I believe now that she was delirious, or mad, when she uttered it; for it was not like her coolly and deliberately to invent. Whatever it was, it imposed upon the cynical nature, that doubted only when things good or godlike were concerned; but was credulous as a child, when the dark side of the human mind was presented to his gaze. He sought me-actually sought me-from whom he had parted with words of the tenderest love, to heap upon my head reproaches and words of contemptuous scorn, which have, perhaps, built up the fabric of my present fame-for I have since lived to be revenged on him. He closed his harangue in these words 'You have murdered her to all intents and purposes as far as I am concerned. She is lost to me. Your pride and malignity have dared a greater crime, than that which your pretended passion so successfully resisted.' Was not this a training-school for the profession which I have adopted? What mimic stage could be more rife with incident, effect, passion, revenge, than the stage of my real life? How my heart burned in my breast to portray these things to the living crowds, whose answering emotions would assure me that this was not mere acting, but the overflowing of a powerful current into its own channel! ⚫ Imprisoned force that can but break at length, Engenders power, and concentrates strength.' My gift of beauty, my stormy nature, my love of sway-was not their proper sphere the stage? From that day my profession has been my all in all; I have attained fame, wealth, splendour. I have rejected destinies as far exceeding that which Lord Thoriston could have offered me, as my present one, in my own estimation, exceeds them all; and I have crowned my triumph by rejecting Lord Thoriston himself. The successful tragedienne, enthroned on the pinnacle of popular opinion, is at different being to the housekeeper in an obscure family. No man is more influenced by popular opinion than this captious, cavilling, cynical nature. The night I received his letter, offering to reopen negotiations with me (based now upon an unmistakable footing, the footing of marriage), he occupied a stall opposite me, and I acted at him. In the person of the actor, who took a part not unsimilar in its details to that which Lord Thoriston had acted in earnest, I inundated him with scorn. I singled him out by one well-directed glance, and that glance was the answer to the proposals which he had presumed to address to methat glance trampled his coronet under foot, and laid his pride in the dust. That night, I was afterwards told, I surpassed myself; and truly the plaudits which resounded as the curtain fell bore witness to the power with which my acting had spoken to the hearts of the audience. With one voice the assembled crowds repeated my name, and when I appeared before the curtain the ovation was complete. At that moment I glanced at one pale, passion-lined, hard face, and I saw that I had not acted in vain. Many such nights as that would have killed me. As it was, I terrified my maid by acting my part over again in my sleep. She tells me that I often do it-when I have been more than usually carried away, when I have entered body and soul into the spirit of the author, I have been known to go through a whole part without missing a word or gesture. And this circumstance proves to me more than ever that I am an actress at heart-that the depths of my nature are stirred, in proportion as I feel the power within me to stir the hearts of others that the ruling passion of the moment can sway me like a reed; and that, if the light of conscience, or the strength of principle, were by any fatality asleep in my breast, I should be at the mercy of the headlong current. As it is, however, I have a will which can conquer all-which has been my stepping-stone to fame-the secret of my success, and which has, I firmly believe, more than once been my safeguard from Crime. ΟΝ I. READING FOR HONOURS. A University Story founded on Fact. Fame is the spur that the clear mind doth raise Na bright April daybreak, forty years ago, a party of students was crowding round the open stoneshafted window of a third-floor room in the inner court-yard of Leyden University-a court-yard generally known to Dutch students as the Hundred Pipes Court,' from a legend of a certain professor who once had rooms there, and who, during his attack on a German rival's thesis, On the Cosmogony of Sanchoniathon,' is said to have smoked one hundred pipes, and to have drunk upwards of three gallons of spruce beer, in the short