had still to rely. Scott, who had known Ballantyne at school, took an interest in his progress, and, as is well known, actually, though not ostensibly, became a partner in the firm of James Ballantyne and Company, printers. There thus arose a queer, scarcely definable, connection between Walter Scott, James Ballantyne and his brother John, and Archibald Constable and Company. A whole volume would be required to describe how the Ballantynes drew on Constable and Company; how they in return drew on the Ballantynes; and how Scott drew on both to raise money to pay for Abbotsford. The complication was tremendous. Then, there arose a fresh and worse complication in the bill-transactions between Constable and Company, and Hurst, Robinson, and Company, publishers in London, through whose shortcomings ultimately came the general coup-degrâce.

Constable had published some of Walter Scott's earlier productions, and nothing was more natural than that he should have been asked to issue Waverley. On seeing a portion of the work, he offered seven hundred pounds for the copyright, which was not accepted, and this, the first of the famous novels, was published on a division of profits. Of a number which followed in rapid succession, Constable and Company became the proprietors, and considering the prodigious sale of these matchless fictions, one would think that here alone was a bounteous fortune. So there would have been, but for those wretched financial complications already adverted to, and more particularly for the heavy demands for prepayment by Scott, whose necessities were so great on the score of his Abbotsford purchase, that he habitually used up the money for copyrights before the works were written. Constable might doubtless have refused to enter into these wild transactions, but at the loss of an author the most prolific and most prized of his age. As an example of the kind of dealings pursued, take the following, which occurs in Lockhart's Life of Scott: 'Before the Fortunes of Nigel issued from the press, Scott had exchanged instruments, and received his bookseller's bills for no less than four "works of fiction"-not one of them otherwise described in the deed of agreement-to be produced in unbroken succession, each of them to fill at least three volumes, but with proper saving clauses as to increase of copy-money in case any of them should run to four.'

Lockhart, in making this candid statement, has written in an unworthy spirit of Constable in relation to Scott's affairs, in some instances disingenuously suppressing the truth, while evidently Sir Walter Scott was himself far from blameless. Nor must it be forgotten that Constable did good service in causing books to be written which would probably never otherwise have existed. In a letter to him, March 23, 1822, Sir Walter says: "They talk of a farmer making two blades of grass grow where one grew before, but you, my good friend, have made a dozen volumes where probably but one would have existed; for the love of fame is soon satiated and besides, a man who is fond of it turns timid and afraid of indulging it; but I should like to see who is insensible to the solid comfort of eight thousand pounds a year, especially if he buys land, builds, and improves.' To the enterprise of Archibald Constable, we are therefore unquestionably indebted for the existence of a

number of the Waverley novels. he was a national benefactor.

So far at least,

The three volumes composing the Memoir of Constable by his son, abound in correspondence with authors of celebrity at the beginning of the present century and others, that cannot fail to be read by all interested in the history of English literature. Among the immense heaps of letters is seen one by Robert Chambers to Mr Constable, in 1822, fervently thanking him for having introduced him to Sir Walter Scott. At this time Robert was only twenty years of age, and in the midst of his early struggles. The intimacy he formed with Constable led to other letters, one of them having reference to the Traditions of Edinburgh, of which a somewhat too large second edition had been printed. On this subject, at the request of my brother, I called on Mr Constable, in 1825, at his premises, No. 1 Princes Street, to which his business had not long previously been removed. As in the case of every one else, I was courteously received. The interview between the smallest and the greatest of publishers was as interesting as it was memorable to one of the parties. I was advised to send a superfluous portion of the edition to Hurst, Robinson, and Company, who, at his recommendation, would do the best they could for the work. Adopting the friendly advice, I had afterwards reason to fear the propriety of the step; went to London, and settled the matter-this my first visit to the metropolis happening to bring about an intimacy which gave a colour to my future existence.

At the time I thus intruded on the great Scottish publisher, a dismal fate was impending over his affairs. To the eye of the world, he was still supreme, an object of envy. In a few months later, as shewn by the work of his son, the difficulties of the firm were appalling. Robert Cadell, whose clear views and business tact were invaluable, disclosed this painful state of matters, in a letter to Constable, then in London, 10th January 1826. He says: 'We must have fifty thousand pounds, less will do no good whatever; indeed, forty thousand pounds would be required soon; but without the first, we could not manage to get over our present difficulties, and even then with a great strain.' The attempt to raise such a sum was hopeless. The results of the mad speculations of 1825 had burst like a storm on the financial world. Bankers would barely look at bills. The end had come. Archibald Constable and Company, and the firms connected with them, came down with a crash, sending a shiver through the realms of paper and print. Sir Walter Scott came in for his share of the general ruin. How he supported the loss, and how he honourably devoted himself to the task of paying off his obligations, is it not known to history?

