them. There was the cordial courtesy of old friends, and the inward assurance of a deeper interest; and, on his part, a constant tone of kindness and respect.

Mary seemed to have a new existence. Instead of the former dull monotony of her life, there was a succession of pleasant walks and rides, and a conversation more agreeable to them all than the perpetual repetition of discussions on the bench; the respective merits of Mr. Bam and Mr. Camp; the proofs that one man had received a promise or another a bribe; or the calculations by which it was tediously made evident that the last poor-rate might have been only a shilling instead of eighteenpence.

Blake was in high spirits; and one day at luncheon (the pleasantest of all meals in the country) he asked how it happened that no one had ever proposed a sail across the bay. Henry was fortunately absent. Since her excursion in the revenue cutter Mary had not dared to join any party of the kind; but with Mrs. Pigott, and Helen, and Blake, there could not be a suspicion even that it was wrong, and Blake undertook to make arrangements for the following day.

"I had formerly," he said, "as pretty a boat as ever floated, but I sold her, when I left Stoke, to the purchaser of Rock House. I know a man who is acquainted with him, and I have no doubt he would lend her for the day. We shall not put Pigott to the trouble of a refusal, as he told me that he would have to attend a petty sessions at Green Norton. I only stipulate for myself that we shall not embark till the post comes in; and, to save time, my letters shall be brought to the shore."

The morning was all they could desire. A soft and pleasant air, not too much sun, nor too much wind, but just sufficient to carry them merrily along. They drove down to the port in buoyant good-humour. Mary was delighted at the thought of being again upon her favourite element; their companion amused them with anecdote after anecdote of the celebrities he had met with, and they found the little cutter of which he had spoken lying ready at the landing-place, clean as a painted toy, its sails gleaming in the light, and a union-jack fluttering at its gaff, as if to welcome them.

"She seems to flutter her wings," cried Blake, "as if she remembered me."

"Now are you aware," said Helen, "that he is half serious in saying that? I can myself almost believe with Wordsworth,

That every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes;

but Blake's creed embraces all things."

"And why not?" rejoined Blake, laughingly. "Philosophers have not yet determined whether the aforesaid all things have any existence except in our own minds; and why may not the idea called a boat have a power of communication and a sympathy or affinity, or some other transcendental connexion-with the mind, of which it is a reflex portion? I hope I make myself intelligible? But see," he continued, pointing to his father's clerk, a quiet, staid-looking lad, "there stands Jacob, the studious and immaculate Jacob. Give me my letters, Mr. Jacob. And here," lowering his voice, "you may now buy 'Stewart's Essays.' I have no message for my father."

Amongst several official-looking papers there was only one letter, and it was from Mr. Fairfield.

"It brings news," said he, turning to Helen, "from a dear friend." But, opening it, "Good God!" he continued, in a suppressed tone, "this is sad indeed! Ellen Fairfield dying! I know, Helen, I know, Mrs. Pigott, that you will pardon my abruptness and confusion. Not a moment must be lost. I must post at once to Dover. I had anticipated a happier day for us all; but you will feel for me, I am sure, and I must bear the disappointment."

They returned to the carriage, ordering horses as they passed through Stoke, and Blake Whitmore was soon on the road to Dover.

When they were by themselves, "I am surprised," said Mary to Helen Pigott, "at what has occurred- "But she checked herself, and was silent.

"My dear Mary," said Helen, “I know what is passing in your mind. Whitmore has never avowed his feelings towards me, yet I have as much confidence in his truth as if he had given me the most solemn pledge; and even should I be mistaken, and that, after all, it is not I who have his affections, my only feeling would be a wish that he might be happy. I am sure that, in this at least, I do not deceive myself."

Mary was not quite so sure on either point, and she looked with some anxiety to the possibility that the friend whose happiness was as dear to her as her own should at last be doomed to disappointment. "As to dying," she said, "that might be merely the expression of his own excitement."

Henry Pigott returned late to dinner, and his account of a dispute with Mr. Camp as to the committal of a poacher, sufficiently indicated that the dull cloud was again spreading over the towers of Knight's Carey. Their possessor was evidently ruffled, but he affected to be admiring the colour of a glass of claret, as he held it to the light, while exclaiming against "the folly of raising a fellow like that too much above his proper station."

He did not tell them exactly how his dispute with Mr. Camp had arisen.

