Family Herald August 14 1860

8/7/2019 Family Herald August 14 1860

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FAMILYBO GOOD FO R YOUR OWN SATISFACTION, AND H AY E NO

CARE OF W H AT MAY FOLLOW*

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TH E PLEASURE OF DOING GOOD IS THE O N LY P LEA S URE

T H AT NEVER WEARS OUT.

No . 8 9 8 . — Y O L . X V I I I . ]F O R T H E W E E K E N D I N G J U L Y 1 4 , 1 8 6 0 . [ P R I C E O N E P E N N Y.

T E N Y E A R S A G O ,

In youth thou Wert dear as the morn to riiy sight;With thy red-dimpled cheek and thy tresses so bright jTh y beautiful eye, that so truly express'd•Motions thy rosy Hps ne'er had confess'd ;Like music thy dulcet tones fell on mine ear,'My breast fill'd with jo y thy gla d laughter to hear;So quietly gleeful, so free from all guile,Mirth lived in thy presence and dwelt in thy smile.(Entre nous) we were single then, darling, you know;An d then, love, remember, 'twas ten years ago!

I'll own that I've roam'd like a bee to each flowerThrtt bloom'd in my way, oft in folly's wild hour ;V*et ne'er till we met that strange influence felt,That seem'd with existence in sweetness to melt,As if there were musical chords in the soulllesponding, uniting, without our control,An d bringing thee nearer and dearer than life,While I counted the hours till I call'd thee my wife.What a sweet bride you were in your robes white as snow!I ne'er saw you en dishabille ten years ago !

Then your hair fell in ringlets as shining as gold iNow, dress'd d la Empress, you look fierce and bold ;An d the shining locks then that were auburn, I said,—And I thoug ht them so, too,—pro ve decidedly red ;Then the honey of itybla reposed on your tongue—Its sweetness is fled—by its sting t am stung.Well , change will make change, is a truth, I can find,And I never was deaf, though by love once made blind.Al l joking apart, if still single, I knowI should make the same choice I mad e ten years a go !

M R S . VALENTINE ROBERTS.

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

-. A F T E R M A N Y D AY S .

C H A P T E R 1.

Papa, pray do not let poor James go to the workhouse. I feel sure hebe a good lad, and it wou ld not cos t much to keep such a thin little

w as he is."Mr. Melville smiled at the latter part of his daughter's speech, probablyking the half-starved urch in of who m she spoke would cost all the moreing on accoun t of his present thin ness ; but he shoo k his head mostdedly in answer to her petition .h e object of Grace Melville's deep interest was the son of a man w ho h ad

n employed by her father mainly to give him an opportunity of redeeming

character; This man had made many promises of amend ment in ord ernduce Mr. Melville to take him into his service, pledg ing himself tostry, sobriety, honesty, and, in shor t, to ev erythi ng whic h befitted a

servant.t the time he made these promises, James Redfern had just returned from

on, to whic h he had been sent for comm itti ng a petty theft. In a state of -intoxic ation, and without the means of still further indulging his besetting-he was tempted to dishonesty, and afterwards detected and impris oned.wife and child had been support ed by charity du ring his abs enc e; but theer, an ailing woman , did no t lon g survive his return. She sunk under

weight of mental and bodily suffering.mes Redfern foun d, on his release from prison, that many who had beenng to em ploy the drunkard in his sober hours would have nothing to say

he convicted thief. Drunkenness affected himself, his wife and child; hisonesty might touch them. Penniless, starv ing, and with no means of ning emp loyme nt or bread, Redfern ap plied to Mr . Melvil le, who at firsted to give him work.

hen Mrs. Melvil le interceded for the wretch ed man. " Give him a trial,

rles /' said she. " He has sinned, but he has also suffered ; and now hes so much troubled at his wife's death, that we may find it easier to sayI trust will prove a wor d in season. Beside, if he canno t get work and

gain driven to dishonesty, would you not blame yo ursel f for havin g refuseda chance ? "

Mr. Melville was conque red. He did more than give the man employment,trove to influence him for good. In return for his kindness, he receiveddant promises-, which were fulfilled so l on g as the impression prod uce d

: 8 9 S ;

by shame, want, and sorrow remained. But, little by little, the old sinresumed its influence. Negle ct of duty followed, and his last state was worsethan the first. He robbe d the man wh o had befriended him in adversity , andabsconded, leaving his child behind in a state of destitution.

Wa s it surprising that Mr. Melville shook his head when Grace intercededfor the deserted boy ? But the little girl was not to be daunted ; her pity forany one in trouble conquered her natural submission to her father. So shereturned to the cha rge with soft blue eyes raised bese echi ngly , and the wo rds," But, please, dear papa, do not let little James go to the -workhouse."

" M y dear chil d," replied Mr. Melville, " h e will be far better taught an dcared for there than he has ever been in his life before; though my foolishlittle Gracie seems to think his fate a very hard one. Wh y, child, such alife will be a rich blessing t o t he lad in comp ariso n with the misery he hashitherto experie nced, and the wretch ed examp le he has had at hom e in hisfather."

" But, papa, he will know nobody there," said Gr ace. " Oh, ho w hard itwould seem for me to g o to a place where I had not a single frien d," sh eadded, and a tear stood in her eye as she pleaded the cause of the destitutelad.

" A n d , " interposed Mrs.Mcl ville, "a t the worst he will not be long on yourhands. He will soon be able to earn his own bre ad; for he is two yearsolder than Grace, and she is nine."

"W ha t! you against me, t o o ? " said Mr. Melvi lle. " I little thought tohear you intercede for another of the name after the manner in which yourlate protigi behaved. Hav e you forgotten his conduct ? "

" It is not for the father's sake, Charles, that I ask you to show pity to theson," said Mrs. Melville.

" We l l , my dear Kate , I shoul d rather think not ," returned Mr. Melville." It would be going rather too far to argue that, because I gave JamesRedfern the elder ever y chanc e of redee ming the past, and all possibleencouragement to do right, that I must needs, when he has thrown away alland robbed me into the bargain, take the responsibility of maintaining hischild."

" I do not say that, Charles," returned Mrs. Melville ; "bu t I think that insuccouring this poor little human waif—and it is in your power to do it—yousimply accept an opportunity which is offered you of do ing good. I f littleJames had been the son of a faithful servant there would be no hesitation onyour part. But remember, dear, that those wh o despitefully use us arecommended to our good offices."

"The lad 's father was more his own enemy than mine ," said Mr. Melville,wh o though irritated at the ingratitude of Redfern, did not find it easy toresist the pleadings of his wife and child in favour of the motherless boy.

" We l l , Charles," said Mrs. Melvil le, "litt le James may some day makeamends for his father's bad conduct."

" But if he should follow his bad example instead ? " said Mr. Melvi lle." Then wha t you do for him will only be a little more added to the bread

you have already 'cast upon the waters,' " returned Mrs. Melvi l le . "Th ereis One who will remember it, though man may forget."

" I cannot resist such arguments, dear Kat e," said Mr. Melvi lle. " S a yno more ; I will do what yo u ask, though n ot for your sake, m ind ."

" N o , Charles, dearest; not for min e," she repli ed; "b ut for the sake of

Hi m who said, ' Ina smuc h as ye have done it u nto one of the least of thesemy brethren, ye have done it unto me.'"

Away bounded little Grace to tell little James Redfern that he was notto be sent to the workhouse. The boy, as the country folk say, was "not farto seek," and truly blue-eye d Gracie seemed a very an gel of mercy in hiseyes as she communicated the welcome news.

The next question was respecting little James's lodgin gs; for Mr. Melvillewas resolved on no half-measures with regard to the bo y. " If, " said he," we bring up this lad, it must be unde r our ow n superinten dence, andbeneath our own roof."

Mrs. Melville soon settled this by causin g the odds and ends to be clearedout of an otherwise unoccupied room, and in this little James was sooninstalled, to the infinite deli ght of Grace ; and his altered appear ance soo ndid the greatest credit to his change of living. He was sent to school, too;and the little girl, full of astonishment at the profound ign orance o f one olderthan herself, assisted him with his lessons, quite pro ud to think she could dosomething for poor Jem.

At first James was almost wholly a kitchen gue st; but he was broug htinto the dining -room to share in some of the lessons given by Mrs. Melvilleto her own chi ld; and again that Grace might help him in his other tasks,so by degrees his good conduct caused him to be treated almost as one of thefamily.

Mrs. Melvill e's kindness was not merely the result of impulse, or even of mere womanly pity for one deserted and distressed, but sprang from thehigher motive of true charity. She therefore treated the motherless bo y ina manner whi ch showed her sense of the responsib le office she had under-



16 3 T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A D O M E S T I C M A G A Z I N E OF [July 14,186

taken. Th e same home tuition that sbe gave her own child was exte nded tothe pensione r on her husband' s bount y, and was not ungratefully receivedby him.

Every opportu nity for serving his kind benefactress was eage rly seized byJames, and whatever w as required of him performed with an alacrity whichshowed how completely his heart was in the work. To w in Mrs . Melville'sapproval, or give pleasure to Gracie, no labour seemed too great. James alsostood high in M r. Melv ille's favour, and that gentleman was delighted tofind that for once his patronage appe ared to be well besto wed and appreciatedby its object. Finding, too, that his school progress was very rapid, he gavehi m a more liberal education than he had at first intended, with a view toplacing him in his counting-house, should his continued good conduct provehim worthy of such advancement.

C H A P T E R II .

Matters went on satisfactorily until James Redfern attained his sixteenthyear. Few who then saw the intelligent, but though tful-looking youth,would have recogn ised the half-starved lad who some years before waited wi thso much anxiet y the result of little Grace Melv ille' s intercession for him w ithher father. There was, howeve r, one subject which, in spite of all thecomforts and kindness that surrounded him,haunted his thoughts continually.Th is was the fate of his lost father. As his mind expanded, and the teaching sof Mrs. Melville took effect, the doubtful fate of one so nearly allied to himcaused the most painful emotions in his breast. Man y a prayer did he b reatheon his behalf, and many were the conversation s held between Mrs. Melv illeand h imself as to the proba bility of his return.

" Oh ! " he woul d say ; " if I only knew where he is, and could teach him,as you have taught me, to walk in better paths than those he used to choose;or, if I could but think he had given up those vices which made our home somiserable when I was a child! Would it not be dreadful if I were to hearthat he had fallen into worse crimes ? I think it woul d break my heart if hewere to be heard of as I sometimes fear he will be! "

Mrs. Melville endeavoured to comfort the boy. " W e have all some trouble,which we must be contented to leave in Higher hands than ours, James," shewould say, "and you and I cannot expect to be exempt from trial. W e mustbear our crosses as well as we can, always reme mberin g to do the best that isin our power."

But the painful emotions, whic h this subject ever excited, gave an air of gravi ty to his features wh ich scarcely corresp onded with their youthfulappearance.

A short time after James entered the c ounti ng-ho use, he mentioned to Mr.Melville his intense wish to ascertain his father's fate.

" M y good bo y, " said his patron, " I should strongly recommend you torelinquish all ideas of the kind. Tha t is, " he added, " if you ask my adviceon the subjec t." •

" Ye s , sir," he replied, " I have lo ng wished to ask, if yo u think there isany chance of my obtain ing information respecting the fate of my father ? "

" That woul d depend very much upon the le ngth of your purse, Jame s,"said M r. Melv ille ; " and even if you succeeded, I fear it wo uld be nothin g toyour advantage."

The boy's face flushed, and an expression of pain passed over it as he bent tohide a tear which, despite his dawning manhood, he found himself unable torestrain.

Mr . Melv ille' s quick eye noticed this, though J ames stro ve hard to hide his

emotion, and he kindly added, " I do not wish to wound y our feelings, myboy ; you know me to o well to think that I am anything but your truefriend."

" Indee d, indeed, sir, you have been more than a father to m e, " saidJames. " I can never be sufficiently grateful for your goo dne ss. "

" W e will say nothing about that at present, James," said Mr. Melville.* I only made that remark to introduce a bit of friendly counsel. Yo u wishto ascertain your father's fate with a view to being of use to him, is itn o t s o ? "

" I thou ght I migh t be of some service to him, sir," was the rep ly." Well , this desire on your part is both laudable and natural," said Mr.

Melville; "b ut its fulfilment, under present circumstances, is not only impracticable, but wou ld, I think, be highly injudicious. It is impracticable,because you have not the means of prosecuting a search in person, or of feeingothers to seek a man of whom for more than six years you have heard nothing,and who must be desirous of hiding hims elf from me ."

Again the hot flush rose to James's forehead, and Mr. Melville, thoughpained to sec it, felt compell ed to lay the simple facts before the y outh, inorder to preserve hi m from d oing anything rash or foolish; so he continued," It would be injudicious in you to institute a personal search after your

father, because yo u woul d be taken from your ho me, and from friends whowish your welfare, and of necessity drawn in to scenes and comp any of a classyou ought, for your ow n credit's sake, to avoid. Beside, the habits of indui»r vwhich in you have been so carefully cultivated, mus t give way to a desulkryvagabond life at least for a time."

" It seems very hard, sir," said James, " to give up the hope of finding andserving him."

" And even if y ou should find him , James, do you think his habits—thoseof a lifetime, remember—would yield to your reasonings ; or, are your own sofully formed that such a pilgrimage as you talk of could produce no evil effectson yourself? Let me, then, advise you to abandon, at any rate for the present,what I must call your Quixoti c notions . Give your thoughts to your duties;and so long as y ou merit my regard, you shall n ever fail to find in me a sincereand steady friend."

Poor .lames was much moved by his patron's good sense and kindness ; andwhen Mr . Melville again, in a gentler tone, bade him remember that lie couldstill pray lor his erring father, the lad's eyes were once more moistened, andhis lip quivered as he strove to thank his benefactor.

C H A P T E R I I I .

After his conversation with Mr. Melville, James strove hard to conquerinclination to brood over the pro bab le fate of his father, an d most zealoufulfilled every duty of his situation. Mr. Me lville did not, however , allowservices to go unrewarded in a pecuniary sense. From the day of his enter:the counting-house the youth's labour was paid for at its full value, and asbecame more experienced his salary was increased in proportion.

The thoughtful boy grew into the still more thoughtful young man, wit hanything having occurred to mar the kindly feeling between him andMelvilles. At nineteen he remained as modest and unobtrusive as wlseveral years youn ger ; but to Mr . Melvi lle ho was as a right hand. No or]person in his employ could be intrusted with any delicate co mmission with 1same perfect certainty of its being satisfactorily executed.

" Yo u work like a bond sla ve," said another clerk to him one day.believe you are always trying to find out ingenious ways of increasing y<duties."

James smiled when thus rallied, and replied, " In what other way canprove my gratitude for the kindness shown me by Mr. Melvill e and hisfamilI would not waste a mo ment of the time he pays for, or leave a thing unduwhich he intrusts to me, for any earthly consideration."

But still the h idden fire was burning within. Still was James consuuby the same yearning desire to find and serve his unfortunate parent; thornperceiving Mr. Melville's dislike to the subject, he never alluded to it agtin his presence. Lo ng restrained, the feeling at length broke its bounds.

One morni ng, James Redfern 's place was vaca nt; but a letter whichleft behind explain ed the cause of his absence. In this he said that, knowiMr . Melville would certainly oppose the execution of his long-cherishproject, he should depart by stealth to fulfil it. Then followed the nitardent expressions of gratitude and affection for those to whom he owed,said, far more than life. He beg ged them not to think very hardly of hias it nearly broke his heart to leave them, and c oncluded by praying Keavto bless and restore to them a thous and-fold all they had b estowed upon hii

The paper was still wet with the poor youth's tears, and neither M

Melville nor Grace could refrain from weepin g when they read what it hevidently cost James so much to write. As to Mr. Melville, he was realangry. " It is always the same," said he, " if I attempt to do good. I hatreated James Redfern as a son; fed, clothed, and educated him, and now,the very moment when he has become valuable to me, he takes himself oland for what ? To wander in search of the fellow who has bestowed on hithe one privil ege of calling himself a felon's s on; whose only gift to his chiwas a tarnished" name, and whose disgraceful conduct broke his wife's heart

" Still, he is the boy's father, my dear," said gentle Mrs. Melville." A pretty father, when his horrid propensities made the boy's early li

one of unmitigated mis ery !" retorted Mr. Melville. "And now, forsootthe you ng rascal must copy such a bright e xample, and prove ungratefulthose who have for years supplied the place of parents, in order to wandersearch of that worthless scoundrel whose name he bears."

Mrs. Melv ille and Grace tried to interpose a word, but Mr . Melville refusto listen to anything tliey said in favour of James, and peremptorily forbathe mention of the runaway' s name in his hearing. Still Mr. Melville counot fail to perceive how much the flight of her o ld friend and playmate h;affected his daughter, and a slight shade of satisfaction ming led with tlregret and annoyance he felt at the flight of his proteye. "After all," sahe to himself, " it is perhaps as well. Grace is almost a woman, and thereno telling what mi ght have come of this inti mac y. Thou gL I really lik<the lad, I should not have relished the idea of calling hi m my son-in-lawfew years hence."

As may be supposed the mother and daughte r often spoke of James to ea<other, and one little matter was a sourc e of grea t satisfaction to both . IIfarewell letter contained a slip of paper detached from the rest on whi<were these words.

" D E A R E S T M R S . M E LV I L L E , — I will strive never to forge t yo ur teachiniI have my Bible, dear Grac e's first g ift to the poor little orphan lad, ai:worlds could not purchas e it from me. If I live I hope to see you again anconvince yo u that, in spite of appearances, I am not ungrateful. Till theithink as kindly as you can of, JAMES REDFERN."

That bit of paper was often in the hands of Grace, and soon bore traces <fresher tears than those which fell from the eyes of the writer.

C H A P T E R I V.

In a few months after James's departure a great change took place in M:Melville's circumstances. An unexpec ted bequest raised him from comfort taffluence. Hithe rto he had carried on business as a provision merchant, but o

rather a limited scale, and in a provinci al town. To continue there with sueample means at command was not to be though t of. Still, Mr. Melville \v<unwilling to retire from business altogethe r; for being very little above fortyears of age, and accustome d to regular employmen t, and sources o f amus<ment, he dreaded the idea of an inactive life. Mrs. Melvil le had suggesteretirement from business as a natural consequence of their changed eireumstances, but had soon been put to silence.

" I could not bear to be a mere idler, Kate, " said her husband. " Womeiyou know, are diiferently constituted, and can live amongst small things; buI cannot tie myself to an inactive life."

"But, Charles," she remonstrated, " th i s increase of wealth will brin<increased responsibilities. W e ought to use it for the good of others, amthis will be no light duty."

" We l l , my dear," said he, " I have never been a niggard in my dealing:with others, or stinted your charitable inclinations so long as they could b<indulged with prudence. I shall be happy to give you extended opportunitiesin proportion to our increased means ; but, for my own part, I shall continuein business for some years to come, should i be spared to do so ,"



July 14, I860. ] U S E F U L I N F O K M AT I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T. 1 6 3

Mrs. Melv ille said no more, and her husb and proc eeded to carry out hisexpressed intentions, His new prope rty being for the most part personal, hehad no difficulty, and he a ccor ding ly rem ove d to the metro poli s, and thereembarked it in the same line of business to which he had been long accustomed,thoug h of course on a very extende d scale. Hi s under takin g was attendedwith singular success. In a short time he ranked amon gst the wealthiest of London's merchant princes, and all in his home told of the ow ner' s immen seand daily increasing opulence.

Gentle Mrs. Melv ille was neither elated nor chang ed by the golde n showe rthat had fallen around her and those she loved. Her principles were toodeeply rooted for mere wealt h to alter them, but so much could scarcely besaid of her husband . He was not a little proud of his influential position ,and though no one could complain that he was sparing in his bounties, yetMrs. Melville instinctively felt that he gave rather with the m unificence of theprince, than with the charity of the Christian.

In the midst of all her splendou r, Mrs. Mel vil le wou ld 'sometim es say to herdaughter, " Oh, Grace, I wish your father had been spared the temptat ionswhich wealth brings with it. I thin k we were happier in the old , quiet,country home than we are here."

"When poor James was with us, mother," Grace would reply. ' Ay e, thosewere happy days; for I had a brother then.' "

" Ho w strange that he has never writ ten," said her moth er. " I oftenthink he must be dead, for surely he could not forget us."

" I would rather know that he was dead than changed in heart and conduct, mother ," said G rac e; " and he must be one of the two, or we should >hear from him according to promise. But, no, " she added warmly, " he couldnot live and forget us."

" I hope not, love," said Mrs. Melville; " but poor James was notinfallible, and there is no telling into what so ciety he mig ht fall. I haveoften blamed myself for persuading your father to take charge of him since hehas behaved so ungratefully."

Once, many months after the youn g man's depa rture, Mr . Melv ille askedhis wife whether she had received any intelligence of her former favourite ?

" Not a word, Charles," was the reply." I hope you see, Kate, now, that I should have acted more w risely in sendi ng

that lad to the workhou se," said her husband. " H i s ingratitude has beenthe means of hardening me against many to w hom I migh t have provedserviceable, and from who m I shoul d perhaps h ave rece ived a more fittingreward than I did from Master James."

" W e may yet," began Mrs. Melv ille ; but he r husband interrupted her." Nay , Kate," said he, " do not plead again. Y o u are goi ng a trifle too

far. Hi s romantic notions respecting his worthless father I could forg ive ;but, for His silence, his broken promise to you, there can be no excuse . I amsorry I named the subj ect," he added. " It has only bro ugh t painful thoug hts,and reminded me that I once was foolish eno ugh to reckon on finding a faithfulservant and friend in James Redfern."

" We know not what may still fall out, dear Charles," said his wife." I wish I ha d your faith i n human goodn ess, Ka te ," returned her hus

band ; " but very few occurrence s have ever don e so muc h to we aken thatfeeling as the one we have been talki ng abou t."

" I do not say anything about human goodness, Charles," she replied, " bu tI do believe, as I once told you before, that acts of kindness are indeed as breadcast upon the waters, to be found again after many days. Beside s, I canno tthink all the good seed sown in that lad's mind can be lost. It will yet fcringforth fruit."

" I wish you may prove right, Ka te," said Mr . Melville; "but time willtell. We will drop the subject for the present."

C H A P T E R V .

As may be supposed, Grace Melville, the only chi ld of one of Lon don' swealthiest merchants and his heiress in perspec tive, was not withou t suitors.But many presented themselves as such without finding favour in her eyes.

Grace resembled her mother in gentleness of disposition, and was essentiallyfeminine in all her tastes and pursuits. But , though gent le, she was notdeficient in that decision of character whi ch is so valuable in bot h sexes, andshe likewise resembled her mother too much in her deeply-seated principles tobe led astray by mere extern al graces, or the gifts of fortu ne. Thus many awooer had told his tale in vain, and Grace had reached the age of twent y-four witho ut having made a select ion from amongst her numer ous admirers.

Hither to Mr . Mel ville had interfered little in these matters. He was notin a hurry to part with his daughter, and had no fear that she would makean unworthy choice. But a temptatio n at length presented itself, to whi chhe yielded, and he strong ly urg ed Grac e to ac cept the proposa ls made by agentleman much his own superior in rank, though inferior in point of fortune.Ye t many amongst Grace Melville's rejected admirers were much moredeserving of her father's advocacy than the one in who se success he exp ressed sodeep an interest; bu t then Mr. Grahame was the eldest son of a baronet, andnearly allied beside to many noble families. No wo nder the merch ant'smental vision was d azzled, especial ly as his own present standing in societywas so much higher than what he had formerly occupied.

Once Mr. Melv ille 's first thou ght wou ld have been to ascertain wheth erHenr y Grahame possessed those highe r qualifications whi ch are of infinitelygreater importance than either rank or wealth. But now he only consideredthe position Grace would win by such a marriage, and he begged Mrs.Melville to use all her influence in the youn g man 's favo ur. But she hesitated,though she scarcely knew how to oppose her husband's wishes.

