Family Herald June 09 1860

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FAMILY

TO SAY WHAT WE DO, AND NOT TO DO WltAT "WE SAY,

IS TO UNDO OURSELVES BY DOING.

HERALD©artul Information anir amusement

THERE IS NO JOY LIKE THAT WHICH SPRINGS FROM A

KIND ACT OR A PLEASANT WORD.

N o . 8 9 3 . — Y O L . XVItLJ F O E T H E W E E K E N D I N G J U N E 9, 1860. [PRICE ONE PENNY.

IT SEEMS BUT Y E S T E R D A Y .

It seems but yesterday, m y love,Since, chatting side by side,

We oft were wont to stray, m y love ,. A t mellow eventide j

A n d careless pluck the closing flowers,Or wat ch the setting sun,

Scarce dreaming in those blissful hoursLife's battle had begun;

Fo r yet no thorny cares or fearsHad cross 'd our youthful w ay ;

Though fled since then have many years,It seems but yesterday, my love,

It seems but y este rday .

It seems but yeste rday, m y l o v e ,Though many years are gone,

Since loved ones heard us say, my love ,The words that made us one ;

We no w our children's childre n see. Go for th to se ek th e flowers,Reminding us of days when we'

Oft wand er'd forth wit h outs ;•W h e n thor ny cares and anxi ous fears

Began to cross our way;Thoug h fled s ince the n have many years,

It seems but j-esterday, my love ,It seems but yesterd ay. T. L.

T H E S T O R Y - T E L L E R .

POPP ING THE QUEST ION.

The black clouds whi ch I have "been watching^ as they drifted like billows

up from the west, and broke in a shower of sweet, fresh rain iipon the waiting

earth, have brought back so plainly to my mind a little story of my life, that

I cannot rest contentedly until I write it out.

It was on just such an evening as this that Edmund Leighton returned the

book which 1 had lent him. , Al l day the clouds had roam ed fretfully across

the sky before the dry, hot wind, telling in little frowns from the far-off hills

that before the nigh t came do wn they would pour Upon us their wrath of

wind and driving rain. And so, taking their promises as a truth, I sat down

in a bay windo w of my uncle 's parlou r, and watch ed the k ing of the storm

gathering his forces. How the wind tearing through the green of the June

trees, the cry of the birds as they swarm thro ugh the darke ning air,

the dense pile of clouds muttering and wheeling up from the west, shooting

their fretted sides away across the heavens, and gathe ring t he broken masses

that had b een wander ing all day thro ugh the air, sickened and saddened me !

Th e rain whic h had just commenced falling in large, scattering drops upon thegarden walk s, was stretched out in wh ite, foam ing sheets across the distant

hills, when Edmund Leighton came slowly up the walk that led to the house.

A joyful exclamati on arose to my lips at sight of his well- kno wn form and

face; and the feeling of sadness that had so d epressed me gave way to one of

pleasure. My uncle and aunt were away, and I was alone with the servants

in the house, and therefore was excusable fo r the qu ick haste with which I

flew across the parlour, and out into the hall to meet, with extended hand, the

guest who had come to bear me company through the heavy tempest.

And yet of all the men that I daily met and associated with in the f ashion

able* home o f my uncle, he was t he only one whos e presence wou ld have

ensured to my heart a quiet, hap py feeling of safety and security fro m all

danger, even though the danger I feared was held l ovi ngl y in the hand o f

Hi m who never is unmindful of his children, either in the storm or in the sun

shine. I never can forget that night. Ho w the lightning leaped in forked

flames from the angry clo uds^ ligh tmg up the room s and breakin g thro ugh the

gloom that hung upon everything. Ho w the deep crashing of the thunder

deafened us, and ho w the no ble old trees swayed and creaked in the win d;

and how like a sweet, present happiness, which refused to look at the past, bu t

hung enchanted upon the passing mom ents, a hop e that had nestled for

months in my heart sprang up into the clear light of certainty.

All that evening 1 felt that Edmund Leighton loved me. The knowledge

came to me in the clear, distinctly modula ted tones of his voice, in the very

thoughts that I knew surged up to his lips for utterance, and yet died away

again because the narrow channel of human w ords was not wid e e noug h for

them to flow through. I knew that he loved and understood me as none

other could, knew that he sought my society in preference to that of any other

woman, and that his eyes held a new light, his lips had a new lang uage , and

his whole being a new joy when he was near me. Yet , when he left me that

night, when he clasped my hand tenderly at parting, and drank with his deep,

penetrating eyes the love that flowed out in e very glan ce o f mine ; when he

bent his head h alf re verently, as he spoke with a tenderness all h is o wn the

word, "Go od- nig ht, Kate ! " I felt a pang of disappointment at my heart,

like one who has been ro bbed o f some dear, sacred right, that he should go

from me and not speak in word s the sweet declaration o f his love. And

when the door closed after him, I went to my chamber with slow steps, while

the tears gushed freely from my eyes. Fo r one little moment I held the

book which he returned to me fondly in my hand, and then, while a bitter

ness which was new and strange to me, a thought that he was trifling with

my better nature, seeking my love but to prov e his own powe r and skill,

swept over me, I threw it into an open drawer, and shut it in from sight.

"Time will tell," I said, as I smoothed back the damp hair from my

forehead, and lea ned out of my wind ow to breathe the sweet air that the

; 893 s

shower had left as a memento behind it . " Time will tell whether he, like

all the rest, speaks pleasant words to me to ease his heart of the vanity wh ich

loads it to distress; will show whether he is waiting for me to be proclaime d

my uncle's heir ess; to hear, in imagination, the clinking of my gold before

he tells the miserable mocking story of his love. It will all come, all—and

yet—and yet, Heav en pity me if the storm blasts this one hope of my life

for e v e r ! "

An d time did tell me. Told me slowly, lingeringfy, and bitterly, that the

shadowy fear which oppressed me was shaping itself into a black bitter reality;

totd me in little chapters o f neglect, in words of coldness and lessons of cruel

silence, that Edmu nd Leig hton had been reaching his hand throu gh my

woman's heart but to gather up, greedily, my uncle's gold. It was a long,

long time before I could rally under this knowledge, for m y love had not been

a comm on one. I had given without asking, it is true, yet none the less

reservedly, my whole heart, and I couM no t take it ba ck as easily as I had

given it. And yet I was gayer, and to all appearances happier than ever

before. My lips were always wreathed in smiles, mocking smiles, that coveredthe unrest of a weary bleeding heart. I grew to be the leader of the circle,

where before I ha d care d onl y to follow in the footsteps of others. In m y

dire disappointment I must have gro wn reckless and lavish of the happiness

of others, for I conquered hearts but to torture them ; snared them with roses

but to pierce them with thorns. An d all this while Edmund Leighton stood

aloof from me. Once , when I cared and lon ge d for his esteem and respect, I

should have said his face wore a look of pity and regr et; but no w I called his

expression one of cruel indifference.

One morning, when I had played in this masquerade until I d oubted myself

whether the heart I had c overed from the gaze of the worl d had ever thrilled

with one true woman ly jo y, or had indeed assimilated itself to the cold,

chilling mask that conce aled it, m y uncle came to me and said that a gentleman

had pro pose d to him for my hand in marri age, and as he was of a good family

and very wealthy, h e for one look ed with great favour upon his suit.

"B ut I do not love any gentleman of my acquaintance, uncle," I said,

dropping the book which I had been reading upon my lap.

" That's favourable, Kat e," said he. " If that is the case, you can have no

objections to urge against b ecom ing the wife of Sir James Perry."

" Sir James Perry, uncle ! " said I. " I hav en't the slightest regard for

him, hardly a common respect."

"Pshaw , that's no thi ng !" said my uncle. " Y o u are sensible enough to

love one who has it in his powe r to confer upon yo u both wealth and station.

It is my desire that you should accept him."

" But if I cannot love him "

" Nonsense, Ka te !" he interrupted, " that is a miserable plea, and one that

I shall not listen to patiently. Y ou can care enoug h for him, I' ll venture—

little danger about that."

" I do not know anything of h im ," said I, " save the little I have learned

by passing a few evenings in his society. Surely you would not have us marry

ignorantly , and without any knowle dge of each other's characters ? "

" You'll learn about characters soon enough, I'll be bound," said my uncle.

" But the truth of the matter is just here, Kate . Yo u are a poo r girl, but

worthy, it is true, of a high, proud position. In spite of your poverty, Sir

James Perry generously wishes to marry you. He is not drawn towards you as

scores of your lovers are, thinking that you will inherit my fortune. He

knows you as you are. No w tell me in so many plain words, without evasion,

if you can look with favou r upo n him . Mak e a business affair of it altoget her,

and answer me."

Mak e a business affair of it! The words grated harshly against my Irrghest

ideas of right, and fell like ice upon my heart. All that my uncle had said

wras true. Sir James Perry knew that I was not wealthy. He evidently wished

to marry me for just what I was, and nothing more, wi th the remembrance

of Edmu nd Leig hton 's faithlessness rankling bitterly in my soul, I had little

faith in love or truth. Her e was a home offered me—a proud , high position.

Should I accept it and go up proudly past those who had so wrong ed me ?

The hot blood crims oned my cheeks as I tho ugh t of it, and ray heart leaped

with this new, thrilling a mbition.

" Oome Kat e, answer me at once," urged my uncle, who was studying my

face earnestly. " Shall I tell Sir James that yo u look with favour upon his

suit ? He is waiting in the library for a reply.

Again the warm blood dashed over lip , cheek, and br ow, as I opened my

mouth to speak. Fo r a moment the older love, which for a few fleeting weeks

I had endeavoured to crush ou t o f my being, rose up resolutely before me.

But I put i t away , aud said with a slight q uive ring o f voice and lip, " Tell

Sir James, uncle, that I am pleased to look with favour upon him."

" That's like Kate Wh art ley ; prompt, decisive, and b rav e! " said my

uncle, smiling and b ending his lips to my forehead. " I will go to h im

at once."

I sank b ack upon the sofa, and cov ered my face with m y hands as my uncle

left the room . Everyth ing had been like a dream to me ; but then I realised



82 TH E FAMILY HERALD — A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF

that the words I had spoken would hasten a sober, bitter awaken ing. I had

pledged my word , as it were. I had sat ift jud gme nt against my own life, and

the de cision was passed. As these thou ghts swept rapidly before me, and, as

in my excitement I paced rapidly up and down the parlour, the baronet, with a

face lit up with smiles, entered the room with my uncle, and in nicely worded

sentences, thanked me for the great honour I had done him.

I replied hurriedly, and begged that he would excuse me from conversing

•with him then. H o w I hated him as with a feigned considerateness he

pressed my hand tenderly, and said in a soft, affected voice, " Yo u are quite

excusable, my dear. • Thi s new jo y quite over power s me, as well as yo u. "

Wh at a wretched, wretched day was that to me, passed in the solitude o f

my chamber ! Ho w I hated an d scorned myself for my miserable weakness,

and loathed the man to whom I had bargained myself away for a paltrywealth and false positi on! Ho w plainly the true path was stretched upward

before my eyes, no w that my feet strayed in f orbidd en paths ! I saw that

instead of rising abov e those wh o had wrong ed me, I should sink infinitely

beneath, by merging duty and self-respect in this mocker y of a marriage. I

looked upon my love for Edmun d Leighton, and saw how capable I was of

loving earnestly, bravely, and truly, with a love that would enrich and ennoble

its possessor, and raise me up to the level of a pure, true woman.

Marry Sir James Perry ? The thought grew maddening to me. Better

homeless, friendless, a wanderer out in th e bleak ways o f life, than an un

loving wife ? Better starvation, torture, ay, death a thousand times, than to be

bound with chains I could not break, even thou gh they festered int o my very

heart ? Anything, anything, rather than his wife, the miserable recipient of

his favours, to receive submissively his sickening caresses.

Up and down, up and down my chamber I walked till the morning melted

int o the afternoon, and the go lden feet of the day trod upon the shores of the

night. Up and down, up and down my chamber, wr

ith my hair falling over

my shoulders, my eyes flashing wildly, a bright crimson spot burning upon

either cheek, and my lips tin ged to the colour of a May tulip when the sunshines into its scarlet heart. I refused myself to every one who called on me,

and shut myself up alone with my sorrow, foolishness, and pride.

In the early eveni ng my aunt sent to me for an embroidery pattern, which

I found in the drawer where weeks before I had carelessly thr own the book

that Edmund Leighton had returned to me. A flood of bitter memories

drifted across my heart as I looked upon its well-known covers. I half

reached out my hand to take it. But no—had I not griefs eno ugh already to

cope with, without l ooki ng upon sentiments that he had approved, words that

he had remarked upon to me ? Still I took the book from its resting-place,

and commenced turning over the leaves wit h my rig ht hand. As I did so a

sealed note fell from it u pon t he carpet at my feet. I caught it up eager ly.

The superscription was in the hand of Edmun d Leighto n, plain, frank, and

graceful—" Miss Kate Whart ley ." I tore it open, and tread as follows : —

" DEAR. KATE,—I would not risk words of so much importance to us both,

in such a place, had you not often assured me that this book was your

constant companion, and that not a day passed but that you read from its

dear pages. I kno w not why I am about to make this confession to you uponpaper, but I am not able to disregard the promptings of my heart that

counsel me to do so. Still I have no fine words to writ e yo u. I only wish

to say with my pen wha t I have often t ried in vain to steady my voice to

repeat to y o u — / love you. The words are spoken idly by many, but they go

to you with my whole heart in them. I am a poor man, Kat e ; I love you

for yourself alone; can you love me the same ? Y o u wil l read these word s

to-night, and when I meet you to-mor row evening I shall be answered. Ho w

simply I h ave written ! Even my pen trembles with the burden of love I

thrust upon it, and bid it tell you ! EDMUND LEIGHTON."

I s tood like one petrified as I finished readi ng the letter. For a moment I

could not realise the blessed words it contained, so sudden was the rush of joy

that broke upon me. And then it only showed me more vividly the horrid

spot upo n which I was standing, as the ligh tni ng bring s out f or a mome nt

with its fiery torch the gloom of the heavens and earth in the time of a night

tempest, wh at righ t had glad happy smiles to shine upon my face at this

knowledge, when already I had bound myself to Sir James Perr y ? The th oug ht

was insanity. But my resolutio n was taken instantly. I would not marry

him though I was sent a beggar into the street. My heart was lighter for thedecision, and with an attempt at calmness I wound my hair about my face,

bathed my burning face, arrange d my dress, and descended to the parlou r,

where the baronet, in company with several friends, was waiting to see me.

" Mr. Leig hton will call and congratulate y ou soon upon your engagement,

Ka te ," said my little friend R uth Seward, during the eveni ng, drawi ng me

unceremoniously from Sir James's side out into the ga rden.

" Mr. Lei ght on! how does he know pf i t ? " I asked hurriedly.

" O h , Kat e, the news has spread rapidly amon g you r friends. Sir James

has sounded it joyfully."

" " A n d every one believes it ? " said I,

" Certainly," she replied. " W hy shouldn't they ? "

" They should," I said, bursting into tears.

" Wh y, how is this, Kate ? Are you not happ y ? " said Ruth, putting her

arms round me tenderly, and starting down the terrace steps. " Come down

the walk ; they wil l not miss us for a moment . Tel l me what troubles you ."

" Nothings nothing," I answered, between my sobs and tears; " only I do

no t love Sir James, and am wretched, very wretched!"" And Edmund Leight on, Kate ; how is it with him ? "

" Hush, hush, Ruth, " I whispered, interrupting her, " some one is coming

up the walk. Do not speak so lou d."

" I t is Edmund, as I live \ " exclaimed Ruth. " This way, Kate, quick,

q u i c k ! "

I know not h ow it was bro ught abou t, but in my agitation Ruth Seward

le d me in the w ron g direction, and i n a momen t I found myself standing

alone, face to face, with the very person I wished to avoid.

" Good evening, Miss Whartley," he said, coolly, raising his hat as he

spoke.

I tri ed to answer him, but the words choked me, and I st ood silent before

him, my eyes bent upon the ground, and my cheeks glistening with tears.

What could I say to him ? H o w could I tell him why I had been silent so

long ? I felt his searching eyes upon me as we stood there, the light of the

moon shining full upon us.

" Wh at shall I say to you ? " he asked, at last, in a tremulou s tone. " I

can think of nothing. Yo u know my heart. Gather from it, if you please,

all its best wishes; only let me be silent."

Th e words were spoken bitterly enou gh, but they were full of jo y to me.

" I only ask your love," I said, going close up to him.

" My love, Kate ? Wil l you still trifle with me ? Have I not sufferedenough already, without— "

It is useless; I cannot repeat the explanation that followed; cannot repeat

the declarations of love that were pledg ed again and again. I suppose, like

all lovers, we said a great many things that would sound silly if repeated to a

third party, but w hic h were, nevertheless, very delicio us to us.

In a few plain words I gav e Sir James Perry an answer in an explanation,

at which he did not see fit to demur, when I solemnly assured him that had I

become his wife, he would have been the most miserable instead of the

happiest of men.

After all, that was a wise piece of advice of the poet. Let me repeat it

to you , you ng lad y reader, with a slig ht alteration to apply to your case and

m m e

* " This maxim : Zend no man a book

Unless you search it afterward" ' M V .

T H E CUCKOO.

Voices rarer, p lum age fairer,M a n y , m a n y birds possess ;

B ut thou, c u c k o o , wert the darlingOf our days of childishness .

'Neath th e shadow in the meadow,

Oh , t o w ander l isting thee ;Softly glancing, sunshine dancing

T hrough th e leafy wil low tree ;Th a t was pleasure w ithou t measure,

W ithou t stint all pure and true,Just at t imes the si lence broken

B y thy merry loud—cuckoo !

That was pleasure w ithou t measure,Oh , those happy childish days !

Will thei r mem'ry ever leave us ,Ro a m i n g in life's busy ways. *

W h e n we wander 'd , sweetly p o n d e i ' d ,

On the bank beside th e r i l l ;On the bank all g e m m 'd with daisies,

Fleck 'd w ith yel low daffodil;Verdure round us , skies that bound us

With an arch of tend er blue,Just at t i mes the silence broken

B y thy merry loud—cuckoo ! M. M.

SELF-WILL; OE, THE HASTY MAKKIAGE.

CHAPTER V I . v

Restless an d unhap py, Edga r was still a source of bitter uneasiness to his

family, who, however they had disapproved his marriage, were too fondly

attached to him no t to share the grief which the early and untimely fate of

Julia had left in his mi nd, a grief that time seemed to possess no power to

dispel. An air of mel ancho ly was still visible in his manner long after the

first poignancy of anguish had subsided; and to Irvine, who from early

intim acy and lon g obser vation o f his too mutable character was enabled to

judge accurately o f his inmost though ts, i t became certain that sorrow for the

loss of his wife preyed less on his mind than a sense of self-reproach for

havi ng disregarded the warning s and admonitions whi ch would have saved

him from the connection that had embittered his yout h, and, by brin ging

Julia from scenes where she might have retained her primeval simplicity and

innocence, had corrupted her heart and led her into temptation which she

possessed not strength of mind to withstand. His self-love, too, was severely

wounded by the disappoint ment, and by discove ring his own want of discern

ment, whi ch he resolved no more to trust; but on this subject there would

never again be occasion to exercise it ; for tlie same pertinacity whi ch had

made him the husband of Miss Woodley, induced him now to declare himself

henceforth invulner able to the shafts of the blind deity. A gloom, almost

amounting to moroseness, took possession of hi m; he shunned all society

except that of I rv in e; and the sister of his friend was the only female whose

company he could endure. Hi s father and mother were again in despair, but

Irvine revived their hopes. y *

" Leav e all to ti me /' said he. " Edga r is now suffering under the stings

of disappoin tment and self-reproach. This gloom is unnatural to him, and

whatever is unnatural cannot be permanent. The lesson he has received wil l

be salutary; it will teach him to have less confidence in future ; and he is

every day advancing more rapidly to wards that period when imagination

resigns the reins to reason."

Change o f scene was advised bv his friends, and travelling was proposed. Th e

restlessness which now marked his who le conduct led Edgar to seize with

avidit y the idea, and he decided to go abroa d.

Hi s parents, howev er, regrett ed his determination, as depriving them for an

indefinite period of the solace and comfort of his presence ; they saw it was in

vain to oppose it ; nor did they so much deplore it, when they saw that the plan

and the preparations for his departure seemed to rouse him from the state of

apathy in whi ch he had been plunged since the death of Julia. But, previous

to his departure for the contin ent, Irvine persuaded him to visit an estate of

his in Scotland, whither he was himself prevented going. Edgar had neverbeen so far north; there was therefor e novelty in. the proposa l, and lie

acquiesced; for novelty only had no w the p ower to d raw him from himself,

and to detach his thoughts from his late sorrow.

Only one incident occurred during this jou rne y. Th e weather was intensely

warm, and Edgar, from the effects of recent indisposition, felt ill able to

endure the heat of the meridian sun. He arose early , and enjoyed the balmy

breeze of the morning ; and, when the coolness of evening had succeeded to

the glare of day, he again set forward. Insens ibly the exercise and continu e^



June 9, I860.] 83

hange of scene seemed to allay that feverish restlessness wh ich had taken

ossession of him before he left home. Hi s mind was more ^composed; and,

hough a sort of apathy, from which he had no power to rouse himself, seemed

o benumb his faculties, he had n o long er that wild and unsettled manner

which had so much alarmed his friends.

At the end of his third day's journe y Edgar stopped at a small village on

he borders of Cumb erl and; it was romantically situated in a dell surrounded

y high and healthy moun tai ns; and the entire seclusion of the spot so well

uited the present temper of his mind that he felt inclined to rest there the

whole of the following day. Guided only by the light of the stars, and the

limmer of a very early moon, he strolled throu gh the environs . A gentleman' s

eat, which appeared to his imperfect view large and magnificent, raised its

igh towers about half a mile distant on the decli vity of a lofty eminence;nd, on his return to the little inn whic h he had made his as ylum for the

ight, he inquir ed to whom it belon ged. He was answere d that it was

Keswick Hall, the seat of the earl of that title.

The family was only known to Edga r by name, but he recoll ected that Lady

lizabeth Keswick, the earl's only daughter, was the intimate friend of Miss

Denbe igh, and a concurrence of ideas brough t a train of thoughts to his mind

which threatened again to discompose him and brin g back all his former

estlessness. His sleep was disturbed, and the imag e of Miss Den bei gh

ontinual ly flitted before his mental sight.

