This was all that was left to her now. One brief hour had robbed her on this side and on that had snatched by different ways a brother and a lover: cruel fate had struck her twice with deadly aim ere she had had time to draw a breath between. At intervals he heard the hoarse whispering of the men, who were uneasily endeavoring to recollect or suggest anything appropriate to the scene; but even these by degrees died away, for one and all had already looked, and touched, and felt the cold, limp hands, and listened at the fallen lips, and had severally drawn back with a shadow upon their rough, weather-beaten faces. They were now solemnly still, or only broke the silence to groan a smoth ered ejaculation and heave a sigh. At length Whewell rose. He had been kneeling upon the wet turf, supporting in his arms the lifeless clay, and in his own active mind, even while thus engaged, considering what might best be done for the afflicted family, how information should be given to the authorities, the shock softened to Lady Matilda, Lord Overton spared more painful effort than was needful-how, in short, everything should be done that could be done to mitigate the terrors of the scene. To explain how he and Robert Hanwell came there, we must just inform our readers that they had been met on the road between Endhill and Overton, and had been informed of the disaster even before tidings had been carried to the Hall. Robert had undertaken to be himself the bearer of these, while Whewell bad at once hastened to the fatal spot. He now rose and addressed Challoner. "We want to get Lord Overton away," he said in a low aside. "There is really nothing to be done, poor fellow; it has been all over some time-indeed there is not a doubt that the end was instantaneous, for the neck is broken, and these men say he has never stirred since. If Lord Overton would go; but Hanwell does not like to press him- could you?" inquiringly. "Yes-what?" replied Challoner, struggling to be equally clear-sighted. "What-ab-do you want?" "Get Lord Overton away. Tell him there is nothing to be done. It is nonsense Hanwell's saying he does not like to intrude; we are all getting wet through, and the night is coming on. It will be difficult enough as it is. Get him away now, if you can; and Lady Matilda Challoner looked up sharply. "Where is she?" continued the speak er, with a sudden change of tone. Challoner turned away. "If we don't take care, some of these fools will blurt it all out to her as it stands, and there will be the devil to pay if they do," said Whewell shortly. "You know where Lady Matilda is? They say she has been thrown from her horse too. Is that the case?" "Yes." "Hurt?" "No." "I will take Lord Overton to the cottage where his sister is," said Challoner, after a moment's hesitation. "I will show him the place and leave him there. Then I will go on to the Hall "Ay, and tell them to have a room ready - you understand? Yes, that will do. Hanwell and I can wait here; we shan't go near the Overtons 66 Certainly not," said Challonet, with a scowl. "And you will not either," observed Whewell coolly. "They will be best by themselves. Look sharp, Challoner. I believe I hear the carriage. "You are not going at once?" It is an hour later, and the scene is once more laid in Overton Hall. Challoner has intimated that he is about to depart - he is no more needed; the tramp of feet has died away along the dim old gallery; the doors are shut; the voices are hushed; the weeping attendants, who shroud one silent chamber, move noiselessly hither and thither as they perform their last sad services to the dead. Just across the passage, with only a few feet between, lies another form almost as white, almost as cold, scarcely more alive than he. Below, Robert Hanwell and his friends sit in mute and doleful assemblage; and no one knows where Overton is. "You are not going at once?" says Robert, whom circumstances thus compel to act the host. "It is seven o'clock, and you have had nothing-you must indeed oblige yourself to eat something, Challoner," apologetically; "you will be ill." "I couldn't, thanks. I shall catch the evening train by going now. Don't say anything to any one. Good-bye." "Good-bye. But I am sure if Lord Overton knew 66 Challoner hears no more. In the outer hall he encounters Overton, and again they confront each other point-blank without chance of escape. the stage, everybody will admit that our Lenvilles, our Fotheringays, and our Snevellicis are the best of all possible performers; but why, when announcing "Yes, I understand. I do not ask you that interesting fact, should it be necesto stay." It is Overton who speaks. "Isary to sneer at the Kembles and Keans understand." He puts his hand to his of past generations? eyes, turns away, comes back again, and holds it out. Challoner takes it, wrings it, wrenches it as though he never could let it go. It will, he says, never be offered to him again. He will never see that kindly face again. He will never more cross that threshold. His memory will be blotted out, his name be unmentioned. Oh that it had been he, and not the other, who on that night had been taken! When he arrives at his rooms, he finds a telegram which he ought to have had before, and which explains why Lady Fairleigh had not kept her appointment with him in the afternoon. He has almost forgotten that she had not done so. He reads the telegram stupidly. Reads that his father, who is at Paris, is dangerously ill, and that his presence is desired there at once. Reads, and feels that even this sad intelligence hardly concerns him at all. Wonders if anything else will ever concern him in this world again, and thinks - not. No. He thinks not. From Temple Bar. In the