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BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCXXXV. SEPTEMBER, 1843. VOL. LIV.

* * * * *

"WE ARE ALL LOW PEOPLE THERE."

A TALE OF THE ASSIZES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

Some time ago, business of an important character carried me to the beautiful and populous city of ——. I remember to have visited it when I was a child, in the company of a doating mother, who breathed her last there; and the place, associated with that circumstance, had ever afterwards been the gloomiest spot in the county of my birth. A calamity such as that to which I have alluded leaves no half impressions. It stamps itself deep, deep in the human heart; and a change, scarcely less than organic, for good or ill, is wrought there. Agreeably with this fact, the scene itself of the event becomes at once, to the survivor, either hallowed and beloved, or hated and avoided. Not that natural beauty or deformity has any thing to do in the production of such feelings. They have a mysterious origin, and are, in truth, not to be accounted for or explained. A father sees the hope and joy of his manhood deposited amongst the gardens of the soil, and from that moment the fruitful fields and unobstructed sky are things he cannot gaze upon; whilst the brother, who has lived in the court or alley of a crowded city with the sister of his infancy, and has buried her, with his burning tears, in the dense churchyard of the denser street, clings to the neighbourhood, close and unhealthy though it be, with a love that renders it for him the brightest and the dearest nook of earth. He cannot quit it, and be at peace. Causes that seem alike, are not always so in their effects. For my own part, for years after the first bitter lesson of my life became connected with that city, I could not think of it without pain, or hear its name spoken without suffering a depression of spirits, as difficult to throw off as are the heavy clouds that follow in the track, and hide the little light of a December sun. At school, I remember well how grievously I wept upon the map on which I first saw the word written, and how completely I expunged the characters from the paper, forbidding my eyes to glance even to the county from which I had erased them. Time passes, hardening the heart as it rolls over it, and we afford to laugh at the strong feelings and extravagant views of our youth. It is well, perhaps, that we do so; and yet on that subject a word or two of profitable matter might be offered, which shall be withholden now. For many years I have battled through the world, an orphan, on my own account; and it is not surprising that the vehemence of my early days should have gradually sobered down before the stern realities that have at every step encountered me. Long before I received the unwelcome intelligence, that it was literally incumbent upon me to revisit the spot of my beloved mother's dissolution, the mention of its name had ceased to evoke any violent emotion, or to affect me as of old. I say unwelcome, because, notwithstanding the stoicism of which I boast, I felt quite uncomfortable enough to write to my correspondent by the return of post, urging him to make one more endeavour to complete my business without my aid, and to spare, if possible, my personal attendance. I gave no reason for this wish. I did not choose to tell a falsehood, and I had hardly honesty to acknowledge, even to myself—the truth. I failed, however, in my application, and with any but a cheerful mind, I quitted London on my journey. Thirty years before I had travelled to —— in a stupendous machine, of which now I recollect only that it seemed to take years out of my little life in arriving at its destination, and that, on its broad, substantial rear, it bore the effigy of "an ancient Briton." Locomotion then, like me, was in a state of infancy. On the occasion of my second visit to the city, I had hardly time to wonder at the velocity with which I was borne along. Distance was annihilated. The two hundred miles over which the ancient Briton had wearisomely laboured, were reduced to twenty, and before I could satisfy myself that our journey was more than begun, my horseless coach, and fifty more besides, had actually gone over them. I experienced a nervous palpitation at the heart as I proceeded from the outskirts of the city, and grew more and more fidgety the nearer I approached the din and noise of the prosperous seat of business. I could not account for the feeling, until I detected myself walking as briskly as I could, with my eyes fixed hard upon the ground, as though afraid to glance upon a street, a house, an object which could recall the past, or carry me back to the first dark days of life. Then it was that I summoned courage, and, with a desperate effort to crush the morbid sensibility, raised myself to my full height, gazed around me, and awoke, effectually and for ever, from my dream. The city was not the same. The well-remembered thoroughfares were gone; their names extinct, and superseded by others more euphonic; the buildings, which I had carried in my mind as in a book—the thought of meeting which had given me so much pain, had been removed—destroyed, and not a brick remained which I could call a friend, or offer one warm tear, in testimony of old acquaintance. A noble street, a line of palaces—merchants' palaces—had taken to itself the room of twenty narrow ways, that, in the good old times, had met and crossed in close, but questionable, friendship. Bright stone, that in the sunlight shone brighter than itself, flanked every broad and stately avenue, denoting wealth and high commercial dignity. Every venerable association was swept away, and nothing remained of the long-cherished and always unsightly picture, but the faint shadow in my own brain—growing fainter now with every moment, and which the unexpected scene and new excitement were not slow to obliterate altogether. I breathed more freely as I went my way, and reached my agent's house at length, lighter of heart than I had been for hours before. Mr Treherne was a man of business, and a prosperous one too, or surely he had no right to place before the dozen corpulent gentlemen whom I met on my arrival—a dinner, towards which the viscera of princes might have turned without ruffling a fold of their intestinal dignity. I partook of the feast—that is to say, I sat at the groaning table, and, like a cautious and dyspeptic man, I eat roast beef—toujours roast beef, and nothing else—appeased my thirst with grateful claret, and retired at last to wholesome sleep and quiet dreams. Not so the corpulent guests. It may be to my dyspeptic habit, which enables me to be virtuous at a trifling cost, and to nothing loftier, that I am bound to attribute the feeling with which I invariably sit down to feasting; be this the fact or not, I confess that a sense of shame, uneasiness, and dislike, renders an affair of this kind to me the most irksome and unpleasant of enjoyments. The eagerness of appetite that one can fairly see in the watery and sensual eyes of men to whom eating has become the aim and joy of their existence—the absorption of every faculty in the gluttonous pursuit—the animal indulgence and delight—these are sickening; then the deliberate and cold-blooded torture of the creatures whose marrowy bones are crunched by the epicure, without a thought of the suffering that preceded his intensely pleasurable emotions, and the bare mention of which, in this narrative, is almost more than sufficient, then, worst of all, the wilful prodigality and waste—the wickedness of casting to the dogs the healthy food for which whole families, widows, and beggared orphans are pining in the neighbouring street—the guilty indifference of him who finds the wealth for the profusion, and the impudent recklessness of the underling who abuses it. Such are a few of the causes which concur in giving to the finest banquet I have seen an aspect not more odious than humiliating; and here I dwell upon the fact, because the incident which I shall shortly bring before the reader's eye, served to confirm the feelings which I entertain on this subject, and presented an instructive contrast to the splendid entertainment which greeted my immediate arrival.

I slept at the house of Mr Treherne, and, on the following morning, was an early riser. I strolled through the city, and, returning home, found my active friend seated at his breakfast-table, with a host of papers, and a packet of newly-arrived letters before him. The dinner was no more like the breakfast, than was my friend in the midst of his guests like my friend alone with his papers. His meal consisted of one slice of dry toast, and one cup of tea, already cold. The face that was all smile and relaxation of muscle on the preceding evening, was solemn and composed. You might have ventured to assert that tea and toast were that man's most stimulating diet, and that the pleasures of the counting-house were the highest this world could afford him. I, however, had passed the evening with him, and was better informed. Mr Treherne requested me to ring the bell. I did so, and his servant speedily appeared with a tray of garnished dainties, of which I was invited to partake, with many expressions of kindness uttered by my man-of-business, without a look at me, or a movement of his mind and eye from the pile of paper with which he was busy. In the course of half an hour, I had brought my repast to a close, and Mr Treherne was primed for the conflict of the day. His engagements did not permit him to give me his assistance in my own matters until the following morning. He begged me to excuse him until dinner-time—to make myself perfectly at home—to wile away an hour or so in his library—and, when I got tired of that, to take what amusement I could amongst the lions of the town—offering which advice, he quitted me and his house with a head much more heavily laden, I am sure, than any that ever groaned beneath the hard and aching knot. Would that the labourer could be taught to think so!

After having passed an unsatisfactory hour in Mr Treherne's library, in which the only books which I cared to look at were very wisely locked up, on account of their rich binding, too beautiful to be touched, I sauntered once more through the broad streets of the city, and, in my solitary walk, philosophized upon the busy spirit of trade which pervaded them. It is at such a time and place that the quiet and observant mind is startled by the stern and settled appearance of reality and continuance which all things take. If the world were the abiding-place of man, and life eternity, such earnestness, such vigour, such intensity of purpose and of action as I saw stamped upon the harassed brows of men, would be in harmony with such a scene and destination. HERE such concentration of the glorious energies of man is mockery, delusion, and robs the human soul of—who shall say how much? Look at the stream of life pouring through the streets of commerce, from morn till night, and mark the young and old—yes, the youngest and the oldest—and discover, if you can, the expression of any thought but that of traffic and of gain, as if the aim and end of living were summed up in these. And are they? Yes, if we may trust the evidence of age, of him who creeps and totters on his way, who has told his threescore years and ten, and on the threshold of eternity has found the vanity of all things. Oh, look at him, and learn how hard it is, even at the door of death, to FEEL the mutability and nothingness of earth! Palsied he is, yet to the Exchange he daily hies, and his dull eye glistens on the mart—his ear is greedy for the sounds that come too tardily—his quick and treble voice is loud amongst the loudest. He is as quick to apprehend, as eager now to learn, as ravenous for gain, as when he trusted first an untried world. If life be truly but a shadow, and mortals but the actors in the vision, is it not marvellous that age, and wisdom, and experience build and fasten there as on a rock? Such thoughts as these engaged my mind, as I pursued my way alone, unoccupied, amongst the labouring multitude, and cast a melancholy hue on things that, to the eye external, looked bright, beautiful, and enduring. I was arrested in my meditations at length by a crowd of persons—men, women, and children—who thronged about the entrance of a spacious, well-built edifice. They were for the most part in rags, and their looks betrayed them for poor and reckless creatures all. They presented so singular a feature of the scene, contrasted so disagreeably with the solid richness and perfect finish of the building, that I stopped involuntarily, and enquired into the cause of their attendance. Before I could obtain an answer, a well-dressed and better-fed official came suddenly to the door, and bawled the name of one poor wretch, who answered it immediately, stepped from the crowd, and followed the appellant, as the latter vanished quickly from the door again. A remark which, at the same moment, escaped another of the group, told me that I stood before the sessions'-house, and that a man, well known to most of them, was now upon trial for his life. He was a murderer—and the questionable-looking gentleman who had been invited to appear in court, had travelled many miles on foot, to give the criminal the benefit of his good word. He was the witness for the defence, and came to speak to character! My curiosity was excited, and I was determined to see the end of the proceeding. It is the custom to pay for every thing in happy England. I was charged box-price for my admittance, and was provided with as good a seat as I could wish, amongst the élite of the assembly. Quick as I had been, I was already too late. There was a bustle and buzz in the court, that denoted the trial to be at an end. Indeed, it had been so previously to the appearance of the devoted witness, whose presence had served only to confirm the evidence, which had been most damnatory and conclusive. The judge still sat upon the bench, and, having once perceived him, it was not easy to withdraw my gaze again. "The man is surely guilty," said I to myself, "who is pronounced so, when that judge has summed up the evidence against him." I had never in my life beheld so much benignity and gentleness—so much of truth, ingenuousness, and pure humanity, stamped on a face before. There was the fascination of the serpent there; and the longer I looked, the more pleasing became the countenance, and the longer I wished to protract my observation and delight. He was a middle-aged man—for a judge, he might be called young. His form was manly—his head massive—his forehead glorious and intellectual. His features were finely formed; but it was not these that seized my admiration, and, if I dare so express myself, my actual love, with the first brief glance. The EXPRESSION of the face, which I have already attempted faintly to describe, was its charm. Such an utter, such a refreshing absence of all earthiness—such purity and calmness of soul—such mental sweetness as it bespoke! When I first directed my eye to him, it seemed as if his thoughts were abstracted from the comparatively noisy scene over which he presided—busy it might be, in reviewing the charge which he had delivered to the jury, and upon the credit of which the miserable culprit had been doomed to die. I do not exaggerate when I assert, that at this moment—during this short reverie—his face, which I had never seen before, seemed, by a miracle, as familiar to me as my own—a fact which I afterwards explained, by discovering the closest resemblance between it and a painting of our Saviour, one of the finest works of art, the production of the greatest genius of his time, and a portrait which is imprinted on my memory and heart by its beauty, and by repeated and repeated examination. The touching expressiveness of the countenance would not have accorded with the stern office of the judge, had not its softness been relieved by a bold outline of feature, and exalted by the massy formation of the head itself. These were sufficient to command respect—that made its way quickly to the heart. An opportunity was soon afforded me to obtain some information in respect of him. I was not surprised to hear that his name and blood were closely connected with those of a brilliant poet and philosopher, and that his own genius and attainments were of the highest character. I was hardly prepared to find that his knowledge as a lawyer was profound, and that he was esteemed erudite amongst the most learned of his order. My attention was called reluctantly from the judge to the second case of the day, which now came for adjudication. The court was hushed as a ruffian and monster walked sullenly into the dock, charged with the perpetration of the most horrible offences. I turned instinctively from the prisoner to the judge again. The latter sat with his attention fixed, his elbow resting on a desk, his head supported by his hand. Nothing could be finer than the sight. Oh! I would have given much for the ability to convey to paper a lasting copy of that countenance—a memorial for my life, to cling to in my hours of weakness and despondency, and to take strength and consolation from the spectacle of that intelligence, that meekness and chastity of soul, thus allied and linked to our humanity.

It was instructive to look alternately at the criminal and at him who must award his punishment. There they were, both men—both the children of a universal Father—both sons of immortality. Yet one so unlike his species, so deeply sunken in his state, so hideous and hateful as to be disowned by man, and ranked with fiercest brutes; the other, as far removed, by excellence, from the majority of mankind, and as near the angels and their ineffable joy as the dull earth will let him. Say what we will, the gifts of Heaven are inscrutable as mysterious, and education gives no clue to them. The business of the hour went on, and my attention was soon wholly taken up in the development of the gigantic guilt of the wretched culprit before me. I could not have conceived of such atrocity as I heard brought home to him, and to which, miserable man! he listened, now with a smile, now with perfect unconcern, as crime after crime was exhibited and proved. His history was a fearful one even from his boyhood; but of many offences of which he was publicly known to be guilty, one of the latest and most shocking was selected, and on this he was arraigned. It appeared that for the last few years he had cohabited with a female of the most disreputable character. The issue of this connexion was a weakly child, who, at the age of two years, was removed from her dissolute parents through the kindness of a benevolent lady in the neighbourhood, and placed in the care of humble but honest villagers at some distance from them. The child improved in health and, it is unnecessary to add, in morals. No enquiry or application was made for her by the pair until she had entered her fifth year, and then suddenly the prisoner demanded her instant restoration. The charitable lady was alarmed for the safety of her protegée, and, with a liberal price, bought off the father's natural desire. He duly gave a receipt for the sum thus paid him, and engaged to see the child no more. The next morning he stole the girl from the labourer's cottage. He was seen loitering about the hut before day-break, and the shrieks of the victim were heard plainly at a considerable distance from the spot where he had first seized her. Constables were dispatched to his den. It was shut up, and, being forced open, was found deserted, and stripped of every thing. He was hunted over the county, but not discovered. He had retired to haunts which baffled the detective skill of the most experienced and alert. This is the first act of the tragedy. It will be necessary to stain these pages by a description of the last. The child became more and more unhappy under the roof of her persecutors, as they soon proved themselves to be. She was taught to beg and to steal, and was taken into the highways by her mother, who watched near her, whilst, with streaming eyes, the unhappy creature now lied for alms, now pilfered from the village. Constant tramping, ill treatment, and the wear and tear of spirit which the new mode of existence effected, soon reduced the child to its former state of ill health and helplessness. She pined, and with her sickness came want and hunger to the hut. The father, affecting to disbelieve, and not listening to the sad creature's complaint, still dismissed her abroad, and when she could not walk, compelled the mother to carry her to the public road, and there to leave her in her agony, the more effectually to secure the sympathy of passengers. Even this opportunity was not long afforded him. The child grew weaker, and was at length unable to move. He plied her with menaces and oaths, and, last of all, deliberately threatened to murder her, if she did not rise and procure bread for all of them. She had, alas! no longer power to comply with his request, and—merciful Heaven!—the fiend, in a moment of unbridled passion, made good his fearful promise. With one blow of a hatchet—alas! it needed not a hard one—he destroyed her. I caught the judge's eye as this announcement was made. It quivered, and his countenance was pale. I wished to see the monster too, but my heart failed me, and my blood boiled with indignation, and I could not turn to him. The short account which I have given here does bare justice to the evidence which came thick and full against the prisoner, leaving upon the minds of none the remotest doubt of his fearful criminality. The mother, and a beggar who had passed the night in the hut when the murder was perpetrated, were the principal witnesses against the infanticide, and their depositions could not be shaken. I waited with anxiety and great irritability for the sentence which should remove the prisoner from the bar. The earth seemed polluted as long as he breathed upon it; he could not be too quickly withdrawn, and hidden for ever in the grave. The case for the prosecution being closed, a young barrister arose, and there was a perfect stillness in the court. My curiosity to know what this gentleman could possibly urge on behalf of his client was extreme. To me "the probation bore no hinge, nor loop to ban a doubt on." But the smoothfaced counsellor, whose modesty had no reference to his years, seemed in no way burdened by the weight of his responsibility, nor to view his position as one of difficulty and risk. He stood, cool and erect, in the silence of the assembly, and with a self-satisfied smile he proceeded to address the judge. Yes, he laughed, and he had heard that heart-breaking recital; and the life of the man for whom he pleaded was hardly worth a pin's fee. The words of the poet rushed involuntarily to my mind. "Heaven!" I mentally exclaimed, "Has this fellow no feeling of his business—he sings at grave-making!" He made no allusion to the evidence which had been adduced, but he spoke of INFORMALITY. I trembled with alarm and anger. I had often heard and read of justice defeated by such a trick of trade; but I prayed that such dishonour and public shame might not await her now. Informality! Surely we had heard of the cold-blooded cruelty, the slow and exquisite torture, the final deathblow; there was no informality in these; the man had not denied his guilt, his defender did not seek to palliate it. Away with the juggle, it cannot avail you here! But in spite of my feverish security, the shrewd lawyer—well might he smile and chuckle at his skill—proceeded calmly to assert the prisoner's right to his immediate discharge! There was a flaw in the declaration, and the indictment was invalid. And thus he proved it. The man was charged with murdering his child—described as his, and bearing his own name. Now, the deceased was illegitimate, and should have borne its mother's name. He appealed to his lordship on the bench, and demanded for his client the benefit which law allowed him. You might have heard the faintest whisper in the court, so suspended and so kept back was every drop of human breath, whilst every eye was fixed upon the judge. The latter spoke. "The exception was conclusive; the prisoner must be discharged." I could not conceive it possible. What were truth, equity, morality—Nothing? And was murder innocence, if a quibble made it so? The jailer approached the monster, and whispered into his ear that he was now at liberty. He held down his head stupidly to receive the words, and he drew it back again, incredulous and astounded. Oh, what a secret he had learned for future government and conduct! What a friend and abettor, in his fight against mankind, had he found in the law of his land! I was maddened when I saw him depart from the well-secured bar in which he had been placed for trial. There he had looked the thing he was—a tiger caught, and fastened in his den. Could it do less than chill the blood, and make the heart grow sick and faint, to see the bolts drawn back—the monster loosed again, and turned unchained, untamed, fiercer than ever, into life again? Legislators, be merciful to humanity, and cease to embolden and incite these beasts of prey! Melancholy as the above recital is, it is to be considered rather as an episode in this narration, than as the proper subject of it. Had my morning's adventure finished with this disgraceful acquittal, the reader would not have been troubled with the perusal of these pages. My vexation would have been confined to my own breast, and I should have nourished my discontent in silence. The scene which immediately followed the dismissal of the murderer, is that to which I have chiefly to beg attention. It led to an acquaintance, for which I was unprepared—enabled me to do an act of charity, for which I shall ever thank God who gave me the power—and disclosed a character and a history to which the intelligent and kind-hearted may well afford the tribute of their sympathy. It was by way of contrast and relief, I presume, that the authorities had contrived that the next trial should hardly call upon the time and trouble of the court. It was a case, in fact, which ought to have been months before summarily disposed of by the committing magistrate, and one of those too frequently visited with undue severity, whilst offences of a deeper dye escape unpunished, or, worse still, are washed away in gold. A poor man had stolen from a baker's shop a loaf of bread. The clerk of the arraigns, as I believe he is called, involved this simple charge in many words, and took much time to state it but when he had finished his oration, I could discover nothing more or less than the bare fact. A few minutes before the appearance of the delinquent, I remarked a great bustle in the neighbourhood of the young barrister already spoken of. A stout fresh-coloured man had taken a seat behind him with two thinner men, his companions, and they were all in earnest conversation. The stout man was the prosecutor—his companions were his witnesses—and the youthful counsellor was, on this occasion, retained against the prisoner. I must confess that, for the moment, I had a fiendish delight in finding the legal gentleman in his present position. "It well becomes the man," thought I, "through whose instrumentality that monster has been set free, to fall with all his weight of eloquence and legal subtlety upon this poor criminal." If he smiled before, he was in earnest now. He frowned, and closed his lips with much solemnity, and every look bespoke the importance of the interests committed to his charge.—A beggar!—and to steal a loaf of bread! Ay, ay! society must be protected—our houses and our homes must be defended. Anarchy must be strangled in its birth. Such thoughts as these I read upon the brow of youthful wisdom. Ever and anon, a good point in the case struck forcibly the lusty prosecutor, who communicated it forthwith to his adviser. He listened most attentively, and shook his head, as who should say "Leave that to me—we have him on the hip." The witnesses grew busy in comparing notes, and nothing now was wanting but the great offender—the fly who must be crushed upon the wheel—and he appeared. Reader, you have seen many such. You have not lived in the crowded thoroughfares of an overgrown city, where every grade of poverty and wealth, of vice and virtue, meet the eye, mingling as they pass along—where splendid royalty is carried quicker than the clouds adown the road which palsied hunger scarce can cross for lack of strength—where lovely forms, and faces pure as angels' in their innocent expression, are met and tainted on the path by unwomanly immodesty and bare licentiousness—amongst such common sights you have not dwelt, and not observed some face pale and wasted from disease, and want, and sorrow, not one, but all, and all uniting to assail the weakly citadel of flesh, and to reduce it to the earth from which it sprung. Such a countenance was here—forlorn—emaciated—careworn—every vestige of human joy long since removed from it, and every indication of real misery too deeply marked to admit a thought of simulation or pretence. The eye of the man was vacant. He obeyed the turnkey listlessly, when that functionary, with a patronizing air, directed him to the situation in the dock in which he was required to stand, and did not raise his head to look around him. A sadder picture of the subdued, crushed heart, had never been. Punishment! alack, what punishment could be inflicted now on him, who, in the school of suffering, had grown insensible to torture? Notwithstanding his rags, and the prejudice arising from his degraded condition, there was something in his look and movements which struck me, and secured my pity. He was very ill, and had not been placed many minutes before the judge, when he tottered and grew faint. The turnkey assisted the poor fellow to a chair, and placed in his hands, with a rough but natural kindness, which I shall not easily forget, a bunch of sweet-smelling marjoram. The acknowledgement which the miserable creature attempted to make for the seasonable aid, convinced me that he was something better than he seemed. A shy and half-formed bow—the impulse of a heart and mind once cultivated, though covered now with weeds and noxious growths—redeemed him from the common herd of thieves. In the calendar his age was stated to be thirty-five. Double it, and that face will warrant you in your belief. Desirous as I was to know the circumstances which had led the man to the commission of his offence, it was not without intense satisfaction that I heard him, at the commencement of the proceedings, in his thin tremulous voice, plead guilty to the charge. There was such rage painted on the broad face of the prosecutor, such disappointment written in the thinner visage of the counsellor, such indignation and astonishment in those of the witnesses, that you might have supposed those gentlemen were interested only in the establishment of the prisoner's innocence, and were anxious only for his acquittal. For their sakes was gratified at what I hoped would prove the abrupt conclusion of the case. The prisoner had spoken; his head again hung down despondingly—his eyes, gazing at nothing, were fixed upon the ground; the turnkey whispered to him that it was time to retire—he was about to obey, when the judge's voice was heard, and it detained him.