" Wha t have you to say against you ng Grahame ?" asked Mr. Melville, on

perceiving her reluctance." 1 can say nothing against him, " she replied; "b ut I think I shouldscarcely choose him as the partner of a lifetime, were I in Grace's place."

" But you must have something to object, Kate," said Mr. Melville;" though I own I am puz zled to imag ine where you find it. He is a most

worthy young fellow, with no vices that I can disc over. In fact he is generally considered rather retirin g in his manners, and in p oint of fortune andfamily, he is all we could wish for."

" Certainly, my dear Charles," she replied, " I can agree w ith yo ur lastremar k; but for my own part I would rather a ma n owed his nobilityto himself than to his ancestors, and as to w realth we need Hot care for that."

" Neither should we despise it, Kat e," said her husband. " If worth andrank go together, we have so much the greater reason to be satisfied."

" But I d o not think M r. Grahame has any fixed principles, any more thanhe is addicted to any particular vice," said Mrs. Melville. " An d to say thetruth, I cannot help thinking that he is more attracted by her father's fortun ethan by my child herself."

Mr . Melvill e seemed much a nnoyed at this remark, and paced the roomwith hasty steps. " No w really, Kate, you are too bad ," said he. " Yo u, themost unsuspicious of human beings, turn mistrustful on my hands, the momentI begin to speak in youn g Grahame's favour. It would have been well forme had I been as resolute in mistrusting some of your proteges."

Mrs. Mel vil le unde rstood the allusion, and her chee k flushed a littl e. Shewas about to rep ly; b ut Mr. Melvil le added in a softer tone, " Come, mydear Kate, you have often been deceived in your prophecies, that people wouldturn out better than I gave them credit for bei ng ; and I do beli eve you areas much mistaken in your rather uncharitable estimate of my youn g friend'scharacter."

Th e tears stood in Mrs. Mel ville's eyes, as she answered, " Ah , my dearCharles, a moth er's instinc t is seld om at fault wh ere the welfare of a belovedand only child is concerned . I would fain see Grace as happy in her marriedlife, should she become a wife, as her mother has been, though when wewere married we had neither wealth nor rank."

" True, Kate, we have been happy;" and for a brief moment the conversation between these old married folk was interrupted in a way which, whenit concerns any save lovers , is rarely chr oni cled . Ye t, after all, there is morepoetry in that love which has survived a union of thirty years, and still glowspure and beautiful, than in the m ore imaginative, yet often short-lived, passionof youth. An d our friend, Mr. Melville, was not ashamed to press his lipsmore than once to his wife's still comely cheek, and to murmur a few thankfulwords for all the ha ppy years they had spent together. After such an affectionate interruption, how could the matter end otherwise than in the mostamicable manner ?

" Yo u will not, I am sure, allow yourself to be prejudic ed against Mr.Grahame, merely because he is a man of fashion and of a good family, Kate,"said Mr. Melville, before dismissing the sub ject of conversation for atime.

" I should be very sorry to be unjust to any one, Charles," was the re ply ;"a nd I will observe Mr. Grahame more particularly, and strive to jud ge himfairly."

" That is all I wish, dear," said Mr. Melville. Thus the subject wasdropped for a while between the husband and wife.

Mrs. Melvill e performed her promise, and took every opportunity of studyingM r. Grahame' s characte r. Ye t she was far fro m satisfied wit h the result of her watchfulness, thou gh she found it impossible to shape her objections into

words. Probably, indeed, only maternal anxiety could have found aught tocavil at in this new love r; and Mrs. Melville felt ashamed to confess that sheha d no objectio n to urge , save that feminine instinct which so often stands inthe place of actual reason. Owin g to this, Mr. Grahame's addresses receivedno decided rejection, and thou gh a formal engagement was not entered into,it seemed tacitly understood, and less favoured visitors held themselves aloof.

Herei n Grace herself erred. It was wro ng in her to admit the continuedattentions of a man whom she felt it impossible to regard with that trueaffection which must subsist, if happiness is to be looked for in marriage. Butit was hard to resist the importuni ties of her father.

" Yo u have not known Mr. Grahame long enough to decide, Grace," saidhe, when she at first expressed a wish to decline the yo ung man's addresses." Let him have an opportunity of winning your affection. There is no hurry;and you can say ' no ' by-and-by, if you still resolve on breaking Grahame'sheart."

" I have generally found people recover very quickly from the effects of thatlittle monos yllab le," said Grace, laughin g m erri ly; and she ran over a list of her rejected suitors, who had speedily consoled themselves with, or beenconsoled by other heiresses, thoug h they had declared they could not survivea refusal from herself.

" But you must not class Grahame with these people, Grace," said herfather. " He is my frie nd."

" That is his very greatest recommen dation in my eyes, papa," she replied." At present, Grace," said her father; " but we shall see six months hen ce."On the whole, Mr . Melvill e was not dissatisfied, especially as M r. Graham e

had the field to himself.Very little suffices to set the lookers-on gossiping, and when a case is

dubious, busy tongues often turn doubt into certainty. Grace was soon bothsurprised and annoyed to find that her future marriage w ith Mr. Grahamewas looked upon as a thing of course. Her yo ung acquaintances rallied her,and only laughe d when she warm ly denied the existence of any engagem entbetween herself and Mr. Henr y Grahame. She had always been deemedrather reser ved; for, havi ng a confid ante and friend in her moth er, she wasnot addicted to running up ephemeral intimacies. Therefore, what wasindeed the simple truth was attributed to an unwillingness to confide such adelicate subject to any person out o f her own family. But Mr. Grahame'ssincerity was to b e put to a very unexpected test, and one he was ill-fitted

to bear. _ T T T

C H A P T E R V I .

It was on a chill Nove mber afternoon that Mrs. Melville and Grace awaitedin their beautiful suburban h ome , the return of its master from his place of business. The dinner-hour was fast appr oachi ng, s and more than once Grace



164 T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A D O M E S T I C M A G A Z I N E OF [July 14, I860.

had left her employm ent to watch for her father's coming, but hithertoin vain.

" It is past five," said Mrs. Melvil le, at length, " I wonder what is detainingyour father. He is not within sight, I suppose."

" No t yet, mam ma," replied Grace. " Perhaps he has met with someperson unexpectedly, and accepted an invitation, as he did a few weeks ago."

" But he sent a message to tell us he should not dine at home, Grace," saidher mother.

Her e a servant came to inquire i f Mrs. Melvi lle wished to have dinnerserved ?

" No , Will is ," was the reply. " W e shall wait for your master."Anoth er hour passed wearily enou gh, and then the sound of carriage wheels

was heard, quickly followed by Mr . Melvill e's step in the hall." T]iere is your father, Grac e," exclaimed Mrs. Melvil le. " I am so glad,

for I beg an to feel uneasy. Oh, Charles ! you are here at last," she continued,as her husband made his appearance. W e will have dinner directly. Yo umust be weary with such a lon g business day ."

" I am wear y indeed, Kat e," was the reply, and a look, strangely differentfrom his usual genia l smile, sat, like an unw elc ome guest at a festive b oard ,on Mr. Melville's countenance.

The dinner hour was generally a very pleasant time when the Melvilles satdown alone, for it reminded them of" their old country home, before theyentertained fashionable guests at their table, or knew anyt hing of life in agreat metropol is. Bu t this dinner was an exception to the rule. Mr. Melvillewas silent and abstracted ; and, though he helped himself to food, Mrs. Melvilleobserved that he ate little, and more than once sent a way his plate with thecontents almost untouched.

It was a relief to all, when the meal was over and the servants had left theroom. Mr. Melville had paced across the floor more than once withoutbreaki ng silence, when he felt a light touch on his arm, and " Wh at is it,

Charles ? " was whispered in his ear.Fe w and simple words, but they said enough. They told him that the

true wife saw the careworn look, and claimed her right to share in his sorrowsand trials, as she had shared in his joys for thirty years past.

With gentle force Mrs. Melv ille drew her husband to a couch, and, seatingherself at his side, link ed her arm thr ough his, at the same time repeat ingher question, " Wh at is it, Charles? "

" There is no dissembling with you, Kate," he replied. " I bring bad newshome with me, though I did not mean to tell it yet."

" And how dare you conceal from me anything that troubles you ? " she said,with a beaming glance . " D o you think I have been so long accustomed totread upon roses that I forget the existence of thorns ? Tell me what hasgone wron g. Shall I send Grace away for the present ? "

" No , Kat e, these ill tidings concern us all alike," he replied. " Can youbear to hear it now ? "

The onl y answer was a pressure of the ligh t hand w hich rested on his arm ;and with his wife and child, one on each side of him, Mr . Melvill e told histale. It was a common story. Lik e many other successful merchants,

Mr. Melvi lle, confident in the judgm ent whic h had so often increased hiswealth, had speculated to a mos t unwise extent ; and now he believed therewas but a step between him and povert y, or at least a great change of circumstances. Wh at a hard task for the hitherto prosperous trader to tell this totw o such list eners ! But it was also a source of the purest happiness for thew Teary man of business to feel that, in t he affection of those dear ones, he

Possessed an invaluable treasure, of whic h no mere evil fortune could depriveim .

There was a mom entary pause w hen M r. Melvi lle had finished his communication, not from lack of sympathy in his hearers, but simply because itwas at that moment displayed in deeds rather than in words. Lovi ng armswere clasped round his neck, and caresses, more eloquent than speech, told howlightly these two true-hearted wom en valued the appl iances o f wealt h, so long-as he, the bel oved husband and father, was safe.

Mrs . Mel vil le was the first t o break silence by asking, " Is there a chancethat any one will lose by your speculation in case the worst should happen,Cha r l e s?"

" N o , dear K ate ," he replied, " I have been to o rash with my ow n; but

never yet have I risked a six pence I could not honestly call such. I thank Heave n I cannot be accused of trafficking at the expense of my ne ighb our. "

" Then poverty will be easy to be ar," exclai med the mother and daughtertogether, " since that alone dishonours no one."

" There are only two w ho can r eproach me with having broug ht them topover ty, and the s ight o f them will be a sufficient punishm ent fo r my f ault, "said Mr . Melvill e, coverin g his face with his hands.

H o w many endearing words followed, or with what joy Mrs. Melville heardthat her husband's good name could not be taunted with the shadow of areproach, need scarcely be told.

" D o not be depressed, dear Charles ," said she. " W h o possessing anunblem ished name can be called poor ? As to want, while health is sparedus there is little fear of that. Grace will turn her accomplishments to account,and three, united as we are, must be strong."

" I h ave no dread o f want, Kat e," said Mr. Melvi lle, " even should theworst happen; and there is still one hope left, a small income will yetbe ours. Then G race will be Mrs., perhaps, at some future day, LadyGrahame, thou gh, I own , I am half-selfish enou gh to wish I was not likel y

to lose my child as wr

cll as my fortune.""Pap a, you will not lose me," interrupted Grace, passionately clasping her

arms round his neck. "N ot hi ng could induce me to leave you. Surelyadversity ought to bind us more closely together."

" Y ou forget Mr. Grahame's feelings, Grace, in your thought for me," saidhe r father.

" Ah ! papa, I fancy M r. Grahame w ill care little for that should yourforebodings prove correct," said Grace. " Fo r mvself, I shall have no regrets,

but I shall be sorry that you, dear papa, should find yourself mistaken in oneof whom you seem to think so highly."

" Then w rould it gi ve you no pain, Grace, to relinquish such brilliantprospects, and to share poverty with your parents ? " he asked.

" N o n e , papa," she replied; "b ut do not talk of relinquishing what maynever be offered."

" No t offered! Grace. Mr . Grahame could no t dare to go back if even "

"D ea r papa! do not, do not say anym ore about this," entreated Grace." I must not claim a credit I do not deserve either. I never have felt muchregard for Mr. Grahame, and, even should he desire to continue his attentions,I should really consult my own wishes by declining them, though I should

admire the sense of honour which might prompt him to do so. My placemust be with you and my mother."

" But, Grace, we desire no "self-sacrifice," said her father." Then, do not speak of my leaving you," was Grace's reply.Is it wonderful that, in recei ving such tokens of affection from the t wo

beings more dear than all the world beside, Mr. Melville's brow cleared, andhe almost ceased to feel troub led at t he threatened change of fortune, whilevisions of his former m odest h ome rose not unpleasantly before his mental

M A 0 U ' C H A P T E R V I I .

Le t us now leave the Melvi lle family for a brie f space, and glance backwards into the home of another L ondo n merchant. Scarcely was it lesssplendidly appointed than the mansion on whi ch we are turning our backs,though it lacks those indescribable tokens of feminine occupancy, inasmuch asits owner, Mr. Hollingsworth, is a rather elderly bachelor.

. On the same evening which saw Mr. Melville forgetting his darkeningprospects in the society of his wife and daughter, sate the childless man abovement ione d with a single guest. Ther e was a wide difference in the ages of

the two ; for Mr . Holl ings wort h was on the shady side of sixty, while hiscompanion was only about half as old.

Throwing aside all mystery as to the latter, it will be as well to own thathe was no other than our old friend, James Redfer n. Gentlemanl ike and self-possessed, but as unassuming as ever, and with the old thoughtful look on hisface, few wou ld have guessed how humb le were his antecedents. There wereno traces of the chil d fed b y charity, or of the felon father in that intelligentface, arid those easy manners suited to one who sat on equal terms at the tableof an hono ured Britis h merchan t. Free d from the presence of the servantsMr. Hollingsworth resumed the conversation which had been interrupted." Yo u seemed quite shocked," said he, "wh en I mentioned the rumours thatare afloat respec ting Me lvi lle . Pray , is he a friend of yours ? "

The young man's lip trembled, and for a mom ent he hesitated. His hostperce ivin g this, contin ued, " I beg your pardon if I have asked an indiscreetquesti on, or if it will trench too muc h on your confidence do not answer it.1 am sure your silence will not be misconstrued."

" So far from that," replied the youn g man, " i f you will permit me, I shallbe glad to explain why the report concerni ng Mr. Melvill e's business misfor*

tunes touc hed me so nearl y. Besides , I wish to ask the advice of a friend onwhose judgement I can rely. Wil l you be that friend ? "

" Pray make use of me if pos sible," said Mr. Holli ngswor th. " My dearRedfern," he added warmly, " I shall be delighted, and I need scarcely assureyo u that your confidence will not be abused."

" I thank you sincerel y, my dear sir," he replied. " I presume it will notbe difficult for you to recal to min d what I tol d yo u when, four years since,I first entered your emplo yment ."

" No, you said, I think, that yo u had been indebted to the charity of aprovincial merchant, for—shall I say, all ? "

" Ye s , all," replied James. " A n d you kno w how I tol d you I left bystealth the hom e whi ch had sheltered me for years, and the friends who haddone so much for me, in order to seek my own unfortunate and guilty father."

" And your quest was successful though a sad one."" Yes, I found that he whose name I bore had been transported," was the

repl y. " I obtai ned wi th some difficulty a passage to Australia, and afterman y wear y weary wanderings I had the unspeakable happiness of standingby the death-bed, not o f the hardened and degraded convict, but of a truly

penitent man."" I remember all," said M r. Hollings worth ; "an d that you were induced

to tr y you r fortune at the gold diggings, instead of at once returning home.Patient industry and economy made you a comparatively rich man, and Ialways deem you one of the few to whom Australian gold has been a realbenefit."

" It is eig ht years since I left my benefactor's house," continued James ;" more than four since I returned to England the possessor of a sum so considerable that I could hardl y believ e in the reality o f my good fortune, or besufficiently thankful for it." Here James Redfern paused, over come withgrateful emotion.

" T h i s , my young friend, I knew before," said his host, "neither am Ilikely to forget our accidental meet ing in a railw ay carriage immed iately afteryour return to England, nor your intelligent conversation, which promptedme to offer you a situation, provided you could give me suitable references.I little imagined what a sum you had at command."

" Or I that I should find in you so firm a friend and so wise a counsellor,"said James. " But, to continue. I told you my who le story, so far, only

concealing my benefactor's n ame."" And that I think I can guess no w, " said Mr. Holli ngswo rth. " Mr.

Melville was the person, w Tas he not ? "" H e was," replied James ; "a nd y ou now know in some measure what I

ow e to him,"" The n, instead of givi ng m e the references I asked, you agreed, though

no t until we became better acquainted, you cautious dog, to enter my employand to deposit a sum of mon ey in my hands as your security."



July U, I860. ] U S E F U L I N F O R M AT I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T. 1 6 5

" Yes," said James, " as security for the integri ty of the felon's son ." I" My dear boy, why do you dwell upon that ? Any father might be proud

to own you, thoug h yo u had little cause to honour yo ur father. The more Imerit that you obeyed the comman d. I heartily wish you were my son, I cantell you. But we are talking over old tales, with the exception of what youhave told me respecting Mr. Melvil le' s identity wit h your early patro n. MayI ask if you have commun icate d with hi m or his family ? "

" I wrote from Australia more than once, and again since my return, bothto Mr. and Mrs. Melville. But after the usual interval my letters came back through the dead-letter office, and I had been two years in London before Iknew that the great merchant, whose name was so familiar to my ears, wasno other than my dear old master, and that his former home knew him no

longer."" And why did you not then make yourself known to Mr. Melville ? Your

position was such that you might have been justly pro ud to present y ourself;and surely, Redfern, Mr. Melville would not have proved implacable andtreated you to the eold shoulder."

" In the answer to this question lies my main secret, " he replied. " My oldpatron has an only daughte r. Wh en I left she was a lovely girl of seventeen,but far more good than beautiful."

" If I did not think there was a woman at the bottom of it ! " exclaimedMr . Holling sworth. " A h ! Redfern, Redfern, you stumbled into the thornypath which we all get entangled in at one time or a nother ."

" You seem to have come out unscathed, Mr. Hollingsworth," said James,with an arch smile at his bachelor friend.

" Do not be too sure of that, my bo y, " was the repl y. " W e are notalways willing bachelors—we old men who have no wives or children aboutour hearths. It is just as often because we have loved to o well, instead of notat all, that we remain single. But I have interrupted y ou ."

" I will cont inue, " said James. " I was only nineteen when I left my kind

friends, but then I had learned to love Grace Melville with far more than abrother's love. In all my wa nderings and labour s I have had her image inmy heart. Wh en I worked so assiduously to win gold it was far less for itsow n sake, than in the hope of gaining enough to make me her equal in pointof fortune. I thought if I came home rich, Mr. Melville might perhapsforget my degrading birthright , and, standing alone as I do, with neitherkith nor kin, that he would no t refuse to sanction my addresses to hisdaughter."

" Then have you never yet seen or spoken to any of the family ? " askedMr . Hollingsworth.

" I have seen them all many times," replied James ; "b ut have neverventured to make myself known."

" And why not ? I must say, Redfern, I think in this respect you have beento blame."

" I am sorry for that," he rep lie d; "b ut hear my reasons, and perhaps youmay cease to blame me. Had I foun d Mr. Melville, where and as I left him,I should not have hesitated ; but when I considered that my letters, even myvery earliest communicati ons, received no r eply, my courage failed me, for I

thought of the manner in which I left him. A nd when I at length discover edmy old benefactor to be the same as the rich merchant, o f whose successfulspeculations I heard so much, I asked myself whether it w rere likely lie wouldlook down with kindness on the runawa y clerk ? "

" 1 cannot see that there would have been any loo kin g down in th% case,Redfern; but," and here Mr. Hollingsworth gave a keen, but humorous,glance at his guest, " but is there not something even stronger still which jholds you bac k? Yo u may as well make a clean breast of it," he continued, |smiling; "f or you know you are talking t o a true friend."

James Redfer n colour ed, and w inced slightly. " Yo u prob e deeply, Mr . |Hollingsworth," said he ; " bu t I know you mean kind ly. I will tell you all. |I have heard, from an undoubted source, that Grace Melville is the intended 1

brid e of a man who is far, f ar ab ove me in rank. Mr. Grahame will probably jsoon have a title to add to his many other attractions ; for I understand thatliis father, the present baronet, is in a precariou s state of health."

" T h e n that might be considered a settled matter, and Miss Grace's fair facewould be no longer a temptation," said Mr. Holli ngswort h.

" Upon my word," said the young man. hastily, " I am doomed to be misunders tood. I meant to say that however Mr, Melville migh t be inclin ed toreceive me, I could not bear the trial to which Graoe Melville's presence wouldsubject me. Many a night I have paced the neig hbou rhoo d of her home, forthe sake of seein g her step from the carriage, or of catching sight of theshadow of her figure on the white blind . But was I to intrude upon them intheir wealth ? Was I to ask them to stoop to him whom they doubtlessremember only as the ungrateful runaway ? N ow " here James Redfernpaused, as if hesitating how to procee d.

Mr . Hollingsworth watched the earnest face of his young guest with keeninterest. He half divined what was coming, but he wished to hear it fromRedfern's own lips. " Wha t do you propose now ? " he asked ; " and ho wcan I aid you ? "

" Yo u know, Mr. Hollingsworth, I am not a poor man," said James." Certainly not; and had you accepted the share in my business, offered

you long since, you might have been far richer still, you stupid fellow," saidthe kind-hearted merchant.

" Yo u were very kind, and I am deeply grateful," replied James. " Ipreferred, however, investing my capital at 'a moderate interest, and addingto it from time to fime a p orti on o f the very liberal salary I receive fromyou."

' -And this proceedi ng of yours has always seemed to me a most ex taord i-nary crot chet , and one for w hich I could never acco unt, " said the mer chant." I hate rash speculation, but I like a safe investment, Sc,mctimes I havefancied you doubted old Hollingsworth's solvency, though I think, after all,that can hardly be, seeing how deep you are in his business secrets."

" I will tell you my reason now , my kind friend," said James. " I heard

of Mr . Melville as the daring sp eculator, wh o bega n with a large fortune, andhad dou bled it, and more, by his daring tra nsactions. I saw him almostunnaturally prosper ous. I dr eaded lest at some future day a reverse mig htcome, and "

" A n d wh at ?" interrupted Mr. Hollingsworth." Can you not guess ?" asked Jame s." I think I can," said Mr. Hollin gswort h, "a nd I honour you for your

noble self-denial . Yo u wished to have it in your power , shoul d such a reversearrive, at once to aid him who had been your best earthly fri end."

" Yo u are right, Mr. Holli ngswo rth ," he replied. " I long to lay all T.

have at the feet of my dear old master, and to tell him that the orphan boy,though the son of a drunkard and felon, yet remembers, and is grateful f or a ll

his goodne ss ; thankful that he has anything to offer which may be of service,though he can never repay all that has been done for him . Ho w to execut emy wish is the question on which I need your advice."

" My good you ng friend, I do not see any difficulty in the matter," saidMr . Hollingsworth; "but allow me to shake hands with you at this verymoment, for I love to grasp an honest palm."

Th e eccentri c old bachel or held out his hand, which James Redfern grasped,while his eyes glistened with emotion.

" A n d no w, " continued the merchant, "t ho ug h I believe a friend in needis not such a rare individual as some persons seem to imagine; there isseldom one too many."

"T he n you would advise me to go straight to Mr. Melville," said James." I f it did not sound inhospi table I should say go at once," returned the

merchant; "tell Mr. Melville all that is in your heart, and if he does notreceive you gladly, he is not the man I take him to be."

"But, Mr. Hollingsworth, I cannot tell him all my reasons for not makingmyself known before no w," replied James.

" True ," said the old gentlemen, smiling. " All in good time. I hope you

will tell the re mainder to Miss Grace herself befor e long. I fancy, shouldher present suitor hear what was only whispered to-day, you will soon havethe field all to yourself."

