a Mmwtit J5laga?me of

pip ©0rtul Information anir amusement






Naturally enough the young man hesitated to comply with so extraordinary a request, thinking it might not be altogether prudent to confide these par­ ticulars to a stranger of such questionable appearance; and it would seem, ' T w a s i n t h e spring-time o f t h e year, Then a u t u m n came with glorious smile, W h e n Nature s m i l e d o n c e m o r e , A n d g o l d e n treasures p i l e d ; that his hesitation was observed and painfully felt b y the querist, w h o A n d casting off h e r g l o o m y r o b o , But ah ! m y Maggie's azure eyes muttered audibly, " W e l l , well. I t is no w o n d e r : there can be but little in H e r fairest g a r m e n t s w o r e , N o longer on m e smiled ; my looks to invite confidence." A little fairy c r o s s ' d m y p a t h A n o t h e r stole h e r f r o m m y side, The sorrowful tones in which these words were uttered occasioned some And sweetly smiled on me, A n d rich and proud was he ; T h e n n e s t l e d closely in m y heart,—A parent's pleadings overcame— feelings of compunction on the part of the young man, whose generous M y o w n dear Maggie L e e . I lost m y M a g g i e L e e ! mind harboured but few thoughts unfavourable to his fellow-men; therefore, A n d in the b a l m y s u m m e r h o u r s , W h e n winter's storms were long and loud, he said to himself, " W h a t possible harm can the old fellow do me ? " And W h e n sunlit c l o u d s d i d g l i d e A n d for m y l o v e I s i g h ' d , having asked and replied mentally to this question, he spoke aloud in answer L i k e fairy b a r k s o'er heaven's b l u e sea, T h e y t o l d m e she w a s s i n k i n g f a s t ; to the poor man. W e w a n d e r d side b y side ; For m e m y Maggie died ! A m y s t i c spell o u r hearts enthrall'd, T h e last w o r d t h a t she b r e a t h e d w a s m i n e , " I really do not see, m y g o o d friend," said he, " what advantage you can W e n o u g h t b u t j o y c o u l d see ; H e r last s m i l e w a s for m o ; derive from knowing who I am, and where I reside ; still, if it will afford you A h ! t h e n h o w blest w e r e y o u a n d I , A n d still I m o u r n t h e l o v e d , t h e lost, any satisfaction, I have no objection to tell you that I am called Godfrey M y darling M a g g i e L e o { The gentle Maggie Lee ! S. W . Markland, and live in Cumberland Place." " Markland! " repeated the old man thoughtfully, leaning with both hands on his stick. " Markland! I have heard that name before; but I little T H E S T O R Y - T E L L E R . thought—however, no matter, no matter now, at least. Farewell, M r . Markland. I shall not forget the large debt o f gratitude I owe you, and I hope and trust we shall meet again." Godfrey Markland did not particularly sympathise with the hope thus C H A P T E R I. earnestly expressed; nevertheless, he answered good-naturedly, " I am often " Good Heavens! the open cellar!—the man is b l i n d ! Stop—stop there ! this way, and shall look out for you. Good morning. I am glad you have Don't move another step ! " sustained no injury; but take m y advice, and be more careful for the future, These exclamations were uttered, or rather shouted, in a loud voice by a for there may not always be somebody at hand to prevent you from making a young man of fashionable appearance, who was walking at a rapid pace along false step." a narrow bye-street in the neighbourhood of Fitzroy Square, and as the Again wishing the poor man a " g o o d morning," Godfrey walked away warning burst, as it were, involuntarily from his lips, he sprang with a natural hurriedly, having matters of more interest at that moment to engage his impulse of humanity across the road and seized the arm of the individual attention. Still he could not dismiss his new acquaintance all at once whose obvious and imminent danger had attracted his notice. I n fact, had it entirely from his thoughts. " A curious adventure," he said to himself. not been for the timely service thus rendered, the poor benighted object of his " W h e r e can he have heard my n a m e ; and why should he want to meet care would, in another instant, have been precipitated into the yawning gulf me again ? I f I were so disposed, I might really shape something marvellous before him, for his foot was on its brink and he must inevitably have fallen to out of i t ; for the man's language and manners were unquestionably far a depth of at least fourteen feet into the vault below. superior to his appearance. But it is hardly worth while speculating upon The blind man looked like a mendicant, for his garments were worse than the subject, unless he should fall in my way again. I f it had not been so late, threadbare, they were ragged. His face was wan, his cheeks hollow, his Jong I would have had a little more conversation with the poor old fellow; but i f shaggy beard, which hung down nearly to his waist, was utterly neglected, I don't make haste, I am afraid I shall find nobody at home in W e y m o u t h and altogether his outward seeming was that of one suffering unjler the Street." A n d with the fear of this misfortune before his eyes, he proceeded pressure of extreme poverty. at railroad speed towards the spot alluded to, which had of late been regarded b y him as the Elysium o f L o n d o n . " W h a t is the matter ? " he asked, in a tremulous tone. " W h y , the matter is," replied the young man, " that if I had not happened I n the meantime the blind man walked on with even, measured pace, to be looking this way you would in all probability have broken your neck. holding his head erect, and inclining neither to the right nor to the left, but W h y in the name of Heaven do you walk along the street without feeling taking care to assure himself o f safe footing by feeling the ground in advance your way ? " with "his stick as he went. After passing one or two lanes and alieys, he " I know the street perfectly well," was the answer. " I pass up and down turned down a narrow, dirty street, abounding with small children, to w h o m on this side continually and have never met with any accident." soap and water were luxuries apparently unknown and uncovcted. Most o f " L u c k y for you, then," said the young man ; " but I suppose this cellar is the habitations seemed to be lodging-houses of the poorest description, as many noi often open." of the windows were adorned with placards setting forth that " a front " C e l l a r ! " said the blind man. " W h a t cellar? I never knew of any kitchen was to be let," " a back parlour furnished," or " a bed-room for a cellar hereabouts." single man," the latter advertisement being in some cases accompanied by an " Y o u might have become acquainted with it now to your cost," said the intimation that a child would be taken to wet nurse, thereby enhancing the young man, half laughing, half seriously. " Put out your stick and feel; I attractions of the said bachelor's bed-room as a place of quiet and repose. will keep you safe." It was the spring time of the year, and the sun was shining brightly enough, The blind man did as he was desired, and started back with a look of horror in the more favoured parts o f the great metropolis; but even that glorious and dismay on finding he was so near the edge of the precipice, left thus carelessly luminary, who sheds his beneficent rays with the same warmth on rich and unguarded. Then, turning his sightless eyes, by force of habit or instinct, poor, on humble cottage and imperial palace, who nourishes alike the towards his preserver, he murmured in broken accents, " I am thankful—very peasant's little patch of ground, and the prince's royal domain, Avho sparkles thankful. Life is sweet, even to the wretched ; and I would not willingly as brilliantly in the narrow mill stream as on the boundless ocean, who gives die a death like that." equal light and life to the smallest shrub as to the towering oak,—even he, " W h y , no ; I don't suppose anybody would choose to go out of the world the universal benefactor, that makes no distinction between the lowly and the head foremost through such a dirty hole," said the young man. " I shall great, could find no entrance into this dingy locality, unless now and then a knock at the door, and tell the people of the house to shut down the trap, I t stray beam, reflected from some chimney top, managed to find its way to the is abominable to leave such a place open." * unwashed pavement below. But he knocked in vain, for the house was untenanted, and all he could do The blind man seemed accustomed to the place, which, but for the closeness was to close the aperture himself, an exploit that required somo exertion of of the atmosphere, was as good to him as a broader, brighter way ; and strength, as the trap-door was very heavy, being thickly studded with iron. entering one of the uninviting domiciles, the door of which stood partially The poor man reiterated his thanks, adding, " And now, young gentleman, open, he ascended"a dark, dirty staircase to the second floor, where, taking a for such from your tone and manner I conclude you are, you have conferred a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door of the front room, which presented benefit on me that it may, perhaps, hereafter be in my power, in some way to a less miserable aspect than might have been anticipated from the general repay. But, in the meantime, you can, if you will, add considerably to that appearance of the house, as well as of the lodger himself, inasmuch as there obligation by giving me another proof of your philanthropy." was a piece of faded carpet about three yards square in the middle of the " W h a t is that? " said his young benefactor with a smile, at the same time floor, a small round table, painted with a laudable design to represent putting his hand instinctively into his pocket in search o f some pence, mahogany, and literally a work of art, since it bore no resemblance whatever Avhich he concluded was the proof about to be required ; when, to his infinite to any known production of nature, being, according to the opinion of Mrs. surprise, instead of being solicited to bestow his charity, he was asked for his Simpson the landlady, when bargaining for rent with an expected tenant, much handsomer than the real wood. I n addition to these sumptuous articles, name and place of abode. M A G G I E L E E . — ( F o r Music.)



• 905 :

2 7 4


[ S e p t e m b e r | , I860.

were t w o chairs, with black horse-hair seats and backs, venerable relics of the g o o d old times of our great-graudmbthers ; and there was a remarkable piece of furniture, the precise nature and use of which it might have puzzled a conjuror to determine, it being in reality a bedstead, so fashioned as to assume during the day the semblance o f a chest of drawers, with no visible means of being opened. Although Mrs. Simpson prided herself extremely on the magnificence of this apartment, which, to use her own emphatic words, w as fit for a prince, (she never specified what particular prince it might be likely to suit,) the most striking objects therein were certain instruments of music appertaining unto the inmate himself, consisting of a guitar, a fine-toned violin, and a concertina, with which he was wont to beguile the tedious hours that were all dark to him, by performances that would not have disgraced a Blagrove or a Rigondi. But they were silent now—he had " hung his harp upon the willows'*—and sat with his face buried in his hands, remembering the days that were gone. H e had often pondered in sadness over such reminiscences, "but they came upon him now with more than their usual force, and it was thus his meditation ran : — " Markland!—I never thought I should have cause to bless that name. Godfrey Markland ! W h a t strange fatality is it that has made him my preserver ? I could wish it had been any other; yet perhaps I am wrong, for it may be that Providence, has sent him to me for some good end. W o u l d that it were for my vindication ! But what testi­ mony could he bear—he who was then unborn ? I must see hiai again—see him, did I say ? Alas ! w h y do I continue to use a term that has no meaning now for me ? I must meet him again. There are things I fain would know, yet dare not ask openly in the world. Oh, this weary, weary concealment! W i l l it ever have an end ? W i l l it never terminate but in the grave ? " A n d he wept like a child—wept long and bitterly. At length the blind man raised his drooping head, and by a strong effort repelled the tears that were flowing fast down his haggard cheeks, then clasping his hands together, and raising his sightless eyes to Heaven, he exclaimed passionately, " Oh, Merciful Father! give me patience to bear my l o t ; for I knew not till this day, the full length and breadth of its misery."



A t forty-five Lady Catherine Markland was still a lovely and interesting woman. That she had been eminently beautiful in her youth there needed but a single glance at her finely moulded features to determine, and she was beautiful even now in her full maturity, for the autumn of her life was scarcely less attractive in its mild and graceful dignity than its blooming spring-time had been, when the freshness of youthful charms was heightened by hopeful and joyous promise. The younger daughter o f a peer, Lady Catherine had married a wealthy commoner whom the world said she loved n o t ; but there seemed very little foundation for such a report, as he was, to all appearance, a fondly attached husband, whilst the conduct of the lady during twenty years of wedded life had never fallen under the faintest shadow of reproach. She was perhaps as faultless as it is in human nature to b e ; but she was a woman still, with a woman's gentle, susceptible heart, and there were passages in her history unknown to any but herself, that might have accounted for a shade of melancholy in her temperament, that was ever perceptible even in her happiest moments. Lady Catherine was still in mourning for her husband, who had been dead about two years and a half, and had left to her the sole guardianship of their only son, who, at the time of his father's death was in his nineteenth year. H e was therefore now almost of age, and his mobher naturally 'felt great anxiety with regard to an event that would make him his own master, and put him in the uncontrolled possession of an ample fortune, She had no fear for his principles, as she knew they were radically g o o d ; but there was a degree of impetuosity in his character, a proneness to act upon the impulse o f the moment, which gave her some uneasiness, especially as certain circum­ stances had lately come to her knowledge, that led her to suspect he had been lured into the dangerous error of setting up an idol of clay on the altar of his affections. Nevertheless her task as the guardian of a young man from his nineteenth to his twenty-first year had, considering the nature of the trust, been a tolerably easy o n e ; for his habits and manners were those of a gentle­ man, his honour was unblemished, his behaviour towards herself invariably affectionate and respectful; he was not extravagant, and in short she had nothing to complain of beyond an occasional act of thoughtlessness that might now and then deserve the name of imprudence or folly. " W h e r e have you been, Godfrey 1" she asked, as he entered the drawingroom flushed and heated nearly half-an-hour after the usual dinner hour without having altered his dress. " I did not think it was so late," he replied, in some confusion, " I really beg your pardon. W i l l you wait dinner while I wash my hands, or shall I sit down as I am ? " " I will wait," said his mother. " G o at once, and answer my question when you return." Godfrey obeyed. H e still hoped to evade the question b y telling of his adventure with the blind man by way of accounting for his protracted absence; therefore he did not hurry his operations, thinking it would give him a better chance of escaping inconvenient inquiries if his mother should already be in the dining-room when he went down, as he calculated that the business of getting through the dinner, together with the interruption of any confidential communication necessarily caused by the presence of servants, would banish the subject from her mind. So he purposely loitered till he heard her descending the stairs, then followed and entered the room just as she was taking her seat at the table. Whilst the dinner was in progress, Godfrey related the incident of the morning, by which he hoped to interest his mother so far as to make her forget h o w late it was when he came h o m e ; but his manoeuvre did not succeed, simply because the lady happened to ask at what time in the day

the circumstance had occurred, and, as lie never descended to un untruth, he was obliged to confess it was two o'clock or thereabouts. " W h a t struck me as most remarkable," continued Godfrey, " w a s that my name seemed to be familiar to the old m a n ; in fact, he said as much, if I am not mistaken : that was odd, was it not ? " " I cannot say that I see anything very particular in it," replied his mother. " The name might be known to anyone without its having reference to us." " But why should he want to know where I lived ? " asked Godfrey. " T h a t I think may very easily he accounted for," replied his mother. " H e probably saw or guessed that you were charitably disposed, and I have no doubt that, in a day or two, you will receive a formal petition for assistance in some shape or other, so you may as well be prepared for it." " Then why should he ask for nothing at the time ? " urged Godfrey. "Perhaps he had wit enough to reckon that, by so doing, a shilling "or two would be the utmost he should ebtain," said Lady Catherine, " whereas, having possessed himself of your name and address, he has the opportunity at least of calling upon your sympathy to a larger amount." " Well, it may be s o , " said Godfrey; " but I. must own I did not see the affair in that light. However, it is not unlikely; so there is an end of my romance." " A n d you are disappointed accordingly," said Lady Catherine, with a smile. " I am afraid, my dear Godfrey, you will find, in your course through life, that the matter o f fact will predominate over the romance to a great extent; therefore, you had better prepare yourself for such contingencies." " A n d how prepare ? " he asked. " B y not expecting the simple, everyday occurrences of life to turn out wonders," was the reply. " They w**y rareiy do, depend upon it, and if you permit yourself to indulge in such expectations, you will meet with continued disappointment." This conversation lasted till the dessert was placed on the table, and the servants had withdrawn ; then Lady Catherine said, " A n d now, Godfrey, will you answer the question I put to you when you came in ? " " W h a t question, mother ? " " I asked where you had been ? " " O h , yes, so you did. W e l l , I just called in at Mrs. Russell's as I was passing.'* " A n d you stayed there from two o'clock till six. W a s it not so ? " Godfrey's ingenuous countenance was instantly flushed with crimson; he hesitated, bent his head down over the orange he was dividing, in evident confusion, yet he scorned to deny the fact, and, after a short interval of silence during which his mother's eyes were earnestly fixed upon him, without looking up he replied, " Y e s , I did." Another long pause succeeded. Godfrey felt uncomfortable, and continued to trifle with the fruit on his plate; but, at length, he raised his e^yes and said, " I wish, dear mother, you knew Mrs. Russell better. I f you did, I am convinced you would not have so strong a preju&ce against her." " I have no desire to know her better, Godfrey; and allow me to say that an opinion formed on reasonable grounds cannot with justice be termed prejudice." " But is it quite reasonable to judge entirely from what others tell you without assuring yourself of its truth ? " asked Godfrey. " Whether true or false, it is always dangerous to trust where there is room for suspicion," replied Lady Catherine. " I have already told you my reasons for not wishing you to form any connection with that family."" " Yes, but I think you may b e — I think you are—mistaken," said Godfrey. " There may be some mystery about them, but there can be nothing wrong, I am quite sure." " Where there is mystery and concealment," replied the lady gravely, " we cannot be sure there is nothing wrong. A t any rate, Godfrey, it would be a serious thing to bestow your affections under the shadow of a doubt." " But, my dear mother, you j u m p to conclusions too hastily. Surely I can call now and then at a house without leaving my affections there." " D o not deceive yourself, Godfrey. D o not try to deceive me. Gloss over the truth as you will, it is not less the truth because you shut your eyes to it. Y o u go to Mrs. Russell's with that intent. Y o u g o there because her daughter is handsome and attractive; but take care how you trust to these qualities alone for happiness, and take care how you trust to the promptings of your own guileless, unsuspecting nature for respectability." " M y dearest mother," said Godfrey, " you could but say all this if I had actually made an offer to Miss Russell." " I might say it," she replied, " but it would then be too late. I do not g o so far as to assert that you have any intention at present of offering Miss Russell your h a n d ; you tell me you have not, and I never yet had cause to doubt your w o r d ; but you cannot answer for yourself if you continue to visit so constantly at the house. Besides, the world will begin to speak of you as her lover, and you might find it no easy task to absolve yourself from the charge, even if you should not be disposed to admit it." " Y o u are going a long way indeed," said Godfrey, laughing. " W h y , any one would suppose there was a conspiracy afloat to kidnap me as gipsies do little children; surely I am old enough to take care of myself." " I fear not," said his mother. " A man may be ensnared as easily as a child, by those who understand such arts. But do not mistake me, Godfrey," she continued; " I am not accusing these persons of a deliberate conspiracy, I only wish to to guard you against the evil consequences that might follow any inadvertence on your part. I wish to save you from a fatal error that I have but too much reason to believe y o u would have cause to regret all your life." Godfrey made no reply, and, after a pause Lady Catherine continued, " I n a few months," said she, " I shall cease to have any legal control over your actions; our relations towards each other will assume a different character; you enter upon a new era of your life under auspices that will lead either to good or ill, according to your acceptation of them. I am perhaps over anxious

September 1, I 8 6 0 . ]



