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SCENES AND CHARACTERS FROM THE
FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Translated for "Howitt's Journal."
FROM LAMARTINE'S" HISTOIRE DES GIRONDINS.",
(Continued from p. 297.)

MADAME ROLAND.

ROLAND, born in an honest citizen family which enjoyed magisterial offices and asserted pretensions to nobility, was the youngest of five brothers. He was destined for the church. To fly this destination, which was most repugnant to him, at nineteen he left the paternal roof and took refuge at Nantes. Having entered the house of a ship-owner, he was preparing to embark for India, there to connect himself with commerce, when he was detained by illness at the moment of departure. One of his relatives, an inspector of manufactures, received him in Rouen and made him enter his bureau, The administration of that epoch, animated by the spirit of Turgot, was peopled with philosophers. Roland distinguished himself, and the government sent him to Italy to study there the progress of commerce.

He quitted his young friend with regret, and regularly wrote to her scientific letters destined to serve as notes for a work he proposed writing upon Italy, letters in which sentiment revealed itself beneath science; rather the studies of a philosoper than the epistles of a lover. Upon his return she recognized in him a dear friend; his age, his gravity, his manners, his laborious habits, inade her look upon him as a sage whose sole life was that of the intellect. In the union they contemplated, and which resembled love less than one of those antique associations of the time of Socrates and Plato, one sought a disciple rather than a wife, the other espoused a master rather than a husband. M. Roland returned to Amiens. From thence he wrote to the father demanding the hand of his daughter. The father drily refused him. He feared in M. Roland, whose austerity was distasteful to him, a censor for himself, a tyrant for his daughter. Informed of this refusal by her father, the daughter, filled with indignation, entered a convent. There she lived upon the coarsest food prepared by her own hand. She plunged once more into study, and strengthened her heart against adversity. In order to merit happiness she avenged herself upon Fate who seemed determined to deny it her. Still a sentiment of inward bitterness poisoned her very sacrifice. She said to herself that this sentiment was not deserved by its object; she had flattered herself that M. Roland, upon learning her resolution and retreat, would have hastened to tear her from the convent and unite their destinies. Time passed on; Roland came not, nay, hardly wrote. However, at the end of six months he did appear. His imagination was again inflamed upon beholding his friend behind the grate of a convent; he determined upon offering his hand to her himself, and it was accepted. But so much calculation, hesitation, and coldness, had destroyed all the illusion which the young captive might still retain, and reduced her sentiment to severe esteem. She devoted, rather than gave herself to him. It seemed a beautiful thing to her to sacrifice herself to a high-minded man; but she accomplished this sacrifice with all the gravity of reason and no enthusiasm of heart. Her marriage was an act of virtue which she enjoyed, not because it was sweet, but because it was sublime.

The enthusiastic disciple of Rousseau may again be traced in this decisive action of her life. The marriage of Madame Roland is an evident imitation of Heloise marrying M. de Volmar. But the bitterness of reality is not long in revealing itself beneath the heroism of her devotion.

Occupying myself with the happiness of the man whose fate I had associated with my own, I perceived that there was still something wanting to complete my own happiness. Never for a single instant have I ceased to recognize in my husband, one of the most estimable men living, and one to whom I felt it an honour to belong; still I have often felt that there was a certain equality wanting between us, that the ascendancy of a domineering spirit united to the twenty years which made him my senior, redered the disparity too great. If we lived in retirement, I had sometimes painful hours to endure. If we went into the world, I found myself beloved by persons whose affection I perceived might cost me too dear. I absorbed myself in my husband's literary labours; I became the transcriber of his MSS.; the corrector of his proofs; I fulfilled my task with an unmurmuring humility, which strangely enough contrasted with a spirit as bold and practised as my own. But this humility sprung from the heart; I respected my husband so much, that I loved always to believe him my superior; I was so fearful of a shadow on his brow, and he so firmly maintained his own opinions, that it was long before I acquired the strength to contradict him. To all these occupations I united the cares of my household, and perceiving that his delicate health could not support every kind of diet, I undertook to prepare all his food myself. I remained four years at Amiens, and there became a mother. We worked together at the new Encyclopædia, the articles of which relative to commerce had been entrusted to him. We only left our studies to take quiet country walks."

