THE TIGER-KILLER.

It is not often that we have it in our power to introduce our readers to a French novel. They can easily understand the reason why, without any explanation on our part; but at length we have stumbled on a real gem, called "Le Tueur de Tigres," by Paul Féval, the scene of which is laid in England, and throws such a new and unexpected light on ourselves and our institutions, that the readers of the New Monthly must necessarily receive a perfect flood of instruction about a country of which they are so ignorant as their own! All hail, then, to the Frenchman who has undertaken to be your guide, philosopher, and friend! Welcome him to your homes and hearts as the benefactor of the world in general, and of England particularly.

Our readers are, of course, aware that when our young countrymen have spent all their money, they do not imitate the nigger boatman by working for more, but straightway load a pistol to put an end to their miseries. At least such was the case with our hero, M. Christian, and this was the more unpardonable, as the sun was really supposed to be shining on this eventful morning of course it could not be seen through the covering of fog and smoke with which London is continually coiffe, still something of the sort might be guessed at. It was in an empty house of Golden-square that this tragedy was to come off, where Christian and a young lady, temporarily residing with him, of the name of Mees Jane (we beg our readers' pardon, but a Frenchman must be allowed the liberty-had she been his wife, the story would be quite insipid), were drinking their last bottle of champagne at breakfast. Of three thousand guineas left him by his uncle only two solitary specimens remained, and, woman-like, Jane immediately declares she loves him better than ever. Eventually Mees proposes to visit her Uncle Saunders, who lives in Pallmall, and is rich as Croesus. Christian consents, for he wants to execute his fell design alone. Unfortunately, he could not go out of the world without writing a letter or so, explanatory of his motives, and so our author interrupts him by various episodes. First of all his landlord, Tom Borne, a Jerseyman (les Jersiens sont les Bas Normands de l'Angleterre, our author adds in explanation, for geography is not the forte of young France), announces to him that he had better go, for the house was let to a Mylord. The Mylord anon walks in, in the person of Commodore Davison, an ardent follower of Courtenay. Who he was we will tell you directly. With him was his daughter, a fade beauty of beyond the Straits, and thorough English vignette, whom Christian had seen before on the boat of Richmond, and incontinently fallen in love with, to the intense disgust of Mees Jane. The Commodore was an "eccentric," which he proved by imitating the great Courtenay, the lion of the fashionable world-because he could eat fifty dozen of oysters without drinking. But, alas! the ostreophagist had met with a premature end through a bet he made with Waterford, that he would eat seventyfive dozen-and died in the struggle, having only reached seventy-three. Readers, let us pause and wipe away the involuntary tear due to our great countryman's memory!

The Commodore being disposed of, the pistol is again raised, only to be laid down by the entrance of the bailiffs, who carried off all the furniture not yet converted into champagne. Decidedly it was time for Christian to quit this world of grief, but again he is disturbed by the entrance of his pitiless creditor, Mr. Carter, who desires to make a proposal.

Mr. Courtenay, for whom we recently shed the sympathetic tear, had been the lay figure on which sundry tradesmen, Mr. Carter included, had displayed their wares. By a considerable outlay they had raised him to the height of fashion, and had he lived but one year more, their fortune would have been made. But death plotted against them, and they were in despair, when luckily Mr. Carter bethought himself of Christian to supply the place of the defunct. The terms were speedily agreed on, and Christian's speciality was to be tiger-killing. His rooms were to be hung with skins as trophies; his portrait lithographed in the Bengalee costume, with a rifle of fantastic shape pointed at a colossal tiger; and a young live specimen was to be put in a cage and kept in his study, which he educated out of charity, after destroying father and mother. Thus, then, Christian Macaulay would be launched on the world, with a monthly salary of 300 guineas; for, although the hapless Courtenay only received one hundred, as our hero justly observed, there was a vast difference between swallowing a tiger and an oyster.

The pistols were speedily uncapped, and off our hero started on his new career, forgetful of poor Mees Jane, who speedily returned with a huge bag of sovereigns under her arm, to find herself a widow de facto, if not de jure. We will leave her in a syncope, from which Tom Borne tries to arouse her by sending huge puffs of tobacco-smoke up her nostrils, while we follow our tiger-killer in his glorious career. And here for a bit of quotation from a chapter which our author calls Profils Anglais :

Brighton was in all its splendour: Brighton, that English paradise, where the sky is sometimes blue, where the sea shakes off now and then the heavy fogs to bear to the shore the caresses of its cerulean waves: Brighton, the spot of delight where the flower of fashion expands, the great arena where the tournament of elegancies and Britannic eccentricities takes place: Brighton, the cold and smiling oasis, where the three kingdoms go, yawning the while, to doctor their spleen and kill the hours. The season was magnificent. According to the oldest habitués a more lovely one had never been witnessed. London entire, I mean the noble London, the élite of Almack's, had deserted the banks of the Thames, and it might be asked whether this year the high parliament had renounced the life of the château. Brighton was brilliant, Brighton was thronged; the noble residences in the vicinity, full from the ground-floor to the garret, sent guests to the public-house (auberge), and you would have found on the lists of the furnished houses all the old names of the peerage.

