The Sun.
London, England, 1832-09-25 00:00:00

,0
att
•440

LONDON,
'TUESDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 25, 1832.

" A great Judge hath this day departed out of
Israel." The sun that so long gladdened huma-
nity is eclipsed ; the darkness of the night,
which knows no morning, hangs about it ;—in a
word, Sir WALTER SCOTT is dead ! What a
theme for sad, solemn contemplation is this
event ! We record it with a strange fluttering
at the heart, as though we had just bid a last
adieu to an old and valued friend. For Sir
WALTER was, indeed, the friend of all mankind.
His laurels were unstained by the widow's or the
orphan's blood ; they were bestowed neither by
this faction nor by that ; secured by no under-
hand means,—by no illustrious patronage ; but
boldly striven for, and honourably won in the
broad, open fields of intellect. When, some
months since, this illustrious man left us in quest
of health for a foreign clime, we thought of his
predecessors, Smollett and Fielding, and were
not without our misgivings ; but fortunately
the pilgrim was permitted to return home,
and full of honours, though scarcely of years,
to lay his bones in the land where he first
drew breath. His death will be felt through-
out Europe as another blow struck at human
grandeur. For whose name was ever more
widely blown ; who was ever the object of more
profound or universal homage ? " There are
moments," says Hawkesworth, " when even the
most thoughtless of men are smitten with a
sudden, acute sense of their mortality." The
present is one of these. Sir WALTER SCOTT
had been so long among us, his name was so
familiar to our ears, and he himself so con-
stantly before our mind's eye, that the tidings of
his decease stuns us like some domestic calamity,
and compels us, even in self-despite, to feel the
full force of the truism, that glory is a phantom
which deludes us through life, only to shorten
our brief span, and mock us on the bed of death.
But two short years ago, and Sir WALTER had
every prospect of a protracted existence before
him ! He had even projected works that would have
furnished him with employment for the best half
of a generation, as though the measure of his
renown were not already sufficiently filled up.
Alas, what a dream was this ambition ! Scarcely
had he set about his task, when he was smitten
with that cruel, lingering disease which has at
length brought him to the grave. Henceforth,
" six paces of the vilest earth are room enough"
for that man whose mind could span the

universe

In all the relations of public and private life,
SirWALTER'S character was irreproachable. He
was a good husband, a good father, a good citi-
zen. He was without an enemy, and Europe
was his friend, as she is now his mourner. In
politics he was a Tory, though this, we suspect,
more from the effect of poetic associations, than

fold, calculating, worldly interests. Toryism
was in his mind a vague, showy something, in-
separably mixed up with the chivalrous glories
of the feudal system. It was a dream of ro-
mance—a tale of the times of the cavaliers—
a romantic principle of loyalty made holy by
the blood of heroes and chieftains of past ages—
a brilliant light reflected from the days of old
baronial magnificence. It was in this sense Sir
WALTER was a Tory, that is to say, a reve-
rencer of power for the sake of the hold it took
on his fancy. In this sense, it was with him a
fixed, infallible creed.

But it is not the politician, but the author
that must immortalize the name of SCOTT, and
it is in this light only that we shall view him.
The task, we are aware, is a trite one, neverthe-
less a fitter season could not have been selected
for it, for criticism, seldom unbiassed when applied
to the living, can scarcely be otherwise than impar-
tial *hen pronouncing its verdict on the dead.
Mr. Hazlitt has somewhere observed, " the
temple of fame stands upon the grave." Truer
words were never yet spoken. For fame has
little i❑ common with the notoriety which at-
taches to the liVing ; with the homage paid to
their persons ; with the bookseller's puff, the
critic's cant, or the stare of moon-struck fashion
—Fame knows nothing of all this : it is of a far
nobler, purer essence ; it is the sanction by pos-
terity of mind's appeal to mind ; the spirit which
survives the man when he himself is dust ; when
all factitious interests are at an end respecting
him ; when flattery can no longer win his smiles,
or censure call forth his frowns. Can Sir
WALTER SCOTT put in his claim to this inhe-
ritance—to this mighty power, which rules the
world from the grave ? Unhesitatingly, we
reply, he can.
It is not, however, by his poetry that Sir
WALTER SCOTT will descend to posterity.
Here, he has written for the day, not for all
time. His verse is of the improvisatori class,
easy, flowing, picturesque, but deficient in depth
of sentiment and vigour of character. It leaves
no distinct impression on the mind. What is
done, is done well ; the only question is, was it
worth the doing ? Assuredly not, had it cost
time or trouble ; but—we here speak of him only
as a poet—Sir WALTER never fatigued himself
with digging for the rich ore of mind ; he
availed himself only of those materials that lay
on the surface, and were most readily available.
If a pleasing image or a striking thought came
in his way, he turned it instantly to account ;
if not, he took the best that offered. His first
poem is his finest, and his most brilliant passage
the battle scene in " ?Vlarmion." Still even here
there is more show than substance, more descrip-
tion than passion, as if the strife at Flodden
were rather a passage at arms, than a stern, vin-
dictive, deadly feud. " iVlarmion" falls not like
Hector or Patroclus, but gracefully, and with an
eye to effect, like an actor in a melo-drame, or a
carpet knight at a tournament. We have no
warrant for his death in our own feelings ; we
take it on the author's ipse dixit.
It was once the fashion to compare SCOTT'S
poetic battles with Homer's. Nothing can be
more absurd. The fights in the " Iliad" are
serious matters, to feel, not talk about ; those in
" Marmion" and " Lady of the Lake," mere pie.
turesque make-believes. The former breathe the
true, earnest, tragic spirit of battle, the breathless
suspense, the startling shock, the sudden, over-
whelming catastrophe ; the latter are filled merely
with the " pride, pomp, and circumstance of
glorious war," the tramp of the steed, the bray
of the trumpet, the sunny gleam of the spear,
the triumphant wave of the banner. Livy is the
only writer we know of, whose battles at all re-
mind us of SCOTT. His details of the struggle
between the Horatii and Curatii, though assum-
ing the form and style of history, bear a striking
resemblance in their showy, picturesque charac-
ter, to some of the best passages, in the last
Canto of " IVlarmion."

But if as a poet Sir WALTER SCOTT have
made few sterling additions to the literature of
his age, as a novelist, it is far otherwise. In this
department of mind, he stands without a supe-
rior, without an equal. With less homely,
matter-of-fact knowledge of the world than
Fielding ; with less broad, caustic humour than
Smollett ; he surpasses them both in all the
loftier requisites of the art. He is the Shakspeare
of prose romance, possessing, in nearly an equal
degree with our great dramatist, the singular
power of wholly abstracting his mind from the
present, of sinking it into some by-gone age,
and identifying himself with the thoughts, feel-
ings, habits, characters, and even the prejudices
of such age. The enchanter waves his wand, and
lo ! the wheels of time move back; the clouds
that overhung the past, disperse ; the grave gives
back her dead; and a thousand gorgeous visions
of romance and chivalry pass in swift succession,
with all the force and vividness of reality, before
our eyes. For Sir WALTER'S historical per-
sonages are not mere " modern antiques."
They speak—act—fight—makel ove—intrigue—
gossip, just as they might have been supposed to
do when alive. But it is not one intellectual
qualification only that we admire in the Scotch
novels ; it is the development of many. One
leading excellence does not, " like Aaron's ser-
pent, swallow up the rest," but judgment and
fancy, pathos and humour, passion and
descrip-
tion, are all fused together in just and harmo-
nious proportions.
Perhaps, however, it is his bonhommie
and quick social feeling, as exemplified in
such characters as Dandie Dinmont, Baillie
Jarvey, Baron of Bradwardine, Justice In-
glewood, and Dugald Dalgetty, that most
distinguish the author of Waverley. No
man ever possessed a more intense love of
humanity. There are scenes in the Scotch
novels which absolutely give a fillup to the spi-
rits like a glass of generous Burgundy. Of
such a sort are Friar Tuck's and King
Richard's midnight carousals in St. Dunstan's
cave, where the dry peas and the cold spring
water give way to the venison pasty and the rich
wine, while the old forest rings with the laughter
of the ghostly father ; the scene between Louis
XI. and Quentin Durward; where the for-