is this momentous time draws near, and I do not hesitate to say that my his beautiful Cynthia, whom fancy had invested with all the graces of truth anxiety is chiefly on account of an intimacy, which I cannot help looking upon and candour combined with feminine delicacy and unsullied purity of mind— is unfortunate." how was it possible for him to suspect that she was, at that very time, when her " I am really sorry it gives you so much uneasiness," said Godfrey, " there bewitching smiles were, as he firmly believed, lavished, upon himself alone, is not the least occasion for it, I assure y o u . " holding a corresponded oe with one" of whom she spoke almost contemptu­ " I wish I could think so, Godfrey," returned his mother; " I would most o u s l y ; and that she had coolly made up her mind"to bestow her fair hand readily, most gladly change my opinion if I saw any ground for so doing. upon a man for whom she felt not the slightest regard, in ease her younger But, oh, my son, if you have any regard for my peace of mind, any regard for and more attractive lover should escape her? Y e t this was really so ;' for she your own future happiness, do not advance one step farther in this than you had more than once experienced the truth of the adage, " There's many a can with honour retrace; do not say a single word to this young lady, that slip," &c., and as she did not fail to profit by such unpalatable lessons, they may be construed into more than common courtesy. I do most earnestly taught her to act on this occasion with prudent foresight. entreat you to keep a strict guard over yourself, at least until you are better T h e acquaintance with Sir James Morrington had commenced in crossing acquainted with the former history and present connections of the family." the Channel from Calais to Dover, in the autumn of the preceding year, and " D o not fear, mother," said Godfrey, " I am not going to rush headlong he was very ready to accept the invitation as readily accorded him to call in into matrimony without taking plenty of time for consideration, and you may W e y m o u t h Street whenever it suited his convenience or inclination so to do. be assured I will give you due notice of my intentions, and ask your advice But, however great might be the attraction that drew him towards Mrs. like a dutiful son, before I put the question to any young lady whatever. So Russell's abode, it neither induced him to come to town more frequently nor pray smile upon me once more, and set your mind at rest." to prolong his stay when there; nevertheless her house was always the first It Lady Catherine tried to smile; but it was a vain attempt. Some powerful towards which his steps were directed, the last to which he bade, adieu. emotion beyond her ability to control, seemed to agitate her whole frame, and was some time ere he made it apparent which of the three graces was the object of his idolatry, the flower that was to be transplanted to his Eden, the she burst into tears and sobbed almost hysterically. Gradually, Godfrey had never seen his mother so moved before, and starting from his bright particular star destined to shine at Morrington hall. however, his attentions became less" diffused, and at length concentrated seat, he threw himself on his knees beside her. themselves around the fair Cynthia, who was very well pleased with a "Mother!—dearest m o t h e r ! " he cried. " F o r g i v e me for this trifling. I will do nothing that you disapprove; I will promise all you wish. I will perspective that appeared brilliant enough to satisfy her ambition, until she give up the Eussells at once if you desire i t ; only say the word, and I never •suddenly found herself surrounded b y a brighter halo. enter the house again." The baronet had not yet made a formal proposal for Cynthia's hand when Lady Catherine had at all times great command over her feelings. She Godfrey Markland unconsciously threw him into the shade, and completely never gave way, at least before witnesses, to any very perceptible demonstra­ altered the views of the capricious beauty. Still, she had a difficult part to tion of passion o f any k i n d ; and even now, when thus unusually excited, p l a y ; for although the axiom o f " t w o strings to the b o w " may bo admissible in matters of business, it is always a dangerous policy to act upon with regard a few moments sufficed for the recovery of her self-possession. , " N o , Godfrey, n o , " she replied calmly. " T o break off all communication to affairs of the heart, and she had given Sir James every reason to believe suddenly and without apparent cause, would be both discourteous and unwise; that his proposal, whenever it might come, would be accepted with a due nor would it have the effect of proving whether they are worthy of your appreciation of the honour conferred. She had, in truth, been quite willing esteem or not. All I ask of you is, to ascertain from better authority than to make the most of her triumph until she saw a prospect of achieving a still their own representations, the real character and position of these persons greater o n e ; for, though the pomps and vanities of the world were, in her estimation, the things best calculated to make life endurable, still, she was not before you bind yourself more closely to them." wholly indifferent as to the hand that bestowed them. She knew that to " I do promise you most solemnly that I will," said Godfrey. " Heaven bless you, my beloved son ! " responded his mother. " It is the marry Sir James Morrington was to sacrifice herself at the altar of pride, yet greatness of my love that makes me thus anxious for your well-doing. Oh, felt that she would rather make that sacrifice than lose the advantages o f Godfrey! marriage is a sacred and solemn ordinance; enter not into it wealth and station that such a marriage would give her. But in winning Godfrey Markland she would obtain all those same advantages, together with lightly." a man she could fondly, passionately l o v e ; consequently, the balance was She rose immediately and left the room. greatly in his favour, and her chief object n o w was not to lose sight of the CHAPTER III. one until the other was securely captured. The Eussells lived in a style sufficiently respectable to warrant a belief that This state of things, however, could only last so long as the rivals did not they were in easy, if not affluent circumstances, for their house was large meet, and how long that might be was very uncertain, as both were in the and handsomely furnished; they kept a man -servant, who. thought himself a habit of making unexpected visits, and the only possible precaution that could very fine gentleman indeed, and a lady's maid with similar ideas respecting be adopted against so fatal a mischance was to desire the servant to say " N o t her own individual importance. Mrs. Russell herself was a remarkably fine at h o m e , " should either of them happen to call when the other was there, in woman, rather too masculine, perhaps, in mind and manner; but eminently consequence of which instructions that sagacious individual came to the gifted with that equivocal kind of quality usually expressed by the word " tact," conclusion that " t h e r e was something in the wind," and forthwith began to a quality that seldom fails to please, inasmuch as its most common use is to turn his attention towards the practicability of making a little profit out of it flatter the peculiarities of all sorts of people ; consequently she was saicr to be for his own advantage. an extremely agreeable person, even by those who scrupled to visit her on Mrs. Russell did not feel quite easy as to the result of Cynthia's manage­ the score of ignorance as to" her origin and social position ; for, although she ment ; nevertheless, she thought it worth while to risk something for the was a widow with two marriageable daughters, no one seemed to know who chance of making both lovers available, since it was not unlikely, according or what her husband had been; nor did she manifest any inclination to to her calculations, that the baronet might, in revenge for Cynthia's incon­ enlighten the world on those points; but on the contrary, always contrived to stancy, transfer the light of his smiles to her younger daughter, Adelaide, or get rid of such questions in an off-hand, easy way, by answers that carried Leda, as she was generally called, to whom he had at first seemed to give the with them an appearance of being direct replies, yet afforded no information preference; for she was quite as handsome as,her sister, and more showy in whatever, as, " M r . Russell was resident abroad for a great many years," person, being rather taller, and altogether on a larger scale, besides w h i c h , or, " H e was in the Civil Service," or, " H e held an appointment" under she had what her mother called more style about her, that is, she was more Government." But it was never intimated what part of the world was meant confident and bolder in speech and manner, with a dash of satire that often by abroad; what appointment it was that he h e l d ; or from what source passes current for wit. But Sir James did not like Leda in his secret s o u l ; was derived the income that now supported his widow's ample expenditure. for, like dull, proud men, he had an especial dread o f ridicule, and was .never The two girls were decidedly handsome, but, theirs was a style of beauty free from a most uncomfortable feeling, that every civil word she said to him more foreign than English—beauty that tells of the sunny south—the rich savoured less of compliment than sarcasm. complexion, the large, dark, brilliant eyes, the glossy raven hair, that strike It was some time before Lady Catherine Markland became aware of her us with admiration in some of the pictures of the old Italian masters. I t son's intimacy with the Russells, and then it was by chance and not from was Cynthia, the elder of the sisters, who had spread the fascination of her himself that she heard it. The discovery naturally caused her a great deal of charms around the susceptible heart of Godfrey Markland. H e was first uneasiness, and it was not likely to be lessened cither by the fact that he had introduced to her at a ball given by Mrs. Mellish, a lady who was known said nothing to her about these new acquaintances, or by the manner in which slightly to his mother, and on that occasion he had betrayed such evident he replied to her questions respecting them. H e tried to assume an air ot symptoms of enchantment, that tire dazzling beauty to whom he devoted his carelessness and indifference that was evidently forced, said he had danced whole attention during the evening, and who was by no means slow to with the young ladies at Mrs. Mellish's ball, and had certainly called two or interpret such signs and tokens, fancied it would not be very difficult to com­ three times since, as he found them very agreeable persons—but that was all. plete a conquest, that she looked upon as infinitely more desirable than one Such an explanation was hardly sufficient to allay the fears of a mother so she had arVeady achieved, although it was her mother's opinion that " the anxious and so devoted as Lady Catherine Markland; and, although she had lover in hand was preferable to the one in the bush." But then the former never been on visiting terms with Mrs. Mellish, she thought it advisable to was a man not much under forty, with a forbidding countenance and self- call upon that lady with a view of ascertaining who these petbous were that had important, uupleasing manners; therefore it was not very surprising that a made so favourable an impression on her son, and this resolve she acted upon remarkably handsome young man, his equal in point of fortune, and infinitely without delay. She found, however, that Mrs. Mellish kuew but little his superior in every other qualification, the title excepted, should threaten to of the family, and even entertained some suspicion that Russell was an be a formidable rival. assumed name, and that the mother was not a widow as she represented • Sir James Morrington, the gentleman alluded to, was a wealthy baronet, a herself to be. These were the doubts on which Lady Catherine grounded her objections widower, and childless. H e resided on his own estate in the neighbourhood of Bristol, and seldom visited London unless business obliged him to do so, to Godfrey's intimacy; but he met those objections by saying that Mrs. and then he always made his stay as short as he could, so that Godfrey Russell had probably been twice married, which, to his mind was a very Markland had never chanced to see him in W e y m o u t h Street, and had only simple as well as a clear solution of the seeming mystery; and as nothing is heard his name once or twice mentioned casually, and in not very flattering more easy than to place things in the light most agreeable to our own vision, terms. . H o w then was it possible for him to divine that Cynthia Russell, he contented himself with this view of the case, and sought no farther

2 7 6


[September 1,1860

I n consequence of the promise he had made to his mother on the eventful day o f his rencontre with the blind man, Godfrey Markland absented himself from W e y m o u t h Street for more than a week—an act of self-denial for which he thought he deserved some credit, especially as he gained no applause thereby except his own ; for Lady Catherine made a point of showing her confidence in his good faith by not asking him a single question as to how he had spent any one morning during the whole of that time. As Godfrey had been in the habit of calling at Mrs. Eussell's almost every day, his non-appearance for so long a period created some surprise as well as disquietude ; still, on the whole, a temporary cessation of his visits just now was rather to be deemed fortunate than otherwise, for Sir James Morrington was in town, and had made up his mind to come to an understanding with the fair Cynthia, so that he was more constant in his attendance than usual, and it would have been almost impossible to keep up the " n o t at h o m e " deception for a whole week. H e had explicitly avowed his intentions and naturally looked for a decided answer; but this Cynthia was determined not to give till she was quite assured of the sentiments of Godfrey Markland, and day after day she contrived to send the baronet away in as much uncertainty as he had c o m e ; yet so cleverly did she manage to evade his importunities, that her very indecision seemed to imply a compliment that gratified his self-love, and produced an antidotal effect upon the angry feelings that might, without some such palliative, have prompted him to settle the affair in a very summary manner. H e r motive was to gain t i m e ; her pretext was that he had made a hasty choice of which she feared he might repent, since, with his superior attributes, his high intellect, his personal attractions (all this flattery was insinuated rather than expressed), he was entitled to look for a wife in a more exalted sphere, one o f rank and fortune whose position was equal to his own. A t any rate she should wish him to take a little more time for reflection; three months—two months—one month even, and that would give her also leisure for the due consideration of a question of such serious import to both. Finally i t was agreed that, at the expiration of one month, the baronet should return to town, and that then his fate should be decided. A n d so they parted. N o w it happened on this very same day that Godfrey Markland, thinking he had kept away quite long enough to establish his character for prudence, presented himself at the door of Mrs. Russell's house just as Benson was in the act of opening it for the egress of Sir James Morrington, who, having paid his farewell compliments, was coming down the stairs. " T h e ladies are at home, Benson, I suppose ? " said Godfrey, who drew his inference from the fact of seeing there had been a visitor. " H e m !—yes, sir—I believe so, sir," replied the man, with some hesitation; for he hardly k n e w whether the instructions he had received made it his duty to deny them when one of the parties w h o m his orders referred to was on his way out. Besides, how could he say they were not at home in the hearing of the departing guest, who would know the assertion to be untrue ? So Godfrey walked through the hall, and in passing Sir James just touched his hat, which salutation was very coldly returned with a grim and suspicious frown. " W h o is that ? " asked the baronet of Benson. " That, sir ? H e m !—oh !—why, that is Mr. Markland, sir," " Markland ?—what, a son of Lady Catherine Markland ? " " Y e s , sir, I believe so, sir." Sir James muttered something that sounded very like an oath, between his teeth, then said, " Does he come here often ? " " W h y yes, sir, pretty often—almost every day, I should say. Leastways, not for the last week he hasn't been. Perhaps lie might know you were in town, sir." Sir James stared at the man, as if surprised at his insolent familiarity, and walked out of the house without deigning to make further inquiry. " That lish w o n ' t bite," observed M r . Benson, indulging m a brief mental soliloquy. " I must try the other, for they are both upon the same tack, that's pretty clear." Markland had not heeded the evil eye that was cast upon him by the late visitor, for he was wondering h o w he should be received after so long an absence, and forgot everything else as soon as he encountered the bright eyes of Cynthia Russell, and saw that they were lighted up with undisguised pleasure. The three ladies were all in the drawing-room, and greeted his entrance with a simultaneous exclamation of glad surprise, that could not be other than nattering and pleasing to one, who had much less self-sufhcieney than most young men of his age, even amongst those who have no such pretensions to consideration as he might fairly claim. " A n d so, Mr. Markland," said Mrs. Russell, " y o u have really con­ descended once more to illumine our dull little world with the light of your countenance." " Nay, madam," he replied, gaily, " I come in search of light to chase away my own dulness, and not with the presumptuous idea of adding to the brightness of your circle." " I f you expected to find any such light here," said Cynthia, half reproach­ fully, " w h y have you been so long in seeking it ? " ' "Perhaps I had been too much dazzled already," he half-whispered, bending down his head as if to examine some bead-work on which she was pretending to be engaged, and without making any reply. she held it up for his inspection; when Leda, who was sitting idly on a sofa with a novel in her baud, said in her usual sarcastic manner, " Pray, M r . Markland, be so obliging as to descend to matter-of-fact, and gratify my mother and sister by telling them why you have not been here for the space of eight days, where you have been, and what you have been doing." " M y dear Leda," said Mrs. Russell, " y o u are taxing Mr. Markland's memory far too severely, to say nothing of his sincerity, which can hardly be expected to remain proof against such very close inquiries. H o w can you possibly imagine that any gentleman is likely to recollect all he has been doing for a week past ? "

" M y doings are too unimportant to be worth remembering,'' replied Markland with a laugh, " and I am sure they would be very uninteresting to Miss Adelaide." " Oh, not at all," said the young l a d y ; " besides, I am dying to k n o w whether the order for willow garlands may be countermanded." " Really, Leda, you are incorrigible," said her mother, with affected anger, " B u t , seriously speaking, Mr. Markland, we have truly regretted your long absence ; for we live so secluded from the Avorld that we cannot afford to lose such a valuable addition to our home circle. I think we have not had a single visitor since you last favoured us with a call." " I met a gentleman as I came in," said Markland; " M a y I ask who he was?" Miss Russell coloured and hid her face by bending over her work, while her mother, who seldom lost her self-possession, replied with an air of indifference, " O h ! Sir James Morrington, I really had forgotten h i m ; in fact we look upon him as a mere nobody. H e just called in for a few minutes before he left town, as a matter of ceremony." N o w , if Markland had been mistrustful, he might have detected signs of confusion in the countenances of both mother and daughter; but mistrust is a hard lesson, seldom learned during the first twenty years of our sojourn upon earth, nor is it desirable that it should b e ; for experience is sure to force it upon us in time, and the moment we begin to lose that confidence in the honour and truth of mankind, which makes the world so beautiful ill youth, we lose the greatest charm of existence, as one, who awakens from some golden dream of a fairy land, to realise the dreary aspect of a cloudy morning. Markland would probably have forgotten the circumstance altogether, had he not, after trifling away two hours very agreeably, been reminded of it by the officious footman, who was by no means disposed to lose sight of his hopes of fee and reward for secret service. H e , therefore, stood with his hand on the lock of the hall-door, keeping Godfrey an unconscious prisoner while he commenced his attack. " That gentleman as you saw g o out, sir," said he, "asked a great many questions about y o u . " " About me ? " echoed Godfrey, in a tone of surprise. " Y e s , sir. H e said, wasn't you Lady Catherine Markland's son, and he wanted to know how often you come h e r e ; and whether I beg your pardon, sir, for mentioning such a thing, but I thought you ought to know it, w h e t h e r y o u come to see any o f the laaies in pertickler." Godfrey felt his blood boiling with indignation, " H o w dare any man ask such insolent questions ? " he said, " what right has he to trouble himself about my affairs ? " " T h a t ' s just what I thought, sir," replied the footman; " a n d so, in course, I told him that I didn't know anything about it, but he seemed in a jealous rage." " Jcalous rage! " exclaimed Godfrey. " W h a t for ? What do you mean Benson was growing bolder; he thought that fish would bite, and began to draw largely upon his invention for means to secure the prize, and replied to Markland's last queries by saying mysteriously, " W e l l , sir, it isn't for me to say all I think or all I k n o w ; but Sir James has been here this whole blessed morning a taking leave." Godfrey was evidently startled; for he remembered that Mrs. Russell had said the baronet was only there for a few minutes, and the man, seeing his advantage, continued, " A n d when he saw you go upstairs, sir, as if you was used to the house, sir, he began to ask all the questions I told y o u ; and then he says to me, says he./' N o w , Benson, you keep a look out, and I'll make it worth your while.' But he isn't a gentleman as* I ' d serve, sir, in any such w a y ; for though he's a baronet, he's no real gentleman, after all." This somewhat lengthy speech gave Markland time to recollect himself, so far as to see the impropriety of obtaining information on so delicate a subject through such a channel; still' he believed the man meant well, and said kindly, " l a m much obliged to you, Benson ; but I don't wish to hear any­ thing more about this person, and if he should take any further liberties with my name, don't mention it to me, if you please." " N o , certainly, sir; not if you don't wish it, sir," said Benson, feeling very well pleased with his own generalship on finding, after he had closed the door, a gold coin in his hand, which he looked upon as the herald of future favours. I n thoughtful mood, and not quite easy in mind, Markland pursued his way towards Charing Cross, where he had business to transact before he went home ; and as he passed along Oxford Street his attention was attracted by a crowd, in the midst of which were several policemen, one of whom had his hand on the collar of a person, whom he instantly recognised as his blind acquaintance of the preceding week, whose existence he had utterly forgotten. Pushing his way through the assemblage to ascertain what was the matter, he found that the poor man was endeavouring to exonerate himself from the charge of having purposely broken a pane of glass in a shop-window with intent to collect a mob, in order to give his friends an opportunity of making themselves acquainted with the contents of other people's pockets. " H o w do you know he did it on purpose ? " said Markland to the" individual who held the man in custody. " W h y , sir, there's a gang of ' e m ; and these blind uns are the worst. They're always at these sort of tricks; and this fellow's been had up three times already for begging." " I t is false! " exclaimed the accused. " I was never in a police court in my life; nor did I break the window designedly. I was violently pushed against it, very likely for some bad purpose; but it was no fault of mine." The captor whistled his incredulity, still keeping a tight hold of his prisoner, whilst another of the staff intimated the propriety of taking him at once to the station-house; and this opinion was about to be acted upon, when Markland resolutely interfered. " I t appears to me," he said, with much spirit, "that you are going far beyond your duty. I know this man and I will be answerable for him."

S e p t e m b e r 1, 1800. J


2 7 7

" And how do we know who you are ? " said one o f the policemen, winking- at his comrades, who began to eye the blind man's champion with looks of suspicion. " That is who I am," replied Godfrey, handing his card to the one who seemed to he the principal; " and I tell you again that I know this man, and am ready to pay for the damage he has done, for I am convinced it was accidental." " I f you're willing to pay, sir, that alters the case," said the man, who had examined the card, and knew the name perfectly well. " But you see, we're obligated to keep a sharp look out." " But what l i g h t had you to charge him with begging ? " said Godfrey. " Did you ever see him beg ? " " W h y I can't exactly say as I knows this one in pertickler," replied the officer; " but there's a lot of these blind fellows about." " And s o , " interrupted Markland in a tone of indignation, "because there are some blind beggars in the streets, you take upon yourself to accuse every man of being a beggar who happens to be blind. N o w , where is the owner of the shop ? " A short, stout, ill-natured looking man now presented himself, and in answer to Markland's inquiry as to the amount of the mischief done, said defiantly, as if he thought the question was likely to be disputed. " W h y it's a matter of fifteen shillings, so you see it was no j o k e . " " W e l l , here's the money," said Markland, taking a handful of silver from his waistcoat pocket, and handing over the sum named, " so now, I suppose, this poor man may be set at liberty." The blind man was instantly released, but he trembled from head to foot, so that he seemed scarcely able to stand, and as Markland now had leisure to perceive that he was himself an object of curiosity to the crowd, which had increased considerably since he had made himself a party concerned, he hailed a cab that was passing by, hurried the blind man into it, then jumped iii himself, and told the cabman to drive to Fitzroy Square, while the pro­ prietor of the broken window walked back into his shop, and as he pocketed the money, said to himself, " As this young spark seems so free with his cash, I wish I had said a sovereign." The blind man, who had not spoken a single wowl since he had found who it was that had interposed in his behalf, could no longer contain his over-excited feelings. H e covered his face with his thin withered hands, and burst into tears. " It was rather an awkward business for y o u , " said Godfrey kindly. " I am glad I happened to be passing. H o w did the accident really happen? " It was some moments before the poor man could command his voice sufficiently to reply, but as soon as he found himself able to speak coherently, he said, " I t was exactly as I stated. I was forcibly driven against the window by whom, or for what reason, I am of course unable to say. But it is no matter now. Thank H e a v e n ! I have been saved from public disgrace. I would not for a hundred pounds," he ejaculated, clasping his hands with violent emotion, " be dragged before any magistrate in the kingdom, even for the petty offence of breaking a window ! This is the second essential service you have rendered me, Godfrey Markland, and although I rejoice to say that it is quite within my power to return the money you have paid on my account, I can never repay a thousandth part of the obligation you have conferred upon me n o w . " " D o not say a word about it, my good friend," returned Godfrey, " t h e service in both cases was purely accidental and not worthy of thanks. As to the money, you need not think about i t ; for it is quite clear that you had no more right to pay it than I had, and I dare say it is of less consequence to me than to you, so wo will consider that matter settled." " A s you will," said his companion, " I accept of your generosity with thanks, though I am no beggar, Mr. Markland. And now let me ask you what induced you to answer so confidently for my character ? H o w do you know I am not the degraded wretch they declared me to be ? " " I did not believe it and that was enough," replied the generous young man; "however, now that we are alone, if there is anything wrong I expect you will tell me so ; not that I should give any information against you, but in that case I must not be seen in your company." In making this appeal Godfrey naturally expected that it would at once be met by an assurance that nothing was w r o n g ; but instead of offering to pistify himself, the blind man uttered not a word in reply, but for a time seemed lost in profound thought, and at length, after a long interval of silence he said, " Y o u are right; it is better that we should not be seen together, but in visiting me at ray poor abode you would run no risk of incurring either shame or disgrace. 1 have need of a friend, of one in whom I may confide freely and without fear; and I fain would repose that trust in you if "you will accept it." Godfrey was rather startled at so unexpected a proposition, for he began to think the man's character was at least doubtful, and did not like the idea of venturing into his haunts. H e , therefore, said, " I must first know the nature of the trust, for I cannot but perceive that you are, or have been, far above your present condition, and if you have fallen by any misdeeds of your own, 1 would rather you did not confide your secret to me." " Nor would I force such a confidence upon you," returned the blind man. " N o , Godfrey Markland, I shall tell you nothing that you would scruple to hear; but what I have to tell may possess more interest for you than you now dream of." Markland smiled at an assertion to which he gave but little credence, nevertheless he consented to pay a visit to his strange companion at eleven o'clock on the following morning, and made a memorandum in his pocketbook of the name of the street, and the number of the house in which he resided. By this time the cab had reached Fitzroy Square, and they got out. " N o w , shall I see you safely to your own street? " said Markland. " N o , I thank y o u , " said the blind man, " we will part here. Y o u are not yet satisfied that there is no disgrace in such companionship."

" But if you do not know the way ?" " I do know the way perfectly well," interrupted the blind man ; " b u t I have one thing more to say before we part. Y o u must promise me that you will not breathe a syllable to anyone, not even to your mother, of the conveiv. sation that has passed between us, or the engagement you have made with me." Markland readily gave this promise, for he had not the least intention of speaking of what, he was half afraid, might turn out a very imprudent and foolish affair; and, after he had left his singular protege, and was reviewing in his mind all that had passed, the question occurred to him, " H o w should he know anything about my mother ? I certainly have never mentioned her name to h i m . " (To he continued.)

