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cilious expression to expand into a contemptuous laugh, and so sit down again. However, such things not being allowed by the sovereign people, and, as ministers, however despotically disposed, must answer questions, the next thing to be accomplished is to give as homeopathic a dose of information as possible, conveyed in the largest possible amount of indifference, superciliousness, and wholesome parliamentary contempt. There are stereotyped forms. The initiated know almost the words. The cool, phlegmatic, impassible style is, of course, peculiar to the particular Home Secretary of whom we speak. His idea of the functions of his office seems to be, that he is to exercise the utmost possible power with the least possible accountability. He is to know nothing, see nothing, do nothing, but what he is absolutely compellable to know, see, or do. If the enemy can ferret out a fact and prove it, so much the better for his case. Then, perhaps, it may be admitted. But the usual course is for Sir James, in his low, monotonous voice, and steady determined manner, to give an elaborate formal statement of words, with as few facts as possible, and leaving the matter as nearly as possible where he found it. This course has its advantage; for the questions put are often unmeaning, and even detrimental to the public service. Sometimes, however, matters grow more serious. The cool, hard, impassible functionary is compelled by a sense of duty to make a more elaborate statement, and then

it is you perceive his superiority as a minister. The clearness, firmness, extent of information, and sound knowledge of his duty he displays, shew him to be not deficient, either in act or in explanation, when he thinks it necessary. His questioner is then put hors de combat, and he himself gets a sort of license for that superciliousness and apathetic indifference to popular censure, which are so fatally urged to his prejudice. In still more dubious cases, as, for instance, in that of Mazzini, Sir James Graham has carried this impassibility and indifference to an insulting extent. If he believed himself right, of course he shewed great moral courage; but moral courage in a bad cause is scarcely distinguishable from obstinacy; and Sir James Graham's conduct in that case laid him open to great obloquy, much of which was deserved. Yet the determination he shewed under such circumstances rather increased than diminished his influence with the house. If it made him, politically speaking, hated by many, it also made him feared. Such steady self-possession, joined to such talents and information, and to such debating powers as he has in his former career displayed, though now he rarely exercises them, are quite sufficient to account for that influence which we have ascribed to him; in the absence of personal respect which, generally speaking, he does not command; or of party gratitude, which he has done little to deserve on the one hand, and so much to forfeit on the other.

THE LEGEND OF GELNHAUSEN.

FROM THE HISTORY OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.

Ir was a beautiful and genial noontide hour in May, and the sunbeams poured gloriously in through the narrow Gothic lattices of a castle in Wetteravia, and brightened and gladdened a darkly panelled room, adorned with all the heavy magnificence suitable to the abode of a German prince in the twelfth century. The massive chairs, tables, and armories, were elaborately and grotesquely carved; the tapestry was ample, and of brilliant colours; there were some chased silver vessels

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCIV.

and candelabra, a few portraits (such as in these days we should call daubs), knights grim in armour and dames grim in jewels and minever, hung about the walls; but there were no trophies of war or of the chase. Some flowers in vases, a lute, and two or three small and beautifully illuminated MSS. of the German Minnesingers lying open on a table, shewed that the presiding genius there was feminine. In the middle of the room stood a tapestry frame, and the subject of the work

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Ferrand, and Mr. Wakley, the members generally bend before his consistent will and determination of purpose, which, in such a place, are almost tantamount to a strong or superior mind. If they would say the truth, they are not a little afraid of him. At the same time, it must not be forgotten that such a man as Sir James is in these times particularly useful. Utilitarianism, on which are grafted some of the colder and harsher doctrines of political economy, has become the political religion of our public men. tralisation, with its train of paralysing evils, has become the fashionable machinery of government. The farther the ear and eye are removed from the actual scene, the less chance there is of the evil being seen or the complaint heard. The selfishness of classes needs excuses. It thinks to hide its naked hideousness in systems. Weaker natures fear to lay down, still more to carry out principles, which this selfishness would fain see adopted. A firmer spirit, which, perhaps, because it has faith in such principles, asserts them broadly and maintains them in act, through good and evil report, becomes a powerful and valuable ally. A Sir James Graham will be clung to, in an instinctive deference for his vigour of mind and boldness of purpose. Such a man serves, to rule. Less remote causes of his influence may, however, be found; causes on the surface quite sufficient in the present state of things to account for his contradicting all the usual calculations on which ministerial popularity is based.

