Jane, as yet heiress and darling, a round, bright, wilful cherub, beautiful and loving, but mighty in her passionate force, and indomitable in her infant will, beyond all power of control—the one most cared for, and on whom was anchored such a rich argosy of hopes and first fond love—was one day given into the safe keeping of Maud, a young serving-girl, a rough, untutored peasant-girl, who was one of the underwomen to the bower-maidens. The king was coming to the castle that night, and every female finger that could work was employed on the last stitches of a dainty tapestry-bed, which was to receive His Majesty as became his lordly dignity. Even the mother's care must give way to the housewife's duty; even love must yield to loyalty.

Left alone in an upper apartment with her young charge, Maud became weary of confinement, and resolved at all hazards to descend to the great hall, and have her share of the general amusement. Down, accordingly, she went. Jane, of course, accompanied her, and, contrary to orders, was allowed to romp about at pleasure. The day was cold, and the fire burned brightly in the open hearth. Nearer and nearer the little one crept to the blazing logs, watching the sparks fly up in a golden shower when the crackling masses fell to the ground, or when some rough soldier struck them with his mailed hand. No one looked to her while she played by the open hearth, and tried to seize the vivid sparks; once only, a trooper caught her roughly back; but again she stole towards the great blazing logs, and this time she was less fortunate. Suddenly, a cry was heard. Jane's clothes were in flames. Maud extinguished them as she best could. She crushed the burning with her hands in such haste as she might make; but, alas! to what a wreck had the fire reduced the child! Her long fair hair was withered to its roots; her pretty eyes were closed, and the curling lashes scorched to the skin; her pure neck was blackened and blistered; and, a mass of pain and sore, she lay like a dead thing, but for the wailing moans which shewed her sad title yet to a ruined existence. Alas for her that she did not die! Wo, that life was so strong in her now, when, blemished and disfigured for ever, she might not hold its honours or taste its joys!—now, when she must endure a worse thing than death for the sake of her family name! 'Therefore,' says the chronicle, 'she was in a manner loathed of her parents, and kept forth secretly from the common knowledge of the people.'

'The house of Poole must have no charred mummy for its heiress,' said old Dame Katharine; and Sir Mighell and his lady bowed their heads and acquiesced.

It was agreed, then, that she should be sent to a house of 'close nuns,' to be made a woman of religion, and so kept out of the sight of all men's eyes. With this view, she was brought up; taught nothing else; suffered to hope for nothing else; suffered to speak of nothing else. But they could not bind her thoughts; and by a strange perversity of will, these went always to the open fields and the unfettered limb, to the vague picturing of freedom, and the dreamy forecast of love. Yet she kept her peace; not daring to tell her mind to any, and nourishing all the more strongly, because in silence, the characteristics which destroyed the charm of a conventual life. When she came to the years of discretion, she was to be professed; but, in accordance with an old custom, before her profession she required to enter the world for a season, that her 'vocation' might be judged of, whether it were true or not, or simply the effect of education on the one hand, and of ignorance on the other; and thus, when she was fifteen years of age, she was dismissed to her father's house for the space of six months' nominal trial, after which time she must return to the convent for ever.

Now, Dame Katharine a Poole, Jane's paternal grandmother, was a fierce, proud old woman, whose heart was set on the creation of her son's house, and whose very virtue was her family pride. When she heard of Jane's return to the outer world of men, she hastily rode over to see this ugly, despised thing, and to take her from her father's castle to the grim quiet of her own dungeon-like home, if so be that she was as unlovely as report had spoken her. They met; and for a moment the proud old dame was struck as by death. The seamed and scarred face, the closed eyes—one perfectly sightless, the other well-nigh so—the burnt and withered hair growing in long, ragged patches only, the awkward gait and downcast look; all were like daggers in Dame Katharine's heart; and 'she rebuked her greatly, seeing that she was too loathly for any gentleman who was equal to her in birth.'