A Fragment from a MS., found in the Withdrawing-room at Haddon Hall, Derbyshire. Sir George Yernon turned to leave the chamber, bestowing merely a cold bend of the head upon his daughter: it was too much. H e r pride, her resoluteness gave way under his unusual severity ; and, rushing towards him before he could reach the door, she flung herself impetuously at his feet, clung to his knees, and exclaimed, " Leave me not in anger, my father ! Bless me ! Oh, bless me, my dear, dear father! " " W h e n Mistress Dorothy Yernon acts in a manner becoming to my daughter, then she shall be treated as such," was the cold, stern reply ; and, disengaging himself from her embrace, he immediately withdrew. Dorothy Vernon remained kneeling where he had left her, her hands clasped, and the tears streaming fast down her pale cheeks. She was exquisitely beautiful; her long, fair hair, hung in profuse ringlets round her face and b o s o m ; and her large, blue eyes, which usually beamed love and benignity on all around, now, in their present humid state, looked, as a poet expresses it, " Like violets dropping d e w . " H e r tears flowed silently for some little time, and then her grief found vent in words. " I f he had but blessed me ! " she passionately exclaimed, " i f he had but called me his child, his Dorothy, I would have remained so though my heart had burst in the effort; but now ! (oh, that my sister were but here!) to be cast from him in this manner! treated with rigour and indifference ! my tears unheeded, my prayers contemned! ordered to give up him I love, and marry one I hate ! I cannot, I will not brook it. Dear Manners, I am thine ! " She shook back her luxuriant curls, rose from her kneeling posture, and after partially removing the traces of her late agitation, applied a small silver whistle to her mouth, which speedily brought the wished-for attendance o f her faithful Alice. " A l i c e ! " she hurriedly exclaimed, "hitherto thou hast been faithful to me ; tell me, may I, dare I, trust thee still further ? " " Dearest lady," returned Alice earnestly, " give me but the opportunity of proving my fidelity and love, and be assured I will not shrink from aught you may impose or require." " I believe thee, dear Alice," replied her mistress, " e l s e , were I wretched indeed. M y father, Alice " (and here her tears flowed afresh), " h a s cast me from him. H e would bestow my hand upon a stranger, when I have con­ fessed that I have no longer a heart to accompany the gift; his fond affection seems turned to cold indifference, my prayers and tears move him not, m y happiness or misery are things of n o u g h t ! " " Nay, dearest lady, cry not so bitterly," said Alice, soothingly. " Sir George Vernon is a doting father, although now he seems harsh and cold. H e acts, under pardon be it said, more from the dictates of Father Ambrose than his own free will, and, my life on't, if the priest would but leave us, we should be all once more happy." " Perhaps so, A l i c e , " sighed her young mistress; " but that event seems not likely to take place yet, and I am bound by a solemn vow this night to decide my destiny. I need not tell thee, A l i c e , " and a bright blush added to her beauty, " that Sir John Manners is the chosen object of my affections." She hesitated, and Alice agreeably filled the pause with just praises of her favoured knight. " H e is all that thou hast said, and even more," at length rejoined her mistress ; " and in that assurance of his worth, his honour, and his love, I must dare to do what otherwise I should shrink from, even fly with him from the violence and rigour of my once kind father." " F l y with him, madam, and t o - n i g h t ! " hastily exclaimed Alice. " Even so, Alice," replied Mistress Dorothy, mournfully. " Chide me not, dear g i r l ; my own heart reproaches me sufficiently, but I have promised, and must perform. H a d my sister, my gentle Margaret, been here, she might have moved my father in my favour, or had he bestowed his blessing on me, as I implored, I had not dared to risk its withdrawal by such a step as that I now meditate ; but his own spirit rises within me against injustice and oppression, and my entreaties having failed with my father, m y v o w shall be redeemed to my lover." The high and haughty spirit of her race seemed indeed at this minute to animate the usually gentle frame of Dorothy Vernon ; and Alice, as she looked on hpr flashing eyes and kindling cheeks, felt convinced that her own unaided arguments would be fruitless to shake the expressed determination of her mistress. She, therefore, proceeded in silence to make the few preparations which her lady had desired, until her anxiety prompted her to inquire by what means her beloved mistress meant to escape from the hall ? " B y the garden stairs which lead from the adjoining r o o m , " was the reply. " This night, as the chapel-bell tolls eleven. Manners will await me at. the foot with every requisite for our speedy and immediate flight; his plans have been well laid, and he has secured friends who will assist in carrying them out successfully; but, Alice, what ails thee, dear girl ? W i i y art thou so pale and trembling ? "



[ S e p t e m b e r 1, I860.

ady," " Oh, dearest lady, sobbed the distressed damsel, " g o not b y the garden I stairs! The sun was never known to shine upon them, and it is ill-omened for a bride to set her foot where that blessed light has never fallen " Fie ! fie ! Alice," rejoined her stronger-minded mistress. " These weak and credulous fears are unworthy of thee. Thinkest thou that the blessing of Heaven would not follow virtue/though it for ever dwelt beneath the earth ? Then why should I be doomed to misery because I stand for one moment where sunbeams cannot penetrate ? N o , Alice ; I will endeavour to deserve the protection of Heaven ; and no mere omen shall make me doubt receiving it." " P a r d o n me, dearest lady," returned the still weeping attendant; " your mind is better constituted than mine. I cannot shake off this terrible fear, but I will not try to infect you with it. May your future days be happy as y o u deserve; but passed in j o y or sorrow, your faithful Alice shares them" with you and she covered her lady's hand with kisses. The assumed firmness of Mistress Dorothy gave way before this burst of genuine affection, and some time elapsed before it was again restored. She then gave a willing assent to the proposal of her humble but devoted friend, and requested her to withdraw a short time, that each might endeavour to regain composure previous to the eventful moment of their departure. Alice accordingly retired to her own apartment, and Dorothy Vernon immediately sank on her knees, and put up fervent prayers for a blessing on their hazardous adventure. H a d Sir George Vernon given vent to his usual violence of character, his daughter would have hoped that the thunder-storm once burst would give place to sunshine and repose; but the unusual coldness and determination with which he had resisted her almost frantic entreaties for her marriage to be deferred (with a man of w h o m she knew little but b y report, and that not over-favourable), led her to fear that he was indeed resolved on its immediate completion, and hurried her on to the daring act she now contemplated. Bitter was the hate Sir George Vernon entertained against the Earl of Rutland's son from the diiference in their religious creeds, and, although uncon­ scious of his attachment to his eldest daughter, he had been frequently heard to declare that he would sooner see either o f his children dead than married to a heretic." But Sir George, although a bigot and of a violent temper, was both proud of and doatingly fond of his fair daughter Dorothy, and she built on that conviction her hopes of receiving his forgiveness, when the die of her fate was really cast. Thus, alternately soothing herself with hopes of her father's lenity, and thoughts of her lover's devotion, she had acquired a tolerable degree of composure when Alice rejoined her. Far differently had the interval since their late stormy interview been passed by her proud passionate father. On quitting his daughter's apartment he had descended into the trim well-kept garden, and paced with hasty steps up and down the long formal terrace, his darkened brow and firm set mouth telling equally of inward conflict and of stern resolve. Presently he paused, and in a sharp loud voice called to a passing servitor, " Bid father Ambrose join me here at o n c e ! " and as the man hastily departed on his mission he stood silent and thoughtful awaiting the arrival of the priest, iris reverie, however, was quickly broken. " I am here, ray son," said a soft l o w voice, and father Ambrose stood beside him. The impetuous knight turned on him at once. " She sets my authority at n o u g h t ! " he exclaimed. " I have tried alike my own natural warmth of temper to force her to my wishes, and your plan of cold apparent apathy to her agonised opposition to them. Both seem at present in vain. W h a t would you now advise ? " " Perseverance in the latter course," replied his companion in the same soft tone. " I have seen enough of Mistress Dorothy's character, even in my short sojourn of a month, to be convinced that violence will have the effect of raising, not subduing, her spirit. She must be worked on b y her affections, to which her judgment is a feeble opponent, and will soon become a willing slave. A s a loving daughter she will fear to lose your paternal love, if you make that the penalty of her disobedience; but, as a true Vernon, if you attempt to coerce her will, she will resist the power, and I am convinced would .sooner sacrifice her life than yield submission." Sir George smiled grimly ; " Somewhat a transcript of my own character, methinks, good father," said h e ; " for which I cannot like the girl the less. Doubtless your suggestion is a g o o d one, and I will practise it. I will use no further threats ; but neither will I make advances. Dorothy must find me the stern unbending father, whose love and blessing wait on the return of her own duty and obedience." " W h i c h will speedily arrive," rejoined the priest, " for the fond heart o f your child cannot beat in peace whilst banished from her parent's presence." Sir George Yernon resumed his troubled walk up and down the terrace. H e did not feel quite reassured by his companion's speech. H e recalled his daughter's impassioned words and looks, and remembered how harshly he had turned from that appeal, and left her kneeling in despairing anguish. She had entreated him not to leave her in displeasure, but he had done so. • She had implored his blessing, but he had refused it. YVhat more could he expect her to do n o w ? Accustomed to the most willing obedience as a father, and the most implicit submission as a chief, the proud and haughty spirit of " The King of the Peak " chafed against this unexpected opposition to his ambitious projects, and had the offender been any other than his own daughter who placed the obstacle in his way, it would have been instantly swept aside in anger and disdain. Even upon her he would have tried continued severity and invective, but for the different course recommended by Father Ambrose. The priest had seen in foreign countries the slow torture tried *>f a single drop of water falling continuously on the head of an offending criminal; and he argued from analogy and his observation of character that a tender daughter's heart would in like manner yield to the slow, constant dripping of a father's anger and assumed indifference. Perhaps ho might have been right in his assumption, had not the temptation to escape from such lingering misery to the arms'of a fond adoring lover been addressed, at this moment, to the impulsive Dorothy.

Rousing himself at length from hi3 " vexed mood," Sir George Vernon quitted the garden, and calling for his hawks and hounds, was speedily mounted on his favourite horse, (the palfrey of the Mistress Dorothy had been brought round as usual, but an angry order from her father sent the wondering groom back with it instantly to the stable,) and then surrounded by numerous guests and retainers, " t h e K i n g of the P e a k " rode forth on his afternoon's amusement. Slowly and sadly wore away the hours in his daughter's chamber. F r o m her window she saw the gay cavalcade set forth, of which hitherto she had always formed a p a r t ; but her father had not even paid her the compliment of asking her to accompany him. W a s -she indeed become a stranger, an unwelcome one, within his gates ? Her bosom heaved with wounded feelings. " H e will not bend me thus," she murmured ; and turning from the window, hastily added some few other trifles to those she meant to carry forth. Mistress Dorothy was formally summoned to the evening banquet, but her father had always hitherto waited to conduct her to the hall; and, that affectionate courtesy being now withheld, she would not descend, but excused herself on the plea of indisposition. Alice remained with her lady, fetching them both some slight refreshment from the buttery, and alternately trying*to wean her from her desperate purpose, and, when those efforts failed, soothing the fears and tremors she could not but share. The sounds of wassail and merriment which now and then had broken upon their ears from the assembled company in the hall died away, the silence of night succeeded, and then with what a beating heart did the intended fugitive await the crisis of her fate. Pale and trembling, with her hand fast clasped in that of Alice, she sat silently listening for the chapel bell; whilst her faithful companion, scarcely less agitated than herself, dared not interrupt the quiet, even b y words of hope and encouragement, lest the effort o f speaking should destroy their hard-earned tranquillity. A t length "Mistress Dorothy started wildly, for the iron clang of the bell in the old clock-tower told that the eventful hour was come. She rose from her* seat, knelt for an instant with her eyes raised towards heaven, and then, tightly grasping the hand of Alice, moved still silently to the garden door. Just as she reached it, the eleventh stroke of the bell was heard, and, as if in response, three light taps on the outside of the door told how true was her knight to nis pledge. Alice removed the bar, the door was quickly opened from without, and Sir John Manners, springing forward, received in his arms the fainting form of his beloved Dorothy, and followed by the faithful Alice, carrying a small parcel, bore his prize to the horse which stood ready for her at the end of the garden terrace. " I t is a good o m e n , " whispered Alice, as she pressed close after them, " that my beloved lady did not walk down those steps on which the sun has never shone."

•• *






The visitor to Haddon Hall, Derbyshire, is to this day shown the gardendoor and steps by *which the fair daughter of the house of Vernon fled with her lover. Their union laid the foundation of the present ducal house of Rutland, and few romances in real life ever terminated in more perfect happiness. H . E. F. WOMAN'S LOVE.
Should a m a n be w i t b sorrow opprest, D e a r w o m a n his care w i l l b e g u i l e ; B y b i s s i c k - b e d she'll w a t c h w i t h o u t rest, H i s labours will c h e e r w i t h a s m i l e . H e r sweet voice living H o p e will impart T o h i m w h o d e s p o n d e d before ; W i l l b i d s o r r o w a n d t r o u b l e depart, A n d h a p p i n e s s e v e r restore. A n d should poverty, nay, even shame, R e a c h h i m w h o has^ o n c e g a i n e d h e r heart, She'll u n s h r i n k i n g l y l o v e o n t h e s a m e , T h o u g h all etse u n k i n d l y d e p a r t . F o r the love that a w o m a n bestows, T h o u g h l o w l y h e r l o t m a y b e cast, E n t w i n e d w i t h her life as it g r o w s , Is c o n s t a n t , a n d ever will last. I n prosperity gay, warm, and bright, U n c h h T d b y adversity's frown, S h e in all p r o v e s the adage is right, W h i c h s a y s , that " T o m a n she's a c r o w n . " T h e n t o m a n , o h ! let w o m a n be dear ! Be cherish'd w i t h honour and l o v e ; F o r , t h o u g h m a n m a y to m a n b e sincere, D e a r w o m a n his b e s t friend will p r o v e .


OR, T H E L O S T C H I L D .

Signer Strozzi received the Count D'Almaine's letter with the proposal for his niece with satisfaction; it was an offer far beyond his anticipation; but not wishing to influence her acceptance of it without her free consent, he went at once to her, and without preface handed her the letter. " M a r i e , " said he, " r e a d to the end." H e r countenance exhibited more coolness than surprise, and when returning it she said, " I am obliged to the Count D'Almaine for the compliment he has paid m e . " " W h a t answer am I to return, M a r i e ? " said her uncle. "Do you favour the signor ? " " Dear uncle," she exclaimed, " what a question ! I have never thought of him but as your friend; but if you wish my thoughts on the subject, I think he is too old to wed a girl not yet eighteen. I do not like him as a husband; I should not, I fear, respect him as he deserves; but as my father or uncle, I could dearly love and respect h i m . " " But answer me, Marie," said her uncle. " Does your heart beat favour­ ably towards any youth who may have spoken as a lover to you ? " " N o , " was the frank answer; " my heart is as free from the emotion of anything like love as the lake of Como is from the waves of the ocean." " Then what is your opinion of Signor D'Almaine ? " he asked. " T h a t he is elegant, intellectual, and amiable," she replied, " a n d could I put ten years to my teens, I might think his a desirable offer."

S e p t e m b e r 1, I 8 6 0 . ]


2 7 9

" W i t h such favourable impressions, dear Marie, is it quite wise to reject A soft hand touched his, so gently, that at another time it would have so advantageous a proposal? " said her uncle. " It is a trifling objection to passed unheeded; he turned quickly, and encountered the large dark eyes o f make to a man, if it is your only one, to reject him because nature ordained his bride. There was a sadness, an anxiety in their expression as she said, in that he should enter the world twenty years before you. His offer is disinte­ a low, soft tone, so low, so soft, that it sounded almost childlike on his ears, rested, and will place you in a rank of life you could scarcely have expected " Signor D'Almaine, you are ill. W h a t can we do for you ? " ever to enter. I should be sorry for a moment to bias you, and yet I wish D'Almaine drew her towards him in silence. There was a strange fascina­ you would take till to-morrow before you finally answer' the count's letter. tion about this beautiful girl, so gentle and guileless ; the affection he felt for There was a shade on the bright face of Marie as she stood several her rushed like a torrent through his heart, then left him calm and collected; minutes in deep thought. A t length she spoke, he pressed his lips on her forehead. I t was the first kiss he had given her, " U n c l e , " said she, " p e r m i t me to decide at once. Tell me, should I and surely one more holy was never pressed b y a mother on the brow of her accept the count's offer, must I give up dear Italy, you and my beloved sleeping infant. aunt ? " " Come," she said, as she withdrew from his embrace; " c o m e , i f you are " I am compelled to say yes to your question," replied her uncle. " Could better, to the breakfast-table, for see, all eyes are on us." we, ought we to expect that the Count D'Almaine would give up country, and " I am better," he replied; " I am myself again. There is a mysterious the importance all men attach to the home of their fathers ? I f such a sacri­ charm in your presence, Marie, which makes me forget all but the chance o f fice is made it must be on your part, Marie." losing you. W i t h you by my side I have a blessed future before m e ; but," " T h e n I must decline what you think so glittering a proposal," said Marie. he added, and his voice quivered, " I have been before a bridegroom, have " I will not leave you to live with the stranger; his home, though grand, knelt at the altar with one as young and lovely as yourself; therefore, do not would be less welcome than the humble dwelling I share with you, and the wonder, do not condemn me if, for a brief space, remembrance of the past has simple name of Marie Strozzi sounds sweeter in my ears than the proud one dimmed the lustre of the present moment." of Countess d'Almaine. D o not speak, dear uncle ; my resolution is fixed. A t A slight pressure of the fingers was her answer, as he led her to the table. once inform the count of it, with my acknowledgments for the honour he has The carriages were announced as soon as the meal was finished, and the shown me by his affection." assembled friends of Signor Strozzi were soon set down at the small church " W e l l , my child, as you say, so will I act," he returned, refolding the over which he presided. count's letter; " but I wish " CHAPTER X L I I I . H e turned to oiler another remonstrance, he was alone—Marie, fearing it, D'Almaine looked proudly on the young and beautiful creature who already had, with her quickest and lightest step, quitted the room, and slowly he seemed to cling to him for protection, as they walked up the aisle to the altar, descended to write a negative to D'Almaine. His answer was couched in as where Strozzi, who had preceded them, stood with his book before him. The mild terms as possible, and set forth his niece's objection as one which all ceremony proceeded in the usual way, till D'Almaine took the hand of Marie, girls with her confined knowledge of the world generally possessed. when for a moment he stood like one paralysed, his lips white, his eyes dis­ D'Almaine had waited impatiently the answer, in a frame of mind, in doubt tended, as their fastened gaze was on a ring upon her.finger. The silence of with himself which would convey the greatest pleasure, her acceptance or that moment was intense; all were more or less affected by it, for all had refusal of his hand; but when Signor Strozzi's letter came, doubt seemed to their eyes fixed on the bridegroom. A t length it was broken by D'Almaine, vanish. The fear of losing Marie, which had lain dormant the last twelve who s p o k e ; but the voice was so hoarse and hollow that it could not be hours, revived with force, and he determined not to leave Florence without her. recognised as those clear, full tones, usually falling from his lips. Ever prompt in his proceedings, an hour after the receipt of Signor Strozzi's " T h a t ring," he said, " whence came i t ? Tell me, if you value mine or letter, D'Almaine was in close conversation with him in his library, and had your own eternal happiness, tell me how it fell into your possession." urged his wishes with such success, that the signor had consented, if Marie H e grasped the hand of the frightened girl with such vehemence, that fear could be brought to change her mind, upon the count's proposing that she alone kept her from screaming. W i t h o u t waiting an answer he wildly should be accompanied by her aunt and uncle to France. snatched it from her finger, and as she struggled to free herself from his firm Marie was summoned to the conference; she could not raise another reason grasp, added, " Girl, speak, I command you, whence came this ring? " for her refusal, and before the count quitted the house of the Italian priest, Marie shrank from him, her face was nearly ashen as his own, and her his niece was his betrothed bride. frame shook with the same violence. W a s D'Almaine happy with the view of a second marriage before h i m , so " I t was my mother's," she c r i e d ; " the initials are those o f her name," soon to be solemnised ? Happy ! I t is a word that comprises a great deal. and drawing a miniature from her bosom, she added, " this is her picture." H e was so far happy that he should not be parted from Marie ; the thought Like a maniac D'Almaine tore it from her neck, and looked at it, as almost gave a thrill to his heart that he could not reconcile with his other feelings; for exhausted he leant on the altar railing for support, then exclaimed, " I t is when he thought of the altar, and leading Marie to it, a heavy dew stood on his Lucille's! and the ring, oh H e a v e n ! in what a prophetic spirit she must forehead, and he mentally exclaimed, " Yes, it is sacrilege to Lucille's memory have sent it to her child, as it was to save her from a deadly sin." to place another, and one so young, in the position she so long, so devotedly Amazement and curiosity collected the bridal party together. Marie was occupied. Even now I could tear this girl with all her fascinations from my left standing alone, pale, cold, rigid as a statue. Signor Strozzi was the senses, could I but transport her to France, and be in daily communication first to arouse himself from the fearful awe encompassing all in the holy with her; but that is impossible. I must make her mine before I c a ^ accom­ precincts ; he approached D'Almaine, and laid his hand humbly on his arm. plish it." " I know not what it means," he said, " t h o u g h I have a vague idea o f Meanwhile Marie, with the ardour of a girl scarcely eighteen, devoted herself something yet to be t o l d ; but here is nothing like guilt, unless it be attached to the preparations for her marriage. It was a busy time. The signor and to me. I feel I have, in my love and zeal for Marie, practised a mean and signora had many arrangements to make before quitting the home that had base deception in withholding from you all I know o f her birth ; I should have sheltered them so many years, and but little was thought of besides the journey, told you ail when you offered her your name and fortune; but proud o f her, anc? the changes it would lead to, and if Marie thought at all with regret of and loving her as if she were indeed connected to me by blood, I withheld her unio'i with the count, it was that he was not a few years younger. from you the knowledge that no link binds us to each other, but what her The morning of the wedding arrived ; not such an Italian morning as we forlorn situation had on my protection." read of as seldom varying in the sunny south ; it was dense with clouds, and D'Almaine shuddered; his eyes gleamed wildly on him while he spoke. a heavy mist falling, threw a shade over objects both within and without " T h e n she is not your niece ? " he said, hoarsely. " S p e a k , sir. Tell me doors. The party composing the bridal train had assembled, with the excep­ then, who is she ? " tion of D'Almaine, in the small parlour of Signor Strozzi, and each time the " That picture you hold in your hand is her mother's," said the cure. door opened every eye turned to it expecting the bridegroom. At length he D'Almaine caught Marie's hand, and, sinking on his knees before the altar, entered; but oh, how unlike a happy expectant lover, eager for the gratula- cried, " Kneel, girl, kneel with me, and bless Heaven that it has been merciful tions of his friends! he was pale, with a strange wildness in his eyes, as if to us, and interposed to prevent a marriage between a father and his child." rest had been a stranger to him the last twenty-four hours. H e complained A wild cry escaped Marie as she shrank from her father's support. Strozzi of headache, and the feverish touch of his hand alarmed his friends and cast a raised her from the marble steps, but he thought her dead; for never was gloom over the countenance of the g o o d pastor. death paler, colder, or more still, than the poor girl he pressed to his aching After receiving the greetings of the part}', D'Almaine retired to a window, heart. Making a passage through the bewildered throng, he bore her to the and throwing it open, let the rain-drops fall on his heated temples, in the carriage, and, entrusting her to the care of his sister, hastened back to her vain hope of finding relief from the cold moisture. His night had been father. haunted by fearful dreams. Lucille had stood before him, as he last saw her, D'Almaine still leant on the altar railings, but the wildness of his looks when she exhorted him so forcibly to rest not till he found his child; she were nearly paralysing. The excitement he had undergone the last few days, accused him of seeking ideal pleasures at the expense of pure affection. She, combined with the shock of this fearful morning, raised a burning heat in his who in life had never upbraided him, frowned darkly on him now. H e veins. H e was already raving, and not till the paroxysm was over was it awoke from this unpleasant vision to fancy one more fearful; Lucille was still possible to remove him. with him, though this time'she stood at the altar and Marie was by his s i d e ; A t length, but with difficulty, D'Almaine was conveyed to the dwelling of the ceremony had proceeded to the point when the ring is put on the finger the repentant and self-accusing Strozzi, where for a fortnight the closed blinds, of the bride, when the vision stepped between, and with finger raised the noiseless footfalls, the pale, anxious faces hovering round his bed, and the deprecatingly and loud voice, forbade the marriage ; he shuddered and hid his low whisperings of all that approached it, told the fearful state the sufferer eyes; when he uncovered them he was alone in the holy edifice, and darkness was reduced to. was around him. Marie, young, and ardent as in her days of childhood, soon recovered D'Almaine was not a superstitious man, but there was something about from the shock, and with both hands and voice fervently raised, she his disordered dreams that he could not shake off, and the dull, misty morning sat by her father's pillow, praying that if he arose from the couch of suffering but augmented the disagreeable sensations he arose with. it might be in the possession of his faculties, which the medical men in " H o w different was all," he thought, as the rain-drops still fell on him, attendance gave no hope of. " w h e n I led my own Lucille to the village church near Marseilles; how * W h e n the crisis of his complaint arrived, D'Almaine lay so long in the brightly shone the sun, how bountifully bloomed the sweets of life round us. sleep so much resembling death that Marie could scarce believe that ho I thought then nature's God smiled on my marriage, but now " breathed.




