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IN THE OLD CHURCH TOWER.
IN THE OLD CHURCH TOWER. In the old church tower Hangs the tell, And above it, on the vane, the luashine and the rain, W*1 Sold Saint Peter stands, "h the keys in his two hands, And all is well! In the old church tower I v Hangs the bell; 1 can hear its great heart beat— i '10 loud, and wild, and sweet, 8 the parson says a prayer Over happy lovers there, While all is well! In the old church tower Hangs the bell eep and solemn. Hark again! W 'vW^at Pa38i°n» an(l what pain lfh her hands upon her breast, 01110 poor soul has gone to rest Where all ia well! In the old church tower Hangs the bell, t quaint friend that seems to know jf °ur joy and all our woe t is glad when we are wed, *t is sad when we are dead, And all is well!
STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE…
STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. CHAPTER XXVIII. it A STRANGE CLAIMANT. M face. Oh! do you think I would v repr,» Nelly said, faintly, one evening as she *aa H,lng ^rom a awooc. 1,1 V (3iatp^'urn °* Agnes to aid her unhappy friena «oj( *1 Was ^im," 8^e faltered. My husband at sea, he was murdered—murdered, > g& by a horrible man he could not hare t^kn 88 ^0U you ^on t ^now> Agnes, you SeeOh!" she moaned, I shall never cease thn6VerJ" y°un^er woman full well knew the im- F^tom °p at once dispersing, if possible, this tairo^0 brain, as she believed it, ere it j ^00 firm a hold upon the mind. She 11 Jv 'P«ak d ^e face seem to look at you ?" asked she do tell me all; it will ease you, I am V oye e*ery thing seems so much worse with brood- Was what you saw like a living, everyday did he look it youT ^•Per fearfully, her voice sinking to a "p to n.' eyes were looking far above my head, *0ula n I *ace was towards me, but it k6 prav°» look at me' 0h'lefc me ASne8»let J• and she slid trembling down upon her ^«Uv bedside. teffj/j^'ose more calm, but her nerves had received 10 8°ock. Brooding as Bhe did over the past fr* k 8^e bad brought herself to look upen trouble or hardship as but a new addition Pea^ e8ei'*ed punishment, and in this sudden ap- *°&ld 06 ber lost husband her distorted imagination nothing but a warning to recall her to a to the self-humiliation, a more absolute resignation "j of her fault. Wl tefUgbt not to spare myself," she said, when they Ml." little time together; I did not tell you fljfr1 related the whole of her history—from ^ittin error of her maiden days to its fatal result — aoWd Dg only the finding of that ghastly witness; she 4 "feari bring herself to speak of what seemed ever T4 lØcret confided only to herself. work-a day mind of Agnes Ohaunce re- Si jS the notion of a gbost, close at the Of the a theatre, too, but the superstitious conviction th srff remained, and even deepened with her too -Y self-columunings and the nursing of her morbid We^ for the little Ida that Tom ona that night henceforth transferring his b0llj ^be altitude of two flights of stairs, be- ^k Purees the constant visitor of the third floor »* *hich Nelly and her child inhabited. an.^ ber father had come to live at a poor but todging in an obscure street in the Goswell-ro&d, hwhen a vacancy occurred, at her request, vi bad also removed. Of L 6 bave learned that Nelly had adopted the nama e fiwt husband, on her arriving in London, no t>f ^eeapful of discovery, than loathing the very sound name and even Agnes WAS unaware of her &oth° f obtained work at the same establishment that la-n firat met. Poor enough indeed was ^nd ?ot to pay; but, in addition, she als* in «. ^asional employment from a waistcoat-maker WHO ne,gbbourhood, for whom the landlady of the £ h mother spared not herself, but toiled, he* oVM^^bt, hard, and fared harder; fasted when to dined, and, when she slept, rose many a time Vr kain, with a restless, eager longinsr, that 110 ton* ™U8t. even though, when that were finished, a fev niight be at hand. She had a certain aim— *astftP desire, that spurred her on. It ha/eti rinS ^ad pledged—that ring fecoyT" P^ace(i on his finger, that she had so strangely •ac^^j and even to starvation point had held to ao jj y# had r woman almost it might seem that her mind »UCh shaken by what she had passed through, Uo ^nge fancies beset her; for, though she made ^DBI^V3-011 of i<: to any one' wa8 not without a feeiin&» that to her having parted with tiaj. token, she owed the fearful visitation of g|/e*d husband's appearance. becBme even more abstracted, more zealously Mbl to her toilsome work, at which, indeed, she me an adept; and even poor little Ida would ftjpQ £ ared badly for companionship and proper exer- wl^ad not the new Acquaintance fortunatelyap- Tb #afc ^b*8 junctur?. 'act is, in spite of Tom's devotion to his first had been so constantly met by objections on the part of Agnes, her independence Ijjg 'fequently galled him, even in the accepting of by the transfer of his friendship was the difficult matter it might otherwise 0Q6 ^th little Ida it was the reverse. Here was ^te fmucb bis junior as to look up to him, so desti- amusement or companionship of any kind, lne very sound of his footstep waa welcomed, l^^bose active little mind—free from gloomy recol- to or anticipations of the future—was ever ready ■^en^1/6 ideas or plans and make them her own. aftj; had not been the gentle, half-crippled, j^yttonate creature she was, little Ida would have herself a place in the heart of the rough but ilM lad. As it was, she grew upon his thoughts *ed berself up with his plans to an extent that lb*.?* ve an»a2ed himself, if he could have known it from himself. 'n&nv WBS brigbter that night than she had been for a day. She had achieved the purpose so long *1d f iforward to, had emancipated the pledged ring, betto °n5!e more ftB had some hold upon the She ^ort'on °f ber life by this frail link. °pinion&n8Were^ Ida's pretty chatter, and gave her 3}0tn a variety of subjects, chiefly relating: to satisfy books, and book-making, in a manner very off r ^be little one, till she prattled herself thou~vf8 P' and the mother was left to her own ^tin «. ber prayers, and to the sad luxury of re- °f ^bose vigilantly-hoarded relics of mystery, and A knew what crime and horror. ton L 8 laid the old-fashioned ring beside the skele- 8be vo .wbich it seemed almost to form a part, thft,« Wi *ithin herself that nothing should ever Dart while she lived. *ith some ten days after this, when, sitting >as g(.er °bild beside her in the waning twilight, she **6 ali by a knocking at the door, and, almost ma 6 C0U^ answer, by bidding the visitor come in," that ° enoer^d> apparently aged and slightly bent; by d^^tain light he seemed cleanly but very poorly altnr^f' his white hair somewhat profusely hung *hicV)\uP°n bis shoulders from beneath the hat, he removed, as he advanced into the room with "P j BOmewhat uncertain steps. •'f0 ardon me, dear Mrs. Franklen," he begun, ^nku,6 y>e seem agitated; you are Mrs. »in surprise, assented. b*3 R] rd it, I was told so. Oh, dear, the surprise to *aken away the little strength I have; oh, 'notKa ^88t» m7 long-lost treasure, my poor, poor J. r» shipwrecked father!" man put his ragged cuff to his eyes, and *bW to stick, for a few moments seemed un- an^' ^ndeed» alm03t alarmed by his manner till h- u j' Nelly begged him to sit down, and waited Pear«ii which in a few minuteB he ap- Cc a to do, then he went on- —yet 8 ran|ely it came to me, I hurried here at once ^ou hav*' 1 *-fc 8b°u'd not be true now, after all. tiogy 6 a ring, ma'am, an ancient, massive gold able tnM b^rt sank, and for the moment she was un- repiy. 