"It was well," said Miss Jenkinson, "he did not; for he always falls asleep, and makes the most detestable noises."

"What an escape we had of his old woman and the boys, as he calls them."

"I fear we shall have them to-morrow."

By this time the Hawkes were muffled, and prepared to take leave. The Gipsy had now made up her mind to walk.

"Mamma, dear, you have not half enough on you," exclaimed Jane. "Mrs. Jenkinson will lend you a shawl.”

Mrs. Jenkinson did so, and she never saw that shawl again.

During the tramp "home," as the Hawkes called each temporary nest they occupied, the old birds had a dialogue on the prospects of a dinner for the morrow.

66

Arabella, did you examine the notes on the chimney-piece? Have the Jenkinsons any invitations for the next day or two?"

"Yes, mamma; they dine to morrow at the Greenhorns, and the next day at Mr. Shycock's; they have company the day after, for Jane told me so, and she said she would try to make them ask us."

"If they do, I shall probably go," said the Mother Hawke coolly. Never did probability approach so near downright certainty.

They now reached "home," Master Tommy clambered up the door, and gave a knock that awoke all the echoes of Harley-street, and was loud enough to awake all the forefathers of Marylebone. The careful maid reconnoitred the party from an upper window before she descended to admit them, a caution for which she was duly commended by the Red Rover, who was about as valiant as Bob Acres, and laboured particularly all his life under a dread of robbers.

The front parlour was the only reception-room that Mrs. Goslin had left at the disposal of her intrusive guests; accordingly into that apartment they all bundled, to disencumber themselves of their tippets and shawls before they proceeded up stairs to roost.

"What an odious old hat!" exclaimed Arabella Hawke, pointing to one that lay on a side-table, and shrinking from it with horror.

It was an odious old hat indeed, and it was worse than ugly,—it had the ruffianly slouch of a housebreaker's hat in a melodrama.

"Whose can it be?" said Emma.

"Put it out of the room," said Mrs. Hawke.

66

Oh, I declare, here's an abominable black cloak to match," screamed Arabella again, discovering this new cause of disgust and apprehension flung upon a chair beside the table. "Who can own such horrid things?" she added, addressing Mrs. Goslin's servant.

"Bless me, I'm sure I can't tell, miss; they don't belong to my master," and the girl looked at Mr. Hawke, as if she meant to imply that she conceived him to be the proprietor of the villanous hat and cloak.

"They are not mine," said Hawke; "my hat is there, you see, and I have no cloak; I never wear one."

"You must know whose they are," said Mrs. Hawke to the maid with some asperity.

"No, ma'am, I don't know nothing at all about them, ma'am; they don't belong to me."

"There's somebody in the house, I'm positive," said Mrs. Hawke, in Oct.-VOL. LXXII. NO. CCLXXXVI.

N

a low, solemn voice, looking at her husband, who began to tremble violently.

"Oh, mamma, I'm certain that's a robber's hat."

"Did you ever see that hat or that cloak before," demanded the Gipsy, in her severest manner, accosting the maid, and fixing her keen eye sternly upon her.

The maid encountered the look with the confidence of truth and innocence, and replied that she now beheld the articles in question for the first time.

Hawke shook like a poplar in a storm. The maid increased the consternation by adding that she had been in the room about an hour previously, and that the burglarious accoutrements were assuredly not there then. It was now clear that somebody had gained admission, but the difficulty was to explain in what manner, for the servant was positive that she had kept the doors and windows properly secured; her conjecture was that some ruffian had come down the chimney, and had made his escape by the same avenue, leaving his hat and cloak behind him.

"I hope he has made his escape," observed Hawke, affecting to be pleasant; we had rather have his room than his company."

"Escape, indeed! How do we know he has escaped? who knows that he is not concealed in the house at this moment ?"

"Yes, mamma, under all the beds," said Emma, clinging to her father, whose knees were knocking against one another audibly.

"The house must be searched," now said Mrs. Hawke, authoritatively.

"Something ought to be done, certainly," stammered her husband in a cold sweat.

"And something must be done," continued the Gipsy with energy. "Take the poker, Mr. Hawke, and go through every nook and corner of the house from top to bottom."

"That's the only way to make sure, ma'am," said Mrs. Goslin's servant girl.

"Take what! go where!" muttered the frightened gentleman, looking as if he doubted whether or not his ears had deceived him.