Poor Jane bore all these coarse reproaches with much outward meekness; but the spirit which they woke up in her was little interpreted by the drooping head and tearful eyes. A fiery demon, breathing rage and vowing revenge, took such meek-seeming as this, and blinded the old grandam to the mischief she was working, until it was too late to repair it. Dame Katharine took the girl home; Sir Mighell and his wife consenting in gratitude to be so well delivered from such a heavy burden. Dame Elizabeth, the girl's mother, truly shed a few tears, quickly dried; and so young Jane parted for ever from her father's house.

Like a dead thing, revived by the fresh winds of heaven, Jane's comparative freedom aroused in her the most passionate abhorrence of the life to which she was destined, and the most passionate desire for liberty and affection. With each breath she drew by the open casement, with each glance cast into the depths of the dark woods beyond, rose up the strong instincts of her age, and turned her for ever from the convent gate. In vain the dame insisted; Jane stood firm; and declared that she would still refuse, at the very altar, to take the vow. Yet was she timid in all things but those of love and liberty; and Dame Katharine, by violence and threats, so worked on her fears, that she at last consented, amid grievous tears and bitter reproaches, to be deprived of her name and state, and given forth to the castle people as a poor gentlewoman, godchild to the dame.

'Anything for freedom!' sighed Jane, as she took the oath of secrecy. 'Any deprivation rather than that living tomb of the nun!'

It was now the dame's chief care to be rid of her charge. She cast about for suitors, but even the lowest squire shook his head at the offer. At last, she married her grandchild to the son of an honest yeoman of Suffolk, and so sent her forth to take her place in the world as the wife of a common peasant, and the mother of a family of peasants. Such was the fate allotted to Jane a Poole, daughter of the proud Earl of Suffolk!

Of her issue, we need say but little. Suffice it to know, that Jane and her ploughman William had four children, three sons and one daughter; of whom William, the second son, married an honest man's daughter, whose name was Alice Gryse, and whose children were living in 1490, when this chronicle was written.

Return we now to the puissant lord, Sir Mighell, Earl of Suffolk. He was not long suffered to enjoy his home; indeed, so ardent a soul as his would have eaten its way through his castle walls, as a chrysalis through its silken tomb, if he had been long inactive. If war had not been his duty, he must have made it his crime; if foreign foes had not called upon his valour, too surely would domestic friends have suffered from his disloyalty. Born for the fight, he would have fulfilled his destiny by force if he might not by right. At the battle of Agincourt (1415), he perished along with many other of England's nobles.

Sir Mighell having died without a son, his titles and estates went to his brother, Sir William. Dame Elizabeth, widow of Sir Mighell, and her daughter Katharine, shortly afterwards, as was usual in these times, went to reside in the Abbey of Brasenode; and there they ultimately died.

Meanwhile, and for years afterwards, no one knew anything of Jane, who, though exiled from her rank and family, perhaps enjoyed more real happiness than those who had been guilty of her maltreatment. At length, her husband died, which was a source of grief. Honest William had thought her queer in manners; but he loved her for all that, and was proud of her, as the daughter of a poor gentleman. He blessed her on his death-bed; and she remained a widow for his sake. Many yeomen wished to marry her, but she refused them all. This went on for many years—long after Sir William a Poole had become fourth Earl of Suffolk, and had had children born to him; long after Alice Gryse had become Jane's daughter-in-law, and made her more than once a grandmother too; and then the whole of this strange story became known. Jane had kept her vow of secrecy with perfect fidelity; never had she breathed a syllable to her husband or children as to the family to which she belonged. It was only, late in life, through confession she made to a priest, that who and what she had been was revealed. Shocked with the depravity of her unnatural parents, this pious and learned doctor, says the chronicle, 'commanded her to publish this account to her children and their issues, that they might know of what race they came, if so be, by the great mercy of Providence, they might claim their own again. And not only to them, but also to make it known to all men, as far as was consistent with her own safety; for he said, that the great power of Almighty God should be published to all the world. For this reason was the chronicle written—that all men might take warning; for no deed of wickedness is done in the dark, which shall not be dragged forth to the light; and no oppression on the innocent shall prosper before the right hand of Eternal Justice.'



