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because desired so to do by an old aunt. No such case occurs to me, off hand, but many are doubtless to be met with in the books.

But of all advisers, commend me to Charles Partington, the youngest son; who, as I before mentioned, is bred to the law. To be sure the young man has suffered advice in his time, about giving up Lord Byron and sticking to the Term Reports, but that is no reason for his inflicting it so unmercifully upon others. Charles always advises his two sisters whom to dance with, and where to buy their white kid gloves and Albums. He advised his aunt Isabella by all means to go to the University Club-house, to meet the Duchess of Gloucester: aunt Isabella complied, with a private hope of meeting a cherry-cheeked fiddler from Oriel, who wrote Mus. Bac. Oxon. alter his name : but she lay four hours upon the stairs, and after all missed the fiddler. He also advised his said aunt to go to Cross-street, Hatton-garden, where there is more advice wasted than in all the Metropolis besides. Aunt Isabella complied, but did not much like it. She objected to the phrase of " a guilty heart striking its fangs into its own proper bosom," alleging that a heart has no fangs; and that though a bosom has a heart, it by no means follows that a heart has a bosom. I fear she is growing too nice in her metaphors. Charles Partington's last advices are scattered upon his cousin Emily Green, who was courted by Captain Taper. Charles advised her by no means to think of him, and then trotted all over London in quest of proofs. These did not extend beyond shewing the lover to be a swindler, a drunkard, and a debauchee; but they seemed to answer every purpose. Emily cried; and, possessed by her adviser of all the Captain's frailties in a focus, said she was now quite happy: she could never sufficiently thank her cousin Charles for the good advice he had given her: she begged he would take charge of a whole packet of love-letters and deliver them to the Captain, receiving hers in exchange. Charles snatched up the deposit, and ran across the Park to Arabella-row, Pimlico, as hard as he could lay leg to ground. He found the Captain at home, and, after giving him a world of good advice with respect to paying his debts and leaving off wine and women, laid his budget of epistles upon the table. The Captain, with sorrowful solemnity, gave up Emily's letters in return; and as a parting request, urged Charles Partington to deliver a final leavetaking letter to Emily. Charles (with a sagacity which hereafter must make him a Master in Chancery, at least) complied with the lover's request; and on his return, advised Emily as a friend not to read it. Emily said she would not, but told him he might as well leave it on the table. Charles did leave it on the table. (A Master in Chancery? phoo! he will be a Master of the Rolls !) and, in a week, the Morning Post told the world that Captain Taper and Emily Green were man and wife.

With these, and many other examples that might be cited, surely it is high time to have done with advice altogether. Why should not a certain association prefix a syllable to the commodity they aim to crush, and dub themselves the Society for the Suppression of Ad-\ice? Or why should not Mr. Rothschild institute a Grand Alliance Advice Company, into which every friend of every family might cast his stock of spare wisdom? This might "be afterwards sold in shares. Individuals might apply at the office for advice when they wanted it, and state their respective cases with a fee of three guineas, " to advise as within.'' Nothing is worth having that is not paid for!


"Here (at Brercton in Cheshire) it ono thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family diet, there are seen in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trera swimming on the water for several days."—Camden's Britannia.

Yes 1 I have seen the ancient Oak

On the dark still water cast,
And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke

Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer-sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief

By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,

At the crashing of its might!
And the startled deer to their coverts drew, the spray of the lake, like a fountain's, flew!

Tis fall'n I but think thou not I weep

For the forest's pride o'erthrown;;

An old man's tears lie far too deep

To be pourM for this alone!
But by that sign too well 1 know
That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair,

And its quick bright-flashing eye—
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,

Too fair a thing to die 1
But on his brow the mark is set—
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!

He bounded by me as I gazed

Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem'd like sunshine when he raited

His joyous glance to mine!
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life 1—but he must die!

He must, he mustl in that deep dell,

By that dark water's side,
Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell,

But an heir of his fathers died!
And he—there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice—yet he must die!

1 '\e borne him in these arms, that now

Are nerveless and unstrung.
And must 1 see, on that fair brow,

The dust untimely flung?
] must!—yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!

