having become involved in a quarrel with a French employé of the Turkish government, a duel has been the consequence. They fought this morning, on the sands below the town, and the Frenchman was mortally wounded. The Turkish authorities immediately seized the Englishman; and, as by their law such an offence as he has committed constitutes a capital crime, he is to be executed outside the town to-morrow morning. Mr. has used every means in his power to obtain a commutation of the punishment, but without success; and in his position he dare not interfere further. The Englishman, it appears, is a young fellow of good family and fortune, and Mr. is naturally deeply interested for him; he therefore writes to me to say, that if by any chance I should be disposed, on my own responsibility, to send a boat's crew on shore an hour after midnight, he will take care that the prisoner shall have an opportunity afforded him to escape and join them, come on board, and before daybreak to-morrow, find twenty miles of blue water between himself and the fatal bowstring. Of course, I have at once made up my mind how to act; there can be but one opinion on the subject. You see the matter in this light, Mr. Harrington, do you not?"

Too well accustomed to the captain's habits to indulge even in a smile at the tact with which he thus, without committing himself, sought to draw out my opinion, I replied, gravely, "I perfectly agree with you, Captain Flexmore; the rules of the service, and the common dictates of humanity, alike require you to send the boat."

"Of course, of course," was the quick rejoinder, "there can be no doubt about it; only, as the affair is somewhat out of the common routine, and one which may hereafter be called in question, it is a satisfaction to me to find that your opinion so entirely coincides with my own. I will write to inform Mr.

that the boat shall be in readiness, waiting, an hour after midnight, at the point he mentions; and as, if anything should go wrong, some judgment may be required, I shall feel obliged by your taking charge of the expedition in person." I, of course, expressed my perfect readiness to do so, and the conference ended.

Five minutes before the time appointed, I sat, wrapped in a dark cloak, in the sternsheets of the boat, which, manned by a dozen well-armed seamen, rose and fell with the ripple of the water, within an oar's length of the small rocky landing-place named in Mr. -'s letter as the point of rendezvous.

The moon was low, but afforded sufficient light to enable one to discern the outline, though not the colouring, of objects in the immediate vicinity. After waiting till some minutes past the time, anxiously listening for the slightest sound which might indicate that the prisoner had succeeded in effecting his escape, I grew fearful that the scheme had in some way transpired, and that the authorities had adopted measures to frustrate it, and was just considering what steps it would behove me to take in such a conjuncture, when the flash and sharp reports of a couple of muskets startled me from my meditations, whilst almost at the same moment a figure emerged from the gloom, and, dashing hastily forward, exclaimed, in tones which even then sounded familiar to my ear, "Boat, a-hoy! are you the Atalantas ?” And, as I returned an affirmative answer to the hail, the speaker jumped on board, almost before the boat's prow touched the shore, with an ease and savoir faire which proved that he was well accustomed to the water.

"Give way, my lads," exclaimed the stranger, as the men took to their oars; give way with a will; those confounded musket-shots will alarm the town; we shall have the whole swarm turning out directly, and a stray bullet might pick off one of us; I should be sorry if any one got hurt on my account." He removed his hat, and examined it by the light of a darklantern I had with me. "A near thing, lieutenant," he said, directing my attention to a hole by which a bullet must have entered, and passed through the hat. "If I'd been one of your long-headed fellows, now, I should have had half an ounce of lead in my brains by this time this is the third shot I've had fired at me in less than four and twenty hours; so its not my fate to be food for gunpowder, I suppose."

"No; you're reserved for a more exalted destiny, probably, Charley, my friend, though you've contrived to cheat the gallows, too, this time," replied I, who, during the former speech, had made up my mind that the illustrious stranger, was no stranger at all to me.

While this conversation had been going on, lights had been flitting about the town in all directions; and after inore bustle and confusion than would have accompanied the arousing and arming a couple of battalions of English troops, some dozen Turkish soldiers came running pell-mell down to the landing-place, and perceiving the boat, which was not yet out of reach of shot, commenced an irregular and, fortunately for us, badly-directed fire upon it. One of the first shots discharged, however, unluckily struck the arm of the cockswain, who was pulling stroke-oar, and disabled him. Charles Burrell (the reader has of course guessed that he it was, and none other), however, caught the oar as it was falling from the man's hand, and taking his place, pulled away lustily, till we had the satisfaction of seeing the bullets fall short of us at each report.

"You may take it more coolly now," observed I; "no shot has reached us for the last minute and a half;-your arm's not broken, I hope, Evans ?"

“All right, sir; it's only knocked off part of the sheathing, and cut through some of the running gear, so that my fingers don't act altogether so ship-shape as they used to did."

"Never mind, my man," was Burrell's reply; "I'll splice it for you with a ten-pound note, as soon as we get on board the Atalanta. Those Turkish scamps luckily missed my pocket-book, when they took my traps from me."

