COUNT CAGLIOSTRO, OR THE CHARLATAN.

AmoNnqr the numerons adventnrers who contrived during the reigns of the Fat:viol, and Sixteenth Lonisas to dupe the cre- dulous Parisians, and procure a species of mountebank notoriety, was a persohage who called himself the Count DE CAGLIOiTRO. The avowed character which this man first assumed, was that of a physician to the poor—for he affected to slight the rich ; and he is said to have performed some remarkable cures. But he cajoled his weaker dupes by pretences of skill in alchemy and magic ; and it was his prediction, pronounced oracularly from an Egyptian tripod, that finally determined the Cardinal nx ROHAN to embark in the affair of the "diamond necklace." The prophecy was un- fortunate for the patron; and unless CAGLiosrito, as he was ac- cused of doing, filched the diamonds, equally unlucky for the pro- phet, as he was sent to the Bastille, and afterwards, we believe, banished.

Such was the charlatareof actual life. The hero of the novel is not the real Simon Pure, but a melodramatic person of low birth, with high and varied qualities, who acts as a volunteer agent of the Duke of Orleans; and occasionally assumes the name of Cagliostro for the purpose of gratifying his spleen against an aris- tocracy he despises, and of mystifying the police. Subordinate, however, to the intrigues of Egalitii and some events of the Re- volution, are the adventures of a daughter of Cagliostro by a noble Italian lady, with whom the all-gifted adventurer had be- come connected in the improbable disguise of a saint. Lost sight of through circumstances both by mother and father, this girl is bought by the Duke de Fronsac, a rote( of the old ri!gime, and educated to become his tin-tress. This precious scheme, however, is frustrated by this girl falling in love with a young Englishman, whom the Duke took down to his retreat to decide a bet about her beauty. The love and distresses of this pair—the manner in which the girl is discovered and watched over by Cagliostro, per- secuted by the Duke through the means of the arbitrary power of lettrea de cachet, and eventually extricated from the Bastille whia the adventurer excites the populace to storm it—form, together with sonic magical scenes of Cagliustra, the interest of the novel. A sort of historical character is given to the last volume, by the introduction of Louis, Necker, Marie Antoinette, and some other actors of the period, as well as by a few of the first events of the Revolution.

As a fiction, Count Cagliostro rather differs from the average run of readable novels, than rises above them. The story, indeed, is contrived with even less skill than that of a good circulating library romance; for the incidents are slight and few, and the moral conduct and character of all the persons is of such a nature that we care little about their fortunes. The writer, too, is deft- cleat in the gift of embodying his characters : he marts them truly in description—he hits off the general characteristic discourse of a frivolous and sensual but polished aristocracy, or of a clever and impudent mountebank ; but when individuals are put in ac- tion, or should express Fission, they seem to be all alike, or puppets speaking from a prompter. On the other hand, the writer's mind is considerably above the ordinary writers of novels. He has, we think, a considerable knowledge of the time which he has chosen for his scene; for he paints its leading features truly, yet never turns aside to stuff his pages with the common property of readers of memoirs. His narrative rarely drags, however trifling the subject ; his style is easy and pointed, as if written by -a man who could think smart things if be could not say them. He has also reflected, and clothes his reflections in language clear and terse. These reflections, indeed, when emanating directly from the author, somewhat impede the story ; but they are per- haps among the best parts of his book, and certainly the most ex- tractable.

To comprehend the setting of the following true observation, the reader must know that Count D'Ostalis, an epicurean cox- comb, has been tasked to find an exciting novelty, under penalty of eternal banishment from the presence of a lady he is pursuing. He has tried arts and amusements without success ; and has be- taken himself to men of scieuce, who are acquainted with some new discoveries about to be promulgaied.

With some difficulty the Count was made to understand their nature, and was extremely mortified to perceive in what a very small addition to the amount of truth elready known the present discoveries consisted. Ile asked if they were not acquainted with some new art or invention, which would pro- duce an immediate practical effect ou society, and excite the curiosity and in- terest of the uninitiated?

One of the philosophers, who seemed to guess his feelings, observed—" The discoveries which are now submitted to your notice, and of which you seem to think so little, will, nevertheless, be sufficient to immortalize my friend Lavoi- sier. As for those inventions which form epochs in the history of the world and change the whole face of society, know that they are seldom, if ever, the produce of a single individual. Their first germs are often the result of chance —often apt ing up in some inferior mind who knows not their value. The idea is seized and improved on by some stronger intellect. In this manner it is tiansplanted from mind to mind, until it gradually ripens into some wondrous art that opens a new world to man. Such was probably the origin of printing, gunpowder, and the mariner's compass. Such an origin at least is the only mode by which we can account for the inexplicable mystery that envelops their authors."

