CHAPTER I.

It was about half a century ago in the closing twilight of an autumnal evening at that period of the season when the falling of the sear and yellow leaves indicated the near approach of winter, that a lady was seated at work in one of those comfortable parlours which, as far as the memory of living man can go back, were at all times considered essential to an Englishman's ideas of enjoyment, and which certainly were not and are not to be found, approaching to the same degree of commodious perfection, in any other part of the world. By her side sat a beautiful boy some seven or eight years of age, whose dark glossy ringlets hung clustering down his shoulders over the broad and open white cambric collar of his shirt. His full and fair face bore the ripened bloom of ruddy health, and his large blue eyes, even though a child, were strongly expressive of tenderness and love. The lady herself was fair to look upon, possessing a placid cast of countenance which, whilst it invited esteem and confidence, calmly repelled impertinence or disrespect; her eyes, like those of her son, were mild and full, and meltingly blue, and through the shades of long dark lashes discoursed most eloquently the language of affectionate solicitude and fond regard; and it was impossible to look upon them, or be looked upon by them, without experiencing a glow of pleasure, warming and nourishing all the better feelings and purposes of the heart. In age she was twenty-six, but matronly anxiety gave her the appearance of being some two or three years older; her figure was faultless, and the tight sleeve of her gown fitting closely to her arm, and confined with a bracelet of black velvet at the wrist, displayed the form of a finely moulded limb; and the painter or the sculptor would have been proud to copy from so admirable a model.

The floor of the room was covered with a soft Turkey carpet, which, though somewhat faded, still retained in many parts its richness of colours. The panelled walls were of oak that had endured for more than one generation; and though time had thrown his darkened shadows over them, as if to claim them for his own, art had been called in aid, if not to defeat his claims, yet to turn them to advantage; for the blackened wood was polished to a mirror-like brightness, and instead of dispensing gloom, its reflections were light and cheerful. Suspended in the upper compartments and surrounded with oval frames, tastefully carved and gilt, were well executed portraits by the celebrated masters of those and earlier days.

Between the two windows, where the whole of the light was thrown upon the person, hung suspended a pier looking-glass in a well-carved mahogany frame surrounded by the plume of the Prince of Wales, bearing the appropriate motto for the reflecting tablet itself, "Ich Dien;" and at the corners, in open work, were cut full-ripe ears of corn in their golden glory, sheaved together with true-love knots.

In one angle of the room stood a lofty circular dumb-waiter, its planes decreasing as they rose in altitude and bearing a display of wine-glasses with those long white tortuous spiral columns, which, like the screw of Archimedes, has puzzled older heads than those of childhood to account for the everlasting turns. There were, also, massive articles of plate of various periods, from the heavy spoons with the sainted apostles effigied at the extremity of the handles, to the silver filigree wrought sugar-stand, with its basin of blue enamelled glass. There were also numerous figures of ancient China, more remarkable for their fantastic shapes than either for ornament or for use.

The tables were of dark mahogany, the side slabs curiously deviced, and the legs assuming something of an animal form with the spreading paw of the lion or the tiger on each foot. One table, however, that was carefully placed so as to be remote from danger, had a raised open-work, about two inches in height, round the edges of its surface, to protect and preserve the handsome and much-prized tea-service, which had been brought by a seafaring ancestor as a present from the "Celestial Empire."

A commodious, soft-cushioned, chintz-covered sofa occupied one side of the parlour, and the various spaces were filled with broad and high-backed mahogany chairs, whose capacious seats were admirable representatives of composure and ease. But there was one with wide-spreading arms, that seemed to invite the weary to its embrace; it was stuffed with soft material, and covered entirely with thick yellow taffeta, on which many an hour of laborious toil had been expended to produce in needle-work imitations of rich fruit and gorgeous flowers; it was a relic of antiquity, and the busy fingers that had so skilfully plied the task had long since yielded to mouldering decay.

The fire-place was capacious, and its inner sides were faced with earthenware tiles, on which were represented scenes and sketches taken from scripture history. It is true that some of the delineations bore a rather incongruous character: the serpent erecting itself on the tip of its tail to beguile Eve; the apple, whose comparative dimensions was calculated to set the mouth of many a schoolboy watering; and not unfrequently a mingling of the Selectæ e Profanis amongst the groups caused curious speculations in the youthful mind. But who can call to recollection the many evening lectures which this constant fund of instruction and amusement afforded, without associating them with pleasing remembrances of innocence and peace?

