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and Trianon Roses. These August days, are they not worse than dog's days; worthy to be blotted out from all Almanacs? Boehmer and Bassange thou canst still see; but only "return from them swearing." Nay, what new misery is this? Our tutelary Histrionic Countess enters, distraction in her eyes;† she has just been at Versailles; the Queen's Majesty, with a levity of caprice which we dare not trust ourselves to characterize, declares plainly that she will deny ever having got the Necklace; ever having had, with his Eminence any transaction whatsoever!-Mudexplosion without parallel in volcanic annals. -The Palais de Strasbourg appears to be beset with spies; the Lamottes (for the Count, too, is here) are packing up for Bur-sur-Aube. The Sieur Boehmer, has he fallen insane? Or into communication with Breteuil ?—

And so distractedly and distractively, to the sound of all Discords in Nature, opens that Fourth, final Scenic Exhibition, composed by Destiny.

CHAPTER XV.

SCENE FOURTH BY DESTINY.

It is Assumption-day, the 15th of August. Don thy pontificalia, Grand-Almoner; crush down these hideous temporalities out of sight. In any case, smooth thy countenance into some sort of lofty-dissolute serene: thou hast a thing they call worshipping God to enact, thyself the first actor.

The Grand-Almoner has done it. He is in Versailles Eil de Bauf Gallery; where male and female Peerage, and all Noble France in gala, various and glorious as the rainbow, waits only the signal to begin worshipping: on the serene of his lofty-dissolute countenance, there can nothing be read. By Heaven! he is sent for to the Royal Apartment!

He returns with the old lofty-dissolute look, inscrutably serene: has his turn for favour actually come, then? Those fifteen long years of soul's travail are to be rewarded by a birth?-Monsieur le Baron de Breteuil issues; great in his pride of place, in this the crowning moment of his life. With one radidiant glance, Breteuil summons the Officer on Guard: with another, fixes Monseigneur: "De par le Roi, Monseigneur: you are arrested! At your risk, Officer!"-Curtains as of pitchblack whirlwind envelope Monseigneur; whirl off with him,-to outer darkness. Versailles Gallery explodes aghast; as if Guy Fawkes's Plot had burst under it. "The Queen's Majesty was weeping," whisper some. There will be no Assumption service; or such a one as was never celebrated since Assumption came in fashion.

Europe, then, shall ring with it from side to xide!—But why rides that Heyduc as if all

*Lamotte.

+ Georgel. This is Bette d'Ente ville's description of him; "A handsome man, of fifty; with high complexion; hair white-gray, and the front of the head bald: of high stature; carriage noble and easy, though burdened with a certain degree of corpulency; who, I never doubted, was Monsieur de Rohan." (First Memoire Pour.)

the Devils drove him? It is Monseigneur's Heyduc: Monseigneur spoke three words in German to him, at the door of his Versailles Hôtel; even handed him a slip of writing, which (some say, with borrowed Pencil, "in his red square cap ") he had managed to prepare on the way hither. To Paris? To the Palais-Cardinal! The horse dies on reaching the stable; the Heyduc swoons on reaching the cabinet: but his slip of writing fell from his hand; and I (says the Abbé Georgel) was there. The red Portfolio, containing all the gilt Autographs, is burnt utterly, with much else, before Breteuil can arrive for apposition of the seals!-Whereby Europe, in ringing from side to side, must worry itself with guessing: and at this hour (on this paper) sees the matter in such an interesting clear-obscure.

Soon Count Cagliostro and his Seraphic Countess go to join Monseigneur, in State Prison. In few days, follows Dame de Lamotte (from Bar-sur-Aube); Demoiselle d'Oliva by and by (from Brussels); Villette-de-Retaux from his Swiss retirement, in the taverns of Geneva. The Bastille opens its iron bosom to them all.

CHAPTER LAST.

MISSA EST.

Thus, then, the Diamond Necklace having, on the one hand, vanished through the Horn Gate of Dreams, and so (under the pincers of Nisus Lamotte and Euryalus Villette) lost its sublunary individuality and being; and, on the other hand, all that trafficked in it, sitting now safe under lock and key, that justice may take cognisance of them,-our engagement in regard to the matter is on the point of terminating. That extraordinary Procès du Collier (Necklace Trial,) spinning itself through Nine other ever-memorable Months, to the astonishment of the hundred and eighty-seven assembled Parliementiers, and of all Quiddunes, Journalists, Anecdotists, Satirists, in both Hemispheres, is, in every sense, a "Celebrated Trial," and belongs to Publishers of such. How, by innumerable confrontations and expiscatory questions, through entanglements, doublings, and windings that fatigue eye and soul, this most involute of Lies is finally winded off to the scandalous-ridiculous cinder-heart of it, let others relate.

Meanwhile, during these Nine ever-memorable Months, till they terminate late at night precisely with the May of 1786,† how many "fugitive leaves," quizzical, imaginative, or at least mendacious, were flying about in Newspapers; or stitched together as Pamphlets; and what heaps of others were left creeping in Manuscript, we shall not say:having, indeed, no complete Collection of them, and, what is more to the purpose, little to

Georgel.

On the 31st of May, 1786, sentence was pronounced: about ten at night, the Cardinal got out of the Bastille; large mobs hurrahing round him,-out of spleen to the Court. (See Georgel.)

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do with such Collection. Nevertheless, search- | said, from of old, by the opposite party: 'All

men are liars?' Do they not (and this nowise in haste') whimperingly talk of 'one just person,' (as they call him,) and of the remaining thousand save one that take part with us? So decided is our majority."-(Applause.)

ing for some fit Capital of the composite order, to adorn adequately the now finished singular Pillar of our Narrative, what can suit us better than the following, so far as we know, yet unedited,

Occasional Discourse, by Count Alessandro Cagliostro, Thaumaturgist, Prophet, and Arch-Quack; delivered in the Bastille: Year of Lucifer, 5789; of the Hegira Mohammedan, (from Mecca,) 1201; of the Hegira Cagliostric, (from Palermo,) 24; of the Vulgar Era, 1785.

"Fellow Scoundrels,-An unspeakable Intrigue, spun from the soul of that Circe-Megæra, by our voluntary or involuntary help, has assembled us all, if not under one rooftree, yet within one grim iron-bound ring-wall. For an appointed number of months, in the ever-rolling flow of Time, we, being gathered from the four winds, did by Destiny work together in body corporate; and, joint labourers in a Transaction already famed over the Globe, obtain unity of Name, (like the Argonauts of old,) as Conquerors of the Diamond Necklace. Ere long it is done, (for ring-walls hold not captive the free Scoundrel for ever:) and we disperse again, over wide terrestrial Space; some of us, it may be, over the very marches of Space. Our Act hangs indissoluble together; floats wondrous in the older and older memory of men while we, little band of Scoundrels, who saw each other, now hover so far asunder, to see each other no more, if not once more only on the universal Doomsday, the last of the Days!

In such interesting moments, while we stand within the verge of parting, and have not yet parted, methinks it were well here, in these sequestered Spaces, to institute a few general reflections. Me, as a public speaker, the Spirit of Masonry, of Philosophy, and Philanthropy, and even of Prophecy (blowing mysterious from the Land of Dreams) impels to do it. Give ear, O Fellow Scoundrels, to what the Spirit utters; treasure it in your hearts, practise it in your lives.

"Sitting here, penned up in this which (with a slight metaphor) I call the Central Cloaca of Nature, where a tyrannical De Launay can forbid the bodily eye free vision, you with the mental eye see but the better. This Central Cloaca, is it not rather a Heart, into which, from all regions, mysterious conduits introduce, and forcibly inject, whatsoever is choicest in the Scoundrelism of the Earth; there to be absorbed, or again (by the other auricle) ejected into new circulation? Let the eye of the mind run along this immeasurable venous

arterial system; and astound itself with the magnificent extent of Scoundreldom; the deep, I may say, unfathomable, significance of

Scoundrelism.

