The consciousness that we were all there with the same object the probability that, as our eyes rested upon the grave of the unfortunate lovers, similar ideas were traversing our minds -and a look upon my part, meaning to declare it was not my intention to plead the privilege of an Englishman, and stand by in sheepish and in sulky silence, answered the purpose of an English introduction; and we chatted, quoted, and speechified, in a leash of languages, with the most perfect freedom and enjoyment. I was quite delighted. I recollected, that in England a lady or a gentleman, with whom you were unacquainted,

"Would rather see you damned

Than make a bow to you;" and that, therefore, under such circumstances, I should have been there consigned (whether I would or no, for that's the deuce of it!) to the tender mercies, dulcet tones, and interesting conversation of some bloated beadle, semi-animated sexton, or dilapidated verger and then I looked upon my beautiful companion. All mortal pleasures, however, must have a termination. I was at length obliged to say farewell; the au plaisir with which I chose to take my leave partaking, it may be well supposed, more of the nature of a prayer than a parting salutation.

Our conversation had naturally turned much upon the history of the monument, and, prepared to find it strange, it was yet stranger than I even could have anticipated. On the dissolution of the Musée des Monumens Français, at the restoration of the Bourbons-an event almost as injurious to the arts as the spoliation of the Louvre-the monument was transferred, in its present

rounded by all trees that afford a funereal shade, and by every species of monumental erection to the most illustrious men of France. It is to M. Lenoir, the Colbert of the nineteenth century, that the country is indebted for the sepulchral chapel, which he caused to be erected with stones taken from the ruins of the Abbey of the Paraclet. The sarcophagus was sent him by an individual at Chalons, into whose hands it had fallen; and, by attaching a bust of Heloisa to the body of a female figure of the same century, he completed a statue worthy to repose beside that of Abelard, which is recumbent upon the tombstone, with the head slightly inclined forward, and the hands closed, as if in prayer. The bust of Heloisa is clothed in the conventual garb, the common costume, by the by, in statues of the period,— even the queens of the earlier dynasties, as may be seen at the Abbey of St. Denis, loving to rest in it by the side of their crowned lords. The sarcophagus is very ancient, being, as it is, the identical receptacle in which the body of Abelard was originally deposited by Pierre le Vénérable, at the priory of St. Marcel. But let me begin with the beginning; for it is curious to remark, that the same romance that attended the ill-fated lovers to the latest hour of their existence attached itself to their mortal remains, which, though placed in the most sacred and secluded spots, like their living bodies, like them also for long seemed destined to find no repose. While yet suffering under the illness which proved mortal to him, Abelard removed from the Abbey of Cluny to the Priory of St. Marcel. He died there, and was buried in the chapel of St. Marcel by his friend Pierre le Vénérable, superior of the priory and abbot of Cluny. But Heloisa, desirous that her lover should rest beside her in the Abbey of the Paraclet, which he had himself founded, begged his body of Pierre, who, in compliance with her entreaties, had it disinterred during the night, while the monks of St. Marcel were enjoying their repose, and transferred to the residence of the fair abbess. After her death, Heloisa lay with Abelard in the same tomb; and that was in Petit Moustier, a chapel belonging to the Abbey of the Paraclet. In 1497, the

to the grand

separate tombs. In 1630, Marie de la Rochefoucault had these tombs transferred to another chapel of the abbey, called the Chapel of the Trinity. In 1779, a monument representing the Trinity was erected in this chapel, according to the will of Catherine de la Rochefoucault. Both the ladies just mentioned were successors of Heloisa in the abbey. To proceed, in 1792, on the abolition of monarchism throughout France, and the confiscation of the monastic possessions, they were transferred to the parish church of Nogentsur-Seine, together with the group of the Trinity before-mentioned, which was shortly after destroyed by the populace. The remains of the lovers were, however, respected; and in 1800, M. Lenoir had them removed to the Musée des Monumens Français,whence (as has been already stated) they were conveyed to Père la Chaise. The only thing regarding the monument, as it there stands, that I could at all object to, is the situation; it lies too low, and can only be seen from its own immediate neighbourhood.