4| CHAPTER XXIX. «, wA8 but E. B E 8 T roucr. "hen j J'' the venerable stranger continued, 3 aewr father left my poor mother sod my- self, to go on that last voyage, which was, alas! de- stined to be fatal to both himself and her." Here the old mar, deeply affected, leaned forward, bowing his grey head till it rested upon his hands, which were clasped upon his stick. Yes, he went on, with a trembling voice, "a little child, as this might be, sweet innocent!" He laid his hand on the curly head of the little Ida, but she slipped from beneath it, and, drawing to her mother's side, stood viewing the stranger with infan- tine curiosity from afar off. Little discomposed by the movement, the stranger went on- "Young as I was, I remember well the tears which my dear mother shed, as she drew that ring from off her finger, and placed it on that of my father. You will keep it,' she said, under Heaven's blessing, till you return it to me in the happy moment of our re-nnion. It will serve to re- mind you of me, and to recall "those happy hours we have spent together.' He, lifting his hat from his noble brows-gallant seaman and pious Christian as he was—said, solemnly, I Under God's mercy, Jessie, I will place it on your own precious finger this day twelvemonth.' Alas! madam, alas! for the instability of all human hopes." Here the stranger raised his eyes to the low ceilling of the attic, and slowly shook his head. till the grey hair was shaken out like a fringe upon it. That day twelvemonth passed, and another, and yet another, and my beloved mother, though racked with the agony of suspense and fear, refused to put on mourning for her brave sailor, till the news, the fatal news, was brought, that beyond a doubt the vessel had been wrecked off our southern coasts, and that, so complete had been tha wreck, so doubtful the portions, from time to time, deposited on shore, the certainty of the ship's identity with the missing one had but now been made clear. Vainly, then, even, did my dear mother struggle against convic- tion as vainly did she strive to obtain even the slightest token to assure her of the gloomy fact that she was a widow and myself a wretched orphan. But she died, ma'am, she died." The old man seemed suddenly to become aware of the fact that he was growing prolix, and hurried to a conclusion. Yes, ma'm, she died within a month; and her last words were of that ring. Ah! many and many a time through this weary life have I thought upon my noble father and the pledge of her love; both lying cold, cold at the bottom of the deep but little did I imagine that ever these old eyes would behold it more." And you heard how I came to have it ?" said Nelly, all amazed, and scarce knowing what she uttered. Hurriedly the old man resumed: When I heard ( that upon that same coast, in that very year, among I other relics whose description I remembered long ago, there had been found a ring%so answering in ] particulars to the very one imprinted on my youth- ] ful mind, no less by my mother's frequent repetition than by that solemn occasion I have related, when I learned that it was in the possesion of one who had herself been the wife of a seaman, who had dared the I perils ana known the hardships of that life, I said to myself, she will feel for the poor old man and his sorrows she will let him look upon the old ring once J more—once more His voice had become quite plaintive, his hands ( shook as he extended them towards the woman, who was already wiping her eyes in sympathy, and had, j in fact, begun, with a sigh, to extract the ring from its hiding-place. t j The old man's eyes watched her with the fixed in- tentness of extreme old age, which takes, at times, almost the fixedness of insanity, and, in a rapid utter- ance, he went on— I So well I remember—the great heavy plait of gold that I used to think was the cable of my father's ship, and the greit bloodstone, heart-shaped, with the small green anchor that seemed growing in the very midst, and Oh! I see VOfI know it," she cried, with a sudden anguish in her tone, as it was borne in upon her soul that she must part with this long treasure j heirloom that linked her to the lost one—so recently, too, re- covered. She held it to him, and, in the faint even- ing light, the wonderful stones glowed with what seemed to be at that moment even an added brilliancy, and that, unseen to her, was reflected, even intensified, by those sharp eyes under the venerable locks that fringed the bare head of her visitant, as it stooped over the palsied hand which now hefc. the ring. Once more once more I" he cried. It is, in- deed, the very same! Oh! my dear mother I my brave and unfortunate father And thus, in a stranger's hand—thus, after so many years of trial and of tribu- lation, do I behold your treasured ring!" He stopped, and Nelly, standing beside him, saw something that glittered suddenly upon the ring, which the poor old man made as though he would wipo hastily away. Forgive me, ma'am; I'm old and weak—very weak. I haven't many years to live, and I bless Heaven that I have been permitted this sight before I die. I bless you, and thank you that have been the instru- ment." He returned the ring into her hand as he spoke, with a sigh, and, could Nelly but have seen the furtive glance of those sharp eyes as he did BO But she, poor woman, had but one thought: the ring had been hers so long as no more rightful owner claimed it; but here was one whose parents had possessed it at first, without whose loss it had never been hers. No variety of courses opened to her. Nay," she said, sorrowfully, it is yours. God knows I never thought to part with it, for it's been in our family so long that it seemed it must belong to me, and it's like next to losing my child there's such a deal of my life that it calls to mind, though it's been trouble, too, for the most part, and it seems not me only, for you say it like brought yours no good. But any way it belongs to you of right, and you must please take it, and, if it's any comfort to you, why I'm glad you found me." The ring was in the hand of the venerable stranger by this time, and the grey hairs quivering with emo- tion stronger than ever. Bless you! blesa you, dear lady, for this I" he said, in a voice that quivered with'emphasised grati- tude. But Heaven will bless you; the voice of your own conscience will bless you, when I am gone, when I am gone! I would not have taken the poor bauble from you, though my old heart yearned to it, I would net; but my days are numbered, and I have no friend, no child, no relative! When I am gone, this ring shall be yours once more—yours and to this sweet innocent," He stretched out his hand, but the little golden head eluded him this time, and the old gentleman, put- ting his hand in his pocket, added the inducement of a piece of money. Take this, dear child; it is little I have to give, but you have made my heart very glad this night." As Ida made no approach, despite the bribe, it was deposited on the table, for the stranger was now in no mood to stay, and was making his way towards the door as fast as the infirmities of age would allow. You will see me again," he said to Nelly; "you will let me come and see you, I know you will. Heaven bless you, dear lady, Heaven bless you!" The door closed; the poor old man was heard making hia way with difficulty down the stairs, and Nelly, for the moment, reproached herself with hav- ing suffered the loss of the ring to overcome her so far as not to have offered to assist the stranger in his descent. She would have been possessed by a different im- pulse, perhaps, if she could have seen what were the movements of that aged person, when he had passed out of earshot of the attic occupants. CHAPTER XXX. OONSBQUBXCES. TIME passed on, without much to mark one day from another, as they went by. Nelly still continued to earn a scanty living for her- self and child, at the ill-paid but not over-laborious work she had engaged in, aad to whichJehe was more reconciled, from the fact that it left her at liberty to be the companion and instructress of her child, so far as her own capacity went. Little Ida was, if not a remarkably apt, at least a persevering scholar, and the more determinedly gave her mind to the learning to read, that she knew Tom had a hand in the making of the books; indeed, she ascribed to him a share in every printed page which met her eye. Their friendship had increased with time; and with new inducements Tom became more inventive in ex- cuses for being so constant a visitor. Now it was a curtain he Could put up better than Nelly could, he was sure; now he had discovered a lock to be re- paired now he had a patent method for curing the chimney of smoking, or he had found a bit of board that would make a first-rate shelf but the happiest hit of all was the canary. He had brought the most choice songster of the little colony to Goswell-street, in a cage of his own construction; it was indeed a I happy moment for Ida when she saw the pretty creature domiciled over her own little corner by the window, and learnt that it was to be her property henceforth. Net a day could go by but Tom must inform him- self on the state of the canary's health there was seed to bring, too, and the cage to clean out, which Tom, artful lad, had stipulated he should be permitted to do. Nelly was nothing loth, when she had once in- formed herself of the boy's disposition, for she felt herself to be but a poor companion for the little one, whose infirmity would tend to isolate her evermore from those of her own age. Since the visit of the claimant to her ring-who had never, of course, made his appearanoa again—her spirits had sunk lower, and her health grew more enfeebled. At times, she would brighten up, and beguile her weariness with visions of a future made brighter by some turn of for- tune or unexpected chance; but soon the recollection of her forlorn state, the uncertainty of her husband's fate, the helplessness of her deformed child, and, more than all, remorse for her own fatal error in the past, would again cast a