space of twelve hours. There were five men in the upper room of the Hundred Pipes Court,' of whom four were evidently young students. The fifth, by his dress and manner, was apparently a boor of the town, either a messenger or servant of one of them, for he kept in the background, and waited patiently for an opportunity of taking his turn to look at the object, whatever it was, that riveted the attention of the other four. If I had time to observe the dress of these students, I might describe it as consisting of short frock coat, voluminous neckcloths, tight pantaloons, and smart Hessian boots. One brawny fellow, with a frank, hearty face, clear, unflinching eye, short crisp, black beard, and bright complexion, sits with his back half turned to the wide stone-shafted window, gazing dreamily at a rough sketch of revelling boors in the Ostade manner which rests upon the large easel before him. The drumhead of this is adorned with a largenosed caricature of his merry friend Van Hock, who, standing on a highbacked chair-for he is a fat, short man-is puffing out his red cheeks and kissing his pudgy fingers to some beauty, I suppose, at a window on the opposite side of the small quadrangle. Brederode that is the frank, tall fellow I first namedhas just taken his pipe out of his lips, and is holding up a red bumper of Burgundy to the same mysterious person. A third lad, a long-faced, rather sentimental, and handsome stripling, somewhat older than the rest, remarkable for his Raphael face' and long, flowing, brown hair, stands up against the dull red, smoke-dried curtains of the window, and dreamily stares in the same direction. That is Vanderhorn, the poet of the University, whom the wags of the college call The Undertaker,' partly because he is grave and silent, and partly because he always wears a Raphaelesque coat of black velvet. The fourth, that fair-haired youth kneeling upon the velvet-cushioned chair, is Herr Wagner-brave Carl Wagner-a fiery young Prussian, who is generally noisy and merry enough with his student songs, and drinking songs, and war songs, and every sort of song, but who is now, with his great China tea-cup of a pipe, quite absorbed, like the rest, in watching the mysterious being at the opposite window. He puffs and stares, without having a word to throw even at Brederode's big black dog Nassau that couches at the foot of the easel, dangerously close to the great tin box of colour bladders, the bottles of oil, and the heap of wet brushes. The tassel of the blind blows backward into the room as the April wind comes with a scent of flowers, and beats against those red and pale faces, somewhat jaded with a long night's revel. The annual examinations were to commence in a week, and this was the way the Brederode set generally prepared themselves for that Lenten time of brain-work and hard study. on Reading for Honours. Now it is certainly pleasant in a 6 No one, I am sure, unacquainted with the Court of the Hundred Pipes' and its inmates would have seen anything peculiar in the window opposite to attract and fix so many eyes. There are lights here and there in many of the opposite rooms, for the college chambers are low and dark, and the rosy flush in the sky is hardly yet fully turned to sunshine. At one window a hand might be seen thrust out, and dropping a hat down upon the courtyard stones below. There has been a drinking party in those rooms, and that is the result of a scuffle between two of the most tipsy. At another window I see the lean, spectacled head of Professor Hartwig thrust out greedily and inquiringly to sniff the air and ascertain the state of the weather preparatory to a short constitutional walk before breakfast on the banks of the Brockendam Canal. All these things are, it is true, in their small way, characteristic and interesting. The window into which Brederode's set are staring is unmarked by anything I can see, except by the twinkling yellow light of a single tallow candle, burnt down almost to the socket of the candlestick. And yet, perhaps, I am rather too hasty in my condemnation of these Leyden students; for when I shade my eyes with my hand and look very closely, I do think I can see, further in the gloom of the chamber, and scarcely separable from it, a tall, emaciated man of I know not what age, with hollow cheeks and mere pits for eyes, bending over a dark folio, the leaves of which reflect upward a sort of white glimmer on his already pale face. He must be dressed in black, too, I am sure, for his clothes reflect no light, and his figure seems to melt into the dark walls that just one tinge of daybreak now brightens in slanting flushes. Rembrandt must have witnessed such scenes, or he could never have painted men so similar. Whatever the revelry of evidently at the opposite window Brederode and his fellows had been, was to be seen the real, devoted student toiling for fame, and oblivious of all the butterfly pleasures of the outer sunshiny world. But was fame really worth that toil of brain and that long imprisonment? By no means,' thought many a student at that moment watching that window. By no means,' thought Brederode and his friends. 