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against him. And the result is, that, while limit appears to us wisely chosen - he has Goethe is shown to be a man, and as a man selected judiciously and arranged skilfully; with the temperament as well as the faculties and we owe to him a very complete and satof the poet to have done much he ought not isfactory account of the life and writings of to have done and left undone much which he the greatest literary man of modern Europe. ought to have done, he is also shown to have possessed one of the noblest and sweetest natures ever given to erring man, and to have lived as ever in the eyes of the Great Taskmaster who had given him his talents, and was by that gift calling him to discharge great duties. Whatever other causes may hereafter militate against Goethe's popularity in England among persons whose judgment is worth anything on such a question, the old misconceptions of his character and conduct must henceforth go into Time's waste-paperbasket.

Most persons who know of Goethe anything more than his name, know of his Strasburg passion; and those who know and honor him best have had hard thoughts of him for his treatment of Frederika. Why he did not marry her, has been often asked; and never very satisfactorily answered. Mr. Lewes discusses the question with marked good sense and moderation, and this is his verdict:

"I believe, then, that the egoism of genius, which dreaded marriage as the frustration of a career, had much to do with Goethe's renunciation of Frederika; not consciously, perhaps, but powerfully. Whether the alarm was justifiable, is another question, and is It is mere assumption to say marriage would not to be disposed of with an easy phrase. have crippled his genius.' Had he loved her enough to share a life with her, his experience of women might have been less extensive, but it would assuredly have gained an It would have been element it wanted. deepened. He had experienced, and he could of woman to man; but he had scarcely ever paint (no one better), the exquisite devotion felt the peculiar tenderness of man for woman, when that tenderness takes the form of vigilant protecting fondness. He knew little, and that not until late in life, of the subtile interweaving of habit with affection, which makes life saturated with love, and love itaims of life. He knew little of the exquisite self become dignified through the serious companionship of two souls striving in emulous spirit of loving rivalry to become better, to become wiser, teaching each ether to soar. He knew little of this; and the kiss, Frederika! he feared to press upon thy loving lips

But Mr. Lewes has not written a polemical book, though our first thought of it has been connected with the vast amount of rubbish it is calculated to render finally obsolete among us. It is, on the contrary, an animated narrative, that never flags in interest, and leaves the reader at the end of the second volume longing for more; the work of a man writing On a subject of which he knows much more than he tells, and whose chief difficulty has been to compress his ample materials into the prescribed space. We have been so accustomed of late to lives of inferior men written in many volumes by men inferior to them, that at first it seems difficult to believe that an adequate life of Goethe, who lived eighty-three years, and whose actuating principle was "ohne Hast, ohne Rast," can be compressed into two volumes. But a thorough study of his subject, a careful preparation extended through many years, a conscientious devotion to a task voluntarily undertaken, and trained skill in authorship, have enabled Mr. Lewes to convey a lively representation of the man Goethe as he lived, of the society of which he was the centre, of the general characteristics of the time, and to blend with all this picture of the man and his environment ample analytical criticism on his principal writings, and intelligent discussion of the principles upon "As we familiarize ourselves with the dewhich poetry and prose fiction should be con- tails of this episode, there appears less and ducted. To say that more might be written less plausibility in the often iterated declaon all these subjects, is to say simply that Mr. mation against Goethe on the charge of his Lewes has written a work of art, and not having sacrificed his genius to the Court.' thrown before the public a quarry of raw maIt becomes indeed a singularly foolish display of rhetoric. Let us for a moment conterial or a bundle of separate treatises. With-sider the charge. He had to choose a career. in the space he has chosen to fill and the That of poet was then, even more than now,

the life of sympathy he refused to share his works." with thee-are wanting to the greatness of

But on the charge that Goethe sacrificed his genius to a Court life, Mr. Lewes can acquit his client with the consent of all men of sense.

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on it, and not very legibly either, so that it made what I wished I could, the tour of Scotland before reaching me."

Sir Horace read over his letter carefully as though it had been a despatch, and when he had done, folded it up with an air of satisfaction. He had said nothing that he wished unsaid; and he had mentioned a little about everything he desired to touch upon. He then took his" drops" from a queer-looking little phial he carried about with him, and having looked at his face in a pocket-glass, he half closed his eyes in reverie.

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cheeks. They moved hurriedly to and fro, scarcely remembering what they were in search of, and evidently deeming his state of the greatest peril. Traynor, the only one whose faculties were unshaken by the shock, sat quietly beside the bed, his fingers firmly compressed upon the orifice of the vessel. while, with the other hand, he motioned to them to keep silence.

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"Is it over? Is he dying?"

"No, Upton," said Glencore, for, with the acute hearing of intense nervousness, he had caught the words "It is not so easy to die."

--

Glencore lay with closed eyes, breathing long and labored inspirations, and at times convulsed by a slight shivering. His face, and even his lips, were bloodless, and his eyelids of a pale livid hue. So terribly like the Strange, confused visions were they that approach of death was his whole appearflitted through his brain. Thoughts of am-ance, that Upton whispered in the "doctor's bition the most daring, fancies about health, ear speculations in politics, finance, religion, literature, the arts, society- - all came and went. Plans and projects jostled each other at every instant. Now his brow would darken, and his thin lips close tightly, as some painful impression crossed him; now again a smile, a slight laugh even, betrayed the passing of some amusing conception. It was easy to see how such a nature could suffice to itself, and how little he needed of that give-and-take which companionship supplies. He could-to steal a figure from our steam language he could "bank his fires," and await any energy, and, while scarcely consuming any fuel, prepare for the most trying demand upon his powers. A hasty movement of feet overhead, and the sound of voices talking loudly, aroused him from his reflections, while a servant entered abruptly to say, that Lord Glencore wished to see him immediately.

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"Is his lordship worse?" asked Upton. "No, sir; but he was very angry with the young lord this evening about something; and they say, that with the passion he opened the bandage on his head and set the vein a bleeding again. Billy Traynor is there now trying to stop it."

"I'll go up stairs," said Sir Horace, rising, and beginning to fortify himself with caps, and capes, and comforters- precautions that he never omitted when moving from one room to the other.

CHAPTER XII.

A NIGHT AT SEA.

GLENCORE'S chamber presented a scene of confusion and dismay as Upton entered. The sick man had torn off the bandage from his temples, and so roughly as to re-open the half-closed artery, and renew the bleeding. Not alone the bed-clothes and the curtains, but the faces of the assistants around him, were stained with blood, which seemed the more ghastly from contrast with their pallid

"There now-no more talkin' - no discoorsin'—azy and quiet is now the word." "Bind it up and leave me leave me with him; " and Glencore pointed to Upton. "I darn't move out of this spot, said Billy, addressing Upton. "You'd have the blood coming out, per saltim, if I took away my finger.'

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"You must be patient, Glencore," said Upton, gently; you know I'm always ready when you want me."

"And you'll not leave this? you'll not desert me?" cried the other, eagerly.

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Certainly not; I have no thought of going away."

There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I'll not take the responsibility upon me -I will not!" said Billy, angrily. "'Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye havn't more discretion."

Glencore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said

"We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don't leave me.'

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Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word.

"Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe," said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice to Upton, and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!

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This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his

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hand still resting on the sick man's forehead. | peated to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the going towards the sea-shore, and in this diloss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing softly and gently as a child. "Look at him now," whispered Billy to Upton, and you'll see what philosophy there is in ascribin' to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable, just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the solar plexus, but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He's just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket carry them out! A fine, well-regulated, steady-batin' heart is like a credit on the bank-you draw on it, and your draft is n't dishonored!"

to

"What was it brought on this attack?" asked Upton, in a whisper.

"A shindy he had with the boy. I wasn't here. There was nobody by; but when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightning, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat open, and it sleetin' terribly! Down he went towards the Lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin' after him.”

all

rection he now followed. Ilis frequent excursions had familiarized him with the place, so that even at night Harcourt found no difficulty in detecting the path and keeping it. About half-an-hour's brisk walking brought him to the side of the Lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and called out the boy's name several times. The sea, however, was running mountains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in sheets of scattered foam beyond them; so that Harcourt's voice was drowned by the uproar. A small shealing under the shelter of the rock formed the home of a boatman; and at the crazy door of this humble cot Harcourt now knocked violently.

