ing the rebels with condign punishment. As they grow more and more obstinate, he becomes the pathetic remonstrant with those unnatural children, and coaxes them to be good boys. When any news of success to the British arms has arrived, he mounts the high horse again, a d gives the Yankees hard words, but not without magnanimous hints that the gates of mercy are not quite closed to repentance. Reverses come, and he consoles the king. Matters grow worse, and he is at his wit's-end. At last the struggle is over; he accommodates himself to the unpleasant necessity of the case, and sings the blessings of peace and concord. Laureate odes, good or bad, are always fair game for squibs. Whitehead had his share of ridicule, but he had more courage than Gray, who was so painfully afflicted by the parodies of Lloyd and Coleman, that he almost resolved to forswear poetry. Whitehead retorted on his assailants with easy good-humour, in "An Apology for all Laureates, past, present, and to come," beginning, "Ye silly dogs whose half-year lays, as his predecessor had been, and, like him, laughed at the jesters; and he gradually turned their scoffs to approbation by his equanimity and the merit of his performances. Warton had not only the wit to be diverted by probationary odes in mockery of his own, which he valued at less than they were worth, but he had temper to endure the malignant scurrility of Ritson, in reference to more important labours, with no severer remark than that he was a black-lettered dog. A portion of his later days was devoted to a labour of love-an edition of the juvenile poems of Milton, with copious notes. Though of sedentary college habits, and a free liver, he enjoyed vigorous health to the age of 62: he then broke down. He went to Bath with the gout, and returned, as he thought, in an improved condition. The evening of May 20, 1790, he passed cheerfully in the common-room, but, before midnight, he was stricken with paralysis, and the next day he was a corpse. Henry James Pye, who was of a family of which the founder is stated to have come to England with the Conqueror, was likewise representative, by the female line of the patriot Hampden. In 1784, he was returned to parliament as member for Berkshire. But the expense of the contest ruined him, and he was obliged to sell his estate; What numbers write far worse than he." and even the slender salary of a laureate and ending, "To laureates is no pity due, The next laureate, Thomas Warton, the historian of English poetry, is too well known and appreciated to require any lengthened notice here. In 1747 and 1748 he held the appointment of laureated poet, to which he was inaugurated, according to the ancient custom, in the common-room of Trinity College, Oxford. His duty was to celebrate a lady chosen as lady patroness; and Warton performed his task crowned with a wreath of laurel. In 1757, he was elected professor of poetry, as his father had formerly been in the same university. On the demise of Whitehead in 1785, the laureateship was conferred on him by command of George the Third. He was quizzed was not unacceptable when it fell in his way. Besides his official odes, he produced numerous works, epic, dramatic, and lyric, and also published several translations, and a corrected edition of Francis's Horace. The reader will be content if we pass all these with the remark that he was a respectable writer, a good London police-magistrate, and an honourable gentleman in a less equivocal sense than the parliamentary style. factor of annual odes for the court, he was, of course, scurvily used by the wags. The joke on "Pindar Pye, et parvus Pybus," was once in every body's mouth. He died in 1813, and was succeeded by As Robert Southey, who held the office for thirty years; and this prolonged tenure of it, still longer than Cibber's, by a man of unimpeachable worth and distinguished genius, is a happy set-off against the disgrace which frightened Gray, and made him refuse it The concession proposed to Gray, that he should write only when and what he chose, was also virtually, though not formally, yielded to Southey. "The performance of the annual odes," he says, "had been suspended from the time of George the Third's illness in 1810, and fell completely into disuse. Thus terminated a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance." How is it that we have yet no biography of Southey? It is ru moured that his only surviving son the Reverend Cuthbert Southey, has one in preparation. We hope that the report is true, and that it will contain abundance of his father's delightful letters, and be published soon. Bis dat qui cito dat,—that is, not that a book should be got up in a hurry, but that, after a delay of five years, the reasonable expectation of Robert Southey's admirers and regretters should be now promptly gratified. We began with the earliest of laureates and the latest,—Apollo and the venerable Wordsworth,-and with them we will conclude. In a snug nook, sheltered from the north and east winds by Helvellyn and Fairfield, Wordsworth has for many years cultivated his own laurels with success, till he is absolutely embowered in them. The original slip, from which all this throng of greenery has sprung, is said to have been a cutting from a scion of the bay-tree planted by Petrarch at the tomb of Virgil, which tree was unquestionably derived from the undying root of that which supplied leaves for the garland of Apollo, and assuaged the divinity of his brow, when, as we reminded the reader at our outset on this ramble he hired himself as poetlaureate to King Admetus, on a daily stipend of a hornful of milk. THE HORSE-DEALER-A TALE OF DENMARK. BY CHRISTIAN WINTHER. THE King of Sweden, Charles X., lay with his army before Copenhagen. His generals, the young Prince of Sulzbach and Count Steenbock, besieged the city, and his troops showed themselves worthy sons of the famous Thirty years' War. The system of cruelty and extortion that had characterized their Polish and German campaigns was renewed in Denmark, and with the greater fierceness that national antipathy served at once as pretext and stimulus to the soldier's Just of blood and plunder. And thus was it that upon the island of Funen scenes were enacted, whose frightful record, handed down by history, now appears scarcely credible. Men and women, priests and laymen, old and young, the humble and the illustrious, were subjected to the grossest illtreatment, either to extort money, or as punishment for not possessing it. Amongst the Danes themselves mutual fear and mistrust existed; for individuals were not wanting who, through fear, or in hope of profit, played openly or secretly into the hands of the enemy. And, to add to the desolation the Swedes brought with them, the inhabitants had scarcely yet recovered the ravages of a pestilence, which had disappeared from their shores but a few years previously. Whether it was the king's absence from the island, or a notion in the Swedes' mind that they would soon have to leave the country, which rendered the soldiery so unbridled in their excesses, certain it is, that the scourge of war made itself more severely felt than ever towards the end of the year 1659. The doubtful sort of succour afforded by the Dutch fleet was chiefly confined to Zealand, and it was small consolation to the people of Funen to see the proud ships of the rich republic cruising in the Belt and Cattegat. The scanty intelligence from the capital, which in summer some old boatman occasionally brought over, was not always to be relied upon, seldom or never satisfactory, and ceased altogether when winter came, and dark and stormy merry-making; and a wedding, essennights rendered the navigation between the islands impracticable for small craft. tially the most joyous of festivals, would have been out of keeping with the universal misery. Partly influenced by a feeling of this kind, and partly by other circumstances, old Thor Hansen resolved to postpone the projected marriage, and the young people silently acquiesced. At a moderate distance from the town of Nyeborg, on the east coast of Funen, stands the village of Vinding, one of whose richest inhabitants, at the time of the Swedish occupation, was a certain Thor Hansen. He had Amidst the general misery and a son, called, of course, Hans Thor- suffering, Thor Hansen might be consen-for in that country the names of sidered highly favoured, as compared the peasants are like a pair of gloves, with many others. For sergeant which, when turned inside out, change Jon Svartberg, of the first regiment their places, so that the right becomes of Finland horse, who had quartered the left and the left the right; and himself upon the best house in the with this transposition names are village, namely, upon that of Hansen, handed down from generation to was milder-mannered and of gentler generation, never becoming out of heart than the majority of his brethren fashion. In Thor Hansen's house in arms. Not but that he did honour dwelt a young girl, a distant relative to his military schooling in Germany of his own; and although Christina's and Poland, and resembled a bear sole dowry was her pretty cherry- far oftener than a lamb: he required cheeked countenance, and her comely healthy person, he had preferred her to all others for his daughter-in-law. Many might marvel at such a choice, especially those who know that the Danish peasant is at least as proud of his hide of land and nook of garden as the noble of his wide estates, or the wealthy merchant of his well-stored warehouses, and that marriages, unsuitable in a pecuniary point of view, are as rare in that country as in any other in the world. But on this head Thor Hansen thought differently from his fellows. He saw that Christina was a smart active girl, who, young though she was, had kept his house after his wife's death with all care and industry, had milked his cows, cooked his oatmeal, and spun his flax. As to the son Hans, of nothing in the world was he more desirous than to get Christina for his wife; and Christina, when father and son opened their minds to her, could scarcely answer for joy. Thus all were agreed, and the old man already thought of making over his land to his son, and of settling down to pass the rest of his days in peace and the chimney corner. The wedding-day was fixed, the fish and saffron for the soup were purchased, when suddenly the Swede arrived. This unexpected and unwelcome intrusion disturbed the plans of many. With lamentation throughout the land, few thought of joy and inore. much, and exacted it rigorously; but Al invincibility, and flattered himself scarce a vestige remains; and this be had but to appear to overcome all small group of trees, bounded on the rivals and conquer all hearts. That north by a rivulet, lay within the he had completely gained that of limits of the old man's farm. Christina, and that it was ready at though the night was dreary and any moment to beat the chamade and cheerless out of doors, it was warm surrender at discretion, he did not and snug in Thor Hansen's cottage. for an instant doubt. To say nothing Thor himself sat on one side the huge of his personal recommendations, he fireplace, comfortably sunk in an old had never, during the whole time he cushioned chair; opposite to him had been master in Thor Hansen's Christina had taken her station, and house, seen the least sign of a rival. was busy with her distaff. Between This arose from the circumstance that them hung a large four-cornered iron Hans and Christina had kept their lantern; and upon the end of a bench engagement a secret from the soldier, Hans had seated himself, in such a as if some instinct or internal voice position that he could conveniently had told them that his acquaintance throw his arm round the young girl's with it might prove for them the waist. Moreover, his cheek rested source of great vexation and suffer- upon her shoulder, and in this agreeing. To maintain the disguise, how able attitude he kept up an incessant ever, was no easy or pleasant task. whispering, only interrupting the Many consider it a very hard case stream of his volubility to snatch an when two lovers are prevented see occasional kiss from her ruddy cheek. ing each other as often as they wish; but how much more painful must it be to have to feign coldness in presence of a third person, and on his account? The young people felt that the innocent familiarities of betrothed lovers would have been highly displeasing to the enamoured Swede, and deeply enamoured he was, as none, having eyes, could fail to see. So Hans and Christina were fain to be on their guard, except at such hours as the sergeant was on duty, or when they worked together in farm or garden. When Svartberg was at home he was continually after Christina-paying her compliments, cutting jokes, taking her by the chin, catching her round the waist and making her waltz round the room, stealing her slippers as she sat spinning, and playing other witty pranks of a similar kind. It was a November evening, and for those acquainted with that season in the island of Funen, it is unnecessary to say that the night was a rough one. The gale drove black masses of clouds across the sky, and roared and whistled through the small thicket, composed of a score of venerable oak trees mingled with hazel bushes, that grew at a short distance from Thor Hansen's little garden. At that time there was still a great deal of oak and beech timber in the neighborhood of Nyeborg, of which now "But how know you all that, Hans?" said the maiden, who for some time had listened with deep attention to her lover's words. "Who told you?" "Not so loud, darling!" replied Hans; "I do not want the old man to hear it yet: the thing is uncertain, and the result still more so. My father becomes each day more anxious, so that I am almost uneasy lest in his terror he should himself throw you into the arms of the accursed Swede, if things looked dangerous." "The accursed Swede!" repeated Christina; "he deserves not the word at your hands. He has done us much service, and no harm. When I think of my uncle's two poor girls, and of the many others who have shared their lot, I deem myself most lucky, and so should you, that our roof covers so gentle a foe." Certainly," replied Hans, "God knows, I do think myself lucky, and wish Svartberg no manner of harm in the main, but, on the contrary, everything that is good, save and except yourself. But listen further. I fell in this afternoon with a couple of peasants from the plain; they had stopped at the public-house to bait, and had been doing work for Count Steenbock. Whilst the dragoons, whom they accompanied with their carts, sat and drank in the tavern, I got into discourse with these two men. I had noticed them whispering togethes, and looking carefully about them, and felt sure there was something up, something they knew of, and which the Swede did not. I questioned the oldest of them, and at last he told me that the rumour of powerful and speedy succour was abroad in the country he had his information more particularly from Martin Thy; he had seen him not far from the Odensee, standing at a forge, and bargaining with Swedish officers about a horse." "Martin Thy, say you?" cried Christina; "he is sick in bed." "Never mind that, darling! you don't know Martin; he can be sick and well at the same time, just as he pleasés. At this moment his health is as good as yours; and if this red cheek does not lie, you are as fresh as a fish. Or have my kisses made your cheek so red? Come, let me kiss the other." "Nonsense, Hans! be quiet; the old man hears you," whispered Christina, warding off with her arm the threatened salutation. "What is that about Martin Thy?" inquired Thor Hansen from beyond the fire. Without waiting an answer to his question, he sat up in his chair, and anxiously listened." "What is that?" he said, "Who comes at this hour of night? Svartberg it cannot be; his guard is not yet over. Run out, Hans, and see who it is." The son left the room, and in the moment of silence that ensued the yard dog barked loudly, and the tramp and neigh of a horse were heard. Af ter brief delay, Hans re-entered the apartment, accompanied by another man. "Yes, yes, Hans," said the stranger; "you are a very good lad, but that is a matter I understand better than you do. Black Captain is as good a beast as a horseman need wish to cross." "May be," replied Hans; " but at present he is lame, if not hip-shot." "Thank ye, friend," replied the stranger, warmly. "I expect you are a judge. A trifle weary and footsore he may be. He has had a heavy day's work, and drags a little with one leg. But no matter. The peace of God and a good evening to this house," continued he, turning to Thor Hansen and taking his hand. "Dog'sweather, this," he added, as he knocked the water from his broad-brimmed round hat till it streamed over the floor, and passed both hands over his thick eyebrows and black bushy hair. "I am wet to the very skin, and as stiff and weary as an old plough. horse that can no longer follow the furrow. With your permission!"and so saying he seated himself by the table, on the end of the wooden bench. He was a little, broad shouldered man, with an unusual quantity of long hair upon his head, and with small lively black eyes, shaded by projecting brows. He wore a peasant's jerkin of coarse brown woollen stuff, and carried his whip, the end of whose lash was tied to the handle, slung across his broad back, as a fowler carries his gun. "Whence so late, Martin Thy ?" quoth Thor Hansen, with a curious glance at the new-comer, "Direct from Middelfahrt," replied the horse-dealer in a suppressed voice. "I would speak to Sergeant Svartberg before I go to bed, and therefore have I ridden straight up here. The worshipful sergeant is doubtless at home?" he added, but with an expression of countenance as if he wished the contrary. On receiving the assurance that Svartberg was out, and not expected back for two or three hours, Martin Thy peeped cautiously into the best bed chamber, which the Swede occupied, then into the kitchen and court; and having at last fully satisfied himself that the person he inquired about was really absent, he pulled his whip over his head, and threw it violently down upon the floor. "I may speak, then, and tell you the news," he said, thrusting both hands into the breast of his doublet, and standing, with his short, strong legs apart, colossus-fashion, in the middle of the floor. I went to Middelfahrt in a lucky hour. Every face was joyful, and every mouth full of reports of a great and immediate succour, with which we should drive the Swedes out of the country; and on this side the Odensee I heard the Swedes themselves talk of it. part I have not a doubt about the mat For my |