for a time to a surmise, now considered palpably
erroneous, that Lord George Germain was the
author of Junius. The hostility of that
celebrated assailant of character to the Marquis of
Granby was accounted for, by this theory, and
his detestation of the Scotch was traced to the
fact that ten of the members of the court-martial
had been natives of Scotland. "Time works
wonders." The object of much and merited
obloquy in 1775 was selected in the administration
of Lord North for the high office of Secretary
of State for the Colonies. His policy as a
minister was destined to be as disastrous as his
military career had been disgraceful; he was, in
office, the determined foe of American independence,
and he directed those measures which
severed our transatlantic provinces from Great
Britain. Benjamin Franklin, in an early letter
to Priestly, thus predicted the consequences:
"When Lord Germain is at the head of affairs,
it cannot be expected that anything like reason
or moderation could be attended to. Everything
breathes rancour and desperation, and
nothing but absolute impotence will stop their
proceedings. We, therefore, look on final
separation from you as a certain and speedy
event!"

On his resigning the seals in 1782, he was
raised by royal favour to the peerage, by the title
of Viscount Sackville: an elevation which revived
all the bitter recollections of days gone by, and
was thus denounced in a spirited satirical
production of the period.

    The Robe Patrician now shall cover all!
    Disgrace no more degrade, or fear appal;
    The guilt is lost, that once the conscious plain
    Of Minden blushing saw through all her slain.
    Such is the magic of this crimson vest,
    When clasped with royal hands across the breast;
    It mounts the coward to the hero's place,
    Wipes from the recreant brow each foul disgrace;
    Confounds, perverts all honours and degree,
    And makes a hero, e'en Germain of thee!
    Know, haughty peer, the western world disdains
    Such tools of office, and such feeble chains,
    As hands like thine, or stronger hand of George,
    Or heads or hands more wise and strong can forge.

The newly created peer on his introduction
into the House of Lords was destined to endure
perhaps the most galling of his many
humiliations; he heard his ignominious sentence
and its confirmation read aloud, and himself
denounced as "the greatest criminal this
country ever knew." He was accused not
only of misconduct in the field, but of being the
author of all the calamities of the recent war. It
was moved that the admission of a man whose
disgrace had been entered on the orderly book
of every regiment, would be derogatory to the
dignity of that assembly, and the House was
earnestly invoked not to suffer him to enter
it and contaminate the peerage. The obnoxious
viscount defended himself with courage and
calmness; the prerogative of the crown was
recognised; but a protest recorded the sentiments
of nine peers, and the object thus arraigned did
not long survive the accumulated indignities to
which he had been forced to submit.

THE AGGER FIORD.

"SOHO, mare! gently, Lapwing, gently, you
Holstein-bred, hammer-headed brute! Quiet,
I say!"

And the postilion, turning in his saddle,
confronted us as we sat in the open calèche, though
so deep was the darkness of the night that it
was only when a flash of lightning came that
we could distinguish his pale face, dripping flaxen
hair, and the faded scarlet of his gay jacket,
now stained by drenching rain into a dusky
maroon colour. An awful night it was.

I have been thirty years in Denmark, and
have seen storms enough since then, but none
fiercer than that which now raged around us as
we plodded our way, sore buffeted by wet and
wind, over a desolate heath in North Jutland.
The thunder rolled almost unceasingly; between
the peals we could hear the hoarse roar of the
distant sea; and the gale was so strong that we
feared carriage and horses would be fairly blown
over by the succession of angry gusts. To add
to the agreeable features of the scene, the poor
brutes that drew us, alarmed by the lightning,
were plunging and swerving violently at intervals,
and the driver could hardly control them.

"English masters," said the postilion, very
ruefully, "I have lost the way! It's not my
fault, for it would need a Troll's eyes, which
can pierce the earth, they say, to see clear on
such a night as this. I must have missed the
turning by the gibbet, and got among the lanes
to the left, or we should have reached the kro—
be quiet, horses!—the kro where your worships
meant to rest for the night; but now I see neither
kro nor village."

"Then where are we?" asked Williams,
rather peevishly; and no wonder, for our light
summer suits—admirable wear, as we had
considered, for a fair weather excursion through
Jutland in the fair season—were thoroughly
soaked through; we were miserably off for
wrappers of any sort, and were as chilled and
hungry as ever belated travellers were.

"Where are we?"

"The blessed Olaf of Norway and Niels of
Denmark alone can tell," replied the young
Dane, who, for all his Lutheranism, had a
profound reverence for saints of the pure
Scandinavian stock; and then began again to soothe
and struggle with his horses, which were all but
unmanageable.

This was not very pleasant, and Williams—
less used to rough weather and wet clothes than
I was, for an artist's profession takes him into
the open air less frequently, rain or shine, than
an engineer's—grew testy and out of humour.
He was a worthy fellow, and a good companion,
and it was a genuine love of his art that had
brought him to Denmark: a country then, as
now, very little visited by English tourists. But