ing no higher than his waist, stood a man of some fifty years of age, whose appearance was startling in the extreme. Without any deformity of shape, his extreme littleness was in itself a defect. But four feet ten in height, with sandy whiskers and moustaches, as well as hair, with little hands and feet like those of a woman, his costume was exactly similar to that of his companion; his rifle, however, being of slight and elegant workmanship, and single barrelled. The expression of his countenance was far from agreeable, his eye appearing to penetrate your inmost thoughts. "You have been in danger in the woods, stranger," said the master of the house, somewhat gruffly, laying by his arms, and advancing towards our hero, who was seated by the fire. "There you go, Philip," said the little man, in a shrill voice; "always the same. You never saw this man in your life before -I beg the stranger's pardon-but caution is the first requisite in life-and you lay by your arms, while he's studded like an Italian with pistols, knives, and guns." Edward rose, his eyes glancing fiercely at the dwarf, while at the same time he disburdened himself of his defensive weapons, which from habit he had retained. 66 Jones, you are mad," said the man addressed as Philip, turning round with a glance no less fierce than that of our young Englishman; "you seem to take every man for a cut-throat." "I do, until I know the contrary," said Jones, calmly. "Sir, you are welcome," said Philip, turning contemptuously from the dwarf; "I trust you will excuse the eccentricities of my friend Mr. Jones." “Yes, sir, his friend," repeated the dwarf, somewhat testily; "and the first duty of friendship is caution for those we feel an affection for." "Sir,” replied our hero, with a smile, "I am a stranger, in peril of my life; and, as the Scripture hath it, you have taken me in; I know too well the gratitude due to your hospitality, to feel for one moment hurt at the jokes of your companion. In fact, I am rather partial to humour and e:centricity, and am persuaded I and Mr. Jones will ere long be very good friends." "I never joke," said the dwarf, laying aside his arms as soon as he saw that Blake had left himself without a weapon, "never." There was an ugly grimness about his tone which very strongly supported his statement. "I rather differ from you there, Mr. Jones, and must say I think you excessively facetious. The idea now of taking me for an Italian bandit was rather comic-I, a true-born Englishman." "There! there!" muttered Jones, with a Humph!" said Philip, interrupting the dwarf somewhat fiercely; "how learned you we were Englishmen?" "The fact is-excuse my ignorance,' replied Edward, bowing, "I never heard of you at all until about twenty minutes since. From Chinchea, however, I gathered that you were countrymen." "Our renown is not very extensive," remarked him called Philip, quietly; "few white men penetrate so far as the Eagle's Nest, save trappers and hunters, whom we always welcome. But come, here is Chinchea, and I suppose supper will be no unwelcome break in the conversation." Edward Blake owned that he was somewhat famished, and the dwarf proceeded to lay the meal, glancing suspiciously all the while at the young man-never in fact taking his eye off him for one moment, and seeking to penetrate every article of dress which could conceal a weapon. Coffee, sweetened with molasses, without milk, hot bread from a portable oven before the fire, a stew composed of various game, with mush, formed the staple commodities of a meal which proved most welcome to the travellers, who knew too well the value of such luxuries in the backwoods, not to feel grateful for the hospitality of him who provided them. This concluded, Blake entered fully into every detail in connexion with Blackhawk, the position he occupied, and the number and nature of his forces; while Chinchea also added to the stock of information, addressing the master of the house in his own Wacco dialect, which the other appeared to speak fluently. His design is certainly upon this place," said Philip, after he had heard both stories, "there being no other location within fifty miles. However, he shall meet a warm reception; we are two dead shotsChinchea is another; while you, sir," addressing Edward, "will, I suppose, lend the aid of your arms?" "With pleasure," replied the young man, who now began to believe himself in reality in the thick of an adventure. do not boast much of my shooting acquire 66 ments, but a year's experience in Texas will always go for something." "It is everything, sir-a country like this opens a man's eyes to their full width. More is to be learned in this land in a month, than elsewhere in a year." "You are right," said Edward; "I for one have learned more in that time than during my whole previous life." 66 "You may chance before sundown tomorrow to gather further experience," replied the other; a skrimmage like this we have before us, is no trifle in a man's existence." "You have been in many ?" inquired Edward, curiously. "I have," continued the master of the house, quickly, "in many." "Well," observed Blake, "I must say I am naturally pugnacious, but still I shall always feel qualms ere I shed a man's blood." "Blood!" said Philip, with a stern and even savage look, while Jones muttered, "There! there!""who spoke of shedding blood? It is here life for life-theirs or ours. One would think you were about to slay--to kill to destroy a fellow-creature in cold blood." Philip spoke with