[ S e p t e m b e r 1, 1860.

" H e is g o n e ! " she murmured. " Gone without knowing h o w dear he was to his recovered child. O h ! aunt, w h y was he so unfortunate as to have rescued us from insult ? " " Murmur not," said the signora; " b e t t e r that the grave should receive y o u r father than he rise from his bed a maniac." " Yes, y e s ; I will try to submit patiently," said M a r i e ; " b u t j o i n with m e in praying for his recovery. Oh ! aunt, if he should die, it will be fearful to think I was in part the cause." W h e n D'Almaine opened his eyes there was recognition in them. Marie stood near his p i l l o w ; his lips trembled, and a cold shiver closed the eyes again ; but he said in a low fervent tone, " L u c i l l e , thy wish is accomplished; thy child is preserved untainted." H e slept, or seemed to sleep, a g a i n ; for he was perfectly quiet, his breathing free. The fever had left him, but left him so feeble, so changed, that it was many days before hope dared to find a resting place in the bosoms of the watchers round his couch. A t length he spoke again. " I fear I have "been much, very much trouble to you all," he said. " F a t h e r , " said the bright-eyed Marie, " I have been your anxious, willing nurse." " A h ! and a selfish one, t o o , " interposed Signora Strozzi, smiling; for you believed none could raise the pillows under your father's head, like yourself." A faint smile lighted up the wan face of the invalid. H e thought it must be beautiful to surfer if a child ministered to his wants. A child ! W a s the bliss really his ? After such a long/ vain search, was his own child, his little Birdie, whom he ever thought so graceful and lovely, was it indeed her soft curls that touched his cheeks, her dark, bright eyes that beamed on him, which told him to live for happiness more than all the words in the world could have done ? W h e n D'Almaine rose from his bed of sickness the lightness of his character had fled. Marie had read t o h i m l h e Book of books, and its simple truthful­ ness had entered his soul. The vanities of the world he had hitherto worshipped had lost a votary for ever. But he was changed too in appear­ ance; the rich proportions o f his form were gone—these, with returning strength, might again appear, but the raven locks were gone for e v e r ; the well-formed head, which time had left untouched, had succumbed to the shock of that morning at the altar. They were white and silvery, as if four score winters had drifted their snows upon his b r o w . As his strength recruited D'Almaine was anxious to learn the particulars concerning his daughter from Signor Strozzi, towards w h o m he felt an irrepressible indignation for retaining the character o f her uncle till it was forced from him by circumstances. Signor Strozzi felt that he deserved full censure for his conduct—conduct that might have brought upon him everlasting and unavailing remorse; he therefore stood before D'Almaine at their first meeting on his convalescence as a self-accuser; and when the latter pushed aside the proffered hand with " Let us converse a little first, Signor s t r o z z i , " the signor did not resent it, but humbly returned to the seat D'Almaine pointed to. Marie, who feared an altercation from the proud look of her father, stepped between them. " F a t h e r ! " she exclaimed earnestly, " y o u will not permit yourself to harbour resentment against Signor Strozzi, who with his sister protected m y helpless childhood. Think of the worthiness o f his character, and what he has done for me. H a d I fallen into different hands, your child would not now be near you to make this appeal to your justice." She took a hand of each and joined them. " L e t it always be thus," she said. " L e t my father and my adopted father be the friends circumstances and an union o f soul should make them." The hands placed in each other tightened into a firm grasp. " Marie is right," said D'Almaine, " t h e r e should be no ill feeling on my part, at least, Signor Strozzi; and if for years you have robbed me o f my child, it was done in the cause of philanthropy, and the best feelings of humanity. From henceforth I hope no discord will disturb the harmony between u s ; but answer me with sincerity, did none of the numerous advertisements published ever meet your eye, none of my inquiries your e a r ? " " On my honour all was to me dark as n i g h t ! " he replied. " H a d an idea entered my mind that parents were sorrowing for the child of my adop­ tion, if my fortune had been expended in the event, I would have discovered them ; but, unsuspicious of all but my first impressions, which were raised by the stout Englishman, that the poor child was thrown intentionally on the bounty of strangers, I considered I was performing my duty by protecting her as my nearest relative. I tremble when I think on the dreadful results it might have led to ; but I have no further excuse to offer." " Enough, signor," said D'Almaine, " let us remember the past with softened feelings, but we must quit here as soon as possible. I n a few days I shall be able to travel. The late events I trust have not interfered with our former plans. The signora and yourself will g o with us to Paris. Hasten, dear signor, our departure, for I shall not breathe freely till I once more breathe the air of France." ~
1 1








D'Almaine's health would not permit of rapid travelling, spite of his desire to be again at home, while Marie, to w h o m all was new and gratifying, would have lingered long to search into these novelties, but for the evident wish of her father to proceed. I t was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, cold day in February when the carriage rattled over the stones of the courtyard of the Hotel D'Almaine. Eugene stood at the bottom of the broad staircase with his smiling welcome. " Draw d o w n your veil, M a r i e , " said D'Almaine, as he stepped from the vehicle to embrace Eugene ; " it is your cousin, and I wish you to take him h y surprise." Then as he handed her from the carriage, he said to Eugene, " M y daughter, one of the kindest and sauciest of little girls, but for her want of beauty," and he shrugged his shoulders significantly; " y o u must look for it, cousin,

to find it, but I expect you will regard her for m y sake, if not for your own." Eugene, without noticing the remark, led the way to the salon, amid a bevy of servants, all anxious to gain a sight of the newly found treasure of their master; nor was the young man himself deficient in the same laudable curiosity to catch a glimpse beyond the wraps of the muffled figure before him. H e offered to disencumber her of her furs, but a smart little waiting-maid stepped forward with a request, that she might conduct the ladies to their apartments. Both Signora StrOzzi and Marie readily accepted the offer, and followed the maid to the rooms prepared for Marie. It was her grandmother's suite o f rooms, which we have before described, and the splendour of them on first entering dazzled the sight of the childlike Marie, and, in pure admiration of these elegant decorations and costly ornaments, scattered so lavishly about, her muff and boa fell unheeded to the ground. The signora's apartments were the adjoining ones, which she had taken a cursory but satisfied view of, and returning to Marie, who was standing at the dressingtable in deep thought, remarked, " All here is extremely elegant; it is almost too much for one person to enjoy." " Y e s , " said Marie, looking round indifferently. " But what an uncommonly handsome man my father's cousin is." " I s h e ? " returned the signora. " I have not had time to look at h i m ; you were in such a prodigious haste to leave the salon, that I could not tell you if his eyes were blue or b r o w n . " " N e i c h e r , " said Marie, impatiently, " b u t black, dear aunt, and the finest in the w o r l d ; let them talk as they will of the eyes of Italy, I never saw any, to my thinking, to equal to my cousin Eugene's." " H e has, I suppose, the D'Almaine eyes," said the signora; " a n d , judging from yours and your father's, they may compete with the dark.orbs of Italy." " The D'Almaine eyes," said Marie. " I had no idea they were so striking till I saw Eugene's. Strange that a word about his fine person never escaped my father, though he has launched forth frequently on his courage and generosity." " F r o m substantial reasons, no doubt," returned the signora. " Your father is too much a man of the world to deem a young gentleman's person worth praise, though it is a merit seldom overlooked by our sex, for example, yourself, Marrt. But there sounds the dressing-bell; make haste to change your dress, or we shall be behind time, child." Mario passed into the signora's rooms with h e r ; they were large and commodious, and a cheerful fire blazing on the standards gave such a homely, comfortable aspect to all within them, that Marie almost envied their quiet neatness when compared with the splendour of her own. " I shall pass more time here, aunt," she said, after expatiating on the comfort displayed in the arrangement of them, " than in yon gorgeous suite; after all I am but a rustic, and prefer a cottage to a palace." " Y o u will soon get reconciled to it," returned the Signora, coolly ; " and now, be gone, if you do not wish for your father's reprimand." The toilette of Signora Strozzi was soon completed, and to give Marie time to finish hers, she sat some time enjoying her comfortable fire, expecting to be summoned. A t length the dinner-bell rang, when starting up she hurried into Marie's chamber; she was surprised, on entering, to see the little progress she had made. Therese, her maid, stood with a dress in each hand, while her mistress looked doubtingly on both. I " O h , " she exclaimed, smiling, as the signora showed herself, " y o u are I just in time, dear aunt, to decide whether it shall be pink or white." j " Pink, by all means," said the signora ; " it is my favourite colour." " So Therese says it is hers," returned M a r i e ; " but with this terrible brilliant complexion of" mine, the tint of which has been deepened by the cold ride to-day, I shall look like a full-blown pa3ony; not that I care about'my looks, only that as we are in Paris, the centre of taste and fashion, I suppose some slight regard must be paid to appearance." " W e l l , then, at once decide upon the white," said the signora; " w h i t e is always elegant, and suits all complexions. W h a t , still hesitating ! " she added ; " w h y Marie, this is the first day of your coquetry; has the air of Paris already contaminated you ? " " T h r o w it over,"_ said Marie, piqued, and the toilet was soon nearly completed, when, while the last hook was being fastened, she opened a jewelb o x . " W h a t a host of beautiful gems ! " she exclaimed. " Another proof of my father's affection; but I shall never wear them. I have never worn anv jewels in my life, but my mother's ring. I should feel disguised in them, and yet this sombre-looking hair of mine wants something to enliven it," and she held a bunch of pearls against the glossy curls. " N o , " she added, " i t will not do—it shall be this white rose. Is that a relief, aunt ? " " I think s o , " returned the signora, ironically, " but it is doubtful what the thoughts of Monsieur Eugene .d'Almaine may be on the subject." " N o n s e n s e , " said Marie, her brilliant cheeks wearing a richer glow from the remark; " h i s thoughts are of trifling moment to me, and I am certain his opinion will never bias me. There, now I am ready ! " she said, and she threw rather haughtily the bright curls from her forehead, while she spoke. Eugene hastened to meet Marie, and as the door opened he started at her appearance; it was like an apparition bursting out from the muffled form he had parted from so recently, but before he had recovered his surprise, the object of it, to his mortification, was seated by her father. H e watched an opportunity to lead her to the dining-room, but Marie, as if divining his thoughts, and determining to disappoint them, took the arm of Signor Strozzi. Vexed with himself and Marie, Eugene devoted himself, all but his eyes, to the signora, during the repast; but Marie had the satisfaction, if it was any, to catch several furtive glances directed towards her. I n the evening D'Almaine and Strozzi were in deep discussion on Rome in its bygone d a y s ; the signora, much interested, sat near, occasionally joining the discussion; consequently the young people had to amuse themselves on their own resources. Marie turned over the leaves of several books, then,

S e p t e m b e r 1, I 8 6 0 . ]




threw them down listlessly, while Eugene amused himself with admiring her profile, as she sat half-turned towards him. At last, throwing down a book, she looked from the window, exclaiming, " N o t h i n g but a paved courtyard to look out on. Paris is a miserably dull place. H o w many months in the year does my father pass here, Monsieur ? " Eugene smiled at the earnestness with which the question was asked, but replied, " Nine months is the fashionable season, I believe." " N i n e m o n t h s ! " exclaimed Marie. " W h y , I have only arrived to-day, and am tired of it. H o w do you amuse- yourselves in your evenings at h o m e ; doing as we are doing now, I suppose ? some conversing on the old times which weary one to death at school, without having them revived in our social moments, and the rest, doomed like you and me, to listen to them. Oh ! a walk in the green fields, or beside the rippling stream, is worth a whole Paris season." " It has certainly more romance in it," said Eugene. " llomance ! " said M a r i e ; " s a y , nature; for I am the most unromantic person in the world, yet I love the country for its very originality, but you have not told me your Paris home resources." " W e read much and converse more," replied Eugene ; " and we sometimes play chess. D o you play, Mademoiselle D'Almaine ? " " I am a novice at the game," she replied ; " my uncle has given me a few lessons; but he found me so stupid that he gave me up in despair." " W i l l you allow me to take your uncle's place, and become your tutor? " asked Eugene. " Readily," she replied ; " on two conditions." " N a m e your conditions," said Eugene ; " but, whatever they are, I accede to them." " One is easy enough," she said; " the other you may have some difficulty to comply with, though you promise before you hear it." " The more difficult, the more pleasant," said Eugene ; " name your terms, and believe them acceded to at once." "First, then, and very difficult," said Marie, " y o u must not over-rate m y stupidity very often, and secondly, drop the formal appellation of Made­ moiselle, and call me, cousin Marie." " Cousin Marie, then, it shall be," he replied, in a low tone, gently pressing her hand; " f o r such sweet liberty I would willingly and for ever bury all titles in oblivion." The board was soon between t h e m ; and Marie, with a determination to conquer her dulness, commenced her lessons; and, whether her present instructor was more versed in the art of teaching than her former one, or, that being young and handsome, she payed greater attention to the game, is unknown ; but certainly she soon gained an advantage over her opponent. " Checkmated, by J o v e ! " he exclaimed. " I thought you were at home at chess." " P r a y do not be crest-fallen," she replied, laughing; " i t is but the scholar's game." They commenced another game, and with it a tete-a-tete, interesting to both, quite foreign to the play, but yet Marie kept the advantage. " M a r i e will soon excel her master," said Signor Strozzi, as he leant on the back of her chair ; " that was a famous move ; another such, and Monsieur Eugene is vanquished. Bravo, bravo, my dear! " he exclaimed, " i t is yours. Monsieur's eyes are more on the slender fingers of his adversary than on his own moves." 9 " All jealousy, uncle," said Marie, archly, glancing towards E u g e n e ; " y o u could not, or would not, make anything of me, and now would raise war between me and my cousin, because he has found out some talent in m e . " Eugene was confused ; Marie took advantage of it, and rose a conqueror.

As Marie entered her room a woman rose from a seat near the fire, and, with timidity, half advanced to meet h e r ; then, stopping as Marie approached her, she held out her arms, exclaiming in a low, tremulous tone, " Birdie." " G o o d Madame Perre," said the signora, offering her hand; but Marie had looked at Hose, and recognised h e r ; and throwing herself into her arms, covered her face with her kisses. " Mother," she cried, " oh! Blanche's mother and mine. H o w happy your coming to see me has made me." " Ah ! she has not then forgotten m e , " said Rose. " She remembers and calls me, as she did when a helpless child, mother. Dear Birdie, you will always be the same " she cried, in broken accents. " Mother," said Marie, still clinging to her, " how often I have thought of you when alone in the darkness and stillness of night. I have talked to you as though you had been present; yes, mother, you and the dear, tender, loving little Blanche." " Dear Blanche," returned Rose, the tears dropping fast from her eyes; " she would now have been the same age as yourself, had she lived; but the little grave is still there, Birdie, that you used to sleep upon, and cover up so warm, when you quitted it, with your little torn cloak." Signora Strozzi, who had stood by participating in the feelings of both, interrupted their conversation, which was growing too interesting, and suc­ ceeded in doing so by asking Rose some questions about the Chateau N o i , which she had quitted only the morning before, from a letter she had received from the count, acquainting her with the happy result of his journey to Italy. I n the morning, before breakfast was taken away, Madame de Bleville was announced. W i t h all the fervour of her girlish feelings she embraced her niece, laughing and crying by turns; at the end o f every sentence wishing Lucille had lived to see this happy day. " So you really cannot remember me ! " she cried ; " c a n n o t recollect Aunt Emile? It is astonishing, when I should have known you anywhere; for, Marie, you are not at all altered, only in s i z e ; but Eugene, you remember Eugene "

" N o , " said M a r i e ; " but that is not strange, for he must have been but a boy then, and now he is a hands " she stopped confused, but laughingly added, " now he is a tall, full-grown man." " But the trout stream, the little fish, and old L i o n ; these scenes have not faded from your memory, surely," said Eugene. " The trout stream, the little fish, and L i o n , " repeated Marie, dreamily. " W h e r e have I read or heard about them before ? Assuredly not from Signor Strozzi; for he is too humane to practise such sports. W h e r e is L i o n ? " " A t rest with his fathers," answered Eugene. " A f t e r a life of affection and utility, grey in years, and regretted b y all, he found a grave last spring." " I am sorry," said Marie, in the same dreamy tone. " I should have liked to have patted papa's ' L i o n . ' " " Brother, take her to the old chateau," said Emile, " the scene o f her childhood, and all will return to her." " Some day," returned D'Almaine, " w h e n I can make m y mind up to look myself on those scenes, I will take her there, i f she goes not there with another before." H i s eye glanced towards Eugene, who leant over the back o f a chair, watching Marie, who with her chin resting on the tip o f her forefinger, and her large dark eyes fixed on her aunt, seemed recalling recollections all but faded from her memory, as she repeated, " The trout stream—and ' Lion.' " " A n d E u g e n e , " added Signor Strozzi, in a low, gay tone, w h o stood near her. " A h , Marie, I divine your thoughts. T h e latter has more share in them than either of the former." " Presumption," said Marie, " to suppose you can divine the thoughts o f a woman, which are so fertile and varied, that she can scarcely divine them herself." " T o prove that I am a correct diviner," said the signor, " I will bet my handsome new cane against that little souvenir card-case, the gift of your cousin, which has not a particle of value in it besides being his present." " I refuse the challenge," she returned, laughing and blushing; " f o r of what use would the cane be to me if I won it ?—while to you, a bachelor, the possession of a lady's card-case, even if obtained b y the cunning of your sex, would be an everlasting boast to y o u . " " A h ! I know the estimation in which the trifle is held," he replied; " o r I should not have ventured so valuable an article as my tortoise-shell cane against it." " R i d i c u l o u s ! " she returned, with a slight pout, but added in a serious tone, " uncle, pray be discreet." " Depend on both my discretion and silence, i f it is necessary," was ike reply, as they both rose to be introduced to visitors that were announced. It was the Paris season ; and D'Almaine was too proud of his daughter not to introduce her to its gay circles, though Marie, brought up so quietly, would willingly have dispensed with the ceremony, could she have done it with her father's and her aunt's consent; but both thought it so necessary that some of the rust of country life should be rubbed off, to make her talk without blushing, and laugh less, and smile more, that Marie, though she feared she should be a dull scholar in fashionable accomplishments and manoeuvring, entered the world chaperoned by Madame de Bleville. It was soon understood that Mademoiselle d'Almaine was a rich heiress. This, combined with her great beauty, soon made her sought f o r ; and many noble and advantageous offers for her hand were received b y D'Almaine. Many of these offers came from young and handsome m e n ; and as Marie refused one after the other with the most unceremonious coolness, he began to wonder whether she was really a flirt, or if one who had not asked her had found favour in her sight. H e still wondered, while Marie, quite unconscious o f giving uneasiness to her father b y refusing what she termed the butterflies o f a season buzzing round, hailed with delight the last ball which was to emancipate her from late hours, constrained habits, and the smoke and confinement of a metro­ politan life. " Are y o u engaged for the first quadrille ? " asked Eugene, the morning of the ball, as he entered equipped for riding. " Y e s , " she answered, in a tone intended to be careless, though it was tinc­ tured with vexation, " I am engaged to Monsieur de Yalmont. T h e engage­ ment is of a week's standing." " I regret it," said Eugene, " for I had promised myself the pleasure of being your vis-a-vis. But D e Valmont is a duke, and of course minor per­ sonages like myself must give place to him." H e walked to the window with a haughty air, without deigning to glance towards her. " Give place to him ! " said Marie, colouring. " I do not understand you. Certainly when last you asked me to dance, the duke had superseded y o u ; but considering h o w little y o u prize the honour, cousin, y o u need not feel piqued, if I do not keep myself disengaged on your account." " W h o is piqued now, M a r i e ? " he asked. " T h e few words I uttered were at random. I felt at the moment foolishly vexed; but forget them, for I am too poor to aspire to your hand, even for an evening, however I may hope for it." H e stopped, then added, " But, as your relative, your friend, you will permit me to point out to you the deserving from the undeserving— those that follow you for yourself, and those that seek you for fashion or fortune's sake." " T o whom do you allude ? " she asked; " the Duke de Yalmont, or Monsieur de Nonidi ? " " T o both," he replied, " b u t particularly to the duke, who, under a hand­ some exterior conceals a specious character, and aided by his mother, an adept in all the arts likely to gain the favour of an inexperienced maiden, you may fall into their snares. But beware of the alliance, Marie," he continued, throwing aside his air of indifference to one of earnestness, " the duke is a spendthrift, a gambler, cold and heartless, and once in possession of your fortune—all he sighs for—you would be left to solitude, when you must bury your wrongs without complaint."

