The Cardigan Observer and General Advertiser for the Counties of Cardigan Carmarthen and Pembroke

MAY AND I. I sent a clover leaf to May, And bade her read its meaning sweet; Then waited through the weary day The answer, hoping she would say What I each moment did repeat- Forever thine, forever thine," In answer to appeal of mine. Meanwhile, the message came to May; She read its meaning and love's power; Then sent a dahlia bloom to say (Her dear heart in the answer lay), What she should whisper all the hour- Forever thine, forever thine." In answer to appeal of mine. And so it happened, May and I, Ere long, before the altar stood; No rude voice did the banns deny- But through tho chancel sweet reply Was heard, when May her maidenhood Laid by, and said Forever thine," In answer to appeal of mine.

THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. -+- CHAPTER VII.-( (Jontinued). Many were the consultations, attended by due head- Bhaking and consuming of snuff, held over the singular disfigurement of the child, by the doctor who had attended the mother; and a brother medico, whose greater experience and allowed skill yet failed to devise any remedy. The wise women of the village and the adjacent town came and saw, but did not eonquet". Many were the theories put forth-the strange and awful precedents quoted, but none of which seemed to throw the least glimmer of light upon the mystery of this case. The mother alone, they finally agreed, was the only person who could do so satisfactorily, and they awaited the explanation with a degree of feminine anxiety which was, at least, creditable from its genuineness. But Dame Rullocks studiously kept the poor young Mother from the shock she knew the sight could not fail to inflict. The state of Nelly's health had pre- sented her feeding the infant during the first few days, and she took little heed of her small companion, save as we have said, and the chill air afforded so good a Pretext for the many wrappings of the delicate little form, that weeks passed ere the gossips' thirst for information seemed at all likely to be quenched. But the storm had passed over the soul of the poor young wife; ana Nature does not willingly permit, to anything she has formed, stagnation. The drenched flower, as the patter of the shower ceases, lifts up its head to bless the sunshine and the light; the tempest-tossed branches subside into peace, and, gently rocking to and fro, with rustling whispers, tell of the past night's terrors, and bless the coming and man, though, in the desolation of his heart, he cry, Enough.' no more can I bear!" and "atreat death to aid and deliver him, yet revives, to find new blossoms and green shelter in the storm-swept *ftnd of his hopes. She had spoken little, though she was quite National in all she said. No observation had escaped jjer as to the change in her abode, though her eyes speedily told her where she was, and by whom tended. The evening of the day the babe was born she had 'wntly called to the dame, who harried to her bed- lIde. Pitifully looking up into her friend's face, out of •nose deep, sunken, almost rayless eyes, Nelly faintly *hiapered, He wiJl never come back!" shaking her o"n head slowly to and fro, as if in hopeless belief, let desiring to be contradicted. The good soul beside her would have given much to BO, but she dared not. Words would not come; could only shake her head sorrowfully, while the te*rs blinded her eyes; and, with an effort, she recently added some sentences of pious comfort and But the broken-hearted wife turned away—jost now *re Was past even that consolation. She never men- tioned her husband to them again but often, in the ■uent night, the kind watcher at her side would hear her moan, Never! never!" as if thus she were fixing jn her mind the hopelessness of all expectation, the *°t of her loneliness. She never would have got over it but for the said the good nurse, as she detailed the of her observation to that gentleman. And he '^Uy agreed with her. Like the dove to the wanderers on the waste of Waters came that small messenger of peace; its sinless bore the olive-branch, which bade hope re-visit the desolate,d heart of the erring woman. -bey had propped her in the bed with pillows one ternoon, and the curtains were drawn back from windows, that she might fed the warmth of the T^ing sunshine, which was making everything bright triad without, when she said— w 'me my baby. Please take off that shawl; it her so heavy for me." „ The dame hesitated but for a moment. She saw time was come; longer concealment was impos- w. 8^e was only they were alone. j. With more of animation in her pale face than she yet displayed, the young mother took her child her arms, and laid it tenderly before her; the dame left a corner of the covering unremoved. v* Nelly, dear!" she began but the yeung waman ?* thrown the Bhawl aside, and, as she did so, cfre^ a cy— v 'My baby, oh! my child, my darling! what have done to it ? « '^elly, ]ass> she'll grow oat of it; doan't thee, my doan't thee vex; the doctor says *he mother heard her not. Clasping the wrist of hand tightly in the fingers of the other, she JJJyed to and fro above her infant, and cried and ~j>ed vehemently. I know, I know!" she said, in broken accents: -jPn, baby dear! baby dear! what shall I do for you— 'what shall1 do ? evening Bhe would part with her child to none. JjJ^Bted by the dame, and with many intervals of rest, dressed it, and, laid close at her side, she ^tehed slumber steal over it, ere she would be per- Jj^ed to lie down herself. Firmly clasped in her she held it through the night; and when, *eatiP8' a ^tle uneasy at the close embrace, the creature whined a little and awoke,' she was a*ert» and looked, and spoke, and replied, as U?ad never done before, since that day. ht?