MONUMENT TO NAPOLEON!

And oh, how fearfully confused were the visions of Mrs. Heartwell's restless sleep! She saw her husband struggling with the waves as the lightning flashed and the wild tempest howled above his head, and she rushed into the vortex of the dark and bubbling waters to try and snatch him from destruction. But vain were her endeavours to approach him—they were hurled hither and thither upon the crests of the foaming billows, but could not grasp each other's hands; and then the scene suddenly changed, and she beheld the lieutenant wounded and bleeding on the deck as the stream of life was ebbing fast away. They were surroundedby the thunder and the smoke of battle; dark and vindictive, and gore-stained countenances were peering upon her through the curling vapours, and there was one amongst them more dark, more vindictive, more sanguinary than the rest, but the thickened and dense atmosphere was constantly throwing it into obscurity, so as to leave no especial tracings on the memory. She tried to get to her husband, but still that mysterious being constantly debarred her progress; her limbs became paralysed; she could see the lieutenant most distinctly, though the rest were enveloped in gloom; and as he looked at her with his sight fast fading away, the dim eyes were still expressive of the inseparable mingling of anxious solicitude and fervent tenderness.

Once more the picture changed; she was in her own dwelling, in that very parlour, clasped in his embrace as the fervid kiss of affection was impressed upon her lips. She would have chided his delay, but the delight that glowed within her bosom and the sound of his voice in cheerful greeting dispelled the anguish she had endured, and stifled the language of reproach before it could find utterance—She was again happy in his society. The lieutenant took his usual seat by the fireside opposite to his wife, and she was gazing upon him with feelings of gratification rendered more rich and delightful from the previous suffering she had experienced, when suddenly his features assumed a rigid and swollen aspect, a livid hue was on his cheeks, his limbs were stark and motionless, as he sat stiffly erect, whilst his eyes almost starting from his head were fixed intently upon her.

"You are ill, Frank," was her imagined exclamation, as she essayed to rise from her chair but could not. "Oh do not look upon me thus—speak, speak to me," but the figure remained immovable—not a muscle of the face was stirred, and again that dark mysterious countenance, with its undefined outlines and misty filling up, appeared between them. "Oh, what is this, Frank?" uttered she, in a voice shrill and piercing through the extremity of agony; and bursting the bonds of sleep, she sprang from her chair at the very instant that Ben opened the door of the room, and looked round it in surprise. "Where is he, Ben, where is he?" demanded the agitated woman, as she stared wildly on the vacant seat.

"Bless you, my lady," responded the seaman as he stood within the half-opened door, "I thought as Muster Heartwell were here, seeing as he hailed me jist now in the kitchen, and I've come to see what his pleasure is?"

A thrill of horror instantaneously seized upon every portion of Mrs. Heartwell's frame—a sensation that for the moment struck at the very seat of vitality, and was carried through the entire system. "It cannot be," at length she uttered; "no one has opened the doors—the servants are all in bed:" she gasped for breath as she falteringly continued, "Father of Heaven, in mercy relieve me from this dreadful state. Yes, yes, it must have been—it is nothing more than a dream," and seating herself upon the sofa, she buried her face upon the pillow, and burst into unrestrained and irrepressible tears.

Ben had implicitly obeyed the instructions of his mistress in seeing the supper materials prepared, and at the accustomed hour the maid-servants went to bed, leaving the gallant seaman alone in the kitchen to the enjoyment of his pipe and a well-filled stiff glass of cold grog. Unaccustomed to scrutinise the conduct of his superiors, Ben gave himself but littletrouble or consideration for the unusually long-continued absence of his master; and if a thought did obtrude it was merely to conjecture that the lieutenant might have fallen in with some old messmates or friends, who, in the height of enjoyment over their social or festive intercourse, had induced him to stay out beyond his ordinary time for returning. It is true Ben reasoned upon deductions based upon what he himself would have done under similar circumstances; for though the worthy tar had practised a little of the amiable towards Sally the housemaid, yet he was unacquainted with, and consequently could not well account for, the secret and hidden springs that prompted the undeviating attention of Mr. Heartwell in studying the comfort and happiness of his wife as intimately connected with his own.

Ben sat smoking and cogitating upon the station he should probably occupy when again upon the element he loved to control, and his spirit rose as he contrasted the busy routine of duty on board a smart ship at sea, with the idle and quiet of a calm life on shore even with Sally to sweeten it. He fancied himself once more at the weather wheel, as with a predominant feeling of pride he kept the given point of the compass without vibrating from the direct course he was ordered to steer; and then in his watch below with his brother tars keeping up Saturday night with grog, and jest, and jocund song; and as he made repeated applications to the jorum of strong beverage by his side, his fancy peopled the vacant space around him with messmates and shipmates till both pipe and glass were emptied, and he unconsciously resigned himself to the close embraces of a sailor's Morpheus.

He, too, had been dreaming, but it was of the mere ordinary concerns of the forecastle or main-top, without experiencing a single terrific sensation except when the supposed sonorous hail of the first lieutenant through his speaking-trumpet afforded a convincing testimonial that something more was expected in the exercise of their duties than the playfulness of childhood. But Ben heard it fearlessly, for he not only knew what he had to do, but he was also well versed in the most approved method of doing it, and ever active and obedient, he performed his task with alacrity and skill. Whilst thus involved in all the intricate mazes of visionary speculation, he thought he heard the well remembered sound of his master's voice calling upon him; and springing to his feet, he rubbed his eyes as he gave the usual responsive "Ay, ay, Sir," and found the lieutenant standing before him. But the delusion almost instantly ceased—the figure receded and disappeared, and as the door of the kitchen was shut, Ben concluded in his mind that it was all moonshine as to the appearance, that he really had heard his master's call, and hurrying up stairs he entered the parlour at the moment when his mistress awoke in such thrilling agony.

The flow of tears relieved her overcharged heart, and without questioning the seaman she sent him below again, and prostrating herself before her Maker, she offered up an earnest prayer for fortitude to undergo affliction, and tranquillity of mind to meet every dispensation that might occur—it was the poor dependant created, supplicating the high and Almighty creator; it was the weak and the defenceless imploring the aid of the Omnipotent. The appeal was heard and answered—the broken and thecontrite spirit was not despised; and Mrs. Heartwell arose from her knees strengthened in the confidence thatHewho spread abroad immeasurable space and displayed the firmament as his handy work—who fed the young ravens when they cried, and clothed the lilies of the field in all their beauty, would not desert her in the hour of tribulation.

On the removal of Napoleon's remains, I prepared the above design for a monument; but it was not sent, because it was not wanted. There is this disadvantage about a design forhismonument;—it will suit nobody else. This could not, therefore, be converted into a tribute to the memory of the late distinguished philosopher, Muggeridge, head master of the grammar-school at Birchley; nor into an embellishment for the mausoleum of the departed hero Fitz-Hogg, of the Pipeclays. It very often happens, however, that when a monument to a great man turns out to be a misfit, it will, after a while, be found to suit some other great man as well as if his measure had been taken for it. Just add a few grains to the intellectual qualities, subtract a scruple or so from the moral attributes—let out the philanthropy a little and take in the learning a bit—clip the public devotion, and throw an additional handful of virtues into the domestic scale—qualify the squint, in short, or turn the aquiline into asnub—these slight modifications observed, and any hero or philosopher may be fitted to a hair with a second-hand monumental design. The standing tribute "Wene'ershall look upon his like again," is of course applicable ineverycase of greatness.

