Family Herald July 07 1860

8/8/2019 Family Herald July 07 1860

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H E GREATEST GLUTTONS A R E THOSE "WHO FEET) tJtON

SLANDER; THEY NEVER GE T ENOUGH.

HERALDUxtful information ana amusement.

THOSE W H O WRONG OTHERS, GENERALLY SLANDER THEM

TO COVER T H E I R O WN INFAMY. •

No . 8 9 ? . — T O L , X V I I L ] F O R T H E W E E K E N D I N G J U L Y 7, i860, [ P B I C E O N E P E N N Y .

T H E C O N FESSIO N .

knew my tears were falling

Like the drops of morning dew ;

felt my fond heart breaking,

As I bade a sad " adieu."

twined my arms around thee

In a long and close embrace,

But saw thine eyes turn'd from me,

An d deep anguish on thy face.

Too well I knew tho reason,

For a like grief wrung my heart;

We both had proved unfaithful,

And p la /d a treacherous part.

For weeks th y spell had bound me,

And but little had I thought

Of one who, ere I saw thee",

I with ardent love had sought.

Oh Katty !—I have wrong'd her—

Deep remorse now fills my breast;

Her pale, sad face will haunt me,

And deprive me of my rest.

I've cast from me a treasure,

Which I knew not how to prize ;

My tears will flow in anguish,

And my bosom heave deep sighs.

I own I've been inconstant^

And my fickleness deplore, ;

But oh! would she forgive me,

My heart would rove no more. *

I know I am not worthy

Of sweet Katty, good and pure;

But yet, should she receiveme,

Honght should again allure. MARIA.

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

F I V E YEARS,

" A letter from father! " shouted Robert Murray, as he came running up

e short gravel walk that led to the house, and all the family gathered

der the rustic porch that shaded the front.door to do honour to the

lcome missive. Mrs. Murra y, with her sweet, careworn face, took the

ter, and seated herself on a rustic chair near her to read it; while two well-

own girls—one of them, indeed, having attained to the full dignity of young

manhood—leaned over her shoulder, three little ones crowded around her

ees, and Robert, pressing in among them, exclaimed impatiently, " Well ,

hat does he say ? When is fye tjoming h o m e ? "

" W a i t wait, dear, a minute!" said the mother, as, with trembling,

xious fingers she eagerly tore open the envelope. Then came a hush of

pectation, then a low murmur of sorrow from the daughters, answered by a

h from the mother, that almost beeame a groan ere it ended.

" What on earth is it, mother ?" said Robert. " Is iie dead ? "

" No, not so bad as that. W e have something to be thankful for yet ,"

d Mrs. Murray, trying to look cheerful once more; " but your father has

en burnt out again by another dreadful fire in Canvass-town, and just as

was on thepoint of leaving for home. He has lost everything, and writes

at he is now just where he was three years ago, when he landed at

elaide with u sovereign in his pocket, only he has not even the sovereign

w. He cannot eome back for a long time yet, he writes, and, what grieves

even more, he will not be able to send us the remittances he promised us."

" Father's not coming home ?" asked little Harry, mournfully; and reading

answer on the distressed cou ntenances around him , gav e himself up to

he luxury of woe."4 Hush, Harry ! do hus h! " said Louisa, the oldest sister, a kind of youthful

other to all the younger ones; but Harry only roared louder.

Mrs. Murray left Lou isa to contend with the turbulent young nature thats indulging in an impotent storm of grief and rage^for she felt hardly able

subdue her own feelings, and sought her room, to read the letter overher leisure, and ponder over her future cour se, whi ch each mont h seemed

grow more and more difficult and perplexed. Robert soon followed her

re, forTnothers have not much time ror solitary musings; and then Mary's

ps turned almost instinctively to the same familiar room. The three

ldren were quieted, and sent into the garden to play, and Louisa stood at

t in the porch by herself.

It was a pleasant June morning. An hour before, life had seemed to her

beautiful as the green fields and hills and glancing river that formed the

ght landscape before her eyes ; now, it seemed like the dull road thatund its dusty trail amidst them. She hardly realised that it was the same

that had shone so brightly on her a few moments before; everything had

own suddenly so cheerless and dull. " It is all to go over again," she

rmured. " My poor mother!"

Fortunate was she that, in this mom ent of great disappointment, she had

me one besides herself to care for and uphe ld. Tha t alone takes the sting

anguish from the heaviest sorrows. Fo r the rest of the day Lo uisa said

little. She had no need to ask many questions, for her mother's affairs

re hers, and she was familiar with their slightest details. She wearied hernd with plans and projects to aidher, and at last settled on one that she

ought the most promising; but she waited till the children were asleep

fore she revealed it, the hour or two of quiet that followed their

uctant retreat being the time when the mother and elder daughter

nsulted, cheered, and comforted each other.

Mr. Murray was a tradesman—a ve ry honest and kind-hearted man,

t not a successful one. He had failed two or three times, not from any

nt of industry or care, but simply from a want of what his more fortunate

rivals called " business tact." Hi s wife's brothers were rich men, and, sorely

against hi s inclinations, Mr. Murray had been obliged to receive aid from

them more than once. This wounded the love of independence innate in

eVer^ trtie man j and when for the third time he saw himself on the eve of

bankruptcy j he said to his wife, u Mary, I am going to the diggings next

month, to see if I Cant do bett er there. I shall either return an independent

man, or not at all."

An d so he left his pleasant, comfor table hom e near a manufacturing town, a

wife whom he cherished as his own life, and children dearer to hi m than life,

for that land where home, and wife, and children were strange sounds, an d

gold was the one object fo r which al l panted and strove. The first year he

was ill andunable to do much. The second year he. had, with great labour,

worked himself into a very good business as keeper of a store, and was on the

point of returning to visit his family, when in one hour he saw all his property

destroyed by fire. Wi th resolute patience he gathered around him once more

enough ta make his loved ones comfortable, and was about to come or sendfor them, that he miglit gather them once more in a home of their own—for

during his absence Mrs. Murray had been obliged to mortgage their housefo r

the support of the family, and they migh t n ow be obliged to leave it at any

moment—when this second disaster had fallen upon him.

Mr . Murray had a hopeful, sanguine nature—perhaps a little too much so ;

if he had been more apprehensive, he might have averted, some evils

that had crossed his path—so his letter was filled with anticipations for the

future rather than regrets for the past. " I f they could weather this year,"

he wrote, " the next, he was sure, would be an easier one ," H o w often ha d

Mrs. Murray heard the same word s; and whe n she had his animated, hopeful

countenance beaming upon her they had cheered her heart ; bu t no w th e

present seemed too dark to her lonely eyes for any future to brighten with

its misleading glamour.

" I cannot tell what we shall do, Loui sa," said Mrs. Murray, despoudingl y,

when they were alone and quiet, both ply ing their busy needles by the l ight

of a single candle. " W e owe for the children's schooling, and the grocer's

bill, and Mr. Martin can foreclose the mortgage at any time, and then we

shall have no home in the world. Mary is just getting on so well at

school, and Robert too, it seems as i f I could not make up my mind to keep

them at home this year; but I suppose we must, and feel thankful as long as

we have a home to shelter them."

" I have been thinking of teaching, mother; I feel sure that I could sup

port myself and Mary too, and perhaps pay Robert's school ing/ ' said Louisa,

wh o inherited no small share of her father's sanguine temperament

Mrs. Murray objected, and argued and listened, and yielded at last to the

urgent entreaties of her unselfish chil d, whos e enthusiastic nature was all

aglow at the idea of the great things she was to achieve in this, her first

conflict with the iron-handed world.

" I don't think your uncles will like it," was the last plea of Mrs. Murray, .

whose heart sank at the idea of parting with he r chief helper—the sweet,

courageous, joyous, sympathetic being whose buoyant hopefulness had cast its

sunlight over many a darkened spot in her life's pathway.

Bu t the uncles had families of their own, and, though they never listened

coldly to their sister's troubles, still they thought it only nght that their

nieces and nephew should learn to depend on themselves as early as possible.They praised Louisa for he r energy, told her they would see that her mother

was wel l cared fo r in her absence and that Mr . Martin left her the undisputed

possession of the house till her father's return, and each sending her a ten-

pound note, left her to carry out her plan her own way.

She knew very little how to accomplish what she wished, and the summer

passed away in futile attempts to obtain a situation that would be at all

remunerative.* At last a friend wrote to her that a lady, Mrs. Britain, had

recently established herself in a school in the neighbouring town, and i f she

would be willing to accept a very small salary, receiving as compensationthe

board and tuitio n o f her sister, she could obtain the situation of first assistant

in her school. This offer Louisa accepted, one great inducement bein g that i t

was not very far from her own home; and the early part of September saw the

tw o sisters m their ne w abode, strange, homesick, and yet resolute to make

the best of all that seemed trying or oppressive in their new situations and

duties.

An d they ha d need of all their fortitude, for they found out before a month

had passed that they were in the power of a selfish, grasping woman, to whose

iron will neither husband, child, pupil, no r servant thought of making theleast resistance. Mr. Britain had a business whic h, duri ng the life of his

former wife, had sufficed for the moderate desires of his family ; but the present

Mrs. Britain loved show an d style, and, hearing of the large fortunes thatsome heads of fashionable schools had accumulated, she resolved to make her

ow n good education and really strong mental powers subservient to her desire

for wealth. She was a thorough business woman, and viewed everything

through thehard medium of profit or loss.

Louisa, entirely unaccustomed to anythi ng li ke harshness or Want of con-



July 7, I860.] USEFUL INFOBMATION AND AMUSEMENT. 1 4 7

stinctive aversion to his stepmother's knowing his plans, until so near their

uition that she could not harm them. .

For a while Louisa was perfectly happ y. No t a doubt or misgivi ng crossed

r mind, but, feeling sure her parents would^ welcome as a son one who

d made their child's life so pleasan t to her, she gave hersel f up to the full

joyment of his affection. An d Hen ry Britain loved her with a love such as

e had dreamed o f and wished for, but had thought un know n except in the

ges of romance. His whole life was lost in hers. Wh at she lik ed he li ke d;

hat she did he adm ire d; her words were oracles to hi m ; a nd, in a wor d,

e was his worl d. He planned, thought, and acted only for her. An d yet

ere was nothing weak or silly in this entire devot ion. His whole bein g had'

en so seized and transfused by this strong passion as to make him almost a

w man in energy, in hope, and in self-confidence. He shook off the paraing weight of despondency that had almost crushed him, and in his new

und vigour felt as though he could subdue any obstacle fate might throw in

path.

" Yo u have made a man of me, darl ing," said he, " and I w ill be worthy of

u ye t." ..-<- ;

Soon the time drew near for Louisa to return home, where Henry was

ortly to follow and claim her. A few days befor e he made his father his

nfidant, and consul ted him as to the course he should pu rsue to make for

mself a home. His father promised him five hundred pounds to enable him

embark in the business he desired. This the elder Mr . Britain had

e nded to keep secret from his wife; but in some inscrutable way she dis

vered it, and Henry Britain's matrimonia l plans at the same time. Th e

e, she knew, depended on the oth er; and since her husband was bent on

ving his son what he had promised him in the event of his marriage, she

ould prevent the marriage. This, her stepson's own folly and reckless im

udence, made an easy matter. Mrs. Britain called upon a gentleman who

e knew was a friend of Mr. Charles Murray , the uncle of Loui sa, and wit h

uch apparent reluctance made him acquainted with such facts in Hen ry' sst career as must necessarily, she thought, pu t an end to the existing under

anding between him and Louis a. She told nothi ng but the truth, but the

uth so coloured and exaggerated that it grew into absolute falsehood in the

arer's mind. • - ••• - .

" It was with the deepest humiliation and so rr ow, " she said, " tha t she

sclosed a matter the family had always wished to keep secret; but she

oug ht it her duty not to see a you ng girl so lovely and innocent as Miss

urray , and one, too, under her protection, made the v ictim of a man so

tful and unscrupulous as with grief she must confess her stepson to be ."

he said nothing of his bitter anguish, of his repentance and reform,

hich three long years had proved to be real and tho rou gh; but lea ving

e impression that he was still a secret frequenter of the haunts of vice,

e went her way, and left t he p oisoned arrows she had barbed to do their

ork.

Full of bashful yet exulting happiness, Loui sa came ho me ; and when she

vealed to her mother the source of her new-found jo y, and told all thatenr y Britain h ad been to her in her isolation—ho w he had watche d her and

red for her more tenderly even than her own mother had ever done, Mrs.

urray did not wonder at the light that shone in Louisa's eye, and the full

ppiness that spoke in every tone of her voice, and showed itself in every

otion and look. It reminded her o f her own youthful days, when M r.

urray and she first looked on life as a garden, through whose flowery yaths

ey should wander on for ever together .

"Never has any one been loved before as I am ," said Louis a, one day.;

d her mother smiled, for just so had she once thought herself.

Tw o days after, Mr. Charles Murray arrived at their cottage, serious,

sorbed, and almost stern. Then came the disclosure; all the disgraceful

crets of Henry Britain's past life laid bare before the eyes of her who had

oked upon him hitherto as her guar dian angel, as a bein g far abov e all

tle faults, still further removed from all crime; for, in the mental conflicts

the last three years, he had so overcome and crushed the tu multuous

ssmns that had led him astray, that, in the higher life he had achieved,

rdly a trade of them remai ned, exce pt the deep melancho ly to whic h he was

ll subject; but that Louisa's love had almost dispelled. She wou ld not,

e could not believe the startling revelation. But that very day came atter to her uncle from Henry, in answer to one from him, confessing the

ain facts, but stating them in such a light as to show that he had never been

deeply crimiiTal as he had been represented. *. - u «L I '

" I had intend ed," wrote Henry, " to be the first to tell Loui sa of thi& I

mmenced my confession several times, but she wo uld not allow me to go on,

d then T though t it would be better perhaps for me to write it ; but some

emy, and I think I know who it is, has been before me. I do not profess

be worthy of y our niece, but I love her as man never loved woman before.

t me but have the hope that she may one day be mine, and I will wait."

But M r. Murray was ine xorabl e, and Mrs. Murray , too , was shocked to

arn how near her daught er had been to allying herself to a man so unwor thy.

though gentle, she was very decided, and perhaps a little big oted whe n once

e had formed an op in io n; and she would listen to nothi ng Lo uisa could

ge in extenuation of his faults. And , indeed, poor Loui sa was too muc h

erwhelmed to say much. Tha t he, whom she had so loved and reverenced,

ould ever have done a disgraceful act, so shook her faith in him, and

nsequently so darkened her whole life, that she could do little but weep.

Her un cle wrote a severe, but, as he thoug ht, a just letter, in which he toldenry that all intercourse between him and his niece must end from thatme ; and the mother reasoned and pleaded with Lou isa until the miserable

rl consented, and the letter was sent.^

Then came to her letter after letter in quick succession from Henry,

eading for permission to h ope for one word from her, to say that she had

ot utterly cast him from her heart as a worthless thin g; and Louisa wou ld

ave answered some of them at least, but the mother and uncle said no, and

forced their prohibition with love so tender and watchful, that she could

not gain strength to resist. Ye t she loved him through all, and did not, nor

-would believe him guilty. But the love that had once been Iier pride and

joy, and whi ch she had hope d to w ear o penl y in th e sight of all, was now

kept closely guarded in her own heart. Henry Britain had kindled there one

of those flames that, once lighted, burn till death. ir -i

In the. last letter Louisa received from him he said that he should leave the

countr y to go he could not tell whith er; but wherever he went he should

always find means to kno w of her, and that at some future t ime he hoped to

stand before her clear in name, and able to claim her as his own in the sight

of the wor ld, as he was now in the eye of heave n. The n came a silence

of two lon g miserable years. Louis a became a daily gov erness, and

helped her mother, and the feeling that she was absolutely necessary to her

ow n family, and the constant rou nd of occupation with whi ch her days werefilled, kept the worm of despondency from prejring on her chee k. She wh o

lays her head on her pillow every night wearied out in mind and body by her

daily duties, has little time for tears; and yet Louisa could not sometimes

restrain hers, when she thought of all the wretchedness she had caused one

wh o loved her as she should never be loveil again. One fruitful source of

sorrow to her was that she had been so chary in her expressions of affection

t o . him . Hi s earnest questi onings she had. met with some light-hearted

evasive reply, that now she wou ld have gi ven mu ch to recall. She had been

keeping back the expression of her feelings, thinking that it would be such a

joyful surprise to him some day, when he called her wTife, to learrt how her

whole heart was fixed upon h i m; and now he would never know how truly

she had loved, and she wept to think that even that little comfort was

denied him.

The third year of their separation was fast drawing to a close when Mr.

Murray returned, a prosperous, thriving man, to take his family with him to

his new hom e in Australia. Hi s success, as he hims elf owned , was prin ci

pally owing to his new partner, Mr. Miller, the most remarkable man in

the world for his business talent and sagacity, Mr. Murray said.

" W h y , Ma ry ," he contin ued, addressing his wife, " i f we go on at thisrate we shall be as rich as princes in ten years. I never knew any

thing, fail he under took, he has such energy and foresight. He is so promp t

and fair in all his dealings that his word is as good as his bon d. I should

be at the dig ging s instead of bein g at ho me to-day, but foi* him. I was on the

point of starting for them two years ago , when he persuade^ me to jo in him

in a new enterprise h e was about c omm enci ng. I had kn own him a few

months, and knew there was not a better man within a thousand miles; so I

consented, though I gave him fair warning that my luclf would ruifl his good

fortune ; but h e was wil lin g to risk it, and here I am. I tell you what, he

added, with a gl ance at Loui sa, " I wou ld not m ind it if we took him into

the family." .

Louisa looked hurt, and a little offended, as she always did at any jesting

of that kind, and left the room soon after.

" Has n't Loui sa forgot ten Henr y Britain yet ? " asked Mr.' Murrsfy.

" I am afraid not ," said his wife. " I ho pe so sometimes, for she never

speaks of him, but she canno t bear any allusion to bein g marri ed."

Mr. Murray smiled, whieh his wife thought rather a singular way of

showing sympathy jus t then ; but they were all so happy at being together

that they smiled and laughed without well knowing why.

Louisa dreaded to leave her old ho me ; every day's d elay seemed to her

like a reprieve . She was in a constant state of nervous expect ation and

excitement. Ha d not Henry Britain said he should always know where

she was and what she was doin g, and would he let her leave the country t o

go so far away with out maki ng one attempt to see her ? She seldom glanced

from her window up and down the shaded lane, witho ut f ancyin g she saw

his once familiar figure; time .after time she heard his step upon the gra vel -

walk, or caught the sound Of his voice on the breeze, and it prov ed ever the

creation of her own overwrou ght fancy.

At last the day for their departure came, and for the first time Louisa

yielded to the violence of her feelings. She fainted, as the ship left the

shore i n the distance, and was carried insensible to the cabin. But, by the

time they reached the end of their long voyage, she had recover ed her health

and her cheerfulness. Ther e was too much for her to do to give her time for

grieving. Ye t, as they stoo d on the deck of the ship; prepared to land, onestrong shudder came over her as she looked for. the first time on her new

home, and thought of the new life that was to be live d there, and said to

herself with forced resolution, "T he 'p as t is past entirely. It is nothing to

me now or henceforth. I will turn from it fo rev er . I cannot waste my life

in this fruitless hoping; it is wearing out my very heart." And she stood by

the grave o f her unfulfilled hopes, as one stands by th e grav e of an only

Ghild, pale, tearless, and full of anguish, too stro ng to find relief in words .

Presently there was a rush on the dec k of friends to welcome the new arrivals.

" W e have none to welcome us," thought Loui sa. Then she heard her

name, and turning quickly saw close beside her Henr y Br itain.

Just as he had done nearly four years before, he took her arm in his, so

quietly, so tend erly, with such quick percept ion of her sudden rush of over

powering emotio n, and yet with such perfect composur e in look and act,

that she was calmed and strengthened she hardly knew ho w. Hen ry was

there and was with he r; all the rest was a blank. H e guide d her unsteady

feet over the landin g-plac e, lifted her, trembl ing and silent still, into a

conveyance, and turned to help her mother.

" Come in," said Louisa, anxiously, as he turned away." Oh, yes, to be sure f he is comin g hom e with us. W e can't get alon g at all

without him. Yo u think this is Henry Britain, I see," said Mr. Murray;

" but it isn't, it is Mr. Miller ;* and I could afford to part with my right hand

sooner than with him ." * • '

That evening H enry told Louisa how he had come to Adel aide^o achieve

there his fortune and restore his character; how he had met her father, to find

whom had been, in fact, the chief reason that had induced him to select thatplace, and how his fortunes had prospered as Mr. Murray's had declined; how



148

he had soug ht and obtained his friendship, and they had at last become

partners ; and how all had gone well with them since.

" 1 told y ou, dearest, I s hould always find means to hear of and about you,"

said He nry , " and I made your father often wond er at the great interest I took

in his hom e correspondence. At last he used to read me all his letters, for our

hearts grow soft when we are so far away from all we love ; and as long as I

knew you were at hom e, and unmarried, 1 felt strong enou gh to meet any fate.

Now that you are here, I have nothing left to wish for."

" Does father know all ? " s he asked.

H Yes , dearest, all," he replied. " I told him just befo re he sailed for hom e.

H e has given his consent; we have only to wait for your moth er's."

Mrs. Murray could not m ake up h er mind to say " yes " for some time.She was grateful to Hen ry Brita in for all that he had done for them. She

could not help owning that h% was not, either in look or manner, the deep de

signing man she had im agine d him to be, but m anly, upright, anddetermined. " W a i t a year," she said, at last; and at the end of that time

she yielded not a reluctant but a glad assent. She was proud to call him son,

she said ; and he whispered to Louisa , " W e wi ll be marr ied on the seventh

of Decem ber. Fiv e years ago, that day, I walked home through the snowwith you ," ^ - P. F.

T H E O L D H O L L O W T R E E .

Oh , don't yo u remember the old hollow

tree,

That used to hang over th e stream by

the mill,

Where oft with our playmates we've

gambol'd with glee,

Or gather'd sweet flowers by the mu r

muring rill?Whe n to us all the world seem'd so lovely

an d fair,

Not a cloud to o'ershadow our bliss

could we see,

And a wreath of bright daisies I strung

for your hair.

As we sat in a ring by the old hollow

tree.

An d don't yo u remember when older we

grew,

A n d fled was the charm for the game or

th e song; ^

When dispersed far and wide were loved

ones we knew,

How the world seem'd to change as

time roll'd along ?

When to us, the old spot was more sacred

an d fair,

For there often by moonlight together

stray'd we ;A n d 'twas pain to the one, were the other

no t there,

Or a letter of love, in the old hollow

tree.

Where now are the faces an d voices so. shrill,

With whose musical glee the welkin has

rung ?

Where now the old tree, and the oldwater-mill ?

In fancy I see them, and join in thesong;

Bu t alas ! like a dream, they have all

pass'd away,

There are none now remaining, but you,love, and me,

And a gentle voice whis pers "that fast

comes the day,

When not one shall remember the old

hollow tree. T. L.

L U C I L L E ; OR, THE LOST CHILD..

C H A P T E R V 1 X

" Lucille , come, do you never inten d awak ing this bright sunny morning?

Do rise from your couch, laggar d, if only to listen to the trilling o f the lark,

and see the bright globules sparkling on the purple gra pe s! " exclaimed

Emile, springin g from the bed, and leaning over Luci lle, wit h an agitated

countenance, although she had forced a smile on it.

Lucille moved not, neither did she spea k; her face was hidden in the pillow,

and by the slight conv ulsio n of her frame it was evident she was indul ging in

tears, that were half wavering her in her promise of the preceding evening.

" C o m e , " continued Emile, pleadingly, and thro wing open the window

while speaking. " Come, Lucille, do not sully this bright auspicious morning

by this ill-timed shower of tears. And see, Jules is galloping over thehills; he has already returned from Marseilles, and has arranged all with

th e Abbe Brennon."

At this announcement Lucille started up in bed. " So s o o n ! " she cried in

terror. " Emile, assist me, I have changed; tell your brother so; I will not

see the abbe."

" O h , but you must," said Emile. " A l l is settled; be not a child to let

trifles scare yo u from a good and just purpose. Arise, and let the mor ningbreeze chase away those ill-timed tears, and the bright sun warm that chilled

little heart of yours." •

As Emi le spoke, the brig ht sun disappeared behi nd a lurki ng cloud, and gave

th e room, that had been ligh ted up by its bea ms, a cold, cheerless aspect.

Lucille looked round and shuddered.

"W he r e is the brightness n o w ? " she said. " Go n e , to war n m e of my

fate! Em ile , does it not speak plainly that Heaven approves not of thismarria ge, silent and secret ? "

" This is weakness Unwort hy of a child, Lucill e. Wh en did Heaven ever

disapprove of a virtuous union ? Leave your bed and be yourself; there never

wa s a bride yet that rose on her bridal m orn wh oll y uncontam inated by anundefined fear ; and behol d, the sun, your oracle, has again burst forth with

all its splendour. Come, dearest, haste, Jules is calling from bene ath; let a

smile dispel that gloom upon your brow; think only of the happy days to

come; give all dark pro pheti c though ts to the wind , and let m e, as you r

bridesmaid, preside at your adorning for the altar."

Emil e's cheerful tones in a degree dissipated the nervous timidi ty of Luc ill e;

she arose and commence d dressing in silence, but as she was t hrow ing a dark

silk dress over her head Emile arrested her.

" N o t that, no t that," she said, "it looks as gloomy as your own propheticmind, and will infect Jules with it, if his own pleasurable sensations do

not over power it, with its own somb re colour . Thi s light airy white dress

must be the one, and though no satin bows adorn it, and no wreath of orange

blossoms rests amo ng your silken curls, you will be a bride no man need be

ashamed to acknow ledge."

Lucille smiled faintly as her eyes furtively rested on the reflected figure in

her mirror. " I am ready now ," she said, layin g her hand on the handle of

th e door. " I leave this room for the last time as w holl y and solely myfather's; when I return to it I shall belong to another. Wi l l that one guard

me with the care and tenderness of the one whose lov ing authority I am

throwing o f f ? " She pressed her hands silently on her heart, then added, as

she suppressed along breath, " I must prove it."

" Y o u are late this morning, girls!" cried De Vernet, smilingly, observing

their whi te dresses. " Th e cou nt has been fidgetty this half hour for his

breakfast, wh ile you have been gaily decking yourselves. Reall y, were it not

for your pale faces, and rather gloomy looks, I should think you were goingto some village wedding; but this parting seems to affect you all more than it

should do, when at most it will be but for a few nymths, and you can receiveletters from each other every day if you are not t oo idle to write t hem ."

" Y e s , " said D'Alm aine , quickly, fearing Lucille's emotion would give rise

to suspicion. "T he y think by far too much of it, and to divert theirthoughts.. I have ordered my carriage in half-an- hour to take them a drive.

Thr ee or four hours passed in the open air this glorious morning will bring

back the colour to their cheeks and the brightness to their eyes, and gi ve

them courage to say 1 Adi eu! ' with firmness to-morr ow. Come, Emile, if

yo u preside, give us our coffee. I ha ve been up a nd out since six, and the

hands of my watch no w poin t to nine. Ha ve merc y on me, and be outck with

th e coffee."

Emile had taken Luci lle's place at the breakfast table, believin g she

possessed the most firmness; b ut her hand trem bled as she hande d the cup to

De Yern et. S he felt criminal befor e him, as if she was joi nin g in a plot against

him, and answered confusedly his questions, and the announcement of the

carriage was a welcome relief to her.

Lucille started up affrighted at the sound, declaring she felt too ill to g oout, and clinging nervously to her father.

"No nse nse !" he cried. "W ha t is it causes this strange irritability of manner, child, so whol ly unlike you rself? Y ou and Emile were talking all

nigh t instead o f sleeping, and want of rest has made you. nervous; the air will

chase it away. Her e, Monsieu r d'Al main e, I place her under your care ;* yo u

will not, I am sure, take he r farther than her strength will allow. Perhaps

it would be as well to reduce your three hours' drive to half its dimensions."

D'Alm aine too k ber from her father's arms, pressed her hands, and whispered

a few^ow tender words in her ear ; then, throwing a shawl over her shoulders,

le d her to the vehicle, and placing her and Emi le into it, jum ped in himself,

and waving his hand to De Yernet, drove off.

The carriage proceeded at rather a quick rate through the town of Marseilles

and a m ile and a half be yond it, when it b ranched off into a narr ow road, and

had proceeded near a mile in this direction, when D'Alm aine, looking fromthe window, exclaimed, in a tone of vexation, " Good heavens! there is

Batiste. W ha t can have brought his ill-timed presence so near us ?—just, too,

as we were about a lightin g, for we must l eave the carriage here that the

servants may merely think we are goi ng to morn ing service. Wh at shall

we do, Luci lle ? admit him t o our confidence ? Fo r see, the church is in

sight."" Yes, yes," she returned; " tell him . Batiste is our faithful friend. It

will be a great relief to me to have some one near when you are gone thatknows all about it."

D 'Almaine descended from the carriage wit hout speaking, thoug h evidently

ruffled, and spoke to Batiste, who listened without interrupting him to the

end, when he excl aim ed: " I do not like these private w eddings, they often

lead to un happy results. Lucil le has acted unwisely to deceive her father;

but I suppose it is too late to offer opposition, monsieur ? "

" I t is," replied D'Almai ne, "f or the priest now waits to perform the

ceremony. Be friendly, Monsieu r Batiste, and keep this affair secret a few

months, until I have broken it to my mother, when all will be well; and beno t harsh, I entreat you, towards Luci lle, who already suffers much from the

restraint upon her open nature, which for the present is unavoidabl e. Yo u

will enter into this plan, monsieur ? "

" Y o u say the priest waits," said B atiste, disconsola tely; " then my inter

ference wou ld be useless. Before I could inform her father, the deed would

be done; I must necessarily become a party to it. Here is my hand, monsieur.

I hope I am offering it to one wh o wil l not be the means o f breaking a

father's heart."

" Y ou are gi vin g it t o an honest man ," was the answer, in a proud tone.

" I will return to you immediately."

Batiste looked musingl y after him. " I believe you , Monsi eur d'Al main e,"

he #said. " Y'ou have a soul to do what is ri ght ; but you want energy, have

to o muc h pride, and are guided by your lady mother, who is one of the old

nobility, and thinks all beneath her own rank only worth trampling o n. P oor

Luci l le ! you have found it easier to gain the son's heart. The mother's

favour will not shine so readily on you . I am sorry my walk was taken this

wa y this morning; but here they come, the bri de pale, and t rembl ing as an

aspen's leaf. Ah ! so was Ma delin e on her marriage mo rn ing ; that is notalways a bad omen."

H e walked the other side of Lucill e to the church. She looked furtively at

him, but neither spoke.

On entering the church, the priest—already there with his book open at the

altar, waiting their presence—increased her tremor. She clung to Jules's

arm." Co ur ag e! " he whispered, leading her forward. " Wh at is there to fear

or condemn here ? A few words will make us one."

They now stood at the altar. The ceremony comm ence d. As it proceeded,her firmness returned; and she receiv ed the bene dict ion of the hol y man-,

and the congrat ulations of Em ile and Batiste, on its conclusion with a calm

mien and grateful heart, inde ed, the worst seemed to have passed; she had

been wavering the last twenty-fo ur hours between right and wrong, prayingthe scale to be turned in favour of the former. She had now trust in lier

hopes that all was for the best, and the arm she had clung to almost helplessly



149

n entering the chap el, she leant on , on departing from it, with the trusting j

evotedness of her nature.The following day the carriage, which had been waiting long at the cottage j

oor of De Vernet—some trilling omissio n or after-thought keep ing the

avellers from it—was ordered by D'Al mai ne to pro ceed to the orange grove

n the skirts of the val ley, there to wait till they joined it, every moment

eing valuable to him while he continued near his bride, who had promised to

ccompany them to it.

As they approached the grove, now in full blossom, and sending forth its

weet odour, D' Alm ai ne pluc ked one of its white feathering branches, and,

lacing it in Lucille's hair, said with a smile, " I t shall not be said that my

ride wore not the ora nge wreath0 1 1

her brow, the marriage emblem of herountry. It is an uncostl y and trifling gift, love ; but it is my first wedded

ne. And long after its withering petals have fallen and mixe d with its

ative earth, yo u will remember the time and place when and wh ere I

estowed it." . *

" I will ," she said, smiling throu gh her tears, and releasing the flowers

om her head,'slid them into her bosom. " I shall consider them a holy gift,

estowed at our first parting, I will watch and tend the m till we meet a gain ."

" Wh ic h will be ere many weeks, " he replied. " Ad ie u! we must now

eparate, or the sun will set, and the heavy dews fall on you r uncove red hea d

efore you can reach home."

Emile had said her last good-bye, and was in the carria ge; Lucil le threw

erself into Jules's arms. " Far ewe ll! " she cr ied, in a bro ken voice. " D o

ot be long kureturning; think of the bitterness of concealment, and pity

me . "

He threw his cloak round her, and hurried her toward s the vehicl e. " Go

with m e, " he whispered; " you are mine, legal ly min e; w hy should we separate?

o with me to Paris; there I will acknowledge you my wife, spite of the

orld, spite of my mo ther ."She struggled to free herself, but she was already on the steps of the

arriage; there wTas now no waverin g abou t he r; desperate with the force of

er feelings-she broke from him, and her voice was firm.

"Leave me, Jules," she crie d; " th i s is an outbreak o f selfishness I

i d not anticipate! Yo u would ha ve me add cruelty to disobedience ; have

me forsake my father witho ut a word, or even a look to soften the act. Go !

o u have yet to learn the heart of the woman you have given your name to,

you believe her capable of ingratitude." Humb led by her manner, more

triking in one so young , he stood a moment regarding her, when, drawing

er towards him, he pressed a long kiss on her lips.

"Pardon me !" he cried. " M y love had hurried me on to what I migh t

ereafter have regretted, had n ot your discretion —so superior to my own,

oung as you are—prevented it. Adi eu ! I cann ot trust myself longer with

o u ; I see your worth, and will love and venerate it."

He entered the carriage hurriedly , threw himsel f in a corne r of it, and it

was soon in rapid motion, leaving Lucille standing there like one paralysed.

Events had flitted a way so rapidly that, but for the bitterness of her feelings,

he could have fancied herself in a dream. He r eyes were still fixed on theetreating vehicle. Emile's handkerchief was waving from it ; she watched it

ill it became smaller, smaller, till it became a* mere speck, then a clump of

rees hid it entirely from her, and she turned from the direction this warm,

genial evening, cold, heartsick.

She entered the gr ove and sat dow n on a low branch wh ich ha d be en

llowed to jut out and grow unmolested from its parent tree. At the moment

a gust of wind disturbed the calm quiet of the grove, blossoms unnumbered

howered round her white and feathery as snow-flakes. She started up ,

haking them from her.

" I s it mockery," she cried, " o r do they speak of the future? I a m

covered-with these beautiful leav es, emblematical of innoc ence and unity .

Ah, look, look," she contin ued in a suppressed to ne, " they are already

withered; they cover me like a windin g-shee t, clin g to me, follow me ! " she

added, as they still fell upon her, though she beat them from her, and

etreated from the grove.

She ran several yards, assailed by a superstitious dread, til l the s moke from

the cottage chimneyprising bl ue and majestic, seemed to mingl e with the

clouds to assure her of her safety. She stopped to reco ver breath that herfather might not suspect her agitated feelings. He met her at the door.

" I was just coming in pursuit of you ," he said smiling; "f or you have

protracted your parting to such a length that I was doubtful wheth er Emil e

and her brother, out of true love of you r presence, had no t real ly succeede d

in using'some art to spirit you aw ray."

Th e thought of how near she had been hurried from him gave her languid

face a paler hue ; h e observed it, and added, " Tha nk Hea ven they are off,

Lucille ! Y ou will no w be my own again. I shall have some e njoym ent of

your societ y; and the roses, I hope, which the last few days h ave died on

your cheek will revive again . To nigh t y ou are sadly pale, as white as the

orange blossoms clinging to your hair."

" A r e they still th er e? " she exclaime d, her ol d, superstitious dread

returning; and raising her han d to her head, she brushed the m irritably

away. The y scattered about the table, she looked searchingly at them.

" Look, father," she cried, " they are all dead, their perfume g o n e ! W hen

before did the orange b lossom wither as it fell ? Is it because they have

fallen on me that I see them thus ? "

De Vernet laughed. " It is emblematic of old -ma idi sm! " he crie d; " m yLucille will never be taken from me."

" It speaks then of blighted hopes," she said, speaking between her teeth.

* Heaven forbid!" said her father.

He had sp oken ligh tly before; now an uneasy pang was at his heart and

he took her in his arms.

"Dispel this silly superstition," he con tin ued ; " for my happiness and ideas

are so bound up in you , my child, that to see you thus prematurely old and

thoughtfully reflective, unmans me."

" Y o u shall see me all smiles after to-n igh t," she said ; " I w ill sleep

away the gloom which parting with Emile , who m I love very dearly, has

occasioned. The morning shall make me your own Lucille again."

C H A P T E R V I I I .

Lucille was right. Wi th the morning came brighter ho pes ; it also broug ht

a letter from Emile, with o ne enclosed from D' Alma ine, full of kind and

tender expressions, just such as her own warm heart responded to. She

wondered how such superstitious dread could have found entrance for a

moment there; and h er answer to him was cheerful a nd hope ful, and had

it not be en for her secret, the th ough t of whi ch engende red sensations,

weighty and momentous, because her father was not allow ed to share it,she wou ld have had but th e one regret, that of bein g absent from her

husband.

Several months passed, and D' Alma ine was a regular corresp ondent. At

length his letters spoke of comi ng to the valley. Lucille 's heart beat

hurriedly against its barriers as she read the welcome words. " He is

coming," she thou ght, " to ease me of this torturing suspense, to give me

courage to look my father in the /ac e, with the innoc ence and confidence he

merits." Her spirits rose with the tho ugh t, and tho ugh the bloom on her

cheeks came and went, her voice -was more cheerful, and her tread lighter than

it had been since she became a wife.

Two days later D'Alm aine 's well-k nown step was on the gravelled path of

the cottage garden. Lucille rose from her seat to meet him ; but before she

reached the door, he had sprung in at the windo w which opened on the little

terrace, and she was in his arms. She had no words for him, tho ugh her

heart was full of them, and could only answer his impassioned ones, by

clinging to his neckban d weeping on his shoulder. Ho w she blessed the

chance that had taken her father from the house, and prevented him witness

in g this interview; for she soon understood he had not come to claim andbear h er ho me, but to impress upon her the necessity of keep ing their marriage

unknown to the world a few months longer..

" An d from my father also ?" said Luci lle . " Surely I may tell him ? Oh ,

yo u kn ow not w hat i t is, Jules, for a child to be always wit h a parent,

and a secret hovering on her tongue that must not reach his ears."

" W o u l d it avail anything in our cause with my mother ? " returned

D'Almaine. " No , she would condemn your father as an accessory, and refuse

on those terms to receive you. W e must proceed slowly, jjj&lle; but not the

less surely on that account. Yo u must go to Paris, that iMpiothe r may learn

to love you. Yo u will not, I hope, refuse me this, i f ycrcR ather consents to

part from you a few weeks." W

She was silent. Wh at could she say? She was in his po we r; she had

voluntarily forged her bonds, and, come weal, come woe, must submit to those

results.

