statement, and said that he knew for certain that it was Lord Byron's, and that it was written by the noble author while he was upon the continent. A third made a claim in behalf of a literary surgeon, who, he stated, had written it in his own presence. Many others also laid claim to the authorship of the verses. Meantime their real author, the Rev. C. Wolfe, had died; and his literary remains, with a beautifully written memoir of his life, were published by the Rev. Archdeacon Russell, who had been one of the poet's most intimate friends. In this volume, among other poems, was included the one in question; but no particular evidence was adduced of its being Wolfe's. Black wood's Magazine, in reviewing the book, called upon its editor to furnish proof of its really being his. This Russell at once did in a letter to Black wood, from which we give the following extract :-"I feel myself called upon by the concluding paragraph in your late review of The Remains and Memoirs of the Rev. C. Wolfe,' to give you without delay the evidence you request as to his claims to the authorship of the lines on the burial of Sir John Moore, upon which you bestow such just commendation.

"As I believe your magazine was the first periodical in which they appeared, and as another poem (by some mistake ascribed to the same author) was published in a subsequent number, I conceive that you are fully entitled to the fullest satisfaction I can give upon the subject.

"Allow me, sir, however, before I proceed, to offer you my thankful acknowledgment for the cordial and liberal spirit of criticism with which you have reviewed the Remains' of my valued and lamented friend. I cannot but feel gratified that you so justly appreciated his literary and religious character, and that you also notice so kindly the manner in which I have attempted to perform the duty allotted to me, in presenting before the public a faithful sketch of his life, and select specimens of his well-directed genius.

"From the general tenor of your observations, I cannot indeed mistake the spirit in which you require more explicit proof that he was the author of the popular lines to which I have given a place among his poems. I certainly hoped that I had so circumstantially detailed the origin of the poem, and the way by which it first got into circulation, and that I had supplied the corrections (which I had stated to be from his own manuscript) in such a manner as plainly to intimate that I was writing from my own actual knowledge of the true author. As the claim which had been advanced for Lord Byron was immediately withdrawn, and all other claims had shrunk away soon after publication of the unequivocal statement of Dr Miller and J. S. Taylor, Esq., and the testimony of many other highly respectable names, I thought it unnecessary to enter into any particular detail of evidence. It did not indeed occur to me to state Mr Wolfe's own declaration of himself as the author, in which omission I may probably have been wrong; however, I have now, sir, the happiness to give the very proof you prescribe by assuring you, that Mr Wolfe did actually declare to me that the poem on the burial of Sir John Moore (now printed among his remains) was his own composition. He wrote it out for me soon after it was completed, expressly avowing himself the author. I can also testify that he made the same declaration to many acquaintances in college, among whom I have authority at this moment to name the Rev. C. Dickinson (chaplain of the French Orphan House). I beg leave, in conclusion, to refer to an extract of a

letter from the Rev. J. O. Sullivan (chaplain to R. N. and M. School, Phoenix Park), which appears in the last volume (No. 10) of the Annual Biography and Obituary (pages 78 and 79) in which he states (what I had heard him more than once mention) that the poem alluded to was commenced one evening in his company by Mr Wolfe,-that the occasion which gave rise to it was a passage which he had just read aloud for him, from the Edinburgh Annual Register, and that the first and last stanzas were actually composed in the course of the same evening, and were recited to him by the author before he had committed them to paper. The other stanzas he completed within a very short time after. I presume it would be tedious and unnecessary to accumulate additional proofs, and that enough has been adduced to remove every remaining doubt from your mind upon the validity of Mr Wolfe's claims as the author of the poem in question. I shall not, therefore, sir, trespass further upon your pages than to thank you most sincerely for your kind offer to insert this letter in your widely circulated and popular magazine."

This evidence, surely, ought to have set the question at rest for ever, but such was not the case. Literary circles still continued to have each their author of the precious ode; nay, some of the coteries were so fortunate as to possess two, sometimes even three claimants, and, after a silence of some years upon the subject, the controversy was again opened in the early part of the year 1841, when a Scotch clergyman published a newspaper letter, in which he asserted that a certain schoolmaster was the real author of the lines, and had only been prevented by modesty from claiming the poem as his own. Proof was entered into at some length by the reverend gentleman to make out his case, and it certainly appeared plausible enough. The Rev. Archdeacon Russell, however, ever on the watch to protect the fame of his friend, again took up the question, and, by a reiteration of his former and the production of much new evidence on the question, settled it for ever in favour of Mr Wolfe, and the new claimant was obliged to confess that he had been imposing on his friends.