"Is the prisoner known?" enquired his lordship.

The counsellor rose instanter.

"Oh, very well, my lud—an old hand, my lud—one of the pests of his parish."

"Is this his first offence?"

The barrister poked his ear close to the mouth of the prosecutor before he answered.

"By no means, my lud—he has been frequently convicted."

"For the like offence?" enquired the Judge.

Again the ear and mouth were in juxtaposition.

"We believe so, my lud—we believe so," replied the smart barrister; "but we cannot speak positively."

The culprit raised his leaden eye, and turned his sad look towards the judge, his best friend there.

"For BEGGARY, my lord," he uttered, almost solemnly.

"Does any body know you, prisoner?" asked my lord. "Can any one speak to your previous character?"

The deserted one looked around the court languidly enough, and shook his head, but, at the same instant there was a rustling amongst the crowd of auditors, and a general movement, such as follows the breaking up of a compact mass of men when one is striving to pass through it.

"Si-lence!" exclaimed a sonorous voice, belonging to a punchy body, a tall wand, and a black bombasin gown; and immediately afterwards, "a friend of the prisoner's, my lord. Get into that box—speak loud—look at his lordship. Si-lence!"

The individual who caused this little excitement, and who now ascended the witness's tribune, was a labouring man. He held a paper cap in his hand, and wore a jacket of flannel. The prisoner glanced at him without seeming to recognize his friend, whilst the eyes of the young lawyer actually glistened at the opportunity which had come at last for the display of his skill.

"What are you, my man?" said the judge in a tone of kindness.

"A journeyman carpenter, please your worship."

"You must say my lord—say my lord," interposed the bombasin gown.
"Speak out. Si-lence!"

"Where do you live?"

"Friar's Place—please you, my lord." The bombasin smiled pitifully at the ignorance of the witness, and said no more.

"Do you know the prisoner at the bar?"

"About ten weeks ago—please you, my lord, I was hired by the landlord—"

"Answer his lordship, sir," exclaimed the counsel for the prosecution in a tone of thunder. "Never mind the landlord. Do you know the prisoner?"

"Why, I was a saying, please you, my lord, about ten weeks ago I was hired by the landlord—"

"Answer directly, sir," continued the animated barrister—"or take the consequences. Do you know the prisoner?"

"Let him tell his story his own way, Mr Nailhim," interposed his lordship blandly. "We shall sooner get to the end of it."

Mr Nailhim bowed to the opinion of the court, and sat down.

"Now, my man," said his lordship, "as quickly as you can, tell me whatever you know of the prisoner."

"About ten weeks ago—please you, my lord," began the journey-man de novo, "I was hired by the landlord of them houses as is sitiwated where Mr Warton lives—" (The bombasin looked at the witness with profound contempt, and well he might! The idea of calling a prisoner at the bar Mr—stupendous ignorance!) "and I see'd him day arter day, and nobody was put to it as bad as he was. He has got a wife and three children, and I know he worked as hard as he could whilst he was able; but when he got ill he couldn't, and he was druv to it. I have often taken a loaf of bread to him, and all I wish is, he had stolen one of mine behind my back instead of the baker's. I shouldn't have come agin him, poor fellow! and I am sure he wouldn't have done it if his young uns hadn't been starving. I never see'd him before that time, but I could take my affidavy he's an industrious and honest man, and as sober, please you, my lord, as a judge."

At this last piece of irreverence, the man with the staff stood perfectly still, lost as it seemed, in wonder at the hardihood of him who could so speak.

"Have you any thing more to say?" asked his lordship.

The carpenter hesitated for a second or two, and then acknowledged that he had not; and, such being the case, it seemed hardly necessary for Mr Nailhim to prolong his examination. But that gentleman thought otherwise. He rose, adjusted his gown, and looked not only at the witness, but through and through him.

"Now, young man," said he, "what is your name?"

"John Mallett, sir," replied the carpenter.

"John Mallett. Very well. Now, John Mallett, who advised you to come here to-day? Take care what you are about, John Mallett."

The carpenter, without a moment's hesitation, answered that his "old woman had advised him; and very good advice it was, he thought."

"Never mind your thoughts, sir. You don't come here to think. Where do you live?"

The witness answered.

"You have not lived long there, I believe?"

"Not quite a fortnight, sir."

"You left your last lodging in a hurry too, I think, John Mallett?"

"Rather so, sir," answered Innocence itself, little dreaming of effects and consequences.

"A little trouble, eh, John Mallett?"

"Mighty deal your lordship, ah, ah, ah!" replied the witness quite jocosely, and beginning to enjoy the sport.

"Don't laugh here, sir, but can you tell us what you were doing, sir, last
Christmas four years?"

Of course he could not—and Mr Nailhim knew it, or he never would have put the question; and the unlucky witness grew so confused in his attempt to find the matter out, and, in his guesses, so confounded one Christmas with another, that first he blushed, and then he spoke, and then he checked himself, and spoke again, just contradicting what he said before, and looked at length as like a guilty man as any in the jail. Lest the effect upon the court might still be incomplete, the wily Nailhim, in the height of Mallett's trouble, threw, furtively and knowingly, a glance towards the jury, and smiled upon them so familiarly, that any lingering doubt must instantly have given way. They agreed unanimously with Nailhim. A greater scoundrel never lived than this John Mallett. The counsellor perceived his victory, and spoke.

"Go down, sir, instantly," said he, "and take care how you show your face up there again. I have nothing more to say, my lud."

And down John Mallett went, his friend and he much worse for his intentions.

"And now this mighty case is closed!" thought I. "What will they do to such a wretch!" I was disappointed. The good judge was determined not to forsake the man, and he once more addressed him.

"Prisoner," said he, "what induced you to commit this act?"

The prisoner again turned his desponding eye upwards, and answered, as before—

"Beggary, my lord."

"What are you?"

"Nothing, my lord—any thing."

"Have you no trade?"

"No, my lord."

"What do your wife and children do?"

"They are helpless, my lord, and they starve with me."

"Does no one know you in your neighbourhood?"

"No one, my lord. I am a stranger there. We are all low people there, my lord."

There was something so truly humble and plaintive in the tone with which these words were spoken, and the eyes of the afflicted man filled so suddenly with tears as he uttered them, that I became affected in a manner which I now find it difficult to describe. My blood seemed to chill, and my heart to rush into my throat. I am ashamed to say that my own eyes were as moist as the prisoner's. I resolved from that moment to become his friend, and to enquire into his circumstances and character, as soon as the present proceedings were at an end.

"How long has the prisoner been confined already?"

"Something like three months, my lud," answered the barrister cavalierly as if months were minutes.

"It is punishment enough," said the judge—"let him be discharged now. Prisoner, you are discharged—you must endeavour to get employment. If you are ill, apply to your parish; there is no excuse for stealing—none whatever. You are at liberty now."

The information did not seem to carry much delight to the heart of him whom it was intended to benefit. He rose from his chair, bowed to his lordship, and then followed the turnkey, in whose expression of countenance and attentions there was certainly a marked alteration since the wind had set in favourably from the bench. The man departed. Moved by a natural impulse, I likewise quitted the court the instant afterwards, enquired of one of the officials the way of egress for discharged prisoners, and betook myself there without delay. What my object was I cannot now, as I could not then, define. I certainly did not intend to accost the poor fellow, or to commit myself in any way with him, for the present, at all events. Yet there I was, and I could not move from the spot, however useless or absurd my presence there might be. It was a small low door, with broad nails beaten into it, through which the liberated passed, as they stepped from gloom and despair, into freedom and the unshackled light of heaven. I was not then in a mood to trust myself to the consideration of the various and mingled feelings with which men from time to time, and after months of hopelessness and pain, must have bounded from that barrier, into the joy of liberty and life. My feelings had become in some way mastered by what I had seen, and all about my heart was disturbance and unseemly effeminacy. There was only one individual, besides myself, walking in the narrow court-yard, which, but for our footsteps, would have been as silent as a grave. This was a woman—a beggar—carrying, as usual, a child, that drew less sustenance than sorrow from the mother's breast. She was in rags, but she looked clean, and she might once have been beautiful; but settled trouble and privation had pressed upon her hollow eye—had feasted on her bloomy skin. I could not tell her age. With a glance I saw that she was old in suffering. And what was her business here? For whom did she wait? Was it for the father of that child?—and was she so satisfied of her partner's innocence, and the justice of mankind, that here she lingered to receive him, assured of meeting him again? What was his crime?—his character?—her history? I would have given much to know, indeed, I was about to question her, when I was startled and detained by the drawing of a bolt—the opening of the door—and the appearance of the very man whom I had come to see. He did not perceive me. He perceived nothing but the mother and the child—his wife and his child. She ran to him, and sobbed on his bosom. He said nothing. He was calm—composed; but he took the child gently from her arms, carried the little thing himself to give her ease, and walked on. She at his side, weeping ever; but he silent, and not suffering himself to speak, save when a word of tenderness could lull the hungry child, who cried for what the mother might not yield her. Still without a specific object, I followed the pair, and passed with them into the most ancient and least reputable quarter of the city. They trudged from street to street, through squalid courts and lanes, until I questioned the propriety of proceeding, and the likelihood of my ever getting home again. At length, however, they stopped. It was a close, narrow, densely peopled lane in which they halted. The road was thick with mud and filth; the pavement and the doorways of the houses were filled with ill-clad sickly children, the houses themselves looked forbidding and unclean. The bread-stealer and his wife were recognised by half a dozen coarse women, who, half intoxicated, thronged the entrance to the house opposite to that in which they lodged, and a significant laugh and nod of the head were the greetings with which they received the released one back again. There was little heart or sympathy in the movement, and the wretched couple understood it so. The woman had dried her tears—both held down their heads—even there—for shame, and both crawled into the hole in which, for their children's sake, they lived, and were content to find their home. Now, then, it was time to retrace my steps. It was, but I could not move from the spot—that is, not retreat from it, as yet. There was something to do. My conscience cried aloud to me, and, thank God, was clamorous till I grew human and obedient. I entered the house. A child was sitting at the foot of the stairs, her face and arms begrimed—her black hair hanging to her back foul with disease and dirt. She was about nine years old; but evil knowledge, cunning duplicity, and the rest, were glaring in her precocious face. She clasped her knees with her extended hands, and swinging backwards and forwards, sang, in a loud and impudent voice, the burden of an obscene song. I asked this creature if a man named Warton dwelt there. She ceased her song, and commenced whistling—then stared me full in the face and burst into loud laughter.

"What will you give if I tell you?" said she, with a bold grin. "Will you stand a glass of gin?"

I shuddered. At the same moment I heard a loud coughing, and the voice of the man himself overhead. I ascended the stairs, and, as I did so, the girl began her song again, as if she had suffered no interruption. I gathered from a crone whom I encountered at the top of the first flight of steps, that the person of whom I was in quest lived with his family in the back room of the highest floor; and thither, with unfailing courage, I proceeded. I arrived at the door, knocked at it briskly without a moment's hesitation, and recognized the deep and now well-known tones of Warton in the voice desiring men to enter. The room was very small, and had no article of furniture except a table and two chairs. Some straw was strewn in a corner of the room, and two children were lying asleep upon it, their only covering being a few patches of worn-out carpet. Another layer was in the opposite corner, similarly provided with clothing. This was the parents' bed. I was too confused, and too anxious to avoid giving offence, to make a closer observation. The man and his wife were sitting together when I entered. The former had still the infant in his arms, and he rose to receive me with an air of good breeding and politeness, that staggered me from the contrast it afforded with his miserable condition—his frightful poverty.

"I have to ask your pardon," said I, "for this intrusion, but your name is
Warton, I believe?"

"It is, sir," he replied—and the eyes of the wife glistened again, as she gathered hope and comfort from my unexpected visit. She trembled as she looked at me, and the tears gushed forth again.

("These are not bad people, I will swear it," I said to myself, as I marked her, and I took confidence from the conviction, and went on.)

"I have come to you," said I, "straight from the sessions'-house, where, by accident, I was present during your short trial. I wish to be of a little service to you. I am not a rich man, and my means do not enable me to do as much as I would desire; but I can relieve your immediate want, and perhaps do something more for you hereafter, if I find you are deserving of assistance."

"You are very kind, sir," answered the man, "and I am very grateful to you. We are strangers to you, sir, but I trust these (pointing to his wife and children) may deserve your bounty. For myself—"

"Hush, dear!" said his wife, with a gentleness and accent that confounded me. Low people! why, with full stomachs, decent clothing, and a few pounds, they might with every propriety have been ushered at once into a drawing-room.

"Poor Warton is very ill, sir," continued the wife, "and much suffering has robbed him of his peace of mind. I am sure, sir, we shall be truly grateful for your help. We need it, sir, Heaven knows, and he is not undeserving—no, let them say what they will."

I believed it in my heart, but I would not say so without less partial evidence.

"Well," I continued, "we will talk of this by and by. I am determined to make a strict enquiry, for your own sakes as well as my own. But you are starving now, it seems, and I sha'n't enquire whether you deserve a loaf of bread. Here," said I, giving, them a sovereign, "get something to eat, for God's sake, and put a little colour, if you can, into those little faces when they wake again."

The man started suddenly from his chair, and walked quickly to the window. His wife followed him, alarmed, and took the infant from his arms, whilst he himself pressed his hand to his heart, as though he would prevent its bursting. His face grew deathly pale. The female watched him earnestly, and the hitherto silent and morose man, convulsed by excess of feeling, quivered in every limb, whilst he said with difficulty—

"Anna, I shall die—I am suffocated—air—air—my heart beats like a hammer."

I threw the window open, and the man drooped on the sill, and wept fearfully.

"What does this mean?" I asked, speaking in a low tone to the wife.

"Your sudden kindness, sir. He is not able to bear it. He is proof against cruelty and persecution—he has grown reckless to them, but constant illness has made him so weak, that any thing unusual quite overcomes him."

"Well, there, take the money, and get some food as quickly as you can. I will not wait to distress him now. I will call again to-morrow; he will be quieter then, and we'll see what can be done for you. Those children must be cold. Have you no blankets?"

"None, sir. We have nothing in the world. What, you see here, even to the straw, belongs, to the landlord of the house, who has been charitable enough to give us shelter."

"Well, never mind—don't despond—don't give way—keep the poor fellow's sprits up. Here's another crown. Let him have a glass of wine, it will strengthen him; and do you take a glass too. I shall see you again to-morrow. There, good-by."

And, fool and woman that I was, on I went, and stood for some minutes, ashamed of myself, in the passage below, because, forsooth, I had been talking and exciting myself until my eyes had filled uncomfortably with water.

It was impossible for me to go to sleep again until I had purchased blankets for these people, and so I resolved at once to get them. I was leaving the house for that purpose, when a porter with a bundle entered it.

"Whom do you want, my man?" said I.

"One Warton, sir", said he.

"Top of the house," said I again—"back room—to the right. What have you got there?"

"Some sheets and blankets, sir."

"From whom?"

"My master sir, here's his card."

It was the card of an upholsterer living within a short distance of where I stood. I directed the porter again, and forthwith sallied to the man of furniture. Here I learnt that I had been forestalled by an individual as zealous in the cause of poor Warton as myself. I was glad of this, for I knew very well, in doing any little piece of duty, how apt our dirty vanity is to puff us up, and to make us assume so much more than we have any title to; and it is nothing short of relief to be able to extinguish this said vanity in the broad light of other men's benevolence. The upholsterer, however, could not inform me who this generous man was, or how he had been made aware of Warton's indigence. It appears that he had called only a few minutes before I arrived, and had requested that the articles which he purchased should be sent, without a moment's delay, to the address which he gave. He waited in the shop until the porter quitted it, and then departed, having, at the request of the upholsterer, who was curious for the name of his customer, described himself in the day-book as Mr Jones. "He was not a gentleman," said the man of business, "certainly not, and he didn't look like a tradesman. I should say," he added, "that he was a gentleman's butler, for he was mighty consequential, ordered every body about, and wanted me to take off discount."

My mind being made easy in respect of the blankets, I had nothing to do but to return, as diligently as I could, to the house of my friend, Mr Treherne. I reached his dwelling in time to prepare for dinner, at which repast, as on the previous evening, I encountered a few select friends and opulent business men. These were a different set. Before joining them, Treherne had given me to understand that they were all very wealthy, and very liberal in their politics, and before quitting them I heartily believed him. There was a great deal of talk during dinner, and, as the newspapers say, after the cloth was removed, on the aspect of affairs in general. The corn-laws were discussed, the condition of the Irish was lamented, the landed gentry were abused, the Church was threatened, the Tories were alluded to as the enemies of mankind and the locusts of the earth; whilst the people, the poor, the labouring classes, the masses, and whatever was comprised within these terms, had their warmest sympathy and approbation. My habits are somewhat retired, and I mix now little with men. I can conscientiously affirm, that I never in my life heard finer sentiments or deeper philanthropy than I did on this occasion from the guests of my friend, and with what pleasure I need not say, when it suddenly occurred to me to call upon them for a subscription on behalf of the starving family whom I had met that day.

"You must take care, my dear sir," said a gentleman, before I had half finished my story, (he might be called the leader of the opposition from the precedence which he took in the company in opposing all existing institutions,)—"You must, indeed; you are a stranger here. You must not believe all you hear. These fellows will trump up any tale. I know them of old. Don't you be taken in. Take my word—it's a man's own fault if he comes to want. Depend upon it."

"So it is—so it is; that's very true," responded half-a-dozen gentlemen with large bellies, sipping claret as they spoke.

"I do not think, gentlemen," I answered, "that I am imposed upon in this case."

"Ah, ah!" said many Liberals at once, shaking their heads in pity at my simplicity.

"At all events," I added, "you'll not refuse a little aid."

"Certainly, I shall," replied the leader; "it's a rule, sir. I wouldn't break through it. I act entirely upon principle! I can't encourage robbery and vagrancy. It's Quixotic."

"Quite so—quite so!" murmured the bellies.

"Besides, there's the Union; we are paying for that. Why don't these people go in? Why, they tell me they may live in luxury there!"

"He has a wife and three children—it's hard to separate, perhaps—"

"Pooh, pooh, sir!"

"Pooh, pooh!" echoed the bellies.

"And, I'll tell you what, sir," said the gentleman emphatically in conclusion, "if you want to do good to society, you mustn't begin at the fag end of it; leave the thieves to the jailers, and the poor to the guardians. Repeal the corn-laws—give us free trade—universal suffrage—and religious liberty; that's what we want. I don't ask you to put a tax upon tallow—why do you want to put a tax upon corn? I don't ask you to pay my minister—why do you want me to pay your parson? I don't ask you—"

"Oh! don't let us hear all that over again, there's a good fellow," said Treherne, imploringly. "Curse politics. Who is for whist? The tables are ready."

The company rose to a man at the mention of whist, and took their places at the tables. I did not plead again for poor Warton; but his wretched apartment came often before my eyes in the glitter of the wax-lit room in which I stood, surrounded by profusion. His unhappy but faithful wife—his sleeping children—his own affecting expression of gratitude, occupied my mind, and soothed it. What a blessed thing it is to minister to the necessities of others! How happy I felt in the knowledge that they would sleep peacefully and well that night! I had been for some time musing in a corner of the room, when I was roused by the loud voice of the Liberal.

"Well, I tell you what, Treherne, I'll bet you five to one on the game."

"Done!" said Treherne.

"Crowns?" added the Liberal.

"Just as you like—go on—your play."

