delay, and that he would have reason to rejoice that the Pope was not paramount, nor the priest the minister of the scaffold. He himself seems to have some qualms as to the reception of his offer. "Such a step," says he, "might at first be disagreeable to the priests; they might be annoyed at it; agitate, address their lordships, by petition, deprecate any provision from the Government, and declare that they would not receive a penny; but he would not mind that."

Happy as this conception of their sincerity is, his lordship would find himself totally mistaken in the results. That neither he nor any man of common experience could rely on the most solemn protestations of the Papists is perfectly allowed. That every preacher and teacher among themselves would feel the due appreciation of their character in the careless contempt which his lordship's words convey is equally plain; but that any conceivable concession could mitigate the native venom of Popery against Protestantism is only to be regarded as one of those fancies which have so long marked Lord Brougham as one of the most fanciful politicians under the moon. Supposing for the moment that it were justifiable in a Protestant nation to contribute to the support of a religion which it distinctly believes to be a gross error, that it were meritorious in a nation believing the Scriptures as the sole law of Christianity to assist the progress of a creed which absolutely shuts up the Scriptures from the people, what man but a visionary could persuade himself that the Popish priest would be content with an offer whose declared object was to take popular power out of his hands, and to do this by giving him but a fraction of his present income. The artifice with which Popery manages all her concerns renders it difficult to know her finance. But it seems certain that very few, if any, of her parish priesthood have less than L.300 a-year, and very many much more; and this paid, not in the bitter, fraudulent, and evasive style of the tithe, but solidly, promptly, and to the uttermost farthing; for wo be to the man who hesitates about paying his Reverence for each and any of the nume

rous frivolities that make up the ceremonials of the religion and the revenue of the priesthood. Yet this man is to be content to give up his L.300 a-year paid duly and truly, and take in its place L.100 a-year from the Treasury, liable to an act of Parliament, liable to the fluctuations of party, and, after all, turning him into a pensioner on his good behaviour! What are our comic writers doing? They complain of the dearth of sub. jects. But what more capital material could they ask, than Lord Morpeth going to Dr M'Hale, with those preliminaries of peace in his hand? "I know that you are an agitator by trade, that your power is in agitation, that your prospect of more power is in more agitation; yet I come to propose that you shall give up your trade ;" and well might the titular archbishop stare at such a request, and from such a quarter. But the Irish Secretary has still to state his terms. "I know, my dear archbishop, that the sacrifice of power is painful to any man, and you know that your Church looks upon popular combustion as her sure path to supremacy. But I am commissioned to compensate you for any injuries to your ambition. I shall plead to your avarice.

You now receive from L.1000 to L.1500 a-year. I have authority to offer you in lieu of that sum an order on the Treasury for exactly L.450 per annum." Whether the soi-disant Archbishop would turn on his heel, or use that heel in a different application to the proposer; whether he would laugh in his official face, or anathematize him with bell book and candle, more solito ; whether he would recommend the shrinking Secretary to a strait-waistcoat and the care of Dr Haslam, or plunge him into that purgatorial flame where sinners bleach like linen; nothing can be more certain than that Lord Morpeth would meet with a reception quite sufficient to disqualify him from ever performing the part of peacemaker again.

Such is the state of the Empire, abortive, feeble, and perplexed. Such is the result of twelve months of anxious deliberation, and such is the conduct of the most worthless Cabinet in the annals of England.

I HAVE no great faith, generally speaking, in what is called "a broken heart." In this instance I am almost as confirmed a sceptic as Sam Slick, that shrewdest of Yankee clock-makers. "What, sir," methinks I hear some green sentimentalist exclaim, "do you then attach no credit to the histories of Sappho and Phaon, Hero and Leander, and a hundred others that I could mention, who died, beyond all possibility of cavil, of broken hearts?" Unquestionably not; I believe indeed that such people lived, and that in process of time they were gathered to their kindred earth, but I deny that they died, either directly or indirectly, of the pathetic malady attributed to them. For who are our authorities on this point? the poets-a set of fellows whose indifference to facts is notorious, and who tell such preposterous lies, and with such a grave face too, that there is actually no believing a single word they say! The case of Sappho, who, these inventive gentry assure us, flung herself from "Leucadia's steep," in consequence of having been deserted by Phaon at a time when she bade fair to increase the parish burdens, I take to be neither more nor less than this:-Being of an imaginative temperament, as young women are apt to be at her age, she was one fine day watching, from the rock in question, the rich glory of a Grecian sunset, when, in the ardour of her enthusiasm, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the ruddy waves that broke with a dull heavy crash upon the shingles, she lost her balance, and threw an undignified summerset from the top of the precipice to the bottom. There was no sentiment in the matter; it was purely an accident an affair, not of a broken heart, but of a broken neck. case of Hero I conceive to be just as clear as that of Sappho. She kept company," it is well known, with Leander, but her father, who was a respectable man, and in a large way of business, disapproved of the match, for the fellow had nothing to recommend him as a son-in-law-no money in the funds-no landed estates-no investments in houses;-nothing, in short, but a passable face and intrepid impudence. Still, notwithstanding