James's face flushed as he answered warmly, "Indeed, I am not calculatingon that. If Grace is really attached to Mr . Grahame, I would sacrifice lifeitself, as well as fortune, to pro mote her happines s. My great wish is toprove myself grateful for all I received years ag o. "

"Tr ue, my dear fellow,'' said Mr. Hollingsworth; "but, as I said before,all in good time. But when will you go to Mr. Melville's house."

" I should like to go now, " said James ; " but is it not too late ? "" No ," was the reply. " An hour will take you to St. John's Wo o d . It is

hut just seven o'clock, and you will be sure to find them at home. Good; night, and Heaven prosper your errand."

James needed no second bidding. Hastily thanking his friend, he wrung j his hand and took a hurried lea ve. Then he ca lled a cab, and was in a f ew j moments on his way to St, John l s Wo o d .

C H A P T E R V I I I , , AN D L A S T.

_ At about the time that James Redfern was bidding his entertainer goodnigh t; a note was plac ed in Grace Melv ill e's hand! She read it witho utcomment, tho ugh proba bly its conten ts caused a feeling of pai n, for her fairface crimsoned to the temples. Mr. Melville looked uneasy. He thought lierecognised the handwr itin g in which it was addressed, and as Grace re-f olde dit, he asked, " Is that a note from Mr. Grahame, my love ? "

" Yes, papa !" She hesitated, as if half un will ing to speak ; and then inanswer to her father's inqui ring looks, added, " Do n ot dear papa, be hurt,or grieved at its contents ; they are only what I expected."

" You cannot mean to say that he has •"Mr . Melville seemed at a'loss for wor ds; but Grace calmly completed the

sentence. " He has writte n to tell me, papa, that, despairing of being able towin my affections, he has at len gth determined on relin quishi ng his pret ensions to my ha nd; and with best wishes for my happiness with so me mor efortunate individual, takes his leave. He adds, that he writes o n the eve of his departure for the Continent."

" Wha t a villa in! Wha t a base dishonourable falsehood ! " exclaimedMr . Melville. " But he shall bitter ly repent it. He shall learn that my childshall not be insulted and trampled upon with impun ity. I will "

Grace threw her arms roun d her father's neck, and her affectionate caressinterrup ted his hasty words . " Papa, clear papa ! " said she ; " d o not agitateyourself about this paltry letter. I shall not grieve . On the contr ary; if there were nothi ng else in o ur pres ent unfortun ate circumstances to shed agleam of comfort, I should deem this a happy release. Yo u, too , mustrejoice that I am not now Mr. Grahame's wife."

" True, Grace," said Mrs. Melville. " Charles, I agree with her that weought to be thankful our daughter has never left us ."

" But are yo u quite sure you do not regret the loss of your lover, Grace ?' "asked Mr. Melville.

"Bel ieve me, dear papa, " she replied, "the only thing whic h gives me-afeeling of pain is the t hought, you kn ow ; it is very humiliating to think wh y 1 was sough t in marriage by Mr. Grahame. I am no t quite devoid of feminine vanity, " continued Grace, blushing and smiling through the fewnatural tears which would come in spite of her efforts to repress t hem.

" If that be all, then, I thank Heaven that you are not that villain's wife.But who can this be ? " said Mr . Melville, as the stopp ing of a cab, andsubsequent sound of the knocker announced a visitor.

" A gentleman wi shes to speak to you, sir," said a servant." O h dear, I wish we had told Joh n you. could not sec anyone to-night,"

interposed Mrs. Melville." My dear Kate , I woul d not refuse to sec any person at this particular

time," said Mr. Melville. " No man must be able to say I refused to meethim. Did the gentleman send his name ? " he asked of the serva nt.

" No , sir," replied the servant,



[JvOyU, 1800.

" Show him in at once ," said Mr. Melvi l le ." Shall I show him in here, sir ? "• ' Ye s , " was the reply ; " an d, i f necessary, we can retire to the library."A tall, gentlemanlike you ng man was immedi ately ushered into the drawin g-

room, and, as our readers will guess, he w ras no other than James Redfer n. I twas rather a trying posi tion. He had exp ected to see Mr. Melville alone, andhere was he in the presence of the three good friends from whom he had beenso lon g severed. He could see nothing of th e present, think of noth ing b utthe old, happy times. The words he had prepared all forsook him ; he knewnot what to say. He remained standing, tho ugh courteou sly requested to beseated; and Mr. Melville, surprised at his silence, said, " I presume you wishto speak to me alone. If so we will go into another room."

Poor James! It was a trying moment. He could only turn to each of those dear faces as if beseeching them to recognise and own their former

protege, and then gasp out, " Be ar sir, dear Mrs. Melville, do you not knowme ? "

Th e only one of the trio whom he had not addressed was the first to speak." Mam ma, " said Grace, " it is James, poor James. I am so very glad . Iremember his voice ."

Our hero was completely overcome, and for some mome nts found it impossible to speak. But two kind hands, those of Mrs. Melville and her daughter,were frankly extended, and ere lon g he had told the story of his wanderin gsand successes, inclu ding the inciden t of the returned letters. Al l his hearersexpressed unbounded satisfaction at his narration. " But," said Mr. Melville," I do not quite understand what you tell me. W e have never received a linefrom you since you left us, and I frankly own that I h ave accused you of ungratefully forgetting your true friends."

" Mr . Melville, forgive me ," said James. " I was wro ng not to come and

ask your pardon before now. Tho ugh only within the last two years have Iknown where t o find yo u; never till this moment that my Australian lettersfailed to reach you."

" But two whole years, James," said Mrs. Melville, reproachfully." A h ! I scarcely dared to hope that yo u would receive me," said James.

" I found you so differently situated, so wealthy , so identified with a classwith Avhich I could not mix on equal terms."

" And yet you have ventured at last, James; and you come in haste, andlate at night, for a caller Avho has so long delayed his visit," said Mr.Melville.

Th e young man hesitated, but only for a moment; then unable to containhimself said, " For giv e me, dear sir, if I say a wo rd whi ch can grieve you .I w rould endure any amount of pain or trouble to shield you and yours ; butthis day I heard that—nay, I need not repeat what, you will guess {he purportof what reached my ears—and I lon ged to be near you. I long to prov e thatI have not forgotten, that I never can fo rget those who, when I was nakedand hun gry, clothe d and fed me—w ho when I was destitute took me in.An d now I "implore you to let me place my little fortune at your disposal. It

is indeed yours, for 1 owe it all to what you taught me ; and 1 shall be proudand glad if by the willing labour of a lifetime I can prove the sincerity of mygratitude."

Overcome by emotion, the young man sobbed audibly , but not alone, forhis tears prov ed infectious ; and we are not ashamed to confess that Mr .Melville found it as hard a task to reply as James had do ne to declare thepurport of his coming.

It is difficult to describe the mingl ed feelings of surprise and d eligh t whic hoverpowered James Redfe rn's hearers, tho ugh wo rds had for some time littleto do with expressing them . At length Mr. Melville, warmly claspingJames's hand, and turning to his wife said, " Kate, dearest, do you rememberwhat you to ld me m any lon g years ag o, when yo u and Grace pleaded soearnestly o n behalf of a poor little deserted lad ? "

" Ah,"Charles," returned his wife, "can I forget, when its truth is mademanifest ? W e d o indeed find again, but increased manifol d, ' the bread wecast upon the waters' twenty years ago."

James would fain have renewed the subject wh ich had been the specialobject of his visit, but Mr . Melville kindly but firmly refused to allowbusiness matters to be discussed within the first hour of their meeting. " No ,Jam es, " said he, " my affairs are not in such a satisfac tory state as they werea few days ago ; but I can not suffer them t o mar the pleasu re o f our firstintervi ew after an absence of so many years. W e have enough to ask and tolisten to on both sides without that. To-morrow I shall be glad to claim theaid of your younger head and hands, which I believe I shall find as serviceableas I did of o l d . "

Wi t h this assurance James was fain to content himself, and th e re mainderof the ev ening was spent in going over still mo re minute ly all he had previ ouslytold to the old merchant. " But," said the yo ung man, when a pause occur red," I have only giv en you an outline as yet. I shall have many another tale totell if you have patience to listen.''

Grace's face expressed her pleasure, and Mrs. Melville and her husbandboth assured James of the interest they should feel in hearing all he mightchoose to tell.

It was very late when the you ng man at length rose to take his leave, buthis entertainer stopped him . " Nay , James ," said he ; " you must once moretake a bed under my roof. Besi de," he added, seeing him hesitate, " I shallwant you in the morning, and I can make your peace with Mr. Holling swort h."

" I shall need no peacemaker there," said James. " M r . Hollin gswort hknows how much I o we to you , and will gladl y waive his own claims to myservices so lon g as I can be of use to you ."

Thus it was settled. After breakfast, on the following morning, Mr.Melville and James went to the city together, and began the task of investig ation. The clear-headed, thoughtful yo ung man, was of infiniteservice, and his first friend was p roud and deligh ted to find that the talentswhich first displayed themselves in the provincial counting-house had becomeperfected, though under strange circumstances and in strange scenes.

James, too, looked up with hono ur and respect to "Mr. Melville, for he sawthat the integri ty of his character was in no way impaired, and that he couldmeet the gaze of all men without having cause to blush for one dishonourableaction.

James would fain have persist ed in his offer of the little fortune he had soearnestly begged Mr . Melville to accept. " I t is small," said he, "i ncomparison with wha t you have been accustomed to possess; but, dear sir, itis the fruit of honest and honou rable labour. Take it; it is far more yoursthan mi ne ; for, had it not been for yo ur kindness, I shou ld have been theinmate of a workhouse."

However, the event proved that the generous sacrifice was uncalled for.Things turned out far better than Mr . Melville had at first anticip ated ; and,though no longer a millionnaire, he could still call a moder ate compet ence his

\ own. He resolved to speculate no more, and made arrangements for at onceretiring from business altogether.

The question arose as to where their home should be; and to the astonishment of her parents, Grace, wh o had always hithert o sighed after her oldcountry dwellin g, now expressed a wish to remain in the neighb ourhoo d of London . " Y o u find people so different from what you left them," said she,"when you have been absent a few years."

" Then you are not afraid of meet ing your old admirer, Grac e," said her j father. " I saw him yesterday. He is Sir Henry Grahame now, for his| father died quite suddenly, and he was recalled from the Continent almost

immediately after your barbarity drove him t here."• A look of more scorn than was ever before seen on Grace's face crossed it,: as her father's question fell on her ear. But it was succeeded by a bright

j flush and a merr y lau gh. " Oh, pa pa ! " said she, " I wish all professed lovers! who are obliged to part could do so with as little cost as Mr. Grahame

j and myself have done. Though, please to remember, he gave me the| conge."I So it w ras decided that a pretty cottage at Hampstead should replace the| large suburban mansion they now occupied; and, strange to say, Mr. Melville

quite forgot his old fo rebodi ngs as to what might lyippen if Gr ace and thefelon's son were all owed to meet as they did in their boy and girlish days.Nay, he was even heard to say that in all that constitutes the true gentleman,James Redfern was a match for a pr ince ss; quit e forgetti ng, evidently, thathisl'ather had ended his days as an Australian convict.

James became junior partner in the firm of Hollingswo rth and Redfernafter all; and when he took courage to ask Mr. Melville whether he wouldaccept him as a son-in-law, that gentl eman bade him go and ask Grace, whose

| light dress was just visible amongst the shrubs.James needed no second bi dd in g; for tho ugh he had not yet told his tale

of love in words, it had long been plain to the lookers on that it would meet| with a-willing listener, whenever he chose to do so.| Grac e heard his step on the g rave l, and slac kened her pac e ; but she scarcely

seemed so self-possessed as usual, for her hand tremb led as she extended it to

the young man." Grac e," said he, " y o u have often asked me whether I had told you all the

history of my life. Its most important part is yet untold. Will you hear itno w r " She made a murm ur of assent. " I have asked Mr. Melv ill e's leaveto tell it. Grac e," he continued, and here his voice sank almost to a whisper,and the hand he had drawn through his arm trembled mo re and mor e; " Ihave loved yo u from boyhood. I would fain call you mine , that, as thethoug ht of you has been as a guiding -star in the path of duty, 1 may now haveits presence to lig ht my home. An d I have a home worthy of you to offeryo u now, Grac e; and you know I have a true heart. Say, will you rejectsuch ? "

She turned her fair good face towards him, and, though blushing deeply,it was with womanl y tenderness, not false shame. " Dear James," she said," I hono ur y ou as a wo man should look up to and honour him with whomshe joi ns her l ot. As to my love, it is so lo ng since it was all yours , that 1scarcely remember when it began."

Thus did James speed in his wooing. He has little children now, and fewmen can turn their backs on the caresof business and find a happier home ora sweeter wife. They say that as old Hollingsworth has neither " chick norchild," James is likely enough to be his heir. But James pays little heedwhen rallied on the subject, for he has enough, and to spare.

Mr. Melville is a happier man than when he was more wealth y, and heoften talks over his son-in-law's history.

" I am glad, dear Kat e," said Mr. Melville to his wife on one occasion" that James came back. His gratitude restored my faith in human goodnes-,and I fou nd my reward ' After Man y Days.' "

" A n d if you never had found it here, Charles," replied his wife, " a fewdays more would have g iven it, thoug h in another wo rld, and from a higherHand." 11. %.

WORDLESS TEACHERS.—Sometimes one hears an eloquent discourse fromthe pulpit, but the "field pre ach ers " one meets with in a country walk arealways eloquent . The earth grows sermons. W e talk of science. In naturewe behold the consum mation of all the sciences. Wh at chemist can matchher colours ! what mechanic her sublime architecture ! what artist the beautyof her groupings ! Chemistry, electricity, optics, all the physical sciences, asthey are called, were carried to their ultimates when God said, " Let there beli gh t! " and light was. W ha t are our pettifoggi ng scientific experiments to theoperations of nature ? W e cannot create a blade of grass, nor aii infinitesimalatom of sand, nor a ray of light , nor a drop of dew. We can only discoverand develop. There ends our " phi los oph y." All our wonderful instrumentssimply reveal to us our own incalculable insignificance as com pared with theimmeasurable power and wisdom of the Creator. No man who can conceiveof the perf ectio n o f plan and purpo se necessary to the creation of theminutest natural object, can look a wild flower in the face and question theomniscience of its Maker,



J u l y 14, I860.] U S E F U L I N F O R M A T I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T . 107

N E V E R G I V E U P.

The watchword of life must he, " Never give up ! " — T U P P E I I .

" Never give up ! " Oh, easy word s for happy hearts to say,When sunshine lights the sky above, and friends are round our way;But when the s oul is crush'd* by grief, by disappointm ent wrung ,When joy has fled and hope grown faint, by falsehood deeply stung,When after struggling long with ill, we find those struggles vain,Can we our early faith and trust, and power to strive, retain ?

" Never give up ! " To tempted ones this has the watchword been,When storms obscured the star of hope, and darken'd every scene;When those most dearly loved grew cold, or sought the better land;When care had set on brow and heart alike her iron hand;Still brave hearts strove to breast the tide and reach the resting-place,Thankful amidst the tempest's roar some cheering beam to trace.

Then cbnies an hour so darkly sad, so full of bitter woe ;That firm resolve and hopeful strength break like an o'erstrung bow.The head, so lately held erect, droop s like a storm-str uck flower,Endurance fails—we strive no more against misfortune's power.With the forced calmness of despair we drain the bitter cup,And mock at aught which speaks of hope, or whispers " Ne'er giv e up ! "

Yet, tried and sorrowing hearts, droop not, nor falter at the last!Can you not gather strength and peace when you recall the past ?As you have conquer'd in that past, so shall you conquer still;For ever in the end must Good triumphant rise o'er 111." Never give up ! " for brighte r far shall be the com ing day,If calm and trustingly you wait, watching the dawning ray.

" Never give up ! " Even if Death comes ere that glorious day,Be brave and hopeful still, true hearts! the clouds will pass away.The seeds your hands have set—the good for which you long have strivenShall bring forth fruit for others' need—s hall lead their souls to Heaven.Strive on, although it seem as if no good deed could be w roug ht;For G od will bless each high resolve, each pure unselfish tho ught .

GEORGIAN A B E N N E T.

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

C H A P T E R X L

As Emil e and Lucil le were abou t to descend to the di ning -ro om, a fewhours after t he departure of the Duke de Paleron, and the tearingup of the marriage contract which bound Emile to him, a message camefrom Madame d'Almaine that Mademoiselle de Vernet' s dinner would beserved in her bo udoir . Emi le sent a humbl e wish that her dinner might besent up also, which was granted by her mother, who felt little inclined for thepresence of either her daughter or her gue st ; and the girls, hig hly gratifiedby the arrangement, spent the remai nder of the evening in converse on thehappy future both anticipated.

Th e following day, Lucille noticed the unusual assiduities of Adele, thelady's-maid madame had placed near her on her first com ing to themansion. Towar ds evening, she sat down to her desk to till up one or two of the cheques which Jules had given her, intendin g, the next morni ng, to getthem changed herself.

Emile was sitting with her feet on the fender, enjoy ing a pleasing reverie,Charles de Bleville, the Duke's cousin, being its most striking feature, and thecheque-book lay open before Luc ill e, when Ad ele entered o n some tri llingmission, and standing before the desk, at a glance saw and recogn ised thecheque-book of the Count d'Almaine. Alter sauntering about the room a fewmoments, she abruptly left it. A few minutes after, hasty steps were heardin the vestibule, the door was dashed open, and the count ess, with flushedcheeks and flashing eyes, stood before the desk.

" I am glad that I have proofs of your guil t!" she exclaimed, in a loudtone, and catchi ng up the cheq ue- book . " This book has been purloined frommy son's study, and you are the guilty one who have converted it to your ownpurpose."

" This is cruel, unwomanly," cried Lucille, starting to her feet in a vaineffort to regain the book. " No one here has a righ t to the cheq ue- book of theCount d'Al main e but myself. I therefore beg, nay, I insist that the book bereturned to me."

" Yo u insist! " cried the countess. " Dare you use such language to me —me who have powe r to send you to a prison ? Dare tell me that you have aright to the property of the Count d'Almaine ? Yo u must be made to repe ntthis arrogance. Adele, tell Victoire to go instantly for a police-officer. Whenunder his strict charge, m ademoiselle, your sense and humil ity will returnto you."

Lucille walke d silently and pr oudl y to the extreme end of the apartment,as madame repeated to Adele her orders to tell Victo ire instantly to fetch anofficer. As Adele was leaving the room, Emile, who had looked on thescene with wonder, rendering her a m oment incapable of action , sprangtowards the waiting-woman.

" Stop," she said, in a quiet but determined tone. " W e require no officerof justice here, neither shall any enter, unless by force."

" D o you, too, defy m e ? " interrupted the countess, stamping her foot.

" Beware, Emile d'Almaine, or a convent may bring repentance to you, Yo uare not yet o f age—I have still p ower over yo u, whic h I will exert to theutmost if you defy it."

" Defy you, mamma ! " said Emi le. " Heave n forbid you shoul d give mecause to do s o; but your cond uct to Luci lle, who is under your protection,is both cruel and hasty. I only wish to point it out to you, and if possible besilent."

| " I disclaim all protect ion of her," said the countess. " Do I not hold1 this evidenc e of her guilt, and shall I l et her escape ? No , not thou gh| Jules himse lf Avere here to pardon her , I wou ld not ."

j " W e r e my brother here, she would not be thus insulted," said Emile.I " A n d you, mother, when y ou know all, will regret this violence, so un- j becomi ng to dignity and feelin g."| At this rebuke, a fresh burst of passion broke from the countess's lips, andI she again insisted on Adele obeyin g her orders. Agai n Emil e interposed, and

layi ng her hand on her moth er's arm, said solem nly, " Mot her , desist fromI this. If you persist in it, it wil l brin g disgr ace upon us all, mor e especi ally| upon yourself. Luc ill e is one of us—she is the wife of J ules."I The countess uttered a sharp, quick cry, as if pier ced by a shot . " His

; wife ! " she cried ; " it is false ! I will not believe it ! Say his mistress, any- j thing but his wife, and I will listen to you."I Emil e bent her eyes with a pained expres sion on her parent. " I speak i the truth," she said. " I witnessed the marri age. Show her then the justice1 she deserves from you, that you may not feel the weight of your son's scorn, j when he hears that you have accused her of crime."

The countess bowed her head on her hands a momen t; it was but amoment, and when she raised it, the demon passion was still in her eyes.

" I t is false, utterly fa ls e! " she cried. " Sh e is an impos tor," shecontinued, lookin g towards Lucill e, who had buri ed her aching head in thecushions of the sofa, " and shall not remain ano ther nigh t beneath the roof of a mansion never yet violated by the presence of guilt. Prepare, M ademoisellede Vernet, to leave here immediately. This house cannot contain us bot h."

" N o t to-night, mad ame," said Lucille timidly, glancing towards thewindow, as the wind blew the rain in fitful gusts against it. " I am a strangerin Paris, I know not a creature in it but those in this house. Consider myhelplessness—so far from home. Let me be sheltered to-night, and to-morrowoh, ho w joyfully I shall return to my father."

" Of course you will remain her e," said Emi le. " W h o can send you forth ?As the wife of Jules, you are mistress o f the house and house hold. Mymother knows this, and will not make any resistance to your right of

! remaining here."i " Only to-ni ght," murmured Luci lle. " For the wealth of the world I; would not continue here b eyond it ; but to go forth a stranger in this huge

city is fearful—it will kill me."The countess looked coldly upon her. " Send for a con vey anc e," she said

authoritatively to Adele; " for Luci lle de Vern et has passed her last night atthe Hot el d' Alm ain e; so prepare, mademoiselle, for your departure; for Iquit not these apartments till your step falls for the last time on thethreshold."

" Mother, mother," said Emile, "you will repent this cruelty. Hav e youno tho ught when Mon sieur de Vernet shielded us from the violence of the

I elements, when t hey ra ged w ith fury sufficient to crush us ; and now yo u j wou ld send his chil d, his only, his cherishe d c hild , out to face them, with the| bitterness of your rage and unkindness clingi ng to her ? Mother , you will

j not—you cannot do this deed."I "Sh elt er is easily procurable in Paris," said the countess, det ermine dly;I " she can order the dri ver of the vehicl e to take her where she pleases ; and,"

she added in a lo w tone, feeling a lmost ashamed it shou ld be heard, " evento the H ote l de Paleron, the gates of which would be surely opened

! to her."J "Dear Lucille, this is indeed no place for purity like yours ," cried Emile,| with flashing eyes , and putting her arms rouiui the suffering gir l, who, excited

and feverish, seemed scarcely able to exert hers elf as she wished. " Yo ushall leave this house, but not alone. Forsaken by those who should be foremost among yo ur protect ors, I will go with y ou, nor leave you till 1 place younear the fond heart of your father. Come, dearest, have courage ; tho ugh allis drear and dark before you at this moment, remember, every cloud has itssilver lining."

The countess turned disdainfully from them as they hurriedly threw their j cloaks and shawls round themselves.

" G o , mademoi selle," she said to her daughter, tauntingly. " Y o u havodefied me this evening—blame yourself for what may follow ! "

I At this moment Adele announced the arrival of the conveyance. Emile,| unmolested, supported Lucille down the broad oak stairs. They were both

in the vehicle, unknow ing where to direct it, when Emile's maid tapped atthe window. " Take this card, mademo iselle," she said, hurri edly— " it isthe address of my mothe r. She is poor and hom ely, but cleanly and kind-hearted, and will make you comfortable at least for the night ."

"Thanks—thanks, dear, kind Ros ali e!" was reiterated by the two forlorngirls, so mercilessly sent forth by a proud, ambitious woman.

