and declare that life must be enjoyed. Remorse is like a cancer; it eats life away—the mind becomes a volcano, the flame may burn low; but the fire lives on; and, beneath an outward calmness, there is a hell.

All was mystery to Ermance; but she was miserable. How changed were her smiles! They came, like unlooked-for strangers, to those lips, where, in former days, they lay enamored, like the golden clouds that worship around the sun. They came suddenly, as if to keep tears down in the fountain of sorrow; they were like sun-beams falling upon thick mists, or like the lamps which illumine a sepulchre. Often would her tears choke the utterance of her prayers; and then she would raise her streaming eyes to heaven, and think of the goodness of God, and the misery of her husband; that misery which, though hidden from her, was no mystery to the Eternal. Often would she wander slowly among the beautiful environs of the castle, to try if the beauty and calmness of nature would communicate tranquillity to her soul. Alas! the charm of nature can soothe that sorrow alone whose pangs would yield to time; but the sorrows which are mingled with uncertainty the calmness of nature cannot still. Sometimes she was on the point of telling her misery to Renstern, of throwing herself into his arms, and asking leave to console him; but his looks were forbidding, and she feared to learn evil. At last the misery of uncertainty triumphed over her diffidence and her fears. "Otto," said she, fearfully, and with a trembling voice, “when we drove through Ranstadt, I thought we should be happy at Frankenthall." Renstern made no reply; but she could no longer hide her wretchedness and her tears: she threw herself upon her husband's neck and sobbed bitterly. Renstern did not repulse her. "Ermance," said he, “my kind one, I shall be less gloomy to-morrow, and then you will be happier." The morrow came, and Ermance perceived a change in his manner: he remained at Franken

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thall all day, and spoke more, and looked with more kindness upon her, than she had remembered for a long time. It was the evening, and they were sitting together, and alone; a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and Ermance felt that a ray of hope and happiness had entered her heart. Ermance," said Renstern to her, "I will tell you a story. There was once a Silesian; and this Silesian was an atheist. You know, Ermance, what an atheist is?" 66 Yes," replied she, but I do not wish to hear a story about atheists." "This Silesian," continued he, "inherited great possessions; but they passed from him, no matter how. The Silesian had a rich relative, who had an only son; but the son was in a foreign land; and what do you think the Silesian did?" "I know not," said Ermance. "Nay, but guess," said he ; "the sequel is the best of it." "Indeed I cannot; but look less wildly, Otto." "He forged a will in his own favor, and poisoned his uncle." "His uncle, did you say?" interrupted Ermance. "I know not," continued he; "his relative; but it matters not: the Silesian recovered his lands, and he thought he should then enjoy himself." "Enjoy himself!" interrupted Ermance; "how could a murderer hope to enjoy himself?" "But I have told you," continued Renstern, "that the Silesian was an atheist. He knew that the deed could not be discovered in this world; and as he did not believe in any other, he thought he had nothing to fear.” "He had his conscience to fear,' " said Ermance. "I know not," continued Renstern; " but the Silesian was deceived. He became the slave of fear, and he knew not of what, but yet he was miserable. He was afraid to look around him, lest he should see his uncle; but his fear was foolish, for he knew his uncle could not rise from his grave. He heard forever a silent talking in the air—a horrid silence, which was not silence. The most common things became, in his eyes, objects of terror; even the implements of household use took, in his

imagination, shapes of hideous deformity, which he dared not look upon. The least noise would alarm him."

