inquest. Both this gentleman and Professor Masson noticed in the "Report" a curious and suspicious mistake in the day of the pretended inquest, which was said to be Friday, August 27th, 1770, when this date fell on a Monday. But this does not seem to have aroused the slightest suspicion in the minds of the doctor and the professor, who believe with a faith worthy of a better cause. Then there is a fund of speculation about a mysterious "bundle of papers," which were created solely by a stroke of Mr. Dix's unscrupulous pen, and which Chatterton was supposed to have made away with in an unaccountable manner. Unaccountable, truly, when they never existed! The romantic story of the room strewn with bits of paper, which were taken away by the strange man who broke open the door by Mrs. Angel's request, when the unfortunate boy was found dead, is demolished by the same rude hand; and away goes Mr. Wallis's interesting picture-the modern picture of the Manchester Exhibition-and many hundred thousand printed copies of it, engraved in the illustrated papers and magazines. Dr. Maitland's pamphlet is written to make good the argument, that Chatterton, by his known and acknowledged writings, was not mentally capable of composing the Rowley Poems, and that, therefore, they must have been veritable antiques. Much importance is attached to the bundle of papers taken out by Chatterton on the morning of his death, but as the Doctor admits that, "all we know is derived from the depositions at the inquest," this theory, of course, now falls to the ground. As the worthy Doctor has been so credulous, it is amusing to find him talking much of "things being taken for granted on very insufficient evidence," and especially leading off his Essay, with these words :

"Ever since I became capable of reflecting on the subject, it has seemed to me strange and unaccountable, that men should be so careless-or, perhaps, I ought to say, should so misapply and misspend the care and pains which they do take occasionally, at intervals, by fits and starts, in one way or another-about the reality of things which are presented to their minds as truths. One would expect to find it an innate, and almost first-born desire-a wish, where it did not amount to a prayer, a curiosity where it was not an anxiety—and so it is in some sense; and men do more or less act under the impulse. But how do they-and how should they do it? Of course I am not going to enter on such a subject here; and I only mention it by way of explanation.

"The reader may think it ambitious, but not unnatural, that such reflections should have led me to think of attempting something in the nature of an enquiry respecting the right means and methods of seeking and knowing truth."

I should advise the Doctor to take a lesson of Mr. Moy Thomas, for he certainly does not seem to be on the right tack.

For the credit of literature, of which Professor Masson is, or ought to be, a distinguished member, and for the preservation of his collegiate authority and position as a teacher of English literature, and not a caller-up of literary phantasies-I trust that he will be more careful in future in observing the line which divides imagination and reality—the critical biographer, and the unfettered fiction-writer.

ALL FOR WANT OF A HALFPENNY.

A FINANCIAL ADVENTURE.

BY J. PALGRAVE SIMPSON.

AM not fond of old proverbs. For the most part, they have grown wondrously inapplicable to practical life in the present day. It might be a matter of curious research to trace the reasons why, under the circumstances of our actual civilization, so many of them have gradually become trivial truisms, worn-out saws, or utterly false scraps of futile philosophy -taking it for granted of course, that, once upon a time, they really were true, and fitted manners in their application. But this research is not my purpose now. There are, however, some old axioms, the profundity of which I am never tired of admiring, much as they may, at first sight, appear to touch nearly, like their cousins, the proverbs upon triviality of truism. One, with which I have always been most peculiarly impressed, is that which has flowed into metre in the words, "From little causes great effects arise." It is, perhaps, my almost childish curiosity as regards the hidden mainsprings of men's actions, the exercise of which has always been, from my boyhood, one of my most favourite pastimes, that has led me to consider this axiom as one of the most profound in its practical application. From its constant study, I have arrived at the conviction that there are none of the greatest events of history which could not be traced to a primary starting point, in its nature so trivial and frivolous, that, by comparison, it would be as the grain of sand to the mountainthat the great memorable facts on record have all grown from some slight cause, as the oak from the acorn. I was, early in life, practically convinced of this truth by an adventure which happened to myself. Pardon me! Let it not, for a moment, be supposed that I have the vanity to think I have ever appeared, as a prominent figure, in any great historical event, or that I have even been the grain of sand which eventually led to the formation of the mountain, or the acorn which formed the seed for the widely-spreading oak. Far from it; the events I am about to relate, if events such trivialities as the incidents of an adventure may be called, are the smallest of the small in the world's great sum. But all things are comparative; and to me these paltry events were great at the time, as regarded their temporary effect upon the equilibrium of one man's state of mind and body during several hours; and, as circumstances turned out, they might have easily exercised a mighty influence on my own little destiny. The simple words "might have," even if they did not, are sufficient to prove the truth of my axiom.