"Yes, brethren, wide as the Sun's range is our Empire; wider than old Rome's in its palmiest era. I have in my time been far; in frozen Muscovy, in hot Calabria, east, west, wheresoever the sky overarches civilized man: and never hitherto saw I myself an alien; out of Scoundreldom I never was. Is it not even

"Of the Scarlet Woman,-yes, Monseigneur, without offence,-of the Scarlet Woman that sits on Seven Hills, and her Black Jesuit Militia, out foraging from Pole to Pole, I speak not; for the story is too trite: nay, the Militia itself, as I see, begins to be disbanded, and invalided, for a second treachery; treachery to herself! Nor yet of Governments; for a like ster, lie abroad for their masters. Their masreason. Ambassadors, said an English punters, we answer, lie, at home, for themselves. Not of all this, nor of Courtship, (with its so universal Lovers' vows.) nor Courtiership, nor Attorneyism, nor Public Oratory, and Selling by Auction, do I speak: I simply ask the gainsayer, Which is the particular trade, profession, mystery, calling, or pursuit of the Sons of Adam that they successfully manage in the other way? He cannot answer!-No: Philosophy itself, both practical and even specu lative, has, at length (after shamefullest groping) stumbled on the plain conclusion that Sham is indispensable to Reality, as Lying to Living; that without Lying the whole business of the world, from swaying of senates to selling of tapes, must explode into anarchic discords, and so a speedy conclusion ensue.

"But the grand problem, Fellow Scoundrels, as you well know, is the marrying of Truth and Sham; so that they become one flesh, man and wife, and generate these three: Profit, Pudding, and Respectability that always keeps her Gig. Wondrously, indeed, do Truth and Delusion play into one another: Reality rests on Dream. Truth is but the skin of the bottomless Untrue: and ever, from time to time, the Untrue sheds it; is clear again; and the superannuated True itself becomes a Fable. Thus do all hostile things crumble back into our Empire; and of its increase there is no end.

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"O brothers, to think of the Speech without meaning, (which is mostly ours.) and of the Speech with contrary meaning, (which is wholly ours,) manufactured by the organs of Mankind in one solar day! Or call it a day of Jubilee, when public Dinners are given, and Dinner-orations are delivered: or say, a Neighbouring Island in time of General Election! O ye immortal gods! The mind is lost; can only admire great Nature's plenteousness with a kind of sacred wonder.

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"For, tell me, What is the chief end of man? To glorify God,' said the old Christian Sect, now happily extinct. To eat and find eatables by the readiest method,' answers sound Philosophy, discarding whims. If the readier method (than this of persuasive-attraction) is discovered,-point it out.-Brethren, I said the old Christian Sect was happily extinct: as, indeed, in Rome itself, there goes the wonderfullest traditionary Prophecy, of that Nazareth Christ coming back, and being crucified a second time there; which truly I see not in the

* Goethe mentions it (Italianische Reiss.)

least how he could fail to be. Nevertheless, bly-Jock!) The Arch-Quack, whose eyes were that old Christian whim, of an actual living turned inwards as in rapt contemplation, and ruling God, and some sacred covenant started at the titter and mutter: his eyes flashed binding all men in Him, with much other mys- outwards with dilated pupil; his nostrils tic stuff, does, under new or old shape, linger opened wide; his very hair seemed to stir in with a few. From these few, keep yourselves its long twisted pigtails, (his fashion of curl;) for ever far! They must even be left to their and as Indignation is said to make Poetry, it whim, which is not like to prove infectious. here made Prophecy, or what sounded as such. With terrible, working features, and gesticulation not recommended in any Book of Gesture, the Arch-Quack, in voice supernally discordant (like Lions worrying Bulls of Bashan) began:

