soldier, and bidding Dominge make his men lie down so as to be unseen, he waited until a considerable number had crossed the river, then rushed on them while still in the confusion of landing, and killed no less than sixty, with the loss of only one on his side. Still it was evident that to proceed was dangerous, and Vachonniere proposed an immediate retreat. Yet D'Aubigné, feeling a strong curiosity to know the cause of so large an assemblage, and seeing some detachments of them crossing higher up the river, wished to reconnoitre them once more, and for that purpose moved his troop to attack them again in the haste of their landing. This was an unfortunate movement. The soldiers, animated with their success, and eager to crush their enemy at once, hurried on until the march became a run, and in this disorder they found themselves in front of their opponents, who received them steadily. They were greatly outnumbered, and began rapidly to fall into confusion. At this moment they were charged by a strong body of horse which had formed unperceived behind the town, with the governor at their head. All order was now lost, and the fight was continued only through the inveterate fury of the soldiers. Vachonniere was mortally wounded in the mêlée, and flung under the feet of D'Aubigné's charger. D'Aubigné sprang on the ground, and endeavoured to place his brave comrade across his saddle; but, streaming with blood and faint, he was knocked down, and fell with three dying men over him. All were now thinking only of flight, when Dominge, looking back, saw D'Aubigné, by an extraordinary exertion of strength, throw off the bodies, and, rising to his feet, desperately defend himself against a circle of the enemy. Moved at the sight, he induced three of his officers to turn with him, who, rushing on the circle, broke through it, and rescued D'Aubigné, after he had wounded three of his assailants so severely, that one died of his wounds. He now succeeded in setting D'Aubigné on horseback, and in bearing him, though frequently obliged to fight their pursuers, who continued to press them, until they reached a small rear-guard which had preserved its order, and made face for the time. The soldiers again raged to renew the attack, and revenge their defeat; but they must have been undone but for the fortunate retreat of the enemy, who fell back towards their town, Mauzevin having been wounded in this singularly sharp encounter. D'Aubigné's troop had left nearly half their number on the field. BARNABY PALMS; THE MAN WHO FELT HIS WAY." THAT philosopher was an ass, who, trembling at the peril inherited with his eyes, resolved to avoid all mischief by pulling them out. We know, that in this narrow, gloomy passage, called the world, eyes are, so to speak, edged toolshurting the wearer. We know that, deceived by them, we often shake and wonder at a stalking giant, when, in truth, the Polyphemus is only a swaggering mountebank on wooden stilts, and doff our caps to a glistering glory, which, stript of its outside, is more loathsome than an ape. On the other hand, how many, with a wise tyranny, use their eyes as the meanest vassals, never suffering them to play truant in the sum mer clouds-to hang on summer flowers to lose their time with unprofitable exhalations, or to try to spell the mystery of the stars! No; prudently disciplined, the ocular servants help their masters to dress and to undress-to save them from posts and pillars when abroad -to eat their meat-and to take especial care that no shilling be a counterfeit. Alas! though the best philosophers lack such wisdom, Barnaby Palms was endowed with it to fulness. Locke has said, that two men looking at a rainbow, do not, indeed, see the same rainbow. (Two men, looking at one guinea, are, we conceive, quite in another position.) Now, Barnaby never thought of trusting his eyes but with the lowest duties, instinctively keeping them from all delicate embar rassments. In the petty, menial wants of life, Barnaby might employ his eyes; in the momentous concerns of this world, he winked, and securely-felt his way. At the green age of eighteen, Barnaby possessed the ripe fruit of two score. But the truth is, Barnaby had never been a child. In the nurse's arms, he was a very manikin, showing an extraordinary precocity in his choice of the ripest apple and the biggest cake. Left as a legacy to an only uncle, the boy flourished after his own sweet will," unchecked and unassisted save by the scantily-paid attentions of a well-meaning pedagogue, vegetating in a hamlet some six miles from the Kentish coast. Poor Joshua! he might have learned of his scholar-might have sucked worldly wisdom even from the suckling. We repeat it at eighteen Barnaby was a match for grey hairs. Barnaby had a deep respect for his uncle; in fact, so deep, it all but sank to fear. Thus our hero spared no pains to feel his way to the heart of his relation, who, be it understood, enjoyed the reputation of a wealthy man,-albeit, old