it, and passed me like an arrow.  He was appalled and terrorstricken.  Behind him—­within six feet—­almost upon him, yelling fearfully, was the brother of the girl he had betrayed and ruined—­his friend and schoolfellow, the miserable Frederick Harrington.  I could perceive that he held aloft, high over his head, the portrait of his sister.  It was all I saw and could distinguish.  Both shot by me.  I called to the labourer to follow; and fast as my feet could carry me, I went on.  Temple fell.  Harrington was down with him.  I reached the spot.  The hand of the idiot was on the chest of the seducer, and the picture was thrust in agony before his shuddering eyes.  There was a struggle—­the idiot was cast away—­and Temple was once more dashing onward.  “On, on!—­after him!” shrieked the idiot.  They reached the river’s edge.  “What now—­what now?” I exclaimed, beholding them from afar, bewildered and amazed.  The water does not restrain the scared spirit of the pursued.  He rushes on, leaps in, and trusts to the swift current.  So also the pursuer, who, with one long, loud exclamation of triumph, still with his treasure in his grasp, springs vehemently forward, and sinks, once and for ever.  And the betrayer beats his way onward, aimless and exhausted, but still he nears the shore.  Shall he reach it?  Never!

* * * * *

IMAGINARY CONVERSATION, BETWEEN MR. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR AND THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

To Christopher North, Esq.

SIR,—­Mr. Walter Savage Landor has become a contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine!  I stared at the announcement, and it will presently be seen why.  There is nothing extraordinary in the apparition of another and another of this garrulous sexagenarian’s “Imaginary Conversations.”  They come like shadows, so depart.

  “The thing, we know, is neither new nor rare,
  But wonder how the devil it got there.”

Many of your readers, ignorant or forgetful, may have asked, “Who is Mr. Landor?  We have never heard of any remarkable person of that name, or bearing a similar one, except the two brothers Lander, the explorers of the Niger.”  Mr. Walter Savage would answer, “Not to know me argues yourself unknown.”  He was very angry with Lord Byron for designating him as a Mr. Landor.  He thought it should have been the.  You ought to have forewarned such readers that the Mr. Landor, now your Walter Savage, is the learned author of an epic poem called Gebir, composed originally in Egyptian hieroglyphics, then translated by him into Latin, and thence done into English blank verse by the same hand.  It is a work of rare occurrence even in the English character, and is said to be deeply abstruse.  Some extracts from it have been buried in, or have helped to bury, critical reviews.  A copy of the Anglo-Gebir is, however, extant in the British Museum, and is said to have so