in some venerable barrister's anonymities, unbraced and crumpled, and say if Heraclitus could behold him and preserve his gravity? So, when the once famous Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry, of eccentric memory, ventured to appear in Rome in the dress costume of the gentleman from the promontory of Noses, above mentioned, and cocciniis sericis femoralibus argento laciniatis sese induit,-(we must come to the Latin after all,) he excited the astonishment, if not the envy of the whole conclave of Cardinals, who with uplifted hands asked of every Englishman they met, if such were indeed the anonymous habiliment of the Protestant bishops of the English church. Again, we beseech thee, good reader, to fix steadily in thy mind the greatness, the wisdom, the decorum, the omnipotence of a British House of Commons: think, if thou canst without blenching, of its sheriff-compelling thunder, of its attorney's-clerk-scathing lightning; and then, keeping these things in earnest contemplation, conjure up the figure of Mr. Speaker, in the awful majesty of mace and wig, and equipped in the tight, short, spangled white non nominandums of Mr. Ducrow, nil fuit unquam tam dispar sibi! The lady with the fish's tail would be a fool to it!

But if such a conception be too vast for ordinary comprehension, let us imagine the most accomplished scholar and gentleman we know, and him, too, the handsomest of men, with the most irreproachable tie, -conceive him on his knee before a woman of superior mind, and far away beyond the ordinary influence of mere externals,-behold his hand pressed to his heart, his intelligent and ardent countenance beaming with love and devotion,-and then suppose that in the abstraction of an all-absorbing passion, he has by mistake equipped himself as to the nameless and despised particular in question, from the manycoloured wardrobe of his footman ;-do you augur very favourably of the success of his suit?

In the mimic world of the drama, where attention to costume has rarely been considered too closely, the same law holds with respect to the unwhisperable. We are told that Munden played King Arthur in the identical wig which once graced the head of Othello; nay, we have seen with our own eyes Lady Townleys by dozens walking the stage in the morning scenes, equipped with feathers and lappets-we have beheld waiting-maids by scores figged out in silks and satins; and we have followed all our best actors through half a century of violated propriety of costume of all sorts, yet no one complained, no one even stared. Nevertheless, we may venture to predict that, if Mr. Kean, or Mr. Macready themselves, in going on as Julius Cæsar, or Coriolanus, were compelled to adopt the nameless exuvie of Mr. Liston's Paul Pry, the unextinguishable laughter of the gods would be as the composure of a methodist meeting, or as the silence of a quaker's conventicle, to the roar which would burst from every corner of the house.

After such illustrations of the danger of a simple incongruity in this one important necessary of life, we must cease to wonder at the convulsion which threatened the whole Turkish empire, on account of the sultan's tamperings with the national amplitude of the article in question. The Mosque might have been neglected for the Opera-house, the divan turned into a parliament, or the jus vagum of the cadi exchanged for that of a country justice of the quorum,-the caftan might have been

banished to make way for a frock-coat, and the magnificent turban abolished in behalf of the ugliest of red caps, and yet the public peace have remained unendangered; but to force the grave and devout Turk to take European order in the matter of-we were about to name them —was enough to have brought down Mahomet himself from his Houries, to vindicate the right.

In a country and age so remarkable as ours for their churlishly exclusive tendencies, it should seem to add considerably to the value and estimation of the thing, that it is not every body's purchase, and that it is not to be had for the mere volition. This indeed, we presume, is the reason of the insatiable ambition to master its possession, exhibited by that sex, of which a partiality for the far-fetched and the dearly-bought, is so strenuously predicated. When the political economists talk so flippantly as they do of the demand producing the supply, it is clear that they arrogantly overlook the necessities of that numerous class of society, whose demands are not backed by a corresponding remunerating potentiality. That the demand for an article should be that which suffices to produce a supply, is a simple begging of the whole question. Every one knows, for instance, that the thing we have been discussing is to be had for money, whether it be bespoke in Sackvillestreet, or in Bond-street, or sought for at the restorative hands of the merchants of Sevendials; but the real difficulty, the dignus vindice nodus, is the raising the supplies, when the ready cash is not forthcoming. Without the mopuses to pay for your call, the demand will be like Owen Glendower's very unteetotal demand for "spirits from the vasty deep," which, to the disappointment of thirsty souls in all time to come, most notoriously failed in producing the supply. This is a difficulty for which domestic economy is more likely to provide than political. In the eyes of the political economist, the "slave who pays," is the sole object of consideration; and he who cannot fulfil that condition is overlooked, despised, and disregarded as an outcast from nature's table, and one whose unmentionabilities are not worth a thought. We would not, then, advise any friend who desires to possess the subject of our eulogy, and lets "I cannot wait upon I would," to apply to the Millses, the Maccullochs, or the Malthuses. But this is a consideration too painful to dwell on.

We have heard many sensible answers given to the silly question which Shakspeare has not unnaturally placed in the mouth of a lovesick lady, "What's in a name?" Names, it has been justly said, are things, and sadly mischievous things, too, in many cases; but we know no more striking instance of the importance of a name, than the one before us. Who would have thought that the squeamishness of the age in banishing the name, should have put the thing itself into jeopardy?— a thing so ancient, so indispensable, so desiderated! Yet so it has turned out for what logician who regards the elongated, shapeless, and loosely-sitting condition in which our subject at present is adumbrated, under cover of new and less offensive appellations, could take upon him to assert its positive identity, with that which we are told on the best authority, cost King Stephen "but a crown?" Oh! happy state of Stephenhood, when such a thing could have been bought for so

small a sum, a real thing, too, as we have a right to presume, of brocaded cloth, or at worst, of good, substantial, serviceable buckskin,— none of your equivocating Russian-duck apologies, which in these degenerate days cost four times the money. Surely there must be something in a name, and that something, too, of much pith and likelihood, if the reality so closely follows its shadows, and if things passed sub silentio are so soon to pass, with Orlando's wits, from sublunary existence.

This, dear readers, is no joking matter. Who knows what word may next fall under the ban of delicacy? Have we not seen in our own times, the whole space between a lady's chin and her stomacher, deprived of its distinctive appellations, and doubled up into the one common name of neck? And what has been the consequence? Let Rousseau tell it in his native tongue," de gorge comme sur ma main." So also has stomach usurped the exclusive possession of that region which is immediately below the neck; and it is most reasonable to attribute to this violation of correct nomenclature the gradual disappearance of compassion from amongst men, when thus deprived of its appropriate locality. Supposing, then, that prudery should take it into its head that it is improper not to speak of beef or pudding, on the plea that they are coarse and plebeian viands, may we not expect that those ancient supports of the British constitution, and of the national glory, will disappear with their appellatives? the corn-laws would be nothing to such an abomination. Nay, if a fastidious reluctance to speak of any other of the unexposed parts of the human form divine, should grow upon us, may we not count upon these also escaping from the world of realities, and shall we not be reduced to the il-n'y-a-de-quoi-s'asseoir condition of pulpit cherubims, and that too without their locomotive capabilities.

However, it is high time for us to conclude lest we subject ourselves to the reproach deprecated by our great master. Il semblerait que ne feussiez grandement saige, de nous escripre ces balevernes. To those who would have the heart so to reproach us, and who would set down our recondite wisdom, lying deep below the surface, as Michin Malicho, if such there be, we must reply in all courtesy, ne pensez tant à mes faultes, que ne pensez bien és vostres. To those honester and more benignant souls who are disposed to take every thing in good part, we say, toutefois, si pour passetemps joyeulx les lisez, comme passant temps les escripvois, vous est moy sommes plus dignes de pardon, qu'un grand tas de gens, qui se sont desguisez comme masques, pour tromper le monde. For the rest, nothing herein above asserted is to be considered as having any reference, direct or indirect, remote or immediate, to the case of the Highlander.

DUMOULIN; OR, THE REVOLUTIONIST.

"MARCH to the Hôtel de Ville!" cried a thin, tall, meagre, sallowlooking man, about forty years of age, wearing nankeen trousers halfway up his legs, a blue coat and yellow buttons, whether copper or brass I know not, and without a waistcoat or gloves. His hat had re

ceived a cut from an officer of the body-guard of Charles X., which cut had saved his head. This was not the first time that head had been in danger for he had been tried before the Court of Peers in 1820 for his life, and had only escaped by a majority of one in his favour.

