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<MttgS5gag--lw- a LITERARY MISCELLANY. I [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] AN OPEN VERDICT: A 1\E\V NOVEL BY the Author of" LADY AODLEVS SECRET," II TAKEN AT THE FLOOD," "DEAD MEN'S SHOES," WEAVERS AND WEFT," &0. CHAPTER V. His ITALIAN WIFE. That deep shadow of gloom which had fallen upon Christian Harefield's life seemed to have descended also .pon the house he lived in. The house—with its low Filings, narrow corridors, strange ins and outs, odd corners, and black oak paunelling had doubtless been Olore or less gloomy of aspect for the last two hundred fears. Hut an old world gloom like this contrasts plea- hotly with the movement [nut bustle of glad domestic tife-the flashes of sudden colour—the glow of many dearths—winter's yule log and summer's wealth of tiowers-the fresh shrill voices of young children-tho hospitalities of eventide, the passing in and out of many Sgnres, varied yet recurrent as the combinations of a 'fcHeidoscope. for the last fiftv rears the Water House had been -kaown to all Little Yafford, and within a radius of twenty tnilêS, as a grave and sober mansion, where high jinks any kind were as little to be expected as a re-appear- *nee of white-robad oak-crowned Druids in that stony circle on the moor which had once reeked with the blood 0[, uman victims. Old Christian Harefield, the father of the present owner of the estate, had been distinguished for various Eccentricities, the chief of which was love of money. He ^•4 not love it too well to spend it on himself, but he loved it too well to waste it upon his fellow-oreatures, "hom he did not love. He was a born man-hater. No youthful disappointments, no wrong doing of a familiar friend, no inconstancy of a woman had soured his temper •r changed the current of his life. In his nursery ho had Regarded outside humanity with a cold distrust, and had 1Jèea selfish in the transactions of his babyhood. At Eton be was known as the most respectable of lads, And "as. universally detested. There was a legend of his having given a boy he disliked the scarlatina, deliber- ately and of malice aforethought; and this was the only thing he had ever been known to give away. At the University he took care of himself, made his rooms the prettiest in his quad, rode good horses, road dili- gently and took his degree with ease—but he refused all invitations to wine parties, rather than incur the ex- pense of returning hospitality—and he was remembered aT!1oug his contemporaries as Stingy Harefield. Whe; the time came for him to marrry he made no attempt to Escape that ordeal, as it presented itself to him in the fo m of an alliance with a young lady whose father had enriched himself by commerce, and had recently acquir- a large traut of land conterminous with the Water House estate. The young lady and tho tract of land ^cnt in one lot, and Christian married her without feei- ng himself guilty of that kind of sentimental folly called falling in lovej' which offended his reason ^in those inferior animals whom stern necessity obliged him to acknowledge as his fellow-creatures. From this alli- ance of the mercantile classes and the landed gentry, "Prang an only child, Christian the second. In his boy- hood and youth he gave indications of a nobler and wider Mature than his father's. He was careless of money- had his attachments among his school fellows and com- panions at the UniversHs-gave wine parties on a larger acale than any undergraduate of his year—read hard— rode hard-was at once dissipated and a student—came urottghhis examinations with flying colours, and left be- hind him a reputation which caused at l«aet half-a-dozen •fesh-iaen to ruin themselves in the endeavour to imi- tate Alcibiades Harefield," that being the name which C hristian the second had won for himself. There were hard words between father and son when the young man went back td the Water Home with a B.A. degree and a sheaf of bills on a more tremendous scale than usual. His mother's estate had been settled Upon Christian the younger, and, beyond those paternal reproaches, he suffered very little from his extravagance. Bis majority, which had been wise'y or unwisely de- ferred to his twenty-fifth birthday, would make him inde- pendent. He stayed a month or so at the Water-House -7-shot on the moors—read late of nights in the sombre hbrary-din3d out very often, and saw as little of his father as was consistent with occupation of the same house. After this brief experience of domestic life, ho Went off to the Continent, and remained there roaming from city to city, for the next ten years of his life, his father living on quietly at the Water House all tho time, eating and sleeping and riding his steady cob, and generally taking care of himself in an eminently respee- table and gentleman-like manner. In the tenth year of his a°n'8 absence the father died suddenly of aporlexy-a catastrophe which seemed to most people in Little Yaf- ford the natural close of a selfish self-indulgent life, phristian appeared at the Water House in time for the funeral, after travelling day and night for a week. He ?avv his father buried, he examined his father's papers In. Mr. Scratchell's presence, and he perused hi? father's "Ill drawn by Sratchell, and leaving everything to my son, Christian Harefield." The will had been made directly after Mrs. Harefield's death, when Christian! the younger was still at Eton, and although the father son had not got on particularly well together after- **trds, Christian the elder had not troubled himself toi *lter his bequest. He was too essentially selfish to leavo shilling away from his own flesh and blood. Christian tad not treated him well, but Christian was in some ^ise a part of himself; and although he did not care ^uch for Christian, there was nobody else for whom he ^ed at all. Christian Harefield, now lord of the double estates, ^ent back to the Continent, where he was heard of no tn01'e for the next five years, at the end of which time there came a report of his marriage with a very hand- some Italian girl-but as everybody in Little Yafford re- there had been no advertisement in the Times, ^hich made the whole thing seem rather odd and irreg- A ye&r gt two later Mi*. Harefield was heard of riving near Florence with the lovely Italian wife and baby, and nine years after his fathers's dentil De came home to the Water House, bringing the lovely *?ife and a little girl of three years old home with him. ?e was now a man of middle age, very grave of aspect, and not inaccessible. Aged people at ~^ttle Yafford began to speculate upon a change at the Water House. It would be as it had been when the late phristian Harefield was a child—and old Mr. and Mrs. Harefield gave hunting breakfasts and dinners, and the old place was kept up altogether as it ought to he—with a great deal of company in the dining-room, and plenty of waste and riot in the kitchen and servants' hall. Christian Harefield did not quite realize those hopes ?*hich memory had cooked in the hearts of the oldest ^habitants of Little Yafford—but he was not unsocial. The Water House resumed something of its ancient •plendour—there was a large household liberally con- ducted—a fine stud of horses in the roomy old stables'. ^Ir. Harefield received his neighbours cordially, and fftve dinners enough to satisfy the most exacting among bis friends. There had been a great many stories, for the most part Purely the work of invention—or of that gradual cohe- of casual particles floating in space by which a Scandalous rumour is sometimes created. Some people heard as a certain fact that the beautiful Italian had a flower girl, and that Mr. Harefield had seen her filing violets in the streets of Florence. Others were ^llally certain that she had been an opera singer— others assured that ballet dancing had been her profession Tu ^me she attracted her wealthy lover's attention. more scandalous hinted darkly that she was some else's run-away wife, and that Christian Harefield's Triage was n0 marriage at all. by the time when Mr. and Mrs. Harefield had been 'Ting at the Water House three months, the slightest fusion to one of these once favourite scandals was about ?* great a solecism as any one in Little Yafford could J*6 guilty of. The ancient slanders were sunk in the Sea of oblivion. Those who had been most active tn disseminating the legends forgot all about them— could not have taxed their memory with the slightest de- ntil, wouid have looked quite puzzled if any underhre d in cruder in polite society had questionedthem on the sub- ject, or recalled former assertions. There was a dignity ibout Christian Harefield, a subdued elegance about his h!3i which made such legends as Little Yafford formerly believed in, obviously and distinctly im- possible. He marry a ballet girl-dancer, the proudest of She sell penny bunches of violets, the most aris- tocratic of women. All the best people of Little Yafford '•sited the Water House, and swore by Mrs. Harefield. She was not a woman to make her influence widely t even in that quiet circle. Beauty and elegance were chief gifts. She was passionately fond of music— **ayed exquisitely in a style of her own which was poetic ^ther than brilliant—sang sweetly—-but not wi ih the ,0(>Wer of voice or splendour of execution which would f*a.Ve justified the story of her having been a prima donna. ,.j~e had graceful manners, and distinction of bearing, but leading spirits in Little Yafford, Mrs. Dulcimer- Jane Gowry—and an old Mrs. Pynsent decided she had not much mind. f; She can only look lovely, my dear, and curtsey, jn foreign way of hers which reminds me of my young j K when ladiesbehaved like ladies, and good manners ljad not begun to get obsolete," said Lady Jane toiler Mrs. Dulcimer. "She can only look elegant and git her piano and suffer us to admire her, just as wo r*°uld if she were the Venus de Milo in the Louvre. I ?^Q't think she has mirli more feeling or passion than hat one-armed statue—but she is quite as lovely, and I uPP°se that is enough for Mr. Harefield." Everybody agreed that Christian Harefield was de- j°tad to his wife, and that it was a happy marriage. But his little girl he had evidently no very warm regard, time went on, and no second baby appeared "the father ??8an to feel himself personally injured by the sex of only child. She ought to have been a son. Here «■ the great Harefield property in danger of travelling >?t of the direct line, and belonging to some spurious icefield, who should only assume that good old name Royal Letters Patent. And it seemed to Christian— rge minded and cosmopolitan as he considered himself v~that it would he a loss to English society if real Hate- • elds should becomo extinct in the laud. This idea that daughter was a mistake grew upon him, and by slow ejgrees began to go hand in hand with another idea—of ^fcr more injurious and dangerous nature—and that fts the fancy that his wife loved the child better than loved him. Those tender maternal caresses which the Italian lavished on her little girl galled her husband as much as if she had seen them given to a rival. ^Qls Was tjjg gj-gj. arising ef that sombre passion which V*8 afterwards to turn all his life to poison. He first l^rnt the meaning of jealousy when he sat hy his own j esi^e watching the lovely face opposite him smilin j uPon Beatrix. He had never cared for children ~he abstract, never had perceived any special poetry beauty in young lives and small round rosy faces; he could see nothing to love or admire in Beatrix, a I.at this stage of her existence, was small and sallow, little yellow thing, all eyes and mouth," as he him- to f described her. It was a constant irritation to him "0 See such blind unreasoning affection squandered upon J^Qlovely an object. sPei)t °ne winter and a spring at the Water Housie j\^then carried his wifeaway with him to Baden, and from went to Florence for the winter, leaving Beatrix r £ e of a conscientious and elderly governess at l0. 'eYafford. The child was almost heart-broken at the J5c*l °f that loving mother, but no one except Miss iji Gs' governess, knew anything about it, and Scales wrote Mrs. Harefield cheery letters, telling • dear little Trix was getting tall and strong and «jUst gone into words of two syllables. 'lJ.d t. and Mrs. Harefield came back to the Water House £ ^w.8Pent the summer and autumn at home— and gave ^UlleS made themselves generally agreecble. Then fcejj.0 ^inter and a migration to the South, Beatrix staying -^KS Scales as before. This winter she 'nto words of three syllables, and made small ex- Into various foreign grammcrs, taking to Italian TK as a {luek hatched by a hen takes to the water. Ind Kind of life went on till Beatrix was ten, Mr. Harefield's sojourn at the Water House growing each year, and bv dfcress there S'ose a f«Unu Little Yafford that Mr. and Mrs. Harefield were "not quite the happiest couple in the world, that there were more clouds than sunshine in that small homo circle. These things make themselves known somehow. It was hinted that there were quarrels. Mrs. Harefield had a distressed look sometimes. Beatrix was not so often found in tho drawing-room with her mother when people called. Good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer discovered that the little girl was always cooped up in the schoolroom, or sent out for dreary walks with her governess, and felt herself called upon to interfere and draw Mrs. Harefield'* attention to this negleet of maternal duty; but MM. Harefield, mildly graceful as she was at all times, re- ceived the remonstrance with a placid dignity which rebuked the good-natured busy-body. There was trouble of some kind evidently at the Water House, but no one in Little Yafford could ever get face to face with the skeleton. Italianfriends of Mrs. Harefield's appeared upon the scene, but Little Yafford was not invited to meet these foreigners. Then came autumn, and another migration to warmer lands, and this time Miss Scales and Beatrix went with the travellers. That is more as it should be," said Mrs. Dulcimer, triumphantly. So you see after all, Gleiaent, my re- monstrance had some effect." If ever I find that any act of interference with other people's oonduct of their own affairs has a good effect, I will reverse the whole theory of morals which I have made for myself, In relation to my neighbour," answered Mr. Dulcimer, with unaccustomed energy. This last journey was fatal. Six weeks after the travellers left the Water House, Little Yafford was startled by the tidings of Mrs. Harefield's death. She had died suddenly, at a little roadside iun, among the mountains—the loveliest spot of earth she could well have found for life's closing scene. She had gone there alone with her husband ou their way from Naples to Reggis, leaving Beatrix and her governess at Naples. Mr. Harefield was distracted, and had gone off to wander no one knew where, after