"But neither are we, my Fellow Scoundrels, without our Religion, our Worship; which, like the oldest, and all true Worships, is one of Fear. The Christians have their Cross, the Moslem their Cresent: but have not we, too, our-Gallows? Yes, infinitely terrible is "Sniff not, Dame de Lamotte; tremble, thou the Gallows; bestrides, with its patibulary foul Circe-Megara: thy day of desolation is at fork, the Pit of bottomless Terror. No Mani- hand! Behold ye the Sanhedrim of Judges, cheans are we; our God is One. Great, ex- with their fanners (of written Parchment) ceeding great, I say, is the Gallows; of old, loud-rustling, as they winnow all her chaff, and even from the beginning, in this world; know- down-plumage, and she stands there naked ing neither variableness nor decadence; for and mean?-Villette, Oliva, do ye blab seever, for ever, over the wreck of ages, and all crets? Ye have no pity of her extreme need; civic and ecclesiastic convulsions, meal-mobs, she none of yours. Is thy light-giggling, unrevolutions, the Gallows with front serenely tamable heart at last heavy? Hark ye! terrible towers aloft. Fellow Scoundrels, fear Shrieks of one cast out; whom they brand on the Gallows, and have no other fear! This is both shoulders with iron stamp; the red hot the Law and the Prophets. Fear every ema-"V," thou Voleuse, hath it entered thy soul? nation of the Gallows. And what is every Weep, Circe de Lamotte; wail there in truckle buffet, with the fist, or even with the tongue, of bed, and hysterically gnash thy teeth: nay, do, one having authority, but some such emana- smother thyself in thy door-mat coverlid; thou tion. And what is Force of Public Opinion hast found thy mates; thou art in the Salbut the infinitude of such emanations,-rush- pêtrière !-Weep, daughter of the high and ing combined on you like a mighty storm- puissant Sans-inexpressibles! Buzz of Pariwind? Fear the Gallows, I say! O when, sian Gossipry is about thee; but not to help with its long black arm, it has clutched a man, thee: no, to eat before thy time. What shall what avail him all terrestrial things? These a King's Court do with thee, thou unclean pass away, with horrid nameless dinning in thing, while thou yet livest? Escape! Flee his ears; and the ill-starred Scoundrel pendu-to utmost countries; hide there, if thou canst, lates between Heaven and Earth, a thing re- thy mark of Cain!-In the Babylon of Fogjected of both."-(Profound sensation.) land! Ha! is that my London? See I Judas Iscariot Egalité? Print, yea print abundantly the abominations of your two hearts: breath of rattlesnakes can bedim the steel mirror, but only for a time.-And there! Ay, there at last! Tumblest thou from the lofty leads, poverty-stricken, O thriftless daughter of the high and puissant, escaping bailiffs? Descendest thou precipitate, in dead night, from window in the third story: hurled forth by Bacchanals, to whom thy shrill tongue had grown unbearable ?* Yea, through the smoke of that new Babylon thou fallest headlong; one long scream of screams makes night hideous: thou liest there, shattered like addle egg, 'nigh to the Temple of Flora!' O Lamotte, has thy Hypocrisia ended, then? Thy many characters were all acted. Here at last thou actest not, but art what thou seemest: a mangled squelch of gore, confusion, and abomination; which men huddle underground, with no burial stone. Thou gallows-carrion!"

"Such, so wide in compass, high, gallowshigh in dignity, is the Scoundrel Empire; and for depth, it is deeper than the Foundations of the World. For what was Creation itself wholly (according to the best Philosophers) but a Divulsion by the TIME-SPIRIT, (or Devil so-called ;) a forceful Interruption, or breaking asunder, of the old Quiescence of Eternity? It was Lucifer that fell, and made this lordly World arise. Deep? It is bottomless-deep; the very Thought, diving, bobs up from it baffled. Is not this that they call Vice of Lying the Adum-Kadmon, or primeval Rude-Element, old as Chaos mother's-womb of Death and Hell; whereon their thin film of Virtue, Truth, and the like, poorly wavers-for a day? All Virtue, what is it, even by their own showing, but Vice transformed,—that is, manufactured, rendered artificial? Man's Vices are the roots from which his Virtues grow out and see the light,' says one: 'Yes,' add I, and thanklessly steal their nourishment!' Were it not for the nine hundred ninety and nine unacknowledged (perhaps martyred and calumniated) Scoundrels, how were their single Just Person (with a murrain on him!) so much as possible?-Oh, it is high, high: these things are too great for me; Intellect, Imagination, flags her tired wings; the soul lost, baffled"— -Here Dame de Lamotte tittered audibly, and muttered, Coq-d'-Inde, (which, being interpreted into the Scottish tongue, signifies