On reaching the ship, which we accomplished without further mischance, Burrell, who appeared, as usual, full of money, was as good as his word, for, having obtained Captain Flexmore's permission, he not only gave the wounded cockswain a ten-pound note, but tipped all the boat's crew a guinea each. The moment he recognized me, he, with his usual sang-froid, plunged at once into terms of the closest intimacy, "old-fellowing" and "Tommy-boying" me at every second sentence he uttered; nor could I, unless I had chosen actually to pick a quarrel with him, do anything to repel his advances. He had not been on board twelve hours ere he became hand and glove with Captain Flexmore; so that, when at last I found an opportunity to relate to that gallant officer my previous knowledge of his guest, nothing I could say would induce him to regard Charley Burrell in any other light save that of an injured innocent; and he boldly declared his intention, the moment he returned to England, to apply to his uncle to institute an inquiry, and have the iniquitous decision of the court-martial reversed, as it was a scandalous

shame that such a fine young fellow as Burrell should be lost to the profession, because a crew of old women could not make allowance for a man getting into a scrape. And perceiving that this frame of mind was stereotyped, (for the captain continued in it quite a week,) I ceased to attempt to alter it. Charley certainly was a genius in his way. Before he had been three days on board, he had related a most interesting romance (in every sense of the word) to account for his duel with the Frenchman, in which the interior of a hareem and a lovely Greek captive were the prominent features; while for my private ear he had prepared a statement refuting the scandal of the gaming-house episode, establishing the deceased Indian uncle as a great fact, and accounting satisfactorily for his desertion of Mary; to the whole of which narrative he contrived to impart such an air of veracity that I actually gave it credit, and believed, with Captain Flexmore, that he was the victim of appearances.

After Burrell had cruised with us about a week, we fell in with a vessel bound for England, on board of which he secured a passage, and so departed, bearing with him a whole harvest of golden opinions.

As the Atalanta continued on the same station for some weeks longer, I one day obtained leave to go ashore, and dine with a wealthy Greek merchant, to whom I had brought letters of introduction. The old gentleman received me most courteously, mounted me on a mule almost as fat as himself, and took me to see the lions of the neighbourhood, including the ruins of a temple, with all the antecedents of which he expected me to be acquainted, “because the English were such excellent classics," and the site of an ancient battle-field, where, for the same reason, he begged me to point out to him the exact position occupied by each several phalanx-all of which, considering that I could not with a safe conscience have deposed on oath that I had so much as heard the name of either temple or battle before, I flatter myself I accomplished very creditably, my observations tending to exalt, rather than depreciate, the old gentleman's preconceived idea regarding the classicality of an English education.

At dinner, the agrémens of the affair were greatly enhanced by the presence of two very lovely girls, the old Greek's daughters—my attentions being pretty equally divided between the interesting Sophronia, who sat on my right hand, and the, if possible, still more interesting Zoc, who was placed as my vis-à

vis. The meal passed off most pleasantly, the wines being as good as the young ladies were pretty, until I arrived at a frame of mind in which I felt quite capable of pitching my hospitable entertainer out of his own window, and availing myself of the catastrophe to make double-barrelled love to both his fair daughters at one and the same time.

I am happy to say I restrained the impulse, and merely endeavoured to look my admiration; although, so completely was my mind filled with the lovely objects before me, that, when the young ladies retired, I could not, for the life of me, think of any other remark to address to my host than what a fortunate papa he was, to possess two such beautiful daughters —so I actually went the length of saying it. Moreover, it answered very well, for the old gentleman chuckled, rubbed his hands, and seemed highly pleased with the compliment.

"And which do you admire most?" he inquired, as he filled his own glass, and passed me the bottle.

"Where both are so lovely, it is difficult to decide," replied I, meditatively; "but if I must pronounce an opinion, I think the young lady who sat opposite me is perhaps the most faultless in profile."

"Yes," was the reply, "Zoe's is the higher style of beauty; but you must not lose your heart to her, Mr. Harrington, for she is already

married to a countryman of yours, a young Englishman, of high birth and large fortune."

Indeed!" replied I, with a slight start of annoyance, for, entre nous, dear reader, Zoe was the one at whom I had chiefly been "making eyes," with, as I hoped, no inconsiderable effect. "Indeed; he is a lucky dog, whoever he may be."

"He is, or rather was, in your profession," was the rejoinder; "but he quitted it when he had obtained the rank of post captain. He came here, about two years since, with letters of introduction to me from my London agent, and fell so desperately in love with Zoe, while, at at the same time, he grew so delighted with our mode of life, that he became a suitor for my daughter's hand, and promised, if I would bestow her upon him, to give up his own country, and to reside here for the future. They have been married above six months, and he has now returned to England to sell his estates, intending to embark a large portion of his capital in my business, in which he will become a partner.”