"Is this the man of thousand thrones,Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones!And can hethussurvive!"

"Is this the man of thousand thrones,

Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones!

And can hethussurvive!"

So Byron sang, in accents of astonishment, long before the object of it was even once buried. Is the note of wonder less called for, and less natural now—now that the world has lived to witness, not only the first, but the second funeral of its Imperial Agitator? IsthisNapoleon le Grand! and looked Alexander afterthisfashion—barring the decorations of his bony extremities!

Agitator still! Aye, Agitator even in thine ashes thou must be called—whatsoever name else thou mayst be destined to survive! Whether Boney, Bonyparty, Buonaparte, Napoleon, Emperor! Whether in the future, as in the past, thou shalt be addressed by any one of that astounding collection of titles which the most metaphysical and admiring of thy biographers once gathered from the public journals and set forth in startling array—as Monster, Tyrant, Fiend, Upstart, Usurper, Rebel, Regicide, Traitor, Wretch, Villain, Knave, Fool, Madman, Coward, Impostor—or these again with suitable adjectives to reinforce them, as Unnatural Monster, Sanguinary Tyrant, Diabolical Fiend, Corsican Upstart, Military Usurper, Wicked Rebel, Impious Regicide, Perfidious Traitor, Vile Wretch, Base Villain, Low-born Knave, Rank Fool, Egregious Madman, Notorious Coward, Detestable Impostor;—or this other set of epithets, which, in more countries than France, and not unsparingly in our own, have since been associated with thy name—as Conqueror, Potentate, Preserver, Genius, Liberator, Law-giver, Statesman, Ruler, Regenerator, Enthusiast, Martyr, Hero, Benefactor—these again being reinforced as before, thus—Invincible Conqueror, Mighty Potentate, Glorious Preserver, Guardian Genius, Generous Liberator, Enlightened Law-giver, Magnificent Statesman, Wise Ruler, National Regenerator, Sincere Enthusiast, Devoted Martyr, Triumphant Hero, Beneficent Benefactor:—by these names, by any one of them possibly, thou mayst not be especially distinguished in after times; but as Agitator at least thou must be hailed while language lasts!

—It may justly be doubted whether the figure thus looking down upon a pyramid of skulls, is indeed "the man of thousand thrones"—whether hedoes"thus survive." The design is one of those that "show men as they ought to be, not as they are." That opening of the coffin at St. Helena opens up a world of curiosity, of wonder, and alarm. All the spectators were awed and astounded at the absence of the great Dictator of the Grave—Change! All the beholders were stricken to marble, or melted into water-drops, to see Death looking like Life; to survey the pale and placid features of the Emperor, expressing the serenity of repose, not the workings of decay—to witness a sign of power beyond that which ordinary clay may boast, and to feel that a "divinity did hedge" indeed the hero-king, in preserving all that was mortal of theexiled chief from the ravages of the worm. There lay the Emperor Napoleon—(he was recognised then by the authorities, and should the parties meet in the Shades, even George the Fourth can no longer style him General Buonaparte)—there lay the Emperor—not simply in his habit as he lived, but in the very flesh which he took with him out of Longwood. There was the positive and unwasted substance—and there too was the seeming spirit. The eyes only were wanting to give it reality and consciousness. The Mighty Watcher had fallen asleep, but who could say that he never again was to wake up? The restless Visionary had sunk, torpid, into a dream of years. The Monarch had abdicated the throne of Life without finally crossing its confines. At best, the spectacle presented an extraordinary compromise with the insatiate Destroyer. The Archer had for once half-missed his aim.

Now, it will be remembered that Fauntleroy was considered to bear a decided resemblance to Napoleon—a very respectable "likeness-done-in-this-style" sort of portrait—and Fauntleroy, as we all hear, is said to be alive still! Somebody has remarked—in fact we remarked it ourselves—thaton ditis French for "a lie;" and so it may be in this particular: still the coincidence is curious. Even the likeness of Napoleon is associated with things living; but Napoleon himself has been seen, recognised, identified—looking like life itself—sleeping, sightless, but not dead.

We have all been reminded lately of the manner in which his return from Elba was announced in theMoniteur. It will bear repetition here:—"1st announcement—The demon has escaped from banishment: he has run away from Elba. 2d—The Corsican dragon has landed at Cape Juan. 3d.—The tiger has shown himself at Gap—the troops are advancing from all sides, in order to arrest his progress—he cannot possibly escape. 4th—The monster has really advanced as far as Grenoble—we know not to what treachery to ascribe it. 5th—The tyrant is actually at Lyons. Fear and terror seized all at his appearance. 6th—The usurper has ventured to approach the capital to within sixty hours' march. 7th—Buonaparte is advancing by forced marches—but it is impossible he should reach Paris. 8th—Napoleon will reach under the walls of Paris to-morrow. 9th—The Emperor is at Fontainbleau. 10th—Yesterday evening his Majesty the Emperor made his public entry, and arrived at the palace of the Tuileries—nothing can exceed the universal joy!" What would be his reception now, were he—as he escaped so strangely from Elba, and worked his way still more strangely from under the willow of St. Helena—were he towakewhere he is! The people criedVivel'Empereuras the coffin that held him was borne by. And truly the Emperor yetlivesin France!

[As for me, who have skeletonised him prematurely, paring down the Prodigy even to his hat and boots, I have but "carried out" a principle adopted almost in my boyhood, for I can scarcely remember the time when I did not take some patriotic pleasure in persecuting the great Enemy of England. Had he been less than that, I should have felt compunction for my cruelties; having tracked him through snow and through fire, by flood and by field, insulting, degrading, and deriding him everywhere, and putting him to several humiliating deaths. All that time, however, he went on "overing" the Pyramids and the Alps, as boys "over" posts, and playing at leap-frog with the sovereigns of Europe, so as to kick a crown off at every spring he made—together with many crowns and sovereigns into my coffers. Deep, most deep, in a personal view of matters, are my obligations to the Agitator—but what a Debt the countryowes to him!]

"Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur!"—Henry IV.

"My lords, be seated."—Speech from the Throne.

I.—INVITATION TO SIT.

Now sit, if ye have courage, cousins all!Sit, all ye grandmamas, wives, aunts, and mothers;Daughters and sisters, widows, brides, and nieces;In bonnets, braids, caps, tippets, or pelisses,The muff, mantilla, boa, scarf, or shawl!Sit all ye uncles, godpapas, and brothers,Fathers and nephews, sons, and next of kin,Husbands, half-brother's cousin's sires, and others;Be you as Science young, or old as Sin:Turn, Persian-like, your faces to the sun!And have each oneHis portrait done,Finish'd, one may say, before it's begun.Nor you alone,Oh! slight acquaintances! or blood relations!But sit, oh! public Benefactors,Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,Ascend you now the Photographic throne,And snatch from Time the precious mornings claim'dBy artists famed(In the Court Circular you'll find them named).Sit too, ye laurell'd Heroes, whom detractorsWould rank below the statesman and the bard!Sit also, all ye Actors,Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard:WhoseFalstaffshere will neverSlendersprove.So true the art is!M.P.'s, for one brief moment cease to move;And you who stand as Leaders of great Parties,Be sitting Members!Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resign'd!And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,Perchance with faces foggy as November's,Pray sit!Apollo turned R.A.The other day,Making a most decided hit.They say.Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!(Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)And while the Moon,Who only draws the tides, is clean outdone,The Stars are all astonishment to seeEarth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!

Now sit, if ye have courage, cousins all!

Sit, all ye grandmamas, wives, aunts, and mothers;

Daughters and sisters, widows, brides, and nieces;

In bonnets, braids, caps, tippets, or pelisses,

The muff, mantilla, boa, scarf, or shawl!

Sit all ye uncles, godpapas, and brothers,

Fathers and nephews, sons, and next of kin,

Husbands, half-brother's cousin's sires, and others;

Be you as Science young, or old as Sin:

Turn, Persian-like, your faces to the sun!

And have each one

His portrait done,

Finish'd, one may say, before it's begun.

Nor you alone,Oh! slight acquaintances! or blood relations!But sit, oh! public Benefactors,Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,Ascend you now the Photographic throne,And snatch from Time the precious mornings claim'dBy artists famed(In the Court Circular you'll find them named).Sit too, ye laurell'd Heroes, whom detractorsWould rank below the statesman and the bard!Sit also, all ye Actors,Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard:WhoseFalstaffshere will neverSlendersprove.So true the art is!M.P.'s, for one brief moment cease to move;And you who stand as Leaders of great Parties,Be sitting Members!Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resign'd!And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,Perchance with faces foggy as November's,Pray sit!Apollo turned R.A.The other day,Making a most decided hit.They say.Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!(Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)And while the Moon,Who only draws the tides, is clean outdone,The Stars are all astonishment to seeEarth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!

Nor you alone,

Oh! slight acquaintances! or blood relations!

But sit, oh! public Benefactors,

Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.

Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,

Ascend you now the Photographic throne,

And snatch from Time the precious mornings claim'd

By artists famed

(In the Court Circular you'll find them named).

Sit too, ye laurell'd Heroes, whom detractors

Would rank below the statesman and the bard!

Sit also, all ye Actors,

Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard:

WhoseFalstaffshere will neverSlendersprove.

So true the art is!

M.P.'s, for one brief moment cease to move;

And you who stand as Leaders of great Parties,

Be sitting Members!

Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resign'd!

And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,

Perchance with faces foggy as November's,

Pray sit!

Apollo turned R.A.

The other day,

Making a most decided hit.

They say.

Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!

(Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)

And while the Moon,

Who only draws the tides, is clean outdone,

The Stars are all astonishment to see

Earth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!

II.—THE PROCESS OF THE PORTRAITURE.

It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?To tell us this planet is going too fast,On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:Instead of collision, and chances of splittingIn contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting:And Earth, like the Lady enchanted inComus,Fix'd fast to her chairWith a dignified air,Is expecting to sit for a century there;Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus."Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago;But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear,Like the crowds who repairTo old Cavendish Square,And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair.In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low,To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;In front of those boxes, wherein when you lookYour image reversed will minutely appear,So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,As none ever woreIn a mirror before;Or the depths of a glassy and branch-shelter'd brook,That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled"Apelles of flowers,"Now mixes his showersOf sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.His agent on earth, when your attitude's right,Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place,Just seizes one moment of favouring light,And utters three sentences—"Now it's begun,"—"It's going on now, sir,"—and "Now it is done;"And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your faceOn a silvery plate,Unerring as fate,Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,A little resembling an elderly print."Well, Inever!" all cry; "it is cruelly like you!"But Truth is unpleasantTo prince and to peasant.You recollect Lawrence, and think of the gracesThat Chalon and Company give to their faces;The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!

It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?

To tell us this planet is going too fast,

On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:

Instead of collision, and chances of splitting

In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,

The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting:

And Earth, like the Lady enchanted inComus,

Fix'd fast to her chair

With a dignified air,

Is expecting to sit for a century there;

Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,

How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.

"Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago;But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear,Like the crowds who repairTo old Cavendish Square,And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair.In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!

"Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago;

But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear,

Like the crowds who repair

To old Cavendish Square,

And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair.

In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!

And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low,To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;In front of those boxes, wherein when you lookYour image reversed will minutely appear,So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,As none ever woreIn a mirror before;Or the depths of a glassy and branch-shelter'd brook,That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.

And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low,

To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;

In front of those boxes, wherein when you look

Your image reversed will minutely appear,

So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,

So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,

As none ever wore

In a mirror before;

Or the depths of a glassy and branch-shelter'd brook,

That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.

Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled"Apelles of flowers,"Now mixes his showersOf sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.His agent on earth, when your attitude's right,Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place,Just seizes one moment of favouring light,And utters three sentences—"Now it's begun,"—"It's going on now, sir,"—and "Now it is done;"And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your faceOn a silvery plate,Unerring as fate,Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,A little resembling an elderly print."Well, Inever!" all cry; "it is cruelly like you!"But Truth is unpleasantTo prince and to peasant.You recollect Lawrence, and think of the gracesThat Chalon and Company give to their faces;The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!

Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled

"Apelles of flowers,"

Now mixes his showers

Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;

Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.

His agent on earth, when your attitude's right,

Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place,

Just seizes one moment of favouring light,

And utters three sentences—"Now it's begun,"—

"It's going on now, sir,"—and "Now it is done;"

And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face

On a silvery plate,

Unerring as fate,

Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,

A little resembling an elderly print.

"Well, Inever!" all cry; "it is cruelly like you!"

But Truth is unpleasant

To prince and to peasant.

You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces

That Chalon and Company give to their faces;

The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!

III.—THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL.

"Can this beme! do look, mama!"Poor Jane begins to whimper;"Ihavea smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!This gives me quite a simper."Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,"It makes my forehead flat;"And being classical, he'll add,"I'm blow'd if I'm likethat."Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;"Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.Extremely like me—every feature—butThat plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!"Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;Owns that o'er thissometraits of truth are sprinkled;But views the brow with anger—"Why, it's wrinkled!""Likeme!" cries Sir Turtle; "I'll lay two to oneIt would only be guess'd by my foes;No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,Which accounts for these spots on my nose.""A likeness!" cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;"Yes, the wig, throat and forehead I spy,And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,But it gives me a cast in the eye!"Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;Yet Self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spurSo potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rockingThe building, or clouds darken all that's within it,To witness the frightsWhich shadows and lightsManufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.For there, while you sit up,Your countenance lit up,The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;And your portrait's a patch, with its bright and its black,Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,And still they mount up, stair by stair;And every morn, by the hurry and hum,Each seeking a prize in the lottery there,You fancy the "last day of drawing" has come. L. B.

"Can this beme! do look, mama!"

Poor Jane begins to whimper;

"Ihavea smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!

This gives me quite a simper."

Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,

"It makes my forehead flat;"

And being classical, he'll add,

"I'm blow'd if I'm likethat."

Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;"Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.Extremely like me—every feature—butThat plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!"Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;Owns that o'er thissometraits of truth are sprinkled;But views the brow with anger—"Why, it's wrinkled!""Likeme!" cries Sir Turtle; "I'll lay two to oneIt would only be guess'd by my foes;No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,Which accounts for these spots on my nose."

Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;

"Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.

Extremely like me—every feature—but

That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!"

Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;

Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;

Owns that o'er thissometraits of truth are sprinkled;

But views the brow with anger—"Why, it's wrinkled!"

"Likeme!" cries Sir Turtle; "I'll lay two to one

It would only be guess'd by my foes;

No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,

Which accounts for these spots on my nose."

