risked that life you hold so cheaply, to convey this information, but I am still ready to accept the conditions you offer me, if, in the event of success, my name appear in the despatch."

He again stared at me with his dark and piercing eyes; but I stood the glance with a calm conscience, and he seemed so to read it, for he said—

"Be it so. I will, meanwhile, test your prudence. Let nothing of this interview transpire; not a word of it among the officers and comrades you shall make acquaintance with. You shall serve on my own staff; go now, and recruit your strength for a couple of days, and then report yourself at head quarters when ready for duty. Latrobe, look to the Lieutenant Tiernay; see that he wants for nothing, and let him have a horse and a uniform as soon as may be."

Captain Latrobe, the future General of Division, was then a young gay officer of about five-and-twenty, very good looking, and full of life and spirits, a buoyancy which the terrible uncertainties of the siege could not repress.

"Our General talks nobly," Tiernay," said he, as he gave me his arm to assist me; "but you'll stare when I tell you that wanting for nothing' means, having four ounces of black bread, and ditto of blue cheese per diem; and as to a horse, if I possessed such an animal, I'd have given a dinner party yesterday and eaten him. You look surprised, but when you see a little more of us here, you'll begin to think that prison rations in the fleet yonder were luxuries compared to what we have. No matter you shall take share of my superabundance, and if I have little else to offer, I'll show you a view from my window, finer than anything you ever looked on in your life, and with a sea breeze that would be glorious if it did'nt make one hungry."

While he thus rattled on, we reached the street, and there calling a couple of soldiers forward, he directed them to carry me along to his quarters, which lay in the upper town, on an elevated plateau that overlooked the city and the bay together.

From the narrow lanes, flanked with tall, gloomy houses, and steep, ill-paved streets, exhibiting poverty and privation of every kind, we suddenly emerged into an open space of grass, at

one side of which a handsome iron railing stood, with a richly ornamented gate, gorgeously gilded. Within this was a garden and a fish pond, surrounded with statues, and further on, a long, low villa, whose windows reached to the ground, and were shaded by a deep awning of striped blue and white canvass. Camelias, orange trees, cactuses, and magnolias, abounded everywhere; tulips and hyacinths seemed to grow wild; and there was in the halfneglected look of the spot something of savage luxuriance that heightened the effect immensely.

"This is my Paradise, Tiernay, only wanting an Eve to be perfect," said Latrobe, as he set me down beneath a spreading lime tree. "Yon

der are your English friends; there they stretch away for miles beyond that point. That's the Monte Creto, you may have heard of; and there's the Bochetta. In that valley, to the left, the Austrian outposts are stationed; and from those two heights closer to the shore, they are gracious enough to salute us every evening after sunset, and even prolong the attention sometimes the whole night through. Turn your eyes in this direction, and you'll see the cornice' road, that leads to La belle France, but of which we see as much from this spot as we are ever like to do. So much for the geography of our position, and now to look after your breakfast. You have, of course, heard that we do not revel in superfluities. Never was the boasted excellence of our national cookery more severely tested, for we have successively descended from cows and sheep to goats, horses, donkeys, dogs, occasionally experimenting on hides and shoe leather, till we ended by regarding a rat as a rarity, and deeming a mouse a delicacy of the season. for vegetables, there would not have been a flowering plant in all Genoa, if tulip and ranunculus roots had not been bitter as aloes. These seem very inhospitable confessions, but I make them the more freely since I am about to treat you 'en Gourmet.' Come in now, and acknowledge that juniper bark isn't bad coffee, and that commissary bread is not to be thought of lightly."

As

In this fashion did my comrade invite me to a meal, which, even with this preface, was far more miserable and scanty than I looked for.

THE title of this book may be taken as an earnest of several pleasant hours, which we can safely promise to those who commence its perusal. Here and there a chapter may be skimmed over, which smacks a little of the Archbishop of Toledo's pleonasms. The gossiping vein prevails throughout with some exuberance; the information is occasionally inaccurate or trifling, and the writer talks too liberally of himself. These blemishes can scarcely be avoided where so many topics are introduced, and so long a space of time glanced over; and for these he shows cause in the following plea of defence :

Autobiographers must be egotists. This, indeed, is a self-evident proposition; moreover, no autobiography, as such, can be complete without a share of personal talk, trifles, and twaddle.' A house cannot be built exclusively of marble and or molu; it requires no less the help of straw, mud, and mortar, though the spectator recks not of them; and a character is not cemented without important influences from trifling causes."

Let this reasoning be taken at its full value. It savours certainly of hypercriticism to expect the minuteness of historical research, or the seve rity of ethic truth, in a composition avowedly of slighter pretence, and which exhibits outlines and sketches rather than elaborate portraits. The writer of these volumes has been long before the public. He was connected with the literary circles of Edinburgh, when Edinburgh was at its zenith, and among other works of fair repute, is the author of "Horæ Germanicæ," a series of articles in "Blackwood," which obtained much popularity in the early days of that renowned periodical. He is now a "veteran," in years as well as letters. 66 Age, with stealing. step, hath clawed him in his clutch,' and accompanied, as we are sorry to learn, from his own pages, by worldly

The

pressure, an unhappy and ill-assorted union, too frequently the inheritance of literary labour. We think the adverse state of his affairs is insisted on and repeated something too often-we mean for his advantage as an author. The world shrinks from the cry of poverty nearly as much as from the alarm of a mad dog. It is almost better to pawn your last shirt, and pay the fees of court, than to sue in forma pauperis. People will not value a book one jot the more because the writer may be in want of a dinner. Many have as much horror of being dunned into reading, as of paying a tradesman's bill. man who writes in "learned ease," in affluent idleness, or to beguile the tedium of his horæ subseciva, will be more attractive, and more thought of, than he who spins his brains to support his family, or keep the wolf from the door. It is bad enough to be poor, but it is even worse to be thought so, and worst of all to be the herald of your own poverty. Dr. Johnson says: "Depend upon it, that if a man talks of his misfortunes there is something in them that is not disagreeable to him." It may be so, as regards himself, but the subject will surely be unpalatable to his friends, and the public in general; and to interest them it is better to assume prosperity than to be perpetually harping on wretchedness. "Apply to every passion but pity for redress. You may find relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but seldom from compassion." So said Goldsmith, who spoke from sad experience.

Mr. Gillies, soon after he came of age, was induced to forget the warning of the wise king, who says, He that becomes surety for another shall smart for it! In evil hour, and in early life, he pledged himself as security to raise a sum of money for a relative; this led to the loss of his patrimonial acres, and laid the foundation of the embarrassments with which he appears

pro

all their harmless imbecility; claiming in nasal cadence the progress of the night, and comforting the sleepy neighbourhood with the assurance that the world was well looked Little after during their absence. children in the fields, with ruddy complexions, instead of sallow and greenish ones, curtsied as they passed you, and peasants took off their hats to gentlemen, while gentlemen dropped theirs to the ground if accosted by a lady. Labouring men and errand boys didn't read the papers, because they couldn't. The "operatives," as they have recently been baptised, worked cheerfully all the week, bringing cash to their wives on Saturday, which enabled them to enjoy good beef and pudding on Sunday. That generation neither wasted their time nor lost their wages by attending factious clubs and monster meetings, where clever, cunning demagogues, with flimsy sophistry, mislead the intellects of the thinking, erudite million, teach them that idleness is the road to riches, drive them into poverty, and then call on them to "resist such foul oppression ;" leaving them invariably to pay the penalty when the bubble bursts.

66

66

mine.

The first of these three volumes is

principally occupied with anecdotes and reminiscences of men tolerably well known in their day, but now forgotten by a bustling, money-hunting posterity, more intent on their own projects than on the domestic peculiarities of their progenitors. There are jokes, too, and humorous tales, sufficiently original for the mass of readers, but which we unfortunately are old enough to have heard before. We cannot help thinking a good sprinkling of them are drawn from the well-stocked repertory of John Ballantyne, of facetious memory, surnamed of Sir Walter Scott, "Rigidumfunnidos;" the best and most inexhaustible teller of table stories of his day, and "the merriest man," sometimes beyond "the limits of becoming mirth," we were ever in company with.

This

But it must be remarked, there is a wide difference between telling a story and reading it in a book. The first has the combined charms of voice, expression, manner, and imitation; while the latter has nothing but the epigrammatic smartness of the words. we take to be the reason why jest books and compilations of professed facetiæ are usually insufferably dull and tedious, acting as narcotics, and reducing the price of opium; while the same ingredients, skilfully handled viva voce by an adroit fabulist, convulse the auditory with laughter, and supply the pupil of Momus with an endless succession of dinners, from January to December.

