weariness showed itself in his drooping shoulders and even in the position of his large flat feet. There was something indescribably pitiable in his compressed lips, in the bending of his long, thin neck, in his ill-shaven face, and in the unkempt gray hair falling over his furrowed forehead. 'Poor, unhappy man!" I thought. "You have been unfortunate in everything-in your family and in your undertakings. If you are married, your wife has deceived and deserted you. If you have children, you don't know them. You are all alone in the world."

"Not at all. It's only necessary to look at him. That's the style of them all. What brought you into his company? Take care of your self!"

As I knew that Herzen possessed no great insight into character, especially at first sight, and as I remembered that one often saw at his table men of very suspicious aspect who had won his confidence by a few pretentious words, and who afterward developed into government spies, as he has confessed in his memoirs, I attached very little importance to his warning. I merely thanked him for his friendly interest, and returned to Monsieur François. The latter still sat in the same place and in the same position.

"I must tell you," he said, when I had resumed my place at his side, “that you Russian gentlemen have a bad habit. On the street, before friends or Frenchmen, you say anything in Russian, as if no one could possibly understand you. That is, at least, impolitic. I, for example, understood all your friend said just now."

I colored involuntarily. "I beg you to think nothing of it," I said. "My friend certainly-" "I know him," he interrupted. "He is a talented man. But errare humanum est" (he was particularly fond of parading his Latin). "However, I don't blame him. Judging from my exterior one might take me for anything. But, if I were really what he supposes, what interest should I have in pumping you?"

"You are certainly right."
He gave me a gloomy look.

"You probably learned Russian when you were a tutor at the General's," I said, anxious to

remove the impression Herzen's remark had produced.

His face brightened; he smiled, and then tapped me on the knee as if to show that he understood and thanked me. He replaced his spectacles and took up his cane, which had fallen to the ground. "No," he replied, "I learned your language before that, while I was in Siberia, after leaving America. For I've been in your Siberia, and experienced there everything you can think of." "For instance-?"

"No, I shall not say anything to you about Siberia, for several reasons. The principal one is that I'm afraid of offending you. Pamalchime loutchi," he added, in bad Russian, with his sardonic smile. “Let me tell you, instead, what happened to me in Texas."

*

Then, in a very circumstantial manner, quite unusual to him, he related to me how, during his winter wanderings in Texas, he had been forced to seek shelter in the adobe hut of a Mexican vaquero. He awoke in the night, and found his host sitting on the bed with a huge knife in his hand; and this man, who was of immense size and as strong as an ox, told him he was going to cut his throat because he looked like his deadliest enemy.

"Tell me, now,' said the Mexican, whether I'm not right to rip you open like a hog! Nobody will ever know anything about it, and, even if it should be found out, nobody cares enough about you to do anything to me for it. So begin now and confess your sins; for, thank God, we have time to talk!'

"And so," continued Monsieur François, “I was forced to confess to this drunken brute all night. Sometimes I would follow the words of the Bible, for he was a Roman Catholic, and I thought that might make an impression on him. Then I would assure him, by every means in my power, that the satisfaction he would get out of my death wouldn't pay for soiling his hands; that he would be obliged to bury me if only for sanitary reasons; that it would put him to a great deal of inconvenience, etc. Then I was obliged to tell him stories and sing songs. Sing with me!' he yelled. 'Sing La Muchacha! So I sang second while the edge of his infernal navaja was within an inch of my throat. At last he fell asleep, with his cursed long-haired head on my breast."

Monsieur François told me the whole of this story in a slow, sleepy way, without the least excitement. As he stopped suddenly he opened his eyes wide.

"And what did you do with this Mexican?" I asked.

*"Least said, soonest mended."

heard,

This is not the place to tell what I saw, and experienced during that journey. But I remember that at one station a locomotive with a single car attached to it rushed by with a vast deal of noise. It was an express-train, carrying Citizen Antoine Thouret, the commissioner of the republic, to the north. Those who accompanied him were waving tricolored flags and shouting wildly, while the railroad officials gazed in silence at the huge figure of the commissioner, who leaned out of the window and raised his arm with a gesture of authority. And I remember that the famous Madame Gordon was once in the same car with me, and that she suddenly began holding forth about the necessity of seeking safety by applying to "the Prince." The Prince alone was able to save the country; the Prince was the man chosen by Fate. At first nobody understood her. But, when she at last mentioned the name of Louis Napoleon, every

I confess that I had very little faith in this Mexican story. It injured Monsieur François in my eyes, and I began thinking again that he might be trying to humbug me. But why? "He is an original," I said to myself. And I could not consider him a spy, in spite of my friend Herzen's opinion. It surprised me very much that none of the hosts of visitors to the Palais Royal seemed to know him. It was true I had sometimes thought I saw him wink to some of the passers-by, but I might have been mistaken.