This, the last of the controversies, produced some discussion, and as fruits of it we have the pleasure of quoting some excellent remarks by Mr Hugh Miller on literary larceny, and also an exquisite criticism on the ode itself.

66

Every age produces its ill-balanced minds,its men of large vanity and little sense, who, in their uneasy thirst for notoriety, are content to run the great risk of being infamous as impostors for the exceeding slender chance of being famous as authors; and exceedingly slender in such cases the chance always is. People have lodged false claims to the more solid possessions of earth, and have succeeded. There have been many cases in which the law has stripped honest men of their rightful possessions, and made them over to knaves. Usurpers have died in their beds, and left kingdoms to their children. But, alas! for literary pretenders. The possessions that lie on the sunny, though barren slopes of Parnassus seem inalienable from their true owners; there appears to be no possibility of breaking the entails that are registered there; and the fact is strikingly illustrated by the miserable illfortune of attempts such as that of the Bath gentleman who wrote M'Kenzie's 'Man of Feeling,' after M'Kenzie had written it first,-of the gentleman who composed, with similar assistance, Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination,'-and of the last party who produced in the same way Wolfe's celebrated

"Who is it that relishes poetry, and does not admire the Ode? Men's hearts would have found it out without the aid of criticism, even had not Byron pronounced it the finest of modern times. Does it not seem as if it had grown out of the circumstances it describes!--as if it had been poured forth on that terrible night-a melodious embodiment of sorrow and tenderness from the heart of a great army, saved by the wisdom and bravery of him whom, in saving them, they had lost. The burial seems scarce half an hour over. The story is told with a heart full to the bursting. Every circumstance on which we know grief fondly lays hold rises up before us as if there had been no intervening art of the poet, for the communicating medium is forgotten in the feeling conveyed. The hurried and silent funeral,-the uncoffined corpse,-the gloom partially broken by the solitary lanthorn and the struggling moonbeam,-the brief and hard-breathed prayer, the deep but silent grief, too big to find vent in tears or lamentations,-the long stedfast gaze on the face of the dead,-and the bitter, bitter thought of the morrow: The enemy will be here, and they will tread over him! When ever did human sorrow find more perfect utterance? Fain would they have smoothed down the lonely pillow,-grief luxuriates in such offices; but it forms no light portion of the agony of this wretched hour that they cannot indulge in these. Scarce have they committed the beloved of all to his narrow bed, scarce have they accomplished half their task, when the signal calls them away-the bell tolls, and the silence of the night is yet farther broken by the sudden firing of the enemy. Who need be told that the verse which embodies feelings and imagery such as these, and which thus embalms sorrow, and renders it immortal, is poetry of the highest order, or who is there that feels at all, who does not feel it to be such ?"

PERILS OF THE PREVENTIVE SERVICE.
Come on, sir, here's the place: stand still :-how fearful
And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!

Shakspeare. "Dover-Dover," I repeated to myself; "is there not some spot-some relic endeared from reminiscences of the past, to be viewed at Dover?" and musingly I paused at the craving portals. Before me was a dirty coal-quay, where lounged some half-dozen drowsy porters, and beside which sprang a grove of masts. At a little distance, the post-office, girt about with an impatient throng, afforded a scene always diversified, and sometimes amusing. Around me was a crowd of dirty boys, where many a voice was echoing "Shakspeare's cliffthe way to Shakspeare's cliff, sir!" but not a lip uttered, "Would you see Churchill's tomb ?"" Shakspeare's cliff and Churchill's tomb! At any rate here are two objects on which to play the Englishman-but to-night -no, not to-night-too late-to-morrow with the dawn!" To-morrow came-breakfast was finished-the usual turns were taken up and down the room, which travellers always take, or should take, and after the accustomed stare from the window on the aforesaid coal-quay, which now enjoyed a state of repose and cleanliness-repose, from the day being Sunday, and cleanliness, from a heavy fall of snow-I sallied forth. By dint of repeated and persevering inquiries, I learnt at length from a bystander, that the churchyard, containing the object of my pilgrimage, was situated behind the market-place.

