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and, deeply disappointed, Mr. Starkie plunged Here, then, the tale should have its ending. into practice, and sought to bury his woe But the poets are like honest Verges— "a amid his papers. How little, he reflected, good old man, sir, he will be talking." And the world knows of a man's real character! the true word having been spoken, Mr. Rob ert Buchanan found himself compelled to fall If this of most be true, 'tis true, back upon the legend. Mr. Buchanan was And doubly true of me. "ever a fighter." He would have made pretty Whose roots are plunged down deep from view. play with his cudgel in the old swashbuckling Whose blossoms none may see. days; Grub Street would have resounded A gnarl'd trunk, all seam'd and crost with his shouts of triumph and the howls of Of hard and knitted grain : his victims. He costumes his solicitor in Whose hopes were bitten by one frost, the style of the Adelphi, a " villain of half And never grew again. penny sheets." Nor grew, nor died — the sap return'd And gathered in the roots : And though in Spring no more it burn'd Ambitious of green shoots Yet, east and west, and north and south, Refresh'd with rain and dew, The roots sent slender saplings forth. And none knew whence they grew. How could they know? I blame not them; They judge by what they see; They only see the rough old stem, And this they take for me. How can they tell how I have striv'd To keep my real life Pure as the life I would have lived If she had been my wife. They think a lawyer thus must act, And thus he scarcely can, But they, methinks, forget the fact That he, like them, is Man. The path the toiling foot may tread Shows not the spirit's goal, And work which earns the body's bread Need never stain the soul.

This (though not the end of Mr. Starkie's reflections) is the conclusion of the whole matter. Here is the final crown of the work, the last stage of the long evolution of opin ion concerning the attorney. Not always is his nature subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand. The work which earns his body's bread need never stain the soul. The attorney, also, even he, like the critics, "is Man."

Sharp like a tyrant, timid like a slave, A little man with yellow, bloodless cheek; A snappish mingling of the fool and knave, Resulting in the hybrid compound— Sneak.

It is not for the reader to contest Mr. Buchanan's criticism on his own creation; Mr. Thomas Sneak, the respectable solicitor, a man of principle, of means, of regular church-going habits, is not the most probable result of the union of a tramp, with a " half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp." Yet such Mr. Buchanan declared his parentage. Mr. Sneak himself explained the position : Put execution in on Mrs. Hart— If people will be careless, let them smart. Oh, hang her children! just the common cry! Am I to feed her family? Not I. I'm tender-hearted but I dare be just, I never go beyond the law, I trust; I've work'd my way, plotted and starved and plann'd, Commenced without a penny in my hand, And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham— No! I'm a man of principle. I am. What's that you say? Oh! father has been here? Of course you sent him packing? Dear, oh dear! When one has work'd his weary way like me, To -comfort and respectability, Can pay his bills and save a pound or two, And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew, Can look the laws of England in the face. 'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame and 'tis disgrace. That one's own father—old and worn and gray— Should be the only hinderance in the way. Swore, did he? very pretty! Threatened? Oh! Demanded money? You, of course, said '• No?" 'Tis hard—my life will never be secure— He'll be my ruin some day, I am sure.