'Look, you fellows,' said Hock, if there is not Van Os up already at six in the blessed morning sweating at his examination books. Mark me, that fellow will kill himself. He has given up wine!' 'Most logical proof of impending dissolution,' said Wagner, emitting three distinct whiffs of blue smoke from his mouth, as he removed from it the shining amber mouthpiece of his pipe, in order to speak. 'He has given up wine, and Hock has taken to it,' said Brederode. 'It is no use drinking to the dog-the bookworm; he takes no notice of us.' Friends or foes are all one to him,' cried one of the men. 'Such intimates as Plato and Euclid are all he cares for. He dreams of Aristophanes, and wakes to read Galen.' He never goes out,' said Vanderhorn, the poet. 'No sunbeam can lure him to the Muscs; no moonshine wiles him forth.' 'It is not every one who lives on moonshine,' said Hock, glancing at Vanderhorn. 'Nor every one, Hock, who eats,' drinks, and sleeps on Schiedam,' said alone; he never borrowed money of Brederode. 'So leave the poet you. What do you mean by laughing, Hans Windbank? (snapping round at the servant, who had ventured on a smile). We don't pay you to laugh.' Beg pardon, gentlemen. Here's thanks for all past kindnesses, if I may be allowed to speak,' said Hans, bowing. 'Certainly.' good grammar,' interrupted Hock. "Will you be quiet, and let Hans Windbank have his say?' broke in Brederode, beating his hand on his table, and then adding another inch to the length of the caricature of Hock's nose. 'Well, as I was saying, gentlemen, I was here yesterday at five o'clock in the morning with a note for Professor Van Hartwig from his wife's mother, who was taken dangerously ill after a supper of pickled herrings. Now you see the professor's wife's mother' We Now, don't digress, Jan. don't want to know the pedigree of the professor's wife's mother. You are wandering from the straight path of the story,' said Hock. Will you be quiet, Hock?' thundered Brederode. 'Well, as I was going to say, gentlemen,' drowsily pursued the stolid Hans, 'I was a coming along the quadrangle straight to the porter's lodge-Mr. Vandergucht's lodge-when what should I see but a light at that window you're all a looking at now-the only light burning in the whole University. "O, ho!' says I, "so you're at work, are you, my man?" says I; and when I looked up I sees a tall thin gentleman in black, as it might be, walking about the room, talking to himself like a madman, and with a big book as large as a church Bible in his hands; and my words to Mr. Vandergucht were these-or may I never drink beer again""Tis a hard life," says I; "and money well spent," says I--' 'A hard drinking life it is,' said Brederode. 'Now, look ye here, Ephebi, as old Hartwig calls us, it is perfectly frightful the life Van Os is leading. However late I go to bed-and heaven knows that's late enough-or however early in the morning I look out before I turn in after you fellows are gone, there is that man's candle burning. I don't believe he sleeps four hours a night. It can't last: he will break down before the examinations begin. No wine, no smoke, no amusement!' With clinking glass and flaring lights, We chase Old Night away,' broke in the volatile and jovial Hock, to whom a three minutes' space of sustained serious remark was painful, if not absolutely unbearable. 'I say,' continued Brederode, with a furious look at the offender-for Brederode liked to rule there is something wrong about the brain of a young, gay fellow who suddenly gives up wine, love' 'Duelling,' broke in Hock. Hunting, shooting, riding, cockfighting, cards And nature,' suggested the poet, dreamily. And human nature-and takes to such severe study — to such dangerous study as Van Os over there has now taken to: these extremes are unhealthy.' 'Give me moderation, at least in study,' said Hock. 