"March to the Hôtel de Ville!" repeated the motley multitude, as they turned round the corner of the place du Louvre, on the quays at Paris, and arrived in front of the Institute, but on the opposite side of the river. The leader was named DUMOULIN. The motley multitude, some two or three thousand in number, was composed of the refuse of society, who, liberated from prison, preferred the chances of grapeshot to the certainties of the galleys, and who, from their professional knowledge, could plunder a gunsmith's shop with indescribable rapidity. It was the 29th of July, 1830. The sun was not warming, but scorching the paving stones of Paris, and nothing like humidity could be found, except on the foreheads of these self-created heroes. The boys carried choppers, to enable them to lame most effectually the cavalry horses, by creeping under them and chopping their heels. The women were bearers of lint and tow to apply to the wounds of their martyrs; the men were armed with bars of iron, ramrods, hatchets, guns, pistols, blunderbusses and bludgeons. Some sung the "Marseillaise," others "Ca ira." The wine-shops were all open, and all classes and sexes drank freely, not merely because they were thirsty and mad, but because all drinking was gratuitous.

"Vive l'Empereur," cried their chieftain, whose small mustaches, vivid, glancing eye, and stern, determined manner, evidently influenced the throng.

"Who is he?" I asked of a sub-leader of this revolutionary rabble.

"C'est Dumoulin-l'officier d'ordonnance de l'Empereur!"

This was uttered with so much energy, mingled with surprise at my ignorance, that I presumed if I did not, that at least I ought to have known him.

On marched the gang, and I kept by their side. Curiosity had led me to the place du Louvre, and now I, the least revolutionary man in the universe, found myself at the Pont Neuf with my new companions.

"Halt!" cried Dumoulin, and they all halted. He perceived in the distance, advancing towards them, though very slowly, a squadron of cavalry.

"Raise a barricade!" was his next order, and in less than three minutes five yards of pavings-tones were in movement, for pickaxes, crows, and shovels, had all obeyed him.

"Load your muskets-overthrow that waggon, and let the girls and women carry up paving-stones to those houses, and throw them on the heads of the soldiers if they advance."

The waggon was soon prostrate, and tended to strengthen the barricade. Women, and even children rushed into the houses on the quay fronting the river with every description of projectiles and missiles, and in three minutes afterwards Dumoulin and his armed gang were drawn up in order of battle. A few females, but very few, remained in the rear with lint for the wounded, and they were not long without employ

ment.

The commanding officer of the cavalry, perceiving by means of a pocket telescope which he kept constantly applied to his eye, the movements of his opponents, had directed two pieces of artillery to be brought forward, and he resolved "on clearing the way" with a few cannon-balls.

Roar went the cannon along the quay, and the barricade was destroyed.

"Let us feign a retreat," cried Dumoulin, "and the miscreants will advance. They will meet with a warm reception from the houses, and we will return when they are in confusion."

The stratagem succeeded. The cavalry commanding officer either forgot or disregarded the assailants in the houses, and his cry of " Rush on the rebels!" was scarcely uttered when himself, and half his men were dead or struggling on the ground.

"La victoire! La victoire !" screamed Dumoulin, and the gang hastened to the scene of confusion. The shower of paving-stones, bricks, iron bars, weights, and even furniture, all thrown out of the windows, was over, and the poor horse-soldiers were being trampled on by their own horses, or had expired from the blows they had received. Those who had escaped were hastening back to the place de Grève, and Dumoulin and his supporters were triumphant. What a scene of confusion, blood, rapine, plunder, carnage, ferocious oaths, aud mad singing! "Ca ira, ça ira," roared the conquerors, as they revelled in the sight.

"Seize the cannon!" cried Dumoulin, and on they rushed. Some had half accoutred themselves in the uniforms, trappings, and arms of the slaughtered cavalry. Others had seized the living horses of their dead masters, and now bestrode them, regardless of stirrups, or boots, and even of their own destruction. A youth of twenty, who was no equestrian, was dashed to the ground and hurled to death by his prancing and maddened steed.

"Let another mount him," said Dumoulin ; and an old man of sixty, armed with a carabine he had just stolen, obeyed the command of his leader.

"Make haste, make haste, rush on the cannon!" was the next direction, and the artillery could make no resistance.

"That was the fellow who fired on us!" roared a middle-aged man, whose breast was uncovered, as if to brave danger, and whose Cyclops appearance was appalling.

"Then put his head where it merits to be," answered, not Dumoulin, but a sub-leader; but he was rescued from the sentence by a counter order.

"Vive la liberté !" shouted Dumoulin, and now ten thousand voices repeated the cry.

"Ca ira, ça ira," sang the people at the windows, who quailed