fighting for, and there is a death-dealing sword or rifle in your hand, with which you are going to resist some tremendous enemy who challenges your championship on your native shore? Then, Sir Thomas, resist him to the death, and it is all right: kill him, and heaven bless you. Drive him into the sea, and there destroy, smash, and drown him; and let us sing Laudamus. In these national cases, you see, we override the indisputable first laws of morals. Loving your neighbor is very well, but suppose your neighbor comes over from Calais and Boulogne to rob you of your laws, your liberties, your newspapers, your parliament (all of which some dear neighbors of ours have given up in the most self-denying manner): suppose any neighbor were to cross the water and propose this kind of thing to us? Should we not be justified in humbly trying to pitch him into the water? If it were the King of Belgium himself we must do so. I mean that fighting, of course, is wrong; but that there are occasions when, &c. - I suppose I mean that that one-handed fight of Sayers is one of the most spirit-stirring little stories ever told and, with every love and respect for Morality - my spirit says to her, "Do, for goodness' sake, my dear madam, keep your true, and pure, and womanly, and gentle remarks for another day. Have the great kindness to stand a leetle aside and just let us see one or two more rounds between the men. That little man with the one hand powerless on his breast facing yonder giant for hours, and felling him, too, every now and then! It is the little Java' and the Constitution' over again." I think it is a most fortunate event for the brave Heenan, who has acted and written since the battle with a true warrior's courtesy, and with a great deal of good logic too, that the battle was a drawn one. The advantage was all on Mr. Sayers' side. Say a young lad of sixteen insults me in the street, and I try and thrash him, and do it. Well, I have thrashed a young lad. You great, big tyrant, couldn't you hit one of your own size? But say the lad thrashes me? In either case I walk away discomfited: but in the latter, I am positively put to shame. Now, when the ropes were cut from that death-grip, and Sir Thomas released, the gentleman of Benicia was confessedly blind of one eye, and speedily afterwards was blind of both. Could Mr. Sayers have held out for three minutes, for five minutes, for ten minutes more? He says he could. So we say we could have held out, and did, and had beaten off the enemy at Waterloo, even if the Prussians hadn't come up. The opinions differ pretty much according to the nature of the opinants. I say the Duke and Tom could have held out, that they meant to hold out, that they did hold out, and that there has been fistifying enough. That crowd which came in and stopped the fight ought to be considered like one of those divine clouds which the gods send in Homer: "Apollo shrouds The godlike Trojan in a veil of clouds." It is the best way of getting the godlike Trojan out of the scrape, don't you see? The nodus is cut; Tom is out of chancery; the Benicia Boy not a bit the worse, nay, better than if he had beaten the little man. He has not the humiliation of conquest. He is greater, and will be loved more hereafter by the gentle sex. Suppose he had overcome the god-like Trojan ? Suppose he had tied Tom's corpse to his cab-wheels, and driven to Farn ham, smoking the pipe of triumph? Faugh! the great hulking conqueror! Why did you not hold your hand from yonder hero? Everybody, I say, was relieved by that opportune appearance of the British gods, protectors of native valor, who interfered, and withdrew" their champion. con Now, suppose six feet two queror, and five feet eight beaten : would Sayers have been a whit the not, friend, it is not your fault, whilst I don't wish to detract from any gentleman's reputation who is. There. My worst enemy can't take objection to that. The point might have been put more briefly perhaps; but, if you please, we will not argue that question. less gallant and meritorious? If any stupendous victories, that, had Sancho had been allowed really to opportunity so served, they might reign in Barataria, I make no doubt have been heroes too. If you are that, with his good sense and kindness of heart, he would have devised some means of rewarding the brave vanquished, as well as the brave victors in the Baratarian army, and that a champion who had fought a good fight would have been a knight of King Don Sancho's orders, whatever the upshot of the combat had been. Suppose Wellington overwhelmed on the plateau of Mont St. John; suppose Washington attacked and beaten at Valley Forge- and either