She half resolves to break her appointment with Harry. Hark! Donald is fastening up the doors and windows, protecting the cottage from interlopers from without. She trembles like an aspen; she can never unfasten that door without her father hearing her. At length his footsteps shake the stairs, and she hears the click of the lock as he fastens his bedroom door. But she does not venture even then; she waits another quarter of an hour to her an age-once more she goes to the children's beds, and listens to their breathing; they are sleeping in each other's arms, dreaming, perhaps, those fairy dreams that only childhood knows.

Silently she unfastens her chamber door, but again she stops to listen -this time at the sanctuary of her unconscious parents; then she creeps cautiously down stairs. She dares not attempt the lock-the inner door leading through the little store-room to the parlour is unfastenedshe gains the parlour, the shutter that protects the low bay-window is removed, and she stands out in the clear moonlight.

Beautiful was that moonlight scene. The far hills, shadowed forth in the distance, with just sufficient light to render their dim outlines distinguishable, seemed to mark the point where earth and heaven meet, all was so calm, so still.

Jessie had never before contemplated that peaceful valley under its present aspect. The scene appeared to her entirely changed; it was more like some dream of fairy regions than the familiar panorama she gazed on every day. The distant wood alone seemed like a blot on the fair face of nature; the fields and meadows slept in the mellow light, and the river flowed silently along, a streak of liquid silver. Why did she pause at such a moment to fold, as it were, that tranquil scene in her mind's embrace, and hold it there for ever? Had she some vague thought that memory only would reflect it for the time to come? There are moments when the past, the present, and the future seem so blended and confused, that the mind wavers, and we are incapable of action, and leave all to fate, or rather chance. It was so with Jessie. Everything around her appeared mysterious, and to herself she was the greatest mystery. A blind bat that struck against the window-pane aroused her from her reverie, and she passed through the garden, and stole cautiously down the narrow path.

Once more she turned round to look at the cottage; all was safe, the windows were all darkened, not a soul save herself seemed to be awake in the whole village of Woodside. She turned into the road, and the cottage was hidden behind a clump of trees; she felt her courage strengthened now that she had lost sight of the old place, and walked on faster until she reached a large oak-tree. It had been their place of meeting many times before, and, though she did not name it in the morning, she doubted not that Harry would await her there. She had guessed rightly, for as she approached, a form glided from under its ample shade, and again she was by her lover's side.

Never did man plead more eloquently to woman than Harry pleaded to Jessie on that calm and tranquil night; he pleaded for life, for life without love would be a blank; her presence, her love, was as essential to him as the air he breathed; what had he not suffered in her absence? What had he become? All would go well with him if she were by his side to cheer him.

Long and painful was the struggle that passed in Jessie's mind: she

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knew her father would never consent to their union, yet she would not bid him cease to hope for ever, and they could wait, for she loved him still. Why," he argued, "should her father control her actions when nature had proved to her that he could not control her heart? While she remained at home, her father's esteem could only be regained by her marriage with Edward Smith; and was she prepared to sacrifice him to a senseless clod? If they were married, that point would be settled for ever, and he would soon relent; besides, her mother and her brother had both been privy to their engagement. She must fly with him, and in a few days she could write and ask her father's forgiveness. If it came

He

not, she would have a stronger, a holier claim on him to protect her. had a home-an humble one, it was true—but love could make the lowliest roof a heaven."

Jessie wavered. Her conscience told her she was committing a great error, but her conscience failed her. Prudence whispered, "Do not marry him," but Inclination answered, "I love him." He solemnly swore by the bright orb above them to shield and protect her for ever, and the helpless girl consented to go out into the great world with him to whom she had trusted her guileless heart.

This time they both bent their steps towards the town. She dared not look behind her; there was no turning to that old home now. Whatever of weal or woe she must know, she must look for it in the dark future.

She felt herself as one impelled to proceed by some mysterious agency, rather than a living being walking over the hard, solid ground.

At length they reached the town. It wanted some hours to morning, but Harry had arranged his plans, and, taking her down one of the long, narrow streets, they reached the coffee-house where he had taken up his temporary lodging. They were evidently expected, for after a few raps at the door, it was opened by a sleepy girl, the waitress of the "establishment," and Jessie was shown into a dirty parlour, where a breakfast, in the usual coffee-shop fashion, shortly made its appearance. There was an air of discomfort about the room, which already seemed to foreshadow to Jessie what she might expect in her new home; she was enabled, too, by the dim light of a miserable candle, to perceive that Harry was far more careless of his personal appearance than formerly; his face was thin and emaciated, and she could not avoid remarking that she thought he must have been ill. No! he had only been over-taxing his powers, writing late through the night, and getting little rest-that was over now, and, with her, all would soon go well again.