At an early hour Edga r arose and walke d ou t; he followed the first path

hat presented itself, and t he fine calm wea ther soon seemed to restore his

erenity. The visions of night w ere dispersed, and the form that had haunted

is imagination had vanished with his slumbers. He asc ended one of the

teep hills, clothed with verdure, that majestically surrounded the village,

nd seemed to shut it from the rest of the world. At the distance of about a

uarter of a mile, one solitary cottage stood alone in a s pot so unmarked by^

uman habitation that scarcely was the path trodden that conducted him to"

he humble door. It stood open, but it appeared the abode of affliction as wel ls poverty, for a you ng woma n, neatly thou gh very poor ly habited, stood in

n agony of tears at the entrance, whi le an old man and several children , all

pparently in equal distress, were try ing to soothe her. Edg ar, ever alive to

he claims of humanity, was almost deterred from proceeding; for he had

reviously determined to ask i f the cotta ge afforded a draught of milk. He

isliked an intrusion on sorrow, however humbl e, but he had advanced so far

hat he could not retreat unseen, and the cottagers readily explained the cause

f their grief. The old man, with the garrulity of age , and with a degree of

eeling that would have reflected honou r on any class, lamented the near

pproaching death of his aged partner, after a union of sixty years, and the

oung woman deplored the antici pated ' loss of a parent to herself and

atherless infants. The be dchamb er of the inval id was only separated by a

hin partition from the outer room, and Edga r heard the d ying woma n in

ervent prayer. His heart, softened by his own woes, was more than usually

usceptible of the misery of othe rs; he listened with a we and dee p feeling, a nd

when the feeble voice ceased, he applauded the faith and hope whic h such an

ppeal discovered. He inqui red whether she wer e attende d b y any medic al

man, and heard that her disease having been pronounced a gradual decay and

eyond the reach o f medicine , no hope remaine d.

" But she has the best attendance poss ible ," said the y oun g wom an, " for

my lord's family are always very good to us ; and La dy Eliz abet h hersel f visits

er every day."

This intelligence produced an inquiry from Edga r conc erni ng the family of

Keswick. It was a fruitful the me; and the praises of La dy Elizabe th, of her

harity, her piety, and her condescension filled every mouth.

" He r kindness and her advice ," said the grateful peasant, " has reconciled

my mother to leaving us, and has made her place he r hope in Heave n. She

eads to her and prays with her, an d we could listen to her for ever when she

ids us try to deserve to meet my poor mother again where she is going . "

Edgar was justly affected by all he heard. H e was interested by the

umble piet y of the cottage rs, and he was charme d by their account of Lady

Elizabeth.

" And this," said Edgar to himself, as he retraced his way to the inn, " th i s

s the bosom friend of Miss Denbeigh."

The contrast such a character presented to that of the woman he hadreferred to her rushed with greater force than ever to his mind. He reso

utely discarded the re collec tion, and tried to think on other subjec ts; but it

would recur, and for the first time in his life he began to harbour a half-formed

wish thatjae had at least permitted himself to know Miss Denbeigh. personall y

efore he so pertinaciously rejected her.

The weather pr oved sultry, and Edgar persevered in his resolution to remain

or that day where he was. The scene of the morning dwelt on his memor y;

nd though he was provided with books to beguile the time, he was so inclined

o meditation that even poetry, his darling pursuit, failed to interest him, and

creened from the sun by the umbrageous branches of a large and ancient oak

e reclined beneath its shade,'and the book dropped unheeded from his hand.

He partook of a solitary dinner, after which he re sumed his station till the

ecline of day enabled him again to visit the interesting cottagers, with whom

e wished to leave some marks of his bounty previous to resuming his journey

with the following dawn.

To prolong his walk Edgar extended it in the direction leading to Keswick

Hall . He surveyed its noble and antique archi tecture, and thou ght of the

haracter of her who was heiress to this domain. Had Julia proved like her,he might no w have been alive, have contr ibute d to his happiness, and left

im no regre t for his early contradic tion to the will of his parents; for that

he destructive pursuits or his wile had hastened her fate admitted not of a

doubt. His heart beat violently, and all his wretchedness seemed at once to

return.

Without pausing to reflect further, Edg ar hurri ed o n ; but h e had gone so

ar out of the di rect path, that it was twilight when he reached the cottage.

Al l was silent; but the humble latch was unclosed, and the door stood open,

fo r th e heat of the weathe r r endered all the air pos sible necessary for the

invalid. He advanced unperceived. The afflicted peasants were assembled

in a group round the bed, and heard not his approach. The door of the

chamber was ajar; and what a scene presente d itself! Th e father and

daughter knelt on one side; on the other, in the same attitude of pious

supplic ation, and in the act of read ing alo ud the prayers for the sick, he

descried a form so delic ate, so gracefu l, so fragile, that scarcely could Edgar

believe it human . It was that of a lovely girl of eighteen or twenty. Her

profile was all of her co untenanc e that was disce rnible ; but the transparency

of her complexion, her eyes cast upward, her clasped hands and ele gant figure,

kept him in fixed and earnest gaze . She was simply dressed; but Edgar was

convinced it could be only Lad y Elizabeth Kesw ick he beheld. The voice in

which the devotions were uttered was clear and mel odi ous ; and her heartseemed so wholly engrossed by heaven, that she appear ed scarc ely like a

creature of the earth.

Involuntarily and silently Edga r joi ned in the devout servi ce; and when

the lady ceased he stood suspended, ho ping she would recommence her s acred

task; but it was con clu ded ; and unwilling to intrude his presence on the

stranger, he no sooner heard her move than he darted from the cottage ; and

when the young peasant quitted the chamber of death and beheld him, he

hastily put into her hand his inte nded donati on, and with a sign of silpneo

and secresy quitted"the house, and pursued his way back to the inn, which he

left at an early hour of the morn in g; and often as he jou rne yed on was the

cottage scene presented to his view by memory ; and often in imagi natio n did

the sera ph form of the fair minister of charity and peace glide before him ,

such as she had appeared i n her holy office ; and never did it recur but with

renewed regret at his own unworthy choice, which had entailed disappoint

ment on himself and his family.

Edgar returned to town certainly better than he left it ; but his restlessues>

soon returned, and during the short period of his stay in town he roved from

place to place, visiting nobody, and seeming only to find amusement in change of

scene. Eve ry eve ning he was to be seen at the different place s of publ ic enter

tainment, but sel dom remain ed lo ng at any ; and often in the anguish of his mind

would he roam the streets till a late hour of the ni ght, with no purpose in

view but to fly from the presence of those, who recalled to his recollection his

ow n errors and the bitter consequences they had entailed on him .

Determined to seek in other countries the peace he failed to find in his own,

on e week only was to intervene ere Edg ar bade adieu to Eng lan d, and in the

varied classic scenes of Italy sought to gratify his taste for the sublime and

beautiful in nature. In that week an incident occurred which afforded him

food for reflection, and, ii! his subsequent tour, often recu rred to his memor y

with a fervent wish to solve the mystery that hung over it.

CHAPTER V I I .

The fate of Sophia Denbeigh, once supposed by^heir mutual friends to be

so nearly connected with that of Edgar, had been widely different; and while

he had successive ly kno wn the tedium of suspense, the misery of an unha ppy

marria ge, the pan gs of separation, and the gloom of despair—while he led a

wandering life, seeking in climes remote for the peace whic h his own mind

failed to yield, running after nove lty in any form, and jou rney ing from place

to place with the rapidity of a maniac—she was alternately enjoying the calm

felicity of domestic life, the charms of grandeur , and the splendo ur of fashion

able life with no alloy to that buoyant spirit of delight which glowed on her

cheeks and beamed from her eyes.

A t the time that the conduct of Julia had plunged Edgar into such an

excess of distress, the attentions of Sir Edwa rd An ville to Miss Denbeigh had

begun to raise suspicions in the bosom of Lady Caroline, which his subsequent

proposals to Sophia confirmed. Amidst the numerous suitors who had sought

her favour, Sir Edw ar d alone had been the secret choice of Sir Herbert and

herself. Sir Edw ard was a military officer of high rank, good family, and

distinguished attainments. His character was precisely formed for domestic

happiness, and no reasonable objection could be formed to his wishes. It was

evident that the heart of Sophia was untou che d; bu t she had so little romance

of disposition, and so much good sense, that it was no irrational conclusion to

form that she might pass through life wit hout bei ng infected by the disease

called l ove ; and the calm cheerfulness with which she yielded to the impliedwishes of her aunt and father on the subject afforded good grounds for their

conviction of her preference for Sir Edw ard . Th e preliminaries wer e adjusted,

and Sop hia became Lad y Anville a very short time before Edg ar, by the death

of Julia, was once more free. Th e event reach ed his ear at the time it occu rred .

It was related by some cha nce visitors ; and the colour that mounted to the

before-pale cheek of Edg ar Arden spoke his sensibility to the subject . Sin

cerely indeed did he wish for the happiness of the amiable young creature, who

he had no w no doubt woul d have formed his ow n, had not his own pertinac ious

opposition prevented it ; and to o plainly his now achi ng heart told him that in

her he mig ht have found the rational and domestic companion calculated for a

man of sense. Th e name of Miss Denbe igh never failed to excite the sa tirical

observations of Julia, and seeing Edgar affected by the subject she failed not

to prolong the theme, making every ill- nakq ed remark that her fancy, fertile

in that species of torture, could invent. The conversation drove Edgar to

soli tude , and no w a desire to be hol d the w^oman once destined for himself, and

no w irrecoverably consigned to another, became a prevalent w ish ; but as yet

it was not destined to be acco mplish ed.

A tour thro ugh Scotland and Wale s, in whic h Sir Herb ert and Lad yCaroline acc ompanied them, occupied the first summer of Sophia's marriage,

and the following winter was again spent at Ejath, whic h had been of such

evident benefit "to the de clini ng health of Lady Caroline that her niece

insisted on givin g up the pleasures o f Lo ndo n to accom pany her aunt thither.

Thus it was improbable that she and Edg ar should meet, yet cha nce, or the

power to whom mortals give that appellation, ordained that they should

behold each other.

The sudden renewal of those hostilities, which finally led to the peace of



84 THE FAMILY HERALD —A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OP tJune 9, isso.

Europe, bad* compelled Sir Edward Anville, most unexpectedly, to quit his

domestic circle and the wife to whom he became every day more devotedly

attached, and once more to jo in the army on the conti nent. Th e awful crisis

in perspective created naturally the most terrifyi ng alarms in the bosoms of

thos e conn ected by the endearing ties of affinity with the warriors on whom

the fate of Eur ope seemed to depend, and Sophi a was now destined to feel, in

a superior degree* the agitat ion of suspense , and all t he anxiet y attendant on

war . In t he absence of Sir Edwa rd she had acc epted the often repeated

invitation of her friend, Lady Elizabeth Keswick, and had joi ned her at her

father's house in t own , preparat ory to going with them to Keswick Castle

fo r a few weeks.

Sir Herbert and Lady Caroline had promote d the plan in the hope that it

would in some degree divert the mind of Soph ia from dwelling constantly on

the dangers to which her husband was exp osed ; and i n no society was she

so likely to enjoy a temp orar y suspension of her fears as in that of the friend

to whom she had from infancy been attached. The vivacity of Lady

Eliza beth was preci sely of the descript ion to benefit Soph ia in her present

state of mind, and to enliven without wearying her. Lad y Anville declined

going into publ ic, for she felt with out her best support in the absence of Sir

Ed wa rd ; b ut she joi ned with cheerfulness the select society that assembled

beneath the roof of her friends, and pa id unceremon ious visits with Lady

Elizabeth to the same friendly circle.

Returning one evening from a small party, where the graces and talents of

Lady Anville, her beautiful form and fascinating manners, had been the

general theme o f admiration, the horses in Lor d Keswick 's carriage took

fright at some object in the street, and a serious accident had nearly been the

consequence. Sophia, who with Lady Elizabeth were the only inmates of the

carriage, saw more plainly than her friend their danger, and with the presence

of mind that distinguished her she put down the windows, and patiently waited

the efforts of the surrounders to quie t the most unrul y of the horses. Shenoticed particularly the unwearied exertions of one gentleman, whose appear

ance declared him of the high er classes. Hi s indefat igable perseverance and

judicious management enabled him at length to extricate the ladies from their

peril ous confinement, and by his arm they were assisted safely from the

carriage. Anothe r gent leman, who proved to be a friend of their deliverer,

happened to be passing, and willingly lent his aid in conducti ng them t o a

stand of hackne y coaches at a short distance. The ir rescuer led forward

Sophia, and his friend conducted Lady Elizabeth. The form and face of the

first were enveloped in a large veil, but it could no t wholly conceal the

extreme elegance of her figure nor the graces of her perso n. He r soft voice

and peculiarly musical accent fell with unusual interest on the ear of Ed gar,

for he it was; and even in the hurry and confusion of the scene, he

was struck wit h an irresistible fascination in th e appearanc e o f the you ng

unknown lady, wr

hich led him anxio usly to wish the veil that concealed her

features were removed, but this was a gratification not then to be afforded him.

It was singular that Sophia, in her turn, though t the person of her deliverer

more than commonly attractive, and his manners and countenance particularly

ple asi ng; and a sort of undefined curiosi ty arose to learn his nam e, with ahope that in return for the information of the same nature, whjch Lady

Elizabeth would of course think it necessary to give him in offering their

parting thanks, he might impart it; but ere they reached a coach which had

been twic e unsuccessfully hailed, the words " Is no t that a stand of coaches

before us , Arden?" from the friend who followed with Lady Elizabeth,

discovered to her that the hand whi ch supported her had once been destined

to lead her to the altar. She was recalled from the sudden agitation such a

discovery produced by a coach answering to the call of Edgar, in which

they were hastily placed and his card presented, while Lady Elizabeth gave

the name of Lord Keswick, her father, in return.

Their protectors took leave, the door was closed, and the coach drove off,

while Sophia, incapable of uttering a syllable, still remained in mute wonder

at the s ingular ity of a circumstance, whic h had thus given to her view the

Eertinacious b ein g wh o had rejected her h and, and was still unconscio us of

aving behe ld her. The name of Arden had been quickly caught by the ear

of Lady Elizabeth ; but she fancied and hoped it had escaped the hearing of

her friend. Quickl y was she undec eived; for the total silence of Sophia told

more plainly than any word that it had reached her. Won der ing at, and half

ashamed of, the repu gnan ce she felt at allu ding to the late encounter, Lady

Anville at length mention ed it, saying she should forbear nami ng what had

happ ened to her father and aunt fo r obvious reasons, in the propriety of

which Lady Elizabeth conc urr ed; and the subject was never afterwards

revert ed to by either. If So phia had be en struck wit h the fine person and

polished manners of Edgar, not less had he been interested by her form and

appearance.4 4

1 would give anything to see the face belonging to that exquisitely

graceful figure," said he to his friend, as the coach containing the ladies drove

off. " I wish veils had never been invented, I know of no use they can

possibly be . "

" N a y , " answered the other, laughing, " your observation makes that

obvious enough methinks, and if jthat lady had been your wife or daughter,

should you not have wished, on such an occasion, that her beauty (supposing

her to have possessed any) sho uld have been conce aled from the impertinence

of public g azer s? Howe ver, had your curiosity been gratified, it is just as

probable that yo u would have behe ld a Medusa as a Yen us ; a veil is as usefulfor one as the oth er."

" I feel assured she is han dso me," said Edg ar. " At all events I never saw

a form so interestin g an d graceful, nor heard a voice so enchantingly

musical."

A hearty laugh at Edgar's expense was his friend's answer.

They had just reached the house of Arden, who had no sooner t hrown

himself on a sofa in his dressing-room, than he examined the card presented

him by Lady Elizabeth.

" Th e Earl of Keswick, St. James's Square ! " he exclaimed. " This then

is his daught er, t he benevolen t visitor of the northern cottag e, whom her veil

prevented me from recognising—t he intimate friend of the Denbeighs. W h o

then was the gracef ul incogn ita ? Surely neither of them could be. No,

that was impossib le ; she was married. Sir Edwar d Anville was gone abroad

with the army, and it was very improbable his wife had remained in

England."

So argued Edgar ; for he would not for an instant allow that he had seen

and conversed with Miss Denbe igh under that or any other name, and yet a

strange and restless curiosity hung over him, and vague suspicions haunted

his mind. The y were neither con firmed or refuted 6y the following note,

which he received the next morning.

" Th e Earl of Keswick begs to offer his thanks to Mr . Arden, join tly with

those of his lady, for the protection afforded the last evening to their daughter

and her friend.

" Lord Keswick would have made his acknowl edgment s to Mr. Arde n in

person, had not the commencement of a pre-arranged journey prevented

him."

Th e same restlessness, which allowed not this note nor a night's repose to

quiet the mind o f Edgar, led him at an unfashionably early hour to St .

James's Square; but the window-shutters of Keswick House were closed, and

every indica tion of the absence of its owners convinced him that the journey

to the coun try had certainly taken place, and consequently that he had, for

the present, l ost all chance of ascertaining the name of the unk nown .

Though vexed, Edgar was too much engrossed by his strong desire for

novelty, and to see those parts of the contine nt yet unexplored, to retain regret

long on any other subje ct, and he hastened to b id adieu to E ngla nd, and in

the wild recesses o f Alp ine scenery to seek food for meditation and wonder.

Some strong and p owerfu l sensation seemed requisite to rouse him from the

mental abstraction which at times rendered him unequal to any exertion, and

sunk h im in the lowes t depth of despondence. Al l the happy animation of his former character was banished by the one act of fatal imprudence , whic h,

by robbing him of his self-confidence, had reduced him to a state of depression

wholly foreign to his natural disposition. With grief Lady Arden beheld the

alteration, and the parting scene was particularly distressing to bot h. In

order to be guil e as muc h as possible the lon g perio d of his absence, Miss

Irv ine had promis ed to pass th e summer at the Hall , and her ladyship fondly

hoped that the winter would bri ng back the wanderer. She flattered herself

he would grow tired of a roving life, and be glad to return to the bosom of

his family.

She knew no t the mind of Edga r, nor did she in the least suspect his actual

intention, which was no less than to join the army on the continent, if there

should be any prospec t of a continu ance of host iliti es; for he felt it to be

impossible to settle at once to the dull routine of domestic life; but this

inten tion was never destined to be put in practice, for scarcely had he quitted

Eng lan d whe n a final per iod was put to the war, and the whole continent

left free for him to range over at pleasure. Franc e he abhorred, and would

not even pause to view those places he had not before visited ; but hastened

through it as fast as he could procure the necessary accommodation, norstopped till he attained the foot of the Pyrenees. Her e he halted with an

intention to arrange his subsequent route, to write to his English friends, and

to ramble for some days through the lovely scenes which this part of the

south of Fran ce presented.

CHAPTER V I I I .

After travel ling with the fearful rapidity that had impelled his procedure

since he left Engl and, Ed gar was glad to pause, and enjoy the calmness and

beauty o f the scenes now presented to his view. His mind seemed gradually

to have assumed a new tone. Instead of the turbuley.ee and disquiet, which

had kept him in a state of perp etual restlessness, he was now subdued and

pensive; the rom ance, whic h had been a predominant feature in his character,

again appeared, and seating himself at the casement of the little inn, whic h

he had made his temp orary abode , with his eyes fixed on the majestic chain

of the Pyrenees, that rose in awful majesty just opposite, and with their lofty

peaks terminated the pros pect, he would sit for hours in silence and medita

tion . Fo r some days he contente d himself with strolling out for an hour or

two, entering the huts of the shepherds an d herdsmen, and after contrasting

the misera ble cabin s and bare walls wit h the neat cottages of the English

peasantry, he would return to the inn, and agai n indulg e in rumination on his

native coun try. Graduall y the subject that had weighed so heavily on his

heart and obscure d the pro spect with a mist of hopeless despondence, seemed

to fade from his memory.

After several weeks spent in wanderin g amidst the Pyrenees, Edgar began

to think of chan ging his station. His heal th was materially benefited, and

he had written to his friends in Eng lan d and received letters from thence

from his father and mother*and from Irvin e. The two former, Lady Arden

in particular, with the delicacy that marked her character, refrained from all

observations that would distress or annoy him, and it is probabl e that Irvine

tho ugh t him sufficiently punish ed by all he had suffered from the conduct

and fate of Julia, and forebor e any allusion to recent events. Wi th that

spirit of contr adicti on whic h had seemed to influence him on one subject,

Edg ar no w felt an u naccou ntabl e anxiet y to know the fate of her whom he

had rejected, and he resolved to hazard an inquiry of Irv ine after La dy

Anville." Y o u will smile, Irvi ne," said he, "a t such an inquiry from me, but you

would not won der at my wish to hear of her welfare if y ou kne w how high ly

I admire her character, and how fervently I hope that she enjoys a degree of

happiness equ al to .her me rits."

Irv ine' s answer contained these wor ds : " Be assured that your good

wishes with regard to Lady Anville are realised. Soph ia Denb eigh possesses a

mind formed to make her happy in any situation, and if such a disposition,

with a husband fondly attached, exalted rank, immense riches, and universal

esteem, can cont ribute to temporal felicity, she has found it. She seems to have

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http://turbuley.ee/



89

iscovered the happy medium betwe en seclusion and dissipation, and is just as

much in the great world as a wise perso n would wish to be ; she mixes with

elect society, but she is seldom to be foun d in the circles of indisc rimina te

aie ty. In every characte r she is consisten t, nor, as La dy Anville, has she

orfeited one of those rare qualities, which in Sophia Denbigh were so

onspicuous and so admirable."

Edgar felt a pang shoot across his heart as he peruse d these wo rds , and a

ervent wish arose that he had waited before he left England to ascertain w ho

he veiled incognita was that he had met with Lady Elizabeth Keswick.

And yet of what conseq uence is it r" though t he. " Even if it were Soph ia

Denbeigh herself I ou ght not to wish to behold h er ; me she must inevitably

etest."

Edg ar had at first intend ed to pass over to Spai n, but after a few week s'

esidence he cha nged his plan, and determined to coast the Mediterranean as

ar as some port w here he might embark for Italy, or, pursuing his way to the

Alps, prolo ng his tour b y crossing the mountains, and loitering to view their

mig hty and majestic scenery. In the latter plan he was confirmed by meeting

with an old acquaintance who was travelling in the same direction and meant

o visit Italy by way of the Alps. Though not anxious for a companion,

dg ar ob jected not to join Captain Warham,who se mirth and constant vivacity

eemed to draw him out of himself. "Warnam had bee n resident with some

elations in the south of France, and was attached to the country; he had

een deeply engaged in the late contest, and was now on his way to join some

riends who were visiting Rome and Naples.

" Y o u shall go with me, Arde n," said he. " I tell you , man, noth ing will

o effectually banish the blues, that so plentifully beset you, as the grand

nd sublime objects that Rome presents. M y sister is of the party ; and if

ou can find not hin g better to do , I advise yo u to fall in love with her. I

ssure you Emily War ham is a prize that many of your coun trymen have

ontended for, but she has hitherto been adamant to them a ll; and on second

houghts I believe there is no chance for you, for she was completely

rejudiced against you, and has abused you most unmercifully for slig hting

er favourite, Miss Denbeigh , now L ady Anville, and accused you of all

manner of heinous sins ever since."