"A likeness!" cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;"Yes, the wig, throat and forehead I spy,And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,But it gives me a cast in the eye!"

"A likeness!" cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;

"Yes, the wig, throat and forehead I spy,

And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,

But it gives me a cast in the eye!"

Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;Yet Self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spurSo potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rockingThe building, or clouds darken all that's within it,To witness the frightsWhich shadows and lightsManufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.For there, while you sit up,Your countenance lit up,The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;And your portrait's a patch, with its bright and its black,Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,And still they mount up, stair by stair;And every morn, by the hurry and hum,Each seeking a prize in the lottery there,You fancy the "last day of drawing" has come. L. B.

Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,

To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;

Yet Self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur

So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!

And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,

Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;

And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking

The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,

To witness the frights

Which shadows and lights

Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.

For there, while you sit up,

Your countenance lit up,

The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;

And your portrait's a patch, with its bright and its black,

Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,

Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.

Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,

And still they mount up, stair by stair;

And every morn, by the hurry and hum,

Each seeking a prize in the lottery there,

You fancy the "last day of drawing" has come. L. B.

[All the World and his Wife must recollect that they are not figuring before a mere mortal artist with whom they may all the while laugh and chat. Here you must sit mute and motionless. Youmaywink; you may perhaps just put on a smile; but youmust notlaugh; for if you do, one half of your head will go off!]

COMMENTARY upon the late—"New Police Act" by which it appears that ... ...Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank— June 1st1841.[See larger version]

COMMENTARY upon the late—"New Police Act" by which it appears that ... ...Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank— June 1st1841.

COMMENTARY upon the late—"New Police Act" by which it appears that ... ...

Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank— June 1st1841.

[See larger version]

I was dozing over the last half-dozen glasses of a bowl of punch (the rest of the club having departed) when the waiter at the British came into the coffee-room to remind me that it was Saturday night, and that in obedience to the New Police Act it was absolutely necessary that I should take my departure before Sunday morning—the door must be finally closed at twelve o'clock, and it then wanted but five minutes. This appeal, and a "Now, Sir, if you please," a few times repeated, were not more than half heard; sleep seized me irresistibly, and in twenty seconds more I was dreaming that I had fallen fast asleep, with the punch-bowl for a nightcap.

"Come, move on—make way here, will you though?—move on, you sir! No Punch and Judy now; it's unlegal by the law; ain't you awor o' the New Police Act what's put it down?" Such was the arbitrary order which in my dream Serjeant Higginbotham of the X division issued, as he pushed his way into the centre of a crowd of urchins assembled round that little stage on which Punch was playing off his antics in unapproachable style. As the words fell from his lips, they smote my heart with the fear that a revolution in the country must inevitably follow. Punch to be put down by Act of Parliament! Judy to be snatched away for ever by a vote of both Houses! Mirth, fun, jollity, to be legislated into nothing—in the passing of a clause, or the twinkling of the Speaker's eye! Impossible; put Punch down in one place, lo! he is up again in another; stifle his voice in the east, and hark! you hear him the next minute squeaking in the west, like the piping shepherd-boy, "as though he should never grow old." This was consolatory to my feelings; but yet methought, the mere intent, the bare threat of the legislature to banish the people's own Punch, their time-honoured favourite, would paralyse all London at first, and then all London would be seen on its legs rushing to the Queen's palace to petition!

To my astonishment, not a soul in that crowd took the smallest notice of Serjeant Higginbotham's imperative command to be off. Punch went on squeaking and rapping away; the troop of boys, girls, and miscellanies around, continued to grin, laugh, scream, and stretch their necks to stare over one another's heads as though they never could look enough; and what was more, the policeman, who had penetrated into the midst of them, and of whose presence they appeared so singularly heedless, stood there, grinning, laughing, screaming, and stretching his neck to stare too. There indeed stood Serjeant H., his truncheon dropping from one hand, while the other was tightly pressed against his side, where he seemed to be in imminent peril of a split. That truncheon he had scarce uplifted, when the laugh seized him, and his arm fell powerless. Serjeant Higginbotham, six feet high, was a little boy again. How he laughed and roared. I heard his "Ho! ho!" for days afterwards, and can even now see the tears run down his cheeks, fringing his whiskers like dewdrops on a bush.

Close by was a youngster flying his kite contrary to law; on the approach of a policeman, he let go, turned to run, caught a glimpse ofPunch—and there he stood fascinated by the fun. His pursuer, who was close behind him, was just about to catch him by the collar, when he too stopped short, and with distended jaws almost doubled the horse-laugh of the side-aching serjeant. Up came a sweep with the illegal cry of 'we-weep' on his lips, but he could not break the law by giving utterance to the cry—for laughter. Presently came by a genius playing an organ, and another blowing a trumpet—the policemen heard not the unlawful music, and it suddenly ceased, stopped by the irresistible and all-absorbing Punch. A boy came next trundling his hoop, with 46 D trundling after him; in two minutes they were standing side by side, laughing from ear to ear. A dustman had just raised his voice and got out, "du—" when his bell seemed to stop of itself, and "My eye!" was all he could articulate. A lad behind a hackney-coach jumped down, scorning a three-miles ride, under the influence of the prevailing risibility. All were drawn insensibly into the vortex of laughter. Every violator of the new law, albeit aware of having fallen under the vigilant observation of the police, lost on the instant all sense of responsibility, all inclination to shun the danger of apprehension, and joining the crowd, became utterly unconscious of any law but the law of nature, and supremely blessed in ignorance of the very existence of a constable. More astounding still was the suddenness with which the rush of policemen from all quarters, pursuing the offenders, came to a stand-still. Each in turn followed his intended victim into the charmed circle, gave up the chase in the moment of success, and surrendered himself captive to Punch instead of taking a prisoner.

"And those who came to seize, remain'd to laugh."

At length, half the trades, half the schools, all the idlers, and all the policemen of the metropolis, seemed gathered there together. And there they all stood spell-bound, wrought upon by one common emotion; shaking their sides against one another, and sending up a roar, compared with which the thunder of the Danish kettle-drums and cannon of old was a dead silence.

Here, methought, is a lesson for legislators! They would put down that which puts down nuisances, and turns public disturbers into the happiest and most harmless of mortals! And they would suppress it by agents who came in contact with the enemy only to join his ranks, "for we have all of us one human heart." Put down Punch! Fifty Parliaments could never do it! There's a divinity doth hedge him. Punch for a time can suppress kite-flying, hoop-trundling, bell-ringing, and trumpet-blowing—which the law cannot; how then should Punch himself be put down? Immortal puppet! the true friend of the people, and the promoter of good-humour among all her Majesty's loving subjects!

Suchwouldhave been my reflections; but the accumulated roar of the laughing throng awoke me—when I found that the waiter was snoring very loud in the lobby of the coffee-room. The house had long been shut for the night; and having violated the law, I was obliged to content myself with a broiled bone and a bed at the British—with an extra tumbler ofpunch!

COMMENTARY upon the "New Police Act" (No.2.)Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank June 1st1841[See larger version]

COMMENTARY upon the "New Police Act" (No.2.)Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank June 1st1841

COMMENTARY upon the "New Police Act" (No.2.)

Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank June 1st1841

[See larger version]

MEMBER OF THE DRAMATIC AUTHORS' ASSOCIATION, FELLOW OF THE PARNASSIAN SOCIETY, &c.

Now first printed from the original copies in the handwriting of that popular Author.