In an instant the wall was scaled. I am right: this must be the churchyard where reposes the leading poet of the age in which he lived. Here, then, the bones of the poor curate are mouldering in their native soil, and he, before whose satire the many had trembled, and beneath whose lash Hogarth himself had writhed, is left "to dumb forgetfulness a prey," in a spot so obscure, that even in a little sea-coast town it is a matter of difficulty to discover it.

where the numerous graves were indicated by the rising Leaping quickly from the wall into the cemetery, hillocks of snow, I waded towards the quarter where I had been informed the remains of the satirist were interred.

After examining the tomb, I was retiring slowly where I had entered, casting a casual glance at the "thick deaths of half a century," when a venerable, but blackened ruin, at the farther end of the cemetery attracted my attention. Altering my course, I moved towards it, giving a loose conjecture as to the purposes and date of its erection; when I saw beneath one of its walls, in the her dark habiliments of woe and mourning affording the corner of the ground, a female form, kneeling by a grave; strongest contrast to the newly fallen snow.

The luxury of grief has not been altogether unknown to me in this our pilgrimage of sorrow; neither have I been quite without experience of that jealous sensation which comes over us, when intruded on by the unwelcome presence of a stranger. I therefore stopped my career, and hesitated as to whether I should retreat altogether, or wait and see the result.

Dear woman stands not alone in the matter of curiosity, and in my case it prevailed. Ten minutes wearily stole the mourner, and an additional space of time of the like away, but no motion was to be observed in the form of duration might in all probability have followed to the same purpose, had I not risen, and with some alarm warily approached the spot. She appeared lifeless: in an instant I was at her side. Her rank was evidently that of the upper order; her dress, the deepest mourning, devoid of ornament. Two fair and tiny hands, clasped as if in supplication, contained a lock of hair; the muscles of the arm had fallen relaxed upon the snow, and were rigid with cold: while dark tresses, straying in wild confusion, shaded her perfect, but colourless features. It was a bitter day, and without the loss of another second, I loosened my cloak from my neck, and swathing her fragile form within its ample folds, pressed my lovely burden to my bosom, to restore, if not yet too late, some of that vital warmth which exposure had chilled.

Casting around me an anxious glance, partly with the design of seeing if any aid were near, and partly in hesitation as to what course I should adopt, my eye fell on a tombstone, at whose base we now were. The inscription ran thus: "Sacred to the memory of Lieutenant Frederick Walden of the Coast Guard Blockade."

"Fighting" and "glory" were the only words which I had recognized in addition, when my attention was arrested by the sound of voices on the left.

"Here she is here is my poor Caroline," cried an aged and lady-like female, making towards us with haste and agitation, followed by two servants and a gentleman. "She's dead!-my daughter's dead!" she added, with frantic eagerness, as she gazed on her pale features; and throwing her arms around the insensible sufferer, the mother wept aloud.

Such violent grief was not to be of long endurance: restoratives were administered, and with success. The youthful mourner gradually unclosed her eyelids, and spoke; but in her glance, and still more plainly in her language, was evinced that most humiliating of human woes the aberration of the immortal mind.

"Frederick told me he would come-yet-no-it cannot be I saw him-yes I saw him die."

A convulsive shudder seemed to pass over her-the lips quivered-and her eyelids once more shut out the light from eyes, the wildness of whose beauty gave the beholder pain.

"To the carriage," cried the elder lady, speaking

rapidly; "bear her quick as thought. Mr Morrison," turning to the gentleman who accompanied her, "thank this stranger for me; I am unable to do so as I wish; and prevail on him to let us see him at Woodlands. I leave him in your care." She curtsied and departed. Turning, I found myself alone with the gentleman, to whose attentions I had been commended.

"You appear ignorant of her story, sir," he observed to me, as, while standing at the entrance of the cemetery, we followed with our eyes the retreating carriage.

"Your conjecture is correct: I am merely a wanderer and a traveller. They set me down last night at the Ship Hotel. This morning I strolled forth to look at Churchill's grave and Shakspeare's cliff. Thus far had I proceeded, when as I before remarked, I found that lady Îying on the grave of

"Frederick Walden," said he, closing the sentence. "Poor Frederick !" he continued; "a dear-an intimate friend of mine. "Tis a sad tale-your looks, sir, express your wish to hear it; and if you will accept my poor services as guide to the cliff, your wishes shall be gratified."

I bowed in acquiescence, accepted his proffered arm,

and we walked forward.

It is little more than a year-nay, not so much—it was but last spring that I became acquainted with the deceased. He had just been appointed to the station of R—, which as you know, is one of the posts of the coast blockade; at which billet-it is within a short distance of us-he was to remain eighteen months for the completion of his time. At this period, I was in daily expectation of being superseded, my three years having just expired. As, however, is frequently the case, a delay of six months took place; and the frequent intercourse which our duty occasioned, for my station was only a mile distant from his own, naturally established that friendship and regard of which I have spoken. But to my story.

Caroline Massingberd was the only daughter of the vicar of RHer father's church is situated close to the sea. Walden attended it. Circumstances, too trivial to mention here, brought about an intimacy, and eventually, with the sanction of her parents, an engagement. Joyfully did the young couple look forward to the expiration of the time when he was to retire on half-pay, and enter on the new existence of a married state.

It was some two months after this last arrangement had taken place between them, that we obtained information from Calais of a boat being about to run a cargo in our neighbourhood. She was lying all ready with her contraband booty on board in the little harbour of that port, and waited only for a dark night and a favourable breeze.

Day after day did we order our men to keep the sharpest possible look out; and as often as we met as anxiously did we scan the weather-but in vain. It was fine as a cloudless sky and breathless atmosphere could make it: at last, however, came a dull, cold, gray morning. "Morrison, my boy, I give you joy: here we have it. Before this time to-morrow, the lugger and her tubs will be ours. She sails, I'll be sworn, to-night. The wind's straight up the channel-fair for her to lay over and for us to chase. It's high tide at eleven to-night-no moon. What'll be our share of the prize? How many ankers of brandy did that fellow say?"

I

"Eh?—what?—what are you talking about?" cried, waking up at his voice. "You haven't taken the prize without me, surely? Nay, that's a breach of faith." "Ha ha ha! faith, Morrison, that's good! Leave your dreams in your crib there, and turn out. It's a famous hazy, misty morning, with a stiff breeze right up channel. The night will be dark, depend on it."

It needed little more to rouse me effectually, and in a few minutes we were busy planning the projected interception of the smuggler. The largest boats of our respective stations were drawn down to the sea ready for launching; and the necessary arms, provisions, &c., were placed in due order to be handed in at a moment's notice. Wearily the day stole away; and as Walden had

predicted, there was towards evening every appearance of a dark night. Not a sail had passed in sight of the look out, and at night we were to launch forth our boats in search of danger and of death. Caroline Massingberd had, much to Walden's annoyance, become acquainted with the expected arrival of the contraband boat, and fearfully had she watched each coming moon, while every successive moonlit evening that appeared was hailed as a reprieve from some impending evil. The dreary night at length drew on, and in a note sent to Walden immediately after breakfast, she expressed her gloomy forebodings and anxious wish that he would see her in the evening previous to starting. He dined with me; and often did I remark an expression of sadness stealing over his face like a cloud drifting over a harvest field; passing rapidly, it left the surface behind illumined with its former sun-true-but the glow at each succession was less vivid than before.

At the close of the meal he rose hastily, and hurried away to Woodlands.

How rejoiced I am to see you!" was Caroline's welcome on his arrival.

"You see I am all equipped," he returned, "in expectation of the lugger's approach. Come, let us walk to the sea." "And must you positively set off to-night? Cannot this perilous service proceed without you? Would to heaven you were already free from it! An indefinable -an unaccountable dread-but I ought not-nay, I will not-attempt to seduce you from your duty. But, dearest Frederick, do take every care consistent with your honour."

