"'Tis this which strings, in time, my feeble harp,
And yet shall ravish long eternal years!"
The following imprecation, which we find in "Morning," inspires us with something like hope of the continuance of his favours:—
"When I forget the dear enraptured lay,
May this right hand its wonted skill forego,
And never, never touch the lyre again!"
We dare not say Amen to such a wish. On the contrary, in the name of the whole Outer-House, we demand a supplementary canto. Let him submit it to the perusal of his "talented friend," and we dare answer for it that the publishers will make no objection to stand sponsors for a new volume on the same terms as before.
ELINOR TRAVIS.
A Tale in Three Chapters.
Chapter the Second.
So far have I spoken of what I saw and witnessed. Much of what follows came to me, years afterwards, authenticated by the chief performer in the eventful drama which I write, and by others no less worthy of belief. After what has been already narrated, it will not be supposed that I suffered the life of my friend to pass away unnoticed. We corresponded, but fitfully, and at long intervals. Here and there we met, often strangely and by accident, and I became now the depositary of his heart's dearest secrets, now the reluctant adviser, and now the bold and earnest remonstrant. Our intimacy, however, ceased abruptly and unhappily a year or two subsequently to his marriage. Sinclair, it will be seen, then went abroad, and I returned to my duty at the university. I recur to the memoranda of his history which lie before me, and proceed with my text.
It would appear that General Travis overtook the fugitives, but, as good or ill fortune would have it, not until the knot was tied, and his presence profited nothing. I have been told that the desperate father, at one period of the chase, was within an easy stage of the runaways, and, had he been so disposed, might have laid hands on the delinquents without ruinously bribing the postilions, who prudently husbanded their strength in full expectation of additional largess. But, at the very moment of victory, as it were, the general unfortunately was seized with illness, and compelled to pass a day and night under the hands of a village doctor in a roadside inn. He was very angry and rebellious, you may be sure, and oftener than once asserted with an oath—so that there could be no doubt whatever of his sincerity—that he would give the world (if he had it) to be allowed to proceed; at the same time that he unreasonably accused the practitioner, whom he had never seen before, of conspiring with his enemies to bring his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. The worthy apothecary, guilty of nothing but the venial offence of making the most of a visitation of Providence, merely shook his head dolefully at every exclamation of his patient, hinted at gastric fever, and rubbed his palms, intimating by that act that so he proposed to wash his hands of all responsibility. Whereupon the general prudently gave in, held out his massive fist, was prescribed for, went to bed and put out his candle, just two minutes after he had put out the basket of physic which had been sent to prolong his stay in the inn for at least a week to come.