EDITED BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

We have considerable pleasure in discharging the duty imposed upon us, of transcribing the MSS. which one of Sir Fretful Plagiary's numerous living descendants has placed in our hands, and of submitting to the public the following specimens of "something new." Whatever may be thought in other respects of these, the latest emanations—or, as some with equal correctness perhaps would say, effusions—of an immortal genius, we unhesitatingly pronounce them to be original.These poems bear no resemblance to anything ever before offered to the public.Now this is a declaration which cannot fail to awaken in the reader's mind a strong suspicion that the ideas are mere imitations, and the language a mere echo, of the thoughts and expressions of other poets. In this solitary instance the acute reader will be mistaken in his supposition. There is no one line that can be called animitation—no phrase that can be pronounced anecho. Line after line is equally emphatic, interesting, melodious, and—original. This fact we might establish by citing at full length a remarkably novel and curious production of Sir Fretful's, which, with the fineness of Shakspeare and Dryden united, opens thus:—

"Farewell! thou canst not teach me to forget;The power of beauty I remember yet."

"Farewell! thou canst not teach me to forget;

The power of beauty I remember yet."

But we prefer proceeding at once to a strikingly harmonious, and singularly analytical composition, bearing the designation of an

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.

BlindThamyris, and blind Mæonides,Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,To point a moral or adorn a tale[2].Full many a gem of purest ray serene,Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,Like angels' visits, few and far between,Deck the long vista of departed years.Man never is, but always to be bless'd;The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,And makes a sunshine in the shady place.For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,To waft a feather or to drown a fly,(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)With silent finger pointing to the sky.But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,Far out amid the melancholy main;As when a vulture on Imaus bred,Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.My way of life is fall'n into the sere;I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness!Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,Fine by degrees and beautifully less,And die ere man can say 'Long live the Queen.'

BlindThamyris, and blind Mæonides,Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,To point a moral or adorn a tale[2].

BlindThamyris, and blind Mæonides,

Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,

To point a moral or adorn a tale[2].

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,Like angels' visits, few and far between,Deck the long vista of departed years.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,

Like angels' visits, few and far between,

Deck the long vista of departed years.

Man never is, but always to be bless'd;The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

Man never is, but always to be bless'd;

The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,

Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,

And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,To waft a feather or to drown a fly,(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)With silent finger pointing to the sky.

For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,

To waft a feather or to drown a fly,

(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)

With silent finger pointing to the sky.

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,Far out amid the melancholy main;As when a vulture on Imaus bred,Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,

Far out amid the melancholy main;

As when a vulture on Imaus bred,

Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,

Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.

My way of life is fall'n into the sere;I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.

My way of life is fall'n into the sere;

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,

Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.

Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness!Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,Fine by degrees and beautifully less,And die ere man can say 'Long live the Queen.'

Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness!

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

Fine by degrees and beautifully less,

And die ere man can say 'Long live the Queen.'

If in the above any reader should be reminded of the "long resounding march and energy divine" of poets past or present, it can only be because our illustrious and profusely-gifted bard has clustered together more remarkable, and we trust they will long prove memorable, lines, than any one of his predecessors has in the same space given an example of. That poem can be of no inferior order of merit, in which Milton would have been proud to have written one line, Pope would have been equally vain of the authorship of a second, Byron have rejoiced in a third, Campbell gloried in a fourth, Gray in a fifth, Cowper in a sixth, and so on to the end of the Ode; which thus realises the poetical wealth of that well-known line of Sir Fretful's,

"Infinite riches in a little room."

But we must not, by prosaic comment, detain the impatient reader from other specimens of the striking originality of this writer's powers. Among some fragments thrown loose in his desk, we find the following:—

When lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,There's such a charm in melancholy,I would not if I could be gay.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,

There's such a charm in melancholy,

I would not if I could be gay.

Again:

There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,For coming events cast their shadows before;Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,Like ocean-weeds cast on the surf-beaten shore.

There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,

For coming events cast their shadows before;

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,

Like ocean-weeds cast on the surf-beaten shore.

We have pronounced these two stanzas to be original; and they are: but with reference to the first of them we admit that a distinguished livingcritic, to whom it was shown, remarked that it did remind him a little of something in some other author—and he rather thought it was Goldsmith; a second critic, equally eminent, was forcibly reminded by it of something which he was convinced had been written by Rogers.So much for criticism!To such treatment is original genius ever subjected. Its traducers cannot even agree as to the derivation of the stolen property; they cannot name the author robbed. One cries, Spenser; another, Butler; a third, Collins. We repeat, it is the fate of Originality.

"Garth did not write his own Dispensary,"

says Pope jeeringly; Campbell has had his Exile of Erin vehemently claimed by a desperate wrestler for renown; and at this very time a schoolmaster in Scotland is ready to swear that the author of the "Burial of Sir John Moore" never wrote a line of it. But we now pass to another piece by Sir Fretful; and this, whether its sentiments be of a high or a low order, its imagery appropriate or incongruous, is entirely his own:—

Lives there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself has said,"Shoot folly as it flies?"Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,Are in that word farewell, farewell!'Tis folly to be wise.And what is friendship but a name,That boils on Etna's breast of flame?Thus runs the world away:Sweet is the ship that's under sailTo where yon taper cheers the vale,With hospitable ray!Drink to me only with thine eyesThrough cloudless climes and starry skies!My native land, good night!Adieu, adieu, my native shore;'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—Whatever is is right!

Lives there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself has said,"Shoot folly as it flies?"Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,Are in that word farewell, farewell!'Tis folly to be wise.

Lives there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself has said,

"Shoot folly as it flies?"

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,

Are in that word farewell, farewell!

'Tis folly to be wise.

And what is friendship but a name,That boils on Etna's breast of flame?Thus runs the world away:Sweet is the ship that's under sailTo where yon taper cheers the vale,With hospitable ray!

And what is friendship but a name,

That boils on Etna's breast of flame?

Thus runs the world away:

Sweet is the ship that's under sail

To where yon taper cheers the vale,

With hospitable ray!

Drink to me only with thine eyesThrough cloudless climes and starry skies!My native land, good night!Adieu, adieu, my native shore;'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—Whatever is is right!

Drink to me only with thine eyes

Through cloudless climes and starry skies!

My native land, good night!

Adieu, adieu, my native shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—

Whatever is is right!

We have thought it expedient to point out briefly the peculiar beauty of some of our author's lines; but it cannot be necessary to point out the one peculiar and exclusive quality of his writings—his perspicacity—his connectedness. His verse "flows due on to the Propontic, nor knows retiring ebb." You are never at a loss to know what he means. In his sublimest passages he is intelligible. This is his great beauty. No poet perhaps is so essentiallylogical. We close our specimens with another short poem; it is entitled,

"ON LIFE, ET CETERA."

Know then this truth, enough for man to know:Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.Retreating lightly with a lovely fearFrom grave to gay, from lively to severe,To err is human, to forgive divine,And wretches hang that jurymen may dineLike quills upon the fretful porcupine.All are but parts of one stupendous whole,The feast of reason and the flow of soul.* * * * * *We ne'er shall look upon his like again,For panting time toils after him in vain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the wayWith sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!

Know then this truth, enough for man to know:

Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.

Retreating lightly with a lovely fear

From grave to gay, from lively to severe,

To err is human, to forgive divine,And wretches hang that jurymen may dineLike quills upon the fretful porcupine.All are but parts of one stupendous whole,The feast of reason and the flow of soul.

