Part 6

Nevertheless, we welcome Mr. Baillie's publication as a valuable addition to juridical and even to general literature. The translation, though not by any means free from defects, is the best specimen of a really good Mahometan law-book that has yet been published. The defects to which we allude are twofold. In the first place, though Mr. Baillie mentions that in the original the name of the treatise from which it is taken is appended to every excerpt, he has not in his translation given those references. His work is not therefore what the original is, a Chrestomathia of the best Arabian jurists--a succedaneum for their complete works--an illustration of Arabic legal literature. Again, he is often loose and vacillating in the use of the English words he has selected as corresponding to the technical phraseology of the Arabian jurists, and sometimes infelicitous in the selection of his English terms. It has occurred to us that he would have succeeded better in rendering the exact meaning of his originals, had he availed himself more of technical phrases of the Roman law which are familiar to all European jurists. Is does not occur to us that he would by doing so have been in danger of Romanizing the Mahometan to an extent that might mislead. Mill, in his History of British India, has noticed how closely the classification of the Mahometan approaches to that of the Roman jurists. An attentive perusal of Mr. Baillie's volume has convinced us that the analogy in the substance is quite as strong as in the arrangements. This fact seems susceptible of being accounted for on historical grounds. Mahometanism is in fact a sect or heresy of Christianity. The views and sentiments, the aggregate of which make up the body of Christian opinion, are not all of Jewish or Christian origin. They are the moral creed of societies whose opinions and civilization have been derived in part from other sources. The philosophy of Greece and the law of Rome have contributed in nearly equal proportions to the theosophy of the Hebrews. The jurisprudence of all Christian nations is mainly referable to Rome for its origin, and the same is the case with at least the Sunnite Mahometans. The nations of Islam took only their religious creed from their Prophet; the jurists of Kufah retained and expounded the civil law which prevailed among them before his time. That law was the law of the Greek Empire, developed in the same way as that of the Western Empire under the judicial and legislative auspices of Roman Prætors and Pro-Consuls, aided by Roman jurists. Theophilus, one of the jurists employed by Justinian for his compilations, lectured in Greek on the Institutions; and the substance of his lectures still survives under the name of the Paraphrase of Theophilus. The Greek edicts and novels of Justinian's successors are mainly Roman law. Throughout the Byzantine Empire (within which Kufah and the region where Bagdad now stands were included) Roman law was paramount, and Roman jurists were numerous. The arrangement, the subdivisions, and the substance of Mahometan jurisprudence, show that it has been principally derived from this source. Some of its doctrines are doubtless aboriginal engrafted on the law of the Empire; and it has been modified in some respects to reconcile it to the religious dictates of Islam, just as the law of Pagan Rome was modified after Christianity became the religion of the Empire. But still Mahometan jurisprudence retains undeniably the lineaments of its parentage.

This consideration places in a strong light the importance of the study of Mahometan law. The increasing intimacy of our relations with independent Mahometan states makes it of the utmost consequence that we should entertain correct views of their opinions and institutions; and no better key to the knowledge of both can be found than in the historical study of their law. Again, we are called upon to legislate and supply judges for British India, a large proportion of the inhabitants of which are Mahometans. Even the Hindoos of the former Mogul Empire have adopted many legal forms and doctrines from their conquerors. A minute and accurate acquaintance with Mahometan jurisprudence is an indispensable preliminary to judicious legislation for British India. For these reasons, it could be wished that Mr. Baillie, or some other equally accomplished laborer in that field, would set himself to do for the "Futawa Alumgeeree" what Heineccius and other modern civilians have done for the law-books of Justinian--present the European public with an elegant and exact abstract of its contents.

* * * * *

The following, from Southey's "Gridiron," now first published in his Memoirs, ought to be set to music for the Beef-Steak Club:--

"Now the perfect Steak prepare! Now the appointed rites begin! Cut it from the pinguid rump. Not too thick and not too thin; Somewhat to the thick inclining, Yet the thick and thin between, That the gods, when they are dining, May comment the golden mean. Ne'er till now have they been blest With a beef-steak daily drest: Ne'er till this auspicious morn When the Gridiron was born."

* * * * *

The most ignorant of the world's fools are those called "knowing ones," a phrase satirical with the very glee of irony.

* * * * *

THE MYSTERIOUS COMPACT.

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

PART II--CONCLUSION

(CONCLUDED FROM PAGE 192.)

Several weeks passed away. Edward spared no pains to discover some trace of the lady in question, but all in vain. No one in the neighborhood knew the family; and he had already determined, as soon as the spring began, to ask for leave of absence, and to travel through the country where Ferdinand had formed his unfortunate attachment, when a circumstance occurred which coincided strangely with his wishes. His commanding-officer gave him a commission to purchase some horses, which, to his great consolation, led him exactly into that part of the country where Ferdinand had been quartered. It was a market-town of some importance. He was to remain there some time, which suited his plans exactly; and he made use of every leisure hour to cultivate the acquaintance of the officers, to inquire into Ferdinand's connections and acquaintance, to trace the mysterious name if possible, and thus fulfill a sacred duty. For to him it appeared a sacred duty to execute the commission of his departed friend--to get possession of the ring, and to be the means, as he hoped, of giving rest to the troubled spirit of Ferdinand.

Already, on the evening of the second day, he was sitting in the coffee-room with burghers of the place and officers of different regiments.

A newly-arrived cornet was inquiring whether the neighborhood were a pleasant one, of an infantry officer, one of Hallberg's corps. "For," said he, "I come from charming quarters."

"There is not much to boast of," replied the captain. "There is no good fellowship, no harmony among the people."

"I will tell you why that is," cried an animated lieutenant; "that is because there is no house as a point of reunion, where one is sure to find and make acquaintances, and to be amused, and where each individual ascertains his own merits by the effect they produce on society at large."

"Yes, we have had nothing of that kind since the Varniers left us," said the captain.

"Varniers!" cried Edward, with an eagerness he could ill conceal. "The name sounds foreign."

"They were not Germans--they were emigrants from the Netherlands, who had left their country on account of political troubles," replied the captain.

"Ah, that was a charming house," cried the lieutenant, "cultivation, refinement, a sufficient competency, the whole style of establishment free from ostentation, yet most comfortable; and Emily--Emily was the soul of the whole house."

"Emily Varnier!" echoed Edward, while his heart beat fast and loud.

"Yes, yes! that was the name of the prettiest, most graceful, most amiable girl in the world," said the lieutenant.

"You seem bewitched by the fair Emily," observed the cornet.

"I think you would have been too, had you known her," rejoined the lieutenant; "she was the jewel of the whole society. Since she went away there is no bearing their stupid balls and assemblies."

"But you must not forget," the captain resumed once more, "when you attribute everything to the charms of the fair girl, that not only she but the whole family has disappeared, and we have lost that house which formed, as you say, so charming a point of reunion in our neighborhood."

"Yes, yes; exactly so," said an old gentleman, a civilian, who had been silent hitherto; "the Varniers' house is a great loss in the country, where such losses are not so easily replaced as in a large town. First, the father died, then came the cousin and carried the daughter away."

"And did this cousin marry the young lady?" inquired Edward, in a tone tremulous with agitation.

"Certainly," answered the old gentleman; "it was a very great match for her; he bought land to the value of half a million about here."

"And he was an agreeable, handsome man, we must all allow," remarked the captain.

"But she would never have married him," exclaimed the lieutenant, "if poor Hallberg had not died."

Edward was breathless, but he did not speak a word.

"She would have been compelled to do so in any case," said the old man; "the father had destined them for each other from infancy, and people say he made his daughter take a vow as he lay on his death-bed."

"That sounds terrible," said Edward; "and does not speak much for the good feeling of the cousin."

