The comptroller-general, M. Terray, quarrelled with Mademoiselle Arnould, because being very impatient of hearing a tedious harangue he was making regarding the merits of an expensivelyworked pocket-handkerchief he had purchased, she said, "What does he want with a pocket-handkerchief, who always keeps his hands in his pockets?" Perhaps her best bon-mot was on the act of legislation passed by the French republican government for divesting marriage of its sacred character, and making it a mere civil contract. Sophie called this contract, "the Sacrament of Adultery." It will be remembered, that in the catholic ritual marriage is considered among the sacraments of the church *.

The last liaison made by this female wit was with the fabulist, Le Monnier; he was likewise a wit, and the whole

Although we are far from intending to bring

forward Sophie Arnould as particularly capable of judging of the decorums of the marriage state, yet there is something curious in the manner in which this saying has lately been introduced to the public in a morning paper, from the writings of the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. The following is the passage alluded to:

If

"Immediately connected with these laws af fecting religion, was that which reduced the union of marriage, the most sacred engagement which human beings can form, and the performance of which leads most strongly to the consolidation of society, to the state of a mere civil contract. fiends had set themselves to work to discover a mode of most effectually destroying whatever is venerable, graceful, or permanent in domestic life, and of obtaining at the same time an assurance that the mischief which it was their object to create should be perpetuated from one generation to

another, they could not have invented a more

effectual plan than the degradation of marriage into a state of mere licensed concubinage. Sophia Arnould, an actress famous for the witty things she said, described the republican marriage as the sacrament of adultery."

Whatever the issue, if dissenters have succeeded in making marriage a civil contract, we are glad of it, for we have often observed married people very uncivil to each other.

conversation of the pair consisted of an exchange of bon-mots. It is scarcely possible to imagine a more fatiguing manner of passing time.

Sophie Arnould died at Paris, in in the year 1802, at the age of sixty-two years.

It must have been a rich treat to the lovers of the ridiculous to have seen this Thisbé, in a hoop petticoat of such enormous magnitude, and a powdered tête, climbing up a wall to woo her Pyramus, in a flowing peruke. But let us not exult: to use the words of the celebrated critic Gifford, we were not a whit before the French in tasteful costume. He says:

"Before Kemble's time there was no such thing as regular costume observed in our theatres. The actors represented Macbeth and his wife, Belvidera and Jaffier, and most other parts, whatever the age or country in which the scene was laid, in the cast-off court dresses of the nobility. Kemble used to say, that those dresses of the characters in the print of Mrs. Clive and Garrick, in the well-known print of the dagger-scene in Venice Preserved, made them resemble the butler and the housekeeper struggling for the carving-knife. We have seen the tragedy of Jane Shore acted with Richard in an ancient dress, which, by a sort of prescriptive right, this character always retained on the stage; while, in the same play, Lord Hastings was in a court-dress of the time of George III., and Jane herself and Alicia were in stays and hoops. We have seen Miss Young act Zara, incased in whalebone, to an Osman, dressed properly enough as a Turk; while Nerestan, a Christian knight in the times of the crusades, strutted in the white uniform of the guards of Louis XV.

"These incongruities may be traced to the French-court regulation, that players being always considered the king's servants, and as performing in the court drawing-room, an absurdity his presence, should wear the dresses of which Charles II. introduced at the Restoration. Kemble reformed some of these anachronisms, and prosecuted with great earnestness a plan of reforming the wardrobe of the stage, collecting with great diligence, from illuminated

manuscripts, ancient pictures, ană statues, whatever could be gleaned of ancient costume fit for the stage."

Yet some attempts had been made before the time of Kemble; for Macklin, in his celebrated performance of Shylock, at his first appearance in that character, came on the stage, dressed in a red hat, peaked beard, and loose black gown-a dress which excited Pope's curiosity, who desired to know in particular why he wore a red hat. Macklin replied to the great poet, " Because he had read that the Jews in Venice were obliged to wear hats of that colour."