To err is human, to forgive divine,

And wretches hang that jurymen may dine

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,

The feast of reason and the flow of soul.

* * * * * *

We ne'er shall look upon his like again,For panting time toils after him in vain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the wayWith sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!

We ne'er shall look upon his like again,

For panting time toils after him in vain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;

Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way

With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!

Leaving this great poet's samples of the mighty line, or, as it is sometimes called, the lofty rhyme, to "speak for themselves," we conclude with a word or two on a subject to whichoneof his effusions here printed has (thanks to what are called the critics) unexpectedly led—we mean the subject of Literary Loans, or, as they are more familiarly and perhaps felicitously designated, Literary Thefts. A critic of high repute has said, "A man had better steal anything on earth, than the thoughts of another;" agreed, unless when he steals the thought, he steal the words with it. The economising trader in Joe Miller who stole his brooms ready made, carried on a prosperous business. Some authors steal only the raw material; or rather, they run away with another man's muse, but for fear of detection, and to avoid the charge of felony, leave the drapery behind—a practice which cannot be too severely reprehended. It is the same principle on which, according to Sheridan (Sir Fretful'sfriend!) gipsies disguise stolen children to make them pass for their own. Now Sir Fretful, alluding to Shakspeare in a poem which has never yet been published, says very nobly—

"Hereditary bondsmen, know ye notHe wants that greatest art, the art to blot!"

"Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not

He wants that greatest art, the art to blot!"

If we might dare to parody (Scott said it was a sin to parody—"We are seven") any one line sanctified by the genius of a Plagiary, we should say that too many of his descendants want that greatest art, the art to steal. They steal—but not with integrity. There may be, nay there is, such a thing as honest theft—equitable robbery—prigging with justice and honour. We hold that in all cases of literary borrowing, or robbery (for it comes to the same thing), it is ten million times better to rob or borrow without the least disguise, equivocation, or mutilation whatsoever. Take the line as you find it. Don't crack it as you would a nut, picking out the idea, appropriating it to your own purpose, and leaving only the husk behind. You will never get an artificial shell to grow round it; it will never be the nut it was before. Take it whole. Prudery in these cases is often worse than folly—it is shabbiness. It is folly, when, after stealing a fine symmetrical thought, a whole morning is spent in disguising, distorting, and deforming it, until at last all that remains of it merge into the unprofitable moral—"of no use to anybody but the owner." It is shabbiness, when, as is the practice of prose-writers, a splendid passage is purloined, and a bargain is struck with conscience; when, just for decency's sake, six words of the sentence are publicly attributed by inverted commas to the right owner, while all the rest assumes thecharacter of originality. We may give an example in the following passage from Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France, which we will suppose to be thus printed:—

But the "age of chivalry" is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the "glory of Europe" is extinguished for ever. The unbought grace of life, the "cheap defence of nations[3]," the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, "is gone!"

This cunning practice of acknowledging a few words borrowed, with a view to divert suspicion from the many you have stolen, is like confessing a lawful debt of sixpence, due to the man which you have just plundered of fifty pounds; and this practice, Sir Fretful Plagiary, to his immortal honour, scorned to adopt. Could his original and abundant genius have stooped to steal, he would have stolen conscientiously; he would have taken the whole passage outright; instead of spoiling everything he laid his hands upon, and making (as Dryden says) "the fine woman end in a fish's tail." War is honourable, manslaying is not; pillage is legalised by custom, which cannot be said of picking pockets. Thus, as it is more honourable to pillage than to pilfer, so is it to seize upon a whole line, or even a couplet, than to extract the essence of it surreptitiously, or sneak off with a valuable epithet; and it is the more honest, because every author has a better chance, after the robbery has served its purpose, of getting back his own.

Had this principle been in operation from the beginning, what confusion it would have prevented! what discords between authors! what perplexities in settling their claims to disputed metaphors, and their rights in contested ideas! From the mere want of this common honesty in purloining, it is impossible, in many instances, to come to an equitable adjustment. It is a wise poet that knows his own conceit—or to prevent mistakes, let us say, his own idea. He sees his private property transferred to the pages of another, and cannot swear to it. There is no saying which is yours and which is his.Tuumrhymes tosuum, and always will.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.

CHAPTER II.

Time progressed, and though Mrs. Heartwell still laboured under unaccountable agitation and alarm, yet there was a counteracting influence that diffused itself through her frame and buoyed her up with hope. Honest Ben more than once or twice entered the room, and with diffidence inquired whether his mistress had any commands; he asked no intrusive questions—he made no observations—the matter was something beyond his comprehension, and it never for one moment entered into his thoughts to speculate upon causes and effects; yet desirous of affordingall the comfort and consolation which suggested itself to his mind, he took especial pains in making some excellent coffee, which he carried up to the distressed lady.

"You are kind and considerate, my good friend," said she whilst accepting the proffered refreshment. "I wish Mr. Heartwell was here to partake of it with me. Surely something unusual must have happened to detain him."

"No doubt on it, my lady," returned the seaman; "an ould messmate or shipmate mayhap, or an extra glass of grog or two."

The lady shook her head as she mournfully replied, "No, no, those would not be inducements strong enough to keep your master away from his home."

"Bless you, my lady," responded the seaman earnestly, as he busied himself about the parlour; "as to the strength of the deucements, all I can say is, that they mixes 'em strong enough when they pleases—though half-and-half ought to satisfy any reasonable man. But there, what's the odds so as you're happy?"

"You must prepare yourself, Ben, to go to Lincoln's Inn, and see if your master has been detained by business," said the lady, disregarding, or perhaps not observing the poor fellow's mistake. "You know the office of Mr. Brady."

"Yes, my lady," returned the seaman; "and I'll make sail as soon as ever you pleases to give orders."

"Wait then a little longer," added Mrs. Heartwell, as she looked at the watch: "go down now, and I will ring for you presently."

Accustomed to implicit obedience when afloat, the seaman still adhered to it now that he was ashore; and therefore again descending to the kitchen, he awaited the expected summons.

Drearily and heavily the minutes passed away, and yet as the fingers of the dial moved progressively over the divisions of the hour into quarters—marking the march of time—they seemed to have flown too quickly, for they afforded additional evidence that some calamity must have befallen the individual whose continued absence had caused increasing pain. Yet there the mourning watcher sat, suffering the extreme trial of human patience—waiting for those who came not.

Several times had the silent contemplations of Mrs. Heartwell been disturbed by the loud ticking and sudden stopping of a clock or watch. At first she scarcely heeded the noise, but the frequent repetition drew her attention more strongly to it, and she sought for the cause: it could not be the dial, for the vibrations of that were clear and continuous—it could not be her own watch, the sound was so different; but to satisfy herself, she wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in the table-drawer. Again the ticking came; it seemed to fill every corner of the apartment, sometimes heard in one place and sometimes in another; and when Mrs. Heartwell fancied she had found the spot from which it emanated, it suddenly ceased, and then commenced elsewhere. She rang the bell for Ben, who promptly answered, and stood within the open door. "Did Mr. Heartwell take his timepiece with him?" inquired she.

"Yes, my lady," responded Ben; "I saw the chain and seals hanging down as he went out at the door."

"Is there any strange watch or clock in the house that you know of?" demanded she again.

"No, my lady, not as I knows of," replied Ben, much surprised at the question, and somewhat fearful that grief had unsettled the reason of his mistress.

