running after them, ran forward a little and fired;
and so on, with a perpetual roaring, and shouting,
and running, until the attackers had been beaten
off, and were supposed to have retired to their
gunboats, and to be in full sail down Ore Creek.

Now, did the local population, finding they
were neither hanged nor shot nor blown up, as
most of them expected, overcome the trepidation
under which during the attack they had laboured,
and shout great shouts and roars of joy (such as
Kentish lungs can alone give vent to), and of
applause to both parties engaged. Now, did the
invaders return from the Creek, and prove by
their actual presence that they had not sailed
away; and now did they and the repellers, both
somewhat grimy and sulphurous-smelling,
fraternise and march back in amity to Faversham.
Where, in the assembly-rooms, at the expense of
the generous major, was set forth a great repast
of beef and bread and beer, which was freely and
immediately pitched into by all present; and then
there was as much interchange of opinions on the
night's work, of homely jokes and pleasant
banterings, as full mouths and sharp appetites would
permit. Now, did I return to the coffee-room of
the hotel, and finish my night's adventure with a
glass of grog, and a chat with such a specimen of
the cheery honest quaint old English naval officer
as it had never been my good luck to meet before,
and as I had hitherto believed was only to be
found in the nautical novels of Captain Marryat:

The night attack at Faversham was a good
thing, well conceived, ably planned, well carried
out. All drill and no amusement makes Jack
(or anybody else) a dull volunteer. To read
we must learn to spell, but to be always at
spelling, even in words of four syllables, would
be a dreary task. The formation of fours, the
marching in sections and subdivisions, the
manual and platoon, the judging distance drill, &c.,
are all admirable initiatory exercises; but, to
keep interest alive in the men, to throw something
like a fascination round the pursuit, you
must give them something more than this. This
something more is to be found in periodical
reviews, in out-camping, in sham-fights, in such a
special manœuvre as is here recorded. All that
was done at Faversham was on a miniature
scale, but the well-arranged programme was
kept to the letter, and was carried out with
signal success. May it be the prelude to larger
operations of like kind!

DANISH LUMINARIES.

ALL is not darkness in the North, either
atmospherically or intellectually. The genial
and brilliant summers of Scandinavia find their
parallel in the bright and energetic genius of the
people. Linnæus, the Swede, will ever be a
charmed name for all who love and admire the
works of Nature. It is not so many years ago
that Miss Bremer's novels, in their English
dress, took us by surprise. Thorwaldsen, the
Danish sculptor, has combined the grace and
more than the strength of Canova, with a
sublimity which the Italian never attained.
The Niebuhrs, father and son, one an adopted,
the other a native Dane, have achieved a
world-wide reputation.

The early Danish writers are so picturesque
and national that they form a special literature
by themselves; we will now, therefore, solely
glance at a few of the modern authors. The
Danish poets best worth mentioning in the
latter portion of the eighteenth century are
Ewald, Baggesen, and Wessel. The first, an
admirer and a pupil of Klopstock, led a life of
constant crosses and contrarieties. Fond of
good cheer but without a penny in the world,
full of enthusiasm but depressed by melancholy,
he excited himself by reading Robinson Crusoe,
and had no means of travelling. He enlisted for
a soldier, but could not rise beyond the ranks.
With great difficulty his family purchased his
discharge, and he then fell in love with a girl
who married another suitor. He consoled
himself with poetry, which was his real vocation.
After a very moderate drama called Adam and
Eve, he wrote, in 1770, Rolf Krage, which
was the first national tragedy possessed by
Denmark, but whose merit was scarcely
appreciated. His drama, Balder, was more
successful; but, with his usual untoward ill-luck, his
clever comedies, the Brutal Claqueur, Harlequin
Patriot, and Maids and Bachelors, obtained
small applause until after his death. His
reputation as a Danish classic, rests on his lyric
and religious poetry, while his name has been
rendered permanently popular by the patriotic
song, which may be loosely rendered:

King Christian stood at the foot of the mast,
The whirlwind round him blew,
He whirled his sword, and the heads of the Goths
From their shoulders in numbers flew.

The whirlwind roared, the smoke arose,
Still flashed his sword on high;
Cleaving each helmet, it left not the time
To utter one dying cry.

"Help! help!" they cried. "Escape by flight
Who can, from slaughter! In vain
We struggle to stem by our strength, the might
Of Christian, the valorous Dane."

The gallant seaman is here celebrated rather
than King Christian the Fourth; for maritime
power has been the idol of the Danes ever since
Bishop Absalom, in 1184, took the command of
five hundred Danish vessels.

As a complete contrast to Ewald, Baggesen
(who died in 1826) could reply affirmatively to
Talleyrand's favourite question to young
diplomatists, "Are you lucky, sir?" Beginning life as
a copyist, he obtained first a scholarship, and then
a professorship in the university. He became
director of the Copenhagen Theatre, and set up
as a traveller in France and Germany.
Although he was the man of his day, it is doubtful
whether he will be the man of to-morrow.
Vapid idylls will hardly carry him down to
posterity, any more than twenty volumes of
correctly written verse and prose published by