He reproached himself for having shut his ears to what he had overheard. He ought never to have doubted that the voices were those of Eliza and Phillips. And her very behaviour to him ought to have been confirmation; the girl who was capable of one part of such a business was capable of it all. It was a sign of dangerous weakness of character in him that he had allowed his hopes and love to silence the voice of his reason. But to all his thoughts about himself succeeded a sentiment of deep pity for her. She was so young, and he had loved her. Could he not save her from the misery which it was evident she was about to bring upon herself? Suddenly the idea struck him that had struck Phillips. He ought to have told Mrs. Tyrwhitt. She was tenderly attached to Eliza, there could be no doubt of that. She was a stupid match-making old person, but she would never assist in an elopement of a girl under her care with a man who could not bear the scrutiny of the girl's father-in-law. For himself he had no object to serve in stopping the matter; now that he had found out how true his sister's judgment was-what a hollow and deceitful soul was in that exquisite body, he would never seek Eliza's love any more. But he might save her from a life of misery. Yes; he ought to tell Mrs. Tyrwhitt. He might still have time to do so. He would do his best at all events. He turned at once, and began hastily to retrace his steps. Running down St. Martin's-lane, he reached Chandos-street-passed along itwas about to go down Bedford-street into the Strand-when, at a little distance, he saw several persons together, a scuffle evidently going on in the midst of them-one face there that he knew. For the moment all thoughts of Mrs. Tyrwhitt were forgotten, and he hurried to the scene. He would not have found Mrs. Tyrwhitt at the house if he had gone on straight to it, for Eliza had pressed the departure of the party, and Mrs. Tyrwhitt and Miss Hayday started almost at once, with Mr. Jennings. "You'll follow us with Mr. Phillips?" said Mrs. Tyrwhitt. "What has become of Mr. French ?" "He'll be back directly; I'm going to wait for him. He asked me to let him take me to the carriage," whispered the perfect treasure. Her match-making old chaperon laughed, and patted her cheek. "But you'll keep the carriage?" she said. No, no; not a moment,' was the answer; and the old people started. "Why, there's that man with the comforter standing there still," exclaimed Mrs. Tyrwhitt, as the private door opened. make "Quite a character," said Mr. Jennings, plunging nervously with them into the crowd, and beginning to get angry as people did not way at once for him. "The police ought to clear the streets," he exclaimed. On which some of his fellow-pedestrians laughed at him, and put themselves purposely in his way. As soon as Phillips thought they had got fairly off, he beckoned Eliza, and the private door was again thrown open, and they went out. "Well, I declare that man with the blue comforter has moved at last," exclaimed the pre-Raphaelite. "He's going home, I think. Good-by, old fellow!-he's gone." Phillips, with Eliza clinging to his arm, turned to the left on quitting the house, and pushed through the crowd as quickly as he could. He left the Strand the first street he came to, and walked up it, quickly still. "We must be quick, or we may be caught," he said. as he spoke, a hand was laid upon him. He turned. with the blue comforter. He started, for, It was the man "Well," he said, "what do you want with me, my good man?" The other stepped up to him, and whispered a word in his ear. He turned pale, but instantly mastered any emotion. "Parcel of nonsense," he exclaimed. "Don't try any trick upon me, ▾ or" "Oh! if that's your dodge, I can't help it," said the other, producing a staff. "I'm a detective, and you must go with me." "What's the matter?" exclaimed Eliza. "Nabbed at last," answered the officer. The next moment he lay at full length on the pavement. With a well-directed blow Phillips had knocked him down. But he could not get off. The man was up at once, and attacked him, while Eliza, screaming, flew out of the way. Seeing a mêlée, a crowd instantly collected. Phillips had no option but to fight on or to be taken; and at this moment James came up. "What's the matter?" he exclaimed to Eliza. "Oh, that dreadful man! Mr. Phillips will be killed! Take me away-take me away!" she cried; "I can depend on you." "Where shall I take you to ?" said James, pitilessly, as he walked the trembling girl away. "To Leicester-square," she exclaimed. "Mrs. Tyrwhitt's carriage is there." "You're not on the way to Leicester-square from the house in the Strand where you saw the funeral," said James. "No. I know. It-Mr. Phillips-How can I tell you?" she said. "I do not require to be told, Eliza," he answered, very gravely, "I think I know enough. The police having got Mr.-Phillips, or whatever his name is you'll not see him again, I suppose, in a hurry; you need not, therefore, tell me, or any one. May you profit by the lesson you have received-that is all I wish. For the rest-you must have lost your way, I presume," he added, in a cool, different voice. She did not answer at once; and James even began to feel some sentiments of satisfaction at having saved her-of returning admiration for the beautiful girl beside him; he pitied her, and pity is akin to love. But all this utterly vanished when she looked up at him with her bright smile, and said: "You don't speak so kindly as you did in the room, Mr. James.”Mr. James! She had never called him so before. Mr. Frank being a failure, she wished to whistle back her other admirer. "Don't I?" he said, coldly. "Perhaps I have received a lesson too. At all events-we are in Cranbourne-street now; there is the carriage Mr. Jennings has gone away, apparently." "Where have you been, naughty!" cried Mrs. Tyrwhitt. "I thought you were lost." "The very thing," answered Eliza. "We-we lost our way." "What, you and Mr. French ?" "No. Mr. Phillips and I-I mean There, it doesn't matter now," she answered, pettishly, and tears of