and larded with Greek. Neverthe less they obtained for him a little money, and among literary men some reputation. Now Audley Egerton came into power, and got him, though with great difficulty for there were many prejudices against this scampish harum-scarum son of the Muses- -a place in a public office. He kept it about a month, and then voluntarily resigned it. "My crust of bread and liberty! quoth John Burley, and he vanished into a garret. From that time to the present he lived-Heaven knows how. Literature is a business, like every thing else; John Burley grew more and more incapable of business. "He could not do task-work," he said; he wrote when the whim seized him, or when the last penny was in his pouch, or when he was actually in the spunging-house or the Fleet migrations which occurred to him, on an average, twice a-year. He could generally sell what he had positively written, but no one would engage him beforehand. Magazines and other periodicals were very glad to have his articles, on the condition that they were anonymous; and his style was not necessarily detected, for he could vary it with the facility of a practised pen. Audley Egerton continued his best supporter, for there were certain questions on which no one wrote with such force as John Burley-questions connected with the metaphysics of politics, such as law reform and economical science. And Audley Egerton was the only man John Burley put himself out of the way to serve, and for whom he would give up a drinking bout and do taskwork; for John Burley was grateful by nature, and he felt that Egerton had really tried to befriend him. Indeed, it was true, as he had stated to Leonard by the Brent, that, even after he had resigned his desk in the London office, he had had the offer of an appointment in Jamaica, and a place in India from the Minister. But probably there were other charms then than those exercised by the oneeyed perch that kept him to the neighbourhood of London. With all his grave faults of character and conduct, John Burley was not without the fine qualities of a large nature.

He was most resolutely his own enemy, it is true, but he could hardly be said to be any one else's. Even when he criticised some more fortunate writer, he was good-humoured in his very satire: he had no bile, no envy. And as for freedom from malignant personalities, he might have been a model to all critics. I must except politics, however, for in these he could be rabid and savage. He had a passion for independence, which, though pushed to excess, was not without grandeur. No lickplatter, no parasite, no toadeater, no literary beggar, no hunter after patronage and subscriptions; even in his dealings with Audley Egerton, he insisted on naming the price for his labours. He took a price, because, as the papers required by Audley demanded much reading and detail, which was not at all to his taste, he considered himself entitled fairly to something more than the editor of the journal, wherein the papers appeared, was in the habit of giving. But he assessed this extra price himself, and as he would have done to a bookseller. And when in debt and in prison, though he knew a line to Egerton would have extricated him, he never wrote that line. He would depend alone on his pen-dipped it hastily in the ink, and scrawled himself free. The most debased point about him was certainly the incorrigible vice of drinking, and with it the usual concomitant of that vice-the love of low company. To be King of the Bohemians-to dazzle by his wild humour, and sometimes to exalt by his fanciful eloquence, the rude gross natures that gathered round him - this was a royalty that repaid him for all sacrifice of solid dignity; a foolscap crown that he would not have changed for an emperor's diadem. Indeed, to appreciate rightly the talents of John Burley, it was necessary to hear him talk on such occasions. As a writer, after all, he was only capable now of unequal desultory efforts. But as a talker, in his own wild way, he was original and matchless. And the gift of talk is one of the most dangerous gifts a man can possess for his own sake-the applause is so immediate, and gained with so little labour. Lower, and lower, and lower had sunk

John Burley, not only in the opinion of all who knew his name, but in the habitual exercise of his talents. And this seemed wilfully- from choice. He would write for some unstamped journal of the populace, out of the pale of the law, for pence, when he could have got pounds from journals of high repute. He was very fond of scribbling off penny ballads, and then standing in the street to hear them sung. He actually once made himself the poet of an advertising tailor, and enjoyed it excessively. But that did not last long, for John Burley was a Pittite-not a Tory, he used to say, but a Pittite. And if you had heard him talk of Pitt, you would never have known what to make of that great statesman. He treated him as the German commentators do Shakspeare, and invested him with all imaginary meanings and objects, that would have turned the grand practical man into a sybil. Well, he was a Pittite; the tailor a fanatic for Thelwall and Cobbett. Mr Burley wrote a poem, wherein Britannia appeared to the tailor, complimented him highly on the art he exhibited in adorning the persons of her sons; and, bestowing upon him a gigantic mantle, said that he, and he alone, might be enabled to fit it to the shoulders of living men. The rest of the poem was occupied in Mr Snip's unavailing attempts to adjust this mantle to the eminent politicians of the day, when, just as he had sunk down in despair, Britannia reappeared to him, and consoled him with the information that he had done all mortal man could do, and that she had only desired to convince pigmies that no human art could adjust to their proportions the mantle of William Pitt. Sic itur ad astra. She went back to the stars, mantle and all. Mr Snip was exceedingly indignant at this allegorical effusion, and with wrathful shears cut the tie between himself and his poet.

Thus, then, the reader has, we trust, a pretty good idea of John Burley-a specimen of his genus, not very common in any age, and now happily almost extinct, since authors of all degrees share in the general improvement in order, economy, and sober decorum, which has obtained in the national manners. Mr Prickett, though entering into less historical detail than we have done, conveyed to Leonard a tolerably accurate notion of the man, representing him as a person of great powers and learning, who had thoroughly thrown himself away.