"And pray, Mr. Macklin," said Pope, "do players in general take such pains?"

"I do not know, sir," replied Macklin, "that they do; but, as I had staked my reputation on the character, I was determined to spare no trouble in getting the best information." Pope expressed himself much pleased with this

answer.

He had however, with his usually waspish humour, the illiberality to satirize his enemy, Cibber, for an attempt

at reviving the costume of the middle ages, when he says,

Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast; tural good taste, when he points out although he had given way to his naoccasionally the applause which the people bestowed on the ill-dressing of Quin in Cato,

What shook the stage and made the people stare? Cato's long wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair.

But to return to Gifford.

"Macbeth was one of the first plays in which the better system of costume was adopted, and Kemble wore the Highland dress, as Macklin had done before him. Many years afterwards he was delighted, when with our own critical hands, which have plucked many a plume besides, we divested his bonnet of sundry huge bundles of black feathers, which made it look like an undertaker's cushion, and replaced them with the single broad quill-feather of an eagle, sloping across his noble brow; he told us afterwards that the change was worth to him three distinct rounds of applause as he came forward in this improved and genuine head-gear.

B. H.

BY MONS. XAVIER B. SAINTINE.

THE Mutilated, worn out by his previous emotions, still slept. Gaetana, unconscious of danger, delighted to gaze upon him whilst thus reposing, and, patiently awaiting his waking, was arranging vases of fresh flowers in the chamber, noiselessly putting each article in order around her.

The bell for the first repast had already rung, and the family assembled in the public room only awaited Antonio's arrival to seat themselves at table. Antonio, however, came not; he had not indeed been seen that morning; and Peraldi, losing patience, was preparing to say the Benedicite without him. But a new object of interest called them from this holy preparation.

On a sudden, the eyes of the housekeeper were seen fixedly gazing on that part of the wall where guns of all sorts and sizes formed a sort of ladder. The excitement soon gained possession of her whole frame, and her deadly pale countenance was the external sign of an almost lifeless body, so awful was the working of a terrified imagination; then with a convulsive motion, and as if seized by one of those hasty inspirations which are wont betimes to surprise the inhabitants of these mountainous countries, she exclaimed, in a shrill piercing voice, “Why that vacant space upon the wall?--an arquebuse has been removed!-by whom has it been taken, with what intent?rush forth!-a man is just about to be killed near the Ponte Calvo!"

Peraldi and his sons waited in horrible anxiety until she might explain herself more fully; but, apparently exhausted by this supernatural effort, she remained silent for some moments. At length by degrees she slowly drew her eyes from the wall, and rested them upon those who surrounded her; then she passed

her hand over her forehead, and, falling into a state of stupor, uttered some incoherent words.

Each looked at the other with astonishment, yet not knowing what certain inference to draw from the ambiguous saying of the Maestra, neither daring to communicate their thoughts which were in perfect unison upon the meaning to be given to her revelations, and although unable to explain to themselves what event was happening, they placed implicit faith in the belief of some dire purpose being then nearly accomplished.

A murder!-the absence of Antoniothe arquebuse taken from its place, told clearly enough that it was Peraldi's youngest son she intended to designate.

But again they hoped that some very different cause had called him from his father's roof. Indefatigable and ardent in the chase, and having much skill in such exercises, in which of yore he took great delight, he might have pursued the game to some part far distant from his home; or perhaps, rambling over the mountains, he might have met with lost travellers, and had delayed whilst serving as a guide until they regained the tract they intended to take; for, notwithstanding his retired habit, he was of a kind and obliging nature.

After these surmises, all eyes were turned towards the Maestra, as if asking for some consolatory answer, which might heal the wounds she had inflicted; but she preserved an obstinate silence.

"My brother," at length said Maria, "has no foes; whose life, then, could he wish to attempt, or who would covet to take his?"