Roland, absolute and selfish, had insisted from the commencement of their marriage, that his wife should cease all intercourse with the young friends she had so tenderly loved in the convent, and who then lived at Amiens. He appeared jealous of the least share of her affections being bestowed upon another. After several years passed at Amiens, Roland was employed in his former capacity of Inspector of Manufactures at Lyons, The winter was spent in the city, the rest of the year in his paternal home where his mother still lived, venerable from age, but irritating and weary in domestic intercourse. Madame Roland, in all the bloom of her youth, beauty, and genius, thus found herself condemned patiently to endure the domestic miseries of an implacable mother-in-law, a violent brother-in-law, and a domineering husband. The most enthusiastic love would scarcely have sufficed to render such a position endurable. Alleviations, however, she had in the sense of her duty, in her work, her philosophy, and her child. These sufficed, and she ended by transforming this austere retreat into an abode of harmony and peace.,

At the foot of the mountains of Beaujolais, in the wide basin of the Saône, in face of the Alps, extends a series of low hills like waves of sand, upon which the patient vine-grower of these districts has planted vines. Oblique valleys and narrow and winding chasms along which extend little green meadows intersect these hills. Each meadow has its little streamlet, flowing from the mountains. Willows, birch, and poplars trace its course and veil its bed. The only trees growing on the sides and summits of the hills themselves, are wild peach-trees, which rise above the low vines without affording them shade, and great walnut-trees in the orchards near the houses. It is upon the side of one these sandy hills that La Platière stands, the paternal heritage of M. Roland; a low house, not very extensive, with long rows of regular windows, and an almost flat roof of red tiles. This roof somewhat overhangs the walls of the house, forming a protection to the windows in summer from the sun, in winter from the rain. The walls unornamented with architectural decoration, are covered by a white cement, cracked and stained by time. You ascend to the vestibule by a flight of five stone steps, surmounted by a rustic balustrade

of rusty iron. A court-yard surrounded by barns, and containing wine-dresses, cellars, and a dovectoe lies in front of the house; behind extends a small kitchen garden, the square beds of which are bordered with box, pinks, and fruit-trees cut low. At the end of each walk stands an arbour. Farther on is an orchard, whose trees, bending in a thousand forms, throw a scanty shade upon an acre or so of short herbage; beyond the orchard lies an extensive vineyard, divided into right lines, by numbers of narrow green paths. Such was the platière. Your eye wanders by turns from the severe horizon line of the Beaujeu mountains, their sides dotted over with black oaks, or covered by immense sloping meadows, on which fatten the oxen of Charolais, to the valley of the Saône, an ocean of verdure, a spire and tower rising here and there. The chain of the high Alps covered with snow, and the dome of Mont-Blanc, which rises majestically over all, form the frame-work to the landscape in which lies something of the infinity of

the sea.

Such, during five years, was the horizon of this remarkable woman. Her time was spent in the cares of her household, the culture of her mind, and in active charity, that culture of the heart. Adored by the peasants, to whom she was a very Providence, she applied to the relief of their poverty that superfluity she enjoyed through the strictest economy, and to the cure of their various ailments, the knowledge she had acquired of medicine. She was frequently sent for from a distance of three or four leagues to visit a sick person. On Sundays the steps of her house might be seen covered with invalids who sought relief, or of convalescents who came to express their gratitude, bringing often baskets of chesnuts, cheese from their goats, or apples from their orchards. It rejoiced her to find these country people just, intelligent, and grateful. But the burning of the chateaux during the September massacres, taught her at a later time, that the human ocean, then so calm, may be agitated by the most fearful storms, and that social institutions are as necessary to the world, as a bed to the ocean, that power is as indispensable as justice in the governments of the people.