The fire-grate was large, and of the old-fashioned kind, somewhat of a basket-like form, small at the bottom, but spreading out into wider range as its side boundaries ascended.

Lighted tapers were on the table, together with a lady's work-box, and the small, half-rigged model of a vessel, which the boy had laid down that he might peruse the history and voyages of Philip Quarll, and now, sitting by his mother's knee, he was putting questions to her relative to the sagacious monkeys who were stated to have been poor Philip's personal attendants and only friends.

Emily Heartwell was, in every sense of the term, the "beloved" wife of a lieutenant in the British royal navy, who had bravely served with great credit to himself and advantage to the honour of his country's flag; but unfortunately becoming mixed up with the angry dissensions that had arisen amongst political partisans through the trial of Admiral Keppel by court-martial, he remained for some length of time unemployed, but recently, through the influence and intervention of his former commander and patron, Sir George (afterwards Lord) Rodney, he had received an appointment to a ship-of-the-line that was then fitting out to join that gallant admiral in the West Indies.

The father of Lieutenant Heartwell had risen from humble obscurity to the command of a West Indiaman; and his son having almost from his childhood accompanied him in his voyages, the lad had become early initiated in the perils and mysteries of a seaman's life, so that on parting with his parent he was perfectly proficient in all the important duties that enable the mariner to counteract the raging of the elements, and to navigate his ship in safety from port to port. What became of the father was never accurately known. He was bound to Jamaica with a valuable cargo of home manufactures; he was spoken off the Canaries, and reported all well; but from that day no tidings of him had been heard, and it was supposed that the ship had foundered at sea, and all hands perished.

By some fortuitous circumstance, young Heartwell had been brought under the especial notice of the intrepid Rodney, who not only placed him on the quarter-deck of his own ship, but also generously patronised and maintained him through his probationary term, and at its close, though involved in difficulties himself, first procured him a lieutenant's commission, and then presented him with a handsome outfit, cautioning him most seriously, as he was a good-looking fellow, not to get entangled by marriage, at least, till he had attained post-rank, or was regularly laid up with the gout, when he was perfectly at liberty to take unto himself a wife.

But the lieutenant had a pure, unsophisticated mind, sensibly alive to all the blandishments of female beauty, but with discretion to avoid that which he considered meretricious, and to prize loveliness of feature only when combined with principles of virtue rooted in the heart. Ardently attached to social life, it can excite but little wonder that on mature acquaintance with the lady who now bore his name, he had forgotten the injunction of his commander; and, being possessed of a little property, the produce of well-earned prize-money, he offered himself to the acceptance of one who appeared to realise his most fervent expectations; and, when it is considered that to a remarkably handsome person the young lieutenant united some of the best qualities of human nature, my fair readers will at once find a ready reason for his suit not being rejected. In short, they were married. The father of Mrs. Heartwell, a pious clergyman, performed the ceremony, and certainly in no instance could there have been found two persons possessing a stronger attachment, based on mutual respect and esteem.

An uncle, the brother of the lieutenant's father had, when a boy, gone out to the East Indies, but he kept up very little communication with his family, and they had for some time lost sight of him altogether, when news arrived of his having prospered greatly, and the supposition was that he had amassed a considerable fortune. As this intelligence, however, was indirect, but little credit was given to it, and it probably would have passed away from remembrance, or at least been but little thought of, had not letters arrived announcing the uncle's death, and that no will could be discovered.

The lieutenant, as the only surviving heir, was urged to put in his claim; and, though he himself was not very sanguine in his expectations that his uncle had realised a large fortune, yet it gratified him to think that there might be sufficient to assist in securing a respectable and comfortable maintenance for his wife and child during his absence. From an earnest desire to surprise Mrs. Heartwell with the pleasing intelligence, he had for the first time since their union refrained from informing her of his proceedings; and on the afternoon of the day on which our narrative opens, he had appointed to meet certain parties connected with the affair at the office of Mr. Jocelyn Brady, a reputed clever solicitor in Lincoln's Inn, when the whole was to be finally arranged, and the deeds and papers placed in his possession in the presence of witnesses.

Cherishing not only the hope, but also enjoying the conviction, that in a short time he should be able to gladden her heart, the lieutenant imprinted a warm and affectionate kiss on the lips of his wife, and pressing his boy in his arms with more than his usual gaiety, he bade them farewell for a few hours, promising at his return to communicate something that would delight and astonish them.

