remains of the glorious Possibility, which we fondly named Man, nothing but an inanimate mass of foul loss and disappointment, which we wrap in shrouds and bury underground, surely with well-merited tears. To the Thinker here lies Tragedy enough; the epitome and marrow of all Tragedy whatsoever.

But so few are Thinkers? Aye, Reader, so few think; there is the rub! Not one in the thousand has the smallest turn for thinking; only for passive dreaming and hearsaying, and active babbling by rote. Of the eyes that men do glare withal so few can see. Thus is the world become such a fearful confused Treadmill; and each man's task has got entangled in his neighbour's and pulls it awry; and the Spirit of Blindness, Falsehood, and Distraction (justly named the Devil) continually maintains himself among us; and even hopes (were it not for the Opposition, which by God's Grace will also maintain itself) to become supreme. Thus, too, among other things, has the Romance of Life gone wholly out of sight: and all History, degenerating into empty invoice-lists of Pitched Battles and Changes of Ministry; or, still worse, into "Constitutional History," or Philosophy of History, or "Philosophy teaching by Experience," ," is become dead, as the Almanacs of other years, to which species of composition, indeed, it bears, in several points of view, no inconsiderable affinity.

66

"Of all blinds that shut up men's vision," says one," the worst is self." How true! How doubly true, if self, assuming her cunningest, yet miserablest disguise, come on us in neverceasing, all-obscuring reflexes from the innumerable selves of others; not as Pride, not even as real Hunger, but only as Vanity, and the shadow of an imaginary Hunger, (for Applause;) under the name of what we call "Respectability!" Alas now for our Historian: to his other spiritual deadness (which, however, so long as he physically breathes cannot be complete) this sad new magic influence is added! Henceforth his Histories must all be screwed up into the "dignity of History." Instead of looking fixedly at the Thing, and first of all, and beyond all, endeavouring to see it, and fashion a living Picture of it, (not a wretched politico-metaphysical Abstraction of it,) he has now quite other matters to look to. The thing lies shrouded, invisible, in thousandfold hallucinations, and foreign air-images: what did the Whigs say of it? What did the Tories? The Priests? The Freethinkers? Above all, what will my own listening circle say of me for what I say of it? And then his Respectability in general, as a literary gentleman; his not despicable talent for philosophy! Thus is our poor Historian's faculty directed mainly on two objects; the Writing and the Writer, both of which are quite extraneous; and the thing written of fares as we

bran. In our England especially, which in these days is become the chosen land of Respectability, Life-writing has dwindled to the sorrowfullest condition; it requires a man to be some disrespectable, ridiculous Boswell before he can write a tolerable Life. Thus, too, strangely enough, the only Lives worth reading are those of Players, emptiest and poorest of the sons of Adam; who nevertheless were sons of his, and brothers of ours; and by the nature of the case, had already bidden Respectability good-day. Such bounties, in this, as in infinitely deeper matters, does Respectability shower down on us. are thy doings, O Gig; sadder than those of Juggernaut's Car: that, with huge wheel, suddenly crushes asunder the bodies of men; thou, in thy light-bobbing Long-Acre springs, gradually winnowest away their souls!

Sad

Depend upon it, for one thing, good Reader, no age ever seemed the Age of Romance to itself. Charlemagne, let the Poets talk as they will, had his own provocations in the world: what with selling of his poultry and potherbs, what with wanton daughters carrying secretaries through the snow; and, for instance, that hanging of the Saxons over the Weser-bridge, (thirty thousand of them, they say, at one bout,) it seems to me that the Great Charles had his temper ruffled at times. Roland of Roncesvalles, too, we see well in thinking of it, found rainy weather as well as sunny; knew what it was to have hose need darning; got tough beef to chew, or even went dinnerless; was saddlesick, calumniated, constipated, (as his madness, too clearly indicates ;) and oftenest felt, I doubt not, that this was a very Devil's world, and he (Roland) himself one of the sorriest_caitiff's there. Only in long subsequent days, when the tough beef, the constipation, and the calumny, had clean vanished, did it all begin to seem Romantic, and your Turpins and Ariostos found music in it. So, I say, is it ever! And the more, as your true hero, your true Roland, is ever unconscious that he is a hero: this is a condition of all true greatness.