Wi th this resolve, she schooled her face to cheerfulness, and kep t a sterncontrol over her troubled feelings, D'Almaine made no further Ternark during

his stay with her, on their relative situations, and happy on one point, that of

having him near her, the few days he remained flew on feathery pin ions, andwith all their disadvantages were numbered a mon g those free from care in

her wedded life.

De Vernet, who had suspected an attachment between them, was not

surprised on his return home to find the count there; and though a few drops

yet lingered on the eyelashes of his daughter, he thought they were tears

brought there by pleasure, and greeted him with his usual urbanity ; not an

idea for a single moment crossing his mind that his Lucille , so ri chly

endowed by Nature, could be objected to in an alliance with nobi lity because

in fortune she might be a disproportionate match, and D'Al main e, glad while

he remained there to b e thought the accepted lover o f Lucil le, as it lulled

other suspicions, and gave him an opportunity of being always near her, spoke

openly with De Vernet of the approaching period when heshould transplant

his cotta ge blos som to his own Parisian hom e, and the ancie nt halls of his

ancestors.

The morning o f D'Almaine's departure Lucille hurried to the small wood

skirting the premises, and throwing herself on the seat where. Jules had

obtained her unwilling consent to their union, was indulging freely in

the thoughts it had given birth to, when they were interrupted by therustling of the underwood near her. She looked up—Batiste was before her.

" Pardo n my intrusion, madame ," he said, coming towards her, " but a

secret always sits heavily on the mind of Jacques Batiste. The co unt, I hope,

has given permission for its being divulged ? "

" No," she replied, confusedly, " there is necessity for longer concealment.

A few months, perhaps only weeks; I cannot state, Monsieur Batiste, the

exact time, but as anxiously as yoursel f I trust this reserve will soon pass

away."

" I trust so ," said Jac qu es; " for I do not seem lik e an honest man when

before M. de Vernet with the know ledge o f his daughter's marriage on *my

conscience—a knowl edge so studiously kept from himself. Wha t, perm it

me to ask, madame, prevents the c ount acknowledg ing it ?" -

" I oannot enter into particulars no w, " she replied, "bu t they are grounded,

I feel convinced, on justice and honour ; therefore you will stand our friend a

little long er, and not ma ke my father unhap py by a premature disclosure,

which may mar the concerted plans o f Monsieur D 'Al mai ne, and cause much

unhappiness to myself proba bly."

" Heave n forbid I should add to your disco mfort," said Batis te; " for Ihave seen plainly that you have never been yourself since—since the morning

you overtook me near the c hurch of St. M ark. I do not like unaecessary

delays, but hope it is all right with the count, that he does not already regret

that mornin g's work. There, do not look so pale and woe-begone. I think

and hope with you it is all right—that dehfy may be exp edie nt; but after all

the straight road is the easiest. If it is rug ged we kn ow its terminatio n, and

there's no deception about #it. There, you are look ing pa kr than ever. Cheer

up! We - will both of us look on J^e sunny side of objects ; and Avhatever



150

may turn up, whether you need him or not, believe that Jacques Batiste will

ever stand foremost yours, and your father's firmest friend."

" I know it, I know i t! " she uttered^ subduing her emotion. " Bu t what

have I to fear!—surely not my husband's truth or honou r! No, no ; I

am only unhappy because fere is broken' faith betwe en my father and

myself.'*'

" Ah , it was wi lf ul !" he replied , with a sisrh. " Fr om such a father, what

liad you to fear ? Even now I would break through the restraint imposed on

me , and tell him all."

" Not yet, not yet," she returned hurriedly. " A higher duty than that to

my father sways over me, Batiste. I wil l submit to it—it will not be for

long. Monsieur D'Almaine is no ble and generou s, and i n a few weeks will

release you from the silence that weighs so heavily Upon you."" I wish it, madame, " said Batiste; " no t for myself alone, but for you,

whom it afflicts and co ncern s infinitely mor e. I wi ll be silent hencefo rth,

until you permit me to speak. But believe and command my friendship when

ever you require i t."

"Th an ks— tha nk s!" was her rep ly; but he had hurriedly quitted her

while speaking, and herwor ds'fell on the^ir , and were lost before they could

reach him.

* * * * * *A few weeks after, a letter addressed to De Vernet from Madame

D'Almaine gave surprise, not unm ixed w ith pleasure, to the inmates of the

cottage. Its contents were merely the following : —

"M ad am e D'A lma ine 's sincere friendship to Monsieur De Vernet, and

entreats him to spare his daug hter a few Weeks to see the w onders of Paris ;

he may rest assured that the greatest care will be taken of her. Madame

D'Almaine will send a confidential female attendant to guard her during the

jou rn ey ; and her son and daught er, who are desirous for her soc iety, will

meet her the second stage from the c apital with the family carriage . United

commendations from the family circle of Madame D'Almaine to Monsieur and

Mademoiselle De Vernet, with hopes that an early day will be named when

her visitor may be expected."

There was also a letter from Emile, with an enclosure from Jules to Lucille.

D'Almaine ' s contained but the following few Words:—

" DEAREST L U C I L L E , — C o m e to Pa ri s; I am all impatie nce to see you , and

have much to say* M y mothe r is still in ignora nce of our alli anc e; but

when you are with us, and she know rs you , we shall have ample opp ortun ity of

revealing. YoUfe; devotedly, J U L E S . "

Lucille read and re-read this short epistle, with half angr y feelings against

the writer, that he shou ld wish her to appear before his mothe r under

a name and character she had no long er any right to ; her nature revolted at

the dupli city of the pro ceed ing, and ner first impulse was to wa r against his

wish and remain where she was.

De Vernet woul d not listen to Lucill e's excuses. He had some time

felt alarmed by her loss of the animated spirits that had made her so attractive,

.and at the fleeting colour which seldom now rested o n her cheeks. He thought

she wanted chan ge o f scene and air, and was grateful that the countess's

invitatio n woul d enable her to have bot h. Accordingly, an early day was

fixed for her departure. With a heavy heart she tore herself from her father's

arms, and steppin g into the carriage the matro nly person sent by Mada me

D'Almaine followed, wh o soon, by her conve rsation and her anecdotes, and the

praises of the family she had served thirty years, succeeded in diverting her

attention from the present. to the future.

It was the afternoon of the secon d day when they arrived at the place of

meetin g mention ed by the countess. As the tired horses entered the courty ard

of the inn, Lucille heard a joyful exclamation ; she looked from the window;

Jules and Emile, with smiling, welcome faces, were already there. Th e

coach door was opened hastily, and before she was well aware of it, she was

in the hitter's arms; D'Almaine took her from them, and almost bore her into

the hotel, Where', unobserved, he could shower upon her the fervour of his

affection.

" W e will dine here," said D'Almain e, " and at least have a few hours'

uninterrupted pleasure and conversation before you are introduced to my

mother, who, like a child in expectation of a new toy, is longing to show you

to the World she lives in, and the only one she knows."

Lucille readily assented, glad o f any e xcuse to pos tpo ne a meeting with a

person who, from the recollections of her childhoo d, was neither amiable nor

conciliating.

C H A P T E R I X .

At half-past nine o'clock the same evening, with reluctant, trembling steps,

which, all the assurances, of her husband had not powe r to allay, Lucill e was

ascending the noble staircase of the Hotel d'Almaine. The servant who

preceded them threw open & e doors of the salon ; but as they were about to

enter, Emile stopped, and taking Lucille' s arm, said, " N o t there; let us go to

my mother's room first, she has ex pecte d us some hours, and will feel herself

slighted if we settle down here and allow her to come to us. Y Q U must not

think her wanting in politeness, Lucille, that she is not here to receive you;

we must remember she expected us to dinner, and is now, I know, dressing for

a party at the Tuileries, and her attention is too much engrossed by that duty

to bestow a thought on us,"

Before Emile had concluded, they were standing before the dressing-room

of the countess, at whic h Emile had k nock ed. In a few moments the door

was opened by a lady's maid, so handsomely and tastefully dressed that Lucille

started, thinking she stood before Madame d' Alma ine; but Emile entered, and

going to the upper end of the room, said to a lady who sat be fore a large

cheval-glass, "Mam ma , here is Mademoiselle de Verne t."

Lucille had followed Emile to* the centre of the apartment, where she stood,

struck with the ligh t and sp lendour b y whie h she was surrounde d, dazzl ing

fo r a momejat to^ i gi rl who had never, since her infancy till now , been ten

miles from her home; and though that home had the charm of every comfort

arou nd it, but havi ng no female but herself to preside over it, it was wholly

free from the wealth and luxuries amid which she now stood.

Folding doors separated this spacious apartment from the sleeping-room;

its lofty -ceiling was deco rated with fresco-paintings, the soft velvet carpet rose

elastic from her .tread; curtains of rich damask threw a glare of grandeur

over the elaborately carved furniture, picked out with bu rnished gold, and

polished to the highes t d eg ree ; several handsome painting s of the great

masters seemed bursting life-li ke from the paper on the walls ; on the large

dressing-table, trimmed with broad richly patterned Mechlin lace, burnt four

wa x candles in high massive silver candlesticks, and on the broad pure

white -marble mantelpiece gira ndoles, with he avy pendants, glittered brigh t

as crystal drops in the sun, as their lights fell upon the cut glass, and reflected

a hundredfo ld the rich draperies of the immense windows .Madame was just putting the last touch to her complexion, nor did she

turn to the sound of her daughter's voice until she had completed it, when

she arose deliberately, still glancing towards_her glass.

Lucille, whose quick eye still wandered over the exquisite taste displayed

in the a rrangement of the most trifling decoratio n of this elegant apartment,

turned qui ckly from them to the countess, an object as striking as anything

she had gazed on.

Mada me d'Almai ne was forty-five, but appeared at least ten years youn ger ;

she was tall and elegan tly formed, and the gossamer dress floating'like a

transparent cloud around her increased the lightness of her figure; a zone of

diamon ds encircled her waist, and the same costly gems glistened on her

round white arms; her dark hair, unsii vered by a sing le str<?ak, was dressed

classically, bu t three white feathers fastened by a band of jewe ls drooped

gracefully on her well rshap ed but more exposed shoulders than Fame licensed.

Thus she was before the astonished Luci lle, whose memory retained not the

least remembrance of her person.

" Mademo iselle de Verne t," she ex claimed, as if Emile had but just

pronounced the name, " you have come at last, have you; may I ask whatdetained you on your jo ur ne y? " And without waiting an answer, taking

her hands kissed both cheeks, adding , " Pray, disencumber you rself of that

unmercifully large bonnet and most ungraceful scarf, that I may judge of the

change six years have made in your person."

Lucille threw aside her bonne t, but was reluctant to part with her scarf,

till Madame drew it aside, when it fell to the ground.

" On! she is very pretty, Emi le, " said the countess, " perfectly beautiful

when she blushes. No t at all like a countr y girl, but for her figure, which is

rather, oh yes, certainly, rather too developed. Yo u require modernising,

child ; to- morr ow we will set about the work . Adele," she said, calling to a

young and handsome girl, "b e it your duty to attend to Mademoiselle de

Verne t; conduct her to the suite of rooms prepared for her, and see that

she'wants nothi ng." •

Lucille, who had been on tenterhoo ks, trembli ng and blushing prepared

to attend this order with alacrity.

" S to p !" added madam, " not so fast, mademoiselle. Le t me judg e by your

gait whether I shall have occasion to send for a training-master before you

appear in pub lic. Ah ! yo u want ease, but you are tired, I shall expect youto breakfast at twelve to-mofrow in my room. Adieu, good night."

This time Lucille made her escape, and preceded -by Adele and Emile,

reached the room s prepared for h er.

"This is your boudoir" said Emile, carelessly, and taking the light from

Adele, threw its be ams ove r a large, handsomely furnished r o o m ; " that to

the left, your sle epi ng- roo m; and this," thro wing o pen a conservatory door,

" where v oir are to gather your bouquets."

Lucille looked on delighted. Flo wers of the choice st description wrere

arranged with skill and taste; and several small birds, with folded wings,

their heads confidi ngly buried ben eath their thick plumage, reposed peaceably

on the tender twigs of oleander and myrtle.

" Oh, this is beauti ful! " she exclaimed, softly. " Lik e hom e; surrounded

by birds and flowers."

" I t is home ," whispered Emile, "y ou r rightful h ome, and one you will

soon reign in. Come now to your chamber."

Lucille stepped lightly after Emile into a light airy room. The walls were

covered with a pale pink paper che quered with silver. Mirrors jutted out

from each corner , with l ight ed candles in their heavy cut-glass chandeliers..

A Fren ch bedstead with s ilver cornic es, and richly embroidered white muslin

Curtains, lined with pink silk, hung in ample folds and spread gracefully over

the flowers of the soft Axminster ca rpet; the w ind ow curtains and "toilet

draperies were the same, looped up with silver bands. A piled-up wood fire

blazed cheerfully, throwin g its light over the pink hangin gs, causing it to

illumine with the rich glow of health the faces of Ijie two girls, who sat with

their feet on the broad bright fender in deep converse.

" These rooms are exq uisitely grace ful," said Lucill e, at a break in their

conversation; and looking round, she added, " but I care not for such grandeur,

I should have preferred sharing your bed, Emile."

" N o t a word about it, L uci lle ; i t is my mother's wish, and I must say she

has done yo u great h on ou r; for these rooms were fitted up by my grandfather

before the revol ution for the dauphiness, who a short time was under the

charge of my grandmoth er."

" T h e dau phi nes s!" said Luci lle ; "t he only one of the ill-fated family

wh o esca ped! Poo r Hen riet te! I shall press the same pillow you did before

your misfortunes ! " and she shuddered at the recol lection of what her father

had told her of the horrors of Paris during the brief reign of the monster

Robespierre.

" Y e s , " continued Emile, "the rpoms have been closed many years, and my

mothe r considers she has done you a great ho nou r by having them reopened

and fresh garnished for your reception."

"T he n they escaped the desolation of the revolution ? " said Lucille.

" Y e s , " replied Emile . " It was well kno wn that my grandfather (though

he did not openly avow it) abhorred the system which crushed the people^



152 THE FAMILY HERALD—A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [July 7, 1SC0.

both ? I need not preface with any apology my determination not to listen to

you while that document exists, and my wish also that this interview may be

put a speedy termination t o. Monsi eur, I wish you good morning."

" Sta y," he said, hold ing her dress, as she was quittin g the room; "s tay ,

mademoiselle, and hear what I have come to tell you . I dislike Mademoi selle

d'Al mai ne as infinitely as I admire .you . . The contract was created by our

pare nts; she forfeits all her fortune if she rebels against it, I but a moiet y of

mine, which I freely give to her. Her e is the hated paper ," he added,

taking one from his pock et. " Say you are mine, and I'l l give its atoms to

the wind." t . •Lucille trembled violently. She wished to free Em il e; Dut how could she

do this without involving her own truth ? She heard a step in the corridor ,and profited by it.

" Be quick, monsieur \ " she cried hur riedl y; " that is the countess's foot.

At once let me kno w your determination. That bond must be destroyed beforeI can answer you . Th e countess is already h er e! "

" This is my determ inatio n," he said, tearing the cont ract. " Thus perishall that binds me to Emil e d'Al main e! Say, does this satisfy you ? Ha ve Iyour answer to my hopes ?"

Th e last words still sounded through the room as Madame d'Alm aine entered.

A moment her hand lingered on the handle of the door, and her wrathful

eyes wande red from the du ke to Luci lle, who stood firmly before her, t hou ghher cheeks were flushed, and a smile lighted up her eyes.

" What means this ? " said the countess contemptuou sly, after a brief pause. " W ha t am I to infer, Mademoi selle de Vernet, by finding you alonewith Monsieur de Paleron in your own apartments after the familiarity I

so recently witnessed between yo u and m y son ? Am I to conclude from it

that any gentleman who m ay presume to enter your boudoir is not only no

intruder, bu t welcome to you ? "

" Y ou are to infer, madame, what y ou please from the duke's visit," replied

Luci l le ; " f o r unless he explains the purport, I shall not, from considering

both that and himself too insignificant to need an explanation from me."" Wh at unparalleled insolence, to taunt me in my own ho use! " exclaimed

the countess. " Monsieur, what does it mean ? On my daughter's a ccount, Iinsist on an explan ati on; she, as Avell as myself, is insulted by this visit, andI appeal to you to clear up the mystery."

He r eye at the mom ent caught the torn contract on the carp et; she caught

it up eagerly. At a glance all was explained. This weak young man, infatuated

by the beauty of Lucill e, had, to obtain her, destroyed the document whichsecured his title and large estates to her family. Fo r a mom ent she wassilent, overpo wered by ra ge ; but when speech came to her, she loaded bo th

Lucille and the duke with the most bitter invectives.

Lucille, secure in her innoc ence, retired to a distant corner of the room,

while the duke, coolly shrugging his shoulders, endeavoured to beat a retreat;

but the countess stood before the door, crying, " Am I not to be enlightened

on this scene ? "" Wh at can I say, madame ? " returned the duke, rendered desperate by his

situation. " Surely the paper in your hand explains al l; I have torn thecontract which boun d me to your daughter, because I prefer another. She is

welcome to the fortune I shall lose by it. W h at else can I say to satisfyyou, unless that I love Mademoiselle de Vernet, and am willing and anxious

to make her my wife ? "

' " Y o u r w i f e ! " said the countess, scornfully; then, curbing her feelings,she said with assumed calmness to Luci lle , " A n d you, mademoiselle, whatanswer do you return to the duke's offer ? "

" That I am enga ged, " replied Luci lle, pro udl y; " but wer e I free, myanswer would be rejection of his offer. Th e duke possesses neither honour

no r feeling, or he woul d have consulted with Em ile before pr oposi ng to me ;

he has callously trifled with the feelings of t he woman he was affianced to,and I despise him for his want of honou r and gener osity ."

"She refuses," said Madame d'Almaine, hastily turning from Lucilleto the duke, wh o stood petrified with astonishment at Luci lle' s coolness, an d

wh o never for a momenfsuspected he could be refused. " She rejects you ,monsi eur," she continue d, " with out le aving you a spark o f hop e. Emi le isiguor ant of all this. The contract is merely torn acr oss; let things remain

as they were before this ridiculous interview. If you are willing, there isnothin g to prevent it. A few stitches will make this document whole again.

Mademoiselle," she added, turning to Lucille, "your silence is all that isnecessary on this subject."

"B ut not mine, ma mm a! " cried Emile, springing from the conservatory,and snatching the papers from her mother 's hand, tore it i nto small pieces

before the countess was fairly aware of her presence. " Th er e! " she con

tinued, exul tingl y. " I have completed what the Du ke de Paleron com

menced. Monsi eur, I thank you for this act; it has given me new life.

Ho w beautiful to feel free!" she exclaimed, springing light ly from theground . " Oh ! I a m -a little bir d escaped from the gi lded wires that kept itin bondage! Nature has fresh char ms for m e ; the breeze fans my cheek lightejr and cooler, and the sun shines as bri ght and clear upon me, as it did

before I kn ew what captivity meant. Oh freedom, freedom, ho w beautiful

thou art! " and throwi ng open the window, with heightened colour andbrightened eyes, she looked compl acentl y on the paved .courtyard beneath.

"Th is is too mu ch !" exclaimed the countess, approaching Emile, andshaking her with all the vehemence of passi on; " your boasted freedom shall

be of short duration. That girl, that low-born soldier's daughter, is thecause of thi s; and if I have power , she shall feel my vengeance. Ye s, "

she continued, her eyes flashing on Lu cill e, " yo u shall not escape me. Y ouhave ruined my daughter's fortunes, and like a serpent have crept into myson's heart; but his mother has powe r to crush you. Oh, even as I crushthese useless atoms beneath my feet, " she cri ed, trampli ng on the fragmentsof the contract, " so wd l I crush the creature wh o has stepped between meand my views! Duke, follow me."

