"She has made me promise to take her in to supper," Kew said, with a sigh.

friends in the doorway. "Couch yourself, my | creased; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a little Kiou," said Florac. "You are all pale. You turn of luck in his favor. On one occasion he rewere best in bed, mon garçon !" turned with a grave face, saying to Lord Rooster, "She has the other one in hand. We are going to see." "Trente-six encor! et rouge gagne," cried the croupier with his nasal tone. Monsieur de Florac's pockets overflowed with double Napoleons, and he stopped his play, luckily, for Kew putting down his winnings, once, twice, thrice, lost them all.

"She will poison you," said the other. "Why have they abolished the roue chez nous? My word of honor they should rétabliche it for this woman."

"There is one in the next room," said Kew, with a laugh. "Come, Vicomte, let us try our fortune," and he walked back into the play

room.

When Lord Kew had left the dancing-room, Madame d'Ivry saw Stenio following him with fierce looks, and called back that bearded bard. That was the last night on which Lord Kew" You were going to pursue M. de Kew," she ever played a gambling game. He won constant- said; "I knew you were. Sit down here, Sir," ly. The double zero seemed to obey him; so that and she patted him down on her seat with her fan. the croupiers wondered at his fortune. Florac backed it; saying, with the superstition of a gambler, "I am sure something goes to arrive to this boy." From time to time M. de Florac went back to the dancing-room, leaving his mise under Kew's charge. He always found his heaps in

"Do you wish that I should call him back, Madame?" said the poet, with the deepest tragic accents.

"I can bring him when I want him, Victor," said the lady. "Let us hope others will be equally fortunate,"

the Gascon said, with one hand in his breast, the treated Lord Kew; she implored M. Victor; she other stroking his mustache. did every thing in her power to appease the quar"Fi, Monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac! je rel between him and the Frenchman. vous le défends, entendez vous, Monsieur?"

After the ball came the supper, which was laid "Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame at separate little tables, where parties of half a la Duchesse did not disdain a cigar," said Victor. | dozen enjoyed themselves. Lord Kew was of the "If the odor incommodes, permit that I retire." Duchess's party, where our Gascon friend had "And you also would quit me, Stenio. Do not a seat. But being one of the managers of the you think I did not mark your eyes toward Miss entertainment, his lordship went about from table Newcome? your anger when she refused you to to table, seeing that the guests at each lacked dance? Ah! we see all. A woman does not nothing. He supposed too that the dispute with deceive herself, do you see? You send me beauti- the Gascon had possibly come to an end; at any ful verses, Poet. You can write as well of a rate, disagreeable as the other's speech had been, statue or a picture, of a rose or a sunset, as of the he had resolved to put up with it, not having the heart of a woman. You were angry just now be- least inclination to drink the Frenchman's blood, cause I danced with M. de Kew. Do you think or to part with his own on so absurd a quarrel. in a woman's eyes jealousy is unpardonable?" He asked people in his good-natured way to drink "You know how to provoke it, Madame," con- wine with him; and catching M. Victor's eye tinued the tragedian. scowling at him from a distant table, he sent a waiter with a Champagne bottle to his late opponent, and lifted his glass as a friendly challenge. The waiter carried the message to M. Victor, who, when he heard it, turned up his glass, and folded his arms in a stately manner. de Castillonne dit qu'il refuse, milor," said the waiter, rather scared. "He charged me to bring that message to milor." Florac ran across to the angry Gascon. It was not while at Madame d'Ivry's table that Lord Kew sent his challenge, and received his reply; his duties as steward had carried him away from that pretty early.

Monsieur," replied the lady, with dignity, "am I to render you an account of all my actions, and ask your permission for a walk?"

"In fact, I am but the slave, Madame," groaned the Gascon, "I am not the master."

"You are a very rebellious slave, Monsieur," continues the lady, with a pretty moue, and a glance of the large eyes artfully brightened by her rouge. Suppose-suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for his sake-Heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure-but for yours. Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to proceed. Suppose I know that he is ni sot ni poltron, as you pretend. I overheard you, Sir, talking with one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de Florac but it is not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte de Kew to be a man, cold and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as the men of his nation are-but one who lacks no courage-one who is terrible when roused; might I have no occasion to fear, not for him, but—”

"But for me! Ah Marie! Ah Madame! Believe you that a man of my blood will yield a foot to any Englishman? Do you know the story of my race? do you know that since my childhood I have vowed hatred to that nation? Tenez, Madame, this M. Jones who frequents your salon, it was but respect for you that has enabled me to keep my patience with this stupid islander. This Captain Blackball, whom you distinguish, who certainly shoots well, who mounts well to horse, I have always thought his manners were those of the marker of a billiard. But I respect him because he has made war with Don Carlos against the English. But this young M. de Kew, his laugh crisps me the nerves; his insolent air makes me bound; in beholding him I said to myself, I hate you; think whether I love him better after having seen him as I did but now, Madame!" Also, but this Victor did not say, he thought Kew had laughed at him at the beginning of the evening, when the blanche Miss had refused to dance with him.