I forgot to say that he never seemed to me to have been drinking. Perhaps he had no money to buy liquor. But at any rate he always gave me the impression that he was a temperate man. He was not at our place of meeting either on the next day or the day afterward, and I gradually ceased to think of him.

A short time before the 24th of February, 1848, I went to Brussels, and there heard of the new French Revolution. During a whole day nobody received letters or papers from Paris. Crowds filled the streets and squares, full of excitement and expectation. On the 26th of February, about six o'clock in the morning, I was lying in bed at my hotel. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and some one shouted, "France is a republic!" A waiter was running through the corridor, opening the doors and announcing the news at the top of his voice. Half an hour afterward the cars were carrying me toward Paris. The rails were torn up at the frontier, but my traveling companions and I managed to reach Douai in a hired conveyance. Toward evening we arrived at Pontoise, but we could go no farther, for the rails were torn up around Paris too.

Then I thought of what Monsieur François had said about the Bonapartes. His first prophecy had been fulfilled. I remember, also, that before we reached Pontoise our train came in contact with another train, going in the opposite direction. Some passengers were hurt, but no one seemed to care anything about that. The only question asked was, "Shall we be able to reach Paris?" As soon as the train went on, everybody began talking again with animation-everybody, that is, except one little old white-haired man, who, ever since we had left Douai, had cowered in a corner, repeating in a low voice, "All is lost!-all is lost!"

Neither will I try to describe my sensations on entering Paris, seeing the tricolored cockades on hats, caps, and even on signs, and watching the men in blouses, with guns strapped to their shoulders, who were singing "La Marseillaise" as they removed the barricades from the streets. I passed the whole of the first day in turmoil and confusion. The next day I went, according to my custom, to the Palais Royal to take breakfast. I did not see Monsieur François there, but it was evident that his prediction about blood flowing in that place had been verified. The only serious conflict during the February days took place within the Palais Royal. I did not meet him on the succeeding day either, but saw him first on the 17th of March-the day on which a vast crowd of workmen betook themselves to the Hôtel de Ville, to protest against the edict which is known as that of the bonnets à poils. Swinging his arms, and taking huge strides, he marched swiftly in the midst of the crowd, a red scarf around his waist and a large red cockade on his hat. Our looks met, but he did not seem to want to recognize me, although he stared at me

with what I considered a scornful expression. "Yes, it's I!" he seemed to say, and immediately went on shouting, stretching his gloomy mouth wide open.

I saw him again at the theatre. Rachel was singing "La Marseillaise" with a voice already almost hushed by death. He was in the pit, where the claqueurs are usually seen. But he did not shout or applaud. He stood with folded arms gazing at the singer with a wild eagerness as she, wrapped in the folds of the tricolor, called on the citizens to "pour out the impure blood!"

I am not sure whether or not I saw Monsieur François on the 15th of May, among the mass of people who crossed the Place de la Madelaine, on their way to break in upon the National Assembly. Yet I thought I heard―amid the cries of "Long live Poland!"-his strange voice, deep and yet tremulous. But early in June he suddenly appeared before me in the old café of the Palais Royal. He spoke to me, and even offered me his hand, which he had never done before. But he did not seat himself at my table, seeming to be ashamed of his coat, which literally hung in strips, and of his hat, the crown of which was beaten in. A sort of restless impatience seemed to consume him. His cheeks were more sunken than ever, and slight convulsive motions ran over his lips and his whole face. His reddened eyes were obscured by his spectacles, which he was continually adjusting, as though anxious to conceal himself as thoroughly as possible. I became convinced, then, of what I had conjectured before; namely, that his spectacles contained window-glass, and only served as a disguise. The melancholy anxiety of a man without food or shelter was perceptible in his whole manner. I was astonished at the miserable condition of this strange man. "If he is a government agent," I thought, "how does it happen that he is so poor, and why does he lead such a life?" I reminded him of his prophecies.

Why shouldn't I stay?"

suddenly rousing himself—“ have you seen them? Have you seen how they cart earth from one place to another in the Parc Monceau? Everything will come from that! And there will be blood-a whole sea of blood! What a situation! To see it all beforehand and not be able to do anything! To be nothing, nothing! To take in everything" (he stretched out his arms, showing his tattered, hanging sleeves, while I noticed that his ring was still on his hand), “and to get nothing at all. Not even a piece of bread!"