gloomy shade upon the path that lay before her. For the sake of her girl only she cared to live, and, even now, it needed all the kind and considerate per- suasion of her friend, Agnes Ohaunce, to prevent her falling into a fatal despondency. But poor Agnes herself needed consolation. Her father Ind been gradually sinking into utter imbe- cility it was not possible to quit him for a minute, and his claims upon her time did not permit her to ) devote herself to her work, as it was necessary she should do, for them to live by it. There was another source of trouble, too; the same ill disposed person who had prejudiced her old land- lady against her found an opportunity to spread whispers to her disadvantage, which reached the place where she found employment, and Agnes soon felt the consequence in the whispered sneers and half-uttered taunts of her fellow-workers girls who, perhaps, had all been known, could have less borne scrutiny than the much enduring and remorseful Agnes. But she bore all bravely, taking it as part of the punishment due to her error, and tried the more to occupy herself with her father, and, if possible, to satisfy his fretful requests and unconscionable re- quirements for the man who, in health, had been always selfish, was, in derangement and suffering, almost unendurable. Still, as I have said, the girl bore up, worked when he slept, and denied herself almost necessaries to give the invalid the luxuries he craved she had ever a word of comfort for her desponding neighbour, when she could creep up, now and then, for a minute or two; or Nelly would step, on her way in or out, to ask could she do an errand, or perform some domestic duty for her friend. But for some days past Agnes had been even the saddest of the two. Some terrible grief seemed struggling within, her eyes were heavy with weeping, her check flushed as with feverish thought, and, at times, wild ejaculations oroke from her that showed ■ a mind strangely disturbed and ill at ease. < Noticing these symptoms, and attributing them to Eomesuch distracting memories as were too apt to dis- I tress herself, Nelly had forborne to acquaint her friend with the circumstance of the old man calling I upon her to claim the ring, and for some time after that event they saw little of each other. Mrs. Grejjous had, by some means, discovered the object of Tom's frequent absences, and protested against it with her usual show of vehemence. I Tom was returning from one of his journeys with j proofs of which he had spoken to his little com- t panion. ( He was contemplating a slight increase of the very I limited pay he received at the printing office, and ( which he hoped to persuade his mother te relinquish E ill claim upon, as a fund for his own private use; and just at that moment whom should he see but Ida, ] iteing dragged along in the custody of a policeman ? I He ran forward at ones and asked: What's the— 1 where—what's it for ? c The policeman made no reply, save by flinging off ] ronile arm and again urging his small prisoner f forward. But the boy still kept hold of Ida's hand, ] ind continued to move with them, followed by a ] pooup of juvenile spectators, who cheered Tom, and ya-ahed!" at the bobby from a respectful dis- ( tance. 1 It's a case of smashing, Master Grejous," said an I attendant baker, and as barefaced a one as ever I ] see, and I've trounced a pretty many, and trounce 1 em I will, so long as I've breath to say the j words — ( You'd best keep what you've got to say for his wor- t ship," said the policeman; then, with a significant ( Look at Tom, he added, There'll be more to say than 1 some bargained for." I It't a pack of lies," shouted Tom. Why I know them well, her and her mother; she'd no more go to I smashing than me." r "That's very likely," growled the policeman. i Are you a-going to clear off, now, before I make you ? A short walk brought them to the police-court, where the magistrate was at the time sitting. There was the usual motley crowd about the entrances of the court, through which the policeman, however, made way without difficulty. Meanwhile, Tom had found the opportunity to slip between the crowd until he stood ciose behind her, ( and, amid the hubbub of the court, he could speak to her freely. Ida," he asked, where is your mother ? how was you out by yourself ? -'Ob, Tom,' said the child, tearfully, mother has been so ill for three days, and this morning she could J not get up out of bed, and there was no breakfast; 1 so she let me go to the baker-and, oh, what will they do, Tom ? mother will be so bad, and me not there; and she won't know what has become of me!" The tears swelled to her eyes again, but she was too much awed to let them fall. Instinctively, amid the rude crowd, she turned to Tom as her only stay and guardian, and, unable to give him her hand, she leaned back her head till her poor feverish cheek touched the coarse apron and corduroys behind her, as if they had constituted a pillar of support. Tom quite understood the action, but his male intelligence grasped at something more important than the temporary consolation his presence could yield. Look here, Ida," he said I must go and tell mother—they'll ask for her I must fetch her, if she can come, and if she can't, I must bring Mrs. Smith" (the landlady of the house where Nelly lodged). It was a matter of necessity, and, as he sped on his errand, it only once crossed his mind that he was in a fair way not only to forfeit all chance of promotion, but to lose his employment altogether, and embroil himself with his mother past all chance of reconcilia- tion. As the possibility crossed his mind of her de- manding his immolation at the shrine of Thatcher as the only possible expiation, he exclaimed emphatically and aloud— "I'll go to sea first!" This was the sole allusion Tom permitted himself to his own affairs; his mind reverted to the unac- countable event of the morning; and still revolving all its possible results, he found himself at the court out of the Goswell-road, and before the house he sought. j Tom was far from a good one to break unpleasant news, or acquit himself of a delicate mission satisfac- torily. He felt his own deficiencies, and paused in his ( rapid career as he ascended the stairs, to consider how he could best begin. A thought struck him; he stopped on the landing, and was about to knock at tlw door of Agnes Ohaunce, to solicit her intervention, when he heard a confcsed sound within, the door suddenly opened, and Agnes ( herself appeared, with tear-stained face, and distrac- tion in her features. ( He is dying!—my father is dying!" she cried. Oh, Tom, for the love of Heaven, run for the doctor i -he was here last night-be said there was nothing to be feared just now; but my father is worøe-I 1 know, I feel he is dying." 1 I |Poor Tom's difficulties seemed thickening around him. | In a few hurried words ha told his errand. The ( girl, staring wildly at him, scarcely seemed to take in the sense of what he said. ( At that moment the door above opened. "Bring her up, bring her up,1' cried a frantic voice, which he hardly recognised as Nelly's. She is 1 dead! she is killed! my child is killed, and you have brought her home-let me see her, let me see my child!" Go to her," said Agnes, mournfully. My God! there seems nothing but misery in this world." Tom ran up the stairs, and at the top met Nelly, half dressed, in the wildest distraction. "Where is she?" she cried. "She is dead! she is hurt! What have you done with her ?" Ida it safe, Mrs. Franklen," said Tom; she isn't hurt—nothing's the matter—only there's a mistake, a id I want to take you to her." The poor mother threw her arms around his neck, and blessed and kissed him, crying the while, very much to the discomfiture of the printer boy, to whom the experience was totally new. In a few moments Mrs. Franklen had on her bonnet and shawl, and, by the aid of Tom's arm, descended the stairs. They were not long reaching the court. Tom had done his best to prepare Mrs. Franklen for what awaited her, but when she entered on the scene, and beheld her child, who had just been placed in the dock -a policeman on one side, her little hand held on the other by a strange woman, with a swollen eye and face disfigured, surrounded by officers and the unsavoury, ill-looking crowd which pressed upon her darling, as if her mere position there made her one of themselves -the woman's heart seemed to die within her. She struck her clenched hands upon her breast, and, groaning, tottered to a bench behind her, where she dropped like one who has received a sudden blow. (To be continued)
THEOLOGY gets a little mixed in the youthful mind. Who made you ?" asked a teacher of a little girl. She answered, God made me that length," putting her hands about twelve inches apart; and I growed the rest myself."
THE BELLE OF VALLEJO.
THE BELLE OF VALLEJO. Vallejo possesses a younlllady of extraordinary beauty. She is, moreover, as intelligent and bold as she is beautiful, and in grappling with a sudden emergency she is probably unequalled by any one of her sex. Natu- rally, she is the admiration of every young man in the town. In fact, she is beyond the reach of rivalry. The other young ladies of Vallejo are perfectly well aware that it is hopeless for them to enter the lists with her. They never expect to receive calls from marriageable young men except on the off nights of the Vallejo belle, and, though they doubtless murmur secretly against this dispensation, they apparently accept it is a law of nature. That so brilliant a girl should have selected a meek young minister on whom to lavish her affections was certainly a surprise to all who knew her, and when it was first rumoured that she had made such a selection, Vallejo refused to believe it. The minister made his regular nightly calls upon the objects of his affections, but an average quantity of eleven other young men never failed to be present. In these circumstances he began to grow thin with suppressed affection, and th9 young lady, alarmed at his condition, made up her mind that something must be done without delay. About three weeks ago the young minister presented himself in his beloved's front parlour at 6.50 P.M., and in the ten minutes that elapsed before the first of his rivals rang the bell, he painted the misery of courting by battalions in the most harrowing terms. Miss Ecks listened to him with deep sympathy, and promised him that if he would stay until nine o'clock, the last of the objec- tionable young men would be se thoroughly disposed of that for the rest of the evening he would have the field to himself. Full of confidence in the determina- tion and resources of his betrothed, his spirits returned, and he was about to express his gratitude with his lips, a8Jre^ as his heart, when the first young man was ushered into the room. Miss Ecks received her unwelcome guest with great cordiality and invited him to sit on a chair, the back of which was placed close to a door. The door in question opened outward and upon the top of a flight of stairs leading to the cellar. The latch was old and out of order, and the least pressure would cause it to By open. In persuance of a deep- laid plan Miss Ecks so moulded her conversation as to place her visitor at his ease. In a very few moments be ceased to twist his fingers and writhe his legs, and presently tilted baek his chair after the manner of a contented and happy man. No sooner did the back of the chair touch the door than the latter flew open, ind the unhappy guest disappeared into the cellar with a tremendous crash. Checking the cry that urose from the astonished clergyman, Miss Ecks quietly reclosed the fatal door, placed a fresh chair in its ncinity, and calmly remarked That's one of them." r\r 6 ?a^Q*^e8 more the second young man entered. Like his predecessor, he seated himself, on the ip pointed chair, tipped back upon its hind legs and instantly Vanished. That's two of them," remarked -he imperturbable beauty, as she closed the door and >nce more reset the trap. From this time until line o clock a constant succession of young men went town those cellar stairs. Some of them groaned ilightly after reachingthe bottom, but not one returned. [t ,was an unusually good night for young men, and Kiss Bcks caught no less than 14 between seven and line o clock. As the last one disappeared she turned i0 her horrified clergyman and said, II That's the last )f them! Now for business;" but that mild young man aad fainted. His nerves were unable to bear the strain, MUX when the moment of his wish for monopoly of betrothed had arrived he was unable to enjoy it. [jater in the evening he revived sufficiently to seek a railway station and fly for ever from his remorseless farmer. The inquest that was subsequently held upon he fourteen young men will long be remembered as a nost impressive scene. Miss Ecks was present with ler back hair loose, and the tears stood in her nagnificent eyes as she testified that she could not magine what induced the young men to go down the ,ellar. The jury, without the slightest hesitation, found 'hat they had one and all committed suicide, and the joroner personally thanked the young lady for her ucid testimony. She is now more popular than ever, md, with the loss of her own accepted lover, hae renewend her former fondness for society, and nightly intertains all the surviving young men of Vallejo. rhis shows what the magnificent climate can accomplish n the production of girls when it really tries.—New York Timet.
A YOUNG COOK.
A YOUNG COOK. k capital cake, and no mistake, Little Betty determines to make; Mother is willing that she should try, And cook looks on with approving eye, 3pens the coekery.book where the leaves Are carefully marked; and then she tries Fo follow directions, and measure with care, 3o that just the right quantities only are there. Spreads on the dresser, so clean and nice, Eggs in a basket, and flour in a dish, Ourrants and raisins, sugar and spice, Candied peel; what more could one wish ? Dp to the elbows Bess rolls her sleeves, Kes on an apron, and, looking wise, Now, cook, get the oven all ready for me, "Not too hot, lest the cake Spoiled in baking should be; Ie I am sure," Betty says" from the Pains that I take, ii' e, That mine will turn oat amost excellent cake." —Little Folks,
"PA, what does thismean-g-l-u-t-i-n-o-u-aP" Why, that's eatm' too much, Ohauncey, such as you do sometimes. I'm glad to see you larnin' But, pa, the teacher said it meant sticks.' What sort of sticks are they um-sticke ? No, you gawky- sticks, to stick—to stick to your vittels!" ENGLAND'S WOOL TB.ADE.-The wool trade of this country has been marked by a little variety. In the fourteenth century England exported wool Largely to Italy and Flanders, the sheep themselves being also sent to the Continent by thousands. A large amount of the taxes was even paid in bags of wool, which were speedily exchanged for Flemish ooins. Repeated attempts were, however, made during the sibove period to check the exportation of the raw material. Many duties were imposed, and smug- glers were punished by the loss of the right hand, which was hung up in the market- places as a considerate warning to all. At length the nen-exporters gained the day, and rrom 1660 to 1825 it was illegal to send a pound of British wool out of the country. A long fight fol- lowed the woollen manufacturers procured a law for burying the dead in woollen cloth, and used all their influence to increase the quantity of wool in the country by the double process of bnnqing in foreign and keep- ing in all the native growth. The great sheep-farmers clamoured for precisely the opposite measures. Could ilie ovine creatures have comprehended the nature of the battle, they must have felt highly flattered by ce their influence in English politics. The contest gradually subsided, as wiser commercial views were adopted by all parties.—Catsell's Nsw Popular Edu- cator. FRENCH WOMEN AS TALKERS.—Of three sxterior forms of action—talk, manner, and dress— which are at the disposal of all women, it is from talk that the French extract theirreal results. Their employ. nenti of manner and of dress is conducted with a scien afic skill unknown in any other land; but, great as is their proficiency in the handling of those two sources of influence, it is by talk alone that they bring about the highest and most subjugating of their effects. Even ;he accident of beauty helps them but little; it is so fre- (uent amongst them; they are, by theirnature, so disin- clined to trust to passive elements of attraction; they are, on the contrary, so accustomed te energetically employ the most active measures of attack; they are all so thickly surrounded by examples of constant and rigorous use of personal exertion in order to please, to influence, and to win -that by the joint force of habit and example, they learn to regard mere ordinary beauty, if they happen to possess any of it, as a weapon which is usually insufficient to carry them to a victorious position in their world. Scarcely any of the French women who are endowed with it attach Bxcessive pride to it. They perceive that it disposes other people to look at them admiringly, andto talk somewhat about them; but with their prodigious common-sense, and with their singular national capacity for rightly estimating the relative value of things they recognise that, by itself, it rarely leads them to any solid influence. The men and womenround tnem want something more than prettiness—they desire to talk, to listen, to be amused and interested. So, as looking or being looked at is not enough for any of them, they end by laying down the law that beauty alone gives no sufficient masteries in life to its holder. And, futher- more, even if it did bestow complete authority and undisputed control, there are not many women in France who would content themselves with unwon homage-who would consent to leave their faces to inertly conquer for them-who would sit down silently in their beauty and adandon the inspiriting strife which leads to well gained consciously merited command. The women of France are an essentially living race—a race of combatants, who scorn unf ought-for victories and torpid triumphs. Their joy in life is, not only to fight, but to fight with arms which they have forged themselves for their own hands, and so to accomplish a double success as belligerents and as manufacturers. Under such conditions, and with such natures, it is comprehensible enough that Frenchwomen should regard talk as their sword of war, manner and drees as supplementary weapons of attack, and beauty as an un- aggressive ally, which adds, it is true, to the effect of a review of troops, but which is of little reliable service in campaigning.—Blackwood?» Nagasime.
< LADIES' COLUMN.
< LADIES' COLUMN. The Parisians are for ever inventing new ways of introducing the minor elegancies of life, as they re- cognise the fact that the small details of a toilette con- siderably add to its arcistic effect. Tiny bouquets of spring flowers, write Eliane de Marsy, in the Queen, are now worn in the buttonholes of mantles, and at the theatre in high bodices. The flowers are no longer placed in the centre of the bodice, but higher up on the left near the shoulder. These bouquets are pinned on with either a diamond bow or they are decorated with a small lizard in diamonds; others lees costly are placed in a gilt bouquet holder, which is chased and open-worked, and is sometimes fastened to the chatelaine, to which also a fan is attached. Long white lace scarves, that are tied and retied so as to form jabots, are very fashionable; ornamental pins, with either pearl heads or precious stones, are fastened here and there in the lace. Shoes and stockings are also becoming more elegant in style than during the winter; silk stockings to match the costume worn at the time, and shoes with double Charles IX. buckles now replace boots. If, however, boots are worn, they are usually made gaiter fashion, with either navy-blue or greyish-brown tops. Stockings must accord with the colour of the costume, and are richly ornamented. One of the quietest styles is represented by a black silk stocking, in the centre of which extends a long narrow diamond in red horizon- tal open work, bordered by miniature diamonds in white dots. Such hose are reproduced in all colours. Shoes also are submitted to the same rule; not only do they agree in colour, but are worked with a design of the brocade or the flowers of the drees trimming. Slippers for home, receptions, Ac., are black satin, with toes embroidered with either lophop- hore, old gold, or moonlight jet; the strap across the instep is likewise embroidered. There is no buckle to such shoes; the strap is fastened with a button. Other satin shoes have, on the contrary, two small cat steel buckles; but the grande ilggana consists in having the monogram and coronet embroidered on the shoes. On black satin shoes the monogram is worked in colour, and in the same design as on letter paper. Handkerchiefs are also marked like note paper, and some gentlemen are eccentric enough to have their handkerchiefs embroidered in imitation of red sealing wax having fallen on the cambric, and impressed with their crest, coat of arms, &e. The new parasols are in the Ducheese form, with a cane handle, and many are covered with fancv mate- rials others striped; some are all black or all white, and bordered with a fringe of split feathers. For morning use black or navy-blue parasols without fringe are preferred but more dressy ones are embroidered on one corner with a single motif a la Japonaitt; a butterfly, a bouquet of violets, a tuft of forget-me-nots is worked to look as if carelessly thrown on the parasol cover. Mastic grey (putty colour), with green, is a popular combination for spring costumes. The grey is the woollen overdress, which may be bourrette or armnre; the green is olive or dark myrtle, and is used for skirt and trimmings. Ordpe lisse, creamy white in colour, and edged with Valenciennes lace of the same hue, is worn round the neck and sleeves of silk and grenadine dressee; it forms a thick frill, as three or four rows, gradually widening, are sewn in at once. Sometimes one row of the frilling is carried down the front, as if issuing from the button holes. A stylish way of using ribbons is that of doubling three shades of eatin ribbon, each an inch wide, placing the loops closely together to form a band around the wrist, or round the short ruffle sleeves that stop half-way between the elbow and wrist. Imagine, for instance, that the dren is pale blue crdpe batiste, trimmed with rose-bud embroidery on net; then the folded ribbons on the sleeves will be olive green, rose, and pale blue. The bodice will have at the throat a rosette of these three colours, with hanging ends, and the habit basque will be laid in plaits, down owhof which is a folded satin ribboa of one of these three colours.
USEFUL HINTS. GIKCKR BUL-Twelve quarts of boiling water, 4oz. of cream of tartar, 3oz. or 3-foz. (according to taste) of lump sugar, 2oz. of ginger, six lemons cut in slices. Let the above stand in an open vessel for twenty-four hours, then add two tablespoonsfuls of barm. Strain it, and bottle it off. BOILED ONIONS WITH MILK OR CREAM GRAVY.— Put the peeled onions in a good deal of boiling water and keep them boiling steadily for an hour. Pour off the water and turn into the saucepan (for a dozen onions) nearly a pint of good milk, as creamy as you can afford. Salt to taste. When it boils up, thicken with flour stirred to smooth paste in water. THE ART OF TEA MARINO.—If the tea is desired to be of good flavour, be careful not to make it in a teapot which has been long out of use, without having previously washed it out with boiling water. This is done to remove any slight mouldiness which might be present in the vessel without being observed, and which would impart a disagreeable taste to the tea when made. Always keep the tea in a proper canister, protected from the atmosphere and from damp, other- wise it will lose the pleasant scent peculiar to good tea, and, when used, give the beverage an unpleasant flavour. For tkis reason be very careful, if pos- sible, never to purchase tea which has a musty odour, even in the slightest degree, or which does not possess that agreeable scent so characteris- tic of tea in good condition, but which is so quickly lost by exposure to damp. In making tea always fill up the teapot at once. By this means the whole of the theine-which is the vegetable principle on which the peculiar effects produced by tea depends -is extracted at once. This will be found much superior to the plan sometimes adopted of first wetting the tea with a small quantity of hot water, and then allowing it to stand before filling up the teapot. For the purpose of extracting the whole of the theine, the water should be allowed to remain in the tea for at least ten minutes before pouring it out. Be also very careful that the water employed for making tea is boiling before filling the teapot, otherwise the whole of the tbeiae will not be extracted by the fluid, and the tea employed will not go so far as it otherwise would.—CatteWs Household Guide. BENOVATION OF Sine FABRICS.—The silk material being extended on a board or form, of convex shape, should be sponged with a solution of mastic in twelve times its weight of alcohol. When thoroughly impreg- nated with this preparation, the silk should be pressed with an iron moderately heated, so as not to melt and fix the resin, which maladroitness would cause stains in the silk. A little care will ascertain the requisite temperature of the iron, and a lustre will be given to the faded silk not effaceable by water, and far superior to its former one. To SHARPEN WITHOUT WHETTING.—It has long been known that the simplest method of sharpening a mzor is to immerse it half an hour in water containing one- twentieth of its weight of muriatic or sulphuric acid, then lightly dry it, and after a few hours set it on a hone. The acid supplies the place of a whetstone, t j corroding the whole surface uniformly, so that nothing but a smooth polish is needed. This process never injures good blades, while hardened ones are fre- quently improved by it, though wherefore is unex- plained. Many other cutting instruments may be benefited in this way. The artisan or the husband- man, on commencing and on relinquishing labour, may moisten the blades of his tools with water thus acidified at a trifling cost, and save the consumption of time and labour in whetting, which is, in addition, destructive of the blades.
Do lean a little more on my arm, Miss M- pyp said a late reverend doctor to a lady, as one evening he was conducting her home from a party. Unless a gentleman feels the gentle pressure of a lady's arm, where is the pleasure?" "And unless she has some support, where is her profit ? exclaimed Miss K-. ANNOUNCEMBNT OF THE ACCESSION TO THB THRONE OR THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.—The Bishop (of Montreal) farther said that eighteen years after he passed on the road William IV., on his way to London to hold a Wk. It was the last he ever heid. On his return he was taken ill, and soon afterwards died at Windsor Castle, whence the Princess Victoria re- ceived the intelligence of his death, as described in the Diaries of a Lady of Quality," June, 1837 On the 20th, at two p.m., the scene closed, and, in a very short time the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Oonyngham, the Chamberlain, set out to com- municate the event to the young sovereign. 1'h¡;y reached Kensington Palace at about five; they knocked, they rang, they thumped for a considerable time before they could rouse the porter at the gates; they were again kept wa ting in the courtyard, and then turned into one of the lower rooms, and seemed forgotten by everybody. They rang the bell, and desired that the attendant of the Princess Victoria might be sent to inform her Royal Highness that they requested an audience on business of import- ance. After another delay, and another ringing to inquire the cause, the attendant was summoned, who stated that the Princess was in such a sweet sleep she would not venture to disturb her. Then they said, We come to the Queen on business of State, and even her sleep must give way to that!' It did; and to prove that she did not keep them waiting, in a few minutes she came into the room in a loose white night- gown and shawl, her night-cap thrown eff, and her hair falling upon her shoulders-her feet in slippers, tears in her eyes, but perfectly collected and digni- fiod.—Pergonal Beoolleetione, By Job* Timbe,
VOTOTI. I and ahow them to be fools which ai§ BO. Garments that have one rent in them are subject to be torn on every nail, and glasses that are once cracked are soon broken; such is a man's good name once tainted with reproach. SHAMS.—We live in an age of sham and fraud. Hardly a day passes that does not discover some new and gigantic rascality by which one or a few persons have been enriched at the expense of the many trust- ing dupes. A HELPING HEART.—It is astonishing how much one without money may give. A kind word, a help- ing hand-the warm sympathy that rejoices with those who weep. No man is so poor, no woman is so poor, as not to be able to contribute largely to the happiness of those about them. PAMPERED.—It is very easy to spoil children by rearing them in idleness. A girl who is never allowed to sew, all of whose clothes are made for her, and put on her, till she is twelve, fifteen, or eighteen years of age, is spoiled. The mother has spoiled her by doing everything for her. The true idea of self-restraint is to let the child venture. GLORIA MUNDI.-Some time in the reign of Queen Anne a party of sightseers were being conducted over the House of Lords. "Have you ever been here before, friend?" asked a spruce, pert young buck of a very ancient visitor in home-spun garb, who looked like a substantial yeoman, and who seemed to be gazing around him with intense interest. Never," replied the ancient person, since I sat in that chair." And with his stick he pointed tremblingly to the throne. The ancient visitor was Richard Cromwell, some time Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England. ONE'S OwN Room.-Far beyond drawing-room or spare room, and important above almost every other arrangement in your domestic establishment, is the consecration of one room to the especial use of the master of the house, should his pursuits be such as to render occasional solitude and quiet needful or merely pleasurable to him. A sound and a lovely policy is that which secures to a husband in his family certain privileges and comforts that he can never find else- where, and that are calculated to counterbalance the weight of the many other attractions which his imme- diate circle cannot offer. A room to himself-a home within his home-is such a privilege, and few sacri- fices are too great if they may procure it for him; it will keep him from clubs and card parties abroad, or from being "always about" home; it will prove a sanctuary from the numerous petty domestic troubles and annoyances. THB BRIGHT SIDE.—Look on the bright side. It is the right side. The times may be hard, but it will make them no easier to wear a gloomy and sad i countenance. It is the sunshine, and not the cold, that gives beauty to the flower. There is always be- fore or around us that which should cheer and fill the heart with warmth and gladness. The sky is blue ten times where it is black once. You have troubles it may be. So have others. None are free from them—and perhaps it is well that none should be. They give sinew and tone to life—fortitude and courage to man. That would be a dull sea, and the sailor would never acquire skill, were there nothing to disturb its surface. It is the duty of everyone to extract all the enjoyment he can from within and without him, and, above all, he should look on the bright side. What though things do look a little dark? The lane will have a turning, and the night will end in broad day. In the long run the great balance rights itself. What appears ill becomes well -that which appears wrong, right. ST. DUNSTAN AND THE DEVIL.-The legend of St. Dunstan is pretty generally known, but then it is not so generally known, beyond the limits of Sussex, that Mayfield Place was the scene of that terrific encounter. It was there, and not at Glastonbury, as some ill- informed chroniclers assert, that the fiend appeared to the saint in the guise of a fair lady, and that Dunstan, being at the time engaged in his favourite recreation of forging a horse-shoe, on perceiving a cloven foot protruding from the voluminous folds of the infernal crinoline, seized the demon's nose with his red-hot pincers. (The pincers, as well as the saint's anvil, still exist at Mayfield, as irrefragable evidence of the statement.) On the application of the hot iron, the Evil One burst through the roof of the building, St. DHnstan holding on at the other end of the forceps with that pertinacity which ever distinguished his conduct. Away they went through the air, with the speed of a rifle-bullet, a full league of space, until the sulphurous composition of the nasal organ gave way to the heat of the implement, and the saint fell to the ground near a bridge which still bears his name. In ground near a bridge which still bears his name. In order to cool his tongs, Dunstan took a leisurely walk to Tunbridge Wells, into the waters of which he thrust them; and hence the taste of quenched iron which, even to this day, those waters retain. THE ART OF DISSEMBLING.-When Mr. Dempster was in danger of being ousted from Perth, one of the boroughs lie had long represented, owing to a party made against him by the magistrates, his friend Mr. P., was very active in his interest, and knowing that the provost, Mr. Stewart, was violently against him, he hit upon an expedient to win him over to his in- terest. Dr. Carmichael Smythe was known to be Mr. Dempster's physician, and a relation of the provost. Mr. P. accordingly applied to Dr. Smythe to know confidentially whether Mr. Dempster's health would be endangered by a residence in Bengal, stating that he knew it was the determination of Governmeftt to appoint him governor-general, provided Dr. Smythe thought his health good enough to stand the climate. The bait took; Dr. Smythe with great gravity as- sured Mr. P. that India would agree very well with Mr. Dempster's constitution. The doctor imme- diately wrote to his relative, the provost, assuring him most positively, but most confidentially, of Mr, Dempster's appointment, and stating that he must support his interest at the approaching election, by all the means in his power, if he expected the pro- motion of his son in India. The provost eagerly caught at so good an opportunity, and in the ex- pectation of making the fortunes of his house, devoted all his interest to Mr. Dempster, and secured his election. A FAITHFUL FRIEND.- Who says that birds are in- capable of affection ? None who have studied their pretty ways and habits, certainly. It is now about four years ago that I became acquainted with my pigeon, Joe. One cold, dark night I opened my bed- room window to take in a plant which had been for- gotten, when my hand touched something soft on the stone outside. It was a young pigeon. I took him in and warmed and fed him. He became my constant companion, affectionate and tame, playful and full of pretty little tricks. In the spring, thinking he looked wistfully at the sun and open fields, I thought it would be selfish to keep him longer a prisoner; so, after many affectionate farewells, I let him fly; but he did not remain many hours absent, coming back towards evening and striking the window-pane with his wing to be let in. So he continued to go and come until he began to stay out all night, and after a time brought home a neat little mate, a dark blue pigeon, her wings edged with pure white. Evidently he wished to introduce me to his bride. He made many efforts to induce her to remain, without success, so followed her wishes and made a nest elsewhere. Still for four years, summer and winter, through sunshine or falling snow or rain, he comes back to his mistress, sometimes bringing his mate and young ones to in- troduce but then sends them off again, remaining some time behind himself, and still retains his pretty, loving ways, bowing and cooing, and spreading one beautiful wing out over my head as I stand beneath a ledge he perches on to feed, and still each morning, after washing and carefully pluming himself, he flies through the open window, and I watch him wing his way higher and higher, and alone back to that other home, I know not where. For, small and insignificant though this little creature be, his other life is to me an unsearchable mystery. CLEOPATRA|S NEEDLE.—After the Battle of Alexan- dria in 1801, it had been the ardent wish of the British army and navy to carry off this famous obelisk to England as a memorial of their victory, and though the project was again and again entertained, some difficulty or other always sprang up, and thus for more than 30 centuries the huge monolith kept unbroken watch by the sea, for many a long year surrounded with the broken archives of some bygone and ruined temple. Nor is it merely antiquity that renders it an object of curious interest. Not far from the site of the famous stone was Heliopolis, or On (the City of the Sun), and it was Asenath, the daughter of Poti- pherah, the priest of On, who was given in marriage to Joseph. The Patriarch himself may have stood under the shadow of the Needle, and read the very inscription which still remains to tell the legend of Thothmes III., "the Kingly Horns, lord of Upper and Lower Egypt." It was near this same spot that Joseph received his aged father, Jacob; and there, according to tradition, the Holy Family took refuge under a sycamore d,uring their night into Egypt. Ancient Egypt, with all its learning and refinement, and many scenes and acts of Biblical history, are thus recalled by the wondrous stone; which, having witnessed the fall of the Greek and the rise of the Roman sway, may recall the memory of gallant Nelson at Aboukir and the death of Abercrombie at Alexandria. The height of the Needle, now destined to adorn some, let us hope, well chosen site in the metropolis, is 67 feet; and in Mr. Erasmus Wilson's handy and complete monogragh will be found an accurate account of its whole history, as well as much that is curious and interesting concerning the other similar fifty obelisks which once existed, and of which more than thirty are still standing as silent witnesses of the past. His description of various ruined temples and cities, and his remarks on the ancient hieroglyphics, though necessarily brief, are well worth reading, and give in a popular form just what the average visitor to this venerable monument wiil can to know, AN ORDBR OF Hnmoo MONKS.—Aghorpunta, or Aghorees, are a olass of people who frequent the Ghats at Benares, though they are occasionally to be found in other parts of India, and have been met with even in Assam. They are Ogres (indeed, the simili- tude of the word to Aghoree is noticeable), and affect a practical philosophy, which disbelieves in the exis- tence of any difference between things, and .oooi' i that all distinctions depend on the imagination. A cuff or a kick is as immaterial to them as a blessing. They go about in puris naturalibus, with a fresh human skull in their hands (off which they had previously eaten the putrid flesh, and afterwards scraped out the brain and eyes with their fingers), into which is poured whatsoever is given them to drink. They pretend to be indifferent whether it be ardent spirits or milk or foul water. For food they take the first thing which offers, whether it be a putrid corpse, cooked food, or ordure. With matted hair, blood-red eyes, and body covered with filth and vermin, the Aghoree is an object of terror and disgust. He looks like a wolij ready to destroy and then devour his prey, rather than a human being. Hindoos, however, loolc on these wretches with veneration, and none dare to drive them from their doors. They are among the worst of the many turbulent and troublesome inhabi- tants of Benares, and there is scarcely a crime or enormity which has not, on apparently good groun Is, been laid to their charge. One of the ancient Hindoo dramatists, Bhava Bhutt, who flourished in the eighth century, in his drama of Malati and Mahdava, has made powerful use of the Aghorees in a scene in the Temple of Chamunda, where the heroine of the play is decoyed in order to be sacrificed to the dread goddess Chamunda or Kali. The belief in the horrible practices of the Aghoree priesthood is thus proved to have existed at a very remote period, and doubtless refers to those more anient and revolting rites which belonged to the aboriginal superstitions of Tndift ante- cedent to the A lyan-Hindoo invasion and conquest of the country. It might be supposed that any such indecent, ilagrantf and disgusting customs as are now practised by the Aghorees might be summarily sup- pressed under the provisions of the new Penal Code of India. OUR SOLDIERS AND SAILORS.—In the eyes of those who have witnessed the contrast, as shown and deve- loped by the business of war, it seems hardly short of a wonder that the same nation should be able to out, to toil and fight for her cause, two bodies of men, each so devoted, each so excellent, yet parted the one from the other by a breadth so great as that which divides our soldiers from our sailors. It is true that the soldier engaged in campaigning is too often in a lower state of health than that which the sailor enjoys; but, even after recognizing that physical cause as ac- counting for some portion of the difference between the two men, the contrast still keeps its force. For the mind of the soldier is so weighted down by the cease- less pressure of Method, that he has little enough of resource except what he finds in his valour and discip- line he is patient, and, in some circumstances, strangely uncomplaining: he is grave, and calm: he has made himself famous in Europe for his power of confronting an enemy's column with what the French used to call his "terrible silence." On the other hand, the sailor thrown suddenly into the midst of new conditions, is full of resource as Crusoe in his island. He does not hold himself at all bound to suffer without complaining. He freely tells his sorrows to his officers. His courage is of the kind that enables him, in the midst of slaughter, to go on cheer- fully swearing, and steadily serving his gun—whilst in boarding, or any kind of assault, he finds a madden- ing joy; but he would hardly enter into the spirit of an order which called upon him and his mates to stand still in straight lines under fire, keeping silence and not rushing forward. With the performance of his duties he blends a wild mirth. As though in his in- finite tenderness for all that he deems weak and help- less, he loves of all things to come ashore, with his exuberant health and strong will, to give a help to the landsmen. Sometimes in those early days of October, whilst our soldiery were lying upon the ground weary, languid, and silent, there used to be heard a strange uproar of men coming nearer and nearer. Soon, tfi. comers would prove to be Peel, of the Diamond, with a number of his sailors, all busy in dragging up to the front one of .the ship's heavy guns. Peel has died— has died young-in the service of his country; but such waS his zeal, such his energy, such his power of moving other men, that upon the whole his share of the gilt of life was fuH and rich. Apart from the mere beauty of his form and features, there was a fire in his nature which gave him in that time of war an all but preternatural radiance. But whilst he was guiding the labours of his people with eye and hand ana joyous words of direction or encouragement, the sailors used always to find their own way of evolving their strength. This they would do by speaking to the gun as to a sentient, responsible being, overwhelming it with terms of abuse; and, since it commonly happened that the stress of their pull at the ropes would get to be in some measure timed by the cadence of their words, it followed that at each execration the gun used to groan' and move forward, as though it were a grim, sullen lion obeying the voice of his keepers. TO FOUNDER OF THE CABMST FACTION. — Don Carlos, son of Marie of Portugal, the first wife of Philip II., was born at Valladolid, on the 9th of July, 1646. Weak and diseased, he showed from infancy a strange, irregular character, a violent dis- position, fierce and cruel instincts. A firm and yet gentle superintendence might easily have controlled these inauspicious qualities; but his father never showed to him aught but a hard and austere counten- ance. Periodical fevers, and a fall which rendered necessary the operation of trepanning, rendered his humour still more contrary. He became subject to terrible fits of passion. Anecdotes are related of him which reveal at once a cruel nature and an ill- regulated brain. When a child, he amused himself with roasting alive the hares caught by the hunters. When a man, he loved to traverse the streets at night, and, as Brantome says, "II ribler le pave," and to insult the women. In one of his nocturnal expe- ditions, it chanced that a pot of water was emptied upon his head from an upper window. Carlos, in a burst of fury, on his return to the palace, ordered his guards to set fire to the house. The officer who received the.cruel mandate durst not openly disobey it, but reported to the prince that he had seen a priest, with the holy sacrament, entering the habita- tion. Before a sacrilege Don Carlos recoiled.—Poiton'B Spain and Its People." NECESSITY OF SLEEP.—There are thousands of busy people who die every year for want of sleep. Sleeplessness becomes a disease, and is the precur- sor of insanity. We speak of sleep as the image of death, and our waking hours as the image of life. Sleep is not like death; for it is the period in which the waste of the system ceases, or is reduced to its minimum. Sleep repairs the waste which waking hours have made. It rebuilds the system. The night is the repair shop of the body. Every part of the system is silently overhauled, and all the organs, tissues, and substances are replenished. Waking consumes and exhausts; sleep replaces and repairs. A man who would be a good worker must be a good sleeper. A man has as much force in him as he has provided for in sleep. The quality of mental activity depends upon the quality of sleep. Man need on an average eight hours of sleep in a day. A lymphatic temperament may require nine; a nervous tempera- ment, six or seven. A lymphatic man is sluggish, moves and sleeps slowly. But a nervous man acts quickly in everything. He does more in an hour than a sluggish man in two hours; and so in his sleep. Every man must sleep according to his tem- perament; but eight hours is the average. Who- ever by work, pleasure, sorrow, or by any other cause, is regularly diminishing his sleep, is destroying his life. A man may hold out for a time, but the crash will come, and he will die.' There is a great deal of intemperance besides that of tobacco, opium, or brandy. Men are dissipated who overtax their systems all day, and undersleep every night. A man who dies of delirium tremens is no more a drunkard and a suicide than the minister, the lawyer, the merchant, the editor, or the printer, that works excessively all day and sleeps but little all night.—Henry Ward Buclter. A RUNAWAY RECArTUMp.—This is the story which Kigondo tells of how the runaway got into the hut « Kigondo said, when he had been seated, 'I saw this man carrying a bundle, and running hard, by which I knew that he was deserting you. We (my wife and 1) were sitting in our little watch-hut watch- ing our corn; and, as the road runs close by, this man was obliged to come close to us. We called to him when he was near, saying, Master, where are you going so fast P Are you deserting the Musungo, for we know you belong to bim^ since you bought from us yesterday two doti worth of meat. Yes," said he, "I am running away; I want to get to Simbamwenni. If you will take me there, I will give you a dpti" We said to him then, Come into our house, and we will talk it over quietly." When he was in our house in an inner room we locked him up and went out again to the watch; but leaving word with the women to look out for him. We knew that, if you wanted him, you would send askari (soldiers) after him. We had but lit our pipes when we saw two men armed with short guns, and having no loads, coming along the road, looking now and then on the ground, as if they were looking at footmarks. We know them to be the men we were expecting; so we hailed them, and said, Masters, what are ye looking for ?' They said,4 We are looking for a man who has deserted our piaster. Here are his footsteps. If you have been long in your hut you must have seen him. Can you tell me where he is ?' We said, Yes; he is in our house. If you will come with us, we will give him up to you; but your master must give us something for catching him. As Kigondo had promised to deliver Kingaru up, there remained nothing further to do for Uledi and Saxmian but to take charge of their prisoner, and bring hi™ and his captors to my camp on the western bank of the Maskata. Kingaru received two dozen