fering, so as to turn the earlier regard of his austere parishioners into reverence. Lockhart's work in the Quarterly, beginning with the assumption of the editorOf the delightful "Life of Burns we ship in 1826, marks, of course, the matushall say little, and less still of the "Life rity of his literary experience. Yet we of Scott." It is difficult to define the qual- may be forgiven for expressing the opinities of a good biographer; but it is cer- ion, that in independence of thought, as tain that Lockhart's biographical abilities in inimitable vigor and freshness of style, were altogether hors de ligne, although, the early papers in "Maga," such as those undoubtedly, he was exceptionally fortu- on "Greek Tragedy" and "Pulpit Elonate in his subjects. He had the memory quence," will compare with it by no means and the minute observation of a Boswell, unfavorably. Necessarily, what strikes with a nature altogether antipathetical to us first is the feature we have already that of the lexicographer's obsequious adverted to the extraordinary range of shadow. He was never dazzled by the most incongruous subjects which he hanbrilliant sparkle of genius, and he was dles with all the knowledge of an expert ; keenly alive to defects. He could arrange while they are remarkable enough as his materials as happily as he selected mere proofs of the industry of a man who them. He could grasp characters as he mixed much in the world, and had always grouped facts and incidents picturesquely many irons in the fire. Next, since the round his central figure; his knowledge of knowledge is never ostentatiously pacharacter and of human nature quickened raded, we only gradually awaken to the his intuitive gifts of perception; and, sat- extent of his literary attainments, and in irist as he was, he had the kindly sympa- that respect the advance is very visible. thies which showed the objects of his His political information is become accuaffections in their most engaging lights, rate and practical; he writes in an intiwhile passing judgment on their faults and mate acquaintance with public men and foibles with the tolerance of a man of the their probable lines of conduct in particworld. The essayists and biographers ular circumstances; he makes the most who have followed him with fuller mate of exceptional sources of information; rials at their disposal, have subjected while he judges political opponents with Burns's moral conduct to searching scru- almost cynical tolerance, and his imprestiny; and Mr. Stevenson, the last of them, sions have ripened with experience into while professing to write a vindication, convictions. That he was an admirable seems to us to be the most austere of all. editor we cannot doubt. From his private It strikes us that Lockhart, taking broader | letters to Mr. Blackwood, we know his views from a more commanding stand- promptitude in matters of business; and point, is not only more genial than most, we can well believe in the honesty of the but as just as any. Admitting the poet's tribute paid him by the writer of the artifaults, he shows that not a few of his can-cle in the Quarterly: — did critics had taken him as an inviting text for moral homilies; and that much of the evidence on which his character had been blackened, came less of his own unguarded admissions, than of his romantic indulgence in poetical license; while Lockhart's admiration of Burns's transcendent and redeeming genius is based upon a delicate analysis of the beauties of works that were flashed off in raptures of inspiration, and crowded into some of the months of the poet's prime. As only a Scotchman and a poet could have written that "Life of Burns," so nobody but a Every one who had an opportunity of knowScotchman, a man of literary genius, anding how Lockhart treated the essays which it a confidential friend, could have done jus- was his function to introduce to the public, tice to the biography of Scott. We say he could by a few touches add grace and point will remember the exquisite skill with which no more of the "Life," than that it is no unworthy memorial of the illustrious throw off superfluous matter, develop a halfto the best-written papers-how he could writer whose career has been depicted expressed thought, disentangle a complicated sympathetically and admiringly, yet with sentence, and give life and spirit to the solid an absolute sincerity that does equal sense of a heavy article, as the sculptor ani. honor to Sir Walter and his son-in-law. mates the shapeless stone. ... He was It is impossible to say too much of his punctuality in all things concerning contributors. The post was not more sure to bring the immediate letter of acknowledgment and courteous encouragement and commendation, than Lockhart was to write it. an admirable man of business, and he was so simply because he knew what men of genius are apt to forget, that this is one of the most sure and effective ways of showing kindness. Again, the writer speaks of his editorial tact, in matters of which no outsider has the means of judging: And we need scarcely observe, that such quate justice has never been done to him, and the life of one of the most brilliant of biographers remains unwritten. The man who might best have perpetuated his uncle's memory was the valued contributor whom we lost the other day, and to whom we bade farewell in the obituary notice which appeared in the "Maga" of last May. From Macmillan's Magazine. PALAYE. I. IN one of the mountainous districts of the south of France, which in the last century were covered with forests, the highway ran up through the rocky valley by the side of a roaring torrent. On the right hand and on the left the massive foliage descended to the banks, and filled up the small and