art of painting we are pre-eminent, and our Royal Academicians are held up to public admiration as the greatest artists that ever adorned the State. But why was it necessary for an eminent critic to go out of his way in designating Sir Joshua Reynolds as a snob? There are a few benighted beings belonging to the olden time twaddling about London, who still cling to their faith in the great ones of former days. It would be a kindness on the part of critics not to hurt the feelings of these poor creatures by any further bitter attacks on their cherished idols. We think Lord Beaconsfield's sneer was addressed to Mr. Hayward, who, when a writer in the Morning Chronicle, had given him cause for grave uneasiness. Lord Beaconsfield, in his memorable speech on the Duke of Wellington's death, had cribbed from M. Thiers a considerable part of his eulogium. Mr. Hayward was very busy in making this fact public. We recollect the sensation made when the discovery was first unfolded in the Globe. Mrs. Disraeli, unconscious of the coming storm, went out to a party that night, and entering the room, announced in loud tones, proud of her lord's new honor, "I left the chancellor of the exchequer reading the evening paper." "Oh, what delightful reading he will find in it!" responded a malicious Whig peer. LORD BEACONSFIELD, in "Lothair," insinuates that critics are men who have failed in literature and art. Be that as it may, it must be admitted that they bear The critics of the past generation were their misfortunes with cheerfulness. a contrast to the present; they were trucThey are eminently good-natured. The ulent in the extreme. Macaulay was the novel which contains this bitter remark most savage. He not only boasted of was received with rapturous enthusiasm. beating poor Mr. Croker black and blue, One cantankerous critic alone proved but once he actually depreciated him in restive, and he certainly hit hard when he comparison with a polecat! If anybody likened its gorgeous descriptions to the wants to know what they were, let him "gin-inspired dreams of a sensuous but-read the "Correspondence of Macvey ler." The only fault of the critics of the Napier," the editor of the Edinburgh Reday is that they are too apt when praising view. Anybody who thinks that Mr. the present to sneer at the past. There Napier's critics would agree together beis no need to address them in the words cause they were under his sole command, of Mark Antony, "If you have tears, pre- would make as great a mistake as the pare to shed them now." Tears are al-keeper who took his gamecocks to a fight ways trembling in their eyelids, ready to gush out on all occasions, whether over the bitter cry of outcast and horrible London, or the fragrant memory of a Highland gillie. Every book seems to be the best of all possible books. With regard to in one basket, under the idea that as they belonged to one master they would not quarrel and tear each other to pieces. Lord Brougham writes to Mr. Napier : Why will Macaulay fancy that a luscious style is fine writing? and why will he disgust one with talking of men's blue eyes? I really could not stand it. Always on stilts, never able to say the plainest things in a plain way, wrapping up his meaning, half poetry, half novel, no argument, no narrative-fifty little periods in a paragraph, fifty little sparkling points in a sentence. In leaving the article I just saw another outrage, "poor dear old Dr. Johnson," or some such vulgarity. It is very provoking when a man has such extraordinary abilities, and see the result of it all. He is absolutely renowned in society as the greatest bore that ever yet appeared. Macaulay writes to Mr. Napier about Lord Brougham's articles: They are not made for duration. Every thing about them is exaggerated, incorrect, and sketchy. All the characters are too black or too fair. The passions of the writer do not suffer him to maintain even the decent appear ance of partiality, and the style, though striking and animated, will not bear examination through one single paragraph. Macaulay writes of Carlyle that he was absurdly overpraised by his admirers, and might as well have written in an unknown tongue. Then Macaulay recommends Charles Buller as a contributor. Macaulay writes: Mr. The sort of subject that would suit him best would be a volume of Travels in the United States, an absurd biography, like Sir William Knighton's, the crazy publications of the teetotallers, and so forth. When Macaulay wrote his celebrated article on Warren Hastings, the ungrateful Charles Buller wrote a letter to Mr. Napier, condemning strongly the style in which it was written." Then Mr. Leigh Hunt appears on the scene. He had written to Mr. Napier to say he would contribute a chatty article to the Review, and he is sternly informed that he had better write a gentlemanlike one, an observation that threw the unhappy poet into hysterics, and it required all Macaulay's kind soothing to restore his shattered nerves. The great Thackeray suffered more than any one, as his article (he was not yet author of "Vanity Fair ") was remorse. lessly curtailed. Thackeray writes to Mr. Napier, — From your liberal payment I can't but conclude that you reward me not only for laboring, but for being mutilated in your service. I assure you I suffered cruelly by the amputation which you were obliged to perform upon my poor dear paper. I mourn still, as what father can help doing for his children? for several lovely jokes and promising facetic which were born, and might have lived, but for your scissors, urged by ruthless necessity. Oh, to think of my pet passages gone forever! Alas, every writer suffers occasionally from the pruning-pen of a judicious editor! Mr. Chorley, the