none. His mind, however, became greatly expanded, and his views enlarged, not merely in his own peculiar branch of study, but also in the world, and life in general. The moment had now arrived for Liszt to feel the necessity of something more than the mere mechanism of his art-he was engaged in search of an intellectual standing-point, whence he might start in the most complicated branches of the science. By these wanderings in the abstract and metaphysical speculations peculiar to genius, he had, however, allowed envy and jealousy to raise their envenomed tongues, to depreciate his intrinsic merits, and detract from his professional skill. "Slander's mark was ever yet" the great as well as "the fair." We will not therefore dwell on these illnatured remarks; we will rather turn to the events of the July Revolution, which have naturally exercised a lasting influence on the sensitive and susceptible mind of Liszt.

During the period of his religious musings, Liszt occupied himself principally in composing masses and other sacred music, to the neglect of his professional engagements with the world at large. From this tranquillity and not ignoble ease, he was aroused by his ardent attachment to a lady of high rank. The new passion, like every other he had felt, absorbed his whole soul! He worshipped with an ardour, a devotion, which a highly wrought mind like his can alone comprehend. But his love proved an unhappy one; and the disappointed enthusiast shut himself up for whole weeks in his solitary apartment, brooding over his misfortunes, and confiding the griefs and lamentations of his soul to his unsympathizing but not silent instruments. Those only who have themselves endured such an ordeal can form any idea of the state of his mind at this period.

Having somewhat recovered from this deplorable condition, he rushed into the opposite extreme of unbridled licence and gaiety. Just at that period the revolution appeared, and Liszt became enraptured with the illusions of popular freedom and equality. He was present, and witnessed the rise of the people, the erection barricades, and the triumphant storming of the Louvre. He revelled, as it were, poetico-musically in the tide of passing events, and would fain have described them in his own art. His imagination caught fire: he wished to concentrate the feelings of his heart, and conceived the idea of writing for the people a symphonie révolutionnaire, in the same manner as Beethoven had designed and executed his "Battle of Vittoria." What a grand idea! "Why not execute the plan?" it may be asked. He who is familiar with the excitement and pressure of circumstances during that agitated period-who is aware how all, even indifferent, beholders were forced by the commotion of the times into the whirlpool of action; when people were to be found everywhere but at home, and even the timid found that repose was no longer synonymous with security-will easily conceive that it was less difficult to form the idea of such a work, than to carry it

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out. The grandest plans, the most sublime discoveries, have been made in the midst of crowds and bustle; but to bring them into execution requires retirement, a calm and clear mind, and close solitary application.

Shortly after this the mind of Liszt was much engrossed by the writings of George Sand (Madame Dudevant), and the performance of Paganini, whose science quite enchanted him. The spirited style and personal sketches of the former had inspired him with the liveliest interest, and he frequently told her, and other friends, that he found in Paganini's mode of playing and handling the violin, something so beautiful, so inexpressibly charming, that he was resolved to attain it, if possible, on the piano.

And here, perhaps, it will be well to pause awhile, and notice the relation in which Liszt stands to ancient and modern pianists.

LEAVES TORN FROM A RECORD OF LIFE.

BY THE AUTHORESS OF "OLD PICTURES," "FLIRTING AND COQUETRY,” &c.

No. 3.-WOOING, WEDDING, AND REPENTING.

Hear me, Hero! Wooing, wedding, and repenting, are like a Scotch a jigmeasure and a cinque-pace.-BEATRICE (Much Ado about Nothing).

Part I.-THE WOOING.

The first suit hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and to the full as fantastical. Ir is the privilege of the author of modern times, as well as of the fabled persons in the fairy legends which amused our childhood, to discover the secrets in the most obscure and private habitations, by all the means peculiar to the race of "good people," as well as the more obvious ones open to our own ordinary mortality. Bolted doors fly open at our command, the keyhole serves us as a means of taking UN-"limited views of society," barred shutters are as transparent to our optics as the plate-glass of the shops in Regent-street. If leaded roofs become impediments in our sketching excursions, we "take them off" as unceremoniously as we do the individuals they cover. Nay, let these individuals themselves be shy, reserved, or deceitful as they may, their hearts lie open to our inspection, with all their secret thoughts and most hidden feelings. These are our privileges, used, gentle reader, for your amusement, or

profit: fain would we hope that you will peruse with some degree of interest this third leaf torn from our private "records of life.”

Let us (though of no gigantic stature!) peep through the pretty French windows of the first floor front of yonder mimic villa. The furnitnre of the room is of the plainest description, the draperies of old, though snowy, muslin; not a single article on which the eye rests conveys an idea of wealth, scarcely of more than bare competence in the inhabitant; and yet how eloquently does the whole arrangement tell of taste and elegance, and purity of mind. A few coloured landscapes, crayon views, and groups of flowers, exquisitly painted, adorned the walls; two portraits hung above the fireplace, books in cases which were evidently designed to hold, not to ornament, them formed a principal feature in the little study; a few nicnacks, such as we might guess to be the gifts of friends stood on the tables and the mantelpiece, and materials for writing, and a basket containing wools and canvass, were standing on the centre table. The only article of luxury seemed an arm-chair, of ample dimensions, which stood, with a footstool, at a convenient angle from a cheerful fire.

Yet, comfortable as the room appeared, it struck some cord of sadness on the beholder's heart. Its solitude made you melancholy; you felt intuitively that the occupant was a lonely being

-a widow, perhaps, or an orphan-one evidently accustomed to the abandonment of the world, without many friends; for the solitary chair, the entire arrangements, seemed to assure you that guests were of rare occurrence, and would disturb the placid loneliness of the retreat.

