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

THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. CHAPTER XIII.-( Continued). y^GHoitN stood for a few minutes, his eyes fixed upon broad sheet of undulating silver that stretched before hfik' but m*nd far away, reverting to the time when had hnde farewell, as he believed, for ever, to those Urades his word bad now summoned from far and ofd** T0used t° ol(i memories and fresh anticipations Voi a"tl £ outlawj7 an^ hardihood by the sound of his Even in that perverted and reckless nature there was something sadly softening, in the thoughts that ifred within him—perhaps for the last time—as he t°od EO motionless, rapt, gazing out upon the sound- 6b8 sea. He called to mind when, on just such a night, he ^d awoke, as it were, to a belief in an especial inter- vention for his good. How boyish memories, youthful and hopes long buried, had been roused jjto being by the associations of that woman's image! 0 v he had shrunk from, and finally rejected his Career of crime; hew he had believed his very nature hanged, and that henceforth to win her leve should his glory-the frown of his victory her smile! of ?.e ^ad ^a^ed> and in proportion to the freightage his venture was the ruin its wreck had made. In the world of to -day pirates are becoming rare /with them, alas! will not cease the originals of tteh miscalculations, nor w the freebooter's the only J^ck flag under which many a man charters anew the °f life from out the treacherous haven of an un- blessed union. j.If Saul's good angel had indeed hovered near 7?131 so far, she dropped a tear, as with averted head fre spread her wings for flight, scared by the Jl*&thful scowl and bitter curse that almost convulsed the face of the man, as he roused himself from his Ruinations. an apparently trifling effort, he closed the mouth I 1 the cave with the masses of rock that lay near, the enormous ferns, which had been held forcibly if001 the gap, were allowed to close again over whole, thus hiding even the smallest interstices; he took his way slowly up the path which led flwell^h ^ine in an opposite direction to his own At intervals the intensity of his thoughts burnt out to exclamations, or in detached words and pbraseB "ve token of the subject which occupied him. Yes, that will do—a new life her—eh, mia- 688 •—no pining over old matters then! A few steps further on his road, then a pause- Mother long gaze over the silver sea. » No I the child must not go. No, no; no places *°F your pet, my dame!—she will rave, cry, be gentle to me—b&h! but when she has no other near to play the fool-Yes, the brat stays here! Forward regain, but on the brow of the Chine another pause, and his eyes this time were turned upwards to the spot whencs he had rescued little Ida. On the level downs he took breath, and, as he did 80, there came upon the still night air the strains of a sweet, childish voice, singing a simple air that was Popular just then in the neighbourhood. He knew the voice, but was at a loss to discover whence it could come, for the house where, at such an hour, Ida and her mother would surely be, was full half a mile from there. Struck by a sudden thought, Meghorn crossed the owns at an angle, descended a rocky path for some ttle distance, and thus came in sight of the little cot- Nelly's old home, nestled snugly apart in its Weltering nook. A light was visible from the window, the half-open oor shed a broad gloom upon the path of the small Burden. • ° 8W?^ bounds brought him to the spot, and to .he side window of the cottage, through which he gazed lnto the interior. The sor.r was still continued, the unconscious J^tle song.ress moving lightly to and fro, placing r"Out the colt >ge shelves the flowers she had gathered 111 the day arranging them in bunches; pausing now then, re-commencing her song, or taking up the bUrthen of some other strain, as we hear a bird lose Itself in mdody, now breaking off abruptly, now dying &Way, now loudly trilling; in the wealth of untutored 8Weetness, toung with its own strength. Apart, at an opposite corner of the cottage, sat the mother, her head bent down, her hands clasped over 80rae object upon her lap, on which her eyes were set, from which she seemed vainly trying to tear her- as she several times lifted it, and inclined towards open chest before her, yet lingered again, and gazed and clasped her hands. And while he looked, her husband saw her at last, ™*th one effort, rise, press to her lips, her breast, the I^or old coat—for it was that—lay it reverently in the then kneel beside, and, burying her face in her r^ds, she wept, and prayed, perhaps—for her lips !rtOved-" for what?" No wonder the wretched man clenched his fists, 44d swore a bitter oath to himself at that sight; wonder that in the black desolation of his erring, P&ssionate heart, the cruel design found a place which else even he might have shrunk from. With mighty strides the man took his homeward ?fay > woe to any living thing which had crossed it in Jhat moment! Rough old Hund, even, who had fol- owed him from the cottage door, seemed instinctively *0 know that a respectful distance was the most pru- companionship. A blank, cheerless hearth would, perhaps, in his ~jood, have been more congenial than the cheering ? °w which had evidently been made up before the °?fe was quitted. She had not anticipated his return, so there was no especial provision made but the most scrupulous servant could not have left things in better order. I am well served," he sneered, as he flung off his Outer clothing; she is worth her hire, truly." Mother and child came in soon after. The latter went to her bed, and Nelly waited upon hua'oand as usual—silent, emotionless, calm. He COuld almost have doubted the evidence of his own which told him this was the same woman he f**d seen but now to shed tears, to wring her hands, lavish caresses and endearments upon the inani- relics of a deceased love. j 'Don't you sit here," he said, "unless you wish i do it. I am going out again, and shall not be *ck aw hile." She obeyed him—placing all to his that he needed for his nightly dram, and etook herself to bed first looking in at her little attghter, sleeping soundly in a small room off her ^other's. Nelly lay long awake she heard her husband ,aye the house—and soon after sank into a light lumber. It could not have been long-it seemed but a few y 0Qi3nls when she awakened suddenly, and in a li^f,^5 i was it bv a noise, or by that broad red ght which fchone in at the window and filled the *oom? She started up-then sprang from the bed. J- 'ie house was on fire and her child! a* ? ruBhed to the door, but, ere she reached it, sei^'y again8t her husband, who, in a firm grasp, her arm and led her to the window. P from the lower cliffs they now looked down n' catne the bright, lurid column of fire, casting a 8*?.w uPei* the rocks, down to the beach stain- Qe silver-sheeted sea blood red. kfeani p UP hung the wreathed smoke like the -houan °f.some inhabiting guardian of the doomed At tl IJen °ut' yetl°th to depart too hastily. On. 6 glance, she knew what it was she looked j inan £ &ze<^IQlany timps she had crept to that win.'ow to nfU bome, and counted it Ler one small belovPri corr'f°rt that she could thence mark all its th«UrruUndings- ^~with a j *ts own destruction now she did eo then woufJi"u ^at he rejoiced at the accident; thei-o f ave burst from him to call for helD, to '10 ^ve something, at least. But he held her fast. Look your last, mistress; look your fill. You were always over-fond of the plate and what it held. Ha! ha but it makes a rare blaze-a jolly blaze My fellows will be looking out, thinking it's a beacon- fire I'vt sent them." She struggled in his grasp faintly, but he held her tightly. For God's sake let me go, Saul!" she gasped. Go where ? What for ? Oould you put it out, think you? Nay, stay here, I say." For mercy, Saul, call for help. I will not stir; but ob, do not let it burn! My poor home Oh, Meg- horn, husband!" Husband he repeated, through his clenched teeth, and gripped her arm more fiercely. It is husband, is it ? and I shall put out the flames I took such pains to light up! shall I ?" She uttered one cry h, r heart sickened as he spoke, at the knowledge of the fiendish spirit that could con- ceive such a deed. She turned her eyes up to his, and her lips parted to curse him, but at the moment little Ida crept to her side, affrighted by the noise, and touched her mother's hand. He saved her life. The mother's lips closed in silence, and, shutting her eyes, ahe averted her face, but he still held her prisoner. Unhappy man! even as he bad caught the fixed gaze of her eyes, he could have clasped her in his arms have vowed his life to her, have yielded his soul up at her feet; yet his next words were such as a fiend might utter- It was long kindling, woman! mayhap, it was the tears you wetted yon old coats with they are dry enough now. Come, look up, girl! look up His grasp upon her arm was agony, but she never moved, nor spoke, nor struggled any more. She bowed her head to this new stroke, and drew her trembling darling closer to her side. A glorious blaze! and we will watch it together," said Saul. The flame rose higher and more clear, brought into strong relief the dark outline of the frowning cliffs, while every gnarled and stunted tree started into sudden life, and the knotted ferns and heather seemed waked up to welcome daylight. CHAPTER XIV. AT STAKE. A DüJt, grey heap, a weird circle of ashes-this was all remaining of her once cherished home; the altar where in secret she had worshipped the lest sun of her existence, which h%d set so soon in storms and night. Drifting, drifting, with every light puff of the inconstant breeze, down to the beach, out upon the ocean, to be scattered up and down, to mingle, perhaps with his dust—gone, lost to her for ever She stood looking down, some such thoughts stirring within her; little Ida holding by her hand, awe- struck, and wondering at the terrible gap so suddenly produced in a familiar scene. Her eyes turned to the child beside her, and quickly she stooped to kiss and clasp her to her breast, and muttered- God forgive me!" Let us go away, mother dear," said Ida, uneasily; we'll never come here any more, shall we ?" No, dear, never any more-never any more, pet," said the woman, mournfully, in her still, doep voice, that always seemed saying," Wait J" So they turned away, and for the last time Nelly's foot touched the spot where young Aaron had led her, a blushing and loving bride, to their wedded home. It was the first week in the month: the Dare-devil, manned, stored, appointed to the full in every tittle, rode at anchor in the sequestered bay at a considerable distance from Sandcombe, seeming to fret impatient of her bonds, and eager, like a high-mettled steed, to be set free. The absences of Saul Meghorn had been of greater frequency, and more prolonged, since the night of the fire. Apart from his suddenly-stirred jealousy, he had probably believed that, by his last act of tyranny, he had loosened one of the ties which held his miserable wife to the spot he now designed she should quit, in all probability, for ever; and when he ascer- tained, as a very slight observation soon assured him, that she had given up her visit even to the long familiar scene, he did not fail to congratulate himself upon success so far. Still, in their very brief interviews, there was in her solemn, pale, unspoken grief, a tacit avenger, an un- dying witness, as it were, against him, that he, neither obtuse nor dull of perception, did not fail to accept and to feel most keenly. He was the torturer of the woman whose love-as he had said-he would have perilled his soul to gain; and to purchase whose hap- piness-had she but vouchsafed to ask it—he would have dared worse than death, have attempted impos- sibilities. Then the fit passed-he would debate whether she might not yet be moved by contrast of the fate she doomed him to. "Ay, with even all this in my grasp, with that vessel yonder, ready at my bidding, and hands and hearts that will follow me through the world—I'd give it all—cast it up, turn my back upon the sea and its triumphs for ever, and lead the life of a plough- man-only to hear her say she loves me, only to win one of those looks she casts upon that child! Oh! my God, that I should come to this!" In the madness of such an hour he would rush homewards, and, weapon in hand, determine on kill- ing her child before her—in his frenzy he could see the life-blood flow around the mother's feet-hear her shriek for mercy, gloat over her agonies, or revel like a demon in the anticipation of the caresses he would purchase by concession to her prayers. Yes, there were moments when he e iuld even contemplate plung- ing his dagger into the cold breast he vainly sought to warm, and from her dying throes wresting a fearful sweetness of revenge ere he mingled his own blood with that of one who held her life so apart. But ever, ere he reached that dwelling, which by her presence held such a bitter-sweet attraction for him, the weapon was sheathed, and with it all blood- thirsty delirium. Some gentler fiend would whisper hope—even yet in the eleventh hour—and the wretched man, seeking, perhaps, in his desolation even pity, would be met with the frozen word, the stony look, which entered sharper than poisoned arrow to the flaming soul of Meghorn. Though all was in readiness, and the men panted for action — though arrangements had been made for the due care of the little girl, who was to be parted from her mother-and though all was ad- jasted with such exactness, that an hour might have seen Nelly conveyed aboard the vessel, anchor weighed, and Deepgang deserted — yet still they lingered—still, under some unaccountable impulse, Saul delayed his final order, and found some new occasion for hindrance. But at length it was done. The second day from this, the captain was to come on board—Yawmans had all instructions, and already was he made familiar with the usual haunts of the mother and chdd, during the lengthening evenings and pleasant twilight-most convenient hour for deeds not adapted to the search- ing eyes of day. CHAPTER XV. AMONG THE FERN. Tax burning of the cottage had, of course, been the cause of some excitement among the neighbours; and in the space of the ensuing twenty-four hours the spot had been visited by most of them; the accident discussed and viewed from every imaginable point; but all came very quickly to one conclusion-namely, that the fire had arisen from some indiscretion on the part of those who were the only visitors to the cottage. A lamp had been left burning, or a spark dropped into a chest, or on the bed so they settled it in their own minds: it was so very evident; how could it be otherwise ? The only one who could have undeceived them, besides the perpetrator of the deed, had no motive to do so. She did not seek 18 punish him, at whose hands she had resigned herself to receive chastise- ment. More than ever she was alone with her own thoughts and the companionship of her little daughter. As the days lengthened, they betook themselves more frequently to the pleasant shades of the woods, or the fresh, calm recesses of the rocks and bays, shunning, with mutual dislike, the sombre gloom of the dwelling of which they seemed now almost sole inmates, and gladly exchanging its sunless, low-ceiled rooms, and echoing passages, for the welcoming sights and sounds of Nature without; the whispering of the breeze among the tree tops, the plash of the cool waves, the sparkling of the sands, the leaping into glad life of a thousand nameless creatures, which the breath of spring calls into existence. So they strolled forth one beautiful evening, and betook themselves after much pleading on the part of the younger, to a favourite spot at the base of the Chine. It was Ida's chosen resort, for here she might climb and wander at will; here abounded in profusion her dear flowers, and here, too, the best seat for her mother was to be found, with what she cn-se to call a table beside, for all the appliances of her work, which Nelly never failed to bring with her, but which, indeed, made little advance in those hours, when, left to herself, it would drop from her hands, and she would fall into the old train of bitter, unprofitable thought, self-accu- sation, and regret. She was roused from her attitude of meditation by the touch of her child's hand upon her own. She started, for the small fingers were chill, and she had not heard Ida approach. I Looking down, Nelly saw her child's face turned up to her very pale and with a scared expression; she was trembling too, while she was evidently scarcely able to command her speech. "What is the matter?" she exclaimed. "Ida, darling, what has hurt you ? Not hurt iue, mother," the little girl said slowly and with some difficulty, but it's something drefful up there, mother," she pointed to the cliff far above, where the Chine's summit bordered on the barren crag of the Deepgang I was gathering the blue flowers, there is lots there, and I saw a beauty down a little bit, and was just getting it; and in among the ferns I saw something—oh! mother, I touched it, it's drefful! like dead, mother, so drefful." She put her hand nervously to her head, and laid it on her mother's bosom, as she finished speaking. "You shouldn't have gone so far, my darling," said her mother, while she soothed and lifted Ida to her lap. It was the blue flowers; I wanted them 150 for you," said the little girl, plaintively; but I never will any more, mother." But, dear child, what was it to frighten you ? a poor little bird, I suppose, fallen from its nest ? Ida shook her head—" Oh, no! no, it wasn't, dear mother, it was drtIful-it was like tkiB." As she spoke, she held up the little buttoned sleeve a moment, and shuddered. Tdo. what de you mean?" exclaimed NJiy, as she set the child upon her feet and started up. It was, mother, only worse—it was bones Oh, mother, don't go, please." Ida, I must see! I must go; my child, stay here. I will not be long—I must go, Ida. Do as I bid you -sit there! mother will come back." (To be continued.)

