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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 :
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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'
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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
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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!
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" 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
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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
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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$
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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
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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,
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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
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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
tip- toe 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.
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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{>*.
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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
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[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
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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.
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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.