Hush! there is a footstep, the door opens, and the fair occupant enters her study. She is young and gentle-looking, very plain and simple in her dress, and altogether unpretending. For a moment you are disappointed. There is no loveliness of complexion, no brilliant rose nor snowy-white on her face, no perfection of form or contour, to attract your admiration. Her eyes are neither "black as night," nor yet "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue," but of an unmistakable grey; not large or long, but very soft; ay, and if they tempt you to another glance, you will add, very gentle and loving. The mouth, too, has a sweet smile, when pleasure gladdens the heart; but yet that marked curve seems to say that the lip is oftener wreathed in scorn. What is it, then, that renders the face one which every moment makes more interesting-we would say charming? But Edith Seymour has no belief in her own loveliness, and the lip would curl at the supposed flattery. Look again at the countenance, and notice the clear, high, well-developed forehead, so full of "bumps that would charm the phrenologist. Observe the straight eyebrow, the form of the head, and you will read more and more clearly the intellect, the genius, the wit, which constitute the charms of Edith Seymour. And a little, just a little, conscious she appears to be of the beauty of her head, for the rich brown

hair is braided off her face, so as to display its shape; nor does curl or bow, or anything but the simplest Grecian knot, obscure its elegant proportions.

And now she has seated herself in the easy chair, and drawn it to the table; a pen is in her hand, and her desk before her; but she is thoughtful and pre-occupied. At length desk and pen are pushed on one side, a new romance is taken up, and she tries to become interested in its pages; the effort is vain; she glances at the time-piece on the table before her, resumes her book, throws it down again, and paces the small apartment, casting, at every turn past the windows, eager, almost agonized, glances up the road. She is watching for the postman, expecting-no! not that! hope has so long proved fallacious, she dares no longer expect!wishing for a letter from her lover.

Many weeks have passed since she received any communication from him. Weeks of deep and bitter anguish to her; first from anxiety for his health, than from the deeper dread lest his once-ardent love should be wearing away-lest aught of coldness or indifference should exist in the heart of him whose love was the one, the cherished, treasure of her existence. At first she wrote to him, deeming that illness alone caused his silence, and judging from her own devotion, that letters so fraught with affection and confidence as were hers to her betrothed husband, would prove the best restorative; but when her third letter remained unanswered, a terrible fear came upon her that some other reason caused his silence, and the hour of the postman's expected appearance was daily one of wretchedness, which as yet received no relief from the certainty either of happiness or grief; no letter had till then arrived.

This day, however, suspense at least was to end; the wellknown knock was heard, and Edith turned pale as marble, and clung to the table, as she listened to the servant's step on the stairs. She entered. There were two letters in her hand, but Edith saw but one-the well-known, dearly-loved handwriting directed the envelope, and she felt the enclosure decided her fate for happiness or for misery in this world. Yet she did not open the letter; her fingers trembled convulsively, her cheek flushed and paled. She looked at the seal, but its impression gave no symbolical assurance or warning to her fluttering heart; she would have pressed the writing to her lips, but a doubt came across her mind, and she laid the letter down, until she had gained confidence enough to examine it.

Granted prayers are as often curses as blessings; and, oh, how much of sorrow did that long-expected letter cause! It was brief, very brief, to contain so much; for it dissipated at one blow all the long-cherished visions of happiness, which the writer himself had taught the young reader to indulge. It spoke of "friendship to her, for whom love, adoration, had hitherto been the coldest terms; of esteem, regard, instead of devotion; and concluded by wishing

health and happiness to her whose health his falsehood would destroy; whose happiness he had wrecked for ever! For ever! for Edith had not been lightly won! no visions of splendid ease, of wealth, and rank, and worldly consideration had influenced her pure young heart in its first love. It was to share a humble home, a scanty income, she had been solicited, when Edward Beresford asked her hand; and she, with all the sweet confiding innocence of early and unhackneyed passion, had granted" her hand with her heart in it," to her lover, without for a moment doubting of the happiness of her future lot, or dreaming that it could be anything but bliss to share his hopes and soothe his cares, and minister to his comfort; nor did she deem it degradation to prepare herself for the performance of those household duties which contribute so much to the charms of home, and which necessarily devolve on a poor man's wife.

And very, very excusable was the deep regard which Edith had hitherto felt for her affianced husband, for Beresford possessed all those charms of mind, manner, and intellect, which usually render a man fascinating to our sex. If not "all things to all men," he assuredly was to all superior women: with an intuitive perception of the excellencies and weaknesses of each female heart, he accommodated himself to all with wonderful ease: he was a vain man as well as a gifted one; he liked popularity among the sex; and though for a long period he preferred the intercourse with Edith Seymour, and relished the sense, yet simplicity of her remarks, the child-like innocence of her pursuits, the poetic fervour of her mind, far above the graces (meretricious or natural), of all others, yet even at the period of his most ardent devotion to her, his self-love led him, in her absence, to bestow on others those attentions which she fondly hoped were hers, and hers alone.

Of this she was ignorant-nor would she, in her own trusting truthfulness, have believed any assertions of the kind; his own. conduct alone could shake her confidence in him. Nor was Mr. Beresford designedly wicked-he was but weak. Had Edith been. always at his side, he would never have dreamt of deserting her; had she at once become his bride, he would never have ceased to love her; but this their circumstances forbade; and when she returned to her own quiet home, after a long visit to friends, under whose roof she became his affianced wife, his vanity and regret equally led him into the vortex of society, where, in the attentions others, he gradually ceased to think of the young creature whose heart he had gloried in calling his own.

We have said he was weak, not wicked: but it requires a skilful pencil to draw the line of demarcation between infirmity and vice, when, as in all such cases, the one so infallibly leads to the other, and either causes misery to others. Beresford intended no falsehood to his betrothed when he sought the society of other women: his conscience was unheeded when it whispered