musical critic of the Athenæum, was always quarrelling with numberless enemies. He once went out to a dinner party, where he found he was not on speaking terms with one of the men who had been invited to meet him. He was remorselessly attacked, but used to say, "Thank God, I can scratch too," and scratch he did, with a vengeance. He once delivered himself into the hands of his enemies, for he wrote a play, had it acted, had it damned. We cannot say he had altogether fair play, for the hissing began before the curtain drew up. Mr. Hayward was also a contributor to the Edinburgh Review, but his letters do not appear in the Napier correspondence. There is only one mention of him by Macaulay, who designates his article on Pa risian morals and manners as somewhat frivolous." Mr. Hayward received great assistance in his social career from the kind encouragement of Lord Lyndhurst, who, if not constant in politics, seems to have been so in friendship. There has lately been an interminable "ladies' battle" respecting the character of Lord Lyndhurst. Even his judicial merits have been sneered at by rancorous partisans. In answer to these attacks, we have only to give an extract from the unpublished memoirs of Sir John Rolt, some portions of which have been given to the world by his friend, Mr. Field, as to the injustice of such accusations. Lord Justice Rolt writes: A great merit of Lyndhurst was his manner than the manner of any other judge I have of hearing a cause. It was better calculated ever seen, to get at the truth and justice of the case. He always made me feel (and seemed. to wish to do so) that he and I were engaged on the same work - the administration of justice. He treated me as a person who was to be heard and understood, and not wrangled with. He did not sit absolutely quiet during the argument, but indulged in no interruption that could ruffle the temper of counsel. the end of an argument, or at the end of any separate branch of it, he would sum up what had been said, telling us that of course he gave no opinion upon it, but that he wished to see if he rightly understood the speaker's view of the case, and never, or scarcely ever, had I to add a word to his summary of what I had said or argued. It was full, round, and complete, At and perfectly fair. All that remained to be done, was to say, "That is my exact case, my lord," and to sit down, or to proceed to the next branch of the case. The value of this in the administration of justice is very great. The contrary practice of answering, or sneering at and pooh-poohing, a weak argument (often the best the case will afford), is the almost universai habit of judges. This serves to irritate the counsel, and prevents him from attempting the calm conduct of a cause becoming one who has a duty, not only to his client, but a duty to assist the judge in getting at truth and justice; it tends to make the counsel unscrupulous, and anxious to snatch a victory-it he car. by any means from his antagonist, the judge. At the same time it makes a partisan of the judge; when the case is concluded he has been counsel on one side, and carries the feeling of counsel into his judgment, and if he has served every counsel in the cause the same way, as is sometimes done, he has destroyed the judicial moderation and temper necessary in all cases, but especially so in causes in the Court of Chancery, where frequently no party to the cause is absolutely right in every point, and the decree consequently requires unprejudiced judgment on a variety of points. Now, Lyndhurst was wholly free from any kind of partisanship. As I have said, he impressed counsel (or at least he did me) with the notion that we were all engaged in one common labor. He always seemed to tell me, "It is your duty to assist me by telling me truly all that can be said on one side of the question, it will be your opponent's duty to do the same on the other, and mine to judge between you. I cannot do my duty efficiently without your help.” Mr. Hayward's career as a lawyer was not a successful one, and Lord Lyndhurst incurred great obloquy when he made him a queen's counsel. We do not remember that he was employed in any great case, except in that of Mrs. Norton, when she engaged in a lawsuit with her husband respecting the custody of her children. Mr. Hayward wisely found out his true mission in life; his early articles in the Edinburgh Review were received with unbounded favor. Henceforth he contributed largely to the amusement and instruction of mankind, not only in the Edinburgh, but also in Fraser's Magazine and the Quarterly Review. His knowledge of the memoirs of the eighteenth century was great, and we think one of his best articles was the review of the "Correspondence of George Selwyn and his Contemporaries." Mr. Hayward writes: a brilliant tableau of wits, beauties, statesmen, and men of pleasure about town, attired in the quaint costume of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers; or, better still, we feel as if we had obtained the reverse of Bentham's wish -to live a part of his life at the end of the next hundred years-by being permitted to live a part of ours about the beginning of the last, with an advantage he never stipulated for, that of spending it with the pleasantest people of the day. Readers of the correspondence of Horace Walpole and George Selwyn do indeed revel in a world of pleasant things, mixed with some considerable quantity of evil. In no correspondence that we are aware of is there such a complete and lively account of the wicked ways of the wicked world of London in the olden days. Everybody in this world seemed to live for pleasure alone. No serious subject seems to have entered into their