* shall we pretend to reason, or say this or thab t^wiral, or contrary to it ? The very thing which *0n feared to shock her with, studiously had t^led, lest,suddenly beheld, it mighteven unseat her wholly, was to restore her suddenly to action, tj^^oncile her to life, endear to her the one whom ^te*s *^c^on would alleniate from the regard of of Y a mother's love is not to be estimated by any I tio **ws which regulate other passions and affec- <■ -^Peculiar to humanity. *ou *et "aTe her while you get your mydear lass," said the dame, when, on the Wing morning, Nelly adhered as closely to her l-_?8 the object of the good old woman had been «idnap the little mortal. me? Burely you'll let me have her, Nelly, It' Meg Stratton, Nell's former bridesmaid, who Hej not the least attentive and sympathising of an^ whose fondness for the cnild almost the dame's. elly, with all her old wilfulness, refused to J°*«t J small companion; ate her thin bit of el* • ^rank her tea, but not till she had satisfied U"v?* ker little daughter, the doctor's veto ■4ft which had been withdrawn some time since. reftkfa8t Nelly announced her intention of k? Ve>)U^' M decidedly as though she anticipated opposition which was immediately X heart, not for the world!" cried the dame. am quite strong!" was the firm reply. J 1^ear, better wait a bit," suggested Meg. °u'dn't for the world help you to such a the dame. 6 death of her!"—like the chorus in a Greek med in the matrons who had stepped in > inyalid. Ml i'8" ^anklen was obstinate. I have tried tiuie i* eil0HS>h," she said; I am strong, and into my °wn place." She stopped a At uT .n< there's my child to see to." Xr wa^ the doctor comes; he will look So f e so, and hear what he says," urged fh.^th fu* ^n^id yielded; but sh6 would not doi6 mfanfc ^anwhile. BoJ?' °f F Carne> an(^ heard without astenish- ofr 19 extjpi.f resolve. Perhaps he had »o ftK6-ncf- in the moods of the sex. He yrort*011 tuNellj'8re9olTe,rightly judging *10*. *t occii^ i-wo '"ore harm than compliancy fe.av»il hfir 'm was the only balm which could Wnding th.r0^ 8Pirit- he «rJ!u w?8. aware of her child's mis- hints tenderly but to all his ^aaiKM3, °r bar^6riea ly Franklen only shook on lUty of n f^,anawered him. He suggested the tifchf)fatlon>" tho U Ure remedy; but at the word her breas7°Un5 mo^her clasped the child dear! pi, t have her hurt, my poor Wh^f fj^'n't feel it of her, and work for heo the surtto,, < her hor* 86011 had departed she arose, Meg helping her to dress. How different to the toilette at which she had last assisted! Perhaps Meg thought of it, for more than once her eyes were dim, and there was a choking in her voice, as she chirupped to the baby that lay with its large, blue eyes, apparently gravely taking note of the various items of its mother's attire. Very faint and weak the invalid found herself when upon her feet, more so than she would confess, as she tottered to the arm-chair that half-a-dozen kindly hands had helped to arrange near the fire. But she would herself dress her child, and she did, with many little officious offices from the gossips, who were on thorns the while, quite expecting now that they should receive some enlightenment on the point which so interested them. But Nelly said nought upon the subject, though now and again her tears dropped, as she handled the slight limbs of her crippled child. Poor lamb! it is a sad affliction," murmured one. She will likely grew out on it. Nelly Frdaklen, don't thee take on, lass I" It'll not pain her, rm thinking, and that's a mercy, any way. One, so venturesome as to touch tht deformed limb, Nelly rebuked with the words, "Please don't!" gently removing her hand. The words were mildly uttered, but the woman felt them somehow, and did not repeat the offence, nor indeed did the others venture any further to trespass upon what they felt was in some way a forbidden subject. Did she tell you nought about it ? asked they of the dame. She had heard Nelly's first exclamation, and won- dered; but she kept knowledge and wonder to herself, and the gossips profited nothing. She's greatly changed from what she was," said one; "as gay and open a lass as Nelly Hartsom wasn't in these parts." Ay, woman but she wur always that wilful, look ye, there wur no gainsayin' of her. I'll swear Debby Bullocks be main glad to get shut on her." "I'm afraid there's more to be told than we've heerd yet," put in another—she whom Nelly had rebuked. They do say poor Franklen led a sorry life, and that she carried on more'n was becomin' wi' other men." Ay, poor lass! well, 'twill be but a sorry look-out for her now. Lord help her!" It is not the first time that the sufferer who, in the moment of affliction or sickness, found sympathy and kindness, has had to bear the turn of the tide which -once the excitement past, and sentiment exhausted -has set dead against him, and disclosed as error and weakness what was reckoned as misfortune. It was a bitter trial for the stricken woman, the return to her desolate cottage, into which the living hand of a beloved huBband had inducted her, and which now she entered widowed and a mother. God Meg and the dame had been busy through the day, cleaning it throughout, and putting all in order. A cheerful fire was burning; its light danced over the face of the sober little Dutchman, on the polished handles of the drawers, and on the rows of pewter and delf that filled the shelves. Through the open door the neat white bed could be seen, with the pretty little table she ued to set out so daintily. All was the same as of old. The thoughtful hands had removed all tokens of him, that could come upon her too suddenly. Alas! was it that which struck her ? which said so plainly what was missing there ? Poor Nelly: she tightly grasped the arm of Meg, on which she leaned and trembled so, Meg almost lifted her across the threshold. Up to the hearth she walked, her friend support- ing her she dropped into the chair by the fireside, one look at the empty seat opposite, and the grief so long restrained broke forth. She burst into tears anl wept bitterly. Meg wept for company; the good dame, even, could give no con- solation. It was the feeble voice of the babe that made itself heard then with most avail. She caught it to her bosom, and, while she smothered it with caresses, her sobs subsided, her tears gradually were stayed. Meg stopped that night, and for many days was Nelly's chief helper, till her strength slowly returned, and the sweet face, though pale as a drenched Aower, showed more signs of life and spirit. Then she would not hear of keeping her good friends frem their own home duties, and with earnest thanks and blessings for all