2 8 2



[ S e p t e m b e r 1, I860.

aside she seated herself to indulge in them. She was lolling with closed eyes in the high-backed leather chair, when Eugene, who had been seeking her, entered, expecting to find her engaged in reading, understanding she had been several hours in the library; he was, however, surprised to see her with closed eyes leaning back in the chair, and the book as if it had fallen from her hands lying at her feet. Supposing she slept, he approached on tiptoe, and bending over her pronounced her name in a very low voice, so low that one would have thought it impossible to have disturbed a simple reverie, much less the profound one in which the maiden was indulging ; but the tones of the voice struck a chord on her heart, it was these she was dreaming of, and with the blood rushing from her heart to her cheeks, she started to her feet. " P a r d o n m e , " he cried, " I fear I have disturbed you, but I have come to say farewell; it is my intention to quit Paris this evening." There was another revulsion of the blood, which left her pale as death. " T h i s e v e n i n g ! " she said. " T h i s is indeed unexpected. Y o u have soon grown weary o f us all." " N o t so, cousin," he replied; " b u t I have business in Burgundy. M y aunt left me a small estate there—so small," he added, with emphasis, " that I have not had. sufficient curiosity to visit it yet, though I have been its possessor three years, and its rental of fifteen hundred francs my wffiole, fortune; b u t now as I have determined on studying the law, I think it but prudent to put the old house in order, and make it my future residence." " M y father speaks of visiting Burgundy himself in the autumn," said Marie. " I wish I possessed influence sufficient to induce you to defer your journey till then, when we could all g o together." She spoke with her natural ardour. Their eyes met. The expression of his was so earnest, that she blushed deep, almost painfully, fearing she had betrayed her sentiments. H e saw her confusion, and moving from her said, " Y o u r offer is tempting, Marie, but I must have courage to resist it. Sur­ rounded as y o u are by friends, w h o have a prior and deeper claim on your regard, my absence will scarcely be noticed." " YTou indeed speak coldly, Eugene," she returned. " I am sorry I urged your stay, as you have misconstrued the motive, and turned it into ridicule." Before she had well ended, her hand was on the handle of the door. He caught it, and drew her to the seat she had vacated. " D o not leave me in anger, dear M a r i e ; it may be long before we meet again." H e iiesitated, as he took a small paper box from his p o c k e t ; then CHAPTER X L V I . a d d e d — " I have brought a trifling remembrance to beg your acceptance of. One hour after the departure of Eugene, though her tears were dried, I t is so mere a bagatelle, Marie, that I feel ashamed to ask you to give it a Marie still rested in the same chair in deep reverie, so deep, that her father place with your bijouterie, much less to offer it as a souvenir." entered, took a chair beside her, and bad watched her several minutes before He displayed, with evident reluctance, a plain gold bracelet with she was a ^ r e of his presence. H e gently touched the hand hanging list­ " L ' A m i t i e " on the clasp, in turquoises. lessly on tiie arm of the chair. Startled, she rose to her feet. Marie looked at the motto, and thought had it been " L ' A m o u r " she " Father, is it you ! " she exclaimed. " H o w you alarmed m e . " should have liked it infinitely better; but without comment, she smilingly " Alarmed y o u ! " said her father. " I merely awoke y o u from a deep held out her arm to him to clasp it on. reverie; tell me, Marie, were you dreaming over the number o f hearts y o u Eugene was some time performing the office; the arm, so round and fair, was have conquered the last few months." an object of admiration, and Marie's long curls all the time were dancing like 'He spoke lightly, but there was an earnestness about him which checked furtive sunbeams, now on his cheeks, then on his fingers, that his lips lingered her answering in the same strain, and she merely said, " I believe I was between the arms and the curls, longing, yet not daring, to fasten themselves thinking, father, if among all my admirers, there is one true heart I dared trust on both. A t length he succeeded in making the bracelet lit, but he still my happiness with." retained the hand. Marie, half playfully, half resolutely tried to withdraw*it, " So young, and yet so sceptical," he answered, fixing his penetrating eyes saying, as she did so, in a slightly tremulous tone, " Y o u will certainly put off that odious journey to B u r g u n d y / E u g e n c . I fear my father will feel hurt and on her. She blushed painfully, and would have smiled, but the smile died on her offended at your quitting our house so suddenly, and the Signor and Signora lips. E $ r father looked scrutinising]y, hoping to meet her glance;, but she Strozzi will think it passing strange; while I—but there, what care you for kept her eyes imperturbably on a small engraving she had taken from the my regrets on the subject; if you did you would never think of it again." table, and which she was industriously reducing to the smallest atoms. Eugene, who thought he had entered the library with his heart in an iron " W i l l you be candid? " said her father, after he had watched in vain to case, found it impossible to resist this ingenuous appeal; his disengaged arm, catch her eyes, " and answer me the one or two questions I am desirous to by a strange fatality, was in an instant round her waist, and the long, glo..-y put to y o u . " curls were again coquetting with his cheeks and brow. H e pressed her " I will," she replied, without looking at him. passionately to his bosom. " W e l l then, to begin," said D'Almaine. " Is Eugene the favoured lover " M a r i e , " he said, " why, spite of my honour, and poverty, will you force who has induced you to refuse so many brilliant offers for your hand," from me the confession that I love y o u to madness ? M y judgment condemns " F a t h e r ! " she exclaimed tremulously, and hiding her face with her it, and your father " hands. " M y father will grant anything you ask him," she interrupted with " D o I probe too deep, Marie ? " he asked. " I f I d o , believe it is from animation, " even to giving you his only child, so highly he thinks of you ; " love, affection, and paternal care of your happiness. T o be brief. I have then fearing in her zeal she had said too much, she started from him, and in long observed both Eugene and yourself, to my idea uselessly causing pain to confusion hid her face in her hands. each other. 'Tell me, Marie, if I err; if the forced distance between you and Eugene was too happy to allow the sweet ingenuous face to remain long Eugene is a clonk worn only in m y presence, and that when y o u are concealed; he drew her gently to her seat,.and falteringly begged her to tell together you are lovers." him all her father had said to give him hope. D'Almaine caught her eye now, and a proud flush was in i t ; and though The explanation was short, but it satisfied the lover, and before they quitted her lip slightly curled, she was silent: he proceeded without noticing it. the library, which was not till the dinner-bell rung, Eugene had promised " Eugene, though successor to m y title and estates, is at present poor ; he before he slept their happiness should be ratified by the consent of D'Almaine. is aware that a large part of property is disposable by my will, that I might CHAPTER X L V I L , AND LAST. even marry, and exclude him from all inheritance, and with such ideas I have The marriage of Eugene and Marie was arranged to take place in a very imagined he would, from pride and honour, forbear to ask the hand he might covet. I k n o w not if I am deceived in him, if he clandestinely seeks few weeks after their betrothal, and invitations were at once despatched your favour; if not, I believe him to be so just and honourable that there to Monsieur and Madame de Vernet to be present at the ceremony, an exists not another man I would so willingly, so freely entrust the future of invitation which was not only gladly accepted by the worthy couple, but the venerable Baroness de Waldenberg proposed to accompany them to the bridal. my child with." " I have seen so many sad weddings," she said, "that I would fain be A sunny smile n o w parted the beautiful lips of Marie, she threw her arms confidingly around her father's neck, and in a voice so l o w that it scarcely present before I die at one which promises to spread so much j o y around and reached him, said, " Father, Eugene has never breathed a word of love to heal so many wounds." I t was but rarely that the excellent baroness alluded to her past life, and me, but should he, have I your permission to follow the promptings of m y the young Marie, when eageriy asking the meaning of that melancholy heart ? " retrospect of the past, could find no one who could enlighten her on This was the confidence D'Almaine coveted, and which he had feared never to obtain from the long estrangement of his child ; it was with happy feelings the subject. I t was not till some years after that she was permitted by her grandmother to read that record of past sorrows, which the baroness had once he briofly consented, and in timid consciousness Marie withdrew. A few days after this dialogue Marie was in the library listlessly turning promised the youthful Ella should be one day hers. I t was a sad tale of blighted hopes, and fair bright young creatures laid in over the leaves of a book, vainly endeavouring to settle herself to read its contents, but thought followed thought so rapidly, that throwing the book a premature g r a v e ; but at the close of this long tale of varied fortunes, WQ " W e r e I interested in the duke I would thank y o u for the very nattering portrait y o u have drawn of him," said Marie, " but as^ he is perfectly indifferent to me, pass on to Monsieur de Nonidi, for I consider your lecture an address to my vanity, which flatters me into a belief that every fine speech I hear I must receive as a just homage to my charms." " N o , by Heaven, Marie," he exclaimed; " f e w women with your charms have less vanity ; you are lovely, morally and physically ; and happiness J the man's who shall win your hand and possess your heart; how fervently I hope he may deserve both, but my o w n heart hurries me beyond my judgment. Pardon if I have said aught to offend, and impute it to the interest I have in your happiness." " I will impute your lecture, dear cousin, to its right source," said Marie, the slight shade which had hovered on her brow disappearing, as she confidingly placed her hand in his, " and to show you h o w much I prize your advice, I will, unasked, promise not to answer yes to the man o f m y choice, till I know that you approve of him for my husband." Their eyes met as the last words were uttered, a deep vermilion spread itself over the cheeks of both, which told a tale to Marie, she had been till then unconscious o f ; her hand fluttered in Eugene's firm pressure, her eyes drooped beneath their long lashes, and she would have given worlds to have recalled the words so innocently pronounced. She struggled to regain her hand as he said in an impassioned tone, " Marie, are you sincere in your declaration ? " H e checked himself, loosened her hand, and added, in assumed coldness, " I am not so unreasonable to expect such confidence, nor is it necessary, though nature revolts against such characters as the D u k e de Y a l m o n t ; there are many men both of rank and fortune worthy of y o u . A d i e u ! I have an appointment at two, and behold, the hand now points to the hour.' Marie again ventured to raise her eyes when she heard him descending the stairs. She drew near the w i n d o w and looked from i t ; his horse pawed impatiently the ground, waiting for his rider, who soon had the bridle in his hand, and vaulted into the saddle. Once more their eyes encountered each other, and again Marie felt the hot blood mounting to her forehead. Yexed and dissatisfied with herself, she flung herself on a chair, and a few bitter tears, lest she should have betrayed her feelings to Eugene, forced themselves through her fingers, as she placed them over her eyes.

S e p t e m b e r 1, I 8 6 0 . ]



can only give the reader a slight narrative of its principal incidents. The baroness herself had been on the eve of marriage, with a noble and beloved suitor, who was murdered on the wedding morning to her deep and lasting agony. From that time she devoted herself to the care of two little twin step-sisters, the children of a much loved and deceased step-mother; but here again sorrow awaited her. They both became attached to one young nobleman, who though at first attracted by the sweeter and lovelier of the two, was discouraged by her retiring timidity, and married the other. Nina died of a broken heart, and the young Bertha (Ella's mother) was too much carried away by the gaieties and admiration of fashionable life, and lost both health and happiness by her own folly. A t her early death the infant Ella had been taken by her aunt, who, as has been seen, well and nobly fulfilled a mother's duty to another's child. W e l l might the venerable- old lady long to witness in her last years a marriage unclouded by the sadness which surrounded her own, and her young sister and niece's wedding days.







The little party at Paris were discussing with equal pleasure and surprise this unexpected addition to their bridal guests, when Madame de Bleville entered, with beaming looks and a letter in her hand. " Joys like troubles seldom come alone," she said. " Here is a letter from poor Madeline; she and her husband have arrived at .Marseilles after a fruitless journey to Australia in search of our lost treasure, and to-morrow they will be in Paris. W h a t j o y is in store for the poor faithfulBatiste ! " D'Almaine sighed, as he took the letter from his sister. " Nothing is now wanting," he said, " b u t the presence of one who will never bless us with her angel company again on earth." " M y brother," said Emile, tenderly, " she will be among us, her pure spirit will watch over the bridal vow of her darling child. D o not throw away your blessings in vain repinings for the only one denied y o u . " D'Almaine kissed his sister's still fair brow, and as he looked on his bright Marie standing in a distant window with her lover, the cloud passed from his brow and he was comforted.







I t was long after Eugene and Marie had settled at the chateau, and been blessed with an infant Jules, a bright and beautiful boy greatly resembling his father and grandfather, before the count could prevail on himself to visit the place where his happiest years had been passed; but when he had once conquered his repugnance to renew old associations, and yielded to his children's anxious wish to have him with them., he found a sweet though melancholy pleasure in dwelling amidst the scenes which his Lucille had made sacred to him. H e spent hours in the apartments she had inhabited and the spots in the grounds she had best loved to frequent; but the one most often visited by him was a charming nook, covered with the softest, greenest, thickest grass, behind the pavilion we have before noticed, in the midst of which Marie had erected a monument to her mother. I t was a simple, grey granite pedestal, surmounted by a white marble urn, on which was engraved, " Sacred to the memory of Lucille, Countess d'xUmaine, aged 28. ' N o t lost but gone before.' " F. Y . B. L . E C H O E S OF R H Y T H M .
A half-forgotten t u n e has c o m e , As comes a sweet perfume, T o sing, a l t h o u g h the v o i c e b e d u m b , A n d c l o t h e the sense i n b l o o m . A chalice that has h e l d t h e f l o w e r s Is r e a d y t o r e c e i v e T h e gilts o f gay, s u n l i g h t e d h o u r s , A n d lose t h e m n o t t o g r i e v e . T h e heart, like an iEolian h a r p , Swept over by the breeze, W e a v e s verses t o a v i e w l e s s w a r p , A n d sings a s o n g at ease. Music maybe dwells in a sigh, . S w e l l s t o a lofty gale ; A n d e c h o will n o t let it die, In gladness or in wail. A s s o n g - b i r d s s i n g at m o * a n d evo The old-remember'd tune, So will an a n c i e n t verse u p h e a v e A n d m a k e a soul c o m m u n e . Great h e a r t o f l o v e , b r o a d w o r l d o f s o n g , The lips o f r o s y y o u t h Have roved thy labyrinths a m o n g F r o m p a s s i o n u p to t r u t h . T h e m o u n t a i n - c l o u d h a n g s o v e r thee W h e n c e angel-forms l o o k d o w n , A n d g l o r i o u s is t h e m i n s t r e l s y A g e s have made thy c r o w n . U n t o t h e f l o w e r y paths, o f r h y m e , Where departed poets sing Voices outpour in verse sublime, A n d hearts w i t h e c h o e s r i n g .




Pity that albums should have gone out of fashion, 'Bel. I feel like a wanderer revisiting the old homestead, when I open the embossed red morocco doors, and read " t h e hand-writing on the wall." T o be sure there are wanderers who have journeyed farther and been longer g o n e ; but change labours with the rapidity of second class Irish fairies, and I find but little as I left it. Come to our old nestling-place on the sofa, and let us examine some of these tributes from m y schoolmates. Those delicate little crowquill touches, surmounted by the two turtle-doves on a green sprig smaller than themselves, and unlike anything that ever grew, are Edith Ray's. I have her bright face before me now, as it looked when, despite her notions of pretty penmanship, she assumed her own character long enough to give that preposterous flourish to the final y ; then clapped her dainty little hands, and laughed at her own work, as fully conscious of its childishness (billing doves and all) as such wiseacres as you and I, 'Bel', are this morning. I thought the whole, especially the doves, miracles o f prettiness then ; and, strange as it may seem, I am no happier since I have discovered that they are things to laugh at. Edith Ray was a joyous creature, with a heart so brimming over with mirth fulness, that every one who came into her presence caught the infection. She was womanly and delicate too, and yet fearless as a young eagle, doing whatever she purposed in the face of all opposition, and telling the most unwelcome truths, particularly when she might thus unmask hypocrisy, or

expose anything mean and cringing. Y e t everybody loved h e r ; for although she possessed a dangerous power, it was never called into exercise for the purpose of crushing, being kept in check by a kind and affectionate heart. Edith Ray, as all who saw her would be very likely to suppose, was an only child, and quite an heiress withal; so it is not strange that she should take a conspicuous place among our Alderbrook belles. The schoolmaster of the village used to quote poetry to her, and bring her bouquets. M r . Sherrill, a dashing young doctor, was the companion of all her rides, and walked with her to the church-door every Sunday morning, with the evident hope of one day handing her in very gracefully; and the lawyer, and the grocer, and a ' w i l d s l i p " of a draper, had severally shown" an interest in Mr. R a y ' s affairs truly gratifying. Y e t Edith would parody the schoolmaster's verses most ludicrously to his face ; give her gallant doctor the slip whenever it suited her convenience, and ridicule the pretensions of the others outright. I t is-strange that the Argus-eyed old maidens of our little village had no suspicions as to the real cause of Edith's indifference to her admirers; but certain it is that a pale, student-like face passed in and out of Mr. R a y ' s door, particularly on rainy evenings, and at other times when gayer ones would not be likely to interrupt the visit, without exciting the least remark. Perhaps it was because all had decided that the widow's son never would introduce another mistress into the parsonage, and perhaps the improbability of the grave young vicar's taste leading him to make such a selection. Whatever the cause might have been, there was certainly an important life-lasting secret locked fast in the hearts of M r . Robson and bright Edith Ray. The young lovers were strikingly contrasted in outer seeming; but there was a rich under-current in t h e ' characters o f both that perfectly harmonised; so Edith feared only for her own volatility when she gave her heart into another's keeping, and the vicar prayed only that he might be able to repay the trust. The betrothal passed, and still the secret was not discovered, though Edith had unconsciously assumed a gentler manner, and a sw eeter expression, which could not fail to excite observation. As I said before, Edith R a y feared nothing but to do w r o n g ; and her daring had been so much the subject of remark, that she felt not a little pride in exhibiting her courage; a quality which her young friends took every opportunity to test. Unknown to her companions, however, there was one point on which Edith was vulnerable; she had, when a little child, seen her own mother stretched out in death—she remembered the rigid limbs, with their white covering, giving a fearful mystery to their half-revealed outlines— and anything that bore the slightest resemblance to such a form, inspired her with horror. I t was on a fine moonlight night in the middle of winter that a social group had assembled in Mr. Ray's parlour, and Edith, unlike her wont when Mr. Robson was present, had been the gayest of the party. As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Sherrill expressed a wish to see a hook of engravings that had disappeared from the parlour ; a desire which Edith declared such an evidence of improved taste, that it should be instantly gratified. She tripped lightly from the rooim, and, as she disappeared, we all observed that Sherrill crept carefully towards the door. The next moment, a short, shrill cry, followed by a l o w , half-choked sound, as of one strangling, brought us quickly to our feet. W i t h one bound poor Sherrill w as in the adjoining apartment—but he was scarce in advance of the vicar. The rest of us followed hastily, alarmed at, we knew not what. But we soon knew. Upon a l o n g table lay extended an object covered with a white cloth, with the moonbeams flickering over it, revealing the fearful outlines of a human figure with apparent certainty. Before this crouched young Edith Ray, with her fingers clenched in the masses of long­ hair descending on each side of her face, her eyes distended, and a white foam wreathing her motionless lips. " E d i t h ! — m y own E d i t h ! " whispered Robson, in a voice hoarse with agony. Edith started to her feet, and the mocking walls echoed her wild unnatural laugh. " L o o k , Edith, l o o k , " entreated Sherrill; " i t is nothing ; " and he shook out two or three cloaks artfully arranged. " Nothing but these—I did it, Edith—I did i t — I put them there to frighten y o u ! " Edith only laughed again. Mr. Robson drew her arm within his own, and led her quietly back into the parlour; and poor Sherrill followed and crouched at her feet, beseeching her but to speak one word—only one word, just to show that he had not murdered her. But the stricken girl only twined her hair helplessly about her fingers and smiled. Three years have rolled away, but they have wrought no change on the darkened spirit o f Edith R a y . Mr. Robson, though never given to met. • ment, has grown graver, and gentler, and more spiritual than ever; and tim young repress their smiles and soften their voices when he comes near—for untold sorrow is a sacred thing. The neighbours say that M r . Robson is wholly devoted to his books, and the care of his flock. But they make a marvel of one thing. It is a great wonder to them what is the attraction at poor Mr. Ray's that he should spend his two hours there every evening. ' But they never saw the stricken Edith at his feet, gazing up into his face with an expression of childish confidence—nor heard her low mournful murmur when he went away. Our still young vicar is ever found among the sick and sorrowing; but every effort to draw him into social life fails; for the poor wreck which clings to him even in her idiotcy, is still borne upon his heart. F«
r r

H O U S E K E E P I N G . — T h e old lady's advice to her daughter when the latter was about to commence housekeeping, puts the matter in its true light. " My dear," said she, " by not knowing h o w to make puddings and pies you may be occasionally annoyed ; but if you are ignorant of roasting and boiling, you may be annoyed every day."



L O U I S A . — A t first s i g h t i t d o e s a p p e a r h a r d t h a t t h e k e e p e r o f a c h a n d l e r ' s s h o p , w h o deals i n tea, coffee, chocolate, or pepper, and tobacco, should have to pay as m u c h d u t y to t h e E x c i s e for l i c e n c e s as t h o s e w h o d o b u s i n e s s i n s u c h articles o n a large s c a l e . B u t i f w e c o m e to e x a m i n e the matter coolly,we cannot perceive how s u c h i n e q u a l i t i e s o f t a x a t i o n for financial pur­ poses could be avoided. N o shopkeeper, whether l a r g e o r small, w o u l d l i k e t h e e x c i s e m a n p o p p i n g i n u p o n h i m at a n y m o m e n t t o t a k e s t o c k , s o as t o assess t h e d u t y o n t h e total sales for t h e y e a r . B e s i d e s , t h e expense w o u l d be enormous, and the annoyance and vexation of the espionage—a w o r d abhorred b y English ears—would aggravate the imposition. " B e t t e r bear t h e ills w e h a v e t h a n fly t o o t h e r s w h i c h w e k n o w n o t of." A g a i n , s m a l l t r a d e r s are n o w o r s e off t h a n o t h e r p e o p l e . T h e a u c t i o n e e r i f h e o n l y flourishes his h a m m e r o n c e i n t h e y e a r m u s t p a y £ 1 0 for l i b e r t y t o d o s o . I t is t h e s a m e w i t h a t t o r n e y s , w h e t h e r t h e y h a v e a thousand clients or only one. Appraisers, bankers, h a w k e r s , a n d p a w n b r o k e r s all p a y a l i k e . I t a p p e a r s t o u s t h a t t h e p o o r h a w k e r is t h e o n l y o n e t h a t is s h a m e ­ fully o v e r t a x e d . B u t t h e p r i n c i p l e o f all p a y i n g for l i c e n c e s a l i k e i s p a r t o f o u r fiscal sj^stem. I f a l o r d is m a r r i e d u n d e r a registrar's l i c e n c e h e o n l y p a y s t h e s a m e as a c o a l h e a v e r , a n d t h a t is t e n s h i l l i n g s ; a n d w h y s h o u l d h e p a y m o r e w h e n t h e a r t i c l e is o f t h e same value to each ?