"Hark then, Ben,—listen, and tell me what is that," exclaimed she energetically, as the ticking was loudly renewed. "There must be a clock somewhere to produce such sounds."

Ben did listen as the eyes of his mistress were intently fixed upon him, but the tar shook his head and was silent.

"It must be some trick," said Mrs. Heartwell; "can you hear it distinctly?"

"It's easy enough to hear," responded the seaman with another slow shake of his head; "and though it's some years since I heard it afore, yet there's no mistakingthat, my lady."

"What is it then?" demanded the excited woman in a tone assuming peremptory command; "what is it that produces so loud and peculiar a noise?"

"Bless you, my lady," returned the seaman solemnly, as he folded his arms across his breast. "Them sounds are out of all natur, for the works were never made by mortal fingers—there's no living hand as winds 'em up—no human spring as sets 'em a-going—that my lady is the death-watch:" and then Ben added his usual expletive, though his countenance was ruefully sad, "but what's the odds so as you're happy?"

Mrs. Heartwell was perfectly aware that what had generally been called "the death-watch," was nothing more than a small insect, and the noise it produced was caused by striking its proboscis against hollow wood to release itself from confinement; but her nervous system was greatly relaxed and her mental energies impaired through the violent agitation she had undergone during the night. For several minutes, therefore, a superstitious dread came over her mind—it was the first time she had ever heard the supposed monitor of the shroud and coffin, and Ben's impressive manner as he announced its alleged character threw an additional weight of gloom over her already oppressed spirits. But reason was not long in resuming its sway, though it could not utterly banish feelings which had been excited by such a visitation, especially acted upon as she was by previous apprehensions of some direful but unknown calamity.

The tapers on the table were nearly consumed, and the re-assured lady directed Ben to supply others in their places: she then walked towards the window, and unclosing one of the shutters, the bright gleams from a beautiful daylight mingling with the fading light of the newly-risen moon streamed full upon her.

Hallowed and tranquillising are the effects of a lovely dawn; darkness has fled before a mighty conqueror—the face of nature is again unveiled, and smiling beauty colours every feature with its rosy tints; the sorrows of the heart are for a time absorbed in the universal peace which prevails,and even the dying who cannot expect to see its close, rejoice in the opening glory of another day.

The weary watcher as she looked up to the heavens felt relieved and comforted; a prayer rose spontaneously from her heart to that Being who had sent light from above to cheer her in the dreariness of night; and now with humble adoration she poured forth her gratitude at being spared to witness the early beams that illumed the east, and called man forth to his daily labour.

Ben was again summoned—the servants were called up from their beds—Mrs Heartwell went to the pillow of her sleeping boy, but his repose was so calm, his rest so undisturbed, that she would not awake him; but imprinting one gentle kiss on his fair forehead, she descended to the parlour to commence active operations in search of her husband.

The seaman was despatched to Lincoln's Inn, as the first essay, and after an absence of about an hour, he returned to report that he had waited some time at the door of Mr. Brady's office, till the porter had told him the office would not be open till nine o'clock, and he thought it best to come and let his mistress know.

"It is fast approaching that hour," said the lady. "Be quick and get your breakfast; I will go myself, and you and Frank shall accompany me."

"I wants no breakfast, my lady," returned the seaman. "I'm rigged and ready at once, if so be as you wishes to get under weigh"—

"No,—do as I direct you "—responded the lady, firmly. "Frank is not yet ready—we have had our meal whilst you were away, and you must not be deprived of yours."

The tar made his bow and descended to the kitchen, where the servants were assembled, and each endeavoured to catechise Ben on the events of the night; but he could tell them nothing, for he had nothing to tell, and even Sally failed in drawing forth any communication from the seaman.

When Frank entered the parlour, he ran and kissed his mother, but looked astonished at beholding his father's vacant chair—he gazed earnestly in his mother's face, and though she strove to smile upon her boy, yet fatigue and anxiety had left too visible an impression on her countenance—With the intuitive quickness of childhood Frank became instantly aware that something was wrong, and throwing his arms round his parent's neck, he burst into an agony of grief, whilst she strained him to her heart, and the tears of the mother and the child ran mingling down together.

As soon as emotion had subsided, Mrs. Heartwell briefly informed the lad that she feared something had happened to his father, and that she was about to make inquiries after him. The returning confidence and self-command of the mother produced not only a soothing influence, but also an animated spirit of investigation in the son; the mind of the child was fresh and vigorous from a night's repose—he had cherished no harassing fears, had endured no torturing suspense, and therefore, young as he was, his courage was aroused, and he longed to set out on the search which his mother had proposed.

His desire was soon gratified, and a very short time beheld Mrs. Heartwelland Frank, followed by Ben, proceeding from their residence in Ormond Street towards Lincoln's Inn. The streets were not much crowded, for the worthy citizens were at that time accustomed to reside under the same roofs with their shops and warehouses, and consequently were always on the spot ready for business. Not that they are negligent in the present day, for no class of men are more punctual than our merchants and tradesmen; but the extension of commerce has compelled vast numbers to convert their dwellings into storehouses; and the City is, to a certain degree, deserted in the evening for the rural suburbs with their handsome mansions—delightful villas and cottage retreats. Man has a natural love for the country—the green fields—the pure air—and the fragrance of flowers—these are the works of the Creator, and our grateful admiration should be mingled with the worship which is his due.

The clock had not struck nine when they passed through the spacious area of Lincoln's Inn Fields, the trees in which had already become leafless, and gave an air of desolation to the dingy scenery. What a crowd of reflections do our Inns of Court give rise to—and yet how few who pass through them ever bestow one thought on the thousands who are toiling daily, and many nightly, within those walls to render perfect and secure for others the property which without the aid of the law would be unsafe! A writer in an American work has remarked, "what a happy country that would be where there were no lawyers;" but he must first people it with immaculate beings, to whom the ten commandments would become as a dead letter, and every one of the inhabitants must enjoy equality. To suppose such a thing is an absurdity—human passions and human prejudices will prevail, and it is to govern the one and guide the other—to protect the right—avenge the injured, and to punish crime—that laws were framed; and men indefatigably devoted themselves to study all their bearings that they might be carried into full effect. An honourable, useful, and manly profession is that of the lawyer; and though there are some unworthy members amongst the fraternity—(and what community is without them?)—yet, taken as a body, they bear a character of which England is justly proud.

Exactly at nine they reached the chambers of Mr. Brady, and at the same moment a tall, stout, boney man took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

"Mr. Brady is not yet come, madam," said he, observing that Mrs. Heartwell was about to address him. "His business-time is half-past nine, and you will find him punctual to the moment. Would you like to wait, or will you call again?"

"You are, I presume, in Mr. Brady's service?" said the lady, as she passed within the door.

"His assistant, madam—his clerk—his confidential clerk," responded the man, stiffly bowing and assuming a pompous manner.

But Mrs. Heartwell heeded not his conduct, her mind was too much engrossed by other matters, and she earnestly remarked, "You are then acquainted with all Mr. Brady's employers—"

"His clients, madam, I suppose you mean," interrupted the personaddressed, as he bent a keen look on the interesting countenance of the lady. "Oh yes—I necessarily know his clients well—"

"Then," returned she, "you perhaps can inform me whether Mr. Heartwell"—her voice became tremulous with emotion, but by a sharp struggle she mastered her feelings and repeated "whether Mr. Heartwell was here yesterday?"