The view of the cemetery, however, from thence is extremely picturesque. You look up at heights, composed of ground very much broken, and thickly strewed (as it were) with monuments, and shrubs, and flowers, and skirted by a belt of huge trees,

under the shade of which you walk. So that oftentimes, as you move along, gazing upwards, columns, pyramids, and sepulchral temples, seen partially through the foliage, appear suspended in mid-air, like fairy palaces arrested in their flight.

Many of the tombs are very large; in general, too, they are very splendid; and the more so from the Italian marble, of which they are commonly composed, retaining its whiteness to the last. There is a magnificent pyramid above Massena. The tombs of Lefevre and Kellerman are not unworthy of those who rest beneath them; but there be others of the foster-babes of Fame that sleep without a headstone. Although I searched diligently myself, and did not spare inquiries, it was long before I could discover the grave of Marshal Ney. The workmen I asked seemed to dislike the task of pointing it out to me, and would only give me general directions in a low and hesitating tone of voice. At length, however, I found it, near to the newlymade grave of Manuel. All around the sculptors appeared to have "exhausted the pomp of wo" in recording the death of men unknown to glory; but the long grass and four dark cypresses alone mark the resting-place of " the bravest of the brave."

We love politics-what Englishman does not? Two thousand years ago, and more, the immortal Stagyrite laid it down, as a truth indisputable, “that ΜΑΝ is πολιτικον ζωον.” and what are we English but a national corroboration of the accuracy of that accurate old Greek? Never, in the busiest republic of the most unquiet of all lands

never, among the changeful Athenians, discoursing and haranguing in every street, and court, and tower, and temple, from Academus to the Piræus -never could it with such truth be said that "Man is a political animal,” as it can now, and here, in Reformed England, amidst newspapers and magazines, institutes, unions, and knowledge societies.

We have heard it said, and, for aught we know to the contrary, it may be true, that they had no newspapers in Greece in the days of old. Whether, indeed, in these times, King Otho edites a Spartan Standard, or prosecutes an Athenian Examiner, is more than we can safely state: but we would undertake to demonstrate to every unprejudiced mind, that the ancient Greeks laboured under no disadvantage on this account, and that what newspapers are to us, orators were to them.

we

Now, what connexion this disquisition has with the subject of our destined musings is by no means clear; we are far from denying the connexion – only say, that we do not see it: nevertheless, as this idea, "de oratoribus,” was flitting across our mind, we thought it our duty to glance at it a moment, ere, in sober mood, we pursued our allotted path. This, therefore, we shall do briefly. If, in future time, it again flit across our path, we may do as Pope loved to do with "folly ""shoot it as it flies;" and, in that case, we will bestow more time and attention on the "post-mortem examination."

We know that the question has often been mooted, whether newspapers lead the public mind, or are led by it. Some think the former, some the latter, and some think that both propositions

Although we should certainly like "to get up a paper-war" on the subject, we enter not now on the defence of either of these three opinions; we reserve ourselves for the future, simply suggesting, by the way, that it certainly is a tenable position, that, if the same question were started concerning the orators of Greece, there might be, and certainly would be (nay, we are resolved that there should be), three similar opinions upon it, even if we ourselves were compelled to write in defence of them all.

As an instance of what we mean, take the oration of Therameñes concerning the conduct of the commanders at Arginusæ, as given by Xenophon. Now, by what criteria can we decide whether the public opinion at Athens forced Theramenes upon the course of conduct which he pursued, so that he was, in fact, only the spokesman, the mouthpiece of the relations of the shipwrecked Athenians, and the organ of their indignation? or whether, on the other hand, he was a cunning magician, who apprehended a coming storm, and so resolved to raise it himself? Xenophon evidently favours the latter idea, and yet the subsequent tenor of the life of Theramenes seems to render it most violently improbable. Perhaps, then, both hypotheses_are partly true and partly false; and Theramenes, suspecting a "movement," placed himself in such a position that he could not only coincide with it, if necessary, but even lead it forward. Now, leaving Theramenes, it is, at all events, sufficiently evident that the orators were the " organs of the popular voice" in Greece, in the same sense, and in as many senses, as the newspapers are among us; and it may seem difficult to decide whether the term "demagogue," or "people-leader," which was applied to the orators, were not as cool a piece of audacity (and treason against the majesty of the people) as the phrase "the leading journal," which has been arrogated in our times. Upon the whole, perhaps, we beat the Greeks in impudence; for

leaders:" but among us, every particular journal daringly puts forth a "leading article!"