It was the day before the 5th of June. "To-morrow's elections are very important, too," he went on, quickly, as though he wanted to get rid of his last thoughts. He mentioned by name the different deputies who would be chosen by the Parisians. He even gave me, approximately, the number of votes each would receive. Among these names was that of Causidière, to whom he accorded the first place.

Louis Napoleon was also among the number. He will be among the last," said Monsieur François. "But that's enough. When one wishes to climb up a ladder one must begin at the last round to reach the first."

That evening I communicated to Herzen all these names and figures, and I well remember his astonishment when, on the next day, the predictions of Monsieur François were literally fulfilled.

"Where the deuce did you get all that news?" he asked me, once.

I mentioned my informant.

"Oh, that mongrel blackguard!" said he. I return to our conversation. Among the names one heard very often at that time was that of Proudhon. I spoke to Monsieur François about him, for he was also on the latter's list-in the last place, it is true, as was actually the case. But it appeared that Monsieur François had not a high opinion of him, nor of Lamartine, nor of Ledru-Rollin. He spoke slightingly of all these men, but with a suggestion of sympathy for Lamartine and of contempt for Proudhon-" that

As for Ledru-Rollin, he merely referred to him as "that thick-headed Ledru." But he always came back to the national workshops. Our whole conversation did not last longer than a quarter of an hour. He stood the whole time, and was continually casting restless glances around him, as if looking for some one. Remembering his red cockade, I said, "So it seems you are a republican."

"What kind of republican?" he exclaimed,

Here he suddenly stopped. I looked around to see what had attracted his attention. An old man with a long white beard, and dressed in a blouse, made a sign to him with his hand. He returned it in a peculiar way, ran to him, and they both disappeared.

After that I only saw Monsieur François three times. On the first occasion I descried him afar off, in the garden of the Luxembourg. He was in company with a poorly clad young woman. She seemed to be imploring him to do something. She wrung her hands and raised them to her face, with every appearance of mortal anguish. He listened in gloomy silence. But suddenly he pushed her away with his elbow, pressed his hat on his head, and went away. She, apparently almost distracted, disappeared in another direction.

Our second meeting was of more consequence. It took place on the 13th of June, the day on which an assemblage of Bonapartists was to have been held in the Place de la Concorde, which Lamartine referred to from the tribune, and which was quickly dispersed by regular soldiers. In one of the recesses constructed in the garden-walls of the Tuileries I noticed a man in the dress of a juggler, who, mounted on a two-wheeled cart, was distributing pamphlets. I took one, and found that it contained a biography of Louis Napoleon, chiefly noticeable for its fulsome adulation. I had often seen this man, who was a Breton, with an enormous head of hair combed straight upward. He frequented the boulevards and street-corners, peddling elixirs for toothache, pomades for rheumatism, and other pretended panaceas. While I was looking through the pamphlet some one touched me lightly on the shoulder. I turned and saw Monsieur François. He smiled ironically over his spectacles.

Now we have it! It's just beginning," he said, rubbing his hands and stamping his feet. "There's the apostle, the harbinger! How do you like him?"

"Who?" I cried. "That charlatan with the shock head? That jack-pudding? You're making fun of me!"

bracelets on the arms, a cocked-hat with gilt spangles-all that acts on the imagination. Legends, my good sir, legends are needed! Claims, dramatic effects, miracles, wonders! Men begin by being astonished; then they respect you-yes, respect; and at last they actually believe. Now mark what I say! This thing has begun in earnest, and when we shall have passed through the Red Sea-"

At that moment a crowd of men, flying before the bayonets of the soldiers, rushed toward us, and we were separated.

During the fearful June days I saw Monsieur François for the last time. He was dressed in the uniform of the National Guard, and had his gun in his hand, the point of the bayonet to the front There was a sort of cold ferocity in his expression which it would be hard to describe. After that I never saw him again.

About the year 1850 I was in the vicinity of the Russian Church, having gone thither to attend the wedding of a friend. Suddenly, I don't know why, I thought of Monsieur François. Immediately it occurred to me that he was a prophet in this case also, and that he was no longer alive. Some years later this impression was confirmed. One day I saw, behind the counter of a shop, a woman whom I recognized as the one I had seen with Monsieur François in the garden of the Luxembourg. I determined to recall the scene to her recollection. At first she looked at me in astonishment. But when she understood what I meant she turned pale, then reddened, and finally begged me not to ask her any questions about that man.