intervening ravines with a bosky shade. Here and there a lofty crag broke out from the sea of green leaves, and now and then the pointed roofs of a château or the spire of a village church witnessed to the existence of man, and gave an interest and a charm to the beautiful scene. In proof of Lockhart's activity and versatility, we find repeatedly two or three articles in a single number; while the Quarterlies for the single year 1834 contain no fewer than thirteen contributions, five of which appeared in No. CII. We THE MARQUIS JEANNE HYACINTH DE ST. have neither the space nor the presumption to enter upon any cursory criticism of articles of such varied and remarkable excellence. We may observe, however, that such subjects as the lives and writings of the poets, seem to be at once the most suggestive and to have the greatest permanent value. With refined appreciation or warm sympathy, he applies sound but elastic principles of criticism, which he indicates rather than obtrudes. And as a proof of the advantages of a critic of genius being at the same time a man of the world, we may call attention to his articles on the lives of Sheridan and Lord Byron by Thomas Moore. In the former, the brilliant biographer had done some injustice both to the subject of the biography and to sundry other people. Lockhart, with logical cogency of reasoning and knowledge, vindicates the memory of the dead and the reputations of the living, explaining away misconceptions and exposing misrepresentations very little, as we should imagine, to Mr. Moore's liking. Indeed the task is performed apparently so much con amore, that we maliciously prepare to enjoy our selves over another case of masterly discomfiting when we take up the article on the better-known work. But in that unkindly anticipation we are disappointed, although the article is full of a personal interest, thanks to the distinguished subject and the reviewer's knowledge of him. Lockhart in bestowing generous praise on a work where the author's talents had been stimulated by friendship for the illustrious dead, and by his consciousness of the delicacy of the cause he was championing, amply vindicates his own impartiality. It was a day in the late autumn of the year 1760. The departing smile of nature, which in another hour would be lost in death, was upon every tree and leaf. The loveliest tints and shades, so delicate that at the moment of their perfection they trembled into nothingness, rested; upon the woodlands on every side. A soft wind whispered through the rustling leaves laden with mellow odors and with the pleasing sadness that comes with the falling leaf. The latest flowers of the year with unconscious resignation wasted, as it might seem, tints which would not have disgraced the warmest hues of summer upon heaps of withered leaves, and dry moss, and rotting wood. The loveliest hour of the year was the last. The highway crossed an ancient bridge of great height with a cunningly pointed arch. Just beyond the bridge a smaller path turned up on the left hand as you ascended the valley. It wound its way up the wooded valleys as though with no definite end, yet it was smooth and well kept, more so indeed than the highway itself, and doubtless led to some château, by the orders of whose lord the peasantry kept the road in good repair. Let us fol In conclusion, we must repeat that Lockhart's case is a proof the more of the precariousness of the tenure of literary reputations. His character as a writer stands high, no doubt; but ade-low this road on an evening at the end of October in the year we have already mentioned, for we shall meet with a pretty sight. or thirty years of age, of whom at first sight there could be no question that he was one of the handsomest and most distinguished men of his day. He was carefully dressed in a style which only men of exceptional figure can wear without extravagance, but which in their case seems only fitting and right. He wore a small walking-sword, so hung as not to interfere in the least with the contour of his form, with which his dress also evi. Some distance up the road on the left was a small cottage, built to mark and protect the path to a natural terrace formed, as far as art had had a hand in the proceeding, by some former lord of the domain to command a view of the neighboring mountains and country. Several of these terraces existed in the wood. At the point where the path en-dently harmonized. His features were tered the private road to the château the wood receded on every side, and left a wide glade or savannah across which the sunshine lay in broad and flickering rays. Down this path there came a boy and girl, for they were little more, though their dress and the rank of life they held gave an appearance of maturity greater than their years. The lady was of supreme beauty even for a heroine of romance, and was dressed with a magnificence which at any other period of the world would have been fantastic in a wood. She was clinging to the arm of a handsome boy of some two-and-twenty years of age, whose dress by its scarf and some other slight peculiarities marked the officer of those days. His face was very handsome, and the expression on the whole was good, but there was something about the eyes and the curve of the lips which spoke of violent passions as yet unsubdued. The girl came down the path clinging to his arm, her lovely face upraised to him, and the dark and reckless expression of his face was soothed and chastened into a look of intense fondness as he looked down upon it. Rarely could a lovely autumn afternoon receive its finishing touch from the passing of so lovely a pair. faultlessly cut, and the expression, though weary and perhaps almost insolent, bore slight marks of dissipation, and