tences will complete our sketch, and bring us to the close of
the poet's pilgrimage. He had come out of the general collapse of
commercial affairs in 1837, with a small portion of the wealth he had
realized by diligent and continuous labor. He took a walk, on one
occasion, into the country, of about eighteen miles: reached Argilt
Hill, liked the place, returned, and resolved to buy it. He laid out in
house and land about one thousand guineas. His family consisted of Mrs.
Elliott and two daughters; a servant-maid; an occasional helper; a Welch
pony and small gig; "a dog almost as big as the mare, and much wiser
than his master; a pony-cart; a wheel-barrow; and a grindstone--and,"
says he, "turn up your nose if you like!"

From his own papers we learn that he had one son a clergyman, at
Lothedale, near Skipton; another in the steel trade, on Elliott's old
premises at Sheffield; two others unmarried, living on their means;
another "druggisting at Sheffield, in a sort of chimney called a shop;"
and another, a clergyman, living in the West Indies. Of his thirteen
children, five were dead, and of whom he says. "They left behind them no
memorial--but they are safe in the bosom of Mercy, and not quite
forgotten even here!"

In this retirement he occasionally lectured and spoke at public
meetings; but he began to suffer from a spasmodic affection of the
nerves, which obliged him wholly to forego public speaking. This disease
grew worse; and in December, 1839, he was warned that he could not
continue to speak in public, except at the risk of sudden death. This
disorder lingered about him for about six years; he then fell ill of a
more serious disease, which threatened speedy termination. This was in
May, 1849. In September, he writes, "I have been _very, very_ ill." On
the first of December, 1849, the event, which had so long been
impending, occurred, and Elliott peacefully departed in the sixty-ninth
year of his age.

Thus, then, the sun set on one whose life was one continued heroic
struggle with opposing influences--with ignorance first, then trade,
then the corn laws, then literary fame, and, last of all, disease: and
thus the world saw its last of the material breathing form of the rugged
but kindly being who made himself loved, feared, hated, and famous, as
the "CORN LAW RHYMER."

[From Cumming's Hunting Adventures in South Africa.]

CONFLICT WITH AN ELEPHANT.

In a few minutes one of those who had gone off t