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

TO ONE AFFLICTED. The seabird's wing is never wet, Though high the spray be drifting The stout ship that the tempest met, Speeds bravely o'er the crowned waves yet, men now the gale is shifting: Hope whispers, Forward and forget!" For lo! the clouds are lifting. The stars for ever in the sky, Are brighter for the storm gone by; Oh, long-tried spirit, look on high, And cast away thy sorrow. Though more than midnight round thee close, Let trusting faith bring calm repose, The sun will shine to-morrow.

THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. --+- OHAPTER XV.-( Oontinued). "0 the words had passed Nelly's lips she was rushing P the rocky causeway, moved by she knew not what ^pulses, what dread anticipations—she reached the iQimit of the flowery Ohine, she paused and darted a een glance around. Be! ore her were the black rocks, 'Host destitute of vegetation hurriedlv she ad- duced, till, close to the edge, where tho cliff fell sud- ealy to tjje precipe siie espied a thick fern whose hardy russet foliage grew far over the and down the face of the rock. As sheap- Proachcd, she saw the scattered handful of blue 101Vers which poor Ida, in her alarm, had let fall; the thick tuft which sheltered luxuriantly be- the broad leaves of the fern, showed this to be one she had indicated. Nelly shuddered as she 7^* the dangerous locality to which the child had Matured; but with a quick, firm step she approached and, stooping, removed the flowers, and parted the Ofergrown and stubborn leaves of the mountain fern. With a cry of horror she started up; her hand had her eyes had fullrn upon, the object which alarmed the little girl. A skeleton hand 1 There i lay, the rigid, bony fingers clutched as in death agony—there it had lain, who could say *Ow lorg ?—the winds and the rains, the tempest and sunshine, had passed over that silent relic of "Uinanity, beneath the covering ferns. But she recovered herself; again that impulse 1trred her to seek further-was there no more ? or was this the terrible index to a tale yet untold ? She stooped again; hurriedly she plucked away fern leaves, scattering them around, peering •^ow into the sunless depths of the dried-up earth beneath. Suddenly a glitter as of metal caught her eye, and ^Jfing down, with hasty clutch, she grasped at the •"ject, and, amidst a handful of dust and withered leaves, she brought it into daylight. A ring I She sprang to her feet, and, with dis- tended eyes, gazed upon it. _An exclamation of dismay broke from her lips. next moment she had caught up the gaunt ■keleton hand and was pressing it to her bosom, as J^e sank to her knees, and gasped, in a broken voice, My husband! he was murdered—and, oh! God, for- life tile She had no utterance for the dread truth which toihed upon her mind with a certainty that mocked fAt the possibility of doubt. The ring was one that had been her JDother's-a *8aive, uncouth jewel, of ancient and most peculiar fashion and device.. It had been handed down from the grandfather of 5** parent, who bad found it on the beach after a of which this was the sole vestige that ever came OIl shore. At her mother's death she had left it in charge of daughter; and at their betrothal Nelly had given J* to Aaron, whose finger it had never left. Ay, she ^Binembered now, how on that last sad night, as he ~J**hed his hand upon the table, the had even then ?j*rked the glitter of the ring, and it had half recalled to herself, in the thought of the tender words with Which she had put the treasure on his finger. And J"* was how, after sorrowful yews, she found it! £ these—these decaying, unsepulohered bones were This the brave, loyal hand which in life had been 8tay and protection! As by a pudden light, all seemed made clear to her. lague suspicions, half-uttered words and looks, unex- plained till now-all were recalled, and swift as •bought, summed up the terrible conviction. Her husband bad been foully dealt by; but one toan could have motive for the deed! That man now wanned her for his wife—she shared his pillow, and the had bet n the mother of his son! Flight was all that remained. As she clasped once II10re her darling to her breast, she hurriedly hid away the ghastly treasure-trove, and strove to calm her Plating heart and trembling limbs, while she planned lQalllediate night. CHAPTER XVI. FLIGHT. Bib: never felt the ground over which her feet speed JJfrrftly once more to the terrible dwelling—only once, to leave it for ever! Where to flee, entered not -to her mind—only to be away, away, from sight hearing of the fearful man she called husband— the touch of the murderous hand which had deprived her beloved of his life. Away from the shelter of his detested roof, which J\4»ht yet cover she knew not what silent witnesses to guilt. Away, and with her child, for ever, from the atmosphere of bloodshed and treachery they had ^consciously breathed—away, too, from the horrible "Bttptatiou Which she felt would assail her. I could not see him again I I could not hear him but I should tax him with it!" she cried, ■j,"If he denied it, if he confessed it! all one! either of mercies, save me from the commission of a crime! save me from murder, too! If he but laid hand upon me— Hush, child, hush!" Poor Ida, terrified at her mother's mood, was "UPPlicating to be set down, saying she could run. "You can't, Ida: you can't, my child! quick, I i?u»t be quick—if he should be there before us—oh "od, help me!" It was yet early, when, panting and exhausted, she the house. All was as she had left it. Meg-1 was still absent, but she knew that any moment might return. It was needful that by no sign should he be apprised at her night. She must take with her nothing that be missed—moreover, she turned with loathing *Ojjtt any of his gifts, of clothes or jewels. Her stock of money was small indeed; she hastily this in her bosom, put on over her ordinary jr688 & dark stuff gown of her first stock, and clothed child warmly. She would have urged her to eat, 2*t the poor little girl had not ceased to tremble, and, *»ough she dared not give utterance to her fear, she W crouched in subdued terror on the bed, watching e hurried movements of her parent. "I can't mother! I can't, she replied, and put **OJn her the food. we are going away! quick, Ida, and we must "M* all night—you will be hungry." The obedient child made the effort, but her parent her mo *nut^'ty. an^» pitying her, refrained to press ^,1waa re&dj; with an excusable deception, bhe wnoothed the chests and drawers, placed ordinary dresses and work, as if but quitted for a brief absence, the supper and the grog to hand, that her hts- might, on his return, be led te dispose of some before he would even seek her. But she worked in the dark, as it were, for Saul's movements were so uncertain; he might not return or they might encounter him on the 'tet she could dare anything save the passing pother night under the same roof with Meghorn, pressing the same pillow. She lifted her soul in prayer, as she nerved herself to the desperate rt. » then, lifting her bewildered child in her arms, v?Pped out from