"M.

Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows of the refreshment-room, and behold, the sun broke in and scared all the revelers. The ladies scurried away like so many ghosts at cockcrow, some of them not caring to face that detective luminary. Cigars had been lighted ere this; the men remained smoking them with those sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh supplies of drink. Lord Kew gave the Duchesse d'Ivry his arm, and was leading her out; M. de Castillonne stood scowling directly in their way, upon which, with rather an abrupt turn of the shoulder, and a " Pardon, Monsieur," Lord Kew pushed by, and conducted the Duchess to her carriage. She did not in the least see what had happened between the two gentlemen in the passage; she oggled, and nodded, and kissed her hands quite affectionately to Kew as the fly drove away.

Florac in the mean while had seized his compatriot, who had drunk Champagne copiously with others, if not with Kew, and was in vain endeavoring to make him hear reason. The Gascon was furious; he vowed that Lord Kew had struck him. "By the tomb of my mother," he bellowed, "I swear I will have his blood!" Lord Rooster was bawling out-" D- him; carry him to bed, and shut him up;" which remarks Victor did not understand, or two victims would doubtless have been sacrificed on his mamma's mausoleum.

"Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would When Kew came back (as he was only too save," said the Duchess. And the people round sure to do), the little Gascon rushed forward with about, and the Duchess herself afterward said, a glove in his hand, and having an audience of Yes, certainly, she had a good heart. She en-smokers round about him, made a furious speech

effect in soothing any private annoyances with which his journey commenced. The aspect of nature, in that fortunate route which he took, is so noble and cheering, that our private affairs and troubles shrink away abashed before that se

had referred him to the Viscount to arrange mat- | at Baden, to the gate of Milan, he describes as ters for a meeting between them. As the meet-beautiful; and doubtless, the delightful scenes ing must take place out of the Baden territory, through which the young man went, had their and they ought to move before the police prevented them, the Count proposed that they should at once make for France; where, as it was an affair of honneur, they would assuredly be let to enter without passports. Lady Ann and Lady Kew heard that the gen-rene splendor. O, sweet peaceful scene of azure tlemen after the ball had all gone out on a hunt- lake, and snow-crowned mountain, so wonderfully ing party, and were not alarmed for four-and-lovely is your aspect, that it seems like heaven twenty hours at least. On the next day none of them returned; and on the day after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with rather a dangerous accident; but all the town knew he had been shot by M. de Castillonnes on one of the islands on the Rhine, opposite Kehl, where he was now lying.

OUR discursive muse must now take her place in the little britzka in which Clive Newcome and his companions are traveling, and cross the Alps in that vehicle, beholding the snows on St. Gothard, and the beautiful region through which the Ticino rushes on its way to the Lombard lakes, and the great corn-covered plains of the Milanese; and that royal city, with the Cathedral for its glittering crown, only less magnificent than the imperial dome of Rome. I have some long letters from Mr. Clive, written during this youthful tour, every step of which, from the departure

almost, and as if grief and care could not enter it! What young Clive's private cares were I knew not as yet in those days; and he kept them out of his letters; it was only in the intimacy of future life that some of these pains were revealed to me.

Some three months after taking leave of Miss Ethel, our young gentleman found himself at Rome, with his friend Ridley still for a companion. Many of us, young or middle-aged, have felt that delightful shock which the first sight of the great city inspires. There is one other place of which the view strikes one with an emotion even greater than that with which we look at Rome, where Augustus was reigning when He saw the day, whose birth-place is separated but by a hill or two from the awful gates of Jerusalem. Who that has beheld both can forget that first aspect of either! At the end of years the emotion occasioned by the sight still thrills in your memory, and it smites you as at the moment when you first viewed it.

The business of the present novel, however, lies neither with priest nor pagan, but with Mr. Clive Newcome, and his affairs and his companions at this period of his life. Nor, if the gracious reader expects to hear of cardinals in scarlet, and noble Roman princes and princesses, will he find such in this history. The only noble Roman into whose mansion our friend got admission, was the Prince Polonia, whose footmen wear the liveries of the English Royal family, who gives gentlemen and even painters cash upon good letters of credit; and, once or twice in a season, opens his transtiberine palace and treats his customers to a ball. Our friend Clive used jocularly to say, he believed there were no Romans. There were priests in portentous hats; there were friars with shaven crowns; there were the sham peasantry, who dressed themselves out in masquerade costumes, with bagpipe and goat-skin, with crossed leggings and scarlet petticoats, who let themselves out to artists at so many pauls per sitting; but he never passed a Roman's door except to buy a cigar or to purchase a handkerchief. Thither, as elsewhere, we carry our insular habits with us. We have a little England at Paris, a little England at Munich, Dresden, every where. Our friend is an Englishman, and did at Rome as the English do.

