did see before we left that' place just now, I am quite prepared for the worst. I never beheld such a horrid countenance!"

This was not very flattering to my ears, but I consoled myself with the reflection that it was not true. Ma'mselle Goret, who called me her "petit Cupidon," and Perrette, who, in her uncouth way, said I was an "Amour," could hardly have been so much mistaken. Their opinion, moreover, was confirmed by the soft voice which spoke again:

"Dear mamma! how can you say so? I think he is very handsome." "If you don't hold your tongue, miss," observed miladi, sharply, "you shall go to-bed to-night without your supper-not," added she, having accidentally stumbled upon her original grievance" that there's much chance of any of us getting either to-night. What makes him go so slow, I wonder."

" [ suppose it's the hill, my dear."

"Well, we're nearly at the top, and I wish you'd tell him to drive faster. What's the name of the place we're to stop at to-night, when we do stop?"

"Mount-leary, my love," said Sir John, whose surliness of manner seemed to have abated in proportion as his wife's excitement increased. He then leant his head out of the carriage and called out "Postalong!" “Oui, milord," I answered, bestowing a title which Sans Pouces had told me is always complacently received by English travellers.

"Ha!" said Sir John in English, "this fellow's no fool; I have been 'my lord' once and I may be again!" Then addressing me in what he conceived to be French, which I should have been considerably puzzled to make out, if I had not possessed the key to his intentions, he continued, Postalong, karng voose ait soor le sommy de lar colleen ally ploo veet." "Oui, milord.'

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"Et, postalong, combang lar distance ar Longjimmo.”

"Deux fortes lieues, milord."

"What does he say?" inquired miladi.

"Something like forty lews," replied Sir John, in a tone of doubt. "What's a lew?" said his helpmate.

"A 'lew' means a league, my dear, two miles and a half English,there must be some mistake here; forty lews would make a hundred miles, and my book says it's only seven lews altogether from Parry to Mount-leary."

"He didn't say forty leagues, papa," exclaimed the pretty voice in the opposite corner.

"How much then, Carry? I'm sure I heard him say forty as plain as possible."

“He didn't mean that, at any rate," replied the voice, “deux fortes lieues' means two good leagues.'

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Sir John, "well, you girls have quicker ears than I have. Tray bang," he resumed, addressing me, 66 ar kell oor,kell oor-what's the French, Carry, for 'get to?""

"Shall I speak to him, papa?"

"No thankee, my dear; I like to improve myself in the language. I want to know when we shall get to Mount-leary."

"You must say 'arriverons nous à Montl'héry.''

"Oh! I say, postalong, ar kell oor reevarongnoo ar Mount-leary?" As I saw that there would be a good deal of time wasted in this kind of dialogue, if it were continued in the jargon Sir John thought proper

to indulge in, I resolved to display my proficiency in his native tongue, and therefore answered him in his own language. "About eleven o'clock, milord."

"What the deuce!" he exclaimed, surprised beyond measure,—“can you speak English! Well, damme, that is strange! Here's a French postalong talking English? They're queer people, certainly; I should like to hear an English postboy jabbering French!"

"Oh lord!" said miladi in a loud whisper, "he must have heard what I said of him. I hope he wont take any notice. I'm sure,” she added, raising her voice, "I think he's a very good-looking, civil person, and much too young to be wicked. Pray, sir, do you think it will be any darker before we get to-to-this place?"

"There's no moon to-night, miladi," I answered, "but still in summer-time it's never very dark, and I'll drive as fast as I can."

"That's a good fellow," said Sir John, "and I'll give you something handsome to drink our healths with. So now jump up in your saddle, and get over the ground as quick as you please."

I did not require to be told twice, and being now more accustomed to the weight of my boots, I was soon mounted again, and the horses being well breathed, we got along merrily. The Croix de Berny was soon passed, we rattled through the village of Antony at a famous pace, and in about an hour we crossed the little bridge over the Ivette, and entered the bourg of Lonjumeau.

In this place a greater difficulty awaited the travellers than they had experienced at Bourg la Reine. Arrived at the post-house, not only was there no postillion to be had, but the horses were all out, and it was with difficulty I roused any body to give us even that information. A sleepy fellow who yawned dreadfully as he spoke from an open window, told us that it was very seldom any one arrived from Paris en poste at that hour of the night, and that we had nothing to do but to make the best of our way to Linas, the post station on the other side of Montl'héry.

"We are not going as far as Linas," said I, "Monsieur means to sleep at Montl'héry."

"So much the better," replied the 66 man, 6 you will get to-bed the sooner. I wish you a very good night."

And with these words he closed the casement and disappeared.

