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further, for enough has been said to show that the whole merit of what was done was due to Lord Cochrane. He was the deviser of the explosionvessel, by means of which the boom was shivered to pieces, and the fireships allowed to pass in, which was the real cause of the grounding of the enemy's ships. He fired that explosion-vessel with his own hand -a frightful risk, almost without a parallel, if we except the similar achievement of Constantine Kanaris in the Greek war of independence. Alone, and unsupported, he stood into Aix Roads, exposed to the fire of the batteries, and engaged three ships at once before a single British vessel came to his assistance. One of these he took unaided. He remained behind after the supporting vessels had been recalled; and who can doubt that, but for the perversity of Lord Gambier, he would have inflicted far greater damage? As it was, the French fleet was partly destroyed and altogether crippled; for the vessels which went ashore and escaped conflagration were so injured as to require a thorough repair before they could be sent to sea; and of two more, the Tourville, 74, was wrecked up the river, and the L'Indienne frigate was burned at its mouth by the crew, lest it should fall into the hands of the British.

Compare that with the dastardly conduct of Lord Gambier-for really it would be an abuse of words to term it otherwise and then who can attach blame to Lord Cochrane for intimating to the Admiralty his intention of opposing a vote of thanks to that most ancient and fishlike of admirals? For what was he to receive thanks? He had set his face against the employment of fireships-the idea of explosion-vessels was far beyond his capacity and understanding -he refused Lord Cochrane leave to make his attempt when wind and weather suited, and before the enemy had taken the alarm-after the way was opened and the French vessels

grounded, he delayed standing in until the best opportunity had gone by; and when he did stand in, it was to anchor uselessly out of gun shot. He did certainly, at the last, send some assistance to Cochrane, when engaged in unequal combat ; but that hardly can be called a virtue, for he had the example and fate of Byng before him; and had Cochrane perished that day, and the Impérieuse been taken without an attempt at rescue, it would be a bold thing to aver that the year 1809 might not have exhibited a parallel spectacle to that of 1757. And, finally, he lost not a moment in recalling the attacking ships of the squadron, leaving the victory incomplete.

We need not enter into further details. The review of this volume has been to us a labour of love; for although we do not always coincide in opinion with the noble author, and have not hesitated to say so, we hold him most reverently, and fervently do we trust that his honoured age may be prolonged. Age, indeed, has descended on him as silkily and softly as the first slight sprinkling of snow that gives indication of the coming of the winter. Scarcely, in the more detailed narrative, do we perceive its presence; and when he warms with warlike recollections, it disappears as on the cone of Vesuvius. Very few men there are, or ever were, who at his years would have attempted such a task-not one, so far as we know or remember, who could have performed it with such accuracy and spirit. Literature and history alike will sustain a great loss if this autobiography is not completed; and we trust that Lord Dundonald may be spared to give us another, if not a third volume, and that we (id est, the writer of this article, whose naval rank is nearer that of his Lordship than he may be aware), may survive to review the same, and give it as hearty commendation as we bestow on the fragmentary portion which has appeared.

ROBERT BURNS.

ALL hearts are his- with high and low,
THE DOON in fancy seems to flow
To music all its own:

The village maiden to his lays
Her simple, artless homage pays—
The Queen upon the throne!

All that the cottage-hearth endears-
All that can move to mirth or tears,
In his sweet song combine :
And pictured there with simplest grace,
Old times and manners we may trace
In ev'ry living line.

And need we say that, in his page
Are strains that must, from age to age,
When clouds are in her sky,
Speak to his country's glowing heart,
And bid her ever act her part,
As in the days gone by!

Nor upon earth alone he reigns,
Nor heaven alone on his domains
Shines with wide-spreading ray;
But things unearthly and of night,
And lighted by no heav'nly light,
His mighty spell obey!

And never can it be forgot,
That hard as was our poet's lot,
Left in cold want to pine,

No poor and servile arts he knew,
But ever to himself was true,
And to his art divine.

No fear that Time with men like him,
The radiance of Fame should dim-
And for this simple cause-
That Time has, happily, no force
To change the onward, even course
Of Nature and her laws.

"The daisy," therefore, still must growThe hills where LUGAR loves to flow, Still meet "the winter sun

And Nature's poet still must hold,

Amidst her streams and "mountains old,"

The place that he has won!

THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.-PART XII.

CHAPTER XXXV.-GIULIO.

