therefore say that the profession of arms is degrading? Of what avail your 20,000l. a year, if any strong man may come and take it? You lounge away your days here, basking in the sunshine of your flowers, and the shade of your books, only because those with more energy than yourself have the spirit to defend you. Your member of Parliament aids to make those laws which the soldier protects, and on which you, sneering at both, rely for the privilege of doing nothing.'

་

Dagentree.

'A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweep, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty. Flies and carrion crows have their mission in life. I do believe we could not get on without them, and that but for their labours my 20,000l. a year would hardly suffice to make life endurable. They have their mission, and so has your talking, bribing, intriguing, not to say lying hero whom men call M.P. Shall I therefore deify Beelzebub and worship the god of flies?'

P. 'What would England have been without her statesmen? What

of inspiration, eloquence, enthusiasm is there which does not surround as a halo Parliamentary distinction? I had rather have been Charles Fox, with the cheers even of his antagonists following his glowing periods, than the greatest author who ever Scattered from his golden urn

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

One has the joy, not only of fame, but of action. The other, a tame dull sense of coming celebrity, always flickering for the present, and often never achieved until the unenjoyed future.'

D. Charles Fox-your trump card. Well, take him,-what is there in his career which a wise man would envy? Envy I might say would accept? A gambler, a spendthrift, distasteful to the country, detested

by his sovereign-not too scrupu lous in his political associations, but unhappy in them all-politics were his curse. At St. Ann's-" so soon of care beguiled"—I had admired him. The easy flow of cultivated thought, and the genial warmth of an unrivalled temper, might have made him happy and respected. But political life destroyed him-poisoned him while living, and blasted the memory of a great intellect.'

P.' So you ignorantly judge. But half the security we now enjoy may be traced to that great statesman's sagacity. He lived in evil times; but the seed of popular principles which he flung broadcast on stony ground bore its fruit notwithstanding, and yielded an enormous harvest in the next generation. But if your heart is too cold to be touched by his grand, massive, English temperament-what of Pitt -what of Burke the sublime?'

D. 'A cold Englishman, and a mad Irishman: I reverence neither. Pitt never was anything but a marvellous schoolboy. Had he never been a politician, and had his abilities been allowed to mature, he would have been a great man, although he wanted the pliant versatility and fire of genius. He could speak, as the leader of the Oxford Union speaks. Measured sentences, formed on Cicero and Seneca, with all the fire of nature crushed out of them, were exactly the style of oratory which suited the court party of those days. The puppet of a strongwilled, obstinate dynastic monarch, obliged to subdue the natural liberality of his opinions, and to squeeze them into the Royal mould, until he brought this country to the brink of revolution and ruin-he was not a man whose career was to be wished for. He was honest-so is my ploughman. He was moral— so I believe is Stubbs also; but he lived an unhappy life, and died a premature and wretched death. As

to Burke, I should gladly have had his genius. His powers of composition were gigantic. He was full of great conceptions, and as an author did great things, and might have done greater. But his temper was soured, and the equipoise of his mind upset, by political warfare, in which men unconsciously refer to their zeal for their country the excitement which arises from the stings of wounded vanity, and the hindrances in the way of their personal advancement.'

P. 'Pitt, it is true, is less to my taste, mainly, I believe, because he was successful. He pleased the gods, but Fox, your humble servant-still, his was a grand career. Is your soul so dead as not to feel that you would gladly give up life at forty-seven for the glory of having ruled your country's destinies for twenty-five years? It was a marvellous life; and stern and cold as he seemed in public, the man's heart in private was as warm, and his wit as playful as if he had done nothing but play croquet at Wendover, or smoke cigars at Dagentree. Burke, I grant you, was magnificent and unhappy. But that was his temperament the fruit of his highly strung Celtic nerves. Politics evoked his power, but they are not answerable for his misfortunes.

D. 'Be it so. They tempt me not to try those treacherous and muddy waters. If I were to choose one of the number with whom to exchange, I should select Palmerston. He seems to know how to extract the sweets and discard the bitter of public life; and if kings are happy, which I greatly doubt, none probably ever ruled more potently than he. It does one good to see him, as I did two seasons ago, trotting gaily in the Park, as fresh as a daisy, with English breeding and Irish humour marking his expression. But come, we grow didactic, and the night grows cold. Let politics Much more important

shut up.

CHAPTER XVIII.

EVENING AT HOME.