This was a tender subject to Ed gar, but howe ver contradictory it may

ppear, he no sooner heard that Miss Wa rh am w.xs a friend of Soph ia

Denbeigh's, than he had the strongest desire to kno w her, and resolved on

mmediately accord ing to her brother's pro posal of ac comp anyin g him to

Rome; bu t this desire soon abated, and he relapsed into his wonted depression

ong before they reached the great capital of the world.

The prevailing temper of Edgar's mind seemed now a complete indifference

nd apathy that appeared daily to increase. War ha m, who was extremely good-

natured, was much hurt to observe it, and endeavoured by every means in his

ower to rouse him, but all was ineffectual; Edg ar expressed a strong desire

o loiter on his jou rne y, and wTould have passed whole days in inaction, but

Warham was anxious to join his si ster; so finding the apat hy of his fellow

raveller must inevitably delay their proceeding, he excused himself from

being detained by his desire to meet his friends, and proceed ed onw ard alone.Edgar and his servant slowly followed, and at length reaching Rome a

ortnight after War ham , established themselves at an obscure house of recep

ion for travellers, that Edga r migh t indulge his wish of being as much alone

as possible. Th e very first even ing of his arrival, the same restlessness whic h

had again assumed dominion over him drew hi m out to ramble over scenes

o attractive to the curious traveller . Th e vast and stupend ous fabric of the

Colosseum was the object that drew his wond ering eye to its curiou s and

dismantled walls. To see and meditate on its immen se mass of ruins by

moonlight had been a cherished resolution of Edga r from the hour he had

determined to visit Rome. The more he reflected upon it, the less desire he

felt to join Warh am' s friends, for his unsettled state of mind as yet unfitted

him for society. Like tfamlet, '< Man delighted not h im, n or w oma n

neither." He had n ot therefore now , he though t, the smallest curiosity to

behold the vaunted sister of his friend, and preferred ram blin g alone over all

the vast relics of Rome, and examining them "at his leisure, unrestrained by

time or the rules o f etiquette, to which becom ing one of an Engli sh party

would have subjected him,

It was on a serene, warm evening, such as are rarely known save insouthern climates, that beneath a cloudless sky and brilliant moon, Edgar

directed his steps to this scene of grandeur and desolation. Detac hing his

mind as muc h as possible from his ow n pecu liar regrets, ami devoting" it to

considering the present wonders that surrounded him, he proceede d along the

Via Sacra, and passing beneath the arch of Titus, approached the vast fabric,

once the scene of Nero's ostentation and Vespasian's magnificence. Wi th

awe and wo nder his eye dwelt curious ly on the massy edifice, '•crenelated

walls, immense stones su spended in the air, arches covered with weeds and

shrubs, vaults opening upon other ruins; in short, above, below, and around,

one vast collection of magnificence and devastation, of grandeur and de cay ."

Th e profound silence whic h enveloped the whole, interrupted only by the

light steps of the wandere r, added to the awe such a scene mu st naturally

inspire ; and th e mind of Ed gar , from its scarcely reco vered depressio n, was

precisely in the state to imb ibe the impression it was calculated to make,

Absorbed by the numerous feelings to whic h tho sight gave birth, he was only

aroused from the profo und med itatio n i nto whic h he had fallen as he leaned

on the base o f an ancient but superb colum n, by the unw elcome sound of

human footste ps; he had chosen to come alone, and alone he wished toremain. That silent hou r had been particu larly se lected, for the purpo se that

no intruder might destroy the effects he wished it to produce. Retreating

behind the column on which his arm had rested, he determined to conceal

himself till the persons or per son had passed, and sc arcely had he secured a

retreat, when the loud laugh of a female broke on the solemn silence around,

and sounded on the ear of Edg ar so discor dantly , that with added care he

secluded his form from the ob servation of the intrude rs. Th e lon g floating

veils and light drapery o f two female figures windi ng thro ugh a r ow of

columns to the right, were soon discernible. But what were his feelings

when the English langua ge, clearly pronoun ced by a native of his ow n

countr y, reached his ear. Th e jocu nd sound of mirth grated harshly on his

hearing, bu t the familiar accents of his native tong ue awakened all his

curiosity, and he listened anxiously.

In answer to some observation of her comp anio n one of the ladies said,

" It is altogether a most singular coincidence, and yo u may lecture as mu ch

as you please, but I shall just enjoy playing the tyrant unmercifully in such a

case, more than anything in the wo rld. Oh h ow I should like to humb le

such a prou d spirit, and even Mr. Irvine a cknow ledge s that Arden possesses

still more pride than the rest of his family."

Edgar listened with breathless eagerness.

" A n d yet," said another voice in sweet and low accents, " t o do him

justice he did not prove that by his marriage."

" Oh, name it no t! " exclaim ed the other. " It was an instance of self-

will and o pposition I can never forgive. Oh for an opportunity of retaliation!

I'l l bring him to m y feet i f possible, and in his present pensive mood, wh o

knows but I may effect it, and then, most mighty sir, you shall receive the

reward due to him who could reject a S ophi a by being spurned as you

deserve."

" Y o u are too bitter, Emil y," said her friend; "b ut let us not bewilder

ourselves in the ruins , or we shall find a difficulty in retrac ing our steps.

H ar k ! there they are—let us rejoin them."

The approach of a large party was n ow distinctly heard, and W arham 's

voice above the others convinced Edgar that it was the English party of

friends who m he had appoin ted to mee t; but Miss War ham 's disclosure of

her resolution to captivate him had raised all the contrad iction still prevalent

in his disposition , and with his wonted haste he determined to disappoint her

by avoiding the who le party. " H e r words bespoke her a mere coquette ,"

thought he, " and I am in no mood to become the toy of a vain woma n. Tim e

was when I could have repaid her in her own coin; but now, with broken

spirits and an abstracted mind, I am not fit to encounter the sportive vivacity

of wit and happiness."

Gliding u nseen from the spo t by a circuitous route, Edgar evaded a discovery,

and returned to the inn to sleep. On the folio wing morn ing he was visited

by Warh am, who vainly persuaded him to join his friends; Edg ar plead ed

illness and depres sion of spirits, an d finally a determin ation to avoid all

English society.

" And a very foolish determination it is," said Wa rh am . " Excu se me for

saying so, Arden , but I kno w yo u will live to repent it."

Edga r was, however, impenetrable, nor could any entreaties of Warham

avail to iuduce him to forego his once formed resolution, and he at length

secretly contrived a plan to escape from Rome during the period the Engl ish

travellers should remain there. The villas in its neigh bour hoo d, TiVoK,

Frescati, and the beautiful retreats on the Tibe r we re all t o be visited, and

afforded him an opportunity to escape from the kind intentions of Miss

Wa rha m, and pursue alone his intended route. He fancied that Warham

had participated in his sister's plan, and was even more seriously desirousthat he should be introduced to her than his manner had before discove red;

for he looked vexed and half-displeased at the positive refusal of Edga r. The

latter, howe ver, with his usual pertinacity of character, persevered, and

Warham departed without him.

Warham had no sooner disappeared than summoning his servant, Edgar

ordered him to prepare immediately for quitting Rome, and busied himself in

makin g the necessary inquiries, and tracing out his intended route. Wh il e

engaged in this occup ation, fretful and impatient, he more than once caught

himself thinking- of the En glish party, half-wishing he had suffered himse lf

to be persuaded to join them. " But it is too late no w, " thought he, " they

have heard my determination from Warham, and I should not choose tosubjeefc

myself to ridicule by retracting. Besides, that Miss Warh am, I am convinced,,

is a consumma te coquette , and seems to have fixed upon m e as an aim, for

which reason alone I will avoid them. Ye s, once more I am resolved," and

as he spoke, he arose, and leaving his maps and books open on the table, he

rambled out to meditate again on whic h road he should pursue. His reverie

wras, however, interrupted by observ ing at a distance an English equipage,

driving swiftly along as if to overtake a large party who were walking on thero ad ; he paused to mark them, for he had no doubt they were precisely those

whom he had resolved to avoid, and they, or at least so me o f the m, seemed,

like himself, about to quit Rome; for the carriage, laden as if for travelling,

stopped, and some of the comp any who ap peared to be taking leave of the

others were apparently about to enter it. A poc ket telescope enabled him to

obtain a tolerably distinct view of each individual, and he-was struck at oneo

with the tall, graceful form o f one o f the lad ies; she was so much like it

figure that had rarely been absent from his mental view since he beheld it,

that he wa tched her with eagerness, and saw her, after w aving her hand,

jump into the carriage; she was followed by another female and a gentleman,

and they drove off immediately.

Edg ar had now a new subject for reflection, and scarcely had he rega ined

tho inn when he was overtaken by War\:am . " L e t me make one mo*e

attempt to persuade you to join us, Arde n," said he. "T ha t part of tho

company, to whom it was natural onough perhaps that you should object,

have just separated from the rest, and are not to rejoin us perhaps before we

return to England, but certainly not before we reach Naples."

" Y o u are quite mistaken," said Edgar, " i f you think I made any exceptions, when all were strangers to me, and conseque ntly all indifferent. "

" Nay ," said War ham, " there was nothing very extraordinary in your

objecting to meet Sir Edward and Lady Anville, everything considered, and

the Kcswicks of course as their friends, but they arc now gone. Sir Edward

is hardly reco vered from the effects of his wound, and La dy Elizabeth wo uld

not be persuaded to leave them, and faith! the charm that attached me to the

party is gone wi th her, for she is the loveliest woman I know , except Lady

Anville herself."



86 TH E FAMILY HERALD —A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [June 9, 1800.

The information this speech conveyed, far from having the effect expected

by Wa rh am , had nearly throw n Ed gar into a paroxysm of passion, he was

vexed beyo nd all descri ption at having b y his own fault missed an introduc

tion to Lady Elizabeth Keswick, whose form had never ceased to occupy his

imagination since he had beheld her administering comfort to the. dying

cottage r, and he fancied that curios ity alone, and a desire to atone by the

attentions of a gentleman for whatever might have appeared offensive in his

former conduct, only prompte d the desire he felt to beho ld and kno w La dy

Anville.

Instead of acceding to the wishes of Wa rh am, Edg ar was now more than

ever determined against seeing his sister, and positively declared his con

tinued resolution to quit Rome immediately, to view some of the old villas in

its neighbourh ood, which he put in execu tion the very same afternoon,

i'ourneying forward with as much rapidity as he could exert, mortified at what

tad occurred at Rome, and scarce ly caring whither he went.

CHAPTER I X .

Cheerless and dissatisfied, Edgar journey ed on. The varied and ever inte

resting beauties of the banks of the Tiber, their numberless curiosities, their

inestimable antiquities, with all the countless objects of interest so dear to the

inquir ing traveller, all were lost on him. The same spirit of discontent wrhich

had so long and tenaciously possessed his mind, held dominio n over him, and

swayed him with unrelenting perseverance . Far different, meantime , was the

tour of those who Occupied, in spite of himself, such a large portion of his

thoughts.

Sir Edward and Lady Anville and their suite travelled leisurely, as well to

view with ease and comfort all that was curious and worthy observation, as

to accommodate Sir Edward, whose health, from the effect of an unhealed

wound, was yet far from being established. The unremitting attentions of

his wife and her amiable y oun g friend, together w ith the novelty and beauty

of the scenes they passed through , greatly contr ibuted to his rest orati on; and

all around him were flattered with the sanguine hope of his perfect recove ry

ere he should agai n behol d the shores of Engl and. Lively and animated, the

pen a nd penci l of Sophia wer e employe d in notin g down all that was most

worthy of record; and often they lingered amid the wild recesses of the

Apennines; and wh ile Sophia , with all the buoyan cy of you th and health,

climbed some high rock to sketch a picturesque view, Sir Edward and Lady

Elizabeth were occupied by admiring the gra ces and ele gance of her form and

the beauty of her c ountena nce, illumin ed by genius and taste, and radiant

with happiness.

It was on one of these occasions that, raised to a considerable height above

the level earth, and with the aid of the pocke t telescope she always carried,

Sophia obtained a view of greater extent than usual, and was struck by the

appearance o f an isolated dwellin g, perche d like the e yrie of the eagle on

the point of an eminence, so steep and scraggy, that to her it appeared inac

cessible. It was overhung by a ponderous rock, and the situation was wilder

and more remote than any she had yet observed. It could, if inhabited, be

only the abode of a shepherd or a herm it; and of the latter, though she had

often read, she conclud ed few were no w to be fou nd; but her curiosity was

strongly rais ed; and, after having effected her purpose by taking a sketch of

the view, she descended to her c ompanio ns, and, relating her disco very, pro

posed they should explor e the spot, and try to discover if there were inha

bitants. It seemed as thou gh some presentiment had actuated her ; for,

contrary to her usual gentleness a nd compli ance , she persisted, contrary to

Sir Edwa rd's persuasions, to entreat them to accom pany her, and havin g at

lengt h preva iled on them, they long rambl ed about in various directions before

they could find any approa ch; and, when at length they discovered the narrow

path, that in a circular form seemed to win d round the rock, it was so

craggy and perpendicular, that the difficulty of attaining the summit, they

were convinced, must be infinite. Wh il e half-w ay up the path they rested to

contemplate the obstacles that remained to encounter, they were all at once

struck by the sound of a bell, succeeded by a chaunt o f several voices, which

appeared to proceed from the very rock they were ascending, but hi gher up,

and at a little distance.

Sir Edward's strength was inadequate to hastening ; and, leaving him with

Lady Elizabeth and the servants, Lady Anville pursued he r way till she

reached the very spot she had discerned with the tele scope. A low Gothi c

door that stood open gave her admittance to a small and singularly formed

chapel. It was hewn out of the solid rock ; and the group wit hin, on whi ch

her eye instantly rested, was so extraordinary and picturesque, that she stood

entranced with wonder. A venerable man, whose habit and office declared him

to be a priest of the Catholic Church, was performing the Roman service, and

stood near a rudely-formed altar. Before it knelt a female in plain attire, but in

the bloom of youth and beauty, and be hind her were two or three peasants and

domestics, for such by their dress they seemed. The entrance of the intruder

was Unnoticed; for, though they saw her, it interrupted not their attention

to their devot ion. Sophia , too, knelt by the stranger till the service was

concluded, whicji was in a very short tim e; a nd then, apol ogising for her

intrusion, she said they w ere Engli sh travellers, wh o had been led by curiosity

to explo re the situation of their Angula r dwell ing. She spoke in Frenc h, and

the old man answered in that language, offering to her and her friends such

refreshment and a ccomm odati on as the cell of a recluse contained. The pre tty

damsel who remained standing silently by him, gave him her arm, and they

quitted the rock-cha pel, procee ding to the small hermita ge adjoining, which,

thoug h rude and confined, was furnished with necessaries, and sheltered fromthe incleme ncy of the weathe r.

Sir Edwa rd and L ady Elizabeth n ow joi ned them, and were receive d by the

good priest with hospitalit y. His la nguage and manner were evidently those

of a man who had been acc ustomed to the world, and the profoun d melanc holy

o f his countenance discovered that sorrow had com bined with poverty to drive

hi m from the haunts of men. In answer to some observations of Sir Edwa rd,

on finding a member of a religious order in a spot so isolated, he said ; " I am,

as you will guess, one of those expatriated priests, who, to save his life, has

been compelled for ever to forsake his count ry. Of one of the first families in

France, I beheld an only brother, the father of this my innocent Madelaine,

led to the guil lotine, and with the rest of his family (myself and this poor

victim except ed) suffer an untimely death. In the dead of night I escaped a

similar fate, and with this my little charge fled from ungrateful France . In

the heart of the Apennine s we found what I then intended should be only a

temporary a syl um; for my plan was to reach a monastery, where bot h might

be safe, but my age was* not equal to the fatigue, and I sank under it.

Supported by the bou nty of shepherds a nd the cares of Madelaine, I recovered

from actual sickness, but my habitual strength was gone. The trifling sum I

had saved and secreted about my person has enabled me to subsist in this way,

and never shall I be able to proceed farther, I fear. Much could I wish to

reach a monastery of fathers some leagues farther in Italy, and end my life

with them ; but unless I could find an asylum for Madelaine, this hope I

must resign."

Th e holy man then paused, and Lady Anville, ever active in benevolence,

summoned Sir E dwa rd a nd her friend to a conference, in which her propo

sitions met, as they general ly did, an undivided assent, and they returned to

propose to Father Jaqucs the result of their deliberations.

Lady Anville offered to take the y oung Madelaine under her own protection,

and to provide her with the means of subsistence, requiring only Trom the

priest such documents as might prove her birth, should the late revolution in

public affairs enable her to claim the inheritan ce of her ancesto rs. Joyfu lly

the holy man accepted the proposal; he only stipulated that Madelaine should

be permitte d to con tinue in the faith of her fathers, which was readily

promised.

It was the intention of the party to return to Englan d by France , and there

it was determined the necessary inquiries should be made. The family of

Madelaine was ancient and noble, and she was by birth related to some of the

first houses. The interference of Sir Edwa rd Anville might therefore restore

her to the consideration and wealth to which she was by birth entitled. The

separation betwe en Madelaine and the uncle who had so kindly protected her

was deferred by the bene volent resolution of their new friends to convey tho

good priest to the monastery he had chosen. Life seemed to be ebbing apace;

it was desirable that his age should receive the care and attention which his

infirmities required, and his soul those consolati ons which religion only can

yield.

Th e humane intention of the travellers was put in execution as soon as their

new friends had made their few necessary preparations for quitting their

isolated abode. Father Jaques was conveyed in one of the travellin g carriages

by Sir Edwa rd and his own valet to the monastery, and Lad y Anville and her

friend remained with Madelaine during his absence. The tears of the latter

flowed copiously at parting from the only relation that she knew; but novelty

and the kindness of her new patrons soon dried them.

Th e person of Madelaine was pretty and interesting, her manners were

naive and affectionate, and she had much of the Frenc h sprightliness and

vivacity in her demeanour. She grew daily a greater favourite with her

benefactors and soon made no small proficiency in their language. She

accompanied them into Franc e and finally attended them to England , where

she became one of their family, and the benevolence, which had rescued her

from solitude and pover ty, was amply recompensed by the gratitude and

docility she displayed.

W h i l e Sophia, who internally congratulated herself that she had avoided

encountering Edgar, reached her native land in safety, where she was soon

wholly engrossed by her attendance on Sir Edwa rd, whose health was in a

precarious state, Arden continued to run over Italy in quest of the peace

which his own bosom failed to bestow . In the c ourse of his wanderings he

reached that spot in the Apennines from whence the Anville s had transported

Madelaine and her un cle . Th e story, yet fresh in the memor ies of the peasants,

was eagerl y related to him by the shepherds at whose hut he claimed shelter,

and he was able to t race the authors of this benevolent action from knowing

they had taken this route. In the description given by them of the travellers

he recognised the lovely woman he had accidentally met in t own, and again

his irritability was excited at having brought before his mental view the

charms, the virtues, and t he usefulness of those whose existence he would

willingly forget. Persuaded that Lady Elizabeth Keswick was the charitable

and beautiful lady praised by the shepherds, he dwelt with enthusiasm on the

recollection of her form, such as it had appeared to him in the transient view

he had obtain ed of her in the cotta ge in the north, and at length wound

himself up t o such a pitch that he resolved on returning home immediately,

getting introduced to Lord Keswick, and pr oposin g himself a candidate for his

daughter's hand.

On this plan E dgar pondered whil e he traversed the wilds of the Apennines

in all directions. Alike in solitude a nd in crowds it took full possession of

his imaginati on. Endu ed with a copious share of self-love, he felt convinced

that -she would accept him ; at first, perhaps, she might be prejudiced against

hi m by his rejection of her favourite friend, but he had no doubt he should

finally succeed.

Directing his course homewards, therefore, he was on the point of setting

off for Engl and j ust two months after the Anvilles had reached it, when a

letter from Irvine at once anihilated hope and demolished the air-built castles

with the erection of which he had amused his fancy. Al l at one blow fell to

the gro und ; for it informed him that Lady Elizabeth Keswick was married,

much to the satisfactio n of her family and friends, to an intim ate friend and

associate of Sir Edward Anville.

Vexed, mortified, and indignant, Edgar cast the letter from him in a tumult

of passion. Al l his nervous irritability returned with fearful violence; his

wanderings recomme nced Avith a resolution never more to inquire concerning

those w ho had been the primary cause of all he had suffered; and he wrote to

Irvine desiring him never again to mention to him either Lady Anville or her

frien d; and so ingenious was he in glossing over his own errors, that he toofc



June 9, i860.] USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT. 87

pains to con vince himself that the projected marriage with Sophia Denbeigh

had been the origin of all his sufferings and misfortunes. Ha d not the eager

ness of his relations to accomp lish it driven him from home , he would never

have encountered the fascinating Julia, and consequently would have avoided

the long train of miseries which his connectio n with her had entailed on him.

So prone is human nature to this kind of sophistry, that never once did

Edgar allow himself to have been the real cause of all his own calamities, till

long experience and maturer years had convinced him that his ungoverned

passions, his wilfulness and pertinaci ty, destined to ca rry their punishment

with them, had original ly led him from the path of peace, and that blindly

yielding himself to their direction, he had plunged into the labyrinth of error

into which such guides were most likely to conduct him,

While Edga r in vain repinings and fruitless discontent was traversing theContinent, Lor d and Lady Arden remained in anxiety as to his health and

proceedings, which his short, unfrequent letters were ill-calculated to relieve.

The health of the former was at length so much i njured that the faculty

advised a change of climate, and it was determined that they should join their

son in Italy, in. the hope at once of relieving their anxious fears on his

account, and of prevailing on him to return to his family and his friends in

his native land.

(To be continued.)

T H E S T R E A M .

Still flowing onward, merry stream,

Ever laughing, ever gay,'Neath the bridge and 'neath the branc hes.

Far from noisy me n away .No w through fields of starry daisi es ;

No w 'neath tangled roots and ma zes ;Glistening in the sunny beam ;

.Still laughing onward, merry stream !Poppies tire th y boon companions ,

Willows stoop and kis s thy lip ;Here the iris, ever waving,

Stoop an d from thy crystal sip.No w falling from l i t t le mountains,No w o'er stones and ruin ed fountains,No w through shadows dark and dreary,Hound the rushes never weary,On , on, where eye hath never seen,Laughing thou goest , merry stream !Jus t like the changing life of man,

N ow through sunshine, now throughshade :

Gleams of sadness, gleams of gladness,

Till he anchors in the grave.Thou merry, merry, joyous stream !

Ever laughing, ever gay,As gazing d o w n upon thee now,

T h o u mindes t me of man's d e c a y ;Fo r thou wert here ere man was made,

A n dsurely

wilt outliveus al l ;

Through th e meadow, down th e valleyThou wilt ever, ever fal l !