"The poker!-through the house-this instant-it must be donewould you have us all murdered in our beds ?"

"Just to satisfy yourself, papa," said Arabella.

"Satisfy myself! I am satisfied, my dear-the robber has escaped up the chimney; that's all about it."

"Well then," interposed the Gipsy, "there can be no danger in going through the house; "go this instant-you may as well take the poker in your hand-search thoroughly-you had better go with him, Mary."

Mary made no objection; she was a stout, strapping, Hampshire girl, as gallant as Joan of Arc.

"If I was sure there was a robber in the house," said Hawke, with the most comical effort to look like a hero.

"There's a chance, papa; there is indeed," said Arabella, in her simplicity, unsuspicious of her father's poltroonery.

"Yes, my dear; there is a chance; only a mere chance. I think we had better all go up to bed together.”

"Go this instant, Mr. Hawke, or I'll go myself. Are you afraid ?" "Afraid!-ha! ha!-afraid of what, my dear ?"

"I knows what the gentleman's afraid of," said the maid-servant, goodnaturedly; "he's afraid of catching the robber, and having to kill him."

"I do hate bloodshed, I do indeed," cried Hawke, snatching at the pretext, "that is the truth; I cannot make up my mind to kill a human creature; just think, my dear, of hurrying the unfortunate owner of that old hat and cloak into eternity!"

Mrs. Hawke was dumb with rage at her husband's pusillanimity. Hawke thought his arguments were convincing her, and continued,

"With all the poor fellow's sins upon his head-robbery, house-breaking-possibly intended murder; Margaret, love, I cannot take the responsibility"

"Take the poker and follow me !" exclaimed the Gipsy, impetuously, and she rushed over to the fire-place, seized the weapon she named, and thrust it into her husband's hand.

It fell on the hearth-stone, and the ringing of the iron on the marble resounded through the house.

"Pick it up," cried the Amazon.

Hawke did so, and feebly grasping the poker, tottered after his wife, who, attended by the maid, was resolutely proceeding in quest of the concealed burglar. It seemed impossible any longer to evade the service of danger, but desperation is suggestive, and it now happily occurred to Hawke that he was not paid for exposing his precious life to the Jack Sheppards of London, but that the metropolitan police were, and that the wise course would be to open the hall-door and call in the aid of them. But policemen have one quality in common with spirits ; it is easier to call them than to obtain the benefit of their presence and support. The Hawkes rushed into the street in a body, invoking a constable, but no constable appeared. Up Harley-street, down Harleystreet, no constable was to be seen, or to be heard. Mr. Hawke bawled, Mrs. Hawke and her daughters screamed, and Master Tommy Hawke squealed, "Police! Police! Police !" but they might just as well have bawled, screamed, and kept squealing for a detachment of cherubs from Ithuriel's angelic watch. Profound silence reigned through the whole district, save where now and then a distant window was raised by some awakened sleeper, curious to ascertain the cause of a tumult so unusual in that peaceful quarter at the stillest hour of the night, and the deadest season of the year. At length a step was heard many houses distant; it approached, and every eye was strained to discover the form of the coming deliverer, no doubt being entertained but that a policeman was at length at hand. However, a policeman it was not, unless policemen wore white waistcoats. It was a gentleman in an evening dress, evidently returning from some place where he had dined. Mrs. Hawke, however, determined to request his aid, and this she did the moment he came up in so very urgent a manner, that he must have been as dastardly as her husband, and had a white liver as well as a white waistcoat, had he refused the Gipsy the support of his strong arm. Mr. Florus Evergreen, however, was no craven. It was Florus himself whose ill-luck brought him to the spot.

THE TALLEYRAND PAPERS.

PART VII.

"IT is a most extraordinary circumstance that no well-authenticated life of the Prince has ever been written. It would, I have no doubt, attract more attention than any work of the kind which has appeared for years. Why do you not attempt the task?" said I to C., one evening as we sat together in the little turret-chamber. "You are better qualified, from the length of time you have been in his intimacy-from your very admiration of the man, to undertake the task, than any one else now living."

"You flatter me," said C., smiling; "the undertaking would be far beyond my power, or indeed it would be within the limit of the capabi lities but of one man alone. The sole biographer of Prince Talleyrand must be Prince Talleyrand himself. Any clever, well-informed historian might give the facts of the prince's life, but who but himself could render to posterity a satisfactory account of the motives which had led to action, the consequences which have accrued from the various decisions which he has taken, and which, in most instances, as he himself is always declaring, have been totally in opposition to the results foreseen. Such a biography of himself as he could write, would be a literary monument as lasting as the world itself. It would be the secret history of every government of Europe for the last sixty years-the private memoirs of every distinguished individual would have to be incorporated into such a biography, where, of necessity, every distinguished individual in Europe must be made to play a part. I know that M. de Talleyrand has been for years past compiling his diplomatic memoirs, but by a singular infatuation, he has proclaimed his intention of not permitting their publication to the world until forty years after his death. This determination, à la Voltaire, is singularly in accordance with the character of the man, who is always repeating so playfully, 'No one can doubt my powers of waiting.'

"Some of those most interested in the matter, to whom he has communicated his malicious decision, rail loudly against such a determination; whilst others, with perhaps equally good reason, as loudly applaud; so that it is evident to the unconcerned looker on, that whatever may be his secret motive for thus deciding, it is already justified by the different passions which it has excited. He has in this, as in every thing else, displayed the depth of his reflective powers-and refused to sacrifice to a paltry feeling of amour propre, high interests and grave results. He has reflected that, in those intervening years, all the loud baying pack of fierce detractors of his fame will have yelped forth their calumnies-the smaller fry will also have all expended their puny efforts, and then he will come and call upon posterity to judge between him and them. Doubt it not-posterity will answer the appeal. The next generation will be more just than his own. The fierce passions-the deadly struggles -the political hatreds, amid which his own existence has been passed, will all have died away, and men will sit in calm unbiassed judgment on

the various actions of his life-and will be the better able to pronounce their verdict when they have beheld the consequences of his counselswhen they shall have been enabled to compare his adoration of his country-his indifference to its rulers with the slavish self-interest-the narrow-minded mercenary views of those with whom he had so often to contend.

"Believe me, a man must have a tolerably good opinion of his own discrimination, and have the organ of self-esteem developed in no mean degree, who could sit down coolly with a pretension of giving to the world a correct-nay, even a lucid life of Prince Talleyrand. He has outlived the greater portion of the comrades of his youth, of whom even then he lived so far in advance, that it was said of him that he had 'comrades and colleagues, but no contemporaries. And long before middle age, he had learnt that in public life, the one thing needful is discretion; while he it was who first published to mankind the discovery he had made, that 'speech was given to man to conceal his thoughts.' Therefore it is not probable that there exists a soul who could ever have penetrated sufficiently into the wily statesman's confidence ever to gain enough knowledge of his aims and views to account for the different changes in his principles with which he has been so taunted by all parties. There is not a single epoch of his life which is not besides, so bound up with anecdotes and incidents of the times in which he lived'—that often the most simple recital of facts as connected with any adventure in which he may have been engaged, might give deep offence in other quarters, and cause recrimination, and perhaps even in some cases, litigation on the part of other high personages, whose names would have to be brought forward.

"No man was ever made the object of so much unjust vituperation as the Prince de Talleyrand-of calumnies which have been accepted by the credulous with as much good faith as proofs of holy writ; while not one single proof of perfidy or baseness has ever been brought against him -nothing but supposition, for the most part, ill-sustained, and sometimes even completely belied by his subsequent conduct. Notwithstanding the apparent freedom with which he admitted all his entourage to his intimacy, yet how little is really known of his private life! Notwithstanding the greediness with which the public have always sucked in any stray anecdote, any fugitive bon mot, or axiom of this great man, yet how strangely ignorant do they still remain of his real character-how blind to the real grandeur of soul, he ever displayed amid the most trying circumstances-where any other than he would have clutched at the shadow, he let both the empty substance and the emptier shadow pass, while he calmly paused for that which was to follow. The truth is this--the mind is made the judge of the public character-the heart alone can understand the value of the private one.

"I have often myself seen him smile at the idea of any one attempting his biography, and whenever by chance he found himself compelled to receive at Valençay any of the petty journalists, the stray collectors of bon mots and epigrams for the salons of Paris, I have beheld him take a malicious pleasure in mystifying their credulity by relations of the most extravagant adventures connected with himself, or with the great public men with whom he had come in contact. One of his keenest enjoyments consists in making me read, while he is at his toilet, these same anecdotes