IF there had been any doubt remaining in the minds of Foliot and the Abbot as to Prior Hugh's complicity in the attempted abduction of the Lady Gladice, it was speedily set at rest as soon as they were enabled to hear her own story. Nothing would have induced her, she assured the superior, to have quitted the protection of the abbey walls for a moment, but the personal assurance of the prior that Longchamp himself had sent an escort for her, in order that she might join him at Huntingdon-an assertion which had been backed by a pretended letter which he had shown her as from the abbot himself. Of the other agents in the attempt she declared herself wholly ignorant; so far as her alarm had permitted her to take any notice of the men who had sprung upon the boat after it crossed the stream, she had no previous recollection of their persons, though one voice among them seemed familiar to her. She was unwilling, indeed, to speak at all upon this part of the affair, and coloured and trembled so painfully at the abbot's questioning, kind and considerate as it was, that he soon forbore to press it. Her own suspicions pointed, no doubt, to the same quarter as before. It scarcely needed the additional fact of Waryn's having followed the party of horsemen from Huntingdon, to indicate Sir Nicholas le Hardi as the principal in this second outrage, whether he were actually present or not. The suspicion was reduced to a certainty before nightfall. The poor tirewoman, as to whose fate Gladice had been in such painful anxiety, reached the abbey, half-dead with terror and fatigue, a few hours after the abbot's arrival. It would have been long before the terrified Bertha could have made her story sufficiently intelligible, had not her listeners been prepared to supply its defects, and interpret its confusion, from their own knowledge of the events of the past night. The two Benedictines, who had been Gladice's companions

in the boat, had pushed off up the stream at the first alarm from Foliot's party, carrying the girl with them. Her mouth had been tightly muffled from the first to prevent her shrieks from attracting notice, and in this state they had conveyed her some distance up the river. They had themselves landed on the side next the abbey (where Waryn had found the boat), after leaving the girl on the other bank, bidding her take her way back to Willan's Hope, and threatening her with vengeance if she again made her appearance at the monastery. To Willan's Hope, accordingly, as her nearest safe refuge, poor Bertha had striven to find her way, but, frightened and bewildered as she was, had lost herself in the flooded meadows, and been found at daylight lying utterly chilled and exhausted, and carried into a swineherd's hut. From thence, as soon as her strength was partially recovered, she had made her way back to Rivelsby, thinking that there alone she could hear tidings of her young mistress, and not having the courage, indeed, to return to Dame Elfhild with such a miserable story. She had distinguished Foliot's voice as one of those who had come to the rescue; and though her captors had hurried her from the spot before she could tell what the issue had been, this recollection had given her some hope of her lady's safety. Another voice, too, she had recognised very distinctly amongst their assailants; it was that of Sir Nicholas' foreign esquire, whom she had seen more than once at Willan's Hope. It was a reminiscence, it appeared, in which poor Bertha was not likely to be mistaken; for Dubois, whose conversational talents almost equalled his master's, had ingratiated himself considerably with the maiden during his visit there; partly, no doubt, under the natural attraction of a dimpled cheek and blue eyes; but mainly, it must be conceded to the Gascon's practical and business-like habits, in the hope

to extract from her, in their confidential moments, some account of the stranger lady who he had heard was lying sick there - whom he thought it possible (after Sir Nicholas' story of the vision in Cuthwin's hut) to identify with Isola-but of whom Bertha had very little to tell, and, remembering her lady's injunctions, was prudent enough not to communicate even the little she knew. Late in the afternoon, when it suited his own leisure and convenience, the swineherd who had given her shelter had carried some distorted version of the girl's tale to the old tower; and within an hour or two of Bertha's reappearance at the abbey, Gladice was not a little cheered and comforted by the arrival of her aunt under the trusty guard of old Warenger. Dame Elfhild, whose affection for her niece was strong and genuine, had lost no time in setting out in person for Rivelsby, in order to ascertain at once the truth or falsehood of the alarming intelligence which had reached her. If it should prove (as she could not help suspecting) that Le Hardi had been the originator of this unscrupulous attempt, she had resolved herself to seek the Bishop of Ely and demand redress; for though she had favoured the knight's suit so long as it was carried on according to the laws of knighthood and courtesy, and might even have looked with indulgence upon some act of lover-like boldness which might serve to overcome scruples which she thought unreasonable, her love for Gladice was too real not to recoil with abhorrence from any actual outrage upon her feelings; and the forcing a maiden from the protection of the church was a deed which bore a very different aspect in her eyes, from winning the same fair prize in any lawful combat. It only needed to have seen the tears of joy with which they embraced each other, when she found her still unharmed within the friendly walls of Rivelsby, to be assured that, however the elder and the younger might differ in some of their views of love and marriage, there was a hearty sympathy between the two. It was not difficult to prevail upon Dame Elfhild to remain for the present as the abbot's guest: if

peril was at hand, she was quite content to share it with her niece; and though the old seneschal insisted on returning to his vacant charge at Willan's Hope-his fear of incurring Sir Godfrey's displeasure coinciding, in this case, with his sense of strict military duty-yet he consented to leave behind him at the abbey, as a personal guard for his mistress, halfa-dozen stout retainers, who formed a very welcome reinforcement to the little garrison.