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To proceed. I was, at that time, an undergraduate of the University

But even

of Cambridge. Parental authority asserted, in those days, a sway seemingly unknown in latter years, or but seldom asserted in its pristine rigour, and comparatively feebly exercised. The despotic announcement from the parental throne, that I was expected to remain in college, and lose no time in reading for honours, during the short Easter vacation, was an ukase from which there was no escape. An infringement was sure to be met by the punishment of a long exile to a moral Siberia. Russian subjects sometimes revolt; and several little demons were insidiously whispering to my heart, that infringement is only punishable if the infringement be known. Now, these demons were the demons of pleasure, curiosity, love of change, desire for excitement, and, if last not least, the demon of contrariety-the demon, that urges weak mortals to do certain deeds, simply and solely because those deeds are forbidden. These demons, like the witches in Macbeth, with one finger on their skinny lips, intimating that secrecy was sure, with the other outstretched, in a southerly direction, towards the crown of my ambition, were always whispering "London! London !" The "parentals" were safe in the country. No one would be likely to meet me or know me in town. The metropolitan theatresthe dreams of my childhood, my boyhood, and my youth-were looming in the distance, gorgeous and tempting visions! Other pleasures rose before my eyes-day-dreams of my constant aspirations-fair mirages of a collegiate desert! The demons were powerful-the will was weak-discovery improbable-gratification certain. It were useless to detail all the rounds of the great stand-up fight between Duty and Inclination. Of course, Inclination pummelled Duty, until Duty's eyes were completely "bunged up," and Duty's ears were deafened by the terrible back-hitters it received. The result of the combat was inevitable. "A few days in town!"-ye gods of youthful anticipations, what a glorious symphany of delight was in the sound of the words!-a few days in town were resolved upon. Finances were, however, prudently counted, and found available. A last letter-another would not be expected for a week-was dispatched to the parental penates; and, with a heart beating with anticipated joys, and also with some of that fluster of nervous apprehension, which the little " tic-tac" of conscience will, spite of all, be always hammering, under such circumstances, about that same region, I started for town! "Only a few days," I repeated.

Those were not the days of that rapid locomotion, which, with a little contrivance, now enables an under-graduate to have his " spree in town,” and yet be "up" again to be marked for hall-dinner. Railways had not yet lent to gownsmen their demoniac aid to drive "high pressure express through the barriers of parental authority; and, by the way, it might be another matter of curious research to trace how far the facilities of railway travelling may have proved facilities in the relaxation of morals and social ties- -a research which, also, cannot be entered upon now. The old coach -the "slow and seedy," the most available for my purpose, was even then called as a thing too much behind the requirements of the age, not to merit contempt was the public conveyance, which was to prove the gilded chariot of desire and hope. Perhaps, the difficulties and delays of locomotion in those days, only added to the charms of a forbidden escapade it is in human nature that difficulties should do so; and, may

be, easiness of execution now diminishes the zest with which an undergraduate of either university formerly regarded a "bolt off to the village." But this is, again, beside my purpose.