A N E G R O ( B a r b a d o e s ) praises o u r article " K i n g C o t t o n , " i n N o . 891, b u t o b j e c t s t o i t that " w e h a v e n o t t o u c h e d o n t h e q u e s t i o n o f s l a v e r y . " — W i t h all d u e d e f e r e n c e t o our i n t e l l i g e n t friend, w h o s e w e l l - w r i t t e n l e t t e r has afforded u s l i v e l y pleasure, i f h e w i l l refer t o t h e s e c o n d p a r a g r a p h h e w i l l find t h a t w e d i d so, a n d t h a t i n t h e l a n g u a g e o f Christian h o p e , w e said " w e firmly b e l i e v e t h a t it (the c u l t i v a t i o n o f c o t t o n ) w i l l u l t i m a t e l y lead to the emancipation o f the n e g r o ; " w e t h e n referred t o the d i s c o v e r i e s o f c o t t o n m a n u f a c t u r e s b y Drs. L i v i n g s t o n e a n d K r a p f i n Africa. Within the compass of a leader w e could not enlarge u p o n a t o p i c that v e x e s t h e w h o l e Christian w o r l d . P u b l i c o p i n i o n i n E u r o p e a n d i n t h e N o r t h e r n states o f N o r t h A m e r i c a , is b e a r i n g h a r d o n t h e b o n d a g e o f t h e b l a c k m a n , b u t w e are afraid i t w i l l b e g e n e r a t i o n s before h e is a d m i t t e d t o t h e same p o l i t i c a l a n d social e q u a l i t y w i t h t h e w h i t e m a n as h e h a s i n E n g l a n d at p r e s e n t . [Slavery h a s e x i s t e d i n all a g e s ; a n d i t is a fact t h a t g e n e r a l l y its s u p p r e s ­ sion w a s o n l y a c c o m p l i s h e d b y t h e c i r c u m s t a n c e t h a t t h e r e w a s n o further o c c a s i o n for it. I t w a s g r a d u a l l y s u p e r s e d e d b y free l a b o u r . I n t h e g r e a t States o f a n t i q u i t y it o n l y p e r i s h e d w i t h t h o s e states. Masters a n d slaves w e r e b u r i e d i n t h e s a m e g r a v e s . I n t h i s day w e l i v e u n d e r a n e w d i s p e n s a t i o n , a n d as t h e m a r c h o f c i v i l i s a t i o n is w e s t w a r d , i n s t i t u t i o n s o b ­ n o x i o u s t o its i n t e r e s t s a n d p r o g r e s s m u s t i n e v i t a b l y b e s w e p t a w a y . T h e b l a c k m a n o f t h e S o u t h e r n States is n o t , w e t h i n k , p r e p a r e d f o r i m m e d i a t e e m a n c i p a ­ t i o n , l i e h a s s e r v e d t o o l o n g a n a p p r e n t i c e s h i p t o pas­ s i v e o b e d i e n c e t o be p r e p a r e d t o e x e r t t h a t e n e r g y a n d self-reliance w h i c h c r e a t e s s t r o n g r a c e s , b u i l d s u p h e a l t h y c o n d i t i o n s , a n d beautifies all t h e y t o u c h . T h e b l a c k m a n t h e r e f o r e m u s t d o s o m e t h i n g for h i m s e l f b e f o r e free­ d o m c a n t a k e h i m b y t h e h a n d ; a n d as t h e e x i g e n c i e s of trade, m a n u f a c t u r e s , a n d c o m m e r c e are i m p e r a t i v e , w e t h i n k t h a t all i n t e l l i g e n t A f r i c a n s s h o u l d l o o k t o t h e c o t t o n l a n d s d i s c o v e r e d by D r s . L i v i n g s t o n e a n d K r a p f for t h e d a w n o f t h a t libei'ty w h i c h e v e n t u a l l y w i l l r e n d e r s l a v e r y an i n c u m b r a n c e , a n d t h e r e f o r e useless. U N H A P P Y L O V E . — W e m u s t address y o u in very serious l a n g u a g e . Y o u w r i t e a b o u t t h e d e a r e s t affection o f t h e h e a r t as f l i p p a n t l y as a c h i l d p r a t t l e s t o a k i t t e n . H o w w i l l it b e w h e n y o u are mai-ried, a n d h a v e t o l o o k life i n t h e face w i t h s w e e t w o m a n l y f o r t i t u d e ? M a r r i a g e is a d u t y ; b u t , us t h e ritual says, it m u s t n o t b e e n t e r e d upon lightly. One of our most admired writers i n d u l g e d i n a s e n t i m e n t t h a t w i l l be a p p r e c i a t e d b y all w h o can feel t h a t t h e r e is s o m e t h i n g i n life s u p e r i o r t o the mere discharge of dvity; something nobler than t h e satisfaction felt w h e n an i m p e r a t i v e o b l i g a t i o n has b e e n d i s c h a r g e d . H e said, " t h a t t h e w a r m g u s h i n g s of a first a n d f o n d affection are t o o s o o n c h i l l e d i n t o disappointment b y the cares and c o r r o d i n g claims o f w o r l d l y i n t e r c o u r s e ; a n d t h r i c e h a p p y is h e w h o finds d r e a m y l o v e still l i n g e r i n g i n m e m o r y t o t h e last, b r i g h t e n i n g e a c h w e l l - r e m e m b e r e d s c e n e w i t h associa­ tions c o n n e c t e d w i t h the past, and painting v i v i d l y a n e w t h e pleasures o f an e x i s t e n c e w h i c h m a d e t h e w o r l d an E d e n , a n d life a P a r a d i s e . " A l l this spring­ t i m e , this y o u t h f u l freshness o f t h o u g h t a n d s e n t i m e n t m a y b e p r e s e r v e d t o t h e last m o m e n t s o f o u r c h e q u e r e d career d i d w e b u t t a k e care i n t h e h a p p y d a y s o f o u r p r i m e , w h i l e w e d o a t e d o n t h e flowers o n t h e r o a d ­ s i d e o f life, n o t t o f o r g e t t h a t t h e t h o r n , h o w e v e r r u d e a n d p v i d i l y i t m a y b e , h a d still t h e g r e e n l e a v e s o f h o p e for its c o m p a n i o n . O u r d e s t i n y , w h e t h e r for g o o d o r evil, is i n o u r o w n h a n d s ; b u t i f w e a l l o w p a s s i o n t o d a r k e n t h e little w o r l d w e m o v e in, w e m u s t not e x p e c t influences w e never solicited to voluntarily s t e p forth a n d d i s p e l t h e g l o o m . I n m a r r i e d life t h i s is p e c u l i a r l y t h e case w i t h b o t h parties. T h e y can either strengthen or destroy the h o l y b o n d subsisting b e t w e e n t h e m . B o t h h a v e t h e i r share o f r e s p o n s i b i l i t y , b u t t h a t o f t h e h u s b a n d is t h e largest, a n d u p o n his c o n d u c t d u r i n g t h e earlier y e a r s o f m a r r i a g e d e p e n d s t h e i r u l t i m a t e fate. H e c a n d e t e r m i n e w h e t h e r t h e h o n o u r e d a n d chaste w r e a t h shall w i t h e r f r o m t h e b r o w s o f h i s b r i d e , o r c l i n g t o t h e m i n i m a g i n a t i o n as fresh a n d g r a c e f u l as w h e n first p l a c e d t h e r e b y t h e f o n d h a n d o f affection. B R O O K S , OF S H E F F I E L D , illustrates t h e d a n g e r o f p u t t i n g t h i n g s off. S e r i o u s l y a n d d e e p l y i n l o v e w i t h a y o u n g l a d y , B R O O K S p o s t p o n e d p o p p i n g t h e q u e s t i o n till h e was free f r o m o n e o r t w o s t r o k e s o f f o r t u n e , a n d till h e could wisely and with certainty k n o w that he could m a i n t a i n a* w i f e . In the interim the y o u n g lady accepted another lover, although she w a s n o t unac­ q u a i n t e d w i t h t h e p u r e flame o f l o v e w h i c h b u r n t i n t h e heart o f B R O O K S . S h e n o w , u p o n t h e p o o r f e l l o w ' s t e l l i n g h e r w i t h tears t h a t h e l o v e s h e r , a n d t h a t h e c a n n o t b e h a p p y w i t h o u t her, c o o l l y p r o p o s e s t o t h r o w o v e r h e r s e c o n d l o v e , a n d t o t a k e t o t h e first. " T h e p r e s e n t e n g a g e m e n t , " says s h e , " w i l l n o t last u n t i l C h r i s t m a s , a n d t h e n I feel sure I shall g e t t i r e d o f h i m . " " W h a t , " writes BROOKS, " a m I to d o ? " What w e s h o u l d d o is this. W r i t e t o t h e y o u n g l a d y , m a k e a definite w r i t t e n p r o p o s a l , a n d as a p r o o f o f h e r l o v e insist that t h e i n t e r l o p e r b e at o n c e g i v e n u p . B R O O K S ' S l e t t e r is o n e o u t o f v e r y ?nany w h i c h s h o w s u s t h a t y o u n g w o m e n are t o o often r e a d y t o t a k e t h e first offer. T h e r e is a c o w a r d l y a n d foolish d r e a d p r e v a l e n t a m o n g w o m e n o f b e i n g left o l d m a i d s , o r a w o r s e d r e a d o f h a v i n g t o d e p e n d o n t h e m s e l v e s . N o o n e is m o r e alive t h a n w e t o t h e i m p o r t a n c e o f m a r r i a g e , t o i t s n e c e s s i t y , its h o l y character, a n d t h e b e n e f i t it c o n ­ fers o n b o t h s e x e s ; b u t those y o u n g l a d i e s w h o w i l l a c t l i k e t h e s w e e t h e a r t o f o u r friend B R O O K S d e s e r v e t o b e t r e a t e d w i t h s o m e Sheffield c u t l e r y , o r t o b e mar­ r i e d t o t h e s e c o n d offer, a n d t o b e w o r r i e d f o r life. N o t h i n g c a n e x c u s e flirtation and l i g h t n e s s o f b e h a ­ v i o u r b e t w e e n t h e s e x e s . I n o n e w a y or t h e o t h e r i t is the cause o f half the m i s e r y in the w o r l d .

U N D E C I D E D . — T h e r e is n o rule w i t h o u t an e x c e p t i o n , a n d w e s h o u l d n o t h a v e t o search far t o p r o v e t h a t t h e offspring o f c o u s i n s m a y n o t o n l y b e as r o b u s t as t h a t of o t h e r s , b u t i n p o i n t o f intellect n o w a y inferior. B u t t h e r u l e a n d n o t t h e e x c e p t i o n s h o u l d be o u r g u i d e . I n y o u r case, at t h e a g e of s e v e n t e e n , discre­ t i o n is t h e b e t t e r c o u r s e . ' ' L e t things go o n and t a k e t h e i r c h a n c e , " as y o u say. V e r y early m a r r i a g e s are n o t t o b e e n c o u r a g e d . S e c o u r article o n t h e " M a r r i a g e o f C o u s i n s , " in N o . 894. C. A . — T o b e c o m e lean o r t h i n , t h e diet s h o u l d c o n s i s t o f o n l y fruit, lean m e a t , a n d b r o w n bread, t a k i n g at t h e s a m e t i m e a g r e a t deal o f e x e r c i s e . T o b e c o m e p l u m p or fat, t h e d i e t s h o u l d b e o f e v e r y doseription, in­ c l u d i n g o l i v e o i l , p o t a t o e s , s w e e t s , p u d d i n g s , beer, a n d a " n i g h t - c a p " o f s w e e t p u n c h , a n d n o t m o r e exer­ cise t h a n is sufficient t o k e e p the b o d y in health. S T . R . R . — T h e b e s t k n o w n r e m e d y for bruises is the o l d f a s h i o n e d P o m a d e D i v i n e , a r e c i p e for w h i c h is g i v e n i n N o . 900. Messrs. B e i c h m a n Taitt, o f Barbadoes, w i l l p r o b a b l y s n p p l y t h e article. M A R Y S . — The b l o o m o f y o u t h w i l l fade s o o n e n o u g h ; therefore d o n o t h i n g t o r e d u c e t h a t w h i c h is t h e a d m i ­ r a t i o n o f all w h o a p p r e c i a t e t h e beautiful. G . N . R . — T h e b e s t d e s t r u c t i v e for m o t h s is p o w d e r e d ' v i t i v e r , t h e r o o t o f t h e k u s - k u s p l a n t o f India, sold i n E n g l a n d b y p e r f u m e r y factors.

H A R R Y S I N C L A I R a s k s f o r o u r d e f i n i t i o n o f an " A t h e i s t ; " h e h a s J o h n s o n ' s a n d W a l k e r ' s ; b u t h e a n d s o m e L. R . P.—First b r u s h t h e i m i t a t i o n g o l d c h a i n w i t h v i n e g a r , t h e n w i t h s o a p a n d w a t e r , a n d p o l i s h it w i t h y o u n g friends are n o t s a t i s f i e d . — A n A t h e i s t is o n e dry chalk. w h o disbelieves in the existence of a G o d or Supreme I n t e l l i g e n t B e i n g : t h e w o r d is f r o m t h e G r e e k . B u t AUGUSTA B . — T O whiten the hands, rub them overnight w i t h cold cream, and sleep in k i d gloves. t h e r e are f e w o r n o a t h e i s t s n o w . P e r s o n s m a y d e n y the popular religion, m a y object to Christianity, or O T H E R COMMUNICATIONS R E C E I V E D . — S Y R E N . — F . D . — any other form, and yet not b e Atheists. They m a y A . M . — A . S . J . — E D M U N D W . — S . B.—J. W . R . — W . B . b e D e i s t s , a n d b e l i e v e i n an u n k n o w n s u p r e m e b e i n g . — F R E D E R I C K . — I M A G E . — B . W.— S I D N E Y B.—E. G.— N e i t h e r V o l t a i r e , n o r T o m P a i n e , n o r S h e l l e y , w a s an M. W . — W . S.—J. B . — L I L Y T . — H E R B E R T ( n o t q u i t e A t h e i s t . T h e y b e l i e v e d i n a Deas, a S u p r e m e Creator, u p t o o u r s t a n d a r d ) . — D U N A I ( a p p l y at t h e H e r a l d s ' or said t h e y did. B a c o n says that " G o d n e v e r w r o u g h t C o l l e g e , a n d t o t h e office o f t h e C o m m a n d e r - i n - C h i e f ; a m i r a c l e t o c o n v i n c e an A t h e i s t , b e c a u s e h i s o r d i n a r y a B r i t o n ) . — B L A N C H E (not if uncle c o n s e n t s ; doctors w o r k s o u g h t t o c o n v i n c e h i m . " P o p e says that— differ; far f r o m it). — A N X I O U S J E S S Y (it s h o u l d b e 'Tis health that keeps the atheist in the dark ; a p p l i e d b y a m e d i c a l m a n ; read o u r articles o n Deaf­ A sickness argues better than a Clarke. n e s s , I s . 3d, f r e e ) . — A M Y R O S E ( y e s ) . — A . Y . Z . ( s e n d it And so i t d o e s . Voltaire erected a church to the to us for a p p r o v a l , w i t h y o u r real n a m e a n d address). A l m i g h t y , w i t h t h e i n s c r i p t i o n " Deo erextt Voltaire." — H E N R Y E. ( t h a n k s ; it has already b e e n r e p l i e d t o i n A n d P a i n e d i e d w i t h p r a y e r s iu h i s m o u t h ? " I t is an N o . 9 6 3 ) . — W I L L I A M L. ( b y b o i l i n g t h e w a t e r y o u c a u s e a w f u l t h i n g , " said a d y i n g Christian, " t o fall i n t o t h e t h e a t m o s p h e r i c air w h i c h it c o n t a i n s t o e v a p o r a t e ; it hands of the living G o d ; " and m a n y y o u n g m e n w h o is m o r e w h o l e s o m e n o t b o i l e d ) . — W . H . ( a p p l y t o Mr. have been very foolhardy in their religious o p i n i o n s Joseph Lilly, bookseller, Bedford Street, C o v e n t G a r d e n , W . C ) . — L . S. ( t h e G is h a r d ) . — E L V I R A ( d o n ' t appear to t h i n k so w h e n t h e awful d a y c o m e s . Be b e t o o h a s t y , a n d n e x t t i m e y o u m e e t , s p e a k as i f wise in t i m e . n o t h i n g h a d h a p p e n e d ) . — W . 11. ( i n t h e n a m e she is E M M A PLYMOUTH.—Ninon de l'Enclos was the daughter k n o w n b y is all t h a t t h e l a w r e q u i r e s ) . — H A R R I E T E . M . of a celebrated musician b e l o n g i n g to the b a n d o f ( a p p l y t o M r . Darton, H o i b o r a H i l l ) . — C R A Y O N ( w e d o L o u i s X I I I , w h o d y i n g i n 1G30 left h e r i n h e r fifteenth n o t r e c o l l e c t ; a p p l y t o M r . D . N u t t , 270, Strand).— year, a paragon o f beauty, wit, and talent. She was J. H . ( h e c a n ) . — G E O R G I E C . ( y o u r c o n d u c t is q u i t e one o f the m o s t brilliant performers o n the lute and c o r r e c t ; c o n t i n u e t o a c t in the s a m e w a y ) . — N I N A ( g e t h a r p s i c h o i ' d , a n d at t h e a g e o f s e v e n t e e n t h e c o n c e r t s s o m e m u t u a l friend t o b r i n g a b o u t a m e e t i n g at h e r at h e r h o u s e i n Paris a t t r a c t e d all t h e m o s t i l l u s t r i o u s houso ; very g o o d ) . — L U C I L L E (there's n o place like men o f the d a y : p r i m e ministers, philosophers, h o m e , a n d w h y b e i n s u c h h o t h a s t e ; t h e r e is p l e n t y poets, and divines, from Cardinal Richelieu, o f t i m e ) . — T Y R O ( t h e Rults of Draughts are c o n t a i n e d i n H u y g e n s , S c a r r o n , M o l i e r e , R o c h e f o u c a u l d , a n d St. t h e Boy's Number of the Family Herald; in the E v r e m o n d , t o t h e Abbe" G i d e o n , all p a y i n g h e r h o m a g e . s q u a r e i m m e d i a t e l y f o l l o w i n g in b o t h cases). —• Q u e e n Christina o f S w e d e n v i s i t e d h e r i n 1654, a n d S U R R E Y (it is a d e b t , a n d m u s t be r e c o v e r e d t h r o u g h M a d a m e d e M a i n t e n o n c o n t i n u e d h e r g r e a t friend the county court, w h i c h will give y o u judgment, and t h r o u g h life. T h e m o r a l s o f t h e a g e o f L o u i s X I V w e r e then y o u can levy u p o n the g o o d s ) . — A D E L I N E (gentle­ n o t v e r y s t r i c t ; a n d N i n o n , beautiful a n d a c c o m p l i s h e d ness, a n d c o r r e c t n e s s o f s p e e c h ; t h a t c o m b i n e d w i t h as s h e w a s , w a s b u t a frail w o m a n , a n d n o t a n a n g e l . g o o d t e m p e r will surpass e v e r y o t h e r a c c o m p l i s h m e n t ) . S h e d i e d at t h e a g e o f n i n e t y , h a v i n g p a s s e d t h r o u g h a — G A R I B A L D I ( a p p l y t o Captain Stiles, A n d e r t o n ' s m o s t eventful p e r i o d of the w o r l d ' s progress, like a H o t e l , F l e e t Street, E . C . ) . — R U T H A N D L E O N A ( t h e brilliant m e t e o r , f a s c i n a t i n g all e y e s b y h e r b e a u t y , first d a r k b r o w n , t h e o t h e r a s h a d e l i g h t e r ) . — L I B E R a n d r i v e t i n g h e r c h a i n s b y h e r w i t and. t h e refined ( C h a m b e r s ' s little treatise w i l l p r o b a b l y a n s w e r y o u r e l e g a n c e o f her m a n n e r . Like that of her great proto­ present purpose better than a m o r e expensive one).— type, the celebrated Grecian beauty, Lais, her house N U T - B R O W N A L I C E (it d o e s n o t a d d to b e a u t y ; b u t i t w a s t h e ceittre o f attraction, a n d f a m e has h a n d e d h e r m a y t o p r o t t i n c s s , a n d g i v e an arch e x p r e s s i o n t o t h e d o w n t o u s as o n e o f t h e m o s t beautiful a n d w i t t y , n o f e a t u r e s , ) . — I G N O R A N T F A N ( w e r e , n o t where; c o u s i n ) . — less t h a n o n e o f t h e m o s t frail o f h e r s e x . U . L. T. ( f o l l o w t h e c o u n s e l o f y o u r m e d i c a l m a n ) . — J. F. ( a p p l y t o t h e S e c r e t a r y to t h e A d m i r a l t y , W h i t e ­ A D E R B Y G I R L , w h o s e fellow t o w n s m e n o f the Volunteer hall, W . C . ) — C M . B.G. (practise d a i l y from g o o d c o p i e s ; C o r p s are v e r y f o n d o f s p o r t i n g t h e i r u n i f o r m s i n t h e m a k e y o u r p a r e n t s y o u r c o n f i d a n t s , a n d bo g u a r d e d Arboretum,—and a very nice place too,—objects, and and m o r e distant in y o u r c o n d u c t ) . — G E O R G I A N A (let w i t h reason, to t h e y o u n g fellows w h o w a l k a b o u t y o u r friend fight h e r o w n b a t t l e ; she s h o u l d g i v e h i m rudely catching their arms (the w o r d here means t h e c u t d i r e c t ) . — T I L L I E a n d J ESSIE ( t h e r e ' s a g o o d t i m e rifles) i n t h e c r i n o l i n e o f t h e ladies, a p o l o g i s i n g , a n d c o m i n g , a n d b o t h are y o u n g e n o u g h t o cherish h o p e ; t h e n bursting out into a rude roar o f laughter. The J E S S I E m u s t use her w o m a n ' s wit). — A SUBSCRIB ER, J O H N D E R B Y G I R L is full o f r i g h t e o u s i n d i g n a t i o n . — T h e E. ( t h a n k s ; o u r essays a n d m i s c e l l a n e o u s pages serve p r a c t i c e is u n w o r t h y o f a n y v o l u n t e e r , a n d affixes a t h e p u r p o s e ) . — P R ^ E C A N U S ( H O , t h e c h a n g e is p e r m a n e n t ) . s t i g m a o n t h e D e r b y C o r p s . W h a t h a v e t h e g a l l a n t (?) — R E D P E O N Y ( t i m e w i l l r e m e d y i t ; far from it, it is f e l l o w s t o say for t h e m s e l v e s ? m u c h i n t h e i r f a v o u r ) . — S U S P E N S E ( m o r e ; for w h a t is R . S . — W e are i n c l i n e d , t o t h i n k w i t h y o u t h a t t h e u p w a r d s is a b o v e ) . — P A T E R ( t r y e m i g r a t i o n ; perhaps g e n i u s o f t h e p a s t age, o f R i c h a r d s o n , F i e l d i n g , S m o l ­ h e w o u l d d o w e l l i n A u s t r a l i a o r N e w Zealand).— lett, G i b b o n , A d d i s o n , Steele, a n d o t h e r s , w a s o f m u c h E. H . V . ( a n y q u a n t i t y less t h a n a f e w p o u n d s w o u l d m o r e v i v i d as w e l l as s o l i d a n a t u r e t h a n t h e e p h e m e r a l h a v e n o m e r c a n t i l e v a l u e ; h o w m u c h have y o u ? ) . and over-lauded authors o f the present day. Of those — M A R I A N N E D . S. ( f o l l o w t h e d i r e c t i o n s g i v e n i n names n o w above the horizon, h o w few will b e N o . 526 ; u s e t h e p a s t e w i t h water at t h e t i m e o f handed d o w n to posterity ! W e could count them on our w a s h i n g ) . — A Y O R K S H I R E L A S S (plaster o f Paris made h a n d , a n d h a v e fingers t o spare. Our Correspondent i n t o a paste w i t h w a t e r ) . — T I N Y (see N o s . 261, 202, 203, is t h a n k e d for h i s e l e g a n t a n d a p p r e c i a t i v e letter. a n d 8 8 1 ) . — S H A K S P E A R E (see N o s . 318 a n d 3 2 0 ) . — L I L Y (s^e N o 5 2 6 ) . — S T . B E R N A R D (see N o s . 257 and 738).— F A N N Y is e n g a g e d t o b e m a r r i e d , i n J u n e , 1861, t o a D E R W E N T W A T E R (see No. 835).—G. PHILLIPS (see y o u n g Australian, w h o , in the m e a n t i m e neglects to N o . 763).—T. R O B E R T S (see N o s . 124 and 125). s e n d h e r t h e n e c e s s a r y m o n e y for outfit a n d p a s s a g e out. T h e r e is t i m e h o w e v e r y e t ; b u t F A N N Y ' S m o t h e r is t h e p r o p e r p e r s o n t o w r i t e a n d r e m i n d t h e f u t u r e C O N T R I B U T I O N S T H A N K F U L L Y D E C L I N E D , AND L E F T A T T H E h u s b a n d o f his d u t y in this p a r t i c u l a r . — F A N N Y had P U B L I S H I N G O F F I C E . — L e g e n d o f the F o r e s t o f F e c k e n better give u p her situation than s u b m i t to perse­ ham.—Beatrice, the Flower Girl.—Marrogenie, the cution. The o l d gentleman o u g h t to b e m a d e an H e r o i n e o f G r e e c e . — F r a n c o i s ; or, t h e Effects o f e x a m p l e o f at o n c e . J e a l o u s y . — T h e W i s h . — B l i g h t e d A f f e c t i o n s . — A n Epi­ s o d e o f C o c k n e y Life a n d o f t h e W a r . — T h e Mail J. K . L . — D e m o c r i t u s w a s a c e l e b r a t e d G r e e k p h i l o s o ­ P h a e t o n . — S u n n y H o u r s . — A p p e a r a n c e s are often D e ­ p h e r , w h o d i e d 301 y e a r s b e f o r e t h e Christian era. He ceitful.—My Grandmother's Story.—Albert Gregory.— c o n t i n u a l l y l a u g h e d at t h e follies a n d vanities o f m a n ­ U n i n t e r e s t i n g I n t e l l i g e n c e . — E x t r a c t s from the Tunes. k i n d , w h o d i s t r a c t t h e m s e l v e s w i t h care a n d a n x i e t i e s . — F i d e l i t y . — A L e g e n d , b y S. E.—Bertha L e i g h . — A H e r a c l i t u s w a s also a G r e e k p h i l o s o p h e r , w h o , i t is said, Tale Oft T r u e . — F l o r e n c e S e y m o u r . — W h a t ' s in a N a m e was p e r p e t u a l l y s h e d d i n g tears o n a c c o u n t o f t h e v i c e s —One N o t o f this W o r l d . — M y G h o s t l y R e m i n i s c e n c e s . o f m a n k i n d . H e n c e h e is t e r m e d t h e " C r y i n g P h i l o ­ — U l r i c h Z w i n g l e . — T h e O l d S e x t o n ' s T a l e . — A Wii'e'a s o p h e r , " as D e m o c r i t u s is called t h e " L a u g h i n g P h i l o ­ Story. sopher."