Sir John who had listened to our brief colloquy with attention, but appeared to receive more enlightenment from the closed gates and the speaker's manner than from what was actually said, now called to me to explain matters.

"How much further is it?" he asked.

"Not quite two leagues," I replied; "it's a good pull for the horses, -I don't know what M. Bruneau will say."

"Never mind what any one says," said Sir John a; "drive on to Mount-leary, and I'll make it all right."

"Pray, do, sir," exclaimed miladi,-and her entreaty was re-echoed by both the young ladies inside, and their maid in the rumble,-the soft, sweet voice adding, "Do, that's a good postillion."

I needed no further exhortation; indeed, I desired nothing better, for the novelty of my position made the whole affair extremely pleasant, so I stuck my spurs into the stout Norman on which I was mounted, and with much whip-cracking and hoof-clashing, we cantered out of Lonjumeau as quickly as we had cantered in.

THE REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.*

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM, more generally known as Thomas Ingoldsby, was born on December 6th, 1788, in Canterbury, where his family had resided for several generations, the name being connected with different manors in the vicinity. In his love of antiquarian lore, Mr. Barham was wont to trace his descent from one Ursus or Urso, a knight of worship in the days of the Conqueror, from whom sprang the Fitzurses, whose patronymic was subsequently changed into that of Mac Mahon and De Berham, both having reference in different languages to the original bearish etymology.

Young Barham became heir to a small estate, alluded to as Tapton Wood in the "Ingoldsby Legends," when only five or six years of age, but as early as in the year 1802, he was nearly bereft even of this by an accident which mutilated his right arm for life. This occurred on his way to St. Paul's school, where in consequence of his youth and delicate constitution he remained two years as captain, before he entered as a gentleman commoner at Brazennose College. Already distinguished by his kindly spirit and happy genius, he was speedily elected a member of Phoenix Common Room, at that time one of the "crack" university clubs. Here he found kindred spirits, in Lord G. Grenville (now Lord Nugent), Cecil Tattersall, and Theodore Hook, the last of whom was well nigh refused matriculation by Dr. Parsons for professing an accommodating readiness to subscribe not only to thirty-nine, but to forty articles, if required.

It may naturally be imagined that in such company young Barham did not pass through the ordeal of college life unscathed. Being reproached on one occasion by his tutor, Mr. Hodson, for the late hours he kept and his absence from morning chapel.

"The fact is, sir," urged the pupil, "you are too late for me." "Too late!" repeated the tutor in astonishment.

"Yes, sir. I cannot sit up till seven o'clock in the morning. I am a man of regular habits, and unless I get to bed by four or five at latest, I am really fit for nothing next day."

An impertinence which was more effectually rebuked by the sorrow it occasioned than by angry remonstrances. It was, however, a peculiarity in Mr. Barham's character to love late hours, and his talents for composition in after life are said never to have been so brilliant and so effective

as when the chimes of midnight were approaching. A short but severe illness, not unopportunely sent, led Mr. Barham from his original design of preparing for the bar, to become a candidate for holy orders. The suicidal death of a young friend at college, had also apparently an influence in awakening his mind to serious and religious contemplation.

In due time Mr. Barham was admitted to the curacy of Ashford, in Kent, whence he was transferred to Westwell, a small parish some few miles distant. In 1814 he married Caroline, third daughter of Captain

*The "Ingoldsby Legends, or Mirth and Marvels," by Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.; Third series. Memoir of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham.

Smart of the Royal Engineers, and shortly afterwards, on being presented to the living of Snargate, he removed to Wareham, the curacy of which was at the same time offered him. These parishes were about two miles apart, in Romney Marsh, a spot abounding with smugglers, who, however, were not only civil to their parson, but extended their familiarity so far as to make the church itself a depôt for contraband goods; and on one occasion when a large seizure of tobacco was made in the Snargate belfry, calumny contended for the discovery of a keg of hollands under the vestry table. A second accident, no less than the fracture of his leg, by the overturn of a gig, entailed a seclusion, the result of which was a novel entitled "Baldwin," which is said to have fallen still-born from the Minerva press. The illness of one of his children having shortly after this caused Mr. Barham to visit London, a friend recommended him to become a candidate for a minor canonry, then vacant at St. Paul's. Notwithstanding the blame and ridicule of his friends, attached to his giving up his living for a mere chance, where failure appeared certain, he was duly elected, and in 1821 received his first metropolitan preferment.

Literature, the pursuit of which in so uncongenial an atmosphere as that of Romney Marsh had received little development, proved a serviceable auxiliary to Mr. Barham, who was now obliged to reside in London, and that with an increasing family. Articles of the lighter sort were struck off in rapid succession for Blackwood, John Bull, and the Globe. And he further devoted much time to the completion of a book then in progress, called "Gorton's Biographical Dictionary."