"Believe me, Caroline, I will," he replied, "if only for my own sake; but when that of yourself is taken into consideration, I need not say my motives for such precautions are doubled. Consider how often, through the course of my professional life, I have had to hazard the result of such dangers for a comparatively trifling stake, and shall I now shrink irom this? the successful termination of which would add so greatly to our future comfort. Be resigned, dearest girl; your forebodings are merely such as are natural. My fate, like that ot other mortals, is in the hands of surpassing wisdom, and I shall return as oft heretofore to retire from peril and hardship to your own soft sunny smile. And now, dearest, the night wears-farewell."

Having made the final arrangements, we proceeded to our boats, each of which contained eight men independent of the officer and coxswain. We had agreed to steer straight for the middle of the channel, until we arrived at the verge of our cruising distance. But during the whole of our course thither, the boats were not to be farther than half a mile apart, thus running in two parallel lines. The weather-boat was to keep a look out to windward; the lee-boat to leeward; the one observing a sail first was to hail the other; and in case of not being heard, a light was to be hoisted at the boat's mast-head. Each man was furnished with a cutlass and a brace of pistols; and each boat was provisioned for two days, and was armed at the bow with a brass three-pounder.

It was a dark but clear night. The breeze came gallantly over the sparkling waves, as one after another they successively rolled towards the English strand.

Ah, sir, a landsman is not capable of estimating that feeling which possesses a British naval officer, when fresh from his warm mess-place, he buckles round his swordbelt, flings his cloak over his shoulder, and sits himself down in the stern-sheets of a tight galley, with some eight or nine stout hearts at his call, ready to do his bidding, and own his mastership!

Having rowed some thirty yards from the shore, close alongside of each other, we tossed in our oars. "Now, my men," said I, being the senior officer, to the two boats' crews; "shake hands before we part; and when the tug of war comes, don't forget the prize-money we shall have at landing; or, if it may hap some of us to lose the number of our mess in the king's service, we've all old girls at home to whom our share will be a comfort. A steady eye, a strong arm, and the night's your own! God bless you, Walden," said I, squeezing his hand, as we leaned over our respective boats; "good-bye!"

"Right! let every man lay in his oar-face about towards the bow-and take aim with his musket at the slings of the forelug. When I give the word, fire, and see if we cannot bring it down for him. Now, my men, a good strong pull!”

"Where?" I exclaimed.

"There, sir," pointing with his finger.

"No, no, sir, that's only a wee bit of hazy cloud," said the look-out, who felt his vigilance called in question. I looked towards the spot with some incredulity, having swept the horizon with my night-glass but a few minutes before to no purpose. There was undoubtedly something in the distance, and I was inclined to the belief of the second speaker. It seemed a dim and indistinct flitting spot on the horizon. Once more, I applied my glass. "A mere cloud," I returned, after my examination, "I can see it lifted above the water-line."

"Ah, sir," returned the coxswain: "well, surely, I thought it might be a sail."

"Has the boat to leeward made any signal yet?" I inquired.-No, she had made none. Still we held on our course; let out a reef; and the old coxswain, tenacious of his own belief, kept her a little nearer to the wind. Despite of my reported opinion, we all kept our eyes on the suspected spot, till it gradually grew larger, and seemingly more dense. There was no longer that mistiness about it; on the contrary, a sharp clear outline was beginning to be visible.

"Well, your honour," said the coxswain, "if so be it had been one of my messmates who had gainsayed me, I'd ha' bet a gallon of grog that 'ere wee bit of stuff's a sail after all. It's worthy of another look, sir!"

To humour him, I raised the glass again; when, behold! it no longer appeared to be floating in the air, since its dark form was now much increased in size, and continuous with the sea, shooting up in bold relief, against the dim sky. I kept my glass fixed upon it. Every moment it seemed to increase in bulk. Its outline had become quite sharp, and now assumed the form of a pyramid. In another instant I discovered her to be a three-masted lugger, which, on its first appearing above the horizon, had been lifted up by the refraction. "Here's the prize! Here she is!" ran round the boat, from lip to lip.