they had done, she begged them leave her to what must come at last. When a little time had passed, and she could trust herself to speak of it, she told them how, in the pale dawn of that morning, the fatal note had been brought to her by a boy (his face she could not dis- tinguish in the uncertain light), who said it had been given him by a man in the dress of a fisher- man, who was going down towards the beach from towards the Peep o'Day public-bouse, and told him to take it in the early morning to the cottage he described. And when her friends saw that her grief was settling down to passive endurance, they judged it right to let her know the worst, lest she should be building up futile hopes of his return. But she took the tidings calmly she seemed to have come to the conclusion long ago that he was lost for ever in this life. She locked away reverently those torn and sea-stained clothes in the chest that held all of her loved husband-but she said little. Whatever tears she shed were known only to Him who takes note of all griefs, and to such as it pleaseth Him, in His own time, gives peace. OHAPTEB VIII. WIDOW. Two years have passed. A group stood at the cottage door of Dame Bul- locks just as in past times there had often stood such a group, in bright summer and golden autumn evenings. But one was gone, who had many a time so stood, and the dame, beside deeper furrows and a paler cheek, wore a widow's cap. At her side stood the young woman we have known as Meg Stratton; she was Tom Rullecks' wife of a year past, and, judging by appearances, even should his brothers decide on celibacy, the noble name of Bullocks would not fail of representatives. Patty, the dames handsome daughter, stood just within the door, an infant of some months in her arms; a small urchin, just beginning to walk, clinging to her gown. The dame was speaking, but she had hardly finished before her impetuous daughter broke in- "Well, mother, I can't see it. I am as fond of Nelly Franklen as any of you though, of course, living away in town, I couldn t do for her as you and the rest did. But I can't see it. It's like a flying in the face of Providence, I call it—shutting herself up, and moaning and pining away to a ghost, and making that poor child no better. st sy, Patty, I think she's cheerful enough with Ida," said Meg, gently. I found her the other even- ing singing to her as she laid on her lap, and the dear little thing imitating of her, in her sweet, quiet way; they didn't seem pining." Well, what do she sing, when all's done ? just hymns and such like; it's all very well in church and Sundays, but there's a time for eyerything, and everything in its place, as my good old missis used to say. Ah! Patty, my child," said the good dame," you don't know what it is to have a sore heart—yes, yes, I know, my girl, you loved your poor old father; but, child, even that loss is not like hers, poor lass I You've a good husband, God he thanked, Patty, and one that lets you want for nothing: you can't under- stand what it is." And so sudden, too, as it was said quiet Meg. It was strange," she added, after a pause, that we never made out who the boy was, mother, that brought that dreadful note." Well, Meg, I've always believed that it was a I stranger lad, belonging to some of the foreign craft, maybe, that put into the harbour yonder that night, and had come to the Peep o' Day. You know, child, that poor Franklen was down there, they said; and that he drank bard and seemed badly. It has always been in my mind that he wur the worse for the liquor afore ever he come to write that way. Ah! poor thing, poor lau I she may well have a heavy heart, Martha, and it's a warning to us all." "Well, mother," the daughter replied, in somewhat humbler tones, for her conscience appropriated the implied admonition (Patty's tongue was none of the gentlest, though she made a thrifty and true wife), I don't mean to say anything, hard, goodness knows, of the poor thing; but does it do any good, after all ? and you know yourself she's half killing herself, slaving and toiling to keep to that place, when she might have one at half the price, and do just as well." Poor thing! she won't keep it over her head, work as she may," said Meg. No," said Dame Bullocks, sadly, since the place has become like fashionable, the rent has been raised of all down along yonder, and, when the new houses they're building are finished, it'll be worse still." s How does she manage at all ?" asked Patty. She works day and night, I believe," said Meg many a time before daybreak, Tom says he's seen a light in her window. She does a deal of work for the shops in town, you know, Patty, the men's things, and then she knits and nets, too, so fast and well; the best she gets is the ladies' work, baby things, and that." Hard enough it must be." "Ay, Patty, child, you would not have much heart, in such like straits, to sing a love song, or hum a jig." Patty was silent; it is 80 difficult for the prosperous and happy to sympathise with those in the opposite state. I don't myself say it's over-wise in Nelly Franklen keeping on there; but, poor child, I can well feel for her. Having nothing, as you may say, to look to in this world but her child, she just clings to the old place, where she was as happy as the day is long, poor dear! It's hard to know what to say but I'm fearful she can't keep it on long-her little girl's illness was a great drawback to her. The poor babe would lie nowhere but in her arms, and not a stiich could she do, let alone the expense of doctor's stuff. But she seemed to think nothing of that, only so that it was saved." Poor thing!" and Patty pressed hers to her bosom. She dwelt at a considerable distance inland, and was but on a visit to her mother, who lived with her married son and his wife in the old home cot. You see," continued Meg, Nelly is so indepen- dent; if any one does help her a turn, she rests neither night nor day till she's paid it oK—so it's as broad as long. Tom sent her in half of the good things that Dan sent us in the hamper. We thought she wouldn't know who it came from, but she found out, and she set to and knitted him a whole set 0' socks-" Hark!" exclaimed Patty, interrupting her. (To be continued.)