A n d he w ho singeth of thee now,

Soon hi s v o ice will di e away ;B u t thou wil t never, never stop—

T h o u 'I t outlive th e longest da y 1Laughing, playing with the flowers,

Caring not for man's decay ;Through the sunshine, through the

" shadow,

Thou 'It be ever, ever ga y 1

H . P.

THE LADY OP THE EELL HOUSE.

CHAPTER X X I .

Like most women at once weak and pretty, Lady Elphinstone was excessively

vain, and she had at first sou ght to fix Captain Grevi lle' s attention upon herself,

forgetting for the moment Mr. Lorimer, for whose sake she had so much

wished to remain at home. Wh en she saw that Greville's attentions were

seriously directed towards Sylvia, she became piqu ed and jealou s, and

endeavoured by various little arts to interrupt what she chose to consider a

foolish flirtation, and draw his attentions back to herself. Sir Fred eric k saw

thro ugh it all. Besides his paramount obj ect of effectually severing Guen -

dolen and Grevil le, he was really fond of Sylvi a, and know ing that his own

extravagance rendered it impossible for him to give her a do wry, he wished to

encourage as much as possible what appeared like ly to bec ome a love-mat ch,

in which the question of money was of minor importance. He knew also

that Greville was entirely his own master, and had no relations except an

indulgent mother t o consult in his choice. In addition to this, brutally as

he treated his wife, he was inordinately jealous of her. It might seem

astonishing that his jealousy had never taken alarm at the influence Mr.

Lorimer had acquired over her. But there his pride had interfered. A tutor ?

Had the though t been suggested to him, (for i t never would have spon

taneously arisen in his own mind,) he would have stared with amazement,

and laughed at the possibility of such a t hing. A tutor! He would as

soon have been jealo us of one of the footmen. Wi th Harry Greville, however,

the case was totally different, and at the moment when Guend olen' s com

panion had directed his attention towards them, a sharp reprimand from him

had been followed by a fit of pout ing on the part of the lady, who, though

she submi tted like a slave when his harshness was undeserved, invariably

made some weak show of resistance if she felt that his censure was merited.

" I t is very foolish and wrong ," said the lady, " to allow such young

girls to flirt."

" Y o u probably think that amusement oug ht to be reserved for married

ladies," retorted Sir Frederick with a sneer, 1 1 but it is more than a flirtation,

I trust. Greville is evidently serious, and it is a most desirable match. "

" P o o r chi ld! " murmured Lady Elphinstone, with a deep sigh. " W ha t

chance of happiness has she if she marries at her age ?"

" The same chance that you had, if you had not chosen to throw it away,"

he replied ; and taking hold of her arm above the elbow without any show of

violence, he inflicted the most acute torture by the pinch that he gave it. She

turned pale, and wince d, and screamed faintl y. Greville turned hastily, and

asked what was the matter.

"Only a spasm in my side ," she answered. " It is gone no w. "But Guendolen's new friend, wh o .had been watchi ng them closely through

the glasses, started up suddenly, exclaiming, " The brute ! He has actuall y

pinched her arm till she cried out with the pain ! "

"What is that you say ?" asked Guendolen, leaning forward.

He explained to her the scene that he had witnessed.

" I will be back in a few minutes," she said ; and drawing the hood of her

cloak over her head, she hastily left the box.

Th e artist continued his watch with deep interest. Sylvia and Greville

wrere fully occupied with their own conver satio n; L ady Elphinstone was

looking resolutely towards the stage, tryi ng to keep down her tears ; and Sir

Freder ick was leaning back, eyeing her with a cynical smile, when the door

opened behi nd him, and Gue ndole n noiseless ly entered. She laid one finger

lightly on Sir Frederic k's shoulder. He started round; and when he saw

wh o it was, cast an alarmed glanc e upon Grevill e. She merely raised her

finger in an attitude of admonition, pointed towards Lady Elphinstone, turned

quickly, and was gone before he had recover ed from his surprise. His

anxious glance towards Greville, however, had admitted her into a secret.

She recalled all that had been said about the bet , and unders tood that Sir

Frederic k was jealou s of his friend. She would not let herself be seen by the

faithless Harry on that occasion, but the next time he accompanied the partyshe determined to be present, and to treat him with the cool contempt that ho

deserved. She returned to her own bo x silent and pensi ve, and found her

ne w friend more puzzled than ever. The air of authority she had assumed

over Sir Frederick was not to be mistaken. He , a haughty tyrant, as was

evident from his whole demeanour, had received her admonition wit h

humility ; and his eyes as they followed her when she retired had expressed

passionate l ove ! That she did not return it was clear from the haught y

contempt of the gl ance she had cast on him . She resumed her seat with an

air of weariness, and sighed heavily. The artist's attention was fajynore

occupied by her than by the perfo rmance on the stage. A strange plot was

unfolding itself, in whic h he foresaw that he might soon be called upon t o

become an ac to r; and the more he studied the characte rs, the more he felt

that he would willingly take the part even of a supernumerary or a scene-

shifter, so that he might remain near the fair prima donna.

" And yet, " thought he, as he wTatched her, " she does not give one thought

to me. Her mind is full of those other people. The time may come when it

will be different."

It seemed, however, that his humility had misled hi m; for she suddenlylooked up, and said, " Though I cannot at present tell you my name, you will,

perhaps, have no objection to inform me of yours ? "

" My name," he said, brightenin g up at the idea that she had after all been

thinking of him, " is Leicester Wilbu rn. By profession, as I t old you, I am

an artist; and here, " he added, offering her a card, " is my addre ss."

She smiled at the eagerness he showe d to commun ica te as much as poss ible

concerning himself.

" Do you live alone ? " she asked, as loo ked at the card.

" Quite alone," he rep lie d; " I have but one relation—my mother, and she

lives at Ilfracombe. I have scarcely any acquaintances in Lond on, and not a

single friend, unless I may now say that I have one."

" W e are both hermits dwelling in the desert, that is very evident," sho

observed, " and I no w quite understand the impulse that prompted me to

address you. Yo u will hardly credit it, but I wr

as almost as much astoni shed

as you could be when I found you sitting in the carriage beside me."

" Some good spirit was at wor k," he said, " like the genii who so kindl y

undertook to manag e the affairs of Prince Camaralzaman and the Princess of

China, only that the distances to be traversed were not so tremendous."" Xa y, much more so ," said Guend olen, smiling, " for they are the

enormous distances that society and the proprieties have placed between

human beings."

" N o one has had reason to feel those distances mo re than myself," said

Leicester AVilburn. " My life has been so utterly isolated since I came to

London, that for all purposes of social communion I might as well have been

looking through a telescope at the people in the moon."

" Do you not go into the country sometimes ? " she aske d..

" Y e s , almost every Sunday ," he replied, " I take my sketchbook and

ramble fifteen or twenty miles from town."

" D o you ride ? " she i nquired.

" I used to do so ," he replied, " but since I came to town I have not in dulged

in any amusement. You will understand why : my mother is infirm in health,

wholly dependent on me, and I am almost unknown in my profession."

Guendolen cast on him a look that was almost affectionate. " I revere nce

such self-denial more than I can expre ss, " said she. " My friend, you are less

solitary than I in the world, if you still have a moth er; you are richer than I

while you toil for her ; y ou are happier than I in being called upon to sutler

privation for her sake. My mother is only a vague remembra nce to me, a

dream of smiles, sweet songs, kind wr

ords, and affectionate cares. I was but

six years old when I lost her, but I wo uld give all I possess to have her bac k

again with the proud privilege of toiling for her sake."

Leicester seized Guendolen's hand and pressed it to his lips enthusi astically;

she returned the pressure of his hand with a gripe almost as strong as his o wn k

and looked with pleasure at his heaving chest and brightened eye.

"Tha t is a fine loyal s oul, " she thought to herself, " no bl e and genero us,

and unspoiled by the world. Arc y ou fond of riding ? " she asked, abrupt ly

renewing their conver satio n. " Do you prefer it to walki ng ? "

" W a l k i n g , " he replied, " is doubtless the more independent mod e of

progression, and if time is no object , it is, for an artist, the pleasantcr. Bu t

to be mounted on a good horse, and scamper through the fresh mornmo* air is

perhaps one of the most delightfull y intoxi cati ng sensations in nature.**

" Then at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, if you will be at Ki lb um

station, we will enjoy that pleasure in compa ny," said Guendol en. " I have

tw o fine horses that will take us any distance to-morr ow, for they have had

very little exercise of late. _ The ride will be a treat for me also, for I have*

been for the last six weeks in close attendance on a sick child."

" A sick child!" repeated Leicester, quite aghast. " Have you any children? '*

" I did not say it was my own child," replied Guendolen!

It happened that she had a little while before drawn the glove from her left

hand, and she saw that his eye had rested upon the wedding-r in^ wh ich she of

course wore, and he had turned pale and look ed away. " Continue in your error

my good friend," she thought to herself \ " it is as well that it should be so."?



88

Fo r about half an ho ur Leicester Wil bur n remained silent, his eyes fixed on

the stage, but his thoughts very differently occupied. At the end of that time

li e drew himself up as thou gh he had arrived at a sudden resolutio n, passed

hi s han d across his f orehead as if swee ping a mist from before his eyes, and

heaved a deep resolute inspiration . It recalled Guend olen from a reverie into

which she had fallen with her eyes fixed upon Harry Greville and Sylvia.

8he, too , roused herself, turned her eyes resolutely from the painful object,

and heaved a deep breath.

" H a v e you made up your mind y e t ? " she asked, assuming a playful

tone. " W i l l yo u join me in my ride to-morrow or not ? "

" Oh, how can you doubt it ? " he exclaimed. " Th e honour would be too

great to decline, if it were possible to resist the pleasu re."" That is a very pretty doub le comp lime nt for a herm it," said she. " I f you

cultivate your talent in that direction, you will become as good a flatterer as

any man of the world, with a touch of originality that makes the sweet pois on

all the more racy and piqua nt."

" Do not call me a flatterer," said h e; " it is only that I speak out plainly

what a more polished man would perhaps seek to disguise."

" I accept the ex cuse," said Guend olen ; " women are always glad of an

excuse for bel iev ing flattery to be some thing different from wha t it really is.

It is agreed then—to-morrow morning at seven."

" I shall be delighted," said he.

" . Y o u will have my gr oom's horse ," continued Guend olen, " which is quite

as good a one as my own, and, strange to say, not a much better one—for, in

general, I remark that the groom, by some management, generally contrives

to ride a better horse than his master. Havi ng a companion, I can, of course,

dispense with J aco b's attendance, as, in fact, I do upon ev ery possibl e occasion.

Th e dear child who has bee n ill frequently accompani es me, and sometimes,

when I am disconten ted with the worl d, I send t he man ba ck as soon as we

have passed the outskirts of the town , and have a lo ng rambl e b y myself. Itis very indecorous, I kno w, but when I. feel angry with humanity in general,

it is astonishing how I detest decor um. The n, to get upon the turf, to watch

the sunset, to listen to the birds, to feel the fresh breeze blowing through my

hair—all that restores the tone to my feelings , and I can come back and feel

much less unamiable towards my fellow-creatures."

" Is it possible that you ever feel otherwise than amiable ? " said Leicester,

looking at her admiringly.

" Yo u do not kn ow me yet ," she replied. " I am a savage ."

" If you are to be taken as a fair specimen of a savage," returned Leicester,

" 1 think the sooner the march of civilisation is stopped the better."

" An d if it leads men t o pay extrav agant c ompl iment s, I quite agree with

you, " said Guendol en. " No w, listen to the musi c! that is far better than

talking nonsense."

Leicester was sil ent f or awhil e, and then called Guendolen's attention to

Sir Frederick, who was carefully examining the audience through his opera-

glass, doubtless endeavour ing to discover his fair monitress. She with drew

to the back of the b ox, and remained there until her companion warned her

that the vigilant eyes were turned in another direction.

" Yo u do not wish him to see y ou ? " said Leicester, when she returned to

her former seat, whi ch was no t so promi nent as t o be easily visible from the

other side of the house, besides bei ng partly conce aled by the curtain.

" That is of little cons eque nce, " she replied, " as he must suppose that I am

somewhere within the wall s; but in order t o accomplish the object which I

wish you to attain for me, it is important that yo u should n ot be seen in my

company."

" I understand," said Leicester. " But w ill you not tell me what this

service is that yo u require of me ? "

" Y o u shall k now it in good time," replied Guendolen. "Mean whil e, be

satisfied that it is neither very difficult nor very dangerous "

" I wish that it were bot h," he answered, with enthusiasm. " H o w can

devotion be shown when no risk is incur red ? "

" Th e object to be attained is as import ant t o me as tho ugh yo u risked life

and limb for it," said Guendolen, "a nd I shall feel as grateful when it is

accomplished as though you had saved me from fire or shipwreck."

He forbore further questions, but looked at her with a puzzled air. Wh enthe opera was over, Leicester observed to Guendolen that her friends were

leaving.

" That gent leman ," she said, " always takes his daughter away before this

ballet begins, and the elder lady leaves from preference."

" I have heard, or rather read," said Leicester, "m an y censures upon the

style of dancing in this place . Do yo u stay to see it ? "

" Yr

e s , " she replied; "there is poetry in graceful mot ion, and no.creature

is more graceful than a well-formed woman. There are many ridiculous and

ungr aceful postures assumed by some of the dancers, whi ch you will hear

applauded solely on acco unt of the difficulty of their accomplishment. But,

setting those apart, whi ch are a kind o f sacrifice to what moder n fashion

chooses to think beautiful, you will be delighted, as an artist, with the grace

and beauty of many of the performers."

" Your friend is not so particul ar a bout hims elf as he is about his daug hter ,"

said Leicester, lau ghi ng; " I see him down there in the pit."

" I n * t h e stalls" said Guendo len, in a tone of playful reproof. " H e

always goes there during the ballet."

Leicester was, as Guendo len had predicted, very much deli ghted, tho ughless with those parts of the performance that were highly applauded than with

the more graceful But less startling effects. She took his arm as they left the

box, and drawing a thick veil over her face, she hurried him down the stairs.

" W e must take a ca b, " she said. " I did not order m y carriage to fetch

me . I will set you down at your own door."

Leicester was thou ghtfu l and silent durin g the drive, and when the vehicl e

stopped at his abode, he took her han d, and said, with a tremb ling voice, " And

wh at if I should never see you again ? If anyth ing should happen and I

jjot kn ow where to find yo u ? Wil l you not tell me where you live ? "

" Y o u will see me agai n in about seven hour s," she replied. "T he re , go ,

good night. And, above all, recollect that you must not be sentimental. I

am the most matter-of-fact person in the world, and sentimentality is entirely

thrown away upon me. Good night, and remember, Kilburn station at seven

in the morning."

He wanted to say more, but his tongue seemed tied.

" Drive straight on," she said to the cabman, "and I will tell you presently

where to go."

Leicesters ears were wide open to catch the instructions she would give, and

she smiled maliciousl y and n odded to him as she defeated his hope s. He

watche d the cab out of sight, and then, with a deep sigh, half of pleasure

and half o f pain, he retreated into his studio. Wh at a change had takenplace in his existence since he had left it a few hours before ! Th e very air

seemed strange to him. He ligh ted his lamp and looked around, but all

was dark and dim as though his eyes had been dazzled by gazing on the sun.

The anticipation o f the coming day, soon, however, dispelled all sadder

thoughts that had been raised by the contrast betwee n the splendour of her

life, and the pover ty of his own. Tho ugh his sleep that nigh t was not very

profound, it was full of happ y dreams, and he rose at six o'clock as blithe as

the larks he was soon to listen to. Long before the time appointed, he was

at K ilb urn station, walk ing anxi ously about and loo kin g in every*direction

from whence he thought it possible that Guendolen migh t appear. At length

the clatter of hoofs wT

as heard outside. He looked cautiously through the

window, for, thoug h she had n ot warned him not to make his appearance, he

though t it very probable that she might not wish her groom to see him. She

was there, on her beautiful grey ho rse ; the short ride had heighten ed her

colour, and she looked even handsomer than on. the nig ht bef ore in the

brilliant l ight o f the theatre. Th e groom dismounted and consigning his

horse to the care of a boy, he walked into the station, looked round, and,

going straight up to Leicester, touched his hat, and said, inqui ringl y, " Mr .Wilburn ? "

" That is my name," he replied.

" My lady is waiting for you, sir." *

Thu s summon ed, Leicester hurried out. A cheerful greeting passed, and he

moun ted the mettlesome bla ck horse, wh ich, after its lon g rest, required all

his skill to manage . N o ma n likes to appear a bad horseman, especially in

the presence of a woma n whose favour he is anxious to gain. Leicester

Wilburn was really a good rider, but h ad been lon g out of practice, and the

horse was fresh. Howe ver , as they galloped down the road, the groom,

wh o of course w atch ed them out of sight, after a few dubious shakes of the

head and a few misgivings concerning the well-being of the horse, which he

very naturally value d much beyond the unkn own rider, nodde d his head

approvingly, and said, half aloud, " A y , ay, he'll do. He isn't used to the

horse yet, but I see he knows what he is about."

An d thereupon Jacob walked into the railway hotel, to refresh himself with

a pint of porter, previous to trudging home on foot.

CHAPTER X X I I .

While Guend olen, inspirited by the fresh air and rapid motion , rendered

doubly deligh tful by her lon g confinement in a sick room, and engaged in a

pleasant conversation with Leicester Wilburn, was anticipating with renewed

hope the time when, all proofs of her former marriage destroyed, she mi ght

feel secure from Sjr Fred eric k's persecutions, and all danger of a suit in the

Ecclesi astica l Cou rt, a circumstance occurred, whic h, if she had been aware

of it, would have considerabl y damped her spirits. Sir Freder ick had by

means of his spy, Mr. Lorimer, ascertained that the solitary proof of

his marriag e witli Guendolen was in possession of her aunt, and acting

on his instructions the artful priest had almost persuaded the o ld lady

to give it into his hands. This would prob ably have been done on the day

following the crisis in Frank's illness had not Guendolen, fortunately

surprising him in Lady Elphinstone's boudoir, inflicted that summary chastise

ment whi ch had since kept him half senseless in his bed. Sir Frederick visited

him daily, but from what is known of that worth y gentleman 's character, it

will not be supposed that his interest in the tutor's fate arose from any excess

of human symp athy. Th e fact was that he had not seen him after his lastinterview with Mrs. Martin, and was uncertain whether he had on that

occasion obtained possession of the document.

It so happened that on that very Sunday morning Sir Freder ick was idly-

glancing over the previous day's Times, and saw therein t he announcement of

Mrs. Marti n's death. He instantly ascended to the tutor's room. Miss

Lorimer, loo kin g the embodi ment of uncomf ortab le duty, was sitting b y her

broth er's b ed, reading the service for the d ay ; at least, a prayer-boo k was

open on the table before her when the baron et approached, though another

and smaller volu me was lying u pon i t, which was rapidly transferred to her

pocket on his appearance. She arose, and with a curtsey of prof ound

humility left the room. Th e patient, with his head bound up, was lying in

his usual state, conscious of the present but wholly oblivious of the past.

" Lorimer," exclaimed Sir Frederick, abruptly, so as to arouse his faculties

to a momentary activity, " attend to what I am saying. Mrs. Mart in is dead.

Where is the paper that I sent you for ? "

" D e a d ? " repeated the tutor, with a glance of returning consciousness.

" I have not go t the pa per ; it is in the cabinet, where she told me she would

put it."" Wh at cabi net ? " inquir ed the baronet.

" Indian—no, tortoise-shell; she said she would leave it there," and he again

relapsed into a half-slumber.

Sir Frederick had obtained the clue, and he was satisfied. The folio wing

day he rode thr oug h Queen's Square to see if any informa tion could be picked

up . Th e result Avas entirely satisfac tory. Th e auct ioneer' s men were fixing up

' the bills announcing that the sale of the effects would take place on" the!

following Wed nesd ay. On the Tuesday, havi ng ascertained that Guendolen

| was safe in Frank's room, he drove off again at full speed and examined the



Juno 0, 1SG0.] USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT.

lots. There were three cabinets, one Indian, one ebony, and the other

tortoise-shell; he marked the latter in the catalogue, and then, calling upon

his lawye r, desired hi m to comm issio n some person wh om he cou ld trust to

buy that cabinet for him at any price , and to bring it immed iatel y to hi m.

On returning home he went straight to his son's room, where he felt sure of

finding G uendolen. Hi s passion for her seemed onl y to increase the mo re

haughtily and coldly she treated hi m; and now, when the proofs of the

marriage seemed almo st in his grasp, he could not refrain from triump hing

over her if it were only in thoug ht. She remarked the alteration of his

manner when he entered, and, contrary to her usual custom, remained in the

room, for her heart misgave her that somet hing was wro ng. He r fears were"

confirmed, thou gh vaguely, when he whispered, " A little tamer, already,

sweet one. Is it that coming events cast their shadows before, and yo ur p rideis already e clipsed by the shadow ? "

" My pride will never be eclipsed by any shadow of yours," she replied, and

haughtily swept out of the room.

That same evening Guendolen stole out by the private exit throug h the

btable, and hurried to Leicester "Wilburn's lodgin gs. The poor artist blushed

as he showed her into his atelier.

" M y den," he said, " will remind yo u of the old son g, 1 a cobbler there

was, who lived in a stall, which served him for parlour and kitchen and all.' "

" It is a very desirable den," she said, looki ng up at the skyligh ts. " I

should think that the light must be admirable for your wor k. " And walking

up to an easel, she saw with pleasure that he had been making a finished oil

picture from a sketch which he had taken during their late ramble.

" This is very beautiful," she said, as he held a lamp for her to inspect it.

" Is it promised to any one ? For, if not, I must have it."

" No , it is not purcha sed, " he replied, " and shall not b e ; b ut I shall finish

it with more than usual care if you will accept it when it is done.

" No, no," she replied, " that will not do. Yo u are an artist by profession ;

—why may I not be a patron of art in my limited de gree ? "

" I could not receive money from you," he replied.

" W hy not ? " she asked.

" I could not" he replied, " I cannot explain why , I hardly k now

myse lf; but the simple fact is, that I cannot receive money from your hand. "

"T ha t is unfortunate," said Guendolin, lookin g at a roll of bank-notes

which she held, " for I wTanted you to take this money, and execute a com

mission for me."

"That is quite a different matter," he said; " I only object to the money

going into my pocket."

"This , then, is what I want you to do, " she said. "A tt en d this sale

to-morrow and buy a little cabinet which I have marked here," and she

showed him the number of the catal ogue ; " never mind what it costs ."

" That is easily done," he replied ; " but is there no limit to the price that

I may bid for it ? "

" N o n e , " she replied. " I will have it, t hou gh I giv e every shilli ng I am

worth , and sell my jewe ls to comple te the pr ice. I shall pro bab ly be there

myself, but yo u must not take the slightest notice of me. As soon' as you

have bough t the cabinet pay for it in any name you like— Smith or Jone s,

but you had better not give your own ; then bring it here and do not trust it

out of your sight until I come."

