brief: and he started off to the Derby! In public and in private he retained the vigour and charm of youth to the end. "We like him," said Mr. Sergeant Shee, at a festival of the United Law Clerks' Society, in 1863, "because we know that his distinction was achieved by no back stairs influence, by no political intrigue, by no political subservience. like him because we know that he did not arrive at the high position which he now occupies without having first obtained, solely by his own endeavours and superior talents, the highest position at the bar. We like him because we know that not merely the honour of the profession, but the honour and character of every man who comes before him are safe in his hands. But most of all, we like him, we respect him, we love him for this, because, whenever he has occasion to reprove or to rebuke, he takes care always to temper authority with gentleness, and to rebuke without giving pain.'

O, yes; he was generous and considerate to earnest workers for a position at the Bar: and too broad, too chivalrous, for back stairs. A ripe scholar, a polished orator, a great jurist, is gone! A bright star has disappeared from our firmament, and we have not yet awakened to a just appreciation of our great loss!

SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON.

BY ROBERT CAMERON.

S truth is best seen by contrast, we may compare Milton with his only rival in English literature, Shakespeare. Milton did not possess Shakespeare's pre-eminent characteristic universality. He moves in a more limited sphere. His moral nature is too ardent; his feeling for duty too intense to allow him to remain a mere contemplative spectator. In the great crisis of his country's history, when the greatest principles that influence and mould men are at stake, he must take a part. He strikes in among the combatants, and becomes a leader and inspirer. Shakespeare would have contented himself by holding the impartial mirror up to both the combatants, and having defined their form and bearing, with the accuracy that a placid and all comprehending mind alone can, he would retire without any qualms of conscience, to enjoy a merry evening at the Mermaid Tavern.

Shakespeare was the poet of nature. The notes he warbled were in one sense "wood notes wild”—that is, he was not what Milton was, the poet of culture. For the training of

his faculties he was not indebted to the schools. He wrote and shaped his thoughts mainly from the impulse of his own genius. Milton's genius was trained into all the secrets of high art. His imagination was filled with the choicest images of the highest literature of the world. Music, mathematics, and philosophy, the poetry and the arts of Italy, of Rome, and of Greece, with all that was great in the literature of his own country, were possessed by Milton to a greater degree than any of his contemporaries. His learning was a grand, solid, towering mountain, but in his case irradiated by the internal fires of his original powers.

The mental tendency of these two greatest of Englishmen is also widely diverse. That Shakespeare could have written a long epic we believe, because we think his faculties were equal to all forms of literature; but Milton could not well be dramatic. He preferred high abstract truths, the typical not the actual man. Shakespeare, on the other hand, while he could dive into depths and rise into heights in some respects even beyond Milton, delighted above all to bring all thought into living and breathing forms. The demigods and the heroes were Milton's choice; Shakespeare had no preference-to depict a clown or a prince, if only "twere done well," was his aim. The one is content to represent what is, the other what ought to be. The predominant emotions of Milton are moral, his conscience is aflame with a sense of duty and stern responsibility. He must select moral themes, and to these he consecrates all his powers and all his learning. The other has no master passion; his mind is flexible in all directions, and flows with equal facility into all forms of life and types of men. Milton became naturally the poet of a crisis in human progress; Shakespeare became, as was natural to him also, the poet of all periods.

The supremacy of his moral character is the His chief glory will ever be that he married great and abiding characteristic of Milton. purity and poetry together; that he taught men how god-like is virtue, how sacred and awful a thing is justice in human affairs; that liberty is the free breath of an immortal spirit, without which no man nor nation of men can grow, and that the sense of duty is the mainspring of all heroic action, the living voice of the great taskmaster commanding every man to do, to dare, and suffer, if need be, for the well-being of every member of the human commonwealth.

brought to bay and baffled. Presently, however, with a resolute effort, he said, "I will ride over as you suggest. Pray, does Miss Cressburn know all you have communicated to me?"

"There is not an item she does not know." "But do you suppose she thinks that I knew she was the daughter of Richard Rivington?" "As to that I am unable to say. But the question will never be raised if you prove discreet."