THE INVALID ARTIST. --+-- THE loveliest baby, sir." What is it, nurse ?" asked the delighted father. A boy, sir, and perfect in limb and feature. Not a blemish in him." Nurse held up the little red lump of humanity for him to kiss; but though there was heartfelt happi- ness in the young father's look, he could not bring himself to caress it yet. AuntSt cousins, grandmothers, all came, and pro- nounced the child perfect. Never was there such a beautiful creature," said one and all; and* pretty Mary Kent, lying there with her soft, graceful em- broideries around her, and her dark curls floating over the pillow, was as happy a young mother as was ever blessed by the first sight of a blue-eved child. All the pleasant signs of progress that could be made by an infant prodigy like the little Fitz Her- bert, were duly observed and chronicled. Every little pearl of a tooth had its record to some distant rela- tive, and every inch of golden hair that added itself to the dear head, made it look more and more like a seraph to Mary's eyes. The teeth and hair having been duly registered, she would write no more letters to cousin Lucy until she could tell her that the baby walked. Oh, the inexpressible delight of seeing the first step which the little human traveller ever plants on the earth, which is to be the scene of his wander- ings until his last footstep hovers trembling over the grave! Well, Miss Kent, ain't that child never goin' to walk ?" asked a rough but well-meaning woman, when she called in one morning and saw the little two-year- old sitting tied into his dining chair, and watching his mother as she was paring apples. Mary burst into tears. Mrs. Rolfe she knew meant no harm, but she had touched a chord that vibrated in the poor young mother's heart, and waked into ex- pression a thought she had noc dared to utter. Oh, Mrs. Rolfe!" she said, in a piteous tone, that went to the good woman's heart, it was so sad, tell me, you who know so much about children, tell me what is the matter with mine!" Mrs. Rolfe made no reply but she took the baby from its chair, laid it in her lap, and, lifting its little feet in her hands, she rubbed and felt them for several minutes with her large brown hand, and then let them fall from her grasp, while a cloud came over her good- humoured face. "There's no strength there-and there never will be!" she said, in a compassionate voice. The mother shrieked aloud, and besought her to look aeain. Oh, Mrs. Rolfe, you must be mistaken. My little Fitz Herbert a cripple! He must not—shall not be!" and she pressed the half-frightened child to her bosom, convulsively, as if she could avert that terrible doom. Alas, she could not avert it. She sent for the doctor, and he only confirmed the painful fact. Some sinew or muscle had not received its proper amount of lubricative oil, or the life principle, so active in every othElr part of the little frame, had stopped short of the feet. Doctor Williams was not very lucid in his axplanations, and used hard words enough to stagger the simple audience he addressed in the persons of the mother and Mrs. Rolfe; but the end of it was that little Fitz Herbert was a very fortunate child to possess such a good mother, who would, he was confident, be resigned, and so forth. How to break it to the father Mary was at a loss to know. Mrs. Rolfe undertook it; and Mary charged her to be very gentle, and break it by de- grees. Poor Herbert "I she said, he had so longed for the little boy to walk out with him on afternoons when he was released from the desk." Herbert Kent was clerk in the small country bank -the solitary bank of the town—and his afternoons were his own. Only that very morning he bad asked Mary if the child would soon go alone. She did not appear to hear his question. She bad begun to fear something. The little boy had not shown any dispo- sition even to creep, and the poor feet lay still and motionless always. Herbert bore it better than she had hsped. He did not believe in it fully. Let the child get strength and it would walk fast enough! He even went around to his acquaintances to ascertain the exact time when their children could walk, and came back triumphantly to Mary with the most wonderful sta- tistics of pedestrian slowness that could be imagined. In fact, he partially succeeded in consoling Mary, when he told her how old were such and such children who were as backward as Fitz Herbert. The pitying mothers had not told him that their children had crept constantly, and used their feet every way but by walking on them. Two years took away this hope, and destroyed the consolation effectually. Fitz Herbert's feet fell as nerveless from their grasp as they had done before. The child, with all its glorious beautv—with its large, full eyes, its wealth of golden-coloured curls, and the sweet, serious mouth, with its bright red lips—was yet a cripple, helpless as when it first opened its blue eyes to the light. Patiently, after the firat bitter certainty was esta blished, the young couple set to work to make the life of their boy as pleasant and beautiful as they could under his hard privation. The weary miles that the young clerk carried his little son in his arms -the innumerable devices which he pondered for the invention of a self-propelling vehicle, by which Fitz Herbert could go from room to room, or down the small yard of their house Now, for the first time, did the father wish himself rich-not for the sake of having hired servants to wait on his child, for that would never be intrusted to another, but to procure the power of locomotion for him by some more costly means than he could now afford. Meantime Fitz Herbert was growing up, though not rapidly, in blissful half unconsciousness of a mis- fortune which was far more vivid in other people's eyes than his own. Never having enjoyed his powers of motion in that way, he could not so well realise the want of them. He could scarcely account at all for the pitying looks he received from others and the half-uttered exclamations which betrayed the sense of his bereavement. A dozen years passed away, and Herbert Kent, the kind husband and father, the patient half-rewarded man of business, was suddenly called home "to his Father's house in the skies." Mary stilled her own griefs to minister to the pas- sionate serrow of her boy and his grew calmer when he saw how she suppressed her own. She had learned, in her youth, to sew on straw and she now commenced an occupation which brought in abundant means to support herself and Fitz Herbert. But the restless child must have occupation too; and on her first journey to the town where she sold her manufactures, she procured for him a large and beau- tiful paint, such as he had been longing for every time he arranged his little bits of cheap paint- gamboge, and indigo, and red ochre. Oh, mamma! and you working all day and all night for this!" said the grateful little fellow. "No—not all night," answered the mother, softly. And besides, what would I not do for my good son ? Fitz Herbert's kiss was her reward and soon she had even greater than that. Without assistance or instruction, the boy did wonders in the new art which had become so dear to him. Old Mrs. Rolfe still befriended Mary Kent; and when, in the summer after Fitz Herbert attained his twelfth year, the old lady's house was filled with boarders from the city, she did cot even then forget her protigS. Mr. Waller, the artist, was among her guests, and she carried him off to see the boy at her first leisure moment, dimly conscious of some great good which he might do him. She was right. Waller