But, notwithstanding the hilarity of her husband, an unaccountable depression weighed heavily on the usually cheerful spirits of Mrs. Heartwell; and, whilst returning the embrace of her husband, a presentiment of distress, though she knew not of what nature or kind, filled her bosom with alarm; and a heavy sigh--almost a groan--burst forth before she had time to exercise consciousness, or to muster sufficient energy to restrain it. The prospect of, and the near approach to, the hour of their separation, had certainly oppressed her mind, but she would not distress her husband by openly yielding to the manifestation of grief that might render their parting more keenly painful. She had vigorously exerted all her fortitude to bear up against the anticipated trial which awaited her, of bidding a long adieu to the husband of her affections and the father of her child; but the pressure which now inflicted agony was of a different character to what she had hitherto experienced. It was a foreboding of calamity as near at hand, an undefined and undefinable sensation, producing faintness of spirit and sickness of heart; her limbs trembled, her breath faltered, and she laid her head upon his shoulder and burst into convulsive sobbings, that shook her frame with violent agitation.

I am no casuist to resolve doubtful cases, but I would ask many thousands who have to struggle with the anxious cares, the numerous disappointments, and all the various difficulties that beset existence, whether they have not had similar distressing visitations, previous to the arrival of some unforeseen calamity. What is it, then, that thus operates on the faculties to produce these symptoms? It cannot be a mere affection of the nervous system, caused by alarming apprehensions of the future, for, in most instances, nothing specific has been known or decided. May it not, therefore, be looked upon as a wise and kind ordination of providence, to prepare the mind for disastrous events that are to follow?

The lieutenant raised the drooping head of his wife, earnestly gazed on her expressive countenance, kissed away her tears, and then exclaimed, "How is this, Emily? what! giving way to the indulgence of sorrow at a moment when prosperity is again extending the right hand of good-fellowship? We have experienced adverse gales, my love, but we have safely weathered them; and now that we have the promise of favourable breezes and smooth sailing, the prospect of renewed joy should gladden your heart."

"But are you not soon to leave me, Frank?" returned Mrs. Heartwell, as she strove to subdue the feelings which agitated her, "and who have I now in the wide world but you?"

The lieutenant fervently and fondly pressed her to his heart, whilst with a mingled look of gentle reproach and ardent affection he laid his disengaged hand on the head of his boy, who raising his tear-suffused eyes to the countenance of his mother, as he endeavoured to smile, uttered, "Do not be afraid mama, I will protect you till papa comes back!"

The silent appeal of her husband and the language of her child promptly recalled the wife and the parent to a sense of her marital and maternal duties--she instantly assumed a degree of cheerfulness; and the lieutenant engaging to be home as early as practicable, took his departure to visit his professional adviser.

The only male attendant (and he was looked upon more in the character of a humble friend than as a servant) on the lieutenant's establishment was an attached and faithful seaman, of some five-and-thirty years of age, who had undeviatingly adhered to the fortunes of his officer from the first moment of his entering into the naval service. He had served under Rodney from boyhood, first in the Prince George ninety-eight--then in the Dublin seventy-four; and, subsequently, when the admiral hoisted his flag, he accompanied him in his career of glory, and was present in those memorable engagements which ultimately raised the British ensign to its proud supremacy on the ocean.

Possessed of a lively and contented turn of mind, Ben Brailsford was always cheerful and gay--his temper and his disposition coincided--there was, at all times, a pleasant smile upon his cheek and a kind word upon his tongue, and, in point of fact, his only faults were an occasional indulgence to excess in his favourite beverage--grog, and his still more excessive loquacity when spinning a tough yarn about his favourite commander, Rodney, though it not unfrequently happened that one helped on the other.

I have already remarked that young Frank--for he was named after his father--was by his mother's side, and questioning her upon the subject of Philip Quarll's monkeys--but though desirous of imparting instruction to her son, yet her spirit was too much bowed down even to attend to him; besides, this was a matter of natural history with which she was but little acquainted, and, therefore, he was referred to honest Ben, as the best authority to answer his inquiries. Ben was accordingly summoned, and smoothing down his hair over his forehead with his hard horny hand as he entered the room, he "hoped as madam was well and master Frank all ship-shape."

