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who had taken post between them. In shurt, the Sergeant was in love! Still, however, I am of opinion, that "youth and an excellent constitution," as the novelists have it, would have enabled the patient to struggle with the disease, if it had not been for the incident which I am about to relate.

The home circuit had now commenced, and Sergeant Nethersole had quitted London for Maidstone. Miss Jennings relied with confidence upon the occurrence of nothing particular till the assizes were over, and in that assurance had departed to spend a fortnight with a married sister at Kingston-upon-Thames. Poor innocent! she little knew what a widow is equal to. No sooner had the Sergeant departed in his olivegreen chariot, drawn by a couple of post-horses, than the widow Jackson, aided by Alice Green, packed her portmanteau, sent for a hackney-coach, and bade the driver adjourn to the Golden-cross, Charingcross. There was one vacant seat in the Maidstone coach: the widowoccupied it at twelve at noon, and between five and six o'clock in the afternoon was quietly despatching a roasted fowl at the Star-inn, with one eye fixed upon the egg-sauce, and the other upon the Assize Hall opposite. The pretext for this step was double: the first count alleged that her beloved brother lived at Town Mailing, a mere step off, and the second averred an eager desire to hear the Sergeant plead. On the evening which followed that of the widow's arrival, the Sergeant happened not to have any consultation to attend; and, what is more remarkable, happened to be above the affectation of pretending that he had. He proposed a walk into the country: the lady consented: they moralised a few minutes upon the hie jacets in the church-yard, and thence strolled into the adjoining fields where certain labourers had piled the wooden props of the plant that feeds, or ought to feed, the brewer's vat, in conical (quaere, comical) shapes, not unlike the spire of the New Church in Langham place. The rain now began to fall: one of these sloping recipients stood invitingly open to shelter them from the storm: "Speluncam Dido dux et Trojanus." Ah! those pyramidal hop-poles! The widow's brother from Town Mailing was serving upon the Grand Jury: his sister's reputation was dear to him as his own: "he 'd call him brother, or he 'd call him out," and Nicholas Nethersole and Amelia Jackson were joined together in holy matrimony.

The widow Jackson, now Mrs. Nethersole, was a prudent woman, and wished, as the phrase is, to have every body's good word. It was her advice that her husband should write to his niece Mrs. Culpepper to acquaint her with what had happened. She had in fact drawn up a letter for his signature, in which she tendered several satisfactory apologies for the step, namely, that we are commanded to increase and multiply: that it is not good for man to be alone: but chiefly that he had met with a woman possessed of every qualification to make the marriage state happy. "Why no, my dear," answered the Sergeant, "with submission to you, (a phrase prophetic of the fact) it has been my rule through life, whenever I had done a wrong or a foolish deed (here the lady frowned) never to own it: never to suffer judgment to go by default, and thus remain 'in mercy,' but boldly to plead a justification. I have a manuscript note of a case in point in which I was concerned. In mv youth 1 mixed largely in the fashionable world, and regularly frequented the Hackney assemblies, carrying my pumps in my pocket. Jack Peters (he is now at Bombay) and myself, went thither, as usual, on a moonshining Monday and slept at the Mermaid. The Hackney stage on the following morning was returned nun est inventus, without giving us notice of set off: the Clapton coach was therefore engaged to hold our bodies in safe custody, and them safely deposit at the Flower-pot in Bishopsgate-street. Hardly had we sued out our first cup of Souchong, when the Clapton coach stopped at the door. Here was a demurrer! Jack was for striking out the breakfast and joining issue with the two other inside passengers. But I said' no; finish the muffins: take an order for half an hour's time: and then plead a justification! We did so, and then gave the coachman notice of set off, entering the vehicle with a hey-damme sort of aspect, plainly denoting to the two impatient insiders that if there was any impertinence in their Bill we would strike it out without a reference to the Master. The scheme took, and before we reached Saint Leonard's, Shoreditch, egad! they were as supple as a couple of candidates for the India direction. Now that case, my dear, must govern this. Don't say a civil word to the Culpeppers about our marriage: if you do, there will be no end to their remonstrances: leave them to find it out in the Morning Chronicle."