sending his child and the voverness home to the Water House. Little Beatrix ap- peared there by and by, a silent an I almost ghost-like child, whose small facelookecl unnaturally white above the dense blackness of her frofk. Its absolutely heart-rending to see a Christian gentle- man's child look so like one's idea of a vampire," ex- claimed compassionate Mrs. Dulcimer, and she tried to lure the little girl to the Vicarage with a view to petting and making her happy, but Miss Scales guarded her pupil as jealously as if she had been a griffin in a fairy tale keeping watch and ward over an enchanted princess. It was the universal opinion in Littls Yaffórd-a. kind of foregone conclusion-that Mr. Harefield would wander for years, and return to.tho Water House after a decade, or two, with long grey hair and a bent backbone—and the general appearance of a pilgrim. Ho disappointed every- body's expectations by coming back early in the spring and taking up his abode permanently in the grave old house, which now put on that mantle of silence aud gloom which had never been lifted from it since. Under this shadow of gloom, encircled by this perpetual silence and monotony, Beatrix had grown from childhood to womanhood. You could hear the dropping of the light wood ashes in a distant ro mi as you stood iu the hall at the WaterHouse— or the chirping of a winter robin in the garden outside the windows—or the ticking of the din- ing-room clock—hut of human voice or motion there was hardly anything to be heard. The kitchens and offices were remote, and the servants knew the value of good wages and a comfortable home toowell to let any token of their existence reach Mr. Harefield's ears. The lmster of that silent house sat in his library at the end of the low corridor, and read, or smoked, or mused, or wrote in solitude. Sometimes he took his daily ride or walk in all weathers, for months at a stretch—at other times he would remain for several weeks without leaving the house. He received no gussts he visited us one—taring taken the trouble, immediately after his return" to let people know that he had come to the Water Hcmse in search of solitude and not sympathy. Scratch ell, his lawyer And agent, and Mr. Namby the family doctor, were the enly two men freely admitted to his pr. sence—and of these he saw as little as possible. He allowed Isabella Scratchell to be with his daughter as much as Beatrix pleased to have her, but he never sat at meals with them or honoured them with his society. His hours were different from theirs—and they had Miss Scales to tako care of them. What could they want more? One day, when Beatrix was between sixteen and seven- teen, Mrs. Dulcimer met the tnisanthrope in one of his solitary Walks on the Druids' moor, and ventured—not without inwar I fear and trembling—to attack him on the subject of his daughter's solitary life. "It must be very dull for Beatrix at the Water House," she said. I dare say it is, madam," answered Christian Hire- field, with austere civility, but I don't mind that. Dul- ness is good for yountj women—in my opinion." Oh, but dear Mr. Harefield," cried the Vicar's wife, emboldened by his politeness, but there you differ from aU the rest of the world." I have not generally found the rest of the world so wise, my dear midam, as to distress myself because iti opinions and mine happen to be at variance." Mrs. Dulcimer felt herself bamed. This stony urbanity was too much for her. But she remembered Beatrix's pale joyless face as she had seen it in the chancel pew last Sunday, and made cne more heroic effort. Mr. Harefield, I am not going to a3k you to change your own habits—" "That would be wasted labour, madam—" Or to ask people to the Water House—" I would not do my friends so great a wrong—" But you might at least let Beatrix come to me. We are v<»ry quite people at the Vicarage—Clement absorb- ed in his books--I in my work basket. There would be no gaiety for her—but there would be the change from one house to another—and we lie higher—you must be damp at the Water House. I know Beatrix has suffered fro;n neuralgia—" « A new fashion among young ladies, like the shape of their bonnets. I never heard of it when I was youug-" Oh; it was called toothache then—but it was just as excruciating. Then you really will let her come," pur- sued Mrs Dulcimer, pretending to make sure of his con- sent. Clement Dulcimer is a gentleman I greatly respect, and you are the most amiable of women. I cannot sea why I should forbid my daughter coming to you if you like to be troubled with her. But I must make it a condition that you do not take her anywhere else—thai she is to come to your house and yours alone." "Most assuredly. I shall consider your wishes upon that point sacred," protested Mrs. Dulcimer, delighted with her success. She called on Beatrix the next day. and carried her Off to the Vicarage. The girl had'been carefully educated by conscientious Miss Scales, and knew everything that a girl of her age is supposed to know, except the theory of music. She could have enlightened the Vicar about latitude and longitude, and the subjunctive mood in various languages. But she had all the deficiencies and peculiarities of a girl whose life had been lonely. She was proud and sliy-what the Yicar called farouche, and it was a long time before her now friends could set her at case. But when she did expand they grew very fond of her, and that new life at the Vicarage was like the beginning of her youth. She had never felt herself young before. Miss Scales's prim perfection had been like a band ot iron about her life. Her father's gloom and hardness had weighed upon her like an actual burden. Sho had waked in the night sobbing, roused from some dim strange dream of an impossible happiness, by the recollection that she had a father who had never loved her, who n'ver would love bar. This hardness of her father's had gradually hardened her feelings towards him. She had left off hoping for any change in him, and with the cessation of hope came a stream of bitterness which overwhelmed every sweet and filial setiment. As she grew from child to woman, her memories of the past took a new shape. Well remem- bered scenes acted themselves over again before her mental vision nnder anew and more vivid light. Sho began to see that there had been unhappiuess in her mother's life and that her father had bean the cause of it—that the cloud always come from him Brief episodes of that bygone life flashed back upon her with a cruel distinctness. She remembered herself leaning on her mothers shoulder one eveni ig, as Mis. Harefield Sat at the drawing-room piano weaving the sweet tangle of Italian melody she loved so well. It Was a summer twilight, and the windows were all open the garden was full of roses, the river shining under the' setting sun. She remembered her father's coming in suddenly, and walking up to the piano. He took her by the wrist with a hard strong hand that hurt her a little. « Go to your governess," he said, "I want to talk to your mother." And then, before she could reach the door, she heard him say.. So you have seen Antonio again." Those words haunted her curiously now that she was growing a woman. Who was Antonio ? She could re- member no one in the history of her life to whom that name belonged. It was an Italiaii nnmc-tho name of one of those Italian inenas of her mother's who came and went, in those memory pictures, like figures in a dream. She could not distinguish one from the