This was a terrible downcome to poor Constable, now advanced in life, and stripped of everything by creditors. His eldest son, David, to whose interesting story a chapter of his brother's work is devoted, was bred as a bookseller, in the hope of furthering the business; but he subsequently went to the Bar, and could give no help. had inherited the printing business of his grandfather, David Willison, and was unhappily involved in the family misfortune. The sad reverses preyed on his mind, and he died in partial seclusion many years afterwards (1866).

He

Archibald Constable had some comfort in his family. His first wife died in 1814, but in 1818 he effected a second marriage, and there was a family of sons and daughters, anxious to soothe his declining years. All his old friends rallied about him. A career of literary adventure had still some charms. Constable's Miscellany, a collection of cheap popular works, which he had two or three years ago projected, was set on foot, and met with an encouraging approval. It was a noble but dying effort. A life of unwearied exertion, along with bad health, had worn out his frame. The closing scene is pathetically described by his son. He tranquilly died, 21st July 1827.

Archibald Constable aimed at and unquestionably deserved a better fate. The literary property belonging to his firm at the final catastrophe was more than sufficient in value to have covered all the debts with which it could be chargeable. What was needed was a temporary readjustment. But the times were out of joint, and everything was sacrificed. The harvest sown by Constable was reaped, and is still being reaped, by others to whom his property drifted. The Edinburgh Review became the entire property of Longman and Company; the Encyclopædia Britannica was purchased by Adam and Charles Black; and to this lastnamed and respectable firm, at the price of twentyfive thousand pounds, fell the Waverley Novels, after a splendid fortune of more than a hundred thousand pounds had been skilfully wrung from them by Robert Cadell-and which novels, even now, after sixty years have elapsed since the first was issued, are as popular as ever. The moral to be drawn from a biography so instructive and so mournful as that of Archibald Constable, is too obvious to need any special reference. W. C.

THE BEST OF HUSBANDS.
CHAPTER XV.-CHAMPIONED.

A FEW days after that avowal from his daughter's lips, which had made the engraver very literally 'another man'-brought the light back to his eye, the flush of health to his wasted cheek, and even returning steadiness to his still wayward right hand-Mr Linch, the lawyer, paid them a visit. Without having absolutely neglected them during their late troubles, he had not been a frequent visitor in Mitchell Street, and his arrival on that particular morning astonished them considerably, for it happened to be the Sabbath, of which that gentleman was a very strict observer.

I am glad to see you up and about again, Mr Thorne. Miss Maggie, I hope you are well?'

197

"There are some birds-such as cormorants,' remarked Maggie cheerfully, 'who have very good appetites, father.'

Yes; but you don't eat like a cormorant, my darling, but more like a canary; and the consequence is, you are worn to a shadow.'

"Miss Maggie looks pale and delicate, doubtless,' said Mr Linch dryly. "Could I have a few minutes in private with you, Thorne?'

In private? Well, I have no secrets from Maggie; but'

'It is no secret, unfortunately,' interrupted the lawyer; but I think it would be more advisable to say what I have to say to you in your daughter's absence."

'Is there any news-I mean, from Rosebank?' exclaimed Maggie suddenly. If so, Mr Linch, I can bear to hear it; nay, I claim to hear it.'

Mr Linch returned her appealing look with one of extreme surprise. Claim to hear it, young woman!' returned he with irritation; the law knows no such claim: it is not as if you were an accused party. Upon my life, Thorne, I don't know what your daughter means.'

'You must be very dull, then,' said the engraver tartly. She wishes to know if there is any news of Richard Milbank.'

'No, no,' answered the lawyer hastily; 'none at all, I assure you-none at all. It is on quite another matter that I wish to have a few words with your father.'

Maggie at once withdrew, and left the two men alone together.

'It is the most extraordinary thing that your daughter should have asked that question,' gasped the little lawyer: my head was so full of certain news from Rosebank, that I could think of nothing else. Richard Milbank had no place in my mind, because it was wholly occupied with John.'

'What about John?' asked the engraver with anxiety. 'I thought, when you rang the bell like that, it was sure to be he.'

'Well, John has got into a scrape. You would think he was the last man in the world to have done it, but he has come into-yes-collision with the police,' said Mr Linch, bringing out this painful intelligence with a gasp of desperation.

"With the police!' echoed the engraver, astounded. 'What! has John been drinking?'

'No, indeed; perhaps it would be better for him in this case if he had. He has committed a very serious assault without drunkenness to excuse it, upon Mr Dennis Blake.'

He was very flush of money just at the time he disappeared-though he soon got quit of it at cards, they say-and if there was foul play anywhere'

'It was not about Richard that the quarrel arose,' interrupted the lawyer gravely, or else I should not have come here to-day. It was about somebody dearer and nearer to you than he, Thorne: it was about your daughter Maggie.'