Emile glanced at the card, then pulled the check-string, and ordered thedriver to set them down in the Rue d'Artois ; another quarter of an hour theyhad reached an old-fashioned mansion, let out in single floors and apartments,where Madame Mars, the mother of Rosalie, lived on the third floor. A bellsumm oned her to them. A few words from Emil e enlightened her as muchas was necessary as to their situation, and they were ushered into a clean, butill-fur nished bed -r oom . A fire was speedily made in it, and an air of comparative comfort spread itself around them .

But Lucille was ill, feverish, with a throbbing headache ; and after she wasin bed, Emile, full of love and care, watche d anxiou sly by her side. He rsleep was fitfu l; and w rhen she raised her head from the pillow, and openedher large eyes, they glist ened with such unnatural brightness that Emile

trembl ed for her reason, and prayed ferventl y that strength might be givenher to reach the valley.

Towards m or ni ng /E mi le worn out by fatigue and anxiety threw a shawlover her, and creep ing quietly beneath the co verl id, fearing to awake hercompanio n, who had again d ozed off, after a time wa tchi ng her uneasyslumber, fell herself into a deep heavy sleep. She had slept near two hours:when heavy footsteps and loud voices beneath caused her to start wildly from



108 T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A D O M E S T I C M A G A Z I N E OF [July U, 18tJ0.

Iicr uneasy sleep. She sat up in the bed an d listened, an d Lucille, whom ithad also awoke, with he r flushed cheeks an d hair hanging wildly about her,sat up beside her.

" What can that me an ?" said Emile, attempting calmness, " c a n itconcern us ? Hark!" she continued, " that is m y mother's voice. She hascome to take me from yo u ; but fear not. Sh e shall no t separate us till youare safe at home."

Springing from the bed Emile barricaded the door with th e only tabicand chair the room afforded, bu t she ha d scarcely done it when th e door wast ried . "W h o is i t , " said she, " t h a t wishes to enter this apartment beforewe summon them ? "

" It is I , " said th e Countess d'Alm aine , "y ou r mother, who insists on th e

door being instantly open ed. I have a communication to make to y o u . "" W h a t is it, ma mma ?" demanded Emile. "Pr ay do not be violent, fo r

Lucille is i l l , very ill, and we have both passed a "wretched an d sleeplessnight. Put I care not for myself, I only think o f Lucille, who is i l l , an drequires medical attendance."

" Admit me," returned th e countess impatiently, " a n d without delay, orthe people who are with me shall force th e door."

" Open it , Emile," said Lucille faintly, " it is your mother, she h as noright to sue in vain ; besides, we are helpless; a strong hand would demolishyour fortification in a moment."

" She has come to separate us," said Emile, " and I am powerless. Lucille,ca n you bear up against th e storm without me ? Ill as you are, what willbecome o f yo u ? "

" Break this c loor!" cried th e passionate voice of th e countess, an d instantlythe slight barricade gave way to admit th e countess, two nuns, and a priest.

Th e countess glanced towards the bed and half started at the wildexpression in the eyes o f Lucille ; but not allowi ng herself time to think, shesaid to the nuns, pointing to Emile, " That is my daughter, Emile d'Alma ine.I place he r under th e care o f your superior till y o u again hear from me.Emile, yo u ma y as well submit with a good grace, or I shall give theseladies directions to carry you to my carriage, which waits in the courtyard."

Emile knew he r mother's resolution. T h e nuns were tw o quiet-lookingwomen, bu t were under th e control o f their superior, and she had nothingto hope from them; she had nothing left but to make another appeal toher mother in behalf o f Lucille.

" I am willing," she said, " to go wherever you may Avish to place me,mother ; but give me a day, only a few hours, to sec Lucil le attended to, onlyto see if it is possible for her to undertake th e journey, to see he r placed safelyin th e diligence which will convey her to within a few miles of her father'shouse. Y o u will grant me this on e request, mother, an d then send me tothe convent directly after. I will no t utter a single complaint, or a word of resistance. Mothe r, you will grant this one, this little request-"

" Yo u are strangely interested, mademoiselle, in the proceedings o f astranger," said the countess. " Mademoiselle de Vernet can help herself;she is willing, no doubt, and quite able to do so . "

" A stranger ! " said Emile, -with a sudden burst of feeling. " She is mysister ; the beloved wife of my only brother, and your son, mother. Think of

Jules's anguish if lie knew she was lying in this wretched apartment, crushedin mind an d body, forsaken by us both ; you will no t leave her thus helpless."

" We l l , " said the countess, a slight compunctious feeling for a momentsubduing he r angry ones, " s h e shall hav e medical attendance and be carefullynursed by th e woman who resides here, till she is able to g o to her father."Will that satisfy you ? Bu t you must instantly quit he r an d content yourself for a time in the convent of St. Ursula; that is my command; an d if yo upersist in further opposition to it, these holy people will have recourse toforce. Here is your shawl and bon net ; haste, for I have not ye t breakfasted."

Emile knew farther appeal or resistance would be va in ; she lookeddeprecatingly on her mother, th e nuns, and the rubicund priest, who ha dtestified hi s impatience b y throwing he r shawl over her, which she hadindignantly dashed to the ground.

" I must leave you, dearest," she cried, taking Lucille in he r arms; "theyforce me from yo u ; but do no t despair. In a few clays Jules will be here,and he shall know all the cruelty that has been levelled at you. Adieu!Heaven protect you ! "

" D o no t think of me, Emile, " returned Lucille. " I shall soon require no

care. Adieu ! I am faint, an d cannot speak more."Again th e shawl was thrown over Emile, an d she was hurried from th eroom. There was a loud tumult in the apartment below, th e countess's voicerose high ; then, as it became distant, it sank into a murmur; then al l wassilent, but the carriage-wheels rattling over th e stones of the courtyard.Lucille 's aching head fell languidly on the pillow ; for th e first time in herlife she was alone. _ T T

C H A P T E R X I I .

In a short time after th e party ha d left, Rosalie's mother came to Lucille'sbedside. Sh e was a gentle kindly woman, and truly, without knowing why shewas thus thrown on her ow n resources, commiserated th e young helplesscreature before her.

" You are ill, mademoi selle," she said, leaning over her, and touching her ho ttemples. " I have done as mademoiselle desired—sent for a doctor, who willbe here by nine o 'c lock; bu t what shall I give yo u in the intermediate time ?I have tea and coffee ; which shall I bring you? "

" Neither," replied Lucille ; " bu t a glass o f cold water would cool my hotmouth, an d might perhaps relieve me. Wh at time is it ? "

" P a s t seven, mademoiselle."" A t what hour docs the diligence start fo r Marseilles? "" At eight o'clock precisely."" At eight o'clock ? " said Lucille, starting wildly up in bed . "Where from ? "" T h e Ru e des Chantons, a quarter of an hour's walk from hence."Wi t h frosh energy Lucill e sprang from th e bed, then tottered an d sank upon

it again. " Assist me to dress," sh e said in a faint voice, " for I must leave

Paris by that diligence ; I must go home while I am able. I must go to myfather to die."

" H o w ? Impossible, my dear lad y," said the kind woman. " Y rou have notstrength to walk across th e room. H o w can you ever reach the Rue desChantons?"

" I must, I will try," said Lucille. " Dear madame, help me to dress."Th e good woman, seeing he r earnestness, assisted her to dress, thinking her

strength -would be exha usted with th e operation. She was more surprised thenwhen she said, " No w, madame, will you lead me to the Ru e des Chantons ?I must go away by th e diligence."

She took her purse out; it was bu t scantily provided. Throwing the contentson th e bed, she took enough for her fare, and giving the rest to the woman,

said, " I t is all I have, but the Count d'Almaine, or Emile, some other timewill reward you for your care of me. No w, madame, I am able to undertakethis walk. Will you accompany me, for I must go to my father."

He r voice was so faint and sad, yet so earnest, that it was irresistible. Th egood Avoman led her forth ; it was a long and toilsome journey to one in hersituation, bu t perseverance and determination accomplished it. The driver was

just stepping into his boots as they arrived; there was a vacant place, shewas assisted into it, weak and tottering, and sank exhausted into a corner.

" A d i e u ! " she murmured to the woman, w h o pressed her hand withwarmth and pity. " Adieu ! my heart is full, but I have no tears, they aredried up with the burning heat that is consuming me."

Th e driver cracked his whip, th e heavy unwieldy vehicle rumbled with athundering sound an d unpleasant movement through th e streets o f Paris,unheeded by Lucille, who ha d sunk with closed eves and laboured breathingagainst th e side of it .

He r fellow passengers looked at he r with wonder ; they spoke to her, bu tshe heard them not; he r only consciousness seemed when th e coach stopped,when she would raise her head hurriedly and ask if they were at Marseilles.

When they inquired if she would no t take refreshment, she answered,languidly, "Yes, a glass o f cold water; my tongue is hard and dry, and my,mouth parched."

Twilight was just drawing in, when one of he r fellow travellers pronouncedin an audible voice, "Marseil les! we are just entering; in another half hourwe shall arrive at our journey 's end."

Lucille taised herself from the half recumbent position she had sunk into,and made an effort to look through th e window, but the heavy mist that hadbeen falling through th e day ha d so obscured the glass, that all that wasdiscernible was the half glimmer of the numerous lamps no t lighted ye t longenough to shed their full splendour down upon the gloomy thoroughfare.

Half an hour after th e unwieldly vehicle stopped; its heavy rumbling wassuperseded by th e di n of many voices; he r fellow passengers ha d alighted, andLucille, with a look o f recognition at the well-known sign dangling from theinn door, with slow an d feeble steps followed their example. The hostess,bustling and anxious, greeted her with a curtsey and, " Walk in , madame."

" Can I have a conveyance ? " asked Lucille, in a quiet tremulous tone." Yes, in an hour madame can be accommodated," replied the hostess. " Th e

gentleman yonder has engaged ou r only chaise for th e Villa d'Eau; it will

soon return. Walk in ; madame is cold from this miserable weather. A goodtire blazes in the ante-room; it will warm you through by the time the chaisereturns."

" I cannot wait," said Lucille. " The distance is but a mile. I will walk."She turned away into the Avell -known road leading to her father's house. Th emist, Avhich had fallen SIOAV and murkily from sunrise, as day declined swelledinto torrents, and came down more like Avater -spouts than rain. Exhaustedand in pain, Lucille was unable to proceed fast; her mantle soon clung a heavyAveight around he r ; her thin silk shoes, the only pair she had left the Hoteld'Almaine Avith, before she ha d gone a hundred paces Avere saturated Avith th eclayey moisture clinging to them yet she kept on; at each moment summoningall her energies lest they should fail he r at the last hour.

Th e orange grove Avas in sight. Oh ! ho w Avelcome was its foliage to hersinking heart! Sh e entered it as it cu t a corner from th e road. Thoughearlier in the season than when she had entered it last year with Jules, it wasin full blossom. Sh e sank from fatigue on the same jutting root she had donethen. The flowers, heavy Avith the raindrops, nearly encompassed her Avith theirmoisture. Sh e looked up , and pressed them cold and drooping to her hotbrow. " I beat you from me," she said, " last year, fearing you clung to melike a Avinding -sheet; b ut now, how Avillingly would I clasp your death-huedblossoms, could they shield me from th e misery I am enduring! What am IAvishing ? " she continued, with a sudden start. " To die away from my father ?Ma y Heaven give me strength to reach him—only to reach him—it is allI a sk!"

She arose; this short appeal to the Power she reverenced gave her courage ;she Avas soon at the edge, of th e grove. As she stepped from it her feet sank deep in a muddy pool ; in extricating herself her shoes were left be hind, bu tshe heeded it not—scarcely knew it—as she tottered forward ; she saw a light,glimmering, indeed, bu t sufficient to point out to her, though the darknesshad become dense, that she Avas near the have n of her hopes. A few minutesand her hand Avas on the garden gate, her feet on the gravel path. She stoodbefore the AvindoAV, a cheerful fire lighted up the apartment—each Aven-knownobject Avas before her. He r father sat on one side of it, on the other, Madeline ;they Avere in earnest conv erse . Sh e moved to the door, touched the handle,her power Avas gone ; she sank against it, repeating, " Father, father! "

Quick is the heart o f a parent, ready the car, or could D e Vernet haveheard that low feeble voice calling on him? H e Avas at the spot before thecadence ha d ceased to sound, had opened th e door to receive into his arms hi shalf-insensible child; he bore he r into th e parlour, tore wildly off her wetgarments, crying, in a scarcely audible voice, " Madeline ! what has broughther here ?—alone, exposed to the inclemency of the night, ill and suffering,Avhen Ave believed her so many miles from us ? "

At once a light seemed to break in upon him. " My child is degraded!"



July 14, 1360 .1 U S E F U L I N F O E M AT I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T. 160

he said, glanc ing at her, and speakin g veheme ntly. " Wh o has done this ?Speak ! W h o has deg raded —who has don e what will bring my grey hairswith sorrow to their last resting-place ? "

"Father, oh ! father," said Lucille, in a faint br oken voice, " n o t that—not that! I have abused your confidence ; I am helpless, abased, ill, perhapsdying—but not guilty."

" Bless you, Lucille, for those two last words! I can brave all, even yourdeath, if you die inno cent ," and he clasped her, care, tra vclwo rn, almostinanimate, to his aching heart.

Madeline, whose tears had fallen fast on the hand pressed tig htly in herown, exclaimed, "Batiste will tell you, monsi eur; he knows much. Butassist me to take her to her room ; every moment these wet garments cling-to her is risking her life, and whi le I am placi ng her in "bed send formedical aid."

Assisted by the servant, the active affectionate Made line soon had Lucillein be d, who was no longer conscious of suffering, but rav ing in d eli riu m;while her distracted father, like a troubled spirit, wandered from room toroom, now listening to the ravings o f his child, then hearkening to the wailingsof Madeline as she leant over her.

" She is on the bed of her childhood," she cried, "h er bridal bed. A h ! willit also be her bed of death ? Merciful heaven! what will become of her father ? "

" I will die with her !" exclaim ed De Verne t, in a tone almost as wild ashis raving child' s. " And her mother—whe re is she ? Mile s away ; unconscious that the last fleeting m omen t fading for ever may make her childless.Ella, why did you desert us? Had your child been guided by a mother'shand, would this have happened?"

He drew his desk hurriedly towards him, and w ith an unsteady hand andeyes nearly blinded by emotion, penned the following lines :—

" E LLA,—Your child is dying—dying from your want of care ; for had youbeen near to possess her confidence this would not have occurred. She is

privately married, and, I imagine, heartlessly forsak en; b ut I kn ow noth ingbut from her rav ings. I am wretche d—hear t-sick. Ella, yo u are the cause !If my child die, may God forgive you—I cannot ! H. De V ERNET."

C HAPTER X I I I .

In a sumptuously thou gh anciently furnished d ressing -room in the castleof Wald enb urg stood before a large dressing-g lass the still fair and grac eful Madame de Vernet. It was a golden mor nin g; and not only werethe green glades and snowy blossoms tinted by its bright hue s, but it glan cedupon the regular features, gave deeper radiance to the golden hair, an dsparkled in the blue eyes of the beautiful figure reflected by the mirror. Shewas preparing for a pic-nic, and revel ling in the idea of pleasure that glorioussunshine would induce to the har mony of the party, and was just claspingher Avaist with a larg e jewel led brooch, which glittered and shaded into manyhues the different colours it reflected. A small Brussels lace mantilla linedwith peach-blossom satin covered her graceful shoulder s; while her maidstood beside her hold ing in her hand a white transparent bonnet, plumedwith the elegant feathers of the marab ou.

" Ho w beautiful madame looks to -da y!" said her lady's maid. " Madameis an evergreen. Ten years I ha ve been at the castle ; and thoug h so manythings are changed, there is none in madame."

Ella looked indifferently, but as she took the bonnet a satisfied smileslightly parted her lips, and the sun fu rtively glanced o n her smalty white,regular teeth. At the moment she thought only of her beauty.

A knock sounded on the oaken door. The maid answered it, and returnedwith a letter, which she laid carelessly on the dressing-table . Ella glanc edtowards it, and c aught it up eagerly. She knew the writing, tho ugh it wasthick and blotted. * It was months since she had received intelligence fromthe valley. Her heart bounde d to her mouth. The mother and the wife ha dpower over its pulsations—more powerfully than even she herself was awareof. She broke the seal, and read the conte nts. As she finished, a sharp,quick cry, as if a shot ha d pierced her, burst from her. The plumed bonnetfell from her hand to the ground; and as she staggered to a chair, Avastrodden on and crushed.

" T h e bijou of a bon net !" cried the maid, catching it up, more mindful of it than the disorder of her mistress. " Wh at will madame do ? It will be

impossible to Avear it."Th e words were unheard. Ella sat a feAv moments gazing on vacancy,

then starting up, rushed from the room. Another instant, an d s he Avasstanding pale and shivering before the baroness, the letter in her hand.

Th e baroness Avas little changed. Eigh teen years had but whiten ed thesoft bands resting on h er forehead. She Avas pale, cal m, and collected asusual.

" Wh at ails you , Ella ? " she demanded. " W h o is that letter from ? "" Fro m De Vernet. Bea d it," she replied, in a husky tone.Th e baroness glanced over it, and said, " Wh at do you intend doin g ? "" Fly to them immediately ! " Avas the reply . " Dea th is hov erin g, he some

times lingers before he points his darts. I may yet see my child livin g. Oh,Aunt Ulrica, I am a guilty th ing ; dare I hope so much from heaven ? "

" Ho pe everything , dear Ella. Depa rt directly, and leave the rest toProvidence."

She rang the bell while speaking, and on the servant appearing, ordered thecarriage to be brought round as soon as possible.

"Noav to your room, dear child," she said, commiseratingly, "a nd change

your dress. I will give orders for a few necessaries to be packe d. GertrudeAvill go with you, and you must neither sleep nor rest, but in the carriage, tillyou reach the valley."

" Sleep and rest! " said Ella. " Shall I ever have either again ? "" D o not despair," said her aunt, "i t is a reproach to me. I have done

wrong in keeping you so long from those Avho are nearer, and should be dearerthan I am. I Avill pray fervently for you. Adieu, my child, trust in God,He must and will support you through this trial."

• The carriage was announced, the two unhappy Avomen embraced in silence,and separated.

Thre e days after the carriage stopped before the hom e of De Ve rn et ; theworn Avife and mother glanced fearfully towards the Avindows of the house.Th e blinds Avere closely draAvn, and the dusky twil ight sat heavi ly on them.Stillness Avas around the neglec ted hou se; the cat, scared by the noise of thepostilion's heavy boots on the gravel path, hastily scampered to a high tree forsafety ; the dog sat moodi ly in the door porch, and only groAvled as the largebrass-knobbed whip sounded on the door.

Th e sound struck like an icebolt on Madame de Vernet's heart. " Al l isover ! " she said, in an inaudible voice. " I have come to the house of death ! "But her strained eyes Avere fixed on the door ; it opened, she saAv her husband

in the backg round . " Let me in ! let me in! " she cried, and bursting openthe door, she ran into the hous e, and the husband and wife stood face to face.

De Vernet looked full into the sad pale face ; he had never seen it beforebut hushed Avith the hue of health and loveliness . For the first time thereAvas real sympathy betAveen them, but he said coldly ; " Y ou here, Ella,—comeas a visitor to the house you have so lon g deserted ? "

" R e p r o a c h me no t," she said, hum bly ; " pi ty m e, Henri, for I am onlysuffering what I me rit ; but Lucillo—my chil d!—o h, do not say I have cometoo late! In mercy, say she lives ! "

" Y e t l ives," said De Vern et; " but her danger is the same."She rushed to his arms, cry ing, " One part of my prayer is heard ; grant,

my husband, the other part. Forgive me for my Avant of care; take me toyour heart again, there to remain for eve r; for if you will it so, noth ing shallpart us more in l i fe . "

De Vernet's eyes softened ; the Avife of his youth lay subdued on his bosom.Her embraoe Avas responded to ; they Avere re-united till death should oncemore part them.

* # * * * •It Avas the tenth day of Lucille's return to the valley. The blinds Avere

doAvn, the curtains drawn closely, that not a gleam of that bright noon-dayMa y sun might penetrate the darkened apartment. She slept the first timecalmly. Madeline Batiste sat on one side the bed, the anxious mother on theother; all Avas silent as the grave, when there Avas a movement of the bedclothes, a hand Avas stretched out, and a Ioav voice said, " Where am I ? "

Madeline Avas leaning over the invalid directly. An exclamation of jo yAvas on her to ng ue ; but she restrained it as she Avaved Madame de A'ernetaside, and ansAvered calmly, " Where are you, dear Lucille ? Wh y, in yourow n dear little bed, and Madeline, your friend, bending over y o u . "

She looked wildly round a momen t, then asked, " H oav came I hither—athome, Avith my father ? Wh er e is he, that I do not see him ? "

" He is walkin g," replied Madeli ne; " Jacques and he are settling something at the far m; but, Lucille, dearest, I have something to introduce youto—something so small, so beautiful, so lovcable. Oh ! how dear it will be toyou, as it alread y is to us ! " She raised a roll of flannel from the foot of thebed, sloAvly open ing it as she spoke . " L o o k , " she added, in a tremulous tone,her eyes filling with tears of affection, " did you ever behold anything before

half st> lovely ? "Lucille directed her eyes towards the flannel, and uttered a murmuring cry.

It was an infant, and her yearning heart told her she Avas its mother." There! " said Madeline, kissing the doAvny cheek of the babe, and placing

it near Lucille, "res t for the first time on the arm of your mother , that herslumber may be soft and refreshing as your ow n. "

" A n d Ju le s? " inquired the young mother in a suppressed tone. " D o e she know he is a father ? Have his lips pressed its forehead ? "

"T he re has not been time to even think of him yet, dearest," repliedMadeline; " but hoav you are better, Ave will Avrite; but'no more talking, youmust sleep ; turn to your child. Oh, how tranquilly you will sleep with thatslumbering near your heart! Happy Lucille, to possess such a treasure ! "

So thought Lucille, as she turned and drew her babe closer towards her;she smiled and murmure d a feAv lo w words , and again slept. Wh en she awoke,a fair form was bending over her; she closed her eyes again, then openedthem more Avidely, excla iming doubtfu lly, " Mam ma, can it be mamma, or doI dream ? "

" Xo , no, it is I, " said her mother, ben ding her face till her pale lips

touched her daught er's, " your mother , Lucille, your unkind, neglectful mother!Can you pardon her ? ""Par don you, dear mo th er ?" said Lucille, whose arms were immediat ely

roun d her neck ; " Avhat have I to pardon ?—you, av Iio have come like anangel of mercy to brin g peace to my father's wounde d spirit. Oh, mother ,ho w sweet to have you near me ! Xo w I am a parent myself, the link betweenus seems more tightly knit. Wh at n ew-b orn sensations are spring ing up in myhear t ! Mother," she added, in a low soft tone, " that has a thrilling sound."

So thou ght Mada me de Verne t, as she shower ed kisses on the lips thathad murmured it for the first time in reference to herself.

Lucille progressed slowly, but surely, toAvards convalescence; there Avasbut one drawback on her peac e. She saw her father and mothe r sitting besidethe same hearth, firmly re-u nite d; she had their forgiveness for the past, bu ther repeated letters to D'Alm aine remained unnoticed. She had Avritten also toEmile ;—there was silence there. Wh at did it mean ? That she Avas forgot tenor deserted ? Th e blood rushed like a torrent through her heart at the thought,though with an effort she fought against it to accuse the countess as the cause.

C HAPTER X I V.

Tw o months had nearly elapsed. Lucille, as a last resort, had addresseda letter to Madame D'Al main e. A week after a packet arrived directed toMademoiselle de Ve rn et : it Avas in the writing of the countess. Lucille brokethe seal slowly, and Avith a fainting spirit. Ther e were her own letters toJules and Emile, all but one unopene d. She Avas pushing them from herAvith a sinking sensation, Avhen one addressed to herself fell to the ground;she caugh t it up eagerly, broke the seal, and rea d;—



1 7 0 T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A DO ME ST I C M A G A Z I N E OF I July 14, 1860.

