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.

A RUN DOWN THE CHANNEL.—If there is one thing I glory in, it is a voyage down the Channel. Never for a moment are you out of sight of subjects fit °°~°r thought, and speech too; for our coast line is wondrously pretty, and there are few portions with- out an historic reputation. Drake, Frobisher, and £ ^aTe ""led the very soundings through which we are now ploughing; and what change and contrast have taken place through the in- troduction of machinery for the propulsion of our ships! Which school made the best sailors I fear is a subject none will dispute. In the distance looms up the Wight; and what a .fleet of vessels, large and small, seem to find it difficult to get farther to the eastward! Truly, varieties of rig and build can be seen in our waters. The first we pass is a Dutch galliot, all resplendant in brilliant-coloured paint. She looks more like a plaything than ought else, yet are few safer sea-going vessels in the Wp°/i years ago when doubling the Cape of Good Hope in 42deg. south latitude, when it was blowing so hard and fiercely as it knows so well to do °n v. inhospitable ocean, one of these galliots, probably not over two hundred tons, was in our company for two days. Although the vessel I was on board of was a large transport, the little brilliantly- Dutchman to all appearance was making weather better than ourselves. Their crew was, as a rule, most able, hirdy sailors, worthy descendants of him who fint mounted the birch broom at the foremast head. Next in our course, and close by, is a French lugger, also a weatherly craft, which has most probably seen many a "7 a^°ut Ushant and the Channel Inlands; u does her crew look! That old man u weather- beaten face, dressed in scarlet shirt, JS T ^t shod in sabots, must be the bond fi»e Johnny Orapand; and how he su?ka at his pipe, from long use burnt as black as coal! How many pounds of tobacco, could any one tell, has it taken to accomplish this ? A youth evidently learn- ing some mysteries of fishing-net manufacture, an untiay lad at the tiller, and a very vociferous, un- known breed of dog, apparently make up the entire crew. But here come a different type of craft. Forty years ago, if sighted in the equatorial portion of the Atlantic, she would be suspected of carrying ebony; as it 1i_now« she is only a harmless fruiterer from the Western Islands. That she can sail no one who looks at her spread canvas, clean run and taunt rig, can dou.t; but I fear if this easterly breeze hold, it will be some time ere the good people of London have the pleasure of eating her oranges. Large as we are, we are slipping through the water at a wonderful pac^ yet so easily, so apparently without exernon, that one wonders to himself how quickly vessels are overtaken and left hull down by me. On thq port beam a smart, tidy three- masted schooner-rigged steamship, pronounced by adepts to be of the Oork and London line, expresses an evident intention to cross our bows; but she has calculated without her host, for our craft has it all her own way, and the little one has to give place and go a-tern Many accidents occur, many lives are lost, and noble ships sunk by rash attempts like this though, 0ne mu8t not be too severe on our sailors. Theymay occasionally make mistakes and cause danger; but if you want a specimen of the regular dare-devil type of reckless thorough disregard for their own and other people's lives—if, in fact, you want a new sen- gation, and one to be remembered, take a trip down the Mississippi when trade is brisk and opposition companies have boats upon the same route. On such occasions I have known it a fact that the furnaces have been fed with fat, and it was said that the safety yalve was tied down with a crowbar or a couple of niggers!—«« The Great Thirst Land," by Parker Gill- more. CHIPS 09 THE OLD BLOCK.—Captain Marryatfa eldest son was a universal favourite, but the pranks he sometimes played in his profession alarmed even the least sober among his companions. Amongst his boyish escapades it is related how, when his ship once lay off Glb, he used to be selected to command the boat which took a certain blind admiral to and from the shore, and part of his duty consisted in telling the old gentle- man whenever an officer saluted him in passing. The temptation to mischief was to strong for poor Fred. The warning," Officer saluting you, sir, was given upon all occasions, necessary or otherwise, and the old admiral was never allowed to rest tUiet two minutes without raising his hand to his hat. The trick played upon so important a personage having been discovered, Mr. MMshipman Marryatt was transferred to another ship in disgrace, when he piled all his baggage in a boat so as to resemble a ooffin, covered It with the union-jack for a pall, and played the Dead March in Saul on a cornopean as he was aonveyed to his new destination. On another occasion he was serving in a ship off Singapore, and not on the best terms with his captain, who, on giving a ball on board, omitted Mr. Marryatfs name from the lists of invitations. On the following day, however, when all the glass and crockery which had been hired for the guests were ready packed to go on shore, he was the one told eft, with malice prepense, to command the boat. On receivingthe order, Midshipman Fred appeared on deck, slowly and indolently. "Make haste, sir," cried the indignant captain—" Run, sir! jump!" Ay, ay, sir!' ^as the ready response; and jump he dii, right over the ship's side and dashed into the midst of the hired crockery, the destruction amongst which may be better imagined than described. The younger boy, Frank, was entered on the roll of the navy at the tender age of three years, and his father used to say that when he took him up for that purpose to the Port Admiral at Plymouth, and the officer, wishing to be gracious, patted the little one (who was attired in the costume of a seaman) on the head, with the observation, We! 1, you're a fine little fellow," the youngster set all the bystanders in a roar by the cool reply, And you're a fine old cock too!"— Captain Marryatfs Life and Letters. THE FRMATE-BmD.—B his home be in the air, if he neither dive into the sea for fish, nor search on the land for other food, whence does the frigate-bird derive his sustenance ? Impelled by hunger he descends from the lofty regions where it is his delight to dwell. Whether the sea be rough or calm he glides along over the water, and any unwary fish approaching the sur- face, on being detected by his keen eye, is pounced I upon instantaneously and swallowed. But the frigate- bird has other resources; though he cannot dive into the sea to catch fish, he avals himself of the labours of birds which can. He watches one of the birds which dive; he sees him emerge successfully, and fly off with his prey. Instantly the frigate-bird is down upon him with a swoop of terrific velocity. The frightened diver drops bis fish in mid-air; the frigate- bird poises himself again, darts down with another swoop and seizes the fish ere it reaches the water.— The World of Wonders. A WINE merohant in the oity, in extolling an excellent article of port," says (in his advertisement) I" It is as pure as the tears which bereaved affection drops upon a new-made grave."

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.

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.