"She could not have fulfilled her father's wish," interposed the lieutenant; "her heart was bound up in Hallberg, and Hallberg's in her. Few people, perhaps, know this, for the lovers were prudent and discreet; I, however, knew it all."

"And why was she not allowed to follow the inclination of her heart?" asked Edward.

"Because her father had promised her," replied the captain: "you used just now the word terrible; it is a fitting expression, according to my version of the matter. It appears that one of the branches of the house of Varnier had committed an act of injustice toward another, and Emily's father considered it a point of conscience to make reparation. Only through the marriage of his daughter with a member of the ill-used branch could that act be obliterated and made up for, and, therefore, he pressed the matter sorely."

"Yes, and the headlong passion which Emily inspired her cousin with abetted his designs."

"Then her cousin loved Emily?" inquired Edward.

"Oh, to desperation," was the reply. "He was a rival to her shadow, who followed her not more closely than he did. He was jealous of the rose that she placed on her bosom."

"Then poor Emily is not likely to have a calm life with such a man," said Edward.

"Come," interposed the old gentleman, with en authoritative tone, "I think you, gentlemen, go a little too far. I know D'Effernay; he is an honest, talented man, very rich, indeed, and generous; he anticipates his wife in every wish. She has the most brilliant house in the neighborhood, and lives like a princess."

"And trembles," insisted the lieutenant, "when she hears her husband's footstep. What good can riches be to her? She would have been happier with Hallberg."

"I do not know," rejoined the captain, "why you always looked upon that attachment as something so decided. It never appeared so to me; and you yourself say that D'Effernay is very jealous, which I believe him to be, for he is a man of strong passions; and this very circumstance causes me to doubt the rest of your story. Jealousy has sharp eyes, and D'Effernay would have discovered a rival in Hallberg, and not proved himself the friend he always was to our poor comrade."

"That does not follow at all," replied the lieutenant, "it only proves that the lovers were very cautious. So far, however, I agree with you. I believe that if D'Effernay had suspected anything of the kind he would have murdered Hallberg."

A shudder passed through Edward's veins.

"Murdered!" he repeated, in a hollow voice; "do you not judge too harshly of this man when you hint the possibility of such a thing?"

"That does he, indeed," said the old man; "these gentlemen are all angry with D'Effernay, because he has carried off the prettiest girl in the country. But I am told he does not intend remaining where he now lives. He wishes to sell his estates."

"Really," inquired the captain, "and where is he going?"

"I have no idea," replied the other; "but he is selling everything off. One manor is already disposed of, and there have been people already in negotiation for the place where he resides."

The conversation now turned on the value of D'Effernay's property, and of land in general, &c.

Edward had gained materials enough for reflection; he rose soon, took leave of the company, and gave himself up, in the solitude of his own room, to the torrent of thought and feeling which that night's conversation had let loose. So, then, it was true; Emily Varnier was no fabulous being! Hallberg had loved her, his love had been returned, but a cruel destiny had separated them. How wonderfully did all he had heard explain the dream at the Castle, and how completely did that supply what had remained doubtful, or had been omitted in the officers' narrative. Emily Varnier, doubtless, possessed that ring, to gain possession of which now seemed his bounden duty. He resolved not to delay its fulfillment a moment, however difficult it might prove, and he only reflected on the best manner in which he should perform the task allotted to him. The sale of the property appeared to him a favorable opening. The fame of his father's wealth made it probable that the son might wish to be purchaser of a fine estate, like the one in question. He spoke openly of such a project, made inquiries of the old gentleman, and the captain, who seemed to him to know most about the matter; and as his duties permitted a trip for a week or so, he started immediately, and arrived on the second day at the place of his destination. He stopped in the public house in the village to inquire if the estate lay near, and whether visitors were allowed to see the house and grounds. Mine host, who doubtless had had his directions, sent a messenger immediately to the Castle, who returned before long, accompanied by a chasseur, in a splendid livery, who invited the stranger to the Castle in the name of M. D'Effernay.