Darrell had been again brought before the magistrates for poaching; and as the evidence was too clear to be resisted, Mr. Camp, "from a painful sense of duty," had agreed with Mr. Pigott to send the culprit (from whom it was idle to expect payment of the fines) for three months to Ilbury. When this decision was about to be given, Darrell said, that before anything more was done there was something of importance which he wished to mention to Squire Pigott in private. Henry ordered him to be taken into the clerk's room, and, following him there, inquired, as he entered, what he desired to say.

"You know, squire," replied Darrell, "that Dick Simmons is not dead."

"Well; and what has that to do with the case before us?" asked Henry.

"It has this to do," said Darrell, "that if you send me to prison, I'll bring Dick Simmons down upon yourself."

When it really exists, we can scarcely imagine a more painful position for any man than to live in fear of such a threat; to know that, at any

moment, the spectre of unrevealed guilt may stand before him; and that his fair fame may be blasted by a breath. In this instance, the power was partly self-created. The dark spot that seemed to rest upon his father's memory touched continually against the selfish pride of Henry Pigott, and made him morbidly sensitive to influences which he should from the first have despised; and he now stood aghast before the criminal whom he was about to condemn.

"Simmons," he muttered, "is a perjured villain; or you would never have known anything about him."

"Very likely," replied Darrell; "he looks as much. But let me off this time, squire, and I can prevent his troubling you."

"Can you ?"

"I can. Why dang it, I can turn that fellow round my finger. I'd be bound to have him transported again in six months."

Henry suddenly looked at him, with an expression which could not be mistaken; but merely said, "Go back into court, Darrell. Do what you promise, and you shall not suffer."

When he had resumed his seat, he whispered to Mr. Camp that, from circumstances which had been mentioned to him, he thought the prisoner should be discharged.

"What are they?" asked his brother magistrate.

"That, I am not at liberty to tell you," replied Henry.

"Had you been as long in the commission as myself, Mr. Pigott," said his worship, "you would have known the irregularity of asking me to dismiss a charge which had been already proved; and to dismiss it on grounds that were not before me. No, no, Mr. Pigott, you are perfectly aware of my opinions on the subject of the game laws: they are a relict of the barbarism of our ancestors; but my duty at present is merely administrative. I believe that I am right, Mr. Bungleston ?"

And the sentence was delivered.

Squire Pigott!" cried Darrell, in a tone of remonstrance. "The circumstances you have mentioned," said Henry, taken into consideration."

"shall be

"I hope so," rejoined Darrell. "A bargain's a bargain; and-" "I shall be ready to receive your information," interrupted Henry, "before you are removed to Ilbury."

The prisoner, who had a glimmering that the fines would be paid, was then taken out of court.

66

Being an older magistrate than yourself," said Mr. Camp, as they rose, you must excuse my saying, Mr. Pigott, that there seems something both singular and improper in these private conferences with a prisoner. At least it appears so to me; and I have had a little more experience in such matters than you have, Mr. Pigott. I wish you a good morning, sir."

It was no wonder, after this, that Henry returned home with a ruffled temper.

He expressed his surprise at the abrupt departure of his guest; but the next day's post from Dover brought explanations; and there were kind remembrances both to Mary and Miss Pigott.

LITERARY LEAFLETS.

BY SIR NATHANIEL.

No. XXXIV.-MEMOIRS OF JAMES MONTGOMERY.*

THE appearance of two more volumes of this kindly written but sadly diffuse work, invites to a renewed noticef of the amiable poet's memoirs and correspondence.

