before the old provisions were finished. With this diet-the charnel-house of sustenance-his dress kept pace, equally in the last stage of dissolution. It is the lot of some men to outlive themselves; such was now the case of Mr Elwes. When he first visited Suffolk, his peculiarities were but little known; and when he came to reside there his fox-hounds "covered a multitude of sins."

In leaving that county to become a member of Parliament, his public conduct could not but be praised, and in his private character that which was not seen could not be blamed. But on his return, when he exposed to continual observation all his penury, when his tenants saw in his appearance or style of living everything that was inferior to their own, when his neighbours at best could but smile at his infirmities, and his very servants grew ashamed of the meanness of their master, all that approached respect formerly was now gone; and a gentleman, one day inquiring which was the house of Mr Elwes, was told some. what facetiously by one of the tenants, "The poor-house of the parish!"

The spring of 1786 Mr Elwes passed alone, and, had it not been for some little daily schemes of avarice, would have passed it without one consolatory moment. His temper began to give way apace; his thoughts unceasingly ran upon money! money! money! and he saw no one but whom he imagined was deceiving and defrauding him. On removing from Stoke, he went to his farm-house at Thoydon Hall, a scene of more ruin and desolation, if possible, than either his houses in Suffolk or Berkshire. It stood alone on the borders of Epping Forest; and an old man and woman, his tenants, were the only persons with whom he could hold any converse. Here he fell ill; and as he would · have no assistance, and had not even a servant, he lay unattended, and almost forgotten for nearly a fortnight. He now determined to make his will, which he did shortly afterwards in London, leaving the whole of his unentailed property to his sons, George Elwes, then living at Marcham, and John Elwes, "late a lieutenant in his Majesty's second troop of horse-guards," then

residing at Stoke. The property thus disposed of was judged to amount to about £500,000. Mr George Elwes, being now married, was naturally desirous that, in the assiduities of his wife, his father might at length find a comfortable home. The old man was induced to agree to the proposal, being offered a gratuitous conveyance. Mr Elwes carried with him into Berkshire five guineas and a half, and half-a-crown, which he had carefully wrapt up in various folds of paper. Mr George Elwes and his wife, whose good temper might well be expected to charm away the irritations of avarice and age, did everything they could to make the country a scene of quiet to him. But "he had that within" which baffled every effort of the kind. Of his heart it might be said that "there was no peace in Israel." His mind, cast away on the vast and troubled ocean of his property, extended beyond the bounds of calculation, returned to amuse itself with fetching and carrying about a few guineas! The first symptom of more immediate decay was his inability to enjoy his rest at night. Frequently would he be heard at midnight as if struggling with some one in his chamber, and crying out, "I will keep my money, I will; nobody shall rob me of my property."

Mr Partis, the gentleman who on this occasion took him down gratuitously into Berkshire, and was staying awhile in the house, was waked one morning about two o'clock by the noise of a naked foot, seemingly walking about his bedchamber with great caution. Somewhat alarmed, he naturally asked, “Who is there?" on which a person, coming up towards the bed, said with great civility, "Sir, my name is Elwes; I have been unfortunate enough to be robbed in this house, which I believe is mine, of all the money I have in the world—of five guineas and a half, and half-a-crown. The unfortunate money was found a few days after in a corner behind the window shutter. For some weeks previous to his death he had got a custom of going to rest in his clothes. He was one morning found fast asleep betwixt the sheets, with his shoes on his feet, his stick in his hand, and an old torn hat upon his head. On the 18th of November 1789, he discovered signs of that utter and total weakness which in eight days carried

him to the grave. On the evening of the first day he was conveyed to bed, from which he rose no more. His appetite was gone; he had but a faint recollection of anything about him and his last coherent words were addressed to his son, Mr John Elwes, in hoping "he had left him what he wished." On the morning of the 26th of November, he expired without a sigh, with the ease with which an infant goes to sleep on the breast of its mother, worn out with "the rattles and the toys" of a long day.

We cannot better conclude this notice of Mr Elwes than with the following extract from Mr Topham's summary of his character. "In one word," he says, "his public conduct lives after him, pure and without a stain. In private life he was chiefly an enemy to himself. To others he lent much; to himself he denied everything. But in the pursuit of his property, or in the recovery of it, I have not in my remembrance one unkind thing that ever was done by him."

Martinus Scriblerus.

ARBUTHNOT.