the glance of his eyes was serene and even kindly. He saw the pair before him and instantly stopped. It is probable that the incident was equally embarrassing on both sides, but the visible effect was very different. The two young people stood utterly silent and aghast. The lady was evidently frightened and distressed, while her companion seemed prepared to strike the intruder to the earth. On the other hand, the marquis, for such was his rank, showed no signs of embarrassment. "Pardon, mademoiselle," he said; "I perceive that I have committed a gaucherie. Growing tired of the hunt, I returned to the château, and hearing from the servants that mademoiselle had gone down into the forest to visit her old nurse at the cottage by the terrace, I thought how pleasant it would be to go to meet her and accompany her home. I had even presumed to think," he continued, smiling, and as he spoke he turned to the young man with a gesture of perfect courtesy, "I even presumed to think that my presence might be some small protection to mademoiselle in the wilds of the forest. I was unaware, of course, that she was guarded with such loyal and efficient care." He paused for a moment, and then continued with greater dignity and kindliness of expression, "I need not add, mademoiselle, as a gentleman whose name hitherto, I believe, has been free from taint, I need not add that mademoiselle need fear no embarrassment in the future from this chance encounter." The valley was perfectly solitary: not a single sound was heard, nor living creature seemed astir. It was as if nature understood, and held her breath to further the purposes of their lonely walk. Only for a moment however. At the instant they left the path and entered upon the grassy verge that bordered the way to the château, they both started, and the girl gazed before her with an expression of wild alarm, while the young man's face grew darker, and a fierce and cruel look came into his eyes. But what they saw would seem at first sight to give little cause for such emotion. A few yards before them, walking leisurely across the But the girl seemed differently affected. grass from the direction of the road, ap- She hesitated for a moment, and then peared a gentleman of some twenty-eight | took a step forward, speaking with her It was perhaps strange, but it seemed that the politeness and even friendliness of the marquis, so far from soothing, irritated the young man. He remained silent, but kept his black and angry glance fixed upon the other. It is true clasped hands before her, with a winning | ness; that is not necessary. The gentlemen bowed. quire this. But there is no need that mademoiselle's feelings should not be consulted with regard to the final consummation of the nuptials. These need not be hurried. Monsieur le Chevalier may have other opportunities of making his adieux. And I hope that my influence, which, in after years, may be greater than it is at present, will enable me to further any views he may have with regard to higher commands in the service of his Majesty." "Who has known me all my life," continued the girl, speaking rapidly; "who has loved me- whom I love. We meet to-day for the last time. We should not have told you I should not have mentioned this to you - because I know we know that it is useless to contend The words were those of ordinary comagainst what is fixed for us what is de- pliment, yet the manner of the marquis creed. We meet to-day for the last time; was so winning that had it been possible the fleeting moments are running past-it would have affected even the chevalier ah! how quickly in another moment they will be gone." Here the emotion that overpowered her choked her utterance. She stopped, and to prevent herself from falling, she clung to the chevalier's arm. The marquis looked at her in silence, and his face became perfectly beautiful with its expression of pity. A marble statue, indeed, might almost have been expected to show emotion at the sight of such beauty in such distress. There was a pause. Then the marquis spoke. "I am most honored," he said, "to be permitted to make the acquaintance of Monsieur le Chevalier, whose name, if I mistake not, is already, though that of so young an officer, mentioned with distinc tion in the despatches of Monsieur de Broglie. For what you have said to me, mademoiselle - and what you have condescended to confide to me has torn my spirit I fear I can offer you but little consolation. Your good sense has already assured you that these things are settled for us. They are inevitable. And in the present case there are circumstances which make it absolutely essential to the interests of Monsieur le Comte, your father, that these espousals, at any rate, should take place at once. Even were 1"- here he turned to the chevalier with a smile-"even were I to pick a quarrel with your friend, and a few sec onds sooner than in the natural course of events it probably would, allow his sword to pass through my heart, I fear the result would be simply to substitute another in my place, another who, I, with perhaps a natural vanity, may fancy, would not place matters in a happier light. But let us not look at things too gloomily. You say that this is your last hour of happi himself; but if a highwayman is threatening your life it is not much consolation that he offers to return you a franc piece. The chevalier remained cold and gloomy. The marquis looked at him for a moment; then he continued, addressing himself to the girl, "But I am intruding myself on mademoiselle. I will continue my walk to the terrace, the afternoon is delightfully fine. As you are aware, Monsieur le Comte is hunting in the valleys to the west. All the piqueurs are withdrawn to that side of the forest. I should hope that mademoiselle will not again be interrupted in her walk." Then without another word he courteously saluted the young people, and continued his walk up the path. He never turned his head, indeed he would have allowed himself to be broken on the wheel rather than have done anything of the kind, but the others were not so reticent; several times they stopped and looked back at the marquis as he paused every now and then as if to admire the beauties of the scene. At last he reached the corner of the cottage and disappeared from their view. The beauties of the scene, however, did not entirely occupy the mind of the marquis. At the most enchanting point, where opening valley and stream and mountain and distant tower burst upon his view, he paused, and murmured to himself, "Some men, now, might have made mischief out of this. Let us wait and see." II. THE Chateau de Frontênac was built upon a natural terrace half-way up the slope of the forest with the craggy ravines clothed with foliage surrounding it on every side. It consisted of two courts, the oldest of which had been built in the earliest days of French domestic architecture, when the detached buildings of the medieval castle were first brought together into a compact block. In ac cordance with the singular notion of those days that the south and west were un healthy aspects, the principal rooms of this portion of the château faced the north and east. They consisted of vast halls and saloons succeeding each other with apparently purposeless extension, and above them a suite of bed-chambers | of solemn and funereal aspect. These saloons and bed-chambers had been left unaltered for centuries, and the furniture must have been antique in the reign of Henri Quatre. The other court had been built much more recently, and, in accordance with more modern notions, the chief apartments faced the south and west. From its windows, terraced gardens descended into the ravine, and spread themselves along the side of the hill. The architecture had probably, when first the court had been added to the château, contrasted unpleasantly with the sombre pile beyond; but the lapse of centuries with their softening hand had blended the whole into a unity of form and color, and adventurous plants creeping silently over the carved stone-work of the straggling fronts wrought a soft veil of nature's handiwork over the artificial efforts of man. The saloons in this part of the château were furnished more or less in the modern taste with cabinets of ebony and ivory of the days of Louis Quatorze, and buhl work of the eighteenth century; but as the modern articles were added sparingly, the effect on the whole was quiet and pleasing. The De Frontênacs, while enjoying the more convenient portion of their abode, prided themselves upon the antique apartments, and kept them in scrupulous repair. In these vast and mysterious halls all the solemn meetings and ceremonies of the family had place. Here when death had touched his own, the De Frontênacs lay in state; here the infant heir was baptized; here the important compacts of marriage were signed; here the feast of Noël was held. It is true that for the last century or so these ideas had been growing weaker, and the usages of modern life and the fascinations of the capital, had broken in upon these ancient habits, and weakened the attachments and associations from which they sprang; but the De Frontênacs were a fierce and haughty race, and never entirely lost the characteristics of their forefathers. Now and again, at some distaste of court life, or some fancied slight on the part of the monarch, they would retire to their forest home, and resume for a time at least the life and habits of a nobler and a prouder day. In the largest of these old saloons, the day after the meeting in the forest, the whole household of the château was assembled. At a long table were seated several gentlemen well known in Paris as among the highest of the noblesse de la robe, and rolls of parchment and masses of writing, with great seals hanging from their corners, covered the table. The walls of the saloon were hung with portraits of several epochs of art, including the works of artists then alive; for it was a peculiarity of the De Frontênacs that venerating, as they did, the antique portion of their château, they invariably hung the portraits of the family as they were painted in these old and faded rooms, reserving for the modern apartments the landscapes and fancy pictures which from time to time they purchased. When the moment had arrived at which the contracts were to be signed, there was a movement in the room, and Mademoiselle de Frontênac, accompanied by her mother, entered and advanced towards the table. She was perfectly collected, and bowed to the marquis with an unembarrassed grace. No one ignorant of the circumstances of the case would have supposed that anything approaching to a tragedy was being enacted in that room. The marquis signed more than one document, and as he stepped back from the table he ran his eyes carelessly over the room, with which he was unacquainted. Fronting him, above a massive sideboard with the full light of the opposite window upon it, was the portrait of a young man in the cuirass of an officer of cavalry of a previous century, whose eyes were fixed upon the marquis with a stern and threatening glance. It seemed that, stepping from the canvas, there confronted him, as a few hours before he had met him in the forest, the Chevalier de Grissolles, whom he had found with Mademoiselle de Frontênac. Nothing probably could have made the marquis start, but he gazed upon the portrait with interest not unmixed with sur prise, and as soon as mademoiselle had retired, which she did when her signa |