"Tell me, at least,” I said, “whether he is still alive."

She looked at me earnestly.

"He is dead," she said, at last. "He died as he deserved to die. He was a very wicked man. But he was very unhappy, very unhappy!" I could find out nothing more from her. And who was Monsieur François ? question remains unanswered.

The

There are sea-birds that never appear except during a storm. The English call them "stormy petrels." They fly low down in the tumultuous air, beating the crests of the raging waves with their wings, and when the clear weather comes

IVAN TOURGUENIEFF (Die Rundschau).

VOL. VIII.-29

THE

'HE discussions concerning "The Merchant of Venice" which have been brought out by its recent revival at the Lyceum betray a state of opinion which Shakespeare could hardly have anticipated. There are people, it seems, who think not only that Shylock is a man more sinned against than sinning, and more interesting and respectable than any of the Christians about him, but that this was the impression which Shakespeare meant to produce; and in "The Theatre" (November, 1879, p. 193) Mr. Frederick Hawkins goes so far in this direction as to maintain that the play was suggested, written, and brought out with special reference to a temporary outbreak of intolerance in the English people, caused by an apprehension of “an irruption of Israelites into London," about the year 1594. For the purpose of rebuking this intolerance, we are told, and persuading the frequenters of the Globe that a Jew would be as good as a Christian if they would only treat him like a Christian, Shakespeare chose for the subject of a new play the story of a Jew in Rome, who, having borrowed money of a Christian on condition of letting him cut out a pound of his flesh if he did not repay it on the day named, and being threatened with exaction of the penalty, appealed to the Pope-a story told, it seems, by Gregorio Leti, in his "Life of Pope Sixtus V.," and therefore then quite new, of which the editors of the Clarendon Press edition of the play give the following summary:

"The Pope is the judge, and the evasion of the bond the same as in the play. Both merchant and Jew were condemned to death, the one for premeditated murder, the other for selling his life; but in the issue the sentence was commuted to that of the galleys, with the option of buying off that too by paying each two thousand crowns to the hospital lately founded by the Pope."

The story was apt enough for the exhibition of a Jew in a case to move sympathy; and, if Shakespeare's only care had been to make his audience feel what brutal treatment the Jews had to endure at the hands of the Christians, he could have wanted nothing better. But, being a manager as well as a poet and politician, he was bound to avoid any risk of offending his audience; and to represent, during the continuance of that popular excitement, a Christian as a cold-blooded murderer, and a Jew as his innocent and unfortunate victim, would have been too great a shock to the prejudices of the time. He went to work more cunningly. By simply changing the parts -making the Jew the inexorable creditor, and

the Christian the overthrown debtor-he first beguiled a Jew-abhorring audience to listen with patience to the play, and then contrived to steal into his portrait of the cold-blooded murderer so many traits of magnanimity, tenderness, patriotism, pride in his ancient race, and reverence for his religious traditions; so many respectable prejudices, moral, legal, and theological; such "wealth of ideas and felicitous language"; to arm him also with such a catalogue of wrongs and grievances, and at the same time so to degrade the character of the whole Christian community of which the man who was to suffer the vivisection was a characteristic, distinguished, and universally honored member-that the people who came to enjoy the sight of a moneylending Jew undergoing poetical justice for attempting to take the life of a money-borrowing Christian should go away full of tender compassion for the defrauded creditor and indignant disgust with the rescued debtor, and, by consequence, in a spirit of toleration for the whole Hebrew race.

It seems a bold speculation, even if the premises be all granted; and yet there is certainly one of them (not to mention the others) which can not be allowed to pass unquestioned.

When Mr. Hawkins took it for granted that "the idea of the forfeiture of the pound of flesh was manifestly derived from this story," he could not have known that there was another Italian story current at the time, containing not only the general plot, but almost all the leading incidents of the play, presented nearly in the same order, and showing a closer resemblance between the dramatic version and the tale to be dramatized than will be found, I think, in any other play of Shakespeare's not professedly historical. This story, though too Italian in one of its features to be admitted into our popular collections for general reading, is nevertheless well known by name and easily accessible (being referred to by all modern editors in treating of the sources of the play, noticed by all modern antiquarians in their searches after the origin of the legend, and printed at full length in Collier's “Shakespeare's Library "); and, to students who are curious as to the manner in which the great artist treated material of this kind in order to fit it for exhibition on the stage, it has a special value; being one in which the transmutation is most perfect and the process most traceable. That Mr. Hawkins knows nothing of it, and that the editors and antiquarians do not know enough to see that it is