vier, laying aside for once his satanic gloom,
chuckles with heart-felt pleasure at the sight of
his protege's prodigious appetite for breakfast ;
and, above all, that matchless interview in the
Abbot, between the two young folks, Cathe-
rine Seyton and Roland Grwme, who, while
sitting gossipping together, wholly lose sight of
the sentiment of their situation, in an irre-
sistible desire to " have thdr laugh out" at the
two old guardians, who are stiffly and solemnly
pacing up and down the castle terrace. Pas-
sages like these (and Sir WALTER abounds in
them) have the same witching effect on the spi-
rits, as Mrs. Jordan's far-famed laugh, and could
only have been conceived by one, the qualities of
whose heart were on a par with those of his head.
It is a mistake, though a very common
one, to suppose that a happy, social temper is
not a first-rate auxiliary to genius. Cheerfulness
leads to far nobler intellectual results than me-
lancholy, though Lord Byron has striven hard
to prove otherwise. Three of the greatest
writers in modern times have been also three of
the most good-natured. We allude to Rabe-
lais, Shakspeare, and Cervantes.* Even Swift's
most readable work is his most social, for no one
who has once perused it, ever forgets the " Jour-
nal to Stella," one of the archest, most amiable,
most fascinating bits of gossip in this or any
language.

Another peculiarity in the Waverley Novels
is the utter absence of egotism that pervades
them. The author never thrusts himself for-
ward, never stands between you and his subject.
His dramatis persona speak and act for them-
selves, on their own responsibility as it were ; he
is merely their chronicler, their Froissart. In
this respect he presents a striking contrast to
Lord Byron, whose Harolds, and Conrads, and
Alps, and Laras, and Manfreds, are but so
many tedious reiterations of self. But, indeed,
in every instance the poet and the novelist are
wide as the poles asunder. Never yet did two
eminent writers differ more in temper, habit, and
opinion. The one was all despair ; the other all
confidence. The one laboured to depress ; the
other to uphold and encourage humanity. The
one dipped his pencil " in the gloom of earth-
quake and eclipse ;" the other in the sunny tints
of the rainbow. The one composed early in the
morning, while the pure breeze, the enlivening
sunshine, the glistening dew, and the merry
music of birds, communicated their healthful
impulses to his mind ; the other at still, deep
midnight, with a brain fevered and half bewil-
dered by unnatural excitement. The one trusted
confidently to the force, fertility, and fine natural
play of his fancy ; the other lashed himself into
an artificial rage, and spurred his Pegasus as
Burger's wild huntsman spurred his fiend steed.

Their are no monsters, no Frankensteins, in
the Scotch Novels. Gleams of redeeming ten-
derness and virtue illumine even their blackest
characters. Who forgets the exquisite touch of
remorse in the reckless, brutal old smuggler,
Nanty Ewart, who, oftentimes, in the midst of
his coarsest revels, heard the " sweet voice of his
deceased wife in his ear, and her light footstep,
on the staircase (—the reply of the dogged mur-
derer Hatteraick, who, when the magistrate told
him he had closed a career " unredeemed by a
single virtue," said " Virtue, indeed! donner and
blitzen, I was always faithful to my ship-owners,
always accounted for cargo to the last stiver ;"
or the sudden, electrical burst of reason in the
maniac Madge Wildfire's appeal to the depraved
old hag her mother, when the clock striking the
hour at which she used to go to bed, brings back
all the recollections of childhood,—" Mammie,
hear me say my prayers before I go to bed, and
say, God bless my bonnie face, as ye used to do
tang syne ?" But perhaps the most exquisite
trait of nature in the Scotch Novels is that where
Morton, after the death of the callous desperado,
Bothwell, finds, on searching his pocket-book,
the letters of his first love Alice, which for six-
teen years, even amid scenes of the most aban-
doned licentiousness, and long after the whole
man had undergone a complete change, he had
constantly kept, as a talisman, next his heart.
It is this fine, subtle tact, this unerring apprehen-
sion of humanity, which shed such a rich,golden
light on the Waverley Tales. Whatever he
may be as a politician, as a novelist
Sir WALTER is of no party. He is
here a cosmopolite, " born," like Burke, "for
the universe." Man meets with fair play in his
pages. He neither extenuates nor sets down
aught in malice. His portraits of the Covenan-
ters have, we know, been alleged as proofs to the
contrary ; but these were mere sacrifices to the
necessities of his tale. It was his express object
to give a vivid, historical sketch of Claverhouse
—the truest and the most consistently main-
tained character in the whole range of modern
fiction—and this could only be accomplished by
placing him in bold relief to the fanatics.
In the conception and development of his
female portraits, Sir WALTER is second only to
Shakspeate. His women are neither sylphs nor
n neither paragons of beauty nor of virtue,
real beings of flesh and blood, with warm butliegeis'
a rtsbeating in their bosoms, and inheriting
the defects as well as the excellencies of huma-
nity. Their variety, too, is extraordinary. Think
only of Diana Vernon—Mause Headrigg—
Flora Maclvor—Rose Bradwardine—Meg Me-
rilies—Lucy Ashton—Lady Margaret Bellen-
den, with her eternal story about his Majesty
King Charles the Second and the venison pasty
--Queens Elizabeth and Mary—Jeanie Deans—
Rebecca—sweet Amy Robsart —and that strange,
forlorn scriptural figure, who sat alone at mid-
night by the way-side to warn Burley that " the
avenger of blood was behind him ;"—think
only of the striking contrast that these various
magical creations present, and then bear in
mind that they are the offspring of one and the
same mind! But, Sir WALTER, as we hinted
before, is heir of universal humanity. His genius
is at home equally in the court or the camp ; in