Leonard did not, however, see how much Mr Burley himself was to be blamed for his waste of life; he could not conceive a man of genius voluntarily seating himself at the lowest step in the social ladder. He rather supposed he had been thrust down there by Necessity.

And when Mr Prickett, concluding, said, "Well, I should think Burley would cure you of the desire to be an author even more than Chatterton," the young man answered gloomily, "Perhaps," and turned to the bookshelves.

With Mr Prickett's consent, Leonard was released earlier than usual from his task, and a little before sunset he took his way to Highgate. He was fortunately directed to take the new road by the Regent's Park, and so on through a very green and smiling country. The walk, the freshness of the air, the songs of the birds, and, above all, when he had got half-way, the solitude of the road, served to rouse him from his stern and sombre meditations. And when he came into the lane overhung with chestnut trees, and suddenly caught sight of Helen's watchful and then brightening face, as she stood by the wicket, and under the shadow of cool murmurous boughs, the blood rushed gaily through his veins, and his heart beat loud and gratefully.

She drew him into the garden with such true childlike joy!

Now behold them seated in the arbour-a perfect bower of sweets and

blossoms; the wilderness of roof-tops and spires stretching below, broad and far; London seen dim and silent, as in a dream.

She took his hat from his brows gently, and looked him in the face with tearful penetrating eyes.

She did not say, "You are changed." She said, "Why, why did I leave you?" and then turned away.

"Never mind me, Helen. I am man, and rudely born- speak of yourself. This lady is kind to you, then?"

"Does she not let me see you? Oh! very kind-and look here."

Helen pointed to fruits and cakes set out on the table. "A feast, brother."

And she began to press her hospitality with pretty winning ways, more playful than was usual to her, and talking very fast, and with forced but silvery laughter.

By degrees she stole him from his gloom and reserve; and, though he could not reveal to her the cause of his bitterest sorrow, he owned that he had suffered much. He would not have owned that to another living being. And then, quickly turning from this brief confession, with assurances that the worst was over, he sought to amuse her by speaking of his new acquaintance with the perch-fisher. But when he spoke of this man with a kind of reluctant admiration, mixed with compassionate yet gloomy interest, and drew a grotesque though subdued sketch of the wild scene in which he had been spectator, Helen grew alarmed and grave.

"Oh, brother, do not go there again-do not see more of this bad man."

"Bad! no! Hopeless and unhappy, he has stooped to stimulants and oblivion ;-but you cannot understand these things, my pretty preacher."

"Yes I do, Leonard. What is the difference between being good and bad? The good do not yield to temptations, and the bad do."

The definition was so simple and so wise that Leonard was more struck with it than he might have been by the most elaborate sermon by Parson Dale.

"I have often murmured to myself since I lost you, 'Helen was my good angel;'-say on. For my heart is dark to myself, and while you speak light seems to dawn on it."

This praise so confused Helen that

she was long before she could obey the command annexed to it. But, by little and little, words came to both more frankly. And then he told her the sad tale of Chatterton, and waited, anxious to hear her comments.

"Well," he said, seeing that she remained silent, "how can I hope, when this mighty genius laboured and despaired? What did he want, save birth and fortune, and friends, and human justice."

"Did he pray to God?" said Helen, drying her tears.

Again Leonard was startled. In reading the life of Chatterton, he had not much noted the scepticism, assumed or real, of the ill-fated aspirer to earthly immortality. At Helen's question, that scepticism struck him forcibly.

"Why do you ask that, Helen?" "Because, when we pray often, we grow so very, very patient," answered the child. "Perhaps, had he been patient a few months more, all would have been won by him, as it will be by you, brother; for you pray, and you will be patient."

Leonard bowed his head in deep thought, and this time the thought was not gloomy. Then out from that awful life there glowed another passage, which before he had not heeded duly, but regarded rather as one of the darkest mysteries in the fate of Chatterton.

At the very time the despairing poet had locked himself up in his garret, to dismiss his soul from its earthly ordeal, his genius had just found its way into the light of renown. Good and learned and powerful men were preparing to serve and save him. Another year-nay, perchance another month-and he might have stood acknowledged and sublime in the foremost front of his age.

"Oh Helen!" cried Leonard, raising his brows from which the cloud had passed, "why, indeed, did you leave me?

Helen started in her turn as he repeated this regret, and in her turn grew thoughtful. At length she asked him if he had written for the box which had belonged to her father, and been left at the inn.

And Leonard, though a little chafed at what he thought a childish inter

ruption to themes of graver interest, owned with self-reproach that he had forgotten to do so. Should he not write now to order the box to be sent to her at Miss Starke's.

"No; let it be sent to you. Take care of it. I should like to know that something of mine is with you; and perhaps I may not stay here long."

"Not stay here? That you must, my dear Helen-at least as long as Miss Starke will keep you, and is kind. By-and-by (added Leonard, with something of his former sanguine tone) I may yet make my way, and we shall have our cottage to our

selves. But-Oh Helen!-I forgot

you wounded me; you left your money with me. I only found it in my drawers the other day. Fie!-I have brought it back."