"And a very sensible thing to do, too! I only wish I were able to follow his example, and try my luck with Miss Sophronia. May I ask," continued I-little anticipating the answer I was about to receive-" may I ask the name of this favoured individual ?"

DEATH has done his work among us! A great victim has fallen! The Duke of Wellington is no more!

As

That we should have to record this event before very long, we were prepared for. That it did not happen sooner, was one of the many wonders of that wonderful man's career. far back as 1839, his constitution was supposed to be so utterly broken down, by repeated shocks of illness, that nothing could prolong his existence beyond a few years, or the use of his faculties till the morrow: yet thirteen years have passed over, and still the annual gathering of heroes has been renewed under his presiding auspices, and the British peers have listened with reverence to his voice in debate on questions of the highest import, and he has been ready and able to buckle on his sword to the last, and do good service in defence of his country's interest and honour.

The final hour, however, is come-he is dead! From a thousand churches the bells toll their solemn knell over the departed; and cannon from a thousand bastions and batteries boom forth the death-note of the hero; and the flags on a thousand ships float halfmast high; and crape wraps the colours of the brave, wherever the British ensign is unfurled; and at his post the lonely sentinel, that humblest representative of the system of war, brushes away a tear-his tribute to the memory of the captain he revered; and in the minster's gloom the banner of knighthood droops, and the casque and the falchion are wreathed with funereal emblems, for the pride of chivalry is departed. And, in the secret conclave of many a hostile power, a gleam of exultation dares to light up malignant eyes, for the spell of that name which kept envious and conspiring Europe in awe is broken, and the enemy thinks he may venture once more to look

a British battle-front in the face. The empty pomp and procession to the tomb is all that now remains the plumed hearse, and the muffled drum, and the war-horse, and the spurs, and the sword-the sword that conquered the conqueror of the world: for the hero of an hundred fights and an hundred victories lies low-low as the lowest of his enemies, as the earliest companions of his arms -in the dust; and we feel, and the world feels, that the greatest of soldiers is no more.

But all this and it is much-would not have stirred the deep feelings of our hearts, and urged us to our task with the ardour we feel, like the thought-the exulting thought, which adds poignancy to our grief, and enthusiasm to our eulogy-that Wellington, warrior as he was, was the great PACIFICATOR of the world, the man who, under Almighty God, gave to Europe that glad and golden interval of peace, within which our national liberties had time to be ripened, our popular institutions matured, and our social system humanized; during which the wealth and prosperity of the empire was consolidated, and scope given for the arts WE cultivate and appreciate to grow up and flourish, and-we would fain believe-strike root into the soil of society, too deeply to be again permanently displaced by the brute ferocity of a returning military age.

Yes, Britons! we have lost a hero indeed! -a hero, as boundlessly superior to the soldier he conquered, as fortitude, honour, heroism, and moderation must ever be to ambition, pride, selfishness, and cruelty. To compare the genius of Wellington with that of Napoleon is absurd; probably no man ever lived combining the same diversified, and apparently opposite qualities of mind, as Bonaparte. This peculiarity it is, which, while it explains the amazing resources of his policy, likewise forms the truest point of distinction between him and Wellington. In the latter, was displayed as remarkable a singleness of character and purpose, as in his rival a diversity of both. The only point on which Napoleon was at unity with himself was ambition. But as ambition is a march and not a goalin which the road is indifferent, if only progress be made along it so the emperor's meteoric career was as aimless and headlong as it was dazzling. He rushed forward, he knew not and cared not whither, so that in his way he trampled upon the liberties of nations, and decked himself with their spoils, Behold, on the other hand, in the mighty dead before us, the embodiment of the opposite quality. To humble the enemy of Britain and of Europe,

to cripple his power at every accessible point, no matter how remote, or how apparently insignificant-in short, to follow out the great conceptions of Nelson, and complete by land what was by that hero begun upon the oceanand to pause when those objects were accomplished such was Wellington's policy, from the moment he first set foot in Portugal invested with the independent command of our armies, to that in which, at La Belle Alliance, he resigned the pursuit of the imperial armies he had routed to the Prussian commander.

We do not shrink from saying, that it was the least of Wellington's merits that he was a great general-though even his enemies admit he was that. His distinguishing praise is that he never for a moment sacrificed the citizen to the soldier, or forgot, in the height of his most crowning triumphs, that he was the servant of his king and country, fighting battles not for himself, but for them; and reaping laurels whereof the richest boughs should adorn the statue of British liberty, while only what the nation could spare should be appropriated to himself. His whole career was an illustration of this honest citizenship of his. Amidst the seductions of success, his penetrating glance still darted through the ranks of his enemies towards the peace which lay beyond, and he fought for that, as other men fight for conquest, triumph, glory. The peace he sought, morcover, was no extravagant or chimerical one, to ensue upon the annihilation of our enemies, and the acquisition of the power and possessions they had lost. The war as waged by him was, even when it seemed most aggressive, purely a patriotic one, and not more truly did the Archduke Charles act upon the defensive when he drew up the Austrian army upon the field of Wagram, than did Wellington in driving Soult in confusion across the frontiers of Spain into France. To fight for peace is the most glorious of warfares; it is, in fact, the only one upon which the soldier and nation may safely invoke the blessing of God. This glory was Wellington's.