" M A D A M E , — I have returned your letters that you may fully understand jthe uselessness of writing- either to my son or daugh ter. The latter is still jin her convent, and I have so fully explained the enormity of your cond uct tothe former, that he desires all interco urse must cease betwe en you, for eve r.He is suffering no w f rom a wou nd received in a duel with the Du ke dePale ron . But he tells me to say, that although he can never acknowledg eyou as one bearing his name, he feels himself in a degree bound to giveyou an allowance ; he therefore has made a settlement of four thousan d francsper annum on you, and I enclose a bill for the half-ye arly amou nt. Ishoul d strenuously reco mmen d you no t to adop t the name of our family, asyou can never be considered the Count d'Alm aine' s wife. In regard to your

infant y ou may retain it, or give it up to its lega l prote ctors. I have noadvice to offer on the subject/ HORTENSE D'ALMAINE."

Lucille 's feelings were indescribable on reading this cruel letter ; but indignation predominated, and taking the letter of mada me, and the b ill enclosedin it, put it on the fire, and layin g the pok er on it, pressed it do wn into th eflame till not a vestige of it remain ed.

" This is your act!" she cried, with Hashing eyes, " and thus let it perish !Yo u would compromis e my honour, and trample me in the dust, but Iwill triumph yet over you, you unfeeling wom an, for I am innocent andoppressed, and* shall c onque r, for I want only m y husband' s love and theesteem which nothing shall make me forfeit."

Her resolution was formed on the mom ent ; it was hasty but firm, thoughtime and troub le wou ld be the cost. She wou ld see him, speak to him , tellhim all her wron gs, and she kn ew h is heart too well to imagin e he wouldturn away from her truthfulness, thou gh a serpent had coiled round him topoison his min d against her.

She wept bitterly when she thought of his wound, for he had doubtedhe r truth, and had fought to vindicate his own honour at the risk of hisreputatio n; she sighed too, for Emile, who, immured in a convent, washelpless where she might have worked so much good.

De Vernet could scarcely keep his indignatio n within bounds. At first heinsisted that the law should compel both the count and his mother to dojustice to his daughter's claims ; bu t Lucil le pleaded so forcibly against theseproceedings —declaring it woul d separate her from her husban d for ever,for if he would not ackn owledge her without compulsi on, she would neverlive with him—that after many trials of patien ce and forbeara nce on his part,he r father consented, partly instigated by Batiste, who was the friend onboth sides, to permit her to make the attempt at reconciliation her ownway. This was to proceed alone and unattended to Paris, to obtain an interview with Jul es, unfold to him the artifice practised ag ainst h im, and h ersanguine hopes whispered all would be righ t.

On a bright mornin g in July, when the gold en sun was giving a deepertint to the clustering grapes hanging profusely and temptingly, slightlyshaded from its glare by the b road dark gree n leav es, and every glad e andmosssy bank was lighted up by its brilliancy, Lucille with tearful eyes andtrusting spirit, bade adieu to her lov ing and beloved friends, and a last farewell to the sweet home of all her happiness . As she pressed for the twentiethtime a kiss on the lips of her ch ild, as it slept on the careful arm o f Made line,she whisper ed, " Sweetest, I quit yo u but for a time. At our n ext embrace,your father's arms will entwine with min e round th y tiny form, and all will bepeace and h appiness."

Wi th the faithful and tried servant of her father, Lucille stepped into thewaiting vehicle, and was soon hastening to Paris with as much speed asFrench travelling in those days permitted. She gave a tearful and lingeringlook to the last green spot of the valley yet visible, and when it died awayfor ever from her sight, she leant back in the carriage and closed her eyes;her tears were gone ; bu t her heart seemed too large and heavy for her bosom,and with indescribable pain she pressed her hand tightly over it.

On the seco nd day' s jou rne y the carriage drew up in the Hue de la Paix, atthe residence of a court milliner, a person who was parti ally kno wn to theBatistes, and where Lucille was to locate while she had occasion for it.

Madame Boloin receiv ed her w ith the fre edom and courtesy of an oldacquaintance. Comfortable apartments were assigned her, and an invitati on

to visit her business departme nt when she pleased. All was free and ea sy ;there were no suspicio ns, no inqui ry about who or what she was. Themilline r was well versed in fashionable n ews and scandal, and Luc ille soonheard h er ow n history in several different versions as conn ected with M ada med'Almain e. She heard too, that he r - husband was much changed from thegay, fashiona ble man so great ly admired and caressed. He had scarcelyrecovered from his wou nd, whi ch was a pistol- shot in the arm ; he was pale ,lang uid, and seld om quitted the house but for an ai ring.

Ho w Lucille 's heart yearned towards him at this intelligence ! Ho w shelonged to see hi m! and many hours during the d ay, wrapped in a large shawland thick veil, her person bein g disguised by them, she pace d before the g atesof the Hote l d 'Almain e, in the vain hope of seeing him, knowin g fromexperience how usless would be the attempt to reach him by written communication.

One morning, worn and unha ppy by her weary, useless watchings, urgedby an impulse, she determined to boldly seek an interview' with him. Shedrew towa rds the bell an d laid her hand upon its h andle ; her cour age wasgone ere she had made it soun d. He r peculi ar posi tion struck her forcibly ;

a wife of the proud and anci ent house of D'Al main e forcing herself within itsportals, or like a menial hum bly asking for w rhat she could command—-herhusband's presence! All her emotions for the moment w rere concentrated inher pride . She pulled the bell sharply, with a steady hand, and it still soundedwhen the porter looked through the aperture to recon noitre the visitor. Shedemanded in a decided tone, " Is the Count D'Al main e at home ? "

The porter scanned her from head to foot, before he answered, " He isgone out for a ride, mademoiselle."

" When will he return ? " she asked, " A r e his rides gem rally prolon gedto great lengths ? "

Th e man smiled, as he replied, " Monsie ur know s his own mind betterthan I d o, madem oiselle . I may as well ask what your business is with him ? "

" I wish to see him ," she replie d; " an d you will greatly oblige me byinforming me of the most probable time for me to procure an interview."

" It is impossi ble, " replied the man ; " for, since monsieur's illness, madamehis mothe r, has no t perm itted any one to sec him, but throu gh her agency,Shall I take your message to the countess, mademoiselle ? "

" N o , " she replie d, in a despondin g tone, for the cou rage that had impelled her to act was damped by this informati on. " I will call again. Imay be more successful another tim e. The count may be at home ." Shehesitated, then added, " If you could convey a letter to him from me, it might

answer the purpose of seeing hi m; and I will reward you for the trouble, "she said, putting a Xapoleon into his hand while speaking.

The ma n looked at the money, saying as he did so, " It is not the trouble,mademoiselle , yo u see ; it is the risk.w e run. Mada me threatens to dischargeany domestic who should convey anything to the count without her knowl edge ; but a letter—I suppose it is but a love-letter—might be an exception.Brin g it, and I' ll consult Jacqu iline abo ut it. She is more quick-sighted thanmyself on these poin ts; and though more discreet than tender-hearted, is notabove doing a good turn when profit is attached to it."

" Thanks, a thousand thanks, my good man ! " said Luc ille, elated withher seeming success. " I will be here about this t ime to-morrow."

" Well, well," said the porter, " I will do what I can for you, mademoisel le."Here a very small face, with a remarkably sharp pair of eyes, peered over

the man's shoulder, and in a voice something beyond tenor, demanded why hewas wasting so much time at the portal.

" I'l l tell yo u all about it, Jacq uili ne," he said, in a half soot hing, half frightened voice. "I t' s a lady wants to see the coun t. I'l l tell you allabout it."

He then closed the shutter abrupt ly, leavin g Luc ille standing on the otherside, in a half bewildered mood.

A loud ring at the bell aroused Lucille. She moved slowly away, uncertain,in her state of irritability, w hit her ; and when she looked up to learn her,directio n, she was bey ond the gardens of the Tuiler ics. She knew not theright turning homewards, and stood glancing anxiously round for somesteady-looking person to inquire her way.

She was standing on the curbstone, when she retreated slightly at thetramp of horses' hoofs; they were passing her, and mech anically her eyeswere raised to the horseman. She uttered an exclamatio n, and stretched forthher arms.

" Jules ! Jul es! " she cried . " Stop ! I am here. Oh, do not go , Jul es!Jules, surely you will hear m e . "

But D'Al main e, unconscious she was near, rode on rapidly. He was paleand though tful, and pursued his course withou t once turning to the right orto the left. An d onwa rd went Lucille;, with rapid mov ements, unmindful of the observation she had attracted, till the object she was pursuing was hiddenfrom her by distance, and the numerous vehicles and horsemen with whichthe streets were thron ged; and when her straining eyes could no longerdiscern him, she leant against an iron palisade and wept.

Man y persons had assembled round her, some smiling at her, others pity ingher, but all pronouncing audibly, " She is mad."

Lucille had just become conscious of her unpleasant position, and was tryingto make her way thro ugh the crow rd, when a middl e-ag ed w oman , afterlooking searchingly at her, exclaimed, " Mademoiselle de Ver net! or I amgreatly dec eived? "

Lucille looked up ; it was the mother of Rosalie, Emile's maid, who spoke;and happy to recognise one face among the gazers she had seen before, caughther arm, exclaiming, "M ada me , will you direct me home. A stranger inParis, I have mistaken the turning."

"T ak e my arm," said the wom an; " I will see you safe; but you arefatigued, mademoiselle. My home is near ; rest there for a time, and," sheadded, in a low voice, " it will enable us to rid ourselves of this rabble."

Lucille gladly took her offered! arm, and was soon under her sheltering roof,listening with interest, that for the time drove other thoughts f rom her mindto information of Emile.

" Yo u must kno w, mademoiselle," said the woman, " that after you quittedus that mor ning wh en you were so fearfully ill, Rosalie came to tell me thatmadame had giv en her warnin g. She had a month before her, and she told meshe woul d not, if possible, quit the Ho te l d'Al main e till she had discoveredwhere her you ng lady was placed. She was successful. It is at the conventof St. Ursul a; but when she applied at the gates to see her, instructions hadbeen issued that none from the hotel were to be admitted witho ut a specialorder from madam e. It was a cruel disappoin tment to Rosalie, who wasunacqu ainted with your address, and therefore had no powe r to do any thin g;and her next place taking her into the count ry, she was obliged to let thematter rest."

" B u t I can visit her," replied Lucille, anxiously. " I am not from thehotel , and can gain admittance. Tell me, madam e, how can this be done ? "

" To- mo rro w is visiting day," she repli ed; " the hou rs from twelve to two.Present yourself at the lodge, and if you succeed in passing the porteress,you may, I think, gain access to the poor young lady, Avhom they are punishingto make her take the hateful vows."

"D ea r Emi le! you shall not, if I have power to prevent it," exclaimedLucille, energetic ally; "a nd in exerting myself for your benefit self shall beforgott en. I must return, now, madame. Wi l l you direct me to the Ruede la Pai x? Expe ct me shortly again, and believe my gratitude to beenduring."

It was late when Lucille returned; all were in consternation at her lon gabsence; and Annette, her father's faithful servant, declared that she shouldnot, without her attendance, again perambulate the streets of Paris. To thisLucille readily con sen ted ; and fatigued mora lly and physically, she retiredto bed. But the day had been an eventful one j it was replete with uulooked*



•Inly 14, ISOO.j U S E F U L I N F O R M AT I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T. 171

for events. She had seen her husband,— heard o f his sister. Surely thecountess's reign was not so triumphant as it had been. Hop e whisperedsomething- would arise from i t; and thoug h she slept little, she arose in themorning for the first time refreshed since her residence in Paris.

It seemed a long time till the hour arrived for her departure to the convent.She wrote her letter to her husband, intendi ng, as she returned, to leave itwith the porter; and, with a fluttering heart, started off, accompanied byAnnette, for St. Ursula's . She had planned that it should be considerably pastthe hour of admission when she arrived, that, unmolested, she might have anopportunity of conversi ng with the captive. She trembled violently, as shestood waiting i n the c onvent porch for her sum mons for admittance to beanswered. But when the porteress appeared, she said in a lo w but firm voice,

that she was sent by Madame D'Almaine with a message to sister Emile.Th e door was opened immediately, and she passed in, Annet te remai ningon the outsid e, one visitor onl y being admitted at a time accor ding to therules of the establishment. She went onward till she stood before a grat ing,through which a nun was discernible pacing slowly the stone paveme nt. Shewas old and shrivelled; and what part of her face was visible from beneaththe linen bandages bound round her chin and forehead, was yellow as saffron ;but her small coal-black eyes, wholly devoid of eyelashes, had an unquenehingfire and quickness in them ; and when, for a moment, they stopped their rapidmovements, they seemed diving into the inmost soul.

Lucille shuddered, and felt as cold as the marble on whi ch she s tood, asthose eyes fixed searchingly upon her. The nun was close to her, the gratingalone separating th em; but she spoke no t; and, as a degree of impa tiencedeepened her yellow skin, and sharpened her pointed features, Lucille seemedgradually sinking into nothingness; but divining she was to speak first,she said falteringly, "Made mois elle d'Almaine, I have come to sec her."

The nun tingled a small brass hand-bell, wrote the nam e on a card, andsilently gave it to a sister, who had answered the s ummons . Put a fewminutes elapsed, when a tall figure, clad in a sombre, loose, dingy grey habit,with her forehead bound in linen, and a bro ad piece, similar to the nun's,apparently fastening up her chin, stood before the nun, wh o silently point edto the gratin g. The figure turned ; it was Emile ; but how changed she w as ;pale as death ; her large dark eyes had los t their brightness, and they weresurrounded by a red circle; her features were sharp, and her mouth, whichhad been formerly wreathed in smiles, was compressed and spiritless,

Lucille strained her eyes to be certain she was not deceive d in the appearance ; and, when assured it was Emile, she uttered in a lo w, suppressed tone ,catching her hand, "Em il e, dearest E mile, speak to me! do not look sounnaturally c o l d ! "

The blood rushed up to the face of Em il e; the paleness had departed fromher cheek s; her eyes were bri ght and distended, as she said in a falteringvoice, " Lucill e! Lu cil le! can it be ? Yes, yes, I know the voice. Throw back your veil, that I. may once more look upon a human face." Lucille withdrewher veil.

" Ah, the same sweet face! " cried Emile, seizing her hand, " but pale andwan like my own . Lucil le, you are not happy. Jules, where is he ? Areyou not with him ? Oh, how I h ave w ondered that you have both left mehere so long to pine away my existence."

" I am not with him, Emi le, " replied Lucill e. " W e are separated. Thehand that immured you in this wretched solitude has parted the husbandand wife."

" My mother ! " exclaimed Emile. " Unhappy wom an; to what lengths hasher indomitable pride driven her. But, my sister, you must see Jules. Wr it eto him. I know his nature—generous an d unsu spec tin g; but my mo ther'ssway is over it. He knows not what she is, and trusts her, belie ving her whatshe should be. But you must dispel the mist. Hav e you writt en ? "

" Yes, alas, yes ! " said Luc ill e, and all my letters are returned unopened.But, let us think of yourself, Em il e; o f how I can serve you. My meausseem trifling, helpless as I. am. But, remem ber, the mouse once freed the lionwhen his enemies had entrapped hi m. Thi nk if I can do any thi ng."

Emile looked cautiously round. The small, fierce eyes of the nun wereroving from one to the other; and Lu cill e, alarmed lest her words had beenheard, said, rather abruptly, " W h y are yo u kept so long beneath this roof?I trust not to further tin; countess's plans against myself? "

" W h y ? " replied Emi le, with a derisive laug h. " Wh y, because I will notmarry the Duk e de Pal er on; because I will not be a duchess. I have mychoice to be a duchess or a nun ; but I w ill be neit her," she added, with aburst'of her bygone spirit. " I will be neither, and I will yet quit these hatedwalls, where nothing seems hum an; where forms flit about cold, noiseless,heartless, with as little vitality in t hem as the marble beneath our feet, orthe material of which the hated fabric is composed."

The nun was at the side of Emile as she spoke the last word; her sharpeyes met hers, and for a mome nt Emi le's large flashing ones defied them ;then she turned them to Luc ill e's , and said more cal mly, " My mother hasdone this ; let her answer for it. If she perseveres, my heart will be steeledagainst her as it is against the semblance of religi on she compel s me topractise."

Again she was talking low to Lucille w rhen a deep bell soun ded; it was towarn visitors away. Emil e turned sharply at its first vibration; for once thenun's eyes were not on them ; and taking a small stone from her pocket threw itsuddenly from her. It struck the window at the opposite end of the apartment, the nun's eyes followed the cracki ng noise upon the glass. Emil e took hurriedly a letter from her bosom, and placed it in the hand of Luci lle , who

as hastily conveyed it to her pocket , and all trace of the transaction wasburied beneath the folds of her dress ere the nun's eyes had left the window.Both girls were pale and silent, they trembled, b ut were collected, and Emilesaid after a pause in a whisper, " Let no hands but y our own deliver it ; it isdirect ed; and if possible sleep not till he has it. Let us part now ; for if they have any suspicion, they will search y ou. I shall see you next vis itingday. Adieu, dearest Lucil le, success attend your mission."

Lucille could scarcely repeat adieu when she f ound herself standi ng alonebeside the grating. Emi le and the nun were bot h gone, and with rapid,timi d steps, glan cing furtively roun d as she passed each massive, lofty pillarreached the lodge. Annette impatiently waited, and was despatched as soonas they had crossed the last threshold of the convent for a hackney- coach.

Lucille did not feel to breathe freely till she found herself wi thin thecoach, when, drawing the letter from her pock et she saw it was to Mons ieurCharles de Bleville, Hot el de Paleron, Hue d'Auton. The driver was toldto stop there, and on learning Mons ieur de Blev ille was at hom e, shedesired them to say that a lady wished to see him at the gate on busiuess of importance.

In a sho rt space of time Charles de Bleville, with surprise painted on

his countenance, appeared at the coach door, wdiich was more increased whenLucille told him to open it and enter.Wi th little hesitation, however, he obeyed, when draw ing up the glass she

took the letter from her p ocket and placed it in his hand. He knew thewriting immediately, and became greatly agitated.

" Ho w is th is ?" he said. " T o whom am I indebted for this preciousdocument ?"

" To Emile' s friend, m onsieur," replied L ucill e. " Perhaps it may bo aswell not to enlighten you further on the subject . Emi le, as the letter willinform you, is in the conve nt of St. Urs ula ; of course you will sec her, andshe will tell you as much of my history as she thinks prope r. But here is myaddress; if you require other aid than your own to assist Emi le, you bo thknow where to come."

"Th ank s, " he cried, running his eyes over the card ; then trying to piercethrough the thickness of her veil, added, " St. Ursula, the conven t that hasthe worst reputati on in Fran ce for its confinem ent and s evere discipline . Iam all anxiety to see what the dear girl says, though I well know why she ispunished. If you will permit me, madam, I will call upon you to- mor row ."

Lucille bowed assent; and he left the carriag e, but stood at the hote l-ga tewith unc overe d head till it drove off. Th e driver had not proceed ed far whenthe ciieckstring was once more pull ed, and he was or dered to stop a fewdoors from the Hotel d'Almaine.

(To be continued.)

T H E P E R I L S O F T H E C I T Y.

j W e often think of the solitariness and is olation of the young man—a: stranger in a c row ded city ; suddenly cut adrift, perhaps, fr om lovi ng homeI influences— finding an inex orab le necessity in his nature for sympathy and! companionship—returning at night, when his day's toil is done, to his dreary,! cell-like room, or, if he go out, solicited by myriad treacherous voices to un-

j learn t he h oly lessons taught at his mother's knee—solicited to show his! "m an li ne ss " by drinking with every acquaintance that chance or the devil

j may send. Tha t youth must needs be stro ngly entrenched in the true idea of " manliness" not to waver and turn aside from his own independent course of well-doing. Alas, that to so many the fear of ridicule or dread of " oddity"should h ave p ower to dra w a veil over the swift and sure downf all of the

I drunkard or profligate ! Alas, that the little word No should be so impossibleof articul ation !—in a circle t oo whose sneering condem natio n of it were notworth a thought, no matter how brilliantly the jest or the song may issue

| from lips foul with the sophistry of "free- love," than which freedom nothingis more shackled with disgust and pain; for try as we will, Cod's image,though marred, shall never be wholly effaced; enough shall be left in everyman's and wo man' s soul to protest against such desecrat ion, thou gh it voice,

j itself, as it often does, in bitter denunciation of what the soul knows to be its j only true happiness. The holy stars make no reco rd of the gas ping si gh, brief ! but intense, that their purity has evoked. The little bird trills out its matins! and vespers, all uncon sciou s that their sweetness forces the unwelcome tear

from some world -sated eye. Bless God , these moments w ill and do come to: the most reckless—these swift heralds of our immortality—to be silenced never; in this wo rl d; if di sregarded, to be mou rned over for ever in the next ; for

the fiercest theologian's ideas of " hell" can never, it seems to me, go beyond; the consciousness of god-like powers wasted-and debased—noble opportunities

of benefiting our race defiling past the mem ory in mournful process ion, and; the sorr owing soul nerveless, powerless to bid them stay.

To every young man entering the lists against the vices of a crowded city,! at such fearful odds, wc woul d say : cultivat e an acquaintance as soon as

possible with some famil y, or families, whose healthful influence may be you r| talisman against evil associations, whose good opinion may give an impetus toi your self-respect, and whose cheerful fireside may outshine the ignis-fatuus| light s which dazzle but to mislead. To those wh o see difficulties or impos si-I biiities in this, we would suggest the cultiva tion of a taste for reading, which| surely may be compassed in a city, even by a young person of slender means.! Good books are safe, pleasant, and economical compan y. The time spent with

them is an investment which will not fail to yield a satisfying interest for allfuture time. Let those wh o will —and their name, w<e fear, is le gio n— wre ck health and reputati on for the lack of cour age or desire to be true to theirbetter feelin gs; let those who will, cover their inclinat ion to do evil with thetransparent excuse " that it is well to see life in all its phases." As well mighta perfectly healthy person from mere curiosity breathe the tainted air of everypest-house in the country. No thanks to his fool-h ardy temerity if he escape :"ser ved him ri gh t! " would be the unanimous verdict of common sense if he should not.

To him who, eschewing such folly, chooses to breathe a healthful, moralatmosphere, it may be a reflection w orth havin g, that he will bri ng to hisfuture home a constit ution and principles as sound as those he so pr operlyrequires in the wife of his choice and the mother of his children ; and 1 confessmyself unable to see why this should be more necessary in the case of oneparent than in that of the other. Such men, and such only, have a call to bohusbands. FA N N Y F E K N ,



i n T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A D O M E S T I C M A G A Z I N E OF [JULY 1 VlSOd.

T O C O R R E S P O N D E N T S .

INDIGNANT , w h o wri tes f rom Nor th Wales , a nd MARIAJAMES , w h o vegeta tes in B a r t h o l o m e w Close, w i s hus t o c o m e d o w n w i t h a s l e d g e - h a m m e r t h u m p u p o nthe Volunteers . They forsoot h ar e vain , ungal lan t ,and only t h i n k o f t h e m s e l v e s , and are fond of paradinga b o u t th e v a r i o us t o w n s i n t h e i r dress . One w as la te lyseen wi th a lady o n e a c h arm ; his rifle a nd s w o r d , a ndof course hi s u n i f o r m , m a k i n g up the s h o w. We l l ,we c a n n o t c o n d e m n that . H a p p y fe l low, say we .N o n e but the brave deserve t he fair. H e m u s t h a v eappeared l ike Mars , whe n Mis t ress Venus an d.Mademoiselle Diana we re a bou t t o pul l caps f o r h i m .

