madanika's personal charms; and to do him justice he knows at the time that he is acting wrong, and feels it afterwards-sincerely, as his conduct proves-for he is a trusty and deedful friend to that bold and brawny insurgent the Cowherd's Son, and asks Charudatta's forgiveness, whom he has helped to bring to the stake, not with remorse only, but with repentance. He was once a reprobate-may he not now be an honest-as assuredly he is a brave man ?

rose-leaf from my pillow; suffocate him in mire-but like flower-impregned air let me inhale the melted ruby! "Let famished nations die along the shore"— but let daintiest delicacies soothe me into surfeitfor is not mine the palate of a prince

and is not mine a prince's stomach! In that word-Prince-lay the evil spell that transformed man into fiend-that word in which may lie a holy charm that transforms man into seraph. He was a rajah's brother-in-law, and not a brother-innature had he-let us hope-in all Hindostan. Twisted, distorted, deformed in his moral and intellectual being; his soul in the rickets-and with a shocking squint. Yet he waxed witty in his wickedness, and found fun in weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. He danced, and sung, and crowned his head with flowers, and believed himself beautiful in women's eyes, and the seducer would fain too be a ravisher; but was forced to be satisfied with murder. Like a panther that in domestication loses all his little catcourage, but acquires new cruelty from his cowardice, and crouching in fear of the lash, keeps lapping away at blood. Frivolous in the midst of all enormities-his conscience shrivelled away like a drunkard's liversometimes sized like a hazel-nut, and containing but dust. Laughing, weeping, crying, quaking, faintingand all for his own miserable self of slime in lubrication or in crust. Irreclaimable to humanity by rod, chain, or stake; and when pardoned on the brink of death, running away in gratitude composed of fear, and anger, to the perpetration of the same cruelties, like a mangy mongrel that you may flea alive without curing him of the disease of worrying sheep. A Prince! an Oriental Prince!

But what think you of Samsthanaka? 'Tis a true Oriental character-and painted by a master's hand. Only in the East can we believe in the possibility of such-a Prince! He had been suffered from the cradle to kill flies-among the bummers and blue-bottles an infant Burke. He had fed tame spiders that with a stamp he might obliterate the big bowels. Hence his lust for inflicting his fear of suffering pain. To see writhings became a delightto writhe a horror. Impale that wretch-but remove the doubled

WERE not the first Four Books of the Odyssey felt to be in themselves a Poem? Perhaps you might liken them to the porch of a palace. We would rather liken them to the arms of a tree. Part only of the green umbrage is visible, but sufficient to show that it belongs to a noble bole; and erelong we shall behold the whole Wonder, proportioned in the perfect symmetry of nature, with broad crown familiar with storms, yet a pavilion for the sunshine, and in its magnificence rooted among rocks.

own

A tender and profound interest has been breathed into our hearts in all that concerns Ithaca; it is invested with the hallowed charm of Home-we love the rocky yet not unfruitful isle as if it were our own birth-place-and the smoke seems to ascend from our hearth. In the midst of all that trouble, we are conscious of a coming calm. 'Tis a stormy day, but not a cloud-we are assured-will disturb the serenity of sunset. We believe the Seer and the Eagles. Penelope is no object of pity nownot even when seen sitting on the stairs, stupified into stone by the voice telling her that her Telemachus has left her alone in her widowhood among all those lawless

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men. For that doleful and delusive trance is succeeded by a delightful and faithful Dream; her Ulysses is not dead-her Ulysses will returnand what matters transient misery to any mortal, when it purchases steadfast bliss ?

Homer is fond of Dreams. And not one of them all is more apparently heart-born than the Dream that appears to Penelope in the shape of her sister. Ipthima tells her that the Gods will restore her son. "But what canst thou tell me of Ulysses?" Of his fate the phantom will make no revelation. Eustathius says that if she had, the poem would have been at an end. But that was not the reason of her silence. Ipthima was Penelope. Telemachus had left her, and her soul was troubled; but she had seen the young hero in his pride, unappalled by the Suitors, and knew that he had gone on a holy quest to Pylos and Lacedemon-to Nestor and Menelaus. Her heart, cheered by the thought in sleep, felt her brave boy would escape the ambush. But Ulysses! he had been away from her for twenty years. Hope was almost dead in her waking-as now in her sleeping dreams. Her heart asked her heart, "Oh! tell me of my Lord ?" But in her

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