saw the germ of genius, and, what does not always accom- pany genius—seldom, indeed—the essential quality of patienco in details; and he promised to himself, aDd to the delighted Mrs. Rolfe, that he would give that boy a helping lift, if Heaven spared his life. Hitherto the child had made pictures from copying engravings; now he desigm-d views, partly from memories of sweet spots which he had seen when gmng about the country with his father, and partly i rom the beautiful images and groupings in his own mind. Scarce a week passed that he did not receive some little help from Waller-a box of artists' imple- ments, or some work on painting, or an exquisite engraving to copy. And the next year Waller in- sisted on carrying away with him, for exhibition, a picture on which Fitz Herbert had expended incredible pains. It won't come to anything, Mr. Waller," said the boy, but I wish you would keep it yourself, as a remembrance of the good deeds you have done for me." I am not sure I have done you any good, Fitz Herbert," said Mr. Waller, doubtfully. "Oh yes, sir You have kept me from pining and cemplaining, at least; and is not that a blessing ?" The next news was that the oictnre was sold for five pounds. No great sum, wrote Waller, but au earnest of more by-and-by. My first did not bring half that." s Mrs. Rolfe went into hysterics of congratulation, and his mother's quiet tear of pleasure was so much better than even the money which he was so glad to have earned. One line in Waller's letter troubled the boy, because of the utter impracticability, he thought, of its suggestion being carried out. It is too late to fall back," he wrote and to become a painter you must see pictures. To the metro- polis, therefore, you must come." Fitz Herbert did not show this to his mother; but one day she took up Wailer's letter, and stumbled over that very paragraph-and in serene silence, as she did everything, she arranged her affairs for going before she disturbed his nerves by unfolding her plan. She had i grandaunt in London, who she knew would be glad to see her for her mother's sake and in the kind answer that was returned to her proposal of a visit to her, the ol i lady mentioned her own intimate acquaintance with Mr. Waller. Mrs. Kent bad always kept her son neat and re- spectable. She resolved he should be even well dressed now and a handsome suit of grey, and the finest of linen collars and wristbands, were the fruits of his first picture. His fair complexion and rich golden hair were set off by the neutral tint of his garments, and his faultless figure did credit to its nice fitting. The train bore him and his mother away, on an autumn day, and Dame Rolfe did not forget to throw her shoe after them for luck. (To be continued.) ",fI": -w-

THE FIRST LONDON THEATRES.—James Bur- bage and his companions were driven to look for a place outside the Lord Mayor's jurisdiction where they might still be within reach of the considerable audiences to be drawn from London. Such a place they found among the houses built upon the ground that had once belonged to the great monastery of the Domi- nicans or Black Friars. The monastery had been built in the time of Edward I., and had a handsome church with privileges, including right of sanctuary. Its large precinct included many shops, and had been entered by four gates. Its inhabitants, exempt from City law, were subject only to the King, to the superior of the monastery, and to their own justices. Several Parliaments had been held in the geat church of the Black Friars, and there in 1529 Wolsey and Campeggio had heard the question of divorce between Henry VIII. and Katharine of Arragon. At the dissolution of the monasteries, iKd £ ^"ara was surrendered to the King in 1538. In lo47 the Prior's lodgings and the hall were sold to Sir Francis Bryan, and afterwards Edward VI. granted the rest to Sir Thomas Cawarden. The site monastery and its precincts—not included within liberties of the City till the reign of James I. -became, in Elizabeth's day, a fashionable quarter and when James Burbage and his fellow players, to escape control of the Corporation, took a house in Blackfriars, and converted it into a theatre of their own, they could not do so without combating much opposition from the polite neighbours, who were averse to noise and crowd. But thev achieved their object, and opened, in 1576, the Blackfriara Theatre, the first place set apart in England for performances or plays. About the same time, two other buildings were erected for the distinct purpose of presenting plays in them. These were outside the citv bounds, in the pleasant fields at Shoreditch, a quarter then preferred for the houses and gardens of rich foreign merchants trading in London. These houses were called The Theatre and "The Curtain," built on the south-western side of the site of the suppressed Priory of St. John the Baptist, called Holywell. One recommendation of the place chosen for them was that outside Bishopsgate a well-kept street (now Bishops- gate-street Without) extended for soma way into the | open country, and thus gave easy and safe way of approach to the play-goers. Cassell's Library of English Literature A PECULIAR MARRIAGE LAW.—A numerous progeny, in a poor and sterile country, is doubtless a distinct evil, and it is one which naturally suggests the imposition of a check even to those who have never beard of Malthus or his doctrines. This we may sup- pose to have been the position of the Tibetans when they cast about for some plan by which they might f increase of the population. The plan they adopted for this purpose is almost unique, and is called polyandry, which may be explained as being the exact reverse of polygamy for as in most Eastern countries it is lawftit for a man to have a plurality of wives, in libet it is the custom for a woman to have a plurality of husbands. The usual practice is for two, three, or four brothers in a household to marry one wife. They all reside in one house, and the children are considered to be the joint offspring of all. It is inconceivable to us that such a system should exist for aD hour bit in Tibet, far from giving rise to the evils which might be expected to flow from it, it works easily and well; and the pictures which travellers give us of Tibetan households display a degree of domestic happiness and affection which certainly equals that enjoyed in more favoured lands. This is a description Mr. Bogle gives of a family at whose house he spent the night: "The house belongs to two brothers, who are married to a very handsome wife, and have three of the prettiest children I ever saw. They all came to drink tea and eat sugar-candy. After night came on, the whole family assembled in a room to dance to their own singing, and spent two hours in this manner with abundance of mirth and glee. But if such a system renders marriage an im- possibility to many women, it makes some amends by elevating te position of those who succeed in entering the bonds of wedlock. The natural rivalry which exists between the husbands tends to encour age them in a chivalrous regard for the comfort and well-being of their common wife. The ornaments which adorn the garments and head-dresses of the women bear testimony to a very general desire to please On the part of their husbands, while the effect of the attention thus bestowed on the weaker vessels is to render them more delicate and joyous than any of their polygamy-bound neighbours. To a certain ex- tent, also, it has on the men that refining effect which must always result from the habit of considering the wishes of others but in other respects it leaves them, as it found them. hard and uncultivated—Cornhill Magazine. WHY COAL BURNB.