"I am thinking of your master's departure, Ben," returned the lady, "and therefore cannot be very easy in my mind, when I consider the risks to which he will be exposed on the turbulent ocean, both in the storm and in the battle."

"Bless you, my lady," returned the seaman, "what's the vally of a bit of a breeze, where there's skill and judgment to read the face of the heavens, and good practical seamanship to ease her with the helm, when the wild seas break over us--and as for a fight, why its pretty sharp work whilst it lasts, but when it's over and the grog abroach--not, my lady, as I ever gives way to more than does me good--but as I was a saying, when the action's ended and the grog sarved out"--and here he cast his eyes towards a well-replenished liquor-case that stood in the corner, and from which he had often been supplied--"why we shares it along with our prisoners, and drinks to the mortal memory of them as is gone."

"But it must be a dreadful spectacle, Ben, to witness the dead and the dying mingled together," said the lady, with a shudder, "the slain and the wounded in one promiscuous heap."

"Bless you, my lady, that comes o' not knowing the jometry of the thing," returned Brailsford, in a tone and expression that evidenced experience; "they aren't by no manner o' means in one permiskus heap, for as soon as we find an onfortinate shipmate has let go the life-lines--and its easy diskivered by pressing the hand over the heart and feeling for the pallypitation--just for all the world Master Frank, as you'd listen for the ticking of a watch in a noisy place--and if so be as you don't find that there's not never no wibration, but all is motionless, from the main-spring having been carried away, so that the wheels have run down, why we knows well enough that the doctor's knife and all his medicine chest wouldn't get him to lend a hand to run out another gun, or rouse aboard the main-tack--so we launches him out at the port as expended stores, and we turns-to with a hearty good will to avenge his death."

"But do they serve the officers so?" inquired Mrs. Heartwell, whose cheeks had become blanched during the plain recital of the seaman; "surely there is some funeral ceremony, some--" and she paused.

"Bless you, my lady, what's the odds so as you're happy," responded Ben, scratching his head, whilst a good-humoured smile mantled over his face; "but the real truth of the thing is, that the officers being a sort of privileged class, expect a cast of the chaplin's _wadee mecum_--that's the parson's Latin for prayer-book, Master Frank; but to my thinking a poor dev--that is, I means an onfortinate as sticks his spoon in the beckets for a full-due and loses the number of his mess, whilst sarving his country heart and soul--has rubbed out a multitude of sins whilst sponging his gun in the regard of dooty."

"I dearly love my country, Ben; I should be unworthy the name of Englishwoman if I did not," returned the lady with fervour, as in the course of conversation she endeavoured to overcome her depression; "but why fight at all?"

This query to one of Rodney's tars would have been quite sufficient, had the law been administered then as it is in the present day, to have subjected the questioner to a commission of lunacy; and Ben gave his mistress an earnest look, shading his eyes with his hand that he might not be deceived by the glare of the lights. At first he thought she was in joke, but finding from the unchangeableness of her countenance that she was serious, he replied--

"Well, my lady, in regard o' the upshot of fighting, it isn't for an onedecated tar like myself to dilute upon the religion of the thing; but, bless you, my lady, suppose as you had the English ensign hoisted on the staff, or, for the matter o' that, at the gaff-end, and an enemy was to dare to presume to be so onveterate bould as to fire a shot at it;" he warmed as he proceeded, "why wouldn't you, my lady, open your ports and run out your guns for the honour of ould England's glory? And when your guns are run out, why what's the use on 'em if you don't clap a match to the touch-holes and pour in a reg'lar broadside?"

"Oh, it must be horrible work, Ben," said Mrs. Heartwell, as the picture of her husband, mangled and dying, was visibly presented to her view; "you throw the supposed dead overboard without being certain that life is extinct--"

"Avast, my lady, avast; we never does that--no, no; a shipmate or a messmate aren't so easily expended," returned Ben, with a solemn shake of the head. "But there's a sort of nat'ral inkstink amongst us tars--a kind of cable-splice with each other, so that we knows at once as well as any doctor as ever sarved his time at pill-building when the strands are drawn, and the craft has slipped from its moorings; that is, my lady, jist as this here, we can tell in a moment when a shipmate or messmate has broke adrift and got beyond hail; bless you, they're all _distinct_ afore we gives 'em a launch, and as for the wounded, why they're carried below to the cockpit to get dressed, or to have their precious limbs lopped off like old junk, condemned as onsarviceable. But what's the odds, my lady, so as you're happy?"