'I have heard something of this before,' said the engraver, with an air of extreme annoyance. I know John means us well, and more than well, every way; but he should not pay attention

to the idle talk of every good-for-nought, nor think it necessary to correct him for letting his tongue run. It does more harm than good to those he would stand up for.'

'Blake said a very aggravating thing this time, however,' replied the other, looking at the engraver very fixedly; 'and supposing it was all lies, as I hope it was, I don't blame John-speaking as a man, of course, not as a lawyer-for taking the matter up. But Blake was drunk, it seems; indeed, if he had not been, he would not have dared to say what he said; and John has beaten him within an inch of his life. I say again, it is a serious business. The case will have to come to-morrow before the magistrates; and if it should turn out that Blake was only telling the truth, or what he believed to be the truth'.

The truth about what?' inquired the engraver impatiently. 'You don't mean to say, I hope, that it was anything disgraceful, which might yet be true of my Maggie?'

'Now, my dear Thorne, it is no use your putting yourself in a passion; I have come here to get at the facts of the case, whatever they may be, for I shall have to meet them to-morrow. Mind, I assert nothing of myself; but if what Blake said was true, Richard Milbank has left a legacy of shame and wrong behind him, such as my heart bleeds to think of, for your sake. There's a child in Poulter's Alley out at wet nurse'

'Silence!' exclaimed the engraver, in sharp shrill tones, and rising from his chair as hastily as his lame limbs would let him. 'You do not know Herbert Thorne's daughter.-'Maggie!' cried he, going out upon the landing, and calling up the stairs, come down here, lass; thou 'rt wanted. -'Not a word more, Mr Linch, I beg, until she

comes.

'It is an unnecessary ordeal,' commenced the lawyer; but the next moment, the girl stood in the doorway, pale and undisturbed, with her quiet inquiry: What is it, father?'

John Milbank has got into trouble through thrashing Dennis Blake, for uttering lies about you, Maggie. Mr Linch has called to know whether they are lies, in order that he may adopt the proper line of defence. Please to answer any question he may put to you.'

'Your father has imposed a very unpleasant duty upon me,' observed the lawyer hesitatingly; 'it is none of my seeking, of course. I merely came here as John Milbank's legal adviser, in order to get at the facts.'

Maggie bowed like a princess, walked quickly up to her father, and kissing him, forced him gently into a chair; for, notwithstanding his attempts at self-control, he was trembling excessively; and then stood up with her hand on his shoulders, confronting the visitor.

'Well, sir?'

'You have ahem!—a pensioner, I believe, in Poulter's Alley,' he began a young woman?' 'Not now,' replied she, with quiet sadness: 'the person you speak of is dead.

'Indeed! I saw her myself, not an hour ago.' 'You are mistaken. However, there was a poor girl there, to whom I gave assistance-as much as I could, though much less than I would fain have given.'

There is a child—an infant-out at nurse there is it true that you support it?'

:

'I do so.'

Maggie felt her father shiver beneath her touch, and sliding down her hand till it met with his, clasped it assuringly.

'My daughter is always good to the poor,' said he, though we are poor ourselves.'

And who is the father of this child?' inquired the lawyer, looking at his fingers, and dropping his voice to almost a whisper.

'Must I tell that?' asked Maggie, in the same hushed tone.

'It will have to be told to-morrow, and if I am unacquainted with the fact, my client will be placed at a disadvantage,' was the rejoinder.

There was a long pause; and Maggie's lips moved twice in vain before they could shape her answer: 'It is Richard Milbank.' Then she burst into tears.

'It is mere cruelty to your daughter, Thorne, to continue this investigation,' said the lawyer, himself greatly moved; we must make the best fight of it we can for John; that's all.'

'Maggie! darling, Maggie! he does not know you as I know you; he has not your hand in his as I have, bidding me trust on through all. You must bear one question more, and answer it.-You may ask it, Linch, without fear. Nay, if you will not, I will.-Richard Milbank is the father of this child, you say, Maggie; now, tell us one thing more who was its mother?'

'It was Alice Grey of Dardham. She ought to have been Richard's, wife. May Heaven forgive him for his wrong to her! She died some weeks ago I fear, in want-I was too late to help her; only just in time to save the child.'

And this can be corroborated by proof?' exclaimed the lawyer excitedly.

'If necessary-if absolutely necessary to John. But oh, spare Richard!'