"Lieutenant Heartwell of the Royal Navy, madam, I presume," said the clerk, obsequiously bowing. "Have I the honour to address his worthy lady?"

"He is my husband, sir," answered the lady, proudly, for there was something in the manners of the man that excited unpleasant sensations—a smirking attempt to please that but ill accorded with his look and appearance. "Was Mr. Heartwell here yesterday?"

"Most assuredly he was, madam," responded the clerk. "I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred."

"Confound the lubber, he seems to know it," mumbled Ben, whose keen gaze had been fixed upon the man. "I wish my lady ud let me ax him a bit of his catechiz."

"At what hour did Mr. Heartwell quit this office?" inquired the agitated woman.

"At what hour, madam?" repeated the clerk, casting his eyes up to a clock that hung, or rather stood, in the corner; "why really I cannot call to recollection the precise hour—I was so busily engaged upon the will of Mr. Checkwell, the rich banker, who was not expected to live many hours—indeed he died this morning, and if that last testament had not been made out as quick as it was, so as to enable him to sign it, all his property would have gone amongst his poor relations—but now he has bequeathed it to a favorite niece"—and the man smiled—"he will be a fortunate fellow who wins her favour—two hundred thousand pounds and—"

"Oh, what's the odds so as you're happy?" exclaimed Ben, peevishly interrupting him. "Jist tell my lady when the leftenant hauled his wind out of this."

"Hauled his wind out of this?" reiterated the clerk, giving the worthy tar a sidelong glance of contempt. "Speak English, my friend."

Ben was about to reply in no very gentle terms, but his mistress raised her hand, and the tar was silent. She then turned to the clerk. "I have put a plain and simple question to you, sir; will you oblige me with an answer?"

"Why really, madam, I beg pardon—but the question has escaped my memory," responded the man, as if desirous of gaining time.

"I asked you at what hour Mr. Heartwell quitted this place," repeated the lady, her heart swelling almost to bursting.

"Oh—ay—I trust you will excuse me. I remember now," answered the clerk, as he retired to his desk; "but the will, madam, the will of Mr. Checkwell occupied my whole attention. Yet let me see: it must have been eight o'clock. No, it was later than that; but Mr. Brady can inform you most correctly, I have no doubt: he will be here in a few minutes. Will you walk in, and the young gentleman with you?" and,rising, he opened the door to an inner room. "There are chairs: as for my friend here, he will perhaps remain in the outer office."

Mrs. Heartwell entered a spacious apartment, the windows admitting an unobstructed light, which was thrown upon a large oblong table, bearing innumerable packages of letters and documents tied up with red tape or green ribbon, according to the rank of the client. The walls of the room were nearly concealed behind law-books and japanned boxes with painted initials on their fronts—though some bore in full the names of highly respectable firms and companies, and one or two displayed the titles of noblemen. On the floor were pieces of carpet resembling ancient tapestry, and there were three chairs of dark oak, the seats cased with leather, the original colour of which it was impossible to detect.

The lady, with her son by her side, retired into a part of the apartment that was somewhat obscured by shade; and here, as she sate awaiting the coming of the individual on whose knowledge seemed to rest her future happiness or misery, her thoughts reverted to the previous evening when her husband was in that very same apartment; and as there were two chairs placed at a part of the table that was cleared from papers, she conjectured that one had been occupied by the lieutenant; and small as the matter might seem in the estimation of others, she would have given much to have known which of the two it was. Then arose other contemplations: one of the chairs was doubtless for the clients—the other, at a more respectful distance, for the suppliants who came to entreat for delay against the execution of the law, or to appeal for the extension of mercy from his creditor. Oh! how many sorrowing spirits grieving over blighted hopes and desolated prospects—how many breaking hearts, crushed beneath the torturing pressure of affliction that verged upon despair—how many upbraiding consciences, filled with remorse at past deeds of shame or extravagance—had been there! Parents, who had reduced their offspring from affluence to poverty, through crime or indiscretion—husbands that had wasted their substance, and brought their wives to want—ruined merchants and tradesmen who had borne a good name in the world, but, surrounded by difficulties which they could not master, were compelled to have their names announced in the Gazette. What a wide field for reflection was there!

At length Mr. Brady arrived; and, after a short consultation with his clerk, the door of his room opened, and Mrs. Heartwell beheld a gentlemanly-looking man of about thirty years of age, whose firm-set frame gave evidence of strong muscular powers. His limbs were large, but yet in just proportion to the rest of his body; and a handsomely formed pair of legs were well displayed in tight black silk stockings. His features were of a repulsive cast: a round, bullet-head, with high cheek-bones and protruding bushy eyebrows that frowned above a pair of large but piercing black eyes, which, like the rattlesnake's, had something of fascination in them.

There is a world of language in the human eye that carries with it its own translation; and when Mrs. Heartwell saw the bright orbs of the lawyer as he looked round the room, a strange thrill came over her bosom—an indefinable sensation that sickened her very heart: she had never,to her recollection, seen Mr. Brady before that moment; yet the piercing keenness of his eyes was vividly pictured on her memory—they were familiar to the mind as having at some former period occasioned much distress, but where or when, or with what connexion, baffled remembrance was utterly at fault.

The lady tremblingly arose as the lawyer approached; but her agitation was considerably diminished when a voice, soft and gentle, and sweetly harmonious, requested her "to be seated," and she again resumed the chair; whilst Frank, overawed by the presence of Mr. Brady, took up a position nearly behind his mother so as scarcely to be seen, though he commanded a perfect view of all that was going on. The lawyer retired to the corner of the table, against which he reclined with his left hand resting on the corner; he raised his right to his chin, and fixing his eyes on the distressed lady, seemed to devote himself to mute attention.

Mrs. Heartwell told her name and related the cause of her visit, which drew forth no remark nor a single token that she was heard, till the narrative was ended, and even then he continued for a minute or two in deep and unmoved silence. At length he uttered in accents of soothing kindness—

"I trust, my dear lady, that you will not distress yourself unnecessarily. Affairs may not be so bad as you anticipate; and yet—" he paused for a moment, and then inquired, "Had Mr. Heartwell no friends in your neighbourhood on whom he could call in his way home?"

"We have but few acquaintances, sir, and but fewer friends," returned the lady mournfully; "besides, I am certain that my husband would not have willingly remained away from home all night."

"Was Mr. Heartwell at all addicted—you will excuse my putting so plain a question, nothing but the urgency of the occasion would compel me—but was Mr. Heartwell at all addicted to drinking,—I mean so as to become inebriated?" inquired the lawyer.

"No, sir, never—never," said the lady firmly; "a better husband, a kinder father, a more sober man never existed—and these very qualities do but increase my fears for his safety."

"I am gratified to hear it," responded the lawyer. "Mr. Heartwell transacted business with me yesterday to a very large extent; we had some wine together, and what with his good fortune and the generous liquor, I must own he was somewhat elevated when we parted."

Mrs. Heartwell paused for a moment or two before she responded. The affection she had always cherished for her husband had produced unbounded confidence in all his actions: she knew that sailors were fond of the social glass, but she had never seen him indulge to excess, nor witnessed anything that could induce her to suppose that he had done so; and the thought that Mr. Brady implied, that he was drunk, went with thrilling anguish to her very soul, for it wounded her pride whilst it increased her fears. "Oh, do not say so, sir," said she; "do not say he was intoxicated; indeed he was ever too guarded to yield to intemperance."

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