The

these objections, Hero stuck to her "sweetheart," and persisted in having stolen interviews with him; whereupon her venerable parent, like a sensible man as he was, threatened to lock her up in the coal-hole; and it was in running away from him just as he was about to put his threat into execution, that the agitated young woman, who had rushed out upon the leads of the house like Rebecca when she flew from the Knight Templar-made one step too many; pitched head over heels into the Hellespont, and met that death which has immortalized her memory. These, I contend, are the true versions of the stories of Sappho and Hero, which are now, for the first time, stripped of the sentimental embellishments that the poets have flung round them, and viewed by the sober day-light of common sense.

But dismissing the ancients, take a modern instance or two of a "broken heart," as they pass current in the social circles, and see what is to be made of them. What more common in the boudoir or the drawing-room, than such conversation as this?" Do you know Miss Sims?" "Yes." "Ah, poor thing, she is greatly to be pitied. She was to have been married to Captain Dobbs of the Enniskillen dragoons, but before the lawyers had finished drawing up the settlements, old Sims took umbrage at something or other; the match was declared off; the Captain was compelled to set out on pressing business to Boulogne, and poor, dear Ethelinda has ever since been dying of a broken heart.' "Bless me! you don't say so? how shocking!" "Fact, I had a note from the sweet girl but yesterday, wherein she solemnly assures me, in a postscript, that she shall never survive the shock her sensibility,

for she was all soul, you know-has sustained; and that, though her Papa, by way of diverting her melancholy, has offered to take her to Epsom, yet that she has not the heart to go there." "What, not go to Epsom on the Derby day? Well, I never !-Ah, poor thing, her heart is indeed broken!" And yet this forlorn damsel, thus said to be dying of the most interesting of all maladies, and creating, in conse

quence, a sensation whenever her name is mentioned, plucks up spirit enough, a few weeks afterwards, to run off with her father's footman-a smart young fellow, with a glib tongue, round, laughing face, unimpeachable calves, set off to the best advantage in white cotton stockings, and standing six feet one in his shoes!

Here is another illustration of a "broken heart." A pretty romantic heiress, who has only just finished her education at one of the most fashionable polishing academies at Cheltenham or Brighton, falls distractedly in love with a briefless but seductive young barrister whom she first met at church, and afterwards danced with at an Assize ball. Well, the affair" progresses;" but just as it is about to be wound up by an elopement, it comes to the ears of the heroine's parents, who, hard-hearted wretches that they are! instantly whisk her off to some distant semi-barbarous watering-place, on the Cornish or South Devon coast. Cruel catastrophe! The aggrieved fair one forthwith betakes herself to her solitary chamber; sighs and sobs "from the rising of the sun to the going down of the same;" reads touch. ing poems and still more touching novels, and writes to all her acquaintances, who, devoutly believing every word she says, take care to circulate the afflicting intelligence that she is dying by inches of a broken heart! Mark now the sequel of this sad story! Years elapse, and one day a stout, middle-aged gentleman with a bald head, and about as much sentiment in his face as a shoulder of mutton, meets at a dinner-party a buxom, red nosed, corpulent dame, the happy mother of six bouncing children, the two last twins. Observe with what cool indifference they address each other-how comfortable they look-how thoroughly they enjoy themselves! There is no nonsense-no delicate hesitation; their appetites-the lady, you perceive, has been helped twice to turkey, and a plateful each time; and as for the gentleman, he plies his knife and fork with a steady determination of purpose that might excite the envy of an alderman. And who is this hale, jolly couple, who, if you were to sing them a love-song, would fall fast asleep under your very nose, and only wake up in time to take you in for a snug rubber at whist? Can you ask?