In a few minutes the game was settled. The Liberal lost his crowns, and Treherne took them. Madmen both! Half of that sum would have given a month's bread to the beggars. Did it enrich or serve the wealthy winner? No. What was it these men craved? They could part with their money freely when they chose. Was it excitement? And is none to be derived from appeasing the hunger, and securing the heartfelt prayers of the naked and the poor? I withdrew from the noisy party, and retired to my room, determined to investigate the affairs of my new acquaintances at an early hour in the morning, and effectually to help them if I could.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

Mr Treherne readily acquiesced in my wish to delay the execution of our business for another day, when I made the proposition to him on our meeting the following morning at his breakfast table. He seemed so thoroughly engrossed in his own affairs, so overwhelmed with his peculiar labours, that he was, I believe, grateful to me for the reprieve. For my own part, I had engaged to afford myself a week's recreation, and I had no wish to revisit London until the last moment of my holiday had been accomplished. It is little pastime that the employments of the present day enable a man to take, who would fain retain his position, and not be elbowed out of it by the ninety and nine unprovided gentlemen who are waiting for a scramble. The race of life has grown intense—the runners are on each other's heels. Woe be to him who rests, or stays to tie his shoe-string! Our repast concluded, and Mr Treherne, again taking leave of me until dinner-time, I set out at once for the attic of my unhappy bread-stealer. What was the object of my visit? I had given him a sovereign. What did I intend further to do for him? I had, in truth, no clear conception of my purpose. The man was ill, friendless, without employment, and had "the incumbrances," wife and children, as the sick and unemployed invariably do have; but although these facts, coming before a man, presented a fair claim upon his purse (if he chanced to have one) to the extent of that purse's ability, yet the demand closed legitimately here, and the hand of charity being neither grudgingly nor ostentatiously proffered, the conscience of the donor and the heart of the receiver had no reason whatever to complain. Still my conscience was not at ease, and it did complain whenever I hesitated and argued the propriety of engaging any further in the business of a man whom I had known only a few hours, and whose acquaintance had been made, certainly, not under the most favourable circumstances. It is a good thing to obey an instinct, if it be stimulated toward that which is honourable or good for man to do; yes, though cold deliberation will not give it sanction. It was an urging of this kind that led me on. Convinced that I had done enough for this unhappy man, I was provoked, importuned to believe that I ought to do still more. "It may be"—the words forced their way into my ears—"that the interest which has been excited in me for this family, is not the result of a mere accident. Providence may have led me to their rescue, and confided their future welfare to my conduct. He is an outcast—isolated amongst men—may be a worthy and deserving creature, crushed and kept down by his misfortunes. Is a trifling exertion enough to raise him, and shall I not give it to him?" Then passed before my eyes visions, the possibility of realizing which, made me blush with shame for a moment's indecision or delay. First, I pictured myself applying to my friend Pennyfeather, who lives in that dark court near the Bank of England, and sleeps in Paradise at his charming villa in Kent, and gaining through his powerful interest a situation—say of eighty pounds per annum—for the father of the family; then visiting that incomparable and gentle lady, Mrs Pennyfeather, whose woman's heart opens to a tale of sorrow, as flowers turn their beauty to the sun, and obtaining a firm promise touching the needle-work for Mrs Warton. And then the scene changed altogether, and I was walking in the gayest spirits, whistling and singing through Camden town on my way to their snug lodgings in the vale of Hampstead heath—and the time is twilight. And first I meet the children, neatly dressed, clean, and wholesome looking, jumping and leaping about the heather at no particular sport, but in the very joy and healthiness of their young blood—and they catch sight of me, and rush to greet me, one and all. They lead me to their mother. How beautiful she has become in the subsidence of mental tumult, in quiet, grateful labour, and, more than all, in the sunlight of her husband's gradual restoration! She is busy with her needle, and her chair is at the window, so that she may watch the youngsters even whilst she works; and near her is the table, already covered with a snow-white cloth, and ready for "dear Warton" when he comes home, an hour hence, to supper. "Well, you are happy, Mrs Warton, now, I think," say I. "Yes, thanks to you, kind sir," is the reply. "We owe it all to you;" and the children, as if they understand my claim upon their love, hang about my chair;—one at my knee, looking in my face; another with my hand, pressing it, with all his little might, in his; a third inactive, but ready to urge me to prolong my stay, as soon as I should think of quitting them. What a glow of comfort and self-respect passed through my system, as the picture, bright with life and colour, fixed itself upon my brain, stepping, as I was, into the unwholesome lane, and shrinking from the foetid atmosphere. I could hesitate no longer. I began to make my plans as I trudged up the filthy stairs. The measured tones of a voice, engaged apparently with a book, made me stop short at the attic floor. I recognised the sound, and caught the words. The mendicants were at their prayers. "The benevolent stranger" was not forgotten in the supplication, nor was he unmoved as be listened in secret to the fervent accents of his fellow man. Whilst I have no pretension to the character of a saint, I am free to confess, that amongst the fairest things of earth few look so sublime as piety, steadfast and serene, amidst the cloud and tempest of calamity. Was it so here? I had yet to learn. A striking improvement had taken place in the aspect of the room since the preceding evening. The straw was gone. Its place had been supplied by the gift of the anonymous benefactor, of whom, by the way, nothing was known, or had since been heard. The beds were already removed to an angle of the apartment—the pieces of carpet were converted into a rug for the fire place, and a chair or two were ready for visitors. Warton himself looked a hundred per cent better—his wife was all smiles, when she could refrain from tears; and the children had been too much astonished by their sumptuous fare, to be any thing but satiated, contented, happy. My vision was already half realized. When I had submitted for an inconvenient space of time to their reiterated thanks and protestations, I put an end to further expressions of gratitude, by informing them that my stay in the city was limited—that I had no time for any thing but business, and that we must have as few words as possible. I wished to know in what way I could effectually serve them.

"You said, sir, yesterday," replied Warton, "that you would take no steps in our favour, until you had satisfied yourself that we, at least, deserved your bounty. Had you not said it, I should not have been happy until I had afforded you all the satisfaction in my power. Heaven knows I owe it to you! It is to you, sir—"

"Come, my good fellow, remember what I told you. No protestations. Let us come to the point."

"Thank you, sir—I will. Are you acquainted with London?"

"Tolerably well. What then?"

"You may have heard, sir, of a merchant there of the name of ——"

"Ay have I. One of our first men. Do you know him? Will he give you a character?"

"He is my uncle, sir—my mother's brother. Apply to him, and he will tell you I am a plunderer and a villain."

I looked at Mr Warton, somewhat startled by his frank communication, and waited to hear more.

"It is false—it is false!" continued the speaker emphatically. "I cannot melt a rock. I cannot penetrate a heart of stone. If I could do so, he would be otherwise."

"You surprise me!" I exclaimed.

"That I live, sir, is a miracle to myself. That I have not been destroyed by the misery which I have borne, is marvellous. A giant's strength must yield before oppression heaped upon oppression. But there, sir"—he added, pointing to his wife, and struggling for composure—"there has been my stay, my hope, my incitement; but for her—God bless her"—The wife motioned him to be silent, and he paused.

"This excitement is too much for him, is it not?" I asked. "Come, Mr
Warton, you are still weak and unwell. I will not distress you now."

"I ask your pardon, sir. Three years' illness, annoyance, irritation, poverty, have made me what you see me. It has not been so always. I was vigorous and manly until the flesh gave way, and refused to bear me longer up. But I will be calm. It is very strange, sir, but even now one look from her subdues me, and restores me to myself."

"You have received a good education—have you not, Mr Warton?"

"Will you spare an hour, sir, to listen to my history?"

"I should be glad to hear it," I replied, "but it will be as well to wait, perhaps—"

I looked enquiringly at his wife.

"No, sir," resumed the man, "I am tranquil now. It is a hard task, but I have strength for it. You shall know every thing. Before you do a second act of charity, you shall hear of the trials of those whom you have saved already. You shall be satisfied."

"Well, be it so," I answered. "Proceed, and I will listen patiently."

Warton glanced at his wife, who rose immediately and quitted the room with her three children. The latter were evidently staggered by the sudden change in their circumstances, and they stared full in my face until the latest moment. Being left alone with my new acquaintance, I felt, for a short time, somewhat ill at ease; but when the poor fellow commenced his history, my attention was excited, and I soon became wholly engrossed in his recital, which proved far more strange and striking than I had any reason to expect.

Mr Warton, as well as I can remember, spoke to me as follows:—

"Knowing what you do, sir," he began, "you will smile, and hardly believe me, when I tell you that the sin of Pride has been my ruin. Yes, criminal as I was yesterday—beggar as I am to-day—surrounded by every sign and evidence of want, I confess it to my shame—Pride, has helped to bring me where I am—Pride, not resulting from the consciousness of blood, or the possession of dignities and wealth—but pride, founded upon nothing. I am one of three children. I had two sisters—both are dead. My father was a workhouse boy, and his parentage was unknown. I told you that I had little reason to build a self-esteem upon my family descent; yet there was a period in my life when I would have given all I had in the world for an honourable pedigree—to know that I had bounding in my veins a portion of the blood that ages since had fallen to secure a nation's liberties, or in any way had served to perpetuate its fame. Wealth, simple wealth, I always regarded with disdain. I revered the well-born. My father was apprenticed from the workhouse to a maker of watch-springs, living in Clerkenwell; but after remaining with his master a few months, during which time he was treated with great severity, he ran away. He obtained a situation in the establishment of a silk-merchant in the city, and began life on his own account as helper to the porter of the house. My father, sir—we may speak well of the departed—had great abilities. He was a wonderful man—not so much on account of what he accomplished, (and, in his station, this was not a little,) as for what he proved himself to be, under every disadvantage that could retard a man struggling through the world, even from his infancy. His perseverance was remarkable, and he had a depth of feeling which no ill treatment or vicissitude could diminish. He must have risen amongst men; for mind is buoyant, and leaps above the grosser element. He had resolved, in his first situation, to do his duty strictly, rather to overdo than to fall short of it, and to make himself, if possible, essential to his employers. He saw, likewise, the advantage of respectful behaviour, and cheerfulness of temper. Whatever he did, he did with a good grace, and with a willingness to oblige, that secured for him the regard of those he served. He was not long in discovering, that it was impossible for him to advance far with his present amount of attainment, however sanguine he might be, and resolute in purpose. The porter's boy might lead in time to the office of porter; but there was no material rise from this, and the emolument was, at the best, sufficient only for the necessities of life. He learned that the head of the firm himself had been originally a servant in the establishment, and had been promoted gradually from the desk, on account of his industry, trustworthiness, and skill in figures. Now, honest and industrious my father knew himself to be, but of skill in figures he had none. He determined at once to make himself a good accountant, and every leisure hour was employed thenceforward with that object. At the same time he was diligent in improving his handwriting, in storing his mind with useful information, and in preparing himself for any vacancy which might occur at the desk, when his age would justify him in offering himself to fill it. He had held his situation for three years, when an accident happened that materially helped him on. A fire broke out in his master's warehouse. The gentleman was from home, and nobody was on the premises at the time but the porter and himself, who lived and slept in the house. It was in the middle of the night. A fierce wind set in when the flames were at their highest, and, before morning, the place was a heap of ruins. In the first alarm, my father remembered that, in the counting-house, a tin box had been left by his master, which previously had always been carefully locked away in the iron chest. He was sure that it contained papers of great value, and that its loss would be severely felt. He determined to secure it, or, at the least, to make every endeavour. He succeeded, and gained the treasure almost at the expense of life. He was not mistaken in his supposition. In the box were deposited documents of the highest importance to his master; and the latter, delighted with the boy's acuteness, and grateful for the service, was eager to remunerate him. My father made known his wishes, and his acquaintance with accounts, and in less than six months as soon, indeed, as the house was rebuilt—he had his foot on the first step of the ladder, and took his place amongst the clerks in the counting-house. Ah, sir! there is nothing like perseverance. My father knew his powers, and was the man to exert them. He worked at the desk from morning till night. He gave his heart to his business, and no time was his which could be given to that. What was the consequence? His less energetic brethren envied and hated him, but his employer esteemed and valued him. And he ascended rapidly. It is said that circumstances make the man. I doubt the truth of this. The highest order of minds controls them, moulds them to his purposes, and makes them what he will. Time and opportunity are the crutches of the timid and the helpless. In the course of a few years, my father became the youngest partner in the firm—the youngest, but the most active and the most useful. He began to accumulate. He remained in this position until he reached his thirtieth year, when he looked abroad for a companion and a home. He proposed as a suitor to the daughter of his senior partner—a vain and foolish, although a wealthy man, who had made great plans for his child, and looked for an alliance with nobility. She, a proud and handsome girl, scorned the approaches of the silk-merchant, and wondered at his boldness. One word, sir, of her, before I follow my father in his career. Oh, the vicissitudes of life—the changes—the sudden rise—the violent fall of men! Well may the player say, 'The spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.' They do, they do, what a spectacle for gods is man! The woman, sir this arrogant, this supercilious damsel, cradled in gold and satin, and bred in the glossy lap of luxury—died—rotted on a dunghill. Her father gained his nobleman—she, a paramour. She eloped with a marquis, who deserted her. She returned to her home, and found it shut against her. She who had feasted upon the choice morsels of abundance, must, like me, commit crime for a loaf of bread. She is carried abroad by a new protector, and strangers bear her to a pauper's grave. This was her fate, sir. But to return. In consequence of the refusal, a coolness arose between the partners. An angry word or two took place—a taunt—something too galling for my father's pride was spoken, and there was a separation. My father then commenced business on his own foundation—it is hardly necessary for me to say with success. He could not but prosper. To fail whilst reason was left him was impossibility. He soon married. His wife—my mother—was the daughter of a rich merchant. You know the name, sir. Her brother, my uncle, bears the same. I told it you just now. There could not have been a more unfortunate union. My father was full of feeling and noble impulses, intelligent, active, passionate, and required, if not his own qualities in a partner, at least a milder reflex of himself—a woman that could appreciate his nature, encourage, help, support him; a woman, in a word, with a heart and mind, and both devoted. My mother, unfortunately for her, for all, had no sympathy for her husband—had nothing to offer him but the portion which she brought, and the hand which her father bade her give. She was a cold—must I say it?—unfeeling woman, with little thought beyond herself, her apparel, and her pleasures. I hope, sir, I shall make you understand me. It is hard to speak disparagingly of her who gave me life. Let me be careful that I do her justice. I bring against her no charge of vice. I believe her not vicious. I ever considered her too weak to be so. I would have you imagine a woman apathetic and characterless; her mental powers just equal to providing her with a becoming garment; her feelings capable, perhaps, of their full expansion if a stranger moved them with some hollow compliment upon her good taste, or, easier still, her beauty—for she was not without this dangerous gift—a lovely image, sir. I have myself, as a boy, often seen a radiance upon her countenance at such a season, when the pretty gambols of my infant sister has failed to draw one smile of approbation. The little sensibility she had waited on a paltry vanity. I may say with truth, that her children caused her no pain. By a fortunate physical constitution, she bore the burden of a mother without the pangs that usually attend a mother's state. In this respect she was considered a remarkable woman by those who deemed their judgement in such matters sound. Once in the world, her care was at an end. I have heard, sir—I have read of mother's love. I can feel what it should be; I can guess what wonders it may work in the wayward spirit of man; for I longed and yearned for it, but it never came. My elder sister died when a child of two years. My father was then in the zenith of his prosperity, and was absorbed in his affairs; yet this loss—this heavy blow—came upon him like a thunderstroke. Many things occupied his time, but this alone his mind. Deep sighs would escape him in the active prosecution of his business, and his cheeks were suffused with tears as he sped along the city's streets, sacred only to gain and worldly commerce. He doated on his girls, and to lose one was to lose half the joy of his existence. The effect of this calamity was otherwise on my mother; and I revert to the difference in order to make clear to you their respective natures. My mother wept at the death of her child—she would not else have been a woman; but as I have seen weak watery clouds pass across the moon's surface, leaving the planet untouched and tranquil in their transit, so the thin veil of her sorrows did not disturb the palpable unconcern—the neutrality of soul that were behind. One easy flow of tears, and the claim of the departed was satisfied. In a day, the privation had ceased to be one. Here then, sir, are the seeds of a wilderness of after woe: my father, overflowing with affection, and craving, as it were, for sympathy, turning to my mother, and finding there a blank—nothing to rest upon. 'What is fortune,' says the poet, 'to a heart yearning for affection, and finding it not? Is it not as a triumphal crown to the brows of one parched with fever, and asking for one fresh, healthful draught—the cup of cold water?' So it was here, and hence husband and wife became soon estranged from one another. The former, busy from hour to hour in his counting-house, had little time to spare upon his children; the latter, with all her time at her disposal, took no delight in the task. My sister and I, in our infancy, were made over to strangers; and from the hands of the nurse we were transmitted to those of the schoolmistress. When I was old enough, I was removed from my sister's school, and placed, with a select number of young gentlemen, under the care of a highly respectable master. It was here that my pride began to take root. One of my schoolfellows was the son of a general, another the son of a large landed proprietor, a third was heir to a peerage, a fourth traced his ancestors to a period when the soil was yet untrodden by a Norman foot. I was chagrined at my position—irritated—humbled, but the boys, especially those to whom I have alluded, behaved towards me with extreme kindness, and whilst I felt humbled, I did not envy them, because I loved them. I had one advantage, I was the son of a rich merchant, as he was called in the school, although I knew that title to be one of courtesy only, and I was ashamed of the little superiority which that advantage gave me. What cause for pride can there be in the possession of so much dross? You will smile, sir, when I tell you of the resolution which fixed itself in the mind of a boy scarcely in his teens. My playfellows were respected on account of the considerations which I have named. Why should I not be respected? I vowed that I would become so. And how? For what? For nothing less, sir, than myself; for my own high principle and integrity of conduct. It is true, sir. There were the sons of a noble ancestry about me who would condescend to tell a falsehood, the nephew of an officer who was mean enough to borrow money and not repay it. There were many whose notions of honour were lax and unbecoming. Had I entertained them, they must have been fatal to me. Discarding them for ever, and speaking and acting on all occasions, of trifling or of serious moment, with the most jealous regard to truth and honesty, I relied upon securing for myself what my predecessors had failed to leave me—the respect of my fellow-men, and a good and honourable name. It seems a noble resolution. I repent it to this hour. It is true that I rose rapidly in the estimation of my master, and that I was regarded even with deference, as I grew up, by boys of my own age, and of better standing; but it is no less true, that, from the moment my determination was made, I became morbidly anxious for the good opinion of men, painfully alive to ridicule, and as fearful of the breath of slander or reproach as though it came loaded with the plagues of Egypt. With such an idiosyncrasy, what becomes of happiness on earth? But I tire you, sir."

"Go on, I beg of you," I answered, deeply interested in the narrative, and no less surprised at the language and manner of the speaker, both of which convinced me that he was a man of genius and of education. The whole thing was a mystery, and I was impatient for the solution and the end. "Do not fatigue yourself," I continued. "For my own part I listen with the greatest interest."

"I remember, sir," proceeded Mr Warton, "as if it were yesterday, my first return home. It was for the midsummer holidays, and gay enough were my spirits then. All was sunshine and hope. I had not seen my parents for two years. It seemed as if twenty had passed over my father's head since our leave-taking. His hair had become blanched, and a settled frown had grown upon his brow. His forehead was full of lines and wrinkles; his lips were constantly pressed together; anger was the predominant expression of his face. The openness of countenance which had so well become him, and which inspired me even as a child with loving confidence, was chased away, and disappointment and vexation had seated themselves in its place. He relaxed for a moment when he saw me, and pressed me, even then, passionately to his arms; but the clouds soon gathered again, and asserted their right of possession. I, boylike and apprehensive, concluded that his affairs were in a disordered state. I had but one thought at the time. I prayed that misfortune, and not dishonesty, might appear to the world as the occasion of his difficulties. My mother looked younger than ever. She was dressed with much care, and there was a bloom upon her cheek that would have adorned a country maiden. Not a line, not a shadow of a line, was visible on her soft skin—not a tooth had departed from the ivory and well-formed set. She had retained all that was valueless, and had lost entirely and irreparably the priceless treasure of her husband's love. At supper-time, on the very first evening of my arrival, I was made thoroughly aware of the fearful change which, in so short a time, had come over the spirit of our home. Joy, I knew, had long since fled from it—now peace had been startled, and there was discord, nothing but discord, at the hearth. My father drew his chair to the table, in the sullen and angry temper which I have told you was visible on his countenance at our meeting. It seemed at first as though he had received offence elsewhere, and was resolved to remain discomforted. I could not understand it, but I was awed by his frown, and sat in terror. In a few minutes, the flame burst forth. My father required a silver spoon. There was one within arm's reach of him. 'But why was it not before him?' He repeated the question again and again, until he forced an answer, which gave him no satisfaction, but provoked fresh rage. Then came insipid remonstrances from my mother, foolish argument—passionless, but not on that account less irritating, allusions to the past. There was little incitement required, and a word from her lips scarcely worth noticing was sufficient to maintain a quarrel for an hour. To a stranger, the scene would have been lamentable; to me, their child, it was sad and sickening indeed. I have no terms to express to you the fierceness of my father's anger. By degrees, he lost all mastery over himself; he used the most opprobrious epithets, and, but for me, he would have struck her. For three hours this state of things continued, and at midnight they withdrew, to retire to separate beds, and separate rooms.

"'And all this,' said my mother as she closed her door—'all this for the sake of a paltry spoon!' Ah! poor woman, could she but have understood how guiltless of offence was that said spoon, she would have learnt the secret of her troubles; but we are not all physicians, sir, and we do not trouble ourselves concerning the seat of our complaint, whilst its effects are killing us with pain. It was evident that every spark of affection was extinguished in my father's breast, that his disposition was soured, and that, cause or no cause, misery must be our daily bread. I could not sleep that night, and I rose from my bed in the morning, determined to speak boldly to my father on what had taken place. I loved him—child never loved parent better—and I knew I could speak respectfully— affectionately—yes, and solemnly to him; for, God bless him—he was proud of me, and he listened with regard to my words—on account of my little education, already so superior to his own. I was better able to remonstrate with him, because I had taken no part in the contest which I had witnessed, further than placing myself between them when his rage seemed to have robbed him of reason.

"I stepped into his bed-room before he quitted it.

"Father"—said I.

"'What? Edgar,' he replied kindly, 'what can I do for you?'

"I had arranged in my mind the words which I proposed to utter, but they vanished suddenly, and I could do nothing but weep.

"My father, sir, was the strangest of men. Indeed, since his alienation from his wife, the most unaccountable. Rude and violent as he could be to her—he was the tenderest, the most anxious of fathers. He turned pale as death when he saw me in tears, and entreated me to tell him what I suffered. I gained confidence from his anxiety, and spoke.

"'Father,' I said, 'you must not be angry with me for speaking boldly. Poor mother! you will kill her—you do not treat her well. I am sure nothing could justify all you said and did last night. You called her cruel names. It is not right. I am certain it is not.'

"'Edgar,' said my father, frowning as he went on, 'be silent. You are a child, and I love you. I will do any thing for your happiness. I forbid you to speak to me of your mother.'

"'But if you love me,' I answered quickly, 'you ought to love my mother, too. Oh! do, dear father—do be kind and loving to her.'