imaginations. Even an earthquake was received with ridicule. We have been lately suffering from the effects of an earthquake; let us see what the gay people of à former time thought on the subject. Horace Walpole writes: You will not wonder so much at the earth. quakes as at the effects they have had. All the women in the town have taken them upon the foot of Judgments; and the clergy, who have had no windfalls for a long season, have driven horse and foot into this opinion. There has been a shower of sermons and exhorta tions; Secker, the Jesuitical Bishop of Oxford, began the mode. He heard the women were all going out of town to avoid the shock, and so, for fear of losing his Easter offerings, he pleasure in fear and trembling. But what is more astonishing, Sherlock, who has much better sense and much less of the Popish confessor, has been running a race with him for the old ladies, and has written a pastoral letter of which ten thousand were sold in two days; and fifty thousand have been subscribed for, since the two first editions. I set himself to advise them to await God's What will you think [writes Horace Walpole] of Lady Catherine Pelham, Lady Frances Arundel, and Lord and Lady Galway, who go this evening to an inn ten miles out of town where they are to play at brag till five in the morning, and then come back, I suppose, to look for the bones of their husbands and families under the rubbish? Lady Ossory, the favorite correspondent of Horace Walpole, in a letter to George Selwyn gives a most amusing description of the eccentricities of these victims of the sun. Lady Ossory writes: This Asiatic weather has certainly affected A our cold constitutions. The Duchess of B- The gamblers at White's Club seem, like Horace Walpole, to have treated the whole affair lightly, as a parson going in there on the morning of earthquake the first heard bets laid on whether it was an earthquake or the blowing up of powdermills, and went out scandalized, saying, "I protest, they are such an impious set of people, that I believe if the last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppetshow against judgment." Warm dresses were made for the ladies, called "earthquake gowns," in order that they might sit out of doors at night without suffering. Fast young gentlemen returning home from parties knocked at people's doors, a crying out in a watchman's voice, "Past four o'clock, and a dreadful earthquake! All this, of course, was very absurd, to say the least of it; but we solemnly believe that if in these virtuous times there happened to be earthquake the first and earthquake the second, with a prophecy of earthquake the third, "the fools and idiots of society," as they are benignly called by Mr. Charles Greville, would perform the same vagaries as their predecessors in the gay reign of George II. So much for earthquakes. In 1779 so ciety was full of discussions about the state of the weather and the change it occasioned in the temperaments of man. kind. The heat of the summer was so intense that frightful consequences ensued. Shakespeare tells us that when the moon comes too near the earth it makes men mad. The sun in 1779 brought this calamity in its train. The murder of Lord Sandwich's mistress, Miss Ray, by a clergyman, was the commencement of a fever which raged in London. Dr. Warner, George Selwyn's friend, gives an account of the matter which Mr. Hayward thinks a model of condensation. Dr. Warner writes: The history of Hackman, Miss Ray's murderer, is this. He was recruiting at Hunting. don, appeared at the ball, was asked by Lord Sandwich to Hinchinbrooke, was introduced to Miss Ray, became violently enamored of her, made proposals, and was sent into Ireland where his regiment was. He sold out, came back on purpose to be near the object of his affections, took orders, but could not bend the inflexible fair in a black coat more than in a He could not live without her. He red. meant only to kill himself, and that in her presence; but seeing her coquet it at the play with a young Irish templar, Macnamara, he suddenly determined to dispatch him too. He is to be tried on Friday, and hanged on Monday. niece who is troubled with one of these passionate admirers, to whom she refused her hand, and her door. He came a few days since to Sir Joshua's, asked if she was at home, and on being answered in the negative, he desired the footman to tell her to take care, for he was determined to ravish her (pardon the word) whenever he met her. Keep our little friend (Mie Mie) at Paris whilst this mania lasts, for no age will be spared to be in fashion, and I am sure Mie Mie is quite as much in danger as the person I quoted in my first page. It is singular that Sydney Smith always maintained that virtue was a question of weather, and that if we had a torrid climate the manners and morals of England would be changed. We give an extract from a notebook: In addition to Selwyn's other places, the voice of his contemporaries conferred on him that of Receiver-General of Waif-and-Stray Jokes; for as D'Alembert sarcastically ob served to the Abbé Voisenon, who complained that he was unduly charged with the absurd sayings of others, "Monsieur l'Abbé, on ne prête qu'aux riches." Waif-and-stray jokes are the legitimate property of the great wits of the day, but it has ever been the fashion of certain sayers of good things to father their progeny on established authorities, and we have heard that the accomplished Henry Lord de Ros commenced some keen jests of his own with "As Alvanley says." Lord Alvanley seems to have acquired the position once occupied by George Selwyn in the great world. He was ready on every occasion. Once, when travelling with Berkeley Craven in |