inhabitants of the town would sometimes marvel how his wealth had been acquired. Palms, senior, dwelt in a huge dilapidated mansion within gunshot of the sea; his household consisting of an old man and his daughter, a pretty, gay-hearted lass of eighteen. Old Palms was seated in his oak parlour, steadily employed upon a breakfast, of which beef and Kentish ale, with an incidental drop of white brandy, formed the principal part. Before him sat Barnaby in trim travelling attire. He looked and spoke the creature of humility. Could he have made the transfer, he would have given his soul to his uncle as readily as he advanced the mustard. The truth is, Barnaby was about to enter the world: he had drawn on his boots for the great pilgrimage of life. In a few hours and he must feel his way through the crowd of London, being destined to the warehouse of Messrs Nokes and Styles, mercers, City. Hence the reader may imagine that Barnaby was subdued by the approaching event-that he felt some odd twitchings at the heart, as he stared at the old wainscot, with its every worm-hole familiar to him -that a something rose to his throat, as he looked out upon the sea, tumbling and roaring in concert with a January gale-at that sea which had sung his early lullabies-that his heart, like the oceanshell, still responded to the sound. It is reasonable to believe-though we cannot substantiate the factthat some such emotions rose in the bosom of the pilgrim. Of this, however, we are certain: Barnaby looked with the eyes of a devotee towards a small leathern bag, lying on the table at the right hand of his uncle; and Barnaby continued to gaze at the string securing the neck, until, distracted by the appearance of Patience Mills, who-the more serious portion of the breakfast consumed-entered with a dozen eggs. Now, Patience had a face as round, and cheeks as red, as any pippin,-eyes blue as heaven,-and a mouth, as a certain young man on the coast avowed, sweet as a honeycomb. Nevertheless, had Patience been some smoke dried hag, Barnaby had not visited her with looks less charitable. Patience replied to the glance by a giggle, solacing herself, when out of hearing, by muttering" glad he's going." Barnaby looked at his uncle's fingers, and then at the bag. Heedless of the hint, old Palms took an egg. "Come, eat, Barney; eat. Ye'll have a cold ride to London: the north wind's edged like a scythe. What! not take eggs?" "Doat on 'em, uncle," cried Barnaby, aroused, like Shylock, from a dream of money-bags." The fact is, Barnaby had that day determined to like every thing: on that occasion he wished to leave a vivid impression of his meekness and humility. "Quite a weazel at eggs, uncle," continued Barnaby, and he began to chip the shell. Now, it so happened that Barnaby had fallen upon an egg which, on being opened, emitted conclusive evidence of its antiquity. Old Palms, instantly perceiving the work of time, roared to Barnaby to cast the abomination out of the window. Barnaby, however, determined to give an example of his economy-of his indifference to petty annoyance-sat like a statue, still holding the egg between his thumb and finger-his uncle applying the same instruments to his own nose. "Out with it, Barney!" Barney smiled a remonstrance, and handled his spoon. "Zounds!" cried old Palms, almost grinning through his disgust at what he deemed the ignorance or simplicity of his nephew -"Zounds! nephew-why-ha, ha!-you'll never eat it?" Barnaby, mistaking the humour of bis uncle, nodded knowingly. "You will? I tell you 'tis a musty egg-a bad egg-pah! the egg stinks!" Barnaby looked as though he believed he had won his uncle's heart for ever, and then complacently made answer, "I don't care for eggs over fresh." Now, we boldly declare the egg of Barnaby to be a grander subject for the moralist and the romancewriter than either the egg of Columbus, the famous roc's egg of the Eastern Princess, the golden egg of Esop, or the egg of Mother Goose. Reader, pause a moment, and reflect on the prosperity of whole hordes of people, whose success in life is solely attributable to their participating in the taste of Barnaby. Look at his lordship, sparkling with honours, and padded with bank paper! know ye to what he owes all this? Oh, doubtless to his high statesmanlike qualitieshis profound knowledge-his indefatigable industry. Not so, not so; the simple story is, he was wont to confidentially breakfast with the Minister, and on such occasions showed that he "cared not for his eggs over fresh." But shall we stay at courts and courtiers? No; from a palace to a workshop there is ever some ductile eater-some omnivorous, obsequious Barney at breakfast, who has made, or looks to make, a figure in the world by not caring for his eggs "over fresh." Many are the ways in which the tale may be told. There is Tom Spangle, a handsome, healthy, six-foot animal of two-and thirty. He had not a ehilling; now, he rides blood, and writes cheques. Do you know