The abbot had already visited the infirmary in company with Foliot, in the hope of obtaining some further information from the wounded prisoners whom the charity of the Benedictines had carried into the monastery. They found that one of them was already dead. The other still lay speechless; an arrow had pierced through both cheeks, wounding the tongue in its passage. It had been found also, upon examination, that he had been badly wounded in the side. As he lay upon his pallet, his head and face carefully bandaged by the good brethren's hands, Waryn fancied that he recognised the pale and swollen features, but could not call to mind where or when he had seen them. The wounded man's eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping; and as they found he had not spoken, save in rare monosyllables, and that with apparent difficulty, since he had been carried in, the abbot and his companion withdrew without subjecting their prisoner to any attempt at examination.

Rivelsby had other additions to its guests that evening. Father Giacomo had arrived there safely towards nightfall with his young charge, who was welcomed back amongst the brotherhood with hearty delight. Giulio's reappearance, in the present troubled state of their affairs, was a visible and wholesome relief both to the monks and their superior. Abbot Martin had bidden most of the officers of the house to his private table at supper hour, in celebration of his safe return to them, and with the desire to efface as far as possible the painful feelings which might have been caused by the prior's treachery and disgrace. If others of the fraternity had been privy to his designs

-and the abbot could not conceal from himself that it must have been so, at least to some extent-he trusted that the disaffection was confined to a few, and having secured the chief criminal, was willing to spare himself the pain of detecting and punishing the accomplices. But the meal would have been a very restrained and cheerless one, but for Giulio's presence. Happily unconscious of the mutual embarrassment and distrust which kept many of his elders silent-some from self-accusation, others from the fear of being wrong fully suspected-the boy conversed freely with all, and often served as a valuable medium for the flagging conversation. Even Andrew the sacrist was grave beyond his wont, or found the atmosphere too uncongenial to venture upon the mildest of his usual jests, though he sate next sub-prior Simon, who supplied unfailing capital as a subject, the more valuable because he was himself unconscious of the application, and though the abbot was not wont to check such sallies unless they threatened to pass the bounds of good-humour. Waryn Foliot was plainly infected with the prevailing restraint, and was as silent as any of the party either his thoughts were occupied by the cares of his new position (for the abbot had claimed his services as aide-de-camp in the somewhat delicate office of managing Danneguin and his troop), or he missed the eloquent eyes which had that morning thanked him for his good service of the night past. Dame Elfhild, indeed, whose spirits rose with emergencies, would fain have had her niece grace the superior's table with her presence, which she represented as an act of gratitude and duty; but Gladice might well be excused if she felt unequal to a public appearance, and the elder lady was reluctantly compelled to sup in private also. It inight, indeed, have been the fluent converse of the latter which Foliot missed, for she had been most liberal in her professions of gratitude on her niece's behalf, whereas Gladice herself had scarce bestowed five words on him. But Giulio talked to all who were within reach to listen.

The sad and anxious face which the abbot himself wore at intervals, in spite of his efforts to set the others at their ease, brightened into a smile as often as he addressed the little guest who sat on his left hand, or replied to his frequent remarks and inquiries. Favourite as he had been with them all during his brief sojourn amongst them, the brethren of Rivelsby had never yet had such occasion to bless the innocent eyes and fearless smile which had lighted the gloom of the cloister, as on that evening of a day of trouble, when the boy's bright looks and bold words at once relieved and rebuked the suspicions and jealousies of manhood.

The superior was not sorry to bring to an early close a banquet so unlike his usual genial though temperate hospitalities. Giacomo followed him to his apartment with the boy, for whom Wolfert was to give up again his little chamber in the wall. The Italian had consented to this arrangement at the abbot's special request.

Bear with me in this," he said, as he kissed the boy's fair curls before parting with him for the night; "he is a comfort to me in this trouble; and, unreasonable as it seems, I think I could not rest tonight unless I had personal assurance of his safety."

"Be it so, my lord abbot, be it so," replied the other, with a sad smile. "I have learnt to acknowledge that you have a better claim to his love than I. He should rest well here, living or dead," he continued in a low tone, "for they of his blood sleep passing sound at Rivelsby."

"What say you?" exclaimed the abbot, starting as he closed the door of the boy's resting-place; "who is the child, then? speak-I have had patience long."

"You have-yet I did but withhold the knowledge while I thought it would harm you. He is the lord of Ladysmede, by King Richard's grace.'

"How?" said the churchman; I whose son is he?"

"He is the child of Miles de Burgh.”

"Say you so indeed?" said the

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