former, but not from the latter. I once bought an old edition of their works, which I found such a sty of filthiness, that I felt I could neither keep it nor sell it conscientiously; so I cut out the fine portrait of Fletcher, gave it to a collector of prints, and burnt the book." Of Lord Brooke's poems he says, or writes rather (to Mr. Editor Everett, 1828): They "are exceedingly elaborate productions. There is much profound and curious thought displayed in them, but very little of either fire or tenderness. They show a man of noble intellect and indefatigable study in searching for hid treasure in the least accessible depths of his own mind. It requires almost as much toil to read them as to write such poetry as passes for very pretty thinking in our more volatile age." And of Izaak Walton's "Angler" (in a letter to Mr. Editor Holland, 1829): "I envy you the pleasure to come if you have not already perused the book. What a second reading may be I cannot tell, but to me the first was more entrancing than opium-eating in the earliest stage; the spirits, the nerves, the affections are so enchantingly touched, while the understanding is so gently exercised, that the idlest fellow in the world, with a little fancy and feeling, may imagine the soul of pleasant old Walton transmigrated into himself."* A few words in conclusion on the editors' part in this compilation. Their crowning fault is, the not knowing when to stop, where to condense, or what to omit. Their memoir of a good and able man would gain in compound interest by the simple rule of subtraction or long division. One volume, or two at the most, would have been a far greater success than the who shall say how many?-required by a plan which, at the fourth volume, leaves us in the year of grace 1830. Many a letter is inserted which could have been kindly spared, as adding only to the bulk of the book, not to our knowledge of the man. In one of them, to Mr. Bennet, he remarks: "And if I tell you what I am, what I think, what I do, and what I suffer, even for one hour, you will know pretty well what has been the history of twelve months with me." But the editors give us the twelve months in extenso. Nor is their style more swift or sprightly than in the first two volumes. Big phrases still abound; as where it is said that Montgomery's exclamation in Eckington churchyard, "Betsy, when I die, bury me here!" was not, in the event, complied with, because "imperious circumstances ultimately controlled the disposal of his remains," &c. ; or where his "Pelican Island" is "viewed in the coincident foci of evangelical and moral truth;" or where the operation of Enclosure Acts is pronounced " an unwelcome if not an inequitable mode of converting an imprescriptive and inalienable heritage of the poor into real estate, statutably held or legally transferable," even our rural footpaths being at last "devoted to the grasp of the same mercenary legis lation." A parting growl, too, we must have at the use and abuse of the word "individual," without any reference to its idiosyncratic sense: thus Mr. D'Ewes is an "interesting individual;" Captain Cook was bound ap * On another occasion, Walton's "Angler" being mentioned, Montgomery is asked whether he had ever exercised the craft himself; and answers: "Yes; once at Eckington, and caught fish too,-to their evident surprise, and no less to my own, that they should be such fools as to swallow a baited hook of mine." -Vol. iv. 348. Jan.-VOL. CVI. NO. CCCCXXI. G prentice to "an individual in a retail shop near Whitby;" there are, it seems, "certain individuals who can never be brought to attempt versification" (terque quaterque beati individuals!); Mr. Thomas Champion, scissor manufacturer, and Master of the Cutlers' Company, is styled a "spirited and respectable individual;" Mr. Bennet, "a gentlemanly, well-informed, pious, and very closely-observant individual;" in a boating accident on the Ouse, "seven individuals perished;" and Mr. Brougham, Mr. Bethell, and Mr. Duncombe are unkindly marked out as "three of the four individuals who aspired to represent the great county of York" in 1830. The word is a good word, and has its excellent uses. But to what base uses words may degenerate! A man is an individual, in the definition of a lately deceased philologist and wary student of words, as regarded in his special, particular unity, not in his public capacity, not as a member of a body: he is an individual, so far as he is an integral whole, different and distinct from other men: and that which makes him what he is, that in which he differs and is distinguished from other men, is his individuality, and individuates or individualises him. To apply this distinctive word without distinction, this differentiating term with indifference, to human beings generally, is to mulet the language of an expression it can hardly afford to spare, in its proper significance, even to answer the demands of polysyllabic prose. THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY. (TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INVALIDES.) BY G. W. THORNBURY. 'Twas the day beside the Pyramids, It seems but an hour ago, That Kleber's foot stood firm in squares, Returning blow for blow. The Mamelukes were tossing Their standards to the sky, When I heard a child's voice say, “My men, Teach me the way to die!" 'Twas a little drummer, with his side Torn terribly with shot; But still he feebly beat his drum, As though the wound were not.. And when the Mameluke's wild horse He said, "O men of the Forty-third, I saw Salenche of the granite heart It was indeed more pitiful Than mere loud sobs and cries. One bit his cartridge till his lip Grew black as winter sky, But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, Then never saw I sight like that, "Teach me the way to die !" Then with a shout that flew to God I saw their red plumes join and wave, The last who went-a wounded man- And said, "We men of the Forty-third Teach you the I never saw so sad a look As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon In cloud and whirlwind pass'd. Earth shook, and heaven answered: As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third Then with a musket for a crutch He limped unto the fight; I, with a bullet in my hip, Had neither strength nor might. But, proudly beating on his drum, I heard him moan, 66 The Forty-third They found him on the morrow, "Tis forty years from then till now The grave gapes at my feet Yet when I think of such a boy, And from my sleep I sometimes wake, And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!" ALL SOULS' EVE. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE UNHOLY WISH." I. It is one of the pleasantest spots in that part of France, the little commune of St. Eloi, so named after its church. It lies in the north, not very many miles from Calais; and to this circumstance may be owing the fact, that one summer's day, some two or three years ago, two strange ladies were set down by the morning diligence at the only inn, or auberge, the village could boast, over whose door was written, Ici on loge à pied et à cheval. The landlady came forward, in a blue petticoat and white bracers, with sabots on her feet and a long broom in her hand. "What did mesdames please to require ?" "Nous êtes viens tell her, Clara-pour avoir trouver some apartments," began the elder lady, in an accent as French as her grammar. "Mesdames sont Anglaises," interrupted the woman. "Oui," hastily answered the elder lady, "that is, Irlandaises-it's all the same and nous besoin des appartements. Vous comprends? Why don't you explain, Clara, standing there as silent as a post ?" "Dear mamma, if you will allow me a moment to speak." And turning to the woman, the young lady explained, in perfect French, without the least accent, that her mother, being in delicate health, required quiet, pure country air, and pure country milk; that a friend in Calais, where they had been recently staying, had recommended St. Eloi. Could the landlady tell them of apartments?" "Never was asked for such a thing before," responded the hostess. But at that moment a very handsome young man rode up, sprang from his horse, tossed the bridle to the landlady, and spoke : "I'll leave him here for five minutes, dame; just put him in the stable as he is. I am going in to Duterte's to do a commission for my mother." He was tall and slender, very young, perhaps twenty, with a fair complexion, good features, and a small, dark moustache. "Master Francis," cried the landlady, "these good English ladies are wanting apartments. Do you believe there is such a thing to be had in St. Eloi ?" The young man raised his hat, and turned to the ladies with a ready smile. "Could he have the honour of being of service to them ?" "Tell him, Clara-I can see he is a gentleman-he may be of more use to us than that ill-dressed landlady," cried Mrs. Fitzgerald. And the young lady, blushing very deeply, for which neither she nor anybody else could see occasion, proceeded to repeat to him what she had previously explained to the hostess. The young man considered. "Truly, I don't know," he said. fear- This spot is so very retired, you see, that visitors rarely come to it, consequently no accommodation has ever been provided. Let me see-Madame Coe has a commodious house: what do you think of la mère Coe, dame ?" This question was addressed to the landlady. "Well, you have a talent for getting out of difficulties, Master Francis! If they find rooms anywhere, they'll find them at Mother Coe's. She has done nothing but grumble, grumble, since her daughters married, at the loneliness of her big house, and the easy life Babette leads of it. She might like somebody in it for company. Suppose you were to go and see, Master Francis ?" "What a civil, gentlemanly young man!" exclaimed the lady, looking after him as he moved away. "I always took young Frenchmen to be nothing but monkeys. Ask who he is, Clara." He was the young gentleman at the château, the landlady answered, François Latange, and owned a good bit of property in the communethat is, his father did. Monsieur Latange was very old now, turned seventy, and sat in the chimney-corner all day, noticing nobody. They supplied him with plenty of tablets* to suck, and that was all he cared for. Madame was not so old, not fifty, a scolding, never-quiet dame, who ruled despotically the house, and the village, and especially Master Francis. He was the only child, and the heir to all, but Madame had a niece who lived with her, Mademoiselle Anastasie, a demoiselle of sixand-twenty, with a vinegar face and a cherry-coloured coiffure, who looked after the kitchen sharper than Madame did, and scolded the servants twice to her once. Master Francis was betrothed to Mademoiselle Anastasie, and they were to be married when he was twenty-one : that would be in another year. The landlady hoped it would be a prosperous ménage, but she had a notion that Master Francis was too fond of admiring pretty faces to put up exclusively with the plain one of Mademoiselle Anastasie. He She was interrupted by the return of Master Francis himself. had seen Madame Coe (except in conversations of ceremony, like the present, that gentlewoman was familiarly styled la mère Coe), and thought matters might be arranged. Would the ladies allow him the honour of escorting them to her house? Matters were arranged. Madame Coe was not less pleased to have her solitary rooms occupied, and to afford an increase of employment to her lazy maid Babette, than the ladies were to agree to her very reasonable terms. And in a few days they arrived finally with their luggage, and took up their abode in St. Eloi. It was quite an event to the village, and everybody fell in love with "Meess Clare," as they soon got to call her, who really was a very lovable young lady, with her charming beauty and her modest manners. Mrs. Fitzgerald at times got laughed at, and that was when she insisted on plunging wholesale into French. How was it, they asked, that Miss Clare spoke it so well? Miss Clare had been educated at a convent in Ireland, some of whose inmates spoke pure French. At first, a few called them "English heretics," but it came out that they were staunch Roman Catholics, with not a taint of heresy about them. Madame Latange did not take quite kindly to them. She hated and despised the Englishthey were "sifiers et si bêtes"-but she condescendingly invited them to spend an occasional day at the château, where Clara had to make friends with Mademoiselle Anastasie. And Master Francis and Miss Clare, how did they get on? Oh, we are coming to that by-and-by. A sweetmeat made of treacle and butter, answering somewhat to the English “bull's-eye,” much patronised by French children of all ages. |