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-Here the prophet turned up his nose, (the broadest of the eighteenth century,) and opened

*The English Translator of Lamotte's Life says, she fell from the leads of her house, nigh the Temple of Flora, endeavouring to escape seizure for debt; and was taken up so much hurt that she died in consequence. Another report runs that she was flung out of window, as in the Cagliostric text. One way or other she did die, on the 23d of August, 1791 (Biographie Universelle, Xxx. 287.) Where the "Temple of Flora" was, or is, Bub-ope knows not.

wide his nostrils with such a greatness of disgust, that all the audience, even Lamotte herself, sympathetically imitated him -"O Dame de Lamotte! Dame de Lamotte! Now, when the circle of thy existence lies complete: and my eye glances over these two score and three years that were lent thee, to do evil as thou couldst; and I behold thee a bright-eyed little Tatterdemalion, begging and gathering sticks in the Bois de Boulogne; and also at length a squelched Putrefaction, here on London pavements; with the headdressings and hungerings, the gaddings and hysterical gigglings that came between,-What shall I say was the meaning of thee at all?

"Villette-de-Retaux ! Have the catchpoles trepanned thee, by sham of battle, in thy Tavern, from the sacred Republican soil.* It is thou that wert the hired Forger of Handwritings? Thou wilt confess it? Depart, unwhipt, yet accursed.-Ha! The dread Symbol of our Faith? Swings aloft, on the Castle of St. Angelo, a Pendulous Mass, which I think I discern to be the body of Villette! There let him end; the sweet morsel of our Juggernaut.

"Nay, weep not thou, disconsolate Oliva; blear not thy bright blue eyes, daughter of the shady Garden! Thee shall the Sanhedrim not harm: this Cloaca of Nature emits thee; as notablest of unfortunate-females, thou shalt have choice of husbands not without capital; and accept one. Know this, for the vision of it is true.

"But the Anointed Majesty whom ye profaned? Blow, spirit of Egyptian Masonry, blow aside the thick curtains of Space! Lo you, her eyes are red with their first tears of pure bitterness; not with their last. Tirewoman Campan is choosing, from the Printshops of the Quais, the reputed-best among the hundred likenesses of Circe de Lamotte: a Queen shall consider if the basest of women ever, by any accident, darkened daylight or candle-light for the highest. The Portrait answers: 'Never!'-(Sensation in the audience.)

POSTURE Waver? Burst there, in starry sheen, updarting, Light-rays from out its dark foundations; as it rocks and heaves, not in travailthroes, but in death-throes? Yea, Light-rays, piercing, clear, that salute the Heavens,-lo, they kindle it; their starry clearness becomes as red Helifire! IMPOSTURE is burnt up; one Redsea of Fire, wild-billowing enwraps the World; with its fire-tongue licks at the Stars. Thrones are hurled into it, and Dubois Mitres, and Prebendal Stalls that drop fatness, and-ha! what see I ?—all the Gigs of Creation: all, all! Wo is me! Never since Pharaoh's Chariots, in the Red-sea of water, was there wreck of Wheel-vehicles like this in the Sea of Fire. Desolate, as ashes, as gases, shall they wander in the wind.

"-Ha! What is this? Angels, Uriel, Anachiel, and the other Five; Pentagon of Rejuvenescene; Power that destroyed Original Sin; Earth, Heaven, and thou Outer Limbo, which men name Hell! Does the EMPIRE OF IM

"Higher, higher, yet flames the Fire-Sea; crackling with new dislocated timber; hissing with leather and prunella. The metal Images are molten; the marble Images become mortar-lime; the stone Mountains sulkily explode. RESPECTABILITY, with all her collected Gigs inflamed for funeral pyre, wailing, leaves the Earth,-to return under new Avatar. Imposture, how it burns, through generations: how it is burnt up-for a time. The World is black ashes; which-when will they grow green? The Images all run into amorphous Corinthian brass; all Dwellings of men destroyed; the very mountains peeled and riven, the valleys black and dead: it is an empty World! Wo to them that shall be born then!- -A King, a Queen, (ah me!) were hurled in; did rustle once; flew aloft, crackling, like paper-scroll. Oliva's Husband was hurled in; Iscariot Egalité; thou grim De Launay, with thy grim Bastille; whole kindreds and peoples; five millions of mutually destroying Men. For it is the End of the Dominion of IMPOSTURE (which is Darkness and opaque Firedamp; and the burning up, with unquenchable fire, of all the Gigs that are in the Earth!"-Here the Prophet paused, fetching a deep sigh; and the Cardinal uttered a kind of faint, tremulous Hem!