The noble boy! how proudly sprung

The falcon from his hand!
It seem'd like youth to see him young,

A flower in his father's land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fall'n, and the flower must die 1

Say not 'tis vain I—I tell thee, some

Are warn'd by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird flitting calls them home,

Or a voice on the winds by night.
And they must go !—and he too, he—
Woe for the fell of the glorious Tree! F. H.


Lord Eldon.

Loud Eldon is anexceedingly good-natured man; but this does not prevent him, like other good-natured' people, from consulting his own ease or interest. The character of good-nature, as it is called, has, indeed, been a good deal mistaken; and the present Chancellor is not a bad illustration of the grounds of the prevailing error. It is supposed, when we see an individual whose countenance is " all tranquillity and smiles;" who is full of good-humour and pleasantry; whose manners are gentle and conciliating; who is uniformly temperate in his expressions, and punctual and just in his ordinary dealings—we are apt to conclude that under so fair an outside,

"All is conscience and tender heart" within also, and that such a one would not hurt a fly. And neither would he without a motive. But mere good-nature (or what passes in the world for such) is often no better than indolent selfishness. A person distinguished and praised for this quality will not needlessly offend others, because they may retaliate, and, besides, it ruffles his own temper. He likes to enjoy a perfect calm, and to live in an interchange of kind offices. He surfers few things to irritate or annoy him. He has a fine oiliness in his disposition, which smooths the waves of passion as they rise. He does not enter into the quarrels or enmities of others; he bears their calamities with patience; he listens to the din and clang of war, the earthquake and the hurricane of the political and moral world, with the temper and spirit of a philosopher; no act of injustice puts him beside himself, the follies and absurdities of mankind never give him a moment's uneasiness; he has none of the ordinary causes of fretfulness or impatience that torment others from the undue interest they take in the conduct of their neighbours or in the public good. None of those idle or frivolous sources of discontent, that make such havoc with the peace of human life, ever discompose his features, or alter the serenity of his blood. If a nation is robbed of its rights,

"If wretches hang that Ministers may dine"— the laughing jest still collects in his eye, the cordial squeeze of the hand is still the same. But tread on the toe of one of these amiable and imperturbable mortals, or let a lump of soot fall down the chimney and spoil their dinners, and see how they will bear it. All their patience is confined to the accidents that befall others; all their good-humour is to be resolved into giving themselves no concern about any thing but their own ease and self-indulgence. Their charity begins and ends at home. Their being free from the common infirmities of temper is owing to their indifference to the common feelings of humanity; and if you touch the sore place, they betray more resentment, and break out into greater fractiousness than others, like spoiled children, partly from a greater degree of selfishness, and partly because they are taken by surprise, and mad to think they have not guarded every point against annoyance or attack by a habit of callous insensibility and pampered indolence.

An instance of what we mean occurred but the other day. An allusion was made in the House of Commons to something in the proceedings in the Court of Chancery, and the Lord Chancellor comes to his place in the Court, with the Newspaper in his hand, fire in his eyes, and a direct charge of falsehood in his mouth, without knowing any thing certain of the matter, without making any inquiry into it, without using any precaution or putting the least restraint upon himself, and all on no better authority than a common newspaper report. The thing was (not that we are imputing any strong blame in this case, we merely bring it as an illustration,) it touched himself, his office, the inviolability of his jurisdiction, the unexceptionablcness of his proceedings; and the wet blanket of the Chancellor's temper instantly took fire like touchwood! All the fine balancing was at an end, all the doubts, all the delicacy, all the candour, real or affected, all the chances that there might be a mistake in the report, all the decencies to be observed towards a Member of the House, are overlooked by the blindness of passion ; and the wary judge pounces upon the paragraph without mercy, without a moment's delay, or the smallest attention to forms! This was, indeed, serious business; there was to be no trifling here; every instant was an age till the Chancellor had discharged his sense of indignation on the head of the indiscreet interloper on his authority. Had it been another person's case, another person's dignity that had been compromised, another person's conduct that had been called in question, who doubts but that the matter might have stood over till the next term—that the Noble Lord would have taken the newspaper home in his pocket—that he would have compared it carefully with other newspapers—that he would have written in the most mild and gentlemanly terms to the Honourable Member to inquire into the truth of the statement—that he would have watched a convenient opportunity good-humouredly to ask other Honourable Members what all this was about—that the greatest caution and delicacy would have been observed—and that to this hour the lawyers' clerks and the junior counsel would have been in the greatest admiration of the Chancellor's nicety of discrimination, and the utter inellicacy of the heats, importunities, haste, and passions of others, to influence his judgment? This would have been true; yet his readiness to decide and to condemn where he himself is concerned, shews that passion is not dead in him, nor subject to the control of reason; but that self-love is the main-spring that moves it, though on all beyond that limit he looks with the most perfect calmness and philosophic indifference.