"Shall I hoist the light, sir?" inquired one of the men. "No," I replied; "but, coxswain, up with your helm, and run down to the boat to leeward. I want to communicate; my men, examine your primings, and make ready." In a few minutes we had traversed the slight intervening space. The lug of our boat was hauled down, as her head luffed up in the breeze, and we were alongside Walden. He had just observed the stranger, when we altered our course to meet him. After a few minutes' consultation, it was agreed that we should make sail for the lugger till within the distance of a mile; then, taking in our canvass, we were to make use of our oars, and board her; myself on the weather-beam, by crossing the bows; and Walden on the lee-quarter. Once more hoisting our sail, then, with this understanding, away we flew. The proposed distance had been sped, the sail reduced, and our oars were then taken out. Nobly the gallant lugger loomed through the clear, dark night, as she came towards us like a war-horse rejoicing in its strength. Our boats were so low in the water, and every thing belonging to them of so dark a colour, that it was impossible to discover us until very near. We were now within a quarter of a mile. Walden was about thirty yards astern-perhaps a little more.

"Are you all ready, my men?" I inquired, in a low

tone.

"All ready, sir."

"Shall we fire now, sir!" said the men, addressing me. "One minute more. Now-a steady aim.-Fire!" We were within ten yards of the bows, when this order was given. On the instant, the four men discharged their muskets successively. Nor in vain. Down came the forelug thundering on the deck.-In three strokes more we were on her weather-bow.

Not a man was to be seen. "She's ours," I cried, triumphantly. But the words had scarcely escaped my lips, when a three-pound swivel, which I had not observed, sent its murderous contents into the boat, laying the stroke-oarsman dead at my feet, wounding severely four of the men, and myself slightly on the shoulder. Furious at this resistance, I whipped out my cutlass-"Toss in your oars-in with them-and aboard!-No quarter; down with every mother's son of them!"

At the word, the bow-man had hooked his boat-hook on the fore-chains, and in another moment we should have been upon her decks, when a musket-shot, from some loop-hole in the bulwark, penetrated his head, and he tumbled lifeless into the foaming waters.

I was outrageous. Not a soul was to be seen. Revenge had no object on which to wreak itself. Scarce a sound was to be heard on board. "Seize the boathook in the bow, and bring us alongside," I roared out. At this moment, a run inside on the decks took place, and away went the forelug to the mast-head, all right once more. Her head fell off from the wind, and she darted instantly forward on her rapid course.

"Where in the name of fortune is Walden?" thought I. My thoughts were answered ere expressed. A tremendous crash, and a cry of "We're over-we're run over-the helm,"-and some other words half uttered, half suppressed, made me turn my eye towards the bow of the lugger. There I saw Walden's boat under her cutwater. The men were all struggling and bawling-she disappeared, and was, I concluded, run over by the smuggler.

Meanwhile, my men had been firing at the lugger's spars, but in vain; and she, much to our mortification, shot ahead. The brass bow-gun was double shotted. Springing forward, I hastily took aim, and fired. To my inexpressible joy, I beheld her main-top-mast totter, and fall over to leeward; while the spar being struck below the cross-trees, the mainsail also fell to the deck. was this all; for looking once more on the waters, there was Walden's boat, which, it appears, had escaped with a severe concussion, occasioned by the lugger re-hoisting her foresail, and paying off before he could alter his course.

Nor

"Fire into her, Walden!--Hurrah! Hurrah! Pepper into her well. Give way, my boys; we'll soon be alongside of her once more.' We now gained rapidly on the chase, encumbered with the wreck. But she had some smart hands aboard, and in a few minutes it was all cut away again, and she speeding along under fore and after-sail. Up went a hand to repair damages: a shot struck him, and over he tumbled into the waves.

"Fling him a keg, my boys: we can stop for no one! Hurrah, there, Walden give way! We're gaining on her." But suddenly his oars ceased. We heard some cry. "What does he say?" In an instant his boat appeared to settle in the water, and we plainly distinguished the words,-"We're sinking!"

We

On pulling up to him the boat had disappeared. The shock had started her keel from stem to stern. Her crew were struggling for life amid the waves. rescued seven of the ten. Three of them being wounded had sunk to rise no more. Notwithstanding all our disasters, we allowed no time for condolence, but burning with revenge made all sail after the lugger, who was at least two miles ahead.