commander. Sometimes Charles Edward would reprove them for their profanity, and they listened respectfully to his rebukes; for, wherever he went, he was sure to win the affections of his companions, and when, in after years, those iron-hearted men told the story of his sojourn among them, it was always with a tremulous voice and a tearful eye.

After three weeks of this wild life, he joined the Camerons in the little hut where Lochiel had taken refuge. Glenaladale was despatched to the coast to try if he could hear tidings of a vessel. In a few days the prince was obliged to flee again to another shelter, which he now found in a cavern among the rocks of Letternilich, called the Cage, so high in the air and of a form so peculiar, that it looks as if a giant's hand had suspended it there. Here he remained eleven days, from the 2d to the 13th of September, when Glenaladale came back to announce that two French ships of war had cast anchor in Lochnanaugh bay. The five months of wandering and peril were at length at a close.

On the 19th of September, Charles Edward descended to the shore, attended by Lochiel and his brother, and a numerous train of their friends and adherents, who preferred exile in a foreign land to the persecutions which awaited them at home. A large crowd, brothers, sisters, and friends, were gathered on the beach to bid them an adieu, which, whatever might be the caprices of fortune, must for so many of them be the last. A gleam of hope seemed to light up their dejected countenances, when the prince spoke to them of happy days yet in store, and, drawing his sword, promised them that he would again come back to them with a more powerful army and for a surer triumph. But when they looked upon his haggard features and tattered garments, and saw in the melancholy train of exiles that surrounded him the bravest and most beloved of their chiefs, their hearts sunk within them, and their farewell was uttered in sighs and

tears.

Another danger awaited the prince on the coast of France, from an English fleet which was cruising there, and which he was fortunate enough to pass through under cover of a fog. At length, on the 10th of October, after a tedious and anxious passage of twenty days, he landed at Roscoff, near Morlaix, on the coast of Brittany. The moment that his arrival became known, the noblemen of the province hastened to bid him welcome, vying with each other in supplying his wants and those of his companions. After two days' repose, he set out for Paris, whither he had already despatched one of his attendants with letters for his brother, the Duke of York, who came out to meet him and accompany him to the castle of St. Antoine, which had been fitted up for his reception by order of the court. This time, the king could not refuse to admit him to his presence; and accordingly, a few days after his arrival at Paris, he proceeded with a splendid train to Fontainebleau, where the court was then residing, in order to receive his audience. The story of his gallantry and his romantic adventures had excited a strong interest in the Parisian circles, and he was everywhere received with the most unequivocal marks of enthusiasm and sympathy. But the ministry still continued to meet all his proposals with doubts and objections, and he was not long in perceiving that there was nothing to hope from a government frivolously false, and a court sunk in debauchery. He went to Madrid, and was equally unsuccessful. Soon after his return, the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle was signed, and he was driven from his asylum in France, under circumstances of the utmost indignity and humiliation. Avignon, which was then under the dominion of the church, proved an insecure refuge, and Venice refused to receive him.

All at once he disappeared from the world; all traces of him were lost, his letters were without date, and nobody knew whither he had gone. Meanwhile, his partisans in London were preparing for a new outbreak, and, could their reports be trusted, every thing was ripe for a revolution. All of a sudden he appeared in the midst of them, at a large assembly which had been called in London, in order to receive some important communications from France. "Here I am," said he, "ready to raise my banner; give me four thousand men, and I will instantly put myself at their head." This was a test for which the conspirators, men fonder far of talking than of acting, were not prepared; and, after passing a few days in London, he returned to the continent.

The remainder of his life is a melancholy tissue of public and private sorrows; of disappointed hopes, unrequited affection, trust misplaced, and confidence betrayed, and a mind so bruised and saddened by its struggles with the world, that selfoblivion became its sole relief. We know of nothing more melancholy than the contrast which the following little sketch, which we translate from the autobiography of Domenico Corzi, offers with the scenes that we have attempted to trace in the first pages of the present paper.

"I lived two years," says he, "with the Prince Charles Edward. All this time he led a very retired life, and saw nobody. It was under the last Pope, who had refused to acknowledge his title. In this retirement, he passed the greater part of his time in practising music, of which he was enthusiastically fond. I passed the evenings with him; he played the violoncello, and I the harp, and we used to compose little pieces together. But these tête-à-tête were far from being cheerful. The apartment was hung with old red damask, and lighted by only two tapers. Upon the table was a brace of pistols, instruments very little to my taste, which he would take up from time to time to examine, and then lay them down again. His manners, however, were always mild, affable, and agreeable."