S e p t e m b e r 1,




W H A T IS A B O Y ? — W H A T IS E D U C A T I O N ? W h e n Talleyrand, of whose great wit and observation every body has heard, and Avho may be taken as an impersonation of worldly shrewdness, came to England to inspect the nature of our education, he observed of our public school system, " It is the best which I have seen, and yet it is abominable." Matters are not much better now. A few weeks ago, or we may say days, a schoolmaster was condemned to four years' hard labour for beating a boy to death because he could not learn his lesson, and the only defence of the master really was this: that he, the teacher, was so dull himself that he could not distinguish between could not and would not, between stupidity and laziness in a child. N o w it will strike all of us that that schoolmaster was wanting in the most essential part of a schoolmaster's requisite knowledge of human nature. But what is education ? The simple meaning of the word, a leading forth from innate barbarism and ignorance, is not quite all the answer that we want; but it is the best that we generally get. It is the training of the tender mind, the teaching of " the young idea how to shoot," to use a hackneyed phrase, and very badly some of the marksmen understand their business, and very much the world grumbles at them; but there is this to be said, that they can grumble at the world. Thus much at least we can say for the schoolmaster, that he does to the best of his ability instruct his boys in obedience, in behaviour, in grammar, and in what learning he has; and that he doth for the most part keep up to the old catechism, and teach his lads to avoid the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, but to very little purpose, since the lad gets all that is taught him at school subverted at home, and that foppery, dandyism, folly, idleness, pride, meanness, love of position, of gold, and hatred and con­ tempt of Honest labour are taught him after he has left school. N o t that any of the good excellent fathers and mothers ever intend to do so, but that almost every action in society does so and will do so ; ay, and has done so for many years. W h a t , " said a rich Athenian, who had heard wonderful accounts of the new philosophers, " w h a t will you charge to educate my son ? " The particular sage to whom the question was put named a good round sum. "By Hercules!" returned the father, swearing the popular oath of the time, " I could buy a slave for the m o n e y ! " The philosopher turned round on the heel of his sandal: " D o s o , " said lie, " and you will have t w o . "

are requisite." I n the present day, h o w is a man to distinguish between the mere advertising quacks and the real teachers ? I t is certain that the present age thinks in the main as Montaigne did ; for training-schools both for- masters and mistresses are now being established, it being an important matter that the teacher should be taught how to teach. A n d here we are simply going back to the days of Elizabeth, wherein the masters were not only mere pedagogues, or boy drivers, but men of approved knowledge. Unfortunately many of our old grammar schools have decayed, and private seminaries, colleges, and academies, or whatever may be the fashionable name, have usurped their place. A n d this is certain to any one who knows life, that of all scholastic evils perhaps the private schools of the very rich are the very worst. The boys learn worse' than nothing there. They are pampered and petted, their pride is nourished and fostered, and care­ fully cultivated, whilst their manliness is destroyed, and their freedom curtailed, lest their gentility should surfer. Take, for instance, the schools of the rich at a fashionable watering-place, where the boys dress for dinner, never dirt their faces, have spotless linen and white kid gloves, and are attracted by the advertisement that " s o n s of noblemen and baronets" arc to be their companions. There is more than one instance on record of the son of a poor baronet being educated for nothing, simply because the lad should act as a decoy duck. A t the six o'clock dinner the lads sit at the same table with their instructors, and the poor little " f o o l of q u a l i t y " is pestered by such questions as " H o w is Sir Samuel ? " and " H o w is my lady, your mother ? " from the master or mistress, simply for the sake of pronouncing the title. This snobbism fosters every kind of mean and dirty pride, and so far from doing good does infinite harm in after-life. Peers and baronets are very well' in their places; but all boys should bo equal; and they are so in a public school, where the cleverest, bravest, and hardiest boy wins. Sir Bulwer Lytton indeed tells a story of a proud little monkey walking into Eton or Harrow schoolyard, and replying to the question, " W h o are y o u ? " with " L o r d Dash, son of the Marquis of D o n t k n o w w h o . " — " Then," said the cock of the school, a plain B o b Smith, " t h e r e are three k i c k s ; one for my lord and two for the marquis," and the little recipient never forgot this lesson, the best he had in his life. Tom Brown's Schooldays, and other manly books, have done something towards exposing the foolish pride of position with boys. A school is nothing more than a place of introduction to the greater world. It is the landing-place just before we begin to climb the stairs of life. What the boy has to learn is not to be vainer and weaker, but to be stronger and better. The custom of cramming with mere book learning is folly. W h y should a sensible man be employed all day in pouring into his pupil's cars, as through a funnel, that which he is sure to forget. Let the teacher every now and then take stock of what the b o y has learnt. T h e lad is not a better nor a wiser lad for having blown early, and surmounted a quantity of surface learning or bare accomplishments. The mind should be widened, the attention arrested, and by all manner o f means a " receptivity " or capacity for receiving knowledge should be engendered; and this may be done, presuming before­ hand that the lad is not mentally disqualified, without cruelty, and certainly with little corporal correction. I t is dreadful to think of the amount of cruelty which occurs in schools, and principally in private ones, and which is now and then revealed in the police courts. The reason why public schools are more exempt than others is that therein punishment is open and regulated. W e hear of no private floggings; nor does the master who is offended with the boy's carelessness or laziness punish him, but the principal, or some one deputed. It is difficult also to do without corporal punishment; in some way or another chastisement must be given : the great question with each individual boy is which kind is the most proper.

It is quite possible that this truth, that his untaught son and a slave were about on a par, was rather unpleasing to our rich Athenian; and it is one peculiarity of modern nations, and especially our own, that their govern­ ments have been lavish of their money in support of education. They saw long enough ago that knowledge is power. They penetrated the darkness of ages to bring forth the riches of the past. They resuscitated the old poets and philosophers, and made them, by their works, rule us from their graves. They, by their servants the monks, set the ball rolling which will never be stopped. W h e n once a passion for knowledge is excited, it never entirely dies o u t ; and if the soil be a generous one, the tree of knowledge continually shoots out fresh roots and new branches. The moderns have been taught by the old philosopher, and do not wish to have two slaves. Ignorance, they are quite ready to own, is slavery; so much so, that in slave-holding and breeding states in our enlightened ally, America, they have found it necessary to condemn their slaves to ignorance. It is there a sin against the law to teach the black man; but as to the white man, educate him by all means. The poorest white fellow, not only in the States but here, unless he be an exception But we may here observe that if punishment exists, rewards should exist to the general rule, endeavours to get his son better taught than he himself is. also; and that the former should never be so administered as to make Knowledge is power. Grasp at it, snatch it, catch it in driblets, but have it learning a terror. W e often hear Lady Jane Grey cited as a learned lady, by all means. Here is Burns reading at the plough-tail, Fcrgusson drawing more often than the reason of her easy acquisition of that learning. She a map of the heavens on a hill side, Gilford working his problems with his tells us that Roger Ascham, her schoolmaster, made knowledge so enticing shoemaker's awl on a bit of leather, Clare reading by scraps of ballads, and a and pleasant to her, that she was always eager to escape from her parents dozen others, whom any one can name, mounting up the hill of learning by and her companions to the society of the old teacher, and that thus she learnt all sorts of difficult and out-of-the-way paths. Latin and Greek purely for sake of the pleasure she derived. Thus it was As all acknowledge the use of learning, the only thing now-a-days to con­ that she was found— sider is how to attain it; and here conies the question, W h a t is a boy ? And a Musing with Plato when the day ivas done. very important one it i s ; so much so, that a ^dignitary in the Church has And all in green array were chasing down the sun. written an essay with the title. A boy in En°land, to wit, is a very different It were to be wished that that sweet method of teaching, which made thing from one in China. Here he is not tied down to follow his father's trade. H e may do any thing, and attain almost any position, so that he has Ascham the prince of tutors, were discovered and fully developed all a long life, a good constitution, untiring iudustry, and " g o o d luck." I f a throughout this noble realm of England. lad of sixteen, fresh from school, and well taught, were to make up his mind There are two things which, although taught, are taught by far too that he would be Chancellor of the Exchequer or Prime Minister before he scantily in modern days. One is submission and reverence towards age ; the died, there is little doubt but that he could acquire that position, so that his other follows closely upon it, and is an humble opinion of oneself. I n manu­ purpose and intention were steadily carried out. A t any rate, whatever prize facturing and in new countries, where man as a working machine is valuable, he aims at is within his reach; and that is why Shelley said that the Almighty and where the boy, amongst the working-classes, earns his bread long before had given men arms long enough to reach the stars if they would only put his bones are fully grown, an appreciation of his own value gives him conceit them out. The great faults with youth are Avant of purpose and frivolity. and self-pride, the two great hindrances to knowledge. I n America and They spend all their best years at playing at cross purposes, and their age in our own colonies the position of the b o y to the man is yet more objectionable, regretting tliat they have done nothing. Education should therefore fit a and the feeling spreads upwards from one class to another. Nothing can be boy for after life, expand his knowledge, brace up his mind, root out laziness, more sad than this. The boy misses teaching and guiding at this most and give aim and direction to his intellect, as well as a general fitness for important period of his life ; the man loses that respect and reverence which employment, and a wide knowledge of the rudiments of sciences and the is his due, and which will uphold him in his age. Thus, at two periods c*f causes of things. life, from due attention being omitted, much wretchedness is occasioned to all. The choice of a school or a preceptor is the first difficulty which meets us. In Athens, in Sparta, and in early Borne, a boy dared not sit down in his W h e r e shall the tradesman, the man of business, or the working-man, all father's presence"unless commanded, and at all times showed great reverence whose hours are occupied, find the right man who will thus instruct his son ? and respect. Our own commandments are not less stringent, and wisely so " U p o n the choice of a governor who shall direct your son," writes M o n ­ too. A hoy who is a little man, and who assumes the airs, pleasures, and ways taigne to Diana de Foix, " depends entirely the scheme; and if you desire of a grown person before he has reached maturity, is like a spendthrift w h o your boy to turn out a man of abilities, rather than a mere scholar, I would raises money by post-obits. Just at the time when he should be enjoying advise his friends to be careful of choosing him a tutor who is a man of head­ his youth, with its expanding knowledge, enlarged powers and greater action, piece rather than a perfect bookworm, though both judgment and learning he is wearied, nauseated, and disgusted with life.




[ S e p t e m b e r 1, 1860.

A modest opinion of his own powers will also accompany the deference to age; and there are many other points which might also be insisted on. A politeness and correct estiaiation of the opposite sex, personal cleanliness, chastity, proper pride—a lofty feeling which will keep the boy from committing any dishonesty and meanness, and not only a love of, but a thorough knowledge of Truth, of its weight, use, and p o w e r ; o f the weakness, danger, and shiftiness of Falsehood—these points are to be insisted on in modern education. F o r it is to be observed that not only effeminacy and want of manliness are (or rather were till lately) on the increase, but that the worship of gold is spreading far and wide, and that a man's worth and power with his fellows are not so much looked at as the amount of money which he has amassed through his position, or through the works of others. N o w , if England degenerates and goes to pieces, it will be through a want of vigorous b o y s ; for the decay of the tree is always shown in the y o u n g fruit. Thirty years hence the destinies of this nation and all her dependencies will be in the hands of those who are boys n o w ; and when all the talking, and writing, and teaching of this day are over, and we are quietly in our graves, those who are now little schoolboys will be thundering in the senate, or teaching from the pulpit and the journal. I t is not pleasant therefore to fancy that the future British ear should be dinned always with accounts of Pullinger and Bobson frauds, of 'cute bargains, rotten ships, breaking banks, incompetent statesmen, foolish generals, and popular parsons, who are about to relieve themselves of pertain burdens in the Insolvent and Divorce Courts. Robinson Crusoe and the Vicar of Wakefield are a thousand fold better than these; but if we continue to worship mere material success, and to run after the man with the longest purse, our boys will hear of it and imitate u s ; the next generation will be more soulless and money-getting than we are; our place will be taken by the next best nation, and, as a people, we shall be vainly blaming ourselves for our misuse of our talents and our boys.

H I N T S ON D R E S S . — B Y M R S . ADAMS. I t is my present intention to give instructions for making a set of very pretty collars and cuff's. Procure a piece of muslin, cambric, or fine linen; cut out your collar and cuffs from any new pattern you have by you. Having done this, procure a small piece o f coloured jaconet, or muslin. Choose one with some pretty small flower in peach, blue, or pink, or even green. Lhave seen both prints and muslin with flowers sprinkled over the pattern. Choose these, and cut out the flowers and tack them in a row round your collar and cuffs; gee some white braid, and then stitch the braid round the flowers with ingrain cotton, (of the colour your flower may chance to b e ) . D o not cut the braid, but carry it like a cable chain round each flower. This style is new, pretty, and useful The coloured flowers can be introduced in embroidery patterns, and look well. Care should be taken that the flowers of print or muslin will bear washing. Another way to put on flowers on the collars and cuffs is to tack on your flower, and button-hole stitch it round with white or coloured cotton, and then cut away the muslin or linen from underneath the flowers. I f ladies are not able to procure g o o d ingrain cotton, they may use fine coloured worsted. Some of the ladies will "t>e pleased to hear that pretty afternoon and morning capes are coming into fashion. W i t h the weather so changeable, they are often very welcome additions to a lady's dress, and to many very becoming. Both square and low bodies are worn ; and to these dresses capes should be made, if only occasionally worn. The morning capes are round, and the evening capes pointed. Half-high dresses will be much in favour, with pelerines to match, and long waist ribbons. The morning or evening cape pattern can be had by sending fourteen - stamps to Mrs. A . Adams, 1, Langham Street, W . , Teacher of millinery and dress-making.

T h e r e are w h o , t h o u g h t h e y little h a v e , E x i s t e n c e w a s t e in dull i n a c t i o n ; T h e r e are w h o g o l d o r laurels c r a v e W i t h zeal that v e r g e s o n d i s t r a c t i o n . These s h o w a lack of wise content, A n d those a want of just a m b i t i o n ; B u t h e w h o s o life is n o b l y s p e n t Is found in neither such condition. The g r a n d e s t state d o t h lie b e t w e e n , Wherein, or indigent or thriving^ Man, n e i t h e r w i l d n o r passive seeiff- > Is n e v e r m u r m u r i n g , e v e r striving .



S u e n s o u i s t n e s t r o n g e s t life attain, A s d a y b y d a y are c a l m l y m o v i n g . Had e v e r y m a n n o a c t i v e b e n t F o r a u g h t b e y o n d his first p o s i t i o n , I n v a i n w e r e h u m a n talents lent, A n d rude indeed were Earth's condition. T h e spirit H e a v e n d o t h m o s t a p p r o v e I s h i s w h o tries h i s l o t t o b e t t e r , Y e t ne'er i m p u g n s his Father's love, T h o u g h f o r c e d t o w o r k i n m a n y a fetter : A n d w h o w i t h steadfast p u r p o s e strives F o r m e a n s t o s e r v e h i s fellow c r e a t u r e s ; S u c h s o u l s e n j o y t h e h e a l t h i e s t lives, S u c h lives p r e s e n t t h e m a n l i e s t features.

Leaf-Gold is cemented to glass by saliva, or a weak solution of gum-arabic. Letters of gold may thus be easily put on, and padded to the glass with a wad of cotton. The reason w h f persons, under certain circumstances, as intoxication or agitation from fear, see objects double, is that they have lost the power o ! directing aright the axes of both eyes towards one object. M O U L D S F O R W A X F I G U R E S . — M o u l d s for wax figures are made of plaster, and are not oiled, but are first steeped in hot water for about half* an hour, and then dried thoroughly. W h e n you pour the wax into the plaster mould, allow it to become dry, then place the mould in water, after which the uast will be easily removed. CACHOU A R O M A T I Q U E . — T h e following preparation is much used by smokers to destroy the smell of tobacco, and is also a stomachic and carminative of a very pleasant flavour:—Extract of licorice by infusion, 100 parts, by w e i g h t ; water, 100 parts. Dissolve in water'bath, and add—Powdered catechu, 30 parts; powdered gum 30 parts. Evaporate to the consistence of an extract, and then incorporate the following substances, reduced to powder :—Mastic, 2 parts; cascarilla, 2 parts; char­ coal, 2 parts; orris root, 2 parts. Concentrate the mass, remove it from the fire, and then add :—Oil of peppermint, 2 parts ; tincture of musk, 5 drops; tincture of amber, 5 drops. Pour it on a marble, previously oiled, and roll it (by means o f a roller) to the thickness of refined juice. W h e n the mass is cold, remove the oil from both surfaces by means of unsized paper ; moisten it slightly, cover it with silver paper, let it dry, and then cut it into narrow strips, and divide these into minute squares or lozenges.
A R S E N I C E A T I N G , TO I M P R O V E T H E C O M P L E X I O N . — D r . Heisch has recently

Content m a y be, in truth, a bane, The w i s e w o u l d fain b e a y e i m p r o v i n g j



Cold in the head isn't half so common as cold in the heart; but it is a great deal oftener complained of. Reverence is an ennobling sentiment; it is felt to be degrading only to the vulgar mind, which would escape the sense of its own bitterness by elevating itself into the antagonist of what is above it. D I S C R E T I O N . — T h e r e are many shining qualities in the mind of m a n ; but none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, and sets them to work in their proper places, and turns them to the advantage of their possessor. W i t h o u t it, learning is pedantry; wit, imper­ tinence ; and virtue itself looks like weakness ; and the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in error and active in his own prejudices. DOMESTIC L I F E . — H o w sweet it is when the heart expands and the mind kindles by reciprocated kindliness and knowledge ! A n d sweeter far in domestic life is it to rest the wearied heart and mind on the chastened expres­ sion of sympathy, lighting up the well-known and beloved countenance of one who has often treated our sorrows with compassion, returned long-suffering to our tryingness, and shown enduring fidelity in our burdens—endeared to us like a gallant ship, which, though the gloss of its new paint and rigging may be worn less bright, yet, in its very scars, marks the tenacity with which its anchors have held, and its rudder answered the helmsman, through many a storm and tempest. N A T U R E ' S P L A N . — W h y should there be any objection to the mingling of opposite sexes in children's schools ? W e never could see ; it has to our eye obvious advantages; subduing to its proper tone a lad's boisterousness, teaching him, all unconsciously to himself, that deference to the more gentle, which is but a\ykwardly and artificially grafted on in later years by the laws of society. W e have always fancied we could select from a group of boys, those who had grown up sisterless; and we have often admired the wisdom"of that matron, who, blessed with five jackets and trousers, adopted a little girl to prevent the rough-and-tumble manners which would have been the undoubted result of a different course. It is not painful to our eye to see a little b o y gallantly carrying home a load of school-books for a little girl, or giving her. a rose from his father's garden, or holding an umbrella over her head, or helping her across a gutter. On the contrary, we like i t ; it is your boys who herd together, who are most apt to carry out the tremendous threat to " m a k e mouths at your sister ! " and other juvenile ruffianisms. We vote for sprinkling the little girls about amid the geographies and grammars, as the gentlest and surest, and we conscientiously believe, safest way of gentlemanising the obstreperous owners o f tops and marbles; always, of course, be it understood, under the superintendence of judicious Jlesh-and-blood teachers.

been making investigations into the disputed question of arsenic-eating in Styria, regarding which it is so difficult to obtain information, as the greatest secresy is observed by the arsenic- eaters. They obtain it in an illicit manner from the Tyrolese, as it is difficult to procure it otherwise, the law prohibiting its purchase without a doctor's certificate. But Dr. Heisch has now settled beyond further dispute that arsenic is really eaten by the Styrian peasantry, and that, too, in the most incredible quantities. One person, who confessed to its use, commenced with three grains a day—a dose we should consider fatal—and gradually increased it, till now, in his forty-fifth year, he takes twenty-three grains of pure white arsenic in his coffee daily ! The Complexion is said to be much improved, and the countenance made to appear exceedingly juvenile by the use of this potent drug. The woodmen and hunters of the Tyrol also take it to improve their wind and prevent fatigue. As a rule, the arsenic-eaters are very long-lived, but invariably die suddenly at last. L E A R N I N G TO S W I M . — T h e best plan for learners, whether in fresh or salt water, is to attach a cord to a tree, or boat, or the machine; or, if these are not available, get a companion to hold the end of the cord on shore. With this cord tied round the arm or waist let the beginner walk out till the water is up to his chin, and then turn round and face the shore. H e may even then back out a little farther, when he will find the force of the water taking him off his legs, and he will then find no diificulty in making a few strokes, even at the first attempt. In fact, by holding the head well up, which necessarily expands the chest, he will find he cannot help himself from swimming, or rather floating; and by gently thrusting out, and'drawing in the hands and feet, exactly in imitation of the movement of a frog in the water, he will accomplish more in two or three days than in as many weeks with the corks or bladders; that is, he will have more confidence in himself, and k n o w more of the power of the water to sustain him on its surface. A better knowledge even of this he will have by keeping his back to the shore till out in deep water as far as he can g o , then throwing back his head, expanding his chest, making, as it were, a curve with his back, and allowing the legs to float outward and from under him, he will find that his companion on shore could draw him

S e p t e m b e r 1, I860.]



completely in without sinking. A few such experiments, and then he might) by the gentle action of the hands and feet, work himself on shore. W i t h the cord, the young beginner will have n o fear, saving for a few mouthfuls of water, and these he will not care about so long as he learns to swim. N o w , with regard to the cramp, one of the greatest terrors o f the swimmer, it i s not the cramp in itself that drowns him, it is his fear. T h e cramp seldoms attacks more than one limb, and if the swimmer will but stretch the cramped limb out to its utmost he will still have his other limbs in active use to reach the shore. T h e pain, as is well known, is great; but this must be borne if he would save his life. I f the cramp seizes the leg, let him turn over on his back, stretch the limb out stiffly, and in a fe.w minutes it may be gone ; and however great the pain, he must not relax the use of that limb, as no muscular action can increase cramp, but the reverse. I f the stomach is attacked, which will probably prevent the use of the legs, let him bear with the pain and float on the back, making use of the hands till he gets within reach of assistance.

adorning the crystal walls, roof, and centre, o f this most beautiful and unique little " Temple o f F l o r a . " Several tropical botanical rarities are also in flower in the old and new Aquariums or W a t e r Gardens.
THE N E W L A W O N P U B L I C F O U N T A I N S . — B y the new A c t o f Parliament

on Nuisances Eemoval and Diseases Prevention, it is provided that i f any person do any damage whereby a well, .fountain, or pump is polluted' or fouled, he shail upon summary conviction forfeit a sum not exceeding £ 5 for every such offence. A l l wells, fountains, and pumps provided b y the Public Health A c t or otherwise for the use o f the inhabitants o f any place, and not being the property of, or vested in, any person or corporation other than officers of such place, are to be vested in the local authority of the place under the A c t , who are from time to time to cause them to be kept in g o o d repair and condition, and free from pollution, as well as those dedicated to, or open to the use of, the inhabitants o f such place.