"It was not mine-it is yours. We were to share together-you paid all; and how can I want it here, too?"

But Leonard was obstinate; and as Helen mournfully received back all that of fortune her father had bequeathed to her, a tall female figure stood at the entrance of the arbour, and said, in a voice that scattered all sentiment to the winds-"Young man, it is time to go."

"Already!" said Helen, with faltering accents, as she crept to Miss Starke's side while Leonard rose and bowed. "I am very grateful to you, madam," said he, with the grace that comes from all refinement of idea, "for allowing me to see Miss Helen. Do not let me abuse your kindness." Miss Starke seemed struck with his look and manner, and made a stiff half curtsey.

A form more rigid than Miss Starke's it was hard to conceive. She was like the grim white woman in the nursery ballads. Yet, apparently, there was a good nature in allowing the stranger to enter her trim garden, and providing for him and her little charge those fruits and cakes, which belied her aspect. "May I go with him to the gate?" whispered Helen, as Leonard had already passed up the path.

"You may, child; but do not loiter. And then come back, and lock up the cakes and cherries, or Patty will get at them."

Helen ran after Leonard.

"Write to me, brother-write to

me; and do not, do not be friends with this man, who took you to that wicked, wicked place."

"Oh, Helen, I go from you strong enough to brave worse dangers than that," said Leonard almost gaily.

They kissed each other at the little wicket gate, and parted.

Leonard walked home under the summer moonlight, and on entering his chamber, looked first at his rosetree. The leaves of yesterday's flowers lay strewn round it; but the tree had put forth new buds.

"Nature ever restores," said the young man. He paused a moment, and added, "Is it that Nature is very patient?"

His sleep that night was not broken by the fearful dreams he had lately known. He rose refreshed, and went his way to his day's work-not stealing along the less crowded paths, but, with a firm step, through the throng of men. Be bold, adventurer-thou hast more to suffer! Wilt thou sink? I look into thy heart, and I cannot

answer.

THE celebrated Laurence Sterne was provoked to a journey, which extended from France to Italy, and might have extended to the circumnavigation of the world, by the snappish remark of a travelled coxcomb.

"They order this matter better in France," said Sterne.

"You have been in France,' said my gentleman, turning quick upon me, with the most civil triumph in the world.

"Strange,' said I, debating the matter with myself, that one-andtwenty miles' sailing-for 'tis absolutely no further from Dover to Calais -should give a man those rights. I'll look into them.' So, giving up the argument, I went straight to my lodgings, put up half-a-dozen shirts," &c. So, Sterne was provoked into crossing the Channel.

The difference between 1762, when Sterne performed this feat, and 1851, is prodigious in point of travelling facilities, but is tolerably near in point of provocation. "You have been in France," is still a quiet insult, not to be endured by any man capable of steaming down the Thames; with the addition that a thousand might use the taunt now, for one that used it then. In the days of our fathers a voyage to France was what a trip up the Mediterranean is now; a thing to be seriously considered, carefully provided for, a matter of cost, and an affair of consultation with the elder branches of the family. The lawyer was sometimes called into the family council; and the making of a will was considered a becoming preliminary. Men of ten thousand a-year were regarded as the only class entitled by their station in society to travel, which adventure was not to be undertaken by any heir to an estate under twenty, without the accompaniment of a tutor, generally a fellow of a college, who knew no more of life than Simeon Stylites; and for the same reason, his having stood apart from all mankind for the last fifty years of his existence, and perhaps also for his looking down from his pillar on all who looked up to him.

The rest of the travelled world was made up of Dutch smugglers, French spies, English milliners, who travelled to purloin the fashions of Paris; and kings' messengers carrying the correspondence between the managers of the opera and the danseuses of Europe.

But all this is now changed. The multitude visit Paris once a-year as regularly as the cholera. Twelve hours from London drop them in Paris, twenty-four carry them to the Alps, and there the course lies before them, whether to Rome or Constantinople, Cairo or the Kremlin, the Euxine or Egypt, the Straits of Babelmandel or the world's end. Puck's offer to "put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes" is thus beaten out of the field, and a whisper may be carried to the antipodes in the time that it takes the postman to knock at the door.

Another facility of English modern travel is the change of the old intolerable system of passports; once an affair of running about to all the ambassadors in the red book, and their secretaries, who handed the applicant over to their clerks, who sent them to the consul, who consigned them to the vice-consul, who, having nobody else to send them to for their consignation, perhaps granted the permission to pass the Channel. And this operation implied a tax at every step. The passport from the foreign office was £2, 7s., and required as much attendance, levying, and "previous inquiry" into characters, as a commission in the Dragoons.

But all those fooleries are at end, so far as France is concerned. The foreign office now charges only_seven shillings and sixpence, and the French consul simply five-the most convenient of all. For those five shillings he gives you the right to dispense with all the frivolous formalities which trifled with time, patience, and purse. You may go to Paris without five minutes' pause at landing at Dover or Boulogne. You have no fear of the gendarme before your eyes in Paris; you dispense with all permission to go where you will in the "City of the