lowing remarks on Rousseau's character, and the circumstances by which it was formed, strike us as important and original:

"The effects that Rousseau produced, and the extravagances, both of thought and conduct, into which he plunged-that is, his genius and his inconsistencies are- it has always struck us, to be traced to one or two obvious singularities in his condition, which have not been sufficiently observed upon, either by his present historian, or by any of the preceding writers, whether friends or foes, who have laboured to explain, or to expose the character of this extraordinary man. The most striking of these peculiarities was the utter want of coincidence between his theoretic maxims, and his temperament and habits. His education was irregular and vicious. In his infancy he was turned adrift upon the world, with no other guides than the passions of his age, and the licentious examples that surrounded him. For many years he continued a vagabond and an addventurer, sometimes so needy as to pass the night without house or food-inevitably con-tracting the vices of each successive mode of Alife upon which he chanced to be flung, but ever, as he has stated it himself, finding consolation, under the severest privations, in the ideal anticipations of a sensual imagination. Before his twentieth year, he had been successively apprenti greffier, graveur, laquais, D valet-de-chambre, séminariste, interprète, d'un archimandrite, secrétaire du cadastre, maître de musique." (i. p. 41.) At that age he found a resting-place; but, as if it were fated that his morals were to be benefitted by no change of fortune, the residence of his protectress became the scene where the last remnant of virtuous restraint, that had survived his wanderings, was to be sacrificed to 1 her example, and deliberate invitation.

"Such was the commencement and consummation of Rousseau's moral education; and it is little to be wondered at, if, in the result, he became, to every practical purpose, irretrievably enervated by the corrupt manners and habits amidst which his youth was passed. But his intellectual character was not so quickly decided. The growth of his faculties, it appears, was unusually slow; up to the age of thirty-nine his talents were unknown to his friends, and almost to himself. He had previously, it is true, obscure intimations of his strength from visitations of ambitious reverie-the inquietude of genius was about him; but up to the very moment of the explosion of his mind, neither Rousseau himself, nor any who had known him, ever anticipated the career that was before him. At last he became an author, being now on the verge of forty. By this time his experience of life, in all its forms, had been great. He had been an acute, though a

silent observer of the varied scenes he had witnessed. He had, for the last ten years, been initiated in the mysteries of Parisian society, then at its most profligate period; and his quick and comprehensive understanding had seized the complicated system of vices, in all their disastrous consequences, with which it teemed. He saw that system, and, with the help of his imagination, in all its deformity. But Rousseau's aversion to the disorders that he afterwards signalised himself in denouncing, had this singularity, that it appears, in the first instance, to have been almost entirely an intellectual repugnance. Perhaps to assert that it was not a moral sentiment, may seem either a perversion of language, or at best a pedantic distinction; but when we remember the history and the habits, both previous and subsequent, of the man, it appears clearly to have belonged rather to that class of moral sentiIments, which result from the conclusions of a vigorous understanding (or more correctly speaking, perhaps, may be called those conclusions themselves), than to the instinctive movements of an habitually virtuous mind. Thus by the time that Rousseau's philosophical opinions were formed, his personal morals were gone; and it was his fate to commence his public career, inveterately attached, by taste and temperament, to many of the licentious indulgences, against which he vehemently, and, we do think, very sincerely inveighed. This view, we imagine, will go pretty far towards explaining several of the singularities in his works, and his life."-pp. 121-126.

There are also some personal reminiscences of Barry the painter, whom our author, then a mere boy, had met a little before his death. The notice is, in many respects, interesting, and in one is important, as correcting the notion of Barry's having died in the extreme destitution that had been supposed. At the period of his death an annuity had been purchased for him; "and this recognition of his claims cheered his latter days. He determined on removing to a house sufficiently spacious for the execution of a series of epic paintings that he had long been meditating." In this dream Death found him.

Of Barry's strange mode of life accounts have been before given. The most remarkable till the present was one of a visit by Mr. Southey. Cur. ran when he was taken to see the great Barry was a mere boy; and with the word "great" had associated ideas of dignity and opulence. What was his surprise when he came upon

the actual den in which the old magician lived.

"The area was bestrewn with skeletons of cats and dogs, marrow-bones, waste-paper, fragments of boys' hoops, and other playthings, and with the many kinds of missiles, which the pious brats of the neighbourhood had hurled against the unhallowed premises. A dead cat lay upon the projecting stone of the parlour window, immediately under a sort of appeal to the public, or a proclamation setting forth, that a dark conspiracy existed for the wicked purpose of molesting the writer, and injuring his reputation, and concluding with an offer of some pounds as a reward to any one who should give such information as might lead to the detection and conviction of the offenders. This was in Barry's hand-writing, and occupied the place of one pane of glass. The rest of the framework was covered with what I had once imagined to be necromantic devicessome of his own etchings, but turned upside down, of his great paintings at the Adelpi. Young as I was, I was not insensible to the moral of the scene. I was ignorant at the time whether what I saw had been wantonly provoked, or whether it was cruel and capricious vengeance for non-conformity to popular observances; but whichever might be the case, the spectacle before me engraved upon my inexperienced mind an important truth, which I have subsequently had too many occasions to apply, that genius, however rare, without temper and conduct, is one of the most disastrous privileges, to which man in his mistaken ambition can aspire.