Ermance trembled: the traits of resemblance had produced no suspicion; still the resemblance affrighted her, and an undefined horror thrilled through her. "Renstern, Otto," said she, "finish this dreadful tale." Presently," continued he: "the Silesian dreaded his sleeping hours the most; and he tried to keep himself awake. His dreams! but they were too dreadful to tell you. He thought of requesting his wife to awake him when he slept." "Alas! he had a wife then?" said Ermance. "He had," continued Renstern; but she knew nothing of his deeds until the day when he poisoned himself." "Alas! his poor wife!" said Ermance. "The Silesian found existence insupportable; and he knew that death would terminate his misery. It might be in the evening about this time, that the Silesian entered the room where his wife was, after he had drunk poison, and he said he would tell her the story of a Bavarian, who- Renstern stoppeddeath was upon his cheek-his eyes closed. "God of mercy!" cried Ermance; and she sprung to him. death kept his prey. He was buried at the old churchyard of Ranstadt; and Ermance lived a life of sorrow, loved and lamented by all, and said daily masses for the soul of Renstern.

TALES OF ARDENNES.

But

A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS AGAINST THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY.

It is not very difficult to see from what arose the vulgar opinion of the poverty of authors. Bad authors have been

always poor-as it is quite fair that they should be; upon the same principle that bad painters, or bad architects, or bad boot-makers, or bad carpenters, or bad any things, have been and always must be poor; for the rule applies equally to tables and tragedies, sermons and shoes. Bad writers have always existed in a much greater number than good; and, their works being most deservedly neglected, or as deservedly ridiculed, they complained very loudly and very absurdly they were unfit for writing; therefore they refused to turn bricklayers: they lived in poverty, and died in want, because they persisted in writing books which nobody would read; and the worse writers they were, the more, of course, they cried out about the injustice with which they were treated, and the poverty to which they were condemned. Mr. D'Israeli has composed two corpulent volumes about their "Calamities," to which we shall presently recur; and the history must be allowed to be sufficiently melancholy, though any reader of that diligent compiler's "Calamities of Authors" cannot fail to be convinced, that all the miseries of all these gentlemen arose from their having mistaken their vocation -that they were either utterly bad writers, or prodigal persons, who would have ruined themselves under any circumstances; and that a history of the calamities of incapable tailors, or inept shoe-makers, may be made up by some one belonging to these classes of operatives, which shall contain as pathetic pictures of the public neglect, or condemnation of their works, as Mr. D'Israeli has assembled in his collection of calamities.

The wits and satirists of the age in which these bad writers lived (for their misery, like their existence, was always forgotten in the next) found their poverty an excellent subject for mirth and ridicule; and, extending it to the whole tribe of authors, they consecrated to their use forever

"Want, the garret, and the jail."

To say nothing of the Greeks, Horace, Martial, Chaucer, Ariosto, Cervantes, Spenser, Shakspeare, Butler, Milton, Moliere, Dryden, Boileau, Prior, Swift, Congreve, Addison, Le Sage, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, Voltaire, Johnson, Fielding, Smollett, Rousseau,-comic writers, poets, epigrammatists, satirists, novelists, wits, all have joined in representing authors as poor, for the sake of the jests that have since set many a table in a roar. But let our readers recur to our list, and they will see that the names of those who have thus held up authors to ridicule are the most successful whom the Muse has "admitted of her crew;" that they are among the most eminent names in ancient and modern literature; that they all lived in comfort, and some even in opulence; that those who were not rich, were poor from causes totally independent of their literary vocation :-and let it be remembered that no complaint has ever been made, in prose or rhyme, by any author, of the general poverty of his tribe, except for the sake of pointing a jest, or heightening a picture.

We might easily be long and dull upon the theme, but we refrain. We have said enough to introduce our proofs of the comfort or affluence in which authors have lived since the earliest days of authorship; and we beg here to premise, that we shall consider the profits arising to authors from places or pensions obtained on account of their works, as the legitimate profits of their writings.

We trust our readers will excuse us for omitting all investigation into the private circumstances of Hermes Trismegistus, the inventor of the Egyptian Statutes at Large; of Cadmus, the inventor of the Greek letters, and consequently the cause of the introduction of birch into English schools; of Amphion, Orpheus, and other great poets of those days; and even of Zoroaster, the hero of many a novel, and some pantomimes. We say, we trust our readers will pardon us for omitting all notice of these gentlemen, seeing that we write this article in a country