"I LOVED ONCE." I AM a doctor, and am sitting in my office. The daily calls have been made. The weather is unpropitious for sickness. I may put on my slippers, light a cigar, loll in my easy chair, and day-dream with little fear of disturbance. I have often thought how queer a thing it is that a young M.D., with a horse and gig, and a good prac- tice, has never married. My friends have thought so too. They often remind me that time is passing, and that grey hairs are beginning to show themselves in my moustache and whiskers. My errand boy (Im- pudent scamp) suggested the other day that I should brush my hair in a different manner, in order to cover the bald spot. True, I am getting old, and not getting a wife. I know the reason that I am yet a bachelor, and I don't know but that it would do my soul good to live over the past, and tell these walls how a friand of mine got a wife, and how I didn't. Eight or ten years ago, two jolly juniors from col- lege were sent to spend a vacation in a large village in P——. One was Alexander Woodbridge, the other Edward St. John. We—for I was the latter-named— hardly relished being sent away from our customary good time in N-, our home. We submitted, how- ever, with as good a grace as we could. Aleck even got jolly on his prospective, and having by some means found out that we were going to a valley in which two rivers met, would frequently quote, to stop my loud whisperings of discontent, In all the wide world, there's no valley so sweet, As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet." As soon as the last examination was passed, we were on the rail for N-. Aleck was in excellent spirits, forming grand plans of flirtations and the other enter- prises which make up vacation life. We did not stop in N The E railroad took us to the then terminus of the road, when a long stage ride was before us. The days of adventures in stage-coaches had even then passed. We had none. Once in the village for which we had set out, Aleck and I, after getting a room at the hotel, walked up to the quaint old parsonage. We presented some letters, wherein we were committed to the care of the reverend gentleman on Sundays, that he might see that we attended church. He asked us to take tea with him. We thought of blooming daughters and accepted. No fair hands ministered to us at that mournful tea. The parson was a bachelor. A Biddy was the mistress of the mansion. It was a solemn affair, and we hurried off as soon as we decently could. j| (The parson "hoped we might enjoy and improve our vacation. The quiet of the village would be favourable for any studying we might wish. His library was at our disposal." Not a word of gunning, not a word of fishing; worse still, not a word of society. Aleck and I condoled with each other on our gloomy prospect for the summer, as we walked down to the hotel We were in good spirits-very. A week-two weeks had gone. We had fished in every stream within a day's ride. We had scoured the forests. We had attempted to get into society and failed. The young men saw in us, so our vanity thought, dangerous rivals. The ladies were too retir- ing to allow us to become acquainted by other than the orthodox ways. We followed them they never looked back. We waved our handkerchiefs; they never saw them. We serenaded them our musii; fell on unpitying ears. Two weeks of the same kind of life were before us. One evening we were sitting on the piazza, when the following conversation ec- curred: "Ed, the villagers have a pic-nic to-morrow. I heard it to-day in the Barber's shop." Well, what of it f" I'm going to that pic-nic." You have no invitation." II I know it, but I fancy my face has enough bell- metal in it to face all these lads and lasses, and bear all their reflections, too. Moreover, I mean to know a young lady before to-morrow's sun has set. I shall do it, if I have to cause a fearful accident to happen, ibat I may save her from death, and carry her to the arms of her distracted parent." Spoken worthily of the heir of all the Wood- bridges. I'll go with thee." The next day, after seeing goodly numbers of fair women and brave men" passing through the main street, on their way to the grove, we started. They had chosen a pretty opening in the forest, and were there, some hundred young people, in the heyday of delight. Aleck, this sight would stir a fever in the blood of age, and make an infant's sinews strong as steel. We were among them, but not of them. They were as punctilious regarding a formal introduction as the haughtiest ones of our own G-. We staid about the grounds until many had gone. Ed, do you see those two ladies walking about the grounds unattended ? No one has been with them during this whole afternoon. They have not spoken to any one. The ice-cream and the cake came not to them, even as it came not to us. Misery loves com- pany we will join them." They are from town, Aleck; I know it by the way the little one holds up her dress, to show us the fairy foot she's got. That's not a country-learned thing." II You're right. I have it all now. See, they are looking at us. Jim, the stable-boy, told me that a family trom N——, with two or three young ladies, had bought an old place near here called The Willows.' These are the said young ladies. By this time we had nearly reached them. Oc- casionally a coquettish glance would bit turned towards us, but as yet no excuse had been devised by which to begin a conversation. We were near enongh to look at them closely. They were beautiful. My memory pictures them as vividly to-day as it did