other. They had all pale dark faces, like ivory that had been shut from the light, and dark gleaming eyes, and hair like the shining wings of the rooks in th3 tall old elm tops, yonder. But she could not recall any one of them who had impressed her—a wondering child of seven more than the rest. Yes, there was one- the one WHO sang so beautifully. She could remember sitting on her mother's lap one avening before dinner—the room dimly lighted—110 one present but her mother and the Italian gentleman. She remembered his sitting at the piano and singing- church music—music that thrilled her, till, in a nervous ecstasy she burst into tears, and her mother soothed her and carried her away, saying something to the strange eentlemMi in Italian as she went towards the door, and he got up from the piano and came to them and stopped on the threshold to bew down and kiss her, as she had never been kissed before in all her life. She could re- member the kiss now—though it was ten years ago. And ho something 111 Italian, something tha seemed half sorrow and half anger. Was that Antonio ? Her mother's rooms had never been opened by any one but Christian Harefield since his return to the Water House after that last fatal journey There was some- thing ghostly in the idea of those three rooms facing the river those three locked doors in the long oak gallery. Beatrix passed those sealed doors always with a thrill of i if her mother had but lived—how different, how different life would have been for her. There would have been sorrow perhaps—for she knew there had been sorrow in the last year of her mother's life-but they two would have shared it. T .cy would have clung to each other closer, loved each other more fondly because of the husband and fathers unkindnem. What would Papa matter to me if I had Mamma?'' she thought. He would be only a gloomy person com- ing in and out like the dark brief night which comes in and out among the summer days. We should not have minded him. We should have accepted him as syjart of nature—the shadow that made our sunshine brighter." Often and often she sat on tho bench on the river ter- race leaning hack with her arms folded above her head, looking up at those seven blank windows—darkly shut- tered-three windows for the spacious old bedroom- one for the narrow dressing closet—three for the pretty morninff-room which she remembered dimly, a white nannelled room—with pale blue curtains all worked with birds and flowers in many colourod silks—black and gold • Japanese cabinets-a tall chimney piece with a curious old looking-glass above it, let into the wall—pictures— and red and blue chi na jars—a faint odour of pot pourri a Pian0 a frame for Berlin wool work — with a group of unfinished roses that never seemed to grow any ^Dear room," she said, to think that I should live so near you-pass your door every day-and yet remember yousofaintly-^ifyoiiwereadrea™ Once I curious fancy flashed upon her as she sat in the evening'glow, looking up at these windows. Perhaps Antonio's picture is m that room." She had iust. recollected a miniature in a velvet case, which she had opened one day-the picture of a gentle- mi„ gi,c had only glanced at. it, when her mother took the case from her, and put it away. The complexion was more beautiful than Antonio s-supposmg the gen- tl.mau who sang th« «huvch to have Wn Antonio -but then people's complexions in portraits are; gener- ally superior to the reality.. Kind as her friends at the Vicarage were, Beatrix never talked to them of these old memories. The past was a sealed book. Not for worlds could she. have spoken of it-Rot even to Isabella, with whom she conversed as freely, in a general way, as a little girl talks to her doll. The new home life at the Vicarage brightened her wonderfully. Her reserve wore off as she grew accus- tomed to that friendly household. She was enraptured with Mr. Dulcimer's library—her father's book shelves being as inaccessible for her as the Vatican. Here, on the Vicar's well-stocked shelves she found those Italian poets her mother must have loved-prose writers too— quaint old romances, in white vellum, on curious ribbed paper, printed at Venice, two hundred years ago. She spent many an hour sitting on 1 hassock in the sunny bow window, with a pile of those old Italian books on the floor beside her—while the Vicar sat at his big table annotating Berkeley—or making excursions into the world of science. Here she read the BrIJscwater Treatises, and got her first grand idea of the universe. Here her young mind soared away from the narrow track along which Miss Scales had conducted it. and entered the regions of poetry and delight. And here—in this sunny old room, with its walls of books and its shabby heterogeneous furniture—young Love took her by the hand, and led her across the threshold of his wonder-world. Here she first met Cyril Culverhouse, and learnt how fair a thing piety miy seem in a bright young soul, eager to do eome good in its generation. Religion, hitherto, as in- terpreted by Miss Scales, had appeared to her a hard and difficult busineM which no one could take to except under W! severest pressure—a system of punishments and pen- ances invented for the torment of mankind. But in Qyril's teaching how different it all seemed. Keligion became a sentiment to live or die for—without it happi- ness or peace of mind seeoted impossible. "Your Mamma belonged to the old faith, perhaps," he said, one day, when they were talking of high and low church. Beatrix gave a faint shiver. "I dowt know," sbe answered sadly. Mamma never talked to me about religion. I was too young, perhaps." Cyril found her curiously ignorant of all that was most vital in religion, and his first interest in her arose fro" this very ignorance of hers. He was so glad to set her right—to get her out of the narrow Scales track, Mi<w Scales being essentially low church and scenting Roman out roachmeot in -an anthem, orasurpliee. The interest soon deepened, but he could hardly have told when it first g'ewinto love. Perhaps that might never have come, if eatrix's fresh young soul had not gone out to meet his unawares, so that ere he knew himself a lover he found himself beloved. The thought was full of rapture, for at this stage of their friendship she seemed to him the most perfect among women-the lovely embodiment of youth and in- nocence, and noble yearnings, truthfulness, purity, all tilings fair and holy. But the consideration that she was Christian Harefield's heiress dashed his joy. He saw himself in advance—branded in the sight of men as the clerical adventurer, who, under the guise of rcli- gion, had pushed his own fortune. | Then it was—while it was still a new thing for thm to talk of their mutual love—that he told Beatrix her father must be informed of their attachment. CHAPTER VI. The Monday after that Sunday evening supper at the Vicarage, dragged more heavily than any day Beatrix ¡ could remember—since that never to be forgotten awful day when—a little child in a strange country—among wild inaccessible mountains she was told of her mother's death. To-day she felt that a blow was impending-a stroke that must shatter the rosy chain that bound her to her bright new life. The strictness of Miss Scales's rule had been relaxed since Beatrix's eighteenth birthday The lady was now rather companion and duenna tha governess-but Miss Scales was conscientious and (li. not care to take her salary without gaming it, so she ba( urged upon Beatrix