"'Edgar,' exclaimed my parent passionately, 'you are very young now—you will be older if you live, and then I can speak to you as a friend. You cannot understand me now. She has broken your father's heart—she has rendered me the most miserable of men. I would I could speak to you, dear Edgar but this tongue will perhaps be cold and immovable before you can understand the tale. I am wretched, wretched, indeed!'

"My father was overcome. He could not himself refrain from tears. I felt deeply for him, and would have given any thing to hear this secret cause of grief. But his expressions kept me silent; and I clasped his hands in pity.

"'Edgar,' he continued in a loud voice, and speaking through his tears, 'listen to my words. They are sacred. Receive them as you would my dying syllables. You may be distant when the blow falls which divides us. Edgar, I implore you, when you become a man, to let one consideration only guide you in your selection of a partner. Mark me—only one—see that she has a heart—a virtuous heart—and that it be yours entire. Despise wealth— beauty—family—look to nothing but that. Would to Heaven that I had!— Edgar—your happiness—your salvation, every thing, depends upon it. I have lost all—I am crushed and ruined; but do you, dear child, learn wisdom from your father's wreck.'

"He said no more. I could not answer him, for my heart was choked. In a few minutes he bade me, in a quiet tone, retire to the breakfast room; and shortly afterwards he made his own appearance there, looking as moodily and cross when he beheld my mother, as when he had encountered her at supper on the night before.

"Now, sir, I am ashamed to confess to you—but I have asked you to hear my history—and you shall hear the truth in the teeth of shame—that all my sympathy was, from this hour, towards my father, and against my mother. It may be wrong—wicked—but I could not control the strong feeling within me. His words had left a powerful impression upon my mind. His tone, his tears—his man's tears—stamped those words with truth, and I believed him wronged. In what way I knew not—nor did I care. It was sufficient for me to hear it, as I did, from his lips, and to be told that it was not possible to reveal more. Besides, sir, I have already intimated to you that there was little tenderness in my mother's heart for me. She was cold, indifferent, and had never had part in all my little joys and griefs. My father, even with his heavy fault—a fault almost pardoned, as I believed; by the provocation—watched my boyish steps, and rejoiced with me in my well-doing. Nothing had interest for me which was not important to him. He encouraged me in learning. He grudged no money that could be spent in my improvement—he had no joy so great as that which waited on my desire for knowledge. He had been to me a playmate, counsellor, friend, whenever his slender opportunities permitted him to escape to me; and evidences of the most devoted affection had disturbed my youthful heart with an emotion too deep for utterance in the silence and solitude of my schoolboy hours. Yes—right or wrong—by necessity—my sympathy was all for him. And to convince you, sir, that my feelings were enlisted in his cause, irrespectively of self, without the most distant view to my own interest, I have but to refer to the life which I passed under his roof, until I left it, to return, for a second time, to the enjoyments and consolations—as they were always—of my school. Although his affection for me was unbounded, it was not long before I perceived, with bitterness and trouble, that it was impossible for him to save me from the fury of a temper which he had no longer power to govern. I could read, or I believed I could, his inmost soul, and I could see the hourly struggle for forbearance and self-control. It was in vain. If his passion obtained the rein for an instant—it was wild—away—beyond his reach—and he thought not, in the paroxysm, of the sufferer, whose smile he would not have ruffled in the season of sobriety and quiet. I did not fail again and again to remonstrate on behalf of my mother—for the scene which I have described to you became an endless one; but perceiving at length that representation added only fuel to the fire, I desisted. My lively habits soon appeared to be unsuited to the new order of things. My father would once have smiled with enjoyment at some piece of boyish mischief which now roused him to anger, and before excuse could be offered, or pardon asked—the severest chastisement—I cannot tell how severe, was inflicted on my flesh."

"Madman!" I exclaimed involuntarily, interrupting Warton in his narrative.

"Madman do you say, sir?" he answered quickly. "Yes, I have often thought so—and to an extent, I grant you—if it be madness to have the reason prostrate before passion. But it is profitless to define the malady. I would have you dwell, sir, on the cause—her fatal apathy—her indifference—I know not what besides—which made him what he was. You may imagine, sir, that my blood has boiled beneath the punishment—that I have burned with indignation beneath the weight of it, undeserved and cruel as it was. Oh, sir! God has visited me these many years with sore affliction. I am a forlorn, disabled, cast-off creature—nothing lives viler than the thing I have become; and yet in this dark hour I thank my Maker with an overflowing grateful heart that He tied down my hands when they have tingled in my agony to return the father's blow. I never did—I never did."

The speaker grew more and more excited, and his voice at last failed him. I rose, and retired to the window, but he proceeded whilst my face was turned away. I know not why—but my own eyes smarted.

"Yes, sir, time after time the horrible desire to be avenged, and to give back blow for blow, has possessed me; and, as if eternal torture were to be the immediate penalty of the unnatural act, I have thrown my arms behind me, clasped hand in hand, and held them tiger-like together, until the fit was passed away. And then who could be more penitent, more sorrowful, than he! Within an hour of perpetrating this barbarity, he has met me with a look pleading for forgiveness, which I would have given him had he offended me, oh much—much more. What could he say to his child? What could his child allow him to utter? Nothing. I have kissed him; he has taken me by the hand, we have walked abroad together; and he has loaded me with gifts for the joy of our reconciliation."

Curious as I was to hear more, I deemed it expedient, for the present, to close the history. The man seemed carried away by the subject, and his cheeks were scorched with this burning flush which the unusual exertion of mind and body had summoned up. He spoke vehemently—hurriedly—at the top of his voice, and I knew not how far his agitation might carry him. I again proposed to him to abstain from fatigue, and to leave his history unfinished for the present. He paused for a few minutes, wiped the heavy perspiration from his brow, and answered me in a calm and steady voice—

"I will transgress no more, sir. I have never spoken of these things yet—and they come before my mind too vividly—they inflame and mislead me. I ask your pardon. But let me finish now—the tale is soon told—I cannot for a second time revert to it."

"Go on," I answered, yielding once more to his wish, and in the same composed and quiet voice he began again.

"The first watch which I called my own, was given to me on one of these occasions. My father had requested me to execute some small commission. I forgot to do it. In his eyes the fault for a moment assumed the form of wilful disobedience. That moment was enough—he was roused—the paroxysm prevailed—and I was beaten like a dog. An hour afterwards he was persuaded that his child was not undutiful. His reason had returned to him, and, with it a load of miserable remorse. He offered me, with a tremulous hand, the bauble, which I accepted; and, as I took it, I saw a weight of sorrow tumble from his unhappy breast. This was my father, sir. A man who would have been the best of fathers—had he been permitted, as his heart directed him, to be the tenderest of husbands. I could see in my boyhood that blame attached to my mother—to what extent I did not know. I lived in the hope of hearing at some future time. That time never came. I remained at home two months, and then went back to school. I received a letter from one of my father's clerks, who was an especial favourite of mine. It must have been about a week after my departure. It told me that my father had drooped since I quitted him. On the morning that I came away, he left his business and locked himself in my bedroom. He was shut up at least two hours there. Fifty different matters required his presence in the counting-house, and at length my friend, the clerk, disturbed him. When the door was opened he found his master, his eyes streaming with tears, intent upon a little book in which he had seen me reading many days before. Oh, it was like him, sir! Within a few days I received another letter from the same hand. My father was dangerously ill, and I was summoned home. I flew, and arrived to find him delirious. He had been seized with inflammation the day before. The fire blazed in a system that was ripe for it. The doctors were baffled. Mortification had already begun. He did not recognize me, but he spoke of me in his delirium in terms of endearment, whilst curses against my mother rolled from his unconscious lips. Three hours after my arrival he was a corpse. And such a corpse! They told me it was my father, and I believed them.

"Are you, sir, fatherless?" asked Warton suddenly.

I told him, and he continued. "You have felt then the lightning shock that has altered the very face of nature. Earth, before and after that event, is not the same. It never was to human being yet. It cannot be. What a secret is learnt upon that day! How tottering and insecure have become the things of life that seemed so firm and fixed! The penalty is heavy which we pay for the privilege to be our own master. Oh, the desolation of a fatherless home! My father died, having made no will. So it was said at first—but in a few days there was another version. My mother's brother—the uncle that I spoke of—then appeared upon the stage, and was most active for his sister's interests. He had never been a friend of my father's. They had not spoken for years. I did not know why. I had never enquired—for the man was a stranger to me, and since my birth he had not crossed our threshold. My father believed that his relative had wronged him—of this I was sure—and I hated him therefore when he appeared. When my father was buried, this man produced a will. I was present when it was read—bodily present; but my heart and soul were away with him in the grave—and with him, sir, in heaven, beyond it. They told me at the conclusion of the ceremony, that my father had died worth fifty thousand pounds—that he had left my mother the bulk of his property—to my sister a fortune of ten thousand pounds, and to me the sum of a hundred and fifty pounds per annum. But they might have talked to stone. What cared my young and inexperienced, and still bleeding heart, for particulars and sums? A crust without him was more than enough. It was more than I could swallow now—and what was wealth to me? My uncle, I heard afterwards, watched me as the different items were read over, and seemed pleased to observe upon my face no sign of disappointment. That he was pleased, I am certain, for he spoke kindly to me when all was over, and said that I was a good boy, and should be taken care of. "-Taken care of-!"—and so I was—and so I am—for look about you, sir, and observe the evidences of my uncle's love. The clerk, to whom I have alluded, took an early opportunity to remind me of the nature of my father's will—and to hint to me suspicions of foul play. I readily believed him. It was not that I cared for the money. At that age I was ignorant of its value, and my little portion seemed a mine of wealth. But I wished to dislike my uncle, because he had given pain to my dear father. I avoided his presence as much as I could, and I made him feel that my aversion was hearty. We never became friends. We seldom spoke—and never but when obliged. He was a coarse man then—I have not seen him for many years—ungentlemanly and unfeeling in his deportment. It would have been as easy for him to alter the framework of his body as to have shown regard for the sensibilities of other men. He lived to amass. He counts his tens of thousands now—they may have been scraped together amidst the groans and shrieks of the distressed, but there they are—he has them, and he is happy. I asked, and obtained from my mother, permission to return to school. I remained there without visiting my home again for three years. My mother did not once write to me, or come to see me. I did not write to her. My expenses were paid from my income. My father's business was still conducted by my mother with her assistants, and she resided in the old house. Did I tell you that my uncle was the appointed executor of my father's will, and my guardian? He managed my affairs, and for the present I suffered him to do as he thought proper. In the meanwhile my happiness at school was unbounded. My existence there was sweet and tranquil, like the flow of a small secluded stream. I loved my master. Ill-taught and self-neglected nearly till the time that I came under his instruction, I believed that I owed all my education to him; and whilst I thirsted for knowledge as the means of raising myself and my own mind, he supplied me with the healthful sustenance, and helped me forward with his precepts. I had neither taste nor application for the severer studies. Science was too hard and real for the warm imagination with which Providence had liberally endowed me. It was a scarecrow in the garden of knowledge, and I looked at it with fear from the sunny heights of poesy on which I basked and dreamed. History—fiction—the strains of Fletcher, Shakspeare—the lore of former worlds—these had unspeakable charms for me; and such information as they yielded, I imbibed greedily. Admiration of the beautiful creations of mind leads rapidly in ardent spirits to an emulative longing; and the desire to achieve—to a firm belief of capability. The grateful glow of love within is mistaken for the gift divine. I burned to follow in the steps of the immortal, and already believed myself inspired. Hours and days I passed in compositions, which have since helped to warm our poverty-stricken room; for they had all one destination—the fire. I shall, however, never consider the days ill-spent which were engaged in such pursuits. The pleasure was intense—the advantage, if unseen and indirect, was not insignificant. Whatever tends to elevate and purify, is in itself good and noble. We cannot withdraw ourselves from the selfishness of life, and incline our souls to the wisdom of the speaking dead, and not advance—be it but one step—heavenward. And in my own case—the intellectual character was associated with all that is lofty in principle, and exalted in conduct. Sans peur et sans reproche was its fit motto. Falsehood and dishonesty must not attach to it. In my own mind I pictured a moral excellence which it was necessary to attain; and in my strivings for intellectual fame, that, as the essential accompaniment, was never once lost sight of. Pride still clung to me—and was fed throughout. I was eighteen years of age, and I desired to enter the university. I fixed upon Oxford, as holding out a better prospect of success than the sister seat of learning. I enquired what sum of money was necessary for my education there; and received for answer, that two hundred pounds a-year might carry me comfortably through, but that, with some economy and self-denial, a hundred and fifty might be sufficient. It is a curious circumstance that the very post which brought this information, brought likewise a letter from my uncle, offering, as my guardian, and at his own expense, to send me to the university. I was indignant at the proposition, and vowed, before his letter was half read, that I would rather live upon a meal a-day, than owe my bread to one whom I regarded as my father's foe. Does it not strike you, sir, as somewhat singular, that my father should make this man executor, trustee, and guardian? Men do not generally appoint their enemies to such offices. I wrote to my uncle in reply, declined coldly but respectfully his offer, and told him my intention. Here our correspondence ended, and six months afterwards my name was on the boards of my college. I went up knowing no one, but carrying from my friend, the schoolmaster, a letter of introduction to a clergyman who had been his college friend, and who (now married and the father of one child) earned his subsistence by taking pupils. I was received by this poor but worthy man with extreme kindness. He read the character which I had brought with me, and bade me make his house my home. His hospitality was at first a great advantage to me. My slender income compelled me to exercise rigid economy—and to avoid all company. Although very poor, I have told you that I was already very proud. I would not receive a favour which I could not pay back—I would not permit the breath of slander to whisper a syllable against my name. There were hours in which no book could be read with pleasure, which no study could make light. Such were passed in delightful converse with my friend, and thus I was spared even the temptation to walk astray. I need not tell you that I had no tutor. It was a luxury I could not afford. I worked the harder, and was all the happier for the victory I had gained—such I deemed it—over my uncle. At the end of a twelve-month, I found my expenses were even within my income. It was a sweet discovery. I had paid my way. I did not owe a penny. I was respected, and no one knew my mode of life, or the amount of income that I possessed. My friend, I said, had one child. She was a daughter. During my first year's residence I had never seen her. She was away in Dorsetshire nursing a cousin, who died at length in her arms. She returned home at the commencement of my second year, and I was introduced to her. She fell upon my solitary life like the primrose that comes alone to enliven the dull earth—a simple flower of loveliness and promise, graceful in herself—but to the gazer's eye more beautiful, no other flower being present to provoke comparison. We met often. She was an artless creature sir, and gave her love to me long, long before she knew the price of such a gift. She doated on her father, and it was a virtue that I understood. She was very fair to look at; timid as the fawn—as guileless; a creature of poetry, sent to be a dream, and to shed about her a beguiling unsubstantial brightness. All things looked practicable and easy in the light in which she moved. The difficulties of life were softened—its rewards and joys coloured and enhanced. I thought of her as a wife, and the tone of my existence was from the moment changed. If you could have seen her, sir—the angel of that quiet house—gliding about, ministering happiness—her innocent expression—her lovely form—her golden hair falling to her swelling bosom—her truthfulness and cultivated mind—you would, like me, have blessed the fortune which had brought her to your side, and revealed the treasure to your youthful heart. I told her that I loved, and her tears and maiden blushes made her own affection manifest. Her father spoke to me, bade me reflect, take counsel, and be cautious. He gave at last no opposition to our wishes—but requested that time might be allowed for trial, and my settlement in life. And so it was agreed. I prosecuted my studies more diligently than ever, and looked with impatience for the hour when my profession (for I had gone to the university with a view to the church) and my little income would justify me in offering to my darling one a home. Did I now mourn over the inequality of my fortune? Did I upbraid the dead—accuse the living? I did not, sir. Too pleased to labour for the girl whom I had chosen—I rejoiced to owe my bread to my exertion. She then, as now—for it was her—my Anna, sir—the wreck whom you have seen—cruelly misused by poverty and grief—robbed of her beauty and her strength—the miserable outline of her former self—she then, even as now, was in all things actuated by the highest motives—a serious and religious maid. She cheered me with her smiles—her perfect patience and tranquil hope. It was to her a privilege to be united to a clergyman, and to find her earthly joy combined with usefulness and good. In our walks, I have painted the future which was never to be—the bliss we were never to experience. I have spoken of the parsonage, and its little lawn and many flowers—pictured myself at work—visiting the poor—comforting the sick—herself my dear attendant at the cottage doors, with hosts of little ones about her, whom she might call her children, and for whom she might exercise more than a mother's care. She could not listen to such promises, and not grow happier in her inexperience than reality could ever render her; and yet sighs, sighs, ominous sighs, would from the first escape her. Still for a twelvemonth our nook of earth was Paradise, and sorrow, the universal lot, was banished from our door. The tales which I had been accustomed to hear of the world's deceit and falsehood seemed groundless and cruel—the inventions of envious disappointed minds—whose ambition had betrayed them into hopes, too preposterous for fulfilment Happiness was on earth—did I not find her in my daily walk?—for such as were not loth to greet her with a lowly and contented spirit. I had no present care. The days were prosperous. I obtained a scholarship in my college at the end of the first year, which was worth to me at least fifty pounds per annum. This, not requiring, I saved up. I worked hard during the day—withdrew myself from all intercourse with men, and every evening was rewarded with the smiles of her for whose dear sake all labour was so easy. Oh, the tranquillity and ineffable bliss of those distant bygone days! Bygone, did I say? No—they exist still. Poverty—misery—persecution—such things pass away, and are in truth a dream. The troubles of yesterday vanish with the sun that set upon them—but those hours, deeply impressed upon the soul, have left their mark indelible; the intense, unspeakable joy that filled them, lingers yet, and brightens up one spot that stands alone, distinct in life. Cast when I will one single glance there, and I behold the stationary sun shine. I do so now. None feel so vigorous and well as they who are on the eve of some prostrating sickness. Dreaming of security, and as I looked about, perceiving from no side the probability or show of evil, I was in truth entangled in a maze of peril. My summer's day was at an end. The cloud had gathered—was overhead, and ready to burst and overwhelm me. For one twelvemonth, as I have said, I felt the perfect enjoyment of life, and was blest. At the end of that period I received a letter from my uncle. It was full of tenderness and affection. The first few lines were taken up with enquiries—and immediately afterwards there came a proposition. It was to this effect. "My mother wished to retire from business; it was still a lucrative one, and she offered it to me. She undertook to leave in the firm a capital sufficiently large to carry it on, and receiving a moderate interest only for this sum, she would relinquish all other profit in favour of her son." I read the letter, and had faith in its sincerity. As I read it, a devil whispered delusively into my ear, and the sounds were music there, until my ruin was completed. I knew the business to be affluent and thriving. The income derived from it enabled my mother to live luxuriously. Half the sum would afford every wished-for comfort to my Anna, and much less would enable us at once to marry. Here was the rock on which I went to pieces—here was the giddy light that blinded me to all considerations—here was the sophistry that made all other reasoning dull and valueless. I did not stop to enquire what movement of feeling could operate so generously upon my uncle. If an unfavourable suggestion forced itself upon me, it was expelled at once; and persuasion of the purity of his motives was too easy, where my wish was father to the thought. If I remained at college, years might elapse before our union. Now, immediately, if I accepted this unlooked-for offer—she was mine, and a home, such as in other circumstances I could never hope to give her, was ready for her reception! I could think of nothing else, but I beheld in the unexpected good—the outstretched hand of Providence. Full of my delight, I communicated the intelligence to Anna; but very different was its effect on her. She read the letter, and looked at me as if she wished to read the most hidden of my secret wishes.

"'What have you thought of doing, then?' she asked.

"'Accepting the proposal, Anna,' I replied, 'with your consent.'

"'Never with that,' she answered almost solemnly. 'My lips shall never bid you turn from the course which you have chosen, and to which you have been called. You do not require wealth—you have said so many times—and I am sure it is not necessary for your happiness.'

"'I think not of myself, dear Anna,' I replied. 'I have more than enough for my own wants. It is for your sake that I would accept their offer, and become richer than we can ever be if I refuse it. Our marriage now depends upon a hundred things—is distant at the best, and may never be. The moment that I consent to this arrangement, you are mine for ever.'

"'Warton,' she said, more seriously than ever, 'I am yours. You have my heart, and I have engaged to give you, when you ask it, this poor hand. In any condition of life—I am yours. But I tell you that I never can deliberately ask you to resign the hopes which we have cherished—with, as we have believed, the approbation and the blessing of our God. Your line of duty is, as I conceive it—marked. Whilst you proceed, steadily and with a simple mind—come what may, your pillow will never be moistened with tears of remorse. If affliction and trial come—they will come as the chastening of your Father, who will give you strength to bear the load you have not cast upon yourself. But once diverge from the straight and narrow path, and who can see the end of difficulty and danger? You are unused to business, you know nothing of its forms, its ways—you are not fit for it. Your habits—your temperament are opposed to it, and you cannot enter the field as you should—to prosper. Think not of me. I wish—my happiness, and joy, and pride will be to see you a respected minister of God. I am not impatient. If we do right, our reward will come at last. Let years intervene, and my love for you will burn as steadily as now. Do not be tempted—and do not let us think that good can result—if, for my sake, you are unfaithful—there!' She pointed upwards as she spoke, and for a moment the sinfulness of my wishes blazed before me—startled, and silenced me. I resolved to decline my uncle's offer; yet a week elapsed, and the letter was not written. But another came from him. It was one of tender reproach for my long silence, and it requested an immediate answer to the munificent proposal of my mother. If I refused it, a stranger would be called upon to enjoy my rights, and the opportunity for realizing a handsome fortune would never occur again. Such were its exciting terms, and once more, perplexed by desire and doubt, I appealed to the purer judgment of my Anna.

"She wept when she came to the close of the epistle, and had not a word to say.

"'I distress you, Anna,' said I, 'by my indecision. Dry your tears, my beloved; I will hesitate no longer.'

"'I know not what to do,' she faltered; 'if you should act upon my advice, and afterwards repent, you would never forgive me. Yet, I believe from my very soul that you should flee from this temptation. But do as you will—as seems wisest and best—and trust not to a weak woman. Do what reason and principle direct, and happen what will—I will be satisfied. One thing occurs to me. Can you trust your uncle?"

I hesitated.

"'I ask,' she continued, 'because you have often spoken of him as if you could not confidently. May he not have—I judge of him only from your report—some motive for his present conduct which we cannot penetrate? It is an unkind world, and the innocent and guileless are not safe from the schemes and contrivances of the wicked. I speak at random, but I am filled with alarm for you. You are safe now—but one step may be your ruin.'