the secret of the change? Very well; be married the ancient, yellow widow of an army-contractor. Ay, even so he cared not for his egg over fresh." The avowed taste of Barnaby was not lost upon his uncle. The old man looked through the youth with a thinking eye-an eye that seemed to read his moral anatomy, and then uttered a long "hem!" at the same time stretching his hand to the mo> ney-bag. Invisible fingers were playing on the heart-strings of Barnaby, whilst, from the corner of his eye, he watched his uncle slowly untie the strip of knotted leather which " compressed the god within." The bag was opened; its glorious contents blazed on the table; and as they rang upon the oak, Barnaby instinctively rose to his feet, standing respectfully uncovered in "the presence. "Barney," said old Palms, and reverently laid his hand upon the gold, "Barney, my child, you see the little hoard I've set apart for you." The life-blood of Barnaby tingled in his very eyes, and his ears rang with music. "You see the few savings and scrapings I have made for the child of my brother. For I feared that you, an innocent, unprotected, unassisted lad, would need the aid which money can alone afford. Barney, I trembled for the softness of your heart-the simplicity of your nature." Here Barney felt almost in peril of tears. "Yes, Barney, these were my weak anxieties, my foolish fears." Saying which, the old man began to return the guineas to the bag. During the operation, not a word was spoken. Barney, scarcely venturing to breathe, stood with his head bent on his breast, and one eye on the table, silent and subdued. The tinkling of the gold-the voice of Barney's fortune, was alone audible; and, as note followed note, the young expectant became possessed as though he listened to angelic trumpets. The bag being filled, Palms proceeded to tie its mouth, talking as he leisurely tied. "Barney, I find my fears were the fears of ignorance. You need not such a sum as this; you are already rich in strength-in wisdom." "Come, Barney, why so modest? I say, strength and wisdom, as the world goes, are yours. Here we've a hundred guineas in this little bag; what then? to a lad of your wit they're of little worth. You'll never miss 'em. Now, here," and Palms slid the coin along the table, "here are five guineas.' "Five! uncle!" "Five. The reward of your skill -of the skill you have shown this morning." world, cares not for his eggs' overfresh,' will, in the end, flourish as well though he begin with five guineas, as with five thousand." The tone and manner of old Palms forbade any reply on the part of his nephew, who, nevertheless, received the eulogy with a sulkiness worthy of the great cynic. Indeed, had Barnaby pocketed five snow-balls, he could not have looked more blank and frozen; could not have mounted the borrowed horse, ready saddled to convey him to London, with more reluctant leg, with grimmer countenance. No wonder; Barnaby thought he had securely felt his way: now Barnaby had lost ninety-five guineas. CHAPTER II. "Five guineas? skill? uncle!" "Never doubt it, Barney; take up the money, and never mistrust that head of thine; for well I know, that the fellow who, in this working THERE is a golden volume yet to be written on the first struggles of forlorn genius in London-magnificent, miserable, ennobling, degrading London. If all who have suffered would confess their sufferings -would show themselves in the stark, shivering squalor in which they first walked her streets-would paint the wounds which first bled in her garrets-what a book might be placed in the hands of pride!—what stern, wholesome rebukes for the selfish sons of fortune!-what sustaining sweetness for the faint of spirit! It is true, the letters might be of blood-the tales, of agony and horror-of noble natures looking serenely, with the hungry fox gnawing their bowels-of disappointment sinking to despair-of misery, dreaming of, and wooing death; and then how many petty shifts to mask a haggard face with smiles-how many self-denials-how many artifices to hide a nakedness from laughing scorn! Nor would the tome be all of wretchedness. No: beautiful emanations of the human heart-the kindest ministerings of human affec tions would sweeten and exalt many a sad history. How often should we find the lowly comforting the high -the ignorant giving lessons to the accomplished-the poor of earth aiding and sustaining the richlydowered! Barnaby was in London; but not -our heart bounds as we declare it -not to add to the number of splendid vagabonds, now thrust from her thresholds to sleep in the market place, and now dining off plate cheek by jowl with my lord. Barney was speedily warm, as in wool, in the house of Messrs Nokes and Styles; and with the combined wisdom and delicacy of a spider, began to feel his way to the foibles of his employers. Nokes was a man of brass Styles a string of willow. Assured of this, Barnaby_immediately felt the propriety of bowing to the one, and bending the