that a young lady of eighteen wi in duty bound to go on improving her mind, and Beatri had consented to two --hours daily reading, on a rigi< system. Knglisb history one day—Roman anotber- Grecian another—Travels on the fourth day -Belles by the dullest books in the English language on the fifth-and French—as exemplified 114 an Intensely proper novel on the sixth. And all this reading was to be carefully done, with a good deal of reference to the best authorities—all obso- lete, and improved upon by the newest lights to be ob- tained from the last discoveries published a year or -two before the battle of Waterloo. That her favourite pu- thorities could be superseded was a possibility beyond Miss Scales's mental grasp. She bad learned out of those books, and would continue to teach out of them to her dying day. Upon this particular Monday the English historians hung somewhat heavily. Hume was dull—and Rassiu furnished no improvement uponjhim. Really, Miss Scales dear," said Beatrix, at last with a stifled yawn, I don't think I am appreciating Joan of Arc at all properly this morning. She was much too good a person to he yawned over like this—and if she really was burnt at Rouen, and did not get out of that Beaufort's clutches and marry and leave a lot of children afterwards—" Joan of Arc—married—with a lot or children—Bea- trix what are you dreaming of ?" cried the scandalised Miss Scales, her little grey ringlets quivering with in- dl" Mr!°Dulcimer says she did—and that there are docu- ments to prove it." "Mr Dulcimer is a horrid person to tell you such stories—and after this I shouldn't bo at all surprised at his going over to Rome." "Would you much mmd my putting up the books, Miss Scales, love," asked Beatrix, in the coaxing way in which she was wont to address her duenna. "My mind isn't equal to grasping such heroism as Joan's to- day." "You have been looking absent minded all the morn- ing, certainly," "I do feel rather head achy. Then you'd better take a seidlitz powder—and b" rare you put in the blue paper first-" "No, thank you, dear, I'm really not ill. But I think a turn in the garden would do me good. I'll read ever so much to-morrow, if you'll let me." If I'll let you, Beatrix. When have /ever stood be- tween you and the improvement of your mind ? But I hope you won't get hold of Mr. Dulcimer's crotchets. Joan of Arc not burned at Rouen, indeed ? What is the world coming to? And Bishop Whately has written a pamphlet to prove that there was no such person as Napoleon, though my father saw him—with his own eyes —on board the Beatrix waited for no further permission to put the dingy old books back upon their shelves, and go out bare-headed into the autumnal garden. It was a good old garden at all tfmcs-a wi le stretch of lawn following the wind of the river—a broad gravelled walk with moss grown old stone vases at intervals—and a stone bench here and there-flowers in profusion, but of the old fashioned sort—rare shrubs and trees—plane in(I tulip, and spanish chesnut that had been growirg for centuries -one grand cedar stretching wide his limbs over the close shone sward—a stone sundial with a blatantly false inscription to the effect that it recorded only happy hours—and for prospect, the Komnn onc-urched bnilgc, with the deep narrow river flowing swiftly under it- these in the foreground and in the distance across the river the heterogenous roofs, chimneys, and gables of Little Yafford, with the good old square church tower rising uu in their midst, and behind this little settle- ment the purple moor sloping far up towards the calm ^It was a scene so familiar to Beatrix that she scarcely felt its great beauty, as she walked up and down tne river terrace, thinking of Cyril, and the interview that was to take place to-day. She was not bopeful as to the result of thati ntervieW There were hard thoughts in her mind about her father.. He b is never given mo his love, she said to herself "WiH he be cruel enough to take this love from me. This love that makes life a new thing.' While Beatrix was pacing slowly to and fro along the quiet river side walk, Cyril was coming down the r stoning road to the Roman bridge, thinking of what he had to do. It w»s not pleasant mission- by any means. He was going to beard the lion in his den-to offer him- self as st husband for the richest heiress in the neigh- hnnfhood He Cyril Culverhouse, who had not a six- pence beyond his stipend, and who yet came of too good a family to be called an adventurer. He had never spfckcn to Mr. Harefield, and he was going to him 0 ask^for his daughter's ha id. The position was difficult—but Cynl j:j fi.i.inlr frnin facing it. did not shrink from fscinu it« He went under the archway into the grassy quad- rangle where the low stone mullioned windows laced him with their dull blank look, as of windows out of Sch 110 one ever looked. There w^a ow door in corner studded with iron nails—and a bell that wouk Lav" b,0„ loud cougb/oc m«n. of «»—•' with a house quarter of a mile away. This noisy hell clanged out uumercifuly in the afternoon quiet. "He will never forgive me for ringing such a bell as thThe staBtkmtler looked at him wonderingly when hs asked if Mr. Harefield was at home. Visitors were 'a"eHe is aUilfe,"answered the butler, dubiously as to see^im—upoii particular bUTheebutler led the way to the drawing-room without 1 iip hod heard Mx. Culverhouse preach, at odd tires iho^htoTf a member of the £ ittle Yafford Baptists, and had too much respect for his cloth to ex- his oninion as to the uselessness of this proceeding Se led the way to the drawing-room and left Cyril there. It was a pretty room, despite the gloom that had fal- lenunon it: A long old room, with oak paunelling, a lichly^rved cornice, and a low ceiling a few good Italian pictures, a tall pillared marble xhunney piece, broad Tudor windows looking towards the river-deep recesses filled with books-and chairs and sofas of the Louis Seize period, covered with Gobelins tapestry, But there was no sign of occupation-no open piano- not a book out its place-not a newspaper or pamphlet on the tables. Everything was m perfect order, as in a house that iB shown and not » This was the first time Cyril had been under the roof that sheltered Beatrix. He looked around him for some trace of her presence-but he saw no such trace. Did she inhabit this room ? No, it was evidently a room 111 which no one lived. He went to one of the windows and looked out. He, could just see the lovely figure at the end of the river walk bare-headed under the sunless sky-a figure full of erkce and dignity, to his eye; as it moved slowly along the face turned towards the bridge „ «Poor child, she is watching for me, perhaps," he thought 'with tender sadness, waiting and fearing." « My master will be pleased to see you, sir," said the voice in the doorway, and Cyril turned to follow the He followed down a corridor that went the whole length of the house. The butler opened a deep set oak door thick enough for a gaol, and gravely announced the visitor. It was a very solemn thing altogether Cvril fe^. He found himself in a large low room, lined from floor to ceiling with books on carved oak shelves. A brown- ness of time prevailed throughout the room. All that was not brown leather was oak. Three low windows looked into a court yard. A pile of logs smouldered on the wide stone hearth. Cyril had never entered a more gloomy room. The master of the 'Water House stood before the hearth, ready to