parents. As he had neither friend nor confidant, hardly even an acquaintance, no one had the means of observing closely how Dominie Sampson bore a disappointment which supplied the whole town where it happened with a week's sport. It would be endless even to mention the numerous jokes to which it gave birth, from a ballad called "Samson's Riddle," written upon the subject by a smart young student of humanity, to the sly hope of the principal, that the fugitive had not taken the college gates along with him in his retreat.

To all appearance the equanimity of Sampson was unshaken. He sought to assist his parents by teaching a school; and soon had plenty of scholars, but very few fees. In fact, he taught the sons of farmers for what they chose to give him, and the poor for nothing; and, to the shame of the former be it spoken, the pedagogue's gains never equalled those of a skilful ploughman. He wrote, however, a good hand, and added something to his pittance by copying accounts and writing letters for Ellangowan. By degrees, the laird, who was much estranged from general society, became partial to that of Dominie Sampson. Conversation, it is true, was out of the question; but the Dominie was a good listener, and stirred the fire with some address. He attempted also to snuff the candles, but was unsuccessful, and relinquished that ambitious post of courtesy after having twice reduced the parlour to total darkness. So his civilities thereafter were confined to taking off his glass of ale in exactly the same time and measure with the laird, and

VOL. III.

in uttering certain indistinct murmurs of acquiescence at the conclusion of the long and winding stories of Ellangowan.

One of Sampson's great recommendations to the favour of Mr. Bertram was, that he never detected the most gross attempt at imposition, so that the laird, whose humble efforts at jocularity were chiefly confined to what were then called bites and bams, since denominated hoaxes and quizzes, had the fairest possible subject of wit in the unsuspecting Dominie. It is true he never laughed or joined in the laugh which his own simplicity afforded; nay, it is said, he never laughed but once in his life; and upon that memorable occasion his landlady miscarried, partly through surprise at the event itself, and partly from terror at the hideous grimaces which attended this unusual cachinnation. The only effect which the discovery of such impositions produced upon this saturnine personage was, to extort an ejaculation of "Prodigious!" or "Very facetious!" pronounced syllabically, but without moving a muscle of his own countenance.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE RACE OF THE EFFIGIES. THE more I saw of the great Tarshish, my spirit was filled with wonder, and borne onward with a longing for new things. Finding it was not convenient to go home for my dinner, when I was in a distant part of the town, I dropped into the nearest coffee-house when I felt an inclination to eat, and by this means I sometimes for

gathered with strange persons, deeply read in the mysteries of man. Among others, I one day, when I felt the wonted two o'clock pinkling in my belly, stepped into an eating-house, to get a cheek of something, and sat down at a table in a box where an elderly man of a salt-water complexion was sitting. Having told the lad that was the waiter what I wanted, I entered into discourse with the hard favoured stranger. His responses to me were at first very short, and it seemed as if he had made up his mind to stint the freedom of conversation. But there was a quickened intelligence in his eye, which manifested that his mind neither slumbered nor slept. I told him that I was come on purpose to inspect the uncas in London, and how content I was with all I saw; and my continued marvel of the great apparition of wealth that seemed to abound every where. "I think," said I, "that it's only in London a man can see the happiness of the British nation."-" And the misery," was his reply. This caustical observe led to further descant anent both sides of the question, until he opened up, and showed that his reserve was but a resolution, not habitual, nor from the custom of his nature. "The least interesting things about this town," said he, "to a man who looks deeper than the outside of the packing-case of society, are the buildings, the wealth, and the appearance of the people. The preeminence of London consists in the possession of a race of beings that I call the Effigies. They resemble man in action and external bearing; but they have neither passions, appetites, nor affections;

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without reason, imagination, or heart, they do all things that men do, but they move onward to the grave, and are covered up in the parent and congenial clay with as little regret by those who know them best, as you feel for the fate of that haddock you are now about to eat."

"And what are the things?" was my diffident question. "Why," says he, "they are for the most part foundlings of fortune; beings without relations; adventurers, who, at an early period of life, perhaps begged their way to London, and have raised themselves, not by talents or skill, but by a curious kind of alchemy, into great riches. I have known several. They are commonly bachelors, bachelors in the heart. They live in a snug way; have some crony that dines with them on Sunday, and who knows as little of their affairs as of their history. The friendship of such friends usually commences in the Hampstead or Hackney stages, and the one is commonly a pawnbroker and the other a banker. The professions of such friendshipless friends are ever intrinsically the same; nor can I see any difference between the man who lends money on bills and bonds, and him who does the same thing on the widow's wedding-ring, or the clothes of her orphans. They both grow rich by the expedients of the necessitous or the unfortunate. They make their money by habit, without motive, and they bequeath it some charity or public character, merely because they are by the force of custom required to make a will. I am a traveller; I know something of all the principal cities of Europe; but in no other has the Effigian species

any existence. Their element consists of the necessities of a commercial community, which embraces all the other vicissitudes to which mankind are ordinarily liable.

"One of the most decided, the purest blood of the Effigies, was the late old Joe Brianson. Whether he begged or worked his way to London is disputed; but he commenced his career as a porter. No one ever heard him mention the name of any of his kin; perhaps he had some good reason for the concealment. The first week he saved a crown, which he lent to a brother bearer of burdens who was in need, on condition of receiving six shillings on the Saturday following. In the course of the third week after his arrival he was worth one pound sterling; and he died at the age of seventy-three, leaving exactly a million, not taking out of the world one idea more than he brought into London fiftysix years before; and yet the history of Joe would be infinitely more interesting and important than that of all the men of fame and genius that ever existed. For although he was, in the truest sense of the times, a usurious huncks, he was never drawn into one transgression against the statutes. I knew him well in my younger years, for I had often occasion to apply to him. I was constituted somewhat differently, and without being so good a member of society, I do not say much for myself when I affirm that I was a better man. Joe was most faithful to his word; his promise was a bond; but, like a bond, it always contained a penalty. "If this bill," he used to say, "is not positively taken up, I pro