the hour after we saw them-ten years ago. The smaller one, Nelly-for so her name proved to be-wgz a brunette, with a flashing black eye and luxuriant brown hair, which she were behind the most exquisitely chiselled ears, and beautifully its wavy masses con- trasted with her Leghorn flat. Her arms were half covered by her mantilla. Now ani then she rotated her parasol, when one would be revealed in all its roundness, gently tapering to a hand worthy of Venus. The other was a blonde; her blue eyes peeped out from a cottage-bonnet roguishly. Her form was slight. I remember she wore a white Marseilles batque, and how jauntily it fitted her waist. Everv one but we four had left the grove. The young ladies were evidently getting uneasy. Miss Mary, the larger one, would now and then pull her watch from her belt, and look anxiously out to the road.' As last she stopped, turned round, and came towards Us. Will you be good enough to tell us what time it is ? My watch has stopped. We fear that our car- riage, which should have been here some time since, has met with some accident." The offer to escort them to the village, and then look after the carriage, was promptly made, and, with some blushing and tapping of the little foot on the mossy bank, accepted. We relieved the embarrass- ment by presenting our cards. Our suspicions were true; they were from "The Willows." Just as we bad entered upon a pleasant chat, the carriage came. We handed the ladies in. No invitation had as yet been given us to call. The ladies bewed. and the car- riage drove off. Soon it was stopped waiting until we had come up, they said: Miss Laurens and Miss Hamilton would be glad to see Messrs. Woodbridge and St. John at 'The Willows' at any time." "Now, sure, Miss Laurens rules," said Aleck. "Nope of your Bohn's Horace at such a time as this. We are in luck, but I am in misery. Love at first sight,' no longer a phantom, now a reality." We went back to the hotel, and on the long-shaded piazza, with smoke wreaths floating around us, we talked of the day. Aleck fancied Miss Laurens: I was in love with Miss Hamilton. Happy it is that our love went not out to the same one, for had it, Aleck, I should now sit in my office as much a bache- lor, and without the sunshine of your friendship lighting up the dreary recesses of memory. The next day we called at The Willows." The ladies were very glad to see us. Mutual acquaintances were found in town. Then Mary—I must, call her Mary, though I may not use the prettiest alliteration in the world and call her Mary mine "-Ma.ry sang and played for us. She sang among other things, I have something sweet to tell you." How sweet it was, and how I hoped she might tell it to me some day, and not be talking in her sleep." As we started to go, two little children came run- ning up to Mary, and shouted what I thought was Mamma." I told Aleck so, but he laughed at me, and told me it was a pet name for Mary, which I had mistaken for the maternal appellation. How could it be possible," said he, that she, a young unmarried lady, could be called mamma ?" The two weeks remaining passed as swiftly away as had the others slowly. We rode, and walked, and talked together; we quoted poetry, we marked passages in books, we looked deep into each others eyes, wondermgly, hopefully, doubtfully. We did all tbe things that those who hope to be lovers do. We, that is, Mary and I, do this Aleck and Miss NeUy-his Nelly-we suppose- did the same. To love a star, and think to wed it, were one, thou art so far above me." I quoted this to Mary one evening, when we were gazing at the stars. "Am I, then, so far above you ?" she asked and I thought I saw her eyes glisten with tears. I should have told her then how I loved her, but I could net. We left with a sad parting. They agreed to spend a few more weeks in the country; we would meet them in town. Aleck had secured Nelly as a correspondent; Mary would not write to me—and why should she? I had not said a word of love, though I had acted volumes. She might have thought I loved her; she did not know it. Women take nothing for granted. "Oh,bashful man that I am," thought I, as we lumbered over the hills in a stage coach but I will tell her the story of my heart in town," where I got leave to spend a few days during the next term. With rather singular sensations I went up to W street, where I was to see Mary. I rang the bell. While waiting for the servant, I did what many an impudent man had done before me—looked into the hall through the window. There were playing the same two children, who called Mary by that funny pet name in the country. Is Miss Hamilton in ? Yes, sir, she beze a playin' in the hall. Mollie, darhnt, come here. The gintleman is axin' for ye." Ah! but I mean an elder Miss Hamilton—a young lady." Shure and there isent ony Miss Hamilton here, but Miss Mollie, the little crayture. Ye must mane the mistress, whos as young and purty lookin' as if she'd be a young lady herself. I'll go call her." No, you need not, there is a mistake." And there was a grievous one. My Mary was another's; I have been terribly fooled Aleck was in the joke. He quizzed me a little when I came back; but soon for- bore, when he saw how serious a thing it had been. Since then we are both working in our professions— Aleck, a pastor in the city. I spent an evening with him a short time since; he and his Nelly are happy. I sing I loved once;" I smoke my cigar in any room In my house. I think I am happy, except when I re- member my Mary." Now you know why the doctor was never married.