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Mourn not, O Monseigneur, spite of thy nephritic cholic, and many infirmities. For thee mercifully it was not unto death.* O Monseigneur, (for thou hadst a touch of goodness,) who would not weep over thee, if he also laughed? Behold! The not too judicious Historian, that long years hence, amid remotest wilderness, writes thy Life, and names thee Mud-volcano; even he shall reflect that it was thy Life this same; thy only chance through whole Eternity; which thou (poor gambler) hast expended so: and, even over his hard heart, a breath of dewy pity for thee shall blow.-O Monseigneur, thou wert not all ignoble: thy Mud-volcano was but strength dis

*See Georgel, and Villette's Mémoire. Afaire du Collier is this MS. Note: "Gay d'Oliva, a common-girl of the Palais-Royal, who was chosen to play a part in this Business, got married, some years afterwards, to one Beausire, an Ex-Noble, formerly attached to the d'Artois Household. In 1790, he was Captain of the National Guard Company of the Temple He then retired to Choisy, and managed to be named Procureur of that Commune: he finally employed himself in drawing up Lists of Proscription in the Luxem-located, fire misapplied. Thou wentest ravenbourg Prison, when he played the part of informer, (mouton.) See Tableau des Prisons de Paris sous Robes ing through the world; no Life-elixir or Stone pierre." These details are correct. In the Mémoires of the Wise could we two (for want of funds) sur les Prisons, (new Title of the Book just referred to,) discover: a foulest Circe undertook to fatten ii. 171, we find this: "The second Denouncer was thee; and thou hadst to fill thy belly with the east wind. And burst? By the Masonry of

Beausire, an Ex-Noble, known under the old government for his intrigues. To give an idea of him, it is enough to say that he married the d'Oliva," &c., as in the MS. Note already given. Finally is added: "He was the main spy of Boyenval; who, however, said that he made use of him; but that Fouquier-Tinville did not like him, and would have him guillotined in good time."

See Campan.

Rohan was elected of the Constituent Assembly; and even got a compliment or two in it, as Court-victiin, from here and there a man of weak judgment. He was one of the first who, recalcitrating against "Civil Con stitution of the Clergy," &c., took himself across the Rhine.

Enoch. No! Behold has not thy Jesuit Familiar his Scouts dim-flying over the deep of human things? Cleared art thou of crime, save that, of fixed-idea; weepest, a repentant exile, in the Mountains of Auvergne. Neither shall the Red Fire-sea itself consume thee; only consume thy Gig, and, instead of Gig (0 rich exchange!) restore thy Self. Safe beyond the Rhine-stream, thou livest peaceful days; savest many from the fire, and anointest their smarting burns. Sleep finally, in thy mother's bosom, in a good old age!"-The Cardinal gave a sort of guttural murmur, or gurgle, which ended in a long sigh.

"O Horrors, as ye shall be called,” again burst forth the Quack, "why have ye missed the Sieur de Lamotte; why not of him, too, made gallows-carrion? Will spear, or swordstick, thrust at him, (or supposed to be thrust,) through window of hackney-coach, in Piccadilly of the Babylon of Fog, where he jolts disconsolate, not let out the imprisoned animal existence? Is he poisoned, too?" Poison will not kill the Sieur Lamotte; nor steel, nor massacres. Let him drag his utterly superfluous life to a second and a third generation; and even admit the not too judicious Historian to see his face before he die.