Meanwhile the Revolution of '89 had sounded, and surprised Madam Roland in the depths of this etreat. Intoxicated with philosophy, enthusiastic for the ideal of humanity, a worshipper of antique liberty, she believed that this Revolution would bring about the regeneration of the whole world, and terminate the misery of the labouring classes, which so painfully excited her compassion. There is imagination in the very compassion of great souls. The generous illusion of France was at this epoch equal to the work France had to accomplish. Had she not hoped much, she would have dared little. Her faith was her strength.

From this day forth Madame Roland felt within her, a fire which was alone extinguished in her blood. All the latent love which slumbered in her soul was converted into enthusiasm for the good of humanity. She loved the Revolution as a lover. She communicated this flame to her husband and her friends. Happy and beloved, she would have remained the mere noble woman, unhappy and isolated, she became the head of a political party.

The opinions of M. and Madame Roland, had, in the first moment excited against them all the commercial aristocracy of Lyons. Yet through the irresitable current of ideas these very people were borne along the stream of opinion; M. Roland was raised to the Municipality at the first elections, and was despatched to Paris as deputy, by the Municipal Council to defend the commercial interests of Lyons in the committees of the Constituant Assembly.

It was thus on the 20th of February 1791, that Madame Roland returned to Paris which five years

before she had quitted the unobserved, unknown young girl, now re-appearing as a flame to animate a party, found a republic, reign a moment and die!

Madame Roland and her husband allied themselves intimately with several of the most fervent apostles of the popular ideas, with men who appeared to love the Revolution for its own sake, and to devote themselves with a sublime disinterestedness to the progress of humanity. Brissot was one of the first; with him Madame Roland had been some time in correspondence. Brissot brought with him his disciple and friend Péthion, already member of the Constituant Assembly. Buzot and Robespierre, two other members of the same assembly, also were in. troduced. Brissot, Péthion, Buzot, and Robespierre, arranged to meet four evenings a week in Madame Roland's drawing-room. The object of these re-unions was secretly to confer upon the weakness of the Constituant Assembly, upon the snares laid by the aristocrats for the fettered Revolution, and to concert what measures should be taken to consolidate a republican triumph.

Thus Madame Roland found herself, from the very commencement of her political life, thrown into the centre of the revolutionary movement. Her invisible hand touched the first threads of the woof which should bring about such tremendous consequences. This privilege, the only one permitted by her sex, at once flattered her woman's pride, and her passion for politics. She managed all with that modesty which had it not been the gift of nature, would have been a chef d'œuvre of tact in her. Seated at a little distance from the circle, near a work-table, she employed her fingers, or wrote letters, listening all the time to the discussions of her friends, with an apparent indifference. Often tempted to take part she would bite her lips to repress her thoughts. Of an active an energetic mind, the length and wordiness of these discussions, inspired her with a secret contempt. Action evaporated in words, and the hour passed, carrying with it opportunities which would no

more return.

The victories of the Constituant Assembly soon enervated the conquerors. The chiefs of this very Assembly recoiled from their own work, and agreed with the aristocracy that the constitution should be revised in a more monarchial form. The Deputies, who met at Madame Roland's, were filled with discouragement. There remained alone this little knot of steadfast men who were attached to their principles independent of success, and all the more attached to the cause of liberty since fortune seemed ready to betray her.

There is a melancholy curiosity and interest in observing the first impression made upon Madame Roland by the man, who in the beginning warmed in her bosom and conspiring with her, should one day overturn the power of her friends, sacrifice them en masse, and send herself to the scaffold. No repulsive sentiment appears to have at this time forwarned her, that in conspiring the fortune of Robespierre she was conspiring her own death. If ever a vague fear presents itself it is instantly changed into pity, which almost resembles contempt. Robespierre appears to her an honest man. Still she had remarked that he was ever concise and guarded in these committees, that he listened to every one's opinion before giving his own, and never gave himself the trouble of explaining his motives. Like every imperious man his own conviction appeared to himself reason sufficient. Yet the next day he would mount the tribune, and profiting by the private discussions he had heard the night before, would get the start of his friends, and thus disconcert their plan of conduct. He would excuse himself at Roland's on the plea of youthful indiscretion. After the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars, Robespierre, accused of having been concerned in the proceedings of the day, and menaced with the vengeance of the National Guard, was forced to conceal himself. Madame