"'You are right, Anna,' I replied; 'it is too great a venture, I cannot trust this man. I will not leave the path of duty. I will refuse his offer this very night.'

"And I did so. In her presence I wrote an answer to his letter, and declined respectfully the brilliant prospect which he had placed before me. The letter was dispatched—Anna was at peace, and my own mind was satisfied.

"It was, however, not my fate to pass safely through this fiery ordeal. Nothing but my destruction, final and entire, would satisfy my greedy persecutor—and artfully enough did he at length encompass it. In a few days, there arrived a third communication on the same subject, but from another hand. My mother became the correspondent, and she conjured me by my filial love and duty, not to disobey her. She desired to retire into privacy. She was growing old and it was time to make arrangements for another world. Her son, if he would, might enable her to carry out her pious wish—or, by his obstinate refusal, hurry her with sorrow to the grave. There was much more to this effect. Appeal upon appeal was made there, where she knew me to be most vulnerable, and the choice of action was not left me. To deny her longer—would be to stand convicted of disobedience, undutifulness, and all unfilial faults. From this period, I was lost. One word before I hurry to the end. I absolve my mother from all participation in the crimes of which boldly I accuse my uncle. She, poor helpless woman, was but his instrument, and believed, when she urged me, that it was with a view to my advancement and lasting benefit. I conveyed my mother's communication immediately to Anna. She made no observation on its contents—bade me seek counsel of her father; and with her eyes streaming with agonizing tears, left me to pray upon my knees for counsel and direction from on high. Her father—I could not blame him—a man who had struggled hardly for his bread as a clergyman and a scholar—and seen more of the dark shadows than the light of life—received my intelligence with unmingled satisfaction. He charged me, as I loved his child, and valued her future welfare, to accept the princely kindness of my friends—to see them instantly, and secure my fortune whilst time and circumstances served. And then, as if to appease his own qualms of conscience, and to justify his counsel, he reasoned about the usefulness which, even to a pious mind, was permitted in the exercise of trade. Infinite was the good that I might do. Yea, more, perhaps, than if I persisted in my first design, and remained for ever a poor clergyman; I might relieve the poor even to my heart's content. What privilege so great as this! What suffering so acute as the desire to help the sick and needy with no ability to do it! 'Be sure, young man, the hand of Providence is here; it would be sinful to deny it.' O interest—interest!—self—self!—words of magic and of power; they rendered my poor friend blind as they did me. I listened to his advice with eagerness and delight; and though I knew that to obey it was to cast myself from security into turmoil and danger, I laboured to persuade myself that he was right, and that hesitation was now criminal. Again I saw my betrothed, and I approached her—innocent and truthful as she was—with shame and self-abasement. I repeated her father's words, and she shook her head sadly, but made no reply. What need was there of reply? Had she not already spoken?

"'Let me, at least, dear Anna, go to London,' I said, 'and implore my mother to retract this wish, unsay her words. I would rather give up the world, than take it without your cheerful acquiescence. Your happiness is every thing to me. You shall decide for me.'

"'No, Warton,' she replied—'you and my father must decide, and may Heaven direct you both. Go to London—do as you wish. I am resigned. I am presumptuous, and may be wrong. All will be for the best. Go! God bless you and support you.'

"And I went, traitor and renegade that I was, prepared to surrender to the bitterest foe that ever hunted victim down. Believe me not, sir, when I say that any sense of filial duty actuated me in my resolve, that any feeling influenced this unsteady heart but one—The desire to call my Anna mine—the pride I felt in the consciousness of wealth—and of the power to bestow it all on her.

"My reception in London was as favourable as I could wish it. My uncle was an altered man—at least he appeared so. He met me with smiles and honied words, and made such promises of friendship and protection, that I stood before him convicted of uncharitableness and gross misconduct. I reproached myself for the old prejudices, and for the malice which I had always borne him, and attributed them all to boyish inexperience, and stubbornness. I was older now, and could see with the eyes of a man. Not only did I acquit him of all intention of wrong, but I could have fallen on my knees before him, and asked his pardon for my own offences. I wrote a long letter to Anna, and described in lively colours my own agreeable surprise, desired her to be of good heart, and to rely upon my prudence. I engaged to write daily, to announce the progress of my mission—and to advise her of the proposed arrangements. This was my first communication. Before she could receive a second, I had put my hand to paper, and signed my death-warrant. I had irretrievably committed myself. I was living with my uncle. His wine was of the best. He could drink freely of it, and get cooler and more collected at each glass, but frequent draughts animated and inflamed my younger head. He spoke to me with kindness, and I grew confiding and loquacious. I told him of my engagement with Anna, described her beauty, extolled her virtues. He seized the golden opportunity, and reproved me gently for the little consideration which I exhibited for one so worthy of my love. It was unpardonably selfish to hesitate one instant longer. It was due to her, and to our future offspring, to make every provision for their maintenance and comfort. It was madness to overlook the advantages which my mother's offer gave. She herself, the lovely Anna, as her cares increased, would mourn over the cruel obstinacy of him who might have placed her beyond anxiety and apprehension, but who preferred to keep her poor, dependent, joyless. She was young, and spoke, doubtless, as she felt—but time would dissipate romance, and bitterly would she regret that he who professed to love her had not taken pains to prove that love more thoughtful and sincere. So he went on—and, in the height of his appeal, a visitor was announced—Mr Gilbert, an old friend, an intimate, who was immediately admitted. I was requested not to mind him, for he knew every secret of my uncle's. The latter repeated my story, and ended with an account of my ingratitude to Anna. Mr Gilbert could scarcely speak for his astonishment. He shook his head severely, and vowed the case was quite unparalleled. I drank on—the thought of the immediate possession of my Anna flashed once powerfully and effectually across my brain, and I held out no longer. I yielded to the sweet solicitation—and was lost.

"On the following morning, Mr Gilbert arrived to breakfast. The subject was resumed. My uncle produced a paper, which he had hastily drawn up. It should be signed by all. Mr Gilbert, as a friend, could witness it. It was a rough draught, but would answer every purpose for the present. The statement was very simple. My mother left in the firm twenty thousand pounds in stock, and cash and book debts. For this I made myself responsible, and undertook to pay an interest of five per cent. All profits in the business were my own. Fool that I was, I signed the document without reflection—gave, with one movement of the pen, my liberty, my happiness, and life, into the power of one who had for years resolved to get them in his clutch. My uncle followed with his signature—then Mr Gilbert. To make all sure, however, a clerk of the former was summoned to the room, and requested to act as second witness to the deed.

"You are perfectly satisfied with the contents?' said Mr Gilbert to my uncle, when the clerk had finished.

"'Quite so,' was the answer.

"'And you, sir?' he continued, turning then to me.

"'I answered, 'Yes,' whilst a sickening shudder crept through my blood, and the remonstrance of Anna sounded in my ears like a knell.

"I remained in London, and a week after this ceremony I entered upon my duties at the counting-house. At the earnest recommendation of my uncle, I carried into the business, as additional capital, the sum of money from which I had hitherto derived my income. This amounted to nearly four thousand pounds. It may seem strange to you, sir, as it does to me now, that I should so readily have adopted the statement of my uncle, and so deeply involved myself upon the strength of his simple ipse dixit. It was a mad-man's act, and yet there were many excuses for it at the time. I was but a boy—fresh from a life of retirement and study—unused to the ways of men—unprepared for fraud. Satisfied of my own integrity, I believed implicitly in the ingenuousness of others. I had no friend to act for me—to investigate and warn—my heart was burthened with its love, and all my thoughts were far away. The business had prospered for years, and it was conducted externally as in the days of my poor father. All was decorous and business-like, and the reputation of the house was high and unblemished. There was nothing in the appearance of things to excite suspicion—and not a breath was suggested from my own too easy and confiding nature. The father of my betrothed! was delighted at the step which I had taken. He wrote me an impassioned letter, full of praise and brilliant prophecies, none of which he lived to see fulfilled. His daughter, he assured me, would yet be grateful to me for the firmness I had evinced, and that the blessing of Heaven must attend conduct so estimable and wise. Anna herself wrote in another strain. The act which she had so long dreaded was accomplished—it was useless to look back—she could only hope and pray for the future. She entreated me to be careful of my health, and to accustom myself gradually to my new employment. It was a consolation to behold her father so very happy, and to find me contented in my position. Nothing would give her now such satisfaction, as to be convinced that she had been wrong throughout, and that I had done well in giving up my former occupations. A month passed quickly by. The engagements of the firm were met—and its affairs were carried on as usual. No change took place. The only difference was my presence, and the appearance of my name in all the transactions of the house. I saw my mother frequently—but my uncle, by degrees, withdrew. His own affairs required his constant attention, but he provided me with help and countenance in the person of Mr Gilbert. This gentleman, in addition to the character of a bosom friend, sustained another—that of legal adviser to my uncle! He visited me daily, and helped me marvellously. He procured from my uncle my patrimony of four thousand pounds—drew up in return for it a release, which I executed—paid the money into my banker's hands—received my mother's dividend—inspected the accounts—advised summary proceedings against defaulters—and settled, at a certain rate, to purchase a few outstanding debts, which it would cost some trouble and manoeuvring to get in. I could not choose but act upon advice that was at once so very friendly and professional. My inexperience, for a time, gratefully reposed in Mr Gilbert. Exactly two months after I had entered the concern, I married. Sun never rose more promisingly upon a wedding-day—a lovelier bride had never graced it. I pass over the few intoxicating weeks during which life assumes a form and hue which it never wore before—never puts forth again. The novelty of my situation—the joy I had in her possession, and in the knowledge that she was wholly mine—lived now and breathed for me—the pride with which I gazed upon her blooming beauty, and communed with her, as with a new-found better self—all combined to render one brief season a sweet delirium—an ecstatic dream. It is time to wake from it. I return to the business. I had agreed to pay my mother's dividend every quarter—and, as I told you, Mr Gilbert received the money for her. She did not live to enjoy it. A short illness removed her from a world which had never been one of sorrow to her. Her heart was adamant, and troubled waters passed over—did not enter and disturb it. All that she had became my uncle's, and he was now my creditor. I beg you, sir, to mark this. Twice had he inherited the property which should have been my own. It was about a twelvemonth after the death of my mother, that small, dark shadows appeared in the horizon, foretelling storm and tempest. At first they gave me no uneasiness, but they increased and gathered, and soon compelled me to take measures for the outbreak. I continued to discharge my uncle's claim with undeviating regularity. Mr Gilbert sharply saw to that; but a difficulty arose at length of meeting punctually all the demands which came upon me in the way of business. This was overcome in the beginning, by enforcing payment from customers who had traded previously on a liberal credit. The evil thus temporarily repaired gave rise, however, to a greater evil. Our friends withdrew their favours, and offered them else where. This critical state of things did not improve, but caused me daily fresh alarm. Money became more scarce—the difficulty of meeting payments more imminent and harassing. It was very strange. It had not been so in my father's time; nor later, when my mother had the management of affairs. Was it my fault? What had I done amiss. Frightful thoughts began to haunt my bosom, and my sleep was broken, as a criminal's might be. One day I had a heavy sum to pay. It was on the fourth of the month—a serious day to many—and, although I had made every exertion to meet this payment, I found myself, on the very morning, at least two hundred pounds deficient. I have told you, that the credit of our house was without a spot. Its reputation stood high amongst the highest. Slander had not dared to breathe one syllable against it. To me was entrusted this precious jewel, and I was now upon the very brink of losing it. I rose from my pillow before daylight, and endeavoured to contrive a plan for my relief. Fear and excitement prevented all deliberate thought, and I walked to the counting-house confounded—almost delirious. I had taken no food. I could not break my fast until the exigency had passed away. I was sitting in the little room, filled with dismal apprehensions, when Mr Gilbert was announced, and suddenly appeared. As suddenly I resolved to tell him of my necessity, and to ask his aid or counsel. Blushing to the forehead, I confided my situation to him, and asked what it was possible to do. He smiled in answer produced his pocket-book, and gave me, without a word; a draft upon his banker for the sum required. At that moment, sir, I felt what it was to be respited after sentence of death—to be rescued from drowning—to awaken into life from horrible and numbing dreams. I pressed the hand of my deliverer with the most affectionate zeal, and assured him of my everlasting gratitude.

"'No occasion, my dear sir,' answered Mr Gilbert. 'This is a very common case in business, and will happen to the best of men. Never hesitate to ask me when you are in need. When I have the cash, you shall command me always. Give me your IOU—that will be quite sufficient, and pay the money back when it is quite convenient.' Disinterested, most praiseworthy man! He left me, impressed with his benevolence, and with my spirit at rest. With the dismissal of my incubus, my appetite was restored. I partook of a hearty dinner, and returned home, happy as a boy again. At the end of a week, I was enabled to repay my benefactor; but, at the end of a fortnight; I was again in need of his assistance. Emboldened by his offer, I did not hesitate to apply; as freely as before he responded to my call; and I felt that I had gained a friend indeed. Men who have committed heinous crimes, will tell you that it is the first divergence from the point of rectitude that gives them pain and anguish. The false direction once obtained, and the moral sense is blunted. So in matters of this kind. There was no blushing or palpitation when I begged a third time for a temporary loan. The occasion soon presented itself, and I asked deliberately for the sum I wanted. Mr Gilbert likewise had grown familiar with these demands; and familiarity, they say, does not heighten our politeness and respect. He had not the money by him, but he might get it, though, from a friend, he thought, if it were absolutely necessary. But then a friend is not like one's self. He must be paid for what he did. Well, for once in the way, I could afford it. I must borrow as cheaply, as I could, and give my note of hand, &c. Sir, in less than three months; I was in a mesh of difficulties, from which it was impossible to tear myself. Bill after bill had I accepted and given to this Gilbert—pounds upon pounds had he sucked from me in the way of interest; He grew greedier every hour. If I hesitated; he spoke to me of exposure—I refused, he threatened enforcement of his previous claims. And, what was worse than all, notwithstanding the heavy sums which he advanced, and for which he held securities, my affairs remained disordered, and the demand for money increased with every new supply. I could not understand it. I had not communicated with my uncle. I was afraid to do it; but I took care to pay his dividend the instant it was due. Had I omitted it, Mr Gilbert would have looked to me; for he was even more anxious than myself to keep my affairs a secret from my uncle. It was not long before I got bewildered by the accumulated anxieties of my position. My mind was paralyzed. My days were wretched. Home had no delight for me; and neither there nor elsewhere could I find repose. Before daybreak, I quitted my bed, and until midnight, I was occupied in arranging for the engagements of the coming day. Legitimate and profitable business was neglected; lost sight of, and all my faculties were engrossed in the one great object of obtaining money to appease the present and the pressing importunity. In the midst of my trouble, I was thrown, for the first time, upon a bed of sickness. I was attacked with fever, but I rallied in a day or two, and was prepared once more to cast myself into the vortex from which I saw no hope or possibility of escape. It was the evening before the day on which I had determined to resume the whirl of my sickening occupation. I was in bed, and, tired with the thought that weighed upon my brain, had fallen into a temporary sleep, from which I woke too soon, to find my wife, now about to become a mother, weeping as if her heart were broken, at my side. Trouble, sir, had soured my temper, and I had ceased to be as tender as she deserved. I was base enough to speak unkindly to her.

"'You are discontented, Anna,' I exclaimed. You are not satisfied—you repent now that you married me'—I see you do.'

"'Warton,' she exclaimed, 'if you love me, leave this cruel business. Let us live upon a crust. I will work for you. I will submit to any thing to see you calm and happy. This will kill you.'

"'It will, it must!' I cried out in misery. 'I cannot help it. What is to be done?'

"'Retire from it—resign all—every thing—but save us both. This agitation—this ceaseless wear and tear—must eventually, and soon, destroy you. What, then, becomes of me?'

"'Show me, Anna, how I can do what you desire with honour. Show me the way, and I will bless you. Oh, why did I not heed your words before! Why did I suffer myself to be entrapped'—

"She stopped me in my exclamations.

"'You have promised, dear,' said she, 'never to look upon the past. You acted for the best. So did we all. It is our consolation and support. But the present is sad and mournful, and, I believe, it rests with ourselves to secure our happiness for the future. Are you content to do it?'

"'Oh, can you ask me, Anna? Tell me how I may escape without discredit—without shame and one dishonourable taint—and you take me from the depths of my despair. I see no end to this career. I am fixed to the stake, and I must burn.'

"'Listen to me, dearest. You shall write to your uncle without delay, and explain to him your wishes. You shall tell him of your difficulties frankly and unreservedly. Make known to him your state of health, and tell him firmly that you are unequal to the burden which is laid upon you. Should he insist upon a recompense for your loss, you have money of your own there—yield it to him, and these hands shall never rest until they have earned for you every shilling of it back again. Be tranquil, resolute, cheerful, and all will yet be well, I trust—I feel it will.'

"I had once refused to act on her advice, and the consequences had been dire enough. When compliance was too late, I implicitly obeyed her. The letter was written, and an answer came as speedily as we could wish it. It was a kind reply. My uncle was sorry for my illness, and was content to take the business off my hands, if I was ready to resign it in the condition that I had found it. And this, I thanked my God with tears of joy, I was prepared to do. My personal expenses had been trifling. The amount of business done was large—my the profits had not been withdrawn. Although my sufferings had been great, and difficulties had met me which I could neither prevent nor comprehend, still reason told me that the property must have increased in value. It was with alacrity that I engaged, at my uncle's particular request, an accountant to investigate the proceedings of the house, and to pronounce upon its present state. The result of the examination could not but be most satisfactory. It did not occur to me at the time, that my uncle had deemed no accountant necessary when he heaped upon me the responsibility which I had borne so ill. It would have been but fair, methinks. A time was fixed for a meeting with my uncle, and for producing the result of the enquiry. The accountant had been closely engaged at his work for many days, and had brought it to an end only on the evening preceding the day of our appointment. He submitted his estimate to me, and you shall judge my horror when I perused it. There were many sheets of paper, but in one line my misery was summed up. EIGHT THOUSAND POUNDS were deficient and unaccounted for. Yes, and my own small fortune had been included in the amount of capital. The accountant had been careful and exact—there was not a flaw in his reckoning. The glaring discrepancy stared me in the face, and pronounced my ruin. I knew not what to think or do. In accents of the most earnest supplication, I entreated the accountant to pass the night in reviewing his labours, and to afford me, if possible, the means of rescuing my name from the obloquy which, in a few hours, must attach to it. I offered him any sum of money—all that he could ask—for his pains, and he promised to comply with my request. The idea that I had been the victim of a trick, a fraud, never glanced across my mind. No, when my wretchedness permitted me to think at all, I suspected and accused no one but myself. I could imagine and believe that, inadvertently, I had committed some great error when my soul had been darkened by the daily and hourly anxieties which had followed it so long. But how to discover it? How to make my innocence apparent to the world? How to face my uncle? How to brave the taunts of men? How, above all, to meet the huge demands which soon would press and fall upon me? The tortures of hell cannot exceed in acuteness all that I suffered that long and bitter night. The accountant was waiting for me in the parlour when I left my bed. He had spent the night as I had wished him but had not found one error in his calculations. I tore the papers from his hands, and strained my eyes upon the pages to extract the lie which existed there to damn me. It would not go—it could not be removed. I was a doomed, lost man. Whatever might be the consequence, I resolved to see my uncle, and to speak the truth. I relied upon the sympathy which I believed inherent in the nature of man. I relied upon my own integrity, and the serenity which conscious innocence should give. I met my uncle. I shall never forget that interview. He received me in his private house—in his drawing-room. We were alone. He sat at a table: his face was somewhat pale, but he was cool and undisturbed—ah, how much more so than his trembling sacrifice! I placed before him the condemning paper. It was that only that he cared to see. He looked at once to the result, and then, without a word, he turned his withering eye upon me.

"'I know it,' I cried out, not permitting him to speak. 'I know what you would say. It is a mystery, and I cannot solve it. There is a fearful error somewhere—but where I know not. I am as innocent—'

"'Innocent!' exclaimed my uncle, in a tone of bitterness, 'Well, go on, sir.'

"'Yes, innocent,' I repeated. 'Time will prove it, and make the mystery clear. My brain is now confused; but it cannot be that this gigantic error can escape me when I am calm—composed. Grant me but time.'

"'I grant nothing,' said my uncle, fiercely. 'Plunderer! I show no mercy. You would have shown me none—you would have left me in the lurch, and laughed at me as you made merry with your stolen wealth. Mark me, sir—restore it—labour till you have made it good, or I crush you—once, and for ever.'

"I was rendered speechless by these words. I attempted to make answer; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth—my throat grew dry and hot—my brain was dizzy, and the room swam round me. I thought of the name which I had been striving for years to build up—the honourable name which I had gained—the height from which I was about to fall—the yawning gulf below—a thousand painful thoughts rushed in one instant to my mind, and overcame me. I should have fallen to the earth, had not my heart found in my eyes a passage for its grief, and rendered me weaker than a child before a creature who had never felt the luxury of one human tear. I wept aloud and fearfully.

"'Guilt, guilt, palpable guilt!' exclaimed my uncle. 'None but the guilty weep. You do not take me by surprise, young man. I was prepared for this—I have but a word to say. Restore this money, or undertake to pay it back to me—to the last farthing of my lawful claim. Do this, and I forgive you, and forget your indiscretion. Refuse, and to-morrow you are a bankrupt and a beggar. Leave me, and take time for your decision. Come to me again this evening. If you fail—you may expect a visit in the morning.'

"This was said deliberately, but in a tone most expressive of sincerity. I staggered from his presence, and hurried homeward. A sickening sensation checked me as I approached my door. I could not enter it. I rushed away; and in the open fields, where I could weep and rave unnoticed and alone, I cursed my fate, and entreated heaven to smite me with its thunders. My mind was tottering. Hours passed before I reached the house again, how, when, or by what means I arrived there, I could not tell. The servant girl who gave me admittance looked savagely upon me, as I thought. It was sorrow, and not anger, that was written in her face; but how could I discriminate? Her mistress was seriously ill. She had been alarmed by the visit of a gentleman, who waited for me in the parlour, and by my protracted absence; and her agitation had brought on the pangs of labour. A physician was now with her. Who was this gentleman? I entered the room, and there the fiend sate, white with irritation and gnawing disappointment. I started back, but he advanced to me—held my papers to my face, and pointed to one portion of them with a finger that was alive with rage and agitation.