"While I was unconsciously laying in these materials for after-reflection, my friends gave a second and louder knock. It was answered by almost as loud a growl from the second-floor window. We looked up, and beheld a head thrust out, surmounted by a hunting-cap, and wearing in front a set of coarse and angry features, while a voice, intensely Irish, in some hasty phrases made up of cursing and questioning, demanded our names and business. Before my 'companions had time to answer, they were recognised. In went the head and huntingcap and surly visage; in a few seconds the door was opened, and I was introduced to the celebrated Barry. I well remember his dress and person, and can recall, almost without an effort, the minutest details of this, and of my subsequent interviews with him. The hunting-cap was still on, but on a nearer view, I perceived that the velvet covering had been removed nothing but the bare and unseemly skeleton remained. He wore a loose, thread-bare, claret-coloured great-coat, that reached to his heels, black waistcoat, black et-ceteras, grey worsted stockings, coarse unpolished shoes with leathern thongs, no neckcloth, but, like Jean

--

Jaques Rousseau, whom he resembled in many other less enviable particulars, he seemed to have a taste for fine linen. His shirt was not only perfectly clean, but equally genteel in point of texture, with even a touch of dandyism in the elaborate plaiting of the frills. On the whole, his costume gave the idea of extreme negligence without uncleanliness.

"His person was below the middle size, sturdy and ungraceful. You could see at once that he had never practised bowing to the world. His face was striking. An Englishman would call it an Irish, an Irishman a Munster face; but Barry's had a character independent of national or provincial peculiarities. It had vulgar features, but no vulgar expression. It was rugged, austere, and passion-beaten; but the passions traced there were those of aspiring thought, and unconquerable energy, asserting itself to the last, and sullenly exulting in its resources. Of this latter feeling, however, no symptoms broke out on the present occasion. His two visitors were old friends, heartily attached to his fame; and neither of them had ever handled a brush. He greeted them with Irish vehemence and good-humour, and in the genuine intonations of his native province. His friends smiled at his attire. He observed it, and joined in the laugh. 'It was,' he said, his ordinary working-dress, except the cap, which he lately adopted to act as a shade for his eyes when he engraved at night.' They told him, they had come to see the recent specimens of his art, and particularly his Pandora. He answered, that they should see that, and everything else in the house. We proceeded to the staircase, when Barry, suddenly recollecting himself, turned back and double-locked the street-door. The necessity of this precaution seemed to bring a momentary gloom into his looks, but it passed away, and he mounted cheerfully before us. He opened the door of the back-room on the first-floor, and entered first to clear away the cobwebs before us. The place was full of engravings, sketches, and casts, confusedly heaped together, and clotted with damp and dust. The latter he every now and then removed by a vigorous slap with the skirt of his coat. There were some engravings there that he valued highly. I forget the subjects, but I perfectly recollect the ardour, and the occasional delicacy and tenderness of manner, with which he explained their beauties. He apologised for the disorder around him, which arose, he said, from want of space, for he could trust nothing in the front-room. The observation introduced the subject of the molestation of his premises. He spoke without much emotion of his mischievous neighbours, and detailed his fruitless efforts to counteract their schemes of annoyance, pretty much as a man would recount his defensive operations against rats, or any other domestic nuisance. In the course of the conversa

tion, he explained the cause of the solitude in which he lived. While going over the plates executed by himself, he pointed out one or two that he had detected his last maid-servant in the act of purloining. He hinted that she must have been corrupted by the enemies of his fame; at all events, he expelled her forthwith, and never after admitted another within his doors. Some specimens of art lay in his bed-chamber-the back-room on the second-floor. He took us

up there, but I forbear a minute description. For the honour of genius, I would forget the miserable truckle upon which a man, whose powers were venerated by Edmund Burke, lay down to forget his privations and his pride."-pp. 171-176.

We wish that we had room for further extracts from these very pleasing and instructive volumes, but we have exceeded our space.

It was a cold winter night in the month of December of the year 1847. During the whole of the day a heavy fall of snow had covered the streets of Milan with a sheet of white, but towards evening a shower of rain had succeeded, and swept almost entirely away the vestiges of Winter's pall. The change, however, was still worse, for the streets were in various parts almost covered with water, and a heavy northerly wind sent the rain dashing in the face of any foolhardy person who ventured forth to meet the inclemency of the weather.