One of Ben's peculiarities, and which long habit had rendered perfectly familiar to him, was the general use of the expression "What's the odds so as you're happy?" and as he mostly contrived to lug it in whatever the course of conversation might be, it often happened that it found utterance on very inappropriate occasions. The idea of happiness connected with the amputating of a limb would never have entered the mind of any other person than Ben; but his mistress was too much accustomed to the humane and generous disposition of the worthy seaman to suppose that he was indulging in levity, or ridiculing distress; she was perfectly aware that all Ben intended to convey was, that "a contented mind might be supported under every trial and misfortune."

Young Frank had listened, as he always did, very attentively to Ben's explanations and descriptions, and though the delicate sensibilities of the lad were very naturally wounded by the recital of narratives of deeds of blood and violence, yet when the seaman entered upon details of chivalrous enterprise connected with the necessity of asserting his country's honour, his youthful heart would glow with earnest desire to be enrolled amongst the brave of his native land. His mother had discouraged his unmatured but ambitious aspirings; her maternal solicitude had looked forward with sickening dread at the thoughts of her only child being exposed to the perils of the ocean. She had endured the long-suffering of anxious care and hope deferred during the absence of her husband, and her very soul dwelt with increased alarm and apprehension on the probability that not only would an additional weight of anxiety and distress encumber the every-day circumstances of life should her boy become a mariner, but there was also the certainty that in his departure she would lose one of the principal props to animated existence; the dear little companion of her leisure hours, with whom she could unreservedly converse upon a subject that was ever uppermost in her thoughts,--his father. Then the idea of loneliness preyed upon her mind; and, there is something so cold and chilling in the thoughts of being left alone in the world, cut off from connexions that were once eminently endearing to the affections, to sit hour after hour, and day after day, communing with one's own sad heart, to pass the nights in sleepless retrospection, as visions of past enjoyment flit in pleasing array before the imagination, and then to turn the mind's eye to the obscure but dreaded events of the coming future, where all is darkened by gloomy forebodings; there is a keen and horrible distress in such meditative contemplations, that is calculated to waste the stoutest frame, and to unsettle the soundest reason; and happy indeed are they who seek for consolation from whence it alone can be obtained.

Although Mrs. Heartwell experienced more pain than pleasure at Ben's recitals of storms and battles, yet she not unfrequently provoked him into narratives of danger and of death, for the purpose--as she hoped--of deterring her son from entering upon so hazardous an occupation as that of a seaman. But whilst she partially succeeded in awakening the acute sensibilities of the lad as to the difficulties to be encountered, so also was the pride and curiosity of an adventurous spirit aroused, and young Frank grew more attached to the interesting accounts of foreign lands, and delineations of distant countries, than frightened at the tales of the battle and the breeze.

Philip Quarll had been laid aside whilst Ben stood conversing with his mistress--whom he at all times honoured with the appellation of "my lady,"--but now the seaman was requested to sit down and explain the nature of the monkeys, the book was resumed, and Frank inquired "whether Ben had ever seen an ape wild in the woods."

"Why, yes, Master Frank," responded the seaman, as he seated himself near the table, but at a respectful distance from his mistress. "I have seen 'em hanging on by the eye-lids amongst the trees."

"Hanging on by the eye-lids, Ben!" repeated Frank, in surprise; "why how could they do that?"

"Why to be sure, Master Frank, they warn't exactly holding fast by the eye-lids," returned the seaman, smiling; "but we uses the term as a figure o' speech, meaning as it's next to dancing upon nothing."

This did not much mend the lad's knowledge of the matter, but as he was eager to hear something of the monkey tribe, he inquired "And how much bigger, Ben, is a Chimpanzee than an ape?"

"A what, Master Frank--a Jem Pansy?" demanded the seaman, looking at the picture of Quarll with his attendants. "Do they call them Jem Pansies? well, to my thinking, it arn't natral to give a christen-like name to such oncivilized brutes as haven't got no rational faculties."