M I will ," he replied, glad of any excuse to quit the house he had so short a

time before entered with all the warmth and expectation his pusillanimousnature was capable of.

Lucille and Em ile sank tre mblingly into each other's arms as the door

closed on the countess and t he duke. Luci lle was the first to speak.

" What dreadful threats ! " she cried, in a quivering tone. " Have I doneanything t o deserve them, Emi le ? W h y am I not with my father r I shallnot be safe till under his quiet roof. I think I will quit this hateful house

directly. I am not, cannot be safe while it shelters me."

" Do not say so, Lucille," returned Emile. "M amm a is violent, but not

wicked. Besides, a word from Jules wo ul d send her from it. She has norigh t her e; you, and you alone, are mistress. If my mother proceeds togreater lengths, she must know the position you occupy in relation to her."

" Oh, the house is hateful to me ! " exclaimed Lucil le. " I will never enter

it as its mistress. W ha t happiness it would be to me to leave it, now and forever. This is o nly the fourth day of Jules's absence; another week

must pass before we meet. Oh, I can never endure the purgatory of remaining here so long. I wi\l write and request his immediate return orpermission to leave it."

" Yours is certainly a troubled life, dear girl, " said Em il e; " but six days

will fleet away like shadows if you only allow yourself to thin k on the absent

on e and his return. And then you have some necessary purchases to make,

which will occupy you several days. W e shall only meet mamma at dinner,

when she will be too polite to show you any discourtesy; and before shehas time to think of her threat, if she has not already forgotten it, you

will be safe in your husband's arms, where nought can harm yoif."

Lucille tried to think so ; but with a heavy heart she sat down to write to

Jules, to beg him not to postpone his return beyond the promised time.

(To be continued.)

T H E SAI LOK' S L OVE .

Fair Ida was the fairest

That danced upou th e green,

When in the bright May morning

They clio.se her for their queen.

She loved a gallant sailor,

An d dearly loved was she

By him, who left her weeping.

T% cross th e silver sea.

They kiss'd, an d then they parted,

Th e vessel left th e land,

She saw it in the distance,

An d waved her snowy hand;

She stood in maiden beauty

Upon the lonely shore,

A nd heard the waters whisper,

" He comes no more, no more ! "

She heeded not the moaning,

She suffer'd not the pain ;

Bu t thought she heard him saying,

" I soon will como again."

A h ! vainly did sho languish ;

That gallant ship no more,

Fraught with its countless treasure,

Came to that fatal shore;

An d sadly did sho mourn,

An d wildly did she weep

For hor beloved sailor

Wh o perish'd in the deep.She stood in maiden beauty

Upon the lonely shore,

An d heard the waters howling,

" He comes no more, no more ! "

A. 8. J.

THE LADY OF THE EELL HOUSE.

„ C H A P T E R X X X I I I .

Mrs. Wilburn's funeral took place within a week, and Leicester wasdaily expected at Br iony Bank. Mrs . Mayfield engaged a bedroo m for him ata boatm an's cottage, nearly a mile off by the r oad, though much less by water.It was the only one she could find Avithin a reasonable distance, aud even thatshe could only get on t he cond ition of its being vacated in case a former lodgershould return, wh o had been with them for about a week, and to whom theboatman's wife had given a promise that he should have it again when he

came back.

" Ho we v e r , I have taken it," added Mrs. Mayfield, "for if the othergentleman should come in a hurry Mr. Wilburn can but come here for a night

or tw o. But I do n't think he'll be disturbed, for it's three weeks and moresince the other gentleman left, and Mrs. Monksford has heard nothing of him,and so I don't think he means to come back ."

Th e next day Leicester arrived. A great change had come over him; he lookedseveral years older, his face was very pale, and his eyes heavy and sunk en;

his manner too, whieh had always been reserved and quiet, had now anadditional gravity in it. But that was to be expected. As they walked

about the garden in the dusk o f the evening, he talked to Guendolen of hismothe r, and told her h ow he h ad read t o her m any passages of her letters,and how she had blessed her with her last breath. And Guendolen afterwards

informed him of Sir Frederick's death, which he had not heard of, and

enjoined on hi m secrecy with r egard to her mar riage for the sake of littleFrank.

" Yo u are not goi ng into widow's weeds then ? " said Leicester, with a g rimsmile.

" I ought rather to put on robes of r ejoi cing ," she answered, " not for my

ow n sake, for 1 have always been able to protect myself against him, but for

that of his poor wife, though I much fear she will make another foolishmarriage as soon as the year is out."

" A n d y o u ? " said Leiceste r, with hesitation. "H av e you refrained frommarrying on account of this ma n ? "

"Par tly ," she repl ied; " I think I should once have ventured to actindependently ; but that is all gone now. Do you kn ow ," she added, anxiousto change the theme, "though I have been here for more than a month, Ihave not once been on the lake. The evening is so lovely, I shoul d like a

row, if we can get a boat."" I will go round to the boatman's house, and fetch one directly," said

Leicester, with more animation than he had shown since his arrival.

" Can y ou manage it by yourself," she inquired, " or will yo u bring theboatman with you ? "

" I am used*to boating," he replied, " if you are not afraid to trust yourself with me."

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July 7, I860.} 153

" N o t at all," said Guen dole n; " I am fond of rowing myself, or usedto be when I was stronger."

" But are you not afraid of goi ng out in the night air? The evening, yousee, is drawing in."

" Oh, no ! " she repli ed. " I am accusto med to the fresh air ; it does nothurt me."

While he went for the boat, Guendolen returned to the cottage for a shawl." What do you think, my dear ? " said Mrs. Mayfield, as she wrap ped it

carefully round her. " Mrs. Monksford was up here when Mr. Wi lbu rn came,and she says he is the v ery gentleman that lodged with her three weeksago."

" Ind eed ! " said Guendolen, with a start. " That is very strange, and yet,"

she added, assuming a look of indifference, " it is easily expl aine d. Hewanted to pass a little more time among st t he hi lls, but did no t like to

intrude upon me while I was such an invalid. It was very thoughtful andkind of him ." •

But why did the idea of this thoughtful kindness make Gwendolen's heartbeat so violently as sho walked down the garden path to the lake ? And whenth e little boat shot out upon the water with the single dark figure in it, whydi d she utter a faint cry of recognition ? However, she took her place insilence, and in silence her companion rowed over the glitter ing water.

Wi th a mixture of malice and sentiment Guendolen began to sing theCanadian boatsong in time to the mot ion of the oars. Leice ster at firstmaintained silence, but unabl e lo ng to resist the temptation, he joi ned in wit ha subdued voice. There was no start, no recognition on Guendolen's part;the information she had derived from Mrs. Mayfield, and the sight of the boat, had fortified her against being startled into any expressions of surprise. Leicester grew bolder with his fancied impunit y, t houg h feeling alittle disappointment that his former singing had made so small an impressionupon her, that she failed to recognise his voice when heard again.

Guendolen kept her secret, and he kept hi s; and after an hour spent onthe lake in desultory talk and occasional snatches of song, they returned

home, with just the same mutual understanding^ith which they had set out.But at night Guendolen confidently took her place at the win dow whi ch shehad for a long time abandoned. Presently the boat came out against thewillow tree, and the well-known voice began to sing again with its guitaraccompaniment; but there wTas a deep sadness and mela nchol y in its tones,the cause of which she well knew, and the serenade did not last so long asformerly.

The next m orning, when Leicester came to breakfast, Guen dolen made noallusion to the previous evening, but urged him to commence painting withoutdelay. He di d s o, and every morn ing was devote d to his art, the love of whichand the de light w hic h he felt in its exer cise, roused him speedil y from hisdeepest grief, and time, aided by constant emp loyment, subdued the thought sof his mother into a sad and pleasing memo ry. He worke d indeed with a willand a purpose, for Guend olen wit h the utmost kindness a nd delicac y had insistedupon lending him m oney as she would to a brother, whic h he m ight rep aywhene ver he realised sufficient by the sale of his painti ngs, and tho ugh there

was no person i n the world to whom it would be less burdensome to ow e adebt of gratitude, his pride revolted against being in debt, even to her. Inaddition to this, his sober reason assured him that he must fly her company.He was happy when she sat in his studio, watching the pictures growing uponhis easel, or reading to him as he worked; his spirits were buoyant as hecantered b y her side over the h ills, in the balmy mornin gs of springy or th ekeen b raci ng air of win ter ; h e was in a dream of bliss when they floatedtogether in the little boat over the calm lake in the evening, chatting confi

dentially as the twilight deepened, and sometimes mingling their voices

together in song. He was happy, too, during the lon g winter evenings,when they were necessarily thrown so much into each other's society, variedonly by occasional visits from the clergyman and his pretty daughter, the onlyacquaintance which Guendolen had formed; there being, in fact, no otherthoroughly well-br ed and conversible people dwelli ng in that secluded cornerof the world.

An d Guendol en, also, was happy, tho ugh her ca lm seriousness of mannerhad none of the exuberance of youthful joy . Her wonted activity returned

with returning health, and she often astonished Leicester by the courage with

which she braved the wintr y storms, and cli mbed the snow -covere d hills.But her condu ct towards him was alway s so quiet, so sisterly, that he felt at

once placed on the most familiar footi ng, and kept at the most respectfuldistance, i n his intercourse with her. W he n she listened for lo ng hours ather window, as he dared to breathe out his passion with unrestrained ardour,he felt at once at the height of hope and in the depths of despair, for sheseemed always calm and self-possessed when he met her in the morni ng, a ndnever in any way alluded to the serenade. W as it possib le, he thou ght,that the trilling distance and the absence of restraint so changed his voice,

that she did not reco gnis e it ? That woul d imply indifference a nd w ant of sympathy on her part ; and if on the contrary she had detected his secret,the coolness wit h whi ch she passed it by with out an y allusion pr oved thathe loved in va in ; and yet if s o, why was she so cruel as to giv e him thetacit encouragement im plied by listening .at the open wi ndow ? He wras

consumed by these reflections one morning as he sat alone, putting thefinishing touches to a beautiful bi t o f lake scenery. Guendol en entered, andsilently contemplated the work.

" Oh ! that is exquisite," she exclaimed, enthusiastically. " I t is the very

.scene itself. No—no, not one touch more, or you will spoil it."" Y e s , " he said; "a little toning on that group of trees in the middledistance, a little atmosphere there, and they will melt better into the grey."

" Well , perhaps you are righ t there," she said, watching his brush as he

worked; " but there must be absolutely no more retouching. It is so good

as it is that anythi ng more wil l spoil it. Ha ve you another canvass of thesame size? " she added, examini ng some that leaned against the wall.

" N o , " he repl ied; " those are all smaller."

"T he n you must send for one, " she said, "f or that view of the cascadethat we visited yesterday will make a charming c ompani on picture to this."

" I fear ," he said, lo oki ng dow n and trac ing figures on the gr oun d with hi smaulstick, " I fear that I must not begin another pictu re.". " Why not ? " she asked, with an innocent child-lik e look.

"I —I— can not ," he exclaimed, hastily, throwing down his palette andbrushes. " I have stayed here too lo ng ! I have wrecked my own happiness,and all that I can do is to go into the world and be thankful when mymiserable life is required of me."

"What a i ls y o u ? " said Guendol en, lay ing her hand u pon his arm, andfeeling half .afraid that his senses were leaving him.

" Do n' t touch m e ! " he exclaimed, throwi ng off her hand wit h a shudder.

He stood between her and the door, towards which she cast a longing glance,and then-retreated behind the table.

" Wh at have I done, " she said, reproachfully, " that you should shudderat me as though there were a viper on my hand ? "

" D o n e ? " he repeated, angrily. " Y o u have destroyed me ! killed me !ruined m e ! "

Guendolen's eyes opened wider still at these unexpected accusations." Yo u have loaded me with benefits and kindnesses," he continued; " Y ou

have made me y our c ompani on, and you have not thought that in so doingyo u must teach me to love you; and that I, a beggar, dependent on yourcharity, cannot dare to aspire to a return of the passion with whi ch you havewantonly consumed me. There ! " he exclaimed, turning away from her, andstanding with his arms haughtily folded across his chest , " I have told youall! and now hate me , spurn me, revile me, order me from your house ; I ambut the poor artist who m you took in for charity when his occupation was

gone. Order me from yo ur hou se; I wil l g o ; I am waiting for that last

drop in my cup of bitterness. It is so full already that it ought to overflow."

Guendolen had listened to him in amazement, but at length, understanding

the case, that what she heard were not the ravings of insanity, but the outburst of passion that could be no longer repressed, she obeyed the generousimpulse of her heart, and went to him.

"L ei ce st er !" she said, in a gentle voice. It was the first time that shehad called him by his Christian name. H e did not look round, but the deep

convulsive heaving of his chest subsided. " Leice ster! " said Guendolenagain, taking his left hand in both hers. A violen t shudder shot through hisframe, but still he remained motionless. "L ei ce st er !" she repeated,appealingly, and pressing the hand which she held.

" O h! I s it a sweet dr ea m? " he murmured, pressing his other hand overhis burni ng eyeballs. " Be merciful, and do not wake me. "

"Le ice ste r, woul d you have me woo you ? I have given yo u every opp or

tunity of declaring your love." Anot her strong shudder was the onl yanswer. " I never thought that the accident of wealth could place any

barrier betw een us. I do not so respect gold as to imagine that it renders itspossessor more worthy of affection, or that the w ant of it should be thereason for not loving . Is not happiness of more worth than money ? If yo u were rich and I were poor, I would not do you the injustice to refuse

yo u the happiness my hand would give, because it did no t h old a heavypurse. Leicester, turn and answer me."

" N o , no, " he replied; "l et me still dream that I am happy, for when thisvision is gone, I have nothing but misery before me."

" Tiresome f e l low!" she said with playful petulance, giving him a littleshake, "There shall be no misery before you if my true heart's love has powerto make you happy."

" Wh at is it you sa y ?" he exclaimed, tmrning hastily. " N o , no, Guendolen, you cannot. love me. I know that your love was gi ven long ago tosome one else, to that Captain Greville, throu gh whose fault you nearlydied."

" It is true, Leicester," replied Guendolen, meekl y; " true, that I did love

him ; but that is past and gone ; and if I can jud ge of my own heart, thatwild and frantic passion has bee n succeeded by a steadier, deeper, holier,stronger love."

" A n d for me ? " said the wonde ring L eicester. " Mor e love for such anugly fellow as I than you gave to that fascinating Adonis ? "

" O h , Leiceste r! You ought to know that it is not mere beauty that a

woman finds captivating in man. There are far higher qualities which , if wecan appreciate them , throw mere symmet ry of feature wholly in the shade.Wh at woman could be insensible to your tender, devoted, respectful love ?

Believe me, I have not been blind to the hundred proofs y ou have given of

your regard for me, nor deaf to yo ur sweet songs, and all that they weremeant to say."

"Have you known all this time, then, that it was / who ventured to singto y o u ? " exclaimed JLeicester.

" N o t all the time, " replied Guen dol en; " a n accident revealed it to mewhen you returned here in September. But as you seemed desirous of p reserving your incognito, and sang so mu ch better through the imaginary foldsof its mystic veil, I had no motive for making known m y discove ry. I haveoften been tempted to do it, but in return for all that you have sacrificed for

me I made the magnificent offering of this little triumph of feminine v anity."

" I never made a sacrifice at all," said Leic este r; " bec ause m y onlypleasure consisted in seeing you pleased."

" W e l l , we will not get metaphysical upon the subject," said Guendo len." Have you nothing further to say, Leicester Wilburn? "

" Y

r

es," he replied, drawing a deep breath, taking both her hands in his,and look ing full in her face, * as you give me the hope of obt aining yo urlove, I will endeavour to earn a right to it. I wil l go to Italy as I hadintended—but with what different p rospe cts!— I wil l study for a few years,I will work hard, brightened by a hope that I little anticipated, and I willhave a name at least to lay at your feet, if not a for tun e."

"T ha t is your plan, is i t ? " said Guendolen, with co'vert irony. " Y o u

will go to Italy for a few years, and study hard to make yourself worthy of



154 THE FAMILY HERALD — A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [ j u i y 7, im.

claiming what you already possess. I, in the meantime , live here in sol itu de;I, wh o have found such pleasure i n yo ur society, am to remain on one side

of the ocea n; while you, who profess to be hap py with me, will go away

to the other. W e l l ! It is a very good pla n; but what is the object of it ?•Simply to gratify your pride, that will not stoop to accept wealth at thehands o f the wom an yoii love. Wel l , let it be so. My pride will also assertitself. Since you wish it, I shall offer no opposition."

She walked out of the room, leaving Leicester standing in the middle of th e floor lost in amazement. The stupefaction into which he had fallen

quickly passed away, and he followed her. After a few minutes' search he

found her seated in the boat, reading or pretending to read. He Stood on thebank, but she appeared not to notice his prese nce; he stepped into the boat,but still she did not raise her eyes. So taking the oats he pushed off gently,

and row ed to a sm all creek at som e distance, where a well -kno wn'p ath ledthrough the woods.

" Will yo u come out ? " he said, offering his h and.She stepped from the boat, and they proceeded side by side along the

narrow path without uttering a word.

"Gue ndol en," he said, at length, " w e must come to an un derstanding.This suspense is dreadful."

" I though t the understanding was perfec t," she said, with an assumption

of simpli city. " Y ou are to go to Italy for some years—about six or eight, I

suppose—while I remain here and wait quietly until you have attained a name

or fortune, w hich in the eyes of the w orld will place us on an e qualit y."

" Oh, Guendol en," said Leicester, heartily repentin g of his nroposai, " ca n

yo u not understand that I wo uld not have you unite yours elf to a namelessbeggar ? "

" I see all the advantages of what yo u pro pose ," she said, with provo king

coolness. " It will be far better for you to work on alone, uncheered by thedaily smiles of affection. It will be wiser and nobler, too, for you to struggle

on in independent poverty rather than accept wealth at the hands of anywoman, even though you profess to love her."

" P r o f e s s ? " he exclaimed, interrupting her . "Oh, retract that cruel

w o r d ! "

" It* can b ut be cal led profession, until there is some proof of its re ality, "said Guendo len. " True love is stronger than pride or self-esteem. But letme go on with my explanation of the advantages of your plan. It will bebetter for me, it is very plain, to spend several of my best years in solitude,

brooding on sorrows that are past, and look ing forward wit h oft-deferred

hope to the future, rather than accompany a beloved husb and On his

artistic jour neys, to wat ch hjs labours alia share his troubles, if any such

come to him, and encourage him in his pursuit of the beauties of art, whil eI myself enjoy the pleasure of visiting' those places of interest whic h I must

no w know only by books. Oh yes, your plan offers so many advantages, thatit is im possible not to agree with it; and so ," she continued, saucily

offering her hand, " we'll shake hands on the bargain, and doubtless you willset off' on your travels to-m orr ow ?"

" Guen dole n," murmure d Leicester, " I am ashamed of myself. It was as

yo u say, nothing but pride that prompted such a proposal. Will you forgiveme,- Guendolen ? "

" H ow can I d o otherwise ? " she said, in a voice softened by emotion. "It

is the first time that you have shown yourself at all selfish. It is the firsttime that you have shown an inclinat ion to sacrifice m y happiness or wishesto any idea of your ow n; and as the first fault, it must cert ainly be for giv en."

Leicester looked cautiously round. The bir ds were hopp ing among st thebranches, and a little brook murmured where it fell in a cascade into thela ke ; but no pryi ng human eyes were near ; and the' thickness o f thebranches overhead made a twilight gloom even at midda y. Hi s arm slidround her w a ist, and his lips.sought hers in ratification of their treaty. I f athought of Harry Greville's first kiss upon the hill-side flashed across her

mind at the momen t, it was unaccom panied by any sentiment p(f regr et; forshe felt in her inmost heart that the change had been for the better.

Long did Mrs. Mayfield wai t, and feverishly did she fret over the dinner,

on which she had expend ed her choices t skill in cookery; and which she hadthe morti fication o f seeing cool, and! as she said, e ntirely spoil bef ore her

eyes. She fretted and fumed, and so did Nancy , and the latter, during a

temporary absence o f the housekeeper from the kitchen, even went so far asto pour out her distress of mind in to the ears of Jac ob ; but Jacob onlygrinn ed. Nanc y indignantl y requested an explanat ion, but the explanatio n

came in a more exasperating form; for he not only continue d his grinn ing,but scratched his head and winked. Nanc y turned from him in high dudgeon;but being intuitively aware that the grinning, winking, and scratching processwas continued behind her back, she turned round in a fury, caught thedelinquent in the act, ajul demanded angrily, " What do* you mean, Jaco b r '*

Jacob nodded his head, retreated to the door, looked back again for amoment with his tongue pushed into his cheek, and then, like the sacristan inthe "I ng ol ds by Leg ends , "h e put his thumb unto his nose, and he spreadhis fingers out."

Nancy was a patient, mild-tempered woman, but there is a bpund to humanendurance. She had in her hand at the moment a small saucepan containinga cauliflower whic h she had j ust remo ved from the fire, and this, unmindful

of consequences, she hurled at the head of the of fender. Bu t he was inthe act of withdrawing, and b y slight ly accelerating his mov ements escapedthe fatal consequences of the missile. Mrs. Mayfiel d rushed iu, alarmed by

the clatter, and found the repentant Na ncy ruefully contemplatin g thebattered saucepan and the delicate cauliflower which lay shivered to atoms

upon th e floor.

" W h y , Na nc y! " exclaimed the housekeeper with dignity, " wh at is the

meaning of this ? "

" O h ! ma'am," Teplied Nanc y, bursting into tears, "human natur can'tivbear that Jacob I"

i : We l l ! what has Jacob done ? "

" I ain't a been doing of noth in', " replied Jaco b, answering for himself ashe reappeared at the door.

" Then what has he been saying ? "

" I ain't a said nothin' neither," replied Jacob." Then Nancy, what is the meaning of this ? ' Such a beautiful cauliflower!

JDear ! Dea r! Wh at a pity ! But everything goes wrong to-day ! "" N o it don't," said Jacob, knowingly.

" There ! " cried Nanc y; " that's just h ow he's been goin g on. Wh at doeshe mean ? "

" I'l l go and cut another cauliflower," said Jacob , philoso phicall y; " it will

be done by the time missis comes back."

" H o w do you know ? " said Mrs. Mayfield, tartly.

" W e l l , perhaps I 'd better not say not hin '," said Jacob, " o r you'll be

throwing the other cauliflower at my head as soon as it's biled ; so I' d betterhold my tongue."

"Yo u'd .be tt er not stick you r tongu e out in the impudent way you did just

now," said Nancy. " W o u l d you believe it, m a'a m? I only told him ho wafraid We was that the dinner would be spoiled, and Miss Guendolen was so

long com in g hom e, and he b egan to mak e the frightful I est faces ever you see,taki ng sight s, as he calls it, and all sort s."

" Jac ob ! " said Mrs. Mayfield, turning sternly towards the offender*, but

Jacob was gone into the garden for a cauliflower.

" Bile that," he said, setting i t do wn on the kitch en table, " and be thankfulif it ain't spiled like the other one."

" Wh at do you mean, Jacob ? " said Nan cy, whose.curiosity was wonderfullyexcited now that her temper was cooled,

" Neve r you min d," he replied, mysteriousl y. " Hav e yo u got a cap withwhite ribbons in it, Nanc y ? " *

" No , I haven't," replied Nancy, curtly. " Wh at o' that ? "

" Only that I ' l l give you one one of these days, whether a nybody else does

or not," said Jacob. " Y o u just mark my words,that's

all."

Jacob went out to the stables; and Nancy stood so profoundly lost in th ought,

that she totally forget the cauliflower. Mrs . Mayfield, comi ng in, wentinto a violent flurry, and scolded Nan cy for her neglect. But it was of little

consequence, fbr the cauliflower was, as Jacob had predicted, "b il ed andspiled" before Guendolen, entering the house in a very leisurely manner,

inqitireoVif dinner was nearly ready.

"D in ner nearly rea dy !" repeated the housekeeper. " W h y , my dear, of

course it is, three hours past."

Guendolen blushed and made excus es; and altogether there was a change

both in her manner aild in Leicester Wilburn's that poor Mrs. Mayfield couldnot fathom. The spoiled dinner; whi ch she set before them with mingle dreproaches and apologies, was, however , pronounc ed to be incompar able. Itwas followed b y another long r ow upon the lake, which deferred the tea tillnearly ten o'clock, and caused Mrs. Mayfield to tret and worry herself, andNanc y to plunge into deeper fits of abstraction, and Jacob to grin arid wink in a mor e disgusting manner than before. When the bid housekeeper attendedher youn g mistress to her bedr oom , the latter astounded her by taking her by

both hands and saying, "D ea r old nursie! I am goi ng to be married."Mrs. Mayfield was Unprepared for the s ho ck ; she dropped into a chair and

burst into tears, assuring Guendolen all the time that "she was most delightedto hear it, and hoped that she would be happy, but that she could not bear tothink of parting with her darl ing."

" But you won't part from me, you silly old nursie," said Guendolen ; " you

will stay here and keep house for us jus t as usual. Th e oriTy difference wil l

be that Leicester will live here altogether, instead of at the bo atm an' s/' ^

" Wel l ," said the nurse, " Mr. Wilburn is a gentleman, though he is not arich one, and really I believe he'll make y ou a good husband, dear; but it isnot the match your poor father wished to make for yo u. "

" N o , " replied Guendolen , as her thoughts travelled back into the past,

recalling the brutal indifference with which Sir Frederick bacf treated her;" 1 am happy to think that this will be a very different mat ch."

" Ah, wel l ! my dear, it was to be , I suppose, " said Mrs. Mayfield, " formarriages are made in Heaven."

" I t is said SQ , " replied Guendolen, " though I must own I think some aremade in a very different place."

Mrs. Mayfield retired to her bed -ro om; but not to rest. She could noteyen complet e the process of undressing before she summ oned N ancy, underthe prete nce of fetc hing her a restorative for her agitated spirit s, but in reality

to confide to her the impor tant communi cation of her mistresses approachingchange o f condition.

Nan cy, brimf ul of the news, tossed upon a restless couch till the earliestpeep of dawn, when she rose, and bestirred herself busily about her householdduties, which seemed to lie, on this particular nioruing, strangely in the

neighbourhood of the stables. The clatter that she made at the pump arousedJacob rather earlier than usual. H e descended, and a whispered colloquy

took place between him and his former enemy. The secret then confided to

hi m he repeated to his horses , as he rubbe d them down, but it will readily be

believed that his confidants did not betray the trust.

In the evening Jac ob, wh o ha d been on some errand to the nearest town,brou ght into t he kit chen a small bandb ox, out of which he took a cap smartlydecorated with white ribbons, and held it before the admiring eyes of Nanc y.

" Her e, old gal ," he said, " do you understand n ow what I m ea nt ?"

" Law ks ! Jac ob ; but how did you know it ? "

" W h e n two people rows off in a boat, and do esn't come back to dinner,"he replied, sententiously, " I tell you it's a sure sign of a wccblin'. And so it's

turned ou t; and here's the cap for you as I pro mise d."

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

The marriage of Guendolen and Leicester Wilburn was as quiet and

unostentatious as possible. The bride was gi ven away by the old doctor, a

post of honour that was warmly contested t>y Mr. Fowle r, who had coma.



July 7, 1$60\] USEFUL INFORMATION AMD AMUSEMENT. 155

From London on the double errand of drawing up settlements and effecting the

purchase of Briony Bank and a small extent of property around it. Ther e

were so many sweet and happy associations connected with the unpretend ing

little cottage, that both Guendolen and Leicester were anxious that no strangershou ld profane it, or have the pow'Cr to dispossess them o f this sanctuary of

love.

" And yet," said Guendole n, look ing from the carriage win dow at the

smoke that still " so gracefully curled" from the fires that had been kindledfor her marriage feast, " And yet, dearest, I would always give it freely, as the

abode of true lovers; for I think there is some magi c about the place

to bless those who dwell in it, though they may have come there with bleeding

hearts, and tempers soured by pride and a lon g, unnatural struggle with

wrong and injustice. Or," she added, playfully pretending to pull his facetowards her by his whiskers, though she knew his eyes had not left her one

moment since the carriage started, " or with hearts puffed up with egotistical

ambition that would take their own er upo n a foreign* tour to earn publicrenown, before condescending to accept the hand of a woman who could

appreciate genius, and goodness, and devotion, withou t the sanction o f pu blic

opinion to guide her choice! Oh, Leicester ! I am so happ y! " 'And she

threw herself upon his breast, and proved her claim-to be but a silly com mon

place, loving woman after all, by shedding a flood of tears to show that she

was happy.

Di d Leicester doubt it ? No .In accordance with a long-cherished wish of Leicester's, they went to Italy,

where, living in the strictest economy and retirement, they found poor Lady

Elphinstone and her son Frank. The encounter was most opportune ; for the

poor lady, always unduly influenced by any one who would take the troubleto cajole her, was on the point of embracing'the tenets of the Romish Church,

and would have dragged her youn g son with her but for Guend olen's timely

interference. Finding 'that Captain Greville had been appointed Frank's

guardian under Sir Frederi ck's will, Guendolen wrote to him, warning himof the danger to which his ward was ex posed. He hastened to Florence,

far more agitated by the expectation of meeting her whom he had on ce so

fondly loved than by any fears respecting the safety of his wife's young

brother.

But Guendolen received him with the unembarrassed manner of one who

has n o regrets, a nd no feelin g that she wishes to concea l. The look of pride

with wh ich she introduced him to her husband cou ld not be miscon strue d;

and, when Frank was placed in safety, and L ady Elphins tone, notwithstanding-all persuasions to the cont rary, had finally entered a conv ent, she volu ntari ly

entered up on an explanation wit h him, wherein , without casting more obl oqu y

than she could help upon the me mor y*o f his wife's father, she exonerated

herself from all blame that had been laid upon her. A similar explanationon his part cemented their friendship, wh ich Greville, forcing dow n some

rebellious feelings, was fain to be content wi th ; and on n o subsequent

occasion did he venture upon a reference to the past.

An d what, it may be asked, became of the Revere nd Mr. Lorime r an d his

amiable sister ? Sir Frederic k Elphins tone, as if determined to leave a

legacy of discord to the world, presented him , shortly before his death, withthe living of St. Som ebody who need not be specified, where h e speedily intro

duced so many Romish rites into the service that the respectable p ortion of

the congregation absented themselves, and the church became the scene of

such riotings, that it is an ill compliment to poor Bruin to compare it to a

bear-garden. ] ^

Miss Lorimer for the present clings to her brother, and professes to consider

him a martyr ; but it is doubtful whether "any motive of interest would not

suffice to make her denounce him as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

One word more about Leicester and his wife. I hey are coming home in afew months, for Guendolen is determined that her baby shall first see the light

among the Fells, at lovely Briony Bank. M. A. B.

*BASENESS REQUITED.

Lilian Burleigh was fifteen years o ld when she and her widowed mother left

their home, which had b een sold up under the sheriff to pay a debt incurred

during the long and fatal illness of Mr.,Burleigh. In hope of employmentthe mother and daughter removed to the metropoli s. Her e they encountered

the usual fate of the strang er-poo r, alone and helpless in the seethin g, selfish

crowd; fought the grim fight wifE. the fiend of* poverty; till, in the weary

struggle, Mrs. Burleigh sank at last, the victim of hopeless illness, a hew

burden upon Lilian's young shoulders.

Chance at last led the poor girl to the house of Mrs . Yer non. The lady,

attracted first by the sorrowful beauty of the girl's face, and her quiet

demeanour, became interested in her story, accompa nied her home to verifyit, and became from that day the best an d kinde st o f friends to the widow

and her child. Emp loy men t enoug h was obtained among her friends to

remove all sense of depende nce from Lilian's mind. He r charity was

bestowed in a manner not to wou nd the sensitiveness that coul d not endurebeggary. Her own physician lent his skill to soothe Mrs. Burleigh's departing days; and when death had released Lilian from her charge, this kind

friend took the orphan to her home.

Lilian had lived with her friend t wo years wh en Bernard Osborne, Mrs.

Vernon 's brother, came home from India. To see the sweet, graceful girl who

instructed his sister's children, and was his sister's friend, in simple mourning,

was to feel a strange, unwonted interest in her. H e was often at his sister'shouse, often saw Li lian, and at length gave evident signs of his admiration.

That she avoided him only incited him to a more determined pursuit.He was the first man of the worl d, hand som e, fluent, accomp lish ed, that

Lilian Burleig h had ever seen. Ho w he impressed her youn g heart! H o w

plainly he wrote his image upon its virgin pa ges ! Ere she half knew herdanger he had become the light of her eyes, almost the life of her soul.

But she did not yield readily. She resisted all his protestations, all his

offers; after putting him to every test she could devise, until finding his

purpose still unaltered, and his love even more ardent in expression, she at

last yielded to the wishes, the demands of her own heart, no less than to his

entreaties, and promised to bec ome his wife. Once betrothed to him she

revelled in the sweet dream of love, and cast all fears aside—the future no

more dreaded, the past forgotten.

Three months later came a strange, unexp ected summons to the de ath-bedof Wa lte r Bu rleigh , her uncle. This man h ad neglected and despised his

brother, had refused all aid to the widow and orphan, and when Mrs. Vernon,

wh o had learned something of him on inquiring of Lilian ab out her friends,

wrote to him during Mrs, Philip Burleigh's last days, his only response had

been a pitiful sum of money, extorted rather by the influence of Mrs. Vernon'sname, than by any kindly feeling. But when he was dying, he beth ough t

him of his niece, the sole person in whose veius his own blood was running,

and summo ned her to his side. H e died, and Lilian found herself heiressof all his wealth.

Something, perhaps the strange feeling of pain that it brought her, perhaps

the desire to be r eceived on ce more as she had ever been, kept Lilian silent

in regard to her new wealth. She wrote to Mrs . Vern on that her uncle hadremember ed he r in his wil l, but in a manner that conv eyed no idea o f thetruth. To Osborne she did not write at -all ; for, strangely enough, his

letters had ceased about the p eriod of her uncle's death, and after writingonce or twic e witho ut receivi ng a reply, she was forced to w ait until timeshould solve the mystery. It but rendered her more impatient, as she chafed

under the long delay.

At length she was at ho me ; for so she had long learned to call Mrs.Vern on's house. At length she was slow ly descend ing the stairs to meet

her lover— slowly, because with the impatient jo y that would have sent her

flying down the staircase was struggling that terrible but dim fear. W h y had

he not written ? W h y had he delayed seeing her until the second day of herreturn was well-nigh past ? She had spent the two days alo ne; for the

Vernons had been called into the country by some gathering of their family.

He stood in the cen tre o f the ro om, hat in hand. He had evidently no

intention of remaining. • As she approac hed him be bo\fhd, but did not look

at her - offered hand. " Bern ard !" she said. He bowed again. " Wil l you

tell me what this means ? "

" It means that I am here in answer to your notes of yesterday and of this

mor nin g," he replied. " One would have sufficed to inform me of you r return;but I remembered that you had seen little of the world, knew little of its

usages . Can I do anything for you ? " - . '

"Tell me what this mea ns? " said Li l ian . " W h y docs my betrothed

husband receive me in this manner ? "

" Since you must kno w, I will tell you . I am betrothe d to you no long er.M y silence should have told you that. Y rou will remember that you were

reluctant to become engaged to me; you arrayed before me all the worldly-

reasons against our marriage. These worl dly reasons havin g received dueconsideratio n in you r absence, I ha ve determined to annul the engagement.

You were unwilling to love me. Yo u will do as yo u did before, live with "Mrs.

Vernon, probably, though it may embarrass us both to meet, and though the

little legacy, which I understand your uncle has left you, may enable you todispense with your employments here."

" Oh, Bernard! — — " interrupted Lilian.

".He ar me out, if you please, I cannot b e hindered and dragged dow n in

the career I have resolved upon, by a wife. I must forego that happiness, inorder to succeed, unless, indeed, my wife could bring me wealth."

"B ut , Bernard!- " she again interrupted.

" Th e s e interruptions are in the worst possible taste, Miss Burleigh," said

he. " But I have little more to say. I woul d but bi d you farewell, withwishes for your happiness. Yo u have so muc h wisdom and self-control that I

am sure you will soon conquer this emotion, and learn to agree perfectly with

the view I have taken of the matter in question."

* He met her gaze through the tears that streamed from her beautiful eyes,

with a glance as hard and cold as his words. H e bowed again, and was gone .

Lilian was ill when the Vernons returned. She had borne a great deal, and

the last shock prostrated her. She was not d angerously ill, nor did she lose

her reason. Snc had much time for though t, and she, now that his conducthad re moved the illusion, saw her love r as he really was. It was not easy, not

possible to forget him all at .on ce, nor ev en to cease feeling tenderly towards

him. But he had deserved her contempt, and she coul d not lo ng love where

she despised.

Before she was quite well, he learned from the Vern ons the story of her

wealth. After that he made an attempt to see her. Rel ying upon her sim

plicity and singleness of heart, he represented that he felt that he had beentoo harsh—that he had reconsidered the matter; and was willing, especially

as she felt the dissolution of the e ngage ment so severely, that it should bo

renewed. Lilia n's only answer was, " It is too late." 31ie would not trust

herself to speak the contempt she felt.

She did not pine, nor did she live single. He r heart was not broken ; b ut

when it was sough t som e years later by one every way worthy to possess it,

it was found to be in excellent condi tion. Lilia n Burl eigh has lon g been a

happy wife and mother.

Bernard Osborne's career has never been accomp lished, never eve n com

men ced. H e ascribes his failure to Lil ian 's fickleness, and asserts that as

soon as she discovered that she was an heiress, she cast him off, leaving him

to struggle against his wound ed feelings, and his confidence betrayed . Thi sstruggle is the sole employment of his life, so far as his friends ca n discover.

Personal respectability is totally independent of a large income . Its greatest

secret is self-respect. Pove rty can never degrade those who never degrade,

themselves by pretence or duplicity.



156 THE FAMILY HEEALD —A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE 01* [July 7, 1860.

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

G RACE and AGNES are the daughters of a wealthy gentle

man, who subscribes liberally to public charities and

literary institutions, and is not the last in the collection

at church, but he refuses his daughters pocket money .

When they ask him for some they receive a shilling each.

There is only one excuse for such conduct in a parent,

and that is the morbid prejudice which some m en

entertain on the subject of wom en and money . The y

think, that if their wives and daughters have eve ry

comfort at home, any extra pecuniary supply would

be a needless superfluity. This we in all sincerity

assert is a gross error on the part of a husband and

parent. It exhibits a deplorable want of confidence in

the beings wh om it is their duty to love and cherish.

In families, mutual confidence is one of the bonds thatknits them together. What would be the condition of

society if we did not have some little faith in one

another ? Ho w much the mo re necessary is it the n

that the feeling sh ould hal low domestic life, so as to

impart to it stren gth and dignity. As respects the

ease before us, we unhesitatingly think it one of

peculiar hardship. No young lady should be withou t

her privy purse. The nation, on which taxation falls so

heavily, never begrudged the Sovereign one. A young

lady has her own little benevolences to discharge, and

those minor articles to purchase which it wou ld be

ridiculous to name to a father. Besides, how humil i

ating it must be to a daughter t o see her father give

ostentatiously out of doors, and yet exercise a miserable

penuriousness at home ! The contradiction, however,

as we have j ust observed, may generally be traced to

the prejudice entertained b y many men who have risen

in the world by their own exertions an d frugality, that

women do not know how to manage money . Now ,

what are the facts? Wr

omen, as a rule, are not so

indiscriminately lavish in their expenditure as men.

They are not, in a worldly sense, so generous, for they

lookmore at home than to extraneous influences.Beyond dress—and every wom an o ught to be well

dressed—they have few luxuries. They neither smoka,

drink, shoot, hunt, nor have their clubs. Contented

with fireside happiness, they look for little beyond it,

save those innocent relaxations which are essential to

moual, mental, and physical health. It is therefore a

grievous mistak e to suppose tha t wome n have no

proper idea of the value of mon ey; and husbands and

fathers who descend to drivelling " stingyis m " with

their wives and daughters, weaken the foundations of

their natural and domestic authority, and provoke the

dange* they so wea kly and me anly sought to avoid—

extravagance. A woman" instinctively resents suspi

cion of her conduct and motives; and a father commits

a great, and often a fatal fault, when he places less con

fidence i n his daughters tha n he does in his servants .

H Y P E R I O N . — " If a young gentleman pays a youn g lady,

in the sam e rank of societ y as himself, delicate atten

tions, and is distinguished for those s mall kindnesses

which ladies of all ages so much appreciate, ought she

to think anything more of him than as a friend ? and

even if she had more than friendly feelings towards

him, should she in any way allow him to perceive the

state of her heart ? "—It is a question that can o nly be

answered by a reference to t he etiquette of courtship.

And what tha t is, only mid dle-aged ladies can describe

with exactness. But any one can say that a young

lady, if she were to ma ke t he first advances, would

grievously compromise herself. Reserve, confidence,

and modest pride, are what ho nest m en like in, the

demeanour of the wo men for who m they have con

ceived a tender partiality. Therefore, youn g wome n

who have a corresponding emotion, should neither

seek to repel nor encourage, but so conduct themselves

as to eve ry day deepen the regard entertained for

their beauty and amiable accomplishments. Young

love is naturally shy ; and there is a charm about it

that should not be broken by levity, however unin

tentional, or any impatience to have it ripen into the

full-grown sentiment.

HOPELESS EMELLA.—Hope, and hope on. The conduct of

the gentleman is mysterious, perhaps silly; but the

minds of man y men are so constitute d that conceal

men t of their real sentiments , even with themselves, is

positively a mania. They would not have others seethem as they are ; so, like pu ny Jupiters, they wrap

themselve s up in clouds of darkness. If they are men

of strong passions, let these be once roused, and how

the small thunderbolts will rattle in the small sky of

their existence ! Lovers of this class of men are prone

to treat the young ladies they are engaged to with cold

politeness in public. They dread being made the

Hubject of comment, because they are nervously afraid

of those harmless banterings which most lovers receive

with polished good-hum our. As respects yourself, the

affection y ou ha ve thus early excited may in time

wholly change his character, and make him be all you

in your romantic girlhood wished him to be.

SINCERITY and S Y M P A T H Y . — " H o w shall young ladies

win the affection of the other sex?"—Why, by not

wearing a mas k, but appearing in their real characters,

Men of discernment only admire actresses on the

stage. Woman, in this life, has only one part to play,

and that is, in girlhood to be true to herself; when

wedded, to be true to her husband and children. The

kindred duties, such as love for parents, and respect

for friends, wonderfully strengthen the mora} and

mental power of women. We regret to have toremark that girls like our Correspondents treat mar

riage too lightly. Its solemn obligations and responsi

bilities seem neve r to be considered by them. "T he

ring, the ring, and nothing but the r in g! " and so

they go on inwardly chattering until very likely they

recei ve on e from eith er a fool or a knav e, and are jmiserable ever afterwards. J

M ARI A tells us that a party of ladies have agreed to abide

by our verdict on the following qu estion—" Is a gentle

man, aged fifty-four, but in appearance young, in

strength vigorous, and without a gr ey hair in his

head, (in that case he cannot have used it much,) too

old to match with a lady of twenty-eight?" Well, we

think not. Age does not wholly depend upon time.

Some people are old men at thirty, when others are

commenc ing life. Buffon declares that the second

you th commen ces at thirty-fi ve, and ends at fifty-five,

when manhood commences . This is very consolatory

for those you ng fellows whose hair is " thinning at the

top," and is wo rthy of Maria's consideration. After

all, everything depends upon circumstances. If the

lady of twen ty-e ight loves the gen tlem an of fifty-four,

and the latter be honourable and good, by all means

let her marry him. There can be only one considera

tion (we confess a weighty one) which should at allinfluence us—it is t hi s: . At fifty-four the average

duration of life is not quite sixteen years; conse

quently, under ordinary circumstances, a newl y

married man could not hope to see his children grow

up to man's estate. In these days this is worth

consideration.

A F A T HE R . — W e can appreciate your laudable anxiety to

have your daughters hap pily married ; but then you'

ought to know that ambition ofttimes "o'er-leaps

itself, and falls on t he other side." The vulgarism,

" Get the girls off," may do for vulgar , selfish minds,

but not for those who look mo re to the future than to

the present of their offspring. Our max im is, let girls

choose husbands themselves. Parents should rather

busy themselves in preventing impro per matches than

• in going about buyin g up, as it were, or soliciting for

husbands for their daughters. All girls have keen

susceptibilities on the subject of marriage, and to

wou nd them is an offence, and a very serious o ne,

when commi tted by parents. We should advise you

to be unobtrusively watchful, and not atte mpt from

evidently sordid motives to hurry your daughters into

a Condition that requires the s ustainin g help of everykindly and congenial sympathy.

UNE FEMME is yoke d to a husband who is a perpetual

scold, and only allows her one dress a year. Now ,

apart from any intentional or involuntary exaggeration

in this kind of marital complaint, we mus t say that

here is a descrip tion of ma n who^n it would b e mad

ness for any sane woman to marry. The man capable

of taking the reins of household government out of the

. hands of his wife, without jus t cause, mus t be either a

fool or a knav e. Bu t the difficulty is to find out the

disposition of such a man before marriage. Ho w can

a fond confiding girl, as she drinks in the honied words

of probably a presentable yo ung fellow, imagine that

he has m him all the elements of a "mo lly ," a thing

creeping about the house like a spy, and grinding the

expenses do wn to the ghost of a farthing ! The wives

of such men are to be pitied, and their only solace is

patience and resignation.

R. W.—In its original signification a villago means a

number of houses and cottages in a rural locality, no t

surrounded by a wall or other inclosure. WT

hen the

land was divided into Ecclesiastical districts andparishes, such of these as were of sufficient importance

to have a Church attached to them became parishes,

the boundaries of which wer e first fixed by Archbishop

Honorius, in the year 636. In the fifteenth century

the parishes were enlarged, and the smaller villages

absorbed into the larger ones. The Anglo- Saxon ham,

home, came in time to signify village, and was fre

quently used as t he suffix in the name, as in Totten

ham, Twickenham, Cheltenham, Petersham, Streatham,

etc,j to denote the rank of the places so designated.

Let is the diminutiv e suffix from £he Anglo- Saxon lit,

little; and hence the little villages which were absorbed

into the enlarged parish boundaries were called ham-

lets, or small villages, belonging to the parish named

after the larger village to which each was attached.

A PERPLEXED LOVER has fallen in wit h a young lady

with whom he is deeply smitten, but to whom he

finds it impossible to get an introduction. What is he

to do? Wh y the only way which the master Will

can find is the most direct and straightforward.

Write to her nearest male relative, or introduce your

self to hi m; state your intentions and antecedents in

a m aniy way, and depend upon his kindliness for anintroduction. Bu t' look before you leap. To an

honourable ma n such a proceeding would be binding.

This would be in accordance with the strict rules of

etiquette, which, however obscured by the nonsense of

masters of the ceremonies, has a substratum of sense.

E. R. Z.—At present there is no such school at the

Working Man's College in Vau xh all ; but there is an

institution to which you might wish to belong, called

the School of Art, held at the Rev. Mr . Gregory's Nati

onal School-rooms, till the new building is erected on

part of* the site of Vauxh all Gardens. Almo st all the

pupils are connected with the potteries and building-

trade of the district, and every information will be

given to you upon application at the school.

HOPE. — The complamt lies dormant in very many

families,and accident is chiefly the cause of its becoming

virulent and aetive. Being in the blood it descends to

the offspring; but a medical man will tell you that it

may not sh ow itself again for several generations.

E. A.—Be tter not attempt to frustrate the law ; it will

prove penny wise and pound foolish.——So many

serious accidents have happened fr om the use of sul-phiuric ACID, that its employment should never be

advised as a domestic remedy.

VERBENA.—Rice paper may be painted on with water

colours, provided the paper be first charged with fine

size, which s hould be applied warm with a soft brush,

and on the reverse side of the paper to which the I

colours are applied. j

G. H. —A Rector has the great and small tithes, and is,as

it were, the freeholder of the livi ng; a Vicar, as the

name implies, is one who does duty for another, often a

sinecurist lay-rector, who takes the great tithes, and

leaves the small tithes for the vicar, the man who does

all the work. An Incumbent is the minister of an

endowed living.

A TROUBLESOME ENQUIRER.—YOU cannot travel without

means. What we think of the stage as a profession for

young girls you will see by our reply to MINETTA

MERTON, in No. 856, and to LALLA ELLIOTT in No. S0O.

A . W. B.—Change of scene and cheerful companionship,

with strict attention to diet, may effect a perfect cure.

In all such cases the stomach is what has to be studied;

its derangement is always the main cause.

NATURALIST.—To preserv e the colour of birds ' eggs after

the y are blow n make a solution of isinglass and sugar

candy in water. With this fluid inject the eggs by

mea ns of a fine-pointed sy ringe .

F. B. must be an escaped lunatic to have formed such an

opinion, as ma ny thousand sensible people testify

to the contrary.

OTHER COMMUNICATIONS RECEIVED.—F. A. L — W . J. H.

—H . W. S.—SEA-SHELL.—W. B . - C . H . —W. J . G . —

Q. X . Y . Z . — G . R .— F . P.—S. E . - I O T A — S U S I E (there's

a good time coming, and Mr. Right with i t ) .—PARKER'S

PIECE (in the funds ; watch your opportunity, and buy

in when they are low).—IDA FLORENCE (no).—P. E. A.

(first lear n to s pell correctly , and to write a decent

hand).—CONSTANT READER (use either name or initials;

warm sea-water bathing, under medical supervision,

may bring relief).—L. E . T. and S. A . P. (thanks, but

not up to our standard).—WILLIAM W. (no).—C. C. T. R.

(his executors will see to that) .—VANDAL (consult any

respectable medical man in your own locality, and

avoid advertisers). — F A N N Y (apply to Mr. Hullah,

St. Martin's Hall, Long Acre, W. C. ; about £12 to £15).

DARE NOT (study the chapter on Proposals in No. 880,

written expressl y for bashful wooers).—A. B. C. (black,with white wattles; Mr. Miiiasi, Brecknock Place,

Camden Town ; " this hand is hostile to tyrants ").—

N E P T U N E (too old for a Governmen t situation; apply

to the Secretary of a railway company).—CHEMICUS

(apply at the Medical Department, the Admiralty,

Whitehall, S . W . ) . — R E GU L A R SUBSCRIBER (use initials;

see No. 1 1 0 ; any hospital ).—L. W. (you will have to

pass a n examina tion; apply to the Editor of the

Engineer, 163, Strand, W . C . ) . — E M M A L . (the South-

wark Savings Bank, No. 9, Three-Crown Square,

Borough).—HURST (it would be a breach of good

breeding, and probably be resented as an insult).

— AM Y CYRETTE (Miss Yonge; already very good).—

Z . D . (the present volume commenced with No. 888),—D. L . (if he died intestate it belongs to his eldest

son). —"WINDSOR (he m ay will it to whom be pleases;

yes).—G. D. M . ("a") .—SIBBY (see Nos. 21 and 249 ;do not enter into any long, indefinite engagement, it

seldom, leads to the churc h porc h ; a little so),—E. B.

(thej' are badly paid—6s . to 12s. a wee k; see No. 854).— N E L L I E (remove them for a t i m e ) . — M A R Y (quite

optional).—SHIRLEY (any paper will do, but write only

on one side; very good).—WICKED H A R R Y (bk-od first,

then connections, is the usual etiquett e; there is nolaw in the case),—J. H . B. J. (at 45 , St. Martin's Lane,

W.C. ; every Tuesday and Friday, and upon extra

ordinary occasions ; 6d . ) . — J. O. WR

. (too trivial). —

BLANCHE (he's "spoone y," and you should repress all

such demonstrations kindly, but firmly).—LURLINE (a

nice boo k; why not the new volume' of the Family

Herald f)—B. B. (send your method).—AMATEUR (they

are not varnished, but polished with box-wood saw

dust).—WORKING MA N (it is not a compos ition, but a

natural produc t, vegetable ivory, turned from the

. ivory nut). — OHI O (one ounce of bark to a pint of spirit;

let it stand for a week),—FLORENCE (milk of lim e; see

No. 879) .—SOLDIER and RAMSAY (see N^k373) .—ISABEL

H. S. (see Nos. 347 and 881).—IGNOWHJUS (see Nos.

235 and 5 1 9 ) . — M A R Y H. H. (see No. 783) .— ALICE

M ARI A (send them to a dyer ; for cleaning gloves, see

No. 428) .— JONATHAN C. (see No. 274) .—GARNETT (see

Nos. 124 and 125) .— SIMEON (see Nos. 279 and 281).—

POUTING P. (see N o. 883 ; auburn).—MADELAINE (see

No. 212).

M I D S U M M E R H O L I D A Y S .

One Penny each, or both pod free, 3C?.

T he Boy's Number of theF A M I L Y H E R A L D contains qut-door Ganies

and in-door Amusements for the year round.

Thirty-six Game s of Agi lit y; Eighteen Games with

Balls, besides Cricket, Football, Golf, and Roq uet; Ten

Ganies with Marbles, and Three with Tops; Fifteen

Ganies, including Kites, Skittles, and Quoits ; Directions

for Boating, Rowing, and Sailing; Swimming, Sliding,

Skating, and Games on the I ce ; Angling, Gardening,

and Pets of all kind s ; all sorts of in-door Games, Con

juring Trioks, Chemical Wonders; Carpentering and

Fireworks.

'The Girl's Number of the JL F A M I L Y H E R A L D contains recreations and

pastimes for Summer Days and^Vinter Evenings.

Thirty-four Games of Act ivity, including Archery,Calisthenics, and C roque t; Thirteen Games with Balls

and Shuttlecocks, including Ballstick, Coronolla, La

Grace, and Bowls ; Directions for Boating, Skating, and

Gardening; Watcr-vivaries, Pets, Poultry, and Silk

worms ? and ail kinds of In-door Games, Forfeits and

Conversation Games, Chess, Draughts, Puzzles, &c., &c.

FAMILY HERALD OFFICE, 421, STRAND, W. Q,



July 7, I860.}

FAMILY HERALD.

O U R M I L I T A R Y SER V IC E.

A powerful and well-orga nised army is the first and most perfect guarantee

against the necessity of war, and ever will be, so long as military forces exist;

an d that such will exist to the end of time is prove d by the p roph ecy,

that "wars and rumours of wars" will prevail until the secon d Adve nt.

Indeed, to abolish an army in any country without a general and honest

disarmament of every nation, would be tantamount to handing a kingdom

over to whatever foreig n power wished to set foot amongst the defenceless

people, and would show nothing less than a suicidal propensity so far as their

liberties are concern ed. But what constitutes this necessary force must vary

according to circumstances; and the strength of a non-aggressive army ought

to be tempered accordi ng to the power or" the despot or people, who, from

their position, or other circumstances, are most to be feared, and to the

magnitude of the interests at stake; consequently, no invariable rul e can be

taken on this point, nor can the requirements o f one nation be held up as an

example to others.

For ourselves, we are not a milit ary nation , at least not in the sense

ou r continental neighbours use the te rm; nor is it our natural genius

to be so ; brave, resolute, and enduring as the Brito n is confessed to be.

The Normans did their best to infuse a military element into the constitution,

the customs, and the personal character of the people they came to go ve rn ;

but, though partially successful, the Saxons did not rec eive it with that cordial

relish and heartiness with which they had taken to all pertaining to the sea,

proving themselves true descendants of the brave old Vikin gs, who mi ght

certainly be considered not only amphibiou s animals, but dec idedly more at

home on the water than on the land. Th e feudal system of course kept up

military institutions, and compelled military service to a certain extent, and

outwardly changed the character and aspect of the natio n. According to this

arrangement, all land was held on a strictly military principle, and every man

took rank in t he army accord ing to the nature of his tenure of it.

Every man was regimented-somewhere, as he wi shed ; and he was allowed to

change masters so l ong as he did not act from caprice. By such means the

discipline of a nation of armed men impregnated the details even of social life,

which issued in ou r chivalrous perception of the idea of "d ut y, " so simply

and strikingly illustrated in the phraseol ogy of the Duke of Wel lin gto n's

despatches, in contradistinction to the constantly boasted " glory " of other

nations.

Still, we find the true character of the Saxon betraying itself in the

very description of warfare in whic h h e excelled. The English bowmen

were celebrated everywhere for their skill in archery; and many a battle,

Agincourt, for instance, was saved rather by the Saxon archer with his

sharp-shooting, than by the Norman warrior with his battle-axe; a proof

that the love of manly sports and exercises, which is still character

istic o f t ou r nation, was then one of its distinguishing features. W e find,

also, that during the reigns of. those Plantagenet and T udo r sovereigns,

wh o may in some degree be called the despots of Engl and, there were laws

prevailing which tended to make its people, no t a nation of shopkeepers, but*

a nation of soldiers. At that time, every able-bodied man under sixty years

of age was compelled to exercise himself in shooti ng with the l ong b£w, and

to have bows and arrows always at hand in his hou se; and the head o f every

family, where there were boys, had to provide them, from the age of seven,

with instructions in archery and proper impl ements. Ever y village also was

obliged to keep two butts in repair.

Th e entire management of the army at the present t ime is held by the

Secretary of State for Wa r, whose principal offices are in Pall Mall. The

Commander-in-Chief is subordinate to him ; and he, as well as his assistants,

the Adjutant-General and the Quartermaster-General, have their head-quarters

at the Horse Guards, Whiteh all, built on the site of the old t ilt-yard of

Henry VI II ., which was an enclosed space extending from the Admiralty to

the Treasury, and memorable as the scene of the exciti ng tournaments and

gorgeous pageants of Henry and Elizabe th. But the discipline and military

command of the army is more especially the provin ce of the Comma nder- in-

Chief, while the appointments and prom otions are made by him, with the

sanction o f the Minister for Wa r, the Secretary o f State having power to

str ike out any nominations made by the Commander-in-Chief. Even the

inferior appointments in regiments, though virtually made by the Commander-

in-Chief, must receive the assent o f that Minister before being submitted to

the Queen. Th e officers of the civil establishments o f the A rm y obtain their

appointments as in the corresponding ones of the Navy , and form a part of

the Civil Service, thou gh the Commissariat has of late been filled up by

military men.

Th e establishment of the standing army in this kingdom dates from

Charles II. , by the embod iment of the regiments of Hors e Guards. It was he

wh o also orig inated the first and third regiments of Foot Guards, who have

just celebratedtheir two-h undre dth anniversary. Since his reign the Ar my

has assumed its present organi sed form, which , like most British institutions,

happily differs widely from those of other countries, but which, since the

Crimean war, has been the subject o f some discussion.

Th e Army, strictly so called, is divided into the four distinct bodies

of Artillery, Engineers, Cavalry, and Inf antry. A competitive exami

nation, which is open to all British- born subjects, if passed successfully,

entitles the candidate to admission into the Royal Military Academy at

Woolwich, or into the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. N o

candidate can on any pretence be gazetted to the Engineers or Artillery

without having gone through a course of instruction at the Woolwich

Academy. To be admitted as a cadet therein, the youth, who must be

between sixteen and twenty years of age, will, after having sent his name to

the Mi litary Secretary at the Hors e Guards, be required to pass one of

half-yearly competitive examinati ons. The subjects are nine in number ,

including mathematics, Engl ish, ancient and modern classics, & c , five of

which only are optional, mathematics being compu lsory . After admission,

the cadet will be expected to pass his final examination in about two and

a-half years, to enable him to be gazetted, whic h is no w accomplishe d in ,

these two arms of the Servi ce with out purchase, t houg h the college and other

incidental expenses are quite equivalent to the purchase-money of a«line com

mission. Th e skill, mental capacity, and science of Engi neer and Artill ery

officers is more constantly called into requisition, their pay is better, and con

sequently the necessity of their possessing private means is somewhat less

than that of any other branch of the Army.

Al l nominati ons for Cavalry and Infantr y commissions are obtained forcandidates from the Commander-in-Chief, generally by some superior officer.

The yout h, who must not be less than eighteen, nor mo-re than twenty-five

years of age for the Caval ry, nor un der eighteen and above twenty- three for

the Infantry, is required b y the Coun cil of Militar y Educatio n to pass an

examinati on. Th e subjects give n are from the ordinary routine of a gen tle

man's education; but the required standard is not terrible. After passing, the

chances are that if a candidate is not set down for any particular regiment, he

will shortly be appointed; but if he choose his regiment, others may be

standing on the list for that regimen t, and he may be some time i n bei ng

gazetted to his cornetcy or ensignc y. By a recent order from the Horse

Guards, practical examination s are also at present required , before bis

ascending to the ranks of lieutenant and captain.

Ther e are many excellent institutions in Lon don and its neig hbou rhoo d for

the preparation of youug men to pass the examinations at Chelsea College, and

none are better than the Royal Military College at Sandhurst, to which

gentleman cadets are admitted oy public examination, and are eligible between

the ages of sixteen and nineteen. Th e Queen's cadets, who are selected from

the sons of officers, who have died from the effects of injuries received inaction, or of diseases contract ed in service, are admitted by a qualify ing

examination, to receive their instruction free. Sons of military, naval, or

civil officers of either service are r eceived on a graduated scale of paymen t

according to the standing of the officer. The period of study at Sandhurst

will not exceed two years ; and comm issions to the Cavalry and Infantr y wil l

be given withou t purchase to those candidates who obtain at least 3,000

marks, accor ding to the order o f merit i n which they stand.

It will rarely be found possible for an officer to subsist alone on his pay

in Cavalry or even in I nfantry regiments. In the House hold regiments or

Guards it is rendered doub ly expensive from the class of men who join, and

enter into the amusements and fashion of a m etropolit an life. Every step to

a co mpany is generally obtained by purc hase; and those wh o are unable or

unwilling to obtain promotion by this means must wait for the slender chances

of promo tion by rotation. Ther e may be much to be condemned in this system

of purchase in regiments o f our Ar my ; yet those who impugn it ou ght to

remember that in this way young and fresh blood is constantly brought into a

regiment, and also to consider how the deficiency in the public exchequer,

which would result from a change in this respect, can be repaired. Besides,an enormou s increase would be made to the no n-effective expenses of thatbranch of the service, in lieu o f the present cust om of selling out wh en a man

becomes useless in his regimen t. Wh en an officer dies on full pay his pur

chased commissio n reverts to the Crown , and the son or near relative o f some

officer, distinguished or killed in action, if poor and deserving, is appointed to

the vacancy without purchase. These lapsed commissions are also giv en to

such of the Sandhurst cadets as show extraordinary merit, or to non

commissioned officers, and are never again saleable.

Th e Ar my Medic al Department , and the M ilita ry Trai n, are of inferior

standing to the rest of the Army, and their services not so directly and con

stantly in requisition. Assistant Surgeons must be qualified men, and pass an

extra examination in Arm y surgery. A college for their further training has

been recently founded at Chatham, but as yet it is scarcely in operation.

Adjutants and instructors of musketry are chosen from the officers of

regiments, as also frequently are payma sters; but quartermasters and riding-

masters are men mostly risen from the ranks.

The privates in the Arm y are enlisted by recruiting sergeants, and receive a

bounty, whi ch varies in different branches o f the service, and accord ing to the

exigencies of the times. Privates are generall y enlisted between the age of

eighteen and twenty -live. The Engineers are the mos t scienti fic; then the

Artillery; the Cavalry are the most dashing, and the Infantry the least laborious,

and the men are paid accor dingl y. Th e term of enlistment is for ten years ; but

if they choose to remain twenty years in the Army they are entitled to a pen

sion. It also generally happens that men who have left t he Arm y can afterwards

obtain civil emplo yment much easier and better, should the certificate-papers

be good, and there is always a public feeling in their favour. Both officers and

men, as a rule, jo in the depo t of r egiments serving abroad for necessary drill

and instructions, before goin g on forei gn ser vic e; and the former can, in

ordinary times, buy their discharge.

As the Queeu's Army will shortly absorb what remains of the Anglo-

India n Ar my, it is unnecessary to define that defunct body. According to the

Ac t at present before Parliamen t, th e native regiments wil l be officered from

the Imperial Army, the present officers being most probably placed on a

staff list.

Th e appointments to Yeomanry Cavalry and Militia regiments are in the

hands of Lord- Lieut enants of count ies ; or where such d o not exist, the com

missions are given by the person who acts in that capacity ; some few,, such

as that of adjutant, quartermaster, and paymaster, are signed by the Queen.

Th e Cavalry is of superior standing to the Milit ia, as in the regular Ar my ;

but Yeoma nry are never called out bey ond their own county, nor do they act as

a standing Arm y. The ir expenditu re, even amon g the privates, is generally

considerable during the month ly drill. Mili tia regi ments keep fortresses and

barracks when the regular Ar my is in the field or called abroad, and act as a



158

reserve to the troops, as wel l as a depd t for recruits into the l ine. Th e rifle

practice of-one Militia regiment was found to be of so superior a character

at the late official trial, as to haye placed it above every other regiment, both

regular, and irregular, in this respect, except one. Thou gh every officer and private

is m truth a volunteer, yet within the last year a valuable addition has been

made to our reserye force in the wa y of Volunteer corps. It is impossible for

the nation to feel too grateful to those wh o have come so promptly forward

and enrolle d themselves under jthe banner of our Que en for the defence of

their countr y, and who have will ingl y sacrificed former pleasures and gai n for

her prote ction, and entered so manfully i nto the labo ur necessary for efficiency.

But, independent of these considerations, the movemen t ought to receive all

encouragement, from its tendency to draw y oun g and active men from dissipa

tion andvice, from

its use in dev elopin g the muscular system and hardeningthe constitution, and from the taste it eultivate§ in t^e people for martial and

athletic exercises, and in the regul ar Ar my to keep a superior ity in dri ll; all

which is procured at but small expense to the individual member,

By friend and foe alike, the E ngl ish are described as the bravest and fiercest

race in Eu ro pe ; and never in history, either native or foreign, even to the

present day, do we find the m shrinkin g from any enemy, let the disparity of

force be ever so great. Agai n and again have a few bands of Volunteers of

the olde n time carried dism ay into the heart of Fra nce ; witness Cressy and

Agincourt, and the 400 yagabond apprentices of London, who in the time/of

Hen ry VI I I . formed a V olunteer corp s in Calais, and for years fought and

plundered as adventurers through France , and never gave in, till, one day

surrounded by six times their numbers, they " fought to die ." An d never

since the days of archery has the progres s of military science caused such

necessity and scope for Voluntee rs as at present, when the best riflemen may

be almost said to win the day.

Th e brilliant and cool daring, the ch ivalr y and hardiness of our troop s

are the same as in days of yore, and the character and condu ct of individuals

is much improve d. Whate ver may be the effect of the novel and glitteringlife to which a recruit is introduced, and howev er unsteady his p revious

career may have been, it rarely indeed happens that drill, obedience to

command, and regularity, does not train him to become an acceptable and

useful member of society, as well as a brave defender of his country.

Th e object of this article has not been to recount battles won and glory

gained, in the history of Old England, by'he r noble sons, nor to recall the

unequa lled deeds of the Peninsul a an d In dia i n later years, such as books

cannot chronicle in any other cou ntry, whether ancient or modern, but rather

to give a sketch of the Army as it is.

B R I T A N N I A .

A mighty mission to the world

This freeborn nation claims,

With blazon'd banners half unfurl'd,

Whereon are wreaths to be impeai i'd .

With great historic names.

England, dear England, glorious dower!

Wh o claims to be thy sonWill never lightl y hold the power ., •

His great forefathers won.

The throbbing heart, the thoughtful brow,

The pulse that never stays,

Are tracking over lands that now

Yield their first fruits beneath the prow

Of freedom's noon-tide blaze.

The prince-like worker will not cower,

Nor think his work is done,

While others lightly hold the power

His great forefathers won:

The broadest empire on the earth,

Upheld with little boast,

Andrcgions clothed with wealth and worth

Awaking to a vigorous birth

Under an earnest host.

A-near and far is Britain's dower,

Where never sets the sun ;

Then bravely will we hold the power

Our great forefathers won.

No nobler aim, no greater prize

Can claim a sign and. seal, , .

Than that with which we sympathise,An d strive with foes and firm allies

To make the nations feel

That we, whenever tempests lower,

An d make the despots run,

Do never lightly hold the power,

Our brave forefathers wo n.

Nation of promise, trust in Him

Wh o humbles haughty pride,

So shall thy lustre never dim,

Thy cup o'erflow beyond the brim, ,

An d fame become world-wide.

Spread far around the vernal shower,

Needed by every one,

The candid, generous, kindly power

Our brave forefathers won .

F A M I L Y M A T T E f t S .

There is no mind that cann ot furnish some scraps of intellectu al enter

tainment. . .

Le t a youth who stands at the ba r with a glass of liqu or in his hand,

consider which he had better throw away—the liquor or himself.

T R U E C H A R I T Y . — A l l noble natures are hopefu l. It is a remarka ble fact

that the purest p eop le are the most charitabl e people.

M O R A L S OF S O R R O W . — B u t for the sorrows of the heart, where would the

affections find their strength r Our virtues, lik e the ar omatic shrubs of the

forest, only give ou t their sweets when their leaves are bruised and trampled.

He who has not felt sorrow may be scarcely said to have known lo v e ;

since the most precious j oys of the soul arise from sympathies that are

seldom kno wn till they are soug ht, and never s oug ht ti ll th ey are necessary

to soothe an infirmity or satisfy a need.

A C O W A R D L Y Q U E S T I O N . — " N o w , I am a cler k, with three hundred a year,

and yet my wife expect s me to dress her in first-class sty le!. Wh at would yo u

advise me to do ? " Thes e word s I uninte ntiona lly ov erheard in an omni bus.

I went home, pondering them over. We re you not to blame, sir, in selecting

a foolish, frivolous wife, and expecting her to confine her desires, as a sensiblewoman ought, and would, within the limits of your small salary ? Have you,

yourself, no " first-class " expenses, wh ich it m igh t be we ll for yon to consider

w rhile talkin g to her of retrenchment.-? Di d it ever occur to you, that under

all that frivolity, which you admired in the girl, but deplore and condemn in

the wife, there may be, after all, enoug h of the true woman to appreciate and

sympathise with a kind, loving statement of the case, in its parental as well as

marital relations ? Di d it ever occur to you, that if you require no more from

her, in the way of self-denial, than you are willing to endure yourself—in

short, if y ou were just in this matter, as lUany husbands are n ot—it might

bring a pair of loving arms abou t your neck, that would be a talisman amid

future toil, and a pledge of co-operation in it, that would give wings to effort ?

An d should it no t be so immediately—should you encounter tears and frowns

—would yo u not do well to re memb er the hundreds of wives of drunken

husbands, wh o, thro ugh the lengt h, and breadth of the country, arc thinking

how, day by day, they sha ll more patiently bear their burden, toiling with

their own feeble hands, in a woman's restricted sphere of effort, to make

up their deficiencies, closing their ears resolutely to any recital of a husba nd's

failings, nor asking advice of aught save their own faithful, wifely hearts

" what course they shall pursue ?" And to all young men, whether "c lerk s "

orotherwise, we

wouldsay, if you marry a pretty fly, don't expect

that

marriage will instantly conv ert it into a be e; and if yo u have caught it and

caged it without thought of consequences, don't , like a coward, shrink from

your self-assumed responsibility. F A N N Y F E R N .

COLD D R I N K S IN FEVER.—Object ion, and with no reason, is often raised

to allowing cold drinks to the patient, though they are most refreshing to

persons suffering from burning thirst; and lukewarm water, or toast-water, or

barley-water, affords but a poor substitute for the cold water fo r whi ch the

patient longs. The quantity of water g iven at a time sh ould not exceed* one

or two table-spoonfuls, but that may be given quite cold, and may be repeated

almost as often as it is asked for. I may just add, that no more, should be

given to a child than it may be safely allowed to take at o n ce ; it wall be

content with a tiny cup, if quite full, when it would fret exce eding ly at being

oompelled to set down a vessel, however large, unempUed.— Dr. West on

Nursing,

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

Some 5 0 miles of the Atlantic cable have be en lifted up to a point, extending

seaward 5 0 miles from the shores of Trini ty Bay. Fractures were found in

the cable just where they had been indicated by the instruments on shore. •

A foreman in the Toulon dockyard has just made a discovery which is

anticipated to become of the g reatest valu e to nautical science. It is that of

a meana» whe reby the transmission of signals at sea may be carried without

limit of words o r sentences, and w ith no more complicated machinery than

four poles and two balls, which, by their endless change o f positipn, are made

to convey every order, or warning, or inquiry, in usual requisition at sea.

A Belg ian named Stiphee n, of Ghe nt, has made a discov ery whic h may be

of some utility; it is, that the rusting of nails em ploy ed to fasten the branches

of fruit trees to walls can be prevente d by knocki ng into the wall at the same

time as the nail a small piece of zinc. In giv ing a few days ago ah accoun t

of his discovery to the Agricultural Society of Ghent, M. Stipheen produced

nails which had been eight years in walls in contact with a piece of zinc, and

Which were not at all rusty.

PRESERVATION OF P O T A T O E S . — T o prevent potatoes from germinating,

soak them for a quarter of an hou r in a solution conta ining one-tenth of its

weight of common salt. W hen taken out of the solution and place d on the

ground they dry quickly, becoming covered with a light saline pellicle.

N U T R I M E N T I N APPLES.—Ch-emical researches by Mr. J. Salisbury, of

Albany, show that good varieties of the app le are richer in those bodi es which

strictly go to nourish the system than potatoes a re ; or, in othe r words, to

form muscle, brain, ne rve ; and, in short, to assist in sustaining and bu ilding u p

the organic part of all the tissues of the animal body.—Timbs' s Otiosities of

Science.

N E W G O L D FIELDS.—The Snowy River Digg ings have been proved to be

the richest auriferous discovery that has yet taken place in th|^ New South

Wales territory. The most extraordinary finds of gold have been made even

on the surface, and nuggets varying from twenty to seventy ounces have been

exposed to view a little below the ground. Another rich gold field has been

discovered near Twofold Bay, Ne w South Wale s. In Central America, too,

a new gold field has been discov ered in the Isthmu s o f Minatitlan, the whole

of which is expected to be prolific in goid mines, and gr eat excitement exists

among the population.G O L D INK.—Tak e some leaf gold and white honey, and grind them together

upon a marbl e slab until the gold is reduced to an impalpable powd er. The

paste thus formed is agitated in a large glass tumbler with soft water, which

dissolves the honey, while the gold falls down to the bot tom . The water is

then poured off and the gold washed until all the honey is removed; after which

the gold is dried, and then suspended in a muci lage of gum-ar abic. It may

then be used for writing upon paper, and when it becomes dry it can be

burnish ed and rendered brilliant. Silv er ink is prepared in the same manner,

by substituting silver leaf for the gold.

G R E E N P A I N T W I T H O U T A RS E N IC.—T ake 1 9 lb. of quick lime, slack and

mi x it with water to m ake a mi lk of lim e; add to it a solution made with

1.00 lb. chloride of coppe r; then boil the mixture for some time, and filter

thro ugh canvas. Th e porti on whic h remains in the filter (the precip itate) is

the colouring matter. Wa sh it with hot water, and dry it at about 9 0 ° Fah.

Th e filtrate is a mix ture o f chloride of copper mixed with a chloride of calcium.

T o prepare the chloride of c opper, dissolve, separately, in hot water 6 2 lb.

fused chloride of calcium and 1 0 0 lb. sulphate of co ppe r; mix the two solu

tions, and shake well. It forms chloride of cop per, solub le, and sulphate of

lime, insoluble. Filter this throu gh a ca nva s; the sulphate of lime remains on

the filter, an d the chlor ide of coppe r passes on the filtrate. The precipitate is

washed .with hot water. The abov e quantities give 7 5 lb. of the new

paint. Colour s prepared b y these processes are solid, durable, and acquire

brightnes s with artificial light , while th ey do not present the dang erous

properties o f the arsenical prep arations.



July 7, 1860. J USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT.

S T A T I S T I C S .

An expenditure to the amount of nearly twelve millions is recommended

for National Defences by the Royal Commissioners.

A sheet of tissue paper has been exhibited at Colyton, Devonshire, which

measured in length four miles, bein g 21,000 feet long, and is in breadth six

feet three inches. Th eweight of it is about 1961b! It was manufactured in

the short space of twelve hou rs.

There are in the metropolis no less than 25,000 beggars, and these, added

to the vicious classos mentioned in No. 887, give a total of some 260,000

persons in the London district, of all ages and sexes, who prey upon the

honest and industrious part of the community.

An official return just published, in France, shows that the number of

bottles of champagne sent to foreign countries, from the Department of the

Marne, from the 1st of April, 1859, to the 1st of April, 1860, was 8,265,395,

and that the number sent to dealers and private consumers, in France,

during the same period, was 3,039,621. Th e total was, consequently,

11,305,016. Th e return adds that the stock in cellars on the 1st of April of

the present year was 35,648 ,124 bottles.

T I M B E R AN D W O O D . — W e imported last year about 6,000 loads of ordinary

ship-building woods, exclusive of teak and mahogany, and 2,900 tons of

cedar. Of the furniture woods there was no special account, except of rose

wood, of which we received 1,529 tons. Irrespective of our home supply, we

required an annual importation of 2,500,000 loads of timber from many

widely-separated foreign countries, of which a bout 1,000,000 loads were of

hewn timber, and the rest sawn.

S H I P S EMPLOYED IN T H E COAL T R A D E , — T h e following particulars are

interesting, as showing the actual number of vessels belonging to the several

countries engaged in the oversea coal trade from the various British ports in

1859 :—British, 1,308; Danish, 34 2; French, 38 2: Prussian, 167; Norw egia n,166; Dutch, 9 6; Hanoverian, 9 3 ; Swedish, 9 2 ; American, 3 2 ; Hanse

Towns, 4 3 ; Mecklenburg, 2 7 ; Austrian, 1 8 ; Oldenburg, 1 5 ; Russian, 1 0 ;

Belgian, 8; Sardinian, 7 ; Greek, 6 ; Portuguese, 4 ; Neapolitan, 2 ; New

Granada, 1; Ionian, 1; Tuscany, 1.— Total, 2,787 vessels; of which nearly

one-half (1,308) are owned by our own country.