-If you take a lump of coal out of the coal-scuttle you find yourself in posses- sion of an irregular lump of black stone, which usually soils the hand that holds it, to a greater or less extent, and which generally presents but one obvious feature— namely, that it clearly consists of thin parallel layers, some of which are usually shiny and glistening, while others are more dull and earthy in appearance. In consequence of this structure, as every one knows who has ever stirred a fire, it is comparatively 08BY to break up a piece of coal in one direction (the direction cor- responding with that of the oomponent layers), but repeated blows from the poker may be vainly used if the refractory lump be attacked in the opposite direc- tion (the direction at right angles to the layers). Now, as before remarked, there is nothing whatever about a piece of coal which would in any Way indicate its inflammable nature, and perhaps the first question that we should feel disposed to ask is, Why does coal burn ? To answer this question we must call in the help of our chemical friends; but we can get an intelligible reply without dipping very deeply into the theory of combustion. The chemist tells us, then, that coal is composed principally of the elementary substance which is termed carbon, and which is seen in its purest form in lamp-black, charcoal, and the wonderfully dissimilar blacklead and diamond. He further tells us that carbon, when raised to a certain temperature, has the strongest desire te unite itself with the gas called oxygen, which is present in a large amount in our atmosphere, this union being attended with the production of light and heat, and resulting in the formation of the invisible and poisonous gas which is technically called carbonic-acid gas. When, therefore, we burn a piece of coal in the fire-place, what happens, roughly stated, is (1) that the carbon of the coal enters into direct union with the oxygen of the air, emitting heat and light in so doing, the carbonic-acid gas thus produced escaping up the chimney in an invisible form; and (2) that the earthy and incombustible matter present in greater or less amount in all coals is left in the grate unburned, in the form of ashes and cinders.— Science for All BEAUTY gains little, and homeliness and de- formity lose much, by gaudy attire. Lysander knew this was in part true, and refused the rich garments that the tyrant Dionysius proffered to hIs daughter, saying that they were fit only to make ugly faces more remarkable.

LADIES (COLUMN. THE FASHIONS As usual at this time of the year, says Le Follet, there are no radical changes t.J chronicle, and but slight modifications of the coupes, facjons, and garni- tures of the preceding months. Tbe "Princesse" dress is still the style adopted by the leading eoutu- rieres, many of "them displaying great taste and ability in so trimming it as almost to disguise its real shape; but, in spite of these arrangements, this fashion will ere long be superseded by some novelty or renovation. There are two or three modes of whose success in the ensuing season we can speak with perfect certainty. They are corsages, with long tight-fitting basques, either straight, round, or of unequal length; round-waisted bodies, with waistbands all round; corsages a basques at the back, with waistbands from the sides only; eilets, plastrones, tabliers, and scarp draperies, tuniques esharpes combisationsof different materials, colours, or shades; a great quantity of ribbons, dis- posed in flots principally and a greater display of iace than we have bad for many seasons. The latter garniture will be much employed in plisses and gathered frills, the former especially. For this pur- pose, the qualify of the lace being so little discernible, an imitation answers every purpose but, if the lace be so arranged as to display the pattern, and, above all, the quality, it must either be real or the oest imitation procurable. Satin, on its reappearance, made such rapid strides to fashionable favour, that there is hardly a dress of a class in which so rich a material is possible that is not in some way combined with it. It ie much more effective than faille in any combination with velvet plush, velours broch6, or lampas. For evening dress it is unsur- passable, the grace of its folds and brilliant reflets adapting it beyond all materials for the display of lace, jewels, and flowers. Plush is much used as trimmings, not only forming component portions of toilettes—as we described last month—but in bands, on the edges of tunics and jackets. Indian cash- mere is very much employed for day toilettes. Satin makes a very effective trimming for it, but the richest and most elegant dresses of the kind are em- broidered on the material itself As the season ad- vances, many of the lighter makes of vigogne and cachemire will be used in conjunction with silk for costumes, made as polonaises over silk skirts, or with tunics and long basqued tight-fitting corsages. Some of these made of cachemire will be embroidered in chenille—a mixture of silk and wool, tar less expensive than that composed entirely of silk; the colours are generally en camaieu-tbat is, shades of the same colour. Plush bodices look very well with either silk or satin skirts. Black satin dresses embroidered with many-coloured jet beads are most fashionably worn the usual way is to sow the beads on a foundation of strong black net, the trim- ming being thus rendered of service for another dress. Black silks, as usual in the intermediate season, are in great demand. We have seen some very effectively trimmed with a mixture of colour one to which our attention was drawn had a long waistcoat of silk in alternate flne plaits of pale blue and moss green; a wide plisse of blue, lined with green, down each side of the train, which was slightly raised en pouff, with flots of the two shades. The tablier breadth was draped on the right side, showing a portion of skirt, covered with alternate pliseAs of the two colours. Flots of ribbons on the cuffs, and on one shoulder. Black trimmed with colours is also most fashionably worn, and for spring and summer toilettes, dresses of black silk covered or profusely trimmed with black grenadine, and sprinkled with jet, moonlight, mor- dor6e, or rainbow beads, will be most elegantly worn, enlivened when necessary by the graceful addition of a few flots and bows of coloured ribbon, either plain or a deux faces. No trimming can, however, be more effective than plaitings of lace headed by an embroidered band studded with beads or a frayed ruche. The great demand for materials of more than one colour has caused the introduction of shot silks; they are at present chiefly used for trimmings, and are charmingly effective in frayed ruches or coulisses. As the season advances they will form a larger portion of the dress, and most pro- bably be worn combined with plain silk, of one of the shades. There are many elegant varieties of mantelets and" Dolmans" suitable for ladies whose age or figure would render a tight-fitting paletot un- suitable. Some of them are a mass of braiding or embvoidery a full plaiting of black lace at the edge is an elegant and expensive-looking addition. Both these and the close-fitting jackets are often accom- panied by bows and flots of ribbon. The dominant colour of the season-that is to say, the one to replace, the hues called crême" and toousse," and all the shades derived from them — will be the colour gomme."

