nately for her, her young lover, Don Leo de Torres, hears of this, breaks into the convent, carries her and a companion, Doña Laura, off, and flies into the desert. So eager, however, is Don Estevan's pursuit in order to destroy the last witness of his crime, that Don Leo is compelled to entrust the two ladies to Addick, an Apache chief, who conveys them to the City of the Sun, with the intention of never giving them up again. This Addick is a double rogue, and plays with both parties for his own profit. Under these circumstances, Bon-affût, the Eclaireur, or scout, makes his appearance, accompanied by another Canadian hunter, Balle-franche (the hero of a previous tale), and Eagle-head, a celebrated Comanche chief. Don Estevan is captured while arranging his villany, and his brother, Don Mariano, arrives in the desert in time to accuse him before the terrible Court of Lynch Law. He is found guilty, and unceremoniously condemned to be buried alive, with his right hand free to clutch a pistol when he grows tired of his awful position.

Don Mariano, however, relents, and gives Balle-franche the hint to liberate him. He does so at the last moment, and receives his reward by being knocked on the head by the ungrateful villain, who makes off with his horse and joins the Apaches, to whom he consents to surrender the two ladies, on condition that none of his enemies leave the desert alive. On hearing the news from Balle-franche that Don Estevan is free, the gambusinos break up their camp at once, and hasten off in the hope of realising the ladies before Don Estevan reaches the city.

The description of the march through the virgin forests is unique, and we would gladly quote illustrative passages, did our space permit. Suffice it to say that, after countless skirmishes with the Indians, they all arrive in sight of the Sacred City-to discover that the Apaches have reached it before them. At this moment Bon-affût appears as the Deus ex machinâ. Disguised as a medicine-man, and aided by Eagle-head, he manages to get into the Sacred City (the detailed description of which, by the way, is admirably done, and evidently by an eye-witness), and by stratagem, too long to describe, and would be spoiled in shortening, gets the ladies out. The Europeans fly, hotly pursued by the Indians, who are furious to avenge the sacrilege committed on their sacred ground, and the party at length enter Sonora to find the Indians before them, perpetrating the horrors of the Mexican Moon. They are beleaguered, and, after a frightful combat, are about to put an end to their lives, sooner than fall into the hands of their furious foes, when Eagle-head arrives at the head of the Comanches, and puts the Apaches to flight with immense slaughter.

This outline, naturally bald as it is, will serve to show the strong human interest of the story, and the powerful way in which it is worked out. But it would be hopeless for us to attempt to furnish any idea of the scenes that fill up the volume, and the countless delicate touches the author gives to bring out the Indian character in all its glory. We feel convinced that Eagle-head will find as many admirers as the last chief of the Mohicans, for he is quite as inexorable and chivalrous. The character of his squaw, Fleur d'Eglantine, is also most exquisitely drawn, and altogether the volume produces an effect on the reader which cannot be described but must be felt. Whoever reads it on our recommendation, will, we feel assured, not be disappointed.

In a political point of view, these Indian tales possess considerable

interest, as coming from one who has carefully studied the question. It is very remarkable to find, in the nineteenth century, that the savages, once driven back thousands of miles from the frontier of civilisation by the Spanish conquistadors, are gradually regaining their ground, and forcing the Mexicans to retire in their turn. Large districts, once covered by smiling haciendas, have now been regained to the desert; the presidios built to keep the invader at bay, have been ruined, and there is nothing to check the advance of the prairie Indians save their own desire to return home, after completing a successful raid, and enjoying the spoils. With the Americans advancing to the east and south, the savages on the west and north, Mexico must inevitably be swallowed up between them, and the great contest will commence. As to the result, M. Aimard feels sanguine, for he has a most hearty detestation of the Yankees, which would have gladdened the heart of Dr. Johnson, who so liked a good hater, but we are inclined to shake our heads in doubt. We concede all that M. Aimard urges, that the prairie Indians have formed a grand confederation, and are under military organisation (we wonder whether French adventurers have a hand in this), and we are fully aware how long the conquest of the Seminoles, led by Osceola, took the Americans. But when such a country as Mexico was the stake, the whole of Yankeedom would take up arms. North and south would forget their quarrels for the prospect of annexing so fertile a territory, and we can hardly expect that a few thousand Indians, however brave and well organised, could long withstand the combined efforts of the republic, that "colossus with the feet of clay," as Gustave Aimard terms it.