The reason why Brighton was in this abnormal state was the rising on the horizon of fashion of two new planets: a female author of the rarest merit, Lady Desdemona Bridgeton, and a lion of colossal proportions, the famous Christian Macaulay. Lady Desdemona (it will be no breach of confidence to state this is our old friend, Mees Jane) had already made her début in the best accredited reviews, in addition to the great dramatic victory she had gained at Covent Garden Theatre by her tragedy of "David Rizzio." This was a very different sort of thing

from Miss Edgeworth or Mistress Inchbald. In her bold mise en scène, there was a touch of Shakspeare: her lyrism recalled Byron : and when she deigned to write simple prose articles, of the magazine order, people began to fancy that Addison had risen from his tomb.

But Christian? In thirty days he had become more known than Sir R. Peel or his Grace the Marshal Duke of Wellington. His every gesture was copied he had become the glass of fashion and the mould of form. Our little friend, the English vignette, though attached to Sir Edgard Lindsay, could find no escape from the match which the Commodore designed between her and the lion. This rivalry, of course, leads to a duel, for Christian is annoyed at the attentions which Sir Edgard pays to his Jane. But there were others to be consulted before the duel could come off: the tradesmen had the most pressing interest in the safety of their tiger-killer, and could not allow him to risk his invaluable life. They put the police on the track, and at last, by a plausible pretext, Christian is locked up securely in a room at Mr. Lewis's, the tailor, as it is hoped out of harm's way.

Unfortunately, the best-planned schemes fail, and the Commodore, who is mad to be Christian's second, for the sake of the notoriety, brings the rivals together in Mr. Lewis's waiting-room, which appears to have been a regular arsenal, for the walls are hung with coats of mail, doubledhandled swords, and, above all, with two arquebuses, with their forks, which excited the admiration of all connoisseurs. The tailor and his merry men, attempting to interfere, are expelled, locking the door behind them, and the Commodore remains master of the situation. Then follows a scene, unparalleled in modern history, and which we quote in extenso, to show how duels are fought in England.

Pardieu," said Christian, "let us fight here."

"I thank you for that idea," cried Edgard, with ardour.

"I too, Macaulay, I too," said the Commodore, who fumbled hurriedly in his pockets. Nothing easier, thank goodness; here's powder, here are bullets. Diabolical, diabolical," he interrupted himself, with a desperate air, "the pistols are in the carriage!"

The two young men assumed a look of disgust.

"Listen," Robert Davidson went on, "when you're at Rome you must do, &c. You could still have a little boxing-match to pass the time."

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Sir," Edgard said, solemnly, "I want a combat to the death."

A weapon cannot we find any ?" the lion growled, losing patience. The Commodore writhed again. "My friends, my very dear friends," he said, “you are on the scent; it would have been magnificent indeed, and I would give all in the world to extricate you from your embarrassment. Come, what do you say to each taking one of these andirons ?" And he pointed to two heavy bars of iron resting against the chimney. "I mean, of course," he added, seeing that the young men assumed a disdainful smile, "that we will make them red-hot before beginning."

Edgard and Christian turned their backs.

The excessive originality of the idea terrifies them," the Commodore thought. "I must knock out something else."

Two or three minutes passed. "What a torture!" said Edgard, stamping his foot.

'Morbleu, sir," cried Christian, "will you take to the pokers ?"

The Commodore knelt before the fire, and thrust the two bars among the coals. But Edgard and Christian simultaneously uttered a cry of joy: they had just noticed the two trophies. They had an entire arsenal at their disposal.

They pulled down the double-handled swords, and made a grimace; the Commodore followed their every movement, and an infinite lightness dilated his heart.

"None of these are of any use," said Edgard; "let us take the arquebuses." "The arquebuses," said Christian ; "of course." The Commodore held his head with both hands.

"Beautiful!" he said. "My friends, I desired to leave you the merit of the idea. Sir Edgard, by Heavens! you are a true gentleman, and if you kill Macaulay, I promise you shall be my son-in-law."

Christian dusted his weapon; but Davidson took it from his hands; he displayed incomparable zeal.

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No, no," he said, "that is my business. I'll load; you get ready the forks and matches.

Edgard and Christian put up the two forks opposite one another at each end of the room.

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"That's a good distance," said the_Commodore. "These arquebuses ought to have gun-range for that. Come, I have twenty-four bullets; I'd better put twelve in each."

"Twelve bullets ?" both young men remarked.

"I have only that number, my boys. I fancy six charges of powder will be sufficient ?"

Edgard and Christian made an involuntary grimace.