"This is a very awkward affair, Mrs. Culpepper," said that lady's husband, with the Morning Chronicle in his hand. "Awkward?" echoed Mrs. Culpepper, "it's abominable: a nasty fellow; he ought to be ashamed of himself! And as for his wife she is no better than she should be i."—" That may be," said the husband, "but we must give them a dinner notwithstanding."—"Dinner or no dinner," said the wife, "I '11 not laugh any more at that stupid old story of his about brother Van and brother Bear."—" Then I will," resumed the husband, "for there may possibly be no issue of the marriage." Miss Jennings, the outwitted spinster, tired two pair of horse's in telling all her friends from Southampton-street, Bloomsbury, to. Cornwall-terrace in the Regent's-park, how shamefully Mrs. Jackson had behaved. She then drove to the Register-office abovementioned, to transfer her affections to one Mr. Samuel Smithers, another old bachelor barrister, an inseparable crony of Nethcrsole's, who, she opined, must now marry from lack of knowing what to do with himself. Alas! she was a day too late: he had that very morning married the vacant bar-maid at Nando's.

When the honey-moon of Mr. Sergeant Nethersole was on the wane,

My sprite

Popp'd through the key-hole, swift as light,

of his chambers, in order to take a survey of his library. All was once more as it should be. Ovid had quitted Mr. Espinasse, Tibullus and Mr. Justice Blackstone were two, Propertius and Lord Bacon did not speak, and, as for Giles Jacob, Waller desired none of his company. The amatory poets were refitted to their upper-shelf, the honey-moon was over, and love no longer nestled in the Law Books.

THE MOOR'S PROPHECY.

The Spaniard in Cordova forms his array,
And the Moor from his country sends weeping away,
And thousands are wailing the glory gone by
Of the Caliph's bright city, that gem of the sky,
Aoandon'd to fade and decay.

The purple hills round that seem'd woven of air,
The heaven of glory that ever reign'd there,
The cool Guadalquivir that ran by the wall,
The dreams of past empire more cutting than all

To hearts that must live on despair!

The memory of Genius there nursed and uprear'd,
The temples of Art that its greatness declared,
The mosque of Abdalzamin, sacred to prayer,
Where sire and descendant, the potent and fair.

Had for ages to worship repairM!

Those palaces rich where the cool verdure curl'd
Over fountains of marble, the pride of the world,
Where earth's paradise was, and the home of the bless'd,
Though more happy, was not in more loveliness dress'd.
Where joy was for ever unfurl'd 1

VVhere a thousand remembrances rush'd on the heart
Of enjoyments gone by, never wholly to part,
As each spot newly trod, met the footstep again,
And call'd back those shadows of hopes and of men
That linger round life to the last!

'Twas near Cordova thus, on the morn of the day
That the Spaniard had enter'd in conqueror's array,
As its citizens exiled pass'd out at the gate,
That a Moor with stern brow on an eminence sate,
And a soul full of grief and dismay.

He saw in deep anguish the long train go by,—
On the city of brightness he gazed with a sigh;
And the Sun of the Caliphs went down into night,
And the day of their empire closed on his sight
For the reign of eternity.

He saw and prophetic his accents broke forth:—
"Thou city now cursed by the hordes of the north,
Though the Zanibra no more shall resound in thy street,
Nor the Imaum to worship thy faithful sons greet

As he wont from the day of his birth;

"Yet thv fame shall survive for the conqueror's shame,
When his power and empire are only a dream,
When the bigot and priest shall forages divide
Therealm that now mocks in its fulness of pride

The Moor and his glorious name.

"Accursed shall it be, and, when reason shall school
Other crowns in the semblance of wisdom to rule,
Thine shall be to the nations a by-word and scorn,
Proud and base in its impotence, faithless, forlorn,

A jest on the lip of the fool.
"Then the Moor shall have vengeance while o'er the blue sea.
In his burning domain, he still shall be free—
He still shall be free I and no Gaul on his neck
Shall trample—proud Spain ! but his country's last wreck,

Though desolate, mock over thee!"

ON PLAGUE.

Plague is said to have had' its origin in Egypt. In Egypt, too Learning first saw the light. From the same nursery sprang the Genius and the Demon; but while learning hastened to leave its cradle, and, setting out on its travels, grew with every remove, and disdains to revisit its birth-place; plague, notwithstanding its destructive visits elsewhere, still broods with cruel constancy over its native land. Plague was imported into the western parts of Europe at the time of the crusades; and after that period our own country had, for many centuries, her full share of its terrible inflictions. In the plague which ravaged Europe and Asia in 1348, and the ensuing years, and which swept away nearly three-fifths of the population of every country which it attacked; 50,000 died in London only. In 1593, it carried off 11,503 inhabitants of our metropolis; in 1603, 36,269; in 1625, 35,415; in 1636, the number was only 13,480; but in 1665, according to the lowest calculation, it amounted to 68,596. It is impossible to read De Foe's narrative of this last and direst visitation without feelings of both horror and alarm. The calamity is brought home to us ; we track its course through streets and lanes familiar to our ears, and are reminded of our own liability to a scourge almost forgotten, because so long unfelt. Notwithstanding the sad picture of physical, domestic, and national evil, which De Foe's narrative discloses, the moral consequences of plague appear to have borne a less appalling aspect in England than elsewhere. We discover but few of those disgusting features which Boccaccio describes in his account of the plague at Florence in 1348, and M. Bertrand, in his narrative of that which almost depopulated Marseilles in 1720. We hear not of a general licentiousness; of edicts to enforce, on pain of death, the attendance of physicians and clergy; of hasty love and hasty marriages, celebrated, as it were, in a charnel-house; of murders committed on the dying, and robberies on the dead. Yet without these hideous additions, the account of De Foe is sufficiently terrible; and the misery he describes is almost magnificent from its vastness and its extent.