the unblessed home of the pirate Leghorn. inhere was no moon, but the stars were shining y in a cloudless sky. ohe paused as she drew to the door, and listened, th J*8,8 » the subdued plash of the waves upon e beacb came faintly from below. had quitted the house by the back door opening it k*1 the waste, a stream of light fell brightly across Some distance from a lamp she had placed in the chamber, so that Saul, seeing it as he entered, thn 1 Relieve that she had retired for the night, and •be lulled to security. tk. *ide downs lay dark before her, beyond these Sol w.o°ds skirting the foot of the hills inland. The *he ok wki°h presented itself to her now was that h()"l take the path he would be least likely to egP ct her of following, and, as she could not hope to £ ei^urauera hy swiftness, she must elude them by Raiment. Swiff)16 W00^.8' then, at the outset, Up0„ jJJ crossing the barren ground, Bhe entered ^er fenf\wide.down"' where, setting little Ida upon sne j8 briefly urged upon her the necessity of a aJ'-f' an^» taking her by the hand, they proceeded the deft Pace* The stars gave little light, and beneath l'iak P bwell of the undulating plain they ran little them. beiog seen, even had any been abroad to watch Jj^ob'WA°IJ?'d heart beating as though every the last. Her feet seemed to weigh •oifte hoivvi gPted she made. She felt as one in nightmare, from which she must awake at last, and new and again she paused, as if to ask herself why this was ? But to lay her hand upon her bosom, to touch the fearful relics there hid, was the answer; and, with a word to the Door little companion of her night, she hurried on. She knew that the real moment of danger had not yet come. It would be, in all probability, some hours before Meghcrn returned-more ere he would discover her absence, and the morrow, most probably, before he would actually suspect it to be flight. That he would pursue them to the uttermost, she never doubted the more determinedly, if he could gain but a suspicion of the cause. Time was indeed precious, and the child's pace was so slow. One moment it seemed so hopeless, Nelly was almost on the point of turning back, but as she asked herself—to face what ? even the forlorn hope of escape became precious, and she hurried forward. But, alas! the Door little girl began to cry, and hung heavily upon the hand of her mother. Nelly had thought it best to let her walk now— by-and-by, she would sleep, yet still they must be moving. A little further, dear pet, only a little way, then we shall sit down see, there is the wood where Ida gathered the nuts." My leg ache so bad," said the weakly child, in a plaintive tone, that went to the heart of the poor mother. She stooped to take her in her arms, slinging the bundle she carried to her waist; she had lifted her up, and, in a cheering tone, had begun to comfort her, when voices fell upon her ear. She stood still, and her breath stopped; they came nearer, and from the wood she was approaching, two tall figures emerged, and came across the downs towards them. The taller one was speaking, and she recognised the voice of Saul Meghorn. It was well fright deprived her of the power to cry out. With one effort at self-preservation, she sprang aside, and crouched beneath the slight elevation of the plain, unconscious even which course they might take. As she did so, her bundle, ill-secured, gave way, slipped, and fell. She bent breathlessly over her child, grasping her to her breast-her head swam, she feared she was going to faint, but her eyes, wide open, were fixed upon the men. They came nearer, nearer-she heard the very words of the shorter, in earnest reply, but hey failed to convey any sense to her brain-she watched them as they came—she felt she could scream, so intensely wrought were her feelings—and, as they passed on, unconscious, she blessed God with her voice, as in her heart. A few paces on the shorter man stumbled, and, with an oath, kicked from his path the stone which had tripped him up, by the same action sending her bundle within a foot of where the trembling fugitives lav concealed. Not till the two were well out of sight, till they must have got within sight of the gleam from the house window, did the woman rise from her knees and resume her flight, with now an added fear upon her. What was the purpose of these companions ? whence did they come and might they not return ? She doubted now whether even the woods would afford them safe shelter, but at least she needed a few minutes of repose, and to think over, even though hastily, the best way of proceeding. Again taking her child in her arms, and resuming her bundle, she hurriedly fled into the wood, whose paths had been well known to her in happier days; and, seeking out a spot where the undergrowth was most luxuriant, and the trees standing close, afforded some shelter, even in their scanty spring dress, she laid little Ida on the heaped leaves of last autumn, which here accumulated undisturbed and while she gathered new strength for further flight, set herself to plan out some consistent method of escape from her dreaded tyrant, whose image in her mind gained every moment fresh terrors. CHAPTER XVIL PURSUIT. THE light is burning yonder in her room, so she has gone up for the night," said Siul to his com- panion, as they came within sight of the dwelling. That's well; you'll have the less trouble with the child." That's her berth-the small window over the lean-to ? observed Yawmans, pointing in the direc- tion. Yes. I'll go upstairs for some small matter, and, in leaving the room, shut-to the door between the rooms. You say you've already tried the reof of the shed; the window opens easily, and the girl sleeps sound." Ay, ay, capt'n, it's as good as done," returned the other, confidently. No hurt to the brat, mind," said his superior; do as I have already told you. Old Dorcas is pre- pared she'll be well cared for; I don't want to hurt the girl, once she's out of the way." Trust me, capt'n—trust Mat Yawmans to do your bidding," rejoined the other. They will scarcely be asleep yet," observed Meg- horn; "better wait awhile. Meantime, Yawmans, you shall drink success to our first engagement in a glass of the old sort." Ay, yer honour; rm with you there, with all my heart," said the mate; and he followed his com- mander into the house, both treading softly, opening and closing the heavy doors with caution. All laid," muttered Saul, as he entered first the ordinary room where supper was set; and, as I said, Nelly had taken care things should wear as inviting an aspect as possible. She might have known that I was to have com- pany," he murmured, half aloud. "Sit down-make yourself at home," he continued, flinging aside his cloak and hat, and, lighting the lamp, he set it on the table. It's many a long day, yer honour, since I broke bread at your table." said the mate, rubbing his hands, and placing himself at his ease. It's the old times, and no mistake; I'm twenty years younger this night," he added, with a mild oath. "Fall to, my lad-fall to," said Saul, when he had stirred up the fire, and completed the general arrangements for their comfort. "It's fitting my trusty mate should sup with me the last time I shall ever break bread under this infernal roof." He had tossed off a bumper of spirit at the com- mencement of his speech, and was preparing another to follow. I If Ay, ay, yer honour may well say that. Nothing on earth so slews a man up as this —— long-shore life! It took five years' use out of my arm that —— eighteen months that I lay by." "We'll make it up in double quick time; trust me, my iad, we'll make it up!" exclaimed Meghorn, with an oath as grace to a full glass of rum. Out away and never spare," he cried, as he passed the several dishes to his worthy subordinate. Who comes after may fare as he can. And who will that be ?