"I have four charges left," the Commodore continued; "I will divide them fraternally, as you appear to desire it." While speaking, he stuffed both barrels. 66 Have you got the matches ?" he asked. Good! What a row this

will make in the papers to-morrow! and the editors would be precious idiots not to add something of this sort: "The only witness of this prodigious duel was the worthy Commodore Davidson, so well known for his originality.'

He rubbed his hands, while the adversaries regarded the loaded arquebuses

with some degree of suspicion.

Come, my dear boys, here are your weapons!"

At the moment when Edgard and Christian each took his arquebuse, he added, without any hesitation:

"Would you wish anything to be done after your decease ?"

And you,

My last thought to your daughter, sir," said Edgard, in a low voice. "Good, very good! my poor boy. I fulfil your request. Macaulay ?"

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Christian thought, "Jane no longer loves me!" So he said, in a firm voice, Nothing!"

"Full of character, that nothing!" the Commodore muttered. "I will make Lady Bridgeton a present of it for her next tragedy."

"To your arms, my children." He gave the word of command as he stooped to light the matches. "I fancy not an Englishman can boast of having seen a thing of this sort."

The arquebuses were resting on their forks. The two rivals took the matches without saying a word. We are compelled to avow that their ardour was slightly slackened. The Commodore, on the contrary, could not contain himself. "All is properly arranged," he said; "take a careful aim. At the word "Three! you will fire together."

He clapped his hands-one, two. The young men half turned their heads away. The Commodore's eyes were sparkling like twin stars. "Three!" he

shouted.

It is possible for a man to be very brave, and yet not admire fighting in a close room, at three yards distance, with arquebuses stuffed with eight charges of powder and a dozen balls. It was, in fact, no combat, but a double suicide. The young men could not entertain the shadow of a doubt; their last hour had arrived. They both were disgusted at this stupid butchery, which satisfied neither, and which would leave no victor; but they dare not draw back, because the Commodore was present.

The two matches were lowered on the little cone of powder covering the vent-holes. They fell at the same moment; the Commodore uttered a shout of delight. The powder squibbed and sent a double wreath of smoke to the roof. That was all. Edgard and Christian remained motionless, and even paler than corpses; they hardly knew whether they were alive or dead.

"Confound it," said the Commodore, "such accidents only happen to me. We will start afresh," he added, in an insinuating tone, for the pitiable looks of the adversaries caused him much disquietude. It is nothing, my dear fellows, only a little rust in the vent."

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He took a long pin and began clearing them out.

"Be quick," said Edgard, in a trembling voice; "this delay is intolerable.” "The fact is," Macaulay added, with a vain attempt to smile, we are not exactly on a bed of roses.

You would have pitied them. Their faces had altered as if a violent poison had been acting on them. When their eyes fell on the gaping throats of the arquebuses, a violent convulsion agitated their limbs, and large drops fell down their livid cheeks. But they remained at their post.

But the duel was not fated to come off, for one of the creditors peeped through the keyhole, and they rushed in in a body to prevent the loss of their valuable lay figure. To make assurance doubly sure, they arrested Sir Edgard on a bill of five hundred pounds. But they find a new opponent in Mees Jane, who, for reasons of her own, wishes to have Sir Edgard at liberty. For that purpose she must have money, and no better plan suggests than to make use of her literary name, and raise the sum among her publishing friends. Fortunately for her, a Mr. T. R. Pinkerton, editor of Pinkerton's Paper, 20, Burlington-arcade, Piccadilly, makes his appearance to ask her valued co-operation-not on the paper, for that, although enjoying a sale of 24,000, was only for the public, and of course her ladyship could not condescend to that--but on the Review of the Centre, a rival of the Quarterly. On the mention of the latter, Mees Jane takes a letter from the mantelpiece from the publishers, asking her to become a contributor. Mr. Pinkerton is horrified at their low manners in addressing a lady by post. Her ladyship puts an end to the conversation by asking for 500l., after showing a letter from the Edinburgh, offering to cover each page of her writing with gold. The London Magazine also places its treasury at the disposition of her ladyship. Against such arguments the publisher cannot steel his heart, but pays over the money. The beauty of it is, that Mees Jane has usurped the laurels of Sir Edgard, who is the real author of "David Rizzio," but would not have the fact known for the world, because, as our author justly and profoundly observes, the journalist of London is scarcely a gentleman: he occupies much the same position as the poëte librettiste of Italy. A lord would willingly marry a dancer of the second class, or a cantatrice slightly depreciated, but no lady would ever think of giving even a finger to a folliculaire.

Will our readers pardon a short departure from our subject, that we may say a few words about the low opinion which French writers appear to entertain of British authors and the British press? Why it is so we cannot surmise, except that, being a nation of shopkeepers, we must all sell our wares to the highest bidder. In the ridiculous book we are now noticing, there are repeated instances of the Times and other first-class papers being bribed to insert puffs on the tiger-killer. The reason for