supposition is quite easy- and what becomes of the heroes? They would have been as brave, honest, heroic, wise; but their glory, where would it have been? Should we have had their portraits hanging in our chambers? have been familiar with their histories have pondered over their letters, common lives, and daily sayings? There is not only merit, but luck which goes to making a hero out of a gentleman. Mind, please you, I am not saying that the hero is after all not so very heroic; and have not the least desire to grudge him his merit because of his good fortune. Have you any idea whither this Roundabout Essay on some late great victories is tending? Do you suppose that by those words I mean Trenton, Brandywine, Salamanca, Vittoria, and so forth? By a great victory I can't mean that affair at Farnham, for it was a drawn fight. Where, then, are the victories, pray, and when are we coming to them? My good sir, you will perceive that in this Nicæan discourse, I have only as yet advanced as far as this that a hero, whether he wins or loses, is a hero; and that if a fellow will but be honest and courageous, and do his best, we are for paying all honor to him. Furthermore, it has been asserted that Fortune has a good deal to do with the making of heroes; and thus hinted for the consolation of those who don't happen to be engaged in Well, then. The victories which I wish especially to commemorate in this paper, are the six great, complete, prodigious, and undeniable victories, achieved by the corps which the editor of "The Cornhill Magazine" has the honor to command. When I seem to speak disparagingly but now of generals, it was that chief I had in my I (if you will permit me the expression). I wished him not to be elated by too much prosperity; I warned him against assuming heroic imperatorial airs, and cocking his laurels too jauntily over his ear. I was his conscience, and stood on the splash-board of his triumph-car, whispering, "Hominem memento te.' As we rolled along the way, and passed the weathercocks on the temples, I saluted the symbol of the goddess Fortune with a reverent awe. "We have done our little endeavor," I said, bowing my head, "and mortals can do no more. But we might have fought' bravely, and not won. We might have cast the coin, calling, 'Head,' and lo! Tail might have come uppermost." O thou Ruler of Victories! thou Awarder of Fame! thou Giver of Crowns (and shillings) if thou hast smiled upon us, shall we not be thankful? There is a Saturnine philosopher, standing at the door of his book-shop, who, I fancy, has a pooh-pooh expression as the triumph passes. (I can't see quite clearly for the laurels, which have fallen down over my nose.) One hand is reining in the two white elephants that draw the car; I raise the other hand up to-to the laurels, and pass on, waving him a graceful recognition. Up the Hill of Ludgate | teers we have had thousands.” (Muraround the Pauline Square-by murs and grumbles.) "What the side of Chepe- until it reaches commander, citizens, could place all our own Hill of Corn the proces- these men - could make officers of sion passes. The Imperator is bow- all these men?" (cries of "Noing to the people; the captains of the no!" and laughter) — "could say, legions are riding round the car, their 'I accept this recruit, though he is gallant minds struck by the thought, too short for our standard, because "Have we not fought as well as yon- he is poor, and has a mother at home der fellow, swaggering in the chariot, who wants bread?' could enroll this and are we not as good as he?" other, who is too weak to bear arms, Granted, with all my heart, my dear because he says, 'Look, sir, I shall lads. When your consulship arrives, be stronger anon.' The leader of may you be as fortunate. When such an army as ours must select his these hands, now growing old, shall men, not because they are good and lay down sword and truncheon, may virtuous, but because they are strong you mount the car, and ride to the and capable. To these our ranks are temple of Jupiter. Be yours the lau- ever open, and in addition to the rels then. Neque me myrtus dedecet, warriors who surround me" -(the looking cosily down from the arbor generals look proudly conscious) —“I where I sit under the arched vine. tell you, citizens, that I am in treaty with other and most tremendous champions, who will march by the side of our veterans to the achieve ment of fresh victories. Now, blow trumpets! Bang, ye gongs! and drummers, drub the thundering skins! Generals and chiefs, we go to sacrifice to the gods." I fancy the Imperator standing on the steps of the temple (erected by Titus) on the Mons Frumentarius, and addressing the citizens: "Quirites!" he says, "in our campaign of six months, we have been engaged six times, and in each action have taken near upon a hundred thousand prisoners. Go to! What are other Crowned with flowers, the captains magazines compared to our maga- enter the temple, the other Magazines zine? (Sound, trumpeter!) What walking modestly behind them. The banner is there like that of Cornhill? people huzza; and, in some instances, You, philosopher yonder!". (He kneel and kiss the fringes of the robes shirks under his mantle.) "Do you of the warriors. The Philosopher know what it is to have a hundred puts up his shutters, and retires into and ten thousand readers? A hun- his shop, deeply moved. In ancient dred thousand readers? a hundred times, Pliny (apud Smith) relates it thousand buyers!" (Cries of "No!" was the custom of the Imperator" tc "Pooh ! "Yes, upon my hon- paint his whole body a bright red; or!" "Oh, come!" and murmurs and, also, on ascending the Hill, to of applause and derision) - "I say have some of the hostile chiefs led more than a hundred thousand pur- aside "to the adjoining prison, and chasers and I believe as much as a put to death." We propose to dismillion readers!" (Immense sensa-pense with both these ceremonies. tion.) "To these have we said an unkind word? We have enemies; have we hit them an unkind blow? Have we sought to pursue party aims, to forward private jobs, to advance selfish schemes ? The only persons THORNS IN THE CUSHION. IN the Essay with which this volto whom wittingly we have given ume commences, "The Cornhill Magpain are some who have volunteered azine was likened to a ship sailing for our corps-and of these volun- | forth on her voyage, and the captain uttered a very sincere prayer for her prosperity. The dangers of storm and rock, the vast outlay upon ship and cargo, and the certain risk of the venture, gave the chief officer a feeling of no small anxiety; for who could say from what quarter danger might arise, and how his owner's property might be imperilled? After a six months' voyage, we with very thankful hearts could acknowledge our good fortune: and, taking up the apologue in the Roundabout manner, we composed a triumphal procession in honor of the Magazine, and imagined the Imperator thereof riding in a sublime car to return thanks in the Temple of Victory. Cornhill is accustomed to grandeur and greatness, and has witnessed, every ninth of November, for I don't know how many centuries, a prodigious annual pageant, chariot, progress and flourish of trumpetry; and being so very near the Mansion House, I am sure the reader will understand how the idea of pageant and procession came naturally to my mind. The imagination easily supplied a gold coach, eight_cream-colored horses of your true Pegasus breed, huzzaing multitudes, running footmen, and clanking knights in armor, a chaplain and a sword-bearer with a muff on his head, scowling out of the coach-window, and a Lord Mayor all crimson, fur, gold-chain, and white ribbons, solemnly occupying the place of state. A playful fancy could have carried the matter farther, could have depicted the feast in the Egyptian Hall, the Ministers, Chief Justices, and right reverend prelates taking their seats round about his lordship, the turtle and other delicious viands, and Mr. Toole behind the central throne, bawling out to the assembled guests and dignitaries: "My Lord So-andso, my Lord What-d'ye-call-'im, my Lord Etcætera, the Lord Mayor pledges you all in a loving-cup." Then the noble proceedings come to an end; Lord Simper proposes the ladies; the company rises from table, and adjourns to coffee and muffins. The carriages of the nobility and guests roll back to the West. The Egyptian Hall, so bright just now, appears in a twilight glimmer, in which waiters are seen ransacking the dessert, and rescuing the spoons. His lordship and the Lady Mayoress go into their private apartments. The robes are doffed, the collar and white ribbons are removed. The Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty surely in a fluster about the speeches which he has just uttered; remembering too well now, wretched creature, the principal points which he didn't make when he rose to speak. He goes to bed to headache, to care, to repentance, and, I dare say, to a dose of something which his body-physician has prescribed for him. And there are ever so many men in the city who fancy that man happy! Now, suppose that all through that 9th of November his lordship has had a racking rheumatism, or a toothache, let us say, during all dinner-time through which he has been obliged to grin and mumble his poor old speeches. Is he enviable? Would you like to change with