There was the polite English society, the society that flocks to see the Colosseum lighted up with blue fire, that flocks to the Vatican to behold the statues by torchlight, that hustles into the churches on public festivals in black vails and deputy-lieutenants' uniforms, and stares, and

"Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many respects, so superior in all, is immensely touched by these ceremonies. They seem to an

comes away satisfied as from a feast, where I have only found vacancy. Of course our first pilgrimage was to St. Peter's. What a walk! Under what noble shadows does one pass; how great and liberal the houses are, with generous

talks, and uses opera-glasses while the pontiffs | glimpse of heaven at all, I saw but a poor picof the Roman church are performing its ancient ture, an altar with blinking candles, a church rites, and the crowds of faithful are kneeling hung with tawdry strips of red and white calico. round the altars; the society which gives its The good, kind W- went away, humbly sayballs and dinners, has its scandal and bickerings, ing, that such might have happened again if its aristocrats, parvenues, toadies imported from heaven so willed it.' I could not but feel a kindBelgravia; has its club, its hunt, and its Hyde ness and admiration for the good man. I know Park on the Pincio: and there is the other little his works are made to square with his faith, that English world, the broad-hatted, long-bearded, he dines on a crust, lives as chastely as a hermit, velvet-jacketed, jovial colony of the artists, who and gives his all to the poor. have their own feasts, haunts, and amusements by the side of their aristocratic compatriots, with whom but few of them have the honor to mingle. J. J. and Clive engaged pleasant lofty apart-swer to some spiritual want of his nature, and he ments in the Via Gregoriana. Generations of painters had occupied these chambers and gone their way. The windows of their painting-room looked into a quaint old garden, where there were ancient statues of the Imperial time, a babbling fountain and noble orange-trees, with broad clus-casements and courts, and great gray portals tering leaves and golden balls of fruit, glorious to look upon. Their walks abroad were endlessly pleasant and delightful. In every street there were scores of pictures of the graceful characteristic Italian life, which our painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict their quack brigands, Contadini, Pifferari, and the like, because Thompson painted them before Jones, and Jones before Thompson, and so on, backward into time. There were the children at play, the women huddled round the steps of the open doorways, in the kindly Roman winter; grim portentous old hags, such as Michael Angelo painted, draped in majestic raggery; mothers and swarming bambins; slouching countrymen, dark of beard and noble of countenance, posed in superb attitudes, lazy, tattered, and majestic. There came the red troops, the black troops, the blue troops of the army of priests; the snuffy regiments of Capuchins, grave and grotesque; the trim French abbés; my lord the bishop, with his footman (those wonderful footmen); my lord the cardinal, in his ramshackle coach and his two, nay three, footmen behind him-flunkies that look as if they had been dressed by the costumier of a British pantomime-coach with prodigious emblazonments of hats and coats of arms, that seems as if it came out of the pantomime too, and was about to turn into something else. So it is, that what is grand to some persons' eyes appears grotesque to oth-cution of the Christians. Are not the churches ers; and for certain skeptical persons, that step, which we have heard of, between the sublime and the ridiculous, is not visible.

which giants might get through and keep their turbans on. Why, the houses are twice as tall as Lamb Court itself; and over them hangs a noble dinge, a venerable mouldy splendor. Över the solemn portals are ancient mystic escutcheons -vast shields of princes and cardinals, such as Ariosto's knights might take down; and every figure about them is a picture by himself. At every turn there is a temple: in every court a brawling fountain. Besides the people of the streets and houses, and the army of priests black and brown, there's a great silent population of marble. There are battered gods tumbled out of Olympus and broken in the fall, and set up under niches and over fountains; there are senators namelessly, noselessly, noiselessly seated under archways, or lurking in courts and gardens. And then, besides these defunct ones, of whom these old figures may be said to be the corpses; there is the reigning family, a countless carved hierarchy of angels, saints, confessors, of the latter dynasty which has conquered the court of Jove. I say, Pen, I wish Warrington would write the history of the Last of the Pagans. Did you never have a sympathy for them as the monks came rushing into their temples, kicking down their poor altars, smashing the fair calm faces of their gods, and sending their vestals a-flying? They are always preaching here about the perse

full of martyrs with choppers in their meek heads; virgins on gridirons; riddled St. Sebastians, and the like? But have they never persecuted in their turn? Oh, me! You and I know better, who were bred up near to the pens of Smithfield, where Protestants and Catholics have taken their turn to be roasted.

"I wish it were not so," writes Clive, in one of the letters wherein he used to pour his full heart out in those days. "I see these people at their devotions, and envy them their rapture. A friend, who belongs to the old religion, took me, "You pass through an avenue of angels and last week, into a church where the Virgin lately saints on the bridge across Tiber, all in action; appeared in person to a Jewish gentleman, flash- their great wings seem clanking, their marble gared down upon him from heaven in light and ments clapping; St. Michael, descending upon splendor celestial, and, of course, straightway the Fiend, has been caught and bronzified just as converted him. My friend bade me look at the he lighted on the Castle of St. Angelo, his enepicture, and, kneeling down beside me, I know my doubtless fell crushing through the roof and prayed with all his honest heart that the truth so downward. He is as natural as blank verse might shine down upon me too; but I saw no-that bronze angel-set, rhythmic, grandiose.