—ha!—ha!—here's to the empty nest." Yawmans echoed the boisterous laugh of his chief, and pledged him. The latter was evidently bent on washing out in the potent liquor every tinge of remorse that may have lingered about his resolution — his reckless humour was fast increasing. As for Yawmans, he needed no screwing to the point-his conscience and his brain were alike proof against the promptings of ( mercy or the fumes of alcohol. "Then you'll take the other craft in tow, capt'n, yourself ? said Mat, as he warmed with liquor and companionship to something of the free communion of old times. My wife, sir!" and Meghorn turned on the other the fiery gase of those dark commanding eyes. ( Beg pardon, capt'n. wishing the lady all success and a pleasant voyage in the Daredevil." Let any aboard breathe so much as her name out of place," said Saul, haughtily, still holding the other beneath his glance, and hit post won't be worth much." As he spoke, his hand had wandered to the cutlass he always wore beneath his coat, and lingered there a minute after he had gradually withdrawn his eyes 1 from his guest to the glass he was filling. 1 Fore George, yer honour, not a trustier servant I shall the lady have aboard than Mat Yawmans," said the mate, when a minute had elapsed, and IUswear, when the lads know as much il There is no need they should know," interrupted Meghorn, haughtily. At least, they will bide my informing them; you, Yawmans, I trust as my shadow." Well, now, capt'n, and aren't I proud of your con- fidence, and have I deserved it ? You will give a fellow your good word, so far." I can't say you have not," said Saul, relapsing into his former mood of forced recklessness. He evidently stove off the hour of action as far as possible, Yawmans nothing loth, good liquor being alwavs acceptable and the pair drank and talked of old times, or smoked and drank in silence, till long past midnight. Little dreamed he, whose wily plans were laid with such certainty, of the value of those hours to the poor fugitives; and Nelly, as she, with trembling hands, had laid her poor homely baits, scarce had dared to hope for them such success, nor suspected the fate which she unknowingly eluded. At length Saul rose, laid down his pipe, and took off some of his upper slothing. It's about time," he said, gloomily enough keep you still, I'll go above and see the coast clear. Don t you stir till I come down." Yawmans signified acquiescence, and the othm quitted the room. ) The lamp in the upper chamber had burnefl low, i and the shadows fell thickly in the apartment. Saul entered in his usual manner, and but glanced carelessly towards the bed, where be supposed his wife to be sleeping. 1 He could just distinguish the usual outline beneath the coverlet on the pillow, and, bad he been called upon for his evidence to the fact, could have taken his oath, with perfect assurance, that he heard her breath- ing in her slumber as he crossed the room, hum- ming an air after his reckless fashion: such traitors do our own senses play us at times, misled by a firm con- viction. He re-crossed the room, closed the door of communication between that and the closet where little Ida slept, and then, as if suddenly remembering something, took up the lamp and quitted the chamber, leaving the outer door wide open to impress his wife, should she be awake, with the idea of his speedy re- turn. The very shadows that dogged his tall form from the bedroom down the staircase, seemed to gibber derisively at all his ostentation of pretence to de- ceive the woman who, hours before, had left his threshold. He entered the room where he had left Yawmans. That worthy had already divested himself of all superfluous incumbrance in the shape of upper gar ments, and stood forth ready for action. He spoke first. All right, capt'n ? Wrap her in the blankets," was all Meghorn said, hoarsely. The other strode off. (To be continued.)

THE INVALID ARTIST. THET were warmly welcomed, and every day a carriage wn« brought for Fits Herbert to visit pictures at one pi aw and another, and Waller was always there retirf y to receive and help the coachman to carry him to the apartment where they were to be seen. Fitz Herh>*rt.'8 childish beauty, his sweet, serious manner, nnrl the acknowledged fact of his genius, proved hid passports to favour in many circles where fashion had not obliterated all other things; and the good aunt proved herself a friend indeed. Mary Sent was the child of a niece who was like a daughter to her, and now she should take her place;' and as to Fits Herbert, why, it would be a pleasure1 to have him there. He could have his studio next door, and old John Robins would carry him in and out always. Then Mary should have nothing to do but to rest herself from her labours." It was a noble thing for the old lady to do; and Mr. Waller, whose opinion she thought "ever so much of," told her so, with cordial thanks for the good she was performing. It was a noble thing. also, on Waller's part. He interested other artists in the lame boy, and gave him assistance and instruc- tion; and he soon excelled his teachers in many points of art. He painted various pictures, without throwing his heart into them. These sold more rapidly than those on which he bestowed more talent. They were his bread winners, bought by indifferent critics, for the sake of filling a vacant place. He reserved others for the fame-winners, keeping them long, and adding exquisite beauty to them by oft-repeated touches. The years passed rapidly in that little home circle. He was now twenty-one. The old aunt would not part with her children, as she called them, and they could not bear to think of any other home. Fitz Herbert painted one i ace, over which he lin- gered as lovingly as a mother over her infant's beauty- It was that of a young girl—and he painted the head only, the rest of the figure being hid by clouds. It was a gay, laughing, dimpled face, with soft, large, brown eyes, and chestnut hair falling in rich curls around it. It was not the beauty of the features that chained him to his work, though that. too, was of rare order; but in that sweet face was a depth of expression and earnestness of character, that seemed to answer to every want of his being, and to call forth the responses of his spirit as they were never touched before. Marion Holland was the orphan niece of a wealthy merchant living in London. Waller, who knew her friends, was