D A N G E R OF LUCIFERS.—Official returns show that the average annual

number of accidental fires in France was about 2,200 up to 1838, before

fri|tion matches came into use. In 1844 the number had risen to 4,000,

which has constantly increased, till in 1857 there were 10, 000 fires. Thes e

figures show that it is most desirable to provide some means for preventing

such a destruction of prop erty ; and it is said that the insurance offices intend

presenting a petition to the Emperor, praying that a lawmay be passed to

prohibit the sale of matches made with white phosphorus, and allow none but

those made of amorphous phosphorus to be made for the future.

L O N G L I F E A ND FARMI NG.—T he average length of life of cultivators of the

soil is much higher than that of any other large class, being sixty-four years;

while that of professional men of all kinds is fifty-eight; that of merchantsand capitalists, forty-eight; that of mechanics whose business leads them to

out-door activity, forty-eight; that of mechanics confined to shops, & c ,

forty-seven; that of sailors, forty-six; that of labourers, forty-five; that of

common carriers, forty-four. Of the particular professions and occupations,

the average longevity of clergymen was fifty-six; of lawyers, flfty-nwe; of

physicians, fifty-four; of coopers, fifty-three; of blacksmiths, fifty-two; of

carpenters, fifty; of masons, forty-eight; of tanners, forty-eight; of mer-

~chants and clerks, forty-seven; of shoe-makers, forty-three ; of painters,

forty-two; and of tailors, only forty-one. There are several reasons why

farmers are healthier than professional men, namely, they w ork more , and

develope all the leading muscles of the body. They take exercise in the open

air, and breathe a greater amount of oxygen. Their food and drinks are

commonly less adulterated, and far more simple. They do not overwork their

brain as much as professional men. The y take their sleep commonly during

the hours of darkness, and dono t try to turn day into nigh t. Their pleasures

are simple, and less exhausting.

V A R I E T I E S .

It has been decided in the London Sheriffs' Court that printers cannot

recover payment for any work to which they have no t attached their name.

A fearful and destructive tornado swept over Iowa and Illinois on Sunday,

the 3rd of June. Three towns were demolished, and many of the inhabitants

buried in the ruins.

Among the most curious on dits is one relative to the intention of the

Beaufort family to open the coffin of the first Earl of Worcester, as it is said

that he ordered the model of a steam engine he invented to be buried with

him.

The Deaf and Dumb have now an ordained minister (the Rev. Samuel

Smith) whose special work it is to preach to them ih their own typical eye-

language. Mr . Smith is the first wh o has been ordained specially for this

work, and a building committee is now being formed in order to raise the

means to erect a suitable structure, which is to comprise a place of worship

for the deaf and dumb, as well as a home for the aged and infirm.The ancient Chapel Royal , Savoy Street, Strand, has lately been restored

by command of the Queen. The special beauty of the chapel is to be found

in the ceiling, which is a richly emblazoned network of quatrefoils extending

over the whole surface. T he ornaments are made up of shields, having various

emblems of the Passion, and other events of the Gospel history; the rest of

t'IE space is occupied with a large number of the regal emblems of the Houses

o i'ork and Lancaster.

F E M A L E R I F L E V O L U N T E E R S . — I t has often been stated that the ladul

England would ultimately take up arms in defence of their county, i f

needed. This receives confirmation from the fact that Hartlepool has go t a

corps of ladies, who are drilled once a week in the Prissick school-room by

Mr . Stephenson, the Government drill-sergeant of the Artillery Corps.

F O R G E D B A N K OF E N G L A N D N O T E S . — S i n c e our last notice in No . 896,

we have again to caution our readers against receiving forged five-pound

Bank of England Notes, numbered and dated. 79,639, August 16, 1856 ;

£ 83,165, February 15 , 1860 ; g 91,463, April 28, 18 60; and forged ten-

pound notes numbered and dated: ^ 94, 654, April 8, 1851.

N O N - L I A B I L I T Y OF A H U S B A N D FO R A DEBT CONTRACTED BY HIS

W I F E , -WITHOUT A U T H O R I T Y . — A t the Warrington County Court a jewellersued a small tradesman for £1. 5s. 6d., the balance of the value of a watch

purchased by defendant's wife. The wife went to the jeweller's in February

of last year and asked to have a watch " o n approval," stating that it was for

her son, and that her husband had wished her to make the purchase,, bu t that

she herself would call and pay for it. The husband being a respectableman,

the jeweller complied. At different times the wife paid instalments towards

the liquidation of the debt, but at last these ceased, and the action was now

brought to recover the balance. The defence was, that the husband never

authorised his wife to purchase the watch, and the wife admitted pledging it

within a week after she got it from the jeweller, and that having failed to

renew the ticket it was no w lost. The judge decided that as there was no

proof that the husband had authorised his wife to make the purchase, the

plaintiff must be nonsuited.

A W O N D E R F U L T E M P E R - P R E S E R V E R . — T h e recent reconciliation of a French

couple affords a new version of an old story. Madam e was fiery, and Monsieur

was not long-suffering; , and so " i t foil upon a d a y " that the tongue of

madame so excited monsieur's fist that it fell no t lovingly upon the cheek of

his spouse. The lady was greatly mortified—a blow, and so soon after

marriage! It was bad but it might become worse; and so she went to consult

a " cunning mam/' of whom there are plenty in Paris, in spite of the police,

and who, notwithstanding that France takes the lead in civilisation, have so

many clients that the latter, not to miss their turn, are obliged to accept

numbers as they would for an omnibus on a holiday. The " cunning man,"

in this instance, justifies his title. H e gave madame a philtre, and from that

time, six years ago, to the present, the spouses have lived on the best of ternis.

One day lately the husband was having a chat with his wife on their early

marriage days. " Y o u don't know, my love) how much you have changld

since then," said Monsieur X ; "y ou were always nag, nag, nagging."—

" N o t at all,'* replied Madame ; i l on the,contrary, it is you who are changed.

You were so brutal, so . Don' t yo u recollect you one day gave me a

blow, ? As I could no t endure this, ]>went to a fortune-teller, who gave me

the means of rendering yo u quiet as a lamb ! " — " Stuff and nonsense !—what

means ? " — " A philtre ; and here it is," answered the lady, showing him a

phial . "E ve ry t ime I was likely to have a discussion with you I left the

room, poured a few drops into my mouth, dnd kept them there for a quartero f an hour. Wh en one phial Was used I boug ht another ." The philtre might

be applied with advantage oh both sides of the water.

T H E R I D D L E R ,

ENIGMA.

It is in the sea, yet found in the earth;

Soaring in heaven, ye t down on your hearth ;Though science disclaims it, 'tis foremost in art;

The centre of both the brain and the heart.

Come, guess it. I'm sure you will not long stand ;Just look, and you'll see it quite plain in your band. M.

Upon my first you always dine,

An d at dessert it is there ;

My second, made of texture fine,

Js fit for all to wear.

Find out a word whose meaning willimply . *

In letters five a depth of misery;

A fetter'd sta te •pf body and ef iftind,"

Bought, sold, and even cursed by human

,kind!

Behead, and then transpose, and soon

you'll see, . . . . .A beauteous scene, replete with poesy :

A flow'ry mead, and here a rippling rill,

Tuned to the music of the neighbouring

mill;

Whether at sunrise, or at evening's glow,

Its tranquil pleasure you'll delight to know!

Again transpose, and what then do we see ?A dainty joint perchance for you and me.

j Witnout my whole, my first, indeed;

Most incomplete would be;

An d what it is, it thus doth need,

J Come, quickly show to me, F. M'D.

REBUS. . ; .

Restore the head; the letters five transpose,

An d to the gay the cheering scene dis

close} .List! 'tis the music's captivating sound,

It beckon s all, above, below, around, —

To charm by me rry dance the tedious hour,

An d test the farce of Terpsichorean power;

Restore, my w hole, and pity the sad,fate,

Of all like me whose love is *turh'd tohate:

Whilst all the pleasures of my change you

« . share, A

Forget not what I am, and what I bear :

Raiseyour freehands my fetters to destroy,

An d you your liberty will well employ !

G. JR.ARITHMETICAL QUESTIONS.

1. Two farmers, A and B, met at the market, each with a flock of sheep. A said to

B, " Give me six of yours and I shall hav e twice as many as you."—"No," said B ,

give me three, and we shall both have an equal number." In the market, A sold a

part of his flock, and upqn returning, seeing B with his full complement, said to him,

" Give m e two, and we shall both have the same number."— <: Nay," said B, " give me

six, and I shall have as many as you had at first." Ho w many had they each at their

first meeting, and how many did A sell ? , S. M.

2. Sjx men subscribed equal shares, and bought a grindstone 50 inches in diameter.

What portion of the radius m u s t each grind down to his share ? EDMUND .

3. There is a street 100 feet wide ; a building on one side is 80 feet high, and another

oh the opposite side is 50 feet high. No w there is a spot in the street in a straight line

with the cent re line of the buildingSj from which a ladder may be placed to the topof

either bui lding. It is re ,uired to find out the distance of the foot of the ladder fromthe base of each of the bui ldings . ANON .



160 THE FAMILY HERALD. [July 7,1SG0.

R A N D O M R E A D I N G S .• _

W ha t is the difference betwe en a runni ng stream of water and a dog torn

in two ?'—The one is a current, and the other a rent cur>

To escape trouble from noisy children—send them to your neighbours

" visiting."

A person of the masculine gender putting on female apparel, for the fun of

the thing, of course only plays fair.

" Guard," asked a railroad passenger, " are yo u running on time to-da y ?"

— " No , sir ; we are running for cash ."

" A bad wife," says an old author , " is confu sion, weakness,, discomfi ture,

and despair." Bad enough, is it not, good woman ?

The natural genius of M rs. Parti ngton was recently well illustrated whenshe put a tub in the garden to catch soft water when it was raining hard.

It is a very easy thing for lovers to interest each other ; if they occasionally

hesitate for sweet sayings, they can fill up the intervals with sweet kisses.

Wh e n begga rs cease to importune you, it is time to begin to think about

purchasing new apparel. Some respect is due to the opi nion of others.—

Punch.

" To r n , what's monomany ?"*—" Why, you see, Dick, when a poor woman

steals it is called lar ceny ; but w nen it's a rich 'un the ju ry says it's

monomany, and can't help it—that's it.*'

" Th e clouds begi n to break," said Harriet, during yesterday's rain. Sh e•was impatient for an opportuni ty to go shopp ing .—" Jus t so ," was theanswer, as the speaker glanced from the wi n d o w; "they leak bad enough,

to be sure."

" Landlord," said a commercial traveller, " you do me too much honour—

yo u let me sleep among the big bugs last ni gh t" —" Oh, don't be toomodest, my dear sir," said the lan dlo rd; " I doubt not they have you row n blood in their veins."

A loving couple during an evening walk last week discovered the " varie

gated prismatic hues " of the Auror a Borealis., by which name he called herattention to it ; to whic h she in seranh tones r eplied —" Aurelius Bolis bedarned ; them's nothin' but northern lights ! "

" There , ma'am, " said Biddy, " i f I am goin g to leave yez, yez needn't take

on so. If yez git up early in the mornin', an' set the table for breakfast, a n'make the nre in the dinin g-ro om, an' sweep the stairs oy a Friday, you may

ge t another gur-r-I as good as m eself as will consent to come and live wid yez."

Th e servant of a Prussian officer one day met a crony , Who inquired of himho w he got along with his fiery master. " O h , ex cel len tl y!" answered theservant. " W e live on very friendly terms; every morning we dust eachother's coats; the only difference is, he takes his off to be dusted, and I keepmine on."

An invincibl e wit and punster asked the captain o f a craft, loaded w ith

boards, how he managed to get dinner on the passage. " W h y , " replied theskipper, " w e always cook aboard ."—"Cook a board, do y ou ! " rejoined thewa g; " then I see you have been well supplied with provisions this trip, atall events." -

" Are you an Odd Fellow ? " — • " No , sir ; I have been married more than awe e k . " —" I mean, do you belon g to the'or der of Odd Fell ows ? " — " N o ; Ibelong to the order of married men ."— " Mercy, how dull! Are you aMason ? " — N o ; I' m a carpenter ."—" Wors e and worse! Are you a Son of Temperance ? — " N o ; I 'm a son of Mr. John Gosling."

"Vat ' s de matter—vat's de matt er? " exclaimed an old Dutchman inRatcliffe, as he tuc ked up his a pron and ran out o f his shop to kn ow themeaning of a crowd in the street. "Vat ' s de mat te r ?"—"There ' s a mankilled," replied a by-stander.—" Oh, is that all?" said our friend, evidentlydisappointed—" ish dat all ? Shoost a man kil t! Hum ph, I thought it wasa fight."

In the court of Squire Hall it seemed good to the counsel employed on oneside to back up his position by reading a paragraph from Chitty's Pleadings ;

and fearing his authority mig ht not fall with sufficient force on the " gentlemen of the jury, " he appealed to Squire Ha ll. " Squire, you kno w Chitty ? "— " Oh yes ," said the squire, " Chitty is one of th e best lawyers Kent uckyhas ever pro duce d!"

Little Alice, dressed and prepared for a walk, was skipping up and dow nthe passage, wait ing for her mother t o get ready* to go out. He r littlecousin sajd he was goin g out too. " N o , " answered Alice, "y ou can' t go —yo u are not dressed well enou gh." He r uncle laughi ngly remarked, " thatthe pride stuck out quite ear ly ." —" No ," answered Alice, " it isn't my pride,it's my new silk frock that sticks out so." ; t *

A lady was told th e other day by a travelling gentlem an, that every ladywho had a small mo uth was provided with a husband by the governme nt." Ith it p ot hi bu l? " said the l ady, makin g her mouth as little as she could.

Th e gentleman added, " that if she had a large mouth she was provided withtw o husba nds." —"My g rac iou s!" exclaimed the lady, at the same timethrow ing her mouth open to its full extent. The gentleman becamealarmed , made his escape, and has not bee n heard o f since.

Soon after the telegraph was put in operation on the line of the Ohio andMississippi Railro ad in Mart in county, one of the natives stepped into theoffice and wanted to know the price of pork in Cincinnati. In a few momentsan answer came, with a charge of thirty-five cents for the infor matio n; butthe "hoosier"*was too smart to be caught that way, and replied, " Oh, no,Mr . Telegrapher, you can't fool me that way. I' m not as green as you think

' A R T E X P O S I T I O N . — A cockney telling 'is love to the lady 'e hadores.

T H E R I G H T T H I N G I N T H E . W R O N G P L A C E . — A love-letter written on a

mourning sheet;

QUESTIONS U N D E R DISC USS ION. —I)i d the man who ploughed the sea, a nd

afterwards planted his foot on his native soil, ever harvest the crop s ? Secondl y:Di d the m an w ho prosecuted his jour ney into Wales recover his expenses ?

R O M A N T I C — T h e Oswego Times tells a good story of a fashionable lady of that village, whose parents are not possessed of wealth in proportion to herpretensions, who excused herself to a visitor for doing housework, thus:" Mo t h e r and I do our own house work , because it is so exceedingly romantic."

P O E T R Y A N D S T E A M . — A youn g lady, who is of course poetical, and who

has jus t crossed the Chann el, describes the engi nes of the steamer as "t w o of the politest monsters that ever issued from Pandem onium ; a happy familydancing the eternal Lancers with grace and ease, and without boisterous noise

or pretence." *

A DISAPPOINTED TRAVELLER.—An America n traveller in Italy, stoppingat Genoa, very naturally visited the house where Colum bus was born. Inwriting home, he regretted that he did not see that illustrious personage, as

he wished to thank him for discovering t he fine country of which he had thehOho'ur to be a citi zen; •

TH E N EW B AILIE OF PEEB LES. —A burgess of this gravely-pleasant townsallied forth into the Green, having that same day been made a magistrate.

He stumbled against a Cow, and the milker shouted to him, " M an ! haud aff ma c o o ! " — " Wu mm an !" said he, looking; sternly at her : " I ' m no a man,

I ' m a bailie."—Scotsman.

COULDN'T EFFERVESCE.—An Indian being at an Englishman's table ah

Surat, expressed his surprise by loud exclamat ions, on seeing a large quantity

of froth ooze out of a bottle or porter as soon as the cork was drawn. Beingasked what surprised him , he replied; " I don 't wonder at all the froth that

comes out of the bot tle ; but how the deuce did you ever contrive to squeezei t al l i n? "

A SUCCESSFUL COLLECTOR.—A new way of collecting a bad debt was mosteffectively tried a feW weeks ago in the Rue de la Seine, in Paris, before the

lodgings of a somewhat dissipated student. A man was observed walking upand do yn before the house, having upon his back a large placard, with the

words "M on si eu r C — owes me for thirty bottles of tin rouge; I am

waiting until he pays for them."—He did nbt wait very long;

COOL, R A T H E R . — A gentleman^ a day or two since, was sitting in a barbed

shop, undergoing some tonsorial operation, when his partner in businessstepped in and quietl y remarke d, " Br own , our pl ace is.on fire."—" Well , let itburn, it's insure d."—" Y es, I know, but it will make a pretty warm fire, andI thought I ' d just drop in and tell you about it ; I didn't know but yo u' d.want to see the old place burn."—"Well, wait a minute or two, till my otherwhisker's trimmed, and I'll go with you."

N O T F R E N C H . — A facetious Scotchman some time ago took a trip over toFran ce, and astonished the natives there in no small deg ree. In the hotel

where he put up, in Boulogne, the servants were all newly-imported cockneys;and Mr . M - — - , who is a sterling wag, mystified t hem not a little by hisbroad Scotch . Getting up one morni ng rather earlier than usual, he called awaiting-maid, and accosted her with —" Fetc h me ma shoon, las sie ."— "Ah ,sir," said she, " I don't understand French! "-^Glasgow Commonwealth,

T H E H E I G H T OF IMPUDENCE. — Mr. Gurney (Mr s. Fry 's father) was astrict preserver of his game. Upon one occasion, when walking in his park,he heard a shot fired in a neighbouring wood; he hurried to the spot, andhis naturally placid temper was considerably ruffled on seeing a young officer

wit h a pheasant at his feet, delibera tely reloadin g his gun . As the you ngman, however, replied to his rather warm expression by a polite apology, Mr.Gurney's war mth was somewhat allay ed; but he could not refrain fromasking the intruder what he would do if he caught a man trespassing on hispremises. " I would ask him in to lunch eon," was the reply. The serenityof this impudence was not to be resisted.

A N UNFORTUNATE ILLUSTRATION.—A certain professor was noted forhaving a certain set of illustrations, from which he could not well deviatewithou t running the risk of a blunder. In illustrating the powerful^effects of prussic acid , he wa s won t to inform the class that a drop placed oh a dog's

ton gue was sufficient to kill him . On one occasion when lecturing his classhe said—" Mr. Smith," addressing a young man whose chance of passing wasvery slender, " what can yo u say Of prussic a cid ? Is it power ful, or otherw i s e ? " — " I t is rather powerful," said the student, dubiously.—"Mather

powerful !" said the professor, indign antly. " Put a drop on your tongue,and it would kill a d o g ! " The shout of laughter which followed, andSmith's confusion, revealed to the professor that his illustration had sewed adouble purpose.

T H E G R A N D E U R OF DINING.

W e may live without poetry, music, and art;

W e may live without conscience, and live without heart;

W e may live without friends; we may live withou t books;

But civilised man cannot live without cooks.

He may live without books—what is knowled ge but grieving ?

H e may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving ?

He may live without love—what is passion but pining ?But where is the man that can live without dining ?

O W E N M E R E D I T H .

Published by BENJAMIN BLAKE, 421 , Strand, London, W. C. , to who m all

h di b dd d

Family Herald July 07 1860

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Transcript of Family Herald July 07 1860