In 1824, Mr. Barham received the appointment of a priest in ordinary of his majesty's Chapel Royal, and was shortly afterwards presented, "by one of those chances," says his son and biographer, "with which every man's life abounds, and which serve to show how slight and seemingly insignificant are the pivots on which the wheels of human fortune turn" -a philosophy which we should most unwillingly admit-to the incumbency of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Gregory by St. Paul. Professional duties now excluded literary labours to any extent, and in the performance of these, it is universally admitted that Mr. Barham won the esteem and regard of all who knew him. He had, possibly from having no power in that line, a dislike to oratorical display in the pulpit, but the more stable qualities of his head and heart enabled him to discharge his duties with more earnestness and success than mere eloquence could have insured. He was ever most watchful over the welfare of his flock, temporal and eternal, and it has probably fallen to the lot of few in his station of life to have enjoyed so many and ample opportunites of tasting "the luxury of doing good." Mr. Barham's appointment in the Chapel Royal, led to an acquaintance, which quickly ripened into a warm friendship, with the late Rev. Edward Cannon. The eccentricities of this singular being, who was one of the priests of the household, and the Godfrey Moss in Hook's celebrated novel of " Maxwell," were of a mixed humorous and painful character, and, as is usual in such cases, terminated as they began, inauspiciously. Victim of the slow poison to which he must have become a slave before Mr. Barham rescued him from his self-imposed exile at Twickenham, he died "deep sunk in childhood's night."

Mr. Barham had been but a few years a resident in the metropolis, when he was visited by the first of a series of domestic afflictions, the loss of his eldest daughter, in 1825. Fondly devoted to his children, he felt

most poignantly the chastening of that hand which was pleased to withdraw from him five of his children, at intervals, thus ever keeping open wounds as yet scarcely closed. Some touching lines, referring to the event, appeared at the time in Blackwood's Magazine,

About this period (1826) Mr. Barham commenced a diary, which was begun with a spirit that was not sustained, and a regularity that soon began to fail. This journal, however, contains some curious memoranda and anecdotes of Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Hook, Dr. Hughes, Mr. Cannon, Mr. T. Hill, Mr. Stephen Price, and other well-known names. Although Mr. Barham himself condemned practical jokes,* still he was, like others, irresistibly led away by the ludicrous positions brought about by Theodore Hook's humour.

He even preserved the memorandum of one of this lamented author's extraordinary displays as an improvisatore, in an imaginary burletta, supposed to have been produced at Sadler's Wells. Upon the occasion of the destruction of Maclise's portrait of Sir John Soane, which had become a bone of contention with the council of the Literary Fund, Mr. Barham transmitted a curious punning "Lament" to the John Bull. Under the date of January, 1830, the diary contains a most amusing account of Mr. John Frost, the celebrated director of the Medico-Botanical Society, who used to run about with a highly ornamented album to every distinguished person, British or Foreign, to whom he could by any possibility introduce himself, and inform them that they were elected "honorary members," for which he received from certain potentates the insignia of their minor orders, and which he lost no time in mounting upon his coat, much to the annoyance of Lord Stanhope, the president, and the rest of the body of nincompoops.

Among the cool stratagems which this gentleman made use of to obtain signatures, Mr. Barham relates one which he played off on the Duke of Wellington, which, he justly says, had the truth not been vouched for he should hardly have credited it.

Having failed in repeated attempts to get with his Quarto into Apsley House, he heard, by good luck, that his grace, then commander-in-chief, was about to hold a levee of General officers. Away posted Jacky to a masquerade warehouse, hired a lieutenant-general's uniform, under cover of which he succeeded in establishing himself fairly in the duke's ante-room, among thirteen or fourteen first-rate directors of strategetics.

Every body stared at a general whom nobody knew, and at length an aide-de

camp, addressing him, politely requested to know his name.

What general shall I have the honour of announcing to his grace ?" "My name is Frost, sir."

Frost, General Frost! I beg your pardon, but I really do not recollect to have heard that name before"

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Oh, sir, I am no general, I have merely put on this costume, as I understood that I could not obtain access to his grace without it; I am the director

* The only thing of the kind in which Mr. B. is related to have been personally engaged, was, as a boy, at Canterbury, when, with a schoolfellow, now a gallant major "famed for deeds of arms," he entered a Quaker's meeting-house; looking round at the grave assembly, the latter held up a penny tart, and said solemnly, "Whoever speaks first shall have this pie.'

"Go thy way," commenced a drab-coloured gentleman, rising; "go thy way, and-"

"The pie's yours, sir," exclaimed B-, placing it before the astounded speaker, and hastily effecting his escape.