"nice young man."—"And not word of a lie in it," said Dick Hart, as he finished his story, his pipe, and his grog.

We were now steering across Studland Bay. Banks of dark clouds were gathering majestically on the eastern horizon, and the sun was rapidly sinking in a flood of golden light. Behind us was the Isle of Brownsea, with its dark fir plantations and lofty, cold-looking, awkward castle. On the left was the line of low sand hills, stretching away towards Christchurch, and seeming to join the Needles' Rocks, situated at the western extremity of the Isle of Wight, the high chalk cliffs of which reflected the sun's last rays, giving a rich and placid feeling to the cold and distant grey. On the right, and closer to us, was the brown and purple heath-land of Studland Bay. Here barren, there patches of verdure, and the thin smoke threading its way from a cluster of trees, denoted where the village hamlet lay embosomed from the storms of the southwest gales, close at the foot and under the shelter of a lofty chalk range which abuts abruptly on the sea, and before which stands a high, detached pyramidical rock, rising out of the waters like a sheeted spectre, and known to mariners under the suspicious name of Old Harry.

This coast was once notorious for smuggling, but those days of nautical chivalry have ceased, if Dick Hart is to be credited, who shook his head very mournfully as he alluded to "the Block-head service."

JAMES SILVESTER.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

SCENE FROM A FRENCH DRAMA.

No. XVII. of the Foreign Quarterly Review, contains a paper of much interest to the playgoer as well as to the lover of dramatic literature—on two French dramas of great celebrity—La Maréchale d'Ancre, by de Vigny; and Marion Delorme, by Victor Hugo. We quote a scene from the former. Concini, the principal character, is a favourite of Louis XIII.; the Maréchale, his wife, has a first love, Borgia, a Corsican, who, disappointed in his early suit by the stratagems of Concini, has married the beautiful but uncultivated Isabella Monti. On the conflicting feelings of this strange personage, his hatred to the husband, and his relenting towards the wife; and the licentious plans of Concini for the seduction of Isabella, whom he has seen without knowing her to be the wife of his deadly enemy, the interest of the piece is made to turn. The jealous Isabella is at last persuaded that the Maréchale has robbed her of the attachment of her husband, and appears as a witness against her on the pretended charge of witchcraft and sorcery.

While the Maréchal, even in the dungeon of the Bastile, is awing her oppressors into silence, bands of murderers are seeking Concini through the streets of Paris. As he issues from the house of the Jew which contains Isabella, he hears through the obscurity of the tempestuous night the cries of the populace, but he thinks they are but the indications of some passing tumult. He rests for a moment against a pillar on the pavement, but recoils again, as from a serpent, for he perceives it is the stone on which Ravaillac had planted his foot when he assassinated Henry, and in that murder it is darkly insinuated he had a share. Through the darkness of the Rue de la Ferronnerie, Michael Borgia is seen advancing, conducting the two children of his rival. He has promised to the Maréchale to save them from the dangers of the night, and has brought them in safety to his own threshold. But his promise of safety extended not to Concini. The wild ferocity of the following scene has many parallels in the actual duels of the time, as delineated in Froissart and Brantome.

Borgia (with the children.)—Poor children! come in; you will be safer here than in the houses to which they have pursued us.

The Boy.—Ah! there is a man standing up.

Borgia (turning the lantern which the child holds towards Concini.)—Concini!

Concini.—Borgia! (Each raises his dagger, and seizes with the left arm the right of his enemy. They remain motionless, and gazing at each other. The children escape into the street and disappear.)

Concini.—Let go my arm, and I will liberate yours.

Borgia.—What shall be my security?

Concini.—Those children whom you have with you.

Borgia.—I am labouring to save them. Your palace is on fire—your wife is arrested—your fortune is wrecked—base, senseless adventurer!

Concini.—Have done—let go—let us fight!

Borgia (pushing him from him.)—Back, then, and draw your sword.

Concini (draws.)—Begin.

Borgia.—Remove those children—they would be in our way.

Concini.—They are gone.

Borgia.—Take these letters, assassin! I had promised to restore them to you. (He hands to Concini a black portfolio.)

Concini.—I would have taken them from your body.

Borgia.—I have performed my promise—and now, ravisher! look to yourself.

Concini.—Base seducer, defend thyself.

Borgia.—The night is dark, but I shall feel you by my hate: Plant your foot against the wall, that you may not retreat.

Concini.—Would I could chain yours to the pavement, that I might be sure of my mark!

Borgia.—Agree that the first who is wounded shall inform the other.

Concini.—Yes, for we should not see the blood. I swear it by the thirst I feel for yours.—But not that the affair should end there.

Borgia.—No, only to begin again with more spirit.

Concini—To continue till we can lift the sword no longer.

Borgia.—Till the death of one or other of us.

Concini—I see you not. Are you in front of me?

Borgia.—Yes, wretch! Parry that thrust. Has it sped?

Concini.—No; take that in return.

Borgia.—I am untouched.

Concini.—What, still? Oh! would I could but see thy hateful visage. (They continue to fight desperately, but without touching each other. Both rest for a little.)

Borgia.—Have you a cuirass on, Concini?

Concini.—I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber.

Borgia.—Liar! (He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are locked for a moment, and both are wounded.)

Concini.—I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?

Borgia, (leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his breast with, his handkerchief.) No, let us begin again. There!

Concini (binding his scarf round his thigh.)—One moment and I am with you. (He staggers against the pillar.)

Borgia, (sinking on his knees.)—Are you not wounded yourself?

Concini.—No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.

Borgia (endeavouring to rise, but unable.)—I have struck my foot against a stone—wait an instant.

Concini (with delight.)—Ah! you are wounded!

Borgia.—No, I tell you—'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.

Concini, (feeling his sword.)—My blade smells of blood.

Borgia.—Mine is dabbled in it.

Concini.—Come then, if you are not *—come and finish me.

Borgia, (with triumph.)—Finish! then you are wounded.

Concini, (with a voice of despair.)—Were I not, would I not have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as severely handled.

Borgia—It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.

Concini.—Shall we now have done?