assassin was some member of his own household. Suspicion fixed upon one Frémont, his game-keeper, who was accordingly brought before the Assizes at Tours, but acquitted. Five years afterwards fresh evidence was found, which incriminated him and two brothers (Dubois), who had been in Courier's employ. One of them was dead-the other was charged with the murder. Frémont having been once acquitted could not be again put on his trial, and turned king's evidence, but his depositions were not admitted in full, and Dubois was acquitted. The jury were equally

divided.

Personally, Courier seems to have been a man of keen sympathies, impatient of oppression of every kind, fearless in his denunciation of it, but at the same time distinctly a man of the pen, not a man of action. I cannot conceive of him as the leader of a party, or as himself carrying any of those measures of reform whose necessity he saw. He had neither the tact, nor the wide grasp of intellect which are necessary for such a work. He was far too independent to work in harness, whether as leader or subordinate. In this how different from his biographer, himself too wielding the same weapons, Armand Carrel.

As a writer, his chief quality is that wonderful refinement of art, whose art is completely hid-or is it not rather that the refinement of classical study has so worked itself into his very being, as to cease to be an art, and to become a second nature? It may be thought that too much has been made of a mere pamphleteer. But it must be remembered that he practically introduced into France a new engine of political warfare, which has grown into greater importance there than in any other nation in Europe. "If complete emancipation from the yoke of conventionalities of the age can be regarded as the principal mark of genius, Paul Louis Courier was the most distinguished writer of our times, for there is no single page that has come from his pen which can be attributed to any other than himself. In the midst of people who seemed to do their best to resemble each other most closely, he came forward alone, with none to sound his trumpet, without friends, and spoke as he had learned to speak, and in the tone which he thought suited him best, and was listened to......Who of us has not felt cruelly in these later times the absence of Paul Louis Courier?-The place that he held in our ranks will remain empty to the end of the fight. But before his end, he has at least engraven on brass

the sentiments that he shared with us, and which would secure the acquittal of this generation, if ever it were accused of being a dumb spectator of all the shame of France during the last fifteen years."*

* Armand Carrel, anno 1829.

R. W. TAYLOR.

M

GUL U BULBUL,

OR, THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE.

From the Persian of Hussein Va'yz Káshifi.

Bulbul ki bagul dar nigarad mast shavad,
Sar rishtae ikhtiyárash az dast shavad.

WHERE murmuring Rukna rolls his silvery stream Beneath the azure of a cloudless sky;

Where gilded spires that in the sunlight gleam

'Midst tow'ring palm trees charm the lingering eye;
Where every zephyr on its balmy wings
To blushing roses wafts the bulbul's sigh;

Where nature's choir in notes harmonious sings,
Making sweet music to the rustling grove;
And not a sight and not a sound but brings

Its meed of beauty, melody and love;
There bloomed a garden such as they behold
Who dwell by Silsabil's blest streams above.

Not lovelier Iram, which, as bards have told,
In far Arabia's scorching desert lies,
Where false Sheddád's 'Imárets glare with gold,

Though mystery shrouds them now from mortal eyes,
Save when upon some lone lost wanderer's sight,
Its diamond turrets like a day-dream rise.

Here in a corner, shrinking from the light,
A rose bud blossomed, whose enchanting hue
Rivalled the cheeks of her whose beauty bright,

Name of a fountain in Paradise.

O'er earth's great conqueror such enchantment threw.*
Each morn, when issuing from his Ocean bed,

Bright Phoebus beaming burst upon the view;

And o'er the awakening world his radiance shed,
The garden's guardian left his humble room,
And paced the parterres by the path that led

To that calm nook which saw the floweret bloom;
As some fond lover to an arbor creeps,
Where lulled to rest by eve's encircling gloom,

The maid he loves in guileless beauty sleeps,
And lingering looks till at his soft sighs' sound
Her startled eye from out its curtain peeps;

So gazed the gardener as the days wore round,
And watched the bud its opening charms disclose,
And breathed the perfume it diffused around.

But lo! one luckless morn, beside the rose
A mournful nightingale with grief o'erpressed,
In wistful warblings wailed his wearying woes,

And sought in song to soothe his saddened breast,
And in the wantonness of wild despair,
Still plucked the leaflets from their fragrant nest,

Till all the tree was desolate and bare;
The rose was ruined, but the thorn remained
Stern sentry still though no fair charge was there.

With bitter sighs the gardener complained,
And cursed the culprit in his maddening rage,
His passion's steed no gentle patience reined,

And nought but vengeance could his wrath assuage:
With treacherous traps the hapless bird he lured,
And kept him captive in a cruel cage,

Mocking the pangs his prisoner endured.

To whom the nightingale thus made his moan!
"Oh wherefore now within these bars immured

* Nùri Jehân (Light of the world) the same with Moore's Nur Mahall. She was the wife of Jehangir (world-conqueror) who raised the splendid mausoleum to her memory, called the Taji Mahall at Agra.

"Am I thus left to mourn and die alone?
"Dost thou then fancy that my notes will ring
"Here in this prison with a sweeter tone

"Than midst the branches where I sit and sing?
"Or is there nothing that can heal the smart
"Of thy great loss, but my poor breast to wring,

"From all I love, thus dooming me to part?
"If one rose ruined costs so dear to me,
"What shalt thou suffer for a broken heart?"

The plaintive prisoner by this piteous plea,
So moved his captor, that the self-same hour
He loosed his fetters, and dismissed him free

To flutter fearless 'midst each favorite flower.
Then sung the Bulbul from the tangled wood,
"The great archangel on the night of power"

"Revealed that 'good must he repaid with good,'t
"So for thy kindness will I make return:
"Beneath the tree whereon at first I stood

"There lies a treasure in a hidden urn."
The gardener digging found the precious prize,
And thus responded, "I would gladly learn

"How thou divinedst what thus buried lies,
"Yet dust spread lightly o'er a clumsy snare
"Should be sufficient to deceive thine eyes."

To whom the Bulbul, "thou should'st be aware
"That when from heaven the high decrees descend,
"Tis vain to struggle, man his fate must bear,
"For God shapes all things to some useful end.”

HAJJI.

* Lailatal cadr, vide Cor-án, C. XCVIII. Inná enzalaáhu fi lailati 'leadr.

"Verily we revealed the Cor-án in the night of power." † Hal jazá-ulihsáni illá ’lihsán ?