I am not going to enter now upon a description of all I did, all I saw, all I enjoyed-for I enjoyed everything in those days, and have not yet entirely lost that happy faculty-during those "few days" (of course, prolonged beyond my first intention) of charming but somewhat agitated truancy; although a fast man's doings in those days made, in so many respects, a notable contrast with a fast man's doings in the present, that a description of them might form a tableau de mœurs, almost sufficiently lost to moderners to give it the piquancy of a page of Pepy's. My last day had arrived-my very last. I was just able, by "slow and seedy," to reach Cambridge in time to send off an epistle, duly dated with the old hieroglyphics, "C. C. C. C.," and duly stamped with the official postmark, to prove that I was at my post, and a willing martyr to the inflictions of duty-just able, and no more! My "traps "I forget, however, whether a man's travelling necessaries were called "traps" in those dayshad been duly packed at the obscure hotel where I had taken up my abode, as less likely to be discovered. A few hours were still free, before the departure of "slow and seedy." I remember that I had been indulging, pour passer le temps, in a flirtation with a pretty shopwoman, and au indigestible bun, at a pastrycook's in the Strand; and I stood by the shopdoor and carefully looked over the contents of my purse, to assure myself, once more, that I had still more than sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the demands of "slow and seedy." Yes! they were ample. They still consisted of a few sovereigns, a five-shilling-piece, a half-crown, a shilling, a sixpence, and a halfpenny! That common, vulgar, dirty, brown halfpenny, lying along with its aristocratic gold and silver brethren, excited my most supercilious contempt. As I gazed upon the paltry coin, why was there no good genius near to me, to whisper, "Nothing so small but may aid in time of need"-another axiom, which I have since cherished and observed to the personal incumbrance of shelves, drawers, and pockets in the preservation of trifles-why did no warning spirit suggest to my mind, not yet outgrown from childhood's lore, the fable of the lion and the mouse? Alas, I had but recently cut all acquaintance with my good genius, and repudiated all right to the influence of warning voices! But I must not anticipate. That common, vulgar, dirty, brown halfpenny at that moment, was in my eyes, I say, an object of disgust. A little ragged girl was passing the shop-door; and before her feet I "chucked" away the obnoxious halfpenny. Of course it was pounced upon by eager hands. The child's eyes glistened wistfully-perhaps, also, with a glance of gratitude. But I must solemnly confess, that I was not actuated by the slightest feeling of charity. I cannot take that "flattering unction" to my soul. Had that halfpenny of destiny rolled into a drain, I should not have less considered its mission on earth accomplished-I should not have felt one feeling of remorse that it had not done its work of benevolence. But I had no time for reflections, even had I been inclined to make them -which I in no way was-for, at that moment, such a jaunty, sprightly female figure passed me, that I was immediately all eyes for that pattern of slim elegance. If I mistook-and I was not mistaken-she had turned

her head suddenly towards me, and started with visible emotion. I could not see her face. It was but for a second she had turned her head; and a veil was drawn down and held tightly before her. Now, I always had a cruelly susceptible heart, a treacherously vivid imagination, and an allabsorbing love of adventure. I darted after the lovely female immediately; for lovely I was most positively convinced she was, by my heart's instincts, although I never saw her face. Besides, there was no mistaking the grace of that exquisite tournure--the elegance of that lady-like apparel-the neatly turned delicacy of that foot and ankle, as with one hand she held up her dress to avoid that slight layer of mud, which seems indispensible to the well-being of the Strand, even in bright weather. What a light, springy step she had, too! She must be a Hebe! She was as young as beautiful! She walked briskly : I followed with quick steps, but unwilling to alarm her by too evident a pursuit-I followed like one fascinated by a witch-spell. She turned the corner of Wellington-street, and made for Waterloo Bridge. Between that corner and the bridge I was never once able to pass her, so as directly to turn round and gaze upon her lovely face. She reached the bridge rapidly, paid her halfpenny, passed the turnstile-and there I stood on the other side! I felt for a halfpennymy last and only coin of that value had been recklessly flung away! But was I to be detained in my pursuit of that beauteous creature for the want of such a paltry piece of money? Gallantry forbid! I pulled out my purse, hunted out my sixpence, flung it down, and, furious at the dilatory precision of the toll-keeper, as he fumbled for my fivepence-halfpennyworth of balance, dashed through the turnstile, with the hasty objurgation, of "Confound you !-keep your change!"

During this delay, the "lovely one" had considerably gained upon me in her rapid course. She had just reached the further extremity of the bridge, and was proceeding, with that peculiar fascinating jauntiness of step, along the Waterloo-road, when I found myself sufficiently near to make a plunge in advance of her, and turn. This rapid act of footmanship was executed to my own entire satisfaction; and I faced round! Fatality! At the very same moment, my fair unknown mounted the steps of a large house, and knocked at the door. During the interval that ensued, before the appearance of a slipshod maid in answer to that knock, the object of my pursuit was not even influenced by that powerful motive of curiosity, which is supposed to be so essentially feminine, to turn her head and look at her pursuer; and yet she must have been aware that a gentleman, and one of decent personable appearance, he flattered himself, was behind her. The door was opened-an enquiry was made—she disappeared behind that closing door. I felt myself profoundly humiliated. My amour propre was now, however, strongly called into play, as ally and auxiliary to my previous love of excitement. I was not going to renounce my piquant adventure upon the first slight defeat. Oh no! I commenced, then, the duty of performing, what the Germans so significantly call, "fenster-parade"-window parade-before that house. But not a glimpse could I catch of any lovely form at any window of any story of the house. I did considerable damage to the soles of my bootswith the continuous friction of impatience. Time-precious timeelapsed. She did not come. Did she, perhaps, reside in that house?