He allowed her little time for reflection. He told her all his plans for the future how, at first, they must be contented with an humble lodging, but how he hoped soon to grow into repute, and to thrive as others have thrived before him. He spoke of those whose names were now household words in many an English home, who had commenced poor as himself, and were now reaping the reward of their long struggling and perseverance. She did not doubt him-she would share even poverty with him, and strive to make him happy; but their marriage-how, when, where was it to take place? He had planned that, too. He would take her to the house of a friend, whose wife would be her companion until their union. He silenced every doubt, and strove to calm every fear that arose in her bosom. At five o'clock they would start for London.

The Rebellion, and the Papers it called forth-Henry Fielding-The ChampionThe True Patriot, and Jacobites' Journal-Fielding's Sketches of the News-writers -Unstamped Papers-Fielding and his Assailants-A Specimen of their Scurrility-William Guthrie and James Ralph-Prosecution of the National Journal -A few Celebrities of the Press-Dr. Johnson and the Newspapers-The Doctor a Newspaper Drudge.

WHILST the reporters had been struggling to get into the House of Commons, with the pertinacity and ultimate success which we have described, the swarm of political writers were thrown into commotion by events which were crowding on and plots which were thickening. The young Pretender had raised the standard of insurrection, and thrown a plentiful supply of food to their hungry pens; but now, pushing them good-naturedly aside, there strides forward a doughty champion of the house of Hanover, who flings before the public sheet after sheet of remonstrance or argument, and over his adversaries a heap of ridicule and sarcasm. The people were not overmuch attached to the German rule: the Highlanders were marching on from success to success; and, for a brief period, the second restoration of the Stuarts seemed not so unlikely an event after all. It was at this crisis that the playwright turned politician, and by turns grave and gay, laughing and moralising, but always studiously disclaiming partisanship, HENRY FIELDING takes his place in the ranks of the newspaper writers. At an earlier period (in 1739) he had been part proprietor and writer of the Champion-a thricea-week essay-paper, which he wrote conjointly with James Ralph (a poor mercenary), under the name of "Captain Hercules Vinegar. To the Champion was attached a supplement, called an "Index to the Times," which contained the current news of the day, and was compiled by Ralph, who assumed the name of "Lilburne." As the time approached when Fielding was to be called to the Bar, he gradually withdrew from the Champion, and had nothing to do with the periodical press till the Whig cause staggered under the heavy blows it was sustaining from the Jacobites, when he rushed to the rescue with the True Patriot, the first number of which came out on the 5th of November, 1745. In his opening address he gives us a picture of the newspaper press at that time, which, taken with all due allowance, is not very flattering:

"In strict obedience to the sovereign power (fashion), being informed by my bookseller, a man of great sagacity in his business, that nobody at present reads anything but newspapers, I have determined to conform myself to the reigning taste. The number, indeed, of these writers at first a little staggered us both, but upon perusal of their works, I fancied I had discovered a little imperfection in them all, which somewhat

The first little imperfection

diminished the force of this objection. in these writings is that there is scarce a syllable of TRUTH in any of them. If this be admitted to be a fault, it requires no other evidence than themselves and the perpetual contradictions which occur, not only on comparing one with the other, but the same author with himself on different days. Secondly, there is no SENSE in them. To prove this, likewise, I appeal to their works. Thirdly, there is in reality NOTHING in them at all. And this also must be allowed by their readers, if paragraphs which contain neither wit nor humour, nor sense, nor the least importance, may be properly said to contain nothing. Such are the arrival of my Lord

with a great equipage; the marriage of Miss, of great beauty and merit; and the death of Mr. ——— who was never heard of in his life, &c., &c. Nor will this appear strange if we consider who are the authors of such tracts-namely, the journeymen of booksellers, of whom, I believe, much the same may be truly predicated as of these their productions. But the encouragement with which these lucubrations are read may seem more strange and more difficult to be accounted for. And here I cannot agree with my bookseller, that their eminent badness recommends them. The true reason is, I believe, simply the same which I once heard an economist assign for the content and satisfaction with which his family drank water-cider-viz., because they could procure no better liquor. Indeed, I make no doubt but that the understanding as well as the palate, though it may out of necessity swallow the worse, will in general prefer the better."

Fielding was, we dare say, not very far out after all in his estimate; for the newspaper press, which we have seen gradually corrupted by Walpole, was recruited, as its more powerful members were bought off, from the ranks of an irregular squad; and for the last few years the unstamped papers had been rapidly increasing, and were openly hawked about in defiance of the law, whilst the regular papers were being amalgamated or entirely discontinued. Indeed, it had been found necessary in 1743 to insert a clause into the 16th George II., cap. 26, declaring that, "whereas great numbers of newspapers, pamphlets, and other papers ject and liable to the stamp duties, but not being stamped, were daily sold, hawked, carried about, uttered, and exposed for sale by divers obscure persons who have no known or settled habitation, it is enacted that all hawkers of unstamped newspapers may be seized by any person, and taken before a justice of the peace, who may commit them to gaol for three months." A reward of twenty shillings was also offered to the informer who might secure a conviction.

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The True Patriot, coming at such a time, among such competitors, from a vigorous writer who threw himself heart and soul into the cause -not hastily taken up, but one to which he had all along been warmly attached- -we say the True Patriot, written by such a man, and in such a manner, could not fail of concentrating the distracted attention of the nation. The affrighted citizens read it for comfort and reassurance, and had more confidence in its arguments than in the camp at Finchley. The hesitating Jacobites were dismayed by the tone of ridicule with which it spoke of their cause; and when the final blow crushed them to the ground, and drove the young Pretender a fugitive from the field of Culloden, its merciless satire did more to extinguish all feelings of sym

pathy with the broken party than the savage butcheries of the Duke of Cumberland, or the cold-blooded atrocities of the law-which, in fact, but for Fielding's more destructive sarcasm, might have had just the opposite effect.

The paper continued until April 15th, 1746; and in the following year, "to discredit the shattered remnant of an unsuccessful party," as Sir Walter Scott says in his "Life of Fielding," by covering it with ridicule, and holding it up to national contempt, he conceived and brought out, with the encouragement, as it is thought, of the government, the Jacobite Journal, which was commenced in December, 1747, as the production of "John Trottplaid, Esq.," and bore the representation of Mr. and Mrs. Trottplaid; the former wearing a plaid waistcoat, and the latter a plaid petticoat, and both lustily huzzaing, whilst a Jesuit is assiduously calling their attention to a copy of the London Evening Post. The first number presents us with another unfavourable view of the contemporary press:

"If ever there was a time when a weekly writer might venture to appear, it is the present; for few readers will imagine it presumption to enter the lists against those works of his contemporaries which are now known by the name of newspapers, since his talents must be very indif ferent if he is not capable of shining among a set of such dark planets."

And the affectation of printing so many words in italics, without any rule or reason, and expressing only the first and last letters of others, of which we have already given examples in another place* from the Political Register and the London Evening Post, were not lost upon the watchful satirist, who thus whimsically imitates it:

"In this dress I intend to abuse the * * * and the *** I intend to lash not only the m-stry, but every man who hath any pce or p-ns-n from the g-vernm-t, or who is entrusted with any degree of power or trust under it, let his r―nk be ever so high, or his ch—r—cter never so good. For this purpose I have provided myself with a vast quantity of Italian letter, and asterisks of all sorts. And as for all the words which I embowel or rather envowel, I will never so mangle them but they shall be as well known as if they retained every vowel in them. This I promise myself, that when I have any meaning they shall understand it."

The unscrupulous tribe of writers whom he attacked and ridiculed in. these papers caught up the only weapons they could wield-scurrility and abuse, and attacked him with the fury of the intellectual pigmies that they were. Old England, or the Constitutional Journal-a weekly paper in opposition, principally written by Guthrie, but to which Lord Chesterfield was an occasional contributor-gives us on the 3rd of March an average sample of the language in which they replied, describing Fielding as a needy vagrant who long hunted after fortunes, scored deep at taverns, abused his benefactors in the administration of public affairs, from the state to the stage; hackneyed for booksellers and newspapers; lampooned the virtuous; ridiculed all the inferior clergy in the dry, unnatural character of Parson Adams; related the adventures of footmen, and wrote the lives of thief-catchers; bilked every lodging for

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"Eighteenth Century,” pp. 107, 108, and 113; and New Monthly Magazine.