The man answered the summons at once, assuring him that he had not heard or seen any one since the night closed in; adding, at the same time, that in such a tempest a boat's crew might have landed without his knowing it.

"To be sure," continued he, after a pause, "I heard a chain rattlin' on the rock soon after I went to bed, and I'll just step down and see if the yawl is all right."

Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard calling out from below

"Has he returned?" asked Upton.
"Not as I know, sir. We were too much
taken up with the lord to ask after him."
"I'll just step down and see," said Sir
Horace, who arose, and left the room on tip-in such a sea," cried Harcourt eagerly.

"She's gone! the yawl is gone! the lock is broke with a stone and she's away!" "How could this be? no boat could leave

toe.

"She could go out fast enough, sir. The wind is north-east due; but how long she'll keep the sea is another matter."

To Upton's inquiry all made the same answer. None had seen the young lord- none could give any clue as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened to Har-wildly.

Then he'll be lost!" cried Harcourt,

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court's room, and after some vigorous shakes, "Who, sir - who is it?" asked the man. succeeded in awakening the Colonel, and by "Your master's son!" cried he, wringing dint of various repetitions at last put him in his liands in anguish.

possession of all that had occurred.

blown!

"O, murther! murther!" screamed the "We must look after the lad," cried Har-boatman, "we 'll never see him again. Tis court, springing from his bed, and dressing out to say-into the wild ocean he'll be with all haste. "He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this." The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully.

"Do you remain here, Upton. I'll go in search of the boy. Take care Glencore hears nothing of his absence."

And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out.

The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor increased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had re

"Is there no shelter- -no spot he could make for?"

"Barrin' the islands, there's not a spot between this and America."

"But he could make the islands

sure of that?"

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"If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure I know him well; he 'll never take in a reef or sail; but sit there, with the helm hard up, just never carin' what 'came of him! O, musha! musha! what druv him out such a night as this?"

"Come, it's no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid?"

"Afraid!” replied the man, with a touch

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of scorn in his voice ; faix, it's little fear troubles me; but may be you won't like to be in her yourself when she's once out. I've none belongin' to me-father, mother, chick or child; but you may have many a one that's near to you.”

"My ties are, perhaps, as light as your own," said Harcourt. """ Come, now, be alive. I'll put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him."

"I'd rather see his face than have two hundred," said the man, as, springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the low half-deck, and prepare for sea.

"Is your honor used to a boat, or ought I to get another man with me?" asked the sailor.

"Trust me, my good fellow, I have had more sailing than yourself, and in more treacherous seas, too," said Harcourt, who, throwing off his cloak, proceeded to help the other, with an address that bespoke a practised hand.

The wind blew strongly off the shore, so that scarcely was the foresail spread, than the boat began to move rapidly through the water, dashing the sea over her bows, and plunging wildly through the waves.

"Give me a hand now with the hal'yard," said the boatman; "and when the main-sail is set, you'll see how she 'll dance over the top of the waves, and never wet us.

"She's too light in the water, if anything," said Harcourt, as the boat bounded buoyantly, under the increased press of

canvas.

"Your honor's right; she 'll do better with half a ton of iron in her. Stand by, sir, always, with the peak hal'yards; get the sail aloft in when I give you the word." "Leave the latter to me, my man," said Harcourt, taking it as he spoke. "You'll soon see that I'm no new hand at the work."

"She's doing it well," said the man. "Keep her up! keep her up! there's a spit of land runs out here; in a few minutes more we'll have say-room enough."

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The heavier roll of the waves, and the increased force of the wind, soon showed that they had gained the open sea; while the atmosphere, relieved of the dark shadows of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than inshore.

"We're to make for the islands, you say, sir?"

"Yes. What distance are they off?" "About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts, and we can bear it."

"And could the yawl stand this?" said Harcourt, as a heavy sea struck the bow, and came in a cataract over them.