"But, ha!" cried he, and stood wide-staring, horror struck, as if some Cribb's fist had knocked the wind out of him: "O horror of horrors! Is it not Myself I see? Roman Inquisition! Long months of cruel baiting! Life of Giuseppe Balsamo! Cagliostro's Body still lying in St. Leo Castle, his Self fled

A PROVERB says, "The house that is a building looks not as the house that is built," Environed with rubbish and mortar-heaps with scaffold-poles, hodmen, dust-clouds, some rudiments only of that thing that is to be, can, to the most observant, disclose themselves through the mean tumult of the thing that hitherto is. How true is this same with regard to all works and facts whatsoever in our world; emphatically true in regard to the highest fact and

whither? By-standers wag their heads, and say; "The Brow of Brass, behold how it has got all unlackered; these Pinchbeck lips can lie no more! Eheu! Ohoo!”—and he burst into unstanchable blubbering of tears; and sobbing out the moanfullest broken howl, sank down in swoon; to be put to bed by De Launay and others.

* See Lamotte's Narrative, (Mémoires Justificatifs.) Lamotte, after his wife's death, had returned to Paris; and been arrested-not for building churches. The Sentence of the old Parlement against him, in regard to the Necklace business, he gets annulled by the new Courts; but is, nevertheless, "retained in confinement," (Moniteur Newspaper, 7th August, 1782.) He was still in Prison at the time the September Massacre broke out. From Maton de la Varenne we cite the following grim passage: Maton is in La Force Prison.

"At one in the morning," (of Monday, September 3,) writes Maton, "the grate that led to our quarter was again opened. Four men in uniform, holding each a naked sabre and blazing torch, mounted to our corridor; a turnkey showing the way; and entered a room close on ours, to investigate a box, which they broke open. This done, they halted in the gallery; and began interrogating one Cuissa, to know where Lamotte was; who, they said, under a pretext of finding a treasure, which they should share in, had swindled one of them |

Thus spoke (or thus might have spoken) and prophesied, the Arch-quack Cagliostro; and truly much better than he ever else did: for not a jot or tittle of it (save only that of our promised Interview with Nestor de Lamotte, which looks unlikelier than ever, for we have not heard of him, dead or living, since 1826,) but he has turned out to be literally true. As, indeed, in all his History, one jot or title of untruth, that we could render true, is, perhaps, not discoverable; much as the distrustful reader may have disbelieved.

|

Here, then, our little labour ends. The Necklace was, and is no more: the stones of it again "circulate in commerce" (some of them perhaps, in Rundle's at this hour;) may give rise to what other Histories we know not. The Conquerors of it, every one that trafficked in it, have they not all had their due, which was Death?

MEMOIRS OF MIRABEAU.*

[LONDON AND WESTMINSTER REVIEW, 1837.

This little Business, like a little cloud, bodied itself forth in skies clear to the unob servant: but with such hues of deep-tinted villany, dissoluteness, and general delirium, as to the observant, betokened it electric; and wise men (a Goethe, for example) boded Earthquakes. Has not the Earthquakes come!

work which our world witnesses,-the Life of what we call an Original Man. Such a man is one not made altogether by the common pattern; one whose phases and goings forth cannot be prophesied of, even approximately; though, indeed, by their very newness and strangeness they most of all provoke prophecy. A man of this kind, while he lives on earth, is "unfolding himself out of nothing into something," surely under very complex conditions:

out of 300 livres, having asked him to dinner for that purpose. The wretched Cuissa, whom they had in their power, and who lost his life that night, answered, all trembling, that he remembered the fact well, but could not say what had become of the prisoner. Resolute to find this Lamotte and confront him with Cuissa, they ascended into other rooms, and made further rummaging there; but apparently without effect, for I heard them say to one another: "Come, search among the corpses, then for, Nom de Dieu! we must know what is become of him." (Ma Resurrection, par Maton de la Varenne; reprinted in the Histoire Parlementaire, xviii. 142.)-Lamotte lay in the Bicêtre Prison; but had got out, precisely in the nick of time,and dived beyond soundings.

Mémoires biographiques, litteraires, et politiques, de Mirabeau; écrits par lui-même, par son Père Oncle, et son Fils Adoptif (Memoirs, biographical, literary, and politi cal, of Mirabeau: written by himself, by his Father, his Uncle, and his Adopted Son.) 8vols. 8vo, Paris, 1834-36.

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