Roland, accompanied by her husband, hastened, at eleven at night, to his retreat in the Marais, to offer him a safe asylum in their own house. He had alread fled. Madame Roland then hastened to Buzot, their mutual friend, and conjured him to exert his influence with the Feuillants, and get Robespierre exculpated before the decree of accusation was issued against him. Buzot hesitated a moment, then said, "I will do all in my power to save this unhappy young man, although I am far from concurring in the opinion of many people concerning him. He thinks too much about himself truly to love libery. But he is useful to liberty, and that is enough. I will be there to defend him. Thus did three future victims of Robespierre's, in one night, conspire to preserve that man who should one day destroy them. Destiny no less extends its snare to men through their virtues than through their crimes. Death is everywhere, but it is virtue alone which repents not, In the dungeons of the Conciergérie, Madame Roland recalled this night with satisfaction. If in his power Robespierre recalled it, it must have fallen colder upon his heart than the axe of the executioner.

After the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly, M. and Madame Roland, their mission ended, returned to La Platière. The most trifling pretext, however, sufficed to recall them. In the month of December, we again find them in Paris. It was the hour of their friends' advancement, Péthion had been just nominated Mayor of Paris; Robespierre, excluded from the Legislative Assembly by that law which precluded the election of former deputies had raised a tribune for himself among the Jacobins. Brissot had taken the place of Buzot, and his renown as a publicist and statesman had rallied round his doctrines the young Girodists. The Girondists arriving from their department with all the ardour of their youth and the impulse of a revolutionary wave, threw themselves immediately into the plans prepared by Robespierre, Buzot, Leclos, Danton, and Brissot.

"And this as if with pleasure," added the woman. "The dear child, she was grown very frail; and yet at fifteen she was a very rose-bud-so pretty—so freshHer light hair was soft as silk; but she perished slowly, her trade of wool-comber, killed her. She has, so to say, been poisoned by the dust of the wool-her business being all the more unhealthy and dangerous as she worked for the poor, whose bedding is always made of refuse material."

She had the courage of a lion and the resignation of an angel. She used to say to me in her sweet, low, voice, interrupted by a frequent dry cough

"I shall not have long to breathe vitriol all day and lime dust; I spit blood and have sometimes cramp at the chest which makes me faint."

"But change your business!" I have said to her. "And where shall I find the time for a fresh apprenticeship ?" she would reply. "And even then it would be now too late, I am already attacked.-It was not my fault"-added the good little creature" for I did not choose my trade; it was my father; happily he does not need me. And when one is dead-one has nothing to trouble oneself about, one does not fear to be idle."

Victoire spoke this melancholy common-place with the greatest sincerity, and with a kind of satisfaction. She died also saying

"At last! at last!"

How sad it is to think that labour, by which the poor must gain their bread, is frequently a long suicide!

I said this to Agricol the other day, and his reply was that there are many other trades which are mortal, the workers in aqua-fortis and white and red-lead, among others, are attacked by incurable maladies which they have foreseen, and of which they die.

"Dost thou know"" added Agricol," dost thou know what they say when they leave home for these murderous work-shops? We are going to the abattoir !" This word of fearful truth made me shudder.

"And such things happen in the present day!" exclaimed I, touched to the heart. And people know of them! And among so many powerful men, no one remembers this mortality among his brethren, who are forced to earn a homicidal bread!”