" Prodigiously learned !" thought the Count, suppressing a yawn ; " but mighty uns,aisfactory to a person who has only two slays left to hit upon a no- velty." With compliments on his lip, smiles on his brow, and disappointment in his heart, the Count bowed himself out of the learned circle, and ordered his coach- man to drive to Diderot.

SUCCESS.

The sentiment of triumph is the most exqui-ite of all terrestrial feelings: no matter hese wide or how narrow the sphere of zwtion—no matter how rich or how vile the prize—the hoards of a Ileettre or the than! I if the senate— a game at cards Or speculation for millions—a harlot 'ii an angel—a scuffle in time street or an empire-deciding battle—success is still suceess—the nectar of life; and a fiw drops of this immortal liquor poured into our cup enables us to indure its bitterness—wins tie in spite of reason to live on, and consoles us for the long, lung years of wasted labour and ulcerating disappuitittuent.

soerrene AND SOCIETY.

Solitude is a fearful thing to thoughtful minds. By solitude is not meant the mere absence of human beings. The solitude of the library, the labetatory, and the studio, is peopled by the most delightful of all companions—ideas of kno a ledge, of power, and beauty, which throng upon us thicker than the mutes that sparkle in the sunbeam. By solitude is meant that state of loneliness in which, from sonic cause or other, we are compelled to look within our own bosoms, and reflect. In society there is an artificial :stimulus, arising, perhaps, from the close contact of mind to mind. A mob, no matter of what class it is composed, is always excitable. The gayety aud petulance of one encourages and inflames the others. Our spirits net islet are reacted upon by each other, until they ate wound up to a pitch of exhilaratimi and excitement which they cannot for an instant maintain when alone. The combined joyousness of all is discharged, like the electric spark, through each. We are inspired, we gram fully jest away our heaviest cares, and moralize over our worst misfortunes, with scornful and philosophic mirth. Without effort or fatigue all our energies are arrayed, and on the alert. Every faculty spontaneously exerts itself to daze'e and delight. The ovetflow- ing fulness of our hearts is vented in a thousand obliging speeches. We scatter compliments on every side ; we flatter all around, and are repaid with an aim- dant shower of adulation ; until, cheered, elated, and encouraged by the deli- cious commerce, we almost persuade ourselves that we really are is hat we appear, and what others believe us to be. It is in the hour of darkness and solitude that the demon of unquiet thoughts arises, and, overshadowing our souls with his gloomy pinions, whispers despair.

PAIN.

Pain is the animating principle of the creation. We are born in pain. We die in pain. From the cradle to the grave, pain is our constant cotnpanion, our primary impelling principle, our overruling and controlling governor. It dallies with us, as a wild beast sports with its prey. For a moment we seems to have escaped, to have eluded its power ; but the least indiscretion, and its talons are again plunged into our side; until at last, having tortured us for the allotted term of three score years and ten, it strikes the mercy-blow, (the coup de grace,) and we become a heap of carrion, that the nearest and dearest of our friends cannot survey without feeling their gorge rise.

INSENSIBILITY maerisess.

A propensity to speculate over nicely on subjects which are rather matters of feeling than of reason, is in itself a strong symptom of mental disease. The physicians say that the healthy man is he who slues not feel that ke has a stomach; and that a disposition to reason on the digestive process, and to study the rules of diet, is a certain sign of dyspepsia. The same principle holds good with a refereure to human felicity. The really happy num is be who enjoys life without reflections on its nature, object, or utility., while a tendency to philosophize on existence, and to institute curious and inquisitive investigations on its various lasins and pleasures, is a sole iudication of a dissatisfied and trots. bled spirit. It is the restlessness of internal pain, that sends us prying into the dim and misty regions of metaphysical speculation; from whence we always return, like Byron's Cain, hafted in our high researches, but more dna exasperated with the actual world.

The writer appears to be a student of VOLTAIRE; and be soar imitates that great mocker, as to introduce incidents having little bearing on the main event, for the purpose of making his dialogue a vehicle for satire or reflection. Such is an adventure of Ostalit with an agent of the Police, during which a discourse takes place on its functions.