THINGS TALKED OF IN LONDON.

March 1852.

The lecture experiment at the Museum of Practical Geology, in Jermyn Street, has proved eminently successful. There were a thousand more applications for tickets than could be supplied, in consequence of which the executive very wisely determined, that the course should be repeated until the demand was satisfied. This fact of numbers speaks highly in favour of the working-men of London—none others are admitted to the course here referred to; and once having got the knowledge, it is to be hoped they will be able to turn it to good account. One of the lecturers told me, that the hall is always crowded, and that a better-behaved auditory has seldom been seen in any quarter, which we may consider to be an encouraging sign of the times. The other courses are also going on for those who are able to pay high fees, and attend during the day. The titles of a few of the lectures will give you an idea of the nature of the instruction offered; namely—The Relations of Natural History to Geology and the Arts; On the Value of an Extended Knowledge of Mineralogy and the Processes of Mining; On the Science of Geology and its Applications; On the Importance of Special Scientific Knowledge to the Practical Metallurgist; and On the Importance of Cultivating Habits of Observation. You must remember, that the institution is a government school of mines as well as a museum of geology.

In connection with this, it may be mentioned that the Society of Arts are discussing a project for the 'affiliation' of all the literary, philosophical, scientific, and mechanics' institutions throughout the kingdom, with a view to render them less languid and more beneficial than too many of them now are. Unity of purpose effected wonders with the Great Exhibition; and it is thought that the same cause should produce a similar result in the educational and recreative establishments alluded to. There is a talk, also, of an assembling of most of the learned societies of our great city under one roof—a sort of Palace of Science, which has long been wanting in London, but which has long existed in Paris. Should this scheme be carried out, the philosophers might then adopt Brother Jonathan's motto—E pluribus unum. And, next, the Suburban Artisan School of Drawing and Modelling, established last year at Camden-Town, has succeeded so well that the committee, with Prince Albert as patron, have determined to establish four additional schools in our other suburban districts. These schools are to be open every evening for instruction, at a charge per month of 2s. No working-man in the metropolis after this need be ignorant of drawing. Then, again, a 'Department of Practical Art' is organised in connection with the Board of Trade, which, by means of travelling and stationary superintendents, and other officers, is to assist in the development of artistic talent, and its application to useful purposes, wherever it may be found.

Co-operation of some sort or other is the order of the day; and now a good deal of attention is excited by the announcement of an 'Athenaeum Institute for Authors and Artists,' something different from the Guild of Literature and Art set afoot last winter, the object being to endeavour to form an incorporated association of the two classes mentioned—of course for their common benefit. The aid of the possessors of rank and wealth is to be asked at starting, because, as the promoters say, 'we think literature has a right to ask the assistance of these other two great powers of society, because it so materially assists them; and because, in many of its branches, it has no other mode of being paid by society. The severely scientific, the highly imaginative, the profoundly legislative authors, do not produce promptly marketable, though they produce priceless, works. La Place, Wordsworth, Bentham, could not have existed had they depended on the first product of their works; they would have perished before an acknowledging world could have given them bread.' They say, further, that 'the humblest literary man works for something more than hire, and produces something more effective than a mere piece of merchandise. His book is not only sold to the profit of the bookseller, but to the benefit of the public. The publisher pays for its mercantile value, but the public should reward the author for its moral and social effect, as they take upon themselves to punish, if it have an evil tendency.'