[JOHN ARBUTHNOT was born near Montrose in 1675, was educated at the University of Aberdeen, and there took his degree as Doctor of Medicine. He came to London, where he gradually established his reputation as a man of science, and eventually became Physician in Ordinary to Queen Anne. Like many men of mere professional eminence, his reputation would have passed away had he not been the intimate friend of Pope and Swift, and won for himself the reputation of being their equal in wit. Of this triumvirate Warburton says, "Wit they had all in equal measure; and this so large, that no age, perhaps, ever produced three men to whom nature had more bountifully bestowed it, or art had brought it to higher perfection." The three engaged in a project-which was never completed-to write a satire upon all the abuses of human learning. To this project we owe the "Gulliver's Travels" of Swift, and the first book of the "Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus" by Arbuthnot. Nothing can be more perfect than this fragment. Its very extravagance is the result of profound skill, contrasting and heightening the pungency of the more subtle wit with which the merely ludicrous is clothed. The passage which we select describes the christening of the great Martinus, and the wonderful doings

of his father Cornelius. Arbuthnot continued to practise as a physician almost till the time of his death in 1735. His integrity and benevolence were as conspicuous as his great talents.]

The day of the christening being come, and the house filled with gossips, the levity of whose conversation suited but ill with the gravity of Dr Cornelius, he cast about how to pass this day more agreeable to his character; that is to say, not without some profitable conference, nor wholly without observance of some ancient custom.

He remembered to have read in Theocritus, that the cradle of Hercules was a shield: and being possessed of an antique buckler, which he held as a most inestimable relic, he determined to have the infant laid therein, and in that manner brought into the study, to be shown to certain learned men of his acquaintance.

The regard he had for this shield had caused him formerly to compile a dissertation concerning it, proving from the several properties, and particularly the colour of the rust, the exact chronology thereof.

With this treatise, and a moderate supper, he proposed to entertain his guests, though he had also another design, to have their assistance in the calculation of his son's nativity.

He therefore took the buckler out of a case, (in which he always kept it, lest it might contract any modern rust,) and intrusted it to his housemaid, with orders that when the company was come she should lay the child carefully in it, covered with a mantle of blue satin.

The guests were no sooner seated but they entered into a warm debate about the Triclinium, and the manner of Decubitus, of the ancients, which Cornelius broke off in this manner :

"This day, my friends, I purpose to exhibit my son before you; a child not wholly unworthy of inspection, as he is de scended from a race of virtuosi. Let the physiognomist examine his features; let the chirographists behold his palm; but, above all, let us consult for the calculation of his nativity. To this end,

as the child is not vulgar, I will not present him unto you in a vulgar manner. He shall be cradled in my ancient shield, so famous through the universities of Europe. You all know how I purchased that invaluable piece of antiquity, at the great (though indeed inadequate) expense of all the plate of our family, how happily I carried it off, and how triumphantly I transported it hither, to the inexpressible grief of all Germany. Happy in every circumstance, but that it broke the heart of the great Melchior Insipidus !"

Here he stopped his speech, upon sight of the maid, who entered the room with the child; he took it in his arms, and proceeded :

"Behold then my child, but first behold the shield, behold this rust, or rather let me call it this precious ærugo; behold this beautiful varnish of time, this venerable verdure of so many ages!" In speaking these words he slowly lifted up the mantle which covered it, inch by inch; but at every inch he uncovered his cheeks grew paler, his hand trembled, his nerves failed, till on sight of the whole the tremor became universal, the shield and the infant both dropped to the ground, and he had only strength enough to cry out, "O God! my shield, my shield !”

The truth was, the maid (extremely concerned for the reputation of her own cleanliness, and her young master's honour) had scoured it as her hand-irons.

Cornelius sunk back on a chair, the guests stood astonished, the infant squalled, the maid ran in, snatched it up again in her arms, flew into her mistress's room, and told what had happened. Down-stairs in an instant hurried all the gossips, where they found the doctor in a trance. Hungary-water, hartshorn, and the confused noise of shrill voices, at length awakened him, when, opening his eyes, he saw the shield in the hands of the housemaid. "O woman! woman!" he cried, (and snatched it violently from ner,) was it to thy ignorance that this relic owes its ruin? Where, where is the beautiful crust that covered thee so long? where those traces of time, and fingers as it were of antiquity? Where all those beautiful obscurities, the cause of much delight.