* Throughout" Don Quixote" we see a perpetual struggle
going forward between the author's caustic sense of the ridi.
culous, and the kindly, social turn of his disposition. Though
he Makes his hero the very Coryphmus of absurdity and ex-
travagance, yet he takes care to throw into the character
such qualifying properties, as extort our utmost respect. We
laugh, it is true, at the knight of La Mancha, still, he never
loses hold on our esteem, and? wq may add, our affection,

the palace of the peer or the hut of the peasant ;
among the crowded haunts of commerce, or by
the solitary ruin, or the still depths of the wizard
glen. Nature has gifted him with an eye to
see, a heart to feel, an understanding to com-
prehend her mysteries. She has, like the sub-
missive slave of the lamp, laid all her vast stores
at his feet, and bid him pick and choose freely.
In his landscapes Sir WALTER SCOTT com•
bines the glowing, picturesque beauty of Claude
with the force, truth, and even literalness of the
Flemish school. You feel nature, not read
about her, in his descriptions. Nothing is
vague, nothing ideal ; all is heart-felt and drawn
from the life. Whether it be a frosty walk
across a moor, a lone ramble by the hill side, a
storm on the coast, a sudden change from the
stifling atmosphere of a Highland change-house,
such as that at the pass of Aberfoyle, to the
fresh, keen breeze on the mountains,—no matter
what be the description, still it is equally vivid
in its reality. The Scotch novels are by far the
best and truest guide-books we know of for the
tourist. But, besides this, it is their author's
pre-eminent merit to have made the land of his
first and last affections holy and enchanted
ground ; to have shed a light on them that shall
never become dim ; to have peopled their glens,
lakes, and mountains with beings that shall never
pass away. For ever shall Meg Merrilies
haunt the wooded heights of Ellangowan, and the
country of the Red Macgregor ring at still
gloamin with his pibroch.
As a humourist, Sir WALTER is easy, simple,
unforced. He colours highly at times, but never
caricatures (save perhaps in the instance of the
Executioners in " Quentin Durward"), or goes
out of his way to produce a striking effect.—
His portraits of Edie Ochiltree, Monk-
barns, and Cuddle Headrigg, are delight-
ful samples of arch, quaint, natural humour;
nor is there a richer scene in all Shakspeare
than that where her legacy-hunting relatives as-
semble to hear Mrs. Margaret Singlesides's
Will read, among whom sits the frank, bluff,
border yeoman, Dandie Dinmont, who,
when he finds that, notwithstanding all his civi-
lities to the old lady, not a sixpence has been
left him, gulps down his disappointment with
the magnanimous declaration, " Weel, weel,
bluid's thicker than water, she's welcome to the
hams and cheeses just the same."
As regards historical fidelity, Sir WALTER
has few or no scruples. Here he seems to think
himself justified in sacrificing truth to expe-
diency. He tells white lies with the most
amusing assurance possible. Thus (to say no-
thing of other more marked anachronisms), he
has quoted the romance of the " Squire of low
Degree " as familiar to the English long before
it was written ; and in his tale of the " Be-
trothed," raised Gloster into a bishopric, at least
three centuries before the authentic era.

In point of style, his tales are unequal, as might
be expected from their number. Generally speak-
ing, however, the language is easy, flowing,
and transparent, though it is at times defaced by
gross grammatical inaccuracies. Its chief merit
is, that, whether Scotch or English, it is the real
vernacular, and utterly devoid of affectation.

It has been objected to the Scotch Novels that
they do not instruct ; they only amuse. True,
they point no particular moral ; they neither
sound the depths of the heart like Anastasius,
nor institute curious metaphysical researches into
the mysteries of mind like Caleb Williams and
St. Leon ; still they are instructive, and after
the best fashion, inasmuch as they teach us to rely
on our own resources ; to do our duty to ourselves
and to society, and trust confidently to time and
circumstance for the result. Happiness is the
best philosophy. He, who by multiplying the
sources of innocent enjoyment, makes his readers
happier than he found them, assuredly makes
them wiser too. In this sense, therefore, the au-
thor of "Waverley " may be regarded as one of
the most instructive writers of the day.
Some grave scholars, however, and profound
metaphysicians, will, we know, scout this assertion
as mere hyperbole. But let these wondrous lu-
minaries reflect but an instant on the vas
variety of mind that has been lavished on
the Waverley tales ;—let them consider the
power of invention—the knowledge of character—
the vigour of fancy,—the graceful learning, with
the unrivalled facility of applying it—the pa-
thos—the judgment—the graphic energy—the
fertile humour that they exhibit ;—and then learn
to rate, at their fitting worth, those faculties
which art, education, and study can give, and
which they do give to thousands ; and those
which Nature only can supply, and which, like
a niggard mistress, she bestows but on one or
two chosen favourites, at the utmost, during the
long lapse of centuries. We have among us,
and always have had, and probably always shall
have, whole shoals of lawyers, statesmen, he-
roes, essayists, critics, divines, philosophers, phi-
lologists, and so forth, but universal Europe can
boast of but one Cervantes, one Le Sage, one
Fielding, one SCOTT.

And the last and most illustrious of these has
but just now departed from among us ► The
home that knew him shall henceforth know him
no more ;—the world that was " witched with
his glamourie," shall derive no more (or at least
no fresh) enjoyment from its display ; for Pros-
pero's wand is broken—his magic book is buried
—and the great enchanter himself is now nothing
but a name. Yet what a name ! How full of
glory ! How pregnant with inspiration ! While
Tweed rolls on to ocean—while Ben Lomond lifts
his stern forehead to the sky—while the breeze
whistles round the bleak crags where dwelt the
last of the Ravenswoods,—thy name, first and
best of Scotchmen, shall be imperishable !

In frets durn fluvii current, durn montibus umbrae
Luatrabunt convexa, polus dum sidera paqcet,
Scalper honos, nomenque tuutn, laudeique manebunt.

French Papers contain no fresh news of mo-
ment, nor can any thing decisive be resolved on,
so far as the English Cabinet is concerned, till
the arrival of Ministers in town. If the Dutch
KING resolves on pushing matters to an extre-
mity, the Holy Alliance are in some degree
pledged to support him ; we are not, however,

without hopes that affairs may yet be satisfac-
torily adjusted.

In another part of The Sun will be found
ample particulars, on both sides of the question,
of the late skirmishes between the forces of Don
MIGUEL and Don PEDRO, at Villa Nova, in
the neighbourhood of Oporto. By these it will
be seen, that there is a report of one of Don
MIGUEL'S steamers having foundered, with 190
men on board, all of whom perished.

Letters and Papers have been received this
morning from Oporto, brought by the African
steamer to Falmouth. They state that on the
Bth the army of Don MIGUEL made an attack
upon the fortifications of Oporto on both sides
of the river Douro. As soon as the information
reached the Emperor Don PEDRO, he immedi-
ately proceeded from his palace to the points
most vigorously assailed, and commanded the
artillery of the batteries in person, from 9
o'clock in the morning until 6 in the af-
ternoon. During this attempt on the part
of the Usurper the greatest enthusiasm was
manifested not only by the troops of Don
PEDRO, but by the inhabitants of Oporto.
They appeared on the tops of their houses, pre-
pared with missiles of every description, in case
the enemy should succeed in carrying the out-
works and entering the city. The fire between
the defenders and assailants was kept up with
great spirit on both sides. The troops of the
Usurper were, however, obliged to retreat. In
this affair, it is to be regretted, that the Go-
vernor of Oporto, B. SA, received a wound in
the arm, which rendered amputation necessary.
The principal object of the enemy's attack—
the post of Searra—was most heroically
defended by only two companies of the
line and a battalion of volunteers, who
saw fire for the first time on that occasion,
and had to contend against the best of the Mi-
guelite troops, who exerted every effort to ob-
tain possession of that important and command-
ing position. The attack was made with a force
of 500 of the best troops Don MiGum. could
send into the field. The commanding officer, a
Lieutenant-Colonel, was killed, and their loss
besides was considerable. The inhabitants of
Villa Nova, to the number of 300, came forward
and asked the Governor of Oporto for arms, that
they might join in the defence of that city. Simul.
taneous attacks were made along the whole of the
Constitutional line. CoI.HODGES, at the head of a
small part ofthe force under his command, attacked
the Miguelites on the flank, on the north side of
the Douro, and completely routed them. During
the affair of the Bth the EMPEROR narrowly
escaped being killed by a cannon shot, which
struck the wall where he was standing directing
the fire of the guns of the fortifications, a few
inches above his head. When the circumstance
became known, the officers of the staff ad-
dressed his MAJESTY on the subject, re-
questing him to desist from exposing him-
self in the manner in which he was in the
habit of doing, as on his life rested the fate
of the cause of constitutional freedom in Portu-
gal. The enemy repeated their attacks on
Searra on the 9th and 10th, with no better suc-
cess, on both of which occasions the confidence
of Don PEDRO'S troops was so great that it was
with the greatest difficulty their ardour was re-
strained. Not the slightest confusion, however,
occurred. On the 11th, at 10 o'clock at night,
the enemy made another attempt on Searra, in
which his loss was severe, not only in killed and
wounded, but in desertions, for, under cover of the
darkness, many of his troops went over to PEDRO.
A similar and equally unsuccessful attack was
made on the 12th, at 3 o'clock in the morn-
ing, since which time nothing of importance has
taken place. There was a little skirmishing on
the 13th and 14th. The enemy, finding all at-
tempts vain to carry the works at Searra, the most
important of all the points of defence, proceeded
to the neighbourhood of Villa Nova, where they
burned the churches and houses, and destroyed
property to a considerable amount. It should
have been stated, that on the 10th several hun-
dreds of the inhabitants of Oporto crossed to the
south side of the river, attacked the enemy them-
selves, and obliged him to retreat. Genera
GASPAR TEIXEIRA commanded several shells
to be thrown into Oporto on the 10th, the two
first of which, it is said, fell into the house of his
daughter.

On Saturday last the Rev. THOMAS ilia'
Lowr, Clerk, M.A., was installed Precentor, and Prebee'
dary of the Cathedral Church of Exeter. The bells of the
Cathedral rung merrily on the occasion—the first time,
we believe, since the awful visitation of the cholera. The
emoluments connected with the office are said to be 2,0001.
a year.— Western Times.

The Marquis of CLANRICARDE performed
great equestrian feat a few days ago. He rode from 13("1"
logne to Paris in eighteen hours, resting two 4annriff the
course of the journey, purposely to participate in a grand
dinner given by Lord GRAlrvim.x, the British Ambai";
dor. ROTHSCHILD'S estafette, with all the appoint,'"
change of horses, is never less than sixteen hours in goi"g
over the same ground. Lord CLANRICARDE and the gat'
chioness are now at Dover,

Miss MORDAUNT'S engagement at Drury'
Lane is occasioned by the hesitation of the trustees tint
her marriage settlement to pay the limited income ofgOot
a year, granted to her by her husband. Miss MoarlAUS
receives from Captain Porattra., the lessee, the hie,hest
lary of the theatre. This lady's sister is likewise eneg
at Drury-Lane.

Lady EDWARD TIIYNNE has kindly contrre
Doted five pounds in aid of the starving family of r°
JACK PALMER. Three of the daughters of this once
0/,
pular actor were a short time ago stretched on one I
with only one blanket to cover them. In the mornin6
one of them was found starve,l to death. The gentleel:
who has undertaken to receive charitable donations for t;
relief of the survivors, has, during his whole life, been
ardent and liberal friend to decayed actors.
Oe
f
The jocular custom of claiming a flitch
bacon at Dunwow Priory is shortly to be revived. 14°Iici
Was given in due form, on Tuesday last, that the hilfve
couple who will be prepared to swear that, for Ore
months and a day, they have never made nuptial transgre
sion—offended each other in word or deed—never 04i lio
themselves unmarried again, but h.tve continued trueve,
thought and desire—will, as soon as qualified by
which will occur next month, attend, and demand

reward. —Essex Standard.
c ,011
EFFECTS OF COLD.—" Sir, I shall line
for not wearing a white cravat with your academic dre.6o'o
said a strict disciplinarian to an unfortunate freshman'° 0,
a raw morning in Jsnuary. " Fine me ! I assarelil.l
Sir, my cravat is white."—" How can you say sat ,iite
Do I not see that it is blue."—" Oh, Sir, it wassv
when I nut it on this morning, but it looks blue from g"
cold."