Frank explained, and the two were soon in deep and earnest conversation upon the relative qualities and characteristics of monkeys, whilst Mrs. Heartwell continued her work, occasionally listening to their discourse, but her thoughts principally engrossed by contemplating the coming separation from her husband. The ancient clock, which stood on a bracket at the first landing of the stairs, struck nine, and the lady, who had for some time been growing more and more uneasy at the lieutenant's stay, directed Ben to have the supper things in readiness, and when he had left the room, Frank was desired to prepare himself for bed. Kneeling at his mother's feet, with hands closed together, he repeated his evening prayer, imploring the Divine Being to bless his parents--the servant lighted him to his room--and weary nature soon found refreshment in the sweet repose of undisturbed slumber.

Another hour passed away, and the anxious wife grew more restless and uneasy; she laid her watch upon the table, and though the hour was late, yet she felt impatient at the tardy movement of the hands, hoping that each succeeding minute would bring her husband home. But still he came not, and time continued to progress, unheeding both the joy and the sorrow that accompanied his eventful career. In vain did she strive to subdue the fluctuating emotions that, like the undulating swell of the ocean giving warning of an approaching tempest, seemed to indicate that a severe trial was at hand. Every foot-fall in the street had excited hope, which died away with the receding sound; and the almost hysterical and sudden gush of delight was succeeded by a revulsion of sickening uncertainty and fearful surmisings. Why or wherefore, she could not tell.

But midnight was drawing near, the weather which had been fine became tempestuous, the winds howled and the rain beat against the windows, and the streets were deserted, except by the ancient watchman, whose slow and heavy tread could not be mistaken for the eager springiness of vigorous strength prompted by ardent affection hurrying to the home of the heart. Mrs. Heartwell tried to compose her mind by reading, but the effort was futile; the constant changes in the course of her thoughts disconnected the sentences, and the visions which torturing apprehensions conjured up were infinitely more vivid than the incidents recorded on the printed page. At length, weary nature claimed her due, and she fell into uneasy slumber; but though the mortal frame had yielded to fatigue, and strove to gain refreshing energy by repose, the intellect was still awake and powerful to witness the conflicting occurrences that filled up the scenic representations in the dramatic shiftings of her dream.

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 surrounded by 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 little trouble 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 the contrite spirit was not despised; and Mrs. Heartwell arose from her knees strengthened in the confidence that HE who 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.

MONUMENT TO NAPOLEON!

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 for _his_ monument;--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 a snub--these slight modifications observed, and any hero or philosopher may be fitted to a hair with a second-hand monumental design. The standing tribute "We _ne'er_ shall look upon his like again," is of course applicable in _every_ case of greatness.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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? Is _this_ Napoleon le Grand! and looked Alexander after _this_ fashion--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 he _does_ "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 the exiled 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--that _on dit_ is 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 the _Moniteur_. 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 to _wake_ where he is! The people cried VIVE _l'Empereur_ as the coffin that held him was borne by. And truly the Emperor yet _lives_ in 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 country _owes to him!_]

PHOTOGRAPHIC PHENOMENA, OR THE NEW SCHOOL OF PORTRAIT-PAINTING.

"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 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'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: Whose _Falstaffs_ here will never _Slenders_ prove. 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. Ph[oe]bus 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 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 in _Comus_, 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 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 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 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, I _never_!" 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 be _me_! do look, mama!" Poor Jane begins to whimper; "I _have_ a 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 like _that_."

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 this _some_ traits of truth are sprinkled; But views the brow with anger--"Why, it's wrinkled!" "Like _me_!" 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!"

* * * * *

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 Ph[oe]bus 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.

PUNCH _v._ LAW.

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 of Punch--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!

Such _would_ have 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 of _punch_!

"ORIGINAL POETRY:"

BY THE LATE SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY, KNIGHT,

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 an _imitation_--no phrase that can be pronounced an _echo_. 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."

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

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.

BLIND Thamyris, 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.'

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.

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.

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 living critic, 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 sail To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray!

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 essentially _logical_. 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 fear From grave to gay, from lively to severe, 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 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 which _one_ of 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's _friend!_) 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 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 the character 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. _Tuum_ rhymes to _suum_, and always will.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: The printer's devil had taken upon himself to make the following addition to these lines:--

Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides, (_Something like Milton_). Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! (_Rather like Pope_). Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, (_Why, this_ is _Shakspeare_). To point a moral, or adorn a tale. (_Oh! it's Dr. Johnson_).

To the succeeding lines the same authority had added in succession the names of Gray Wordsworth, Campbell, and so on throughout the poem. What does he mean? Does he mean to say he has ever met with any one of these lines _before?_]

[Footnote 3: Burke.]

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.