" If your wishes are not well executed," said Leicester, " it will not be for

want of zeal."

" Of that I am assured," she repl ied; " and now, good-bye."

" Stay one moment," he said, " how much money have you given me ? "

" That is well thought of, " she replied. " It is a hundred po unds. Shou ld

the cabinet fetch more, you must give that as a deposit and inquire for

Mr. Fowler, a lawy er; he is sure to be there, and will be instructed to supply

you with the necessary amount."

She shook hands with him cordially and departed. Leicester W ilb urn

bewildered himself with conjectu res as to the meaning of the com missi on she

had entrusted to him. She had told him at the opera that she needed a

friend who would execute an impo rtant service for he r; could this be it ?

She was evidently very anxious to obtain this cabinet, though she had tried to

appear quite cool about it. If this really were the important service she had

mentioned there must be some mystery attending it ; for the mere desire topossess a cabinet would not acc ount for a lady so outr agin g the rules o f

etiquette as she had done in formi ng an acquain tance wi th him, and visiti ng

him at so late an hour.

Long before the time when that lot was likely to be put up, Leicester was

at the hou se in Queen's Squ are, exam ining every thing with great attention

excepting the cabinet, on which he cast only furtive gl ance s. Som e time after,

lie saw a lady, dressed in mournin g, with a thi ck cra pe veil over her face, enter

the room and take a scat at the table. H e could not distinguish her features,

"but, from her walk and bearing, he knew that it was Guendolen. She took

no part in the proceedings until the bidding comm enced for the tortoise-shell

cabinet, which immediately preceded the Indian one. There were ma ny

"bidders at first, but as the pr ice incr eased they all dropp ed off until Guendolen

and a young man, who looked like a lawyer's clerk, alone remained. Fr om

the pertinacity with which he continued to bid, she concluded that he was

employed by Sir Fred erick to oppo se her in whatever lot she might bid for.

Believing that the docum ent she desired to possess was in the other c abinet,

she did not, of course, desire to purchase this one; but she amused herself by

continuing to bid in order to encourage the idea that this was really the objectof her wishes. Wh en it ha d mo unte d to a fabulou s price, she let it slip by

counterfeiting indecision; at the moment the hammer fell, she bid again, but

it was too late; her opponent exclaimed that the lot was legally knocke d down

to him, and he woul d not cons ent to have it disputed . Guend olen left the table

in apparent dejection, while h e was paying for and securing his prize. Her

heart beat when the casket whi ch she suppos ed to conta in her treasure was

put up for competition. Leicester Wil bur n stood behind the row of chairs

that surrounded the table, and cast a careless eye upon it. After a few others

had bid, he joined in, and it was at last knocked down to him for ten pounds.

Su mmo nin g a porter to car ry it, he p laced it in a cab and drov e otf; and

within ten minutes after he reached home, Guendolen arrived.

" I think we both played our parts admirably," she exclaimed, breathless

with excitement. " I am glad I went there, for my feigned anxiety about

the other had the desired effect of drawing attention from this, and I

made them pay dearly for the empty box ! "

" Yo u did indeed ,"'sai d Leices ter; " an d I especially admired the manner

in which yo u let it slip as it were by accid ent." He pla ced the cabinet

on a table, and asked respectfully, " Can I assist you, or, would you

prefer to examine it alone ? "

" Oh, no," she said, "pray stay and help me."

Th e doors were open ed, the d rawers pulled out, and a search made for secrethiding- holes. After some difficulty Leicester discovered one.

" Here," he exclaimed, " is this it ? " An d he drew forth a drawer in

which, carefully embedded in cotton-wool, which prevented their shaking

about, and so betraying their presence, there appeared a number of articles

of antique jeweller y, apparently o f considerable value.

Guend olen swept the m hastily aside to see if there were a paper beneath.

" I do not want that rubbish !" she exclaimed.

Rub bis h as she called it, he put the drawer carefully aside, not doub ting

that in a calmer moment she would better appreciate their beauty and value.

" I can find nothing else," she said, with a look of agony, " and it must be

here. Ha ve you any tools with which we can cut it into pieces ? "

"S ta y a mome nt," he said, feeling almost as anxious as she did, so bitter

was the disappointment depicted on her face, " it seems to me that the bottom

is hollow ; " and he struck his knuckles upon it; "i n that case, the drawer,

if such it be, must open from the ou tside." He felt carefully around the

spaces left by the lower drawers after they had been taken out, and discovered

a small knob of metal. " Here is some thing," he said, " which feels like a

spring ." He pressed it, and a shallow drawer started out of the side where

Guendolen was standing. She seized and drew it com pletely ou t; but, alas !

it was empty.

" W e must break it up," she said ; " it must be somewhere here."

Leicester felt rather loth to demolish so beautiful a work of art; but, with

out a word of remonstrance, he fetched the requisite tools, and proceeded under

her directions to saw and split the unfortunate cabinet into a hundred pieces.

No t a block of a few inches in length woul d she leave intact. W h e n

despair itself could do no more she sat in silen ce; her head bent forward on

he r breast, and her hands clasped listlessly upon her knees. Leicester wou ld

no t disturb her, but took up a piece of chalk, and sketched the outline of her

figure. This was done so quietly, that she had no suspicio n of what he was

about. Suddenl y she started up, and advanced towards him.

" There is one chance yet left," she said. " That other cabinet m ay possibly

have been purchas ed by a stranger; if so, no one, with any human feeling,

could object to m y exam inin g the secret drawers for a paper so impo rtant to

me. Here is my address," she continued, writing it ou a slip of paper that

lay on the table. " Mak e inquiries concernin g the person wdio bought the

other cabinet, and when you have discovered who it is, come instantly to me

and tell me—no matter what the hour, if y ou see by the appearance of the

house that the servants are still up . Ask for James Butler, m y page, and

give him a note to be delivered to me immediately. I will now hasten home.

I shall see by his loo ks if he has it. "

Leicester escorted Guendolen to the cab that was waiting for her, and then

rushed back to read the address she had given him, which he almost feared

might be spirited away during his momentary absence. " Mr s . Elphinstone ,

No. —, Square ." She was married, then; and AVIIO Avas the he of

whom she stood in so much dread ? Could he be her husband ? H e borroAved

a Court Guide from his landlord, and therein saw that the house belonged to

Sir Fre deri ck El phin ston e. H e Avas as much in the dark as ev er ; so he set

off to Queen's Square, and arrived there just as the sale Avas concluded. He

inquired of the auctioneer's clerk the name of the person AVIIO had purchased

the tortoise-shell cabinet.

" I t Avas bou gh t," he replied, "b y a you ng man named Perkins, the head

clerk of Messrs. Bycroft, solicitors, in Bedford ROAV. I know him very well."

" Did he buy it for himself? " inquired Leicester." Well , I should rayther think not," replied the other Avith a knowing

wink. "LaAvyers' clerks do not usually get such good salaries as to be able to

go to that figure for a fancy article."

" Will he tell me for Avhom it Avas bought ? "

" Wh y, perhaps he migh t not like to tell a stranger, but I have not the

least doubt he'd tell me ; and as I am goi ng past his office on my Avay home

I'll just look in and inquire, if you like to come Avith m e. "

Leicester thanked him for his politeness, of which he gladly availed him

self; and Avaited in the street Avhile his neAV acquaintance stepped into Mr.

Bycroft's office.

" Perkins is not within," he said, as he joi ned Leicester. " Are you very

anxious to knoAv AVIIO has got i t ? "

A bright idea struck the artist. " W h y , yes," he said; " I am rather

anxious, and I'll tell you why, Another party is anxious to possess it, and has

offered me a handsome commission if I can o btain it for him. No w, if you

can find from your friend Avho bought it, I shall be happy to present you with

a five-pound note."

" Give me your address," he said; " and I' ll b ring y ou the intelligence thisevening."

" I live too far away ," replied Leices ter; "b ut this seems to be a comfort

able publi c-ho use at the co rne r; tell me the hou r Avhen you will be likely to

see him, and I will meet you here."

" Well, you see the office will be closed soon," said the clerk, " s o I must go

to his private house. Suppose AVO say ten o'clock."

" Te n o'clock, then, be it," said Leices ter. " In the meantime take a glass

of bitter ale to fix the place in your memory."



DO THE FAMILY HERALD — A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [June 0 r 18(50.

Th e bitter ale disposed of, they par ted ; and Leice ster wander ed restlessly

about till ten o'clock, when, punctual to the time appointed, he entered t he

public-house. Nearly an hour elapsed before the clerk appeared, out of breath

and heated with running.

" I was afraid you would have g ot tired ou t, and gone away " he said,

wiping his forehead. " I w ent to Perkins's house, up at Ho ll ow ay ; hut he had

no t returned home, so I waited till he came."

" Hav e you got the information ? " said Leicester.

" Wel l , we'll talk of that by-a nd-bye ," said the clerk, with a cunning leer

in his ey e; " but I must have a glass of ale first. I came by the omnibus

to the New Roa d, and I have run all the rest of the way. "

Leicester took the hint, and opening his pocket-book, where ninety ponnds

of the notes that Guendole n had g iven hi m still remained, (for in the hurryand agitation of her visit he had for gotten to return them to her,) he took out

a five-pound not e, and carelessly examin ed it. The clerk grinned over his ale,

and nodde d familiarly to Lei ces ter ; then, taking out his pocket-book in his

turn, he selected a slip of pape r, whi ch he handed to him, obser ving, " Sir, I

see you are a gentleman."

Leiceste r shr ugge d his shoulders as he thoug ht how easily the character of ,

a gentle man h ad been ea rned by havin g in his pock et a roll of bank-not es

that did not belon g to him . " I admire y our penetr ation, si r," he said, with j

concealed sarcasm, as this thought shot through his mind.

The clerk bowed, and settled himsel f in his boots with a self-confide nt air,

adding, with a nod towards the paper which Leicester had just received,

" Tha t, you know, is the address of the party as that lot was bought for."

Leicester opened the paper, and read the name of Sir Frederick Elphinstone.

Litt le as he knew of the c ircumstances , he felt convinced that this was the

very man whose hands Guendo len most dreaded that the document should

reach. The bank-n ote was instantly transferred to the clerk's poc ket , and

with a hasty good night Leicester took his departure.

CHAPTER X X I I I .

Late on the afternoon of the sale Sir Fre deri ck Elphins tone sat in his

library awaiting the arrival of Mr. Perkins with the cabinet, and listening to

Harr y Greville's proposals for the hand of Sylvia. He told him that she was

portionless ; but Captain Grevil le, thou gh a fickle, was not a mercenary man,

and Sylvia was summoned to her father's presence to a ccept or reject him . The

result may be easily anticipated. Wh en she quitted the librar y, she was the

promised * bride of .Harry Greville. Sir Frederic k, though fond of his

daughter, appeared at times strangely abstracted and indifferent during this

scene; and though his heart beat as he placed Sylvia' s hand within her

lover's, it was not that he was signing the fate of his favourite child, but that

his anxious ear had caught the sound of shuffling feet in the lobby, as of

persons carryi ng a heavy weight . As the plighte d lovers retired, Mr . Perki ns

entered, followed by two men bearing the cabinet .

" I am sorry to say, Sir Frederi ck," he began, with a low bow , " that I

have had to go to a tremenjus l ong figure for it. Ther e was a lady there wh o

seemed determine d to have it, but she stayed too l ong to make up her mind

at last, and it was knocked down to me, sir. Her e is the acco unt."" Never mind the account," interrupted Sir Frederick ; " Mr. Bycroft wrill

see to that. There, set it down, and begone."

The porters obeyed in sile nce; but Mr. Perkins, as with low bows he

backed himself out, continued, " I hope, Sir Fre derick, I have not incurred

your displeasure, sir, by going to such a high figure, which I assure you, Sir

Frederick, I should not have done it, only Mr . Bycroft said that money was

of not the slightest consequence."

"There, there, that will do," cried Sir Frederick, waving his hand

hastily; " y o u have attended to your master's orders, and it is all perfectly

right."

N ot venturing to say any more , Mr . Perki ns made a final bo w, and

disappeared.

Sir Frederi ck instantly drew the bol t after him, and examine d the cabi net.

A whol e nest of secret drawers disclosed themselves after som e invest igation.

In one of these was a paper. He drew it out, and uttered a shout of triumph.

After readi ng it carefully he placed it in his breast poc ket, and walke d about

the room in extasy; but soon finding that space too confined for his exhilarate d

feelings, he bounded upstairs into the music-r oom, where Harry Greville, ina fine, sonorous voice, was singing wit h appropriate ene rgy the triumphant

love-song, " She is mine, she is mine—she has told me she is mine."

Guendolen returning from Mrs . M ay field's, wher e she had been changi ng

her dress after her fruitless search into the contents o f the I ndia n cabi net, was

slowly ascending the stairs, when Greville's well-kn own voice fell upon her

car. "She paused at the half open door and looked in. Sylvi a stood beside

the piano, and her bright colour and sparkling eyes that glanced half con

fidingly, half timidl y, upon the handsome face of the singer, as well as the

expressive looks that he ever and anon turned towards her, told her as plainly

as words could have spoken that they were acknowle dged lovers. But what

was the expression of Sir Frederick's face and figure as he stood with his

arms folded, and lips compres sed, and eyes flashing, and nostrils dilated, and

seemed to drink in fiercely every wor d of the so ng ?— Sh e tremble d and

shuddered, and passed like a shadow from the door.

Fo r a short time only did Guendolen give way to her o wn sorrowful and

gloomy apprehensions, and then went to Frank's room to cheer him with her

presence. So well did she act her part that the b oy though t her unusually

cheerf ul; and when she promise d him, wit h the doct or's permission, to takehim for a drive on the following day, his delight was so great that it rendered

her for the moment as happy as she seemed. She was walking up and down

the room supporti ng the child on her arm when the door hastily opened and

Sylvia appeared. A sudden pang shot throu gh Guend olen' s heart, but she

controlled it, and received the young girl with a smiling face. .

"Cous in Guendolen, Lw an t to speak to you, " exclaimed Sylvia; " I have

something very particular to tell you. "

" M a y I no t hear it to o, Sylvia ? " said Frank.

" No, dear, you will know it by-and-bye," returned his sister.

Guendole n place d the b oy on a, chair, and wi thdrew with Sylvia into the

recess of the furthest window.

" Oh, Cousin Guendolen," cried the blushing girl, " y o u will hardly believe

what I am going to tell you, but indeed it is true."

"Pe rha ps I k now it already," said Guendolen. " Y o u are engaged to be

married, is not that It ? "

" Oh, yes! " exclaimed Sylv ia; " but ho w did you know if ? "

"The"lit t le birds that carry secrets are not out of fashion yet ," said

Guendolen, " an d one of these told me of your engagement."

" H o w very strang e!" said Sylvia. " W h y , it only happened about an

hour ago."" Tim e enough to send the news to Pari s," said Guendolen, " so it migh t

easily come from one end of a house to the other ."

" But I can't imagine who told you ," said Sylvia. " W a s it papa? "

" I have not spoken to your father to-day," replied Guendolen.

" An d did your little bird tell you who he is r " continue d Sylvia.

" Oh, yes, I know that to o, " replied Guendole n, with a slight bitterness in

her tone ; " it is Captain Gre vill e."

" Your little bi rd knows all about it, I see ," said Sylvia. " He is such

a dear handsome fellow ! " she added, gaily. " You" have not seen him

yet, thou gh he has bee n here a good deal la tely while you have shut your

self up here with Frank. Y ou will like him so much w hen you know

him."

" I, have no doubt of it," replied Gue ndolen . " I trust you may be happy

with him. " She then returned to Frank's side.

" You will not stay up here this evening, will you ? " said Sylvia, following

her. " Mamma has a dinner-party, and some friends coming afterwards, and

then we sha ll have a dance, and some mus ic; not a set ball, you know , but a

pleasant little dance, which I like much better. Do come down, CousinGuendolen, and then you will see—you know who."

" Possibly I may," said Guendolen.

" No , do not say ' possibly ; ' tell me that you really will come."

" No , no, I w ill not pledge myself to anything, though I will alter the term

and say that probably I will join you."

. " Tha t is a little bette r," said Sylvia . " No w I' ll go and see if my new

dress is come."

Guendolen soon after retired to her own apartments, and gave way to

regretful and bitter reflections. Act ing on the mistaken impression that the

Mrs. Grevill e she had heard mentioned was Harr y's wife, she had carefully

avoided meeting him, Frank's illness havi ng suppli ed her with a sufficient

excuse for absenting herself from the reception rooms. When too late the

truth had daw ned upon her she saw at the same time the attachment that

had sprung up betwe en him and S yl vi a; to make herself known to him

then, would have bee n us eless ; for the barrier to her own union with him,

which was offered by her p revious ma rriage with Sir Frederi ck, was still in

existence.

" I will sec him once aga in, " she said, half aloud ; "pe rha ps under anothername and so diffe rently dressed, and in the last place where he would expect

to meet me, he may fail to recogn ise me, An d yet, " with a look at the glass,

" I am not so changed as to make that possible . I will treat him as a mere

acquaintanc e. I have strength to do it."

Guendolen did not join the party at dinner, but she bestowed unusual care

upon he r evening costume. He r dress was rich, and suited to her supposed

matronly character; and from some freak o f fancy, she wore, contrary to her

usual custom, a quantity of jewels.

The first object that met her eyes when she entered the danc ing-r oom was

Harr y Greville waltzing with Sylvia. She was making her way quietly

toward s La dy Elphi nstone , e xcha nging gre etings as she went with the few

guests with whom she was acquainted, whe n Sir Frederic k, who had be en

anxiously on the watch for her appearance, came to her side.

" H ow splendidly beautiful you look to-night," he whispered, drawing her

arm withi n his own . " A h ! Guendole n, you little know how passionately I

love you."

" I have already told you, Sir Frederi ck," she replied, "that such language

to me is insulting."" Na y, dearest, you are jes tin g," he exclaime d. " Ho w can it be insulting

to tell my wife that I love her ? "

"H us h ! Yo u will be heard," cried Guendolen, glanci ng hastily around.

" I am not your wife. You forfeited the title of husband long ago, and now

it is too late to claim it."

" W e will see about that," he replied, in a tone that made her shudder.

" D o not be too sure, my proud bea uty ; " a nd he pressed his hand upon the

breast of his coat, as if to make sure that somet hing was safe in the poc ket .

Guendolen saw the acti on, and her blood ran cold; but she conquered the

emotion, and walked calmly on.

" Let us join in this wal tz, " he said, putting his arm round her waist. But

she started back from his touch.

" N o, " she said, " I have taken your arm to avoid exciting attention, but I

will not dance with you. "

"W ha t is the meaning of this fre ak? " he demanded, angrily. " Y o u

danced with me on a former occasion ; and why not now ? "

" I know you better now," was the reply.

" And is that equivalent to liking me less! "

" Can you doubt it ? " said Gu endolen; and she turned from him and

approac hed La dy Elphinston e, leaving Sir Fr ederi ck grind ing his teeth with

rage.

While he yet stood endeavouring to control his temper from any present

outburst by the anticipa tion of complet e reve nge in the future, Harry Grevi lle

suddenly seized his arm, and demanded eagerly who that lady was, talking to

Lady Elphinstone ?



June 9, 18G0. j USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT.

" She is the wife of a relation of mine, " replied Sir Frederick , stung by

jealousy at Greville's eager manner.

" Did she live in Cumberland some time ago ? " asked Grev ille, not per

ceiving the malignant expression which stole over the baron et's face.

" Ye s, " replied Sir Frederic k, " She hid herself there from her husband,

with whom she did not live happily. She wants to ge t d ivorced from him,

but she cannot do it. He would not meet with the same difficulty, I imagine,"

he added, with an impertinent laugh. " Howe ver, I am goi ng beyo nd the

bounds of discretion in saying so much of a lady who still stands well in the

eyes of the world, and passes here as the most decorous of widows. You are

not a lawyer, my good friend," he added, laying his hand familiarly on

Greville's shoulder, "a nd will not use my half confessions against myself.

By Jo ve ! I have lost so much at play lately that heavy damages in the

Ecclesiastical Court would quite cut me up."

" Wh at is her name ? " asked Greville, still keep ing hi s eyes fixed upo n

Guendolen.

" Guendolen Elphinstone," was the reply.

" And she called herself Grace Eg er to n! " murmure d Greville.

" H o w ! Have you seen her b e f o r e ? " exclaimed Sir Frederick, feigning

surprise, t hough in the convers ation, as they left the opera-ho use, of whi ch

Guendolen had heard a part, his unsuspic ious friend had giv en him the

information which had sent him, armed with the da gger o f the midnight

assassin, to the retreat of the woman whom he now idolised.

" She is the la dy I told you of, who too k such care of me in my illnes s,"

said Greville.

" She whom you were going to marry ? " exclaimed the baronet, wit h an

affectation of increased astonishment.

"T he same," replied Greville. "T he re was no engagement between us ;

I had propos ed to her, a nd she hinted at some obstacle, and to ok time t o

consider about it. Th e very instant that was to have decided all, there came

a letter which threw her into vi olent agitation and caused her to come to

town at a momen t's notice . A week or two, spent apart from the fasc ination

of her presence, afforded me leisure to doubt whether I had been quite prudent

in eng agin g myself so far wit h a woma n whose life seemed envelope d in

mystery, and of whose family and connections I knew absolutely nothing .

Then my mother's indisposition obl iged me to g o to Paris. I confided the

whole affair to her, and she strong ly dissuaded me from forming a conn ectio n

with a woman who must, she proved, conclusively, be either of low birth, or an

adventuress. The more I told her about poo r Grace, the more strenuous

were her arguments. Fam ily pride and love for my mother are my two

strongest or weakest points, Sir Fre der ick; and, influenced by the t wo, I

promised her that I would seek an alliance with the daughter of a patrician

family as soon as I returned to Englan d. I thought of your lovely daughter

and hastened here, where the difficulty would have been not to obey my

mothe r's wishes. But how coul d I exp ect to find her here ? " he added, gazin g

dreamily upon Guendolen. " Ho w can I meet her ? Wh at explanation can

I offer?"

" Offer none, my dear fellow," said Sir Frederic k, whose objec t it was to

prevent any meeting or understanding between the two, in which his own

falsehoods on both sides would most certainly be brought to light. " She has

not seen you . I will tell Sylv ia that you are obliged to leave unexpectedly

By a timely withdrawal you will avoid an encounter that must lead to a mutual

explanation, which would be excessively painful to both. Guendole n is a

charming woman—a fascinating, heavenly creature, as such very loving souls

general ly are. But, for a wife—b etwee n ourselves you are safer with my

little Sylvia."

Without venturing another glance at a woman, the sight of who m, even at

a distance, was beginning to work strangely on him, Greville darted from

the room.