The general features, then, of both the ancient and modern "organs of the popular mind," or rather, voice, are the same. The aristocrats, the democrats, and the middle party, or waverers, have all in their day had their orators, and still have their "papers;" and it may furnish employment for some future Bekker or Bentley to point out the "parallel passages' ,, in the Hellenic orations and the British jouruals. In order, however, to obtain verbatim parallelisms, it should be remarked, that the authoritative WE of modern journals must be changed for the more honest lywys-I MYSELF, I— of the Greeks.

The question might here arise, whether it be not equally true, that, as there were no newspapers among the Greeks in the days of Demosthenes, so there are no orators in England in the days of OLIVER YORKE? On this, it is not so easy to pronounce an opinion, seeing that many who think themselves orators will undoubtedly read this article. It would be what less polished writers than ourselves would call "pure fudge," to pretend that one of the magnificent orations of Edmund Burke would be tolerated, for ten minutes, in the reformed parliament. When Sir Robert Peel shall be transplanted to the Upper House, how many persons will there be in the Commons whom any man in England would voluntarily sit to hear for half an hour? And what have we out of the house? Alas, for the Cockneys! they, in sober truth, are no orators! for every orator is a poet (ἐν δύναμει, if not ἐν πράξει); and Cockneys we grieve to say it -- are not poets! Nay, we feel half-disposed to assent to the hard assertion which we met with, not long since, that an illiterate Cockney may be staked against the world, for most thoroughly sluicing with vulgarity the most delicate ideas of the purest genius with which he comes in contact. Our Cockneys, truly, are no orators! Shall we travel to Birmingham or Manchester in search of them? Heaven defend us! Let us haste direct to Liverpool (oh, that there were railroads all the way!), and cross the Irish Channel. If we stayed an hour in Liverpool, it would be to hear M'Neile- and he is an Irishman. This would refresh us for

a while, and be a kind of preparative for Charles Boyton and Mortimer O'Sullivan. Yes, Ireland is the land of orators, as much as Scotland is of metaphysicians, and England of poets.

But we suspect that we are wandering further than we intended let us retrace. This digression arose from our mentioning "politics." We began by saying "we love politics;" and now, starting once more from that point, we again proceed, saying,

We love politics-and who doubts

it? Nevertheless, there are moments when politics become wearisome, and a newspaper an abomination; when we gladly turn aside from the highway of the world, where clouds of almost choking dust are flying, and busy crowds are jostling, and loud tongues are clamouring turn aside to less trodden paths (and the less trodden the better for us), where we may think other thoughts, find other company, and breathe other air. When we are asked for a literary specific for a world-weary mind a soothing anodyne for the carking pain of those many every-day anxieties included in the dark words "real life," we answer, Take up a Greek tragedy! There is a calm and soothing beauty in its very rhythmthe loveliness of perfect chastity! Yes, when Byron has become almost a bore -when even Southey and Wordsworth are unsatisfying when Moore is not endurable, and you have mislaid your Shelley and Coleridge, and hunted for them vainly for an hour: when this, reader, is your case, as it is ours now, then do as now we do-take up a Greek tragedy. Be "not at home" for four hours, at least; place within reach your favourite beverage (ours is brown sherry), and dispose your couch or easy-chair (we prefer the former) so as to acquire the greatest possible degree of bodily comfort; have your Venetian blinds rather more than halfdropped (we hate a glaring vulgar light), and order your servant to enter the room once every three-quarters of an hour, to take care of your fire, if it be winter, to replenish your decanter in both summer and winter, but particularly the former. Experto crede! Of course, you have a favourite author we are for Sophocles. We open now on Antigone.