'Give me nature,' chimed in the poet. Vanderhorn!' roared King Bre derode. The man who studies must be mad,' shouted Hock. Will you let me speak?' roared Brederode. The man who shuts himself up in doors is insane,' cried Vanderhorn. 'Will you let me get in a word?' said Brederode, enraged at this mutiny of his usually patient listeners. We never say a word,' said Hock. 'You always do speak,' said Vanderhorn. 'I tell you he's killing himself. I'm sure of it. But, look therelook Hock! Vanderhorn! There he comes out of the door, see, a regular ghost-languid-slow-no energy, no fire. Look, he steals across to the chapel. Why, his brain must be wandering for it wants two hours to chapel time. Yes, I'm right. See, he tries the door feebly-listens for a moment-then shuffles back up stairs to his room to read again. Oh! he's done for. And what a lad once! what a ruffler in the tavern rows! what a merry boy on & trekschuyt journey. How the pretty vrows used to listen to his songs!' 'Do you remember that fight with knives when the boors rose at us in the Three Kings Street?' asked Wagner. 'Ay! ay!' And now, this sexton's ghost of a fellow-well, well-what men come to who give up wine and take to books!' 'Let us drink to his memory in solemn silence,' cried Hock. Some ten minutes later than the conversation just chronicled, a knock was heard at Brederode's door; and one of his friends, Dr. Pinkoff, a wellknown, good-natured old physician of Leyden, entered. 'Hallo!' he said, 'young gentlemen, a pretty wet night it has been, it needs no Solomon to see. Ringlets of sodden lemon-peel-heaps of torn cards-a broken hour-glass, broken for warning you, I warranta small shopful of jugs and bottles -piles of grey cigar ash-broken pipes. Fie, fie! Is this study?' 'No, only early breakfast,' said Hock, yawning; only breakfast, 'pon my soul!' To prepare for early study, I suppose,' laughingly suggested the doctor. 'But what brings you here at this hour-what is the cause of this unexpected pleasure, my worthy doctor?' inquired Brederode. 'A visit to a sick student opposite, Herr Van Os, who complains of sick headache, pains in the head and dizziness-overstudy, sir.' 'What did I say?' broke out Brederode. I fear-like most of us in the pleasure of a fulfilled prophecy -he had forgotten his pity for the sufferer. 'That comes of reading and work,' said Hock, filling his glass. And of want of communing with nature,' added the poet, not forgetting his hobby. Nonsense, gentlemen,' said the doctor, getting into a corner of the room, out of the sunshine that daz zled his eyes: there is no cause for fear in the matter, he will be well to-morrow.' 'A glass of wine, doctor?' suggested the irrelevant and flighty Hock. 'No, thank you. Van Os's illness is nothing-over in a day or twomere derangement of the nervous system; wants tonics; reads a little too hard, doesn't walk enough; diet hardly generous enough. Pah! it's nothing-I was so once.' 'Wants wine!' cried all four students with one voice. ness. 'No, gentlemen; he, on the contrary, makes quite enough blood; but what he wants is more fresh air, more relaxation, more of your idleHis constitution is as good as mine' (beating his chest); but he does not allow himself enough sleep; 'pon my word, some of you ought to go and take him out for a country walk.' 'I tried him yesterday-invited him to billiards at Bankeyden,' said Hock. And I the day before to a little quiet stroll,' said Wagner, filling his fourteenth pipe. And I last week to a moonlight walk,' added Vanderhorn. O, sweet nature! how art thou Fuddled-quite fuddled,' said Hock, oracularly, under breath, and pointing with the back of one thumb to the unconscious poet, whose eyes were just then turned up towards the ceiling. 'I can hardly believe it possible, doctor,' said Brederode; but I hear that Van Os is going to take up all the Byzantine historians for his examination; and they say that Professor Hartwig is working all day, having never read even one of them before in his life.' Aristotle he knows by heart,' said Wagner. Plato Van Os has at his fingers' ends,' put in Hock. And they say he can repeat half the books of Euclid backwards,' said Brederode. 'He is deep in Galen-that I know of my own knowledge,' said the doctor, for he has puzzled me this very morning on the question of cerebral symptoms.' 'But whence, doctor, this sudden passion of his for study? Van Os has no motive to study; he is rich; he is-I took to it for--' 'I never knew any one who took to violent study who did not go mad,' said Hock, thoughtfully; 'they |