A s th e s i g h t w h i c h so offends o u r C o r r e s p o n d e n t s wa ss y n c h r o n i c a l w i t h th e r e v i e w, th e Vo l u n t e e r , w h o n od o u b t w a s w a l k i n g w i t h hi s two s i s te rs , l ike a v i r t u o u sy o u n g fe l low, is ra ther to be a p p l a u d e d than o t h e rwise , l in t , se r ious ly speaking , w e c a n n o t c o n d e m n aw h o l e b o d y for the vagar ies a n d v u l g a r i t i e s o f afew. And those vulgar i t ies ar e v e r y s e l d o m e x h i b i t e d .W e have near ly 124,000 effec t ive Volunt eers . Am on gs tt h e m m a n y m a y b e v e r y y o u n g , a fe w ra ther s i l ly, b u tas a b o d y we are p r o u d o f t h e m . T h e i r b e h a v i o u r ha sbeen admirable . The y must wear th e u n i f o r m w h e ng o i n g to or c o m i n g f r o m d r i l l ; b u t y e t few, very feware seen in it. T h e y h a v e e x h i b i t e d g re a t m o d e s t y,and admirable g o o d sense ; they have sho wn quie tude ,o b e d i e n c e , a n d h u m i l i t y. W e have seen baronets ,h e i r s t o fine titles, a u t h o r s a n d grea t artists, dr i l led ,t a u g h t , sco lded , a nd o r d e r e d a b o u t b y dr i l l se rgeantsf r o m th e l ine , a nd a l w a y s e x h i b i t i n g a d o c i l i t y of d e m e a n o u r w h i c h d e s e r v e d al l pra ise . They have al lg i v e n t h e i r t i m e , a n d t h e y h a v e as a b o d y s p e n t w i t ho ut a m u r m u r n e a r l y o n e m i l l i o n o f m o n e y o n t h e i re q u i p m e n t . B y s o doing they have saved th e n a t i o nf rom a g r e a t p e r i l ; and on th e 23rd o f J u n e las t th e

Q u e e n sa w herse l f sur rounded b y m o r e t h a n 20,000a r m e d a n d l o y a l m e n , w h o ha d s p r u n g i n t o e x i s t e n c e atthe ca l l o f t h e i r c o u n t r y, a n d s i m p l y f r o m t h e i r o w np a t r i o t i s m a n d c o u r a g e . As for v a n i t y, w e r e b u t th ea c c u s a t i o n ; i t is nonsens ica l , a nd falls to the g r o u n d ato n c e , o r u p o n a m o m e n t ' s c o n s i d e r a t i o n . T h e dressesar e far f r o m b e i n g s h o w y ; nay, t h e y ar e m a n y o f t h e mugly, p la in , a n d c o a r s e . T h e d u t y i s not easy, a ndrequi res cons iderable se l f -sacr i f ice both o f t i m e an dc o n v e n i e n c e . T h e d e m o n s t r a t i o n is both na t ional an dm o r a l . It has saved England f rom th e s t i g m a o f b e i n gw h o l l y s h o p p i s h a n d m o n e y - m a k i n g . I t has ar isenand been car r ied o n w i t h a m o d e s t y tha t is q u i t ea d m i r a b l e . E n g l a n d o w e s a d e b t o f g r a t i t u d e to herVolunteers , a d e b t w h i c h t he Q u e e n and the c o u n t r yare qui te sens ib le of, an d w i l l b e r e a d y to r e p a y ; andwe c a n n o t c o n d e m n t h e m b e c a u s e a few s i l ly o ldm a i d s o r y o u n g m a i d s f i n d t h a t cer ta in indiv idualsare more a t t e n t i v e t o t h e i r dr i l l t h a n to the lad ies .

A o i s GALATEA s e e k s ou r advice under th e f o l l o w i n g circumst ance s . He ( for th e y o u n g g e n t l e m a n c a n n o t h o l dth e t w o n a m e s ) ha s fallen in lpve wi th a n d a d d r e s s e d

var ious poet ica l le t ters t o a y o u n g l a d y, w h o firstassured h i m t h a t she was e n g a g e d , t h e n e n c o u r a g e dh i m , n e x t q u a r r e l l ed w i t h h i m , t h e n o b l i g e d hi m as am a n o f h o n o u r t o r e t u r n he r le t ters , a n d a g r e e d tore turn h i s . B u t ins tead o f d o i n g so she r e t a i n s a b o u thal f of t he q u a n t i t y, a n d t h o s e o f t h e m o s t i m p o r t a n c e .In one of t h o s e was a p r o m i s e t o w a i t fo r seven yearsfo r th e y o u n g l a d y. O ur C o r r e s p o n d e n t is a n x i o u s tohave these r e t u r n e d , and is d o u b t f u l w h e t h e r au a c t i o nc o u l d b e e n t e r e d o'n agains t him. D o u b t l e s s l y it could ,b u t w i t h o u t a n y c h a n c e o f s u c c e s s o n h e r par t , She iss i m p l y a f l i r t ; a nd all flirts are very repr ehen sibl e, in factare nuisances t o socie ty. They shoul d b e p u t d o w nw i t h a s t r o n g hand. A c i s h a d b e t t e r get h is s o l i c i t o rto wr i te a formal le t ter ( o f w h i c h he can k e e p a c o p y )d e m a n d i n g t he re turn o f t h e le t ters , an d g i v i n g n o t i c et h a t as the y o u n g l a d y is e n g a g e d fo a n o t h e r, h e ( A c i s )re t racts a n y p r o m i s e , and i t m u s t be c o n s i d e r e d v o i d .Or if ACTS ,->till loves th e y o u n g l a d y h e m a y c o m m e n c ean ac t ion agains t her. " G e n t l e m e n of the guard, firefirst," as t he French sa id at F o n t e n o y ; the first b l o win such a m a t t e r is s o m e t h i n g , a n d rea l ly a flirt d eserves punis hmen t . What r ight had she to ask A c i s to

t a k e her to a p l a c e o f p u b l i c a m u s e m e n t , w h i l s t sh ewas s t i l l engaged to a n o t h e r ? Sh e w i s h e d to play fastan d Loose w i t h t w o hear ts , t o h a v e t w o s t r i n g s to herb o w ; an d if in T u r k e y sh e w o u l d b e b o w - s t r u n g for it.A w o m a n w h o flirts before marri age m a y v e r y l i k e l yc o n t i n u e t he prac t ice a f te r it.

MARY AN N l ikes a " c l o s e - m i n d e d p e r s o n , " Sh ep r o b a b l y ha s b e e n s t u d y i n g th e fami l ia r adage " a stillt o n g u e s h o w s a w i s e h e a d , " F o r t u n a t e l y for thec r e d i t o f voluble persons , tha t is not a l w a y s t h e case ;if it w e r e s o , d u m b p e o p l e w o u l d be the wises t in thew o r l d . It so h a p p e n s , h o w e v e r, tha t m a n y o f those \ w h o , l i k e A n t o n i o , can say "an infinite deal o f In o t h i n g , " ar e a m o n g th e m o s t r e s e rv e d p e o p l e in Ie x i s t e n c e a b o u t t h e i r o w n affairs. T h e g l o o m y inch- 'vidual s i t t ing d a r k l y in a corne r of soc ie ty f reque nt lyb u r s t s o u t i n t o a p a r o x y s m o f e x p l a n a t i o n c o n c e r n i n ghimsel f , and all a b o u t h i m . T h e t r u t h is , t h a t w h e nthe organ o f seere t iyeness is in g o o d heal th a nd p r o p e rharm ony wi t h those re la ted to it, the i n d i v i d u a l o n l yindulges in h o n e s t , a nd absolu te ly necessary e x p o s it ions of his or he r o w n sel f o r affairs. There is a w i d e

di fference be tween a w e a k b a b b l e r and a pleasantta lker. Critics tell us , l a n g u a g e w a s g i v e n us toconcea l ou r t h o u g h t s ; if t h a t b e t rue , ' ' c l o s e - m i n d e dpeople " are the most eas i ly read o f all.

.1) vrk-evkd M aooie.—Gossip to a w o m a n is as f o o d t o al a b o u r i n g m a n . W h a t w o u l d a w o m a n d o w i t h o u tta lk i ng ? Shal l w e shut u p n i g h t i n g a l e s , o r p u t bul lfinches to de at h? T he o n l y m u s i c o f t h e season tha tw e h a v e e n j o y e d ha s b o o n tha t o f w o m a n ' s t o n g u e ;and those tha t rail agains t il m u s t b e l o n g to tha tBoeotian tri be of b a r b a r i a n s w h o are o n l y a c c u s t o m e dto the b i e a t i n g s of the animals whic h they tend .

ELEANOR MARY JANE finds tha t , u n e x p e c t e d l y to her,h e w h o m sh e loves is a v i c t i m o f i n t o x i c a t i o n . W h a tshal l sh e do ? Take courage . Go to h i m , an d te l l h imw h a t y o u know—fi rs t be ing cer ta in tha t y o u are notact ing upon rumour—a nd te l l h i m tha t he must e i thera b a n d o n yo u or the habi t . W e have seen too muchm i s e r y in h o m e s , w e h a v e k n o w n o f t o o m u c h c r i m ear is ing f rom th e dreadful habi t in question,- t o c o u n s e lE. M. J. to m a r r y h i m , unless hi s r e f o r m a t i o n b ec o m p l e t e . O f tha t o u r C o r r e s p o n d e n t w i l l be the bes t

j u d g e ; b u t w e w o u l d a d v i s e her to do n o t h i n ghastily, and by a l l m e a n s not to marry herse l f to onew h o is a d r u n k a r d . It is not o n l y th e fate o f herself,but a l so t h a t of her offspr ing which is n o w in q u e s t i o n

T w o ENGLISH LASSES .—It is n e i t h e r a p r e t t y face nor agraceful figure tha t car r ies off the grea t pr ize in thel o t t e r y o f m a t r i m o n y. M e n s e e k s o m e t h i n g b e y o n da mask or a s ta tue . It is tha t s o m e t h i n g w h i c h r e v e a l st h e i n m o s t so id w h i c h c h a r m s ; w h i c h m a k e s a p l a i nface beaut i fu l , a nd r ive ts th e fe t ters o f L o v e . It perm e a t e s t he w h o l e w o m a n , a n d reveals i t se l f in thee x p r e s s i o n o f h e r face, th e t o n e of her voice , and inevery ac t ion of her life. To b e l o v e d sh e m u s t b e seenin he r h o m e ; her nobles t s ta t ion is retreat.

Her fairest virtues fy from public sight ; Domestic vjorth, that shuns too strong a light.

ROSY C HEEKS c a n n o t w a l k o u t o f d o o r s w i t h o u t b e i n gthe subjec t o f c o m m e n t s as to her h i g h c o l o u r. Aclear case o f m i n g l e d v a n i t y, n e r v o u s n e s s , a nd diffidence . Yo u n g p e o p l e w h o fancy they have a cer ta inpecul ia r i ty of appearance are apt to i m a g i n e tha t t h e yar e th e " o b s e r v e d of all o b s e r v e r s . " T h a t is essent ia l ly a w e a k n e s s . O ur C o r r e s p o n d e n t has a t h i nskin", a n d r i c h b l o o d m a n t l e s t h r o u g h it. She m u s tt h i n k less o f h e r roses , an d m o r e of herself. B y cul t iv a t i n g an easy an d s e l f - c o ll e c t e d d e m e a n o u r sh e w i l l

in t ime d isarm imper t inence , a nd t a k e th e s t ing ou tof e n v y. T h e roses on her c h e e k s are far m o r eprec ious than th e K o h - i - n o o r d i a m o n d .

E. W. L, —Your duty is to be s u b m i s s i v e a nd at tent iveto your m a s t e r a nd mist ress . We d o n o t b e l i e v e inth e i l l - t r e a t m e n t o f servant -g i r l s . Sauciness i s noti n d e p e n d e n c e . T h e servant -g i r l tha t w o u l d r e s p e c therse l f wi l l respect he r mist ress . There is a w i d edi fference be tween audaciousness o f d e m e a n o u ran d tha t o p e n i n t e g r i t y o f m a n n e r w h i c h l e a v es n or o o m fo r s u s p i c i o n . T he g i r l w h o insul ts he r mistressloses h er se l f -es teem ; and tha t is the greates t loss of allfo r a ny indiv idual , whether male or female .

MA PROMESSA .—The pass ion o f y o u t h is not the sacreds e n t i m e n t o f m a t u r i t y. In our youthful days w eadore t he first things tha t present themselves to ouri m a g i n a t i o n ; in m a t u r i t y w e l o v e o u r s e l v e s ; a nd inol d age we e x p e c t e v e r y b o d y to l o v e us . H u m a n i t yhas many phases , a nd t h e r e ar e m a n y c o n t r a d i c t i o n sin it s c h a r a c t e r ; but t h r o u g h o u t th e w h o l e v e i n runsa s t r e a m o f kindness , whi ch , a f te r t rave l l ing th roughman y sources , wi l l u l t imat e ly lead to the p r o m i s e d

l a n d , w h i c h we al l e x p e c t to d w e l l in .G. H . E.—The g r e a t e s t w i d t h of the T h a m e s a b o v e

Sheerness is b e t w e e n L e i g h a nd S o u t h e n d , as ther iver gradual l y increases , s ome four mi les b e l o wGravesend, f rom near ly a m i l e to s ix m i l e s at theNore , a n d eighteen mi les at the m o u t h of the T h a m e s .

J. J.—It is a b r i d e - c a k e , not a b r i d e g r o o m ' s c a k e . T h ecos t o f coaches , cards , a nd g l o v e s , is, as w e l l as tha t of t h e c a k e , s i m p l y a m a t t e r o f pr iva te a r rangement .T h e r e is n e i t h e r e t i q u e t t e n o r r i g h t in the m a t t e r o ns u c h an occas ion .

FANNY FLOUT.—BETTY is always k ind , a n d d i d n o t l i k eto speak out ,as sh e c o u l d sa y n o t h i n g i i i it s favour ; butshe now says it is too formal , an d stiff as hai r pins , an dr e c o m m e n d s the use of r o u n d - h a n d c o p i e s for a t i m e .

E. A. B . — T h e b a p t is m a l n a m e is the t rue n a m e , a nd can-np t be c h a n g e d ; the regis te r should b e al te red , or itm a y b e c o m e n e c e s s a r y to br ing forward proofs of thechi ld ' s ident i ty in case of the s u c c e s s i o n tp p r o p e r t y.

I NVENTOR .—Firs t coat th e lea ther w i t h b l a c k J a p a nvarnish , whi ch wi l l ma ke it w a t e r p r o o f ; w h e n h a r d

and dry, brush it o v e r w i t h g o l d s ize , a nd c o v e r it w i t hleaf metal . It w i l l t h e n ref lec t l ight .

T. S. B. —N o d o u b t y o u ha v e s ta ted th e cause , a nd y o u r sis a case for a regular medica l prac t i t ioner, and not foradver t i sers . Send 2d, for our e x t r a n u m b e r, Healthand Happiness.

ALICE MAUDE .—You g a v e h i m t h e m i t t e n ; forge t h i m ,an d l o o k out for a n o t h e r ; and th e bes t w a y t o d o tha tis to g o to c h u r c h , an d elsewhere , as if hp w e r e a perfec ts t r a n g e r to y o u .

E DMUND .—Send a c o r r e c t a nd mor e de ta i led so lu t ion , of the ques t ion y o u h a v e p r o p o u n d e d on an equi la tera lt r i a n g l e w h i c h has its a n g u l a r p o i n t s in t h r e e para l le ll ines , &c. >

Emily C,—Grease m a y b e r e m o v e d f r o m s t o n e a nd w o o dfloors w i t h a p a s t e o f fullers' earth ; let it Lay on fortwenty- four hours , wash off , a nd r e p e a t if necessary.

G UENDOLEN .—The L a d y of the F e l l H o u s e ma y be hadc o m p l e t e for Is. 2d., post f ree . El len Mayn ard ; orthe Death Wai l of the H a w k s h a w e s , Is . Id . free.

GANTAE. —A s e x p l a i n e d b y you, 5£-d. and 5± 3 ar e equal ',

bu t "did. is the c o r r e c t w a y o f w r i t i n g o r p r i n t i n g it-The o ther form would b e bet ter thus , b\ -f- ^ .

BOSTON .—In m a t t e A of business , name a nd addresss h o u l d b e g i v e n . T h e ta les ar c thankful ly dec l ined ,and left at the p u b l i s h i n g office.

T. S.— B e a d o u r ar t ic le on the " S c i e n c e o f L o n gL i f e , " in N o . 800. W h e n y o u cease to g r o w, th e formw i l l b e c o m e m o r e d e v e l o p e d .

J. K. A . — We n e v e r i n s e r t p o e t r y a d d r e s s e d to indiv iduals , nor can we u n d e r t a k e tp preserve suchp r o d u c t i o n s .

A COUNTRY C URATE .—No marr iage in Scot land can becont rac ted unless one of the c o n t r a c t i n g par t ies shallhave res ided in Scot land fo r twenty-one c lays nextpreceding such marr iage ; and p r o o f o f th is res idenceis ins is ted upon in all cases of i r regular marr iages ,be tcre they can be regis te red , according to the 10 and20 Vict . e h . 88 , " A n A c t fo r a m e n d i n g the Law of Marr iage in S c o t l a n d , " w h i c h wa s passed to do awaywith so-ca l led run-away ma tches , an d Gretna Greenmarr iages .

A. B. W.—The f reehold passes to the eldest son ; them o n e y a n d other proper ty wi l l be' divided in to t h r e eequal shares , o n e t h i r d to the w i d o w, and to each of th e t w o sons a l ike por t ion .

Miss S PRIGHTLY .—Every young lady has a c h a n c e , no rca n a n y o n e te l l whom she may marry ; if spr ight ly,your chance is all the greater.

S TELLA .—The " s h i n i n g m o r n i n g face " is the emblem ( f y o u t h an d b e a u t y ; d o n o t u p o n an y cons idera t iona t t e m p t to al ter it .

OTHER COMMUNICATIONS RECEIVED .—J. G— FINCHLEY.—W. G. S. N. — LIZZIE—J. W. — JOHN G. (y ou mus t first

jo in th e serv ice) .— H. B. (your l ines ar c c o p i e d f rom No.871 of the Family HeraUt). —ARUNDELLE J. (only comple te ta les ; in m a t t e r s o f business w e requi re realn a m e a nd address) . — LEANDER ( c o n s u l t o u r ' e x t r an u m b e r , Health and Ilajjpiness).— HARRIETT S. (sends ix s tamps to the Shipping In te l l igence Office. 52, LimeStreet , City, E.G., an d you wi l l obta in th e informat ion) .—S . T. ( by th e ey e ; w i t h a brush ; s tarch ; see rec ipefo r th e hair in No. 802; wash it with soap an d wateran d rub i t dry) .—J. F. I. (cal f love begins about tha tage) .—M. L. L . ( the 'rimes, or Morning Post; y o u rnews-agent wi l l get i t inser ted) .— AN ANXIOUS MOTHER(t o th e band-master of the regiment) .— AN INVALID (WOn e v e r r e c o m m e n d a d v e rt i s e rs ; g o to some one in y o u r

o wn n e i g h b o u r h o o d ) . - A . 1). ( o n business matters , Sir,or Dear Sir ; and conclude , I am, Sir John, or Dear SirI J o h n , a c c o r d i n g to in t imacy) .— THE MILL ON THE FLOSSI (it is bet ter to get a friend to ask him his in tent ionsI than to w r i t e yourse l f ) .— ANXIETY (Bengal).— VERITASI (it is all a lo t te ry, wi t h mor e b lanks than pr izes) —

—G RACE ANGORA (all in g o o d t ime; f ru i t does no tb l o o m a nd r i p e n in a d ay ; very good).—-SWEETWILLIAM.(w e d o n o t r e c o l l e c t r e c e i v i n g it) .— ADAMAS (w e do notrecol lec t th e ar t ic le ; a p p l y to the Edi tor of the Field).PERCIVAL ( too robus t health ; try a spare diet, and takem o r e e x e r c i s e to assist th e digestive organs).— J. P.(apply t o Mr . C. Goodman,bookse l le r, 407, Strand, W. C . )Y. S. D. N. (Mr. Hul lah ' s , St. Martin's Hall).—A YOUNGMAN ( c o n s u l t th e L o n d o n Directory) .— TIMON JUNIOR( t ry th e e x p e r i m e n t ; y o u w i l l be sure to profit by theresult).—S OPHIA B . ( w e have n o r o o m fo r such effusions).— DEAFSTANE (it is al ready somewhat overdone) .—W . N. I I . (above).— VIOLANTE ( through some discree tm u t u a l f r iend ; very g o o d ) . — P. H , (apply to the clerk of th e L a m b e t h C o u n t y C o u r t ) . — W. S. ( thanks ; w owil l avai l ourse lves of the informat ion when oppor tun i t y oilers). —M . E. K. (Bal-mor-al).— POOR FATHER an dLILY ( w r i t e to the A d m i r a l t y, W h i t e h a l l , L o n d o n ) . —J ANE P. ( le t wel l a lone; all is progress ing as it should) ,—HAYES (h e t a k e s n o fresh name at C o n f i r m a t i o n ;ra ise the hat as a m a r k o f respect ) .—M. J . B. (notvulgar, b u t old-fashioned) .— ALPHA (cold bath ing an ddie t under th e a d v i c e of any respectable medica l ma nin your o w n town) .— DURAI ( read ou r ar t ic le in thepresent Number, an d a p p l y to Mr . P a r k e r, booksel le r,Whi tehal l , S .W. , for a w o r k s u c h as you requi re) .—LIZZIE B. ( c o n s u l t K i d d 0,1 the Canary, Is. ; you shouldt a k e e x e r c i s e , an d c o n s u l t a medica l man) .— ANNIE (i ti s b inding , unless you knew at the t i m e tha t it wa s hi sw r o n g n a m e ; if s o, a magis t ra te wil l te l l you how toact , as the marr iage is i l legal ) .— READER (all d e p e n d su p o n th e amou nt o l subscr ip t ion in provide nt soc ie t ies ).ROSE B UD ( w a l k o u t w i t h t w o other young gent lem en) .—MINNIE E. ( t e m p e r a n c e ; dark brown) .— VETCH (n o ;flaxen).— PETER PARLEY (sta te your case in figures, ormore p la in ly in words).— MARGUERITE (see Nos . 520 and«':}0).—PHOTOGRAPHER (see No s. 724, 725 and 720).—I) . E. F. an d COLE (see N o . 725).— J. A. L. (see Nos.080 a nd 000).— LOLA B. (see Nos. 172 an d 720).— ROSE( n o ; see No. 884).—C ONSTANCE G. (see No . 700).-—G. STONE (see No . 240).

M I D S U M M E R H O L I D A Y S .One Penny each, or both pod free, 3d .

T h e B o y ' s N u m b e r o f t h eF A M I LY H E R A L D contains out-door Games

and in-door Amusements for the year round,T h i r t y - s i x G a m e s o f A g i l i t y ; E i g h t e e n G a m e s w i t h

Bal ls , bes ides Cr icket , Footb a l l , Golf, an d R o q u e t ; Te nGames wi th Marbles , a nd Three wi th Tops ; Fif teenGames , inc luding Ki tes , Ski t t les , an d Quoi ts ; Direc t ionsfor B o a t i n g , R o w i n g , a nd Sai l ing; Swimming, S l id ing ,Skat ing , a nd Ga in es 011 the Ice ; Angl ing , Gardening ,an d P e t s of all k i n d s ; all sor ts o f in-door Games , Con

ju r ing Tr icks , Chemical Wonders ; Carpenter ing an dF i r e w o r k s .