In our own poor Nineteenth Century, the writer of these lines has been fortunate enough to see not a few glimpses of Romance; he imagines this Nineteenth is hardly a whit less romantic than that Ninth, or any other, since centuries began. Apart from Napoleon, and the Dantons, and Mirabeaus, whose fire-words (of public speaking) and fire-whirlwinds, (of cannon and musquetry,) which for a season darkened the air, are, perhaps, at bottom but superficial phenomena, he ras witnessed, in remotest places, much that could be called romantic, even miraculous. He has witnessed overhead the infinite Deep, with greater and lesser lights, bright-rolling, silent-beaming, hurled forth by the Hand of God; around him, and under his feet, the wonderfullest Earth, with her winter snow-storms and her summer spice-airs, and (unaccountablest of all) himself standing there. He stood in the lapse of Time; he saw Eternity behind him and before him. The all-encircling mysterious tide of FORCE, thousandfold, (for from force of Thought to force of Gravitation what an interval!) billowed shoreless on; bore him too along with it-he

too was part of it. From its bosom rose and vanished, in perpetual change, the lordliest Real-Phantasmagory, (which was Being;) and ever anew rose and vanished; and ever that lordliest many-coloured scene was full, another yet the same. Oak-trees fell, young acorns sprang: Men too, new-sent from the Unknown, he met, of tiniest size, who waxed into stature, into strength of sinew, passionate fire and light: in other Men the light was growing dim, the sinews all feeble; they sank, motionless, into ashes, into invisibility; returned back to the Unknown, beckoning him their mute farewell. He wanders still by the parting-spot; cannot hear them; they are far, how far!-It was a sight for angels, and archangels; for, indeed, God himself had made it wholly. One many-glancing asbestos-thread in the Web of Universal-History, spirit-woven, it rustled there, as with the howl of mighty winds, through that "wild roaring Loom of Time." Generation after generation, (hundreds of them, or thousands of them, from the unknown Beginning,) so loud, so stormful busy, rushed torrent-wise, thundering down, down; and fell all silent (only some feeble re-echo, which grew ever feebler, struggling up,) and Oblivion swallowed them all. Thousands more, to the unknown Ending, will follow and thou here (of this present one) hangest as a drop, still sungilt, on the giddy edge; one moment, while the Darkness has not yet engulphed thee. O Brother! is that what thou callest prosaic; of small interest? Of small interest, and for thee? Awake, poor troubled sleeper: shake off thy torpid nightmare-dream; look, see, behold it, the Flame-image; splendours high as Heaven, terrors deep as Hell: this is God's Creation; this is Man's Life!-Such things has the writer of these lines witnessed, in this poor Nineteenth Century of ours; and what are all such to the things he yet hopes to witness? Hopes, with truest assurance. "I have painted so much," said the good Jean Paul, in his old days," and I have never seen the Ocean; the Ocean of Eternity I shall not fail to see!"

Such being the intrinsic quality of this Time, and of all Time whatsoever, might not the Poet who chanced to walk through it find objects enough to paint? What object soever he fixed on, were it the meanest of the mean, let him but paint it in its actual truth, as it swims there, in such environment; world-old, yet new, and never ending; an indestructible portion of the miraculous All,-his picture of it were a Poem. How much more if the object fixed on were not mean, but one already wonderful; the (mystic) "actual truth" of which, if it lay not on the surface, yet shone through the surface, and invited even Prosaists to search for it!