USEFUL HINTS. SPRING SOUP. -Out some new carrots and some new turnips in the shape of peas, put them in separate saucepans with enough stock to cover them, and a pinch of sugar; keep them on the fire till the stock has all boiled away, but mind they do not catch or burn. Cook some peas and some asparagus points in the same way. You should have equal quantities of each of these vegetables. Out out of lettuces and sorrel leaves pieces the size of a sixpence, let them have one boil in some stock. Put all the vegetables so prepared in the soup tureen, add a few sprigs of chervil, pour over them some well-flavoured con- somme. and serve. WHITING A LA YENETIBNNE.—Out a large whiting into fillets, put them into a deep dish, with some salt, pepper, and the juice of a large lemon; let them marinade for an hour, then drain flour the fillets well, and fry of a golden brown, serving them with whatever sauce is preferred. A good white sauce, with the squeeze of a lemon added at the last moment, is excellent with this dish. A GOOD PLAIN PIE CRUST.—Sift one quart of flour into a bowl; chop into the flour (using a chopping- knife) one-half pound of good firm lard chop until very fine; pour in enough ice-water to make a stiff dough, and work it with your hands; flour your hands; work your dough into shape handle it quickly and as little as possible; flour your pastry-board; and roll out your dough very thin always roll from you have ready one half-pound of good butter that has been washed in two or three cold waters to rid it of salt; spread the dough with butter; fold it up, then roll it out thin again; spread again with butter; fold again, and repeat the operation until the butter is all used up. To PRESERVE EGGS.—A very good brine to pre- serve eggs may be made by mixing one peck of lime, jIb. common salt, and 12 drams of Cream of Tartar with as much water as will make a liquor in which an egg will float. To SOFTEN THE SKIN AND IMPROVE THE COMPLEXION. -Mix a little flowers of sulphur in afternoon milk- about a wineglass full. Let it stand all night, to be used before washing the next morning. The milk only is to be applied to the skin, without disturbing the sulphur. It must not be used when kept longer than the morning.—CasselVs Household Guide. HOW TO EXTRACT GLASS STOPPERS.—When a glass stopper is tight, pass a strip of woollen cloth round the neck of the vessel, and see-saw it backwards and forwards. This friction heats and causes the neck to expand, so that the stopper becomes loose. On this principle of expansion by heat a tight screw may be withdrawn from a metal socket, by surrounding the latter with a cloth dipped in boiling water. ACCOMPLISHMENTS should be chiefly valued for their influence in rendering the domestic circle more cheer- ful and refined. Some accomplished young ladies seem to consider them as attainments only intended to excite the admiration of society the idea of merely entertaining their relations seems to them unreason- able but such views are destitute of domestic hap- piness. --u- h_-

WHY does a bricklayer resemble a bird r-Be- cause he has often raised a wing and flue. SPORTSMEN'S PARADISE. — The "Terai," or scene of the Prince's hunting operations, is the border of prairie that lies along the great forest at the base of the Himalayas, and runs from east to west, at the base of the vast triangle which is formed on one side by the mountains, and on the other two by the ocean. An evil repute has for ages been attached to the place, which the natives dread so much, that nothing will induce them td vanture within its recesses at certain seasons of the year: for the fever of the Terai is a deadly pest when fully established. Cassids, or runners, in 1859, objected te cross the junele; and Lcrd Clyde, when following up the discomfited rebels, was assured that if he approached the dreaded Terai all his native camp-followers would abandon him. These mutineers and others who followed Nana Sahib, the Begum, and other leaders, into those malarious regions, in 1858-59, perished in thousands but pri- vation contributed quite as much as local disease to decimate them. It is after the wet season and when the leaves are falling that the Terai is most perilous; yet old residents, who take due precautions, think little of passing through the worst dis- tricts, provided they do not linger there but whatever its perils mav be, the vast wilderness of the Terai is full of attractions to the sports- man, as an infinity of game find shelter in its re- cesses. There the elephant, the tiger, and the rhino- ceros roam in freedom and all manner of other wild animals peculiar to Hindostan find their lair amid the rank luxuriance of its vegetation.—CasseWsIllustrated History of India*

VARIETIES. No CJoircsALiKG.—Love, fire, and a cough cannot be hid. UsBFULNtss.—Whoever sincerely endeavours to do all the good he can will probably do much more than he imagines, or will ever know. THE POWER OF SYMPATHY.-Human sympathy, based on Christian love, has an influence and power which all the dogmas, all the creeds combined, are at least as they are taught, wholly destitute. CHARITY.—The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness to- wards the hard, forbearance towards the unforbearing, warmth of heart towards the cold, and philanthropy towards the misanthropic. The German, as a youth, submits to the yoke of a school; as a young man, to the training of the army; as a full adult, to the possible restraints of a full- grown soldier. And he carries these habits with him into the workshop. ECONOMY.—A sound economy is a sound understand- ing brought into action. It is calculation realized. It is the doctrine of proportion reduced to practice. It is foreseeing contingencies, and providing against them. It is expecting contingencies, and being pre- pared for them. To BE CULTIVATED.—Cheerfulness is an excellent wearing quality. It has been called the brighter weather of the heart. It gives harmony to the soul, and is a perpetual song without words. It is tanta- mount to repose. It enables nature to recruit strength; whereas worry and discontent debilitates it, involving constant wear and tear. THE SANCTITY OF MEMORY.—That sanctity which settles on the memory of a great man ought, upon a double motive, to be vigilantly sustained by his countrymen; first, out of gratitude to him, as one column of the national grandeur; secondly, with a practical purpose of transmitting, unimpaired, to posterity the benefit of ennobling models. High standards of excellence are among the happiest dis- tinctions by which the modern ages of the world have an advantage over earlier, and we are all in- terested by duty as well as policy in preserving them inviolate. THE SEX IN POLAND. Polish women are pro- verbially beautiful and sweet-tempered, but thev are endowed with a courage which used to make the iron- Ir handed Count Berg say that a Polish woman and a priest together could checkmate any police-office. Since these words were uttered care has been taken to break the power of the priests in Russian Poland; for almost all the Catholic churches have been closed, and such few as remain have priests who are generally in the pay of the police and use the confessional as a means for extracting information as to alleged con- spiracies. CURIOSITIES OF SLEEP.—A distinguished lawyerwas consulted upon an important and difficult case, which he studied for several days with anxious care. His wife then saw him rise in the night, and go to a desk in the bed-room. He sat down and wrote a long paper, which he carefully placed in the desk. He then re- turned to bed, and m the morning told his wife that he had dreamt of delivering a clear and luminous opinion about a case which had greatly perplexed him, and j that he wished he could remember the train of thought of his dream. She directed him to the desk, and there he found the opinion clearly copied out, which proved to be correct. THE INTERREGNUM AT THE VATICAN.—The duty of verifying the death of a Pope falls upon the Cardinal Camerlengo or Chamberlain, and he does this by visiting the chamber of death, striking the Pope on the forehead with a silver mallet, and calling upon him by name. It is not till this has been done, and till the Pope has been officially and in set form certi- fied to be truly dead, that the great bell in the Capitol II is tolled to announce to the Romans that they are Popeless, and that the supreme authority of the city has passed to the College of Cardinals and their marshal. Such of the cardinals as happen to be in Rome are at once summoned together, and notices are those at a distance. The Maestro di Camera delivers the Fisherman's ring to the Camerlengo, or Chamberlain of the Vatican, and it is formally broken before the assembled cardinals; coins are struck bear- ing the arms of the Camerlengo, sede vacante; and the Camerlengo, taking possession of the Vatican and its treasures, consigns the corpse of the Holy Father to the penitentiaries of the Vatican Basilica for inter- ment. THE INDIAN'S AMBinoN.—Civilization has many points of ambitious attainment—the rewards of letters, triumphs in the forum and legislative hall, the diplo- matic bureau, &c.—but the Indian has only one prime honour to grasp; it is triumph in the war-path, it is rushing upon his enemy, tearing the scalp reeking from his head, and then uttering his terrible war- whoop. For this crowning act he is permitted to mount the honoured feather of the war eagle-the. king of carnivorous birds. By this mark he is publicly known, and his honours recognised by all the tribe, and by the surrounding tribe whose customs assi- milate. When the scalp of an enemy has been won, very great pains are taken to exhibit it. For this pur- pose it is stretched on a hoop, and mounted on a pole, the inner part is painted red, and the hair adjusted to hang in its natural manner. If it be the scalp of a male, eagle's feathers are attached to denote the fact. If a female, a comb or scissors is hung on the frame. In this condition it is placed in the hands of an old woman, who bears it about in the scalp-dance, while opprobious epithets are uttered against the tribe from whom it is taken. FEMALE SWINDLERs.-They are generally irresis- tible to the sterner sex, they travel on their winning ways," and deceive the landlord before he knows it, and when they are justly punished, which is very sel- dom, fall back on the plea that their sex protects them." Not long since a lady was driven in a cab up to the ladies' entrance of one of our leading hotels, and was escorted to the ladies' parlour. She was dressed in the height of fashion, but very plainly, and seemed to be a quiet, unpretending lady. The only article of luggage she had with her was a small box, neatly wrapped up in a manilla paper, with a shawl- strap attached, by means of which it was carried. This she seemed to handle with great care, and requested that it be placed in the hands of the proprietor, and a receipt given for the same. She was a bewitching blonde, with a smile sweet enough to melt the heart of a Shylock. She entranced all the boarders; spent a pleasant week; and one bright morning started out to do a little shopping," and for all that her friends ill the house know is still shopping. After an absence of two or three days the proprietor's enepicione were at last aroused, and opening the aforesaid small box, which by the way was hermetically sealed with red sealing-wax, they found four bricks of the best manufacture. „ COURTSHIP OF BALZAC.—The circumstances attend- ing the firat meeting of Jlalzac, the French novelist, and the Princess of Hanski, their intercourse, and finally their courtship and marriage, are most peculiar and interesting. The story has been told somewhat as follows: When this celebrated man was at the height of his fame, travelling in Switzerland, he arrived at an inn just as the Prince Hanski and his wife were leaving it. Balzac was ushered into the room they had vacated, and was looking out of the window to watch their departure, when the Princess entered the apartment in seach of a book she had left there. Her face was an exceedingly fair one, and her voice one of the sweetest he had ever listened to. These charms were not lost on the susceptible novelist; and, when he found that the book she was so loth to leave behind was a pocket-edition of his own works, he was completely enchanted. This interview was the only one they had until he went to Germany to present himself as her accepted husband; but, during the interval of fifteen years, a literary correspondence was kept up between them, which ceased when the Prince died. This fact was communicated to Balzac in a letter written by the newly made widow, who in- formed him that her late lord had bequeathed to her all his domains and great wealth, and that she felt bound to requite him, in some measure, for his liber- ality by giving him a successor in the person of Balzac. The delighted author did not wait for a second sum- mons, but hastened to her chateau on the Rhine, where they were soon married. NIGHT ON THE NILE.-There was a wild gorge In the Arabian hills, where the chain drew near the shore. As we approached it I saw that it was flooded with mellow light. Soft breezes bore us slowly against the river current, and we noiselessly approached the mouth of the gorge. Oh, vale of enchantment! Fantastic crags leaped into the air and hung suspended by some mighty magic. Between the golden walls, in the bed of the valley, a grove of palms rustled their plumes in the delicious air, and just above these palms rose a splendid moon. Every leaf was lustrous in its light; every rock sparkled faintly, and out of the mouth of the valley poured a deluge of light in which we were all drowned with glory and transfigured. Our barge was silver, our sails of softest silk, and bright flames played upon the waters under us. It was one of the gates of paradise There was a bend in the river be- yond the valley, and when we had rounded it those gates were closed on us for ever and ever. The moon climbed up into heaven and did what she could to smother the stars; they are not easily outshone in these crystal skies. The cabin went to sleep in a body. I hung about the ship and burned my weed with the spirit of oneswho offers a sacrifice to some adorable but invisible object. I scented the incense of nargileh and heard the water bubbling in the shell of the cocoa- nut; 1 the hasheesh eaters were sleeping their fatal sleep (we have six of them in our crew). And very shortly one of these slaves of sleep began muttering a story to the moon in a sort of sing-song that attracted about him an audience of intent listeners. The storyteller reclined on his bed of rugs between decks, the hatch was drawn back, and a great square of moonlight brought him into strong relief. Dark .Nubians lay full length on the deck and listened as stealthily as spies. Two or three of the hasheesh eaters sat near and applauded the narration with foolish do- light chuckling to themselves continually. i Fame is an undertaker that pays but little attention the living, but bedizens the dead, furnishes out their funerals, and follows them to the grave. Prayer is very profitable; at night it is our cover- e {t is our armour. Prayer should be the key of the day and the lock of the night. DOCTRINE. NO doctrine is good for anything that does not leave behind it an ethereal furrow ready ior tne planting of seed which shall bear abundant harvest. r i^owEEA^DFRuiT—rt is not until the flower has fallen off that the fruit begins to ripen. So in life it is when the romance is past that the practical usefulness oegins. WONDER. — In wonder all philosophy began, in wonder it ends, and admiration fills up the interspace. But the first wonder is the offspring of ignorance the last is the parent of adoration. # liEi'ENTANCE.—Many men pass fifty or sixtv vears in the world, and when they are just going- out of it they bethink themselves, and step back, as it were to uo something which they had all the while forgotten, to wit, the main business for which they came into the world—to repent of their sins, and reform their lives, ana make their peace with heaven, and in time prepare for eternity. A WORD FOR F ASHION.-Rail at fashion as we will, and is there a woman who has not occasionally longed *0 i-urn her back upon her and her manifold requisi- tions admit that she is a stumbling-block in the way of comfort very often, and that to follow her too eagerly is a very dangerous and demoralizing thing, still one must say one thing for her :-She has at pre- Eent an eye for beauty; and she produces prettier ob- jects than one would be apt to see if every woman made her own patterns. Each human being has a talent for something; and there are those in the world whose mission seems to be to produce new costumes, or to dig from the tombs of the past the modes which made long- perished beauty lovelier. Just now there are styles that become every one, and to look her best one has but to rely upon a conscientious modiste. VOLUNTEER LIFE BRIGADIE. The Tynemouth Volunteer Life Brigade consists of nearly 150 mem- bers, who are formed into four divisions, each under the command of a captain, elected annually by the efficient members. The Brigade is composed of all classes of society resident in the neighbourhood and includes clergymen, doctors, men of business, and those in. their employ, and a good proportion of boatmen fishermen, and men who have formerly been sailors! The dress worn at drill is a dark blue guernsey with a wide light-coloured waist-belt, having the initials of the Brigade embroidered on it. The belt is always worn at wrecks, and is necessary, particularly at night, to distinguish members from other persons present, who are sometimes apt to force themselves where they can only be in the way. There is a regular practice drill once a month, but often more frequently, when it is desired to test some proposed improvements in the apparatus.