on intimate terms with her uncle, and recommended the lame artist to his notice, with an earnest panegyric on his talents and character. Mr. Holland called at the studio, was fairly won by Fit. Herbert's countenance and manners, and sent Marion for her first sitting that very day. There were a great many sittings, for the sake of greater perfec- tion, and acquaintance progressed rapidly between the two. There was a charm in the simplicity of the young heiress that did not seem to belong to the circle in which she was destined to move, and it woke Fitz Herbert's love and admiration. She was the theme of every conversation with his mother, who feared that her sen was getting too deeply interested for his own peace. Don't fear for me, dear mother," he said, as she expressed something of this. I have a constant re- minder of the folly it would be for me to think of such a thing as love for any one. I have only to look down to my feet to become quite humble in that re- spect." Mrs. Kent sighed. Was poor Herbert to live and die unloved, because nature had been so niggardly as to deny him the supports which she gave to the veriest clod that stared, open-mouthed, into the studio door? Don't look so sad, mother," said her son, as if he knew her inmost thoughts. Your love is all I can wish for. I could not expect the love of another woman like you; and were she less than you I could not love her. So we will ever live on together." Waller sat in Fit* Herbert's room one day, when ft note was delivered to the former, which he read in evident agitation. He passed it over to his friend, who read thus: DEAR MR. W ALLJIB,-You, who have so much in- fluence with my uncle, must come to him instantly. He is stunned, paralysed in mind and body, by some blow which I cannot make out, but which I suspect belongs to money matters. Oome quickly. MARION H." Waller stayed not an instant. He was far up the street before Fits Herbert could follow with his eyes his r- pid movements. No more painting that day; not even on Marion's picture. She was in distress, and he could not be near her. That was his chief thought now. Poor little Marion! she will be no heiress after all," said Waller, a few hours afterwards to Fits Herbert. "No heiress! Thank God!" earnestly exclaimed his companion, in the first words he had spoken since Waller came in. What I" asked Waller. "Thank God that she is no heiress! And yet, Waller, it will make no difference to me," he added, mournfully. Why should it r' Ay, truly, why should it ? Is she not attached to yourself ? and surely you will not desert her I- My good fellow, what are you driving at" First tell me what has happened." Well, then, Mr. Holland is ruined—and he has had Daralysis in consequence of thee vent." "Well "Well—Marion, like the angel she is, has estab- lished herself by his bedside, carine nothing for the crash only as it affects her uncle. She is an unselfish, noble, beautiful, perfect woman!" "You are fortunate, Mr. Waller." "Me? There you go again! What d» you mean ?" Is she not yours ?" "No, Fits Herbert. My love is a little oottage nymph, bred in country shades. She never saw the city, nor shall she, until I tie the knot of wedlock. I must not risk her simplicity here. Although I must, in justice to Marion, own that she has never lost the charm of simple manners, yet there are so few like her." That same hour Fits Herbert wrote and sealed a note to Marion. It said simply: "May I come to you in your affliction ? Waller will see me safe there. I cannot use the lover's hyper- bole, and tell yoa I will fly to you—but I will come as soon as my want of feet will permit. F.H." How he came to write this note would be a mystery, if we did not know that Waller had already taxed Marion with liking the young artist, and that she had answered him, with burning cheeks— Mr. Waller, I do love him! But thank God he does not know it!" Fits Herbert went. She was poor now, and he did not mind telling her that he would not have sought her otherwise. But she would hear nothing of love until her uncle was better, although she did not discourage him; and even if she had done 80 he knew what she had said to his friend. Mr. Holland did not die, and Marion told him all. He blessed God that she would have some one to pro- tect her, now that he was old and poor. Mrs. Kent's good old aunt, Madame Grant, died soon after. She had no nearer relations, and she left everything to Mary and her son. A fine property it was too. You will take me now, dear Marion, when we can have your uncle with us so well ? asked Fits Herbert. And so it was decided. Waller came, bright and joyous, to the wedding, with two pieces of intelligence to communicate. One was, that a friend of hers had that morning married a tide-waiter at the Custom-house, and the other, that Mr. Holland's affairs were far more prosperous than at first supposed. r A pleasant eight it was, when the spring-time came, to see Fitz Herbert in his superb studio, into which Mr. Holland insisted on crowding everything which could be thought of for his convenience. From the quift drab walls hung the portrait. of Marion. He pretended that he could not paint without it; but he looked oftener at the original, who brought her book or her work and sat beside him, ready to anticipate his slightest wants, than he did at the semblance. A search made by Waller and Marion resulted in finding a chair, sofa, and carriage exactly suited to the invalid. "And as to the feet," said Wailer, your wife, Fitz Herbert, will distance every one in the pretty way she runs to obey your slightest wisn. You are a happy fellow. if you can't walk. You have a mother aad a wife." "But ob, Waller! I fear I have done wrong to chain Marion's youth to a cripple for life." Hush, traitor!" said Marion, who had crept in silently. Marion's chains are all flower-chains— not a bit of iron among them! And she sat down beside him in his great wheeled chair, making herself quite busy in arranging his paints and canvas. It was very beautiful to see the affection that came spontaneously into their whole lives, and the simple, heartfelt kindnesses that daily brightened them show- ing that, although feet and hands may be denied, there is a chance of great happiness without them. THE END.

DOLLY ASLEEP. I Tell me a story, just one, mother dear; Candles axe coming, bed-time is near. There is my hand to hold. Bend down your head Don't speak too loud, mother, Dolly's in bed. No! not the story of old Jack and Jill: They were so stupid to tumble down hill. I m tired of Jack Horner and Little Bo-peep— Stay! let me see if Dolly's nsleep. Ah! there is Mary just come with a light; Now there's no time for a story to-night. Please make the boys, mother, mind how they tread, Their boots are so heavy, and—Dolly's in bed. Good-night, dear mother! Ask papa, please, When he comes home, not to cough or to sneeze. Give me your hand, Mary. Hush softly creep We must not wake her—Dolly's asleep. If at all restless or wakeful she seems, Don't be too anxious; I fancy she dreams. Say to her softly, just shaking your head, Go to sleep, Dolly! Adie's in bed. -Littk lolhf Magattine.

USEFUL HINTS. A GOOD BKEF> STEAK.—There is an appropriate thickness for a steak, and we do not remember to have ever seen that reached with any one served up at a public table. Let the steak be cut from one to one and a half inches thick, and .the superficies reduced three-fourths; so that it will not fill a large dish, but will be accommodated in a small one. The juices and nutriment of the steak are thus preserved, and it is fit to eat, which it never is under the present bar- barous mode practised in our hotels and eating-houses. Never put butter on a steak. Avoid as a pestilence othe nasty greases which form the basis of vulgar cookery. MAsHED TURNIPS.—Peel and slice some turnips, leave them to soak in cold water, drain and stew them in some white stock or salted water until quite tender, drain, and pass them through a fine sieve then add pepper and salt, a good-sized piece of butter, and a small quantity of cream or Bechamel sauce (just sufficient to make the turnips of the right consistency); stir all together over the fire until hot, and serve. POMONA JELLY.—Take half-a-dozen good-sized and rather acid apples-Keewicke will answer excellently for the purpose. Pare, core, and slice them, and as they are done throw them into cold water to keep them .from turning yellow. Drain them, and put them into a saucepan with six ounces of loaf sugar and a very small quantity of water, to keep them from burning, and let them simmer gently until they are quite soft. Press them through a coarse sieve. and mix with them half an ounce of isinglass or gelatine which has been dissolved in less than half-a- pint of water. Rub three large lumps of sugar upon the rind of a fresh lemon till the yellow part is taken off; add this to the jelly. Stir the jelly over the fire, until it is quite hot, put it into a mould, and set it in a cool place to stiffen; turn out before serving. Time to stiffen, twelve hours. Probable cost, lOd. if made with gelatine. Sufficient for a pint of jelly.—CitsselFs Dietionary,of Cookery.

ANECDOTE OF ABTKMTTS WARD.—A knot of men came out of the Savage Club one evening after •neof the Saturday dinners, and at the door stood a good specimen of a weather-beaten, red-faced old London cabman, attired in one of those wonderful triple-caped overcoats that are fast disappearing from the metro- politan ranks. Art emus was struck with the old fellow's garb, and as he mounted his box called out, Cabby, hi! Oome down, I want you." He did as requested. Cabby," continued Artemus, with a twinkle of the eye, you are the very man I wish to see. rve been dining here with some literary and artistic swells, and they can't enlighten me and I feel you can." The old Jarvey looked inquiringly. 11 Now, would you be good enough to tell me the difference between con-vergence and dt-vergence ? The old man puckered up his lips, scratched his head, and with the broadest of grins, replied, Well, sir, you're a stranger to me, but I should say there's a good deal to be said on both sides." Good shouted Artemus. That's what I call the retort cautious.' All right; now drive us Three of us entered the cab. Any particular place ? the man asked. Oh, ah!"—and pretending to confer with us for an instant, which he did with inimitable by. play- driveto the boundless prairie." Where is that, sir T What! a London cabman, and don't know the bound- less prairie ? Is it a public-bouse ? By the way," laughed Artemus, sotto voce, to his companions, that wouldn't make a bad sign for a public-house. If ever I give up the quill and turn licensed victualler, that shall be the name of my establishment." Then, turning to the cabman, he resumed, So you don't know the boundless prairie?" "No, sir." Well, then, we'll alter our minds. Drive us to the Alhambra instead." And to the Alhambra we went, and passed, I need hardly say, a jolly evening, for Artemus was in high spirits I and overnowing with whimsical conceits.—-Howard PauVt Anecdotes of Artemus Ward.

VARIETIES. Pom* AJm PHILOSOPHY.—Poetry is to ptnMtilfiif what the Sabbath is to the rest of the week. Wit and gaiety answer the same purpose that a fire- does in a damp house, dispersing chills and drying up mould, and making all wholesale and cheerful. TIME.—As every thread of gold is valuable, so is every minute of time; and as it would be great folly to shoe horses-as Nero did-with gold so it is to spend time in trifles.—Mason. THE TONGUE'S POWER. -It is observed, in the course of worldly things, that men's fortunes are oftener made by their tongues than by their virtues and more men's fortunes overthrown thereby than by their vices.-8ir W. Raleigh. PRACTICAL WISDOM.—The actions of each day are, for the most part, links which follow each other in the chain of custom. Hence the great effort of practical wisdom is to imbue the mind with right tastes, affec- tions, and habits; the elements of character and masters of actions. MIDDLE AGES.—Probably the happiest period in life most frequently is in middle age, when the eager passions of youth are cooled, and the infirmities of age not yet begin, as we see that the shadows, which are at morning and evening so large, almost entirely disappear at midday.—Dr. Arnold. THE WAY TO TREAT INJURIES.—If a bee stings you, will you go to the hive and destroy it ? Would not a thousand come upon you? If you receive a trifling injury do not go about the streets proclaiming it and be anxious to avenge it. Let it drop. It is wisdom to say little respecting the injuries you may have received. POWER OF Music.-Many animals enjoy music. The fondness of the camel for music is a well attested fact, and when the Arabs wish to get extra work out of those animals they play upon some favourite in- strument bright and cheerful airs. Blows are of no avail, but music spurs the animal to exertion. A spur for the horse, but music for the camel, say the Arabs. EXCOMMUNICATION.—When the Assembly of Divines petitioned the House of Commons that every presby- tery or presbvterian congregation, that is, the pastor and the ruling elders, might have the power of ex- communication, Whitelocke, a lawyer, strongly op- posed the petition, and concluded one of his speeches in these words: "The best excommunication is, for pastors, elders, and people, to excommunicate sin out of their own hearts and lives, to suspend themselves from all works of iniquity; this is a power which, when put in execution, through the assistance of the Spirit of God, will prevent all dis- putes about excommunication, and suspension from the sacrament." THB GOOD OLD TIMES.—The following copy of a handbill, published in 1706, forms an interesting con- trast to modem celerity in travelling:—" York Four Days' Stage Coach.—All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swann, in Holboume, in London, and to the Black Swann, in Coney-street, in York; at both J laces they may be received in a stage-coach every [onday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the whole journey in four days (if God permits), and sets forth at five in the morning, and returns from York to Stamford in two days, and from Stamford by Huntingdon to London in two days more, and the like stages on their return, allowing each passenger fourteen pounds weight, and all above threepenoe a pound." THE ORIGIN OF "LYNCH LAW."—Lynchbury— 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 wealthy productive 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 hotheaded Hibernian,! when he caught a "Tory," punished the individual whose chief crime was that he did not think as Colonel Lynch thought, and did not do as he did, after such a summary fashion that in time speedy" justice" of a somewhat equivocal type became known all the world over as "Lynch Law." "The Countries of thl j' World," by Dr. Robert Brown. j CAVENDISH, THE PHILOSOPHER.—Henry Cavendish, I the discoverer of hydrogen gas, was a shy, eccentric man. Though the grandson of the Duke of Devon- I shire, he cared little for his social position and wealth, except as they afforded him opportunity to study' science. It is said that he taught nis servants to un- derstand by signs what he wanted, in order that he might be able to think without interruption. Among the anecdotes told of him are these:—He lived in London in one street, and had another house in another street devoted exclusively to his books. Here he had collected a large and carefully-chosen library of works on science, which he threw open to all engaged in re- search and to this house he went for his own books, as one would go to a circulating library, signing a formal receipt for such of the volumes as he took with him. Cavendish lived comfortably, but made no dis- play; and his few guests were treated on all occasions to the same fare, and it was not very sumptuous. A Fellow of the Royal Society reports that if any one dined with Cavendish, he invariably gave him a leg of mutton and nothing else." Another Fellow says that Cavendish seldom had company at his house, but on one occasion three or four scientific men were to dine with him, and when his housekeeper came to ask what was to be got for dinner, he said, A leg of mutton! i —' Sir, that will not be enough for five.'—' Well, then, get two,' was the reply." OLD DRYASDUST. Magliabechi", the celebrated librarian of Florence, lived, ate, drank, and slept among his books; he lived in the most sequestered and philosophical manner, scarcely ever leaving the city. His house was but one continued pile of books; his lower rooms were crowded with them, not only along the wainscot, but in piles to a considerable height, and so spread on the floor that there was not the least place for sitting down, much less for walk- ing, except a long narrow passage leading from one room to the other. The porch of this house was, in the same manner, everywhere stuffed with books, as far as the projecting awning would secure them from rain. The staircase was lined all the way up with this library furniture, as were all the upper rooms. Magliabechi generally shut himself up all the day, and opened his doors in the evening to the men of letters who came to converse with him. He was negligent in his person, and was usually dressed in black, with a waistcoat reaching to his knees. His cloak, which was also black, served him for a morning gown in the day, and. for bedclothes at night; it was generally much patched, in consequence of the holes he burnt in it. He wore a large hat, and a Florentine band round his neck. On one arm he carried a pan, in which was a constant fire for warming his hands, and his clothes bore evidence of their being often too nearly connected with it. His linen he usually wore until it fell to pieces. He always slept on his books; bound volumes served him for a mattress, those in boards for a pillow, and he covered himself with such as were merely stitched, throwing his cloak over all. His sole diet was eggs, bread, and water. The Grand Duke of Florence, Cosmo II., to whom Magliabechi was libraritm, once prevailed on him to take up his resi- dence in the Ducal Palace; but he quitted it four months afterwards, and returned to his own house; indeed, though he rarely stirred out, yet he had such an aversion to everything that looked like restraint, that the Grand Duke dispensed with his per- sonal attendance, and always sent him his orders in writing. A DWARFS' WEDDING.—In the year 1710, Peter the Great, Emperor of Russia, celebrated a marriage of dwarfs at Petersburg, which was attended with great parade. On a certain day, which he had ordered to be proclaimed several months before, he invited the whole body of his courtiers, and all the foreign ambassadors, to be present at the marriage of a pigmy man and woman. The preparations for this wedding were not only very grand, but executed in a style of barbarous and painful ridicule. Peter ordered that all the dwarf men and women within 200 miles should repair to the capital, and also insisted that they should be present at the ceremony. For this purpose he sup- plied them with proper vehicles, but so contrived it that one horse was seen carrying a dozen of them into the city at once, while the mob followed, shoutingand laughing, from behind. Some of them were at first unwilling to obey an order which they knew was cal- culated to turn them into ridicule, and did not come; but he soon obliged them to obey, and, as a punish- ment, enjoined that they should wait on the rest at dinner. The whole company of dwarfs amounted to about seventy, besides the bride and bridegroom, who were "richly adorned, in the extremity of the fashion. For this little company in miniature everything suit- able was provided; a low table, small plates, little glasses, and, in short, everything was so fitted as if all things had been dwindled to thiir own standard. It was the emperors pleasure to see their gravity and pride-the contention of the women for places, and the men for superiority. This point he attempted to adjust, by ordering that the most diminutive should take the lead; but this bred disputes, for none would then consent to sit foremost. All this, however, being at last settled, dancing followed the dinner, and the ball was opened with a minuet by the bridegroom, whose height was exactly 3 feet 2 inches. In the end matters were so contrived that this little company, who met together in gloomy disgust, and with an un- willingness to be pleased, being at last familiarized to laughter, entered into the diversion, and became ex- tNmely sprightly And entertaining. A La.—-When the world has once got hold of a lie, UijaB^rn*8*"n*' ,k°w hard it is to get it out of the world. You beat it about the head till it seems to have given up the ghost, and, lo! the next day it is as healthy as ever. He who maintains the right, though countenanced by the few, must forego all expectation of popularity till there should be less to censure than applaud in human conduct; and when this is tke case, the millennium will have dawned. Hope is the ruddy morning ray of joy, recollection in its golden tinge; but the latter is wont to sink amid the dews and dusky shades of twilight, and the bright blue day which thejformer promises breaks indeed, but in another world, and with another sun.—Jean Patd Ritcher. PASSING SHADOWS.—As the trials of life thicken, and the dreams of other days fade one by one in the deep vista of disappointed hope, the heart grows weary of the struggle, and we begin to realise our insignificance. Those who have climbed to the pin- nacle of fame, or revel in luxury or wealth, go to the grave at last with the poor mendicant who begs by the wayside, and, like him are soon forgotten. Gene- ration afterjgeneration have felt as we feel, and their fellows were as active in life as we are now. They passed away as vapour, while nature wore the same aspect of beauty as when the Creator commanded her to be. And so shall it be when we are gone. The heavens will be as bright over our graves as they are now around our paths; the world will have the same attractions for offsprings yet unborn that she has now for our children. THE PRESENT KING OF SAXONY.—Prince John was favourably known before his accession to the throne of Saxony as a man of letters, well versed in history, theology, and German law. As a member of the First Chamber of the Diet he frequently took part in the debates, and as one of the Committee charged with the examination of the proposed new code of criminal law, he consented to act as Referent, and his elaborate report materially contributed to the intro- duction of an improved system of penal legislation. He was in fact, what is so rarely to been found among princes, an accomplished scholar. On the occasion of a visit which Frederick William IV. (of Prussia) paid to Dresden (I think in 1852) the King of Saxony and Prince John received their royal guest from Berlin at the foot of the palace staircase, who on catching sight of them, called out to the King, But you make too much ceremony with me, dear little angel and then, looking towards the Prince, And you too, old school- master." Ward's" Experience of a Diplomatist." BYRON'S DAUGHTER.—On one occasion Lady Love- lace paid a visit to Newstead Abbey. In the great library, Colonel Wildman, who had invited her there, read one of the finest passages of Byron to Byron's daughter, who, touched with the beauty of the verse, asked who was the author. Colonel Wildman stared at her,land said, There is the portrait of the author." pointing to the portrait of Byron by Phillips. He read yet more of Byron's poetry to her. Lady Love- lace was mute with astonishment as new revelations burst upon her. Do you think this is affectation," she said, at last, when I tell you I have been brought up in complete ignorance of all that regards my father?" From that moment a passionate enthusiasm for everything which recalled the memory of Byron took possession of her. While at Newstead Abbey she used to shut herself up for long hours in the apartments he had lived in, and which still retained much of the furniture which had belonged to him.- Lady Clementina Davies's Recollections of Society. A FACIAL THUNDERSTORM.—Apropos of Lablache, it was after dinner at Gore House that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunderstorm limply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually overspread his eountenanance appeared to deepen into actual darkness, and the terific frown indicated the angry louring of the tempest. The lightning com- menced by winks of the eyes and twitching of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth, which wonderfully recalled to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the motion of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expansive face, assured you that the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over. He told me that the idea occurred to him in the Champs Elysees, where one day, in company with Signor de Begnis, he witnessed a distant thunderstorm above the Arc de Triomphe.- The Recollections and Reflections of J. R. Blanche. COSTUME OF THE BURMESE EMBASSY.—At the back, where our countrywomen wear their chignons, the Burmese corps diplomatique wear a fan-like display of muslin. Their skirts resemble nothing more than figured satin bed-curtains. A white muslin bodice covers the upper part of their persons, and a narrow robe of white muslin is twisted round their heada. Under their robe, and entirely concealed, they carry a short sword, something like the happy despatch instruments of the Japanese. They wear an order, suspended on a variegated ribbon, round their neck. Their white kid gloves are exquisite, and oome some inches up the arm. Since their arrrival here they have taken to wearing spring-side patient leather boots of British manufacture. Great respect is paid to them here. On their visit to the Houses of Parlia- ment the other evening, they were attended by "-Black Rod," and their way was cleared by one of Black Rod's henchmen. The throne was uncovered in expectation of their visit, and two English gentle- man attached to their suite were by their side to tell them who was who. THE CHBUOKEB ROSE.—A rose ought to be beautiful which has such a charming romance as the following connected with its name:—A young Indian chief of the Seminole tribe was taken prisoner by his enemies, the Cherokees, and doomed to torture, but fell so seriously ill that it became necessary to wait for hit restoration to health before committing him to the fire. And as he lay prostrated by disease in the cabin of the Cherokee warrior, the daughter of the latter, a young, dark-faced maid, was his nurse. She fell in love with the young chieftain, and, wishing to savo his life, urged him to escape. But he would not do so unless she would flee with him. She consented. Yet, before they had gone far, impelled by soft regret at leaving home, she asked permission of her lover to return for the purpose of bearing away some memento of it. So, retracing her footsteps, she broke a sprig from the white rose which climbed up the poles of her father's tent, and preserving it during her flight through the wilderness, planted it by the door of her now home in the land of the Seminoles. And from that day this beautiful flower has always been known throughout the Southern States by the name of the Cherokee rose. ESTIMATE OF SISTBR-NOVBLISTS. — Mrs. Stowe's second volume [" Dred "] is a powerful argument to prove slavery and justice are contradictory terms, but is it not rather heavy as a romance P These great social evils are found unmanageable by romantic art, at least the material seems to me too bulky and too hard grained for its most delicate touches. After little Nina's death, your interest is deadened, as when the queen is lost in a game of chess. Nina is not a very startling heroine, nothing but a slightly underbred, yet bright, sweet, charming, little girl, a pretty fair type of a certain class of American girls, yet, in her various relations, she supplies the novel" interest of the book. Dred is a sort of Ossianic Negro, an abstraction, not after any human pattern. But old Uncle Tiff," is he not charming, with his unlettered religion, breathing the pure essence of Christianity, and his natural and his feudal love ? He is a far more probable specimen than Uncle Tom. Mrs. Stowe is one of those angels whom God makes his ministers, a commissioned labourer in a great and rich field; but I doubt if it would bear much more working. New elements must be brought in, and they will be:—the warp and woof are spinning on the Kansas plains .Is not Mrs. Gaskell, after all, the greatest romance-writer of the day ? Have not her books the elements that enter into every human life P She IS the delight of our (Jranford. We have a female commu- nity, an out-of doors nunnery at Stockbridge. The women are of a high order, not intellectually at all related to the Cranford set; but we have the ludicrous incidents common to feminine communities. Miss Sedgwick's I- Life and Letters." TJlB MBERESSTILLB AND MENDBLSSHON.-Doet thou remember how we drove away from Padua along the Brenta one evening ? The glowing Italian night oppressed us, and one after another, the travellers dose • ■lowards morning a voice cried Ecco •°°°' Venezia The sea still, immense, out- 'pr^?