Buch creaking soles.

"He is doubtless," thought I," some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast."

I had to go to work at this picture again, and to paint him entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen, that are frequently met with, swaggering about the doors of country inns: moist, merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt liquors : men who have seen the world, and been sworn at High-gate; who are used to tavern life; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans; free livers on a small scale, who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea; who call all the waiters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus after dinner. The morning wore away in forming of these and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would completely overthrow it, and throw all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind I was, as I have said, extremely nervous; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this invisible personage began to have its effect. Dinner time came. I hoped the stout gentleman might dine in the travellers' room, and that I might at length get a view of his person; but no, he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery? He could not be a radical; there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of the world, and condemning himself to his own dull company through a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end; for he could not have finished his first bottle, before I could faintly hear him humming a tune; and, on listening, I found it to be "God save the King." "Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject; one that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by King and Constitution when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he be? My conjectures began to run wild. Was

he not some person of distinction travelling incog. ? “Who knows?" said I, at my wit's end; "it may be one of the royal family, for aught I know, for they are all stout gentlemen!" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, as the day advanced, the travellers' room began to be frequented. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats; others came home, who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting maid, whom they called Louisa and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, had become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent.

The evening gradually wore away; the travellers read the papers two or three times over; some drew round the fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns and breakings down. They discussed the credit of different merchants and different inns. And the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind, after which they, one after another, rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. There was only one man left-a shortlegged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port-wine negus and a spoon; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. gradually fell asleep, but upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and

He

man.

cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that re mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of the travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain,-drop-drop-drop,-from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves, these ghastly great-coats, these guttural breath ings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious gentleHis steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. "Be he who or what he may," said I to myself, "I'll have a sight of him!" I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up to No 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated,-I entered. The "oom was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and a Times newspaper; and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently just retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front of the house. As I went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den. He might discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terribly nervous state, and, even when I fell asleep, I was still haunted by the idea of the stout gentleman and his wax-topped boots.

I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir or bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend; until, getting more awake, I found there was a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, "The gentleman has forgotten his umbrella! look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13!” I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid along

the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, "Here it is. here's the gentleman's umbrella!" The mysterious stran ger was, then, on the point of setting off. This was the only chance I could ever have of knowing him. I sprang out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the curtains, and just caught a glimpse at the rear of a person, getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed. "All right!" was the word,-the coach whirled off,—and that was all I ever saw of the stout gentleman.

Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams.-WEBSTER

HE possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger, and a sanguine reliance on the goodness of the cause and the virtues of the people, which led him to overlook all obstacles. His character, too, had been formed in troubled times. He had been rocked in the early storms of the controversy, and had acquired a decision and a hardihood, proportioned to the severity of the discipline which he had undergone.

He not only loved the American cause devoutly, but had studied and understood it. He had tried his powers, on the questions which it involved, often, and in various ways; and had brought to their consideration whatever of argument or illustration the history of his own country, the history of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal learning could furnish. Every grievance enumerated in the long catalogue of the Declaration, had been the subject of his discussion, and the object of his remonstrance and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of the colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs inflicted on the colonies, had engaged his constant atten. tion; and it has surprised those, who have had the opportunity of observing, with what full remembrance, and with what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreme old age, to every act of parliament affecting the colonies, distinguishing and stating their respective titles, sections

and provisions; and to all the colonial memorials, remon◄ strances and petitions, with whatever else belonged to the intimate and exact history of the times, from that year to 1775. It was, in his own judgment, between these years, that the American people came to a full understanding and thorough knowledge of their rights, and to a fixed resolution of maintaining them; and, bearing himself an active part in all important transactions, the controversy with England being then, in effect, the business of his life, facts, dates and particulars made an impression which was never effaced. He was prepared, therefore, by education and discipline, as well as by natural talent and natural temperament, for the part which he was now to act.

The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general character, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold, manly and energetic; and such the crisis required. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it— they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose,