Family Herald May 12 1860

8/8/2019 Family Herald May 12 1860

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FAMILYa Domestic i&aga?int of

HEALTH CONSTITUTES THE HAP PINESS OP THE BODY J

VIRTUE THAT OF THE MIND.

H E RALD©seful Information an* amusement

STRAIN THE BOW, AND THE AllHOW SWERVES J SUCH IS

THE CASE WI T H THE MIND.

N o . 889.—YOL . X V I I L ] FOR T H E W E E K E N D I N G M A Y 12, 1860. [PRICE ONE PENNY.

T H E C O W S L I P S A R E COMING AGAIN.—( F o r Music.)

The sunbe ams are chasing the s hadow s

O'er woodland, o 'er hil l , and o'er plain;

We'll away—we'l l away to the meadows,

For the cowslips are com ing again.

The hedge rows with blossoms are gleami ng,

An d the dew-dr ops they spangle each

spray.

But o f cowslips the children are dreaming,As they roam throug h the m ead ows so

g a y ;

An d their voices are merri ly ringing,As they search thr ough the fresh bla des

of green,

For the pale yellow buds that are springing

An d nestl ing so snugly betwee n.

Oh, the cow slips, how dearly we love t h em !

An d they bow their slim heads as we

pass ;

An d the white fleecy clou ds sail above

them,

Smiling down on their hom es in the

grass.

Come away from the tow n and the ci ty ;

Como an d gather our cowsl ips so swee t ;

The dew sparkles on thorn so pret ty,As they loving ly rost at our feet .

Oh, the sunbeams are chasing the shad ows

O'er woodland , o 'er hil l , and o'er plai n;

We ar e off—we are off to the me ado ws,

For the cows lips have come back again.

S. W.

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

N O B O D Y ' S S O N .

Yes, Nobody's Son ! Yo u have kno wn him in his prosperity, though you

may not be "aware of it ; but of the strugg les of his boyhood you know

nothing . The bottle stand s; pass it. Perm it me to tell you "his story,

gentlemen.

A ragge d lad, spare and grim y, he stoo d in a doorwa y almost too lo w to

admit him, and inside there was written "po ve rty , hunger, and dirt." The

boy's eye wandered in a hopeless manner from a slatternly wo man crouch ing

over the hearth, to the figure of a man, lantern-visaged* hollow-eyed, wh o

leaned against the doorpo st beside him.

" Well, my lad, dost hear ? " — " Ay . But where am I to go to ? "

" Where thee likest. Come, out with thy fist; there's three bo b, and I can

ill spare it. No w, go thy ways; be honest, and don't li e; but remember

we've done with thee for all evers."

Th e lad took the money and turned away . In a few minutes he came

back again.

" Give me a name," he said, looking up into the man's sallow face; " every

dog has a name."

"But every brat picked up in the gutter hasn't."

Suddenly the woman rose up from her crouchi ng posture, and came forward.

" I had a name once, so long ago that it's well-nigh forgot. Dunna send

the lad away, Jo hn ; I p icked him up, and he's growed to my heart like.

Dunna."

" Bother ! " returned her husban d. " Who's to fill las mouth and cover

his back ? Cut!—be off!—march!"

" I've not got a friend in the w or ld ! " cried out the lad, as he trudged

through the muddy lanes which led from his old hom e, " not one in the

world." And the rain that pattered down from the house tops repeated it

doggedly, " Not one!"

" I ' m all in rags and dirt," he said, as he reached the broader streets and

stared about him, and a peal of bells rung o ut and echoed it merrily, " Rags

and dirt, rags and dirt! "

"C ut , be off, ma rc h! " repeated the boy . "B ut where shall I mar ch?

Everybody's busy here, there's no room for me. Wh at am I to do ? " He

passed a pastrycook's shop—tempting and rich—he was hungry, and his

fingers Wandered to the shillings in his pocket, wistfully. All at once an idea

came to him, and his eyes glistened. A capital thou ght, a rare plan! First,he must have a basket, and that was soon bo ugh t: but a shilling, a whole

silver shilling for a basket, and such a little basket, too ! larger tho ugh thanhe was likely to requi re. He tossed it up into the air and caught it again in

his glee, and then, soberly and boldly, as a man of private property should do,

he entered the pastry cook's shop.

No one noticed him. " A h ! " thought he, "t he y don't know about the

shillings."

" Come, yo u move on, my lad. You're not wanted."

An d my lad moved on accord ingl y a little farther into the shop. It was

not a first-rate house—there was no comfortable room in the distance where

young ladies from the co untry indu lged in the soup with the long est name,

talked about Trafalgar Square and the "fo un t'n s," and communicated sudden

shocks to their nervous systems by means of swallo wing too much ice at a

time, not und erstanding its nature. One poor little marble table stood in a

dim corner, but it did not seem to attract any one much.

" Now, my boy. Wh at is it ? "

"That un, and that un, and this un, " said the lad, indica ting with a

singularly dirty finger the particular dainties he wished to stow away.

" I say, you move oif. Wil l you ? I'l l teach yo u to finger things here,

you dirty you ng rascal. Marc h ! "

This was too much . W h y wasn't his money as good as other people's ?

He looked up wistfully, and tears came into his eyes, for his heart was heavy,

and it flashed upon h im all at once how destitute he was, how utterly alone,

with no place to cover his head and no voice to speak to him. H e held out

his shillings despairingly.

" Oh ! that's another" thi ng, " said the man. " Come, say what you want,

but keep your fingers off."

" Give us one in," said the lad, wa tch ing with his anxious eyes every

delicacy put into the little basket. " I want to sell ' cm ."

The man looked at him and lau ghe d; but one more pitiful came up and

looked at him too.

" Give hi m some," he said, angrily. " Yo u kno w the price if he's going t<J

sell."

Th e you ng me rchant left the shop with a sob still stick ing in his throat.

He tramped the streets and pushed his basket at the passers by , som e gavehim an angry look, some a pok e with a stick or a sharp-po inted elbow. Tw o

cakes he had sold, realising the sum of three-halfpence, when he sat himself

down on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, and gradually, as the sun grew hot

and hotter, his head dropped lower and he slept.

An hour afterwards, the same ragged urchin darkened the door of the

pastrycook's shop, where the one marble table stood still desolate in its corner.

"W ha t, here again, my fine fellow? Come, off with yo u; inarch ! " It

was very odd. " Marc h! " had been ringin g in his ears all day, and here it

came again. Was everybody going to tell him to inarch, and where on earth

was he to m arch to ?

Great tear-marks covered his face, red and smudged with dirt, as he turned

towards his former advocate.

" I went an slep, an somebody's gone an pr ig ge d' em ." It seemed as if

the p erpetual " march " we re coming from this mouth too, but the owner

thereof changed his mind, and examined the face with its grimy tear-marks.

" Who are you ? What's your name ? " — " Name,—John."

"John what ? " asked the man.

" M—m—march," stammered the lad, looking round d espondin gly ; for lie

had a misty sort of idea that it was a hanging matter to have no name, and

that was the only one he could think of.

" John March, where's your father ? " — " Nowheres."

" Your mother ? " — " Ain ' t got none."

" Whose son are you ? " — " N o b o d y ' s . "

" Where did you get that money ? "

" It was given me by them as picked me up a little 'un, and can't keep me

no longer; indeed it was."

A fresh burst of sobs followed this speech, and when the qu estioner put a

fresh basket of eatables into the di rty hand held out to recei ve it, they came

faster than ever, for the lad didn 't kn ow what to say, he was so glad . He was

told that he must come back and pay his debts when his basket was empty,

which he promised, with a curious mixture of sobs and chuckles.

They migh t sneer and laugh at the green one in that pastrycook's shop;

they migh t cut their jokes at him and make as merry as they likod, he didn't

mind it, for whether the boy were honest or a thief his act was charity.

But Joh n Ma rch did come back, holding the money in his hand and grinning.

He replenished his basket; he came again, day after d ay; he brought a larger

basket and a cleaner face; he was getti ng on . In spite of the rain -which

pattered down " no friends, not one," in spite of the bells that clamoured out

" rags and dirt, rags and d irt, " he was gettin g on. Th e dirt was gone, the

rags going ; he had a lodging for the night, poor it was and miserable, and

for it he paid the sum of twopence sterling. Out of the pocket of his ragged

jacket peered a ragge d spel ling -bo ok; at corners of streets, on steps, at

crossings, he studied it. He was getting on.

Fo r a while we will leave John March with his basket and the ragged books

in his cheerless lodging. W e will go back a little and enter a very different

scene; light and warmth meet us, comfort and luxury have made their abode

here, in this room where a man in the prime of life sits, dressing-gowned and

slippered, before his desk. But no pleasant thoughts are passing throug h his

mind , and it is not the papers, whi ch his hands are restlessly fingering, that,have brought the look of gloomy uneasiness to his face. Nea r him, silent and

pale, stands his daugh ter, and it is with her he is angr y. W h y , to him she is

a child still, a mere infant, how dare she think of such things as falling in love

and marriage ? H o w dare she suffer the youn g spendthrift v aga bon d to speak

to him on the subject ? H e turns his glance upon her again, and as she looks

at him wistfully, her delicat e hand gr aspin g the back of the chair she leans

against, surely some tou ch of pity might have moved him, for she has n »

mother.

But no. Bitterly and resentfully he sums up the wrongs she is doi ng hi m.

" Wh en he has reckone d on her to comfort him , to brig hten his house as a

daught er can, to care for him and minister to his wants—h er earnest wish is

thus to desert him ! "

• ; 889 :



18 TH E FAMILY HERALD — A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [May 12, 1SC0.

She would answer that it is not so, that she wil l he his daugh ter still and

never leave him, but he stops her with a quick gesture.

" Wh en he has cared for her as the apple of his eye, and dreamed over the

time, now come, when school would be over, and she at liberty to share his

plans and troubles, it is hard to find that her first a ct is to give away her heart,

to another—and such ano ther! — a beggar ed spendthrift, a man witho ut

character, without means, without a heart to give in return."

W h o know s how false these charges sounded to her car, yet in answer she

can but murmur , " I love him ! "

" Wh en , after all these years of care," goes on the father, his tone deepen

ing, " all this painstaking, toi ling early and l ate, with the happiness o f my

child near to my heart, hoping for it, yearning after it, this beardless rake

comes forward to demand my purse, and I am to say ca lm ly ,' Take it, with myblessing!' When I have listened to the voices of my mills, and thought how

pleasantly they sang, hopi ng al ways—she bids me give them up, and what

they have brought me, for this spendthrift suitor to make ducks and drakes

of. Never, never. Listen to me, and understand. Yo u see this man no

m o r e ; you never take so much as his name upon yo ur lips. And now ,

hearing me, think upon your folly. Hencefo rth m y daughter in name and

position only, I take back into my heart the weak desire I had o f winn ing

your love and cheri shing yo u as a thing more precious than riches, for sec

ho w I am repaid . I take it back."

There came a faint cry from the pale girl's lips as she stood there a

moment uncertain. Bending before him till her hair touched the hand

wand ering so restlessly amongst the papers, she strove to take it in her own

and plead with him; but he drew it back coldly and hastily.

" O n c e more," sobbed the gir l; " o n l y let me see him once more to say

good-bye."

" Still for him ! " called out the m ill- owner, bitterly. " Pleadi ng for him

—I am nothing: this is grati tude and duty. I say to y ou , see him no more,

mention him never again ; forget him and g o about yo ur own ways as I wil labout mine ; and if ever a thought comes to you that I might have been a

kinder father, more loving, more tender, remembe r whose hand struck a blow

at my happiness and your own."

Again she touches the relentless hand with her li ttle fingers; h ot tears

drop upon it, but he sits there cold and stiff, loo king away from her. She

stoops and leaves a kiss on that hand with her trembling lips; she turns

away heavily, sorrowfully, and the mill- owner is alone. Ho w dark the room

is ; fire will not warm it ; lights will not bright en it. Let him think of thatkiss years to come, when he knows n ot whether his daughter has clothes to

cover her or food to nourish her, when he begins to wonder where the

trembling fingers are now and what they are doing . Let hi m think of it

years to come, when conscience reproaches him with his hardness to his

motherless child. He will think of it; it will eat into his heart as a canker,

and the tears burn like drops of fire upo n the hand he looks upon now

absently, while he brushes them away. So he turns to his desk again,

knowing not that trial and temptation are about his daughter, that the voice

of her lover is in her ear, pleading with her, urging her to fly with him.

H ow can she listen ? Oh, but she loves him, she loves hi m! and it is sohard to think of never seeing him again, never hearing his voice. It is so

hard to have no one to love !

An d he tells her that when they are married they will come back, and be

so submissive that he cannot fail to forgive. The old tale, the old music, and

she loves him.

Thin k of it now, old man, sitting alone in the midst of ric hes; think of it

as you consult the watch and look around you. Yes, you are rig ht; it grows

late, bedtime; but there is no gentle good night for you, no kiss for you to-ni ght,

but that sorrowful one whic h trembled on the hand whic h holds t he watch-

key. Oh, put it to your lips for the memory of that kiss, for those pl eading

tears, for the wistful eyes! Thi nk of it no w !

In his old lodgi ng, retained perhaps from force of habit, perhaps because he

liked to think of those first days of struggle and fai lure, hope and fear, J ohn

March sat with his lamp—a twisted wick of paper floating on oil in a cracked

teacup—and his books. This lodg ing is a room, with five so-called beds and

accommodation for ten lodgers ; but he had por tioned off his own particular

corner with tattered sheets, payi ng doub le for it, and keepin g it to himself,study and sleepiiig- room in o ne. The space outside was generally occupied,

but the tenants of these " well-aired beds " roll ed into them, and slept their

weary sleep in silence. It was not a place where mirth was likely to enter.

Sitting there however to-night over a worn history—for the spelling- book

3i ad been superseded long ago— John Mar ch grew restless. In the bed nearest

to his corner there was a mo aning sound, comi ng at intervals, feeble and

despairing. John couldn't stand thi s; he drew aside his curtain and looked

out. Scantily clothed, but yet in remnants of a richer time, pale, hollow-

eyed, there sat a woman, who looked at him even as he looked at her, but

there was only misery in her eye.

John came out from his retreat. " Was she 111 ? " She shook her head

drearily. " Could he do anything for her, get anything ? " — " No ."

" Ther e is plenty of misery here," said John, " but your s seems a bad case.

Can't you trust m e ? "

Th e woman turned her large eyes upon him wistfully. " Here is my sick

ness," she said, turning down the corner of a ragged cloak of fine cloth which

she had taken from her own shoulders. Under it, gathered close to her heart,

lay a sleeping child, some six or seven years old.John touched the warm, rosy cheek compassionately, and put off a brown

curl that was straying across it.

" It is all over with m e, " said the woman . " I am dying —but this is

worse than death."

" I a m bu t a poor lad ," said John; strangely touched by the soft tones and

gentle speech so new to him, " but I am honest, indeed. Tel l me about it,

and see if I can't do something."

Th e woman put out he r left hand, where glittered in the ray of his lamp

the wedding-ri ng. Cautiously she put it out and then covered it up again.

"I t is the only thing I have lef t; I couldn't pawn that. Yes, I will tell

yo u all, for I am dying. I have known that long ; but t o-night it is near—

near. Listen, then ! "

Th e wick floats on its oil and grows di m; through the torn rag that covers

the window tokens are peering in of that dawn which strengthens the hcarts

of the faint and de spon ding ; but anot her dawn is breaking for the hollow-

eyed woman wV>se head falls back upon John 's arm, whose fading sense

receives his promis e to care for the little one sleeping on quiet and unconscious

while h$r mother dies.

Think of it, now, oh ! man of mills and ledgers, think of it!

" But ," says John , in a startled whispe r, " the name, the name, how am Ito find out "

A faint light comes into the glazing eyes and a movement to the blue lips.

" Seek out a mill-ow ner, named •" No more, John, the light is come,

dawn has b roken. Shut up the eyes tenderly, lay her back gently to rest in

her rags, and take the sleeping child from her bosom. Think of it n ow, oh,

rich man, on thy desolate hearth, think of it!

An d John rose from beside the dead slowly, his heart touched, his nature

softened. He had to conside r about his stock of mon ey in the hands of thatfirst benefactor in the pastrycoo k's shop, who had never lost sight of liim, nor

ceased to befriend him ; he had to think whet her he had been foolishly weak

and though tle ss; he had to seek his landlady and leave the child in her

charge, promising payment, till he could seek out his friend and take counsel.

A trusty counsellor that green one of the pastrycook's, a loving heart inside

its plain case, a true and steadfast friend. Oh ! there are good hearts in this

world of ours that men call so bad, staunch hearts and kindly, ready to s o n w

for another's grief, ready to lend a helping hand to the fallen.

With this friend' s help, a home was found for the child , and burial for its

mothe r ; with his help John' s hands were strengthened and his will confirmedto care for the orphan as a sister ; with Lis help efforts were made to find out

the mil l-owner , but they wer e unsuccessful.

W e let the years pass on, while the ragged books give place to better ones,

secondhand, but good and cle an; whil e the lo dgin g is changed, and John

March has passed, with his friend's help, from an errand boy to a clerk in a

merchant's office. But J ohn was restless,—a bad sign, said his friend. Not so.

H e had a wish to go amongst the manufacturers ; he had heard of " AVanted,

a cler k," in a mill-owner 's count ing- house ; and his friend, knowing his

meaning, s hook his head in compassion for a hopeless case.

H e got the clerkship, however, and then his little sister was taken from the

cheap school, where she had been hitherto , and placed in a highe r one. John 's

wants were few, and little sufficed for them. His first interview with his new

master was not in the counti ng-house, but in his own drawing-roo m, a gorgeous

place, where luxury and riches stared at him as an intruder, and asked what

he wanted there. And the great chief of the firm, a white-haired man,

morose and gloomy, questioned him, and read his references and testimonials,

scarcely seeming to take in their meani ng or to care for them. Such a cloudhung about this man, such a heavy , oppressive air there was in the very fall

of the rich hanging s, and the massive splendour of the pictures and mirrors,

that a weight passed from the clerk's heart as he left the room and breathed

the fresh air outside. He was gett ing on. No more rags, no more selling

eatables and other small wares, and snatching a moment at odd corners to

spell out a word from his book ; no more worn volumes and threadbare coats.

But it needed all John' s hopeful spirit to make light wrork of this. The

very business seemed to have no life in it ; the counting-house laboured under

a cloud, the books, the stools, the windows themselves looked dead; nothing

was alive but the mice, and even they seemed to scamper about more softly

when the head himself entered.

John worked on steadily in the cloud, now and then going to see his little

sister in her school ; and the mill-owner's cold eye marked out his habits for

approval. He ros e; he dropped the word clerk for manager. He talked a

little with his chief and with oth ers; he was observant and thoughtful,

taking note of things which would seem to have no interest for him.

It was strange how, look ing from time to time upon the mi ll-owner in his

dead atmosphere, and workin g on in the cloud, the idea arose in John's mindand gre w up till i t pres ented itself to him as a tangib le fact, that his search

was ended here, his aim attained. So strong was this conviction, that if his

prin cipa l had suddenly said in his car the words to verify it, he woul d have

felt no surprise, but have taken them as natural and words of course. And

sitting there, working out his idea, whil e his fingers were busy, no wonder

filled his mind when there fluttered down before him, from leaves so little akin

to it, a scrap of paper yellow and musty, and the delicate lines traced on it

faint with age. No wonder but at the iron nature of a father whom no

submission, no pleading seemed to move, and who must have torn up the poor

littl e note and left a morsel there unwittingly. A face, worn and sallow, came

before him as the lines passed under his eye.

" W e only beg for forgiveness. If you would but believe this, my dear

father, I ask nothing more; I love you so much, I feel so deeply how Wrong I

have been. Only take off the heavy consciousness of you r displeasure—only

say you forgive."

There lay the conviction, which had been grow ing within him, verified.

Then John March left the counting- house ; house-roofs lowered down aoout

him, grey in the evening l ig ht ; men and wome n talked, and he heard them,and it seemed as if in all the great worl d none had so hard a thing to do as

he had. He walked on, he wanted to get out of the bustle that lie might

think, but on the bridge right before him moonbeans were pouring down cold

and ghost-like , lighti ng up the stream which lay beneath like a great silver

scroll. He paused; a man was leaning over touched his cap, and said

it was a "fah u nag ht." It was, but John did not heed it much, and the man

went on wi th a certain bitterness in his tone. " H e had been watchm'



Ha > 12, 1800.] 1 0

t' windows lit up so grand, and thinkin' t' maister must have a fahn

time o't."

John asked him absently " Did he know the master ? "

" A y , he knowed un, had worked for un, till a turned him off, worked for

un twenty year."

Then John turned and looked at him. But what use asking questions ? He

knew enough.l

- Bin thinking, " said the man, leaning over and flinging a stone into the

water, " about the ways o' Providence. Lookin' at them windows, and all

the money as is the re ,'w ho'd think my missis is down on her back a dyin,

and I can't rise a brass fardin to buy her noth in—I say who'd think it ? "

Another stone down into the stream, sending little sparks hying in alldirections,

" Ever have a wife ? " — " N o , " replied John.

" A comfortable tiling to see her dyin, ain't it ? A nice thing to look at,

and then come here and sec all that, and know about the riches. I often

conies, 1 does, it's nice," said the man, shaking his fist at the lighted windows,

H e was turning off with his head down on his bosom, but John pressed

someth ing which shone in the moon ligh t into his hand, and said "G o d

help him!"

" F o r this," thought the manager, " is as hard a battle as mine, perhaps

harder. This has done me good—courage ! "

It was ten years now since the hollow-eyed woman lay quietly back in her

rags to rest in the cheerless lodging , and John March went again to see his

little sister. He stood with her on the hearth, her hand in his and her head

on his shoulder, for she called him brother, and knew no better. He drew

back his hand, and put away the stray curl that fell across her cheek, as it

jhad done that night ten years ago.

" Emmy, little one . "—" Yes, John."

" Y o u are old enough, now, to leave school." She nodded, gravely, butdid not speak. " I must take you home ." '

" Wh e re is t h a t ? " — " I have something to tell you, Emmy ."

She looked at him, wonderi ngly, smiling a little at his grave seriousness.

But he raised her head from his shoulder, still gravel y look ing into the tire.

" Emmy, I am not your brother."

She drew back from him then in earnest, pale and red by turns, half hoping

he jested with her.

" It is true," said John.

" What are you, then ? " — " Nothing. I am no relation to you ."

" N o relation ! Noth ing! Oh ! John."

Tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she looked at hi m; they rolled down

her cheeks and fell silently. Still looking aAvay from her, he put out his

hand, but Emmy did not move.

" N o relat ion—nothing! And you have been so good—all I have in the

world. I cannot bear it."

" You do care for me, then ? " said John.