receive his visitor-a tall, powerfully built man, in a long cloth dressing gown, like a monk's habit, which made him look taller than he really was. The hard stern face would have done for one of Crom- well's Ironsides—the grizzled black hair worn somewlifit lor.g, the large nostrils, iron mouth and jaw, dark deep set eyes, and heavily lined forehead were full of char- acter, but it was character that was calculated to repel rather than tp invite sympathy. Yon have asked to see me on particular business, Mr. Culverhouse," said Christian Harefield, with a wave of his hand which might or might not mean an invita- tion to be seated. He remained standing himself. If it is any Question of church restoration. Mr. Dulcimer -r. ought to know that my cheque book is at his command, I take no personal interest in these things—but I like to do what is right." It is no Question of church restoration, Mr. Harefield." Some of your poor people burned out—or washed out or down with fevar, perhaps. I hear you are very active in good works. My purse is at your disposal. Pray do not scruple to make use of it. I do so little good myself tbtft I am glad to practise a little vicarious benevolence." He seated himself at a large oak table covered with books and papers, and opened his cheque book. How much shall it be ?" he asked in a business-like tone. Cyril was was looking at him thoughtfully. There was something noble in that iron grey 0 head, snrely-a grasd intelligence at least, if not the highest type of moral good. "Pardon me, Mr. Harefield," sdd the curate, "you are altogether mistaken in the purpose of my visit. I came to ask no favour for others. I am hero as a sup- pliant for myself alone. I know and love your daughter, and I have her permission to tell you that she loves me' and onlv waits your approval to accept mo as her future husband." Christian Harefield started to his feet, and turned upon the suppliant. What, it has come already," he cried. "I knew that it was inevitable, but I did not think it would come quite so soon. My daughter is not nineteen, I believe- and she is already a match for the first gentlemanly ad- venturer who crosses her path-" Mr. Harefield." Mr. Culverhouse, I was marrisd for my money. My daughter shall escape that misery i: any power of mine can shield her from it. We will not bandy hard names. You profess to love her—a raw, uncultured girl whom you have known at most six months—I will give you credit for being sincere, if you like—for believing that you do love her-and I say that I am sorry your fancy should have taken so inopportune a direction. My daughter shall marry no man who is not so much her superior in wealth and position that I can feel very sure he takes her foi her own sake." I expected something of this kind from you Mr Harefbld." You can never know my justification for this line of conduct," replied Mr. Harefidd. "I marked out this course for myself long ago, when my daughter was a child. I will spare her a deception that turned my life to gall. It will spare her disillusions that broke my heart. I am speaking op?nly to you, Mr. Culverhouse, mora .f than I have spoken to any man—and remember let all I have said or may say be sacred." It shall be so," answered Cyril. You think vou can protect your daughter from the possibility of a *sorrow like that which has darkened your own life. But do you not think that Providence is stronger to guard and save than you can be—and that it might be wiser to let her obey the instinct of her own heart." "As I did," cried Christian Haren-M, with a lau^h "Sir, Providence did not guird or save ms. I man—of mature years—and thought I knew mankind by heart. Yet I walked blindfolded i ito the trap. Would vou have me trust my daughter's instinct at' eighteen when my own reason at thirty could so betray me f No, I shall take my own course. It I can save a silly girl from a future of ruined hopes and broken dreams 1 will" so save her against her own will. I have never played the tender fatber-but perhaps in this my stern- ness may serve my daughter better than a more loving father's softness. If Beatrix marries without my ap- proval she will be a pauper." I would gladly so take her," cried Cyril, bis face lightning up, if he saw an easy way out of all diffi- cultics. And teach her to disobey her father—you, who read the commandments to her in church every other Sunday would tpltch her to set one of them at nought." It was Cyril's own argument. He blushed as he heard it. Must; you withhold your love becmsc you withhold your money he asked. You say thst your own mar- riage was unhappy because you were a rich man. Let the weight of riches be lifted from your daughter's life. She does not value them—nor do I." ( "What, a Culverhouse—the son of a spendthrift fathe: —a parson, too. You can afford to despise riches ?" Yes, because I look round me and see how rarely money can bring happiness. Perhaps there is not much real perfect happiness upon earth—but I am very sure that what little there is has never been bought with gold Laave your estate away from your daughter—leave it where you please—devote^ it. to some great work. Let me have your daughter without a sixpence—let me be your son—and if it is possible for affection to brighten your later life you shall not find it wanting." It is not possible," answered 1-Tarclield, coldly. I never desired affection except from one source—and it was not given me. I cau lot open my heart again—its doors are sealed." Against your only child ?" Against all flesh and blood." Then if you withhold your love from Beatrix it would be only right and reasonable to withhold your fortune, and give her the love wliich may in some meas- ure atone for the loss )f yours." "You must have a monstrous good opinion pf yourself, Mr. Culverhouse, when you set your own value above that of one of the finest estates ia this part of York- shire." „ I have no exalted opinion of my own value, but I have a very low estimate of the blessings of wealth. Foi such a woman as Beatrix a great estate can only be a burthen. She has been brought up in solitude, she will never he a woman of the world. She doas not value money." Beramc she has never had to do without it-!md be house she has seen very little of what it can do. Launch car in the world to-morrow, and in one year she will hove learned the full value of wealth. No, Mr. Culver- hause, I cannot accept your judgment in this matter. I cannot receive your Utopian ideas as sober s^nse. If] have withheld any affectum from my daughter so much the more reason that I should give her the estate which, as my only child, she is entitled to inherit. And it shall be my business to obtain for her such an alliance as will place her husband above the suspicion of mercenary ma- tives." "And in arriving at this decision you put your daugh- ter's feelings out of the questiaa. You do not even take the trouble to make yourself acquainted with her senti- ments" No. I trust to time. I regret that she should have been so soon exposed to a peril which I had not appre- hended for her just yet. If I had I should have been more on my gu rd. I must request you,, as a man of honour, to hold no further coinmunicatians -either per- sonally or by letter-with my daughter, and I shall be under the painful necessity of forbidding any more visit- ing to the Vicarage." You are asking to3 much, Mr. Harefield. No man with common sense would submit to such an exaction as that. I will do more than most men in my position