The present writer, who unhappily belongs to that class, has, nevertheless, a firmer and firmer persuasion of two things: first, as was seen, that Romance exists; secondly, that now, and formerly, and ever more it exists, strictly speaking, in Reality alone. The thing that is, what can be so wonderful; what, especially to us that are, can have such significance? Study Reality, he is ever and anon saying to himself; search out deeper and deeper is quite endless

mystery: see it, know it; then, whether thou wouldst learn from it, and again teach; or weep over it, or laugh over it, or love it, or despise it or in any way relate thyself to it, thou hast the firmest enduring basis: that hieroglyphic page is one thou canst read on for ever, find new meaning in for ever.

Finally, and in a word, do not the critics teach us: "In whatsoever thing thou hast thyself felt interest, in that or in nothing hope to inspire others with interest?"-In partial obedience to all which, and to many other principles, shall the following small Romance of the Diamond Necklace begin to come together. A small Romance, let the reader again and again assure himself, which is no brain web of mine, or of any other foolish man's; but a fraction of that mystic "spirit-woven web," from the "Loom of Time," spoken of above. It is an actual Transaction that happened in this Earth of ours. Wherewith our whole business, as already urged, is to paint it truly.

For the rest, an earnest inspection, faithful endeavour has not been wanting. on our part; nor (singular as it may seem) the strictest regard to chronology, geography, (or rather in this case, topography.) documentary evidence, and what else true historical research would yield. Were there but on the reader's part a kindred openness, a kindred spirit of endeavour! Beshone strongly, on both sides, by such united twofold Philosophy, this poor opaque Intrigue of the Diamond Necklace became quite translucent between us; transfi gured, lifted up into the serene of Universal History; and might hang there like a smallest Diamond Constellation, visible without telescope, so long as it could.

CHAPTER II.

THE NECKLACE IS MADE.

Herr, or as he is now called Monsieur, Boehmer, to all appearance wanted not that last infirmity of noble and ignoble minds-a love of fame; he was destined also to be famous more than enough. His outlooks into the world were rather of a smiling character: he has long since exchanged his guttural speech, as far as possible, for a nasal one; his rustic Saxon fatherland for a polished city of Paris, and thriven there. United in partnership with worthy Monsieur Bassange, a sound practical man, skilled in the valuation of all precious stones, in the management of workmen, in the judgment of their work, he already sees himself among the highest of his guild: nay, rather the very highest,-for he has secured (by purchase and hard money paid) the title of King's Jeweller; and can enter the Court itself, leaving all other Jewellers, and even innumerable Gentlemen, Gigmen, and small Nobility, to languish in the vesti bule. With the costliest ornaments in his pocket, or borne after him by assiduous shopboys, the happy Boehmer sees high drawingrooms and sacred ruelles fly open, as with talismanic Sesame; and the brightest eyes of the whole world grow brighter: to him alone of

men the Unapproachable reveals herself in mysterious negligée; taking and giving counsel. Do not, on all gala-days and gala-nights, his works praise him? On the gorgeous robes of State, on Court-dresses and Lords' stars, on the diadem of Royalty; better still, on the swan-neck of Beauty, and her queenly garniture from plume-bearing aigrette to shoebuckle on fairy-slipper,-that blinding play of colours is Boehmer's doing: he in JouaillierBijoutier de la Reine.

Could the man but have been content with it! He could not: Icarus-like, he must mount too high; have his wax-wings melted, and descend prostrate, amid a cloud of vain goose-quills. One day, a fatal day (of some year, probably, among the Seventies of last Century,) it struck Boehmer: Why should not I, who, as Most Christian King's Jeweller, am properly first Jeweller of the Universe, make a Jewel which the Universe has not matched? Nothing can prevent thee, Boehmer, if thou have the skill to do it. Skill or no skill, answers he, I have the ambition: my Jewel, if not the beautifullest, shall be the dearThus was the Diamond Necklace determined on.

est.