We have neither space nor inclination to offer a memoir of the departed Duke. Information of this kind the public has had on every side; and no doubt extended and detailed biographies will satisfy the world's curiosity upon the subject before long. Still less is it our design to enter upon an examination of his military talents, either in the way of comparison, or upon their positive merits. But it seems due to the dead hero and his surviving fame, to remind the reader of some circumstances which ought to be taken into consi

deration, in forming a final estimate of what he had to do, and what he did.

When, in 1809, Sir Arthur Wellesley proceeded to Lisbon, charged with the mission by his courage and prudence to repair the disasters of the British arms, certain and peculiar difficulties met him at the outset. The successes of the revolutionary armies, and afterwards of Napoleon and his generals, had gradually given a colour of plausibility to the idea which the French themselves industriously fostered, that the power of France on land was irresistible, and that all operations were hopeless against troops who had the God of Battles so manifestly on their side. On the other hand, although a degree of éclat had attached already to the name of Wellesley, both in India and in the Peninsula, the general opinion of Europe, and more especially of England itself, was strongly against the efficiency of our land forces; with which-the popular idea was-it was absolutely ridiculous to attempt to face the victorious soldiers of the Empire during any continuous operations. And there seemed grounds for this opinion, first in the retreat of the Duke of York, and now, more recently, in the disastrous affair of Corunna, and the discomfiture of Sir John Moore's army. In short, all the influences of prestige, as it is called, which had so materially favoured Nelson in those adventurous and hazardous exploits of his upon the sea, were against us on land. And no one who knows what effect character has upon masses of men will be inclined to slight or undervalue these influences, acting upon the physique as well as the morale of our troops.

Again: Wellington entered Portugal not so much as an independent power as an ally. He was obliged, if not to take orders from the Portuguese Junta, to co-operate with it; which meant to operate, with the embarrassment of its thwarting, vexatious, vacilating, and treacherous policy to impede him. And this counteracting influence of so-called allies hung upon him ever afterwards-through Spain, and even to the field of Waterloo, where his dispositions were all but neutralized by the shameful apathy, or cowardice, of a considerable portion of his force-that portion being the allies. At the commencement of the Peninsular war, had he possessed the advantage of an army unshackled by assistance of this kind, and free to operate in the country according to his own ideas of what would be most detrimental to the enemy, and advantageous to himself, his task would have been an easier one, though not more glorious; for, as these difficulties ac

cumulated around him, and he became more and more convinced that the settlement of affairs was farther off than was generally supposed, he came to a cotemporaneous determination that no human power should induce him to relinquish the advantages he had already secured, or forego the object he had originally in view, in undertaking his command; thus bringing into prominent and early relief those qualities that were so conspicuous afterwards, and alone enabled him to realise, at length, and after various vicissitudes, hopes which would have been chimerical had they been indulged by any one else, or on any other grounds than they were.

But there was another paralyzing influence at work at the opening of the Peninsular operations, which struck at the very root of the efficiency of the British army, and bid fair to neutralize all its efforts: this was the financial condition of England at the time. As the historian of the Peninsular war remarks :-"Her enormous debt was yearly increasing in an accelerated ratio; and the necessary consequence of anticipating the resources of the country, and dealing in a fictitious currency, was fast eating into the vital strength of the state; for, although the merchants and great manufacturers were thriving from the accidental circumstances of the times, the labourers were suffering and degenerating in character; pauperism, and its sure attendant, crime, were spreading over the land, and its population was fast splitting into distinct classes--the one, rich and arbitrary; the other, poor and discontented; the former composed of those who profited, the latter of those who suffered by the war."

How this state of things operated upon Sir Arthur Wellesley's army is well known. In 1809, the British force was expected, in conjunction with the weak and undisciplined troops of the country, to accomplish the deliverance of Portugal, and ultimately of Spain, from the French, whose force in those kingdoms approached 300,000 men-this army of ours numbering barely 22,000 effective men, “weak in everything but spirit; the commissariat without sufficient means of transport; the soldiers nearly barefooted, and totally without pay; the military-chest empty, and the hospitals full!" The condition of this handful of men as to supplies is thus further described by Sir Arthur Wellesley himself, in a letter to Lord Castlereagh "It was, and is, impossible for us to move without money: not only are the officers and soldiers in the greatest distress, and the want of money the cause of many of the dis