"'Is it true?' asked my uncle, gnashing his teeth. 'Answer me—yes or no?—one word, is it true?'

"'It is a lie!' I answered, ignorant of his meaning, and half crazed with the excitement. 'I am innocent—innocent—Heaven knows I am.'

"'Have you, or have you not given to Gilbert, for these heavy sums, a power of attorney? Has he got it? Answer me in a word.'

"'He advanced me money,' I replied, 'and I gave him such documents as he required.'

"'Enough!' said my uncle. 'You are a beggar!'—and without another word he left me.

"For a week my wife remained in a dangerous condition. Threatened with the loss of her, I did not leave her side. What was the business to me at such a time?—what was reputation—what life? Life!—sir, I carried about with me a potent poison, and I waited only for her latest breath to drink it off, and join her in the grave. She rallied, however, and once more I walked abroad—to find myself a bankrupt and a castaway. The very day that my uncle quitted me, he called my creditors together—exposed the state of my affairs—and accused me of the vilest practices. A docket was struck against me. Every thing that I possessed was dragged away—even to the bed on which my Anna had been cast, and which she so much needed now. Every thing was gone; but the blow had fallen, and I was callous to the loss. In the midst of the desolation I struggled to preserve one trifle from the common wreck. Do not smile, sir, when I mention my reputation. Yes, I felt that if it could be rescued all might be spared, and I might yet defy and shame my persecutors. I appealed to the commissioner who had charge of my estate. I proclaimed aloud, and in the face of men, my innocence. I conjured him to subject me to the severest trial—to compel the closest examination of my affairs—my books—and every individual connected with the house. I demanded it for the sake of justice—for my own sake, and for the sake of the poor creatures—I was a father now—whose fortunes were linked with mine, whose bread depended upon the verdict which should be pronounced against me. My passionate supplication was not in vain. The affairs of our house were looked into—the business that had been done for years was sifted—and clerks and men were subjected to every interrogatory that could elucidate a fact. At the end of six months it was publicly announced that an important error had been discovered—that the estimate given to me was incorrect, and by many thousand pounds greater than the true value.

"There had been a mistake! The bankrupt departed from the court without a blemish on his character. He had been indiscreet in entering heedlessly upon so large an undertaking, and must pay dearly for that in discretion. He was strictly liable and bound to pay what he had acknowledged with his hand to be a lawful debt. There was no help for him. The young man was worthy of commiseration, and his creditors should show him mercy." This was the verdict of the commissioner, spoken in the ears of one who was a stranger to mercy, and who had vowed to show me none. Guilt, however, attached to my good name no longer, and I smiled at his malignity. It was too soon to smile. The secret of all my difficulty was now explained. Trading upon a false capital, to an extravagant extent beyond the real one—draining my exchequer of its resources to pay an ever-recurring interest, whilst the principal was but a fiction in the estate, it was no wonder that I became hemmed in by claims impossible to meet, and that the services of Mr Gilbert were so soon in requisition. In giving to Mr Gilbert a power over the firm, I acted according to my ideas of justice. When I was impoverished, he furnished me with the means of keeping up the credit of the house. But for him it must have fallen. I believed that I was solvent. Why should I hesitate to make this man secure? But it is for this preference, which rendered my uncle's dividend comparatively nothing, that I have been followed through my life with rancour and malevolence unparalleled. Mark me, sir; the mistake, as it was called—the vital error—was a deliberate fraud committed by my uncle at the outset.

He had withdrawn this heavy sum of money at the beginning—he had resolved to keep me for my life his servant and his slave—to feast upon the dropping sweat of my exhausted mind—to convert my heart's blood into gold, which was his god. He hated me for my conduct towards him in my boyhood, which he had neither forgotten nor forgiven; and his detestation gave zest to his hellish desire of accumulating wealth at any cost. Had I applied to him, had I entered into new engagements with him, given to him the securities which, from a notion of right, I had presented to Gilbert—had I made over to the fiend soul as well as body, I might still have retained his friendship, still been permitted to labour and to toil for his aggrandizement and ease. It was Gilbert himself who revealed to me his patron's villany. It was time for the vultures to quarrel when they could not both fatten on my prostrate carcass; but they were bound together by the dark doings of years, and it was only by imperfect hints and innuendoes that I was made aware of their treachery. If proofs existed to convict my uncle, Gilbert could not afford to produce them. The price was life, or something short of it; but I heard enough for satisfaction. Although I was deprived of everything that I possessed, my mind recovered its buoyancy, and my spirit, after the first shock, grew sanguine. I had been proclaimed an innocent and injured man, and my beloved Anna was at my side smiling and rejoicing. In our overthrow, she beheld only the dark storm of morning, that sometimes ushers in the glorious noon and golden sunset. I spoke of the past with anger; she reverted to it with the chastened sorrow of a repentant angel. I looked to the future with distrust and apprehension, she, with a bright, abiding confidence. Never had she appeared so happy, so contented—never had the smile remained so constant to her cheek, so unalloyed with touch of care, as when we stood houseless and homeless in the world, and nothing but her fortitude and love were left me to rely upon. My first care after my dismission into life again, was to obtain my certificate from my creditors, and with almost all of them I was successful. The exceptions were my uncle, and three individuals—his creatures, and willing instruments of torture. They were sufficient to brand me with disgrace, and to affix for ever to my name that mark of infamy which an after life of virtue shall never wash away or hide. UNCERTIFICATED BANKRUPT was the badge I carried with me. From this period my decline was rapid and unequivocal. A creditor, who had not proved his debt upon the estate, hearing tell of my defenceless situation, cast me forthwith into prison. I will not tell you of the sufferings we endured during a two years' cruel incarceration. Starvation and its horrors came gradually upon us. Application upon application was made to my uncle; entreaties for nothing more than justice; and my poor meek Anna was turned with contumely from his doors. After years of privation, a glimmering of light stole in upon us, to be soon extinguished. I obtained temporary employment in a school far away from the scenes of my misery, and hither my evil fortune followed me. The schoolmaster was an ignorant, gross man. He gained my services for a song, and he treated me with disrespect in consequence. I had been with him about six months when some silver spoons were stolen from his house. The thief escaped detection; but the master received an anonymous communication, containing a false history of my life, with a true statement of my unfortunate position. He at once charged me with the crime of being an uncertificated bankrupt. I confessed to it, and the very day I was dragged before a magistrate on suspicion of felony. I was acquitted, it is true, for want of evidence; but what could acquit me—what could release me from the super-added stigma? An uncertificated bankrupt, and a suspected felon! Alas! the charity of man will not look further than the surface of things, and is it not secretly pleased to find there, rather an excuse for neglect, than a reason for exertion? Excited almost to madness by privation and want, and unable to get assistance from a human being, I visited my uncle. I could not see my wife and children drooping and sinking day by day, and not make one great struggle for their rescue. I resolved to accost him with meekness and humility—yes, to fall upon my knees and kiss the dust before him, so that he would fill their famished mouths. He would not see me. I watched for him in the street, and there addressed him. He reviled me—cast me off—provoked me to exasperation, and finally gave me into custody for an attempt upon his life. Again I was taken to the magistrate, but not again discharged so easily. My character and previous offences were exhibited. The magistrate, serious with judicial sorrow, looked upon me as you would turn an eye towards a reptile that defiles the earth. I appealed to him, and in a loud and animated voice proclaimed my grievances. It was suggested that I was a lunatic, and whilst the justice committed me to hard labour, he benevolently promised that the prison surgeon should visit me, and pronounce upon my fitness for Saint Luke's. It was during my temporary confinement for this offence, that I was seized with the illness from which I have never since been free. For three years I was unable to work for my family, and by the end of that period we were sunk into the lowest depths. My Anna sickened likewise; but as long as she was able she laboured for our support. We have been hunted and driven from place to place, and the little which we have been able to earn in our wanderings, has hardly kept us alive. Twice have I stolen a loaf of bread to appease the children's hunger. What could I do? I could not bear to see their languid glassy eyes, and hear their little voices imploring for the food—God knows, I could not let them die before my face—I could not be their murderer—I could not—"

"Stay, Mr Warton," said I, interrupting the narrator, "I have heard enough. Spare me for the present. Your statements must be corroborated. This is all I ask. Leave the rest to me."

If the reader has perused, with painful interest, the account that I have laid before him, let me gratify him with the intelligence that I have accomplished for this unfortunate family all that I could wish. Warton's account of himself was strengthened and confirmed by the strict enquiry which I set on foot immediately. He was, as he asserted, an innocent and injured man. Satisfied of this, I transmitted to the worthy judge, who had been moved by the man's misfortunes, a faithful history of his life. I was not disappointed here. It was that functionary who obtained for Warton the situation which he at present fills—and for his children the education which they are now receiving. Nor was this his first exertion on their behalf. It was he who furnished them with clothing on the night of the criminal's discharge. They are restored to happiness, to comfort, and to health. The moderate ambition of the faithful Anna is realized, and my vision is a vision no longer.

Reader, I have nothing more to add. I have told you a simple tale and a true one. It is for you to say whether it shall be—useless and uninstructive.

* * * * *

FREDERICK SCHLEGEL.[1]

[Footnote A: 1. Geschichte der alten und neuen Literatur von FRIEDRICH
SCHLEGEL. Neue auflage. Berlin, 1842.

2. Lectures on the History of Ancient and Modern Literature, from the German of Frederick Schlegel. New edition. Blackwood: Edinburgh and London, 1841.

3. The Philosophy of History, translated from the German of FRIEDRICH VON SCHLEGEL, with a Memoir of the Author, by JAMES BURTON ROBERTSON, Esq. In two vols. London, 1835. Reprinted in America, 1841.

4. Philosophie des Lebens von FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL. Wien, 1828.]

"I would not have you pin your faith too closely to these SCHLEGELS," said FICHTE one day at Berlin to VARNHAGEN VON ENSE, or one of his friends, in his own peculiar, cutting, commanding style—"I would not have you pin your faith to these Schlegels. I know them well. The elder brother wants depth, and the younger clearness. One good thing they both have—that is, hatred of mediocrity; but they have also both a great jealousy of the highest excellence; and, therefore, where they can neither be great themselves nor deny greatness in others, they, out of sheer desperation, fall into an outrageous strain of eulogizing. Thus they have bepraised Goethe, and thus they have bepraised me."[B]

[Footnote B: Denkwürdigkeiten von K. A. VARNHAGEN VON ENSE. Mannheim, 1837. Vol. ii. p. 60.]

Some people, from pride, don't like to be praised at all; and all sensible people, from propriety, don't like to be praised extravagantly: whether from pride or from propriety, or from a mixture of both, philosopher Fichte seemed to have held in very small account the patronage with which he was favoured at the hands of the twin aesthetical dictators, the Castor and Pollux of romantic criticism; and, strange enough also, poet Goethe, who had worship enough in his day, and is said to have been somewhat fond of the homage, chimes in to the same tune thus: "the Schlegels, with all their fine natural gifts, have been unhappy men their life long, both the one and the other; they wished both to be and do something more than nature had given them capacity for; and accordingly they have been the means of bringing about not a little harm both in art and literature. From their false principles in the fine arts—principles which, however much trumpeted and gospeled about, were in fact egotism united with weakness—our German artists have not yet recovered, and are filling the exhibitions, as we see, with pictures which nobody will buy. Frederick, the younger of these Dioscouri, choked himself at last with the eternal chewing of moral and religious absurdities, which, in his uncomfortable passage through life, he had collected together from all quarters, and was eager to hawk about with the solemn air of a preacher to every body: he accordingly betook himself, as a last refuge, to Catholicism, and drew after him, as a companion to his own views, a man of very fair but falsely overwrought talent—Adam Müller.

"As for their Sanscrit studies again, that was at bottom only a pis aller. They were clear-sighted enough to perceive that neither Greek nor Latin offered any thing brilliant enough for them; they accordingly threw themselves into the far East; and in this direction, unquestionably, the talent of Augustus William manifests itself in the most honourable way. All that, and more, time will show. Schiller never loved them: hated them rather; and I think it peeps out of our correspondence how I did my best, in our Weimar circles at least, to keep this dislike from coming to an open difference. In the great revolution which they actually effected, I had the luck to get off with a whole skin, (sie liessen mich noth dürftig stehen,) to the great annoyance of their romantic brother Novalis, who wished to have me simpliciter deleted. 'Twas a lucky thing for me, in the midst of this critical hubbub, that I was always too busy with myself to take much note of what others were saying about me.

"Schiller had good reason to be angry with them. With their aesthetical denunciations and critical club-law, it was a comparatively cheap matter for them to knock him down in a fashion; but Schiller had no weapons that could prostrate them. He said to me on one occasion, displeased with my universal toleration even for what I did not like. 'KOTZEBUE, with his frivolous fertility, is more respectable in my eyes than that barren generation, who, though always limping themselves, are never content with bawling out to those who have legs—STOP!'"[C]

[Footnote C: Briefwechse Zwischen GOETHE und ZELTER. Berlin, 1834. Vol. vi. p. 318.]

That there is some truth in these severe remarks, the paltry personal squibs in the Leipzig Almanach for 1832, which called them forth, with regard to Augustus Schlegel at least, sufficiently show: but there is a general truth involved in them also, which the worthy fraternity of us who, in this paper age, wield the critical pen, would do well to take seriously to heart; and it is this, that great poets and philosophers have a natural aversion as much to be praised and patronized, as to be rated and railed at by great critics; and very justly so. For as a priest is a profane person, who makes use of his sacred office mainly to show his gods about, (so to speak,) that people may stare at them, and worship him; so a critic who forgets his inferior position in reference to creative genius, so far as to assume the air of legislation and dictatorship, when explanation and commentary are the utmost he can achieve, has himself only to blame, if, after his noisy trumpet has blared itself out, he reaps only ridicule from the really witty, and reproof from the substantially wise. Not that a true philosopher or poet shrinks from, and does not rather invite, true criticism. The evil is not in the deed, but in the manner of doing it. Here, as in all moral matters, the tone of the thing is the soul of the thing. And in this view, the blame which Fichte and Goethe attach to the Schlegels, amounts substantially to this, not that in their critical vocation the romantic brothers wanted either learning or judgment generally, but that they were too ambitious, too pretenceful, too dictatorial that they must needs talk on all subjects, and always as if they were the masters and the lions, when they were only the servants and the exhibitors; that they made a serious business of that which is often best done when it is done accidentally, viz. discussing what our neighbours are about, instead of doing something ourselves; and that they attempted to raise up an independent literary reputation, nay, and even to found a new poetical school, upon mere criticism—an attempt which, with all due respect for Aristarchus and the Alexandrians, is, and remains, a literary impossibility.

But was Frederick Schlegel merely a critic? No He was a philosopher also, and not a vulgar one; and herein lies the foundation of his fame. His criticism, also, was thoroughly and characteristically a philosophical criticism; and herein mainly, along with its vastness of erudition and comprehensiveness of view, lies the foundation of its fame. To understand the criticism thoroughly, one must first understand the philosophy. Will the _un_philosophical English reader have patience with us for a few minutes while we endeavour to throw off a short sketch of the philosophy of Frederick Schlegel? If the philosophical system of a transcendental German and Viennese Romanist, can have small intrinsic practical value to a British Protestant, it may extrinsically be of use even to him as putting into his hands the key to one of the most intellectual, useful, an popular books of modern times—"The history of ancient and modern literature, by Frederick Von Schlegel,"—a book, moreover, which is not merely "a great national possession of the Germans," as by one of themselves it has been proudly designated, but has also, through the classical translation of Mr Lockhart,[D] been made the peculiar property of English literature.

[Footnote D: Lectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and Modern.
Blackwoods, Edinburgh, 1841.]

In the first chapter of his "Philosophie des Lebens," the Viennese lecturer states very clearly the catholic and comprehensive ground which all philosophy must take that would save itself from dangerous error. The philosopher must start from the complete living totality of man, formed as he is, not of flesh merely, a Falstaff—or of spirit merely, a Simon Pillarman and Total Abstinence Saint—but of both flesh and spirit, body and soul, in his healthy and normal condition. For this reason clearly—true philosophy is not merely sense-derived and material like the French philosophy of Helvetius, nor altogether ideal like that of Plotinus, and the pious old mathematical visionaries at Alexandria; but it stands on mother earth, like old Antaeus drinking strength therefrom, and filches fire at the same time, Prometheus-like, from heaven, feeding men with hopes—not, as Aeschylus says, altogether "blind," ([Greek: tuphlas d eu autois elôidas katôkioa)] but only blinking. Don't court, therefore, if you would philosophize wisely, too intimate an acquaintance with your brute brother, the baboon—a creature, whose nature speculative naturalists have most cunningly set forth by the theory, that it is a parody which the devil, in a fit of ill humour, made upon God's noblest work, man; and don't hope, on the other hand, as many great saints and sages have done, by prayer and fasting, or by study and meditation, to work yourself up to a god, and jump bodily out of your human skin. Assume as the first postulate, and lay it down as the last proposition of your "philosophy of life," that a man is neither a brute, nor a god nor an angel, but simply and sheerly a MAN. Furthermore, as man is not only a very comprehensive and complex, but also, (to appearance at least,) in many points, a very contrary and contradictory creature, see that you take the whole man along with you into your metaphysical chamber; for if there be one paper that has a bearing in the case amissing out of your green bag, (which has happened only too often,) the evidence will be imperfect, and the sentence false or partial—shake your wig as you please. Remember, that though you may be a very subtle logician, the soul of man is not all made up of logic; remember that reason, (Vernunft,) the purest that Kant ever criticized withal, is not the proper vital soul in man; is not the creative and productive faculty in intellect at all, but is merely the tool of that which, in philosophers no less than in poets, is the proper inventive power, IMAGINATION, as Wordsworth phrases it: Schlegel's word is fantasie. Remember that in more cases than academic dignities may be willing to admit, the heart (where a man has one) is the only safe guide, the only legitimate ruler of the head; and that a mere metaphysician, and solitary speculator, however properly trimmed,

"One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling
Nor form nor feeling, great nor small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual all-in-all,"

may write very famous books, profound even to unintelligibility, but can never be a philosopher. Therefore reject Hegel, "that merely thinking, on a barren heath speculating, self-sufficient, self-satisfied little EGO;"[E] and consider Kant as weighed in the balance and found wanting on his own showing: for if that critical portal of pure reason had indeed been sufficient, as it gave itself out to be, for all the purposes of a human philosophy, what need was there of the "practical back-door" which, at the categorical command of conscience, was afterwards laid open to all men in the "Metaphysic of Ethics?" As little will you allow your philosophical need to be satisfied with any thing you can get from SCHELLING; for however well it sounds to "throw yourself from the transcendental emptiness of ideal reason into the warm embrace of living and luxuriant nature," here also you will find yourself haunted by the intellectual phantom of absolute identity, (say absolute inanity,) or in its best phasis a "pantheizing deification of nature." Strange enough as it may seem, the true philosophy is to be found any where rather than among philosophers. Each philosopher builds up a reasoned system of a part of existence; but life is based upon God-given instincts and emotions, with which reason has nothing to do; and nature contains many things which it is not given to mortal brain to comprehend, much less to systematize. True philosophy is not to be found in any intellectual system, much less in any of the Aristotelian quality, where the emotional element in man is excluded or subordinated; but in a living experience. To know philosophy, therefore, first know life. To learn to philosophize, learn to live; and live not partially, but with the full outspread vitality of human reason. You go to college, and, as if you were made altogether of head, expect some Peter Abelard forthwith, by academic disputation, to reason you into manhood; but neither manhood nor any vital WHOLE ever was learned by reasoning. Pray, therefore, to the Author of all good, in the first place, that you may be something rather than that you may know something. Get yourself planted in God's garden, and learn to GROW. Woo the sun of life, which is love, and the breeze which is enthusiasm, an impulse from that same creative Spirit, which, brooding upon the primeval waters, out of void brought fulness, and out of chaos a world.

[Footnote E: This is Menzel's phrase, not Schlegel's. "Hegel's centrum war ein blos denkendes, auf öder Heide spekulirendes, kleines, suffisantes, selbstgenügsames Ichlein." The untranslatable beauty of the German is in the diminutive with which the sentence closes. It is difficult to say whether Menzel or Schlegel shows the greater hostility to the poor Berlin philosopher.]

Such, shortly, so far as we can gather, is the main scope, popularly stated, of Frederick Schlegel's philosophy, as it is delivered in his two first lectures on the philosophy of life, the first being titled, "Of the thinking soul, or the central point of consciousness;" and the second, "Of the loving soul, or the central point of moral life." The healthy-toned reader, who has been exercised in speculations of this kind, will feel at once that there is much that is noble in all this, and much that is true; but not a little also, when examined in detail, of that sublime-sounding sweep of despotic generality, (so inherent a vice of German literature,) which delights to confound the differences, rather than to discriminate the characters, of things; much that seems only too justly to warrant that oracular sentence of the stern Fichte with which we set out, "The younger brother wants clearness;" much that, when applied to practice, and consistently followed out in that grand style of consistency which belongs to a real German philosopher, becomes what we in English call Puseyism and Popery, and what Goethe in German called a "chewing the cud of moral and religious absurdities." But we have neither space nor inclination, in this place, to make an analysis of the Schlegelian philosophy, or to set forth how much of it is true and how much of it is false. Our intention was merely to sketch a rapid outline, in as popular phrase as philosophy would allow itself to be clothed in; to finish which outline without extraneous remark, with the reader's permission, we now proceed.