his lordship? Suppose that bumper which his golden footman brings him, instead i'fackins of ypocras or canary, contains some abomination of senna? Away! Remove the golden goblet, insidious cupbearer! You now begin to perceive the gloomy moral which I am about to draw. Last month we sang the song of glorification, and rode in the chariot of triumph. It was all very well. It was right to huzza, and be thankful, and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides, you know, there was the enjoyment of thinking how pleased Brown, and Jones, and Robinson (our dear friends) would be at this announcement of success. But now that the performance is over, my good sir, just step into my private room, and see that it is not all pleasure - this winning of successes. Cast your eye over those newspapers, over those let ters. See what the critics say of your harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries! Why, you are no better than an idiot; you are drivelling; your powers have left you; this always overrated writer is rapidly sinking to, &c. the horrid little squalling wretch!" and knew he would never come to good; and said, "Didn't I tell you so?" when he assaulted the Egyptian. Never mind, then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, because a critic pooh-poohs your work of art-your Moses your child-your foundling. Why, did not a wiseacre in "Blackwood's Magazine" lately fall foul of "Tom Jones?" O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. Richardson, who could write novels himself— but you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear sir, agree in giving our respect and wonder and admiration, to the brave old master. This is not pleasant; but neither is this the point. It may be the critic is right and the author wrong. It may be that the archbishop's sermon is not so fine as some of those discourses twenty years ago which used to delight the faithful in Granada. Or it may be (pleasing thought!) that the critic is a dullard, and does not understand what he is writing about. Everybody who has been to In these last words I am supposing an exhibition has heard visitors dis- the respected reader to be endowed coursing about the pictures before with a sense of humor, which he may their faces. One says, "This is very or may not possess; indeed, don't well!" another says, "This is stuff we know many an honest man who can and rubbish; " another cries, "Bravo! no more comprehend a joke than he can this is a masterpiece:" and each has turn a tune? But I take for granted, a right to his opinion. For example, my dear sir, that you are brimming one of the pictures I admired most at over with fun-you mayn't make the Royal Academy is by a gentle- jokes, but you could if you would — man on whom I never, to my knowl- you know you could: and in your edge, set eyes. This picture is No. quiet way you enjoy them extremely. 346, Moses," by Mr. S. Solomon. Now, many people neither make them, I thought it had a great intention, I nor understand them when made, nor thought it finely drawn and composed. like them when understood, and are It nobly represented, to my mind, the suspicious, testy, and angry with dark children of the Egyptian bon- jokers. Have you ever watched an dage, and suggested the touching elderly male or female- an elderly story. My newspaper says, "Two" party," so to speak, who begins to ludicrously ugly women looking at find out that some young wag of the a dingy baby, do not form a pleasing company is "chaffing" him? Have object; "and so good-by, Mr. Solomon. you ever tried the sarcastic or Socratic Are not most of our babies served so method with a child? Little simple in life? and doesn't Mr. Robinson he or she, in the innocence of the consider Mr. Brown's cherub an ugly, simple heart, plays some silly freak, squalling little brat? So cheer up, or makes some absurd remark, which Mr. S. S. It may be the critic who you turn to ridicule. The little creadiscoursed on your baby is a bad ture dimly perceives that you are judge of babies. When Pharaoh's making fun of him, writhes, blushes, kind daughter found the child, and grows uneasy, bursts into tears, cherished and loved it, and took it upon my word it is not fair to try the home, and found a nurse for it, too, I weapon of ridicule upon that innodare say there were grim, brickdust- cent young victim. The awful objurcolored chamberlains, or some of the gatory practice he is accustomed to. tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses Point out his fault, and lay bare the at court, who never had children dire consequences thereof: expose it themselves, who cried out, "Faugh! | roundly, and give him a proper, sol |