This was exactly what Edward wished, and expected. Escorted by the chasseur he soon arrived at the Castle, and was shown up a spacious staircase into a modern, almost, one might say, a magnificently-furnished room, where the master of the house received him. It was evening, toward the end of winter, the shades of twilight had already fallen, and Edward found himself suddenly in a room quite illuminated with wax candles. D'Effernay stood in the middle of the saloon, a tall, thin young man. A proud bearing seemed to bespeak a consciousness of his own merit, or at least of his position. His features were finely formed, but the traces of strong passion, or of internal discontent, had lined them prematurely.

In figure he was very slender, and the deep-sunken eye, the gloomy frown which was fixed between his brows, and the thin lips, had no very prepossessing expression, and yet there was something imposing in the whole appearance of the man.

Edward thanked him civilly for his invitation, spoke of his idea of being a purchaser as a motive for his visit, and gave his own, and his father's name. D'Effernay seemed pleased with all he said. He had known Edward's family in the metropolis; he regretted that the late hour would render it impossible for them to visit the property to-day, and concluded by pressing the lieutenant to pass the night at the Castle. On the morrow they would proceed to business, and now he would have the pleasure of presenting his wife to the visitor. Edward's heart beat violently--at length then he would see her! Had he loved her himself he could not have gone to meet her with more agitation. D'Effernay led his guest through many rooms, which were all as well furnished, and as brilliantly lighted as the first he had entered. At length he opened the door of a small boudoir, where there was no light, save that which the faint, gray twilight imparted through the windows.

The simple arrangement of this little room, with dark green walls, only relieved by some engravings and coats of arms, formed a pleasing contrast to Edward's eyes, after the glaring splendor of the other apartments. From behind a piano-forte, at which she had been seated in a recess, rose a tall, slender female form, in a white dress of extreme simplicity.

"My love," said D'Effernay, "I bring you a welcome guest, Lieutenant Wensleben, who is willing to purchase the estate."

Emily courtesied; the friendly twilight concealed the shudder that passed over her whole frame, as she heard the familiar name which aroused so many recollections.

She bade the stranger welcome, in a low, sweet voice, whose tremulous accents were not unobserved by Edward; and while the husband made some further observation, he had leisure to remark, as well as the fading light would allow, the fair outline of her oval face, the modest grace of her movements, her pretty, nymph-like figure--in fact, all those charms which seemed familiar to him through the impassioned descriptions of his friend.

"But what can this fancy be, to sit in the dark?" asked D'Effernay, in no mild tone; "you know that is a thing I cannot bear." and with these words, and without waiting his wife's answer, he rang the bell over her sofa, and ordered lights.

While these were placed on the table the company sat down by the fire, and conversation commenced. By the full light Edward could perceive all Emily's real beauty--her pale, but lovely face, the sad expression of her large blue eyes, so often concealed by their dark lashes, and then raised, with a look full of feeling, a sad, pensive, intellectual expression; and he admired the simplicity of her dress, and of every object that surrounded her: all appeared to him to bespeak a superior mind.

They had not sat long, before D'Effernay was called away. One of his people had something important, something urgent to communicate to him, which admitted of no delay. A look of fierce anger almost distorted his features; in an instant his thin lips moved rapidly, and Edward thought he muttered some curses between his teeth. He left the room, but in so doing, he cast a glance of mistrust and ill-temper on the handsome stranger with whom he was compelled to leave his wife alone. Edward observed it all. All that he had seen to-day, all that he had heard from his comrades of the man's passionate and suspicious disposition, convinced him that his stay here would not be long, and that perhaps a second opportunity of speaking alone with Emily might not offer itself.

He determined, therefore, to profit by the present moment; and no sooner had D'Effernay left the room, than he began to tell Emily she was not so complete a stranger to him as it might seem; that long before he had had the pleasure of seeing her--even before he had heard her name--she was known to him, so to speak, in spirit.