If man be not, according to Aristotle's phrase, a [Greek: zôon logikon] in his highest faculty, a ratiocinative, but rather an emotional and imaginative animal; and if to start from, as to end, in mere reason, be in human psychology a gross one-sidedness, much more in theology is such a procedure erroneous, and altogether perverse. If not the smallest poem of a small poet ever came to him from mere reason, but from something deeper and more vital, much less are the strong pulsations of pure emotion, the deep-seated convictions of religious faith in the inner man, to be spoke of as things that mere reason can either assert or deny; and in fact we see, when we look narrowly into the great philosophical systems that have been projected by scheming reasoners in France and Germany, each man out of his own brain, that they all end either in materialism and atheism on the one hand, or in idealism and pantheism on the other. All our philosophers have stopped short of that one living, personal, moral God, on whose existence alone humanity can confidently repose—who alone can give to the trembling arch of human speculation that keystone which it demands. The idea of God, in fact, is not a thing that individual reason has first to strike out, so to speak, by the collision or combination of ideas, the collocation of proofs, and the concatenation of arguments. It is a living growth rather of our whole nature, a primary instinct of all moral beings, a necessary postulate of healthy humanity, which is given and received as our life and our breath is, and admits not of being reasoned into any soul that has it not already from other sources. And as no philosopher of Greek or German times that history tells of, ever succeeded yet in inventing a satisfactory theology, or establishing a religion in which men could find solace to their souls, therefore it is clear that that satisfactory Christian theology and Christian religion which we have, and not only that, but all the glimpses of great theological truth that are found twinkling through the darkness of a widespread superstition, came originally from God by common revelation, and not from man by private reasoning. The knowledge of God and a living theology is, in fact, a simple science of experience like any other, only of a peculiar quality and higher in degree. All true human knowledge in moral matters rests on experience, internal or external, higher or lower, on tradition, on language as the bearer of tradition, on revelation; while that false, monstrous, and unconditioned science to which the pride of human reason has always aspired, which would grasp at every thing at once by one despotic clutch, and by a violent bound of logic bestride and beride the ALL, is, and remains, an oscillating abortion that always would be something, and always can be nothing. A living, personal, moral God, the faith of nations, the watch-word of tradition, the cry of nature, the demand of mind, received not invented, existing in the soul not reasoned into it—this is the gravitating point of the moral world, the only intelligible centre of any world; from which whatsoever is centrifugal errs, and to which whatsoever is opposed is the devil.

Not private speculation, therefore, or famous philosophies of any kind, but the living spiritual man, and the totality of the living flow of sacred tradition on which he is borne, and with which he is encompassed, are the two grand sources of "the philosophy of life." Let us follow these principles, now, into a few of their wide-spread streams and multiform historical branchings. First, the Bible clearly indicates what the profoundest study of the earliest and most venerable literatures confirms, that man was not created at first in a brutish state, crawling with a slow and painful progress out of the dull slime of a half organic state into apehood, and from apehood painfully into manhood; but he was created perfect in the image of God, and has fallen from his primeval glory. This is to be understood not only of the state of man before the Fall as recorded in the two first chapters of Genesis; but every thing in the Bible, and the early traditions of famous peoples, warrants us to believe, that the first ages of men before the Flood, were spiritually enlightened from one great common source of extraordinary aboriginal revelation; so that the earliest ages of the world were not the most infantine and ignorant to a comprehensive survey, as modern conceit so fondly imagines, but the most gigantic and the most enlightened. That beautiful but material and debasing heathenism, with which our Greek and Latin education has made us so familiar, is only a defaced fragment of the venerable whole which preceded it, that old and true heathenism of the holy aboriginal fathers of our race. "There were GIANTS on the earth in those days." We read this; but who believes it? We ought seriously to consider what it means, and adopt it bona fide into our living faith of man, and man's history. Like the landscape of some Alpine country, where the primeval granite Titans, protruding their huge shoulders every where above us and around, make us feel how petty and how weak a thing is man; so ought our imagination to picture the inhabitants of the world before the Flood. Nobility precedes baseness always, and truth is more ancient than error. Antediluvian man—antediluvian nature, is to be imaged as nobler in every respect, more sublime and more pure than postdiluvian man, and postdiluvian nature. But mighty energies, when abused, produce mighty corruptions; hence the gigantic scale of the sins into which the antediluvian men fell; and the terrible precipitation of humanity which followed. This is a point of primary importance, in every attempt to understand how to estimate the value of that world-famous Greek philosophy, which is commonly represented as the crown and the glory of the ancient world. All that Pythagoras and Plato ever wrote of noble and elevating truths, are merely flashes of that primeval light, in the full flood of which, man, in his more perfect antediluvian state, delighted to dwell; and it is remarkable in the case of Pythagoras, Anaxagoras, Thales, and so many other of the Greek philosophers, that the further we trace them back, we come nearer to the divine truth, which, in the systems of Epicurus, Aristippus, Zeno, or the shallow or cold philosophers of later origin, altogether disappears. Pythagoras and Plato were indeed divinely gifted with a scientific presentiment of the great truths of Christianity soon to be revealed, or say rather restored to the world; while Aristotle, on the other hand, is to be regarded as the father of those unhappy academical schismatics from the Great Church of living humanity, who allowed the ministrant faculty of reason to assume an unlawful supremacy over the higher powers of intellect, and gave birth to that voracious despotism of barren dialectics, in the middle ages commonly called the scholastic philosophy. The Greek philosophy, however, even its noblest Avatar, Plato, much less in the case of a Zeno or an Aristotle, was never able to achieve that which must be the practically proposed end of all higher philosophy that is in earnest; viz. the coming out of the narrow sphere of the school and the palaestra, uniting itself with actual life, and embodying itself completely in the shape of that which we call a CHURCH. This Platonism could not do. Christianity did it. Revelation did it. God Incarnate did it. Now once again came humanity forth, fresh from the bosom of the divine creativeness, conquering and to conquer. There was no Aristotle and Plato—no Abelard and Bernard here—reason carping at imagination, and imagination despising reason. But once, if but once in four thousand years, man appeared in all the might of his living completeness. Love walked hand in hand with knowledge, and both were identified in life. The spirit of divine peace brooded in the inner sanctuary of the heart, while the outer man was mailed for the sternest warfare. Such was pure Christianity, so long as it lasted—for the celestial plant was condemned to grow in a terrestrial atmosphere; and there, alas! it could only grow with a stunted likeness of itself. It was more than stunted also—it was tainted; for are not all things tainted here? Do we not live in a tainted atmosphere? do we not live in a time out of joint? Does not the whole creation literally groan? Too manifestly it does, however natural philosophers may affect to speak of the book of nature, as if it were the clear and uncorrupted text of the living book of God. Not only man, but the whole environment of external nature, which belongs to him, has been deranged by the Fall. In such a world as this, wherein whoso will not believe a devil cannot believe a God, it was impossible for Christianity to remain in that state of blissful vital harmony with itself with which it set out. It became divided. Extravagant developments of ambitious, monopolizing faculties became manifest on every side. Self-sufficing Pelagianisn and Arianism, here; self-confounding Gnosticism and Manichaeism there. Then came those two great strifes and divisions of the middle ages—the one, that old dualism of the inner man, the ever-repeated strife between reason and imagination, to which we have so often alluded—the other, a no less serious strife of the outward machinery of life, the strife between the spiritual and the temporal powers, between the Pope and the Emperor. This was bad enough; that the two vicars of God on earth should not know to keep the peace among themselves, when the keeping of the peace among others was the very end and aim of the appointment. But worse times were coming. For in the middle ages, notwithstanding the rank evils of barren scholasticism, secular-minded popes, and intrusive emperors, there was still a church, a common Christian religion, a common faith of all Christians; but now, since that anarchical and rebellious movement, commonly called the Reformation, but more fitly termed the revolution, the overturning and overthrowing of the religion of Christendom, we have no more a mere internal strife and division to vex us, but there is an entire separation and divorce of one part of the Christian church (so called) from the main mother institution. The abode of peace has become the camp of war and the arena of battles; that dogmatical theology of the Christian church, which, if it be not the infallible pure mathematics of the moral world, has been deceiving men for 1800 years, and is a liar—that theology is now publicly discussed and denied, scorned and scouted by men who do not blush to call themselves Christians; there is no universal peace any longer to be found in that region where it is the instinct of humanity, before all things, to seek repose; the only religious peace which the present age recognises, is that of which the Indian talks, when he says of certain epochs of the world's history, Brahma sleeps! Those who sleep and are indifferent in spiritual matters find peace; but those who are alive and awake must beat the wind, and battle, belike, with much useless loss of strength, before they can arrive even at that first postulate of all healthy thinking—there is a God. "Ueber Gott werd ich nie streiten," said Herder. "About God I will never dispute." Yet look at German rationalism, look at Protestant theology—what do you see there? Reason usurping the mastery in each individual, without control of the higher faculties of the soul, and of those institutions in life by which those faculties are represented; and as one man's reason is as good as another's, thence arises war of each self-asserted despotism against that which happens to be next it, and of all against all—a spiritual anarchy, which threatens the entire dissolution of the moral world, and from which there is no refuge but in recurring to the old traditionary faith of a revolted humanity, no redemption but in the venerable repository of those traditions—the one and indivisible holy Catholic church of Christ, of whom, as the inner and eternal keystone is God, so the outer and temporal is the Pope.

Such is a general outline of the philosophy of Frederick Schlegel—a philosophy belonging to the class theological and supernatural, to the genus Christian, to the species sacerdotal and Popish. Now, without stopping here to blame its sublime generalities and beautiful confusions, on the one hand, or to praise its elevated tendency, its catholic and reconciling tone on the other, we shall merely call attention, in a single sentence, physiologically, to its main and distinguishing character. It was, in fact, (in spirit and tendency, though not in outward accomplishment,) to German literature twenty years ago what Puseyism is now to the English church—it was a bold and grand attempt to get rid of those vexing doubts and disputes on the most important subjects that will ever disquiet minds of a certain constitution, so long as they have nothing to lean on but their own judgment; and as Protestantism, when consistently carried out, summarily throws a man back on his individual opinion, and subjects the vastest and most momentous questions to the scrutiny of reason and the torture of doubt, therefore Schlegel in literary Germany, and Pusey in ecclesiastical England, were equally forced, if they would not lose Christianity altogether, to renounce Protestantism, and to base their philosophy upon sacerdotal authority and ecclesiastical tradition. That Schlegel became a Romanist at Cologne, and Dr Pusey an Anglo-Catholic at Oxford, does not affect the kinship. Both, to escape from the anarchy of Protestant individualism, (as it was felt by them,) were obliged to assert not merely Christianity, but a hierarchy—not merely the Bible, but an authoritative interpretation of the Bible; and both found, or seemed to find, that authoritative interpretation and exorcism of doubt there, where alone in their circumstances, and intellectually constituted as they were, it was to be found. Dr Pusey did not become a Papist like Frederick Schlegel, for two plain reasons—first, because he was an Englishman, second, because he was an English churchman. The authority which he sought for lay at his door; why should he travel to Rome for it? Archbishop Laud had taught apostolical succession before—Dr Pusey might teach it again. But this convenient prop of Popery without the Pope was not prepared for Frederick Schlegel. There was no Episcopal church, no Oxford in Germany, into whose bosom he could throw himself, and find relief from the agony of religious doubt. He was a German, moreover, and a philosopher. To his searching eye and circumspective wariness, the general basis of tradition which might satisfy a Pusey, though sufficiently broad, did not appear sure enough. To his lofty architectural imagination a hierarchical aristocracy, untopped by a hierarchical monarch, did not appear sufficiently sublime. To his all-comprehending and all-combining historical sympathies, a Christian priesthood, with Cyprian, Augustine, and Jerome, but without Hildebrand, Innocent, and Boniface, would have presented the appearance of a fair landscape, with a black yawning chasm in the middle, into which whoever looked shuddered. Therefore Frederick Schlegel, spurning all half measures, inglorious compromises, and vain attempts to reconcile the irreconcilable, vaulted himself at once, with a bold leap, into the central point of sacerdotal Christianity. The obstacles that would have deterred ordinary minds had no effect on him. All points of detail were sunk in the over-whelming importance of the general question. Transubstantiation or consubstantiation, conception, maculate or immaculate, were a matter of small moment with him. What he wanted was a divinely commissioned church with sacred mysteries—a spiritual house of refuge from the weary battle of intellectual east winds, blasting and barren, with which he saw Protestant Germany desolated. This house of refuge he found in Cologne, in Vienna; and having once made up his mind that spiritual unity and peace were to be found only in the one mother church of Christendom, not being one of those half characters who, "making I dare not wait upon I would," are continually weaving a net of paltry external no's to entangle the progress of every grand decided yes of the inner man, Schlegel did not for a moment hesitate to make his thought a deed, and publicly profess his return to Romanism in the face of enlightened and "ultra-Protestant" Germany. To do this certainly required some moral courage; and no just judge of human actions will refuse to sympathize with the motive of this one, however little he may feel himself at liberty to agree with the result.

But Frederick Schlegel, a well informed writer has said,[F] "became Romanist in a way peculiar to himself, and had in no sense given up his right of private judgment." We have not been able to see, from a careful perusal of his works, (in all of which there is more or less of theology,) that there is any foundation for this assertion of Varnhagen. Frederick Schlegel, the German, was as honest and stout a Romanist in this nineteenth century as any Spanish Ferdinand Catholicus in the fifteenth. Freedom of speculation indeed, within certain known limits, and spirituality of creed above what the meagre charity of some Protestants may conceive possible in a Papist, we do find in this man; but these good qualities a St Bernard, a Dante, a Savonarola, a Fénélon, had exhibited in the Romish Church before Schlegel, and others as great may exhibit them again. Freedom of thought, however, in the sense in which it is understood by Protestants, was the very thing which Schlegel, Göres, Adam Müller, and so many others, did give up when they entered the Catholic Church. They felt as Wordsworth did when he wrote his beautiful ode to "Duty;" they had more liberty than they knew how to use—

"Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires;
My hopes no more must change their name—
I long for a repose that ever is the same."

And if it seem strange to any one that Frederick Schlegel, the learned, the profound, the comprehensive, should believe in Transubstantiation,[G] let him look at a broader aspect of history than that of German books, and ask himself—Did Isabella of Castile—the gentle, the noble, the generous—establish the Inquisition, or allow Ximenes to establish it? In a world which surrounds us on all sides with apparent contradictions, he who admits a real one now and then into his faith, or into his practice, is neither a fool nor a monster.

[Footnote F: Varnhagen Von Ense, Rahel's Umgang, i. p. 227. "Er war auf besondere Weise Katholisch, und hatte seine Geistesfreiheit dabei gar nicht aufgegeben.">[

[Footnote G: The following is Schlegel's philosophy of transubstantiation—"Though it be true, that in the Holy Scriptures, in accordance with the symbolical nature of man, there is much that is generally symbolical, and symbolically to be understood; yet when a symbol proceeds immediately from God, it can in this case be nothing less than substantial; it cannot be a mere sign, it must also be something actual; otherwise it would be as if one would palm on the eternal LOGOS, who is the ground of all existence and all knowledge, words without meaning and without power. Quite natural, therefore, it must be regarded, i.e. quite suitable to the nature of the thing, although per se certainly supernatural, and surpassing all comprehension, when that highest symbol which forms the proper principle of unity, and the living central point of Christianity, is perceived to possess this character, that it is at once the sign and the thing signified. For now, that on the high altar of divine love the one great sacrifice has been accomplished for ever, and no flame more can rise from it save the inspiration of a pure God-united will, that solemn act by which the bond formed between the soul and God is from time to time revealed, can consist in nothing else than this—that here the essential substance of the divine power and the divine love is in all its lively fullness communicated to, and received by man, as the miraculous sign of his union with God."—Philosophie des Lebene, p. 376. On the logic of this remarkable passage, those who are strong in Mill and Whately may decide; its orthodoxy belongs to the consideration of the Tridentine doctors.]

In his political opinions, Schlegel maintained the same grand consistency that characterizes his religious philosophy. He had more sense, however, and more of the spirit of Christian fraternity in him than, for the sake of absolutism, to become a Turk or a Russian; nay, from some passages in the Concordia—a political journal, published by him and his friend Adam Müller, in 1820, and quoted by Mr Robertson—it would almost appear that he would have preferred a monarchy limited by states, conceived in the spirit of the middle ages, to the almost absolute form of monarchical government, under whose protection he lived and lectured at Vienna. To some such constitution as that which now exists in Sweden, for instance, we think he would have had no objections. At the same time, it is certain he gave great offence to the constitutional party in Germany, by the anti-popular tone of his writings generally, more perhaps than by any special absolutist abuses which he had publicly patronized. He was, indeed, a decided enemy to the modern system of representative constitutions, and popular checks; a king by divine right according to the idea of our English nonjurors, was as necessary a corner-stone to his political, as a pope by apostolical succession to his ecclesiastical edifice. And as no confessed corruption of the church, represented as it might be by the monstrous brutality of a Borgia, or the military madness of a Julius, was, in his view, sufficient to authorize any hasty Luther to make a profane bonfire of a papal bull; any hot Henry to usurp the trade of manufacturing creeds; so no "sacred right of insurrection," no unflinching patriotic opposition, no claim of rights, (by petitioners having swords in their hands,) are admissible in his system of a Christian state. And as for the British constitution, and "the glorious Revolution of 1688," this latter, indeed, is one of the best of a bad kind, and that boasted constitution as an example of a house divided against itself, and yet not falling, is a perfect miracle of dynamical art, a lucky accident of politics, scarcely to be looked for again in the history of social development, much less to be eagerly sought after and ignorantly imitated. Nay, rather, if we look at this boasted constitution a little more narrowly, and instruct ourselves as to its practical working, what do we see? "Historical experience, the great teacher of political science, manifestly shows that in these dynamical states, which exist by the cunningly devised balance and counter-balance of different powers, what is called governing is, in truth, a continual strife and contention between the Ministry and the Opposition, who seem to delight in nothing so much as in tugging and tearing the state and its resources to pieces between them, while the hallowed freedom of the hereditary monarch seems to serve only as an old tree, under whose shades the contending parties may the more comfortably choose their ground, and fight out their battles."[H] It is but too manifest, indeed, according to Schlegel's projection of the universe, that all constitutionalism is, properly speaking, a sort of political Protestantism, a fretful fever of the social body, having its origin (like the religious epidemic of the sixteenth century) in the private conceit of the individual, growing by violence and strife, and ending in dissolution. This is the ever-repeated refrain of his political discourses, puerile enough, it may be, to our rude hearing in Britain, but very grateful to polite and patriotic ears at Vienna, when the cannon of Wagram was yet sounding in audible echo beneath their towers. The propounder of such philosophy had not only the common necessity of all philosophers to pile up his political in majestic consistency with his ecclesiastical creed, but he had also to pay back the mad French liberalism with something more mad if possible, and more despotic. And if also Danton, and Mirabeau, and Robespierre, and other terrible Avatars of the destroying Siva in Paris, had raised his naturally romantic temperament a little into the febrile and delirious now and then, what wonder? Shall the devil walk the public streets at noon day, and men not be afraid?

[Footnote H: Philosophie des Lebens, p.407.]

We said that Frederick Schlegel's philosophy, political and religious, but chiefly religious, was the grand key to his popular work on the history of literature. We may illustrate this now by a few instances. In the first place, the "many-sided" Goethe seems to be as little profound as he is charitable, when he sees nothing in the Sanscrit studies of the romantic brothers but a pis aller, and a vulgar ambition to bring forward something new, and make German men stare. We do not answer for the elder brother; but Frederick certainly made the cruise to the east, as Columbus did to the west, from a romantic spirit of adventure. He was not pleased with the old world—he wished to find a new world more to his mind, and, beyond the Indus, he found it. The Hindoos to him were the Greeks of the aboriginal world—"diese Griechen der Urwelt"—and so much better and more divine than the western Greeks, as the aboriginal world was better and more divine than that which came after it. If imagination was the prime, the creative faculty in man, here, in the holy Eddas, it had sat throned for thousands of years as high as the Himalayas. If repose was sought for, and rest to the soul from the toil and turmoil of religious wars in Europe, here, in the secret meditations of pious Yooges, waiting to be absorbed into the bosom of Brahma, surely peace was to be found. Take another matter. Why did Frederick Schlegel make so much talk of the middle ages? Why were the times, so dark to others, instinct to him with a steady solar effluence, in comparison of which the boasted enlightenment of these latter days was but as the busy exhibition of squibs by impertinent boys, the uncertain trembling of fire-flies in a dusky twilight? The middle ages were historically the glory of Germany; and those who had lived to see and to feel the Confederation of the Rhine, and the Protectorate of Napoleon, did not require the particular predilections of a Schlegel to carry them back with eager reaction to the days of the Henries, the Othos, and the Fredericks, when to be the German emperor was to be the greatest man in Europe, after the Pope. But to Schlegel the middle ages were something more. The glory of Germany to the patriot, they were the glory of Europe to the thinker. Modern wits have laughed at the enthusiasm of the Crusades. Did they weep over the perfidy of the partition of Poland? Do they really trust themselves to persuade a generous mind that the principle of mutual jealousy and mere selfishness, the meagre inspiration of the so called balance of power in modern politics, is, according to any norm of nobility in action, a more laudable motive for a public war, than a holy zeal against those who were at once the enemies of Christ, and (as future events but too clearly showed) the enemies of Europe? Modern wits sneer at the scholastic drivelling or the cloudy mistiness of the writers of the middle ages. Did they ever blush for the impious baseness of Helvetius, for the portentous scaffolding of notional skeletons in Hegel? But, alas! we talk of we know not what. What spectacle does modern life present equal to that of St Bernard, the pious monk of Clairvaux, the feeble, emaciated thinker, brooding, with his dove-like eyes, ("oculos columbinos,") over the wild motions of the twelfth century, and by the calm might of divine love, guiding the sceptre of the secular king, and the crosier of the spiritual pontiff alike? Was that a weak or a dark age, when the strength of mind and the light of love could triumph so signally over brute force, and that natural selfishness of public motive which has achieved its cold, glittering triumphs in the lives of so many modern heroes and heroines—a Louis, a Frederick, a Catharine, a Napoleon? But indeed here, as elsewhere, we see that the modern world has fallen altogether into a practical atheism by the idolatry of mere reason; whereas all true greatness comes not down from the head, but up from the heart of man. In which greatness of the heart, the Bernards and the Barbarossas of the middle ages excelled; and therefore they were better than we.