" That's wel l! " said the baronet, lookin g after him. " I' d blacken her to

him with every man in the ro om but I' d drive him from her, " he added, at

the same time watching her with jealo us eyes. " A h ! Wh at can that

me an ?" he exclaimed, suddenly, as he saw her receive a note from on e of

the servants.

He hastened dow n the room , and, stoppi ng the man on the staircase, asked

who had sent the note which he had just delivered to Mrs. Elphinstone.

" Mrs. Elphinstone's page gave it to me, Sir Frederi ck," replied the man

"Very well," said his master, "that will do. "As he turned to re-enter the drawing-rooms, Guendolen passed by, casting

on him a look of ineffable contempt. He writhed under her glanc e, thou gh

it stirred his heart to revenge, and seeing the page at the foot of the stairs, he

beckoned him up and questioned him closely about the person who had brou ght

the note. The boy, not being aware that there was any necessity for conceal

ment, answered him frankly that it had been given to him by a strange

gentleman, who was then waiting in Mrs. Elphinsto ne's boudoir . Sir

Frederi ck went for a few minutes into the dan cin g-r oom, and Avhen he s aw

that the servants were no longer near the door, he hastened towards Guen

dolen's apartments.

(To be continued.)

THE P A R T I N G T O N P A P E R S ;BEING THE LIFE, LECTURES, AND LOVE MATTERS OF MRS. PRUDENCE

PARTINGTON, RELICT OF THE HEROIC CORPORAL, PAUL PARTINGTON.

A L E A S E A F T E R A R E L E A S E .

We n my errotic Corporeal was march' t away , mi art sunk within me. Pore

l54ler, thought I, they'v e co mprehend ed him ; and it's a wondrou s thing to

evaporate from the clause of the lor. Wh at a griffin that lo r must be !

But I had ben reforming my astmatical tables without mi host, as they say

in the con trar y; mi Corporeal wras not to be thus snuff t out. Hi s art was

indurable, and not to be conq ueste d; his bravery was be yond perception, and

he well deserved to have a crown of that green baizo tree which is seeii on theheads of hayrows.

He marcht with his captures up to a brick house, which formed in those

simple and unconcatenated days our village hally de Justess ; and wen there

he lifted up his voice, and at oust counter manded the mare. That unctionary

put on his robes, consisting of a grate cote, for we wos primitive in the early

days of our vast Repub lic, and sot upon his thrown .

" N o w , " ses he, "h ol da ll of you your tongs, and let no one speke 'cept

myself, cos I am a madgystraite. Wh o comprehe nded the pris'ner ? "

" Wh y, you yourself did, your worshu p," sed one of the posse comictators.

" Never mind," ses the mare, " enter it on the books, and let's have it all

regler."

Wal, they was a-goin' to put down my Corporeal as a fellorn, and to permit

him for contumacy , wen who should contravene but the He lder himself; for

yo u see that the Cor poreal had ho ld of the wil l, and cou ld make some orkard

convolutions as regards the Helde r's cond ick. " So ," cried out the latter,

" M r . Mare," ses he, "it's all a mistake." Thi s'e re young man wants to

become my son-in-law, and purwided its not done in a cunning and con

spicuous way, why I'm a willin'," ses he." You 're a willin indeed ," congratulated the Corporeal, " but you'v e fixed

my flint, as sure as skies above, l i e f yo u hadn't a sed that word I would 'a

bin down upon you like a carliny tater, that I would."

" Ef so b e," sed the mare, " as it is to be a matter- o'-mone y, insted of a

trial, I'm willin too; for," said he, looking round with the potency of a

Seizener, " I bate lor, thoug h I am one of her perfunctionaries, and a justass

into the bargain."

Wall, it went on smooth enuff. Mr . Partington stuck to the will and

consisted that I should have my glo wry, or dowry, or wotever they calls it ;

and t he mare, who was a good" man, persuaded the Helde r to give it all up.

N ow that step-father was not very much dejected wen he got rid of me, 'cos

we never loved each other, and so it was in very considerable elongation of

soul that he proposed to unight me to the Corporeal upon the very next day

pursuing. The Corporeal was in an inconsistency of delite, but I was very

much flurried, 'c os I had no bonn ite, n or go wn d, nor fine fixins ready , and

yet I was to bcome the wife of an offisir.

But the mare, who was a ve ry kind sole, managed all this, having a neice

who had lately bin up to Bos ton as a Bridesmade, and she lent me her b onnet

with lilac and oran ge bloss oms, and si lly flowers, and a whit e lac e veil, pas

de soie boots, and pink silk stockings. Mi dress was of white satan, and mi

array was gorge ous. The Corporeal had his best ridgcmentals o n; the mare

guv me awa y; mi ma wept quite be co mi n'; and the He lder conforme d the

elevating and inspiriting service. In this deliteful ari'ay I was ushered into

the arms of Highmen. ( T q u c o n t k l u e d j

L O V E L Y N I G H T .

Th e sun sinks raid eve's misty grey,

Light an d jo y have pass'd away,While slowly through the deepening g loom

Breaks thy soft beam, si lvery m o o n .Earth's bright beauties, veil'd from sight,

Hail thy coming, lovely n i g h t !

•Shelter'd 'neath thy drowsy wings ,H a l lo w ' d thoughts fond m e m o r y brings,When only zephyrs hear the sigh,

A n d n o n e ma y see, save heaven's e y e —Th e even ing star, so purely bright ,

Hails thy coming, love ly night! F . E. P.

A PHILOSOPHER.—When Charles Fox's country house was on fire, and he

found all efforts to save it useless, he w ent to an a djoi nin g hill to make a

drawing o f the fire.

THE FLIRT.—There is an Eastern fable of a magician who discovered by his

incantations that the philo sopher's stone lay on the bank of a certain river, bu t

was unable to determine its locality more definitely. He therefore proceeded

along the bank with a piece of iron, to which he applied successively all the

pebbles he found. As one after another they produc ed no change in the

metal he flung th em into the stream. At last he hit upon the ob ject of his

search, and the iron became gold in his hand. Bu t alas ! he had become so

accustomed to the "tou ch and g o " movement that the real stone was invo

luntarily thrown into the river after the others, and lost to him for ever. W e

think this story well allegorises the fate of jthe flirt. She has tried and

discarded so many hearts that at length she throws a way the right 'one from

pure force of habit.

THE POWER OF SILENCE.—A good woman in Jersey was sadly annoyed

by a termagant neighbo ur, who often visited her and provo ked a quarrel.

She at last sought the cou nsel of her pastor, wh o added sound co mmon sense

to his other good qualities. Having heard the story of her wrongs, ho

advised her to seat herself quietly in the chimney corner wh en next visit ed,

take the tongs in her hand, and whenever a hard word came from her neig h

bour's lips, gently snap the tongs, without-uttering a word. A day or two

afterwards, the woman came again to her pastor, with a brig ht and laugh ing

face, to communicate the effect of this new antidote for scold ing. Her

trou blcr had visited her, a nd, as usual, commenced her tirade. Snap went

the tongs. Anoth er volley. Snap! Another stil l . Sn ap! " W h y don' t

yo u speak ? " said the termagant, more enraged. Sn ap! " Do spea k; I

shall die if y ou don't speak," and away she went, cured of her malady b y the

magic of silence. It is poor work scolding a deaf man, it is profitless beating

the air. One-sided controversies do not last long, and generally end in

victory for the silent party.

A G O O D M A X I M .

Le t each one strive with all his might

To be a decent man,

A n d love hi s neighbour as himself,

U p o n th e g o ld e n plan.

A n d if hi s neighbour chance to be

A pretty female w o m a n —

Why, love her all the more—you S60

That's only acting human.



9 2 T H E FAMILY. HE RA LD —A D OMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [Jime9,4SGd.

T O C O R R E S P O N D E N T S .

B A C K NUM BER S.— In consequence o f the numerous

compl aint s from persons resi ding in the country of

inabilit y to comp lete thei r Volu mes, we again repeat

that not a single Number of the FAMILY HERALD is ever

out of print. Subscribers unable to procur e back

Numbers th rough thei r Bookseller , or Booksellers

th rough their agents, may have them forw arded from

our Publisher th rough the book- post as fo l lows :—

3 Numbers, id. ex t r a ; 7 for 2d. e x t r a ; 15 for 4d. ex t r a ;

25 for (3d. e x t r a ; and 30 for 8d. ex t r a . A single

Number costs id . ex t r a by post . No s. 1 to 416 are

T w o p e n c e eac h; Nos . 417 to the present Numb er,

One Pen ny each.

C. N . asks how it is that butch ers are seld om thou ght as

muc h of as other tradespeople , and whet her it is degra

ding for a wife to wait in her husband's shop.— To the

latter question we reply by a decid ed negative. The wife

w h o is ashamed of her husband's avocation should not

eat the bread he earns. Besi des, havi ng marri ed wit h

all her sens es about her, it is her duty to cheerf ully

c o m p l y wit h all the obliga tions of her position and

s tat ion in life. Her e is anot her i nstan ce of the false

pride w hi ch helps to swell the ranks of feeble-minded,

queru lous, ever -g rumbl ing unmarr ied wome n. W e

are a nation o f merchants, manufacturers, and shop

keepers, and all are bound together by the ties of

interest. We are pro ud o f being a nation o f shop

keepers, as that grea t man Napo leon affected to ter m

us, because we k no w ho w to keep shops, a nd also

k n o w that they are never be t te r k e p t than w h e n

smil ing , comely-faced, and well-dressed wo me n are

beh ind th o counter s. We are all of us more or less

shopkeepers, for shop means a place for selling

wares. Know led ge is a ware, so are politics ; the

law courts are shops, for justic e is a war e: theHouses of P ar l i am en t are shops, for they sell juris

pruden ce ; even the Queen herself is a shopk eeper,

fo r she holds the scales of the consti tution, and o n c e a

year opens a very brilliant shop at Westminst er, whe n

she tells the people what commod itie s the G over nmen t

have at disposal, and gently informs the Commons

they will have to buy and pay for them . It is there

fore ut ter ly r idiculous, a kin d of insanity, to imagine

a shop " l o w . " There is more real dignity about the

sho p of a t radesman than there is about the burnishe d

man sio n of a rich idler, because the fo rmer is a pro

ducer, the other on ly a consum er of what his ancestors

w o r k e d hard for. As to the inquiry about the social

status of the butcher , we are unaffec tedly surprise d at

it ; for butcher s are amo ng the most respectable

classes of societ y, and take t he r ank w h i c h thei rbusiness and wealth give them . Besides, butche rs are

generally peaceful and humane men. Invidi ous

comparis ons on ly proce ed from the badly or non-

educated, and that miserable school of gentility,

which would rather live upon dishonest credit thanhonest labour.

A. B. C , wh o is much pleased with our article on " g o o d

luck and bad luck," yet confesses that he does not

under s tand certain points on predestinatio n. We

thought that our exp lanat ion o f the much-mooted

point was as clear as c o u ld be. The hypoth eses signify

merely suppositions, and surely may be both partially

wro ng. It is the nature of every hy pothes is to be so ;

it may be half t ruth and half error, or three parts oi

t ruth and one error. Wha t we mea n to say is this ,

that the A lmigh ty , be ing p resc ien t and omnisc ien t ,

does no doubt know the future fate of every one of H is

creatures ; and so far predes tina tion is t rue ; but that

inas much as He not only allows, but urges every

soul to choose th e good path , and as He came

d o w n on ear th for the especial purp ose of calling

s inners to repen tanc e, a nd for the salvation o f all

mank ind, predestination cannot mean what too

man y believe it to mean, pre-c ondemnat ion or pre-

reward. So also free-will, founded on a metaphys ical

hypothe sis, is not wholl y true.' There are circumst ances

o v e r whi ch a man has no control, such as bein g born

of hea then , deistical, or ut ter ly ignoran t parente, w h o

instead o f leading the chi ld towards Truth, overload

M m with error, and sur charge his min d with preju-d ic e . No w, whe n the wi ll is thus bound, it cannot be

free. But we must no longer continu e the contr oversy

— A . B. C. will easily perceive the dist inction w e have

drawn . The other portion of his letter we have referred

to its proper quarter.

BLEAK HOUSE.—A c y n i c has said that when a man

praises you, yo u may be sure he intend s to do yo u an

injury. What then should be said of the m an w ho

praises himself? Our Correspondent describes his

perfections with supr eme comp lace ncy. He is th i r ty ,

tall, hauds ome, athle tic ; can ride, shoot, swi m, walk,

run and ju mp, and dance. He is also clever, good-

tempere d, and a famous conversationalist. Still th e

ladies do not seem to appreciate th is modern Crichton.

What can be the caus e? Englis h girls are usuall y

afraid t o approach such a blaze of accom plish ments .

F e w even of the sterner sex like to be swall owed up

in a fiery flood of learning. There are no huma n

salamanders. But seriously, clever peopl e generally,

frequently u nconsc iousl y, overrate thei r powers , and

in inferior minds provoke distrust and a feeling of

repulsion. Wo me n admire genius, but they do npt likeit t o be sho wn off in a draw ing -roo m, as if it wer e a

c o m m o d i t y for sale. Geni us is for the great w o r l d ;

amiabilit3 T , cheerful ness, an d sound sense for the

sphere of hom e. Our Corresponde nt must c o m e d o w n

from his lofty and precarious height, and although he

ma y be a clever fe l low, do not let him by manner,

w o r d , look , or tone, endeavo ur to impress Others with

the fact that he himself kno ws it, and e xpec ts all

grou nd him to ackn owle dge his vast superiority.

FRANK H . — A n o t h e r letter on the difficulty young men ;

experi ence in procuri ng suitable wives . The youn g

ladies are constantly making the same complaint with

regard to husbands . I t is undou bted ly a great evil,

and vario us are th e cause s. A n old adag e tells us to

" mak e hay while t he s un shines ; " and we t h i n k it s

w i s d o m neglected in our t enderes t social relations.

The hap py mome nt for ma king a grasp at the favours

of fortune appears o n c e in the life tim e of us all . To

those either moral ly or pen t a l l y g i f ted beyond the

average qualif ications' of thei r fellow-creatures, it

c o m e s of tener ; and this reflection should teach us the

lesion that if we woul d thrive we must be the mai n

inst ruments of our elevation. The lives of all em inent

men prove that they duly appreciated th is universal

ma xi m. It min gle s in all the affairs of age. The lover,l ike Othello, has his ' ' pliant hou r," whi ch perchance ,

if he ne glects , never r e t u r n s ; for a wo ma n even

in her affections is like a c l o c k — to go r ight , sh e

must be allowed to go on. An y tampe ring with her

progress deranges the machine ry of her characte r;

and her ch ecke d impulses after recoverin g from the

s h o c k are more frequently t han otherwise diverted

into entirely ne w channels. Ad de d to this neglect of

oppor tunit y is the fastidiousness as to choice common

to both sexes. Yo ung peopl e canno t be too part icular ,

bu t then they should not be J oo n ice. The feverish

search after g o o d l o o k s and mo ney creates an awful

amount o f unnatural celibacy . The intense selfish

ness here displaye d defeats the purpose sought to be

realised. And then there is that social exclusiveness

w h i c h limits t he circle of acquaintances amo ng the

youthful. Again, the hab i t s of some youn g men are

not very invitin g to delicate -minded girls. A nd it ma y

be added, the pre sent extravagant rage for costly

dresses dri ves ail thoughts of mat rimo ny from you ng

me n of limit ed means. So that, indep endent of tbe

uncontrollable social causes of celibacy, there ar e

others susceptibl e of removal, or at all events of

ameli orati on. No t the least of these is that indecis ion

of character wh ich neglects favourable opportunities.

This fault rests main ly wi th young me n; and w e

cannot give them be t te r adv ice than to reiterate," mak e hay while the sun shines."

MESSALIA is curious to learn something about our per

sonal appearance — wheth er we are y oun g or old,

hand some or ugly. As we have no glass in our s tudy,

w e can only comprehend the fact that as an editor

w e are som eb od y; an individuality not made up

exclusive ly of f lesh and bone, but of more expansiv e

materials—incessant thought, an d a deep sense of

moral responsibility not being the least of the m. But

to the general pub lic editors are myt hic personages,

to be be lieved in, not seen and critically scrutinised.

Besides, an editor 's vanity lies in his ink-bot tle, a nd

his pride of pow er in his pen. B eing ne i ther a Jenk i n snor a "g en t, " he is conte nt to do his duty in a quiet

place, surroun ded by innumerable e xperien ces —

ne i ther soliciting praise nor scorning jus t censure.

In this invisible cloa k he can mingle in the wor ld

w i t h o u t interruption, an d ga ther knowl edge a t every

step he takes. As to you r other question, we replythat wom an' s weakne ss is at o n c e he r st rength an d

prote ction . Were wo me n as hard-grained as men,

h u m a n love and symp ath y would vanish from th e

earth. The o ak is the n obl est of trees, but it only

flourishes in a genial soil, and requires to be nouris hed

b y gen t le rain and swe et sunshine as mu ch as the

hum ble st flower.. T he vine clings to it, and lends

freshness and gracefulness to its rugg ed exterior. So

it is wi th man and wo ma n ; although so nearl y allied,

their natures are distinct, buj; together they constitute

the glor y and beaut y of the human world .

WRONGED ONE has been cruelly jilted —of that theredoes no t appea r a doub t. It is ver y difficult to subd ue

a warm preference for any one, especially by a you ng

woma n ; but wh en the objec t of it has pro ved un

wort hy and unmanty, it would be be t te r to fall back

on wou nde d pride, and cast him from all remem

brance excep t that associ ated wit h scorn . A fickle

lover seldom makes a g o o d husband. Feedi ng on his

o w n yanity, his hear t in ti me beco mes as dry as

su m m e r dust , and as small as a pig eon' s egg. There

is no vita lity in ' the fellow fo r good , but abu ndance of

gall for evil. Marria ge wit h such a man woUld be a

prison-house of continual torture. Having vitiated

feelings himself, he wou ld betray a callous indifference

to those of others. I t is such men who make darkened

dwellings, wh o prefer living in an atmosphere of vico,

an d falf prematur ely into the grav e unregrctted save

b y thei r starved , bruised, and ba t te r ed wives. As we

have often had occasion to r em ark , th e love of woman

is a mys ter y ; but ho w any one can cling to a desper ate

ruffian is bey ond our compre hensio n. Consider your

self well out of the affair, and ha ve impli cit confidenc e

in your father.

SARA B. L. stands up in defe nce of the you pg men of

Tiverton, wh om she has found 'both polite and gentle

manly, aud her experience is confirmed by that of her

lady Iriends. O ur TIVERTON GIRL, in No . 889, still may

have had cause to comp lai n, The rich and the poor ,

the privileged and neglected, seldom l o o k at such

things under the same aspect. Like the tw o knights

of old whose descriptions of the shield, which was g o ld

o n one side and brass on the other, se eme d to contra

dict each other, our Correspondent s may have each

erred in supposing that they were describing the wholeinste ad of pnly that section of the societ y of the place

in which they themselves move .

VIOLET.—Dwelling too much qn one idea disorders the

imagina tion and frequently leads to insanity. Mingle

more freely with pe opl e of you r ow n age, read cheerful

works, and take a more cheerful v ie w of everything.

A DUBLIN LADY.—Positive aud negative electricity arc

of equal pow er. Neither can over come the other.

; LUNETTE. — Homoeopa thy seems to gain ground but

s lo w ly . It boasts of a hospital, and its great principle

seems recognised. The I r i s hm an managed his obsti

nate pig by persuading him that he was going another

way; so le t LUNETTE overcome that obstinate bump.

— A s for the poi nt of etiquett e, we hol d that verbal

t hanks wh en a gentl eman offers his ar m are un

necessary, and too demonstrative. The lady should

b o w , an d assent .

JAM.—Before an o perati on is perfo rmed for the rem oval

of a cataract from the e ye, the patient should consult

a surgeo n, as a pre viou s course of diet and medi cin e

may be requisite.

ROBERT S.—Abs tain for a time , and take more animal

food. Read what we rec omm end in our extra Number ,

Health and Happiness, price Id., or 2d. post free.OTHER COMMUNICATIONS RECEI VED .—H . C. R . — A . O . B —

E . G . — S . W.—SMEETON.—A. G.—J. L . — S . R.—S. C. M.

—E . W. H. — K . H. W. (thankfully declined).—

ANNIE D . (send him the number , and demand a pair of

gloves of the size ; see repl y to A LOVING ONE, in No.

892).—ONE WITHOUT A FRIEND (a knowl edge of Latin

is essential; send 3d. for No. 100).—SUSAN G. (endea

vour to over come it ; besides, he migh t serve you the

same).—SELINA (apply to the Secretary, Lond on Dis

tr ict Telegraph Compa ny, 58, Threadneedle Street) .—

FLORENCE S. (declin ed wit h thanks). — X. (Hail,

Mary !).—AUGUSTUS (co ld bathing ever y morning, and

the other remedies prescribed). — CHARLES W . (she

should be advised by her parents , submitting her

objections to their consideration, and t rust ing to their

love an d affection).—D. E. S. (we never tell tales ou t of

s c h o o l ; b u t neither the writer of the lines, nor of the

paragraph, wears crinoline),—CAPITOLINUS (see reply to

GERTRUDE ALICE in N o. 889).—I. M. (we always de cline

b e c o m in g referee in betting transactions).—EDWARD H .

( by practice, accord ing to Hartley 's or Smallfield 's

Principles of Punctuation).—THY, MILL ON THE FLOSS (i s

there an engagement ? if not, be sure that a cool reserveis preferable to the reverse; it wants regularity).—

GERTY (it has reference to the Resurrection, and is

explai ned in Luk e xx . 34, 35).—SYMPATHISER (cheer

ful society is the best cur e; dark flaxen).—KATIE M.

(n o impropr iety, as it has y our mother 's sanction).—

MINNIE F . (when you receive such kind greetings

through his father, return them in the same wa y;

very good).—PISISTRATUS (trite, and not sufficiently

pointed).—ECRITURE (a lady ; with practice it may be

rendered so).—ELSIE G . (sen d for No. 24, 3d. post free;

very dark brown , and light auburn)—LOOKING OUT

(Canada; consult Stanford 's Emigrant's Guide to

Canada, Is). —J. E. (yes, if yo u th ink it will not create

jea lousy) .—W. E. A. (Jarro ld 's; use a softer pen). —

A SUBSCRIBER (use name or init ials; tra, or trate, both

equal ly common).—ROSE-BUD (a cracked inst rumentcannot make pleasant mus ic ; if not unpleasant to you,

d o not discard him on that account) .—JAMES L. (apply

to the secretary, 21, Old Broad Street, City, E.C .; see

reply to LOOKING OUT).—HANNAH MARIA (marry the

man of your c h o i c e ; you want decision, but may

acquire i t).—EDITH P . (app ly to any of the large

foreign booksellers in Lond on ; very good).—JOHN C.