Whether the promoters are right or wrong in their views, will be best proved by the result; meantime, they put forth some good names as provisional president, vice-president, and managers, and propose that the Institute shall comprise four branches—namely, a Protective Society, a Philanthropic and Provident Fund, an Educational Association, and a Life-Assurance Department. The subscribers are to consist of two classes: those who give contributions for the benefit of the Institute, and those who seek to benefit themselves. The former are to be asked to insure their lives, for different rates of premium, the amounts to fall into the corporation at the decease of the subscribers; and thus a fund would be raised out of which, on certain conditions, participating subscribers would be able to secure a provision for old age, or premature decay of mental power, the means of educating their children, and leaving a solatium to their widows. If all this can be carried out, and if literary men, as a class, are capable of all that the prospectus of the new scheme implies, how much of distress and heart-breaking misery will be saved to society!

There are several subjects which, having recently been brought before our Horticultural Society, have somewhat interested gardening folk. At one of the meetings, there was exhibited 'a very fine specimen of common mignonette,' which 'was stated to have been a single plant pricked out into a pot in January 1851, and shifted on until it had attained a large size. It was mentioned, that mignonette is not an annual, as many imagine it to be; but that it will become a woody shrub, and last for years, provided it is well managed, and kept free from frost and damp.' So runs the report in the society's journal.

There was, likewise, an exhibition of black Hamburg grapes by Mr Fry, a Kentish gardener, who made thereupon some observations, which appear to be deserving of wider circulation. The grapes were grown in a building seldom heated artificially, and were much attacked by mildew during the last two seasons, on which prompt measures were taken to diffuse perfectly dry 'sulphur vivum' throughout the house by means of a sulphurator, until fruit and foliage were completely but lightly coated. 'Fires were lighted, and the temperature kept up to from 80 to 90 degrees, ventilation being considerably diminished, and water in any form discontinued. After being subject to this treatment for about four or five days, the vines received a thorough syringing, which cleansed them from every particle of sulphur. With respect to the use of sulphur in killing mildew, many ladies and gentlemen,' adds Mr Fry, 'with whom I have conversed, consider it highly objectionable: they say, that they do not like the idea of eating sulphur with grapes; neither would any one, and I can prove to them that this need never be done; and, moreover, that the use of sulphur, when timely and judiciously applied, does not in any way deteriorate the fruit. I much question if the most practised eye could detect sulphur on the grapes exhibited, although they have been twice covered with it; and as to the mildew itself among vines, I fear it no more than I do green-fly among cucumbers, which is so soon deprived of existence by the fumes of tobacco.'

What is called 'a French sulphurator,' whose great merit appears to be 'simplicity and cheapness,' was also exhibited. It is described as 'a tin box for holding the sulphur, placed on the upper side of the pipe of a pair of common bellows. The sulphur gets into the pipe through small holes made for the purpose in the bottom of the box, and, in order that no stoppage may take place, a small hammer-head attached at the end of a slight steel-spring, is fixed on the under side of the bellows, a gentle tap from which, now and then, keeps up a continuous fall of sulphur into the pipe.' It is said, that 'these appliances, which may be attached to a pair of bellows for little more than sixpence, answer every purpose for which they are intended, equally as well as a more expensive machine.'

At the same time with this contrivance, some bunches of black Prince Grapes were shewn to the assembled horticulturists, which could only be preserved from mildew by frequent applications of sulphur. The bunches are to be afterwards cleaned by dipping in water, or what is considered preferable, 'syringing on all sides with a fine syringe,' which process, it is well to remember, disturbs the bloom on the fruit least when directed 'downwards, or obliquely, as rain would fall.'

As the season for gardening operations is coming on, Mr Rivers' account may be mentioned of his mode of growing strawberries in pots; it will be found to involve certain combinations opposed to ordinary practice. 'About the second week in July,' he says, he filled a number of six-inch pots 'with a compost of two-thirds loam, and one-third rotten dung, as follows: three stout pieces of broken pots were placed in the bottom, and a full handful of the compost put in; a stout wooden pestle was then used with all the force of a man's arm to pound it, then another handful and a pounding, and another, till the pot was brimful, and the compressed mould as hard as a barn-floor. The pots were then taken to the strawberry-bed, and a runner placed in the centre of each, with a small stone to keep it steady. They were watered in dry weather, and have had no other care or culture. For two or three years, I have had the very finest crops from plants after this method, and those under notice promise well. If the pots are lifted, it will be apparent that a large quantity of food is in a small space. I may add, that from some recent experiments with compressed earth to potted fruit-trees, I have a high opinion of its effect, and I fully believe that we have yet much to learn on the subject.'

There is a committee sitting at the Admiralty, to devise a method for the uniform lighting of ships and steamers at night, the object being to diminish the chances of accident or error to vessels at sea. And apropos of this, Mr Babbage has published a plan which will effectually prevent one lighthouse being mistaken for another: it is, that every lighthouse, wherever situated, shall have a number—the numbers not to run consecutively—and no two adjoining lights to have the same numeral digits in the same place of figures. There would then be no need for revolving or flashing lights, as the only thing to be done would be to make each lighthouse repeat its own number all night long, or whenever it was illuminated. This is to be 'accomplished by enclosing the upper part of the glass cylinders of the argand burner by a thin tube of tin or brass, which, when made to descend slowly before the flame, and then allowed suddenly to start back, will cause an occultation and reappearance of the light.' The number of occultations denotes the number of the lighthouse. For instance, suppose the Eddystone to be 243, the two is denoted by two hidings of the light in quick succession; a short pause, and four hidings; another short pause, and three hidings, followed by a longer pause; after which the same process is repeated. It would not be easy to make a mistake, for the numbers of the lighthouses nearest to the Eddystone would be very different; and supposing that the boy sent aloft to watch for the light were to report 253 instead of 243, without waiting to correct his view, the captain, by turning to his book, would perhaps find that No. 253 was in the Straits of Sunda, or some equally remote situation, and would easily recognise the error. When we take into account the number of vessels lost by mistaking one lighthouse for another, the value of this proposal becomes apparent. Mr Babbage shews, that bell-strokes might be employed to announce the number of a beacon in foggy weather; and he believes that the time is not far distant when buoys will also be indicated by a light. Now that lighthouse dues are to be reduced one-half, we may hope to see improvement in more ways than one.

This is but a small part of what promises more and more to become a great question—that of navigation. It is felt that, in these go-ahead days, we must be paying not less attention to our maritime than to our inland arm of commerce; and this has brought the question of wood versus iron ships again into prominent notice. The advocates of iron shew that the dry-rot, so destructive to wood, cannot enter metal; that lightness and speed, those prime essentials, are insured by the use of iron; that iron ships are safer, more easily repaired, and cheaper than vessels built of wood; and that they are more lasting. The chief objection hitherto has been the liability of iron to become foul in tropical climates; but this now appears to be in a measure overcome. According to Mr Lindsay: 'An admixture has been applied, termed "Anti-Sargassian Paint," which has been found to answer the purpose better than any yet discovered. From the experience of its properties, we cannot say that in itself it is yet sufficient; but it appears a fair substitute till some other preparation is discovered. A gentleman at Glasgow,' he adds, 'has already discovered a compound, which, being mixed in a fluid state with the iron, is expected to answer the desired purpose. There is another disadvantage which will soon be overcome—the greater liability to error in the compasses of iron ships; an error which, however, also occurs, though perhaps to a less extent, in every wooden ship. By a most ingenious invention, which will shortly be made public, such errors in any ships, under any circumstances, can at all times be at once detected.'

An important patented process for producing tapered iron, has been explained before the Franklin Institute at Philadelphia—one by which every variety of taper may be produced, or combinations of taper, with flat or other forms; and seeing how much tapered iron is used on railways, in many kinds of machinery, in ships and steamers, the subject may be considered worthy of more than a mere passing notice. Tapered iron is a form to which machinery has been thought inapplicable, and only to be produced by hand-labour. The new method, however, which has been successfully carried into practice at the Phoenixville Ironworks, is thus described: 'The principle on which it acts is that of hydrostatic pressure, or, more properly, hydrostatic resistance. A small chamber, similar to that of the common hydrostatic press, is set on the top of each housing; the closed end of the press being uppermost, and a plunger entering from below; but instead of water being forced into the press, the chamber is at first filled with water, and the pressure of the iron in passing between the rollers, tends to lift the top one, which is held down by the plunger. An escape-pipe, provided with a valve, is inserted into the top of the chamber. When any upward pressure acts on the top roller, it is communicated by the plunger to the water, which escapes through the valve, and the roller rises.

'When the valve is partially closed, the water escapes more slowly; and the rise of the roller, and consequently the taper of the iron, are more gradual.

'Any rate of taper may thus be had by regulating the rise of the opening of the escape-valve. If the water is all driven out before the bar is entirely through the rollers, the top roller ceases to rise, and the iron becomes parallel from that point. Then, if the ends of the bar be reversed, and it be again passed between the rollers, the parallel portion will become tapered; thus we can get a bar.'

At the same time, a 'Thermometrical Ventilator' was exhibited, which is described as circular in form, with a well-balanced movable plate. 'Upon the side of the valve is an inverted syphon, with a bulb at one end, the other being open; the lower part of the tube contains mercury; the bulb, atmospheric air. An increase of temperature expands the air in the bulb, drives the mercury down one side and up the other, thereby destroying the balance, and causing the valve to open by turning on its axis. A diminution of temperature contracts the air in the bulb, causes the mercury to rise in the side of the tube, and closes the valve.' Besides this, there was 'an improved magneto-electric machine, for medical use, with a new arrangement, by which the shock is graduated by means of a glass tube, in which a wire is made to communicate with water, so as to produce at first a slight shock; by gradually pressing down the wire attached to a spiral spring, the shock is received in its full force.'

It now appears that Mr Robertson of Brighton claims priority of discovery touching the boring power of Pholades. His statements are founded on daily observation of the creatures at work for three months. 'The Pholas dactylus' he says, 'makes its hole by grating the chalk with its rasp-like valves, licking it up, when pulverised, with its foot, forcing it up through its principal or bronchial syphon, and squirting it out in oblong nodules. The crypt protects the Pholas from confervae, which, when they get at it, grow not merely outside, but even within the lips of the valves, preventing the action of the syphons. In the foot there is a gelatinous spring or style, which, even when taken out, has great elasticity, and which seems the mainspring of the motions of the Pholas dactylus.'

At last, steam communication with Australia seems about to become a reality, for the first vessel is announced to start in May for Sydney, to touch at the Cape and other colonies on her way out; and accommodation is promised for two hundred passengers of different classes. There is also a project on foot for a line of steamers from Panama to Australia, and to Valparaiso, which, if brought into operation, will make a voyage round the world little more than a bagman's journey. Apropos of Australia, Mr Clarke, who first predicted that gold would be found in that country, says, 'that just 90 degrees west of the auriferous range in Australia, we find an auriferous band in the Urals; and just 90 degrees west of the Urals, occur the auriferous mountains of California.' A speculation for cosmogonists. In our own country, we are finding metalliferous deposits: vast accumulations of lead-ore have come to light in Wales, which are said to contain six ounces of silver, and fifteen hundredweight of lead to the ton; and in Northamptonshire, an abundant and timely supply of iron-ore has just been met with. We might perhaps turn our metallic treasures to still better account, if some one would only set to work and win the prize offered by Louis Napoleon; namely, 'a reward of 50,000 francs to such person as shall render the voltaic pile applicable, with economy, to manufactures, as a source of heat, or to lighting, or chemistry, or mechanics, or practical medicine.' The offer is to be kept open for five years, to allow full time for experiment, and people of all nations have leave to compete. One of the electric telegraph companies intends to ask parliament to abolish the present monopoly as regards the despatch of messages; in another quarter, an under-sea telegraph to Ostend is talked about, with a view to communicate with Belgium independently of France; and there is no reason why it should not be laid down, for the Dover and Calais line is paying satisfactorily. And, finally, another ship-load of 'marbles' and sculptures has just arrived from Nineveh; and the appointment of Mr Layard as Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs (though now but temporary) is regarded as a praiseworthy recognition of his merits and services; and now that we have a government which combines a few litterateurs among its members, it is thought that literature will be relieved of some of its trammels.



CHILDREN'S JOYS AND SORROWS.

I can endure a melancholy man, but not a melancholy child; the former, in whatever slough he may sink, can raise his eyes either to the kingdom of reason or of hope; but the little child is entirely absorbed and weighed down by one black poison-drop of the present. Think of a child led to the scaffold, think of Cupid in a Dutch coffin; or watch a butterfly, after its four wings have been torn off, creeping like a worm, and you will feel what I mean. But wherefore? The first has been already given; the child, like the beast, only knows purest, though shortest sorrow; one which has no past and no future; one such as the sick man receives from without, the dreamer from himself into his asthenic brain; finally, one with the consciousness not of guilt, but of innocence. Certainly, all the sorrows of children are but shortest nights, as their joys are but hottest days; and indeed both so much so, that in the latter, often clouded and starless time of life, the matured man only longingly remembers his old childhood's pleasures, while he seems altogether to have forgotten his childhood's grief. This weak remembrance is strangely contrasted with the opposing one in dreams and fevers in this respect, that in the two last it is always the cruel sorrows of childhood which return; the dream this mock-sun of childhood—and the fever, its distorting glass—both draw forth from dark corners the fears of defenceless childhood, which press and cut with iron fangs into the prostrate soul. The fair scenes of dreams mostly play on an after-stage, whereas the frightful ones choose for theirs the cradle and the nursery. Moreover, in fever, the ice-hands of the fear of ghosts, the striking one of the teachers and parents, and every claw with which fate has pressed the young heart, stretch themselves out to catch the wandering man. Parents, consider then, that every childhood's Rupert—the name given in Germany to the fictitious being employed to frighten children into obedience—even though it has lain chained for tens of years, yet breaks loose and gains mastery over the man so soon as it finds him on a sick-bed. The first fright is more dangerous the sooner it happens: as the man grows older, he is less and less easily frightened; the little cradle or bed-canopy of the child is more easily quite darkened than the starry heaven of the man.—Jean Paul Richter.



A REJECTED LOVER.

You 'never loved me,' Ada!—Those slow words Dropped softly from your gentle woman's tongue, Out of your true and tender woman's heart, Dropped—piercing into mine like very swords, The sharper for their brightness! Yet no wrong Lies to your charge; nor cruelty, nor art; Even while you spoke, I saw the ready tear-drop start.

You 'never loved me?'—No, you never knew— You, with youth's dews yet glittering on your soul— What 'tis to love. Slow, drop by drop, to pour Our life's whole essence, perfumed through and through With all the best we have, or can control, For the libation; cast it down before Your feet—then lift the goblet, dry for evermore!

I shall not die, as foolish lovers do: A man's heart beats beneath this breast of mine; The breast where—Curse on that fiend's whispering, 'It might have been!'—Ada, I will be true Unto myself—the self that worshipped thine. May all life's pain, like those few tears that spring For me—glance off as rain-drops from my white dove's wing!

May you live long, some good man's bosom-flower, And gather children round your matron knees! Then, when all this is past, and you and I Remember each our youth but as an hour Of joy—or torture; one, serene, at ease, May meet the other's grave yet steadfast eye, Thinking, 'He loved me well!'—clasp hands, and so pass by.



THE TEARS OF OYSTERS.

Glancing round this anatomical workshop (the oyster), we find, amongst other things, some preparations shewing the nature of pearls. Examine them, and we find that there are dark and dingy pearls, just as there are handsome and ugly men; the dark pearl being found on the dark shell of the fish, the white brilliant one upon the smooth inside shell. Going further in the search, we find that the smooth, glittering lining, upon which the fish moves, is known as the nacre, and that it is produced by a portion of the animal called the mantle; and, for explanation's sake, we may add that gourmands practically know the mantle as the beard of the oyster. When living in its glossy house, should any foreign substance find its way through the shell to disturb the smoothness so essential to its ease, the fish coats the offending substance with nacre, and a pearl is thus formed. The pearl is, in fact, a little globe of the smooth, glossy substance yielded by the oyster's beard; yielded ordinarily to smooth the narrow home to which his nature binds him, but yielded in round drops, real pearly tears, if he is hurt. When a beauty glides among a throng of her admirers, her hair clustering with pearls, she little thinks that her ornaments are products of pain and diseased action, endured by the most unpoetical of shell-fish.—Leisure Hours.



'ROBESPIERRE.'

In our recent notice of Robespierre, it was mentioned that, at the period of his capture in the Hotel de Ville, he was shot in the jaw by a pistol fired by one of the gendarmes. Various correspondents point to the discrepancy between this account and that given by Thiers, and some other authorities, who represent that Robespierre fired the pistol himself, in the attempt to commit self-destruction. In our account of the affair, we have preferred holding to Larmartine (History of the Girondists), not only in consequence of his being the latest and most graphic authority on the subject, but because his statement seems to be verified by the appearance of the half-signed document which it was our fortune to see in Paris in 1849.

The following is Lamartine's statement:—'The door soon yielded to the blows given by the soldiers with the but-end of their muskets, amid the cries of "Down with the tyrant!" "Which is he?" inquired the soldiers; but Leonard Bourdon durst not meet the look of his fallen enemy. Standing a little behind the men, and hidden by the body of a gendarme, named Meda; with his right hand he seized the arm of the gendarme who held a pistol, and pointing with his left hand to the person to be aimed at, he directed the muzzle of the weapon towards Robespierre, exclaiming: "That is the man." The man fired, and the head of Robespierre dropped on the table, deluging with blood the proclamation he had not finished signing.' Next morning, adds this authority, Leonard Bourdon 'presented the gendarme who had fired at Robespierre to the notice of the Convention.' Further: on Robespierre being searched while he lay on the table, a brace of loaded pistols were found in his pocket. 'These pistols, shut up in their cases still loaded, abundantly testify that Robespierre did not shoot himself.' Accepting these as the true particulars of the incident, Robespierre cannot properly be charged with an attempt at suicide.

In the article referred to, the name Barras was accidentally substituted for Henriot, in connection with the insurrectionary movement for rescuing Robespierre. Barras led the troops of the Convention.

A correspondent asks us to state what was the actual number of persons slaughtered by the guillotine, and otherwise, during the progress of the Revolution. The question cannot be satisfactorily answered. Alison (vol. iv. p. 289) presents a list, which shews the number to have been 1,027,106; but this enumeration does not comprehend the massacres at Versailles, the prisons of Paris, and some other places. A million and a half would probably be a safe calculation. One thing is certain, that from the 2d of September 1792, to the 25th of October 1795, a space of little more than three years, 18,613 persons perished by the guillotine. Strangely enough, the chief destruction of life was among the humbler classes of society, those who mainly promoted the revolution; and still more strange, the greater number of victims were murdered by the verdicts of juries—a striking example of that general subserviency which has since become the most significant defect in the French character.

* * * * *

Just Published, Price 6d. Paper Cover,

CHAMBERS'S POCKET MISCELLANY: forming a LITERARY COMPANION for the RAILWAY, the FIRESIDE, or the BUSH.

VOLUME IV.

To be continued in Monthly Volumes.

* * * * *

Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by W. S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; D. N. CHAMBERS, 55 West Nile Street, Glasgow; and J. M'GLASHAM, 50 Upper Sackville Street, Dublin.—Advertisements for Monthly Parts are requested to be sent to MAXWELL & Co., 31 Nicholas Lane, Lombard Street, London, to whom all applications respecting their insertion must be made.

THE END