On this night, as if indifferent to the state of the atmosphere, were seen two persons issuing from the Palazzo Borroméo, closely enveloped in large mantles, and pursuing their course towards a long line of small, intricate streets, which leads in the direction of the Castle. What expedition they were on might be difficult to conjecture, but that it was of no pleasant import could be easily seen from the way in which they carefully looked around them, as if fearful of being recognised or followed, perhaps, by some of the many spies in the Austrian police service. After pursuing their path through an interminable number of narrow streets, they at length paused, and carefully gazed around. Not a human being appeared in sight; and satisfied with their scrutiny, they

turned down a narrow court, and cautiously knocked at the door of an old and seemingly dilapidated building, which one would have thought was uninhabited. The knock was a peculiar one, and notwithstanding the advanced hour, it being then past one in the morning, it received immediate attention, for the door opened, and a voice spoke in utter darkness, demanding who was there.

"A friend to justice," responded one of the two persons.

"In what manner?"

"In seeking redress from Hope itself."

"Enter, Signor Porro; I recognise your voice well; there is no danger in admitting you, even without the usual formula.'

"Ah! is that you, Borgazzi; I am glad of it. Let us in immediately, for the weather is frightful, although all the better to conceal our meeting."

"Follow me, signor, but be careful how you descend the stairs. A light you are aware might betray our movements to eyes that are better blinded."

The man who spoke was Girolamo Borgazzi, a noble and warm-hearted person, inspector of the Monza railroad. He was afterwards mortally wounded by a bullet at the Milan outbreak, and died, deservedly lamented by his friends. His last words were a prayer for his country's success.

"You need not fear, Borgazzi, I know the locality perhaps better than yourself; and the Baron Pinaldi, my companion, who you seem not to recognise, has also some acquaintance with the mysteries of the place."

"I beg the Signor Barrone's pardon; but we had better descend to the Concordia."

"Proceed, Borgazzi, we will follow you."

Feeling their way down a long flight of stairs, they reached a kind of empty vault. Here they halted for a few moments, whilst Borgazzi proceeded to strike a light from a small tinderbox and candle he carried in his pocket. The instant he had succeeded in doing so, he approached a corner of the vault and removed a small stone. A piece of iron presented itself to the view, which, on being turned several times, a part of the wall opened, leaving a sufficient space for Porro, the Baron, and Borgazzi to enter and descend a small spiral staircase. In a few moments the three persons had descended in safety to a small and narrow passage, which on pursuing for about two hundred yards seemingly terminated. Searching for a few moments, Borgazzi applied his mouth to a small hole in the wall, and whistled three times in a peculiar manner. A noise was then heard as if some individual was endeavouring to remove a heavy piece of masonry, and then a part of the wall opened and disclosed to the sight another narrow passage, terminating in a large vault lighted with torches.

"Mio caro amico," exclaimed a young man who had seemingly effected for them an entrance, "what a pleasure to see you. I have been waiting with impatience for this hour past, Porro, to greet your entrance into our new masonic assemblage of political brotherhood. Ah! Baron, is that you, and in good company, too, for a wonder? Come in, come in, and let me close up our den for fear the fox might scent it."

"Bevilacqua, when will your mad tongue cease to rattle? I thought mine was bad enough once, but yours is decidedly a combination of all the evils," uttered Porro in reply.

"So much the better, for it will protect me from my enemies, without need of other defence. But come, your friends are waiting for you."

He who now led forward the new arrived was the Marquis Bevilacqua, a young man of a high and illustrious family of Brescia. He was killed the same day he joined his regiment, the Royal Piedmont, at Sona, on the 27th April, 1848.

Proceeding down the passage, they entered a large vault, where were assembled some twenty or thirty persons, nearly all of them members of high and illustrious families. The entrance of Porro was warmly greeted by the persons present, as also that of his friend Pinaldi. The scene was a curious one. Many were standing, while others had formed rude seats for themselves from heavy and uncouth pieces of stone, lying around in different parts of the vault. The air was damp, cold, and nauseous; and an attempt had been made to dispel the noxious vapours by kindling a fire, which, in concert with some three or four torches, had, to a great extent, filled the vault, large though it was, with smoke. The persons assembled there had evidently been discussing some subject of im portance, which the entrance of Porro and the others had momentarily stopped, for the Count Pompeo Litta was addressing some observations to the others.

"Signori, I am glad my noble friends the Signor Porro and the Baron Pinaldi have joined our meeting to aid us with their counsel. The opinion I advanced but a short time ago, I still retain, even more strongly than I did previously. We should not move or stir without some strong guarantee that we shall be supported by a power, Italian if possible, in the struggle we are thinking of making. Look over the difficulties of the task; pause well and consider them, and you will soon become converts to my opinion. The inertness of the Italian people; their long habits of ease; the want of arms and of able leaders, all present a mass of barriers most difficult to overcome. On the other hand, a strong and powerful army, commanded by a marshal who won his present position by wading through many a field of carnage, supplied with all the necessary materials of war, - these are among the many facts you have to contend with. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary to insure, in any degree, a successful result from our arduous undertaking, that we should be well assured of some ex