vexation stood in her eyes. She got into the carriage. Good-by," she said to James. He moved his hat, and the carriage drove away. "Well, my dear," cried the old lady, drawing up the window. "Did he propose ?" "Who ?" "Mr. French." "Oh no." "Not? Why I thought you had made so much way with him." Eliza sighed. "No," she said. "We-I have-I lost my way." And mysterious as the answer seemed to Mrs. Tyrwhitt, she could get no other. And the next day Eliza went home. But little more remains to be said. Mr. Phillips found that he, too, had lost his way. He had fully resolved to walk to the Bowers of Bliss with Eliza and 6000l. a year; instead of which he went to a stationhouse, and thence to some place of detention, with nothing a year and hard labour. When James and his sister met, she saw that something had occurred. He did not tell her all; but he said enough to show that his dream was over: and he said in his despondency that Fame was a delusion and Love a cheat. She checked him as she had done before. "We go through trials for our good," she said, "and have suffering in order that we may learn. Take care that you do not misread your lessons. As to Fame, none is true that is not awarded by conscience as well as by other people—that is not a delusion; and as to Love-if selfishness (excuse me) mingles in it, it is not the love that will bear transplanting to another world." He kissed her. "You always speak out,” he said. "Ah, by the way," she rejoined, "I've made such an acquaintance to-day-such a charming girl. Don't shake your head. You shall like her as much as I do." I've had enough of your sweet sex for the present," he "No, no. replied, cynically. She laughed. "We shall see," she said. Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, you will like to see too. AMERICAN AUTHORSHIP. BY SIR NATHANIEL. NO. VII.-HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE juste milieu it may be hard for critical appraisers to hit. But, between two extremes, to hint with Sir Roger that much may be said on both sides, is easy enough; and, to indolent or incompetent judges, an agreeable observance of the maxim, In medio tutissimus ibis. Our own indolence, or incompetence, disposes us to steer in this middle course in a notice of the works of Professor Longfellow. Mr. Coventry Patmore may assure us he is hugely overrated, and Mr. George Gilfillan may assert that his reputation is hitherto only nascent, and his depth but partly fathomed. Benignly regarding the adverse factions, we accept neither allegation to the full, and pronounce neither a true bill (in the sense of speaking the whole truth, and nothing but the truth), and by adding to and diminishing from both, and putting this and that together, and letting the negative signs of the one cancel the plus signs of the other, we do our best to sustain a judicial centre of gravity, and to work out an equation of terms, a composition of forces. A month or two ago, we were taken to task in a contemporary journal for implying, in what the writer was pleased to call (and we equally pleased to recognise) our "strange admiration of Wordsworth," that Professor Longfellow was not a poet of the same calibre as the Bard of Rydal. For the life of us we cannot understand how any one admiring Wordsworth at all, could put the professor in competition with him:-assuredly the professor himself would shrink from the comparison. On the other hand, we avow a most cordial and lively admiration of the author of the "Golden Legend" and "Evangeline," of the noble Excelsior strains, that stir even stagnant souls as with the sound of a trumpet-echoes of silver trumpets heard from the battlement of a Temple not made with hands,-and of the "Psalm of Life," so invigorating, elevating, and seasonable,—and of the "Voices of the Night," so sweetly solemn, so tender and true. God bless the minstrel of verses like these, and increase his influence a hundred-fold! This benediction is sincere, and worth whole chapters of criticism—such as we could write. Professor Longfellow's poems have been described as "rather golden recollections than present vision"-giving us the "elegiac words, and tender mien, and mellow music," which record some loved memory of bygone youth, than the "poet's outcry at things seen," or the poet's gesture significant of words he may not utter—ἀρρητα ῥήματα, ἃ οὐκ ἐξον ȧveρ λadnσaι. But he sings emphatically with a purpose, and a high one. He is, to adapt Tennyson's words, one Like Wordsworth's Wanderer, he is "rich in love and sweet humanity;" and like Wordsworth himself, he would, by excelsior! strains, and "psalms of life," and voices of the night, hasten the coming of a holier, happier age, and -long before that blissful hour arrives, At the same time, he is gay and sprightly in his movements; some of his verses are almost frivolous in tone and finical in form; he plays with his theme, when so disposed, and seasons his compositions with liberal spicery of quaint phantasien and scholarly concetti. He may be said to have two publics-one which comes for strong meat, to strengthen and sustain another, for "trifle" and confectionery, to tickle an epicurean palate. In simile-making, Mr. Longfellow is au fait. Like Cocker, he is a "dab at figures." Figurative he loves to be, sometimes at too great an expense. His similes do not, indeed, arise with the impetuous unrest, the exhaustless creativeness of Alexander Smith and others,-nor are they so "rich" in quality, though in quantity more "rare." But they are plenteous enough to make some readers account simile-making his forte, while quaint enough occasionally to make others call it his foible. Often sweet and significant, they are not unfrequently forced and farfetched. Take the following excerpts, metaphorical and figurative, in illustration of the poet's manner: The day is done; and slowly from the scene And the white hamlet gather'd round its base, -And within the woodlands as he trod, -Yonder lies The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled Under the single arched Devil's Bridge, built for pilgrims to Rome, |