They are the very same who, twenty years before, were universally believed to be dying of broken hearts, because they were prevented from eloping with each other! Gentle reader, whenever you hear touching stories of this sort, and I know of none that are so common, always bear in mind Sam Slick's saying, "the only broken heart I ever heard tell of, was that of a New York ticket-porter, who broke it in straining at a twelve stone weight!"

Yet it must be confessed that it has a pretty, specious sound, this same "broken heart;" and though a mere cant phrase, is-thanks to the " "pensive public!"—a capital catchpenny. It brings grist to the annual mills; enables the small poet to browze on something more substantial than Parnassian herbage; forms the stock in trade of half our fashionable novelists, whose slim and susceptible heroines usually die of blighted love somewhere about the tenth line of the three hundredth page of the third volume; brings sunshine to the heart of Bentley; lights up the countenance of Colburn with smiles; and bids Saunders and Otley go upon their way rejoicing. Indeed, were it not for this popular and profitable malady, one half of our West-end publishers would, I do verily believe, be figuring in the unimaginative records of the Insolvent Debtors' Court; or living, separated from their anguished wives, within the walls of a work-house, agreeably to the regulations laid down in the new Poor Law Bill!

Is this, then, all that is to be said of a broken heart? Is there really no such thing in nature? Not so; my scepticism does not carry me this length, for there are exceptions to every rule; but I do seriously contend that in nine out of ten cases the thing is pure fudge. But the tenth case is a serious-nay, an awful-matter, as the painting now hanging above my head in the Picture Gallery, where I write this, assures me in the most unequivocal terms. Yes, this was no mere creation of the artist's fancy. It was truth—stern truth— that lent its terrible emphasis to his pencil. The picture in question was a full-length portrait of a young lady who was represented crossing a common, apparently towards a turnpikegate, which stood a little to the right of her. A more touching look of grief

She

of that deep, still, fixed grief which eats its resistless way to the heart, and speaks of hope for ever gone, I never saw than was depicted in every lineament of the fair stranger's face. was young, but the spirit of youth was extinct. The features were perfect in symmetry, but undying sorrow had marred their beauty. Hers was, really and truly, a broken heart-one of those rare but impressive cases which might touch the most callous, and convince the most sceptical natures. And who was the painter of this striking portrait, which I felt persuaded was drawn from the life? At first I imagined it was Salter, whose noble picture of George III. and the Dying Gipsy, exhibited in the National Gallery last year, was so pure and profound in its pathos; but when I came

to look more closely at the portrait, I perceived that it was of too old a date, having been executed probably a dozen years, though some of the colouring, especially the flesh tints, was as fresh as if it had been laid on but the other day.

Having plenty of leisure time on my hands-more indeed than was desirable-I determined to illustrate this affecting picture while yet my mind was full of the subject; and accordingly, from the hints with which it furnished me, I composed the following tale, the groundwork of which is founded on an incident that took place in a small provincial town somewhere about the commencement of the present century, and has been alluded to by Dr Uwins in his treatise on "Disorders of the Brain."

The Common of Carricksawthy, which forms a portion of that district known by the name of the Vale of Towy, is one of the most picturesque spots in South Wales. The clear, gurgling stream of the Sawthy, spanned by a wooden bridge of the simplest construction, flows through its centre; cottages of a comely and cheerful aspect, with their small strips of garden-ground full of flowers, are scattered about its borders; flocks of sheep are constantly pasturing on its thick, elastic carpet of green sward; and a ridge of breezy downs redolent of thyme and other wild shrubs,-and beyond which rise the frowning peaks of the Black Mountains, imparting spirit and dignity to a landscape that otherwise might seem too tame-en. close it on all sides but one, where runs the high-road past Llangadock, a homely village, consisting of one straggling street, which stands at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the common. On a serene spring or summer day, nothing can be more enlivening than this scene. The sun brings vividly out the emerald green of the turf, always so refreshing an object to the eye; imparts added neatness and beauty to the cottages; and lightens up with smiles the stern, rugged features of Llynn-y-van and his giant neighbours. Life, too, seems

every where in briskest activity about you. You hear the Sawthy chattering and laughing along its pebbly channel; the trout, or the sewen, leaping up from its deep, quiet pools, between the gravelly shallows; the bee booming heavily past you as it starts from the bosom of the wild flowers that enflame the common; and the thrush, the chaffinch, and the linnet chirping merrily among the shady copses that creep half-way up the downs.