«, ^rV8~~0nl>' on the far horizen, fine "1? and down, as though the small ZtIZ J? 7 together in dreams. So does it interweave, and sparkl,-I and throb, in Mendelsshon's Meeresstille;" we dream sleepily, listening to it; rr«v a thought—rather than that we think. feethovenian chorus after Goethe, and the accentuated words, sound almost rough beside these spider-web tones of the violins. Near the close, such harmony is unloosed and resolved, as if the poet surely looked too deeply into the eyes of a daughter of Nereus, seeking to draw him down; but then upspings a higher wave, the sea grows more numerous everywhere, the sails flap, the pennants wave, and now away, away. M Which of Meritis' overtures do you like the best P" asked a simpleton near me-and as then the keys E minor, B minor, and D major embraced in a tirad of the graces, I could think of no better answer than the best, All of them." But, indeed, Meritis conducted as if he had composed the overture himself and the orchestra played worthily; and then a remark of Florestan's. struck me. It was played, he said, much as he used to play when he came from the provinces to study with Master Raro; this middle point between art and nature was his most fatal crisis; then came such a hesitation such a stiffness, that he doubted his own talent. Fiery as I was, and fervidly as I conceived every work, yet now I must take everything slowly distinctly; but luckily the crisis was soon over* For my part I disliked the conductor's stick in the ovattare M in the symphony.—Schumann's Writings

LADIES' COLUMN THE FASHIONS. The Queen says: The new bonnets are mostly fine chips and soft coloured straws they are moderate in size, large in the head, and close fitting in front; some of the brims are cottage shaped; others are coronets. Satin is the favourite material, for trimming, and ribbons that are satin on one side and gros grain on the other; watered ribbons are also once more used in conjunction with glosey sat'n. Beads will be quite a feature in spring bonnets, not the long cut beads now in use, but round beads as large as peas, strung in rows on fine wire, and these edge the brim of a bonnet, and are twined among the loops and bows of satin. Black chip bonnets are edged with gold beads, white straws with pearl beads, ecru chips with smoked pearl beads, white bonnets, trimmed with grey satin, are edged with claire de lune beads. But, because these large beads have come in, small ones have not gone out, for cut beads in rainbow colours, jet, claire de lune, and gold, are worked into passementerie that is made like meshes of netting, and is sewn flat round the brims. Gold cord is another item that has taken the place of gold braid. Artificial florists have not copied nature so closely as in past seasons; but their productions have gained in variety and ingenuity. The new shades, which are something between grey and brown, are introduced into flowers, and we have brown carnations, brown butter-cups, and brown roses. Olive, pale blue, and cardinal red pre- vail in the bouquets, that trim the bonnets to be worn with the bourrette costumes in which those colours are combined. Clusters of loops of satin ribbon, about an inch wide, Alsatian bows, satin pipings, white satin bows and strings, gold coloured bows and strings are all remarkable in the spring bonnets. UNDER CLOTHING. There is a disposition to curtail the dimen- sions of all underlinen, exceeding slimness being the passing mode, but the majority of English women ding to the old styles, for the seeds of ill- health are now often sown by the insufficiency of clothing foolishly adopted by the few. In this treacherous climate under vests of some kind are very generally worn. The newest are made of gauze de santl, which is all silk, having a crdpe-like surface, and so elastic that it clings to the figure like the skin itself. Vests and drawers combined are now made in silk, merino, gauze, and Shetland wool, and in the last- named vests and petticoats combined have the merit of warmth and lightness. The newest vests are shaped to the figure, and are made low with short sleeves, and high with long ones. Chemises and drawers, separate or combined, are made of longcloth, linen, nainsook, and lawn; silk and nainsook being generally adopted ior full dress. The silk is cream, light blue, pink, and sometimes black. In Paris soft clinging foulard and tussore are used here, as more durable, English foulard and Corah silk are in vogue; Torchon or Valenciennes lace being the invariable trtmming. There are several kinds of combination garments. The principal one is the chemise and drawers in one, can be fastened either back or front, and is made! sometimes high with long sleeves in lieu of a petticoat bodice. It cannot be well cut from a description without a pattern. The chemise is shaped to the figure, no waistband being required. Quite a novelty, but not a comfortable one, is a chemise made in jaconet, with six seams at the back. Bound the hips a succession of buttons is sewn, for the petticoats to be attached without bands. Chamois leather is used for drawers and chemises, separate and combined, the sleeves coming to the elbow, and left unsewn beneath the arm-hole to give more play, being merely bound with ribbon. The drawers mostly finish at the knee, with buttons like hunting breeches and, indeed, beneath a habit they are most appropriate. The width of the material will1 be found sufficient for chemises without the side-: pieces at the lower edge; they should be curved in at1 the waist if not made of the Princesse form, which is extravagant, for they soon wear out. In that case, how- ever, they button down to the waist, the buttonholes concealed by a false piece, and they are cut throughout on a different principle, with two side seams in the front and six at the back. Some, have a cambric frill bordered either with Valen- ciennes or Torchon lace at the lower edge. Many are cut square at the neck, a convenient form for wearing with low dresses, while others have a heart- shaped plastron of lace and insertion in front. If you can depend on your laundress not using any dele- terious compounds, the first expense in trimming is the least; therefore for best under-linen use the good Scotch work in preference to Swiss, and real Madeira j for daily wear, instead of the imitation, which is machine made. Fine Torchon and Valenciennes are the favourite laces, little else is used for evening wear. The sleeves cannot be too narrow; a strip of insertion edged with Jace will suffice. If this is made to meet in a point on the shoulder and button, they can be disposed of very easily, when the dress sleeves are too shallow for under ones. In drawers there are knickerbockers and the ordinary make, and in both it is scarcely possible to have the leg too short; they should barely reach the knee. The most fashionable style of trimming is with a band of insertion heading a frill, the latter often taking the form of kilt-plaited Scotch em- broidery, with a fall of lace below. The best stays are now made as long as they possibly can be for the wearers to sit dewn in comfort; and for stout figures several ingenious inventions, too well known to par- ticularise, have been introduced in the form of busks, i to reduce the proportions as much as possible. Where expense is no object satin stays, which adapt them- selves to the body as kid does to the hand, are to be recommended. They are made in all colours, and also of the silky material, like cashmere, hitherto exclu- sively used by French bootmakers. Some fashionable dressmakers, dispensing with petticoat bodices and bodice lining, mould the dress on to the stay itself.