(lines addre ssed to individuals do not suit our pages).

—MARIE an d LOUISE (ye s; for prose, if approved).—

A. B . C. (see rep ly to FLORENCE an d BRUNETTE in

N o . 8 9 2 ; yes).—JULIET (brea k throu gh an infatuat ion

whic h ma y only end in misery).—LAURA S. (tall men

love " bonn ie wee thing s " ; but wait for mo re mark ed

a t t en t ion ; send it, wit h real name and address).—

JAMES (Turner 's Chemistry for Students).—A BUTLER

( e x c e e d in g ly dangerous ) .—MARY S. (no, but dry toas t

and weak tea wit hout sugar) .—EMILY J. (see W in d o w

Gardening in No. 208).—BAXTER (see Nos. 380 and 390).

— A . Z. (w e gave a list o f such wo rks in No. 202).—

STRANELLA (bette r break it up for a time than cause dis

cord) .—T. H. F . (apply to Mr. Goodma n, bookseller ,

407,. Strand, W.C.).—PATRICK S. (Master Key to Public

Offices, 3s. 8d. free, as above).—A. C. W. ( D . I. Noad,

Esq.. Alderman 's Walk, Ne w Broad Street, London ,

E.C.).—SWEET BRIAR (it is a mys ter y ; s ec No. 24).—

J. M. C. and NELLY B. (see Nos. 089 and 090).—BERTHA

an d HARRIETTE (send 3d. for No. 277, conta ining an

article on the Care of the Hands).—GERTRUDE ( o f an y

d r a p e r ; see No. 834).—ELLEN C. (see No. 371).—MURRAY (see No. 274).—DISFIGURED ONE (see Nos . 520

an d 783)—R. C. S. (see No. 300).—FLORIST (sec No,

5 7 1 ) . — * * * * (see No. 881).—ISAAC J. (see N o. 725).

—N ELLIE an d KATE (see No. 07i>).

p L A S S E S F O R W O M E N, \ J at the Wor kin g Men's College, 45, Great Or mon dStreet, W. C.

Easter Ter m, 1800. Hal f Term begins June 4, endsJ u l y 7.

Tupils are not admitted under fourteen years of age.

Hours—3 to 4 o'clock P.M. 4 to 5 o ' c lock P.M.

Monday.... Reading Writing

Tuesday.... Biblo Class Englis h His tory

Wednesday, Arithmeti c English Gramma r

Thursday.. Writing Reading

Friday . . . . Geography ^Bookkeep ing .

Saturday.. Natural Hist ory ) . ,.

of Plants y \ Ar i thmet ic

* No pupils can enter this class at the Hal f Ter munless they kno w something of Book keep ing already.

FEES.—Entrance Fee Is. (not to be rene wed after

absence). Fee for classes of One H our per v\ cek, Sd. '

Tw o Hours a wee k, Is. •*'

The Bible Class is free to all Members of the Classes

The Bible Class is taught by the Rev. F. R. Mauri ce;

the other Clares by Ladies.

Prayers are read by one of the Teachers every dav at

Five o ' c lock . J •



June 0, 1300.] USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT. 93

F A M I L Y H E R A L D .

KEW GARDENS.

A little gleam of that peace and purity which hung over the old Paradisestill hangs about a garden. Quaint old thinkers have said their say as to thereasons why our first parents were placed in the garden of Paradise. Thenew Paradise, which we all hope to reach, is to he a celestial city, and will beadorned with untold and unimagined splendours; but in the new birth andglory of the year, when spring leaves and flowers hang out their beauties uponevery side, tne mind is apt to revert to that old one in which the first man

walked and talked with God, and was therein instructed by him in the wealthand wonders of his new possession—the earth around him; and perhaps evennow, in the midst of rural solitudes and garden shades, the works of man seemfurther distant and those of God nearer than elsewhere. One does not wonderin such a place why the successors of Ninus and Semiramis passed their livesin hanging gardens and deep groves; nor why Scipio, Augustus, Lucullus,and Diocletian, and Henry II. of France, and other great potentates, afterall the troubles and turmoils of government and the storms of conquestand ambition, wound up theirs in sweet garden retirement. The very contemplation of the subject is calming and peaceable, and serves as a soothinganodyne. " Why should one man," said an old gardener, " take pains andrun hazards by sea and land all his life that his children might be luxuriousand lazy, all theirs? " and, adds Sir William Temple, "no one yet could givehim an answer."

Even now, in this last end of time, when confusion worse confounded seemsto be beginning, it is just as well to turn out of our pursuit of pleasure,politics, or business, to observe the lilies of tke field, which on a notableoccasion were cited as a proof and argument for quiet dependence on Provi

dence for humility and faith. But as it may reasonably be urgeoVthat everyman has not a garden to contemplate, and our teachers and preachers do not,as in Athens, walk about in shady groves, uttering the golden words of wisdom, we would especially refer to those arboreta, parks, and gardensbelonging to the public which are now happily to be found near or in everytown. Where they are not, there they should be ; and men of public spirit,and love for their fellows, would do quite as well in planting trees in publicplaces, and in preserving those which we have, as in building drinkingfountains—a wholesome and excellent movement, but one likely now to beoverdone. It would be well, too, if every fountain had its patch of greenand tree near it, where possible; the shade would refresh the people, and thewater nourish the tree.

The public gardens, and especially those in the parks, are all fed as it werefrom one centre, which is the old Royal Garden at Kew, given up in 1840 byHer Majesty Queen Victoria to His" Majesty the Public; a right royal gift,appreciated more and more every year, and still more to be loved andappreciated yet. Hortus Kewensis, the Kew Garden, as old Alton, one of thefirst of its botanists and historians, latinised it, took its rise from the admiration which Frederick Prince of Wales, father of King George the Third, had

for the situation. He leased the gardens from the Capel family in 1730, andhis widow employed Sir William Chambers to adorn and decorate them;and the vistas, and some of the temples and buildings, the very walks andplans laid down by the old gentleman yet remain, this people's garden beingin a better state of preservation, and containing rarer and more beautifulobjects than that of any nobleman or emperor in the world. Ho w KingGeorge the Third loved Kew, and how he and his plain but good wife andlarge flock of children used to walk two and two to church, prayer-books inhand, like a reverend patriarch at the head of a school, is known to all. Thewhole country loved the farmer king, wrho, in blue coat and gilt buttons,gave such an air of pious respectability to the Sunday; and the farmer king,and " my wife Charlotte," as he called the Queen, walked up and down KewGardens on many a sunny Sunday morning and afternoon, when George of Wales, Clarence, and Cambridge, were gambolling, in new skeleton suits andfrills, over the grass plats. The days are altered now; skeleton suits andHessian sleeves have given place to Knickerbockers and peg-top trowsers, andthe many sons of King Public may run across the grass where the princessported; for it is by no means forbidden to walk on the lawns; still it is

requested that preference be given to the paths, and that the lawn edges benot made a kind of footway ; and what is more, however very strict Sabbatarians may talk, Kew Gardens are open on Sundays, and may be reached byboat, railway, or omnibus, at a very small price, when the aforesaid old andyoung Public may go and see such wonders of creation as shall compel them,if they have any reverence at all, to

Worship God withouten thrall,

'Neath the blue sky, which bends o'er all.

No word of ours shall counsel Sabbath-breaking—Sunday is the best giftthe worker ever had—but we well remember Who walked through Galileancorn-fields on a Sunday, and whose words defended the practice.

When in the garden, good advice may be given in this high-pressure agenot to " do " it all at once. There is nothing more tiring than a successionof wonders—one drives, out the other. Picture-seeing or museum-wanderingfatigues too much to do much good, if too greedily pursued. A wise advice it isto plant one's self opposite a fine picture or a statue, and to thoroughly study it—drink it all in—look at it in every aspect. If this be true of man's work, howmuch more so is it of the works of the Creator—and here are many of His

master-pieces. In the plant-house No. VI. is the Victoria water-lily, withgigantic orbicular leaves five or six feet in diameter, light green above,purple crimson below, with flowers a foot and a quarter across, fragrant,white, with a pink centre, deepening to a deep rose colour. In that houseone may spend any amount of time—the more perhaps the better, if wewatch the variety and structure of the plants, and meditate wisely too, how

every small part is adapted to the end of an all-wise Creator. In one of Southey's earlier poems there is expressed a thought which will come intoeverybody's mind. The little poem takes for its theme the holly. " Didstthou ever stop to see a holly tree ? " which, as many perhaps have notobserved, has its lower leaves covered with strong prickles, whilst the upperones, far away from danger of being hurt by passing animals, are nearly freefrom them. Speaking of this, Southey says truly enough that it is

Ordain'd by a Providence so wise,

As might confound the atheist's sophistries ;

and Lord Bacon, who loved gardens, and wrote a charming essay on thesubject, has himself cited God's works to prove His existence. "Go dnever wrought miracles to convince the atheist," says he, "because hisordinary works convince him." So also these works in Kew, ordinary enoughin the tropics, or at the equator, come before our English eyes with greaterfm-ce, because they are so strange. The feathery foliage of the palm, or thetough india-rubber-like texture of the leaves of the water-lily, alike indicatethe purpose of the Maker. So also do the cocoa-nut trees of various kindsto be seen in the palm-house. From them the Eastern gains not only hissustenance but his clothing; the cover of his tent and the ropes which bindhis camel, fruit, milk, wine, or toddy, oil, wood, fibre; its uses, says itsgrateful panegyrists, are more in number than the days of the year. So, again,do numerous palms—fan palms, and palms with leaves like the fins of a fish,cabbage palms, wine palms, and milk palms; all which can be seen, andlooked down upon with great satisfaction from the gallery of the house, whereat thirty feet above the ground, and at an hour's distance from London,one may pass a dreamy afternoon in a tropical atmosphere amidst luxuriantfoliage such as the brightest oasis in the whole Sahara seldom affords. Look,for instance, at the leaves of the Livistonia JBorbonica, with its spiny stemspreading out like the fingers of some huge hand, and its vast leaves wravingabout upon such slight stems that they need support. The great Designer hassupplied it. The rachis, or main stalk of the stem, extends at the end into a

lengthened slender tail, armed with strong dellexed (or turned back) hooks,by means of which while running up the stems and catching hold of thebranches of other trees, the foliage and stem are preserved. But Nature hasnot done this, any more than she has done anything, blindly. The young andunfolded leaves of this plant run perpendicularly up the stem, and insinuatethemselves very comfortably amongst other leaves, and are not provided withthe deflexed hook till they are strong and heavy enough to need it.

There are many other trees in the palm-house worth especial notice. Thereis that tree which supplies the pigment with which our water-colour artistsare familiar—Dragon's Blood ; this is the Draccena Draco, a tree which givesout a resinous astringent gum, formerly used very much in medicine. It is anative of Tenerifle, and Humboldt has noticed it in his Travels. "Thogigantic tree of Orotara," he writes, "measures forty-five feet in circumference, a little above the ground." The tree is of extremely slow growth.There is one at Tenerifle, which was formerly worshiped, and which, fourhundred and fifty years ago (a very fair age for a cathedral or a castle,) wasas large and hollow as it is now; that and the Baobab are amongst the oldestvegetable inhabitants of our planet.

If any of our readers are curious to see, without a voyage to Charlestownor the Southern States, a real sugar-cane, they may see it, as well as thebamboo, in the palm-house. The cane is after all nothing but a giganticgrass ; but, contrary to the custom of its relatives, it is not hollow, but filledwith saccharine, which is extracted by heavy rolling cylinders. The stalks of the cane are generally employed as fuel for the furnace, whereby the sugaris boiled, and it is so full of siliceous or flinty matter, that great masses otglassy slag are deposited in the furnace. But beyond our domestic sugar, wemay here see our tea, coffee, chocolate, cocoa, and our mahogany ; andcinnamon, and other spices make up the domestic list. A banyan tree, alarge specimen of which has been known to shelter 7,000 men beneath itswide-spread shade, is also to be found here; and cotton plants and indigotrees need not be unknown nor unfamiliar without moving away from thehouse.

But we, at least, whatever may be the advice given to our readers, may notlinger longer here. There are many other "houses" to visit. There, arethe fern houses and the orangery; a tropical aquarium, wherein grows thePapyrus Antignonum, from which, in the days of the Ptolomies, the artisans

made paper; many kinds of gourds, the posterity perhaps of that one whichgrew by Nineveh and covered Jonah; and the sacred bean of India, a right-worshipful plant in the good old days of Vishnu and Siva. Then we havegreenhouses and conservatories, blazing indeed with fragrant beauty; a Mesembryanthemum house, containing under that crack-jaw name manyAfrican plants, which have this peculiarity—that their foliage resembles the

jaws of various animals, the plants obtaining their Latin names from thatcircumstance, such as felinum, tigrinum, vulpinum, &c. Moreover, thereare two orchideous houses, a Victoria house, and a succulent, a New Zealandor coniferous house, a tropical fern house, one also devoted to azaleas, andmany others ; one of the most interesting being the heath house, wherein inthe various seasons bloom the heaths of the Cape and of New Zealand. Amagnifying glass, and a determination to observe, will in any of these receptacles find at least a whole year full of wonders.

The outside of the gardens is also as beautiful as the different green-houses.A carpet of green turf, as fine and brilliant as any that England can boast,is spread everywhere. At each turn, ancestral trees wave their tall greenbranches above you, and invite you by the beauty of their foliage or the cool

luxuriance of their shade. Wherever you turn, long vistas open to the eye,bounded, it may be, by the silver Thames, or an old pagoda, or tall tower,but always by a beauty ; and

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.

The pleased retina of the eye carries away such calm and delightful sights,

whilst above you the gentle summer sky is spread, and the swallows wheel



94 DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [June 9, 1-SGO.

and dip. Ar ou nd you in the evening the birds are singin g from every tree;

all the earth seems to be keepin g a sweet and gent le yet jubil ant sabb ath;

and with a mind filled with a sense of the awful, yet beneficial power of the

great Wor ke r, with a knowle dge of His goodness and His love, the visitor is

ready to break out into that solemn Magnificat, which bids, though bidding

here is needless, " all the green things of the earth, and all the trees and

shrubs" to praise the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever; and,

moreover, as he returns home to the crowded city, well may he

Marvel that a day,

So calm and quietly hath pass'd away,

Like to the passage of an angel's tear,

Which falls through the blue ether silently." And n ow, mine honest schol ar," says quaint I zaac Wal to n, " let me tell

you there are some days so fine that they are fit only to praise God upon."

Le t us hope that our readers will find a day at Ke w Gardeus of that rare sort.

T H E F I R S T M O N T H OF S U M M E R .

'Tis early June ; tlie odorous M a y

Still scents the b a l m y air,While spr ing ne w blossoms every day,

Each as the season fair.

Th e earth unveils he r blushing b ro w ,

An d wreaths it round with bloom ;

No tempests chill he r bosom n o w ,

No r shade her face w ith g l o o m .

'Neath th e blue canopy above,

While sunbeams form he r crown,He r fairest children meet in love,

An d make their merits known.

Th e hedgerows w ith wild roses ga y,An d blue bells at his feet,

L igh t up the wanderer 's lonely w a y ,

An d breathe a w el co m e sweet .

Th e foliage of the chestnut m adeWith bloom as white as snow,

Throws it s invit ing tempti ng shadeUpon th e sward below.

Th e co lumbine no w rears her head,High 'mid the waving grass ;

Eorget-me-nots bend to the tread

Of maidens as they pass. •

L aburnum s hang their wealth o'er us,A n d th e elm 's dark branches m ee t ;

Whilst woodbine an d convolvulusAr e tw in ing at our feet.

Beau ty an d Love are out abroad,Their riches freely shed,

They s trew the daisies on the sward,A n d all its dainties spread.

T h e n fly the t o w n and turn thine earTo list to Nature's voice ;

No disappointing want shall marTh e pleasure of thy choice.

Sh e hath relief for the dist rest,A charm fo r sor row's smart,

An d giveth to the weary rest,

Peace to the t roubled he a r t !

Oh, cast al l wor ld ly cares away ,

An d haste her smiles to meet ;

Upon her shrine th y tribute lay,With grat i tude replete.

An d ever pray that sh e may raise

Ou r tho ugh ts up to her Go d ;To j o i n he r holy h y m n o f praise,

Al l prostr ate on her sod.

VERBENA.

F A M I L Y M A T T E R S .

If you buy what you have no occasion for, you will soon have to sell wha^

you catonot spare.

They who when about to marry seek their happiness in the mere gain ing

of fortune and personal beauty, evince a heartless dispo sition, and th eir follyis often punished in their success.

A generous mind identifies itself with all around it ; a selfish one identifies

all things with itself. The gener ous man seeks happiness in pro moti ng that

of others ; the selfish man reduces all things to his own interest.

A FACT.—If all men knew what they say of one another, there would not

be four friends in the world. This appears b y the quarrels whi ch are some

times caused by indiscreet reports.

HAPPINESS.—They are best suited to be happy who are neither t oo hi gh

nor too low—high enough to see models of good manners, and obscure enough

to be left in the sweetest of solitudes.

NARROW-MINDEDNESS.—Narrow-minded men who have not a thought

beyond the little sphere of their own vision, recall the Hindoo saying, " The

snail sees nothing but its own shell, and thinks it the grandest in the

universe."

TH E MARRIAGE RELATION.—The great secret is to learn to bear with

each other's failings; not to be blind to them—that is either an impossibility

or a folly ; we must see and feel them ; if we do neither they are not evils tous, and there is obviously no need of forbearance ; bu t to thr ow the mantle of

affection round them, co nceali ng them from each other's eyes, to determine

not to let t hem chi ll the affectio ns; to resolve to cultiv ate good -te mpere d

forbearance because it is the way of mitigat ing the present evil, always with

a view of ultimate amendment. Surely it is not the perfection, but the

imperfection, of human character that makes the strongest claim in love. Al l

the world must app rove, even enemies must a dmire, the good and the estimable

in human nature. If husband and wife estimate only that in each which all

must be constrained to value, what do they more than others ? Is it

infirmities o f character, imperfec tions of nature that called-for the pitying

sympathy, the tender compassion that makes each the comfort er, the monit or

of the other ? Forbearance helps them to obtain command over themselves.

Fe w are the creatures so utterly evil as to abuse a generous confidence, a calm

forbearance. Married persons should be pre-eminently friends, and fidelity is

the great p rivi lege of friendship. Th e forbearance here contende d for is not

weak and wicked indulg ence of each other 's faults; but such a calm, tender

observance of them as excl udes all harshness and anger, and takes the bes t

and gentlest methods of pointing them out in the full confidence of affection.

RASPBERRY SANDWICH.—Take half a pound of sifted sugar, half-a-pound

of butter, tw o eggs, and two ounces of ground rice, work them well together,

then add seven ounces of flour. Sp read half this mixture upon buttered

writ ing paper, in a shallo w tin dish, then a layer of raspberry prese rve; and

next, cover with the other hal f the paste. Bake in a quic k oven, and when

required for use, cut it into thick pieces like sandwiches, havi ng previousl y

gjfted a little sugar over it .

FASHIONS FOR JUNE.

(From the LONDON AND PARIS LADIES' MAGAZINE.)

The silk materials this season are very pretty. The taffetas double c/iaineis of a firm texture, suitable for the skirts without flounces. Stripes lengthways are also worn, merely ornamented by noeuds or plisses. Tho taffetas

japonais is suitable for morning grande toilette, of white ground, with largedevices in paille and Japan red. Similar ones are with black ground. Anew style of barege has also appeared of thicker texture, broche in sprigs of mais, or any delicate colour. Foulards are also worn, and plain taffetas arevery fashionable. Narrow flounces are most general, and the bodies high.Even in thin materials, and with low bodies, fichus are worn. In somematerials, as barege, silk grenadines, coloured muslins, they are the same asthe dress. Flounces festonnes, in colours, are spoken of for dresses of perealetaffetas or fancy muslins. Sleeves continue to be worn very wide and loose ;they are plisse at the top, with or without jockey; the trimming of the bodyshould correspond with the skirt. Cinctures, with ends the same material asthe body, are worn; the noeuds are long and drooping, and edged with a frill.Rich gimps continue to be used on bodies and skirts, and straw is frequentlyintermixed with them.

Paille de riz, Leghorns, and crape are all fashionable. Belgian straws arereserved for simple toilettes; aigrettes are used in every shade of colour asornaments, and no longer in clustered bunches, but long and waving as aBird of Paradise. The inside of bonnets is much trimmed,'particularly overthe forehead. Choux of crape, velvet, or ribbon, frequently ornamentmourning bonnets; a pretty fancy ornament of birds made in silk or straw.The latter are very pretty on young ladies' hats. Many bonnets are of mohair, either black or grey.*. Some are ornamented with steel. Brilliancyis admired just now, and torsades of gold spangles, crescents, flowers with

gold centres, are used. Black ribbon is still fashionable on bonnets. Paletotsof black silk are the most fashionable walking toilette. They are long andflowing, and will also be in embroidered muslin, or plain, with a narrow plisse.Muslin shawls will also be worn, trimmed with guipure, or narrow velvet foryoung ladies' scarfs, will be preferred. Shawls and mantelets o. lace arealways fashionable. The newest are ornamented with two rows of lace.

S C I E N T I F I C A N D U S E F U L .

All the colours have been produced by photography, but it has been heretofore impossible to fix them. It is now stated that M. Toussaint, of France,has succeeded in fixing these colours permanently; and that consequently weare to have photographs of objects in all their natural colours. The principalsubstances used are reported to be oil of pink and chloride of gold.

Sir David Brewster, inquiring into the history of the stereoscope, finds thatits fundamental principle was well known even to Euclid; that it wasdistinctly described by Galen 1,500 years ago ; and that Giambatista Porta had'

in 1599 given such a complete drawing of the two separate pictures as seenby each eye, and of the combined picture placed between them, that werecognise in it not only the principle, but the construction of the stereoscope.

A USEFUL HINT FOR SWIMMERS.—A correspondent of the Field says that

cramp in the legs may be easily and instantly cured, thus:—"On the momentof its seizure in the calf of the leg, the instep should be forcibly drawn up orflexed on the leg, and-the cure will be as sudden as the attack. I have triedthis very many times, and it never fails."

ALUMINIUM.—The price of aluminium, which in 1854 was £55 the pound,and two years ago was reduced to £5, is on the point of being still furtherlowered. Messrs. Morin and Co., manufacturers of chemical products in thoGard, are fitting up their factory to produce the metal at 80s. the pound,wdaich, taking the lightness of the metal into consideration, would make theproportion of cost about £1 for articles in aluminium which in silver wouldcost £10.

EARLY SWARMING BEES.—The dates on which the earliest swarms comeoff are always interesting, and this season they will be especially so on

account of the length and severity of the winter. On Saturday, the 12th of May, I had a very fine swarm from a set of Stewarton boxes, the samestock which last year gave me the two heavy boxes which were exhibited^efore the Apiarian Society. The swarm contained two queens, and theclusters were hived separately and then united, thus forming a powerfulcolony, which is now working with might and main.—SHIRLEY HIBBERD.