fated king! Breathes she not forth her whole soul in her first words of love, and piety, and lofty spirit, with which, at their evening meeting, she salutes her gentle "sister, loved Ismene?" Beams she not a queen of beauty, with high and noble thoughts enthroned upon her stainless brow? She, sadly omened child of prophecy and fate! revolving in her soul the destinies that lowered around her fallen house. The past, to be shuddered at; the present, "a wo too deep for tears;' and what yet might be unknown! Listen while she speaks:

*Ω κοινὸν αὐτάδελφον Ισμήνης κάρα * Αρ' οισθ' ὅ τι Ζεὺς τῶν ἀπ ̓ Οἰδίπου κακῶν Ὁποῖον οὐχὶ νῦν ἔτι ζώσαιν τελεῖ ;

Is there not affection "most musical, most melancholy," in every sound? English words may give the thoughtthe question is but simple, natural, though most sad but can they approach that deep-toned, mournful harmony? And if our English cannot, what other language can?

My sister, loved Ismene!"

says Potter; and he says well —— ay, beautifully for, albeit, it is not a translation; those words, in their sweet simplicity, give no slight portion of the real feeling of αὐτάδελφον — “ my own sister!" But who has translated the rich redundancy of that full-flowing verse? Reader, pronounce those lines again, and mark the frequent recurrence of the lament-speaking oi, that syllable of sorrow and wailing, and the low-sounding omega.

*

My sister, lov'd Ismene! of the ills Which sprung from Edipus, conceives thy thought

One by the hand of Jove not brought

on us,

sounding enough, would be a thousand times better than such blank attempts at verse! See:

"O kindred, own- sister form of (my) Ismene,

Know'st thou a single one of the woes from Edipus

Which Jove will not accomplish on us yet living?"

Now, why has Potter failed so wretchedly, at the very outset? First and foremost, because the ten- syllable blank-verse stanza is too short, and not full-sounding enough for Greek translation, in the hands of any but a Milton and a Shelley; in the next place, Potter has made the question refer to the past, instead of the future. Observe, the curses of Edipus have been fulfilled; the brothers have slain each other; the Argive army is routed; Creon is triumphant! Now, from the dreary past, the dark-boding mind of Antigone anticipates a drearier future. Though the curses of Edipus are thus accomplished, shall we not still be the objects of the vengeance of Jove, and STILL LIVE ON? What further is there to be endured? What new anguish, or dishonour foul, awaits us?

Οὐδὲν γὰρ οὔτ ̓ ἀλγεινὸν οὔ' ἄτης ἄτερ
Οὔτ ̓ αἰσχρὸν οὔτ ̓ ἄτιμόν ἐσθ ̓, ὁποῖον οὐ
Τῶν σῶν τε κἀμῶν οὐκ ὄπωπ ̓ ἐγὼ κακῶν.
Καὶ νῦν τί τοῦτ ̓ αὖ φασι πανδήμῳ πόλει
Κήρυγμα θεῖναι τὸν στρατηγὸν ἀρτίως ;
Έχεις τι κείσηκουσας ; ἢ σε λανθάνει
Πρὸς τοὺς φίλους στείχοντα τῶν ἐχθρῶν
κακά ;

She stands revealed before you - the Royal Maiden-in the full stature of a pure woman's dignity. From the first words of sisterly love, to the last abrupt quick questioning, "Dost know?" soul in every line? And what a soul! "hast heard?" read you not her whole With what gentle and chastened lamentation does she glance at her sad father's fate! then, hurrying from the recollection, sum up her woes in words of bitterest suffering, yet teeming with all the sensitive delicacy of a spirit that "felt a stain as a wound!" Yes, such is Antigone! And surely, reader, with whatsoever feelings you opened the volume of her tragic tale-pleasurable or painful they have passed away; and your soul and ours are nely child of