In this manner he passed the last years of his life, dividing his time between Rome and Florence, at times seeing more of the world, and at others living in absolute seclusion, but preserving to the end so grateful a remembrance of the fidelity of which he had received such striking proofs in Scotland, that a Scottish song or an allusion to those scenes never failed to call forth his tears, and often threw him into fits. He sank by a gradual though a premature decay, till at length, abandoned by the world and forgotten of all, save a few devoted followers, whose truth held out to the last, he expired at Rome, on the 31st of January, 1788.

We can hardly venture to draw a portrait of this unhappy prince, or to weigh his qualities in an accurate balance. His public career was too brief to afford room for the full development of his character, and his private life so much embittered by sorrow, and parts of it are still enveloped in a veil of such impenetrable mystery, that it is hardly possible to come to any conclusion which shall not be open to serious objections. His courage, his magnanimity, his generosity, his fortitude, his humanity, his patience in the hour of suffering, and his promptitude and self-command in the midst of danger, are qualities which none can dispute, and all must admire. But the liberality of his principles was never brought to the test of a practical application, and the generous sentiments which he professed towards his political adversaries were never subjected to the perilous trial of longcontinued prosperity. If compared with his immediate opponent, the Duke of Cumberland, the qualities of his heart appear to the greatest advantage; if with George, his enlightened views and elevated sentiments shine out with the purest lustre. On a throne he might have lost somewhat of the vigor, and perhaps, too, something of the amiability, of his character; at the head of his troops, his energy and selfcontrol commanded the respect of all, and his kindness and affability made him the idol of his soldiers.

Why should we seek to go farther, or darken the shadows upon so bright a picture? There are minds to which success is a necessity, which go on firmly, brightly, purely, with a constantly increasing elevation, to the full maturity of their development; flowerets which expand their leaves and breathe out their odors to the sun, but shrink withering and scentless from the tempest. And do those who thus love to dwell upon faults rather than virtues know what it is to miss your destiny; - to cherish a hope through long years, to dream of it by night, to bless the returning daylight which brings you nearer to its accomplishment, to direct all your efforts, train all your faculties, for this, and this alone, until your whole existence is absorbed by it, and, like the atmosphere you breathe, it becomes a part of you with every respiration; and then, whether prepared or unprepared, whether by slow degrees or by a sudden blow, be deprived of it for ever; - to look around you and see all desolate and dark; to turn within and find a pulseless, rayless void; to live, because life is a necessity, and continues to have its duties, even when it has ceased to have its charms; but to protract it with loathing and shuddering, when you remember that it might have been a blessing? Every man has his mission. Upon some it weighs so lightly, and they march on so easily and unconsciously towards the fulfilment of it, that you would almost accuse them of living for themselves alone. But there are beings of a more earnest nature, upon whose hearts the responsibilities of existence weigh like sorrow; and if you ever see them smile, it is only when they feel that every day is bringing them nearer to the accomplishment of their destiny.

We cannot conclude our article without a few words upon the work to which we are indebted for the greater part of the facts upon which it is founded. M. Amédée Pichot has long been known in continental literature, as the editor of one of those clever periodicals which reflect with so much truth and vivacity the movement of French intellect in the various realms of thought. But to American readers he brings a still higher claim, as the translator of Prescott's Conquest of Mexico. It was during a tour in Scotland, and with Waverley for his guide-book, that he first formed the idea of a life of Charles Edward, as an episode of Scottish history. The canvass grew under his hands as he wrote, and he was gradually led to draw a full picture of the long rivalry between Scotland and England. The first edition of his work appeared in 1830; that which we have cited at the head of our article is the fourth, a sufficient proof of the favor with which it has been received. Each new edition contains important additions, new documents, drawn from their resting-places in public or in private archives, where they had lain for years unregarded, and, but for his untiring perseverance, might have lain there still. During this interval, other writers have followed him into the field which he had opened; Brown and Lord Mahon in England, and two in Germany. But as he was the first, so he continues to be the best; and the enthusiasm which he brought to the beginning of his task seems, at the end of twenty years, to be as bright as ever.

A work composed under such circumstances must, necessarily, be original. M. Pichot's idea and plan are his own, and the execution of them is accurate and able. The state of parties, the popular mind as manifested in the popular literature of the day, all the great questions which were then in agitation, and many of those often neglected accessories which throw so strong a collateral light upon historical events, have found a place in his volumes, many of them being treated with skill, and all with great apparent fidelity. Though far from believing in the doctrine of divine right, he is a warm admirer of his hero; but we cannot perceive that his sympathies have anywhere given a false coloring to his narrative; and that man must be cold-hearted indeed, who should have no other feeling than that of common interest for a friend of twenty years' standing. If we were disposed to look for faults in a work of so much merit, we should say, that here and there we could have wished for greater fulness