We did not, however, go to Mrs. Carrington's next day, as Dagentree was engaged in parish business. I therefore, again, wooed the Muse of Justice in the morning, and rode out in the afternoon. My ride was uncomfortable and dreamy. Of what colour my dreams were I cannot be expected to say; or whether Sophia Wendover or Mrs. Carrington held the first place there. I fear the blotting-paper bore witness, in the artistic devices with which Í had covered it in the morning, to the inconstancy of man. I certainly liked Mrs. Carrington very much; there was a fascination about her, which a little overpowered my more sober judgment; for she looked like what I had always dreaded, a woman with a history.

Neither did it at all please me that an attorney like Rendelson should be on the terms with her, or have the power over her, which had been indicated at the Dashwoods. But notwithstanding all this, I was, for that afternoon at least, under the spell; and sauntered with rein relaxed and quiet pace, through the umbrageous lanes which I have described elsewhere. I was returning homewards, when coming to a sharp angle of the road, masked by a very high hawthorn hedge, I heard voices apparently in

sharp altercation. They were man and woman, and I heard the latter exclaim, as I approached the turn, 'If that be all you can do for me I'd best go back.'

On turning the corner, I came in front of the speakers, who were apparently walking slowly up the road. The man was my friend the photographer. The woman, a very striking-looking person. She was above the middle height, dark, with flashing eyes, and regular wellcut features. Her expression was lofty and sorrowful, and her whole appearance suggested Creole blood. All trace of discomposure had left the man's face, if it had ever rested there; but the woman's countenance was still heated and animated with displeasure. The former made. no sign of recognition; the latter gazed earnestly at me, although she said nothing. They passed on; and the incident made no impression on

me.

Our dinner-party proved a great success. The Wendover contingent included Mr. Wendover himself, his wife, and Sophia of course, looking radiant a whisper of jealousy said to me, almost triumphant. Admiral Trevor, who was their guest, made one of the party; and so did our friend the Doctor. One of the Dashwood girls, and a brother whom I had not seen, completed the circle, and a merrier dinner-table I never sat at.

The Sophia affair was making palpable and ridiculous progress; and my anchorite looked even more absurd than men in such a position generally do. After all, I did not grudge it to him, although I owned to a certain amount of consciousness regarding that quarter; but Miss Dashwood fell to my share, and I endeavoured by, I fear, rather boisterous attentions, to cover the quiet confidences of my host and Sophia. Mamma was very propitious. Well she might be,' I said to myself. Mr. Wendover was a typical member of

Parliament, with a head full of bills and divisions, and tales, not badly told, of political celebrities.

The conversation came to turn on secret correspondence, spies, and Major André. At last, in reference to the subject, the Admiral volunteered to tell us a real incident which had happened to his uncle.

THE CIPHER.

The story I am about to tell relates to an incident in the history of England which is but little known, and which you will not find in books, but one which nevertheless had a great effect on her destinies.

About the beginning of this century, while the Revolutionary wars were raging, communication in cipher was naturally very prevalent; and ingenuity was taxed to the utmost, on one hand to invent, and on the other to detect, i the medium used in secret corre spondence. As a rule, the deci pherer had beaten the cipherer; and no known method was secure of detection. If conventional signs merely were used, the recurrence of the different symbols gave a key easily followed out. Some ingenious spirits corresponded by reference to the pages and lines of particular editions of particular books-others by an agreed-on vocabulary. But these last methods, although they might preserve the secret, disclosed what was often quite as dangerous, that there was a secret. I am about to tell you of a plan which for long was not only undetected, but unsuspected.

It was at the time when the first Napoleon had assembled his fleet and transports at Brest, with the ostensible, and as is generally believed the real view, of making a descent on this island. The greatest precautions were observed by this Government in regard to correspondence from France, and an amount of espionage was practised

at the Post Office, which left Sir James Graham's subsequent performances in that line far behind. The national excitement was intense, and the political departments of the Government were administered with an iron sway.

My uncle, Sir George Trevor, was, as all the world then knew, high in the Admiralty; and as it was from him that I heard this anecdote, its veracity may of course be depended on.

The despatches to and from the Admiralty were the subject of the greatest vigilance, and the most stringent regulations. The clerks were not permitted to send or receive any letters which were not first submitted to the chief clerk; and it was believed that letters addressed even to their private residences were frequently opened at the Post Office.