To form, indeed, an accurate notion of this misery, is, happily, to us impossible. Here, as in other instances of wide and unexperienced calamity, the mind is incapable of comprehending the sum of wretchedness produced by the fears, the sufferings, the agonies of a whole population. It is only the outward symptoms of a plague-stricken city with which books can familiarize us, and the grass-grown streets, the red-crosses flaming on almost every door, the watchmen placed to confine the infected inmates, the slow rattle of the heavy dead-cart, the wide pits yawning for the indiscriminate dead, are but as indexes denoting the existence of intolerable, incomprehensible woe.

One of the most terrific qualities of plague is its mystery. Its commencement, progress, and termination, are all marked by uncertainty; its symptoms are variable beyond idea, and even the researches of modern science, the fearlessness of modern practice, have not removed the veil of doubt from many of its most important features. Dr. Cullen defines it thus: "Plague is a typhus fever, in the highest degree contagious, accompanied with extreme debility. On an uncertain day of the disease there is an eruption of tumours or carbuncles." But even this vague and cautious definition is incorrect. There are numerous instances of persons dying of plague without the appearance of any eruption whatever, and sometimes without an attack of fever. In general, however, plague begins with shiverings, which are followed by heats; sickness succeeds; the spirits sink to a most distressing degree, and the eyes assume a peculiar cloudiness and confusion. .Violent pain, burning fever, and raging thirst follow, and wild delirium sometimes alternates with death-like swoonings. Painful glandular tumours appear, with purple spots and blotches resembling the bites of fleas, or the stripes and bruises of a whip. In the plague of 1C65 these were called tokens, as being the certain heralds of approaching death. Sometimes the victim of plague falls suddenly, unconscious of previous illness; sometimes a few hours hurry him to the grave; sometimes he dies on the second, the seventh, or any of the intervening days. Inevitable destruction will in one case immediately succeed apparent security; while, in another, a state of perfect safety is the next transition from one of the most imminent danger. The remedies for plague are not more certain than its symptoms. Sweatings, formerly the general practice, are now discontinued, bleedings are considered pernicious, coldbaths ineffectual, salivation vain. Frictions with oil were tried extensively by the French physicians in Egypt, but with little benefit. Coolness of the room, complete repose, a mild emetic, and a few cordial medicines, are the simple and uncertain assistances which art can afford to struggling nature, during the severest contest to which it is subject.

vOL. XI. NO. XL1v. I

Another circumstance which aggravates the danger of plague, is the mild and disguised form under which it frequently makes its first approaches. At that very time when the bold and the ignorant should be roused to caution, and when one sceptic may cause a thousand deaths, plague will assume a shape which lulls even the fears of the timid, and baffles the scrutiny of the experienced. The first victim, the fruitful source of incalculable misery, is reported to have died of a common fever; no tokens are discovered on the body, and the public are lulled into fatal security. In a few days, another sickens and dies, the same report is given —fresh cases occur, doubt and dismay reign—till at length the certain characteristics of plague appear, and before one precaution is taken, the flood of destruction has found a thousand channels through which to spread its poison.

But to the above uncertainties attending this terrible disorder another is to be added yet more extraordinary and pernicious. We allude to the dispute as to the mode by which it is propagated. Without perplexing the subject by nice distinctions, the question is simply this:— Is plague contagious 1 that is, conveyed by means of contact with diseased subjects, or with articles they have touched; or is it infectious? that is, propagated by an atmosphere impregnated with pestilential miasmata.

We confess ourselves firm believers in the contagion of plague; and although the subject is undoubtedly attended with difficulties, and there are a few circumstances connected with it at present inexplicable, still we have on our side facts so numerous, so stubborn, and so strong, that the arguments of our adversaries have failed to convince us. Among the latter, Dr. Maclean holds a distinguished place, he has published a volume on the subject, and was examined before a committee

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