All birds are either daily or nightly employed in seeking out their food, and some being at times more fortunate than others, undoubtedly possess the STATISTICS. power o f communicating their success to their o w n fraternity. I have fre­ quently observed three or four small birds in a newly sown field o f oats, In the first six months of the present year the registered imports into this evidently local inhabitants; in a few days their numbers would be increased country of gold and silver bullion aud specie amounted to £10,975,056, and by hundreds o f strangers from a distance. I f one solitary jackdaw discovers the exports to £10,800,886, or nearly the same sum. your cherry-tree, he will most assuredly introduce all his acquaintances to the There are iifty-seven cities in the world which contain from 100,000 to fruit. A rook will also, in some mysterious w a y , ' influence a large flock to 200,000 inhabitants, twenty-three from 200,000 to 500,000, and twelve share with him your' early potatoes or corn when once he discovers the desired which contain above 500,000, two of which are L o n d o n and Earis, and ten are treasure. T h e alarm note o f the parent will instantly silence the noisy in Eastern Asia. chirping o f its young, and largv birds, b y a peculiar motion o f the wing and A return just issued states the number of the Irish constabulary force at the manner o f flight when high up in the air, and too distant to be heard, will commencement of this year at 12,403, with 358 horses. The total expense signal danger to those upon the ground unconscious of the stealthy approach for 1859 was £672,716, o f which the public purse paid £657,206, and the of the enemy. I t is to the eyes, and not their nostrils, that they owe their safety upon such occasions, and it is a mistake to suppose that they either Irish counties and towns £15,510. smell you, or the powder in your g u n . — A Good Observer. T H E B E V E N U E OF I R E L A N D . — T h e total sum paid into the Exchequer as the net produce o f Ireland in the year ended the 31st of December, 1859, was A N O L D SCOTCH U S A G E A T B I R T H S . — T h e r e is a custom strictly Scottish £6,711,833. T h e Customs produced £ 2 , 3 0 4 , 5 7 8 ; the Excise, £3,109,000 which used to be connected with the preliminaries of the baptismal service, and stamps, £ 5 3 0 , 9 8 1 ; property and income tax, £ 4 5 8 , 1 0 5 ; small branches o f which may occasionally be found in the /present day. A young unmarried the hereditary revenue, <£2,520; miscellaneous, including repayments o f woman takes the child to church, and she carries in her hand a slice of bread advances, £306,648. and cheese, with a pin out o f the child's dress, which she is bound to GI\E to L O N D O N IN 1860.—The Registrar-General says that L o n d o n now covers the first male person she meets. A n English duke (his name is of no conse­ 121 square miles—a square of eleven miles to each side. I t is equal to three quence) had arrived in Glasgow on a Sunday, and was wandering in the .Loiidons o f sixty years ago ; and its population, b y excess o f births over streets during the time o f the afternoon service. A young woman came up to deaths, increases at the rate o f 1000 per week. One in six of every death him with a child in her arms, and presented a slice o f bread and cheese. I n lakes place in a workhouse, hospital, asylum, or prison; sad but conclusive vain he protested that he did not know what she meant—that he had nothing to do with her or the child, that he was an entire stranger, that he had never evidence of the extent of poverty, disease, mental and physical, and crime. been in Scotland before, that ho, knew nothing of the usages of the Presbyterian T H E K A I L SUPERSEDING T H E S A I L . — T h e quantity o f coal carried to the Kirk, being of the Church of England, and that she should give the morsel to metropolis by railway for the six months ending July 1, has been 714,8 somebody else. The young woman was deaf to all his arguments, and held out tons 3 cwt., against 582,054 tons 13 cwt. for the corresponding period of authoritatively the bread and cheese. Thinking, probably, that the lass had 1859. Of this the London and North-Western carried (in round numbers), not given him credit for what he said, he told her in perfect simplicity that 324,619 t o n s ; the Great Northern, 255,120 t o n s ; the Eastern Counties, he was the Duke o f , and that he had just arrived at an hotel, which he 56,061 tons; the Great Western, 32,686 tons ; the Midland, 24,931 t o n s ; named. T h e answer shut his m o u t h — ' - T h o u g h you were the king on the the South-Western, 9,438 tons; the South-Eastern, 8,221 t o n s ; the Here­ throne, you maun tak that bread and cheese." I n old time it Avas the fashion ford, Luton, and Dunstable, 3,263 tons. for the better classes of society to intimate a birth in the family as we still d o E M I G R A T I O N F R O M T H E U N I T E D K I N G D O M . — I t appears b y the report o f a death. I n Hamilton the announcement was made in a. truly primitive the Emigration Commissioners that in the 45 years from 181^ to 1859 style, not b y a billet, but b y a verbal message—" Mrs. A / s compliments to inclusive, 4,917,598 left the United Kingdom. T h e largest emigration in Mrs. B., and she's lichter o f a laddie or lass b a i r n " (as the case might b e ) . any year was in 1852, when it reached 368,764. After 1854 the emigration declined as rapidly as it had grown, amounting in that and the three subse­ q u e n t years to 680^208 souls, or on an average 170,052 a-year; in 1858 it THE RIDDLER. amounted to 113,972, and in 1859 to 120,432. The commissioners state that PUZZLE. the causes of the sudden decrease are to be found in the increased demand for Tbree E's a n d o n e hundred, please place in a r o w , young men in the army and navy, and the departments connected with them With the head of your son in addition ; —arising, first, from the Eussian war, and afterwards from the Indian revolt. A small p i e c e o f his heart j u s t t o m a k e a fine s h o w , The great majority of the emigration was from Ireland, and the commissioners A n d that is t h e w h o l e c o m p o s i t i o n ; O n l y m i x i t aright—'twill an article s h o w state that ten millions sterling have been sent from emigrants in America to T h a t is d a i l y i n g r e a t r e q u i s i t i o n . KERIUDQE. Ireland to enable their relatives and friends to j o i n them in the N e w W o r l d .

A great number o f threepenny-pieces with well-milled edges arc said to be in circulation. They are easily passed for fourpenny-pieces, especially when the light is indifferent. The railway system is now so extended and ramified in the north o f Scot­ land that one may travel direct through from London to Inverness, a distance of 630 miles, in eighteen hours!

I t is v e r y clear, t h o u g h I a m n o t n e a r , I n e v e r c a n a b s e n t be ; W h e n y o u s e « m e n o t I am- o n t h e s p o t Where y o u always expected me. 'Tis said I c a n g u i d e t h e s t e p s o f m a n , Wherever he happens to be ; I n days o f o l d y o u h a v e b e e n t o l d This glorious truth of me. U p o n this e a r t h I r e w a r d t h e w o r t h Of t h e b r a v e , t h e great, t h e t r u e ; H o w e v e r I delight, I a m t h e right Of only a chosen few. FAVEY.

U n t o my first t h e villain g o e s — The p i a c e w h e r e c r i m e s b e g i n ; H e ' l l s o o n b e t a k e n t o m y FIRST A n d p u n i s h ' d for h i s sin. A n d w h e n i n p r i s o n h e ' s confined, My first w i l l k e e p him t h e r e ; Till o n m y second h e m a y die, A n d e n d a life o f care. M y whole's a s p a c i o u s r e s i d e n c e — B u t I m u s t tell n o m o r e , Or m y s o l u t i o n , I ' m afraid, T o o s o o n y o u will e x p l o r e . YV. H . H .

The Gardeners' Chronicle reports that on the night o f Wednesday the 25th R E B U S . — A r i v e r o f B e l g i u m ; a n d a r i v e r o f Russia, The initials f o r m t h e n a m e o f of July the thermometer o f the Horticultural Society at Chiswick sank to 34 a r i v e r o f H a n o v e r , a n d t h e finals a n o t h e r o f F r a n c e . MOONEN. degrees of Fahrenheit, a radiating barometer to 30 degrees. A n d this in the A R I T H M E T I C A L QUESTIONS. dog-days of i 8 6 0 ! 1. A s u b s c r i p t i o n is t o b e raised, a n d 12 m e n each agree t o p u t d o w n a certain a m o u n t , It has been resolved to erect a memorial to Sir H u g h Myddelton, at t h e a m o u n t t o b e i n a c c o r d a n c e w i t h t h e i r r e s p e c t i v e i n c o m e s . N o w their i n c o m e s v a r y . Islington. This is to consist of a drinking fountain, surmounted b y a statue A , B , G, D , a n d E ' s a r e a l i k e , b u t F ' s is 5 p e r cent, m o r e t h a n E's, a n d G, H , I, a n d K ' s i n c r e a s e i n l i k e m a n n e r 5 p e r c e n t , u p o n t h e o t h e r ; thus, i f F ' s b e £ 2 0 5 , G.'s of the bringer of water to London, and is to be placed on the site o f the old w o u l d b e £ 2 1 5 5s., <fec. N o w t h e a m o u n t o f L a n d M ' s i n c o m e ^ is equal t o F , G, H , I, watchhousc now standing on the green. Sir Samuel Morton Peto has offered a n d K ' s p u t t o g e t h e r , M ' s b e i n g also as m u c h again a s L ' s . R e q u i r e d t h e a m o u n t o f each m a n ' s s u b s c r i p t i o n , s u p p o s i n g H ' s t o b e l i s . 6.loud., also t h e a m o u n t raised. to present the statue to the parish. K E W G A R D E N S . — T h e Flowers (almost endless in form, size, variety, and colour) in the great parterre or Italian Garden on the terrace in front of the Palm House and Lake, and those on the borders o f the Grand Promenade, are now in their greatest beauty and perfection. The Conservatory N o . 10 is very remarkable for the exquisite beauty and variety o f foliage, and the gor­ geous splendour, artistic combination, and skilful contrast o f colour, o f the curious and costly plants n o w in blossom—garlanding, festooning, and
H . C. 2. S u p p o s i n g a b u s h e l ( c o r n ) m e a s u r e t o b e IS : i n c h e s i n d i a m e t e r a n d 1 5 | i n c h e s i n d e p t h , h o w m a n y c h a l d r o n s o f coals o f 40 bushels e a c h are c o n t a i n e d i n a c o n i c a l h e a p , w h o s e d i a m e t e r is 13 feet, a n d p e r p e n d i c u l a r h e i g h t 5 feet 3 i n c h e s ? T K O S . C .

3. T h e r e are t w o c o l u m n s i n t h e r u i n s o f P e r s e p o l i s left s t a n d i n g u p r i g h t , o n e o f w h i c h is 6 4 feet a b o v e t h e h o r i z o n t a l p l a n e , a n d t n e o t h e r 50 feet. B e t w e e n these, in a r i g h t l i n e , stands a statue 8 feet h i g h , t h e d i s t a n c e from t h e t o p o f e a c h c o l u m n t o t h e t o p o f t h e statue b e i n g e q u a l . R e q u i r e d t h a t d i s t a n c e , t h e c o l u m n s b e i n g 1 5 0 feet f r o m e a c h o t h e r . ' CRAVEN.



A R O S E W I T H O U T T H O R N S . — A woman without nails.

[ S e p t e m b e r 1, 1860.

W h a t female namesake of the poet Dante is very musical ?—Ann Dante. " Custom invariably lessens admiration." — " N o t invariably," says our publisher.

F R U I T S O F T H E W E A T H E R , — I t is said that stone-fruit will be very abun­ dant this year. Of course. Everything is petrified. A R I T H M E T I C A L . — A t what period of life does a young lady devote herself to arithmetic?—When she begins to sigh for (cipher) a lover.

C U R I O S I T I E S . — T h e r e are some people who assert that they have seen a A m o n g the curiosities in a late Dublin paper, are " Lines on the death of horse draw, a b e l l o w / / , a lump of coal smoke, a pail run, &-b\ui-dance, and a an unborn infant." wheel-write. The man who minds his own business was in Littleton the other day, but F E R V E N T W I S H F R O M P A T E R F A M I L I A S . — W o u l d that Ave could do with left immediately, he felt so lonesome. spoilt children as we are privileged to do Avith spoilt stamps, get them Many persons admire the lightning. I t is yery grand and very beautiful, changed for good ones ! but we were never personally struck by it. A S A D M I S T A K E . — A certain doctor, on calling upon a gentleman Avho had The red, white, and blue—the red cheeks, the white teeth, and blue eyes of been some time ailing, instead of drinking a glass of Avater, accidentally took a lovely girl, are as g o o d a flag as a young soldier in the battle of life need a draught from a tumbler containing the medicine Avhich he had prepared for fight for. the sick m a n ; he was not made sensible of his error till he found himself A n Arkansas traveller says that he knew a young fellow down South who getting ill, and his.patient getting better. was so fond o f a young woman that he rubbed off his nose kissing her shadow I N T E R E S T I N G Q U E S T I O N . — A t a debating club the question Avas discussed on the wall. Avhether there was more happiness in the possession or pursuit of an object? The man that cooked " the cold charities of the world " has entered into a " Mr. President," said an orator, "suppose I Avas courtin' a girl, and she Avas contract with an extensive restaurant to furnish fried icicles, and hot soup to run aAvay, and I was to run after her; Avouldn't I be happier when I catched her than Avhen I was running after h e r ? " made of Norwegian snow. Gentlest of Her Sex.—"What did you say was the principle o f the A M O V I N G S P E E C H . — A pious brother, before an American Association, a stereoscope ?"—Alfred. " W h y , it makes two people into o n e . " — B e s t and few years since made the folloAving s p e e c h : — " I Avould urge upon you, brightest (innocently). " W h a t a delightful invention! " brethren, the taking of the Western Recorder." Turning to the delegation T w o gentlemen were lately examining the breast o f a plough on a stall in from a church in Tennessee, " A n d you, brethren, ought to take it, too, as the a market-place. " I'll bet you a guinea," said one, " you don't know what interests of the Church in Kentucky and Tennessee are very closely allied, and Avill become much more so upon the completion of the Danville and this is f o r . " — " Done ! " said the other; " it is for sale." There is a story of Henri Quatre, w h o , on being told b y his gardener at McMinville Railroad, which I pray may not be long, as I have about fifteen thousand dollars involved in that enterprise ! " Fontainbleau, that a certain plot o f ground would grow nothing, told him to T I T L E S F O R " S H A M B O O K S . " — W h e n the Comic Annual first came out, plant a bed of attorneys, for they Avould nourish anywhere. A n editor out west prints all his marvellous accounts o f murders, elope­ the author forwarded a copy to the Duke of Devonshire ; and in his letter of thanks the duke asked H o o d if he could furnish him Avith some titles for a ments, and robberies, on India-rubber paper, so that his readers may be able door of sham books. H o o d seemed to enjoy the task, and sent off tAvo batches. to stretch these stories to any length that pleases them.—American Paper. The following are among the best of the titles s e n t : — " Boyle on Steam ; " I t is related of an elderly dandy, who was more noted for running into debt " Rules for punctuation, by a thorough-bred P o i n t e r ; " " Annual Parlia­ than for paying his tradesmen, that he always made an exception in favour of ments, a Plea for Short C o m m o n s ; " " L a m b ' s Recollections of S u e t t ; " his wig-maker, that he might be enabled to say that he wore his " own hair." " The Rape of the L o c k , with Bramah's N o t e s ; " " Peel on Bell's System ; " A poet was once walking with Talleyrand in the street, and at the same "Cursory Remarks on S w e a r i n g ; " " Barrow on the Common W e a l ; " time reciting some of his own verses. Talleyrand perceived, at a short " I n - i - g o on Secret Entrances; " and " Recollections of Bannister, by L o r d distance, a man yawning, and pointing him out to his friend, said : " N o t so Stair."—Memorials of Thomas Hood. loud—he hears y o u . " A COOL M A R R I A G E . — T h e extreme coolness of our western cousins is A n alderman was heard the other day getting off the following specimen o f worthy of admiration. They see everything in a practical point of vieAV, aud, what may be called " corporation " logic : " A l l human things are h o l l o w ; as a general thing, they manage to get the best in matters of bargains by the I ' m a human thing, therefore I ' m hollow. I t is contemptible to be hollow, cool assumption of unsophisticated manners. Our friend Jonathan was one of therefore I'll stuff myself as full as I ' m able." those " green " ones. A minister settled in one of our western villages, in A t a late military dinner in Baltimore one of the visitors proposed a toast, which the primitive manners of pioneer life had not been smoothed by refine­ " M a y the man who has lost one eye in the service of his country never see ment and cultivation, was seated in his study one day, endeavouring to arrange distress with the o t h e r ; " but the person whose duty it was to read the toast, the heads o f to-morrow's discourse, Avhen his attention Avas called by a loud by omitting the word " distress," completely changed the sentiment, and knock at the front door. The visitor proved to be a tall, gawky, shambling caused much merriment b y the blunder. countryman, evidently arrayed in his Sunday suit, and a stout girl, attired in a " M y l o v e , " said Sharpwitz to his wife, " w h y is a Laplander like an dress of red calico, Avhich, from the frequent and complacent glance toAvards it by umbrella maker ? D ' y e give it up ? — " ' C a u s e he derives his support from the fair oAvner, was considered quite a magnificent a f f a i r . — " W o n ' t you Avalk the rein d e e r . " — " T r y another," said he, as he threw himself on the sofa on i n ? " asked the minister politely. " M u c h obiecged, squire; I don't know Saturday night.—" W h y is your tired husband like an umbrella ? " — but we will. I say, you're a minister, ain't you ? " — " Y e s . " " I reckoned so. "Oh, "Because he protects me from the elements, my l o v e . " — " N o t a bit o f it, Betsy and me—that's Betsy—a fustrate sort of a gal, anyhoAV—- " J o n a t h a n ! " simpered the beautiful Betsy. " Y o u are now, and you needn't darling, but because he is used u p . " go to deny it. W e l l , Betsy and me have concluded to hitch teams, and Ave " W i f e , bring me some cold beef," said a shiftless husband, when, for the Avant you to do it." " Y o u wish to get married ? " " Yes, I believe that's Avhat first time in his life, he discovered that he was more hungry than thirsty. they call it. I say, though, mister, before we begin, let's knoAV Avhat's going to " There is no beef in the house," was the mild reply. " Fetch me some pork, be the damages, as I reckon it isn't best to go it blind." " 0 , 1 never set my t h e n . " — " N o pork, e i t h e r . " — " W e l l , then, let me have some potatoes."— price. I take Avhat they give m e . " " W e l l , that's all right. Go-ahead, minister, " N o t a potato l e f t . " — " T h u n d e r and lightning! get some bread, then."— if you please ; Ave're in a hurry, as Joe's got to finish a plantin the tater-patch " The bread is all gone, t o o . " — " W e l l then, give me a knife and fork, and let afore night, and Betsy, she's got to fetch the butter." Thus adjured, the minister me go through the motions !" commenced the ceremony, which occupied but a feAv minutes. " K i s s me, T w o physicians (Dr. A . and Dr. B . ) met, when the following took place in Betsy," said the delighted bridegroom. " Y o u are my old Avoman now. presence of a crowd of "listeners." D r . A . , thinking a little exercise and Ain't it n i c e ? " — " F i r s t - r a t e ! " was the satisfactory r e p l y . — " H o l d on a fresh air preferable to physic, had taken one of his patients to ride that jerk ! " said Jonathan, as he left his wife abruptly and darted out at the gate morning, which was. seen b y D r . B . , who addressed D r . A . in this wise : — to where the waggon was left.—" W h a t ' s your husband gone for ? " asked " W e l l , doctor, I saw you taking one of your patients to r i d e . " — " E x a c t l y , " the minister, someAvhat surprised.—" I expect it's for the sassages," Avas the said Dr. A . — " W e l l , " said D r . B., " a thing I never do, is to take my confused reply. Just then Jonathan made his appearance, dangling in his patients out to r i d e . " — " I know it," said D r . A . ; " the undertaker does it hand a pailful of sausages. " M a m made them," said he, " and I reckon for y o u . " they are good. I f they ain't, you jest send them back, and we'll send you There are many anecdotes of Rab M'Keilar, the Highlander, who erst was some more."—Cincinnati Emporium. the jolly landlord of the Argyll Hotel, in Inverary. The last time we saw the hearty, roistering fellow, (peace to his manes, he is n o w no more!) he was bickering with an Englishman in the lobby o f the inn regarding the bill. The stranger said it was a gross imposition—he could live cheaper in the best hotel in L o n d o n ; to which R a b , with unwonted nonchalance, replied, " 0 , nae doot, sir; nae doubt, ava. But do ye ken the reason ? " — " N o , not a bit of it," said the stranger, hastily. " W e e l , then," replied the host, " as ye seem to be a gay, sensible callant, I'll tell ye. There's three hundred and sixty-five days in the L o n d o n hotel-keeper's calendar, but we have only three months in ours—do ye understand me noo, M e n ' ? W e maun mak' hay in the Highlands when the sun shines, for it's unco seldom she dis'tI" T h e following lines on Rumbold, w h o , once a " b o o t s " a t Brookes's, went to India and r e t u r n e d a n a b o b , are a t t r i b u t e d t o Charles James F o x : —
W h e n M ' G r a t h r u l e d o'er B r o o k e s ' s c r e w , I He said to R u m b o l d , " B l a c k m / s h o e ! " 1 And R u m b o l d a n s w e r e d , Y a h ! B o b ! | B u t n o w r e t u r n ' d f r o m I n d i a ' s land, H e p r o u d l y s p u r n s t h e base c o m m a n d , A n d frowning answers, N a - b o b !



W h a t use is an unmarried man to the State, W h o lives for himself and his pleasures alone, And cares not that nature design'd him to mate And help on the Avorld's good as well as his OAVII


Such " things " do but vegetate, eat, drink, and sleep, As men they are useless—their life but a c h e a t ; Not so good as a cabbage, still less than a sheep— For the first has some heart, and the next is good meat.

B. B.

Published b y B E N J A M I N B L A K E , 4 2 1 , Strand, London, W . C . , to Avhom all Communications for the Editor must be addressed.
P r i n t e d by BRADBURY A N D EVANS, Whitefriars. London.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful