It is for the interest of lotteries to offer some very large and valuable prizes at the head of their list, to attract the attention of the public, and thus to sell their tickets.

Similar means are adopted by Art-Unions to increase their subscription lists, which show that the system is managed in the most efficient manner. Those who can look back fifteen and twenty years, will remember that our country was literally flooded with the bulletin boards of lotteries, printed in the most gaudy and attractive colors, showing a brilliant schedule of prizes, and pledging almost certain wealth to all who would venture their money on the "grand scheme." They will also call to mind how many a victim there was to this deceptive and depraved system of legal fraud, until it became so injurious to the public morals, that Legislatures were forced to hurl the bolts of the law against them, in all parts of the United States, and so put an end to their iniquity. Lotteries have been justly prohibited by wise governments, because they attract men from legitimate pursuits, into the speculative, uncertain, and, morally, illegitimate pursuit of fortune. The case is similar in its results to that of Art-Unions. They attract many from a calling for which their talents have fitted them, into a sphere so much above their natural powers, that they must in time fall back, victims to vanity and love of gain, into a lower plane of life perhaps, than that they once happily occupied. The effect of these Unions is seen rather in the great number of persons of mediocre abilities they have encouraged to enter upon the cultivation of art, than in the bringing forth greater powers and excellence in those whose undoubted genius is apparent to the world.

It was remarked by Carlyle, that our modern intellect is of the spavined kind, "all action and no go;" and so it appears to be in regard to the efforts that are being made to "promote the interests of art," in this country. Art-Unions have been active enough, for many years, and have possessed themselves of hundreds of thousands of dollars, and yet it is "no go;" the interests of art still lie gasping, without much hope of a change for the better. There is a great display made every year in the "distribution of prizes," and every means used to gain public confidence, by holding up the names of the most respectable citizens as guarantees that nothing under their control can go wrong; and by issuing bulletins in which is proved, by figures, the flourishing state of the institution, and consequently of the beautiful arts; yet in spite of all this, the great mass of common-sense minds and of true lovers of art, heretics that they are, go away and exclaim, "Well, after all it's 'no go,' the works distributed are no better than those of last year, and we are really afraid there are no hopes for the arts in this country, so long as no other plan is adopted for their improvement."

Some of the petty states in Germany and in southern Europe obtain a large revenue from lotteries, which are entirely under the control of the crown, and are hence commonly called "Royal," or "Imperial." The prizes are comparatively small, but the tickets are fixed at such a very low sum, say from ten to twenty cents, that they come within the reach of the poorest inhabitants. The consequence is that nearly all persons who are ignorant of the scheme which the Government has laid to tax them, spend more or less every year for lottery tickets. We have known persons who, under the excitement produced by these plans for rapidly gaining fortunes, have pawned the last blanket from their beds, to obtain the means of purchasing a ticket. At every drawing of these "Imperial" lotteries, there is nothing left undone by Royalty to strike the people with a sense of their importance, and the honesty with which they are conducted. In an open square is erected a kind of stage large enough to be occupied by some twenty persons. Rich canopies of scarlet and gold overhang it, and above all are figures of Justice, Plenty, Virtue, &c. &c. The "Royal" band of music is stationed near, and amidst its enlivening tones, holding in silence many thousands of anxious hearts, the cortege, preceded by Royalty itself, ascends, and is seated in the order of its dignity. In front of the throne are placed, upon pedestals, two large revolving globes half filled with tickets, and by the side of each stands a page, in magnificent costume, blindfolded. Then commences the distribution of the prizes, in the usual way, by drawing numbers from the globes, by the hands of the pages, which are announced from the throne, and so along to the ears of the most distant in the multitude. At intervals, the drawing ceases, while most charming music serves to keep the crowd together, and possibly to drive for the moment, from many a heart, the pangs of disappointment or despair. Now there is some excuse for ignorance on this subject, among those poor people, for there are no means by which they can be enlightened and warned of the evil. But in this country, where the press is free, and the means of information abundant, it would be sad to reflect that such things can, under any name or phrase, long continue unmasked and unshorn of their power.

There is consolation in the belief, that however prosperous this species of gaming may be, the time is not far distant when its true character and tendency will be made manifest; and when the unseen but certain operations of the moral sense of our people will put an end to its inglorious career; if not directly, through the action of the laws, yet indirectly, by withholding the necessary contributions to its further support.

This parallel between Art-Unions and Lotteries is drawn that the character of the former may be more readily comprehended by the reader.

In the recent drawing of the American Art-Union there were distributed one thousand works of art, making about one prize to sixteen blanks. But where did all these "thousand works" come from? and what are they? Have they all been executed by living American artists? Are they paintings, or sculptures, or engravings, purchased from the artists who made them, and who have received an adequate price for them? We know from their advertisement that sixty of them are "impressions from the large engravings after Col. Trumbull's pictures of the Battle of Bunker Hill and the Death of Montgomery." Now the purchase of these engravings from the pictures of a long deceased painter can be of no possible service to the painters living and laboring among us, nor to the progress of art in any way. As well might the Art-Union purchase for distribution sixty copies of Dunlap's History of the Arts of Design, or of Allston's Lectures on Art, or any object pertaining to the subject that may be procured at any time of the book or print sellers. It is true, they must manage to offer a number of small prizes, the best way they can, that they may in some plausible way meet the expectations of their very extended lists of subscribers, to which, it seems, they never attempt to set a limit. Here is another proof that they are mere speculators upon the labors of artists, and only seek to enlarge their subscriptions, and usurp a power and control over the great body of artists, which should never, with their consent, be allowed to any, no matter how respectable, body of men.

Let us turn to the "Western Art-Union." Having but few good prizes to offer, nothing indeed which would ensure them a large subscription list, it became necessary to procure some well known production for this purpose, as a capital prize. The managers therefore negotiated, in a very quiet manner, with a Mr. Robb, of New Orleans, for one of HIRAM POWERS'S finest statues, the "Greek Slave," then in the possession of Mr. Robb, and it was accordingly taken to Cincinnati, and placed on exhibition in the Art-Union, as one of the prizes to be distributed this year. Handbills were then sent over the United States announcing this fact. Of course, with such a celebrated work as this, thousands would be seduced to purchase a ticket, and thus place the Art-Union in a most flourishing condition, and probably secure to it at least double the sum which it had paid, or the sculptor had originally received, for the statue.

Now let us consider this transaction in its true light. The Art-Union was established solely for the purpose of benefiting artists, protecting their interests, and increasing the knowledge of art among the people. From these facts it is evident that neither of these purposes were kept in view or carried out. Instead of negotiating with the sculptor himself for one of his works, and giving him a liberal price for it, they never mentioned the subject to him, but secretly purchased one of another person—a rich man, who was in nowise whatever connected with the arts.

One would have supposed that even if there were very strong inducements to such a procedure on the part of this institution, for the sake of gain, still that a friendly feeling towards the great sculptor, of whom the Queen City is so proud, and a due regard for his interests and his fame, would have prevented the consummation of such an act. It can be no pleasing reflection to Mr. Powers, that a work which many persons in Europe, as well as in America, would have purchased at any reasonable price, should, by any movement of his own townsmen, be disposed of at a public raffle, so that of its final destination he must long remain in ignorance.

It seems, from what has here been adduced, that Art-Unions have not proved of service to art or artists, notwithstanding the immense amount annually collected for this ostensible purpose; but that they are in reality only lotteries operating under another but less objectionable name.

If a corporation can be granted by the Legislature, with the privilege of selling pictures, or statuary, by lottery, every other branch of industry is as much entitled to such a privilege, or our laws are onesided and unjust. We would then see distributions of prizes from every quarter, until the whole mechanical and commercial interests of the country would be turned into Lotteries or Unions. Following the example of the Art-Union in this state, we have already advertised a "Homestead Art-Union," the grand prize of which is a "house and lot situated in Williamsburgh, which cost nearly $5,000." Subscribers are entitled to "an elegant and valuable engraving, which has heretofore sold at $7.50, (being $2.50 more than the price of subscription,) and superior in execution and elegance to any picture distributed in this manner." It has in its collection for distribution "ninety-nine elegant and costly oil paintings and engravings, richly framed in ornamental and plain gilt frames." All the difference between these Unions, seems to be in the fact that the "Homestead" has limited the number of tickets—certainly an improvement on the other, so far as the public interest is concerned. We may expect to hear very soon of Bread and Meat Art-Unions, when the whole community, for a very small outlay, may live like princes, and snap their fingers at haggard want.

The tendency of these hotbed methods of cultivating an appreciation of art and of rewarding its professors, has been to discourage artists from any suitable efforts to provide instruction, upon a liberal scale, to those who are seeking for it. Indeed it takes from them the power to do so, by drawing away funds necessary to such an object, which, but for these grand schemes, would be likely to come into their hands. One has but to observe the motives which induce persons to subscribe to an Art-Union, to be convinced that the great majority do so for the sake of self-aggrandizement, that is, to have a chance of getting the works of our best artists for a mere tithe of their value, or in the language of the advertisements, "of obtaining a valuable return, for a small investment;" as they would buy any other lottery tickets: to make the most out of their money. But there are many who subscribe from nobler motives—real lovers of art, whose only object is to lend a helping hand to its interests, and to show a generous sympathy in the struggles and self-denying endeavors of all whose souls are so wrapt up in its pursuit that they scarcely arrive at the knowledge requisite to a charge of their own pecuniary and worldly affairs. This latter class of subscribers believe they are gratifying this genuine love of the beautiful and good, when they give annually their five dollars to an institution chartered for the express design of protecting and cherishing the interests of art, and of enlarging the field of its labors and usefulness among the people. These genuine patrons give, without a hope or thought of drawing a prize, or receiving in any shape a return for their subscriptions. Did they reflect upon, or know, that these funds were worse than misapplied, they would withhold them, and seek in some other way to make a proper appropriation of them.

We have said that these Art-Unions prevent artists from taking any steps to provide the means of instruction for those who need and seek it. As an illustration of this we may mention the present state of the National Academy of Design. It is, and has been for two or three years, quite prostrate for want of funds; its schools have been closed, and without assistance it must soon die. A few years ago it was in a flourishing state, and offered the advantages of study which their fine collection of casts from the best antique statues, and a small but well selected and growing library could afford to students. Such have been the results of Art-Unions upon schools of art everywhere. To be sure the members of the National Academy are not entirely free from censure in this matter, for many of them, smitten with the "Union" mania, gave it their countenance, and even something more substantial, to assist its infant struggles for popularity, little suspecting, certainly, that they were lending a club which would sooner or later strike them to the ground. It may not be out of place here to remark, that it is firmly believed that the Academy of Design can yet rise up from its ashes, and overthrow all such schemes as Art-Unions, by placing itself upon a more liberal and popular footing; and by disclaiming all exclusive titles as utterly unworthy the ambition of every sensible and right-feeling artist. Institutions in this country, to be useful, must be placed on a popular foundation; and to be popular, they must rest upon the broad republican principle of equal rights and equal privileges to all. Let the members of the Academy open their doors wide enough to admit all classes of artisans who desire to study the principles of design—the basis upon which the beauty and the saleability of their works mainly depends. There might then, in addition to the sections of Painting and Sculpture, be added those of Architecture, Ornamental Marble and Stone Workers, Carvers in Wood and Metal, Gold and Silver Smiths, Cabinet Makers, and indeed, as many other occupations as chose to unite themselves, in separate sections, for the purposes of mutual instruction in the Art of Design. This would at once be practical and popular, and with such objects in view, the Academy could with very little additional funds be put into immediate and successful operation, and become a highly honorable and most useful institution. These are mere suggestions, thrown out for the consideration of the members of the Academy and others interested. This is not the proper place to enlarge upon such a subject.

Artists must learn, if they do not know, how to control their own affairs, and if they are determined to succeed, they must not think of trusting their interests to the keeping of those not of their profession, and entirely uneducated in art, and who consequently cannot be qualified to discharge so delicate a duty with judgment and fidelity. It is an old saying, but very applicable to the present instance, that "if you neglect your own business, you need not expect others to attend to it for you." Let artists depend more upon private sales of their works to those who can appreciate them for a just remuneration, than upon the deceptive offers which chartered schemes may hold out to them. They will then, by their worth and their artistic merits, build up about them a solid body of friends and patrons, of whom nothing but death itself can rob them; and the number of whom time will but increase, until they may look forward with well-founded hopes to a peaceful and honorable old age, and a full reward for all their labors. They cannot justly suppose that permanent success and a distinguished name can be attained through any other channel than by honesty, and excellence in their works. Honors and rewards from private sources may be very laggard in their approach, but they must ultimately come—especially in this enlightened, progressive, and prosperous country—to those who have fairly earned them.



Recent Deaths.

Those who have been accustomed to visit the bookstore of Bartlett & Welford, under the Astor House, during the last half-dozen years, must have been familiar with the commanding figure and gentle but uneasy expression of our late excellent friend, the Rev. SERENO E. DWIGHT, D. D., who died in Philadelphia on the thirtieth of November, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. Dr. Dwight was born in Greenfield, Connecticut, in 1786, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in 1803, being then about seventeen years of age. He became a tutor in the college, but soon abandoned this occupation to commence the study of the law at Burlington in Vermont, and in a few years he was admitted to practice in the highest courts of the country. An early and ever-increasing predilection, however, led him to the profession of his father, and upon completing his theological studies he was settled over the Park-street Congregational church, in Boston, where, he rapidly acquired the fame of being one of the ablest, most eloquent, and most useful divines in New-England.

He had contracted a cutaneous disease, from the injudicious use of calomel, while a tutor in Yale College; and its effects increased so much now, that his parishioners, who had become quite attached to him, in 1825 induced him to undertake a voyage to Europe. A year's travel, in Great Britain, Germany, France, and other countries, failed to restore his health, and soon after his return to the United States he resigned his charge of the Park-street church, and undertook the Presidency of Hamilton College, which in turn he was compelled to surrender, and in 1830 he opened, at New-Haven, an Academy, in which he was assisted by his wife, a daughter of the late Judge Daggett. The decline of Mrs. Dwight's health, and other circumstances, induced him to relinquish the business of teaching; he visited the Southern States, was during several sessions chaplain to the United States Senate, and, devoting himself to literature, wrote an elaborate memoir of his great-grandfather, Jonathan Edwards, and several works of less importance, one of which was "The Hebrew Wife," written to illustrate the Jewish laws of marriage, and published in New-York in 1836.

The death of his wife, and increasing physical infirmities, led him to adopt a habit of the utmost seclusion in New-York, where he passed nearly all the residue of his life. His last appearance in public was in the summer of 1848, when he consented to act with Mr. John R. Bartlett (now the chief of the Mexican Boundary Commission) and the writer of these paragraphs, as an examiner of one of the departments of the Rutgers Female Institute. He died suddenly, while upon a visit to Philadelphia for the purpose of trying the effect of the hydropathic treatment of his disease, on the 30th of September. In the Home Journal of December 14, Mr. Willis says of him:—

"In the death of this excellent man we have lost a friend, whose loss to ourself we most sincerely mourn, though the grave was, to him, a welcome relief from an insufferable disease, that had made life wretched for years. Mr. Dwight was the son of Rev. Dr. Dwight, President of Yale College. He became pastor of Park-st. church, in Boston, while we attended it in boyhood, and it is our pride to record that we were so fortunate as to secure his friendship at that time, and to retain it, in undiminished warmth and kindness, to the day of his death. Mr. Dwight was a man of qualities unusual in his profession. When he first came to Boston, in perfect health, he was, in personal appearance, the ideal of a high-souled and faultlessly elegant gentleman—with more of manly and refined beauty, indeed, than we remember to have combined in any other man. He wore these winning gifts most unconsciously, being beloved by the humblest for his open and accessible simplicity and kindness: and his health first gave way under the laborious discharge of his parochial duties. He was too severely critical and polished a scholar to be either a very eloquent preacher or an easy writer, but his sermons were models of purity of style, study, and elevated thought, and his pastoral intercourse and counsel were too delightful ever to be forgotten by those who enjoyed it. Sent to Europe for his health, by his congregation, Mr. Dwight was received and followed with a degree of enthusiastic and flattering attention which fully confirmed his mark as a man, and showed how Nature's noblemen are recognized and honored everywhere. He resumed his duties on his return, but was soon obliged by illness to relinquish them, and, from that time forward, he was never again well. His weakness took the shape of a cutaneous disease of the most irritating and incurable form, and though he made one or two attempts at re-commencing his usefulness, it was sadly in vain. He resided secludedly in New-York during the latter years of his life, giving to books and scholarship what mind he could withdraw from pain, and, even thus, ready always with kindness and delightful earnestness, to give counsel or sympathy to those he loved. Mr. Dwight was a martyr to that great wrong of our country toward all clergymen—to express it by a common saying, "the working a free horse to death"—and we have only to look at the pale faces, the stooping chests, and the slender frames of most of our clerical men, to see how mind, patience, attention, needful leisure and more needful sleep, are cruelly overdrawn upon, by the service expected of them. But for his share of suffering by this exacting system, Mr. Dwight might have been, for years to come, the ornament and pride to his country which his unequalled combination of fine gifts qualified him to be; and we should not mourn, as we now do, over his life embittered while it lasted, and sent to the grave in what might have been its meridian of usefulness and ornament."

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COUNT BRANDENBURGH, the Prussian Prime Minister, died on the 6th November at Berlin. He was a natural brother of the late King of Prussia, being the illegitimate son of the present King's grandfather, by the Countess Doenhoff Frederichstein, and was acknowledged, educated, and admitted as such, by the Prussian Royal family, by whom he was invariably treated as a friend and relative, although not with royal honors. He was born on the 23d of January, 1792, and had nearly completed his 59th year. He was educated for the military profession and entered the service in 1807; his promotion continued regularly, and in 1812 he was a captain on the staff of General Von York, under whom he saw some service. In 1813 he became major, and in that rank took part in the numerous actions between the Prussian and the French armies, including the battles of Leipsic, and Bautzen, Brienne, Laon, and Paris. At the passage of the Rhine at Caub, Count Brandenburgh was the first who reached the French bank. For his good conduct at Mokern and Wartenburg, he received the Iron Cross of the first class. In 1814 he was made lieutenant-colonel. In 1816 he received the command of the regiment in which he first entered the service. From 1816 to 1846 he received various promotions, charges, and decorations. In 1848 he was made general in command of the 8th army corps. Up to this time he had taken no part in politics. The London Times says:

"It was in the midst of those scenes of anarchy and violence which, about two years ago, had shaken the Prussian monarchy to its foundations—when a furious Assembly, beleaguered and intimidated by a more furious mob, had usurped sovereign power in the capital, and a democratic constitution was all but grafted on the military throne of Frederic the Great,—that we remember to have exclaimed, in the wonder and the dread of that terrible period, "Will no one save the house of Hohenzollern?" The state seemed to be on the brink of a cataract, and even the leaders of the popular movement were ignorant of the dark and stormy course before them. At that moment, it was announced one morning, to the amazement of the Prussians and of Europe, that an elderly gentleman, who had never taken any active part in politics, but had lived in the most exclusive circles of the aristocracy, and the Prussian Guards, was about to enter on the task which the boldest men had found beyond their courage, and the ablest beyond their capacity. But though he laid small claim to skill in political tactics, or experience in the administration of affairs, Count Brandenburgh brought to the service of his sovereign precisely those plain qualities which no one else appeared to possess. He had sense, he had firmness, he absolutely contemned the storm of unpopularity which greeted his appointment, and he proceeded to conduct the Government with full confidence that, although his countrymen were peculiarly subject to fits of enthusiasm, they respect nothing so much in the long run as a clear will and definite authority. After about fifteen months the citizens of Berlin hailed Count Brandenburgh as the saviour of his country."

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GEORGE GRENVILLE, LORD NUGENT, died on the 26th of November at Lillies, near Aylesbury, aged sixty-one. He was the second son of the Marquis of Rockingham, and inherited the Irish Barony of Nugent, on the death of his mother, in 1812. During the same year he was elected M. P. for Aylesbury, and continued to represent that borough on the Liberal interest, until 1832, when he was appointed Lord High Commissioner of the Ionian Isles. He held that office until 1836, when he returned to England. In 1847 he was re-elected for Aylesbury. He enjoyed a very fair literary reputation. He was the author of "Lands, Classical and Sacred," "Memorials of Hampden," and other interesting productions. In conjunction with Lady Nugent, he also brought out the popular "Legends of the Library at Lillies."

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M. ALEXANDRE FRAGONARD, the eminent French painter and sculptor, died in October. He was a pupil of David. As a statuary, his great work is the frontispiece of the old Chamber of Deputies; and, as a painter, he executed several fine pieces, amongst others a ceiling of the Louvre, representing Tasso reading his "Jerusalem." His chief works were engraved in 1840.

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M. JOSEPH DROZ, a member of the French Institute, died in Paris in November. The youth of M. Droz was devoted to stormier occupations than that in which he gathered the laurels now laid upon his grave. For three years he was a soldier:—for upwards of fifty he has been devoted to letters and to philosophy. His last escort was composed of the men who had been his comrades in that latter field,—and over his grave MM. Guizot and Bartholemy Saint-Hilaire, pronounced eulogies.

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PROFESSOR SCHORN, died in Augsburgh on the 7th of October, at the premature age of forty-seven years. In the formation of the Munich Gallery, he was the most trusted and active emissary, and traversed considerable portions of Europe, including England and Italy, in search of those treasures which now enrich this famous gallery. When in London, his companion was Von Martins, the eminent Brazilian traveller and naturalist.

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GUSTAVE SCHWAB, one of the most popular poets of Germany, died at Stuttgart on the 4th of November, aged fifty-eight. Schwab was the friend of Uhland. His death was very sudden. On the morning of the day on which he was summoned, he had entertained a party of his friends at breakfast, and read to them passages of a translation into German verse, which he was making of the poetical works of M. de Lamartine.



Spirit of the English Annuals.

NEW TALES BY THACKERAY, BULWER, MRS. HALL, &c.

The holiday souvenirs for the present season are less numerous in England, as in this country, than in some previous years; but the Keepsake, edited formerly by Lady Blessington, and now by her niece, Miss Power, is among the few favorite annuals that are continued, and it is as good as in its best days. We quote several of its chief attractions, and first

VOLTIGUER:

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE "HISTORY OF PENDENNIS."

There arose out of the last Epsom races a little family perplexity, whereon the owner of Voltiguer little speculated: and as out of this apparently trivial circumstance a profound and useful moral may be drawn, to be applied by the polite reader; and as Epsom Races will infallibly happen next year, and, I dare say, for many succeeding generations; perhaps the moral which this brief story points had better be printed upon Dorling's next "Correct Card," as a warning to future patrons and patronesses of the turf.

This moral, then—this text of our sermon, is, NEVER——but we will keep the moral, if you please, for the end of the fable.

It happened, then, that among the parties who were collected on the Hill to see the race, the carriage of a gentleman, whom we shall call Sir Joseph Raikes, occupied a commanding position, and attracted a great deal of attention amongst the gentlemen sportsmen. Those bucks upon the ground who were not acquainted with the fair occupant of that carriage—as indeed, how should many thousands of them be?—some being shabby bucks; some being vulgar bucks; some being hot and unpleasant bucks, smoking bad cigars, and only staring into Lady Raikes's carriage by that right which allows one Briton to look at another Briton, and a cat to look at a king;—of those bucks, I say, who, not knowing Lady Raikes, yet came and looked at her, there was scarce one that did not admire her, and envy the lucky rogue her husband. Of those ladies who, in their walks from their own vehicles, passed her ladyship's, there was scarce one lady in society who did not say, "is that all?—is that the beauty you are all talking about so much? She is overrated; she looks stupid; she is over-dressed; she squints;" and so forth; whilst of the men who did happen to have the honor of an acquaintance with Lady Raikes and her husband (and many a man, who had thought Raikes rather stupid in his bachelor days, was glad enough to know him now), each as he came to the carriage, and partook of the excellent luncheon provided there, had the most fascinating grins and ogles for the lady, and the most triumphant glances for all the rest of the world,—glances which seemed to say, "Look, you rascals, I know Lady Raikes; you don't know Lady Raikes. I can drink a glass of champagne to Lady Raikes's health. What would you give, you dog, to have such a sweet smile from Lady Raikes? Did you ever see such eyes? did you ever see such a complexion? did you ever see such a killing pink dress, and such a dear little delightfully carved ivory parasol?"—Raikes had it carved for her last year at Baden, when they were on their wedding-trip. It has their coats of arms and their ciphers intertwined elegantly round the stalk—a J and a Z; her name is Zuleika; before she was married she was Zuleika Trotter. Her elder sister, Medora, married Lord T—mn—ddy; her younger, Haidee, is engaged to the eldest son of the second son of a noble D-ke. The Trotters are of a good family. Dolly Trotter, Zuleika's brother, was in the same regiment (and that, I need not say, an extremely heavy one) with Sir Joseph Raikes.

He did not call himself Joseph then: quite the contrary. Larkyn Raikes, before his marriage, was one of the wildest and most irregular of our British youth. Let us not allude—he would blush to hear them—to the particulars of his past career. He turned away his servant for screwing up one of the knockers which he had removed during the period of his own bachelorhood, from an eminent physician's house in Saville Row, on the housekeeper's door at Larkyn Hall. There are whole hampers of those knockers stowed away somewhere, and snuff-taking Highlanders, and tin hats, and black boys,—the trophies of his youth, which Raikes would like to send back to their owners, did he know them; and when he carried off these spoils of war he was not always likely to know. When he goes to the Bayonet and Anchor Club now (and he dined there twice during Lady Raikes's ... in fine, when there was no dinner at home), the butler brings him a half-pint of sherry and a large bottle of Seltzer water, and looks at him with a sigh, and wonders—"Is this Captain Raikes, as used to breakfast off pale hale at three, to take his regular two bottles at dinner, and to drink brandy and water in the smoking billiard-room all night till all was blue?" Yes, it is the same Raikes; Larkyn no more—riotous no more—brandivorous no longer. He gave away all his cigars at his marriage; quite unlike Screwby, who also married the other day, and offered to sell me some. He has not betted at a race since his father paid his debts and forgave him, just before the old gentleman died and Raikes came into his kingdom. Upon that accession, Zuleika Trotter, who looked rather sweetly upon Bob Vincent before, was so much touched by Sir Joseph Raikes's determination to reform, that she dismissed Bob and became Lady Raikes.

Dolly Trotter still remains in the Paddington Dragoons; Dolly is still unmarried; Dolly smokes still; Dolly owes money still. And though his venerable father, Rear-admiral Sir Ajax Trotter, K.C.B., has paid his debts many times, and swears if he ever hears of Dolly betting again, he will disinherit his son, Dolly—the undutiful Dolly—goes on betting still.

Lady Raikes, then, beamed in the pride of her beauty upon Epsom race-course, dispensed smiles and luncheon to a host of acquaintances, and accepted, in return, all the homage and compliments which the young men paid her. The hearty and jovial Sir Joseph Raikes was not the least jealous of the admiration which his pretty wife caused; not even of Bob Vincent, whom he rather pitied for his mishap, poor fellow! (to be sure, Zuleika spoke of Vincent very scornfully, and treated his pretensions as absurd); and with whom, meeting him on the course, Raikes shook hands very cordially, and insisted upon bringing him up to Lady Raikes's carriage, to take refreshment.

There could have been no foundation for the wicked rumor, that Zuleika had looked sweetly upon Vincent before Raikes had carried her off. Lady Raikes received Mr. Vincent with the kindest and frankest smile; shook hands with him with perfect politeness and indifference, and laughed and talked so easily with him, that it was impossible there could have been any previous discomfort between them.

Not very far off from Lady Raikes's carriage, on the hill, there stood a little black brougham—the quietest and most modest equipage in the world, and in which there must have been nevertheless something very attractive, for the young men crowded around this carriage in numbers; and especially that young reprobate Dolly Trotter was to be seen, constantly leaning his great elbows on the window, and poking his head into the carriage. Lady Raikes remarked that, among other gentlemen, her husband went up and spoke to the little carriage, and when he and Dolly came back to her, asked who was in the black brougham.

For some time Raikes could not understand which was the brougham she meant—there was so many broughams. "The black one with the red blinds was it? Oh, that—that was a very old friend—yes, old Lord Cripplegate, was in the brougham: he had the gout, and he couldn't walk."

As Raikes made this statement he blushed as red as a geranium; he looked at Dolly Trotter in an imploring manner, who looked at him, and who presently went away from his sister's carriage bursting with laughter. After making the above statement to his wife, Raikes was particularly polite and attentive to her, and did not leave her side; nor would he consent to her leaving the carriage. There were all sorts of vulgar people about: she would be jostled in the crowd: she could not bear the smell of the cigars—she knew she couldn't (this made Lady Raikes wince a little): the sticks might knock her darling head off; and so forth.

Raikes is a very accomplished and athletic man, and, as a bachelor, justly prided himself upon shying at the sticks better than any man in the army. Perhaps, as he passed the persons engaged in that fascinating sport, he would have himself liked to join in it; but he declined his favorite entertainment, and came back faithfully to the side of his wife.

As Vincent talked at Lady Raikes's side, he alluded to this accomplishment of her husband. "Your husband has not many accomplishments," Vincent said (he is a man of rather a sardonic humor), "but in shying at the sticks he is quite unequalled: he has quite a genius for it. He ought to have the sticks painted on his carriage, as the French marshals have their batons. Hasn't he brought you a pincushion or a jack-in-the-box, Lady Raikes? and has he begun to neglect you so soon? Every father with a little boy at home" (and he congratulated her ladyship on the birth of that son and heir) "ought surely to think of him, and bring him a soldier, or a monkey, or a toy or two."

"Oh, yes," cried Lady Raikes, "her husband must go. He must go and bring back a soldier, or a monkey, or a dear little jack-in-the-box, for dear little Dolly at home."

So away Raikes went; indeed nothing loth. He warmed with the noble sport: he was one of the finest players in England. He went on playing for a delightful half-hour; (how swiftly, in the blessed amusement, it passed away!) he reduced several of the sticksters to bankruptcy by his baculine skill; he returned to the carriage laden with jacks, wooden apples and soldiers, enough to amuse all the nurseries in Pimlico.

During his absence Lady Raikes, in the most winning manner, had asked Mr. Vincent for his arm, for a little walk; and did not notice the sneer with which he said that his arm had always been at her service. She was not jostled by the crowd inconveniently; she was not offended by the people smoking (though Raikes was forbidden that amusement); and she walked up on Mr. Vincent's arm, and somehow found herself close to the little black brougham, in which sat gouty old Lord Cripplegate.

Gouty old Lord Cripplegate wore a light blue silk dress, a lace mantle and other gimcracks, a white bonnet with roses, and ringlets as long as a chancellor's wig, but of the most beautiful black hue. His lordship had a pair of enormous eyes, that languished in a most killing manner; and cheeks that were decorated with delicate dimples; and lips of the color of the richest sealing-wax.

"Who's that?" asked Lady Raikes.

"That," said Mr. Vincent, "is Mrs. Somerset Montmorency."

"Who's Mrs. Somerset Montmorency?" hissed out Zuleika.

"It is possible you have not met her in society, Mrs. Somerset Montmorency doesn't go much into society," Mr. Vincent said.

"Why did he say it was Lord Cripplegate?"

Vincent, like a fiend, burst out laughing.

"Did Raikes say it was Lord Cripplegate? Well, he ought to know."

"What ought he to know?" asked Zuleika.

"Excuse me, Lady Raikes," said the other, with his constant sneer; "there are things which people had best not know. There are things which people had best forget, as your ladyship very well knows. You forget; why shouldn't Raikes forget? Let by-gones be by-gones. Let's all forget, Zulei—I beg your pardon. Here comes Raikes. How hot he looks! He has got a hat full of jack-in-the-boxes. How obedient he has been! He will not set the Thames on fire—but he's a good fellow. Yes; we'll forget all: won't we?" And the fiend pulled the tuft under his chin, and gave a diabolical grin with his sallow face.

Zuleika did not say one word about Lord Cripplegate when Raikes found her and flung his treasures into her lap. She did not show her anger in words, but in an ominous, boding silence; during which her eyes might be seen moving constantly to the little black brougham.

When the Derby was run, and Voltigeur was announced as the winner, Sir Joseph, who saw the race from the box of his carriage—having his arm around her ladyship, who stood on the back seat, and thought all men the greatest hypocrites in creation (and so a man is the greatest hypocrite of all animals, save one)—Raikes jumped up and gave a "Hurrah!" which he suddenly checked when his wife asked, with a deathlike calmness, "And pray, sir, have you been betting upon the race, that you are so excited?"

"Oh no, my love; of course not. But you know it's a Yorkshire horse, and I—I'm glad it wins; that's all," Raikes said; in which statement there was not, I am sorry to say, a word of truth.

Raikes wasn't a betting man any more. He had forsworn it: he would never bet again. But he had just, in the course of the day, taken the odds in one little bet; and he had just happened to win. When his wife charged him with the crime, he was about to avow it. "But no," he thought; "it will be a surprise for her. I will buy her the necklace she scolded me about at Lacy and Gimcrack's; it's just the sum. She has been sulky all day. It's about that she is sulky now. I'll go and have another shy at the sticks." And he went away, delighting himself with this notion, and with the idea that at last he could satisfy his adorable little Zuleika.

As Raikes passed Mrs. Somerset Montmorency's brougham, Zuleika remarked how that lady beckoned to him, and how Raikes went up to her. Though he did not remain by the carriage two minutes, Zuleika was ready to take an affidavit that he was there for half an hour; and was saluted by a satanical grin from Vincent, who by this time had returned to her carriage side, and was humming a French tune, which says that "on revient toujours a ses premi-e-res amours, a se-es premieres amours."

"What is that you are singing? How dare you sing that?" cried Lady Raikes, with tears.

"It's an old song—you used to sing it," said Mr. Vincent. "By the way, I congratulate you. Your husband has won six hundred pounds. I heard Betterton say so, who gave him the odds."

"He is a wretch! He gave me his word of honor that he didn't bet. He is a gambler—he'll ruin his child! He neglects his wife for that—that creature! He calls her Lord Crick—crick—ipplegate," sobbed her ladyship, "Why did I marry him?"

"Why, indeed!" said Mr. Vincent.

As the two were talking, Dolly Trotter, her ladyship's brother, came up to the carriage; at which, with a scowl on his wicked countenance, and indulging inwardly in language which I am very glad not to be called upon to report, Vincent retired, biting his nails, like a traitor, and exhibiting every sign of ill-humor which the villain of a novel or of a play is wont to betray.

"Don't have that fellow about you, Zuly," Dolly said to his darling sister. "He is a bad one. He's no principle: he—he's a gambler, and every thing that's bad."

"I know others who are gamblers," cried out Zuleika. "I know others who are every thing that's bad, Adolphus," Lady Raikes exclaimed.

"For heaven's sake, what do you mean?" said Adolphus, becoming red and looking very much frightened.

"I mean my husband," gasped the lady. "I shall go home to papa. I shall take my dear little blessed babe with me and go to papa, Adolphus. And if you had the spirit of a man, you would—you would avenge me, that you would."

"Against Joe!" said the heavy dragoon; "against Joe, Zuly? Why, hang me if Joe isn't the greatest twump in Chwistendom. By Jove he is!" said the big one, shaking his fist; "and if that scoundwel, Vincent, or any other wascal, has said a word against him, by Jove—"

"Pray stop your horrid oaths and vulgar threats, Adolphus," her ladyship said.

"I don't know what it is—you've got something against Joe. Something has put you against him; and if it's Vincent, I'll wring his—"

"Mercy! mercy! Pray cease this language." Lady Raikes said.

"You don't know what a good fellow Joe is," said the dragoon. "The best twump in England, as I've weason to say, sister: and here he comes with the horses. God bless the old boy!"

With this, honest Sir Joseph Raikes took his seat in his carriage; and tried, by artless blandishments, by humility, and by simple conversation, to coax his wife into good humor; but all his efforts were unavailing. She would not speak a word during the journey to London; and when she reached home, rushed up to the nursery and instantly burst into tears upon the sleeping little Adolphus's pink and lace cradle.

"It's all about that necklace, Mrs. Prince," the good-natured Baronet explained to the nurse of the son and heir. "I know it's about the necklace. She rowed me about it all the way down to Epsom; and I can't give it her now, that's flat. I've no money. I won't go tick, that's flat; and she ought to be contented with what she has had; oughtn't she, Prince?"

"Indeed she ought, Sir Joseph; and you're an angel of a man, Sir Joseph; and so I often tell my lady, Sir Joseph," the nurse said: "and the more you will spile her, the more she will take on, Sir Joseph."

But if Lady Raikes was angry at not having the necklace, what must have been her ladyship's feelings when she saw in the box opposite to her at the Opera, Mrs. Somerset Montmorency, with that very necklace on her shoulders for which she had pined in vain! How she got it? Who gave it her? How she came by the money to buy such a trinket? How she dared to drive about at all in the Park, the audacious wretch! All these were questions which the infuriate Zuleika put to herself, her confidential maid, her child's nurse, and two or three of her particular friends; and of course she determined that there was but one clue to the mystery of the necklace, which was that her husband had purchased it with the six hundred pounds which he had won at the Derby, which he denied having won even to her, which he had spent in this shameful manner. Nothing would suit her but a return home to her papa—nothing would satisfy her but a separation from the criminal who had betrayed her. She wept floods of tears over her neglected boy, and repeatedly asked that as yet speechless innocent, whether he would remember his mother when her place was filled by another, and whether her little Adolphus would take care that no insult was offered to her untimely grave?

The row at home at length grew so unbearable, that Sir Joseph Raikes, who had never had an explanation since his marriage, and had given into all his wife's caprices—that Sir Joseph, we say, even with his 'eavenly temper, he broke out into a passion; and one day after dinner, at which only his brother-in-law Dolly was present, told his wife that her tyranny was intolerable, and that it must come to an end.

Dolly said he was "quite wight," and backed up Raikes in every way.

Zuleika said they were a pair of brutes, and that she desired to return to Sir Ajax.

"Why, what the devil is urging you?" cried the husband; "you drive me mad, Zuleika."

"Yes; what are you at, Zuleika? You dwive him cwazy," said the brother.

Upon which Zuleika broke out. She briefly stated that her husband was a liar; that he was a gambler; that he had deceived her about betting at Epsom, and had given his word to a lie; that he had deceived her about that—that woman,—and given his word to another lie; and that, with the fruits of his gambling transactions at Epsom, he had purchased the diamond necklace, not for her, but for that—that person! That was all—that was enough. Let her go home and die in Baker Street, in the room which, she prayed Heaven, she never had quitted! That was her charge. If Sir Joseph Raikes had any thing to say he had better say it.

Sir Joseph Raikes said, that she had the most confounded jealous temper that ever a woman was cursed with; that he had been on his knees to her ever since his marriage, and had spent half his income in administering to her caprices and extravagancies; that as for these charges, they were so monstrous, he should not condescend to answer them; and as she chose to leave her husband and her child, she might go whenever she liked.

Lady Raikes upon this rang the bell, and requested Hickson the butler to tell Dickson her maid to bring down her bonnet and shawl; and when Hickson quitted the dining-room, Dolly Trotter began:

"Zuleika," said he, "you are enough to twy the patience of an angel; and, by Jove, you do! You've got the best fellow for a husband (a sneer from Zuleika) that ever was bullied by a woman, and you tweat him like a dawg. When you were ill, you used to make him get up of a night to go to the doctor's. When you're well, you plague his life out of him. He pays your milliner's bills, as if you were a duchess, and you have but to ask for a thing and you get it."

"Oh, yes, I have necklaces!" said Zuleika.

"Confound you, Zuly! had'nt he paid three hundwed and eighty for a new cawwiage for you the week before? Hadn't he fitted your dwawing-woom with yellow satin at the beginning of the season? Hadn't he bought you the pair of ponies you wanted, and gone without a hack himself, and he gettin' as fat as a porpoise for want of exercise, the poor old boy? And for that necklace, do you know how it was that you didn't have it, and that you were very nearly having it, you ungwateful little devil you? It was I prevented you! He did win six hundwed at the Derby; and he would have bought your necklace, but he gave me the money. The governor said he never would pay another play-debt again for me; and bet I would, like a confounded, gweat, stooped fool: and it was this old Joe—this dear old twump—who booked up for me, and took me out of the hole, like the best fellow in the whole world, by Jove! And—and I'll never bet again, so help me——! And that's why he couldn't tell—and that's why he wouldn't split on me—and that's why you didn't have your confounded necklace, which old Cwipplegate bought for Mrs. Montmowency, who's going to marry her, like a confounded fool for his pains!"

And here the dragoon being blown, took a large glass of claret; and when Hickson and Dickson came down stairs, they found her ladyship in rather a theatrical attitude, on her knees, embracing her husband's big hand, and calling down blessings upon him, and owning that she was a wretch, a monster, and a fiend.

She was only a jealous, little spoiled fool of a woman; and I am sure those who read her history have never met with her like, or have ever plagued their husbands. Certainly they have not, if they are not married: as, let us hope, they will be.

As for Vincent, he persists in saying that the defence is a fib from beginning to end, and that the Trotters were agreed to deceive Lady Raikes. But who hasn't had his best actions misinterpreted by calumny? And what innocence or good will can disarm jealousy?

* * * * *

Very different from THACKARAY is the genial Mrs. S. C. HALL, from whom we have

EDWARD LAYTON'S REWARD.

"I could not have believed it!" exclaimed Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. "I could not have believed it!" she repeated, over and over again; and she fell into a fit of abstraction.

Her husband, who had been glancing wearily over a magazine, turning leaf after leaf without reading, or perhaps seeing even the heading of a page, at length said, "I could!"

"You have large faith, my dear," observed the lady.

"Fortunately for Selina, I had no faith in him," was the reply.

Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw was not an eloquent person; she never troubled her husband or any one else with many words; so she only murmured, in a subdued tone, "Fortunately, indeed!"

"What a fellow he was!" said Mr. P. Bradshaw, as he closed the magazine. "Do you remember how delighted you were with him the evening of the tableaux at Lady Westrophe's? There was something so elegant and dignified in his bearing; so much ease and grace of manner; his address was perfect—the confidence of a well-bred gentleman, subdued almost, but not quite, into softness by the timidity of youth. This was thrown into strong relief by the manners of the young men of the family, whose habits and voices might have entitled them to take the lead, even now, in the go-a-head school, which then was hardly in existence—at all events in England."

"You were quite as much taken with him as I was."

"No, my dear, not quite. Edward Layton was especially suited for the society of ladies. His tastes and feelings are—or were at that time—all sincerely refined; he was full of the impulse of talent, which he never had strength to bring forth: his thoughts were ever wandering, and he needed perpetual excitement, particularly the excitement of beauty and music, to bring them and keep them where he was. He was strongly and strangely moved by excellence of any kind, so that it was excellence; and the only thing I ever heard him express contempt for was wealth!—yes wealth!"

"I could not have believed it," said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw again.

"That particular night it was whispered he was engaged to Lelia Medwin. When she sung, he stood like a young Apollo at her harp, too entranced to turn over the leaves of music, his eyes overflowing with delight, and the poor little girl so bewitched by his attentions that she fancied every whisper a declaration of love."

"Shameful!" said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"Then her mother showed every one what a lovely sketch he had made of Lelia's head, adding, that indeed it was too lovely; but then, he was a partial judge."

"She was a silly woman," observed the lady.

"She would not have been considered so if they had been married," replied the gentleman. "Mammas have no mercy on each other in those delicate manoeuvrings. Well, he waltzed with her always; and bent over her—willow-fashion; looked with her at the moon; and wrote a sonnet which she took to herself, for it was addressed 'To mine own dear ——;' and then when, about eight weeks afterwards, we met him at the dejeuner at Sally Lodge, he was as entranced with Lizzie Grey's guitar as he had been with Lelia's harp, sketched her little tiger head for her grandmamma, waltzed with her, bent over her willow-fashion, looked with her at the moon, and wrote another sonnet, addressed 'To the loved one.'"

"Such men——" exclaimed Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. She did not finish the sentence, but looked as if such men ought to be exterminated. And so they ought!

"There was so much about him that I liked: his fine talents, good manners, excellent position in society, added to his good nature, and——"

"Good fortune," added Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"No, Mary," said her husband, quietly, "I never was a mammon worshipper. This occurred, if you remember, before the yellow pestilence had so completely subverted London, that the very aristocracy knelt and worshipped the golden calf; and no blame to the calf to receive the homage, whatever we may say of those who paid it.

"I did not mean that as a reproof, Pierce," replied his wife, most truly. "I think it quite natural to like young men of fortune—we could not get on without them, you know; and it would be very imprudent—very imprudent, indeed—to invite any young man, however excellent. When we want to get these young girls, our poor nieces, off, I declare it is quite melancholy. Jane is becoming serious since she has grown so thin; and I fear the men will think Belle a blue, she has so taken to the British Museum. Oh, how I wish people would live, and bring up, and get off their own daughters! Four marriageable nieces, with such farthing fortunes, are enough to drive any poor aunt distracted!"

This was the longest speech Mrs. Bradshaw ever made in her life, and she sighed deeply at its conclusion.

"You may well sigh!" laughed the gentleman; "for the case seems hopeless. But I was going to say, that as I knew him better, I was really going to take the young gentleman a little to task on the score of his philandering. Lelia was really attached to him, and had refused a very advantageous offer for his sake; but the very next week, at another house, I found him enchained by a sparkling widow—correcting her drawings, paying the homage of intelligent silence and sweet smiles to her wit, leaning his white-gloved hand upon her chair, and looking in her eyes with his most bewitching softness. The extent of this flirtation no one could anticipate; but the sudden appearance of Lady Di' Johnson effected a total change. She drove four-in-hand, and was a dead shot—the very antipodes of sentiment. We said her laugh would drive Edward Layton distracted, and her cigarette be his death. But, no! the magnificence of her tomboyism caught his fancy. He enshrined her at once as Diana, bayed the moon with hunting-songs, wrote a sonnet to the chase, and then, with his own hands, twisted it into a cigarette, with which her ladyship puffed it to the winds of heaven, while wandering with the Lothario amid a grove of fragrant limes. The miracle was, that at breakfast the next morning Lady Di' was subdued, voted driving unfeminine, and asked Edward to take the reins for her after lunch. You remember we left them there; and I next met him at Killarney, giving his chestnut locks to the breeze, his arm to the oar, and his eyes to a lady of blue-stocking celebrity, who, never having had many lovers, was inclined to make the most of the present one. Circumstances rendered me acquainted with some facts relating to his 'flirtations,' if his soft and sentimental ways could be called by such a name. I had seen poor Lelia at Baden-Baden; and I dare say you can recall what we heard of another love of his nearer home. Well, I encountered my Hero of Ladies that very evening, wandering amid the ruined aisles of Mucross Abbey. I saw that his impressible nature had taken a thoughtful, if not a religious tone, from the scene. And he commenced the conversation by declaring, that 'He was a great fool.'"

"Knave, rather," said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"No," replied her husband; "not a knave, but a singular example of a man whose feelings and susceptibilities never deepen into affection—unstable as water—tossed hither and thither for want of fixed principles, and suffering intensely in his better moods from the knowledge of the weakness he has not the courage to overcome. I was not inclined to let him spare himself, and did not contradict his opinion that he was a 'fool,' but told him he might be what he pleased himself, as long as he did not make fools of others."

"'I tell every woman I know that I am not a marrying man,' he replied.

"'That,' I said, 'does not signify as long as you act the lover, each fair one believing you will revoke in her favor.'

"'I give you my honor,' he exclaimed, 'as a man and a gentleman, I never entertained for twenty-four hours the idea of marrying any woman I ever knew.'"

"The villain!" exclaimed the lady. "I hope, Pierce, you told him he was a villain!"

"No; because I knew the uncertainty of his disposition: but I lectured him fully and honestly, and yet said nothing to him so severe as what he said of himself. I told him he would certainly be caught in the end by some unworthy person, and then he would look back with regret and misery upon the chances he had lost, and the unhappiness he had caused to those whose only faults had been in believing him true when he was false."

"'Better that,' he answered, 'than marrying when he could not make up his mind.'

"'Then why play the lover?'

"'He only did so while infatuated—he was certain to find faults where he imagined perfection.'"

"What assurance!" said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"'I am sure,' I said, 'Lelia was very charming. Lelia Medwin was an excellent, amiable little creature, with both good temper and good sense.'

"'That was it,' he said: 'only fancy the six-foot-one-and-three-quarters wedded to bare five feet! The absurdity struck me one night as we were waltzing and whirling past a looking-glass; I was obliged to bend double, though I never felt it till I saw it.'"

"Really, I have not patience," observed Mrs. Bradshaw. "And so her feelings were to be trampled upon because she was not tall enough to please him! Why did he not think of that before?"

"'But there was Lizzy Grey, related to half the aristocracy, with a voice like an angel.'

"'A vixen,' he said, 'though of exquisite beauty—could have torn my eyes out for the little attention I paid Mrs. Green.'

"'Little attention!' I repeated; 'more than little.'

"'Her wit was delicious,' he replied; 'but she was a widow! Only fancy the horror of being compared with 'My dear first husband!'

"'Then your conquest of Lady Di' Johnson! How badly you behaved to her!'

"'She was magnificent on horseback; and her cigarette as fascinating as the fan of a Madrid belle, or the tournure of a Parisian lady. They were her two points. But when she relinquished both, I believe in compliment to me, she became even more commonplace than the most commonplace woman.'"

"The puppy!" muttered the lady: "the dreadful puppy! I could not have believed it!"

Mr. Bradshaw did not heed the interruption, but continued:

"'And who,' I inquired, 'was the Lady of the Lake? I do not mean of this lake, for I see her reign is already over—your passion expired with the third chapter of her novel, which I know she read to you by moonlight—but the fair Lady of Geneva, whose betrothed called you out?'

"'Her father was a sugar-boiler,' was the quiet reply: 'a sugar-boiler, or something of the kind. What would my aristocratic mother say to that? Of course I could have had no serious intention there. Indeed I never had a serious intention for a whole week.'

"'But, my dear fellow, when presents are given, and letters written, and locks of hair and vows exchanged——'

"'No, no!' he exclaimed; 'no vows exchanged! I never broke my word to a woman yet. It was admiration for this or that—respect, esteem, perhaps a tender bewilderment—mere brotherly love. And in that particular instance her intended got angry at my civility. I know I was wrong; and, to confess the truth, I am ashamed of that transaction—it taught me a lesson; and, but for the confounded vacillation of my taste and temper, I might perhaps have been a Benedick before this. You may think it puppyism, if you please; but I am really sorry when I make an impression, and resolve never to attempt it again: but the next fine voice, or fine eyes——'

"'Or cigarette,' I suggested; and then I said as much as one man can say to another, for you know a woman can say much more to a man in the way of reproof than he would bear from his own sex; but he silenced me very quickly by regrets and good resolutions. It was after that our little niece, Selina, made an impression upon him."

"I did not know all you have now told me," expostulated his wife. "I own I thought it would have been a good match for Selina; and he was evidently deeply smitten before he knew she was your niece. I managed it beautifully; but you cut the matter short by offending him."

"There, say no more about it," said the sensible husband; "you thought your blue-eyed, fair-haired, doll-like favorite, could have enchained a man who had escaped heart-whole from the toils of the richest and rarest in the land. It really is fearful to see how women not only tolerate, but pursue this sort of men. You call them 'villains,' and I know not what, when you are foiled; but if you succeed, you temper it; they have been a little wild, to be sure—but then, and then, and then—you really could not refuse your daughter; and add, "Men are such creatures that if the world knew but all, he is not worse than others."

"For shame, Pierce! how can you?" said the lady.

"I told him then," continued Mr. Bradshaw, "that he would take 'the crooked stick at last;' but that he should not add a tress of Selina's hair to his collection, to be turned over by his WIFE one of those days. Of course he was very indignant, and we parted; but I did not think my prophecy would come true so soon. I have long since given up speculating how marriages will turn out, for it is quite impossible to tell. If women could be shut up in a harem, as in the East, a man who was ashamed of his wife might go into society without her; but for a refined and well-educated gentleman, as Edward Layton certainly is, to be united to the widow of a sugar-boiler!—yes, absolutely!—who is an inch shorter than pretty Lelia and more tiger-headed than Lizzy Grey, and who declares she hates music, although her dear first husband took her hoften to the Hopera—who adds deformity to shortness, talks loudly of the hinfluence of wealth, and compares the presentations at the Mansion House, that she has seen, to those at St. James's which she has not yet seen! Verily, Edward Layton has had his reward!"

* * * * *

BULWER LYTTON contributes to the "Keepsake" an essay, characteristic of his earlier rather than of his later style:

THE CONFIRMED VALETUDINARIAN.

Certainly there is truth in the French saying, that there is no ill without something of good. What state more pitiable to the eye of a man of robust health than that of the Confirmed Valetudinarian? Indeed, there is no one who has a more profound pity for himself than your Valetudinarian; and yet he enjoys two of the most essential requisites for a happy life; he is never without an object of interest, and he is perpetually in pursuit of hope.

Our friend Sir George Malsain is a notable case in point: young, well born, rich, not ill educated, and with some ability, they who knew him formerly, in what were called his "gay days," were accustomed to call him "lucky dog," and "enviable fellow." How shallow is the judgment of mortals! Never was a poor man so bored—nothing interested him. His constitution seemed so formed for longevity, and his condition so free from care, that he was likely to have a long time before him:—it is impossible to say how long that time seemed to him. Fortunately, from some accidental cause or other, he woke one morning and found himself ill; and, whether it was the fault of the doctor or himself I cannot pretend to say, but he never got well again. His ailments became chronic; he fell into a poor way. From that time life has assumed to him a new aspect. Always occupied with himself, he is never bored. He may be sick, sad, suffering, but he has found his object in existence—he lives to be cured. His mind is fully occupied; his fancy eternally on the wing. Formerly he had travelled much, but without any pleasure in movement: he might as well have stayed at home. Now, when he travels, it is for an end; it is delightful to witness the cheerful alertness with which he sets about it. He is going down the Rhine;—for its scenery? Pshaw! he never cared a button about scenery; but he has great hopes of the waters at Kreuznach. He is going into Egypt;—to see the Pyramids? Stuff! the climate on the Nile is so good for the mucous membrane! Set him down at the dullest of dull places, and he himself is never dull. The duller the place the better; his physician has the more time to attend to him. When you meet him he smiles on you, and says, poor fellow, "The doctor assures me that in two years I shall be quite set up." He has said the same thing the last twenty years, and will say it the day before his death!...

What a busy, anxious, fidgety creature Ned Worrell was? That iron frame supported all the business of all society! Every man who wanted any thing done, asked Ned Worrell to do it. And do it Ned Worrell did! You remember how feelingly he was wont to sigh,—"Upon my life I'm a perfect slave." But now Ned Worrell has snapped his chain; obstinate dyspepsia, and a prolonged nervous debility, have delivered him from the carks and cares of less privileged mortals. Not Ariel under the bough is more exempt from humanity than Edward Worrell. He is enjoined to be kept in a state of perfect repose, free from agitation, and hermetically shut out from grief. His wife pays his bills, and he is only permitted to see his banker's accounts when the balance in his favor is more than usually cheerful. His eldest daughter, an intelligent young lady, reads his letters, and only presents to him those which are calculated to make a pleasing impression. Call now on your old friend, on a question of life and death, to ask his advice, or request his interference—you may as well call on King Cheops under the Great Pyramid. The whole houseguard of tender females block the way.

"Mr. Worrell is not to be disturbed on any matter of business whatever," they will tell you. "But, my dear ma'am, he is trusted to my marriage settlement; his signature is necessary to a transfer of my wife's fortune from those cursed railway shares. To-morrow they will be down at zero. We shall be ruined!"

"Mr. Worrell is in a sad, nervous way, and can't be disturbed, sir." And the door is shut in your face!

It was after some such occurrence that I took into earnest consideration a certain sentiment of Plato's, which I own I had till then considered very inhuman; for that philosopher is far from being the tender and sensitive gentleman generally believed in by lovers and young ladies. Plato, in his "Republic," blames Herodicus (one of the teachers of that great doctor Hippocrates) for showing to delicate, sickly persons, the means whereby to prolong their valetudinary existence, as Herodicus himself (naturally a very rickety fellow) had contrived to do. Plato accuses this physician of having thereby inflicted a malignant and wanton injury on those poor persons;—nay, not only an injury on them, but on all society. "For," argues this stern, broad-shouldered Athenian, "how can people be virtuous who are always thinking of their own infirmities?" And therefore he opines, that if a sickly person cannot wholly recover health and become robust, the sooner he dies the better for himself and others! The wretch, too, might be base enough to marry, and have children as ailing as their father, and so injure, in perpetuo, the whole human race. Away with him!

But, upon cool and dispassionate reflection, it seemed to me, angry as I was with Ned Worrell, that Plato stretched the point a little too far; and certainly, in the present state of civilization, so sweeping a condemnation of the sickly would go far towards depopulating Europe. Celsus, for instance, classes amongst the delicate or sickly the greater part of the inhabitants of towns, and nearly all literary folks (omnesque pene cupidi literarum). And if we thus made away with the denizens of the towns, it would be attended with a great many inconveniencies as to shopping, &c., be decidedly injurious to house property, and might greatly affect the state of the funds; while, without literary folks, we should be very dull in our healthy country-seats, deprived of newspapers, novels, and "The Keepsake." Wherefore, on the whole, I think Herodicus was right; and that sickly persons should not only be permitted but encouraged to live as long as they can.

That proposition granted, if in this attempt to show that your confirmed Valetudinarian is not so utterly miserable as he is held to be by those who throw physic to the dogs—and that in some points he may be a decided gainer by his physical sufferings—I have not wholly failed—then I say, with the ingenious Author who devoted twenty years to a work "On the Note of the Nightingale,"—"I have not lived in vain!"



A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[24]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

Continued from Page 44.

CHAPTER VI.

Reader, can you go back for twenty years? You do it every day. You say, "Twenty years ago I was a boy—twenty years ago I was a youth—twenty years ago I played at peg-top and at marbles—twenty years ago I wooed—was loved—I sinned—I suffered!" What is there in twenty years that should keep us from going back over them? You go on so fast, so smoothly, so easily on the forward course—why not in retrogression? But let me tell you: it makes a very great difference whether Hope or Memory drives the coach.

But let us see what we can do. Twenty years before the period at which the last chapter broke off, Philip Hastings, now a father of a girl of fifteen, was a lad standing by the side of his brother's grave. Twenty years ago Sir John Hastings was the living lord of these fine lands and broad estates. Twenty years ago he passed, from the mouth of the vault in which he had laid the clay of the first-born, into the open splendor of the day, and felt sorrow's desolation in the sunshine. Twenty years ago, he had been confronted on the church-yard path by a tall old woman, and challenged with words high and stern, to do her right in regard to a paltry rood or two of land. Twenty years ago he had given her a harsh, cold answer, and treated her menaces with impatient scorn.

Do you remember her, reader? Well, if you do, that brings us to the point I sought to reach in the dull flat expanse of the far past; and we can stand and look around us for awhile.

That old woman was not one easily to forget or lightly to yield her resentments. There was something perdurable in them as well as in her gaunt, sinewy frame. As she stood there menacing him, she wanted but three years of seventy. She had battled too with many a storm—wind and weather, suffering and persecution, sorrow and privation, had beat upon her hard—very hard. They had but served to stiffen and wither and harden, however. Her corporeal frame, shattered as it seemed, was destined to outlive many of the young and fair spirit-tabernacles around it—to pass over, by long years, the ordinary allotted space of human life; and it seemed as if even misfortune had with her but a preserving power. It is not wonderful, however, that, while it worked thus upon her body, it should likewise have stiffened and withered and hardened her heart.

I am not sure that conscience itself went untouched in this searing process. It is not clear at all that even her claim upon Sir John Hastings was not an unjust one; but just or unjust his repulse sunk deep and festered.

Let us trace her from the church-yard after she met him. She took her path away from the park and the hamlet, between two cottages, the ragged boys at the doors of which called her "Old Witch," and spoke about a broom-stick.

She heeded them little: there were deeper offences rankling at her heart.

She walked on, across a corn-field and a meadow, and then she came upon some woodlands, through which a little sandy path wound its way, round stumps of old trees long cut down, amidst young bushes and saplings just springing up, and catching the sunshine here and there through the bright-tinted foliage overhead. Up the hill it went, over the slope on which the copse was scattered, and then burst forth again on the opposite side of wood and rise, where the ground fell gently the other way, looking down upon the richly dressed grounds of Colonel Marshall, at the distance of some three miles.

Not more than a hundred yards distant was poor man's cottage, with an old gray thatch which wanted some repairing, and was plentifully covered with herbs, sending the threads of their roots into the straw. A little badly cultivated garden, fenced off from the hill-side by a loose stone wall, surrounded the house, and a gate without hinges gave entrance to this inclosed space.

The old woman went in and approached the cottage door. When near it she stopped and listened, lifting one of the flapping ears of her cotton cap to aid the dull sense of hearing. There were no voices within; but there was a low sobbing sound issued forth as if some one were in bitter distress.

"I should not wonder if she were alone," said the old woman; "the ruffian father is always out; the drudging mother goes about this time to the town. They will neither stay at home, I wot, to grieve for him they let too often into that door, nor to comfort her he has left desolate. But it matters little whether they be in or out. It were better to talk to her first. I will give her better than comfort—revenge, if I judge right. They must play their part afterwards."

Thus communing with herself, she laid her hand upon the latch and opened the door. In an attitude of unspeakable grief sat immediately before her a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, of hardly seventeen years of age. The wheel stood still by her side; the spindle had fallen from her hands; her head was bowed down as with sorrow she could not bear up against; and her eyes were dropping tears like rain.

The moment she heard the door open she started, and looked up with fear upon her face, and strove to dash the tears from her eyes; but the old woman bespoke her softly, saying, "Good even, my dear; is your mother in the place?"

"No," replied the girl; "she has gone to sell the lint, and father is out too. It is very lonely, and I get sad here."

"I do not wonder at it, poor child," said the old woman; "you have had a heavy loss, my dear, and may well cry. You can't help what is past, you know; but we can do a good deal for what is to come, if we but take care and make up our minds in time."

Many and strange were the changes of expression which came upon the poor girl's face as she heard these few simple words. At first her cheek glowed hot, as with the burning blush of shame; then she turned pale and trembled, gazing inquiringly in her visitor's face, as if she would have asked, "Am I detected?" and then she cast down her eyes again, still pale as ashes, and the tears rolled forth once more and fell upon her lap.

The old woman sat down beside her, and talked to her tenderly; but, alas! very cunningly too. She assumed far greater knowledge than she possessed. She persuaded the poor girl that there was nothing to conceal from her; and what neither father nor mother knew, was told that day to one comparatively a stranger. Still the old woman spoke tenderly—ay, very tenderly; excused her fault—made light of her fears—gave her hope—gave her strength. But all the time she concealed her full purpose. That was to be revealed by degrees. Whatever had been the girl's errors, she was too innocent to be made a party to a scheme of fraud and wrong and vengeance at once. All that the woman communicated was blessed comfort to a bruised and bleeding heart; and the poor girl leaned her head upon her old companion's shoulder, and, amidst bitter tears and sobs and sighs, poured out every secret of her heart.

But what is that she says, which makes the old woman start with a look of triumph?

"Letters!" she exclaimed; "two letters: let me see them, child—let me see them! Perhaps they may be more valuable than you think."

The girl took them from her bosom, where she kept them as all that she possessed of one gone that day into the tomb.

The old woman read them with slow eyes, but eager attention; and then gave them back, saying, "That one you had better destroy as soon as possible—it tells too much. But this first one keep, as you value your own welfare—as you value your child's fortune, station, and happiness. You can do much with this. Why, here are words that may make your father a proud man. Hark! I hear footsteps coming. Put them up—we must go to work cautiously, and break the matter to your parents by degrees."

It was the mother of the girl who entered; and she seemed faint and tired. Well had the old woman called her a drudge, for such she was—a poor patient household drudge, laboring for a hard, heartless, idle, and cunning husband, and but too tenderly fond of the poor girl whose beauty had been a snare to her.

She seemed somewhat surprised to see the old woman there; for they were of different creeds, and those creeds made wide separation in the days I speak of. Perhaps she was surprised and grieved to see the traces of tears and agitation on her daughter's face; but of that she took no notice; for there were doubts and fears at her heart which she dreaded to confirm. The girl was more cheerful, however, than she had been for the last week—not gay, not even calm; but yet there was a look of some relief.

Often even after her mother's entrance, the tears would gather thick in her eyes when she thought of the dead; but it was evident that hope had risen up: that the future was not all darkness and terror. This was a comfort to her; and she spoke and looked cheerfully. She had sold all the thread of her and her daughter's spinning, and she had sold it well. Part she hid in a corner to keep a pittance for bread from her husband's eyes; part she reserved to give up to him for the purchase of drink: but while she made all these little arrangements, she looked somewhat anxiously at the old woman, from time to time, as if she fain would have asked, "What brought you here?"

The crone was cautious, however, and knew well with whom she had to deal. She talked in solemn and oracular tones, as if she had possessed all the secrets of fate, but she told nothing, and when she went away she said in a low voice but authoritative manner, "Be kind to your girl—be very kind; for she will bring good luck and fortune to you all." The next day she laid wait for the husband, found and forced him to stop and hear her. At first he was impatient, rude, and brutal; swore, cursed, and called her many and evil names. But soon he listened eagerly enough: looks of intelligence and eager design passed between the two, and ere they parted they perfectly understood each other.

The man was then, on more than one day, seen going down to the hall. At first he was refused admission to Sir John Hastings; for his character was known. The next day, however, he brought a letter written under his dictation by his daughter, who had been taught at a charitable school of old foundation hard by; and this time he was admitted. His conversation with the Lord of the Manor was long; but no one knew its import. He came again and again, and was still admitted.

A change came over the cottage and its denizens. The fences were put in order, the walls were repaired, the thatch renewed, another room or two was added; plenty reigned within; mother and daughter appeared in somewhat finer apparel; and money was not wanting.

At the end of some months there was the cry of a young child in the house. The neighbors were scandalized, and gossips spoke censoriously even in the father's ears; but he stopped them fiercely, with proud and mysterious words; boasted aloud of what they had thought his daughter's shame; and claimed a higher place for her than was willingly yielded to her companions. Strange rumors got afloat, but ere a twelvemonth had passed, the father had drank himself to death. His widow and her daughter and her grandson moved to a better house, and lived at ease on money none knew the source of, while the cottage, now neat and in good repair, became the dwelling of the old woman, who had been driven with scorn from Sir John's presence. Was she satisfied—had she sated herself? Not yet.

CHAPTER VII.

There was a lady, a very beautiful lady indeed, came to a lonely house, which seemed to have been tenanted for several years by none but servants, about three years after the death of Sir John Hastings. That house stood some miles to the north of the seat of that gentleman, which now had passed to his son; and it was a fine-looking place, with a massive sort of solemn brick-and-mortar grandeur about it, which impressed the mind with a sense of the wealth and long-standing of its owners.

The plural has slipped from my pen, and perhaps it is right; for the house looked as if it had had many owners, and all of them had been rich.

Now, there was but one owner,—the lady who descended from that lumbering, heavy coach, with the two great leathern wings on each side of the door. She was dressed in widow's weeds, and she had every right to wear them. Though two-and-twenty only, she stood there orphan, heiress, and widow. She had known many changes of condition, but not of fate, and they did not seem to have affected her much. Of high-born and proud parentage, she had been an only child for many years before her parents' death. She had been spoiled, to use a common, but not always appropriate phrase; for there are some people who cannot be spoiled, either because the ethereal essence within them is incorruptible, or because there is no ethereal essence to spoil at all. However, she had been spoiled very successfully by fate, fortune, and kind friends. She had never been contradicted in her life; she had never been disappointed—but once. She had travelled, seen strange countries—which was rare in those days with women—had enjoyed many things. She had married a handsome, foolish man, whom she chose—few knew rightly why. She had lost both her parents not long after; got tired of her husband, and lost him too, just when the loss could leave little behind but a decent regret, which she cultivated as a slight stimulant to keep her mind from stagnating. And now, without husband, child, or parents, she returned to the house of her childhood, which she had not seen for five long years.

Is that all her history? No, not exactly all. There is one little incident which may as well be referred to here. Her parents had entered into an arrangement for her marriage with a very different man from him whom she afterwards chose,—Sir Philip Hastings; and foolishly they had told her of what had been done, before the young man's own assent had been given. She did not see much of him—certainly not enough to fall in love with him. She even thought him a strange, moody youth; but yet there was something in his moodiness and eccentricity which excited her fancy. The reader knows that he chose for himself; and the lady also married immediately after.

Thus had passed for her a part of life's pageant; and now she came to her own native dwelling, to let the rest march by as it might. At first, as she slowly descended from the carriage, her large, dark, brilliant eyes were fixed upon the ground. She had looked long at the house as she was driving towards it, and it seemed to have cast her into a thoughtful mood. It is hardly possible to enter a house where we have spent many early years, without finding memory suddenly seize upon the heart and possess it totally. What a grave it is! What a long line of buried ancestors may not the present always contemplate there.

Nor are there many received into the tomb worth so much respect as one dead hour. All else shall live again; lost hours have no resurrection.

There were old servants waiting around, to welcome her, new ones attending upon her orders; but for a moment or two she noticed no one, till at length the old housekeeper, who knew her from a babe, spoke out, saying, "Ah, madam! I do not wonder to see you a little sad on first coming to the old place again, after all that has happened."

"Ah, indeed, Arnold," replied the lady, "many sad things have happened since we parted. But how are you, Goody? You look blooming:" and walking into the house, she heard the reply in the hall.

From the hall, the old housekeeper led her lady through the house, and mightily did she chatter and gossip by the way. The lady listened nearly in silence; for Mrs. Arnold was generous in conversation, and spared her companion all expense of words. At length, however, something she said seemed to rouse her mistress, and she exclaimed with a somewhat bitter laugh, "And so the good people declared I was going to be married to Sir Philip Hastings?"

"Mr. Hastings he was then, madam," answered the housekeeper; "to be sure they did. All the country around talked of it, and the tenants listened at church to hear the banns proclaimed."

The lady turned very red, and the old woman went on to say, "Old Sir John seemed quite sure of it; but he reckoned without his host, I fancy."

"He did indeed," said the lady with an uncheerful smile, and there the subject dropped for the time. Not long after, however, the lady herself brought the conversation back to nearly the same point, asked after Sir Philip's health and manner of living, and how he was liked in the neighborhood, adding, "He seemed a strange being at the time I saw him, which was only once or twice—not likely to make a very pleasant husband, I thought."

"Oh dear, yes, madam, he does," answered Mrs. Arnold, "many a worse, I can assure you. He is very fond of his lady indeed, and gives up more to her than one would think. He is a little stern, they say, but very just and upright; and no libertine fellow, like his brother who was drowned—which I am sure was a providence, for if he was so bad when he was young, what would he have been when he was old?"

"Better, perhaps," replied her mistress, with a quiet smile; "but was he so very wicked? I never heard any evil of him."

"Oh dear me, madam! do not you know?" exclaimed the old woman; and then came the whole story of the cotter's daughter on the hill, and how she and her father and old Mother Danby—whom people believed to be a witch—had persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings into making rich people of them.

"Persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings!" said the lady in a tone of doubt. "I knew him better than either of his sons; and never did I see a man so little likely to yield to persuasion or to bow to menace;" and she fell into a deep fit of musing, which lasted long, while the old housekeeper rambled on from subject to subject, unlistened to, but very well content.

Let us dwell a little on the lady, and on her character. There is always something to interest, something to instruct, in the character of a woman. It is like many a problem in Euclid, which seems at first sight as plain and simple as the broad sunshine; but when we come to study it, we find intricacies beneath which puzzle us mightily to resolve. It is a fine, curious, delicate, complicated piece of anatomy, a woman's heart. I have dissected many, and I know the fact. Take and lay that fibre apart—take care, for heaven's sake! that you do not tear the one next to it; and be sure you do not dissever the fragments which bind those most opposite parts together! See, here lies a muscle of keen sensibility; and there—what is that? A cartilage, hard as a nether millstone. Look at those light, irritable nerves, quivering at the slightest touch; and then see those tendons, firm, fixed, and powerful as the resolution of a martyr. Oh, that wonderful piece of organization! who can describe it accurately?

I must not pretend to do so; but I will give a slight sketch of the being before me.

There she stands, somewhat above the usual height, but beautifully formed, with every line rounded and flowing gracefully into the others. There is calmness and dignity in the whole air, and in every movement; but yet there is something very firm, very resolute, very considerate, in the fall of that small foot upon the carpet. She cannot intend her foot to stay there for ever; and yet, when she sets it down, one would be inclined to think she did. Her face is very beautiful—every feature finely cut—the eyes almost dazzling in their dark brightness. How chaste, how lovely the fine lines of that mouth. Yet do you see what a habit she has of keeping the pearly teeth close shut—one pure row pressed hard against the other. The slight sarcastic quiver of the upper lip does not escape you; and the expanded nostril and flash of the eye, contradicted by the fixed motionless mouth.

Such is her outward appearance, such is she too within—though the complexion there is somewhat darker. Much that, had it been cultivated and improved, would have blossomed into womanly virtue; a capability of love, strong, fiery, vehement, changeless—not much tenderness—not much pity,—no remorse—are there. Pride, of a peculiar character, but strong, ungovernable, unforgiving, and a power of hate and thirst of vengeance, which only pride can give, are there likewise. Super-add a shrewdness—a policy—a cunning—nay, something greater—something approaching the sublime—a divination, where passion is to be gratified, that seldom leads astray from the object.

Yes, such is the interior of that fair temple, and yet, how calm, sweet, and promising it stands.

I have omitted much perhaps; for the human heart is like the caldron of the witches in Macbeth, and one might go on throwing in ingredients till the audience became tired of the song. However, what I have said will be enough for the reader's information; and if we come upon any unexplained phenomena, I must endeavor to elucidate them hereafter.

Let us suppose the lady's interview with her housekeeper at an end—all her domestic arrangements made—the house restored to its air of habitation—visits received and paid. Amongst the earliest visitors were Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. He came frankly, and in one of his most happy moods, perfectly ignorant that she had ever been made aware of there having been a marriage proposed between himself and her; and she received him and his fair wife with every appearance of cordiality. But as soon as these visits and all the ceremonies were over, the lady began to drive much about the country, and to collect every tale and rumor she could meet with of all the neighboring families. Her closest attention, however, centred upon those affecting the Hastings' race; and she found the whole strange story of the cottage girl confirmed, with many another particular added. She smiled when she heard this—smiled blandly—it seemed to give her pleasure. She would fain have called upon the girl and her mother too. She longed to do so, and to draw forth with skill, of which she possessed no small share, the key secret of the whole. But her station, her reputation, prevented her from taking a step which she knew might be noised abroad and create strange comments.

She resolved upon another move, however, which she thought would do as well. There would be no objection to her visiting her poorer neighbors, to comfort, to relieve; and she went to the huts of many. At length one early morning, on a clear autumn day, the carriage was left below on the high road, and the lady climbed the hill alone towards the cottage, where the girl and her parents formerly lived. She found the old woman, who was now its occupant, busily cooking her morning meal; and sitting down, she entered into conversation with her. At first she could obtain but little information; the old woman was in a sullen mood, and would not speak of any thing she did not like. Money was of no avail to unlock her eloquence.