Roland, the friend of all these men, but occupying a second grade, and hidden by their shadow, enjoyed one of those unobtrusive reputations, all the more powerful through its very want of éclat; he was spoken of as possessing antique virtue concealed beneath a rustic simplicity. It was the genius of his wife alone "What dost thou mean, my poor Mayeux ?" rewhich drew observation upon him, As he was feared plied Agricol, "whilst people are formed into ranks to by no one, he was brought forward by every one; by be slaughtered in battle, there will be thought enough Péthion as a shield; by Robespierre as a prey; Brissot expended upon that kind of organization. But an orsought to conceal the disgrace of his own bad reputa-ganization for life;-no one thinks of that! They say, tion behind a proverbial honesty; Buzot. Vergniaud,Bah! the hunger, misery, and sufferings of the artisan, Louvet, Gensonne, and the Girondists exalted him what are they?-they are not politics.—But they dethrough respect for his scientific acquirements, and admiration and friendship for his wife; the very Court, through confidence in his honesty and contempt of his influence. Thus this man acquired power without striving after it, through the favour and self-interest of one party, the contempt of his enemies, and the genius of his wife.

(To be continued.)

EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF LA
MAYEUZ.

A DEFORMED NEEDLEWOMAN.

Translated for Howitt's Journal, from Le Juif
Errant.

I HAVE just returned from the interment of this poor little Victoire Herbin, our neighbour. Her father, a working upholsterer, has gone away from Paris, to work by the month. She died at the age of nineteen, without a relation near her. Her death was without agony. The good woman who watched over her till the last moment, told us she only pronounced these words,-"At last! At last!"

The following details may be read in the Ruche Populaire, an excellent publication edited by artizans, and of which we have already spoken.

MATTRESS WOOL-COMBERS.-The dust which escapes from the wool renders the carding of it a most injurious business, the dangers of which are augmented by the falsities of trade. When a sheep is killed, the wool upon its neck is stained with blood and to sell this wool it is necessary to remove the stains. To do this the fleece is steeped in quick-lime, particles of which remain behind in the wool after bleaching. It is the workwoman who suffers from the lime, which, detaching itself in form of dust, attacks her lungs, generally producing violent cramp at the chest, and vomitings which reduce her to the most deplorable condition. The greater number abandon their trade; whilst those who continue in it are seized-even those who suffer least-with a catarrh or asthma; which only leaves them at death. And if in horsehair, the superior kinds called "samples," are impure, you may judge what the inferior must be. They are called by the work women "Vitriol-hair," and are the refuse of goat's hair and hog's bristles, and are first passed through vitriol, and then dyed to burn and conceal the refuse matter, such as straws, thorns, and pieces of flesh even which they have not taken the trouble to remove, and which are frequently recognized in working the hair. From this hair rises a dust

which causes ravages as fearful as those caused by the wool dust.

ceive themselves," added Agricol," THEY ARE MORE MIGHTY THAN POLITICS."

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As Victoire left nothing with which to pay for the funeral service, there was merely the presentation of the body in the church-porch; for there is not for the poor even a simple death-mass - and then, as there were no eighteen francs with which to fee the Curé, noj priest accompanied the bier of poverty to the common grave.

If such simple brief funeral ceremonies suffice in a religious point of view, wherefore imagine other ceremonies? Is it from cupidity? If, on the contrary, they are insufficient, why render the poor the victims of this insufficiency?

But wherefore trouble yourselves about this pomp, this incense, these chauntings, of which the priests are more or less prodigal or avaricious? What matter they ?-what matter they? They are only vain and terrestrial things, and of such, the soul will have no longer need, when radiant, it ascends towards the Creator."

CHILDREN IN EXILE.

Two Indian boys were carried to London not long ago for exhibition, and both died soon after their arrival. It is related, that one of them, during his last moments, talked incessantly of the scenes and sports of his distant home, and that both wished earnestly to be taken back to their native woods.

Some say that herea murder hath been done.-WORDSWORTH.

Their wigwam opened on the vine
That o'er its rafters hung,
And busy robins, building near,
Above the threshold sung-
Far in the dark old forest glades,
Where violets bloom around,
They had their place of youthful sport,
Their childhood's hunting ground.