other. "Look at that lazy brute,- he doesn't draw a single pound," remarked the observing Nokes, as one evening, standing at his warehouse door, he contemplated the progress of a passing waggon. "Not half-a-pound, sir," chimed in Barnaby; "and yet, I doubt not, he eats his share of corn and hay. But this it is to be, as one may say, in partnership with those who will pull." "Right, Barnaby;" and the countenance of Nokes darkened, as he watched the easy-going quadruped. "They who will work, may work. Will Mr Styles be here to-day?" It is our hope that the query of Barnaby was unconsciously coupled with his profound views of the distribution of labour-that he had innocently let fall a spark on the train of Nokes's smothered feelings. If, on the contrary, the conflagration were premeditated, the moral incendiary must have glowed at the flattering proof of his success; for Nokes was all but suffocated. blood rushed to his face-retreated rushed on-came back-present The ing unto Barney as fine an exhibition of "humours and spirits" as that recorded by the learned Peireskins, who at the cost of some words, set forth the useful lesson he acquired through "an augmenting-glass or microscope," showing how a certain plebeian animal setting himself to wrestle with a flea, was so incensed that his blood ran down from head to foot, and from foot to head again!" Wise Peireskins! true philosopher! who from the bickerings of small despised animals extracteth better wisdom, learneth surer self-government, than the unthinking million carry from a dog-fight, yea, from a bull-bait ! (Reader, when thou shalt behold a Nokes bursting with envy, hatred, and uncharitableness, think of the learned lord of Peiriesk and his little monitor-ponder, and let thy soul be instructed.) "Lack-a-day! I'd quite forgot; 'tis Epsom races," continued Barney, in self-reproval of his unnecessary question, the face of Nokes again suddenly resembling a chemist's bottle by candlelight. Epsom races!" repeated the speaker, in a tone that left nothing further to be advanced upon the subject. And Nokes evidently judged the words to be conclusive; for feeling-like a patriot at a public dinner-more than he could express, with a wisdom rarely exhibited on such occasions, he spoke not at all. He merely jerked out his watch; and, at a glance, calculated that in two hours at most he should be looked for to join his friends at whist. Mr Styles, in addition to his love of horse flesh, had a passion for the rural and picturesque. He kept a country house, under whose hospitable roof Barney was wont at times to eat a Sabbath meal, having previously attended his inviter to the parish church. It was a sight to melt the thoughtless youth of Bridewell to behold Barney during service. There he was, pinned to the side of his employer; now seeking out the lessons of the day-now, with open mouth and staring eyeballs (an expression of features not disgraceful to any tombstone), outsinging a numerous Sunday-school, shrilly piping in the gallery. It is true, the clerk would cast a look of bitterness; but then, it was avowed that Barnaby never opened his mouth, that the poor man did not feel shaken on his throne. "A most comfortable sermon, Barney?" remarked Styles, with a certain air of interrogation. "Most comfortable?" "I'm a wicked creature, if I wouldn't have given a guinea for Mr Nokes to hear it. Did you observe, sir, how that gentleman with the scarlet face and powdered head was moved? Pray, sir, who is he?" Humph! He's newly retired among us, Barney; I-I forget his name; but they tell me he has in his time been a great player." "No doubt, sir; no doubt. Every word of the preacher seemed to enter him like a bodkin! A great player! poor wretch! Surely, sir, he can't have made all his money by playing?" "Every penny, Barney." "He keeps a coach!" cried Barney, in a modulated tone of polite amazement. "A house," added Styles" that did belong to the member of the county a town mansion-and a shooting-box." "And all won by playing? Mercy upon us! The devil offers great temptations!" moralized Barney. "Say what we will of him, Barney," responded Styles, with exemplary liberality towards a fallen foe; say what we will of him, I am afraid the devil is no fool." "And-and"-asked Barney, with a face somewhat uncorded from its first rigidity-"what may the gentleman have most played?" "I can't exactly tell, but I believe principally low parts; such as footmen, clowns, and country boys!” "Parts! I mean games? Chickenhazard-short-whist roulette rouge-et-noir-or "-and Barney for some seconds continued the inventory, with a knowledge of the subject, quite extraordinary as unexpected. "Games! Understand me, Barney; I tell you the man was an actor, a stage player." Barney could not subdue a look of disappointment: in a moment, however, he returned to the subject. "Actor or not, I am sure he must have played. La, sir, did you see him when the doctor thundered at gaming?" Truth to say, Styles was |