— Cornhill Magazine. JIIXPRESSION OF THE EMOTIONS.—There is nothing more wonderful in nature than the expressiveness of the human face, nor anything which excites a wider sympathy than this expression of the emotions. The whole charm of art lies in the expression, and no art is so powerful as the dramatic, in which words are interpreted by looks and gesture. Anyone who has seen a great play well acted will know that even the most powerful words convey only half their meaning without a visible embodiment. The countenance utters a thousand things which words miss or mar. In delicate natures it is as sensitive as the surface of a lake, and is ruffied or calmed by every breath of feeling. Each shade of passion, from rage to tender- ness, from love to hate, from joy to misery, has its peculiar reflection, and the slightest shades of variation axe perceptible. A glance, a blush, a smile, a tear will convey in an instant the thought which a poet would labour for hours to express, and which he would, after all, fall short of. MENDELSSOHN'S VISIT TO THE QUEEN.—Mendels- sohn gave us an account of his visit to the Queen. She had received him very graciously, and he was much pleased with her rendering of some of his songs, which he had accompanied; he had also played to the Queen and the Prince. She must have been pleased, for, when he rose to depart, she thanked him, and said, "You have given me so much pleasure; now, what can I do to give you pleasure?" Mendels- sohn deprecating, she insisted, so he candidly admitted the he had a wish that only her Majesty could fulfil. He, himself the head of a household, felt mightily interested in the Queen's domestic arrange- ments; in short, might he see the royal children in their royal nurseries ? The Queen at once entered into the spirit of his request, and, in her most winning way, conducted him herself through the nurseries, all the while comparing notes with him on the homely subjects that had a special attraction for both.—2 he Life of Moscheles. SUGAR AND WATER VERSES.—Words are only valuable when they express something, and silly poetry is even more worthless than silly prose, inas- much as it aims at a higher and more regular form of expression, therefore its failure is more of a dis- appointment and also for the reason that beautiful form comes by labour, and it is a pity to see labour bestowed on what is worthless when finished. You expect a drink of rich and generous wine, and you. are offered some tepid sugar and water—not even, rose-water. These eau sucree verses are often graceful, delicate, pretty, and this may seem praise enough; but when you remember that the same praise can be justly bestowed on a mould of blanc-mange, it can hardly seem sufficient. Blanc-mange is a concoction made up by the confectioner, which a spoon breaks into a shapeless mass; and these mixed and stewed concoctions, boneless, without the fibre of flesh or the pulp or juice of fruit, when seasoned and poured into a mould of imitative fruit or flowers, can never bear the critic's knife. There must be structure, even in a poem, to have it worth anything; not bony, protrud- ing structure, but something that holds the part in co. herency.-Galaxy. WREN'S DESIGN FOR ST. PAUL'S.—The great architect, Wren, was the son of a Dean of Windsor, and nephew of a bishop of Norwich, whom Cromwell had imprisoned for his Romish tendencies. From a boy Wren had shown a genius for scientific discovery. He distinguished himself in almost every branch of knowledge, and to his fruitful brain we are indebted for some fifty-two suggestive discoveries. He now hoped to build London on a magnificent scale; but it was not to be. Even in the plans for the new cathedral Wren was from the beginning thwarted and impeded. Ignorance, envy, jealousy, and selfishness met him at every line he drew. He made two designs-the first a Greek, the second a Latin cross. The Greek cross the clergy considered as.unsuitable for a cathedral. The model for it was long preserved in the Trophy Room of St. Paul's, where, either from neglect or the zeal of relic-hunters, the western portico was lost. It is now at South Kensington, and is still imperfect. The in- terior of the first design is by many considered superior to the present interior. The present recesses along the aisles of the nave, tradition says, were in- sisted on by James II., who thought they would be useful as side chapels when masses were once more introduced.-Tlwrnbury's" Old and New London." TITS DEFENCE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.—Special instructions and superior skill may be essential in the case of sapping and mining—though it must be re- membered that a fair proficiency in even these branches of art was acquired in the Peninsula by soldiers of the line under the tuition of Sir John Burgoyne-but any man of ordinary intelligence would soon master the mystery of making gabions, fascines, spar-and- barrel bridges, batteries and field works. In short, we maintain that, except where complicated work has to be performed, a battalion of infantry ought to be quite independent of the Royal Engineers. Of course, there is little chance of any countenance being given by the latter to a scheme which would render their reduction feasible, and prove that, after all, the science of which they arc the professors is but a very simple science indeed-no military mystery, but as regards its application to the requirements of an army in the field, easily mastered. It is, however, time that the army should free itself from the dictatorship which the Ord- nance Corps, profiting by their access to Mr. Card well, have managed to found, and more than time that the country should cease to lay out large sums of money simply for the gratification of a clique. We (Iron) wiU even go as far as to say that, with few exceptions, the boasted science of the Engineers is but foolishness. The conditions of war have changed, but the Engineers refuse to recognize that fact, and decline to adrSt that many of their old maxims are no longer applicable. 11 ,ST £ 1<- lortunate is a family that possesses Skel I" lStGr- The mother confides in her, the father hold 1,1 m ter ability to aid and cheer the house- P,. a younger ones lean upon her as a mother. T1- ei~ c°unsels, her example, her influence she may a-o quite as much as the parents to give tone to the family hie. She is at once companion and counsellor tor the junior members, since, separated by only a brief interval from the sports of childhood, she can. sympathize easily with the little wants and griefs that fill the child's heart to overflowing, and show it how to compass its desires and forget its sorrows. A short girlhood is usually the allotment of the oldest daughter; but this is made up to her in the long and delightful companionship she has with her mother, in the sense she is made to have of her own importance in the family, and in the unusual capability she is obliged by the force of circumstances to acquire and display. It is in some respects unfortunate to be born an oldest daughter, to be kept at home from school on busy- days," and be compelled to take care of the baby from year's end to year's end, to see the younger daughters free and easy, at liberty to go and come as they will while she sighs in vain for like liberty. The oldest daughter is often horn and reared in comparative poverty. She grows up adding her daily mite of help to build up the family fortunes by saving servant? wages; and when ease and competence smile on the family circle, her parents are apt to forget that she should enjoy the fruits ot nor labour and share equally with the younger children in the varied p^rmMlVb- i&euva that youag ladies prize m