Each morn their little dusky feet

Sprang down the sparkling lea,
To plunge beneath the glowing stream
Beside the chesnut tree;

And when the hiding squirrel's nest
They sought for up the hills,
They bathed their reeking foreheads cool
Among the mountain rills.

They saw the early golden moon

Peep through her wavy bower, And in her beams they chased the bat Around his leafy towerAnd when the stars, all silently, Went out o'er hill and plain, They loved to hear the merry chime Of summer evening rain.

These haunts they missed--the city air
No healthful music brings,-
They longed to roam green woodland dells,
Where Nature ever sings,-
And drooping 'mid the noise and glare,
They pined for brook and glen,

Literary Notices.

Judas Iscariot, a Miracle Play. By R. H. HORNE. London: C. Mitchell, Red Lion Court. 1848.

The present revolutions of the world are not confined to political institutions; wonderful changes are also taking place in opinions. Various estimates of men and things which were supposed to be settled in the world's judgement, are now undergoing important modifications; and in like manner, various new views on all matters are rising round us, and if not insisting upon being well-founded, at least claiming to be heard. Of this class is the character of Judas Iscariot-dark and repulsive under any view, but fairly open to argument on the score of its mysteriousness and incongruity as commonly understood. A new view (but avowedly not originated by himself) is taken of this character in the work before us, by Mr. Horne. On this new view he has built this "Miracle Play," which, independent of its genius as a dramatic production of that originality and power which characterize all the productions of the author of "Orion." is at the same time one of the most extraordinary works that ever issued from the press. We shall be much mistaken if all the press do not agree with us in this opinion.

"It had frequently occurred to me." says the author in his preface, "that the story of Judas Iscariot contained elements of a tragedy of a more terrible kind than could be developed from any other event in history; but for the first idea of attempting it, I am indebted to an ordination sermon delivered by his Grace the Archbishop of Dublin."

The following quotation from the Archbishop's sermon is subjoined in explanation

"In contemplating the case of Judas Iscariot, you should first remark, that there is no reason for concluding, as unreflecting readers often do, that he was influenced solely by the paltry bribe of thirty pieces of silver (probably equal in silver to about sixty shillings; and in value to perhaps twice that sum in the present day) to betray his master, and to betray him designedly to death. That Jesus possessed miraculous powers, Judas must have well known; and it is likely that, if he believed Him to be the promised Messiah, who was about to establish a splendid and powerful kingdom (an expectation which it is plain was entertained by all the apostles) he must have expected that his master, on being arrested and brought before the Jewish rulers, would be driven to assert his claim, by delivering himself miraculously from the power of his enemies; and would at once accept the temporal kingdom which the people were already eager (and would then have been doubly eager) to offer him. That if our Lord had done this, he would have been received with enthusiastic welcome, as the nation's deliverer from Roman bondage, there can be no doubt; since He would thus have fulfilled the fondly cherished hopes of the multitudes who had just before brought him in triumph to Jerusalem. And it was most natural for Judas to expect that Jesus would so conduct himself if delivered up to his enemies. As for his voluntarily submitting to stripes and indignities and to a disgraceful death, no such thought seems ever to have occurred to Judas any more than it did to the other apostles. But the difference between Iscariot and his fellow-apostles was, that, though all had the same expectations and conjectures, he dared to act on his conjectures, and departing from the plain course of his known duty, to follow the calculations of his worldly wisdom, and the schemes of his worldly ambition; while they piously submitted to their master's guidance, "even when they understood not the things that He said unto them."

Preface p. p. III-IV.

This is a great subject. Within the range of tragedy there is none so great-so terrible. We find ourselves concerned in the motives of that man who became the instrument through whom our GREAT MASTER was JAMES T. FIELDS. brought to the consummation of his mission, in that

And dying, still looked fondly back, And asked for Home again.

Boston, U. S.

stage of his being which he accomplished on earth; a man too, who was one of the twelve chosen friends of Christ, dignified in especial, by the name of Apostles. The very greatness of the theme indeed renders it startling at first view. "Is not this dangerous ground?" we say. "Is it not daring to venture upon this as a subject for dramatic poetry ?"