vOL. XI. NO. XLIIt. c

"Resistless passion sways us to the mood
Of what it likes or loaths."

All people are passionate in what concerns themselves, or in what they take an interest in. The range of this last is different in different persons; but the want of passion is but another name for the want of sympathy and imagination.

The Lord Chancellor's impartiality, and conscientious exactness, are proverbial; and are, we believe, as inflexible as they are delicate in all cases that occur in the ordinary routine of legal practice. The impatience, the irritation, the hopes, the fears, the confident tone of the applicants, move him not a jot from his intended course; he looks at their claims with the " lack-lustre eye'' of professional indifference. Power and in* fluence apart, his next strongest passion is to indulge in the exercise of professional learning and skill, to amuse himself with the dry details and intricate windings of the law of equity. He delights to balance a straw, to see a feather turn the scale, or make it even again; and divides and subdivides a scruple to the smallest fraction. He unravels the web of argument, and pieces it together again; folds it up and lays it aside, that he may examine it more at his leisure. He hugs indecision to his breast, and takes home a nice doubt or a moot-point to solace himself with it in protracted, luxurious dalliance. Delay seems in his mind to be of the very essence of justice. He no more hurries through a question than if no one was waiting for the result, and he was merely a dilettanti, fanciful judge, who played at my Lord Chancellor and busied himself with quibbles and punctilios as an idle hobby and harmless humour. The phlegm of the Chancellor's disposition gives one almost a surfeit of impartiality and candour: we are sick of the eternal poise of wilful dilatoriness; and would wish law and justice to be decided at once by a cast of the dice (as they were in Rabelais) rather than to be kept in frivolous and tormenting suspense. But there is a limit even to this extreme refinement and scrupulousness of the Chancellor's. The understanding acts only in the absence of the passions. At the approach of the loadstone the needle trembles, and points to it. The air of a political question has a wonderful tendency to brace and quicken the learned Lord's faculties. The breath of a court speedily oversets a thousand scruples, and scatters the cobwebs of his brain. The secret wish of power is a thumping make-weight, where all is so nicely balanced beforehand. In the case of a celebrated beauty and heiress, and the brother of a noble lord, the Chancellor hesitated long, and went through the forms, as usual: but who ever doubted where all this indecision would end ? No man in his senses, for a single instant " We shall not press this point, which is rather a delicate one. Some persons thought that, from entertaining a fellow-feeling on the subject, the Chancellor would have been ready to favour the poetlaureate's application to the Court of Chancery for an injunction against Wat Tyler. His Lordship's sentiments on such points are not so variable; he has too much at stake. He recollected the year 1794, though Mr. Southey had forgot it! The personal always prevails over the intellectual, where the latter is not backed by strong feeling and principle. Where remote and speculative objects do not excite an interest and passion in the mind, gross and immediate ones are sure to carry the day, even in ingenuous and well-disposed minds. The will yields necessarily to some motive or other; and where the public good, or distant consequences, excite no sympathy in the breast, either from apathy or an easiness of temperament, that shrinks from any violent effort or painful emotion, self-interest, indolence, the opinion of others, a desire to please, the sense of personal obligation, come in and fill up the void of public spirit, patriotism, and humanity. The best men in the world, in their own natural dispositions, or in private life, for this reason often become the most dangerous as public characters, from their pliancy to the headstrong passions of others, and from their having no set-off in strong moral stamina to the temptations that are held out to them, if, as is frequently the case, they are men of versatile talent or patient industry.—Lord Eldon has one of the best-natured faces in the world; it is pleasant to

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