Furretwell," he replied, "you say you came about this privately to oblige me. I feel obliged to you for doing so. You can carry your friendly intentions still further. I will explain. Some time ago I had formed the intention of offering Miss Cressburn my hand; circumstances, which I need not explain, led me to put it off. Now, it will easily strike you that under the circumstances it would be not only natural but convenient to all parties-to her as well as myself, as it would settle all disputes were I to carry my design out now." "But what can I do to assist you in that matter, Mr. Rivington? I cannot see."

"Much! You can explain to her how convenient it would be so to end all disputes and processes at law, that must otherwise take place." "Ah! I see-but, to be frank with you, I would rather not meddle with affaires de cœur. I promise you, however, that I will do nothing whatever to mar your chance of success; and that, moreover, you shall be allowed time to make your experiment say a fortnight, that will be ample.'

Thus, it was understood that John Rivington should woo the heiress, to the end that he might retain the estate. Mr. Furretwell had no misgivings on the subject, but it suited his purpose not to undeceive him. He took his leave, and John Rivington, left to his own unhappy thoughts of guilty hope, fear, anger, and anxiety, began to think of his one scheme to baffle at once the lawyer Furretwell and fate.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"O, what a tangled web we weave

When first we practice to deceive."

In our last chapter we left John Rivington forming his scheme to save the possession of Rivington Grange. We have seen how he went about the business, and heard the sentiments of Miss Cressburn and her friends concerning it. They were yet in the midst of the breakfast table conversation, part of which we have recorded in a former chapter, when John Rivington arrived at the Vicarage. Dr. Ashlin acceded at once to his desire to see him, and, leaving the breakfast table, proceeded to the library, requesting the butler to send Mr. Rivington to him there. When he entered the Vicar did not rise, but desired him to be seated. Too well bred to ask him the business he

had come upon, he waited till his visitor should himself speak.

"Dr. Ashlin," he said, "I have taken the liberty of asking your assistance in a matter which greatly interests me. I think I have reason to complain that this affair of Miss Cressburn's claim should have been kept from my knowledge till communicated by Furretwell, the lawyer."

"What affair? What claim?" asked the Vicar, with a look of surprise.

"What! Do you not know that Miss Cressburn claims to be the daughter of my cousin, Richard Rivington, and heiress of the Grange?"

The Vicar gazed on him, as he said this, with a look of such utter astonishment that it needed no words to convince John Rivington that this was the first announcement of it to his reverence, and he was himself no less amazed. "You astonish me profoundly," said Dr. Ashlin; "pray explain what you mean.

"And I am not less surprised to find you ignorant of this affair," said John Rivington. "Furretwell, the attorney, has communicated to me that Miss Cressburn claims to be the daughter of Richard Rivington, and heiress of Rivington Grange. He has laid before me evidence to make at least a plausible case. How and why this has been kept from you, of all men, I cannot understand. But my immediate business is to ask your good offices in another matter; though, indeed, intimately connected with it. I have thought that were I to marry Miss Cressburn it would be a good thing, and would save the terrible expenses, and the uncertainty of the litigation which must, of course, take place. There would in that event be no rival claims. you" he continued, as he saw that the Vicar listened without making any remark, "that this is no new thought of mine, brought about by Furretwell's revelation. When the lady first came to this neighbourhood I was so greatly struck with her that I had a great mind to offer her hand." my

And I may tell

He paused, and the Vicar not having made any remark, he asked abruptly, "Will you aid my project, Dr. Ashlin."

Thus appealed to, it was impossible for the Vicar to avoid giving a direct reply, and he said briefly, in a tone that did not strike John Rivington as being encouraging, "I cannot interfere in such matters; I could not recommend Miss Cressburn to become your wife Pray excuse me, I will send the lady herself."