But, putting this question aside, there is another and more cheerful aspect under which we may regard the great and deserved success of Aimard's Indian tales. It indicates that the reign of frivolity and immorality which has so long weighed down French literature is drawing to an end, and that a taste for healthier reading is being produced. During the last few years French authors have disgraced their brethren by the trash with which they supplied the European book-mart; and it was a sad sign of the times when such a book as "Fanny" could run through twenty editions, having nothing to recommend it but one highly-wrought scene, which the well-regulated mind turned from with disgust. The result has been that French books, than which none are more amusing or artistic when kept within bounds, have been expelled from English drawing-rooms, or, at any rate, concealed under sofa squabs. But this is a pity, for the good books suffer for the bad, and we may recommend for perusal, next to Aimard's novels, those which Messrs. Hachette publish periodically in their railway library. These we are glad to see making their way slowly into our booksellers' shop-windows and on to the railway stalls, and so long as their quality is maintained they may be safely recommended. And that it will be so we may feel assured Messrs. Hachette will take good care.

We hope, too, to see Aimard's books soon ranking by their side, for they deserve to be read in the original. We observe, however, that a translation of some of them is announced, and we presume that the series will follow. That they are healthy reading we have already said; that they are deeply interesting does not admit of a doubt; and that they are decidedly the best of their sort is the opinion we entertain, and which we believe our readers will confirm when they have compared them with other works of the same nature offered them before.

STAMBOUL FOR ITALY.

I.

LORD CONSTANTINE he looked around
A world, that owned his rule,
And when by Hellespont he found
Its key and corner-stone, he crowned
Imperial Stamboul.

And still her ocean-river flows

Two continents between;
Still on her hills the myrtle grows,
And still her vales are green.
But now, exhausted by the throes,
Which coming dissolution knows,
She gasps in feverish repose,

The Euxine's discrowned Queen.
Then, since the pride of Islam droops,
Doomed by its deep self-scorn,
Must we be still, while Russia stoops
Upon the Golden Horn?

No! though they fail us at the pinch,
Whom once we helped to free,
Though Austria snarl, and Prussia flinch,

And France a traitor be:

As at Vittoria, inch by inch,

We'll win the mastery.

II.

Win! and for what?-That hour by hour
Imperious impotence may shower

A curse upon its guardian Giaour?

Win! and for what ?-That sword and gun
May end the bloody work begun
Amid the yells of Lebanon ?

Win! and for what?-That lust may build

Its gay kiosk, its harem gild,

For this shall England's blood be spilled?

III.

No! not for this! Once, only once,
Could Christendom forget

Wrongs unrepented, e'en the dunce
Learns something from regret;

Then down with Islam! "Twould be worth
An hour of glorious dangers

To free the fairest spot on earth

From those who stamp its vales with dearth,
And mock its shrines with scornful mirth,
And use its fonts for mangers.

A race that never ploughed nor spun,
But, like voracious maggots,

Eat idly grovelling in the sun;
And now their feast is almost done,

Their fruit-trees bare as fagots,

Down with them, down! And up with-Whom? Whose form shall fill the vacant room

When Bey and Pasha meet their doom?

Heiress of Stamboul thou must be,
Home of the Cæsars, Italy!

IV.

Italia at thy glorious name
All rivalry recedes in shame,
Mother of heroes! who can show
Such children as thine own,
Camillus, Fabius, Scipio?