"Do you imagine, Monsieur le Comte, that the immense police of this glen kingdom is kept up for the purpose of protecting society from vulgar denied', lions against life and property ? Think you that we spend millions oeii" and employ thousands of agents to hunt down a few burglars and pickpockets, Such gentry are easily dealt with. 'the whole society, with the exception ef their own miserable associates, are at war with them—are interested in expcn, and punishing them. As it is, not ten in a hundred escape detection; aa were we not occupied with other and higher matters, not one in a hundred would elude justice." "Truly," replied the Count, " I always fancied, if one may hint such am opinion without offence to you, Monsieur, that the apprehension and imp. pression of such individuals were the main object and duet business of a pollee establishment."

" You are mistaken, Count ; no doubt it forms a part of our duties to guard as much as possible the throats and strong boxes of the good citizens of Peril; but a much higher charge also devolves upon us—that of defending the country or, in other words, the Government, against its dotneetic foes. Thieves aa robbers are bad persons, no doubt, but they do not upset governments."

" And who are they whose efforts tend to that result?" asked the Count.

" Ruined nobles," answered the Lieutenant, " who, being scouted by their own order for their vices, determine to be revenged upon it by their crimes; fanatic philosophers, who would pound the whole edifice of society into dust, in order that they might have the pleasure of rearranging the scattered atom into mathematical hues; believers an humeri perfectibility, mad and disap. pointed geniuses, whose wlitinge infect all who read them with contagious in. sanity ; tut bulent and restless spirits., who plot at home, because they hare tot the opportunity of fighting abroad ; desperate adventurers, to whom any change must be acceptable: these, and a thousand such, make the first breach in the time-honoured institutions of the country. When that is accomplished, the rabble rush in."

TIIE INCONSTANT TIIE UNHAPPY.

The saddest lesson which experience teaches man, is a knowledge of the true nature of love. It is in vain that the whole course of tale and history assures us of the evanescent, transitory character of this passion ; it is in vain tlett our own observatiou confirms the tiuth, and shows us that the sensation is ashes! as it is delightful. What inan, in love fur the first time, could ever be induced to believe that the delicious sentiment, which aleanbs or excludes every ether feeling of his bosom, must sooner or later die a natural deatlt, and be extia. guislied in its own gratification? True, it may be succeeded by a tender ad affectionate attachment, by firm and lasting friendship ; but the glory, them thusiasm, the celestial exaltation of true passion when it first overcomes us must pass away. How ridiculous, then, to abuse men for their want of con. stancy. Could we command our affections, who would cease to love? who would throw away the treasure which constitutes his happiness, and which be values more than all the riches of the world ? It is in spite of ouiselves, in spite of sour utmost effirts to recall our first enthusiasm, that we gradual!y beain to view the once loved face with itelifference, and to feel that her society has no longer a spell for our disenchanted minds. To love is tube blest; and who that found himself in Eden would voluntarily leave it? It is customary to talk as if the inconstant man made a selfish gain by his change of sentiment; but what can be profit by tlte decay of tee swscest sentimeut a our mem: As well rail at the capitalist because he gets rid of his depreciated securities. Alas ! it is with a heavy heart that lie parts with his bands, onee the repre. eentatives of thousands, for a fraction el their original value. But it is with a far prufounder sentiment of despair, that the noun of reflection perceives his warmest and most cherished feelings will mot abide the withering touch of time and custom, and that the love he fondly deemed eternal has 'welly the dem. bility of an autumn flower. It is the law of our nature that all passive impressions shall become weaker by repetition,! amid in process of time be entirely effaced. The effect which a beautiful woman produces on a man's mind shares the geueral fate of aline voluntary emotions; and the latter can no more prevent the flight of his lore, than he can the departure of his youth, health, strength, or any other blessing.

A MORAL TRUTH.

There is nothing, not even religious bigotry, which so effectually hardens the

heart as the perpetual pursuit of selfish joleasures. Where his gratification a voncetned, a roue is the most remorseless and cruel of men. Ile would sacrifice the whole world rather than deprive himself of a single agreeable sensation.

A POLITICAL alter la.

You are tlic last man in the world from whom I should have expected such

Utopian ideas. Do you fancy, when a people are oppressed, they have nothing to do but to point out to their governors the consequences of their despotic measures, and beg of them to desist? When a robber claps a pistol to your breast and deinauds your money or your life, du you believe lie errs from a the. oretical ignorance of the rights of property, and that a moral lecture will save your purse? Know, that history contains many ptoiligies, but no exception to this grand universal truth, that from the creation up to the present bone go. vernments have never conceded the smallest portion of reform to aught save the actual or threatened operation of physical force.