GLASS IN PAVEMENTS. — A correspondent of the Builder says, " In my

walks through London, I have noticed that several of the thick glass arealights are very much cracked, and in some instances dangerously so. I do notthink that this has arisen from any overweight, but from the circumstance of the glass fitting too tightly in the iron frames. I am of opinion that thecause of the mischief is the different degree of expansion and contraction of the two materials. The introduction of an elastic medium between the edgeof the glass and the frame would, I believe, obviate the evil, and prevent muchexpense and risk. Similar fractures take place from too tightly fitting theplate-glass in shop-fronts, so that, upon the slightest settlement in the houseor building occurring, the large and expensive plates are immediately shatteredas usual from some * inexplicable cause.' "

THE AEROPHON.—The acrophon is a novel and ingenious musical instrument,consisting in the sounds being produced by means of steam, and the ingenuityin the mechanical arrangements of the working details. The exhibitor, Mr.Denny, of the United States, who has patented his instrument both in Englandand America, has chosen Cremorne Gardens as a place where its powers couldbest be tested. At a distance it has a pretty appearance, presenting- a clusterof shining, brass, wide-mouthed trumpets. When examined closely, thereare seen two rows of brass cylinders, viz., twelve of large size behind, and



USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT. 95

twenty-two smaller in front; into these cylinders, steam is admitted by meansof a simple and ingenious valvular apparatus. When the steam is admitted,each cylinder of course sounds a different note, and we have, in fact, the ideaof the ordinary railway steam-whistle expanded into a musical instrument.

INSTINCT.—All kinds of life, whether vegetable or animal, have within them

a principle of preservation, as well as of perpetuity; were that not the case, allthat breathes or grows would die; this principle or quality is common to manand beast, and all that springs from root or seed; it is named " Instinct." Itis instinct which calls, by thirst for water, when there is not fluid enough inthe system. It is instinct which calls for food, by hunger, when a man is weak and needs renovation. It is curious and practically valuable as a means forthe removal of disease to notice the working of this instinct, for it seems to be

almost possessed with a discriminating intelligence; certain it is that standardmedical publications give well-authenticated facts, showing, that following thecravings of the appetite, the animal instinct has accomplished far more thanthe physician's skill was able to do ; has saved life in multitudes of cases, when

science had done its best, but in vain.

S T A T I S T I C S .

The pictures purchased for the National Gallery during the past year cost

£14,420.

Two wax candles, made by the Irish Peat Company from peat, were said to

have cost £250 each.

For the three hundred publications or so which annually issued from the

British press, about the middle of the 17th century, we now produce every

year some five thousand publications of all sorts.

For the evaporation of brine from the saline springs of Worcestershire and

Cheshire to manufacture table salt, about 3,000 tons of coal are consumed perday, or 950,000 a year. The manufacture of gas in England absorbs at least

10,000,000 tons of coal per year.

E X P O R T S TO AMERICA.—The shipments to the United States (whichreceived a serious check after the panic of 1857) have recovered to a pointbeyond their former scale, and are now more than 17 per cent of our totalexports, foreign and colonial, and 27 per cent of our foreign exports alone.It is to be remarked that our trade wTith European States is every yearbecoming of a more secondary character, as compared with that which wehave established among our Colonial and American progeny. It is to thosequarters that the magnificent augmentation exhibited in the present total over1858, and which renders it of unprecedented amount, is entirely due. Thegeneral increase is £13,831,671, while to the Colonies and the United Statesit was £14,022,424. The balance of our business carried on with all otherparts of the world resulted therefore in a falling off."

T H E BRITISH MUSEUM.—The annual account of the British Museum hasbeen re-presented to Parliament, with the usual statement of the mode in which

the proposed estimate for the current year, £100,850, is to be expended. Thesalaries amount to £39,084, and £25,282 is appropriated to purchases, chieflyof books, antiquities, and minerals, with nearly as much for repairs, furniture,and fittings, the latter principally for the library and department of antiquities.Bookbinding costs £7,500 a year. The number of readers last year was122,424, which would give an average of 418 a day. The number has morethan doubled since the noble and spacious apartment now appropriated tothem was opened in 1857 ; but the number of visits to the other parts of theMuseum, the general collections, does not quite keep up. Last year it was517,895. In addition to the usual days, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,the Museum is now open on Saturday from 12 to 6, and will be so until theend of August.

PERFUMES.—The French prepare more perfumes than any other people.In the south of France, and in Piedmont, vast crops of flowers are grown.Cannes and Nice furnish yearly about 13,000 pounds of violet blossoms.Both cities are famous for their orange blossoms, the latter producing 100,000pounds, and the former double that quantity, and of a finer odour. Cannesabounds, too, in the Acacia Farnesiana, and affords yearly 9000 pounds of itsfinely scented blooms. Careful treatment is required to extract the etherealoils. These are so largely mingled with other vegetable juices, that 600pounds of rose leaves yield only about an ounce of the otto of roses. Theorange blossom, however, is richer, and 500 pounds of flowers yield about twopounds* of Neroli oil. One perfume manufactory at Cannes requires yearlyabout 140,000 pounds of orange blossoms, 20,000 rounds of acacia blossoms,140,000 pounds of rose leaves, 32,000 pounds of jasmine blossoms, 20,000pounds of violets, and 8000 pounds of tuberoses, besides many other fragrant

^materials. At a recent meeting of the Society of Arts, it was stated that inFrance and England alone the value of the perfumery manufactured reached£2,000,000 sterling.

V A R I E T I E S .

Mrs. Ellison, of Sudbrooke Holme, Lincolnshire, has presented to thenation fifty fine water-colour paintings by British artists.

It is probable that a public road will soon be made across Hyde Park toaccommodate the increasing traffic between Bayswater and Kensington.

The materials of Hungerford suspension-bridge, which is about to be takendown to make way for one in connection with the Metropolitan Railway, areto be used for the formation of one at Clifton.

T H E J E W ' S H A R P . — I t is a popular error to believe that this was ever anessentially Jewish musical instrument. The Jews had nothing to do eitherwith its invention or its use, the correct etymon being Jaw-harp, because inplaying it it is placed between the jaws.

T H E POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTION.—This institution will in all probabilitybe soon re-opened with renovated and increased attractions. Looking at thogreat necessity that exists for such an institution, at the combined advantagesit offers for innocent amusement and instruction, at the great success whichattended it before the fatal accident which did so much to facilitate its ruin,at the influential men who have already taken shares, there is every likelihood, we may say certainty, that the Polytechnic Institution will in futurebe a gain and glory to the metropolis.

M IL L IN E R S ' H O M E . — A Home has been opened at 47A, Welbeck Street,intended to serve as a lodging and boarding-house for needle women andothers connected with the great millinery establishments in Regent Street andits neighbourhood. The greater number of these women are left, without

friends, to find a lodging and companions for themselves, and are consequentlyexposed to many dangers and temptations. The Home is able to accommodate thirty lodgers, and provides comfortable common rooms for meals, forreading at leisure hours, or for work. A chapel has been fitted up, verysimply, but with care, to give it a religious character. The Home has beenfitted up with simplicity, but with every attention to the comfort of thelodgers, and is arranged so as to admit of two classes, at different prices. Tholodgers may be either wholly or partially boarded, at their discretion, thepayment being adapted to each individual case.

T H E ARTIST AND THE BUTTERF LY.— The owners of many a name greatin the arts have been enthusiastic collectors of butterflies. Our distinguishedcountryman, Thomas Stothard, was one of their devotees, and the followinganecdote, extracted from his published life, shows how he was led to makothem his special study:—" Stothard was beginning to paint the figure of areclining sylph, when a difficulty arose in his own mind how best to representsuch a being of fancy. A friend who was present said, ' Give the sylph abutterfly's wing, and then you have it.' ' That I will,' exclaimed Stothard;

' and, to be correct, I will paint the wing from the butterfly itself.' Hesallied forth, extended his Avalk to the fields, some miles distant, and caughtone of those beautiful insects; it Was of the species called the Peacock. Ourartist brought it carefully home, and commenced sketching it, but not in thepainting-room ; and, leaving it on the table, a servant swept the pretty little

creature away before its portrait was finished. On learning his loss, awaywent Stothard once more to the fields to seek another butterfly. But at thistime one of the tortoise-shell tribe crossed his path, and was secured. Hewas astonished at the combination of colour that presented itself to him inthis small but exquisite work of the Creator, and from that moment determinedto enter on a new and difficult field—the study of the insect department of Natural History. He became a hunter of butterflies. The more he caughtthe greater beauty did he trace in their infinite variety, and he would oftensay that no one knew what he owed to these insects : they had taught him thefinest combinations in that difficult branch of art—colouring. — British

Butterflies, by W. 8. Coleman.

THE R I D D L E R .

Ere A d a m w a l k 'd in majesty and pride,

T h r o u g h Eden 's beauteous groves , and by

the side

Of l impid waters gather 'd sweete st fruits;

Ere p o w e r was g i v en over precreateel

brutes,

Wa s I; and yet ,oh m yst e r y w i t hou t bound ,

In the births o f yest erday was 1 found.

Co m m u n i o n wit h all ranks of men I o w n —

Th e peasant, peer, the m ercha nt, and t he

t h r o n e ;With each and all I bear the c o m m o n lo t {

I am hexe to-day, to -morrow I am not.

W i t h gallant hearts I to the batt le go,

There cease ; yet f ighting on give blow fo r

b l o w ;

W i t h co w ard hearts, I f rom the battle run,

Ye t with the vic to rs stay till vic to ry 's w o n .

I' m with the eagle in his soaring flightH i g h over loftiest mountains ' u tmost

h e i g h t ;

CHARADE.

M y third you ' l l find, if you 're a mind,

Rivers thre e to be ;

I t runs in Russ ia and Scotia,A n d England too you ' l l see.

I' m with the lovely l i t t le hum min g bi rd ,

Wh o s e bee- l ike whir r in t rop ic vales isi

heard.

I' m with the tawny l ion in his den,

Pursuing prey, or hot ly chased by men ;

I' m wit h the sport ive kitte n on tho

hearth—

Th e typ e of jo y, of playfulness, and

mir th .

I 'm with the fish in sea, in lake, in burn ;

In earth I 'm with the bur row ing mole an d

w o r m ;

In air I 'm with the swal low and the bat,

Th e butterfly and moth , the dragon-fly

an d gnat .

W h e n h a p p y faces at the altar meet,

A n d hopeful friends the b ride and brideg ro o m greet ,

I' m there ; and yet, unerring, fatal doom,I' m with the festering corpse in silent

t o m b . E. P.

M y first with me you wil l agree,

I s what our nobs enjoy ;

It is a sport of g o o d ly sor t ,

A n d does their t ime em p l o y .

M y second 's found, or I'll be bound ,In w o r d s both st ing and st r ing;

It 's also seen, I really ween ,Iu anything or nothing.

RI

I mel t the pati ence and gall the mi nd,

A s y o u wil l say when my name you find;

Behead , an d before your cur ious eyes ,

A n impo rtan t measure then I r ise j

M y whole is plain to all who deignTo k n o w me and inquire;

I am laid d o w n a British t o w n ,

A n d in an English shire. LIZZIE.

us.

A n d w h e n that 's t ransposed ' ti s constan t

seen ,

W h e r e prat t l ing tongues give vent to

sp leen . - CHARLTON.

ARITHMETICAL QUESTIONS.

1. A man has four horses, for w h i c h he gave £80 . Th e first hor se cos t as m u c h as

th e s eco n d and half of the third ; the second cost as m u c h as the fourth, minus the

cos t of the third ; the th ird cos t one -thi rd of the first; and the four th cos t as m u c h asth e second and third together. Wha t was the pr ice of each hors e ? W. P.

2. If a perso n spe nd of his i n co m e annually in h o u se k e e p i n g , & c . , '35 of it in

pursuit of pleasure, and '3 of it in charity, and h is w h o l e i n co m e be only

£815 . 15s. 10*275d., h o w long will he be incurring a debt of £23609 4l ?—The answer

is required to the- vulgar fraction of a mont h. 1 M. S. E.

3. Five and three equa l balls are attache d to the e xtrem ities of a string, which ,

passes over a fixed pul ley . Th e descend ing motion cont inues for s ix minutes, when

three of the five balls tall off. Ho w long will the t wo balls cont inue to descend ? P. T.



96 TH E FAMILY HERALD. f June 0, WOO.

R A N D O M R E A D I N G S .

A witty man can make a jest ; a wise man can take one.

Wh y are authors who treat about physiognomy like soldiers ?—Because

they write about fac&

Would a botanist classify the Ghost in " Hamlet" as a species of Deadly

•Night Shade ?

Michelet, the French author, asserts that "every folly of woman is born of the stupidity of man.'*

" Do you see anything ridiculous in this wig ? V asked Briefless; " Nothing

but the head," was the reply.If you undertake to flatter, don't overdo the thing. If you offer too much

incense to a sensible man he will be incensed.

A modern tourist calls the Niagara river " the pride of rivers." That pridecertainly has a tremendous fall.

A man once asked a company of little boys what they were good for ? One

little fellow promptly answered: " We are good to make men of."

A young lady says the reason she carries a parasol is, that the sun is of the

masculine gender, and she cannot withstand his ardent glances.

" I think, wife, that you have a great many ways of calling the a fool."—u I think, husband, that you have a great many ways of being one ."

It is a general belief that the tongues of oxen are more valued than thoseof any other animals; but lawyers' tongues sell highest in the market.

Home Tooke being asked by George III. whether he played at cards,replied, " No, your majesty ; the fact is, I cannot tell a king from a knave."

The question is often discussed, whether the savages enjoy life. We

suppose they do, as-they always seem anxious to take it when they get achance.

A sleepy churchwarden, who sometimes engages in popular games, hearingthe minister use the words, " shuffle off this mortal coil," started up, rubbedhis eyes, and exclaimed, " Stop, stop !—it's my deal."

A gentleman having-a horse that ran away and broke his wife's neck, wastold by a neighbour that he wished to purchase it for his wife to ride upon.—"N o , " said the wretch, " I intend to marry again myself."

A country paper, in an obituary notice, speaks of the deceased as being " amost estimable young man and devout Christian until the day of his death."Pity the young man had not died sooner, to save his reputation.

The celebrated artist who crowed so naturally that the sun rose three hoursbefore his time, has recently finished a picture of the moon that's painted withsuch wonderful fidelity to nature that she can't be seen in the day time.

The latest Irish bull we read of is the case of an Irish gentleman who, inorder to raise the wind whereby to relieve himself from pecuniary embarrass

ments, got his life insured for a large amount, and then drowned himself." Come here, my little man,'.' said a gentleman to a youngster of five years,

while sitting in a parlour where a large company was assembled. " Do youknow me?"—" Yith, thir ."—" Who am I then? Let me hear."—"Youith the man that kithed mamma when papa was in Thuffolk."

u Sure," said Patrick, rubbing his head with delight at the prospect of apresent from his employer, " I always mane to do me duty."—" I believeyou," replied his employer, " and therefore I shall make you a present of allyou have stolen from me during the year."—" Thank yer honour," repliedPat; " and may all your friends and acquaintances trate you as liberally."

The Memorial Bordelais says, that near St. Sevier, there lives an oldsoldier, with a false leg, a false arm, a glass eye, a complete set of false teeth,a nose of silver, covered with a substance imitating flesh, and a silver platereplacing part of his skull. He was a soldier under Napoleon, and these arehis trophies. He must be a splendid specimen of composite architecture.

A lady of fashion, upon being told one of her six-footed servants had beenmarried the previous day to her lady's-maid at the aristocratic church nearHanover Square, was so scandalised, that, forgetting her position, her English,her placidity, and all the other proprieties of life, she exclaimed most bitterly," It's too bad, I declare, to turn St. George's in this way iuto a low-menial

altar 1"

In addressing a jury upon one occasion, the celebrated Lord Jeffrey foundit necessary to make free with the character of a military officer who waspresent. Upon hearing himself several times contemptuously spoken of as"the soldier," the son of Mars, boiling with indignation, interrupted thepleader, "D on 't call me a soldier, sir; I'm an officer." Lord Jeffrey immediately went on, " Well, gentleman, this officer, who is no soldier, was thesole cause of all the mischief that had occurred."

The health of aii agricultural labourer in one of the rural districts in thePast Riding having somewhat .declined, he called in a medical man, who atonce put him on low diet. After a few visits the doctor found his patient sofar improved as to warrant his taking something more substantial than gruel,and he accordingly requested the man's spouse to furnish her husband with alittle animal food once or twice a day. The wife said nothing, but no sooner

had the doctor departed than she bolted out of the house and shouted to aneighbour, " What do you think they've ordered for our John to eat now ?Animal food! "— " And a very good thing, too," replied the neighbour. Ina passion the former exclaimed, " Why, you're just as bad as them ! How isit likely our John can eat hay, and straw, and such like stuff? Besides,,hehas no teeth." The man was in receipt of parochial relief, and his wife, notentertaining the highest opinion of the liberality of the ratepayers, suspectedthat there had been some-suggestion on their part, particularly as the medicalgentleman was the parish surgeon H i ' R bl in the R l

XA DECIDED H % . — A drunken man, in trying to walk by a lamp-post last

night, made a decided hit.

Too FASTIDIOUS.—Scene, a Restaurant.—Cockney Waiter: "'Am, sir?Yessir ! Don't take anything with your 'am, do you, sir ? "—Gentleman :" Yes, I do; I take the letter H ! " [Waiter faints.]

A REASONABLE REQUEST !—A funeral had been appointed to take place athalf-past two o'clock on Thursday week; and the clergyman appointedreceived in the course of the forenoon a request from the funeral party to theeffect that they hoped he would make the funeral an hour earlier than that

proposedj as they wished to go to the circus in the afteriloon.— Border

Advertiser*

A NEAT RETORT.—-Two newly-made justices of the peace met a Rev. Mr.Thom, as he was riding home, and resolved to quiz him. " Ah," said one of them, "y ou are not like your Master, for he was content to ride on an ass."—"An ass! " exclaimed the minister; "there's no such a beast to be gottennow-a-days."—" Ah ! how's that ? " said the wits. " Because," replied Mr.Thom, "they now make them all justices of the peace."

FALSE HAIR GUARDED AGAINST; — At Dieppe, in France, a famousbathing-place, there is a police established, whoso' duty it is to rescue personsfrom danger. The following notice was recently issued to them:—"Thebathing police are requested, when a lady is in danger of drowning, to seizeher by the dress and not by the hair, which oftentimes remains in their grasp.Newfoundland dogs will also govern themselves accordingly!"

NOT A BA D IDEA.—A little four-year old boy was sent 6n a visit tograndmamma in the country. There, for the first time, he had a nearview of a cow. He would stand and look on while the man milked and ask all manner of questions. In this Way he learned that the long crooked brancheson the cow's head were called horns—now, this little cockney boy knew of only

one kind of horn—and a few days after obtaining this information, hearing astrange kind of bawling noise in the yard, he ran but to ascertain its source.In a few minutes he returned^ wonder and delight depicted ori his countenance* *

exclaiming, "Mamma! mamma! oh! do come out here. The cow's blowingher horn!"

A THRILLING SCENE.—A noise Was heard on deck, the dog-watch sprungfrom his caboose, seized the gig-whip, and laying over the dead eyes of thebuoy, made him shin up the bowsprit, catch hold of the skye scraper, whichhe used so freely on the kelson, that he rubbed off the shoe of the anchor,which was caught by the cat harpings, who commenced to spanker with theboom, till she burst through the stays, cutting the topsail tics, grabbed themonkey's tail, which knocked a Jew's eye out of the Turk's head, caught theship round the waist with one hand, boxed the compass with the other, tillthe cook cried, and the captain applied the leaches of the foresail to the inflamedeye of the astonished needle.— Extract from a Nautical Drama. -»

A LEAP-YEAU POPPING.—" Ahem! Ephraim, I heard something aboutyou."—" La, now, Miss Sophrina, you don't say so ?"—" Yes, indeed, that I

did; and a great many said it, too."—" La now, what was it, Miss Sophrina ? "—"Oh! dear, I can't tell you" (turning away her head).—"Oh! la, donow."—"Oh! no, I can 't." —"Oh! yes, Miss Sophrina."—"La, me,Ephraim, you do pester a body so!"—"Well, do please to-tell me,Sophrina?"—"Well, I heard that Oh! I can't tell you."—" Ah ! yes,come now, do" (taking her hand).—"Well , I didn't say it, but I heard that

"— " What ?" (putting an arm round her waist).—" Oh ! don't squeezeme so ! I heard that—that" (turning her blue eyes full upon Ephraim's)—" that—you and I were to be married, Ephraim ! "

A CLERGYMAN TAKEN IN.—A rather amusing scene occurred to a reverendgentleman who is a popular preacher. He went to have his likeness taken ata photographer's, and put on his surplice in an ante-room. When usheredinto the manipulating-room he was not a little disconcerted on seeing aCircassian beauty, in full costume, chained, and on her knees, her countenanceexpressing the pleadings of a broken-hearted girl on being dragged before theMussulman proprietor of a happy harem family. The rev. gentleman as soon ashe had recovered from his surprise, took an interest in the high art proceeding,

and ventured to suggest that the veil fell too much across the face. " Wouldyou kindly show me what you mean ? " The reverend gentleman was kindenough to do so. The flash of electricity was wickedly employed ; for to hishorror it may be related, if he sees this anecdote, that the popular preacherhas been taken in a dramatic attitude, with a Circassian slave appealing tohim to release her from her thraldom. This is a private studio joke, and willdoubtless never go further.—Court Journal.

To COOK A HUSBAND.—Many good husbands are spoiled in the cooking ;some women go about it as if they were bladders, and blow them up ; otherskeep them constantly in hot water,' while others freeze them by conjugalcoolness; some smother them in hatred, contention, and variance, and somekeep them in pickle all their lives. These women always serve them up withtongue sauce. Now it cannot be supposed that husbands will be tender andgood if managed in this way; but, on the contrary, very delicious whenmanaged as follows: Get a large jar, called the jar of faithfulness, (which allgood wives keep on hand,) place your husband in it, and set him near thefire of conjugal love, let the fire be pretty hot, but especially let it be clear,and above all, let the heat be constant. Cover him with affection, kindness,and subjection, garnished with modest, becoming familiarity, and spiced withpleasantry, and if you add kisses and other confectioneries, let them beaccompanied with a sufficient portion of secrecy, mixed with prudence andmoderation. 1 We would advise all good wives to try this recipe, and realisewhat an admirable dish a husband makes when properly cooked.

Published by B E N J A M I N B L A K E , 421, Strand, London, W.C., to whom all

Communications for the Editor must be addressed

Family Herald June 09 1860

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Transcript of Family Herald June 09 1860