All genuine story-tellers should observe this rule, and, if possible, keep out of the hands of the publisher. From the moment when that fatal plunge is taken, their originality is questioned, their stock in trade is undervalued, and their capital in danger. A good, substantial joke, like the constituency of Old Sarum, should be confined to one representative, and perpetuated only by tradition. It should be seldom drawn upon, reserved for

great occasions, and the moment of action watched as sedulously as the crisis of a battle. Californian gold is scarcely a more unadulterated treasure, but indiscreet repetition sinks its value below zero. Let your crack witticisin, your four-and-twenty-pounder joke once escape into a book, and those who laughed till then become the first to sneer. They say "Oh! we have had that before; it is as old as the hills; it is sad stuffa decided Joe!" While they all know in their hearts the joke is a sound legitimate joke, there is no such repository as Joe Miller in existence; and the identity of that oftenquoted individual is as doubtful as that of King Arthur, the dragon of Wantley, or the dun cow of Warwick.

Who has not had his own stories told back to him without acknowledgment, by unblushing pirates; but so altered and disguised, that he scarcely recognized his own offspring? This is a case of penance; but it is even more mortifying to see them garbled in a jest-book, and cried about for a penny. Many are the "trials of temper" which await the professional joker, if he rides his hobby-horse too fast. Listen to this, ye men of fun :-husband your materials; as your stores are ample, dispense them sparingly; and, above all, abstain from rushing madly into print.

Where did Mr. Gillies pick up his information, that a first folio Shakspeare, rooted out from the lumbered book-shelves of the old Laird of Bonnymune, could have been sold for the enormous sum of £500, even "flanked," as he tell us, by the second and third editions? And what has since become of this costly purchase? What happy living collector holds it in his keeping? Surely, as Lord Ogleby says, "there have been some mistakes here." The first folio Shakspeare is a rare and much sought after volume. When a true book-hunter pounces on it, he exclaims, as did the scientific Greek of old, "Evenza!" But we question if it ever produced anything like the money named. Dr. Dibdin, in his "Library Companion," devotes a very long and entertaining note entirely to the pedigree and history of this rara avis. The number of the original impression is supposed to have been about 250, nearly fifty of which are traceable to the present day. Dr.

Dibdin enumerates above thirty, with the names of the possessors, and the prices paid. But he makes no allusion to this Bonnymune copy, neither does he mention Mr. James Roche, who is given as the purchaser. So minute a bibliographer could scarcely have been ignorant of such a remarkable incident. He tells us the largest sum ever given for the first edition alone, up to 1825, amounted to £121 16s.; this was paid for the copy belonging to the late Hon. Thomas Grenville, supposed to be the finest in existence, and bequeathed by him, with the rest of his magnificent library, to the British Museum. The book was found at Cork, and fell into the possession of the late Mr. G. Mullen, an eminent bookbinder in Dublin. It was sold by him to Mr. Grenville, as he himself informed the writer of this article. think there are still scattered through Ireland, in obscure country towns, and old country houses, "at the back of God speed," as they say in the Hibernian vernacular, many curious and valuable old books, paintings, and prints, worth a pilgrimage to those who have cash and leisure; in fact, mines of unexplored wealth.

We

Very lately, a first folio Shakspeare belonging to the Right Hon. C. Wynne, produced, as the papers informed us, one hundred and forty-six pounds, which, in all probability, is the maximum price the book ever sold for: a heavy investment for a single volume, without illustrations, and of no typographical beauty. We must here record a reminiscence of bibliomaniacal ferocity, although we ought to blush for it. An old book-collector, in Dublin, who died in 1831, possessed a fine first folio Shakspeare, which he had purchased for £30, at the sale of the Hon. Denis Daly's library, in 1792, and had enjoyed nearly forty years. We had long coveted it, and knew he was old, and breaking fast. He had a habit occasionally of sitting to bask in hist front parlour by the window. We used often to walk by, and peep at him. From time to time he appeared ill, and not likely to last long. Our spirits rose. "One morn," as Gray says in his Elegy, "we miss'd him at the custom'd spot." He was dead. We went home, and dreamt that night that the Shakspeare was ours. In a short time, his library was sold by auction, and the long-coveted treasure fell into our