Did worthy Bassange give a willing or a reluctant consent? In any case he consents; and co-operates. Plans are sketched, consultations held, stucco models made; by money or credit the costliest diamonds come in; cunning craftsmen cut them, set them: proud Boehmer sees the work go prosperously on. Proud man! Behold him on a morning after breakfast: he has stepped down to the innermost workshop, before sallying out; stands there with his laced three-cornered hat, cane under arm; drawing on his gloves: with nod, with nasal-guttural word, he gives judicious confirmation, judicious abnegation, censure, and approval. A still joy is dawning over that bland, blond face of his; he can think (while in many a sacred boudoir he visits the Unapproachable) that an opus magnum, of which the world wotteth not, is progressing. At length comes a morning when care has terminated. and joy cannot only dawn but shine; the Necklace, that shall be famous and world-famous, is made.

Made we call it, in conformity with common speech: but properly it was not made; only, with more or less spirit of method, arranged and agglomerated. What "spirit of method" lay in it, might be made; nothing more. But to tell the various Histories of those various Diamonds, from the first making of them; or even (omitting all the rest) from the first digging of them in the far Indian mines! How they lay, for uncounted ages and æons (under the uproar and splashing of such Deucalion Deluges, and Hutton Explosions, with steam enough, and Werner Submersions) silently imbedded in the rock; nevertheless (when their hour came) emerged from it, and first beheld the glorious Sun smile on them, and

*Except that Madame Campan (Memoires, tome ii.) says the Necklace "was intended for Du Barry," one cannot discover, within many years, the date of its manufacture. Du Barry went "into half-pay" on the 10th of May, 1774,-the day when her king died.

with their many-coloured glances smiled back on him. How they served next (let us say) as eyes of Heathen Idols, and received worship. How they had then, by fortune of war or theft, been knocked out; and exchanged among camp-suttlers for a little spirituous liquor, and bought by Jews, and worn as signets on the fingers of tawny or white Majesties; and again been lost, with the fingers too, and perhaps life, (as by Charles the Rash, among the mud-ditches of Nancy,) in old-forgotten glorious victories: and so, through innumerable varieties of fortune,-had come at last to the cutting-wheel of Boehmer; to be united in strange fellowship, with comrades also blown together from all ends of the Earth, each with a History of its own! Could these aged stones (the youngest of them Six Thousand years of age, and upwards) but have spoken,-there were an Experience for Philosophy to teach by. But now, as was said, by little caps of gold (which gold also has a history,) and daintiest rings of the same, they are all, being so to speak, enlisted under Boehmer's flag,-made to take rank and file, in new order; no Jewel asking his neighbour whence he came; and parade there for a season. For a season only; and then-to disperse, and enlist anew ad infinitum. In such inexplicable wise are Jewels, and Men also, and indeed all earthly things, jumbled together and asunder, and shovelled and wafted to and fro, in our inexplicable chaos of a World. This was what Boehmer called making his Necklace.

So, in fact, do other men speak, and with even less reason. How many inen, for example, hast thou heard talk of making money: of making say a million and a half of money? Of which million and a half, how much, if one were to look into it, had they made? The accurate value of their Industry: not a sixpence more. Their making, then, was but, like Boehmer's, a clutching and heaping together;-by-and-by to be followed also by a dispersion. Made? Thou too vain individual! were these towered ashlar edifices; were these fair bounteous leas, with their bosky umbrages and yellow harvests; and the sunshine that lights them from above, and the granite rocks and fire-reservoirs that support them from below, made by thee? I think, by another. The very shilling that thou hast was dug (by man's force) in Carinthia and Paraguay; smelted sufficiently; and stamped, as would seem, not without the advice of our late Defender of the Faith, his Majesty George the Fourth. Thou hast it, and holdest it; but whether, or in what sense, thou hast made any farthing of it, thyself canst not say. If the courteous reader ask, What things, then, are made by man? I will answer him, Very few indeed. A Heroism, a Wisdom (a god-given Volition that has realized itself) is made now and then: for example, some five or six Books (since the Creation) have been made. Strange that there are not more; for surely every encouragement is held out. Could 1, or thou, happy reader, but make one, the world would let us keep it (unstolen) for Fourteen whole years, and take what we could get for it.