“Better than ourselves, if she was manned. Luff! luff! - that's it!" And as the boat turned up to wind, sheets of spray and foam flew over her. "Master Charles hasn't his equal for steerin', if he wasn't alone. Keep her there!-now! steady, sir! "

"Here's a squall coming," cried Harcourt; "I hear it hissing."

Down went the peak, but scarcely in time, for the wind, catching the sail, laid the boat gunwale under. After a struggle, she righted, but with nearly one-third of her filled with water.

"I'd take in a reef, or two reefs," said the man; "but if she could n't rise to the say, she 'll fill and go down. We must carry on, at all events.'

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"So say I. It's no time to shorten sail, with such a sea running."

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The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself impelling her, as with every sudden gust the waves struck the stern.

"She's a brave craft," said Harcourt, as she rose lightly over the great waves, and plunged down again into the trough of the sea; "but if we ever get to land again. I'll have combings round her to keep her dryer.

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Here it comes!-here it comes, sir!" Nor were the words well out, when, like a thunder-clap, the wind struck the sail, and bent the mast over like a whip. For an instant it seemed as if she were going down by the prow; but she righted again, and, shivering in every plank, held on her way.

"That's as much as she could do," said the sailor; " and I would not like to ax her to do more."

"I agree with you," said Harcourt, secretly stealing his feet back again into his shoes, which he had just kicked off.

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It's fresh'ning it is every minute," said "and I'm not sure that we could the man; make the Islands if it lasts."

"Well-what then?"

"There's nothing for it but to be blown out to say," said he, tragically, as, having filled his tobacco-pipe, he struck a light, and began to smoke.

"The very thing I was wishing for," said Harcourt, touching his cigar to the bright ashes. "How she labors-do you think she can stand this?"

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"She can, if it's no worse, sir.' "But it looks heavier weather outside." "As well as I can see, it's only beginnin'."

Harcourt listened with a species of admiration to the calm and measured sentiment of the sailor, who, fully conscious of all the danger, yet never, by a word or gesture, showed that he was flurried or excited.

'You have been out on nights as bad as this, I suppose?" said Harcourt.

"May be not quite, sir, for it's a great eay is runnin'; and, with the wind off shore, we couldn't have this, if there wasn't a storm blowing further out."

"From the westward, you mean?" “Yes, sir—a wind coming over the whole ocean, that will soon meet the land wind." "And does that often happen?"

The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, the sailor struck off the broken portion of the spar, and soon cleared the wreck; while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, labored heavily, sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliffs looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them.

"The boy!-the boy!" cried Harcourt; "what has become of him? He never could have lived through that squall."

"If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too," said the sailor; "she'd have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter."""

"It is all over by this time," muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully.

"Pace to him now!" said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over a prayer. The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly heel uppermost; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise, close at hand, told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. Hours passed thus long, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance.

As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Harcourt.

"Yes, sir; we're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on well, we'll be soon in alacker water."

"Could the boy have reached this, you?"

think

The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking.

"How far are we from Glencore?" "About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land."

"You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts?

"Yes, sir, in the next bay; there's a creek we can easily run into."

"You are quite sure he could n't have been blown out to sea?"

"How could he, sir? There's only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he isn't in the Clough Bay, he 's in glory."

All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to what Harcourt now suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks' Point, and look into the bay beyond it. Controlling it as he would, still would it break out in words of impatience, and even anger.

"Don't curse the boat, ye'r honor," said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; "she's behaved well to us this night, or we'd not be here now."

"But are we to beat about here forever?" asked the other, angrily.

"She's don' well, and we ought to be thankful," said the man; and his tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the other's impatience. "I'll try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit.”

Harcourt watched him, as he labored away to repair the damaged rigging; but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor Glencore upon his sickbed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of desperation? Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strongest principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was aroused by the sudden cry of the boatman.

"There's a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead of us, and drifting out to say.

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"I see her!-I see her!" cried Har

court; "out with the oars, and let's pull for her."

Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them.

"She's empty!-there's no one in her! "

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