"Who knows?" answered old Peraldi, sighing; "with young heads, a word is sometimes sufficient, or at times even a gesture, to awaken angry passions, and

broils are of quick issue between armed men. But," exclaimed he, rising hastily, and believing himself illumined by an unexpected light, "has she not spoken of the Ponte Calvo, upon the road to Fiorenzuola? Antonio cannot have gone that way-what could have led him thither? "Tis Giaccomo she means. Poor wretch! he may have met with the satellites of the Medicis, who may perhaps have taken him for a spy. Ah, poor Giaccomo! . . . Is it not he? answer me, Leonora," said Peraldi, addressing himself more particularly to the Maestra; "'tis Giaccomo you meant, is it not? why did we not yesterday listen to your counsels? why do I not myself follow my first intention? the strangers would be in safety and Giaccomo- -But speak to me, speak to me, and refuse me not. Come answer, woman!-I command you to do so!"

The Maestra remained motionless, neither did she utter a word, and seemed entirely unconscious of the injunction which had been addressed to her in a tone to which she had hitherto been unaccustomed.

"Unhappy Giaccomo!" repeated Peraldi, trying to tear himself away from his first apprehensions. "Hapless youth, may God punish thine assassin!.. How shall we declare this sad news to his mother?"

"Ah, father! father!" exclaimed Maria, after having cast a glance at the lower window of the room, "I perceive him running this way."

66

Antonio, my son?" "No," said the maiden, with deep emotion, "it is Giaccomo."

"What then, Leonora, is the meaning of your strange vision and predictions? We have been dupes indeed thus to alarm ourselves at the idle words of a mad old woman! Your mind must be deranged, I cannot doubt it-you were dreaming -you have spoken fallacious words." Then, suddenly interrupting himself in this keen apostrophe, he exclaimed, "What can make Antonio so long in coming?" at the same time covering his eyes with his hands in a state of utter despair.

At this moment Giaccomo entered; he was breathless, but upon his countenance was that air of constrained satisfaction which is ever distinguishable in

the countenance of a messenger who is the bearer of important intelligence, even should the news be of an alarming rather than agreeable tendency. He briefly informed them that the Florentine soldiers had been on the road, hither bound, but "they have," he said, "doubtless ere this retraced their steps, now that the flock are minus of their shepherd, for the chief of the escort has been killed."

"Killed!" repeated Peraldi and his affrighted sons, fixing their stupified looks upon the silent Maestra, who still remained in the same position, and affected neither by surprise nor terror.

"Yes, killed at the Ponte Calvo," added Giaccomo; "at least this is what has been told me, for I had no time to go there."

Maria sobbed aloud; she recollected the hurried departure and expressive emotions of her brother, when Sanderino was named as chief of the escort and the Grand Duke's favourite, and no longer doubted but that he was the victim.

She was not deceived. True it was that the lips of the sinless girl had pointed out the victim of the fanatical youth's vengeance against the frequent perpetrator of deeds of blood, and that night he had fled secretly from his father's house, bearing with him the fatal arquebuse.

He now further informed them that, after a march of six hours over the mountain roads, he saw day dawning, and, the morning fog being gradually dissipated, he was able to direct his course with greater certainty, and from time to time to reconnoitre in the distance. He was then upon the border of Monte Badia; and when he had cleared its first elevation, he perceived before him the smiling vale of Mugello, and upon his right Monte Crespino. Not far from that spot the mountain chain was continued by a triple rank of rocks; stopping suddenly, its unequal jetties appeared in the form of broken arcades and promontories upon the border of a little river. The road from Fiorenzuola to Scarperia was here intersected by a bridge fixed on a rock, which, being bare and divested of all vegetation, was commonly called Ponte Calvo, the Bald bridge. This spot appeared to him to be favourable for his purpose. The escort must of necessity take this passage, and one of the obscurer cavities of the