" Care for yo u! " she replied. " Oh! I do, I do. Ought not I to care for

my brother ? Let me call you my brother."" Call me your friend," said John, holding out his hand, and clasping fast

the little one placed in it.

"B ut I want my brother," said Emmy . " H o w can I do without my

brother ? "

He passed his hand over the brown head gentl y; he bent down and kissed

her forehead tenderly as a brother might do,

" Come, then, Emmy," said he.

" Where ? " she inquired.

" You must trust me ," said John. " Your brother still, if you will have it

so . I am going to take you home, and on the way you shall hear all I have

to tell."

Ho w busy the world is in the streets where lights are glitteri ng, carriages

rolling, feet trampling on the pavement, where curious walkers look in at the

shop windows and ponder, and admire wi th envious eyes ! Common- place

people these, enough, but who knows what chord the glittering lights, the

music, the whirling carriages might strike upon, and send them back to a

time in their lives when romance lived for them too ? Just to stand for five

minutes by one of those shimmering windows and watch the throng of

passers, and think of the measure of grief and happiness in each heart that

goes by beating; just to think of it piled up and jumb led together, what

would your own load look like before all that?

In the room where the mill-owner sits the cloud hangs heavily. Yo u may

see it in the sombre shadows, in the solemn upright candles , in the stern olcl

hand clasping his brow, while the other rests on his desk. Yo u may see it in

the hair, blanched but dull, in the overhanging brows, in the hard lines about

the mouth, in the stiff chair, the straight, uncrossed legs, and slippered feet.

There was a tim e—What use to think of that? There was a time—in

spite of himself it drums in his ear that short sentence; it makes itself heard;

it will not be quiet. There was a time when, if he had been more gentle, he

might have secured to himself one to love him, to comfort him. ^Vhere is

she 1 Ho w cold the room is, how dim the light!

There was a time when a touch on his hand, tears, a loving kiss, had no

power to move him. -He feels them now—the y burn him, they worry him.

He strikes the hand in his angry self-reproach or his pride. He hears the

sob, the pleading voice—he hears the rustle of her dress as she motes away,

and he turns to watch the door open and shut after her. Wher e is she ?

There was a time when letters came to him' one after another , tear-

blistered, blotted. What had he clone with them ? How cold the room is—

how dull the light! Ho w heavily the cloud gathers down about him !—how

his money rises up before hi m!— how the spectre bills and bonds dance and

flutter before his eyes, and heaps of yellow sovereigns glitter down there

amongst the coals to mock hi m! So heavy is the cloud this evening, that he

hears sounds faintly through it—approaching footsteps which pause at the

door—footsteps which enter—a voice which speaks to him, stirring the mist

but faintly.

John March, the manager, is there before him. Away all the spectres!—.

business. How cold the room is !—how dull and hard his eye, as he turns to

his manager!

" I have asked to speak with you at an unusual hour ," began John—a nd

the great man waved his hand as an acknowle dgment of the crime, and a

gracious pardon for it —" at an unusual hour, for my business is unusual . «>I

have that to tell which may interest you. Wil l you hear m e ? "

A little raising of the heavy cyel id ? /a little dila ting of the leaden nostril,

and the great man bows his assent, and points to a chair. No , John wi ll

stand." Y e a r s ag o, " he says, "wh en I was obscure and penniless, when I had in

the world only hope and courage, when I had for lod gin g a wretched room,

where night after night others, obscure and penniless too , stretched themselves

on the floor to rest as they could, and where often a brother or a sister-

crawled in only to die"-—(here there was a slight change of position in the

leaden man, and a gesture of impa tie nce) —" there came to this place of

wretchedness," continue d John , watching him, " a woman, faint and worn,

ol d in looks but y oung in years, rags to cover her, despair to nourish her.

From her finger, as she held it out, the gol den circlet rolled, and would have

fallen but for her jeal ous care of it, so wasted were those fingers. I did what

I could."

Another impatient gesture and a smothered ejaculation.

" She had come from Ital y, working her way back as she could, for her"

husband was dead—a good husband, a tender, lo ving husband he had been,

but his health failed in toili ng for her; he was not strong. She told me how

the marriage was a stolen one ; how she left her father's house stea lthily by

nig ht; how she repented, and wished to tell him so ; how she wished to tell

hi m that even at that mad hour, with her lover's voice in her ear, pleading,the remembrance of a kind word from him would have held her back."

H e paused, for the leaden man had started to his feet, trembling, with

the cloud about him still.

" Give me my daugh ter, " said he.

" I would give you " continued John.

" Silence! Give me my daugh ter, " repeated the old man in his shaky

voice.

" A Might ier has clai med her. On her rag bed, in the desolate room,"

said John, looki ng upon the luxuries a round him, " a stranger's hand sup

ported her at last. On my arm her head fell back when there was no more

breath, nor yearning after pardon. Hea r me ye t " (for the old man had sunk

upon his chair again, and was motioning him away) . "U nd er the cloak,

taken from her own poor shoulders, covered up, warm and healthy, there was

something else—a child, a daughter."

" G i v e her to m e ! " exclaimed the old man. " H o w dare you all these

years keep it from me ? How dare you "

" A moment more ," interrupted John , looki ng at the fire, and it was

curious that the leaden man's eyes took the same direc tion. " Al l these yearsI have been seeking you. The child knew nothing of her mother's story. I

took her, sir, as my sister; I left her at a school, a good one, fit for her; she

loves me as her brother, she • "

" Give her t o m e ! " repeated the old man.

" Hear me but another mome nt, " said John . " I want no thanks for what

I have done. I am not rich, I am obscure and nameless ; but I will make a

name. I will toil for wealth and win it. Oh listen to me, and think of your

ow n youth—t hink what we have been to each other, my heart is bound up in

her."

H e bent his head low, looking away from the glance that met his; for in

it there was scorn, and anger, and defiance. Still they stood there silent,

opposite each ether, listening to the footsteps whi ch sounded now outside—

listening to the low knock and t he gentle voice—li steni ng to the turn of the

lock, the opening door, the rustling dress.

There seemed to stand then before the old man' s eyes the same ligh t form

and wistful face he had been dreaming of, the same earnest glance, but filled

with a wrondering light as it fell upon them both.

" I had a daughter once," said the mill-owner , putting out his hand over

the fair head, " but she forgot her duty, and has been forgotten in her turn.

This child is come to make me amends for her mother's disobedience. I bid

her welcome."

H e let his hand sink down upon the brown head; he drew her towards

him, and put his lips upon her forehead. And all the while he wras thinking

of his great name and his riches, and wishing this girl had been a son to enter

into partnership with him,

" I wil l make her my heiress," he said ; " she shall take my name, and wo

will look about for one fit to be her husband."

But she turned to John hastily, and sought to bring them together.

" My brother is here, too," she said wistfully.

" For that man, " said her grandfather, " for the nameless man, the

obscure clerk, who has dared to presume on his services to insult me , let him

name his price for what he has done."

" Oh ! no, no!" cried out the girl, starting away from the hand which held

her. " John, oh, dear John, forgive him. John, don't leave me ."

It was good to see how she clung to him, and he put his arm about her

tende rly; how he comforted her and called her his best beloved, his treasure,

there before the old man, who had no powe r to prevent it ; how he told her

they must part for the present, but better times w 7ould come, and they would

never forget each othe r; how he put her away from him gently and bade her

hope on, as he would, to the end, and, come what may, they should meet

again.

Then, withou t a word to the mill-owner, looking to the last on the treasure

he left, John March, the manager, was gone.

Gone to seek out fresh work, alone, missing the charge he had liked to



2 0

think of at her school; dreaming now and then of something to be done for

her, and rousing up to the remembrance that there was no longer any one

dependant u pon him, no longe r any one to work for. And no wonder if the

thou ght crossed him sometimes that his promise to the dead had been more

than fulfilled, that, if that voice could speak now, it would rather bid him take

the ch ild under his o wn protectio n than leave her to the hard mill-owner. _ It

was hard sometimes to think of the pleading voice and the loving arms clinging

to hi m, but the old hopeful courage that had been granted to him lived yet

ari*d bore him up.

An d no shame to his manhood if, when one tiny envelope lay amongst the

business letters on his desk, he grasped that one first, and pressed it to his

brown cheek, and kept it next his heart through the day, a spot of comfort;

no shame to his manh ood if he suffered himself to 'be downcast for a moment

at the sudden recollection of the great gulf opened between them.

When one fixed idea takes possession of a man it is strange how it grows

and hardens, and become s the movi ng principle of his life. All the chang es

that have taken place, since John March the ma nager left him, have but

thickened the mist that hangs betwee n the mill-own er and his kind. " All

these weary months, years," thinks the little one who watches him, sometimes

sorrowfully, " have but made him harder as well as older."

His white head is whiter; there is a stoop in his shoulder, there is a

querulous infirmity about his speech, and his walk is unsteady and weak. But

if ever he was the pote nt head of the firm, the great man, bear ing a wid e-

known name, he is now more so.

In her seat at the fireside, silent and meditative, Emmy has no thought now

of loving him or making him love her ; once she tried, but all his heart was

wrapp ed in his great name. He brough t before her a husband, whom he

willed her to accept, to whom he offered her p ompou sly as one who had a

right to do it; but Emmy laid her head upon her hands, and said quietly that

she would die first. He was gro wing ol d; business had passed out of his

head for ever, but he did not think so; still he went to the counting-house attimes to overlook the manager, still he came back elevated and haughty with

the consciousness of tho gre at things his house was doing under this new

manager, still his hand turned over the papers on his desk, and he mutter ed

to himself, while his granddau ghter sat there silent, build ing castles in the air

over her work , and sometimes lookin g round the luxuri ous room, and

wondering vaguely what it wanted, what made it so cold and comfortless

and dreary.

He takes out his watch and winds it; he glances at tlie fire, and murmurs

that it is chill y ; he says it is bedtime, and Em my goes up to him, and puts

her lips to his cheek, mechanically, with the customary good night.

He sits there awhile musing. All is still and secure about hi m; but who

knows how thick the clouds are getting over his head, or how soon they shall

burst down upon him and ove rwhelm him ? All the while he sits there they

are darkening ; all the while he lays unconscious in his bed they are covering

the sky as they do in June before a thunderstorm. A little bit of blue

remains, faint and lessening; when that is gone, let him beware.

Anoth er day, with its fresh loa d of wor k for the w orkma n, another dawn

over the earth. Wh at of the clouds now ? It is all over, the blue is covered,the silence and security gone. A great blow has stricken the millowner;

shortly, those who look down the list of bankrupts will see the well-known

name he was so proud of, give him a wor d of surprise and compassion, and

pass on about their own affairs. An d if you go into the great man's bedroom ,

yo u will see that there is no more blue sky for him. Stretched on his bed he

lies, helpless and speechless, and on e-half of him is dead.

A sad time in that house, a sad time for the little one who watches at his

bedside. She thinks no w that she could love him if he would let her, even

yet, she is so sorry for him. Wh en his senses come back partially, and he

tries to speak, with strange contortions, her arm pil lows his head, her hand

ministers to his wants, and when he looks at her with his hard eyes so earnestly,

with such a painful mean ing, she strives to comfort him, gnd bids him rest and

ge t better, and all will yet be well. " She is his own chil d, she will never

leave him."

But it is not that, oh, not that which troubles h im as he sinks ba ck with a

groan of pain and anger. His lips will not frame the question which he longs

and dreads to ask. Hi s name, his great name , and his riches—was it all a

dream, or did some one tell him that the new manager had ruined him,

ruined him utterly ?

He lay there, trying to remember, to make it out. He lay there thinking;

he dreamt about his counting-house, his desk, his papers, and the watch ticked

on , the night was coming. How dark the room is, and the house ! Even the

drive outside is covered that no sound may reach him. Ho w silent everything

is but the watch ; he cannot wind it now : how softly the footsteps fall outside

his door ; how the people whisper and steal about*on tiptoe. Wh y in the

world do they do that ? It is as if death himself were in the house ;—he has

never tho ught of death, and why begin now ? Ho w strange it would be to

die.

H o w fast the watch ticks ! how the rain patters against the window -pano s !

ho w the night comes on, dark and lowering ! Wh en will it be morning ?

Draw aside the curtain, he is speaking ; he whispers something. But, what

a look there is in his face, as the doctor bends over him.

" Doctor ! that villain !—vengeance ! "

H o w fast the watch tic ks; how the doctor's eye keeps on his patient; and

ho w that look changes, ami shadows come upon the face. How the hand

clasps and unclasps, stretching out after something which it cannot reach.

Another whisper, but, oh ! the look in the unclosed eyes now." Doctor, doctor, what is it ; what is coming ? I feel it upon me—heavy,

like the clamping of a strong box . Bring her to me. Oh, Emmy ! I forgive

him; save me."

Once Emm y is suffered to bend down and kiss him. On her knees she

clings to his hand, and her tears fall upon it thick and fast, and she kisses it.

Look ing at him there; seeing the shadow on his face ; seeing that which none

can mistake—so power ful is it, so wither ing, so solemn—she falters out,

trembling-, "Our la ther . "

In whispers he follows her, catching for utterance, fixing his eyes upon her,

as though safety lay in that. An d then the doctor puts her away gently, and

closes the door.

The Great Ho use is dead, and the worl d says a few words over its ashes,

and forgets it. But, who was to comfort little Emmy , left alone there with

the dreary we igh t upon her in the darkened house ?—little Emmy , who m he

called his heiress, and to wh om he left not hing ?—little Emm y, so silent in

her sorrow ; so wond ering meekly what was to become of hor, which of her

talents she should turn to use no w; so grie ved for the old man who was asleep

quietly in the churchyard ?

In the room where the cloud had been so heavy, where the desk still stood

in its won ted p osition ; where the footstool on the hearth spoke of her usual

seat, the little one rose up to meet and welcome him whom she called brother.

But he asked for a dearer title.

Gentlemen, my happiness, and gratitude for it, are yet too fresh to speak

of. As a prosperous merchant you know me. Some amongst you , young

men, still s trug gling perhaps and finding up-hi ll work, I have heard speak

despairingly of success, hopelessly of their own efforts, harshly and bitterly

against their fellow men, as though they bore a universal grudge which

cannot be shaken.

I have told this story, if haply it may carry encouragement to any heart

that is faint in its work. This is not a bad wor ld ; there are in it good men

and true, kind and friendly spirits, ready to help a failing bro ther. I like to

think so, I have found it so.

Gentlemen, my wife, Emmy, has not lo ng left the table ; allow me to

present to you John Mar ch, the pauper, the ragged cake vender—NOBODY'S

Sox . L. S.

N E L L Y .

D eep in the west tho sotting sunShone forth a parting ray,

Still k eep i n g on its golden courseTo l igh t another day.

I w at ch ' d th e soft declining l i g h t ;Sa w the last pencil l 'd gleam

Quiver, and then g o out of sightOn other lands to beam.

I turn'd, and wander 'd s lowly onOppres.s'd with care an d grief ;

I mourn 'd th o dead, I could no t weep,

Denied wa s such relief.

I linger 'd near the resting placeWhile sJce lay still and cold ,

A n d there again in piteous strainMy tale of love I told.

She answer 'd not—no kindly wordTo soothe m y aching breas t ;

H u sh 'd was her voice, her spirit fled,

To its etornal rest.

In life, no fairor brighter gemE'er deck 'd th e face of earth.

N o Jewel in a sovereign's crownCould match with her for wor th .

Soft was her touch, he r look wa s kind,He r words flow'd l ike a rill ;

She's left me no w, but y et she isMy guardian angel still.

When I' m asleep, I see her form ;Awake, he r voice I hea r ;

Tho' she has gone she's with me still

T o dry the scalding tear. A. W. W.

T H E LADY OP THE FELL HOUSE.CHAPTER V .

Guendolen had been nearly five years in the convent, and was approaching

her twenty-first birthday, when Father Dupres, considering that it would be

important for her to establish her claims on reach ing her ma jority , went to

London for the purpose of obtaining an interview with her father.

Having his suspicions that some member of Mr. Egert on's family tampered

with his correspondence, Father Dupres did not present himself in the first

instance at his hou se; but calling o n an English priest with w hom he was

acqua inted , he related to him the whole business, and engaged him to pay the

lawyer a preliminary visit, lest his igno rance of the English language should

cause the doors to be remorsely shut against him. "F or ," he argued, "a

person who has the power to tamper with letters, must be in some post of trust

and au thori ty, and one who has the will to do so, will stand at no other species

of rascality that requires more cunning than courage."

On applyi ng at Mr. Egerton' s house, and asking to see him, the emissary

was ushered into a small room on one side of the front door. In a few minutes

a tall, gaunt, ugly, but elaborately genteel person entered, apologised for Mr.Egert on's non-appearance on the ground o f his indifferent health, and blandly

solicited the stranger to confide his business to her.

" Unless yo u have been Mr. Eger ton 's confidential clerk for many years,

madam, whi ch is an arithmetical impossibility, you can kno w nothing of the

business on which I wish to consult him."

He had been educated by the Jesuits, this worthy priest, and besides had so

modified his costume for the present occasion that lie looked more like " young

England," than what he was; so that this pretty speech, so far from startling

the lady to whom it was addressed , fell like balm upon her ears, unused as

they were to flattery.

N ow I have it on the authority of male friends who have devoted themselves

to the profession o f flirting ever since they were endued with the nether integu

ments of manhood, that the ug lier a woman is, the more voraciou s is her appetite

for flattery. For the palate of a perfectly beautiful woman, the adulation must

be refined to the very quintessence, as the hu mmin g bird, that loveliest of

feathered creatures, sips only the honey of flowers, and that so delicately that

it seems to subsist on their fragrance al one: An d so, say these professors, you

go on, along a sliding and descending scale, till you come to the great lubberly

duck that gobb les up mud and everything. Be this theory, deduced frommany years of hard practice, true or not, certain it is that Miss Shuttleworth

swallowed the flattery jus t as a duck swallo ws an eel that has been caught on

a hook, and in doing so closely imitated the duck, by taking in the hook along

with the m ore tempting morsel. Poo r soul ! she was forty at the least, and

looked fifty!



Ma y 12, 1S60.J USEFUL 1NF0RMAT

" Oh dear, sir," she simpered, " I have never been Mr. E ger ton 's clerk, I

assure you , though I do hold a confidential appointment at the head of his

domestic establishment. But you are not perhaps aware, sir, that he has

retired from the profession."

" I am aware of that fact, mada m," he replied, with perfect truth, for she

had just given him the information ; " but what I wish to consult him about

respects some family papers that are missing. If you will have the goodness

just to name it to him,—surely he must r ecoll ect having business to transact

for a family of the name of Smith ! "

" I will ascertain whether my respected friend feels himself well enough to

receive you, sir," said Miss Shuttleworth, retiring with a sweeping if not a

graceful curtsey, quite satisfied that there was nothing to be apprehendedfrom this agreeable gentleman of the name of Smith.

If the priest had been a layman, he would have said to himself, " The

devil's in it if he never had a client named Smi th ! " But being a chu rchman,

of course he did n't ; and being partly a Jesuit, I have no idea what he did

say to himself.

In a few minutes Mr. Egerto n appeared—a hearty, wiry man of sixty, who

had no conception that he was such an invali d. He cast a scrutinising glan ce

upon his visitor.

" I cannot be surprised that you do not recognis e me, sir," said the latter,u

as I am, personally, a total stranger to you."

" You have come, I understand, sir, respecting some papers belong ing to some

former clients of mine," said Mr. Egerton. " Whate ver they are, they must

be in the hands of my former partner, Mr. Fowler, of Furnival's Inn."

"T ha t was merely an excuse to obtain an interview with you, Mr. Ege rto n,"

returned the priest. " It is respect ing your own family that I wish to make

some disclosures."

" My own family !*' exclaimed Mr . Eger ton . " Is my sister dead ? "

" I t was not of your sister I wished to speak. Yo u have a daugh ter, Ibelieve ?"

" Yes, sir, yes, I have a daug hter," replied the old man, proud ly. " Lady

Elphinstone is my daughter, sir."

" It is not then with your consent that your daughter, ever since her

marriage, has been shut up in a French convent ?"

" A French co nv en t! " shouted the enraged father; but the wary priest

checked him by a warning gestu re.

" W a l l s have cars," he said, in a low tone. " Come with me, and I will

conduct you to a person who can expla in this shameful consp iracy more fully

than I can. But be cautious, for some party under your own roof is an

accomplice in this affair; and we must not , by a word, betray that it is

discovered."

But the word had already been uttered. As Mr. E gert on went out into

the hall for his hat and stick, Miss Shuttleworth glided into the opposi te

room, with the words " French convent" ringing in her cars.

With the assistance of his friend, AVIIO acted as interpreter, backed by a

long explanatory letter which he had brought from Guendolcn, Father

Dupres succeeded after some difficulty in conv inci ng Mr . Egert on that for thelast five years he had been systematically duped by his son-in-law.

CHAPTER V I .

On the day of his marri age Sir Frederic k had been glad enough to receive

those documents , the destruction of which cleared him from an overwhelming

load of deb t; but he was equally enraged to discover, when too late, that the |

keen old lawyer had skipped over a cl ause in the marriage settlemen t when !

reading it to h im before he signed it, where by all the rest of his property, I

which had been previously left to Guendolcn and her " heirs, executo rs, and

assigns, for ever," was so tied up, that she would enjoy only a very moderate j

income till she was twenty-one, and then only a thousand a year till after her j

father's death. By these provisions, joi ned to a clause by which , if she had no j

children, she could will away her proper ty as she liked, he ho ped to render

her quite independent of her husband, and also to hold that amiable person

very much under his own authority. He wras somewhat disappointed there

fore by the baronet's sudden determinatioiMb go abroad and economize. Hi s j

economy commenced by putting his young bride into a convent (the very best

thing, by-the-bye, that he could possibly have done for her,) and then jfollowing out his system of retrenchment , he betook himself to various I

Germaii watering-places.

At one of these watering-places the ba ronet encount ered a you ng coun try- '

woman of his own, reported to be enormously rich, who was attending on her I

invalid mother. One glance at the latter convinced him that she was not i

long for this worl d. He got introduced, and devoted himsel f to her service ;

with the tender empressement of a son, employin g a confidential agent in |

England in the meanwhile to ascertain whether the reports of her daughter's

wealth were correct. The lady die d; and while dressing to attend her j

funeral as chief mourner—whic h he did by her own request—he received

the welcome intelligence that the daughter 's fortune had been rather under

than over stated. He had careful ly avoided showing any marked attention to j

the young lady during her mother's life, as his daily attendance on the latter

secured for him the familiar intercourse which he desired, without rousi ng a

suspicion of his ulterior object, or bindi ng him to anything like an engage

ment wh ich he certainly would not wish to keep should the report of her

wealth prove to be unfounded . No w, howev er, all worked to his wishes. The

orphan was a little past one-and -twenty—bu t a mere child in the world'sways. According to her own belief, she had not a relation in the wor ld ; but

Sir Frederick well knew that the wealthy can always find relations ; and thatif he suffered her to return unmarried to England, she would be claimed by a

dozen cousins in various degrees, of whos e existence she had now no

knowledge. He therefore acted decis ivel y; and taking advantage of the

position he had gained with her mother as " the friend of the family " to

obtain an entree at a time when several other eager aspirants were on the

[watch for her. lie sympathised, cajoled, consoled, alarmed her by imaginary

N AND AMUSEMENT. Si

dangers i ncurred by travelling alone ; and finally, within two months of her

mother's death, induced her to marry him.

On account of her recent bereavement he was enabled to arrange the

wedding with such privacy that no noti ce of it appeared in the papers; and

when, after a short interval, they emerged again into fas hionable life, Mr.

Egerto n had not the slightest suspicion that the " lovely Lady Elphinstone"

whose appearance created such a sensation in foreign courts, w ras any other

than his daughter; and when Sir Frederick wro te to inform him of the birth

of a son, his pride and exultation were at their height. The great object of

his wishes was accomplished,— his grandson woul d be a baronet. He might

even hope to survive Sir Frederick, and to see the youn g heir enter upo n his

ancestral honours, and the wealth which henceforward he nursed and hoardedwith redoubled care.

It was no slight trial to have all these g olde n dreams demol ished " at one

fell s w o o p " by the disclosures of Father Dupres. Ye t for awhile he clung

to them, striving to throw discredit u pon the evidence to whic h his reason

was, in the end, compelled to yield belief.

Th e shock was gr eat ; but, with an elasticity that seemed marvellous in a

man of his years, he recovered from it, and devoted himself, heart and soul,

to the accomplishment of the plan which had been so strangely frustrated.

Acting on the advice of the priests, he kept his movements secret from Miss

Shuttleworth, thoug h she had inspired him with so exalted an opinion of her

powers of economy that he could not be i nduced to dismiss her from tho

management of his household.

Th e first step was to fetch Guendolcn with all speed and secrecy from

France. The next was to commence legal proceed ings against Sir

Freder ick. But here, for the second time, he encountered an obstac le; and

one which he found it impossible to surmount. No persuasions, n o re mon

strances, no threats, no bribes, could induce Guendol cn to countenance any

proceedings the result of whic h would be to reinstate her as Lady Elphinstone.An d as, by retaining the knowle dge of where the certificate of the marriage

was concealed she held the proof wholly in her own hands, (the clergy man

wh o performed the ceremony and the clerk who witnessed it being both dead,)

her veto on the question was decisive. She argued that she was happy as she

was, and should b e miserable as the wife of a man whom she h ad so much

reason to fear and ha te; that Lady Elphinstone, as she persisted in calling

her successor to that doubtful honour, was also happy in her existing state,

but would be placed in a position both questionable anil compromised, by the

nullification of her mar ri age ; and finally, that the innocent child who by

every right of human justi ce was now entitled to whatever of honour and

glory remained from his ancestral blood, after it had passed through the

polluted channels of Sir Frederick's veins, would be cast houseless and

nameless upo n the wor ld. In short she stood so firmly upon her sense of

rig ht and justi ce—she had such a clear insight into what was most conducive

to the happiness of every one concerned—that even Father Dupres, whom sho

loved and revered as a parent, and his silvery -voiced colleague, whose power s

of persuasion had never before been k nown to fail, could produce no effect

Upon her.After a few days spent in London, the good priest returned to his own

little flock. Previous to his departure he had a long conversation with

Guendolen, wherein he gave her much sound advice, cautioning her especially

against Miss Shuttleworth, whom he declared to be a scheming , artful, daring,

and unscrupulous woman.

" B e careful even how you go out alon e," he said. " Never be deluded by

any tale of misery or suffering to visit a poor person of whom you know

not hin g; and I even advise you , if on any occasion you find it absolutely

requisite to go out -without an esco rt, to let that woman suppose you are going

in a direction Contrary to the actual one."

" Oh ! father ! " she exclaimed in tones of remons trance, " that would bo

to make my life a succession of artful contrivances and evasi ons! I could

not bear it. Surely an honest heart, and upri ght intentions, and a harmless

wa y of liv ing, will pr otect me sufficiently ! Besides , what harm could come

to me when there are so many pol icemen about the streets ? **

" And how could the police protect you, my chil d," replied the priest,

smiling at her simplicity, " if you had been decoyed into a house where your

cries could not be heard ? Do as I war n yo u. Be careful of yourself, andwatchful over your father. Keep a vigilant eye upon Miss Shuttlewort h,

and if you want advice or information apply to Father Eustaco. I assure yo u

again that that woman is a spy of Sir Frederick Elphinstone's, and to convince

yo u of what I assert I will confide to you, under a promi se of secresy, the

proof that it is so. Your housemaid is a Catholic, and when questioned by

her confessor, acknowl edged having seen a letter in Miss Shuttle worth's

room addressed to Sir Fr eder ick Elphin stone, a few hours after your arrival,

from France which, yo u are aware, was quite unexpected by her. Sho

frequently, but not always, takes her letters to the post herself, and she d id

so on that day, whi ch was the more remarkabl e, as it was in the midst of a

violent thunder-storm, and you know how afraid she is of thunder."

" Certain ly she would not have done so unless she had had som e moti ve for

concealment," said Guendolen, thoughtf ully. " Oh ! I wish my father woul d

send her away ! Wh at did he say about that letter ? "

" H e has not been told of it," replied Father Dupres; "the evidence

would hardly have been sufficient to convince him, pre judiced as he is ; and,

besides this, the girl dreaded to make an enemy of M % Shuttleworth. Yo u,

I k now, will not betray her. And now let me give you two more words of advice before I leave you , my dear chi ld, for with a father at once so weak and

so obstinate, with so little of natural affection to lead him aright, and so much

of blind prejudice to lead him wrong, I feel that I am leaving you almost

wholly to your awn guidance, and you are so young, so inexperienced! Wel l ,

it must be ! It is the will of Heave n • Yet, if I might have remained near

you, \o wrateh over you , I shoul d have been so happ y ! But I can still do ;i

little by givi ng you counsel, which is not bro ught up on the spur of the

moment, but *s the fruit o f many days' and nigh ts' ser ious and anx ious



TH E FAMILY HE RAL D — A DOME STIC MAGAZINE OP [May 1800.

reflection. Firstly, then, my child, use all your influence to renew the

friendship between your father and your aunt. If I judge rightly from what

I have heard o f her, she will be a match for Miss Shutt lewor th. The second

thing that I advise is that if by any means it can be accomplished, you

obtai n actual possession of the certificate of your marriage. An d confide thus

far in me . Is it in any place where Sir Freder ick can destroy it ? "

" N o t unless he burns the house down, " replied Guendolen, promptly.

" It is then in the Moat House, and not in the church ? "

" It is in the Moat House," replied Guendolen.

" Then lose no time in securing it," said Father Dupres.

" W h y should I take any trouble about it? " said Guen dole n. " I do not

mean to found any claim s"upon it, and as far as I am concer ned I wo uld as

soon it wrcre destroyed as not."" It will give you power and authority," said Father Dupres, " and

anything that will do that, when yo u have to deal wi th such a man as Sir

Frederi ck, is not to be thr own away . Obtain it, therefore, by all means, and

by any means, but do not keep it in your o wn hands. Place it in those of

some trustwort hy and disinterested person, who wil l keep it safely for you.

I would suggest Father Eustace, but of course yo u will do as you please

about that."

This was the substance of Father Dupres' parting advice. Guendolen

acted upon it, and on the next morni ng despatched an old confidential clerk

of her lather's to the M oat Hou se, with full instructions how to proc eed,

l i e returned the following day, full of a talc of adventure, such as the whole

of his quiet monotonous life could not equal. By a simple artifice he had

gain ed access to the house, Avhich he found in t he charg e of only two

servants. H e had obtained possession of the paper, and was taking a cup of

tea with the housekeeper, when a post-chaise drove up to the door, and Sir

Frede rick himself stepped out. In the confusion that ensued he made his

escape unnoticed, and stopped not for rest or refreshment ti ll he reached the

railway station, where he had to wait till eleven o'clock before the up-mailtrain arrived. The line passed within half-a-mile of the Moat House, and as

he very naturally looked out at it in passing, he was surprised to see flames

bursting from the w indo ws, and huge volum es of smoke roll ing away in the

placid moonlight.

The words that Gueudolen had spoken at random had been singularly

verified. Sir Frederick had burnt the house down, supposing that he therein

destroyed all evide nce of his gu ilt .

Guendolen next directed all her energies towar ds three objects : the re con

ciliation of her father with his sister, their removal to a country residence,

and the dismissal of Miss Shuttlew orth from her post. -

In the latter alone she entirely failed. The old gentl emen was so wedd ed

to his excellent housekeeper, that he attributed his daughter's interference to

any unworthy motive rather than the rig ht one. An d yet he suffered himsel f

to be influenced by her in many things. He remo ved from town at her

desire, and took a beautiful little villa about twenty miles in the country. He

also made advances towards his sister, to which she graciously responded;

and peace was so far concl uded betw een them , that she condescend ed to pay

her brother and niece a few

r

days' visit in their rural abode.It has been already said that Mrs. Martin was an ambitious woman ; and,

having no children of her own, she had been almost as eager as her brother to

see,her family aggrandized by Guendolen's marriage. It seemed highly pro

bable that her return to friendly relations with them had for its chief object

the renewal o f those wo rld ly schemes. Fo r the first few days she was all

milk and h oney ; she soothed her brother's irritable feelings; she quite won

Guendolen's unsuspecting heart, and by making her the confidant of her

intense, though prudently disguised, antipathy to Miss Shuttleworth, so

entirely acquired her trust, that the poor gir l was finally induce d to place in

her keeping the precious document on which so much of her future happi

ness or misery depended. Wh en this object was attained, Mrs. Martin began

havi ng to show herself in stronger and less amiable col ours. She spoke

" as one in auth orit y," o f the im perati ve necessity of Guendole n's marriage

with Sir Frederick being substantiated.

Guendolen resisted as firmly as ever. Mr . Egerto n waver ed between the

two, and the family council ended, as not unfrequently happens, in a family

quarrel. Voices that had at first been pitch ed in a low and cau tious key, were

no w raised, Mr s. Marti n's in angr y declamation ; her brot her's in anger ather interference, anger at his daughter's obstina cy, anger at the fates in

general—Guendolen's in grief and indignation only.

Mrs. Martin's visit came to an abrupt termination. Miss Shuttleworth,

whose boasted "consci entious walk in life " did not prevent her from wal king

and waiting in the neig hbourhoo d of key-holes, where marketable information

was to be obtained, and who had gathered in this way a great part of what had

passed in the famil y conference thus suddenly broken off, wrote a short note to

X . Y. Z . , Post-office, Dash Street, London, and late that night glided stealthily

out of the house, and met Sir Frede rick Elphinst one in the church yard. Thei r

brief conversat ion was carried on in cautious whi spers, as thou gh they feared

that the very birds that rooste d in the old yew-tre e, in whose shadow they

stood, should hear and report their words.

" Is she com ing back ? " asked the baronet , after his spy had comm unica ted

all that she had heard.

" She is sure to do so ," was the reply, " She is far too keenly bent up on it

to give it up Avithout another effort. "

"Nevertheless, there*is no need to fear her when she is alone. Theref ore,

yo u must take advantage of her absence. To o many would excite suspicion,

besides bei ng useless. Give them this," he said, in a hollow whisper, as he

slid something into her hand, glancing round him with a frightened look. " In

strong coffee is the safest, as it hides the taste. I hear there has been a death

from cholera in the village to- day ; it is sure to spread, and everything will

be called cholera. Yo u will then be safe from troubl esome inquiries, and

your future prospects will be secured."

" JIow can I ever express my gratitude to you , my dear Sir ! Ah ! I

forgot,—you have requested me not to pronounc e your name, and you know

well that I always endeavour to execute your inju nctions to the very letter.

But how shall I prove my gratitude for all your goodness ? "

" Gratitude ! " he repeated , i n a tone of bitter moc kery ; " do you not feel

that you have earned it—h orri bly earned it? Grat itud e! tut, tut, madam .

Your gratitude and my goo dnes s are about on a par, so it were best to say-

nothing about them. Earn your full wages, and you shall have them, n ot

from any goodness on my part, but as the price of your secrcsy and services.

Let me hear from you when all is done."

He left her witho ut further adieu. She returned to the roof of the man

whose bread she had eaten for five years ; and what was it that she carried

thither, hidden in her bosom ?

The nex t mor ning, at breakfast, Guendol en found in her coffee such a bittertaste that she left the greater part of it. Mr. Egerton drank his usual

quantity, finding nothing peculiar in the flavour.

As the day passed on several eases of cholera were reported to have

appeared am ong the villagers. Mr . Egert on was attacked, and died in th e

evening. The youn g surgeon of the place, who had probab ly never seen a

case in his life, but had been "rea ding u p " to it so diligently that his mind

was a chaos of conflicting theories and treatments, pronounced at once that

it was a case of cholera of the most malignan t form, and r ecommended

speedy burial.

Guendolen herself was ill, suffering from nervous attacks of a severe and

startling character, as well as from the shock of her father's death ; and

thou gh she had effectually opposed Miss Shuttlewor th's entry into the sick

room, she allowed her to take the entire charge of the funeral arrangements.

Th e result of that lady's active exertions was that Mr. Egerton's body was

consigned to the churc hyard under the shadow of the large yew tree, just

three days after Miss Shuttl eworth 's inte rview with Sir Frederick upon thatvery spot. It can hardly be supposed, however , that she had been consulted

respecting the site of the gr ave.As soon as the funeral was over, Guendolen, in spite of Miss Shutt lewor th's

remonstrances about d ecorum and the r espect due to the dead, started off to

London. She returned the following afternoon for about an hour, during

which time she paid off the servants, gave up the house, and removed her own.

personal possessions. As she was finally quitti ng the house she encountered

Miss Shuttleworth, w ho was just returning from the post office. Guendolen

fixed her eyes upon her with a cold calm gaz e, and, with a slight shudder,

passed on, knowing that they there parted for ever.

Miss Shuttl eworth , feeling slightly uncomfor table under the look, but

supposing they wou ld shortly meet at dinner, also passed on in silence ; but

supplied the place of speech by an eloquent piece of pantomime, putting her

handker chief to her eyes, and shaking her head despond ingly. Good

creature! She still felt in all its freshness her grief for the loss of her ines

timable friend.

On her dressing-table she found a small sealed packet addressed to her in

Guendolen's hand. Hast ily she tore it open, hopi ng to find a present of

jewellery, or other pleasant little tangible acknow ledgm ent of the trouble she

had taken about the funeral. Ther e was a bottle containing a dark- colour edfluid, and a paper, which on examinat ion she found to be a note from an

eminent L ondo n chemist, certifying that the coffee brought for analysis by Miss

Eger ton contai ned a poisono us dose of strychnin e. That was all ; but it was;

more terrifyi ng in its simpli city, and above all, in the doubt in which it left

her, than the most elaborate accusation could have been. Wh at was to como

next ? and what should she do ? This then was the reason of Guendolen's

mysterious visi t to to wn ! But what wou ld she do nex t? An d how had she

obtained the coffee from whic h the evidence had been ob tained r She h ad

herself thro wn away the contents of the coffee-pot, lest the servants should

drink it. xVh! she suddenly recollec ted that after taking a few sips,

Guendolen had emp tied her cup into the sl op-basi n, and doubtless, having

her suspicions aroused by her father's sympt oms, she had afterwards taken

possession of it. This guess indeed hit the truth. She had shown it to

the surgeon, wh o having no very fine palate, had pr onoun ced it to b e

" rather bitter but very excellent coffee," and so lulled her suspicions for a

while. But still she kept it; and when her father died, took it to town for

chemical analysis, and here was the result.

MissShuttl eworth was so alarmed, that she did not

dareto leave her room—feeling already like a prisoner. A summons to dinner bro ke the spell 7

which was her only bond.

" Is Miss Egert on in the dini ng-r oom ? " she asked.

" Miss Egerton is gone, ma 'a m! " repli ed the girl in tones of surprise.

" Didn't you know it ? "

" M i s s Ege rto n is often so eccentr ic in her movem ent s," said j\liss Shuttl e-

wort h with s ome asperity, "that it is imp ossi ble to guess what she will, or

will not do. Whe re is she gone, then ? "

" To Lon don , I suppose, ma 'a m; but at all events she is gone away for

good."

" Ho w do you know that ? " was the eager question.

" She has gi ven us all a quarter's wages and good characters with the

landlord, and paid the rent, and given up the keys, and packed up, and bidden

us good-bye, and is gone."

" And didn't she ask where you were going, nor where y^ n- ^^ ld be found

in case she wanted yo u ag ai n? " asked Miss Shuttle worth, uneasily.

" No , ma'a m. She only told us to be truthful and honest, and faithful to

our masters, as we had bee n to him that's gone, and then she bade God bless

us, quit e in a solem n way, as if she Avas go in g away for ev er. "

" I must say I think she is rather ungratef ul," said Miss Shuttlew orth,

recovering her courage, "to turn off all her father's faithful old servants as,

soon as she conies into her great fortune. But I suppose yo u would not be

smart and fashionable enough for her now."

Ha vi ng done her best to arouse an ill-feeli ng towards their late mistress in'

the hearts of the servants, the amiable wom an went down to dinner. H e r



Slay V3, 1SS0.1 USEFUL INFORMATION AND AMUSEMENT.

first care was to destroy the proofs of guilt that she had found on her to ilet

table. She then packed up at her leisure, and repaired to Lon don. In settling

with the servants, Guendo len had made no allusion to her. She therefore

proceeded to Mr. Fowl er, Mr. Eger ton' s executor and f ormer partner, wh o

settled her claims without a question, and in the most forma l manner. To

her inquiries respecting Guen dolen he replied that he was not at liber ty to

give her address, and coolly bowed her out. She duly received her pr omised

reward from Sir Frederick Elphinstone, and with it purchased an annuity thatmigh t have made her comfor table for life. But the price of blood cannot

prosper; she contracted a habit of drinking, and commi tted suicide by

throwing herself from a lofty window during a fit of delirium tremens.

Guendolen, in the meanwhile dwelt in her peaceable retreat among the

Fells, quiet, if not hap py; trying to shut out all thoughts of the world for

which her young heart still panted, seeking communi on with the stars, and

companionship with the hills and cataract s; yet with a latent consciousness

that this was not the only communion and companionship that nature had

designed for her. Wha t wonder then that she was terrified when the sick

man uttered the name of Elphinstone ? What wonder that she argued herself

into a conviction that it must be lawful and right to marry Harr y Greville ?

CHAPTER Y I I .

W e left Captain Grevill e to dream of the happiness he felt within his grasp,

and we must now revert to the day succeeding the conversation between him

self and the Lady of the Fell House.

When Guendolen descended in the mornin g, her impatient lover found her

pale indeed, but mor e radiantly beautiful than he had ever before seen her.

The presence of Nanc y, who came and went in her attendance on the breakfast

table, postponed the explanati on; but he read in her face the assurance of his

happiness. Nancy saw that some change had come over them, and with a

woman's wit divined the secret. But what she could not understand was,

that their happiness prevented them from eating any breakfast. Wi th the

familiarity wh ich her position as deputy nurse allowed her, she pressed the

captain to partake of the fresh e ggs and othe r count ry dainties which her

care had provided.

" Nay 1 but you used to be fond of the berry cakes," said IsTancy. " Ai n' t

this to your liking, then ? "

" I have no doubt it is excellent, Nan cy, " replied Captain Grev ill e; "b ut

just now I have eaten quite sufficient."

" W e l l , I wonder what you have eaten," continued Nancy , sulkily. " Y o u

have cut some bread, and here it is ; and you have broken an egg, but left

it full of meat. Yo u won' t get strong upon this sort of feeding," she grumbled,

as she went out of the room. " I'll tell the doctor, that's what I'll do."

The captain listened to her retreating steps; then, starting forward, he

seized Guendolen by both her hands, and exclaimed, anxiously, " Now for

your answer; give it me in one wor d! I kno w what it is,* but my life

trembles to have the assurance."

The hands that he held gently returned the pressure, and a smile, full of

confiding love, lighted up her face. Her parted lips vibrated with the coming

words that were to be the seal of happiness for two hearts, when his ears,

that were strained to catch the faintest murmur, Avere saluted by the clatter of

a horse's hoofs and a man's voice speaking hastily.

" There is the doctor ! " exclaimed Harry Greville, petulantly, as he flung

himself into the corner of the sofa with the air of a person Avho is deeply

Avronged. " What can bring him so soon ? "

" That is not the doctor's voice," said Guendolen, placin g her hand upon

her heart, Avhich sank with a terrible foreboding.

A moment afterwards the door opened, and Na ncy broug ht in a letter. He r

mistress took it hastily, glanced at the address, and trembled from head to

foot.

" Is anything amiss ? " asked her lover, Avho Avatchcd her wi th the greatest

anxiety.

" I do not kno w," she ansAvcrcd, "b ut I fear I hardly know wh at "

She broke the seal, and read as fol lows:—

" DEAR MADAM,—I think it right to inform you that your aunt, Mrs.

Martin, has consulted several members of the p rofession for the purpose of

proving the validity of your marri age. This came to my knoAvledge at the

same time as the intelligence that Mrs. Martin now lies dangerously ill, andhas expressed a strong desire to see you.

" You are aAvarc that I never entertained a doubt about your marriage, nor

of the sufficiency of legal proof, if yo u had desired to establish it ; but as you

entertained such a rooted aversion to Sir F . E., and no thing Avas to be gained

for you besides an empty title, I considered that the course y ou adopted Avas

by far the Aviscst, excepting always bury ing yourself alive in a desert.

" However, even this may be so far beneficial, as you are not likely to have

lost your heart there, and I seriously fear, my dear you ng lady, that your

aunt's meddlesome interference wil l prove an insurmountable obstacl e to your

forming any other marriage Avhile Sir F. E. lives.

" Come to town Avithout a moment's delay, and you may rely upon my utmost

exertions to stay the proceedings and prevent publicity.

" I remain, m y dear madam, yours faithfully,

" ROBERT FOAVLER."

Guendolcn read this compound of professional formality and real kindness

with an unmoved countenance, but Avhen she turned and looked upon her

anxiously expectant lover , her features Avorc such an expression of hopeless

AVOC, that he read in it the death-Avarrant of his fondest hop es; and wi thou t

needing a Avord of explanat ion he buried his face in the sofa cushion and

sobbed like a child . The pressure of her hand upon his shoulder made him

start up.

" W e must part, Harr y," she said. " I must leave this place in a feAV

moments. Fate is stronger than love or human will. I came doAvn this

morning Avith the intent ion of saying that the barrier Avas removed which

opposed our happiness; but at the very moment I was about to say so it startsup in a more imposing form. My poor friend," she continued, lookin g on

him with her dry eyes, " those tears, Avhich seem so out o f place on you r

cheeks, Avould be like a refreshing shower on mine, if I could shed them."