So great they would not deign to go
One step towards a throne

Whereon their brethren less divine
Sat god-like, Julius! Constantine!
Nor those alone. For when the world
Its rotten crowns to chaos hurled,
And drunk with fiery draughts of war
The eagles of the tricolor

O'er sullen Moscow shone,

Whom hailed they lord of king and czar,
Their emperor, their guiding star?
Thy great Napoleon!

And who, when he was forced to own
That dream of triumph vain,

Who, when he flew to guard a throne
That rested on his fame alone,

Who stayed to nerve the Gaul's retreat
Through fog and hurricane and sleet
Across those dreary wastes, whereon
Swarmed the avengers from the Don,
From Ural and Ukraine?

Not thine, brave Prince of Moskowa, Nor thine, advanced guard King Murat, Of Austerlitz and Arcola,

The spirit to return;

But first in rallies and attacks,

And last to yield, or turn their backs,

And gayest at cold bivouacs,

The men of Rome and Latium,

Of Umbria and Samnium,

The rear-guard with Eugène !

V.

Land of the brave in days gone by!
Thy heart is still the same,
Oppressors could not drain it dry,

Nor anarchists inflame.

And if of yore his Rome to save
Her bravest leaped his steed

Right down that deep sepulchral cave
Which closed upon the deed,

Doth not the old imperial land
Its race of Curtius know

In Cavour, Garibaldi, and
Il Rè Galantuomo?

Then never fear, thy way is clear,
The night is past, the dawn is here,
Hail! Empire of the Free!
Down with the Sultan and his line!
Up with the heirs of Constantine!
Stamboul for Italy!

TRIALS OF A GOVERNESS.

FOR Some time past governesses have proved the stock subject of the novel writer, and we have had more than enough of sentimentalism about virtuous poverty and Pamela-ism. We should hardly have added another instance had we not received a very curious German book,* purporting to describe the history of a friendless young lady in England, that El Dorado of the Teutonic unprotected female. Although there is something suspicious in the fact that no names are given—indeed, a studied concealment is sought-there is a certain amount of internal evidence that the lady writes the truth to some extent; and her revelations furnish so peculiar, and, we hope, unequal a picture, that we have no hesitation in making them known to our readers, in the hope that some of the ladies implicated may offer a satisfactory explanation and contradiction, highly necessary at the present time, when so many calumnies about England are eagerly accepted on the Continent.

The young nameless lady, with the general tendency of unmarried females, does not tell us in what year she was born. Of course, circumstances over which she had no control made her go out as governess, and her first engagement was with an English captain, as bonne to his little daughter. With this family she proceeded to Brussels, and was cheated of her wages, left ill in the lodgings, when the captain bolted, and considered herself fortunate in securing an engagement with a lady residing in Hertfordshire. Here she was out of the frying-pan into the fire, for she was starved, reduced to a skeleton, and her doctor's bill deducted out of her salary. In her despair, the governess wrote to Queen Adelaide, who had her case at once inquired into; but the gentleman entrusted with the duty only heard what the mistress had to say, and nothing was done. After escaping from this purgatory she entered the service of a lady of title, who lived apart from her husband, and was constantly accompanied by a medical man, himself married. This lady was in the habit of beating her children till the blood came; and the writer assures us that salt was rubbed into the wounds! After four years' wretchedness, her ladyship bolted to the Continent with the doctor, forgetting to pay the governess, or, indeed, anybody.

The next engagement was with a Mrs. E(aston), where the writer was most comfortably treated as a daughter; but the damp compelled her, reluctantly, to give up this situation, and she established herself at Stamford, when she obtained a considerable number of pupils in the surrounding country. We next find her obliged to give up these engagements, owing, as she states, to the bother of one of her pupils falling in love with her, and she proceeded as companion to a lady on a continental On her return to England she looked out for a fresh berth, but more cautiously than before; for, as she says

tour.

Experience had taught me that, in all families where governesses were frequently changed, a bad system of education prevailed, and this was generally

* Denkwurdigkeiten einer Deutschen Erzicherin. Berlin: Otto Janke.