T h e G i r l ' s N u m b e r o f t h eJL FA M I LY H E R A L D contains recreations and

pastimes for Summer Days and Winter Evenings.Thir ty- four Games o f .Act iv i ty, inc luding Archery,

Calisthenics' , a nd Croq uet ; Thi r teen Game s wi th Bal l sand Shut t lecocks , inc l uding Bal l s t iek , Coronel la , LaGrace, an d B o w l s ; Direc t ions fo r Boating, Skirting, an dGard enin g; Water-v ivar ies . Pe ts , Poul t ry, an d Si lkw o r m s ; and all k i n d s o f In-door Games , Forfe i t s an dConversa tion G ame s, Chess, Draughts, Puzzle*, &e., &e .

FAMILY HERALD OIITCE, 421, S TRAND , W. C.



J u l y H , 1800.] U S E F U L I N F O R M AT I O N A N D A M U S E M E N T. 17 3

FA M I LY H E R A L D .T H E P R I N C E O F WA L E S ' S V I S I T T O C A N A D A .

On the eleventh day of Oetoher, 1492, Columbus discovered America, andfixed the destiny of the world for pro babl y thousands o f years. In this greatalthough portentou s year, 1860, the heir apparent of the British th rone visitsthat continent which for ages had been believed in as the lost Atalantis; thusproving that there runs, an ele ctric thread of reality throughout all grandtraditions. Philos ophy can readily suggest that at some remote period theearth was an entire terra Jirma^ and that it was split in twain by sometremendous convulsion of nature; and, in the lapse of time, in both hemispheres, the m emor y of each other gradu ally faded int o a dim m yste riou smyth. But, however much we moderns may be inclined to speculate on gra veprobabiliti es, we can only ration ally deal with actual facts, and th ey are quit esuliicient to puzzle the imagination and make us stand on tip-toe with wonder.

In 1492 the t wo greatest colonising nations of modern times were in theirinfancy, and tremb ling in the grasp of adverse circum stances . Spain , by themarriage of Ferd inan d and Isabella, had jus t bee n created, and was as itwere only begi nnin g to breathe after a seven centurie s' cont est with theMoors; and the throne of Engl and was occupied by Henry the Seventh, anavaricious, peace-loving monarch, who listened coldly to the eloquent suit of Columbus, and sent h im on his way to beg for assistance in his enterprise atall the courts of Europe. Only a woman— Isabel la of Castille—had faith inthe prophetic genius of that immortal man. By the sale of her jew els shewas enabled to ht out the most memor able expedition in all history. An d solong as the name of Columbus is remembered, that of Isabella cannot beforgotten. But as we cannot afford to dwel l even on grand his tori calreminiscences, we may be permitt ed to remar k on the extraor dinar y contra stpresented between the close of the fifteenth century and the mid dle of this,the nineteenth. In the former period all Eur ope was sunk in the lowe stdepths of barbarism, that of vassalage to grinding despotism not bein g itsworst features. England lay paralysed in the grasp of an e xtortion istand miser, after sacrificing a mil lion of men in the wars of the Roses. Thegrim pall of superstition everyw here shut out the light of intelligence, andany one who dared to wander beyond the small territory of priestly reasoningwas treated by the brutalised mob as a wizard, and excommunica ted by thelicentious, wine-bi bbing clergy as an innovator. It was the same th rougho utthe whol e of Europ e. Ther e was mental and moral darkness on the face of every countr y. Colum bus broke the hideou s spell, and the cloud s have beenrolling away into oblivion ever since. The discover y of a new worl d scatteredthe theories of ages to the winds , and the throne of th e midn igh t hag, Sup erstition, was so shaken, that in her blin d fury she resorted to the last expedient of moral depravity and vile selfishness— persecution. Th e scaffold wasreared, the headsman was busy, the fag gots were pile d, the torches lig hted , andthe victims found ; b ut no devices of the fiend igno rance and" bli nd idol atr v of the limited past could arrest the march of Truth. The opening up of a $ e w

Wo r l d dispelled the illusion that one hemisphere was the sole abode of mankind ; and from that momen t the clear tide of intellect began to flow in anew and broade r channel, and will continue to flow until the ultimate accomplishment of human destinies. On every side of us we beh old evidenc e of thelabours of this stupendous power. Min d is now in the ascendant; astrol ogyhas given place to philoso phy, magic to chemistry, and the triple crow n thatonce swayed the whole of the known Western Wor l d no w totters on the head,of a feeble old man, who pro babl y wil l be the last pontiff to wield temporalauthority in connection with the offices of religi on. This astounding revo lution* in the affairs and con diti on of man must i n eve ry sense be primar ilyattributed to the discovery of another continent, and the astonishing energywith which its revelations were subsequently studied, and made to form thefoundations of the modern sciences, and that civilisation guarded with Christian watchfulness by England and the northern States of America.

On such a subject the mind is sorely tempted to dilate ; but although thereis more poetic feeling abroad now than at any other period, grander epics thanever Homer or Milton conceived in their sublimest moods, still the age ispractical. A Wash ingto n Irvin g may write a romance about Columbus , and

achieve undoubted fame ; but the general public have a stron g preferenc e forunembellished facts. They do not care much abou t the analogies that existbetween the people, religion, and architecture of the aborigines of Amer ica,and those of the ancient Egyptians; even the mysterious tumuli of the WesternWorld are to them of no more value than mounds of earth piled up at home byhardy excavators. Ame ric a, after the lapse of mor e than three centuries and ahalf, is a dominant portion of the globe, and its influences penetrate into everyland and permeate throughout every people.

As is well known, the Spaniards were the first colonisers, the Portug uesethe next; then the Dutch, French , and English in rapid succession. Euro pe,as it were with a spontaneity b orn out of the desire for change and thirst fo rwealth, threw itself into the virg in lap of Ameri ca, and, as regards nation andrace, with singularly varied fortunes. An d here we may remark, that th esubjugatio n of Ameri ca by Europ eans has no parallel, either in ancient ormodern times. The conquerors of former days had a thorough appreciation of the value of human l abour, and, instead o f destroying, mad e slaves of thepeople they subdued. The Persians carried the Jews into captivity,because they were mostly skilled artisans, and had a perfect know ledge of the

principles of agriculture. Even those much-m aligned races, the Goths, Huns,and Vandals, incorporated themselves with the nations they overwhelmed. Themino-led blood of the Roman ami Goth to this day makes up the people of Italyand°Spain. An d extirpat ion of the origi nal inhabitants was never the policyof the ancient Rom ans. Even in this island they amalgamated themselveswith the Celtic-British, and so formed wealthy and peaceable communities.Th e Moors, with all their fanaticism, had more wisdom than to denude Spain

! of its fused Goths , Hun s, and Vand als ; and we have ye t to learn that theJ Norm ans ever even meditated the destruction of the Anglo-Saxons. The aim

of all great conquering nations in this half o f the w orld has been, with somofew but terrible exceptions , to make the best use of all that fell into theirhands. Selfishness fostered at least the appearan ce of humanit y.

H o w different has been the fate of the red man of Am er ica ! Ever sincethe days of Cortez, Pizarro, and Alm agro , the native Ind ians have been

! subjected to a system of persistent and ruthless extermination. Even in the| colder latitudes of the north they have been remorselessly hunted to death.| Penn cheated them; and the Puritans hanged, shot, and burnt them. And! the persecuti on rages to this da y; Canada, and Canada alone, only excepted, j At first sight, this savage and relentless policy cannot be accounted for by anyI of the know n springs of human action, at least so far as the Angl o-Br itis h! race is conce rned ; but if we look beyond the horrid fact, we shall find someI kind of explanation of an awful an omaly in human conduc t if we in this| respect compare the usages of ancient and modern times.I The abor iginal tribes of Amer ica were, and still are, radically averse to

manual labour, and consider war the highest employ ment of the humanfaculties. The hardy adventurers from Europ e were quite the reverse ; andas regards the Englis h w e may reasonably presume that they carried withthem into the New Wor ld the doctrine that was accepted by the Crown, theChurch, the nobility , and the peopl e at large, in the reigns of Henry V II I. ,Mary, and Elizabeth— that the man who woul d not work was only tit to behanged. But whatever the prom ptin g motives may have been, it is indisputable that the red man has been almost swept from the earth; there are onlyeight millions of Indians left scattered over the vast continent of the West ernWo r l d ; and we are presented with the startling reflection that progress in

| America has had to ford its way through rivers of blood. No doubt there isa natural law to account for all thi s; but the imaginati on stands aghast andappalled at the total disappearance from the face of the earth of upwards of on e hundred mi llions of human bein gs in less than three centuries. Econo

mists however will exclaim that they have been replaced, and that a brilliantand boundless future will amply compensate for the trials, struggles, andatrocities of a past brimful of energy and s elf-devotion to the creation of

. circumstances and conditions of the greatest magnitude.

It is the provin ce of philo sophy to reconcile contradictions , whether real orapparent, and to that great controller of h uman destinies we must leave thequesti on of whole sale massacres of nations, and seek relief in the assurancethat an effete race has been succe eded by one of the most energet ic and bestdeveloped that ever sought to avail themselves of the bounties of Providence.The Ang lo- Ame ric an element does not merely solicit, but forces its way intoevery other; so it is within the range of probability that at no very distant daythe w hole of the western hemis phere wi ll be one united federation of nations,

I owi ng allegiance to a compact of mutual agreement and necessities. Thenucleus of this promised and beiieved-in empire is thus distributed :—Mexico, 8,000,00 0; Columbia, 3,500,000; Yucatan and Guatemala, 2, 500,000;Peru, 2,0 00,0 00; Brazil, 6,000, 000; Small Republics, 4,00 0,00 0; Canada,and other British dependencies, 3,00 0,00 0; United States, 30,000, 000;Aborigines, 8,000,000 ; total, 67,000,000.

This is u rep lace men t" of populati on on a prodigi ous scale, and as thedecennial rate of increase in the United States alone is at the rate of 35 percent., in 1900 it is very likely that there will be in North America 100,000,000of people of our own race and blood. Myriads now alive may live to witnessthis glorious consummation, this splendid atonement, and it is thereforescarcely a wonder that the attention o f the Ol d World should be so firmly fixedon the New, or that our far-s eeing Que en should send her son and he ir-appare nt to visit a land whos e exhaustless res ources have materially h elped tobuild up England's greatness.

As we before observed, England was almost the last of European nations toenter upon the wor k of Ameri can colonisa tion; but when she did so it wasin downright earnest. Reli gious differences at hom e promot ed a spirit of emigration to the west, and the first permanent English establishment was atJames's River , in Virg inia. The Hug uenot s of France and Switzerl and settledin Canada and No va S cotia, and the Nonconfor mists of Scotland also fled toAmerica. In 1620 the Pilgrim Fathers created for themselves a new home onthe shores of Massachusetts Bay. The Catholics in 1623 followed their exampleand founded Maryland, and in 1682 the state of Pennsylvania was founded by

the Quakers. In little more than a century afterwards the great Americanrepublic sprang into existence, which, in this year o f gr ace, has attainedto such colossal dimensions that the combined hosts of Europe cannot insultit with impun ity. Engla nd still holds Canada, but only by the silken cords of affection, friendship, and mutual interest, for since 1840 the Canadians haveenjoyed as much political freedom as we have done at home.

Our connecti on with Canada presents us with some curious particulars. Itwas discovered for us in 1497 by Sebastian Cabo t; but owin g to the maniaabou t finding a north-w est pas sage to the Pacifi c no steps were taken to obtainpossession of the country. In 1583 Queen Elizabet h laid claim to the wholeter rit ory ; but it was reserved for the Fre nch i n 1608 to be the first coloniser s,and they founded Lower Canada, with Quebec for the capital, of which theywere dispossessed in 1759 by the gallan t Wolfe, and ever since thepeace of 1763 it has formed part of the British Em pi re ; in the warfor Americ an independence it was the only portion of our vast trans-Atlanticpossessions that remained loyal to the British Crow n. Since then it hassteadily increased in prosperity, and has so enlarged its boundaries thatmodern Canada is now a united state, fourteen hundred miles in length by

three hundred in breadth, with, as we have before stated, a population of threemillions of about the most thriving, industrious, and contented people to befound in the wh ole worl d. Such is the land whic h the Prin ce of Wales isabout to visit, carrying in his hand the olive branch of peace and goodwil l ;and, we trust also, taking with him an intelligence which will enable him to

I appreciate the wonders , moral as well as physical, of a land teeming with j riches, whi ch, if we may use the cxprc ssi ou, has been won from primaeval



174 T H E FA M I LY H E R A L D — A D O M E S T I C M A G A Z I N E OF [July 14, ISO,

mildness by Saxon energy, and that indomitable Saxon endurance, which, inan age of persecution for conscience' sake enabled the Pilgrim Fathers tobuild homes in the forest wilderness, and s ow the seeds of that sturdy independence which has given to the New Wo r l d a congregation of states, whosepresent c ondi tion and future prospects are such as to e xcite the loftiestadmiration and the most profound respect.

Canada is no common country; and we feel assured that our future Sovereigndoes not go to it for purposes of mere travell ing curiosity. The visit mayhave no political significance, but it can scarcely fail to strengthen the bo nd of connection with the mother country; and, should the Prince extend his tourto the n eighb ouring repu blic, he may obtain a fuller grasp of the life an dscenery of a land whic h was unk now n to European s whe n the first Tud orascended the throne of Engl and, and would prob ably have rema ined so forsome ages afterwards, had not a fair and pious queen of Castille taken by thehand the noblest man that ever dev oted himself to the execu tion of greatenterprises. There have been many Alexand ers, Caesars, and Napoleo ns ; bu tonly one Columb us : therefore when we think or write about Ameri ca, weought never to forget that memora ble eleventh o f October, 1 4 9 2 , or thehero wh o with exultant pride was the first in the blush of morn to beho ldT H E N E W W O U L D .

B R I TA I N ' S D E S T I N Y.

I have a faith, a l iving faith,I kno w not how or why ,

That Britain, in her g rowing age,Is yet too y o u n g to die ;

A n d oft, in inner "breathings deep ,i t whispers thus to me,

" Yo u r Bri ta in yet must live and teachTh e nations to be f ree ."

I smi l e at man 's ph i lo sophy,

H ow ev e r w i se or great ,I look w i t h c a lm , unf l i nch ing hear tUpon a shatter'd State ;

I hear, amid th e w o e s of war,The hopeful, thr i l l ing cry,

• " Your Bri ta in , wi th her w o r k u n d o n e ,Is yet too y o u n g t o d i e . "

O tell me not of wealth o ' e rg rown ,Or great u n w i e l d ly m i g h t ,

Of t rembl i ngs in the scales of fate,Or of a p p r o a c h i n g n i g h t ;

A f r own of wrath ma y c o m e f rom Heaven ,A c l o u d ma y c ros s our sky ;

Bu t Bri ta in , wi th her w o r k u n d o n e ,Is yet too y o u n g to die.

A nd tell me not of anci ent t imes ,Of powerful States ' decay—

I Their life was but a f l icker ing l ight ,But ours the blaze of day ;

"With us I see no crouching s laves ,

No rabble l aws defy,A nd th ink that Br i ta in ' s l ived to o l ongTo learn the wa y to d ie .

I cannot yield a slavish fearTo any tyrant ' s power,

T h o ' it appal some feeble hear ts ,An d m a k e t h e b o n d s m a n c o w e r ;

F r o m God to man, from man to God,With faith's discern ing ey e

I look, an d feel—while t i m e rol ls on —That Britain ne'er shall die. Q UERCUS.

F A M I L Y M A T T E R S .

Knowledge cannot be acquired without pains and ap plicatio n. It istroublesome, and like deep diggi ng for pure wate r; but when once yo u cometo the springs, they rise up and meet you.

T H E B E S T L E G A C Y. — N o man can leave a better legacy to the world thana well-educated family.

T H E YOUNG W I F E . — " I t takes a heroine to be economical , " says MissMuloch : " for will not many a woman rather run in debt for a bonnet than wearher old one a year behind the mode ?—give a ball, and stint the family dinnerfor a month after ?—take a large house and furnish handsome re ceptio n-rooms, while her househ old huddl e togethe r anyho w ! She prefers this ahundred times to stating plainly by wor d or manner : ' My income is so-mucha-year—I don't care who knows it—it will no t allow me to live beyond acertain rate, it will not keep comfortably both my family and acquaintance;therefore excuse my preferring the comfort of my family to the entertainmentof my acquaintance. And, Society, if you choose to look in upon us, youmust just take us as we are, without any pretences of any ki nd ; or you mayshut the door, and say good-bye ! ' "

H o w DO YOU DIIESS, L A D I E S ? — A s yo u look from your window in Paris,observe the first fifty wom en who pass ; forty have noses depressed in themiddle, a small quantity of dark hair, and a swarthy complexion; but theu,what a toilet! Not only suitable for the season, but to th o age and complexion of the wearer. Jio w neat the feet and hands ! Ho w well the clothesare put on ! and, more than all, how well they suit each other ! One reasonwh y we see colours ill-arranged in this country is, that the different articlesare purchased each for its own ima gined virtues, and without any thought of what it is to be worn wit h. Wo m e n , while sho pping , buy what pleases theeye on the counter, forgetting what they have got at home . That parasol ispretty, but it will kill by its colour one dress in the buyer's wardrobe, and beunsuitable for all others. To be magnificently dressed certainly costs mo ne y;but to be dressed with taste is not expensiv e. It requires good sense, knowledge, and refinement. Never buy an article, unless it is suitable to your age,habits, figure, and complexion.

T H E W E AT H E R — A WA K N I N G . — A f t e r such a long winter and lingeringspring, there is every prospect of an autumn of intense heat, which willseriously affect health. The heads of families should themselves make exami -

* nation an d be assured that the drainage is in proper order, and, as far aspossible, have all dangerous matters removed from the neighbourhood of theirpremises. In like manner sanatory inspectors should with care and energy seethat the poor are cared for and protecte d against the effects of the weatherwhich may be anticipated.

B A R L E Y WAT E R . — O n e ounce of pearl barle y, half an oun ce of white sugar,and the rind of a lemon ; put it in to a ju g. Pour upon it one quart of boiling water, and let it stand for eight or ten hours ; then strain oil' theliquor, adding a slice of lemon , if desirable. This infusion makes a mostdelicious and nutritious beverage, and will be grateful to persons who cannotdrink the horrid decoction usually given , It is an admirable basis forlemonade, negus, or weak punch.

FA S H I O N S F O R J U LY.

{From the LONDON A N D PA R I S L A D I E S ' M A G A Z I N E OF FA S H I O N . )

Th e weather has, during the last month, interfered much with toilettes of summ er; the l ight materials adapted to the season have of necessity beensuppl anted b y thic ker and warmer ones. Plain taffetas and various fancymaterials have been in demand en attendant more genial weather. Therichest silk materials are all made without flounces, and frequently arequite without trimming ; some are made a la Gabriclle, and frequently a laMarochale, or Princess Clotilde ; silks of slighter texture are with flounces,put on three and three or alternately with bouill ons. Bareges are oftenentirely covered by narrow flounces edged with ribb on, either of the same

colour or a contrasting one, or even with black velv et; flounces festoune incolours are pretty for muslin or organdy, the number vary ing from five tofourteen. Ribbon is a favourite trimmin g, either in plisses, ruches, or meuds ;lace and guimpes are used for all, regulated by the nature of the material forwhich they are required. The make of the corsages varies, all are highexcept in dress, and then a peler ine is often added ; peleri nes of the same areoften added, even to hi gh bodies, many of them when for ne glige terminateat the throat, with a small ruche of tarlatan, very narrow and nicelytrimmed, clo sing with a gold enamel, or jewe lled button. Casaques are veryfashionable, made of red flannel; they should only be worn with black or dark skirts.

Pardessus are all of black taffetas, many bei ng lined with colours, sometrimmed with plisses, others have merely a pip ing ; some resemble thepaletots, and frequently have a doubl e pelerine. Black lace shawls arc morefashionable than ever, and black guimpe is used in Cardinal pelerines, forpaletots, and pelisses; it is also used to trim the embroi dered black caehmcreshawls, which are square, and trimmed on every side; the pelisse Abbe withpelerine of guimpe is very fashionable. Pretty mantelets are made of whiteorgandy, with frill of the same, headed by a bou illo nne ; basquines of black silk, and of the same material as the dress, are fash ionab le.

Th e bonnets this season are sometimes oddly trimm ed; on some the trimming,is all at the back of the crown, on others at the sides ; some have the wreathsquite at the edge of the brim. Lilac, violets, field-flowers, lilies of the valley,and ornaments of straw, are all in favour just no w. Mauve, green, groseille,china pink, and blue are the favourite colours. The bavolets continue deep,and brides wide ; the fronts advance on the forehead without being pointed,the cr owns are frequently of one material, and the frock of another.

S C I E N T I F I C A N D U S E F U L .

Estimating the amount of blood in the human body at twenty-four pounds,twelve pounds pass through the heart every minute.

Oiled silk is manufactured by coating it with some quick-drying boiled oil,and drying it in a warm room. Two or three successive coats are sometimesput on, each being perfectly dried in succession.

A gold mine has been opened in the Welsh county of Merioneth . The firstblast br ought awa y a mass of quartz co ntaining a considerable quantity o f theprecious metal. It is stated that this is but a sample of what remains behind.

A comet, visible to the naked eye, has lately been observed. It is situatedin the N . J S . W. j betwee n the Great and Little Bear. Its nucleus is about flu;size of a star of the second magnitude, and its tail is lon g and fan-shaped ; icma y possibly prov e to be the great comet whose return has been so long-expected.

D U R A B I L I T Y OF E L M P L A N K . — A t the recent meeting at Dorchester of the Bath and We st of Engla nd Agricul tural Society, Lord Portman statedthat the elm planks which were taken up out of the Thames previous to thebuilding of the ne w Lon don Bridge were quite sound, alth ough they hadbeen in the water 800 years.

T H E N E W EQUATORIAL TELESCOPE A T G R E E N W I C H . — The Astronomer

Royal has just invented at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, a new andi magnificent equatorial telescope. The size of the object glass is nearly 1 3 in.! diameter, and the length of the telescope about 1 4 It. It is so nicely

j balance d on its axis as to be movea ble vertically witli the slightest touch, so j that it can be elevated or depressed to the view of any object between thei horiz on and the zenith with such facility that it seems as if it moved self-! supported in air, without the least friction on the supporting pivots.

C A S T P L AT I N U M . — A t the last sitting of the Academy of Sciences of Paris| M. Devilie*exhibite d two ingots of platinum, weighin g together a little over! 55 lb., which had been melted in the same furnace, and run into an ingot

j mould of forged iron. He states that plat inum may be melted in an yI quantity; and once melted, it behaves precisely like gold or silver, requiring! exactly the same precautions us in casting the precious metals. l ie also! exhibited a platinum cog-wheel, cast in an o rdina ry sand moul d in the same| way as other met als ; thus giving a new proof of the p ossibility of givingI platinum all the forms that may be desired by the process,i W E E D S I N WAT E R . — T h e weeds in the Serpentine and the ornamental| water in the Regent's Park may be destroyed by throwin g in from time toI time large quantities of bay salt. This plan will prevent the water from

growing putrid, and destroy the growth of the weeds. The suggestion hasbeen made to the Commissioner s of Woods and Forests. Advantag e wouldresult if we watered our streets with common salt dissolved in the water. Thedust would be better laid, and remain much longer wet (from three to fourhours) than where plain water is used. .Moreover, sea-water, or a solutio n of common salt in water, absorbs rapidly carbonic acid gas. — Builder.

GA S L E A K A G E . — T h e churchyards and their emanations, of which we usedto hear such de plora ble acco unts a few years a go, seem to have been verymoderate nuisances in cornoarison with the gas-L akag e nuisance, which is



1 7 5

no w beginning to attract the attention of sanitarians. It is reckoned thatabout 3 86,000,000 of cubic feet of gas escape per annum in the metropolis—or , in other words, that about 1,000,000 cubic feet a-day of that deliciousvapour is let loose in an unburned state upon London society. Some authorities reckon the quantity at about 2,000 ,000 feet per diem. The subsoil is,it seems, saturated with the gas :— " It not only darkens the soil and makes itso offensive that the emanation from it can hardly be endured, but it alsoimpregnates the atmosphere of the sewers, and renders the ba sement roo ms of houses uninhabitable from the poisonous action of the gas, and even dangerousfrom explosion. It likewise often taints the water of the street mains withthe filthy odour of gas." The loss in hard cash comes up to about £50,000per an num. Here, then, is evidently an evil to be remedied ; and th e mode

of remedying it is plain enough. The gas should be made purer—free fromammonia and sulphur, and the joints of the gas-pipes should be made firmer.This last remedy is the plainest one, and it appears also that it is a practicable one. W e are told tha t :—" In Liverpool, Manchester, and Leeds, thelatter remedy has been applied. The ends of the pipes are turned and bored,and fitted into each other by grinding, like a stopper in a bottle, and thus theleakage from the joint has been prevented."

S T A T I S T I C S .

Th e official Army List shows that there are still upward s of 190 survivi ngWater loo veterans abov e the rank of captain.

Th e exportation of wool from the Cape of Good H o p e last year exceededthat of the preced ing year by 2,500,00 0 lbs.

Since 1852, not less than £72, 768 has been advanced to inventors of weapons of war for the purpose of enabling them to make experiments.

At the Volunteer Review in Hyde Park on the 23rd of last June, 18,450volunteers were under arms, of which number the metropolitan corns supplied13,226.

Th e Post Office is supposed to net a profit, on its year ly transactions, of more than a million sterling, when every other Gover nment estab lishment isa drain upon the country.

T H E A R M Y IN THE UNITED K I N G D O M . — The total of all ranks of theregular army in the United Kingdom, on the 1st June last, was 6 8 , 7 7 7 ; thedepots of regiments numbered 3 3,302 ; embod ied militia, 15,911; disembodiedmilitia (effectives), 52 ,899; yeomanry cavalry, 15,002; enrolled pensioners,15,000 ; and volunteer rifle and artillery corps, 122,367 ; grand total, 323,259.

T HE I N D I A N A R M Y. — T h e following is a return of the total re gimentalstrength of the regular local army in India:—Bengal, 1,918 officers, 6,072European s, and 93,659 natives ; Madras, 1,890 officers, 4,220 Europeans, and70,040 natives; Bombay, 1,163 officers, 3,592 Europeans, and 46,770 natives—making a grand total of 4,980 officers, 13,884 Europeans, and 210,469natives. The number of recruits at the depot at War le y on the 1st of June,1860, was 1,600 ; and the number on the voyage to India, 338. The recruits

embarked subsequent to the 27th of August, 1859, and which are not includedin the above, numbere d 1,554—making a total of 3,49 2.

OU R STEAM N AV Y. -— Steam was introduced into the Royal Navy of Engla nd in 1822, and now two-third s of all the war ships are steamers. Thescrew was introduc ed as the propelli ng agent in place of paddle- wheels in1842; no w there are 345 screw sloops and frigates, and 48 line-of-battleships, having a power capab le of mo ving them in a calm at the rate of from10 to 15 knots an hour. The a ctivity lately displayed in the British dockyards has led to such an increase of war steamers that the fleet is now equalto the fleets of Prance and Russia comb ined.

C I V I L CONTINGENCIES.—A parliamentary paper has been issued, showingin detail the expenditure of the grant for Civil Service co ntingen cies for thepast year. The total cost of special missions abroad amounted to £46,618, of •which the most important item, £15,351, was the cost of the commissionappointed to survey the b ounda ry line betw een her Majesty 's possessions inNort h Americ a and those of the United States. The special mission of SirWilliam Gore Ouseley to Central America cost £7,000, that of Lord Elgin toChina £6,085. The outfit of diplomatic officers on their appointment cost£ 8 , 0 0 0 ; the c onveya nce and entertainment of distinguished persons cost£11,891; Mr. Bruce's expenses in China, £3,000, being the most considerableitem in this account. Inc ludi ng costs of presents and exp enses incurred for ,legal and other professiona l servic es, the total su m spent in civil contingencies jamounted to £125,836. Amon gst the items, perhaps the mo st interesting jvote is that of £11, 500 for Dr. Livingstone 's expeditio n; of this amount the !sum of £500 is for a new steamer, the former having become unserviceable.The tract of country whic h the party have reac hed is a cotton and sugar-producing district, only requiring a market; and there is a fair hope of extirpating the slave-trade there by means of lawful commerce. There isabundance of water, great variety of climate, and a station midwa y betweenthe grow ing districts and the sea that appears to be healthy for Europeans.

V A R I E T I E S .

General Hay, at the head of the School of M usketry at H yth e, can, it issaid, turn round q uickly , and at 1,100 yards lodge a bullet in the centre of the target.

Th e Court of Queen's Bench have decided that coroners have no right tohold inquests as to the origin of fires. The functions of their office are limitedto homicides.

The W a r Office has issued a notification that Volunteer bands are not toplay iii the streets after dark ; but it doe s not say whet her this prohibitionextends to the marching of bands at the h ead of a body of Volunteers.

CAUTION TO S H I P W R I G H T S . — T h e story about a great number of Englishshipwrights being employe d at Cherbourg turns out to be false. A respectablemeehan,ic lately stated at one of the Metropo litan police-courts that he wa's ashipwrig ht, and not bein g able to procu re work here, had obtain ed a passportand went to Cherbourg in expecta tion of meetin g with emplo yment at8s. per day. He was grievo usly disappointed . There was nothi ng at alldoing there, and not an English shipwright in the place.

H o w D R U N K A R D S A R E T R E AT E D I N B R A Z I L . — S o m e of the blacks mayoccasionally be seen wearing tin masks, fastened at the back of the head witha padl ock, small perforations bei ng mad e in the tin over the place of themouth and nose, and tw o small spaces fo r the eyes. These are blacks whoare in corri gible drunkards, and the mask is fastened on the head when theyare sent out, so that they may not drink. This mask is said also to be used toprevent blacks from eating clay or earth ; but this disease is, I believe, of veryrare occurrence.— Stray Xotes from Bahia.

A B A N K R U P T A N N U I T Y S O C I E T Y. — Aserious investigation has been takingplace at the Thames Police Court, conce rning the management of the UnitedKingdom Mutual Annuity Society, an offshoot of the United King dom Benevolent Annu ity Fund . The association professed to be under the patro nage of L o r d Shaftesbury and the Bis hop of Oxford, who however state that they neversanctioned the use which has been made of their names. An y of our readershavin g claims upon the persons forming the committe e, should forward themat once to Mr. Selfe, the magistrate at that court, who is condu cting theinvestigation.

SUDDEN A R R E S T OF I N T E L L I G E N C E . — A clergyman was, one wintry day,employed in snipe-shooti ng with a friend ; in the course of their perambulations a high hedge interven ed be tween the compa nions . The friend fired ata bird which sprang unexp ectedly up, and lodged a part of the shot in theforehead of the cle rgym an. He instantly fell, and did not recover the shock

for some days, so as to be deemed ou t of danger. Wh en he was so, it wasperceived that he was mentally deran ged. He was to have been married twodays subsequently to that on which the accident happened. Fro m thispeculiar comb inatio n of circumstances, the ph enom ena of the case appearedto arise ; for all sanity of mind seemed to make a full stop, as it were, at thisspot of the current, and he soon sank into a state of lunacy. All his conversation was literally confined to the business of the weddi ng. Out of thiscircle his mind never deviated. He dwelt upon everythin g relating to it withminuteness, never retreating nor advancing one step further for fifty years,being, ideally, still a youn g, active, expecting, and happy bridegro om, chidingthe tardiness of time, althoug h it brou ght hi m, at the age of eight y, gently tohis grave !•— Winston?s Diseases of the Brain.

A B O L D B O Y T R U M P E T E R . — I n the triump hal entrance of the troopsinto Madr id, amon g the heroes of the day was a boy trumpeter. Hisglory obscured that of all the army, and he obtained a prolonged ovation.Th e trumpeter belongs to the Bourb on regi ment; he is only fourteen years of age, and is of short stature. When in Africa, whilst in the advanced post withhis co mpan y, he happ ened one day to be exces sively hung ry, and he could

not get any food. At last he pe rceive d a numb er of oak trees, and said tohimself, " Where there are oak trees there are acorns, and acorns at a pinchcan be eaten!" He according ly slipped away, and passing unobserved by thesentinels, climbed up the tree and began eating. He was suddenly interrupted by a strange noise, and to his dismay he perceiv ed that the tree wassurrounded by ferocious-look ing Moors. Fli gh t was impossible, and resistance out of the question, but a brigh t idea struck him— he seized his trumpetaud sounded the charg e. The Moors, thinking that they had fallen into anambush, took to flight. This ex ploi t of the trumpeter exc ited great admiration at the time, and on the entrance of the t roops the crowds not onlygreeted him with enthusiasm, but he was borne in triumph on men's shouldersand c rowne d with lau rel! Fro m time to time, at the request of the people,he sounded the charge wh ich struck terror i nto the breasts of the Moors.

T H E R I D P L E R .

T H E R I D D L E R ' S S O L U T I O N S O F N o . 8 9 5 .

E N I G M A : The Letter T. FIRST CHARADE : Complex-ion.SECOND CHARADE : Tar-tar. REBUS : Life ; elf ; if ; file.

The following answer all: E d m u n d . — Eckcrs ley.—Timswel l .—C. T.—Kei th .—Wood.—Nash.—Harmer. Enigma and both Charades: Sadler.—Manlove.— D. S. D. —J. L. J.—Tip. Enigma, Second Charade, and Rebus: Cooke.—Howel ls .—Tooted .—H a r r i s o n . — C o m p t o n . Enigma and Second Charade: Bridgman.— Morr ison .—Errington.—W. J. R . — Tw e n e y. Enigma and Rebus: Whitham.—J. R.— l iovin.—Smales. Enigma: H . M.—Lemuel . — Psyche .—R. W. J .—Amor.—E. E. G.—Annie R . Second Charade : I I . B. B.— Gore.—Le©.—Kennedy.

ARITHMETICAL QUESTIONS.

1. It would take 80 hours to complete the work. A will pump out 8,000 gallons; B,6400 gallons; and C, 5,000 gallons. A will receive £1 ; B, 16$.; and C, Us.

2. The ship completed the passage in 79 days.3. To find the circumference of the axle we have as 7 : 22 : : 14 : 44 inches; therefore the

circumference of the great wheel is 44 X 20 = 8S0 inches. Then by mechanics we ltd reas 880 :44 : : 1000 : 50. Consequently it is plain that a power equivalent to 50//*. >c::hsustain the weight oflQQQlb., if attached to the end of a winch, equal in length to the semi-diameter of the axle added to the semidiameter of the rope ; which is J> (14 + 2) — 8 inciter.Therefore let 8 x equal the length of the winch; then, as the power ofthe crane increasesdirectly as the excess of the length of the winch, above the semidiameter of the axle ad •'«{ tothe semidiameter of the rope, we have 10 § x — 50 .'. x — 3. Therefore the length of the winchis 8 x 3 = 24 inches. If the ivinch were 8 inches long, the whole power gained by the crane,would be as 20 to 1 ; the power of the crane is therefore not increased, by the winch of 8 inches(because 8 inches does not exceed the sum of the semidiameters of the axle and rope) ; lh< ,<j\,rc,the winch, being 24 inches long, the power gained by it being increased 10 inches, is as 40 to 1 ;consequently, the whole power gained by the crane is as 60 to 1.

The following agree with all: Veritas.—Edmund.—Howells.—Wardle.— Timswell —Anchora . With 1st and 2nd.—D. S. D.—Sadler.—Steele.—Tooted. it ah l.-t,.—Curio.— Hind e.— T. C. B.—Pr y or.—IT. M.—M orris on. —Gray. —II. C *d. Lemuel.—Wintham.—.Sneddon.—Manlove.—Bridgman (no).—Buglass.—Cooke.—J. L. J.--.W. J. R. —Aquat ic .—Boimycas t le . With 3rd. —Tweney.—Smee.—Williams,



L 76 T H E FA M I LY H E K A L D . [Ju ly 14, I860.

R A N D O M R E A D I N G S .

W h a t part of a ship is like a farmer ?

" I s y our city a healthy one, sir :ther

-The tiller.

' — " Oh, yes, medici nes are dr ugs

Th e worst way of pitching into a fellow, and making him feel generallylike a goose, is to tar and feather him .

Th e Queen of Spain, when she reviews her troops, treats them to cigars;of course they are hound to back her quarrels.

Throw a piec e of meat amon g bears and a purse of gold among men, andwhich will behave most outrageously—the men or the beasts ?

""Wh at is me ant by the deflectio n of the needle r" asked a domini e of afemale pupil .—" When it runs up into the quic k of the nai l," was the readyreply.

Lady Yarmouth asked Garrick one day why Love was always representedas a child ? He replied, "Bec aus e Love never reaches the age of wisdomand experience."

Mr . Harris " was never more s-s-s ober in the wh ole course of his life," but.vhen his friend Jon es asked him to take a chair, he said he would " wait tillone came round."

Th e following is a copy of an advertisement which appeared in an Americanp a p e r : — " M a d e their escape, a husband' s affections. The y disappearedimmediately on seeing his wife with her hands and face unwashed at breakfast."

Every house hold has its pet names. Mr . Jones en chants his helpma te bycalling her "his idol ." Jones, however, privately spells it i-cUl-e. Mrs,Jones is a nice woma n—an affectionate w oma n—b ut she has a constitutional

aversion to working.Bill Wigg ins is a very neat fellow. He says he can't spare time to take a

bath ; besides, it costs mo ney for soap and towe ls. W e asked him ho w hemanaged to keep clean. " Oh, " said he, with a highl y inventive smirk, " Isandpaper myself once a-year."

It is now settled that a you ng lady is any delicate individual of the femininegender who will not touch onions stewed in butter, or eat nice boiled cabbage.This great principle, which must for ever settle the question, was promulgat edby a knowing witness on a recent trial.

A worth y Dutch man lately sued his neighbour for killing a dog. In thecourse of his examination, the Dutchman being asked what was the value of his dory, replied, " Ash for ter d org, he vas wort shust nothing at all; but ashlie was so mean ash to kill hir , I swear I makes hi m pay te full value of him."

In a cemetery in D unkirk , N. Y. , a stone is erected over the remains of adeceased old lady, on which her friends intended to write the stock epitaph," L e t her rest in peace. " The space gave out at the wor d "he r, " so that

only the initial letters of the remainder could be inserted. Thus the dear oldlady was consig ned to the mould with the somewhat equivocal description—" Let her r. i. p."

An alderman of the name of Kirk owned a valuable marc, which was putunder the care of an Iri sh servant. Th e mare happen ed to di e one day bysome viole nt disease, and the serv ant immedi ately informe d his mistress." M a r m , the mare's dea d." —"T he mayor de ad !" replied the lady. "T he nI suppose Mr. Kirk will be mayor no w." —"I nd ad c, marm," exclaimed Pat," it's not the man mare, but the horse mare that I mane."

It was the habit of Lor d Eldon, when attorney-general, to close his speecheswith some remarks justifying his ow n character. At the trial of Hom e Tookc,speaking of his own rep utati on, he said, " It is the little inheritanc e I haveto leave to my children, and I will leave it unimpaired. " Here he shed tears,and to the astonishment of those present, Mi tford, the solicitor-general, beganto weep. " J u s t look at Mit for d," said a bystander to Ho me Tooke." What on earth is he crying for ? " Tooke replied, " He is crying to thi nk what a little inheritance Eldon's children are likely to get."

" What is the matter with Mrs. Jenks, doctor? " asked Mrs. Partingt on, asDr. Bolus passed her house. She had been watchin g for him half an hourthrough a chink in the door, and people who detected the end of a nose thrustout of the chin k aforesaid, stopped an instant to look at it, strongly inclinedto touch it and see what it wa s.— " She is troubled with varicose veins, mem ,"replied the doctor, bl an dl y. —"D o tell," cried the old lady ; " w e l l , thataccounts for her very coarse behaviour, the n; and it isn't any fault o' her'n,arter all, poor woman, 'cause what is to be will be, and if one nas very coarseveins, what can one expec t ? Ah , we are none o f us better than we ought tob e . " — " G o o d morning, mem," said Dr. Bolus, as he turned away, and the oldlady shut the door. " No better than we ought to be ! " Wh at an originalremark, and how candi d the admission ! The little front entr y heard it, andthe broad stair that led to the cha mber heard it, a nd Ik e heard it, as he sat inthe kitchen d aubin g up the old lad y's Pemb rok e table with flour and paste, i n anattempt to make a kite out ofra choicely saved copy of the Puritan Recorder." W e are no better than we ought to be"—generally.

ON A L A D Y W I T H B R I G H T E Y E S A N D A L O U D V O I C E .

Miss Manic is made of fearful stuff,Her eyes excite your wonder ;

But then her voice—so loud and rough—It splits your head asunder .

Yo u bear her lightning well enough,

G E R M A N PLEASANTRY*—Some of the German journ als now style theEmperor Napole on " Annexan der the Grea t,"

EQUIVOCAL ADVERTISEMENT.—The following notice might have been seensome time ago stuck up in a corset -maker 's shop window in Glasgow—" Al lsorts of ladies stays her e,"

A SETTLER.—A farmer, by chance a comp anio n in a coach with CharlesLamb, kept boring him with questions about crops.. At length he put a poser— " A n d pray, sir, how are turnips t ' year ? " — " Why that, sir," stammeredout Lamb, " will depend upon the boiled legs of mutton."

THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED.—A gentle man stepped into a tavernand saw a filthy drunkard, once a respecta ble man, waiti ng for his dram. He

thus accosted hi m: " W h y do you make yourself the vilest of men ? " — " Iain't the vilest," said the drunkard. " Yo u are," said the gentl eman. " Seeho w yo u look! Drink that glass, and,you will be in the gut te r. "—"I denyyour poz- zit ion, " said the other . " Wh o is the vilest, the tempted or thetempter ? " • — " Wh y, the tempter," said the gentleman. " We l l (hie), well,behold the te mpt er !" said he, pointi ng to the bar. The landlord, notliking such allusion to his calling, turned the man out of his house withouthis dram.

F R O L I C OP POOTE. — This celebrated humourist, whilst gr aduating. atWorcester College, Oxford, found in the head o f it, Dr. Gower, a highlysuitable subject for one of his droll devices. Observing that the rope of thechapel bell was all owed to hang near the g roun d, in an open space wherecows were sometimes kept for the night, he suspended a wisp of hay to it, andthe consequence was that some one of the animals never failed to seize thehay befor e morn ing , and so produ ced a most Unseasonable and mysteriousrin gin g of the bell . A solemn Consultation took place for the elucidation bt the portentous circumstance; and Dr. Gower havi ng undertaken with the sextdrito sit up all ni ght for the purpo se of catchin g the delinque nt, disclosed the

nature of the jest by pounci ng out u pon the poor cow , and had the heartylaugh of all Oxford to reward him for his pains.

T H E D A N G E R OP L O S I N G A S H I RT. — C o l e r i d g e ' s tragedy of " R e m o r s e " '

had just a ppeare d; he was in a coffee-room of an hotel where, hearing hisown name coupl ed with a cor oner 's inquest, he asked to see the newspaper,which was hand ed to hi m with the remark^ that " It was very extraor dinarythat Cole ridg e, the poet , should have hanged hims elf just after the success of his play ; but he was always a strange, mad fel lo w." —"I nd eed , sir," saidColeridge, " i t is a most extraordinary thing that he should at this momentbe speaking to yo u. " The astonished stranger hoped that he had " saidnothing to hurt his feelings," and was made easy on that point. The newspaper related that a gent leman in black had been cut down from a tree inHyde Park, withou t money or papers in his pockets, his shirt being marked" S . T . C o l e r i d g e ; " and Col erid ge was at no loss to understand how thismight have happened, since he seldom travelled with out losi ng a shirt or two.

—Leslie's Autobiography.

" A U L D N I C K " A N D T H E S E RVA N T. — A verdant Irish girl just arrived

was sent to an intelligence office by the Co mmission er of Emigr atio n to find aplace at servi ce. She was sent to a restaurant, where " a stout help " waswanted, and while in conversation with the proprietor, he took occasion tolight his cigar by igniting a Yesuvian match On the sole of his boot, As soonas she saw this, she ran away half fr ightened to death, and wh en she reachedthe office was almost out of breath. " Wh y , what is the matter with you ? "said the proprietor, seeing her rush in with such conf usion .—" Och, sure, sir,but ye's sint me to the auld Nick himself in human form."—"What does hemean? has he dared to insult a help from my office ? " inquir ed the man.—" Yes, sur," returned the gir l, " he's the aul d Nick ! " " ^Vhat did he do ?Tell me, and I 'll fix him for it ," said he, quite exasperated.—" Wh y, sur,whilst I was talking to him about the wages, lie turned up the bottom of hisfut, and wid a splinter in his finger, sur, he just gave one stroke, and tho fireflew out of his fut, and bu rned the stick, and he li ghte d his ci gar with it,right afore my own face ! He' s the auld Nick , shure, sur !" — New OrleansPicayune*

FA N N Y ' S B A R N - YA R D SONG.

Chicky ! ch i ck ! ch i ck ! oh, c o m e along, jq u i c k !

F r o m my little fingers a cr um b yo u mayp i ck .

Q u a k e ! qua ke! q uak e! says the whi teol d drake,

A n d the duck s shake thei r tails with ashort little shake.

Quack ! qua ck ! qua ck ! says t he o ne inblack,

An d they split thei r t h r o a t s as they answer, q u a c k !

Cock-a-doodle-doo ! here's a health to yo u!A nd the rooster bows to the feather'd c r ew.C luck ! c luck ! c l u c k ! I wish vou much

l uck !Says a mother lien to a setting duck.Pe ! pe ! pe ! oh, pray wait for me !Sa y the turkey brood as plain as can be.Gobble ! gobble ! gobble ! 1113' snout's in a

hobble ,Says the s t r u t t i n g c o c k , with an ugly

bobble .To t rack ! pot rack ! I'd quit such a pack,Sings the Guinea hen,as she flies the tra ck.'Taint never no use, screams asensible goose,To mind the rude ways of fowls w h a t i s l o o s e .

Then hissing aloud to the w o nd e r in gc rowd ,She waddles away, quite happy and proud.N o w th e peacock tries, w ith his hundred

eyes,To astoni sh and awe ; but the Sha nghaies

rise,A n d clearing thei r throats, flap their short-

tail'd coats,Whi l e they swee p tho barn-yard of corn

and oats.Then the Poland duck, with his c om b in

a tuck,Gives a foreign twirl to his best tail curl ;While a bantam swe l lgoes on tip-toe a sped,To escort for a while a Cochin belle.Then they cackle and crow, his;, gobble ,

an d blow,A nd all speak at once, both high and low.Hus h ! hush ! hu sh ! cry the Muscovies ,

hush !W e arewhisper ingsecre ts as so ft as mush;

T h e n b o w i n g around, almost to the ground,

They b o b b i n g retire wit h a murmur ingsound ,

A n d c h i c k y ! c h i c k ! c h i c k ! oh, c om ealong, quick !

Br ings orderagain ,whi lea crumb they p i c k .

Published by BENJAMIN B L A K E , 4 2 1 ,Communications for the E

Strand, London, W.C., to whom allditor must be addressed.

Family Herald August 14 1860

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