At the time I speak of the chief clerk was an elderly man of the name of Parker: a wizened, wiry, dapper individual, so imbued with the official tincture of Whitehall that it had become second nature to him. He lived, and breathed, and thought, and slept, solely for the Admiralty; and knew no other pleasure or care. He was withal a genial and kindly soul, keen and energetic in the affairs of his office, and in all others a mere child.

He had assumed as his private secretary a young fellow of the name of Beaumont, who was one of the most promising subordinates in the establishment. He was a modest, unassuming man, very good-looking, with a countenance and air suggestive of depression and melancholy. He was evidently of good education, and probably wellborn also, for his manners were easy, and indicated good breeding. He was a native of Jersey, and had been introduced to the notice of the Admiralty authorities by some influential member of Parliament. He was much liked in the office,

'The letters are wrong. There is a spy among us. I have known it for long: now I am quite sure; but I cannot find him out.'

He

Parker went on to explain that he had for some time suspected that some one in the office communicated their private information and despatches outside. had redoubled his precautions; but, more than ever confirmed in his suspicions, was entirely baffled in his endeavours to detect the culprit.

'But, Parker,' said my uncle, 'how do you come to be so sure that your secrets have transpired?'

'By the funds, Sir George. They answer to the news as surely as the bell downstairs does to the bell-rope. I find them going up and down as if they were sitting in the office,' said Parker, personifying the Stock Exchange for the moment.

'Have all the letters to the clerks been examined strictly?'

'Yes, I read them all myself."
'Find nothing in them?'

Mighty little. Some are from home, and some from friends, and most of them from sweethearts,' said Parker, twisting his face into a grim smile, and rum things they say in them.'

And the young men's letters. Are they rum, too?'

'They are more careful like, as they know I am to see them: but, Lord save you, sir, they are all stuff; not a ha'porth of harm in them.'

"This matter must be seen to,'

:

said my uncle I have had my own misgivings on the same subject. Bring me all the letters which come to, and are sent by, the clerks for the next week. There is no reason why you should have all the rum things to yourself.'

So my uncle had the letters for a week, and found them very much such as Parker had described them. The suspicious symptoms increased; the Stock Exchange responded more sensitively than ever: but not the slightest ground for suspecting any one transpired. My uncle was bewildered, and Parker was rapidly verging to insanity.

It is certainly not the clerks,' said my uncle. There is no treason there,' said he, pushing back the letters of the day. By the way, how does young Beaumont get on? She seems a nice creature, that sister of his, to judge by her letters ?'

'He is the best hand in the office, a long sight; and his sister is a very sweet, ladylike creature. They are orphans, poor things, and he supports her out of his salary. She called at the office two months ago, and I gave him leave to see her for a few minutes in my room. But he knew it was against rules, and has not seen her here again.'

'But what are we to do?' said my uncle: 'I think I will speak to the First Lord.'

So he spoke to the First Lord, who thought the affair serious enough.

'It must be in the letters,' said he. 'It cannot be in the letters,' said my uncle.

'As you please,' said the chief; but although you cannot find it there, perhaps another can. I would try an expert.'

My uncle had no faith in experts, or Bow Street runners, and mistrusted them. But he could not refuse to try the experiment suggested. So the most experienced

sum

decipherer in London was moned into council, and to him the letters of the day were secretly submitted.

He read them all very carefully, looked at them in the light, and looked at the light through them. At last he put them all aside, excepting one from Elinor Beaumont.

Who is the lady who writes this?' said the taciturn man of skill at last.

'A very sweet young woman,' said Parker, smartly; sister of my private secretary.'

'Does she write often?'

'Yes; she is his only correspondent, and writes about twice a week.' 'Where does she live?' 'She lives in Jersey, Beaumont told me. Their father was in busi

ness there.'

'And does she always write about the same kind of things-Aunt's rheumatism, pic-nics, squires' teaparties, and the like?'

'Much the same, excepting when she speaks of Beaumont himself.' 'Hum!' said the expert.

'Well, sir,' said my uncle, who was rather impatient of the man of skill's pomposity, and what may "Hum!" mean? Have the young woman and her aunt's rheumatism done the mischief?'

'Hum! She dates from Fleet Street?'

'And why should she not date from Fleet Street, sir?'

'I should be sorry to prevent her,' said the unmoved philosopher. 'Has this correspondence continued long?'

Oh, yes-a couple of years or so, but not nearly so regularly as lately.'

For how long regularly?' 'About two months.'

'That is, about the time when you first suspected the betrayal of confidence ?

'Really, my friend, if you can't see farther into a millstone than that, you may give up the pro