His demeanour in the house is a study. As he enters below the bar, his red despatch-box in hand, his figure towers above most of the members, notwithstanding that of late years he has contracted a slight stoop. Extreme hauteur, tempered by a half-sarcastic superciliousness, is his prevailing characteristic; and, as he slowly drags along his tall and massive frame, which still retains much of the fine proportion of youth, in his heavy-measured, almost slipshod tread, towards his seat at the right of the Speaker's table, there is a self-satisfied, almost inane expression on the countenance, produced by a peculiar fall of the nether

lip and a distorted ele eyebrows, that does not prepossess you in hi suggest any high idea of He rather looks like minister of the Tadpo some pompous placem of his acres. But by learn to separate the mor of the features from this sion of the countenance. that the supercilioust though exaggerated by peculiarity. There are ill-nature in the face; other hand, there is no. courage. Meanwhile h himself, placed his red table before him, strete out to his full length, with arms folded and h over his face, the question he knows he will be subje particular hour, from ha" to half-past five. He is n in his moody silence.

Sor put a question to him. Duncombe, who, if one i by the malicious twinkle and his affected tone of n nation, has got hold of some

some letter-opening de or some case of magister and Home-Office indiffer which he has worked upon bers who do the "Britis part in these little politic for they are crying" he with a forty - John Bo Does the home-secretary answer? Is he indignant sinuations thrown out by and ready antagonist? to relieve himself of the having sanctioned a sy pionage or of having redress some wrong-as h man's ex-officio trustee, is do? Oh, no! he is in The breath of the questione time to cool, and the voice indignation to abate ere he stirs. Then he u self, rising slowly to his : and confronting his anta a well-assumed conscious. extreme absurdity of 1. and the absolute impre the defence; if, indeed, i descend to make any aus for you are left in doub whether he will not allows

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was the election of Frederic (surnamed Barbarossa), when Duke of Swabia, to the German throne of empire. Beside the frame sat two fair embroideresses, but neither of them working. A theme of interest had absorbed them both, and they sat with the needles and worsted unemployed in their hands. They were Adelaide, daughter of the reigning Margrave of Vohberg, and Gela, her attendant and friend, filling such office as among the Germans was formerly called kammer jungfer, and among the French dame de compagnie, for Gela was the daughter of the Margrave's chief forester, and had been brought up with the princess from a child.

Both were young, but the princess was a year or two the elder; both were handsome, but Gela was the loveliest. Adelaide had a noble presence, she felt that illustrious blood flowed through her veins, and she looked "every inch a princess." Her form was majestic, her eye bright and piercing, her beautiful mouth firm, her fine forehead open; she was a brilliant and lofty brunette. Gela was all grace, all symmetry, all gentle and winning beauty; she did not command, but she attracted; her eyes were blue and soft, her hair fair and wavy, her white forehead serene, her air mild, pure, and holy. She had not the majesty of the princess, but she preserved the aspect of self-respect, which demands and obtains the respect of others. She was sweetly, touchingly beautiful.

The princess was made to be admired, but Gela to be loved. He who gazed first on Adelaide said to himself, "Splendid, glorious woman!" But when he turned to Gela he said, "Sweetest and loveliest of creatures!"

The tapestry before them was a favourite task of Adelaide's, but they had now been talking too intently to work; their theme admitted of no concomitant occupation. It was the theme of deepest interest to the

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young, unshackled, unwearied spirit, for it was of love-it was the tale of Gela's first and only love.

Those are happy days when the young fresh affections of the heart are our all of life, our all of interest -when our study is not wise books, but living looks and gestures, and we become very learned in expression, and can discriminate its various shades; when a flower is a treasure, an hour of meeting a lifetime; when we first learn the poetry of life; when we live in a world of our own and people it with our own creations; then we are so easily pleased, so unselfish, so benevolent; then the heart guides the head. Alas, how ill-exchanged for later times, when the head controls the heart! the cool, plodding head, perhaps a safer guide than the warm impulse-full heart, but surely a less amiable one. we are to be pitied, if we would but own it, when we grow old, and cold, and wise-too wise to be pleased with what was our happiness before, when we say of our warm, young, kind feelings, "what nonsense!" and of our hoarded relics, "what rubbish!" Then the world, with its gnawing cares, its heartless counsels, and its withering experiences, has seared us as with a hot iron; the poetry of life has fled. We think ourselves much wiser, but are we half as happy? Nay, are we half as amiable? Truly and touchingly has Schiller sung,

"O zaite Sehnsucht, süsses Hoffen,

Ah!

Der ersten Liebe goldne zeit,
Das Auge sieht den Himmel offen,

Es schwelgt das Hertz in Seligkeit.
O, dass sie ewig grünen bliebe,
Die schöne Zeit der jungen Liebe."*
Das Lied von der Glocke.

But the romance of life was only beginning for Adelaide and Gela. The one was pouring out the secrets of her young heart to the other, who was worthy of the confidence because she received it with interest and with candour. It was when they had sat down to

"Oh! fondest wishes, sweetest hopes!
First-love's own golden age is this;
When on the eye all heaven opes,
And the heart revels in its bliss.
Oh! that it ever green could prove,
The joyous spring of early love."

work that day that Gela, with painfully burning cheeks, and averted eyes, and stammering unconnected words, had begged her noble mistress' and friend's attention; she had something to say which her conscience told her ought not to be concealed; it was a great exertion to speak of it,-indeed she could not to any other but to one to whom she owed so much as the Princess Adelaide, and to her she felt that she owed the confession. It was a fortnight since, a warm, beautiful evening; she had gone out alone to enjoy the baliny air; she wandered to a favourite spot-the princess knew it well-the outskirt of the neighbouring forest, where the little fountain played. She had sat down under the shadow of a tree, and she knew not how long she had been there when she heard a brisk footstep in the forest, a rustling among the underwood, a light half-hummed song. A man in the garb of a hunter, followed by a powerful dog, burst through the trees and came towards the fountain. She thought at first it was one of the foresters, but a glance shewed her it was a stranger, a handsome, young, and gallant-looking man. When he approached her he removed his hunter's cap with a graceful courtesy, and went to the fountain to drink. He was about to take the water from the hollow of his hand, but she thought it were churlish not to shew him where the wooden bowl for the use of the wayfarer was deposited in a niche. He thanked her it was in courtly phrase, not like the plain country speech; and she was sure he must be a good man, for he remembered the need of his panting dog, and gave it drink from the bowl also. He asked her of the country, as a stranger would; of its fertility, of its beauties; of the nobles, their castles, and their towns; of the peasants and their villages; were the people happy, their feudal yoke light, and their wants supplied. She saw that the stranger was in tone and air superior to all whom she had seen; even, she thought-she said it with hesitation-superior to the nobles who came to the Margrave's castle; none of even them, she thought, had so lofty a bearing. She was sure he was some gallant war

rior; and he was very handsome, fair, and ruddy, with open, speaking, blue eyes, an expansive forehead, large and nobly formed nose, full and firm mouth, but the sweetest, the most eloquent of smiles. They parted, and she knew not whither he went; and by some means, she could not tell how-certainly it was not by agreement, it was by a strange accident-the next evening they met again at the same spot, and then the next evening, and again the next; and then she owned it seemed as if there was a tacit understanding that they should thus meet, though indeed, in very truth, such appointment was never made in words; and now she confessed they lingered long together. He told her of foreign lands, he sang to her in a melodious voice the lays of the Minnesingers, and he began to talk to her of love; but it was so delicately, it seemed at first more by implication than in express terms; and his look, his emphasis, his voice, they had sunk into her heart, and fixed themselves on her memory, as never aught had done before or could again. Yes, evening after evening they had sat together beside the fountain, sometimes speaking from full and outpouring hearts, sometimes in a silence which in itself was eloquence-a silence in which it seemed to each that the other read their rapid and voiceless thoughts, and understood them better than if they had been obscured and impeded by inadequate speech.

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Yes, Gela, now I am sure you are lovers. You have both learned a great mystery in love; it is that the moments you spend together in silence are not wasted. They are moments of concentration, and devotion, and earnest feeling, that knit hearts more closely together than a fluent stream of the choicest words. Ay, and memory loves to dwell on such silent heartfelt moments better than on the most ardent vows. who is the stranger? That, of course, he has told you long ere this."

But

Gela looked down, and crimsoned, and hesitated. "Do not chide me; but in sooth I know not."

"Foolish girl!" said the princess, in some displeasure. "Would you risk your happiness, perhaps your good fame, with an unknown who may be all unmeet for you-an ad⚫

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