We

'My dear Miss Maggie, we will admit nothing unless we are absolutely obliged. After what you have told me, I should think this Blake would be only too glad to compromise the affair. However, though he spoke in malice, it was probably in ignorance of the facts of the case, and he has certainly been most terribly knocked about. shall have to pay the man a good lump sum, no doubt. It is very hard upon our friend John,' continued Mr Linch, addressing himself to the engraver, 'to suffer thus in pocket for his brother, having just paid off his debts. I settled the last one for him yesterday. I never knew a man with so fine a sense of duty. Well, I go away with a light heart, Thorne, upon all accounts.-Miss Margaret, I wish you good-day.' His friendly and effusive manner had quite returned. Maggie suffered him to take her hand, which most young women who had been subjected to such an injurious suspicion would probably not have done; but her nature was eminently a just one. She perceived that the circumstances of the case had afforded Mr Linch no other alternative than to believe the

child in Poulter's Alley was her own. Was it possible, thought she, with a shudder, that John Milbank also believed it, notwithstanding that he had resented the accusation in another's mouth? What a good brother, as Mr Linch had said, had he proved himself, and how unostentatiously had he performed his good deeds, for not a word had he dropped to them about settling Richard's debts! The consciousness of having grudged him praise,

e

way.

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'Oh, father, father!' cried Maggie, hiding the crimson of her cheeks in both her hands, 'I hope not, I hope not!'

That's hoping against hope, lass, for it is the case. But there is no need to take on so; I have quite done with giving you advice as to marriage, and if I know John, he is not one to intrude his attentions where they are not wanted. He is too used to holding his tongue, poor fellow, to plague you in that way. While Richard was paying you attentions, John could scarcely have done you a service lest it should be misunderstood; but now the coast is clear, he has ventured upon a kindness. But as to speaking to you of marrying him, unless you give him some encouragement, that he will never do such, at least, is my view of the matter, and though my limbs are lamed, I have still some use of my eyes.'

Of reparation! How of reparation?' inquired Maggie.

Oh! they say he made money by Richard, instead, as was really the case, of having been halfruined by him! His very disappearance, even, has been laid to John's account.'

'What do you mean, father?'

'Nay, I don't mean to say they think he murdered him; but the world says-or did, before I was taken ill-that he bought him out of the concern at a cheap rate, and so secured it for himself.' 'Then the Hilton world must be a very, very wicked and slanderous one,' said Maggie indignantly. The engraver shrugged his shoulders. I think it is the air, my dear. I have known somebody in Hilton-and not, in my judgment, a wicked person-who had at one time never a good word to say for this John Milbank, herself.'

To this, Maggie answered nothing; but after a while, during which she gazed fixedly at the book before her without reading a line, she observed: If you knew John was straitened for money, was it not wrong, father, to let him lend us so large a sum the other day?'

'I did not know it was lent, until afterwards,' returned the engraver, smiling. It was lent to you, you know, my dear, not to me.'

That was only, of course, because you were ill, and could not attend to such matters. Don't you think it would be better to return him, say, half of it at once, and pay him the remainder by instalments, as we can scrape it together?'

Why not give him security for the whole, Maggie?' answered the old man slily. Then, perceiving that he was not understood, he added: Is it possible, my good lass, that you did not guess by what means we have won through this terrible trouble? You know, of course, that it was thanks to John; but are you so blind as not to see why John has helped us? It is my belief that he has loved you from a boy; only, because Richard was too quick for him with you, he never spoke of it.'

it.'

May I tell him that, Maggie ?'

'Yes, father: it is but right that he should know

'My darling, you are curing me fast: where honour and respect are, won, love is not altogether out of reach.'

'My love is dead, father,' sighed she, and no miracle can ever quicken it.'

'But if John would be content with the respect and honour, lass, and take you on those terms?'

It is not necessary to speak of that, father: when John asks me to become his wife-if he be really so ill-judged as to desire it—it will be time enough to consider that matter.'

"Very good, Maggie; we will say no more about it,' said her father softly. He was secretly well pleased with the measure of success that had been vouchsafed to him.

DR BEGG ON NEW ZEALAND AND
AUSTRALIA.

THE Rev. Dr Begg, having lately visited New Zealand and Australia, has given some account of his excursion in a popular address in one of the large halls in Edinburgh. As an acute observer, the information he offered was practically valuable. We select a few of his remarks. Speaking of Dunedin, Otago, he said: 'The people are essentially Scotch. I saw no person ill-off-the very reverse; and the climate is so conducive to health, that I may say that, having passed over a large portion of the world, I never saw such a multitude of sturdy, rosy children as in that colony of Otago. Whilst I was there, several emigrant ships arrived, and here are the results gathered from Mr Allan, the emigration agent. There were six blacksmiths, and they received 12s. a day; two bakers, 10s. a day; one bootmaker, 10s. a day; five bricklayers, 12s. and 14s. a day; one butcher, 25s. a week and his food; seventeen carpenters, 12s. a day; four dressmakers, 25s. a week; two engine-drivers, 14s.