valuable warning for those who have yet the race of life to run. That it may be useful in this sort, I will complete it. I will not, by publishing it now, encounter the jeers or the sympathy of critics; but I will leave it for the edification of those who come after me. It will be of little moment then what becomes of my poor memoirs. Wit, rancor, praise, compassion, — what will they avail to the ear that is deaf? to the eye that is blind? to the sense - the intellect that has soared, or sunk, or fled - whither?

... A few more sentences, and I have done. They comprehend, notwithstanding all I have already said, the bitter sum of my existence. But I cannot linger over them. I cannot, like the beggar by the way-side, exhibit and grow garrulous over my holier sorrows. Let it be sufficient to say that I have followed my wife and my only child to their graves, and that I am now utterly - alone! My misery needs no exaggeration, and it asks for no sympathy. I go on, as I have always done, struggling and toiling to-day for the food of to-morrow. But I no longer feel apprehensive of the future. It is even some alleviation when my own insignificant personal wants obtrude upon me, and call me away for a moment from substantial grief. It was with this view, with this hope, that I sate down to pen this story of my disappointments; and, in truth, the task has now and then beguiled me not into forgetfulness, indeed but it has mingled with the almost intolerable pain of the present, recollections of the comparatively trivial sorrows of the past. I have all my life been pursuing a phantom professional success. I have been

"chasing the rainbow" for fifty years. I have failed in every undertaking. I have striven my best! have been honest, industrious, and constant to my calling, yet nothing has prospered with me. I do not seek to inquire into the reasons for all this; but it may be worth the while of another person to do so. The

causes of success in life deserve a minute scrutiny. Whether they be owing to accident, to impudence, to genius, to perseverance, it will be well to know. It will then be seen why my learning has been useless, my honesty of no account, my daily, nightly, unceasing toil unavailing. Let me not be understood as being now querulous or indignant. The time for those feelings has passed away. I have no motives now to desire rank or professional success. I would not possess them if I could.'

Such is the counsellor's story. I have nothing to add to it, except that we heard he had thriven in his business somewhat better latterly. His health, however, (his clerk said,) became very indifferent; he did not attend Court so regularly as usual, and never walked out as formerly, except to visit a little churchyard in the suburbs of London, where his wife and child lay buried. To this place he went regularly every Saturday evening, about sunset, and sometimes, when his spirits were more than usually depressed, he would wander there every afternoon for a week or a fortnight successively.

1833.

THE MAN-HUNTER.

It can scarcely be more than eighteen months ago, that two Englishmen met together unexpectedly at the little town or city of Dessau. The elder was a grave person, in no way remarkable; but the younger forced observation upon him. He was a tall, gaunt, bony figure, presenting the relics of a formidable man, but seemingly worn with travel and oppressed by weighty thoughts. He must once have been handsome; and he was even now imposing. But poverty and toil are sad enemies to human beauty; and he had endured both. Nevertheless the black and ragged elf-locks which fell about his face could not quite conceal its noble proportions; and, although his cheek was ghastly and macerated, (perhaps by famine,) there was a wild, deep-seated splendor glowing in his eye, such as we are apt to ascribe to the poet when his frenzy is full upon him, or to the madman when he dreams of

vengeance.

The usual salutations of friends passed between them, and they conversed for a short time on indifferent subjects; the elder, as he spoke, scrutinizing the condition of his acquaintance, and the other glancing

about from time to time, with restless, watchful eyes, as though he feared some one might escape his observation, or else might detect himself. The name of the elder of these men was Denbigh that of the younger has not reached me. We will call him Gordon. It was the curiosity of the first-mentioned that, after a reasonable period, broke out into inquiry. (They were just entering the public room of the Black Eagle at Dessau.)

'But what has brought you here?' said he. 'I left you plodding at a merchant's desk, with barely the means of living. Though a friend, you would never let me please myself by lending you money; nor would you be my companion down the Rhine, some three years ago. You professed to hate travelling. Yet I find you here a traveller evidently, with few comforts. Come, be plain with me. Tell me - what has brought you hither? Or rather what has withered and wasted you, and made your hair so grey? You are grown quite an old man.'

'Ay,' replied Gordon; 'I am old, as you say, old enough. Winter is upon me, on my head, on my heart; both are frozen up. Do you wish to know what brought me here? Well, you have a right to know; and you shall be told. You shall hear

- a tale.'

'A true one?' inquired Denbigh, smilingly. 'True!' echoed the other; ay, as true as hell, as dark, as damnable but peace, peace!' said he, checking himself for a moment, and then proceeding in a hoarse, whispering, vehement voice 'all that in We must begin quietly-quietly.

time.

Come, let

us drink some wine, and you shall see presently what a calm historian I am.'

Wine, together with some more solid refreshments, were accordingly ordered. Gordon did not taste the latter, but swallowed a draught or two of the bold liquid, which seemed to still his nerves like an opiate. He composed himself, and indeed appeared disposed to forget that there was such a thing as trouble in the world, until the impatience of his friend (which vented itself in the shape of various leading questions) induced him to summon up his recollections. He compressed his lips together for a moment, and drew a short, deep breath, through his inflated nostrils; but otherwise there was no preface or introduction to his story, which commenced nearly, if not precisely, in the following words :—

'About three years ago, a young girl was brought to one of those charitable institutions in the neighborhood of London, where the wretched (the sinful and the destitute) find refuge and consolation. She was, you may believe me, beautiful; so beautiful, so delicate, and, as I have said, so young, that she extorted a burst of pity and admiration from people long inured to look upon calamity.

She was attended by her mother a widow. This woman differed from her child; not merely in age or feature. She was, in comparison, masculine ; her face was stern; her frame strong and enduring; she looked as though hunger and shame had been busy with her as though she had survived the loss of all things, and passed the extreme limits of human woe. Once for I knew her - she would have disdained to