" Do not scorn me for Aveeping, Gra ce," he said, clasping his arms round

her waist, and transferring Iris burning cheek from the cushion to her bosom;

" let me rest here for a moment, like the child that I am."

She let him have his way, and watched with intense emoti on that most

awful sight, the strong man in tears.

"It is over n o w! " he exclaimed, starting up and hastily drying his eyes.

" The weakness is past, and I can face my destiny like a man. But, Grace, I

have a right to some explanation."

" A n d I can give you no n e ! " she replied, gazi ng upon vac ancy with a

stony look that expressed a sorrow beyond tears.

" A t least you can tell me if there is any hope that Ave may be re-un ited.

There must be a ho pe, " he said, and again he encircled her with his arm.

" I cannot part Avith all my fond dreams in a moment. Wii at can this

sudden intelligence be that has changed y our resolution so comple tely ?

Grace! is your husband alive ? Is it possible that you can have trifled wi th

me and deceived me ? "

" No , Har ry, Avhatever faults I may have committ ed, deceiving you is not

one of them ," she replied. " I cannot and must not tell you al l; and yet I

OAve you some explanation, and my heart Avould Avillingly, nay, most gladly,

lay all its heavy burdens upo n your generous care—but I must not. If at

any future time I may be able to clear up this mystery, and to say to A o*u,

'Har ry, I may now be your Avifc,' trust me no false modesty shall prevent my

doing so, and remember what I read last night, ' I wil l be true as those thathave more cunning to be strange.' And noAV I must go," she added, looking

at her Avatch. " If I leave here in ten minutes I shall be in time for the

express train; and something more to me than life and death depends upon

my speed. In five minutes I will be back to say good-bye ."

She tore herself from his arms, ran upstairs, made a fcAv hasty pre

parations for her journe y, and within the specified five minutes she stood

again i n the little parlour , having desired Nan cy to summon her as soon as

the gi g Avas ready.

" M a y I n ot accompa ny you ? " asked the captain. " It would be such a

comfort to us both to travel togeth er to Lon do n. "

" I am doomed, I fear, ahvays to say ' n o ' to you, Harry, " she replied.

" Y o u knoAv it would be as delightful to me as to you for us to go togethe r.

But&t is better for me that the person Avho has come to fetch me should not

i even be aware of your presence here."

I A knock at the door, and Nancy's voice sobbing out, " Th e gig be ready,

Jmum ," interrupted them.

i " Oh , this haste is cr ue l! " exclaimed the captain. " I cannot, I cannot

| part from you so soon."

| " It must b e, it must," she replied, clinging convulsivel y round his neck.

"But I Avill write to you Avhenevcr there is hope, and—and—somethi ng more

I Avould say if I knew hoAV to frame it, something that I Avish you to know

and yet can scarcely tell you."

Another knock at the door warned them that the messenger was in a hurry.

" Good bye, good bye ! " said she, and she struggl ed to free herself.

"Nay, but tell me what you were going to say"? Wh at is it that you wish

me to know ? "

" Do not pass the door ," she Avhispcred; " do not let the man see you."

As she held the door ajar, they took one lQiig silent farewell kiss, at the end

of Avhich she murmured, " I t is this, Ha rr y: though I am a widow, 1 am

also a Avife."

The whisper had hardl y reached his astonished ears ere she was gone, and,

in tAVO minutes after, the rattle of the Avheels anno unced her departu re. Ho

I ran to the door where Nan cy stood blubbering and kissing her hand at tho

| retreating vehicle. At the turn of the path, Guendolcn looked round, waved

I one adieu, and instant ly d isappeared from his sight.

I Captain Grevi lle passed one more night under the roof, beneath whic h ha

j had spent such happy hours , but the place now seemed unendurable when no

! longer cheered by her presence, and, early the next mornin g, having made a

handsome present to Nancy, he Avalkcd doAvn to the village and hired a

conveyance to the railway station.

CHAPTER V I I I .

It was night before Guendolen reached Lon don . Mr . Fo wl er was waiting;

I for her at the station.

" How is my aunt?" Avas her first question.

" Worse ," he replied. " She is constantly inq uiring for you, and I think

has something on her mind Avhich sho wishes to communicate."

" It would be strange if she had n ot ," repl ied Guend olen , Avith a bitter

smile.

" D o you need any refr eshm ent? " asked Mr. Fowle r. " I f so, Ave must

delay; but I Avould advise you to come on immediately."

" I had a glass of Avine a feAV hours ago, " she replied ; " I require noth ing

more."

He immediately handed her into a carriage that Avas wait ing, and they

drove off at a rapid rate to a large old house in Queen's Square . The muffled

knocker, and the straAV la id down in the carriage way, announced the house

of sickness. The door Avas opened by an old servant, out of liv ery, almos t

before they stopped.

" My mistress has been asking for you every moment , sir," said the servan t,

"a nd the nurse thinks she has not many minutes to live. W e have just sent

for the doctor again, though Mrs. Bartlett says he can do no good when lis

comes."

" Much use to send for him then," Avhispered the old gent leman to Guen

dolen, as he handed her out. " But if peop le were Aviso enough to send for

lawyers and doctors only when they arc wanted , I fear that Ave men of th$



THE FAMILY HERALD — A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OF [M ay 1*2, 18(5 0.

law and our brethren of the pill-box would not thrive quite so Avell as we do

at present."

Guendolen, thou gh she trembled violently , ran hastily upstairs and entered

A well-known room. The curtains were drawn round the bed, the windows

were darkened, and a sickening odour of medici ne and vinegar pervaded the

apartment. Near the lire stood a person whom it was impossible for a moment

to mistake for any thing but a professiona l nurse. She advanced with an air

in which was blended an odd mixture o f inquisitiveness, servility, and

professional dignity, in arms at the intrusion of a stranger. But the servility

predominated over all the rest when she saw that the intruder was followed

and countenanced by the lawyer. " A h ! Mr. Fowler, sir," she whispered,

" we have had a sad time of it. Such a bout of cough in g! I have sent for

the d octor ; b ut indeed I think every moment will be her last."" W h o is the re ?" said a faint, querulous voice from the bed. "H as

Guendolcn come yet ? "

" Y e s , aunt, 1 am here," said the lady, drawing the curtain aside, and

presenting herself to the faili ng gaze of the old woman.

" Come at l as t !" murmured the latter.

" I have lost no time, aunt, since I received Mr. Fowle r's message. I was

in Cumberland, and I came by the first train."

" I know you would lose no tim e," said the old woman , with what, i f she

had not been apparently upon her deathbed, might have been taken for a

malicious grin. " I know you are too anxious to get possession of that paper.

Bu t n ow clear the r oom—cl ear the room. I want to speak to you. Send j

them all away. Mr. Fowler , let no one come in till I send for them."

Th e nurse rather objected to leave her post, but the law yer was imperative

and she yielded, though with a bad grace.

"Where is this paper ? " asked Guendolen . "T el l me at once, that your

attendants may not be kept from you longer than necessary."

" Guendolen, you are a hypocrite ! " said the aunt, bitterly. " If you could

once get that document into your hands, you know you would care but littlewhat became of me."

Guendolen turned aside and bit her lip, but said nothing, for she knew too

well the old woman's contradictory and irascible disposition.

" But I am not so far gone yet," continued the old lady, " but that I can

make conditions before I give it up to you."

" What are those conditions, aunt ? " inquired Guendolen .

" Y o u know them well enough," she replied: "that the ho nour of your

family shall be established ; that your father's wishes shall be carried o ut ;

that you shall be reco gnised as Lady Elphinston e, and enjoy the position in

society to which you are entitl ed."

" But I tell you again, as I have told you before, that I have no wish to

assume that title nor to establish those claims," said Guendolen. " All that I

want is freedom from a hated bond, which my father would never have forced

upon me had lie known half the misery that it would bring . Besides, consider

the injustice I should comm it. By invalidati ng Sir Frede rick' s present

marriage, his wife would be disgraced, his children rendered ille gitim ate;

whereas by the simple destruction of that one slip of paper, his marri age with !

me is as if it had never been."" E x c e p t that-he holds a hundred thousand pounds of your father's hard I

earnin gs," said the old woman, with a groan. " Is that nothi ng ? Do you I

think your father could rest peaceably in his grave, if that injustice were done?"

" I consider the injustice to Lady Elphinstone and her children would be

far greater than any mere question of mone y," said Guendol en. " Besides, I

have already more than I wan t; and, as Sir Frederick had run through that j

hundred thousand pounds before I married him, what benefit could I derive

from it now ? "

" Ungrateful creature!" said the old woman, scowling darkly upon her

niece. " Is nothing due to y our father's wishes ? Do you owe no gratitude

to him for all that he did for you ? Not hing for all his years of toil to make

yo u one of the richest heiresses in England ? Noth ing for all the thought and

care he spent in obtaining for you a marriage that would place you in a

brilliant position in the world ? "

" I acknowledge all that," said Guend olen, " but how was my happiness

provided for ? Wa s it even though t of? We re my wishes consulted ? "

" Certainly no t !" was the tart re ply ; " the wishes of a girl of sixteen, I

indeed!"" I f I had no right to have wishes on the subject, my father had no rig ht

to force me into marriage," said Guendole n. " But let that question rest, i

H e was kind and just to me after my return from France, and I will not j

blame h im for what he did blindly. But yo u will own that I have now a

right to ju dge for myself, and I entreat you, aunt, if you would not bequeath to

me a legacy of misery, give me the certificate, or at least tell me where it is." I

" No t HOAV, not n ow ," said the old woman. " I am not going to die yet,

Guendolen."

" A n d will you, then, for the sake of exerting a little temporary power,

refuse to give up to me this scrap of paper ? "

" If you will promise to use it to prove your marriage, I will give it to you j

at once."

" N o , aunt, I will not do now at your request what I always refused to

my fath er; and you know you are bo und by a solemn promise not to use it

without my consent.".

" There, there, that is enoug h," said the ol d Avoman, peevishly. " I am

wearied with your foolish talk. Go away, and let the nurse come back again.

I am not going to die yet, Guendolen, I am not going to die yet."

With a sinking heart, Guendolcn left the room. " Return to your patient,

nurse," she said, " she seems somewhat b ett er."

" Do you stay here ? " asked Mr. Fowl er.

" F o r to-night I must," she answered. " T o - m o r r o w I will seek gut an

old servant of my mother's, where I have no doubt I can be comfortably

lodged. I will then send you my address. In the mean time, thanks for all

your kindness, and good-n ight ."

CHAPTER I X .

The folloAving morning, Gwendolen paid a short visit to her aunt; but the

old lady was either sl eepy or^sulky, and, thou gh evidently better, would not

speak to her. Guendolen then sent for a cab , and pr oceed ing to a large

comfortable house near Cavendish Square, inquired for Mrs. Mayfield. Before

the servant could reply, a face which had reconnoitred the visitor from the

parlour AvindoAv hastily disappeared, and the body apperta ining to it rushed

into the passage, and thence into the street, and Guendolen Avas almost

dragged out of the cab into the house.

" Oh ! my darling, I am so glad to sec yo u! Wher e have you come from ?

Have you had any breakfast ? Wha t will you take ? Why have you been so

long Avithout letting me hear from you ? Bless your dear little heart! HowAvell and blooming you're looking, though you look tired, too ! Have you

been up all night ? Hav e you been travelling ? Wil l you go to bed UOAV ? "

" Stop ! stop ! " said Guendolen , laughing , and affectionately returning the

kisses with Avhich these exclamations Avere interrupted. "Have you any

rooms empty that you can let me have ? "

" Have I any rooms ? " said Mrs. Mayfield. " Wh y, if I had a prince of

the blood royal in the house I'd turn him out to make room for you."

"I 'l l have no one turned out ," said Guendo lcn, casting a glance upon the

window, which exhibited a card announcing that apartments Avere to be let

furnished. " But if you have any UOAV vacant I will take them."

" My dear, I have not a soul in the bous e; for it's only yesterday that a

foreign family left me ; and as I never could get their name at my tongue's

end all the three months they Avere here, I can' t pretend to tell you IIOAV Avhat

it Avas. But I have got the Avhole house empty."

" That will exactly suit me, Mrs. Mayfie ld; for though I would have

preferred a single room in your house to the finest suite of apartments else-

Avhere, yet I have no particular wish to have any strangers about me."

" W e l l , that is as it should b e," replied the landlady. "B ut , my sweetlittle Miss Guendolen, pray don't you be so formal as to call me Mrs. Mayfield.

Wh y can' t yo u call me Susan, as you used to do ?"

" Very Avell, then. Susan it shall be Avhen Ave are alone ; but I must call

you Mrs. Mayfield before your servants."

" Ah , well, perhaps it would be better, though it sounds as if you were

offended with me."

" NOAV let my luggage be brought in, and dismiss the cab."

" Is this all your lugg age ? " excla imed Mrs. May held, entering with a

bag in her hand, and her eyes Avide open. " Wh en is the rest coming, my

dear ? "

" Tha t is all I have at present," repl ied Guendolcn . " I have been living

amongst the hills, where I required very litt le; but now I have come into

civilised life again I must dress, as you used to call it, like a Christ ian."

" Dear me, dear m e, " said the good woman, as she removed Guendolen's

cloak, " why this dress is plain and old-fashioned ind eed ! Shall I send to

Madame Devy's ? Yo u can't go out like this."

"Nonsense!" replied Guendolen . " I can go out very well if I Avish it,

Avhich, hoAvever, I do not at present . I have somethi ng more than dress tothink of just no w. But you may send for some less formidable personage

than Madame Devy, and: order some plain black dresses. I have good

reasons for bei ng as simple and unassuming as possible in my attire. I see

you cannot rest until something is done in that directi on, so send off at once

for the dressmaker, and let me have a little sorious conversation with yo u. "

Either the impo rtance of the commission she had to execute, or the idea of

the serious conference with her beloved Miss Guendolcn calmed doAvn Mrs.

Mayfield's excited feelings in a moment. Havi ng despatched the servant on

her errand, she broug ht a cha ir t o the fire, Avhere Guendo len Avas already

seated, thinkin g sadly of the ashes already cold upon the hearthstone o f her

little mountain ho me ; and having stirred up the coals to a brigh ter blaze ,

interrupted the you ng lady's reverie by the question, " Well UOAV, my dear,

Avhat is it ? "

" I knoAV I may reckon upon your zeal and prudence, dear Susan ; and the

affair that I Avish you to engage in will require both."

" If you asked me to lay doAvn my life for you, my darling, I' d do it," said

Mrs. Mayfield. " And nobody can say more than that, can they ?"

" I t is something short of your life that I Avant," replied Guendo len,smili ng ; " but still it is a very dil igent , and perhaps diffieult service."

" Then only say what it is, and if it can be done, I'll do it."

" I Avant you , then, to get acquainted with some members of Sir Frede rick

Elph insto ne's household, so as to be able to give me a little insight into his

domestic affairs."

Susan threAV herself back in her chai r in convu lsions of laughte r. " Oh,

oh, oh ! " she excla imed, slapping her hands upon her knees. " Is that all ?

Why, the housekeeper and I Avere schoolfelloAVS together, and Ave have been

like sisters all our li ves ; so I can tell you a good deal about them Avithout

stepping over the threshold to ask a question."

" That is most fortunate," said Guendol en. " HOAV does lie treat his Avife ? "

" L i k e a do g, " Avas the reply, " an d Avorse than a dog."

" Poor soul! I feared so. HOA V many children has she ? "

" Only one boy," replied Mrs. Mayfield.

" Have you ever heard that Sir Fred erick Avas married before ? "

" Oh yes, of course he AAras."

" I n de e d! " said Guendolen, eagerly, "a nd Avhat has become of his

first Avife ? "

"S he died in her confinement," replied Mrs. Mayfield. "T ha t Avas when

Miss Sylvia Avas born."

" Oh, indeed ! and how old is Miss Sylvia ? "

" She is just seventeen, and as SAvcet a girl as ever I set eyes on, for I never

w«s allowed to set eyes on you at that age, you knoAV, my dear. No , I never

saw yo u from the time they took you aAvay from me after your dear mother

died, Avhen you w e r e only six years old, till you came back from France at the



M a y 12, I860.] 2 5

age of one-and- twenty; but I used to fancy what you were like from year to

year, and I know from what you are now that you were a finer and a sweeter

girl than even Miss Sylvia."

" You know that I was always your pet child, dear Susie," said Guendolen,

laying her head upon the ample shoulder of her kind o ld nurse, " and affection

always makes its object superio r to anything else in the world . But this

young Sylvia is doubtless happy, so I want to hear no more of her. Tel l me

something further about poor Lady Elphinstone. She was rich, I suppose,

when Sir Frederick married her? "

" Oh, ye s! She had a large fortune, but I reckon he has pretty nearly run

through it by this time , except what is settled on herself, and even that, theysay, he takes from her as she receives it, so that she has hardly as much pocket

money as Miss Sylvia."

" The brut e! " muttered Guendolen.

" A y , my dear, that is just what he is ; he' s a regula r brute, and it's worse

to my mind to trample on a poor helpless creature like Lad y Elphinstone, than

it would be if she were more able to resist him. How eve r, she has got her

consolation."

" In her child, no doubt," suggested Guendolcn.

" Y es , she is fond of her boy, but her chief consolation is in religion.

Master Frank has a tutor, a very pious, good young man, and his holy

conversation has quite turned poor Lady Elphinstone's heart. She used to be

fond of going to the opera and to balls and parties, but now she spends her

time in visiting the sick and reading gooo} books with this excellent Mr.

Lorrimer."

" In dee d! " said Guendolen, dubiously, "a nd what does Sir Frederick say

to th is?"

" He laughs and sneers at her like a Avickcd reprobate, as he is, and compels

her to go to the opera, notwithstanding that her conscience disapproves of it."Guendolcn rose and paced thoughtful ly up and down the room. " It would

be aho ld step," she muttered, " and yet, if my own heart failod me not, I think

I might be safe. How eve r, I must have my wardr obe repleni shed first, and

that will give me ample time for reflection. I shall go to the opera to-night,

Susan, but as I am totally ignorant in these matters I must trouble you to

take a box for me from" which I can have a good view of the El phinstone

party."

" Certainly, my dear, I will go as soon as the dressmaker has come and

gone ; for I must sec what you are going to order."

" Wh y, you will be putting me into a short frock and trousers, and pinafores

into the bargain, you foolish old Susie," said Guendolen, taking her old

nurse's face between her hands, and kissing her on the forehead.

" T he Lord bless y e ! " replied Susan. " I do indeed feel as if you were

my own child, for your blessed mother on her deathbed to ld me to watc h

over ye for her sake; and though you were taken away from me for so many

years, I have never felt myself released from my promise."

" Nevertheless I protest against the pinafores," said Guendolen, forcing a

smile, while she wiped from her eyes the tears which the unaccustomed accents

of homely affection had called forth.

The arrival of the dressmaker changed the course of their conversation into

a current which we need not follow. When that impor tant business was

transacted, Mrs. Mayfield went out to secure an ope ra- box ; and Guendolen,

after writing a note to M r. Fowler, informing him of her address, sat though t

fully reviewing the events of the last few weeks, which had wrought such a

change in the quiet tenor of her life. She had almost determined, however

dangerous the step might appear, to intr oduce herself into the family of Sir

Frederick Elphinstone, trusting to her own courage and the power which her

knowledge of his past life placed in her hands, to compel him to act according

to her wishes. Her apparent mot ive was to secure better treatment for Lady

Elphinstone, for Avhom she entertained the sincerest pity. But she had not

forgotten that Harry Greville in his delirium had mentioned Elphinstone

in terms of familiarity, and she trusted that an intimacy with the Elphinstone

family migh t place her in the eyes of her love r in a social posit ion of more

dignity than that of the eccent ric and mysterious recluse of the Fel ls.

(To he continued.)

OH COME, COME T O M E !

Oh, come, come to me when the evening is gloaming,

When the wild raging storm-wind has sunk to a sigh;

W h e n the once-madden'd sea-wave has ceased from its foaming,

And the silvery moon sheds its beams from on high.

Once more let my ear, fix'd in rapt'rous attention,

Drink in the sweet solace thy accents convey—

Not linger on themes we're forbidden to mention,

But to nerve ourselves strongly, and learn to obey.

'Tis hard to relinquish the "hopes for to-morrow"

Our hearts, not our lips, said we had " yet in store ; "

The chalice of bliss to destroy in our sorrow,

To dream of the scenes of the past newer more.

'Tis agony, truly, to think I mus t leave thee ;

'Tis more painful still the heart's throb to subdue—

There—the spasm is over, my grief shall not grieve thee—

Hope surely will help me to whisper " Adieu!"

Oh, come then to me at the evening's gloaming,

When the moon' s silver radiance illumines the sky ;

Ere the now quiet wavelets are lash'd into foaming,—

And then, ah, yes, then, I will bid you " Good bye ! " G. It.

In default of other means, we cannot better detect a man' s character tha

jn his manner of receiving a wittici sm that is wounding.—LICHTEXEEIIG.

A PICTURE TOE, HUSBANDS.

Eviden tly one of the male sex was expected in Mrs. Barber's cosy parlour.

A comfortab le arm-chair, dressi ng-gow n and slippers, the tea-table with

its shining ware, potted meats, li ght bread, yellow butter, and delicate

cream, showed conclusively that they waited somebody's coming. A contem

plated absence of three days had lengthened into a week, bringing neither .Mr.

Barber nor a letter from Mr. Barbe r; consequently Mrs. Barber looked

slightly anxious, kept a close watch on the clock, peered out of the window

into the gathering darkness very often, listened until she imagined all sorts of

sounds, and made herself quite miserable by think ing that some horribleaccident had befallen the object of her solicitud e. The n smiling at her

cowardice and nervousness, she drew the curtains closer, light ed the lamp,

swept up the hearth, and sat down to watch the b lue flame flicker around the

glowing coal.

" G o o d evening, Sarah! Why, you look as startled as tho ugh I was a

ghost, instead of the best friend you have in the w orl d! Pray, hasn't thathusband of yours come home yet? No ? Then take my advice, and don' t

brush his coat nor kiss him again for two months. Serve him right for leaving

you alone a whole week."

The speaker was Lizzie Hunt, a lively, dark-eyed woman, who just then

tripped into the room.

" I kno w vou didn 't expect m e," she chattered on , in the midst of Mrs.

Barber's words of welcome; "b ut I thought I w®uld just run in and show

you my presents, and see if you were not almost frightened to death staying

alone in this great house."

" I think not, Lizzie. Don't I look in good bodily and mental condition ?"

returned Mrs. Barber, trying to smile cheerfully.

" I must admit that I never saw fewer signs of frigh t in my life," saidLizzie ; " but I'm sure that if my husband s hould go away and be gone a week,

Avithout givi ng me proper notice of his intentions, I Avould certainly run

away or fill the house with compan y."

" My dear friend, you haven 't been married a yea r," said Mrs. Barber,

Avith something like a sigh.

"Heig h ho ! I 'm not going to borroAV trouble yet awhile, I' m sure,"

returned Mrs. Hunt, seating herself on an ottoman. " L o o k here! See

Avhat Fred has brought me home from town—this pretty dress, and such a

love of a book. Isn't he a thoughtful husband ? "

" They are very handsome, Lizzie, and you cannot prize too highly the

affection that prompts these tokens of remembrance. W e value gifts only as

Ave appreciate the gi ver s."

Lively Mrs. Hunt looked serious, and gaze d into the fire in silence for a

moment. Steps Avere heard outside, then in the hall. Mrs. Barber hurried

to open the inner door.

" Good evening, Sarah; how do you do, Mrs. Hun t? " Avas Mr. Barber's

salutation, as he entered.

He didn't shake hands Avith his Avife, or kiss her. Wh y should he ?Had n't he been married seven years ? It seemed entirely uncalled for.

" Oh John, I'm so glad you 've come!" she exelainied, not heeding this

matter-of-fact greeting. " Yo u staid so long, I've been a good deal alarmed

about you."

" Yes, Mr. Barber, she has been very anxious about you. I can testify to

it," added Mrs. Hunt.

" Wh ic h was needless. I have told her repeatedly not to feel any solicitude

about me Avhen I am gone. Borr owin g trouble is a useless ex penditure of

I feeling," quoth Mr. Barber.

" Well , I don't know IIOAV one can help it, under certain circumstan ces,"

pursued impulsive Mrs. Hunt. " If I should be left alone so long, I should

fret myself into a fever."

" Which would bo simply baby ish—b eggi ng your pardon, my fair ne ighb our. "

Mrs. Hunt shrugged her pretty shoulders, by Avay of answer.

While this colloquy Avas going on, Mr. Barber Avas getting out of his coat

into his dre ssing- gown — but not unassisted. Hi s Avife untied his scarf,

received his hat, he lped off one coat and then anothe r, held his Avrapper in a

convenient position for him to poke his arms i nto, transported two mudd yboots into the kitchen, placed the slippers just under his feet, and wheeled the

arm-chair into the snuggest corner.

Mrs. Hun t noted all these little attentions, and Avaited patiently for some

I acknoAvledgment of them. But she waited in vain ; Mr. Barbe r manifest ly

regarded them as matters of course, neither by Avoid or look indicating thathe Avas particularly obliged to anybody. Mrs. Hun t bade her friend good

night, observed to the occupan t of the arm-chair that she hoped he would

succeed in making himself comfortable, (which remark, hoAvever, savoured of

the sarcastic,) and Avent home to tell what a bear that Barber Avas, and what

a slave Mrs. Barber made of herself.

" M y dear, you shoul dn't expect so much of us poor, guileless men. I

dare say, HOA\ t

, that Mrs. Barber did nothing mo re than her duty," good-

i humouredly returned Mrs. Hunt's stronger half, Avhen his Avife had given

| vent to her indignation in unqualified terms.

| " Perhaps n ot ; but then one likes, occasionally, to g et credit for doi ng

! one's duty," retorted Mrs. Hunt. " W h y , if she Avere a slave, and he her

owner and master, she could not serve hi m more faithfully than she

does."

" Granted, Mistress Lizzie! A man is better served by one good Avife (mind—I say good), than by six slaves. The y can't be expected to take thatinterest in the nobler part of humanity that women do; AVC don't expect

to find a Avife in a domestic. And then," pursued M r. Hunt, in the same

bantering tone, "acco rdin g to your OAvn shoAving, Mr. Barber did not

require these manifold attentions from his Avife "" But he rece ived them, neverthele ss, Avithout a ' thank y o u! ' or a kiss,

i ! like a brute as he is ! I Avonder, Mr. Frederi ck, IIOAV long I should Avait upon

i you in that Avay, Avithout any acknowledgments ? Not more than seven years,



26 TH E FAM ILY HE RA LD — A

I'll warra nt—wh ich is precisely the term of apprenti ceship that my foolish

friend Sarah has served to a hard master."

Mrs. Hu nt pok ed the lire violen tly in the grate, as an escape-valv e for

her resentment against poor luckless Mr. Barber.

Meanwhile, the last-named gentlem an toasted his feet to his satisfaction,

rubbe d his hands compl acen tly in the genial warmth, looked gratified at the

picture of comfort the room presented, and then wheele d around to the table

and com men ced a survey of the eatables before hi m.

" I don' t see any butch er's meat," he bega n, querul ously. " I always want

someth ing solid when I' ve been travelling . M y system requires i t."

" I am sorry that I don 't happen to hawc any cooked, Jo hn; but if you

will wait a few minutes, I will broi l a steak for yo u, " replied his wife to

which proposition M r. Barber acceded at once, affirming that he really didnot think he could cat a mouth ful with out it, butche r's meat was so necessary

to his constitution.

And so his patient helpmate re-entered her kitchen, to find the fire

IOAV and uncomfortably cold. After a long struggle with the refractory coal,

which very nearly refused doing duty at that unusual hour, the pro cess of

broiling was finished, and Mrs . Barber, victo rious over all obstacles, though

flushed and tired with her efforts, bore the expected article of food into the

presence of her lord, who, by way of thanks for the favour, protested "thatshe had been gone long enough to cook a whole dinner."

Mrs Barber waited upon him as assiduously as if he had been a prince, and

in fact, did everything she could do, except put the food into his mouth.

After disposin g of an unfashionable quantity o f bread, and every vestige of

the meat , as well as three cups of tea, Mr. Barber wheeled about again,

placed both feet on the fender, and applied himself industriously to his pipe.

Mrs. Barber had no appetite; anxiety and watching had taken away all

desire for food. She wanted to know what had happened in her husband's

absence ; if friends had sent any mess ages ; if he had brough t her a souvenir

of remem branc e—ever so trifling a gif t; if his business transactions hadbeen succes sful; in short she wa nted to hear what every wom an likes (and

every man too)— the news. But she knew—as who does not ?—that a hungry

man is always cross, and had refrained from ask ing questions until the

momentous business of eating had been acco mplis hed, when she sat dow n and

awaited any co mmuni cation s he migh t see fit to make.

A lon g interval of silence succeede d. The clock ticked and the smoke

accumula ted, yet not a wor d had been spoke n. Mrs. Barber looked wishfully

at her husband. He did not like to be questioned, and she knew it. But

what was a woman to do? If he would n't talk voluntarily, wasn't she

justified in trying to coax him to be communicativ e ? She made the attempt.

"Did you have a safe journey, John?"

" It woul d seem so. I' m in a tolerable state of preservation—am I no t ?"

" Yes ; b ut di d you have a pleasant tim e ?"

" It strikes me that travelling isn't the most agreeable occu pati on in the

world; how ever , opinion s differ about that," said Mr. Barber, crossing his

legs more com fortab ly, and puffing a large mouthfu l o f smoke danger ously

near Mrs. Barber's face.

No w she did n ot lik e the smell of tobacco, it nauseated her and made herhead ache. But as the habit was so firmly fixed in him, and he seemed

to take such solid satisfaction in its indulgence, she never opposed him,

sacrificing self, daily and hourl y, at the shrine of duty. Perhap s at this

particular time Mr. Barber did not int end to be imp ol ite ; if he did, a good

deal of nonchalance accompanie d the action. The wife coughed and moved

back a little.

" Di d you see my father and mo ther ? " she continued, with some hesitation.

" Yes. " This brief monosyllable and a column of smoke came out of Mr.

Barber's mouth together.

" Did they send any message to me ? " was the next pers evering query .

" Noth ing in particular."

" D i d you bring the package I sent f o r ? " she resumed, trying to speak

cheerfully.

" No," was the short reply.

" Wh y not, John ? " she continue d.

" Because I forgot it, Mrs. Barb er," said her liege, in a voice that be

tokened entire conviction that he was an ill-used man.

Disappointed, and despairing of eliciting any information out of her close-

mouthed husband, Mrs. Barber made no further effort at conversation, but

sat and meditated upon this disagreeab le phase in his character. We re her

questions unreasonable ? Were they put when he was cold, or wet, or hungry,

or otherwise unfavourably situated ? A conscientious negative followed those

mental queries.

Mr. Barbe r was not particularl y unamiable or ill-dis posed . He was simply

intensely selfish, and this selfishness was so incor porat ed into his bei ng, thatlie had no well- defined idea of ho w much petty meanness he was capabl e.

Exacting in all that conce rned himself, he had very loose and vague ideas of

what was due to others . A contemplate d absence of two days had, for

sufficient reason, lengthened into a week. Mrs. Barber was alone, and with

the pape rs full of casualties, naturally solicitous for his safety ; for to the credit

of true wom anh ood be it spo ken, neither selfishness no r neglec t do readily

alienate a kind heart. Now why did not this absent husband pen a few

thoughtfu l w ords to the waitin g wife ? Because , forsoot h, it was too much

trouble, and he really didn't think the matter of enough consequen ce to spend

fifteen min utes of time and a postage stamp upon it. Tha t she should care to

know his mo vement s in detail or in general, or be desirous of hearing whatMrs. A. said or Mrs. B. did, or anxious to receive ti dings from friends, or

curious to listen to those little items that the most wise, at times, evince an

interest in, was to him nearly incomprehensible. A morbid curiosity, a love

of tattle, he denominated it—forgetful that he had himself been edified in the

relation of these very details.

To be sure, Mr. Barber woul d have bee n seriously disturbed, had his wife

failed to have had a good sapper and a bright fire ready for him; but he

DOM ESTI C MAGAZIN E OF t « « y i 2 . i & » .

didn't think it politic to swell a trifle into a great matter by acknowledging

the same, either by appreciative words or smiles. It was in the way of her

duty—Avasn't it? and why need she covet rewa rd? Then , again, our model

husband never Avas guilty of making his wife presents. To his mind, it AV;IS very

like thro wing mone y away. H o w exceedi ngly unromant ic, to o! If it Avas

one's cousin , or one' s sweetheart, it might do ; but a gift for one's Avife was

absurd ! W e knoAV to a certainty, also, that Mr. Barber had not hinted to his

Avife, in the remotest manner, since the day he gave her the honour of bearing

his name, that she Avas anything more to him than a convenient home-

appendage, tolerably calculated to make him comfortable—a useful domestic-

machine, Avhich, by skilful manageme nt, migh t be able to grind out a good

deal of drudger y. That she should aspire to be his confidant, or adviser,

or equal, had never entered his astute head. In fact, his thoughts Avere so fullof " Mr. Barber," that there Avas seldom a gap into Avhich another personality

could crowd. Is it a marvel, then, that Mrs. Barber's heart Avas often

sorroAvful, or that the unsatisfied part of her nature cried out for sympathy

and the calm of loving kindness ? Ah, no 1 An d there are other wives AY ho

aspire to something more than enough to eat, drink, and Avear!

Before retiring, our disappointed wife inspected Mr. Barber's carpet-bag.1 In it she fo und a quantit y of soiled linen, a neAV scarf, an opera-tie, French

i gloves, and a box of choice cigars—an inventory that more fully confirmed

| his com plete selfishness. Wh en , after the performance of sundry household

duties, Mrs. Barber folloAved her companion to their sleeping-apartment, she

ascertained by certain significant sounds that he Avas already Avithin the

dominions of Morpheus; but Avhilc she Avas endeavour ing to make the dis-

! robi ng process as noiseless as possible, he opene d his eyes to remark that " i t

Avas singular a Avoman cou ldn 't do anythi ng Avithout making a racket. Her

feet Avere as cold as marble, moreover ; why hadn't she retired at a seasonable

hour, before the fire got IOAV and the room chilly ? " Sure enou gh, Mr.

Barber!

It Avas Mrs. Barber's habit t o rise early. He r husband' s business demandedhis attention at an hour which obliged her to be stirring betimes. So the

next morning our model man shook his Avife gently, and said : " Sarah !

! Sarah ! the clock is striking six. It is time to get up. You may as Avell be

getting breakfast, as tossing about in the bed as you have been for the last

half-hour."

" I ' m no t well, John," feebly responded Mrs. Barber. "I ' v e slept but

little, and been very restless all night. I wish you 'd get up and make the

fire, and perhaps I shall feel better soon."

Mr. Barber demurred some time before complying with this reasonable

request. "M ak in g a fi re " (especially in the Avinter season) Avas so much out

of his sphere, that it seemed a mountain-task to contemplat e. He uncover ed

his head, sloAvly put out one foot and then the other, drew them in again suddenly,

and finally, Avith a prolon ged shiver, made a second and more successful

attempt of alighting upon his feet, when the operation of dressing Avas hastily

performed.

He did not gain a vic tory over AVOOC! and coals Avithout a struggle. One

burne d t oo quick, and the other not quick en ou gh ; one craekled and sput

tered,-as if laug hing at his efforts; the other lay cold, black, and defiant.Lucifer-matches and patience at last getting the mastery, Mr. Barber marched

upstairs, and proudly announced the fact.

" I fear I shall n ot be able to get yo ur breakfast, John, my head is so

giddy," answ ered Mr s. Barber, ra ising her head Avith an effort.

" NOAV don't go and succumb to a headache, Sarah," he continued, in a

disappoin ted tone . " There 's no use in succumbin g to illness. Only think

you Avon't be ill, and I'l l Avarrant you' ll be all right in an hour or two ."

Mrs. Barber sighed, Avhile a sharp pain in her head contracted her features.

At that moment Master Robert Barber, a small personage of live years,

I scampered in to the chamb er and announce d his Avish to be " dressed." His

mother made a movement to attend to his wants, but a sudden faintness

: forced her to desist.

! "C an 't you dress him, Jo h n? " she asked, looking pityingly at the little

i shivering object in the night dress.

" I never could dress a child, there's so much pinning and tying and

butto ning to do . He can Avait, I dare say. " W it h Avhich remark Mr.

Barber Avent doAvn stairs to try his luck at breakfast-making.

He, like many of his sex, had an exalted idea of his culinary acquirements.

Hi s Avife Avas a notab le cook and hou sekeeper: yet John Barber, though he

liked to eat her nice pastry and dishes, always insisted, in her presence, that

his mother Avas the on ly Avoman AAr

ho could roast properly or make a pudding

fit to eat.

" Getting breakfast," quoth Mr. Barber, as he stirred the fire and spread

the eloth, "i s a very simple thin g; and Avhy Avomcn need make such a fuss

about it is more than I can accou nt for. Le t me see—yes, I'll cut the meat,

and then I'l l toast the bread. I 'l l venture to say that I can do both quite

as Avell as the best cook in the country."

Mr. Barber cut himself off a steak, and laid it upon Avhat he though t Avas

the gridiron, but Avhich in reality Avas the flat-iron heater, and placed it upon

a bed of hot coals. Precis ely two minu tes sufficed to fix it firmly upon its

iron bed, from Avhich a good deal of pulling and scraping Avas necessary to; raise it. A dried and burn ed surface rewarded the eye of the cook, AVIIO Avent

j through Avith the "turning " process Avith exac tly the same results.

He was just plac ing himself at the table, when he suddenly recollected that

' he had no coffee, and, Avhat was worse, the wa ter Avas still in the ciste rn.

" Confound it, I forgot to fill the kettl e! I wonde r IIOAV folks contrive to

remember every thi ng !" he exclaimed, petulantly. "B ut I'l l go Avithout

coffee ; I can and I will! "

| Mr. Barber Avould have complained bitterly, had his wife placed before him

; a breakfast of burned, unpalatable steak, and cold Avater for beverage; now,

however, he partoo k o f the delicacies his skill and jud gme nt had provid ed,

! Avithout a thought of his exacting demands, or an apprcciatory feeling of his

| wife's care and attention to his numerous AY ants



May 1-2, I860.] USEFUL INFO RMAT ION AND AMUSE MENT . 27

But he was destined to have a lesson. No t thinking his wi fe's illness of !

much consequence, he left the remains of his " ju ic y beefsteak " and dry bread j

upon the table, and beto ok himsel f to his business. On his return, at noon, |

l i e found everything in the kitchen as he had left it, and Mr s. Barber so much

worse, that lie realty began to think she was seriously indisposed. Tur nin g

and tossing, her face Hushed with fever, and try ing to qui et little Robert, I

who, cold and hungry, was cryin g bitterly, she touch ed the outer edge of |

Mr. Barber's sympathies sufficiently to induce him to go for Mrs . Hunt, wh o

was soon in the chamber of her friend, with a finger on her pulse and a hand

on her throbbing forehead.

" Why , Mr. Barber! how could you be so thoughtless as to let your wife

lie here, alone, and suffer all this mor nin g?" she exclaimed. "D on 't yousee that she has a high fever, and must be attended to at once ? Do run for

the doctor, while I sec to this poor child."

Mr. Barber did as he was bidden, withou t com ment . To speak the truth,

his conscience pricked him a little for his neglect and the uncharitab le, not to

say unkind, words he had spoken in the morning.

"" I declare, Sarah, I'm out of patience with your husband! li e' s the very

essence of selfishness and sel f-c once it! Do you remem ber wha t a fuss he

made, the other day, about a headache ? and h ow yo u made herb-tea, and

bathed his head, and brought the camphor and the hartshorn, and walked on

tiptoe all day to avoid noise, and gave up goi ng to b uy a bonne t with me,

because you said, ' John was too ill to be left alone ? ' An d here you arc, in

a hig h fever, and he "

" Don't, Liz zie! " implored Mrs. Barber. " John is thoughtless, I kn ow ;

but he doesn't mean any harm, I' m sure. He isn't used to rny being ill, and

it makes him impatient."

"Heartless, I should say," rejoined Mrs. Hunt, in an undertone, while she

busied herself in kind offices for her friend.

It is not necessary to dwe ll u pon th e days and weeks of suffering that fellto the lot of poor Mrs. Barber. A painful and protr acted illness, induced in a

grout measure by exposure and over- exerti on, gave Mr . Barber a deeper

insight into the mysteries of housekeeping , the excelle nce of a servant, the

innumerable privileges of monthly nurses, doting aunts and knowing cousins,

and the immense advantage his household derived from the supervision of a

stranger.

Mrs. Barber was not one of the com plain ing kind. She rarely spoke of

headache, languor, or nervousness, and seldom claimed symp athy for wearied

limbs or "sh oot in g pains ; " consequentl y this dispensation crossed the plans j

and sorely tried the patience of her ease-lovi ng husband. He missed her J

wifely care, and the thousand-and-one little offices prompted by a kind heart. I

Nobody Avaited for him, no w; he Avaited for everybo dy. W he n he wished

for a lire, he had the privil ege of makin g it. If his tea pro ved to be cold, I

grumb ling did not warm it, for Peg gy 's sensibilities were too callous to alloAV

her to be troubled by fault-finding. * Wh en he failed to find his slippers and

his shirts, he was assured that they were "laying about somewhere," AAr

hich

proved true to the letter; for sometimes they Avere on the dini ng-ta ble and

sometimes in the kitchen-dr awer Avith the towel s." Confound that jad e for a nuisance ! " he exclai med, one morni ng, being

more than usually annoyed at the girl's tardiness and increasing familiarity

of speech, " I haven' t enjoyed myself a minute since Sarah was taken ill.

Look at this roo m! I'll wager it hasn't seen a broom for these tw o

weeks. Sec the cobAvebs and the dust! And as for food, Avhat I've had to

eat a pig would refuse ! "

" I ' m glad of it, Mr. Barber, " said a voice; and turning quickly, our

luckless husband met the black eyes of Mrs . Hunt. H e Avas a littl e, a ver y

little embarrassed.

" I repeat that I' m gl ad of it ! " she added with a saucy smile ; " and I

hope that you'll be uncomfortable just lon g enoug h to teach you to appreciate

your wife. She's been a drudge for you, Mr. Barber, since your marriag e ;

always at your beck and call, she devoted all her time an d t hought s to your

service. And for what ? Nothing—absolut ely nothing. She doesn't get a

return even in such small coin as a kiss. Wh en did you kiss your wife last,

Mr. Barber ? "

The questioner loo ked mischiev ously, yet seriously, into the latter's face.

" W h e n did I kiss my wife la st ?" he repeated. "W ha t a singularquesti on! I cannot tell, Mrs. Hunt. Not since—not since "

" Your marriage, perhaps ? " suggested M rs. Hunt.

" Ver y likely not, " Avas the reply. " But then Avomen don' t care about

kisses after marriage. They have something more important to think of

generally."

" They do care about kisses and kind Avords and pleasant smiles," affirmed

Mrs. Hunt, energe tical ly; " and it is only a mass of selfishness done up in the

figure of a man that will Avithhold these simple tributes to affection."

" Then I'm afraid I've been selfish, Mrs. Hunt," said Mr. Barber.

" Intolerably so; there's no doubt of it," she added.

" Sarah has made me an. excellent Avife," he continued.

" No doubt of that, either ; thoug h I presume to say you never told her

so," added his fair critic, taking the e dge off her po int ed Avords by a manner

peculiarly her own.

" I never did, upon my Avord! Lizzie—Mrs. Hunt, I'm a tyrant, a bear,

a brute, a "

" G o and tell her so; it will do her more good than all the medicine she

can take. And mind you, Mr. Barber," pursued Mrs. Hunt, " don't forget tokiss her after you have told her that you are a brute. She'll be sure to believe

it, then ! "

Mrs. Hunt went home, and Mr. Barber went up stairs. What passed

there is not record ed; but one thing is certai n—Mr s. Barber's spirits revived ;

wonderfully, and as a consequence, her health rapidly improved. In a few \

Avceks she was able to Avalk slowly about the house, and in due time returned

to her place in the family, from Avhich Peg gy and the high -mi nded nurse

were soon dismissed. The rooms gradually assumed their accustomed neat

and cheerful look, Avhilc the table in the neat and pretty parlour rem1 wed its

attractions three times a day for Mr. Barber.

Mrs. Barber made no more fires on cold winter morni ngs, Avas no longer

the domest ic dru dge ; she had a girl to help, and to attend in part to

Master Robert; and John was no longer the indifferent recipient of her

attentions, but a tenderer husband, a more loving companion, a better friend.

The illness that she had lamented so much promised to be a blessing in

disguise, for through that, and the instrumentality of kind-hearted Mrs. Hunt,

she had g ain ed Avhat a true Avife values most—the love and sympathy of her

husband. M . E . R.

T H E P A R T I N G T O N P A P E E S ;BEING TEE LIFE, LECTURES, AN D LOVE MATTERS OF MRS. PRUDENCE

PARTINGTON, RELICT OF THE HEROIC ConroRAL, PAUL PARTINGTON.

MRS . P A R T I N G T O N ' S M E M O I R S .

It is, perhaps, onpossi ble to cons ecrate to m ortal years, but I Avas born in

hold Enger land, Hal bio n, the patri otic land of the free and easy. But, as

some one conserves, necessity is the mother of circu mvent ion. Sly parients

Avere poo re. Pove rty is no disgrace , but very illc onven ient . They Avere

obliged to congregate to another clim e. Amc rri ke Avas the land of their

predestinat ion, and th ey landed on the k eys of NOAV York. Well, my poor-

father even then Avas no better off. Food Avas scarce , and Avar famished the

land. It Avas the Ame rri kin Avar of nondepe iiden ce. Th e peop le Avere dis

connected. The British Government showed its incapacious pertinacity. W e

fort, and my father, Eben ezer Podg ers, was soon prcsst in the ranks of the

convol utioni sts. Her e Avas, indeed, a ch an ge! W e , the free people of the

IICAV land, Avere stru ggli ng for umpir e. " Wil l yo u be a free man ? " ses one.

" I f you will, list, if not, be shot."My father chose the land of the free, and bou ght a ni gg er ; but such Avas

the unprepared obscurity of proper ty in that dissolute state, that land Avas

then in a stage of toni c desolati on. HoAvsomevcr, after the relapse of time

the disconn ected peo ple Avere upp erm ost ; victo ry declared herself on the side

of the strongest, and General ^Washington proved himself quite equal to

Appolyon Bonyp arte . Such, said my dear father Ebenezer Podgers, Avas the

beautiful disorganis ation of imp olit ics. " Ah ! Fr eed om ," ses he, " Avere shall

AVO raise your Halter ? Were shall Ave buil d the munificent constru ction ?

Underneath that, the bones of those freemen, concluding the niggers AYIIO

Avere presst—the Engines AVIIO scalped our enemies, and the debtors Avho

shook off the chains of their creditors, shall compose." Was not this a

beautiful presentiment ?

llafter the slaughter, Avhen Ave smo ked the pik e of peac e, and ber rie d the

tommyhawk, and digested the parry-phernalia of 'orrid Avar, my father's

regim ent Avas made contreba nd, and, bein g a man o f elocut ion, he turned

parson, l i e bilked a splendid screechin' shop, with pilloAvs outside, and sleepiir*

AvilloAvs, and a port ugal, all prope r. He had a great flow of Avords to the 'e d,

and took ama zin ' ! He depended on the distributions of his consternation,or those Avho heerd hi m; and, mi ! di dn't he screech fine ! Po or man, he is

dead noAV, and rests in a marvel oesophagus, and Avas carried to his lon g home

on the shoulders of his conf lagration. Mi ma' Avas left a Avidder, and I a

dissolute and an importunate orphan !

Well, Avon the Avidder and her orph an chil d, findin' there Avas no sterility

in fortune, had sol d the screechin' sho p, the pulpit , and the portu gals, and ba d

realised our little haul, bein g besides in a stew-pan of tears and SOITOAA7

, sich

as I cannot p rescribe, for great is the fragrant stupidity of a AvidoAV's grief,

she summ erly determi ned to fly away into the Avilderness, or, as they call it

in Amerrikee, the bungle, and be at peace.

I Avas but a dozi ng years hold at the tim e. I had not, altho ugh a

for'a rd child, arrived at years of descripti on. I Avas but infantry in the eyes

of the l a', Avhen one day , as moth er set a Avipin' of he r tearful eyes and

a peclin' of onions, there came a rap at the door, and Avho should enter but

Elkanah B . Settle, Avho Avas a helder in our church . He lo oked p hila nthr opic,

and Avas a fine cosm opoli tan man ; but I wil l not prescr ibe him . I must not

emancipate my story. "D ee r Mr. Elder ," ses my mother, "br in g your ship

to an anchor, and take a cheer."" Marm P odger s," ses he, "t he elect and reliquary o f our most treasonable

Ebenezer Podgers, I am come to control with you."

Oh, he spoke beau tif ul! My ma' Aviped her poo r copticks , and being in

Avant of spirits, produced the rum and Avater.

" Ye s, Avidder," ses h e, " Ave needs at sich times a little acoholic conster

nati on! Do you like SAvects, m ar m ?" Here he rolled his i's like a dis

affected gan der , an d loo ked spo one y. Sma ll as I Avas, I kneAv Avot he AVUS

artcr, and so did my mother.

" Prudence," ses she, " there's them geese got into the gardin. They will

prescribe the veg etatio n; g o and primarily dismiss them. Here, Mr. Elder,

ses she ; " here i s the SAveets."

" I see they are, marm," ses he, rollin his eyes like butter; and I seed him

sque edge the Avidder's 'an d as she gav e him the sug ar- pot , Avhilst I Avas sent

to dri ve a\vay the geese !

Thi s Avas my first lesson in the a mbigu ous cunn ing of a consi gnin g Ma n.

(T o be continued.)

PROVERBS WORTH PRESERVING.—Hasty peopl e drink the wine of life

scalding hot. Deat h is the only master Avho takes his servants Avithout a

character. A sour-faced wife tills the tavern. Content is the mother of good

digestion. Wh en pride and poverty marry together, their children arc want

and crime. Wh ere hard Avork kills ten, idleness kills a hundred men. Fo ll y

and p ride Avalk side by side. He that borroAvs, binds himself with a neigh

bour's rope. He that is too good for good advice, is too good for hi3

neighbour' s company. Friends and photographs never flatter. Wisdom is

always a t home to those who call. The firmest friends a s k the fewest favours.



2 8THE FA MIL Y H E RA L D —A DOMESTIC MAGAZINE OP [May 12, I860.

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

H . "W. Y. sends us a sensible bu t exp losi ve let ter wishing

us to co nde mn prize-fighting. We had thoug ht that

any words on the subject were rather out of our way.

We have mor o to do with w edd ing rings than pr ize

rings. Our preac hing no less than our practice has

cond emne d the vulgar and low part of pugili sm, but

if II. W. Y. wishes to have our real sentiments, w e do

no t condemn box i ng . Neither d idBunyan, nor Parson

Adams, nor the Duk e of Wellin gton, nor Theocr itus,

nor did t he old Grecian nor the old Sax on systems of

educat ion. Rely upo n it as long as men are men , there

will be wrong and crue lty and oppression ; these ex ist

amon gst families, betwe en childr en almo st infants.We me n settle th e matter wi th ou r fists. Boxi ng is the

curriculum of defensive educat ion. Prize-fighting pur

el simple (that is without an y s tockjobbing, or bet t ing,

or dodging) is the culmi nati on of this education jus t

like a col lege exam ina tion for hono urs is wit h th e

clerics or laym en. The peo ple s hero, Shaw, the life-

guardsman , was a box er, and the great Welli ngto n

publicly depl ored in the House of Lord s the deca y of

the ring. Manly sports dest i tute of extreme cruel ty

are just what we want . Bot h in t raining and fighting

we have had, from Sayers especiall y, and fro m his

opponen t , the exhibi t i on of the greatest patience,

fortitud e, an d enduran ce. Chivalry itself was in the

gross mor e cruel and brutal . The Times has quoted

the idylls of Theocri tus for the antiquit y of bo xin g : the

whole worl d ma y be cited for its general use. W o u l d

it we re not so ; but pe ople will not live in lovin g fe l low

ship for ever. Dr. Watts when he wrote

Birds in their Utile nests agree,

either k new noth ing of his subje ct or told a great

story. Still with H. W. Y. we fully co nde mn bruta l i ty

and cruelty.

R O S A L I E . — J e a l o u s y is a natural feeling, but w hen

indulged in to excess the resul ts arc fearful. Dur ing

courtship it is a kind of i n t e rmi t t en t fever, but in

marr ied life it is a scourge, the demon that poisons the

atmosphere of home, and taints th e purest and most

loving hearts. It di ms the swe et eyes of affection, and

wrink les the fairest and smoot hest of brow s. It is a

dreadful ene my to conjugal happine ss, and d oes more

to foster strife, discord , and miser y—raw and biting

as a co ld north-easterl}' ' wind—th an all the other

causes of matrimon ial inf elicity put togethe r. As it

has truthfully been observ ed, " it is a pois oned a ir ow

so envenomed that even if it woun ds the skin it is

dang ero us; but if it draws b l o o d life is irrecoverably

los t ." That amiab le wom an La dy Penni ngton , in her

advice to her daughter, thus warned the latter of the

consequences of indulging in this fatal pas s ion :

" When it is o n c e suffered," said she, " ' to get footing

in the heart, it is hardl y ever ext irp ate d ; it is a con

stant source of tor men t to the breast that gives it

receptio n, and is an in exhaus tible fund of vexa tion to

th e object of it. Wit h a perso n of this unfortunate

frame of min d it is pruden t to avoid the least appearance of concealment—a whisper in a mixed company,

a message give n in a low vo ice to a servant , have , by

the power s of a disordere d imaginat ion, bee n magnif ied

into a material injury . Wha tev er has an air of secr esy

raises terror in a min d habitually distrustful. A perfect

unreserve d openn ess both in conver sation and be ha

viour, starves the anxious expectat ion of d iscovery,

and may very probably lead into an habitual confi

dence, the only antidot e against th e poison of sus

pic ion."

I N N O C E N C E an d S I M P L I C I T Y wish to be informed what

the various colours of tho hum an eye deno te. We

ques t ion whether there is really a blue oye, except in

persons of a low, lymphatic temperament , and t hen jt is invariably a sign of weakn ess of mi nd and b o d y .

U^ ht and da rk gr ey eyes are the most c o m m o n , an d

they are genera lly the in dex to a robust constit ution

and energeti c character. The major ity of great men,

Wellington and Napole on for instance, had s uch

eyes. The bro wn eye is reflective, and has unfathom

able depths. Thought ful men and wo me n have it.

Th e hazel e ye is tho mos t fitful, beca use it a ssume s

different co lour s in different l ights, and m ay be said

to bel ong to merry and capric ious dispositi ons. The

black eye is associated with passion and genius. It is

essentially an oriental eye, and its pro per c limate is

the torrid zone. But what ever may be the colour of

the eye, it is tho expression of the face that should be

stud ied . That popular authoress, Mrs. Ellis , says,

" In terest ing peop le almost always have eyes whic h

tell that they are so. Such eyes may be black , blue,

or grey—the y may be of any form, thou gh we fancy

not qui te set in a ny manner , but they always c o n v e y

an idea of extrao rdinar y capa bility both in the

wa y of rece ivin g and g ivin g out what ever subject is

conversed up on ; they seem, when attentive, to be

engaged in f o l l o w in g that subject out to its r emote st

bearings, and then returning to beam forth what they

have discove red. Eye s of this kind may easily make

acquaintances without the cere mony of in troducti on."

This is proba bly the true soluti on of the myst ery of

love at first sight.

W . V. A.—Th ere is no t a more in terest ing study for the

archaeologist than the derivation of prop er name s.

Kobinson was no dou bt the son of Robin, w i n c h

Camde n derives from the Anglo-Sa xon, and defines as

"fa mou s in coun sel ; " Jones is perhaps Jonas, or more

l ikely John 's ,—the chil d of John— deriv ed f rom the

j lebr cw, and meaning " God's gra ce; " Brown may have

denoted the colour of the skin or dress of the origin al

Nearer of the nam e, as do also Whit e, Bl ack , Gree n,

Y e l l o w l y , kc. Alla m is most likely of Danish origin,

jiud derived from Alan, a w o l f - d o / , perhaps the symbol

o*- crest of the wearer sugge sting the na me. For the

derivati on of Christian names, see No. 24.

M A D E L I N E L O U I S E has a seaso n-ti cket on one of th e f

railways, and rides a short distan ce ever y day, and

therefore kno ws the guard s and other officials quite

well. The con sequ ence is , acco rding to her foolish

s tatement , she has fallen in love wit h one of the guards

—a poli te , good-humour ed looking man, wh o looks

qui te fo rt y! She is onl y six tee n and a-half ! ! ! It

is a case for kee n ridicul e, but mu ch mor e for

extremely grave reproach. Titania l o v e d Bottom

the weaver, with the head o f an ass on his

shoulders ; but t hen she was und er a spell. In

these days there are n o spells save tho se visibl e

ones prod uced by ignoranc e, disease, crime , lunacy,

and those deplorable infatuations whi ch betray a

lament able wan t of moral sense ai>d kno wle dge

of self. Onl y fanc y a girl—a mere child in yearsas well as expe rien ce — lovi ng a man old en ough

to be her grandfather ! L o v e ! Sane peop le wou ld

call it a del usio n of the senses, an infatu ation, the

result of a disordered brain, or som e other bodi ly

weakness . M A D E L I N E migh t with mor e feminine

propri ety fancy she was the Emp ress of France. Good-

humour ed face, ind eed! Wh y, rai lway servants are

paid for bein g polite to the public . At home they arc

like all other men . An d this guard, i n all likelih ood,

has a wife and large family, with a s ix- foot son in the

Life Guards, and a daughte r mar ried t o a day-labourer.

If M A D E L I N E will t ake a l i t t le cool ing medic ine ,

and rea d none but sensible books and tho Family

Herald, she will soon be cured of her dist emper, and

o n c e again be a sound hearted and sound-headed

English girl.

A N X I O U S O. B. M. is in love , and is bGlovcd, but he

cannot wTalk out of doors with his adored one wit hout

the presen ce of her two sisters, so that he is unable to

converse with her on the subject dearest to his present

an d future happiness.—That is certainl y tantalising,

and scarcely endurab le. We have often noti ced thatdisengaged sisters arc prone to be jealo us of the one

that has secu red a suitor, espec iall y if she is the

younge s t ; therefore disguis ing the real motive for

their cond uct, they fancy they are called u pon to be

her prot ectors on the (to their disappointed imagina

tions) thorny path of cou rts hip . It is difficult to get

rid of such intruders on blissful hours. Marriag e is

the best w ay ; but then circumstances may not al low

of it at pre sen t; and besides, cour tship is the spring

time of yout h, the most poetical period in the lives of

young peopl e ; and it is cruel and u nwo man ly to

subject it to mean espionage. (). B. M. should engag e

the servi ces of som e friends, wh o, after a suitab le i ntro

duction , mig ht dra w off the at tent ion of the t oo zealous

sisters, an d so enab le him an d his fair affianced to

indulge without restraint in the tender whispe rings of

mutual affection.

F R E D . — C o b b e t t ' s is an exce llen t gramm ar. He was the

so n of a small farmer and inn keep er at Farn h am, in

Surre y, and die d in 1835, in his 73rd year, after a life

of extrao rdinary vi cissitudes and adventure s, at home,

in Americ a, and in Franco, as a c o m m o n soldier, a

newsp aper editor, and a me mb er of Parliament. Hewas one of the most volum inou s political writers of the

day, violen tly oppo sed to the old Tor y party , often

coarse, but most ly hap py in his nick nam es for his

opp one nts ; and his Englis h style is thor oughl y sound.

A perfect master of our Saxon -English , he exc lud ed all

foreign and new-fangled wor ds, all tinsel orna ment

from his writi ngs. When he died, the Times, one of

hi s greatest oppo nent s whilst living, in record ing his

I death, s aid :—" The general characteristics of his style

were perspicu ity unequalle d and inimitable ; a home ly

muscul ar vig our, a purity always simple, and raci-

I ness often eleg ant."

' N I N A . — " T h e Son gs of Deg ree s," as the fifteen Psalm s

beg inn ing at t he 120th are calle d, in He br ew arc also

cal led "So ngs of Ascent ," by some in terpreted to

mean of "h ig h degree " of exce llen ce ; whilst other s

mainta in that they wer e sung with a gradually raised

volume of sound, the vo ice beco ming louder and

louder by degrees ; and hence the name. Others again

mainta in that they w rere sung in ascen ding the steps

of the tem ple, whence they we re called "So nu s of 1

As ce nt ;" but as all these Psalms have some relationto the deli verance of the Jews f rom the Babylon ian

captivity , either to impl ore it or to return thanks fo r

j i t , the wor d "A sc en t" is also in terpreted to refer to

th e return to Jerusalem, t he goin g up to the H ol y

City, the ascend ing from the plains of Baby lon to the

I hills of the H o i } ' Land.

A M O U R N E R . — T h e wor d bapti sm admits of various sig

nifications in a scriptural sense, The baptism of

salvation is the bapt ism of the Spirit, of whi ch the

baptism of water is the type ; ' and though the latter

may not be idl y disregarded, being strictly enjoined

by the Founder of our Faith, of itsolf it cannot avail,

any more than in the case of the child whom you

mour n can the omission of the rite be accounted a sin

to him. The penite nt thief was not baptised with

water, yet he entered Paradise )yy the baptism of the

Spirit. Be comforte d. Alter the words as propose d,

and place the verse, if suitable, beneath them.

E M I L Y B. T.— Use only the young t ips of nett les either

for greens or tea ; t he latter is "a n old woman' s

reme dy " for nett le-rash; and the forme r dressed as

spinach is very palatable, and much relished in the

Nprth of England.— Emily is a pret ty name of Greek

origin, and me ans archly ivinning, or graceful; s ome

derive it from the French Amelie ; but the Greek word

from w hich that comes is amdia, heedlessness, and we

prefer to trace it to aimv/os, winning, or em metes,

graceful, well-bred. • Such antipathy up longer

exists.

E D I T H A G N ES . — N e l so n married Mrs. Nesbit, the w id o w

of a physician ; but there was no family, and the title

j desce nded £o his brot her.

G E R T R UD E A L I C E . — " Early to bed and early to rise," are

cause and offeet; the huma n frame requires a certain

amo unt of sleep, and those wh o have to get up betim es

of a morning should go to bed betimes at night. When

yo u awake after daylight, get up at once . After a few

mor nin gs' firm resolve , the habit will become natural,

and you will probably wake up at a stated time both

in summ er and winter. The nightingale quits us for

warm er climates in August, migrating to the southern

parts of Europe and Asia.

A N G E L I N A S E R A P H I N A . —Plonib is French for lead, an d

consequent l}7 fo r bullet, as bullets aro mad e of lead.

During the Crimea n campaign the person menti oned

considered discretion the better part of valou r, a nd

kep t as clear as poss ible of any chance of conta ct w ith

those plomb, plomb. Hence the derisive name.—SeeNo . 7::7.

A T I V E R T O N G I R L adds her testimon y to the want of

gallantry in the you ng men of the present day. Hop e

for bet ter times. Chivalry and gallantry were insep

arable in the olden ti me ; wh y not a like result from

the rifle move men t in ours?

D U L C E P ERICU LU M. —P e r i c u l um means also a trial, an

experiment, in which sense Cicero uses it frequently ;

" H o w can you tell if you do not make the trial

(jiericulv/m) ? " is one instan ce o ut of ver y m any .

Fix. —It is a prohibit ed degree accordi ng to the Prayer

B o o k and Ca non Law ; but not accor din g to the Ac t of

Hen ry VII I. , or the Civil La w; and a dispensation

may be obtained to render it legal.

W. T. —Consult Bentle y's Second Report t o the Board of

Trade on the life InsurOMce Societies of the United

Kingdom. We can not incur the responsibili ty of

recommending any particular office.

B R A E N . — T h e Frenc h say " a cowar d never has a sweet

heart ; " speak out like a man. The family of Faint

hearts should be extinct in leap-year, when ladies areprivileged to pop.

B E D A . — C o m p l y with the wishes of your father, and in

teaching your sister you will improve yo ursel f; .pay

more attention to grammar, and let music wait awhile.

S I S T E R . — A l w a y s let your sitting attitude be in graceful

repose , v ary ing it so as not to let it appear studied , or

merely habitual.

INQUIRER I N B U R M A I L — T h e month ly parts of the Family

Herald are sent free to In dia b y post for 14s. per

annum.

O T H E R C O M M U N IC A TI O N S R E C E I V E D . — E L L E N . — P E N N A . —

L . T ) . — J . B . G . — D A I S Y ( n o ) . — L I Z Z Y R . — L . O —

E . J . O . — G . E . C — H . D . - J . T . — F . M . — E T I Q U E T T E

(the right hand when at li bert y; see No. 740),-^-

C R E S T F A L L E N (tricks upon traveller s; lie is Mrs.

Harris 's son). — S U N - F L O W E R an d D A I S V (take your

aunt's advice) .— J N O . 0. (she could only mortgage

what was her own ; con sult a so l i c i t o r ) . — BLA CK R O S E

an d W H I T E R O S E (do not encoura ge a stranger ; he m ay

have some other motiv e than that you attribute to

h i m ) . — E L I Z A P . (at any of the large hospita ls).—

C O L U M B I N E (ye s ; the address give n is co rrec t). —

C H E M I C U S (apply at the Arm y Medical Departm ent,

j Whitehal l Y a r d ) . — E M M A J . ( y e s ) . — A S U F F E R E R (you

| require medical a d v i c e ) . — H ELEN (he should have

S called, and ma y do so s t i l l ) . — BES S Y (you did perfectly

j rig ht; refer those wh o cavil at your con duct to

Luke x.) . —C . R. (to the b o y ) . — G E R A L D I N E C. (your

j moth er shoul d advise you, and ask him his intentions).

| —J . S . (very o l d ) . — S H A Y (in almost any c o m i c song-

I b o o k ) . — L A N G T O N S. (the mar ket is quite over-stocked,

and it is given to persons know n to the employ er).—

A N X I O U S H A R R Y ( too young to enter into such a

responsibility with a ny prospect of happiness).—

O M E G A (the day is fixed by the Jockey Club) .—

H E A D I N G I I A M (by her own m o t h e r -w i t ) . — CA TH ERIN E

A L I C E (dark flaxen ; too sc ra t chy) . —M A U D A L U C E (wait

till the frui t is ripe ; n o ) . — M A R I O N (bet ter bre ak off a

long engagement than let it rem ain indefini te, if you

are given to being jealous).—31. C. G. (legs ; it is slang).

— F A N N Y an d L U C Y (as an artist, but not as an

a d m i r e r ) . — K A T E K Y T E (thanks, but our Fern-leaves

have already touch ed upon the subjec t).—J. E. (begin

with Chambers's Course of Arithmetic ami Mathematics).

— H E L E N R . ( let h im surrender to the fiat, and the

Commiss ioner will reverse i t ) . — TH O B. A . T. (it was

anonymous , we cannot therefore help y o u ) . — L I Z Z I E

(y e s ) . — TH O S . J. (y ou may adopt an intermediate name,

thus , Thomas Sharp J.).—H. S. (when to his question

of " W i l l yo u be mine ? " she repli es " Y es ! " ) . — S C R I B E

(not of sufficient interes t to our readers ) .—ROSE an d

J U L I A (W C give something better—word-pictures).—

T H O M A S II . (indicativ e of weakness, but will subside as

the figure be co me s mo re developed).— H Y D E P A R K

C O R N E R (consu lt a solicitor, or the trustees under the

deed qf gift) .— N O N S U C H (choose between thu two you

can e n d u r e ) . — E L B . L . A . (we dp not insert lines

addressed to i nd iv idua l s) . —WA LTER S. (ther e is no law

to prohib it it, either human or d i v i n e ) . — A N N E T T E M.

(send name and address).—A B E A U F O R T O N I A N (apply to

the Colonial Secret ary; plenty in the Family Herald).

— I N V A L I D (any of tho less fashionabl e to wns on the

southe rn coast, from L ymin gton in Hampsh ire to

Hfracombe in Devonshir e). — U N D E M O N S T R A T I V E (b e

more demonstrative, and bring him to the point).—

R . B. C. W. (thanks, but som o of our readers require a

glossary).— Z. Y. X. (D evonsh i re ) . —WILLIA M P. (copiedfrom an Ameri ca n pape r ; the river is t r ibutary to the

Ri o del Norte, and the ruins probab ly similar to those

figured by Coun t Waldcck i n 1836).—GRANICOS (pretty,

but too serious for our p a g e s ) . — T H E J E W E L (by adver

tisement or acco mmod ati on of a f r i e n d ) . — ELEA N O R

(let hi m take the initiative, and retain them till then),

P. G . B. and F. 0 . P. (see No . 880).—J. M. (see Nos.

W3 an d 742).—H. II. H . (see No. 783).—C. D . J. L. 0.

(sec No . 0 7 9 ) . — WILD R O S E an d D A I S Y (see No. 872).—.

S N O W D R O P (see No. 8o4).—Rosi: ' (see No . f»2{>*.



W ay 12, I860.] 2 9

FAMILY H E RA L D .

T H E T H U N D E R O F R O M E .

Melchior Canus, who was no friend to the Jesuits, told Philip the Second

of Spain that they once carried about them a certain herb, which kept them

entirely free from any cont act with sin. The king was naturally curious to

know the name of this herb, and being- pressed, Melchior owned that it was

nothing less than the " Fear of Go d, " but he added, " If they had it then,

hey have quite lost the seed of it now, for it docs no t grow in their garden."

Recent matters seem to sho w us that others beside the Jesuits have lost the seed

uf this little plant. If Lou is Napol eon had had it he woul d not have laid hands

upon Savoy; nor would Victor Emma nuel have abetted him ; nor then it

follows would our acquaintance, Pio Nono, have made the world ring with a

futile curse, all the deeper because it was bottled up in language a little more

stately and polite than curses usually arc. Bot h he and Cardinal Anton elli,

as also Signori Aloys Scrafino, the Apostol ical Curser, (or cursor,) and

Philli ppus Orsani, the Magiste r Curser, wou ld have remained silent. Ther e

is an eternal satire in events. The very same Times which gives the Pope's

curse as the " latest intel ligen ce," contains also a report of the confirm ation

of one of our own Princes in the Protestant faith, that great enemy to

Popery. It is, however, more than probable that the Pope and others may

accuse us, as Pitt once accused the English in regard to taxation, of " an

ignorant impatience of ' cursing.' " "We ough t perhaps to bear it, for we are

indirectly implicated, and say nothi ng a bout it. W e should be as silent as

the celebrated jackdaw of Rheims, which the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of

that town CHrsed. The wretched bird ha d stolen some spo on s; and the

archbishop, not being able to dis cover the perpetrator, (for then detectives

were not,) solemnly cursed that thief. " In holy anger and pious grie f hesolemnly cursed the rascally thie f! He cursed him at board , he cursed him

in bed, from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; he cursed him in

eating, he cursed him in drink ing, he cursed him in cou ghi ng, in sneezing,

and winki ng ; he cursed him in sitting, in standing, in ly ing, he cursed him

in walking, in riding, in flying; he cursed him in living, he cursed him

in dyi ng. Nev er, " adds the gr aw historian, " was heard such a terrible

curse; but what gave rise to no little surprise, nobody seemed one penny

The worse."

The fact is the same witli us. The only person wh o will be the worse for

it will be the Pop e. The prove rb so often quoted about curses being like

Utile chickens, and comi ng home to roost, is very true. W e have grown out

of any material belief in them. A bad action curses itself, and vice as well as

virtue is its own reward. The th eory of compen sation is universal, and he

who indulges in bad lang uage does not add to his respectability . Wh en Pi o

Nono, in his grandilo quent c ommen cemen t, refers to the " Eternal Memory of

this matter," he may have done so to his own hurt. Yet there is this to be

said of hi m: his people, and many others even from this favoured land, have

so often persuaded him of the efficacy of his blessings, that he needs must

logically believe in the weight of his curses. He blesses the peo ple and he

blesses the cattle ; and we have no doubt b ut that his pleasure and his anger

are equally efficacious. Besides, the Pop e claims the right of cursi ng from a

very high source; it is one part of the P owe r of the Keys, although he has

not' lately opened the cupboard which containe d the anathema ; the last wh o

did so was Pius the Seventh, in regard to Napoleon the First. The other

impious Pius does so evidently with a view of trying the nerves of Napoleon

the Third . There are those who declare that the first emperor never thrived

after it. It will be curious to note the effect of this latter clap of thunder.

The quiet and very undisturbed way in whic h Euro pe receive d the little

message, now sold at Turin and elsewhere for ten centimes, or one halfpenny,

marks as much as anything can the change wh ich has taken place in opinion.

It may be that some think it for the worse, others for the bet ter; but the

change is there. Philip Augustus, Kin g of France, wishing to divorce

Ingelburg, and marry Agnes de Meranie, the P ope put his kingdo m under

an interdict, no more solemn than this one with Sardinia. The churches

were shut for eight months ; they neither said mass nor vespers, they did not

christen, con firm, nor mar ry; and even the poor babies born during the

period came in for their share : they were considered illegiti mate ! Ever y

man, whilst the land was und er the curse, was divested of all his civil or

military functio ns; he was forbidden to laugh, smile, chang e his clothes, eat

with enjoyment, wash his face, comb his hair, say his prayers, bathe, chang e

his shirt, converse with a friend, or in fact do any thing which could make

life worth the fee simple of a farthing candle. As for plo ugh ing , work ing,

shooting, riding, tilting, hunting, fishing, or haw kin g, they and all other

amusements were out of the question. Wh at is worse, the peop le believ ed

in the curse, and that gave it force. But another Kin g of France burnt the

Pope's bull and ki cked his legates out of the kin gd om ; and as for you r

stolid Englishman, he never, even slightly, believed in it. The Ki ng 's officers,

in the time of John , used to squeeze gold from the fat abbots and priors, as

well as from the Jews; and bell, book, and candle could not drive them

away, if good (gold) angels beckoned them on.

It is hard to say how many times Luther was cursed ; but his sturdy S axon

frame did not wither under it. Yr

et the form is terrible en ough : it is very

ancient. The Po pe has many blessings, but he has only one curse; but that is

a comprehensive one. It includes every thing. The Latin is give n in TristramShandy—a much deeper work than many suppose, and is kno wn here as

the curse of Ernulphus. W e have give n a rhymed epitome of part of it above.

The French paper Le Nord lately contained a French translation of the

anathema, or rather, part of it, but yet it was nearly two columns of close

print in length. The commence ment is tremen dous. The offender was

cursed inside and out, and all o ve r; in head and foot, back and front, and

both sides of hi m; in or out of doors, in every functio n and in every acti on,

asleep or awake, in resting or mov in g; from the scarf-skin of his head to the

tip of his toe nail and the end of his ears; in all his b ones, join ts, parts, and

members, within and without; "may there b e " emphatically "n o sound

place in hi m! " The curse of Kehama was nothing to this one . It is so

terrible, so comprehensive, so blighting, that it is no wonder that the priest-

ridden coun tries of the Midd le Ages withered under its potent spells.

When the Pop e cursed Luthe r and his adherents, the me thod of the denun

ciation was carried out with all that fine theatrical effect which had been

displayed in the c hurches many hundred years before. Every Christian was

called upo n to shun the accursed crew. On Sund ays and festivals the priestg

marched in great force to the altar, and, after the publishing of the edict, a

heightened etfect was given by the cross from the high altar being thrown flaton the gr ound , and the signal of redemp tion thus being taken away. The

vessels and ornaments were stripped from the chu rc h; the sing ing -boy s flung

down the incense po ts ; and twelve sturdy priests, chantin g at the top of their

voices, dashed down twelv e ligh ted tor ches and trampled out the lights. In

the midst of the darkness the bells tolled sonoro usly, and then ceased; the

preacher waved his hands in the pulpit, and with a clash clasped up the Book

of Life and carried it away, leavin g the peop le to grope their way out of the

chur ch in sadness, perturbatio n, and dismay. A man so cursed was like a lep er;

all fled from him; his very wife and children shunned him; his servants

refused to minister to him; his serfs closed their doors to him; his neighbours

thrust him forth ; till, like a leper, he sough t refug e i n the wilderness, or

sank and di ed ; and the ban still clingi ng to him, he was buried like a dog .

When the Church of Rome was the great p rotect or of learning , and stood

like a strong tower against the lawless force of ignorance and brute power,

the belief in the anathema must have worked with a salutary effect. Lawless

force was often kept in che ck by the charme d circl e whic h the Churc h

drew around those who m she wished to protect. She claimed high authority

for her blessings, nor less so for her curs es; and in this authority she taughtothers to belie ve; for when the Pap acy too k upo n herself the place and a utho

rity of tho Godhead, she took also this power; she assumed to work miracles ;

she dealt with blessings. She seized also the thunder of Jupiter as the high

priests di d; and like those of Baal she rent her garments, and cried aloud for a

punishment upon her enemies. Pio Nono did the same in this last anathema,

published here on Good Frida y. He tells us that it was not without prayers,

and council s, and fastings that he did these thing s. Perhaps not. No man

tumbles in to a ditch w ith a full sense of where he is going. The worse partof error is, that the person manifestly in the wrong, always will fancy himself

in the right. No w it is the business of a wise man not to prov e others in the

wrong, but to be sure that he himself is in the right . If a man were starting

from London to Dover, he would not trouble himself that his opponents were

wandering about Barnet or Finc hley, but hasten on himself. In the American

mission-houses of To ng a they place up labels for the yo un g to read and

remembe r, just as we do in our schools, and as we did in our churches, golden

sentences full of wisd om. One of these is ver y wise and very characteristic :

"First, be sure you are right; and then G o A-HEAD . " The Popedom,

although not half so poor nor decayed as some popular prophets wish to

make out, has never yet been quite sure that it was right. The consequence

is that it has go ne a-head the wron g way, which is a serious incon venie nce,

and rather "pothers its cause."

Before it vented its thunder, it should have first been quite sure that it

was real, and not sham thunder. The Jews themselves were sure ; nay, even

as the promises of the law are material and worl dly blessings , they are

pretty well sure now. The promise of the N ew Testament extends more

certainly to the next world than to this. Th e better a man is, frequently the

more plagued is he in this wor ld. Al l the curses of Ernulp hus could no t

have exce eded the troubles o f St. Pa ul nor the persecuti ons of the early

Christians,; yet they were good men, and h oped for their reward in a world

where we are to ld there are few popes, and no kings, save One.

Th e Jews even in later days have clung to their excommunication in

common with other hierarchies, and certainly any so ciety has a righ t to

expel and threaten unworthy members. That is a curious story among

them of Uriel Acos ta, a Portuguese of Jewish extraction, who hav ing

embraced the re ligio n of his ancestors, out of whi ch his father had been

persecuted , escaped with great difficulty from th e terrors of the Inquisition

to Amsterdam. He was received with jo y by his .brother Heb rew s; but

being a learned man, h e must needs enter into con trover sy, and found

that the manners of the Jew s were not confor mable to the law s of Moses.

He published a book on the subject, and for this work his brethren excom

municated and publicly cursed him. No w Acosta had already renounced

one religion, and his mind was not one which could go back. His brethren

denounced him before the tribunals as a man without reli gio n; he was

imprison ed and fined. He wrote again, and wras again imprisoned; he

was glad, after fifteen years' stru ggle, to be receiv ed into the bosom of his

Chu rch ; but one day" speaking freely with his neph ew, he was agai n

denounced by him, seized, impriso ned, and persecuted for ten years, till he

j again crawled on his belly before the hig h priest, and was for giv en; b ut be ing1 again plagued by doubts, he composed a small tract confuting his enemies, and

then laid violent hands on himself; in fact, after tryi ng to shoot his principal

antagonist, and failing, he shot himself. So this sad story ends.

The se ntence of the civil judge does not set aside the acts and offices

of human ity, m uch less the duties of relationship ; bu t excom muni cati on arms

parents against chil dren, brothe rs against bro thers, breaks the bon ds of hos

pitality and friend ship, renders the vict im more and more aband oned than if

he had the pl ague, and stifles all the sentiments of nature. Now, amongst

Protestants the Pope's brief will have little effect. Th e chief charge against

the moribund and maledicent power is this—that with its own faithful,

its behests have wei ght ; that they will and have a dded bitterness to the

i repression at Naples and the strife at Pal ermo ; that in misfortune and

I distress and the pangs o f death the curse wil l cling to its victims ; and lastly,

that in the midst of the light of the nineteenth century, the Po pe has recalled



[May T2, 1800s.

tho blight and darkness of the mi ddle ages, and, like a spiteful and powerless

el d woma n, has shown the will to exhaust the storehouse of the Alm igh ty' s

plagues upon those who have been hopeful enough to wish, and brave

enough to struggle, for the freedom of Italy.

H O P E O N !

D i m l y burns the lamp, and throws

Th e g lo o m y shadows round ;

Without , the swolle n river flows,

With loud and hissing sound ;

L i k e tho fall of the children's tiny feet,Th e rain-drops patter on the st ony

street.A nd no w the wind with moaning s ound

Breaks on the ear like plaintive cry,

Again with heavy gusts r esound,

In rude and boisterous m e l o d y ;

A n d as the blast through the fir trees has

gone ,

It has breathed to my ear the wor ds

'• H o p e on !"

'T is hard to hope when wealth has flown,

Friends estranged, and love g ro w n

cold,

Wi t h t ru th and honour left alone—

G em s of higher worth than gold ;

Ye t still as the wind through the firs hasg o n e ,

It breathes in the ear the word s " H o p e

on ! "

Can Hope the broken heart bind up,

Or with its smile chase grim Despair?

Sweeten the dreg-; iii sorrow's cup,Or " bind the ravell'd sleeve of c a r e ? "

But hush ! As the wi nd thr ough the firshas gone ,

Still it breat hes in the ear th e wo rd s'' H o p e on ! "

" H o p e on !"—swe et word s of comf ort—

n o w

I feel the war mth ye can inspi re,

P eace to my hear ; and throbbing b r o w ,

K i n d l ed again each fond desire.

Again as the wind thro' the firs has gone ,

It has fondly whisper 'd the word s " Hop eon ! " G .

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

The best actions we never recompense, and the worst are seldom chastised.

Ho w many a man, by throwi ng hi mself to the g round in despair, crushes

and destroys for ever a thousand flowers of hope that were ready to spring upand gladden all his pathway.

GUSTAYUS V A S A ' S ADVICE TO HIS SONS.—You should consider well,

execute with vigour , and stick to your purpose, putting off nothi ng until the

morrow. Resolves not carried out at the right moment are like clouds withou t

rain in a sore drought.

A HEAIIT IN THE RIGHT PLACE. — " I am wedded, Coleridge, to the

fortunes of my sister and m y poor old father. Oh my friend, I think some

times could I recall the days that were past, which among them should I

choose ? No t those ' merrier days,' not the ' pleasant days of ho pe / not

* those wandering with a fair-haired mai d/ which I have so often and so

feelingly regretted—but the days, Coleri dge, of a mother 's fondness for her

schoolboy. What would I give to call her back to earth for one day, that I

migh t on my knees ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper

which from time to time have given her gentle spirit pain ! And the day, my

friend, I trust, will come, when there will be ' time enough for kind offices of

l ove / if ' heaven's eternal years be ours .' Oh my friend, cultivate the filial

feelings! And let no man think himself released from the kind ' charitie s' of

relationship ! These are the best foundations for every species of benevolence."

—CHARLES LAMB.

CHILDHOOD.—" W e could never have loved the earth so well if we had had

no childhood in it—if i t were not the earth where the same flowers come up

again every spring that we used to gat her with our tiny fingers as we sat

lisping to ourselves on the grass—the same hips and haws on the autumn

hedgerows—the same redbreasts that we used to call ' God's birds/ because

they did no harm to the preci ous crops. Wh at novelty is worth that sweet

monotony where everything is known, and loved because it is kno wn? The

wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the y oung yellow-brown foliage of

the oaks between me and the bl ue sky, the white star-flowers and the blue-

eyed speedwell and the ground ivy a-t my feet—what grove of tropic palms,

what strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such

deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-scene ? These familiar flowers,

these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these

furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personali ty give n to it by the

capricious hedgerows—such things as these are the mother tongue of our

imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtile inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in

the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to -day might be no more than the faint

perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in

far-off years, which still live in us, and transform ou r perception into l ove ."—

The Mill on the Floss.

SALADS AND SUMMER SOURS.—Physiological research establishes the fact

that acids promote the separation of the bile from the blood, which is then

passed from the system, thus prevent ing fevers, the prevail ing diseases of

summer. Al l fevers are " bili ous, " that is, the bile is in the blood. Whatever

is antagonistic of fever is cooling. It is a common saying that fruits are

" cooling," and also berries of every description : it is because the acidity

which they contain aids in separating the bile from the b lood—t hat is, aids

in purifying the blood. Hence the great yearning for greens, and lettuce, and

salads in the early spring, these being eaten with vin ega r; hence also the

taste for somet hing sour, for lemonades , on an attack o f fever. Put, this

being the case, it is easy to see that we nullify the good effects of fruit and

berries in propo rtion as we eat them with sugar, or even with\swcet milk, or

cream. If we eat them in their natural state, fresh, ripe, perfect, it is almostimpossible to eat too many, or eat enough to hurt us, especially if we eat them

alone, not taking any liquid with them whatever. Hen ce also is but termilk

or even common milk promoti ve of health in summer time. Sweet milk tends

to biliousness in sedentary people ; sour milk is antagonisti c. The Greeks and

Turks are passionately fond of milk. The shepherds use rennet, and the milk

dealers alum, to make it sour the sooner. Buttermi lk acts like watermelons

on the system.—FLalVs Journal of Health.

F A S H I O N S FOR MAY.

(From the LONDON AND PARIS LADIES' MAGAZINE.)

Dresses this season vary much in make; some are with flounces, others

quite plain, some corsages are with small basques, others la Gabrielle or in

one piece with the skirt, or pointed with nervures; when of thick materials,

both skirt and body are ornamented by rich gimps in which straw is some

times introduced. Sleeves are worn either large or tight. The newest foim is

that styled Joc key Club, exactly resembli ng a coat sleeve as now worn with

revers, and made rather long to come on the hand, for morning dresses with

cambric under sleeve and wristband, but when not required for negli ge they

are shorter with lace sleeves under ; long basquines the same, as the dress wall

be fashionable, and are particularly adapted for young persons. Wh enflounces are used they will be narrow, not rising above the knee. Bail and

evening dresses are of tulle, tarlatane, & c , with doub le skirts, the bodies with

drapery folds or berthas ; some skirts are in deep Vandykes edged by a plisse

of ribbon and fluted flounces on the under one to the knee; long ceintures the

same as the dress are fashionable, tied at the side, and trimmed to correspond

—large flat buttons quite replace the small ones. Black lace shawls have

become a necessary article of dress ; the Llama shawl is much in favou r; and

different pardessus are made of taffetas in tho pelisse style, some with

pelerines, others with full bodies. They are mostly made of black taffetas

and trimmed with bugles, with large open sleeves.

Paille de riz, paille beige, and Leghorns seem to be the favourite materials

for bonnets this spr ing ; neither feathers nor flowers will be used on morning

bonnets; indeed feathers seem to bo reserved exclusively for le ghor ns . The

various early spring and field flowers are selected for straw bonnets; many

are made with silk crowns, and the front of straw or paille de riz, but the

mixture of colours are no longer fashionable. Flowe rs will be more used than

ribbon, in small bunches, either quite on top of the bonnet or behind ; double

tulle fluted will replace the blond caps inside the fronts. Lon g aigrettes are

much used for carriage bonnets ; they are made in every colour ; gold is also

fashionable mixed with the trimmings.

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

In transplanting trees, mark the north side of trees with red chalk before

they are taken up, and when set out, have the tree put in the ground with its

north side to the nor th in its natural position. Ignoring this law of nature

is the cause of so many transplanted trees dying.

A correspondent of the Builder states : — " I planted vegetables in a place

where the daylight could not penetrate, over which I suspended a parafline-

oil lamp, with a reflec tor to throw the light upon the plants. They have

grown up a beautiful dark green. I have also lighted a greenhouse with

lamps every night, and find it not only increases vegetation, but gives a

beautiful tinge to the p lants ."

GUNPOWDER SUPERSEDED.—SirMacdon ald Stephenson, engineer to theSmyrna and Aidin Railway, is making experiments with a mortar intended

chiefly for coast defences. The missiles used, which may be shot, shell, or

stones, are t o be propelled by centrifugal force set in motion by steam. No

gunpowder will be required. The estimated range is from 800 to 2,000 yards,

and the discharge is expect ed to be ten times as rapid as from an ordinary

mortar.

A NEW CEMENT.—Professor Edmund Davy lately read a paper to the

Royal Dubl in Society on a cement w rhich he obtains by melting together in

an iron vessel two parts by weight of common pitch with one part of gutta

percha . It forms a homogeneous fluid, which is much more manageable for

many useful purposes than gutta percha alone, and which, after being poured

into cold water, may be easily wiped dry, and kept for use. The cement

adheres with the greatest tenacity to wood, stone, glass, porcelain, ivory,

leather, parchment, paper, hair, feathers, silk, woollen, cotton, &c.

STEAM TRAIN FOR THE INDIAN RIVERS.—A train of barges, built for the

Oriental I nland Steam Compa ny of London, has been tried on the Clyde with

satisfactory results. The train consists of a steamer and five barges, of the

collective length of 900 feet. The breadth of the train is 30 feet, and thedepth of the hold about 'l\ feet. The draught of the barges, when light, is

about 10 inches, and it is reckoned that, on a draught of about %\ feet, the

train will carry about 2,000 tons of cargo. The engines are on the high and

lo w pressure princi ple. The different barges of the train are articulated to

one another by means o f circular join ts, so as virtually to constitute a long

flexible vessel presenting only one bow to the water.

PHOTOGRAPHIC ETCHING AND MULTIPLICATION OF DESIGNS, PLANS, &C.

•—An ingenious and simple mode of prepari ng and printing copies of plans,

& c , has been invented by Mr. William Strudwick, of Bolton Terrace,

Newington. The process consists of etching or drawing on tho opacified

surface" of a glass plate, and pri nting from that upon seusitive or photographic

paper, Avhercby the light o f the sun of course blackens tho lines traced through

the opaque coati ng, the copies being developed and fixed in tho usual way.

By this means, as the invento r remarks, architects and surveyors may copy

their plans ad infinitum, by simply making an original drawing on the plate.

W e may here suggest, too, that the same process might do very well for the

multiplication of circular and autograph letters, or other literary matter.PROPERTIES OF DEW.—The chief facts to be accounted for are these :—

1. De w (as distinguished from small rain, or the moisture produced by visible

fog) is never deposited except on a surface colder than the air. 2. It is never

deposited in cloudy weather; and so strict is its connecti on with a clear sky,

that its deposition is immediately suspended whenever any considerable cloucj

passes the zenith of the place of observation. 3. It is never copiously

deposited in a place screened or sheltered from a clear view of the sky, even if



Ma y 12 , 1800. J

tho screen be of very tliin material, such as muslin or paper suspended over i t.

4. It is most copiously deposited on all such bodies as are good radiants and

bul conductors of heat, such as grass, pa per, gl ass, wool, & c , but little or not

at all on bad radiants, such as polished metals, which are also good conductors ;

and lastly, it is never deposited if there be much wind. All these circum

stances, as Dr. Wells has shown, point to the escape of heat, from the bodies

exposed by radiat ion, out int o space, or into the upper and colder regioii |of

the air, faster than it can be restored by counter-radiation or by conduction

from contact with the wa rm air or with solid substanc es—win d acting in this

respect with great ethcacy, by continually renewin g the air in conta ct. Ho ar

frost differs only from dew by being frozen in the mom ent of de posit ion, and

therefore accreting in crystalline spicuke.— Encyclopedia JJritamiica.

S T A T I S T I C S .

The average of human life is 33 years. One quarter die before the age of 7.

One half before the ago of 17.

In 1562 Queen Elizabeth had an inquisition made of the number of

Scotchmen in London, when, according to Stowe, there were only fifty-two.

Th o agricultural labourers are no less than 950 ,00 0 men, assisted by about

400,000 women and boys, representing with their families nearly 5,000,000

souls, or about one-fifth of the population of the kingdom.

Tho number of visitors to Ke w Gardens du ring the past year was 38 4,698 ;

20,000 fewer than those in 1858—a circumstance attributable to the wet

spring and autumn, and the very sultry heat of the su mmer.

A return published of all sums paid for indura ting or preser ving the external

stonework and the iron roofs of the Hou ses of Parli ament since the year 18 53

shows that £3,517 10s. lid. has been devoted to that purpose.

EXPORTS TO ALL THE WORLD.—The exports of Great Britain during the

year 1859 wore as fol low s:— Expo rted to British possessions, £4 6, 12 5, 05 6;

United States, £22 ,61 1,28 3; all other countries, £61,76 4,0 98; total,

£130,440,427. This is an immense sum, and affords evidence that England

is truly " the workshop of the wo rl d; " for n o other country can approach it

in the amount o f expor ted m anufactures.

CASUALTIES IN LONDON.—The numbe r of cases whi ch have come to the

cognisance of the metropolitan police since the 1st of January, 1858, up

to the present t ime, of persons w ho hav e been run over and killed , and of

persons injured by tho same means, is 1,561, of whom 104 were killed,

and 1,457 injured. The numb er of the ki lled in 1858 was 45, and of the

injured 605 ; in 1859, 51 were killed, and 682 in jure d; and in the first two

months of the present year 8 were killed, and 110 injured.

RETURNED LETTERS.—Last year the number of letters returned to the

writers, owing to the failure in the attempts to deliver them by the Post-

Ofiice, was about 1,900,000, being about 200 ,000 more than in the previous

y oar. Nearly half the non-deliveri es was owi ng to the letters being addressedeither insufficiently or incorrec tly, more than 11,000 having been posted

witho ut any address at all. The amount of propert y in letters which could

neither be delivered, nor, for want of an address in the inside, be returned to

the writers, was about £260. Owi ng to the cause mention ed in the case of

letters, about 4 70,0 00 newspapers also wore undeli vered.

STATISTICS OP NEW ZEALAND.—Some interesting and valuable statistics

relative to the colony of New Z ealand have recently been embodi ed in a

blue-book addressed to the Colonial Secretary, by the Regist rar-G eneral ,

and bearing date Auckland, December 29, 1859. They include the results

of a census, from which it appears that within the last seven years previous

the population of Now Zealand increased f rom 26,707 to 59,277, or at the

rate of nearly 122 per cent; while live stock increased from 299,115 to

1,727,997; the land under crop from 29,140 to 140,9 65 acres ; and t he land

fenced from 30,47 0 to 235,48 8 acres. The statistics show a corresponding

increase in the diffusion of general edu cat ion ; there has been an increase of

more than 9 per cent, in the proportion of those who can read and write, and

the day and Sunday schools have risen from 4,605 to 9,672. Meantim e the

total value of imports has increased during t he previous five years, from£597,827 to £1,141,278, and the total value of exports from £ 303 ,28 2 to

£458,023. The increase in the export of wool is most striking, havi ng risen

from £66,000 to upwards of £254,000. Gold, too , appears, we belie ve for

the first, time, in the list of New Zealand export s, the amoun t expor ted in

185/-8 having been no less than £92,880. To these statistics is subjoined a

curious appendix of meteorological information, confirming the prevalent

belief in the salubrity of the climate of that far distant colony.

" WA LK YOUR CHALKS. " — Avery simple explanation of this expression

may bo given. Ale-h ouse frequenters, when they have been drinking lon g

enough to make a boast of being sober , and to dispute a poin t with each

other, will chalk a long straight line on the ground, and then endeavour one

after the other to walk upon it without swerving to right or left. Those who

succeed are adjudged to be sober— i.e. to have "walked their chalks." A

witness on a trial in Buckinghamshi re, about the year 1841 , made use of this

expression, and a barrister immediate ly explained it in the above manner to

the puzzled court. Addressed to a person whose company is no longer

desired, the expression "walk your chalks" would thus mean, " walk straight

off."

THE NEW PENNY. — Her Majesty has approved the new penn y-piece , which

will now be issued as soon as possible. The following is the gencraL design :—

Th e obverse contains the portrait of the Queen, with a wreath of laurel round

the head. Th e bust is lengt hened , as in tho florin, and a scarf, embr oide red

with the rose, thistle, and shamrock, is throw n over the shoulders. Tho

inscription is, "Victo ria D.G . Brit. Reg . F.D ." Britannia appears on tho

reverse, seated on a roc k, not on the shield, as in the present coin; but the

figure has been remo dell ed, and the sea has been introdu ced, with a ship on

one side of the figure and a ligh thou se on the other. Th e inscription is, " One

Penny, 1860." Th e likeness of the Queen is especially truthful, and, without

the faintest attempt at flattery, th e regal and classical expressio n of the face

has been perfect ly caugh t. The re are 94 parts of copper, 4 of zinc, and 2 of

tin in the composition of tho metal. The value of this amalgamation permits

of a thin as well as a small coin—i n fact, not much larger than the French

bronze two-sous piece. The halfpenny and farthing are in progress. Tho

size of the penny is one inch and two-tenths, the halfpenny one inch, and tho

farthing eight-tenths of an inch.

SARDINIAN MARRIAGE CUSTOMS.—But hush ! silence ! there is the trampof horses outside—not a wo rd : presently a lo w tap at the door. The father

looks round to see that all is in order, then, slowly rising, obeys the summons.

Father: " W h o is the r e?" From withou t : "Fr iends ." Father: " W h a t

do you wa nt ?" From without: " Cilchemo una peccora palduta;" (the

figurative reply) " W e seek a stray lamb." Father, partly opening the door :

" D o my friends desire t o see if it has strayed into this fold ? " On this the

intended br idegr oom gently pushes open the door, and enters, accompanied

only by a few chosen friends. Th e father bows courteously to each, and then,

turning round to his family, introduces the various members composi ng it ;

beginni ng first with the m other, and ceremoniously inquiri ng : "I s this the

lamb you have lost ? " A shake of the head is the negat ive reply . At last

the sposa is presented; the bridegroom that is to be, starts, runs forward,

takes her hand, and respectfully kisses it. " Thi s is the lost lam b ! " He is

rejoiced to have found the beautiful l amb he soug ht for. Th e father is

pleased, pats the lover on the back, calls him a brav e lad. The lover, in his

turn, protests that he will take care of the lovely lamb, and soon conduct it to

hist oid. " A h ! Sa Lorenzo, I believe thee," sobs the soft-hearted mother.

" Bah ! Teresa, do not weep; where is the rozario thou hast prepared for thy

Bita's betrothal gift ? " exclaims the father. " Thy bird will be well with so

true and gallant a lover, my Teresina, True, she is goi ng from thee, but she

will be well mate d; so dry thine eyes, old girl ." Meanw hile the lover has

placed one mor e rin g on the already laden fingers of the you ng sposina. She

bashfully presents him with the rosary*, and thus " segnali" or betrothal gifts

are exchanged.— Dav ef s Reminiscences of Sardinia.

V A R I E T I E S .

Westminster Bridge is now lighted by the lime- light, the most brilliant

artificial light yet introduced for the purpose of street-lighting.

It should be borne in mind that, accord ing to the new law , all transfer

papers for one or any numb er of minin g shares, must have a 6d. stamp

ati ached.

TURN OFP YOUR GAS.—A boy has been k illed at Exet er by sleeping in a

room in which the gas had been imperfectly turned off by his mot her.

P O S T - O F F I C E ORDERS.—The annual report on the Post-office states that

•some changes are to be made in the money departme nt. The maxim um sum

for which orders may ho drawn is to be extended from £6 to £ 1 0 ; the scale

of commissions is to be rev ise d; and the sender w ill be enabled, by using, as

tho case may be, a penny or twop enny stamp (in ad ditio n, of course, to the

usual charge), to direct that the order shall not be payable until ten days

after date, so as to afford time for the receipt of an ackn owle dgm ent before

ilr order is cashed.

T H E R I D D L E R .

P U Z Z L E . — H e a d forwards, I am a relish ; read backwards , a great inconven ience to

m a n y on a wet night . (). T.

E N I G M A .

N o hands have I, though oft at wo rk,

A n d l ike the bee I'm always busy ;

Though silent I find full expression,

A m often calm and ye t uneasy.

I g o w i th yo u where 'er you go ,

No r have you power to drive away ;

I ever c o m e without your bidding,

Yet from you often do I stray ;

And e'en while s traying, e'er so distant.

Y o u ca n recall m e w he n you may .

My first on beauty ' s c h e e k holds p lace ,

And b looms w i th sweet attraction there;

M y second's common to ou r race,

Bu t always fairest with " t h e fair,"

I'm in the past, I'm in the future.

Bu t w i th th e present shor t m y stay,

I 'm balm to some, to others torment ,

A m w i th th e vir tuous and defiled,

An d by my power are some led onward

T o follow oft in wand' r ings wild .

I g o a-head, am somet imes lagging,

While in a second I am gone,

And some do want, while others waste m e

Ol t worthless trifles m u c h upon .

J E S S Y .

C H A R A D E .

M y whole, w h e n wintry s torms blow o 'er

Our isle, and w hi ten all the plain,

Of t seeks a pit tance at your door

' M i d chilling blasts an d pelt ing rain.

C O L I N .

R E B U S .

What ' s wish 'd by all, attain'd by few ;

A bird of dark an d sombre hue ;

A village near to London t ow n ;

A prophet old of great r e now n ;

A n e w disease, which , when we 're ill,

Baffles all the do ct ors s k i l l ;

A ch i ld bereft of parents k i n d ;

A n d w hat you at most dinners find.

Th e initials, if they ' re p laced aright,

Th e greatest boon will br ing to l i gh t ;

Thejinals, proper ly emploj^'d,

Will show where it is mos t en joy 'd .

K E R R I D G E .

ARIT HME T ICAL QUE S T IONS .

1. Six: masons, four bricklayers, and five labourers, were working together at a

building ; but being obliged to leave off wo rk one da y for the rain, they went to a

i publ iediouse , an d drank to the value of fortj'-five shillings, which was paid b y each

i party in the following manner :—Four-fifths of w hat th e bricklayers paid w as equal t o

' three-fifths of w hat th e masons paid; and the labourers paid two-sevenths of w hat

I th e masons an d bricklayers paid. What di d each party of men pay, and what wa s

j paid by the labourers J . P .

I 2. A train of 50 tons is allowed to descend freely an inc l ined plane of 120 feet, having

a rise of 1 foot in 6. H ow far w ill the train proceed on a horizontal line with th o

i acquired velocity, allowing for friction ? P. T.

3. In Ju n e , 1S60, the sun's longitude at noon at Greenwich by the nautical ephc*

; mer'ts wil l be as foll ows :—On the 20th. SIP 17' 45- ; 011 the 21st, 90 ° 15 '; on tho 22nd,

I 01° 12' 15'', P r om this data it is required to de te r mine th e t ime w h e n the sun enters

i the t ropic 1 D, M'TvAE.



3 2 THE FAMILY HER ALD. [May 1-', 1800.

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

Wh ic h is the most sentimental river?—Ohio (oh-high-oh).

Wh y is the first chicken of a brood like the foremast of a ship ?—Because

it's a little for'ard o f the main-hatch.

Wh y arc the rifle volunteers l ike Nelson ?—Because the last thing he did

was to die for his country, and that is the last thing they intend to do.

A hungry man does righ t well to eat the e gg ; for he might starve before

it got to be a pullet.

" Will iam, I am fascinated with Miss Mill ion ."—" Wi th her personal

charms ?"—Yes, purse and all charms."A Scotchman visiting a chur chyard . with a friend, pointing to a shady,

quiet nook, said, " This is the spot where I intend being laid, if I' m spared ."

" Why do you always beat me down in my prices ? " — " Because you are a

vulga r fraction of humanit y, and a vulgar fraction should be reduced to its

lowest terms."

Sydney Smith, that wise and witty parson, somewhere remarks in his many

spicy "talks"-—" Country life is very good; in fact, the best—for catt le; but

as for me, I must have society."

A printer's apprentice says that at the office they charge him with all the

pie they do find, and at the house they charge him with all they don't find.

He does not understand that kind of logic.

A you ng lady has discovered the reason why married men, from the age of

thirty years and upwards, are more or less ba ld ; they scratch the hair off in

dismay at their wives' long milliners' bills!

"Husband, I hope you have no objection to my being w e ig h e d ? " —

"Certainly not, my dear; but why do you ask the q ue sti on? "—"O nl y toascertain if you will let me have my weigh once."

Miss Toodles says a friend of hers has invented a machine to renovate old

bachelors. Out of a good-sized, fat old bachelor, he can make quite a decent

young man, and have enough left for two small puppies.

When Rach el, the great Fr ench tragedienne, saw her stout sister Sarah

dressed for the part of a shepherdess, her comment was, " Sarah, dear, you

look like a shepherdess who has just dined off her flock."

There is a grocer in Rochester who is said to be so mean, that he was seen

to catch a fly off his counter, ho ld him up by his hind legs, and look into the

cracks of his feet, to see if he hadn't been stealing some of his sugar.

A young lady, playing at cards, put down the ace of hearts, observing,

" That's my heart." Upon which the gentleman with whom she was playing,

trumped it, r ejoining, " Yo u see it is now mine ; for I own no othe r."

The question " Wh a t is a b o y ? " which has been raised by a preceptor,

naturally suggests the corresponding inquiry, " What is a g i r l ? " The answer

is obvious. A girl is a female framework support ing an extension of clothes.

—Punch.

W e know a man who married a very rich lady, who has ever since been the

curse of his life. She is a scold, and quarrels with him continually. He

intends getting a divorce at all hazards, havi ng made up his mind that to live

in harmony is preferable to living on her money.

A doting mother of a waggish b oy having bottled a lot of nice preserves,

labelled them, " Put up by Mrs. Do o . " Joh nny having discovered the

goodies, soon ate the contents of one bottl e, and wrote on the bot tom o f the

label, " Put down by Johnny Doo."

" Caesar, dis chile' s gwine to Washing ton to 'p ly for offis ob de Govern

ment ."—"Wel l , what are you trying to get now, eh ?" —" Is e gwine to 'ply

for the post of sexton in de post-offis apartme nt." —"Sext on of post-office

apartment ? " — " Yes, sah ! I berry de dead letters."

The following is said to be one of tho longest pauses on r ec or d: —An old

gentleman riding over Putney Bridge, turned round to his servant and said,

" D o you like eggs, Jo hn ?" —" le s, sir." Here the conversation ended.

The same gentleman riding over the same bridge that day twelvemonth, againturned round, and said, " How ? "— "P oa ch ed , sir," was the answer.

A well-known city officer in Auld Reekie was celebrated for his cunning

and wit. His mother having died in Edinburgh, he hired a hearse and

carried her to the family buryin g-place in the Highla nds. He returned, it is

said, with the hearse full of smuggled whisky, and bein g teased about it by a

friend, he said—" Wou, man, there's nae harm done . I only took awa the

body and brought back the speerit."

Clerks have lately been play ing fast and loose to such an enormous extent

with their employers' money, that it is extremely difficult to kno w whom to

trust. W e shall hear of the clerk of the weather having embezzled something

next. He will be taken up probably for having been in the habit of skimming

the mil ky way, and appropr iating for years the cream to his own use ; or else

he wil l be convicted of transferring some of the brightest stars from the firma

ment, and stit ching them all over his person, in order to b e " a blaze of a

swell," as Esterhazy was at Moscow. If we were Saturn we certainly should

count our rings every night, to see that none of them were missing.

A story goes that a party of riflemen, having go ne ostentatiously into a

chapel not a hundred miles from Liverpool, clad in their new uniforms, the

officiating minister, who must be a bit of a wag, took occasion to quote a

Ycrse from one of the hymns—

How proud we are, how fond to shew

Our clothes, and call them fine and new,

When the poor sheep and silkworm wore

h l hi l b f !

WOMAN'S BEST RIGHT.—The marriage rite.

A NEW READING.—Considering what it costs to get into Parliament, M.P.

must mean Money Power.—Punch.

FEMALE HEROISM.—It appears from tho Army and Navy Gazette that

the regular Army is disinclined to salute the Volunteer officers. Mr. Punch

is authorised, on the part of the Ladies of England to state that, in the

interest of their beloved country , they undertake, henceforth, to relieve the

regulars by performing the above ceremony at all fitting times and seasons.

KILLING IN IRELAND.—Killing comes natural; half the places in Ireland

begin with kill. There is Killboy (for all Irishmen are called boys), and

what is more unmanly, there is Killb rid e; Killbaron, after the l andlords;

Killb arrack, after the English soldiers ; Killcr ew, for the nav y; Killbri tain,for the English proprietors; Killcool, for deliberate murder, and Killmore, if

that ain't enough.

WAITING FOR THE APPLAUSE.—A certain singer was engaged to sing at

the rooms at Margate, and, having a pretty good opinion of himself, wrote in

a certain place, " Wa i t for the applause. " The leader, as in duty bound,

stopped the band; but alas ! there was no applause, when the disappointed

vocalist turned sharply round, and said rather loudly, " W h y don't you go

on ? " The mischief- lovin g leader replied much more loudly, " W e are

waiting for the applause." A genera l titter through the room followed.

PIETY AND MEANNESS.—Th e Gentleman's Magazine, in a paper on Sussex

Archaeological Collect ions, gives us the oppor tunity of making the following

extract from the diary of a Sussex tradesman of the 18th century:—" Monday,

Dec. 25. This being Christmas Day, myself and wife at church in the

morning. We stayed the Communion; my wife gave 6d., but they not asking

me, I gave nothing. Oh ! may we increase in faith and good works,

and maintain and keep up the good intentions that I hope we have this day

taken u p ! "ENGLISH LAW AND BRAHMIN LAW.—When it was represented to the

late Sir Charles Napier, in India, by certain Brahmin authorities, on the

occasion of a suttee about to be solemnised, that the promoters of this auto

da fe had a law for it, which command ed observance, old Eagle -Bea k made

answer thereto : " W e also have a la w that demands observance. Yo u say

you have a law for burning widows—well and good; burn your widows by

all means. But we have a law for hangi ng murderers; so, pending your

suttee solemnity, I shall erect a gallows, and as soon as the former is satis

factorily celebrated, I shall hang you up on the latter." W e do not hear that

the performance came off as announced.

TH E CUT DIRECT.—A Mr. Mewins was courting a youn g lady of some

attractions, and something of a fortune into the bargain. After a liberal

arrangement had been made for the young lady by her father, Mr. Mewins

demanded a pretty brown mare, to which he had taken a particular fancy, and

this bein g positively refused, tho match was broken off. After a couple of

years the parties accidental ly met at a country bal l; Mr. Mewins was quite

willing to renew the engagemen t; the lady appeared no t t o have the slightestrecollection of him. " Surely you have not forgotten me ? " said he. " What

name, Sir ? " she inquired. " Mewins ," he replied ; " I had the honour of

payi ng my addresses to you about two years ago ."—" I remember a person

of that name," she rejoined, " wh o paid his addresses to my father's orown

mare."

AN U N C O M P L I M E N T A R Y ODE TO SPRING.

Hail! goddess, whom our adolescent bards—

What time the vernal sap begins to rise—•

Hymn, through the press, in metrical canards.

Or in blank verse thick set with point blank lies,

Hail, if thou wilt, or mix it, hail, rain, snow,

An d with thy East winds coax the buds to blow.

Where be thy garland s? where the lively birds—

Supposed companions of thy bowery car ?

Where thy green pastures and grass-cropping herds,Th y bleating lambs, beside their mothers ? Ba h!

I see no wreaths, no meadows verdure-dress'd,

I hear no bleatings save from lungs distress'd.

Thou summonest flowers, thy worshippers declare,

From fresh green fields, from warm leaf-cluster'd nooks,

But for thy snow-drops see the fields of air!

For all thy violets, the leaves of books !

Bards call thee " mo de st ;" and yet Winte r, gray,

Thou hold'st unblushing in thy lap till May.

Green are thy garments—in all classic odes,

Flimsy the muse-made sandals on thy feet;

Yet skirt of drab best suits the vernal roads,

And India-rubbers the vertumnal street.

Through seas of slush, o'er all thy realm outspread,

Slowly we plunge with (gum-)elastic tread.

Diphtherian Nymp h, in whose ethereal train

Sport such gay elves as Sore-Throat and Catarrh,

Accept, I pray thee, this asthmatic strain,

Pump'd from sore lungs—and very sore they are.

Oh ! goddess damp, I feel, as sure as death,

The influenza's influence in my breath. J . B.

Published by BENJAMIN BLAKE, 421, Strand, London, "VV*.C, to whom all

Communications for the Editor must be addressed.

Family Herald May 12 1860

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Transcript of Family Herald May 12 1860