would be willing to do. Your daughter is young aftif impulsive, unversed in worldly knowledge. I will promise to wait for her till she is of age-and to hold no communication with her in the interval. Two years hence, if your wishes have conquered, I will submit to my fate. I will make no claim. But if she still thinks as she thinks to-day, I shall claim my right to address her on equal terms. But it is my duty to remind you that your daughter has some strength of will—that she is a creature of impulse—not easily to be dragooned into suiiserviencs to the ideas and plans of another—even though that be her father." I shall know how to govern her impulses, Sir, and to bring a stronger will than her own to bear upon her fol- lies. I have no more to say—except that I rely upon your promise—and consider your acquaintance with my daughter at an end from this hour." Cyril had hardly expected anything better than this yet the actual discomfiture w»* no less difficult to bear! To be told'that he must see Beatrix no more, knowing as he did that the girl he loved returned his love with fullest measure and was willing to fling every tie to the winds for his sake. And then her ties were at best so feeble. The father she was ready to defy for his sake was a father who had never loved her, who freely confess ed his lack of affection for her. Not much, perhaps to forfeit such a father's favour for the sake of a lover who- loved her with all the strength of his strong nature. Cyril could not bring himself to say, disobey your father, fling fortune to the winds, and be my wife. Duty forbade him, and consideration for Beatrix was on the side of duty. The day might come when she would up- braid him with the loss of her father's cold liberty, and her loss of fortune. He saw himself far away in the future a disappointed man—a failure high hopes unrealised labours unsuccessful, aspirations blighted—saw himself struggling single-handed against the Briareous necessity and Beatrix by his side. Might she not—if life went badly with him- repent her choice? And what was the bitterness of the present—tho loss involved in doin^ sight, compared with that sharper bitterness, that greater loss might follow in the future upon doing wrong. My first and last visit to the Wator House, I dare say," he thought, as he paused for a minute in the quad- rangle looking up at the ivyed walls, the massive stone mullions, ani Tudor gables. A fine old house if its as- sociations had been bright and pleasant, but looked at as the dungeon of unloved youth, it appeared dismal as an Egyptian tomb. He saw an open door in the cloisterei side wall-a door leading to the garden, and thought how natural it would be for him t, go there ;n search of Beatrix- thought how happily he would have gone to seek her if Mr. Harefield's decision had favoured their love-if he had given them ever so little encouragement, even so small a ri«ht to look hopefully towards the future. Now, all wSs blank—a dull dead despair. He went under the archway, and the outer door shut behind him with a hollow clang in the twilight. (To be continued )
ORIGIN OF THE ORESCENT.-
ORIGIN OF THE ORESCENT. Those who do not find the Eastern Question guffi oiently complicated to afford occasion for healthy mental activity, says the Globe, might take up the subject of the origin of the crescent as an Ottoman symbol This will be found very materially to extend the field for study and investigation. Why the Ottomans adopted the cresoent, and when they adopted it, ar e matters open to a good deal of discussion. It waa said of the first Sultan Othman that he had a dream in which he saw a crescent moon which waxed until its splendour illuminated the whole world from east to west. This led him to adopt the cro8cent, which he emblazoned on his standards oyer th« motto, Doneo Repleat Orbem. That this use of a cres- cent moon was not an original idea of the dreaming Oth- gi man is tolerably certain. It was, probably, but the ap- propriation of a symbol already familiar enough wherever the worship of Diana prevailed. Another origin of this sign on the Turkish standards is given in War- burton's Crescent and CroH." According to this, Philip, the father of Alexander the Oreat, was engaged one dark night in undermining the walls of Byzantium, which he was besieging, and his operations were discovered to the besieged by the sudden appearance of a young moon In gratitude for this timely light the Byiantinea commemorated the frustration of Philip's design by erecting a temple to Diana, and by adopting the orescent as the symbol of the State. It has been commonly asserted that when the Turks took Byzantium in 1446 they adopted the crescent standard which they found there. It has been contended, however, that the young moon formed part of the standard of the Janizaries for a century before the Turks took Byzantium, and this fact has been assumed to dispose of the notion that the Ottomans took to the crescent first when they captured Constantinople. As to the crescent in antagonism to the cross—as a religious lymbol, that is —it appears from a History of the Othman Empire that Mahonaofc broke the star of the moon and caught half of it falling from heaven in his sleeve —a passage, we believe,to be found somewhere in the Koran,and which seems to indicate that Mahomet made the young moon a sign of Iiis divine authority.
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It is stated by tie Manchester UtmnUan that the Rtv. Tames Arthur Poole, B,A., curate of St. Johns, Miles Platting, has resigned his curacy and been received into the.Roman Catholic Church, Mr. Pocle was ordained a deacon by the Bishop of Slanchcstcr on the 1st of March, 1874, and appointed to tho curacy of Oswaldtwistle, which he held abeut two years, lIe removed to Manchester in 1876. lie ?n a ffraduai.e of T'rinitvptflege, Dublin,
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+- [ALL RIGHTS RREERVED.] FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. A NOVEL BY DORA RUSSELL, Author of "THE MINER'S OATH," U THE VIOAB'a GOVERNESS/' "AJSKABKL'S RIVAL," See., &c, CHAPTER XLVII., AND LAST.—A BRIDAL PARTY. Eva would not allow any one to be told of her engage- ment to Sir John, until her dear father knew of it. The Major accordingly reeeived a very pressing and urgent tetter from the Baronet inviting him to come at once to Wendell, and Eva wrote to him also by the same post. 1' I have something very particular to tell you, dear papa," she informed the Major and Mrs. Dalziel imme- diately decided that it was an offer of marriage from Robert Horton. Take*my word for it, Henry," she said," shaking her bead, "for it is what I have always feared. I WM not Bonsalted about this visit ta Wendell Hall. In my opinion it wa.s indelicate of Eva to go, a.nd I felt certain from the first that no good would corns of it—and you Ece my words are true." "wè better waib to hear what she has got to tell Ul, before we decide whether it is bad or good news," said the Major, who had his own private opinion Oil the sub- ject. You would not consider this Mr. Robert Horton a good marriage for Eva, even after her disappointment, I suppose r" asked Mrs. Dalziel. No ccrLialy not, answered the Major, quickly. Then you will see," said Mrs. Dalziel, gloomily. But the Ma jor declined to continue the discussion, and on the following day started for Wendell, leaviug his wife to break her apprehensions gradually to her two young daughters, of Eva having formed an