Adventures do not multiply in Montgomery's life, as its years roll on. The editors exercise all their ingenuity to eke out, into presentable shape, the faintest approach to one. Great must have been their thankfulness to have the poet's express sanction, if not instruction, to make the most of what himself calls "a very pretty adventure," which, he adds, "should not be forgotten in the history of my life." Nor has it been. And thus it runs in the biography, bearing date April 16, 1823: "Mr. Holland called upon Montgomery, who had but just returned from Manchester, where he had been attending a missionary meeting. He said his friend Aston had introduced to him Mr. Ainsworth,‡ an intelligent young man, who had just published a volume of clever verse under the name of 'Chidiock Tichbourne.' This interview had been mutually agreeable to the parties; and when our friend took leave of Mr. Aston, and inquired the way to Mr. Coward's chapel, near to which he had lodgings, the young poet, overhearing the question, said he would accompany him. This was gladly assented to; and setting out, arm-in-arm, they took the direction of the streets that first presented themselves, talking at the same time most earnestly on literary subjects. After having walked to a considerable distance-in the wrong direction!-Ainsworth intimated to his companion that he must leave him. Leave me!' exclaimed Montgomery, with surprise; I thought you were conducting me toward Mr. Coward's chapel? An explanation followed, when it appeared that both parties were alike strangers to the town, each taking it for granted that the other knew, and was leading the way! After laughing heartily at their mutual simplicity in thus illustrating the parable of the blind leading the blind,' our friend added, 'Well, Mr. Ainsworth, this is a very pretty adventure, and should not be forgotten in the history of your life and mine."" Probably the second "party" in this "mutually agreeable" comedy of errors, and vagrant piece of "mutual simplicity," will be satisfied with its having already been put on record once, and cheerfully cede the monopoly of it to these Memoirs.

*

By John Holland and James Everett. Vols. III., IV. Longman and Co. 1855.

† See New Monthly, April, 1855.

Who, we are apprised in a foot-note, is one and the same with "William Harrison Ainsworth, subsequently well known to literature."

Mr. Holland's is not the perfection of original or elegant writing, as this characteristic sentence may serve to show. We shall have occasion to refer again to his liking for " parties," "individuals," &c.

Memoirs of Montgomery, vol. iv. pp. 15 sq. (And p. 21, where Montgomery alludes, in a letter, to "the pleasant digression with Mr. Ainsworth.")

Adventures, then, and scenes of excitement, and dramatic vicissitudes, and moving accidents, are wholly awanting in these volumes of a good man's life. The nearest approximation to anything of the kind, will be found in the records they duly register of such events as Montgomery's first speech from a platform, his admission to the Moravian church, a visit to Scarborough, others to London and Taunton, his début in the pulpit, his career as a Sunday-school teacher, his appearance at the Cutlers' Feast, the Sheffield testimonial of respect and public dinner to him, his Bible-Society tour in the north of England, the delivery of his Lectures on Modern Poets, &c. In 1825 he disposed of the Sheffield Iris, with equally rare and honourable "solicitude" lest the new proprietor (Mr. Blackwell, an ex-Methodist-preacher) should "make a bad or a blind bargain." Prompted by this spirit, he left four hundred pounds (the price of the copyright) in the hands of the purchaser, "tacitly resolved," we are rather ungrammatically told, "that should the paper fail, never to receive the money." His superiority to the sordid ways of money-making is, indeed, once and again shown in the course of these pages. "Montgomery's attention to pecuniary affairs, where his own interests only were concerned, was," says Mr. Holland, "truly poetical, if we may thus designate an indifference amounting almost to culpability. Such of his debtors as could obtain their accounts might discharge them if they thought fit to do so; but, if not themselves weary of taking credit, they were in little danger of being asked for money. It is equally worthy of remark, that no person was ever more punctual in his payments than Montgomery; not a single instance having been known of a traveller or other claimant ever leaving the office with his account unpaid. He never in his life sued any one for a debt; and it is no hyperbole to say that he lost hundreds of pounds under the statute of limitations." In 1818 we find him writing to Dr. Raffles of Liverpool: "Ever since we met in Liverpool three years ago, I have been passing through a series of temporal adversities, which have made me feel how vain, as well as transient, are worldly possessions. Something like wealth came to me almost as unexpected as snow in summer, and it has disappeared almost as suddenly as such a phenomenon would do in nature. Yet have I had no reason to complain, but daily, hourly, reason to be thankful, that though my superfluous treasure was of no use, and a great trouble to me, all that I needed I have had in abundance."-In taking farewell of his readers in the Iris, he told them, with honest pride, that from the first moment that he became the director of a public journal, he took his own ground, and stood upon it through many years of changes, and rested by it still-his ground being, a plain determination, come wind or sun, come fire or flood, to do what was right-laying stress on the purpose, not the performance, for this was the polar star to which his compass pointed, though with considerable "variations of the needle." What he calls the "romance" of his "public life" ended with the year 1805; the succeeding twenty had brought their cares and trials, but only of the ordinary kind, "the common lot," though, as he said, not always the better to bear on that account. Reviewing his editorial career, he could refer to times when he was persecuted by the "Aristocrats," and abandoned by the "Jacobins," and when he found