We search the work itself for a reply, and we find in the mode of its construction a satisfactory solution of our doubts. We find that while the great interest clings around the person of our Lord, while his spirit pervades every scene, while every incident hangs upon his words, his acts, his sufferings, yet he Himself never appears in any one scene. He is the subject of the dialogue, but He does not mix in it. He is the centre of the action, yet He does not revolve before our eyes. We hear him through other mouths, we see Him through other eyes. We feel that on two or three occasions He moves behind the divine veil that separates the scene from the background-but He is never visible. Thus it is that He passes crowned with his bloody thorns; and He hangs pale on His cross to our mental eye, seen through the agonized vision of the wretched traitor. This mode of construction, arising out of the deep-felt reverence of the poet, inspires us, as we read, with a like emotion, and excites the frame of mind suited to the study of the work.

In like manner, the treatment of the character of Judas is true to the correct instinct of a great dramatist. Though raised out of the mire of depravity, which in the common version of his crime clings around him (as one who could betray his MASTER for thirty pieces of silver), he is not elevated into a hero. He is represented as of character too gross to comprehend the teaching of Christ, or enter into its real meanings; as a man of fierce passions, revengeful, ambitious, a seeker of his own glory through the glorification of his LORD; presumptuous, and careless as to his means to accomplish his end; and that end-the elevation of his MASTER to a triumphant kingdom, His fiery vengeance on His enemies, and his own high place in the new dynasty. At the same time he is represented as of ardent faith, of devoted adherence to Christ, and of unbounded belief in his power; this very faith and devotion galling him with a sense of intolerable impatience, and making him rush upon the means which he conceived would hurry on the consummation he desired, viz., that of the Messiah's kingdom upon earth. The "kingdom of heaven," whether to be spiritually ac complished on earth or in another state, formed no part of the thoughts of Judas. The following short portion of a discourse among the Apostles will illustrate our meaning.

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Even in this short extract, the admirable working of the other characters of the drama will be perceived. They include, besides the Apostles whom we have enumerated in the extract, Mary the mother of Christ. Mary the sister of Lazarus, and Mary Magdalene, Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas and Annas, Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, and Lazarus of Bethany, also Claudia the wife of Pilate.

Among these, the Apostle John is a lovely personification; presenting in poetry an image such as in painting is given us by Raffaelle. Christ, though appearing in two scenes, speaks only The Mother of once, but her silence is more expressive than all words, and when she speaks, she thrills us with an emotion never to be forgotten, uttering words that comprehend all the height and the depth of the emotions awakened by that solemn moment of anguish and of faith in the accomplished work, and all this in one line. Mary Magdalene is given truly with the fervent love that washed the feet with her tears and wiped them with the long tresses of her hair, and that was to lead her to the sepulchre "early in the morning of the first day of the week."

But the two characters which are worked out in the most masterly manner-always excepting the principa! the very embodiment of priestcraft; an epitome of the one-are Caiaphas and Pontius Pilate. Caiaphas is vices into which that institution has plunged its functionaries. There is a scene in which, it is artfully managed, that he should profess and enunciate as the truth every error in certain sciences, which modern knowledge has exploded. How finely done too is the following, and, alas! how strangely like the way in which those who, in this our 19th century, sit in high places, and are called Masters and Teachers among us, yet speak. Caiaphas is arguing with Pilate, who would save Jesus:

Caiaphus.

He hath taught the people that all men are brothers, and should be equal; that no man should be master and rabbi; and that he is greatest who serveth most. What is this but evil speaking, and false doctrine, and lying and slandering? For do we not very well know, O Pilate, that the people are not the brothers of those who sit in high places, nor have they any equality except among their fellows who dwell with them. Are there not kings upon the earth, and high priests, and governors of great dignity and many slaves? Why answerest thou not a word?

Act I., sc. III.

Pontius Pilate equally with Judas Iscariot, is raised out of his "monster" character, and represented as he truly was-a Roman magistrate of average, or rather

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