It is by no means necessary for the admirer of Schlegel to maintain that all this eulogium of the twelfth century, or this depreciation of the times we live in, is just and well-merited. Nothing is more cheap than to praise a pretty village perched far away amid the blue skies, and to rail at the sharp edges and corners of things that fret against our ribs. Let it be admitted that there is not a little of artistical decoration, and a great deal of optical illusion, in the matter; still there is some truth, some great truth, that lay in comparative neglect till Schlegel brought it into prominency. This is genuine literary merit; it is that sort of discovery, so to speak, which makes criticism original. And it was not merely with the bringing forward of new materials, but by throwing new lights on the old, that Frederick Schlegel enriched aesthetical science. If the criticism of the nineteenth century may justly boast of a more catholic sympathy, of a wider flight, of a more comprehensive view, and more various feast than that which it superseded, it owes this, with something that belongs to the spirit of the age generally, chiefly to the special captainship of Frederick Schlegel. If the grand spirit of combination and comprehension which distinguishes the "Lectures on Ancient and Modern Literature," be that quality which mainly distinguishes the so called Romantic from the Classical school of aesthetics, then let us profess ourselves Romanticists by all means immediately; for the one seems to include the other as the genus does the species. The beauty of Frederick Schlegel is, that his romance arches over every thing like a sky, and excludes nothing; he delights indeed to override every thing despotically, with one dominant theological and ecclesiastical idea, and now and then, of course, gives rather a rough jog to whatever thing may stand in his way; but generally he seeks about with cautious, conscientious care to find room for every thing; and for a wholesale dealer in denunciation (as in some views we cannot choose but call him) is really the most kind, considerate, and charitable Aristarchus that ever wielded a pen. Hear what Varnhagen Von Ense says on this point—"The inward character of this man, the fundamental impulses of his nature, the merit or the results of his intellectual activity, have as yet found none to describe them in such a manner as he has often succeeded in describing others. It is not every body's business to attempt an anatomy and re-combination of this kind. One must have courage, coolness, profound study, wide sympathies, and a free comprehensiveness, to keep a steady footing and a clear eye in the midst of this gigantic, rolling conglomeration of contradictions, eccentricities, and singularities of all kinds. Here every sort of demon and devil, genius and ghost, Lucinde and Charlemagne, Alarcos, Maria, Plato, Spinoza and Bonald, Goethe consecrated and Goethe condemned, revolution and hierarchy, reel about restlessly, come together, and, what is the strangest thing of all, do not clash. For Schlegel, however many Protean shapes he might assume, never cast away any thing that had ever formed a substantial element in his intellectual existence, but found an advocatus Dei to plead always with a certain reputable eloquence even for the most unmannerly of them; and with good reason too, for in his all-appropriating and curiously combining soul, there did exist a living connexion between the most apparently contradictory of his ideas. To point out this connexion, to trace the secret thread of unity through the most distant extremes, to mark the delicate shade of transition from one phasis of intellectual development to another, to remove, at every doubtful point, the veil and to expose the substance, that were a problem for the sagacity of no common critic."[I] We take the hint. It is not every Byron that finds a Goethe to take him to pieces and build him up again, and peruse him and admire him, as Cuvier did the Mammoth. Those who feel an inward vocation to do so by Schlegel may yet do so in Germany; if there be any in these busy times, even there, who may have leisure to applaud such a work. To us in Britain it may suffice to have essayed to exhibit the fruit and the final results, without attempting curiously to dissect the growth of Schlegel's criticism.

[Footnote I: RAHEL'S Umgang. FRIEDRICH VON SCHLEGEL, vol. i. p. 325.]

The outward fates of this great critic's life may be found, like every thing else, in the famous "Conversations Lexicon;" but as very few readers of these remarks, or students of the history of ancient and modern literature, may be in a condition to refer to that most useful Cyclopaedia of literary reference, we may here sketch the main lines of Schlegel's biography from the sources supplied by Mr Robertson,[J] in the preface to his excellent translation of the "Lectures on the philosophy of history." Whatever we take from a different source will be distinctly noted.

[Footnote J: The authorities given by Mr Robertson are, (1.) La Biographie des Vivans, Paris. (2.) An article for July 1829, in the French Globe, apparently an abridgement of the account of Schlegel in the Conversations Lexicon. (3.) A fuller and truer account of the author, in a French work published several years ago at Paris, entitled "Memoirs of distinguished Converts." (4.) Some facts in Le Catholique, a journal, edited at Paris from 1826 to 1829, by Schlegel's friend, the Baron d'Echstein.]

The brothers Schlegel belonged to what Frederick in his lectures calls the third generation of modern German literature. The whole period from 1750 to 1800, being divided into three generations, the first comprehends all those whose period of greatest activity falls into the first decade, from 1750 to 1760, and thereabout. Its chief heroes are Wieland, Klopstock, and Lessing. These men of course were all born before the year 1730. The second generation extends from 1770 to 1790, and thereabouts, and presents a development, which stands to the first in the relation of summer to spring—Goethe and Schiller are the two names by which it will be sent down to posterity. Of these the one was born in 1749, and the other in 1759. Then follows that third generation to which Schlegel himself belongs, and which is more generally known in literary history as the era of the Romantic school—a school answering both in chronology, and in many points of character also, to what we call the Lake school in England. Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey, are contemporaries of Tieck, Novalis, and the Schlegels. Their political contemporaries are Napoleon and Wellington. The event which gave a direction to their literary development, no less decidedly than it did to the political history of Europe, was the French Revolution. Accordingly, we find that all these great European characters—for so they all are more or less—made the all-important passage from youth into manhood during the ferment of the years that followed that ominous date, 1789. This coincidence explains the celebrity of the famous biographical year 1769—Walter Scott was born in that year, Wellington and Napoleon, as every body knows—and the elder Aristarchus of the Romantic school, the translator of Shakspeare, Augustus William Von Schlegel was born in 1767. At Hanover, five years later, was born his brother Frederick, that is to say, in May 1772, and our Coleridge in the same year—and to carry on the parallel for another year, Ludwig Tieck, Henry Steffens, and Novalis, were all born in 1773. These dates are curious; when taken along with the great fact of the age—the French Revolution—they may serve to that family likeness which we have noted in characterizing the Romanticists in Germany and the Lake school in England. When Coleridge here was dreaming of America and Pantisocracy, Frederick Schlegel was studying Plato, and scheming republics there.[K] In the first years of his literary career Schlegel devoted himself chiefly to classical literature; and between 1794 and 1797 published several works on Greek and Roman poetry and philosophy, the substance of which was afterwards concentrated into the four first lectures on the history of literature. About this time he appears to have lived chiefly by his literary exertions—a method of obtaining a livelihood very precarious, (as those know best who have tried it,) and to men of a turn of mind more philosophical than popular, even in philosophical Germany, exceedingly irksome. Schlegel felt this as deeply as poor Coleridge—"to live by literature," says he, in one of those letters to Rahel from which we have just quoted—"is to me je länger je unerträglicher—the longer I try it the more intolerable." Happily, to keep him from absolute starvation, he married the daughter of Moses Mendelsohn, the Jewish philosopher, who, it appears, had a few pence in her pocket, but not many;[L] and between these, and the produce of his own pen, which could move with equal facility in French as in German, he managed not merely to keep himself and his wife alive, but to transport himself to Paris in the year 1802, and remain there for a year or two, laying the foundation for that oriental evangel which, in 1808, he proclaimed to his countrymen in the little book, Ueber die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier. Meanwhile, in the year 1805, he had returned from France to his own Germany—alas, then about to be one Germany no more! And while the sun of Austerlitz was rising brightly on the then Emperor of France, and soon to be protector of the Rhine, the future secretary of the Archduke Charles, and literary evangelist of Prince Metternich, was prostrating himself before the three holy kings, and swearing fealty to the shade of Charlemagne in Catholic Cologne. There were some men in those days base enough to impeach the purity of Schlegel's motives in the public profession thus made of the old Romish faith. Such men wherever they are to be found now or then, ought to be whipped out of the world. If mere worldly motives could have had any influence on such a mind, the gates of Berlin were as open to him as the gates of Vienna. As it was, not wishing to expatriate himself, like Winkelmann, he had nowhere to go to but Vienna; in those days, indeed, mere patriotism and Teutonic feeling, (in which the Romantic school was never deficient,) independently altogether of Popery, could lead him nowhere else. To Vienna, accordingly, he went; and Vienna is not a place—whatever Napoleon, after Mack's affair, might say of the "stupid Austrians"—where a man like Schlegel will ever be neglected. Prince Metternich and the Archduke Charles had eyes in their head; and with the latter, therefore, we find the great Sanscrit scholar marching to share the glory of Aspern and the honour of Wagram; while the former afterwards decorated him with what of courtly remuneration, in the shape of titles and pensions, it is the policy alike and the privilege of politicians to bestow on poets and philosophers who can do them service. Nay, with some diplomatic missions and messages to Frankfurt also, we find the Romantic philosopher entrusted and even in the great European Congress of Vienna in 1815, he appears exhibiting himself, in no undignified position, alongside of Gentz, Cardinal Gonsalvi, and the Prince of Benevento.[M] We are not to imagine, however, from this, either that the comprehensive philosopher of history had any peculiar talent for practical diplomacy, or that he is to be regarded as a thorough Austrian in politics. For the nice practical problems of diplomacy, he was perhaps the very worst man in the world; and what Varnhagen states in the place just referred to, that Schlegel was, what we should call in England, far too much of a high churchman for Prince Metternich, is only too manifest from the well-known ecclesiastical policy of the Austrian government, contrasted as it is with the ultramontane and Guelphic views propounded by the Viennese lecturer in his philosophy of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Frederick Schlegel wished to see the state, with relation to the church, in the attitude that Frederick Barbarossa assumed before Alexander III. at Venice—kneeling, and holding the stirrup.

"An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt."

Joseph II., in his estimation, had inverted the poles of the moral world, making the state supreme, and the church subordinate—that degrading position, which the Non-intrusionsts picture to themselves when they talk of ERASTIANISM, and which Schlegel would have denominated simply—PROTESTANTISM.

[Footnote K: "Das republikanishe Werk erscheint gewiss nicht vor Zwei
Jahren."—Letters to Rahel—1802. Varnhagen, as above. Vol. I. p. 234.]

[Footnote L: "Das kleine Vermogen meiner Frau."—Letters to Rahel.
Paris: 1803.]

[Footnote M: Das Wiener Congress in 1814-15, by VARNHAGEN VON ENSE, in the fifth volume of his Denkwürdigkeiten, p. 51. By the way here, Mr Robertson in his list of famous Catholics in Germany, (p. 19,) includes Gentz. Now, Varnhagen, who knew well, says that Gentz was only politically an Austrian, and always remained Protestant in his religious opinions; which is doubtless the fact.]

During his long residence at Vienna, from 1806 to 1828, Schlegel delivered four courses of public lectures in the following order:—One-and-twenty lectures on Modern History,[N] delivered in the year 1810; sixteen lectures on Ancient and Modern Literature, delivered in the spring of 1812, fifteen lectures on the Philosophy of Life, delivered in 1827; and lastly, eighteen lectures on the Philosophy of History, delivered in 1828. Of these, the Philosophy of life contains the theory, as the lectures on literature and on history do the application, of Schlegel's catholic and combining system of human intellect, and, altogether, they form a complete and consistent body of Schlegelism. Three works more speculatively complete, and more practically useful in their way, the production of one consistent architectural mind, are, in the history of literature, not easily to be found.

[Footnote N: Ueber die neuere Geschichte Vorlesungen gehalten zu Wien im
Jahre 1810; Wien, 1811.]

Towards the close of the year 1828, Schlegel repaired to Dresden, a city endeared to him by the recollections of enthusiastic juvenile studies. Here he delivered nine lectures Ueber die Philosophie der Sprache, und des Worts, on the Philosophy of Language, a work which the present writer laments much that he has not seen; as it is manifest that the prominency given in Schlegel's Philosophy of Life above sketched to living experience and primeval tradition, must, along with his various accomplishments as a linguist, have eminently fitted him for developing systematically the high significance of human speech. On Sunday the 11th January 1829, he was engaged in composing a lecture which was to be delivered on the following Wednesday, and had just come to the significant words—"Das ganz vollendete und voll-kommene Verstehen selbst, aber"—"The perfect and complete understanding of things, however"—when the mortal palsy suddenly seized his hand, and before one o'clock on the same night he had ceased to philosophize. The words with which his pen ended its long and laborious career, are characteristic enough, both of the general imperfection of human knowledge, and of the particular quality of Schlegel's mind. The Germans have a proverb:—"Alles wäre gut wäre kein ABER dabei"—"every thing would be good were it not for an ABER—for a HOWEVER—for a BUT." This is the general human vice that lies in that significant ABER. But Schlegel's part in it is a virtue—one of his greatest virtues—a conscientious anxiety never to state a general proposition in philosophy, without, at the same time, stating in what various ways the eternal truth comes to be limited and modified in practice. Great, indeed, is the virtue of a Schlegelian ABER. Had it not been for that, he would have had his place long ago among the vulgar herds of erudite and intellectual dogmatists.

Heinrich Steffens, a well-known literary and scientific character in Germany, in his personal memoirs recently published,[O] describes Frederick Schlegel, at Jena in 1798, as "a remarkable man, slenderly built, but with beautiful regular features, and a very intellectual expression"—(im höchsten Grade gisntreich.) In his manner there was something remarkably calm and cool, almost phlegmatic. He spoke with great slowness and deliberation, but often with much point, and a great deal of reflective wit. He was thus a thorough German in his temperament; so at least as Englishmen and Frenchmen, of a more nimble blood, delight to picture the Rhenish Teut, not always in the most complimentary contrast with themselves. As it is, his merit shines forth only so much the more, that being a German of the Germans, he should by one small work, more of a combining than of a creative character, have achieved an European reputation and popularity with a certain sphere, that bids fair to last for a generation or two, at least, even in this book-making age. Such an earnest devotedness of research; such a gigantic capacity of appropriation, such a kingly faculty of comprehension, will rarely be found united in one individual. The multifarious truths which the noble industry of such a spirit either evolved wisely or happily disposed, will long continue to be received as a welcome legacy by our studious youth; and as for his errors in a literary point of view, and with reference to British use, practically considered they are the mere breadth of fantastic colouring, which, being removed, does not destroy the drawing.

[Footnote O: Was Ich Erlebte, von HEINRICH STEFFENS. Breslau, 1840-2.
Vol. iv. p. 303.]

* * * * *

MARSTON; OR THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART IV.

"Have I not in my time hear lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

SHAKSPEARE.

What that residence and Brighton have since become, is familiar to the world—the one an oriental palace, and the other an English city. But at this time all that men saw in the surrounding landscape was almost as it had been seen by our forefathers the Picts and Saxons. I found the prince standing, with four or five gentlemen of distinguished appearance, under the veranda which shaded the front of the cottage from the evening sun. The day had been one of that sultry atmosphere in which autumn sometimes takes its leave of us, and the air from the sea was now delightfully refreshing. The flowers, clustered in thick knots over the little lawn, were raising their languid heads, and breathing their renewed fragrance. All was sweetness and calmness. The sunlight, falling on the amphitheatre of hills, and touching them with diversities of colour as it fell on their various heights and hollows, gave the whole a glittering and fantastic aspect; while the total silence, and absence of all look of life, except an occasional curl of smoke from some of the scattered cottages along the beach; with the magnificent expanse of the ocean bounding all, smooth and blue as a floor of lapis-lazuli, completed the character of a scene which might have been in fairyland.

The prince, whose politeness was undeviating to all, came forward to meet me at once, introduced me to his circle, and entered into conversation; the topic was his beautiful little dwelling.

"You see, Mr Marston," said he, "we live here like hermits, and in not much more space. I give myself credit for having made the discovery of this spot. I dare say, the name of Brighthelmstone may have been in the journal of some voyager to unknown lands, but I believe I have the honour of being the first who ever made it known in London."

I fully acknowledged the taste of his discovery.

"Why," said he, "it certainly is not the taste of Kew, whose chief prospect is the ugliest town on the face of the earth, and whose chief zephyrs are the breath of its brew houses and lime-kilns. Hampton Court has always reminded me of a monastery, which I should never dream of inhabiting unless I put on the gown of a monk. St James's still looks the hospital that it once was. Windsor is certainly a noble structure—Edward's mile of palaces—but that residence is better tenanted than by a subject. While, here I have found a desert, it is true; but as the poet says or sings—

'I am monarch of all I survey.'"

"Yes," I observed. "But still a desert highly picturesque, and capable of cultivation."

"Oh! I hope not," he answered laughingly. "The first appearance of cultivation would put me to flight at once. Fortunately, cultivation is almost impossible. The soil almost totally prohibits tillage, the sea air prohibits trees, the shore prohibits trade, nothing can live here but a fisherman or a shrimp, and thus I am secure against the invasion of all improvers. W——, come here, and assist me to cure Mr Marston of his skepticism on the absolute impossibility of our ever being surrounded by London brick and mortar."

A man of a remarkably graceful air bowed to the call, and came towards us.

"W——," said the prince, "comfort me, by saying that no man can be citizenized in this corner of the world."

"It is certainly highly improbable," was the answer. "And yet, when we know John Bull's variety of tastes, and heroic contempt of money in indulging them, such things may be. I lately found one of my country constituents the inhabitant of a very pretty villa—which he had built, too, for himself—in Sicily; and of all places, in the Val di Noto, the most notorious spot in the island, or perhaps on the earth, for all kinds of desperadoes—the very haunt of Italian smugglers, refugee Catalonians, expert beyond all living knaves in piracy, and African renegades. Yet there sat my honest and fat-cheeked friend, with Aetna roaring above him; declaiming on liberty and property, as comfortably as if he could not be shot for the tenth of a sixpence, or swept off, chattels and all, at the nod of an Algerine. No, sir. If the whim takes the Londoner, you will have him down here without mercy. To the three per cents nothing is impossible."

"Well, well," said the good-humoured prince, "that cannot happen for another hundred years; and in the mean time my prospect will never be shut out. Let them build, or pull down the pyramids, if they will. The tide of city wealth will never roll through this valley; the noise of city life will never fill those quiet fields; the smoke of an insurrection of city hovels will never mingle with the freshness of such an evening as this. Here, at all events, I have spent half a dozen of the pleasantest years of my existence, and here, if I should live so long, I might spend the next fifty, notwithstanding your prophecies, W——, as far from London, except in the mere matter of miles, as if I had fixed myself in a valley of the Crimea."

His royal highness was clever, but he was no prophet, more than other men. Need I say that London found him out within the tenth part of his fifty years; instead of suffering him to escape, compelled him to build: and, after the outlay of a quarter of a million, shut him up within his own walls, like the giant of the Arabian tales in a bottle—His village a huge suburb of the huge metropolis; his lawn surrounded by a circumvallation of taverns and toyshops; the sea invisible; and the landscape scattered over with prettinesses of architecture created by the wealth of Cheapside, and worthy of all the caprices of all the tourists of this much travelled world.

But simple as was the exterior of the cottage, all within was costliness, so far as it can be united with elegance. Later days somewhat impaired the taste of this accomplished man, and he sought in splendour what was only to be found in grace. But here, every decoration, from the ceiling to the floor, exhibited the simplicity of refinement. A few busts of his public friends, a few statues of the patriots of antiquity, and a few pictures of the great political geniuses of Europe—among which the broad forehead and powerful eye of Machiavel were conspicuous—showed at a glance that we were under the roof of a political personage. Even the figures in chased silver on the table were characteristic of this taste. A Timoleon, a Brutus, and a Themistocles, incomparably classic, stood on the plateau; and a rapier which had belonged to Doria, and a sabre which had been worn by Castruccio, hung on either side of the mantelpiece. The whole had a republican tendency, but it was republicanism in gold and silver—mother-of-pearl republicanism—the Whig principle embalmed in Cellini chalices and porcelain of Frederic le Grand. Fortunately the conversation did not turn upon home politics. It wandered lightly through all the pleasanter topics of the day; slight ventilations of public character, dexterous allusions to anecdotes which none but the initiated could understand; and the general easy intercourse of well-bred men who met under the roof of another well-bred man to spend a few hours as agreeably as they could. The prince took his full share in the gaiety of the evening; and I was surprised to find at once so remarkable a familiarity with the classics, whose sound was scarcely out of my college ears; and with those habits of the humbler ranks, which could have so seldom come to his personal knowledge. To his exterior, nature had been singularly favourable. His figure, though full, still retained all the activity and grace of youth; his features, though by no means regular, had a general look of manly beauty, and his smile was cordiality itself. I have often since heard him praised for supreme elegance; but his manner was rather that of a man of great natural good-humour, who yet felt his own place in society, and of that degree of intelligence which qualified him to enjoy the wit and talents of others, without suffering a sense of inferiority. Among those at table were C—— and H——, names well known in the circles of Devonshire House; Sir P—— F——, who struck me at first sight by his penetrating physiognomy, and who was even then suspected of being the author of that most brilliant of all libels, Junius; W——, then in the flower of life, and whose subtilty and whim might be seen in his fine forehead and volatile eyes; some others, whose names I did not know, and among them one of low stature, but of singularly animated features. He was evidently a military man, and of the Sister Isle, a prime favourite with the prince and every body; and I think a secretary in the prince's household. He had just returned from Paris; and as French news was then the universal topic, he took an ample share in the conversation. The name of La Fayette happening to be mentioned, as then carrying every thing before him in France—

"I doubt his talents," said the prince.

"I more doubt his sincerity," said W——.

"I still more doubt whether this day three months he will have his head on his shoulders," said Sir P——.

"None can doubt his present popularity," said the secretary.

"At all events," said his highness, "I cannot doubt that he has wit, which in France was always something, and now, in the general crash of pedigree, is the only thing. Any man who could furnish the Parsans with a bon-mot a-day, would have a strong chance of succeeding to the throne in the probable vacancy."

"A case has just occurred in point," said the secretary. "Last week La Fayette had a quarrel with a battalion of the National Guard on the subject of drill; they considering the manual exercise as an infringement of the Rights of Man. The general being of the contrary opinion, a deputation of corporals, for any thing higher would have looked too aristocratic, waited on him at the quarters of his staff in the Place Vendôme, to demand—his immediate resignation. On further enquiry, he ascertained that all the battalions, amounting to thirty thousand men, were precisely of the same sentiments. Next morning happened to have been appointed for a general review of the National Guard. La Fayette appeared on the ground as commandant at the head of his staff, and after a gallop along the line, suddenly alighted from his horse, and taking a musket on his shoulder, to the utter astonishment of every body walked direct into the centre of the line, and took post in the ranks. Of course all the field-officers flew up to learn the reason. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I am tired of receiving orders as commander-in-chief, and that I may give them, I have become a private, as you see.' The announcement was received with a shout of merriment; and, as in France a pleasantry would privilege a man to set fire to a church, the general was cheered on all sides, was remounted and the citizen army, suspending the 'Rights of Man' for the day, proceeded to march and manoeuvre according to the drill framed by despots and kings."