The Vicar rose and left the room. For the space of twenty minutes John Rivington was left alone-twenty minutes of sheer torture to the miserable man; convinced that if his project of marriage did not succeed, the Grange must pass out of his hands. How

could it be otherwise? His intensified selfishness admitted of no consolations. He had none of the higher sentiments and feelings of humanity, which in nobler natures alleviate sufferings under misfortune, to lessen his disappointment. Man is necessarily the centre of the universe to himself in the moral as well as physical nature, but the higher mind takes in the whole human race, even as the eye reaches unto distance of space; considers its innumerable relationships, and vibrates in unison with its great heart. But John Rivington's moral vision was limited to Rivington Grange; he could not see beyond it; it was his world localised, and the idea of losing it was consequently a terrible contemplation. It was a relief to him when Miss Cressburn entered the library.

The lady had been prepared by the Vicar as to the nature of his business, and had adjusted her mind for the interview.

John Rivington, who had been moving restlessly to and fro, advanced to meet her, extending his hand. The lady bowed quietly without heeding the motion, and his hand was withdrawn untouched. She was observant enough to notice the symptoms of suppressed rage which appeared in his face and eye. He had too much at stake, however, to allow himself to lose guard, and he rallied resolutely.

Miss Cressburn stood before him, dignified and beautiful; had the man possessed an atom of sentiment she might have kindled it into life, and carried his mind beyond its grovelling limits; but, with his eye on the Grange, and the possibility of losing it, grace and beauty were nothing to him. It was, therefore, in spite of himself, notwithstanding his best efforts to the contrary, that his anxiety betrayed itself, and marred his demeanour.

Miss Cressburn waited till he should speak, which he did without delay.

"How is it, Miss Cressburn," he said, "that you did not yourself tell me that you claimed to be my cousin. It would have been much better to have done so, and to have trusted to me. How could you suppose I could have resisted your claim of relationship, had you been able to establish it."

"I acted under advice," she said simply. "I cannot but say you have had a bad adviser."

"I have confidence in his judgment." "Well, let that pass; I dare say Furretwell is discreet, and will keep matters snug enough if the arrangement I contemplate be carried I have a great horror of litigation, Miss Cressburn, and can see that in your endeavouring to establish your claim to Rivington Grange terrible expenses will be incurred on both sides; and there is also the uncertainty

out.

and delay. Lawyers are awful men, and think nothing of wasting an estate in a lawsuit. Now, Miss Cressburn, you are quite aware that I had offered you my hand before I knew of your claims upon me; you will readily believe, therefore, if I press my offer again, that in doing so the advantages I have named, though weighty, are the least important in my estimation."

Of course, John Rivington believed that the young lady could not possibly detect the falsehood of this speech, which he had carefully and elaborately prepared for the occasion; he was, however, mistaken.

"Mr. Rivington," she said, "it will save trouble if I tell you that all this is vain. I have already told you that I cannot entertain your proposal; my answer is final; my lawyer has all my business in hand-I refer you to him in all things that may concern me. Under ordinary circumstances I might have expressed some sorrow at my inability to meet such proposals as yours, but I cannot even affect it; my knowledge of the affair is complete." She bowed, and left him standing. There was no mistaking this. what a full knowledge meant. He was brought up face to face with the worst, and, there being now no motive for his great restraint, he vented his angry disappointment in a series of muttered oaths and ejaculations, which were only ended by the appearance of Dr. Ashlin.

He knew

"I need not affect to ask you, Mr. Rivington, if you have reason to rejoice," said the Vicar. "I was quite aware of the young lady's sentiments before your interview. There is now nothing more to be said about the business; it is settled. With regard to her claim to be the daughter of Richard Rivington, from what I have just heard, I believe it is well founded, but that affair will be dealt with by Mr. Furretwell."

At this speech of the Vicar's, John Rivington's passion was roused to bursting. He had maintained control whilst there was yet a motive for it; but, the motive gone, it found vent.

"I tell you what, Dr. Ashlin," he exclaimed, "I will dispute her, claim! I will prove her illegitimate! I will spend my last penny! I will beggar the estate before she shall get it!"

"And establish yourself a ; but I forbear, Mr. Rivington; it does not become me to use recriminative language; my business and duty is to admonish you to do that which is lawful and right. I do not claim to be your adviser to any further extent. I do not pretend to say that the prospect of losing a fine estate is not enough to upset the equanimity of even a well regulated mind, and, therefore, I am not surprised at the discomposure of yours,

under the circumstances.

Nor should you, in turn, wonder if I should be glad at the prospect thus opened up to the excellent young lady, who has been some years under my roof, and anxious for her success. It is the logic of nature, Mr. Rivington."

"What is the logic of nature to me, Sir? What the devil do I care for either logic or nature? I tell you what it is, Dr. Ashlin, I have possession, and I'll keep it; 'possession is nine points of law '-nine to one, Sir-nine to one. I'll keep the Grange in spite of her and you!"

The Vicar listened to this rude speech with the most exemplary patience, making great allowance for his distress; but considering that it served no purpose whatever, he interrupted him.

"I would," he said, "rather not hear you so express yourself. In truth you are doing your own cause harm, for your words imply a belief on your part in the justice of the young lady's claim."

I admit nothing of the kind, Sir! Nothing of the kind."

"Now, I pray you, let us drop the subject; irrational and passionate speech is a thing always to be repented of. If, on mature consideration, you should, as I hope you will, forbear to dispute Miss Cressburn's claim, I am quite persuaded it will be to your advantage. Depend upon it, had any doubt existed in her mind as to its genuineness, and were her proofs not indisputable, it would not have been made."

The Doctor's quiet words brought a pause, which somewhat cooled John Rivington's passion, and, convinced of the truth of the words addressed to him, his natural cunning returned.

"I had thought," he said, "to end all dispute and bother by marrying Miss Cressburn; I see, however, that there is no chance of an arrangement in that way. Now, considering there must be litigation, the result of which she cannot be certain, and that it may last a long time, and cost enormous sums of money, probably she would be willing to arrange the matter by accommodation. I am willing to buy her off with what would be an ample provision for a young lady; especially one who has not been used to riches-'a bird in the hand,' you know, 'is worth two in the bush,'often worth ten, or a thousand.”

He felt within himself that he was grasping at a straw, but he could not help it.

"I am bound to offer no advice as to your proposition," said the Vicar, "as the management of the whole business is in the hands of Mr. Furretwell. And now," he continued, "I pray you will excuse me this morning, I have

arrangements for the day which would be disturbed by a prolongation of this interview."

The discomfited man, finding no pretext at hand for further words, departed, taking not the slightest notice of the Vicar as he went.

"I cannot be sorry for that man," said the Vicar when he had gone, "and yet, in one sense I am sorry-sorry that he is such a rascal. These mental and moral differences among mankind are very puzzling. It seems to me that he is a born knave, without the elements in his structure which render the practice of honesty and rectitude easy to other men

His musing was interrupted by the entrance of Miss Ashlin and Miss Cressburn. Miss Ashlin was laughing heartily.

"He has gone," she said,

"For the lady said 'no,' and our Laird o' Cockpen 'with a bee in his ear,' through the glen!"

Is away,

"Now, Papa," said Anna, interrupting him, "you must forgive us poor maidens; we love a little mystery, you know, but really in this we had no choice, we were bound to secrecy— Mr. Deepwell tied our tongues."

"Let me ask your forgiveness also," said Miss Cressburn, "but having given our promise we were bound by our word, and could not make even you an exception. But, in truth, I must confess I wished to see what would come out of the affair before troubling you with it."

"Not very adequate reasons," replied the Vicar. "In the first place, Mr. Deepwell had no business to bind you to silence, nor can I conceive his motive; in the second place, you could not have given me trouble; but, of course, I must forgive you both," he continued, good humouredly. "By-the-bye do you know where Deepwell has gone.'

"He said he was going to Paris," Miss Cressburn answered, "that is all I know."

"I have no doubt, Papa," said Anna, “but Flora Westford could tell you if you are anxious to know

"That reminds me-does Miss Westford know anything of this? Had it anything to do with the break with Rivington?"

"No-nothing whatever," replied Anna, with emphasis, "John Rivington was rejected with the Grange in his pocket; she does not even at this moment know anything about all this mystery. But now that it is out, in an hour she shall know everything-I am dying to tell her. Au revoir, Papa, we are going to Westford Hall to make a morning call."