some difficulty-he seemed indignant at the way in which Blake had stated the question. "It is life for life, certainly," replied Edward, "but though it be so, still I would, while calmly thinking on the subject, ever feel a repugnance even to taking life" "Tush, man," said Philip, stooping and fastening his mocassin, "let us drop the subject; we shall have enough to achieve to-morrow, without dwelling on the horrors of it to-night. I shall summon you before dawn, and would therefore advise your taking rest. Yonder hammock will, with the aid of your blankets, be very comfortable." "Many thanks," replied Blake, "but do I deprive you of "By no means," said the other. "I and Jones never sleep in this house. We live here and give accommodation to strangers at times. On the morrow, however, you will find this but a small part of our residence." With these words the two men took their arms and went out, Jones still showing his extreme caution, leaving Edward Blake and the Indian alone. The latter was already fast asleep before the fire, and Edward, though little inclined for slumber, climbed into the hammock, wrapping his blankets round him, and with the universal accompaniment of every Texan traveller in his mouth-a pipe of real Virginia-passed in review the events of one of the most remarkable days of his existence. This rencontre with Blackhawk, his flight and escape, his arrival in the mysterious Eagle's Nest, the strange character of its inmates, were all matters which crowded at once upon his brain. The manner of the two men most of all puzzled him. He could comprehend neither. It was clear they were anxious not to be too extensively known, above all to Englishmen. Their object it was not so easy to define. Doubts, even fears, crossed the mind of our young hero-but the reflection that he had nothing with him to lose, calmed all suspicion with regard to himself. Still surmises of the most varied and strange nature entered his head, to be chased away and followed by others only new, strange, and even absurd. In the midst of all he fell asleep, and his heated imagination once set to work, with the face of Blackhawk (so familiar to him) and those of Philip and Jones, he dreamed a dream. The dream was-but it being a record of a passed event, which the reader must not learn at present, we are compelled to omit it. Suffice it to remark, that though it gave no body and shape to his surmises, it served to add very much to his doubts. (To be continued.) LINES TO A LADY. BY THE AUTHOR OF "DARNETON." How shall we part? As friends do, expecting to meet on the morrow, Distant and cold shall we say farewell? Shall we fly from the sorrow and danger, and then Shall we part without word, or sigh, or tear, Confessing far more than words or sighs, With words not many, but, oh! how true, How faint our resolves, all our firmness how vain! Walter Savage_Landor.* Thousands are acquainted with the name of Mr. Walter Savage Landor, who never perhaps, read a page of his works, which have hitherto been scattered in expensive volumes, inaccessible for that reason to the majority. The present edition is at once handsome and cheap. It has likewise been most carefully got up, the proofs having been read, we believe, twice, or oftener, by the author himself. And what are these works? They are so many and so various that it would be difficult, and within our limits impossible to characterise them all. No English writer has gone over so large a field as Mr. Landor, though excursiveness in his case is by no means connected with superficialLess. With all the allurements of fortune and a high position, able to command the greatest admiration in society by his wit and personal accomplishments, he has chosen during a great part of his life to live like a literary anchorite, in order that he might amuse and instruct his species, and pass down with honour to posterity. He never was one of those authors who discharge a pop gun, and then rush out into the world to listen to its echoes; but, having studied with manly assiduity and mastered as far as possible, by observation and meditation, the science of human nature, he has written calmly and deliberately, and put faith in the offspring of his own genius, to bring him in due time the celebrity he sought. And now in the fullness of his age, he is en joying it. The ablest men in the country have long done him justice, and the public will now probably follow their example. Few authors have written so much in whose works there is so little to be objected to. He has no doubt his faults, and has produced several short passages and used several expressions which we are far from approving; but these like spots on a broad and fair surface are lost at a little distance, and scarcely if at all change the aspect of the whole. It is not necessary while recommending an author to the public to be able to subscribe to all his opinions, otherwise, there are very few authors indeed whom we could recommend. It is enough that the general tendency of his works is good, and that he appears conscientiously to labour to propagate sound views and promote the cause of humanity. He may sometimes take the wrong steps, or strike beside the mark; but if we think his intention was to hit it, we should give him credit for his motives, and hold as we go along an amicable controversy with him on what we consider his errors. To Mr. Landor this "The Works of Walter Savage Landor." In 2 vols. Moxon, London, NO. 1326. C forbearance is especially due, because he is a man most liberal of praise, who never suffers differences of opinion to betray hím into the condemnation of a writer. Nor does he, like many distinguished men, reserve his praises for the dead, but scatters them with a lavish hand among his contemporaries. He has a good word for most men. Johnson said of Milton falsely that he knew of no man who had written so much and praised so little. We are sorry the extent of Mr. Landor's works will not allow us to indulge in an antithesis and say that we know of no man who had written so little and praised so much. But this we, at all events, may affirm that we know of very few writers, and among so abounds in eulogy. This bespeaks a contemporaries none, perhaps, whose style kindly and generous nature, such as we believe Mr. Landor to possess. There are few questions connected with our present condition as a people which are not touched upon with more or less felicity in these volumes, some being discussed at length, while others equally important perhaps are necessarily dismissed often exceedingly happy on mere litewith a slight examination. The author is rary topics. Does any one admire French poetry? Let him if he do look into the Dialogue between M. Delille and Walter Landor, and see with what skill and boldness it is tossed about, and ultimately dissipated into thin air. Boileau was never before treated as he deserves. The French classisists are mad about him, and when the fit is on them, have the silliness to compare him with Horace, though upon the same principle we suppose that a parallel might be drawn between Alexander the Great and Alexander the coppersmith. But Mr. Landor seizes upon Boileau, and shakes him altogether out of his pretensions, after which he stands shivering begrinning and swelling with effort and fore us a misshapen, attenuated mortal, vanity. Nor does Voltaire fare much better. Every body knows that he was an idol in his day, though about the worst and least reputeable ever set up by the stupidity of mankind. He had only two qualifications for the post he held-audacious impudence and a sparkling style; and by the help of these he managed to dazzle his contemporaries, beginning with kings and courtiers, and going up to even authors themselves. Mr. Landor strips the peacock's feathers from the jay, and then turning him round and round before the audience, shows what a pitiful animal he is. We mean thought by his contemporaries. Regarded course in comparison with what he was of without reference to that, he is an able writer, though he never was, or would be VOL. XLVIII, at the pains to understand any subject thoroughly before he treated of it. He constituted the very beau ideal of a popular writer, of a man who seizes upon ideas wherever he can find them, puts them together neatly and smartly, and passes them off for his own. The mischief was, that he would be a philosopher; that he would teach before he had learned; that he would criticise before he knew the language in which the authors he was treating of wrote; that he would write about politics without having made himself master of a single principle; that he would dabble in law, physic, legislation, geometry, and metaphysics, while he had scarcely acquired the elements of any of them. This was the misfortune of Voltaire, which has exposed him to the attacks of Mr. Landor, and to the inevitable neglect of posterity. In two separate works Mr. Landor has discussed the merits of the great Italian writers, and of Shakespeare. In the "Pentameron," we mean, and the "Examination in Charlecote Hall." Were we required to point out the most complete and perfect of his writings, it is to the latter, perhaps, we should direct the finger. But is it a grave or comic production? It is neither. Like Shakespeare's own works, it is sportive at times and serious at times, though the former chiefly. Mr. Landor loves to laugh, and make his readers laugh with him. Nevertheless, perhaps, because not comically inclined ourselves, we prefer him, upon the whole, when he lays altogether aside his cap and bells, and indulges in a burst of serious eloquence. We then, in our opinion, feel the full force of his genius. Still the mixture there can be no doubt of the grave and gay is preferable to a continued indulgence in either; for we are soon wearied by monotony, whereas by the skilful interchanging of laughter with sobriety, our attention is kept awake. beth;" the man who could toy leisurely with a jest or a pun till he made his own and other people's sides ache; or soar into the metaphysics of character, and range along the summit of ethical philosophy. All who love the great dramatic poet should read this work, which, brief and sportive as it is, contains innumerable germs of reflection. Nowhere is Mr. Landor successful in his wit, so felicitous in his eloquence. He touches upon many great topics and embellishes them all. The cha racters contrast admirably with each other, and the glimpses of external nature which we obtain ever and anon between them, refreshes like the sight of green lanes and forest glades beheld through long double lines of quaint brick houses. But though this be one of the most purely English, as it is, perhaps, the best and most successful of Mr. Landor's per formances, the reader must not infer from what we have said that he will not elsewhere in the volumes meet with a high order of excellence. All we mean is, that the examination may be regarded as the most complete and polished of these collected works, which all belong obviously to the same hand, though some are more skilfully and ably moulded than others. Our extracts will exhibit specimens of the author's style and sentiments. The following, in which Petrarca (Ser Francesco) plays the prominent part, is delightful. SUNDAY IN ITALY. "It being now the Lord's day, Messer Francesco thought it meet that he should rise early in the morning, and bestir himself to hear mass in the parish church at Certaldo. Whereupon he went on tiptoe, if so weighty a man could indeed go in such a fashion, and lifted softly the latch of Ser Giovanni's chamber door that he might salute him ere he departed, and occasion no wonder at the step he was about to take. He found Ser Giovanni fast asleep, with the missal wide open across his nose, and a genial smile on his joyous mouth. Sir Francesco leaned over the couch, closed his hands together, and in a low voice, God bless thee, gentle soul! the mother of purity and innocence protect thee!' He then went into the kitchen, where he found the girl Asunta, and mentioned his resolution. She informed him that the horse had eaten his two beans,* and was as strong as a lion, and as ready as a lover. Ser Francesco patted her on the cheek, and called her sempilcetta!" She was overjoyed at this honour from so great a man, the bosom friend of her good master, whom she had always thought the greatest man in the world, not excepting Monsingnore, until he told her he was only a dog confronted with Others, we believe, have observed that, in looking with even more than his usual benignity, said, the "Examination of William Shakespeare," several curious characters are sketched with a masterly hand. First, of course, is Shakespeare himself, who, by a sort of daring prolepsis, is urged in the capacity of a deer stealer, while defending himself for his life, to draw, as it were, upon his future greatness, and to open up glimpses into that world of thought, and wit, and passionate beauty, which he had not yet created. We now look back through the greater sphere upon the lesser. But in the examination, his contemporaries are made to look forward through the lesser to the greater, a considerably more difficult Ser Francesco. She tripped alertly across the paved bridle from the further end of the rack. But Ser court into the stable, and took down the saddle and Francesco, with his natural politeness, would not allow her to equip his palfrey. "This is not the work for maidens,' said he; return to the house, good girl! She lingered a moment, then went away, but, mistrusting the dexterity of Ser Francesco, she stopped and turned back again, and peeped through the half closed door, and heard sundry sobs and wheezes about In the girth. Ser Francesco's wind ill seconded his intentions, and, although he had thrown the saddle valiantly and stoutly in its station, yet the girths brought him into extremity. She entered again, and, dissembling the reason, asked him whether he would not take a small beaker of the sweet white wine before he set out, and offered to girdle the horse while his reverence bitted and bridled him. Before any answer could be returned, she had begun. And now, having satisfactorily executed her undertaking, she felt irrepressible delight and glee at being able to do what Ser Francesco had failed in. He was scarcely more successful with his allotment of the labour, found unlooked for intricacies and complications in the machinery, wondered that human wit could not simplify it, and declared that the animal had never exhibited such a restiveness before. fact, he never had experienced the same grooming. At this conjuncture a green cap made its appearance, bound with straw coloured ribbons and surmounted with two bushy sprigs of hawthorn, of which the globular buds were swelling, and some bursting, but fewer yet open. It was young Simplizio Nardi, who sometimes came on the Sunday morning to sweep the courtyard for Asunta. Oh! this time you are come just when you were wanted,' said the girl. 'Bridle directly Ser Francesco's horse, and then go away about your business.' The youth blushed, and kissed Ser Francesco's hand, begging his permission. It was soon done. He then held the stirrup, and Ser Francesco, with scarcely three efforts, was seated and erect on the saddle. The horse, however, had somewhat more inclination for the stable than for the expedition, and as Asunta was handing to the rider his long ebony staff, bearing an ivory Caduceus, the quadruped turned suddenly round. Simplizio called him bestiaccia!' and then, softening it, poco garbato!' and proposed to Ser Francesco that he should leave the bastone' behind, and take the crab switch he presented to him, giving at the same time a sample of its efficacy, which covered the long grizzle hair of the worthy quadruped with a profusion of pink blossoms like embroidery. The offer was declined, but Asunta told Simplizio to carry it himself, and to walk by the side of Ser Canondico quite up to the church porch, having seen what a sad dangerous beast his reverence had under him. With perfect good will, partly in the pride of obedience to Asunta, and partly to enjoy the renown of accompanying a canon of holy church, Simplizio did as she enjoined. And now the sound of village bells in many hamlets, and convents, and churches, out of sight, was indistinctly heard and lost again; and at last the five of Certaldo seemed to drown the faintness of them all. The freshness of the morning was enough of itself to excite the spirits of youth, a portion of which never fails to descend on years that are far removed from it, if the mind has partaken in innocent mirth while it was its season and its duty to enjoy it. Parties of young and old passed the canonico and his attendant with mute respect, bowing and bareheaded; for that ebony staff threw its spell over the tongue which the frank and hearty salutation of the bearer was inadequate to break. Simplizio once or twice attempted to call back an intimate of the same age with himself, but the utmost he could obtain was a riveritissimo!' and a genuflexion to the rider. a stirring and diversified air of gladness. Laughter and songs, and flute and voils inviting voices, and complying responses, mingled with merry bells along the woodland paths and yellow meadows. It was really the Lord's day, for He made his creatures happy in it, and their hearts were thankful. Even the cruel had ceased from cruelty, and the rich man alone exacted from the animal his daily labour. Ser Francesco made this remark, and told his youthful guide that he never before had been where he could not walk to church on a Sunday; and that nothing should persuade him to urge the speed of his beast on the seventh day beyond his natural and willing foot pace. He reached the gate of Certaldo more than half an hour before the time of service, and he found laurels suspended over them, and being suspended; and many pleasant and beautiful faces were protruded between the ranks of gentry and clergy who awaited him. Little did he expect such an attendance; but Fra Briagio, of San Vivaldo, who himself had offered no obsequiousness or respect, had scattered the secret of his visit throughout the whole country. A young poet, the most celebrated in the town, approached the canonico with a long scroll of verses, which fell below, beginning, How shall we welcome our illustrious guest ? To which Ser Francesco immediately replied, Take your favourite maiden, lead the dance with her, and bid all your friends follow. You have a good half hour for it.' Universal applauses succeeded; the music struck up, couples were instantly formed. The gentry on this occasion led out the Sittadinanza,' as they usually do in the villegeatura;' rarely in the carnival, and never at other times. The elder of the priests stood round in their sacred vestments, and looked with cordiality and approbation on the youths, whose hands and arms could indeed do much, and did it, but whose active eyes could rarely move upward the modester of their partners. While the elder of the clergy were thus gathering the fruits of their liberal cares and paternal exhortations, some of the younger looked on with a tenderer sentiment, not unmingled with regret. Suddenly the bells ceased, the figure of the dance was broken, all hastened into church; and many hands that joined on the green met together at the font, and touched the brow reciprocally with its lustral water, in soul devotion." The following three are from the "Examination of Shakespeare": I. "Where dost thou lodge, young man?" "At the public,' said I, where my father customarily lodgeth. There too is a Mitre of the old fashion swinging on a sign post in the middle of the street.' 'Respectable tavern enough!' quoth the reverend doctor, and worthy men do turn in there, even qualityMaster Davenant, Master Powel, Master Whorwood, aged and grave men. But taverns are Satan's chapels, and are always well attended on the Lord's day, to twit him. Hast thou no friend in such a city as Oxford?' 'Only the landlady of the Mitre,' said I. A comely woman,' quoth he, but too young for business by half. Stay thou with me to day, and fare frugally but safely. What may thy name be, and William Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, at your service, sir.' 'And welcome,' said he, thy father ere now hath bought our college wool. A truly good man we ever found him; and I doubt not he hath educated his son to follow him in his paths. There is in the blood of man, as in the blood of animals, that which giveth the temper and disposition. These require nurture and culture. But what nurture will turn flint stones into garden mould? or what culture rear cabbages in the quarries of Hedington Hill? To be well born is the greatest of all God's primary blessings, young man, and there are many well born among the poor and needy. Thou art not of the indigent and destitute, who have great temptations; thou art not of the wealthy and affluent, who have greater still. God hath placed thee, William Shakespeare, in that pleasant island, on one side whereof are the syrens, on the other the harpies, but inhabiting the coasts on the wider conti where is thy abode ?' It is reported that a heart burning rose up from it in the breast of a cousin, some days afterwards, so distinctly apparent in the long drawn appellation of Gnor* Simplizio. Ser Francesco moved gradually forward, his steed picking his way across the lane, and looking fixedly on the stones with all the sobriety of a mineralogist. He himself was well satisfied with the pace, and told Simplizio to be sparing of the switch, unless in case of a hornet or gadfly. Simplizio smiled toward the hedge, at the condescension of so great a theologian and astrologer in joking with him about the gadfly and hornet in the beginning of April. thought he, there are men in the world who can make wit out of anything.' As they approached the wall of the town, the whole country was pervaded by "Ah!' * Contraction of Signor, customary in Tuscany. |