It was on the noon of a day like that I have just alluded to, that two young people, a male and a female, walked slowly across this delightful common towards the high-road, which the Carmarthen stage-coach passed on its way to Gloucester, and thence to the metropolis. They were engaged in earnest conversation, and a serious-not to say, a sad-expression was visible on the countenance of the lady, who, when she reached that part of Carricksawthy which leads direct into the road, paused an instant, and pressing her companion's arm, addressed him as follows:-" And will you then promise to be back in a fortnight, Charles?"

"Can you doubt it, Fanny?"

"No, no, I do not doubt it; but I know not how it is a gloom comes over me when I think of the time that must elapse before we shall meet again. You, in the midst of the bustle and

gaiety of London, will not feel the hours pass so wearily, as we shall here in this quiet neighbourhood."

"The gaieties of London? say rather, the solitudes, Fanny. What friends have I there? At whose house shall I be made welcome? Where is the society that shall recompense me for that which I leave behind me? Believe me, dear girl, a great city, however full of bustle and animation it may be, holds out few attractions to one who, like me, must pace its streets alone, sit in his inn alone, and from morning till night hold communion only with his own thoughts."

Are those thoughts of so very gloomy a character, then ?" enquired the lady, with a faint attempt at a smile.

"Not so, Fanny; you mistake me altogether. How can I be otherwise than cheerful when thinking of you? I merely meant to say, that to one who has not a single friend there, nor even so much as an acquaintance with whom he can converse, London is not the place you conceive it to be; so cheer up, it is but a short time I shall be absent; and then we shall be united, no more to part. What, I have won a smile from you at last! Ah, love, if you did but know how much a smile becomes you, you would ne.

ver".

"You will write to us the instant you reach town, Charles ?"

"Of course; it will be my chiefindeed my only—pleasure."

"Pray Heaven this business may not detain you longer than the time you mention."

"Never fear it, dearest. Twelve, or fourteen days hence, we will be again strolling together over Carricksawthy," said the young man, glancing back at the common which they had just left behind them; "you know the hour the coach passes the turnpike; well, meet me there this day fortnight, as you used to do when I came home from school at Bristol, and trust me I will not disappoint you. See, Fanny," continued the speaker, drawing a little locket from his breast, "here is a lock of your hair, which for the last year I have constantly worn next my heart. This is the attraction which will hurry me back to the cottage. Were even its proudest mansions thrown open to me, and all its gaieties within my reach, Lon

don would never be able to divert or diminish the influence of this precious talisman. I have but to cast my eyes on it, and fancy will instantly bear me back to the home where we have passed so many happy hours together."

The earnestness and cordiality with which her companion spoke, greatly comforted Fanny, and they moved on towards the turnpike, where the old gate-keeper was standing, looking anxiously along the road, with his hand held up before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the sun.

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The instant they came up, he said, you are only just in time, master Charles; the coach will be here in a minute or so; indeed it should have been here before now," he added, glancing at the turnpike clock," but I suppose it stopped to take up a passenger at Llangadock."

"No doubt no doubt," observed Charles; "Fanny, love, what ails you? Why, your arm trembles within mine like an aspen leaf!"

"I cannot help it—indeed I cannot -I know it is weak and childish to give way to such thoughts, but I have a presentiment that this parting"

"Will be for just two weeks, and not an hour longer," interrupted Charles, with a gay air; "perhaps for even a less time; for the instant I have disposed of the houses, I shall return; so take care, Fanny, that I do not surprise you one day when you are reading a chapter of her favourite, old-fashioned, Sir Charles Grandison to your aunt, or singing that ballad which you know my father is so fond of."

"Oh, Charles, how can you talk in this light way at such a moment? I could not."

"No, because you are a foolish little girl, who-as my grave father is constantly telling you-allow your imagination to run riot. Fanny, dearest, dismiss, I entreat you, for both our sakes, these gloomy forebodings, and instead of anticipating sorrow, look forward with hope. Do not sit in the shade, but come abroad into the sunshine. As you love me, and would have me be happy during my absence, let me know and feel that I leave a light heart behind me.”

Just as the young man finished speaking, his servant appeared, bending beneath the weight of a portman