Madame D'Effernay was moved. She was silent for a time, and gazed fixedly on the ground; then she looked up; the mist of unshed tears dimmed her blue eyes, and her bosom heaved with the sigh she could not suppress.

"To me also the name of Wensleben is familiar. There is a link between our souls. Your friend has often spoken of you to me."

But she could say no more; tears checked her speech.

Edward's eyes were glistening also, and the two companions were silent; at length he began once more:

"My dear lady," he said, "my time is short, and I have a solemn message to deliver to you. Will you allow me to do so now?"

"To me?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment.

"From my departed friend," answered Edward, emphatically.

"From Ferdinand?--and that now--after--" she shrunk back, as if in terror.

"Now that he is no longer with us, do you mean? I found the message in his papers, which have been intrusted to me only lately, since I have been in the neighborhood. Among them was a token which I was to restore to you." He produced the ring. Emily seized it wildly, and trembled as she looked upon it.

"It is indeed my ring," she said at length, "the same which I gave him when we plighted our troth in secret. You are acquainted with everything, I perceive; I shall therefore risk nothing if I speak openly."

She wept, and pressed the ring to her lips.

"I see that my friend's memory is dear to you," continued Edward. You will forgive the prayer I am about to make to you: my visit to you concerns his ring."

"How--what is it you wish?" cried Emily; terrified.

"It was _his_ wish," replied Edward. "He evinced an earnest desire to have this pledge of an unfortunate and unfulfilled engagement restored."

"How is that possible? You did not speak with him before his death; and this happened so suddenly after, that, to give you the commission--"

"There was no time for it! that is true," answered Edward, with an inward shudder, although outwardly he was calm. "Perhaps this wish was awakened immediately before his death. I found it, as I told you, expressed in those papers."

"Incomprehensible!" she exclaimed. "Only a short time before his death, we cherished--deceitful, indeed, they proved, but, oh, what blessed hopes! we reckoned on casualties, on what might possibly occur to assist as. Neither of us could endure to dwell on the idea of separation; and yet--yet since--Oh, my God," she cried, overcome by sorrow, and she hid her face between her hands.

Edward was lost in confused thought. For a time both again were silent: at length Emily started up--

"Forgive me, M. de Wensleben. What you have related to me, what you have asked of me, has produced so much excitement, so much agitation, that it is necessary that I should be alone for a few moments, to recover my composure."

"I am gone," cried Edward, springing from his chair.

"No! no!" she replied, "you are my guest; remain here. I have a household duty which calls me away." She laid a stress on these words.

She leant forward, and with a sad, sweet smile, she gave her hand to the friend of her lost Ferdinand, pressing his gently, and disappeared through the inner door.

Edward stood stunned, bewildered; then he paced the room with hasty steps, threw himself on the sofa, and took up one of the books that lay on the table, rather to have something in his hand, than to read. It proved to be Young's "Night Thoughts." He looked through it, and was attracted by many passages, which seemed, in his present frame of mind, fraught with peculiar meaning; yet his thoughts wandered constantly from the page to his dead friend. The candles, unheeded both by Emily and him, burned on with long wicks, giving little light in the silent room, over which the red glare from the hearth shed a lurid glow. Hurried footsteps sounded in the anteroom; the door was thrown open.

Edward looked up, and saw D'Effernay staring at him, and round the room, in an angry, restless manner.

Edward could not but think there was something almost unearthly in those dark looks and that towering form.

"Where is my wife?" was D'Effernay's first question.

"She is gone to fulfill some household duty," replied the other.

"And leaves you here alone in this miserable darkness! Most extraordinary!--indeed, most unaccountable!" and as he spoke he approached the table and snuffed the candles, with a movement of impatience.

"She left me here with old friends," said Edward, with a forced smile. "I have been reading."