A FBIKND IN NEED."—Here is another case in which a stranger at Naples was introduced in an amusing manner to the mysterious Oamorra." The stranger, a young Italian from the North, had ordered a SUIt of clothes. The tailor delayed so long in sending them, that some unfortuate alteration in the position of the customer made him fear that when at last the clothes should be brought home he would noth vetbe means of paying for them. In this embarrassment the young man confides his trouhle to a Neapolitan friend. The latter, having heard the case, says that he thinks there will be no difficulty in arranging the matter, and will see to it. An hour later he came back and said, Now all you have to do is to tell the tailor that he has made you wait so long, you can wait no more; the things must be sent within the twenty- four hours or the clothes will not be received. I know they can't be finished in the time." This counsel was acted an. The clothes were not sent. The stranger was freed from his bargain. A day or two afterwards, however, his Neapolitan friend returned. Well, it was all right about the clothes ? Oh, yes, all right! was all right about the clothes?" Ob, yea, all right' The fellow never sent them. I am so much obliged to you." "Well!" Oh! I must make my old suit lastTa lihtle longer, that's all!" But you would have had to pay a hundred and twenty francs ^es',? 8uPPose BO." Well, then, hand over my share. Your share ?" Yes, to be sure you owe me forty francs 1" And in a word, the friend in need being a capo-camorrista, the money had to be paid, and the northerner was made to understand that at Naples, at least, dans le si&cle oii nous sommes, on 118 d-onne rien pour rien This is another of the thousand modes of action of the "Oamorrtl.— The (Jtftfrffewajt'a Magazine. THE ORIGIN OF THE MODERN DRAMA.—The comedies of Plautus, with those of Terence, who was about 9 years old when Plautus died,and the tragedies of the Roman philosopher Seneca, who died by com- mand of Nero, A.D. 65, represented the old Latin dramatic literature to mediaeval scholars whe knew little of Greek; and thus Plautus and Terence for comedy, Seneca for tragedy, represented to most scholars the old classical drama down even to Shakes- peare's time. Out of the study and imitation of these plays in schools and universities the modern drama most distinctly rose. It would so have arisen if there had never been any Miracle Plays. It did not in any way arise out of the Miracle Plays. Miracle Plays did not pass into Morality Plays, nor did Morality Plays afterwards pass into true dramas. Miracle Plays are one thing; Moralities are another thing; each form of writing has its own dis- tinct beginning, aim, and end. They are two different forms of literature, one arising out of the church services, the other an offshoot from the allegorical didactic poem. When the two forms of literature were both used, they were occasionally mixed, but there never was a time at which one changed into the other. Like the drama proper, they turn to account the instinct for imitation that has, in a sense, made actors of all children born into the world, and thus they may claim cousinship with our drama that had its beginning in the sixteenth century; they are its cousins, not its parents.—CasselVs Library of English Literature. THE EFFECTS OF HUNGER. One of the most remarkable effects of hunger is that which it has on the blood. In the blood-liquor there are floating large numbers of minute discs, coloured and colourless, which act as carriers of nutrition to the tissues. There are also held in solution and suspen- sion certain substances, the products of disintegrated" structures, whi-jh are always being removed. Now, hunger diminishes the quantity of blood-discs and in- creases the quantity of waste products in the blood. Clearly. this double action, diminishing the nutritive element of the blood, and increasing the products of disintegration in it, cannot go on for ever. It must haTe a limit. This leads us to ask, When does star- vation pan the boundary-line of life? The point at which starvation becomes fatal is a shifting one. Much depends on the rate at which the tissues of the body break down. That rate, again, must vary in propor- tion with the stillness or activity of the starved body. Every movement must be made at the cost of a certain amount of destruction of substance and if the body could be kept absolutely still, abstinence from food might be prolonged for an enormous length of time. The miraculous power of fasting ascribed to hysterical devotees is thus explicable. Where these are not sheer impostors, it it usually found that the fasting person is bedridden—is kept lying in a state of profound rest, not even being able to Bpeak. It will be also found that the waste of tissue in such a case is reduced to the quanity broken down in those chemical actions which generate animal heat, and to that wasted by the scarcely perceptible pulsations of the heart, and the minimised respiration whereby, no matter to how slight an extent, the blood exchanges oxygen from the air for carbonic acid, the product of-worn-out tissue. That this minimised waste goes on and must go on as long the fasting person retains a spark of life, » self-evident fact, just as much as it is an obvious truth that if we keep a machine ,going—no matter how feebly- it must in some degree wear away, no matter how imperceptibly.—Science For AU. IMAGINATION AND FEAR. — Fear, with .the uncultured mlnrij is ordinarily a more powerful paa- sion than Cjfrher hope, imaginative love, or sense of beauty* For that reason we find the popular faith as to the demons and malignant spirits far more gene- rally prevalent than as to the messengers of heaven. The Italian peasant, male or female, is afraid to be left alone. In a chamber, in a garden, more especially near a river, the same terror fills his imagination that we find, from the legends of the Qhemara, afflicted the Jew- In Southern Italy the dreaded assailants of the lonely peasant are feared under the name of the menacelli. In Ireland the fear of spirits is firmly seated amongst the peasantry, and even in the houses of the gentry the kitchen is regularly let:- at night with certain preparations for their supernatural visitants. The constant howl of the Italian colono, when at work in the fields or gardens, is an utterance of feat. It is intended to keeo away the monacelli, as the tocco, or the noon-day sounding of the church bells was ordered, in 1455, by Pope Oalixtus III., to .8 keep sway the mischievous influences of Halley s comet. In Scotland, in Norway-in every nook and corner of Christendom, some form of fear of kelpy, sprite, troll, gnome, imp, or demon yet holds, in the opinion of the common people, much the same station that he occupied in Papan times.—Dublin University I Magazine.

LADIES' COLUMN. -<C- THE; FASHIONS Never, says Le FoUet, have toilettes been richer than this winter. Great progress has been made in the choice of materials and the blending of colours, and wonderfully artistic effects are obtained by the harmonious opposition of the brilliant reflets of velvet and satin, to the dead tones of drapery, of cloths, cachemires, neigeuses, and the many charming fan- tasias so much in favour. Except for morning walking dresses, which are always dark or neutral colours, toilettes seemed to be inclined to greater brillancy, if not in the colour of the material itself, in the bright hues employed at pipings, and introduced in the great variety of broderies, &e., imitating the natural hues of flowers and foliage. Velvet is worn more than ever. Plain satins are most elegantly worn, either as portions of dresses, such as scarf draperies, waistcoats, traines rapportees, or any of the innumerable varietiesof over- dresses. Damasses are in as great favouras ever, in com- bination with other materials, and the legion of fancy pattern fabrics are much employed to form portions of toilettss. One rule is wry strictly observed, viz., that no complete dress, of whatever kind, is made of any material with a design on it. Should the foundation of the toilette be some etoffe a desseias, it must be ac- companied by drapery, tunic, train, simulated under- skirt or tablier of plain material. Bourrette, cache- mire, molletonne, cachemire princesse," diamonds of wool and silk, English serge, and cloth, plain erbouele, are the favourite materials for walking-dresses. They are of a dark colour or some neutral tint, and very quietly trimmed, bands of fur or velvet being much liked for the purpose; stamped velvet galons are also very fashionably worn. The skirts are ras de terre, or very slightly trained. A vétement of the same give a simple though elegant cachet in the best taste. This garment may be in any of the paletot shapes, more or less tight-fitting, according to the age and figure of the wearer. It the costume is of two materials the casaque may have the waistcoat and sleeves to correspond. The robes de bal et de soirees absolutely glitter with gold or silver beads. Tablier tunics are again coming into favour, and one of the prettiest arrangements is with horizontal folds in front and at the sides, or plaited in half a dozen upright plaits in front, falling like a half-closed fan. They are arranged so as not to give any appearance of extra width, though two or three may be worn one over the other. These tabliers are worn with perfectly plain skirts or those trimmed quite low down. The skirts trimmed at the sides en panneaux are much admired, and are almost universally becoming. We are glad to find, in the ateliers of the most fashionable Parisian dressmakers, a decided inclination to modify the pre- sent stiffness of bodices. Much less whalebone is used, and, although the corsages set as closely and fit as well, the figure is more natural in its movements and out- lines. In the way of confections every shape seems worn, but the most fashionable is decidedly the long paletot with close-fitting basques, and more or less adjustees at the waist. Many materials are used for the purpose. Velvet, rich faille, arm ure de soie Sici- lienne, and Indian cachemire, brocaded velvet, and matelasse de soie, are selected for grande toilette. There are many matelasse and other fancy cloths suit- able for simple purposes. Mantles are principally ot the Dolman or the Visits shape; some are so long as to reach below the knees, with square hanging sleeves; others fall a little below the waist. Some of the newest bonuets have two brims, one turned up close to the crown, the other resting on the hair; the space thus made is occupied by a wreath of foliage or flowers, or with feathers. The capote is very fashion- ably worn, plain velvet, terry velvet, and satin being the favourite materials. We have lately seen one of black velvet, with loose crown, the only ornament being a wreath of black marabouts, fringed with gold, hanging all round.

USEFUL HINTS. OHEAP AND NUTRITIOUS DISHES.—Bice is, in this country, greatly undervalued as an article of food. In times ot scarcity it is, however, more used. It is cheap and nourishing. With or without milk, it may be eaten for breakfast, dinner, or supper. One pound of rice boiled in a bag, until tender, will make four or five pounds of pudding, which may be seasoned with salt or sweetened with treacle er coarse sugar, or a little preserved fruit. To boil rice, first soak it for seven hours in cold water, salted. Then put the soaked rice into a saucepan of boiling water, and boil it ten minutes. Next, pour it into a cul- lender, and set it by the fire, when the grains will be separate and very large. The water in which it has been boiled, in the East Indies and in China, is called congy water, and is prescribed by medical men there as nourishing food for sick persons; such water is, in fact, rice gruel. A little salt and pppper, boiled in water, separately trom the rice, and poured when hot on a plateful 01 hot boiled rice makes it slightly savoury. Or a few slices of onion and a little butter may be added to thp above. Or a few slices of fish or meat, added to the above, and boiled. Or a little curry-powder or spice, with or without the onion. Or, on a soup-plateful of hot boiled rice, pour two lightly-boiled eggs, to which add a little cold butter, mix together, use with fish or meat, and it will be found substantial and agreeable food. Or, boiled rice, mixed with a little milk, sugar, and spice, will be found light and agreeable food either hot or cold.—CasseU's Household Ghiide. BARLEY Soup (CIMME D'OMB).—Boil half-pint of pearl barley in a quart of white stock till it is re- duced to a pulp, pass it through a hair sieve, and add to it as much well-flavoured white stock as will give a pur6e of the consistency of cream put the soup or the fire, when it boils stir into it, off the fire, the yolk of an egg beaten up with a gill of cream add h- if a pat of fresh butter, and serve with small dice of bread fried in butter. To WATERPBOOF FABRICS.—Take a pound of glue, and one of tallow bar soap, and dissolve them in five gallons of water. Bring the water to boiling point, and add slowly one and a half pounds alum. When this is all dissolved cool the liquid down to 13 degrees Fahr., and, plunging the proposed articles therein, hang them up to dry. When dry they should be washed in soft water, and dried a second time. These articles should not be used like ordinary apparel, but only during rain. Any one may thus pre- pare at little cost a serviceable cloth waterproof dress. THE latest device to add charms to beauty are slip- pers woven of fine, flexible threads of glass. When seen by gaslight, the slippers are traversed by lines of various hues, which blend and intermingle with each motion of the foot, producing a magical and beautiful effect. FRECKLES.—To remove freckles, let young ladies bathe the face with Cologne water after tea, and about ten p.m. brush Doth cheeks, the forehead, and chin with a carefully selected moustache. If this does not remove the freckles, it will, under ordinary circum- stances, cause them to be forgotten. WHATEVER position you are in, discharge its duties faithfully. To you it belongs to soothe the couch ef sickness, to minister to the wants of declining age, to diffuse around the fireside an air of cheerfulness and comfort, to watch over the cam of a household, and to arrange and control the little empire of home.

GARBICK'S FUNERAL.— Not long did he enjoy his retirement. Within three years afterwards there was a magnificent funeral procession to Westminster Abbey; the line of carriages reached from the Strand to the sacred building; the streets were crowded with spectators the Bishop of Rochester received the comn, the Duke of Devonshire, the Earls Camden, Ossory, Spencer, and Lord Palmerston were pall-bearers; Burke, Fox, and other celebrities stood beside the grave that was ready to receive the mortal remains of the great actor. {His brother George survived him but a few days. He had always been David's factotum, and his first inquiry on entering the theatre at night was, Has David wanted me ? Someone was remarking upon the singularity of his dying so soon after his brother." Oh," answered B stnnister, who was by," David wanted him." Of the respect in which Garrick was held a proof was given not long before his death. One night he was the sole occupant of the gallery of the House of Commons during a fierce discussion between two members, one of whom moved that he should be ordered td withdraw. Burke sprang up indignant ly and opposed the motion to expel the man who, he said, had taught them all they knew Fox and Townshend fol- lowed in the same strain, calling him their preceptor.— Temple Bar. THE ORIGIN OF "LYNCH LAW."—Lynchburg Old Lynchburg," the inhabitants love to call it- veneration for what is ancient being a. distinguishing feature of the more cultivated classes in the United States as elsewhere-lies among the mountains on the southern bank of James River, in the centre of the Piedmont District, and not far from the bar of the Blue Ridge (Virginia). It was once one of the wealthiest towns of America. Fortunes have: been amassed here in tobacco, and as it is now becoming a railway centre, it is likely that in time it will rise from being a "little city" of 12,000 people to become once more a great wealth-pro- ducing hive of industry. In that world which lives among dictionaries it is famous as having given a new. word to the English language. Colonel Lynch, the Irish emigrant, whose name has been applied to the town, was a noted soldier in the Revolutionary War. This hot-headed Hibernian, when be caught a "Tory," punished the individual whose chief crime was that he did not think as Colonel Lynch thought, and did as he did, after such a summary fashion, that in time speedy justice" of a somewhat equivocal type be- came known all the world over as Lynch Law. The Countries of the World, by Dr. Robert Brown.