unsuitable eugage- lrewc. It is sad for y"u; my dears," ehc said, but we could expect nothing else after Eva's fust uufortumte affair." As soon as the Major reached Wendell he bad au in- terview with his daughter; and when, with fstUermg tongue am! blushes, Eva proceeded to tell her papa. tuc news, the Major put on rather a comical smile. "Aren't you surprised, papa i Areu't you very much surprised askcd Eva. "Not very much, my dear," answered the Major; for I often walked behind you and Sir John in town." And the Major gave a little laugh as he made the reply. He, however, felt a truly thankful and happy man who a lie looked on his young daughter's face. Eva really liked Sir John, and was not a little proud of hav- ing been chosen by so superior a man. The only thing is,"s>h3 told him with the swecs humility of her nature, that I am not hslf good enough for you." But Sir John answered with a smile, I am quits content, my child; and Eva knew that his words were true. The Major, therefore, had only to give bis consent and to listen with agreeable astonishment to the very hand- some settlement with which Sir John proposed to endow his bride. Sir John, indeed, was a rich man and could please himself, and it was no small satisfaction to the Major to know that his favourite child was thus amply provided for. Eva took her papa across to West-house to 'see Eliza- beth, the first day that he was at Wendell, and while the Major was talking to Jasper, she drew Elizabeth aside and whispered in her ear. What that word was we can understand, for a glad smile came over Elizabeth's face as she stooped down and kissed Eva's cheek. And you are contei.t ? You are happy?" she said, quickly. Yes," said Eva, I am content and happy," and Eliza- beth's heart too felt content and happy at her words. When Jasper was told of it, he first sxclaimed "By Jove And then rather a harsh laugh broke from bis lips. We need not have distressed ourselves so much need we, Elizabeth, about her ?" he said, and he held out his l1aucl to hh wife. Yes, dear," answered Elizabeth, looking fondly into his face, for I am sure she suffered very, very much. But there are natures, you know, whose wounds merci- fully heal quickly, and thank God that dear little Eva's is one of these." Dear old boy went on Jasper the next moment, thinking of his father, of wiiom he was very fond. Well, I hope and trust he may be happy." I have no fear," said Elizabeth. As years go on, Eva will cling more a.nd mor • to Sir John. His wife is sure to love him." My dear," laughed Jasper, I shall begin to be jeal- ous. And Jasp:r's wife is sure to love him always, too," half-whispered Elizabeth, and Jasper answered with some tender word. Everything thus was soon settled amicably at Wendell. The Misses Tyrell, when told of their father's engage- ment, were too wise to make any open objections, and, indeed, consoled themselves with the idea that sooner or later he was sure to have married some one." But Mrs. DalzieVs congratulations were the most pro- fuse. When the Major, with some timidity in his heart, it must be confessed, wrote to inform her of the news, and began his letter by breaking it gradually (he ex- pected) by telling her that he had noticed Sir John's attentions to Eva in the Spring, but. that he had thought it wiser not to mention anything about them, Mrs. l)d- eiel replied to the letter in the following terms :— "My dear Henry,—Had you treated-me with the con- fidence that as a devoted wife I think I deserve, you would have spared me months of cruel anxiety about our beloved Eva. You never (as you say in your letter) hinted to me the brilliant prospects that were opening before her, but allowed me to endure an immense amount of mental disquietude at the idea that she might form some unsuitable engagement. But I will say no more. Luckily for me, amid all the trials of my life, I endeav- our by pious meditation to fortify myself to bear them; and now, in this moment of apparently unqualified joy, I must try not to allow too sanguine expectations of the future to arise in my heart. Still I offer you (and I shall write alsD to our dearest child) my cordial congratu- lations. You speak of Sir John as being a little old for Eva. but I cannot call a man in the prime of life old. His position also, and the very handsome settlement that he proposes to make, are, I think, everything to bt desired and with love and forgiveness for all the anxiety you have unnecessarily caused me, "J remain your devoted wife, "Luoy DALZIEL, P.S. J. think we may now reasonably hope that oui J dear Anna and Lucy may also make good marriages." Mrs. Dalziel's letter to Eva was equally characteristic, She assured her that she prayed night aad day for the happiness of my beloved child," and trusted that no- thing this time" would interfere with the happy prospect* before her. She als ) wrote to Sir John, but Sir John read the letter in private with a smile, and then, with- out any comment on it, even to Eva, put it quietly in the fire. The Dean also wrote, accompanying his con- gratulations with an invitation to Eva to stay at the Deanery until the time of her marriage. This, after a little consideration—a little shrinking, perhaps, at the idea of returning to Hazelhurst, where she had borne such cruel pain-she determined to ac- cept. Both by Sir John's wishes and her own it was agreed that the marriage had not to take place until the an liversary of poor Lidy Tyrell's death was over. This had occured early in the December of tho previous year, and so Sir John and Eva decided on January as the month which they were to be married. Eva left Wendell with her father, and Sir John also accompanied her to Greyminater, and paid many vjsits there during the autumn and early willter to his you ng betrothed. At each of these visits he grew more and more attached to Eva; and Eva, in the sweet pretty way which was natural to her, trusted and confided in Sir John, all her heart's pure hopes. The Dean was sincerely pleased at the marriage his pretty niece was about to form, and exerted himself to make Sir John's visit to Greyminster highly agreeable. Then, when the chill days of January set in, he began to prepare for the wedding festivities. The Dean knew how to do things well, and he did it weU. He chose his guests off this occasion from amongst the most disting- uished of his acquaintances; not necessarily for their wealth nor their rank, but for the estimation in whioh they were regarded in the circles in which the proud Churchman had chosen to form his friends. It was a real trial to him, therefore, to know that he would be obliged to invite his brother and his wife. The quiet Major might have passed," thought the Dean, "but that woman/" I suppose," he said, hesitatingly, to Eva, your step mother will expect to be asked ?" Oh! yes. Uncle Ralph," laughed Eva; I think mamma would die if you were to leave her out." "Well, I hope, without wishing her any serious ill, my dear, that she may take an opportune attack of influenza, which is a common ailment of hers, isn't it ?" said the Dean smiling rather sourly. I must impress upon her in my letter that the Deanery is damp." O, Uncle Ralph "At least I hope if she does come/' went on the Dean, that she will keep herself quiet, I suppose it will be etiouette for Sir John to take her into dinner on the 18 th ?'' The" 13th being the day before Eva's marriage was to take place, when all the wedding guests would be assembled at Greyminster. Alas, poor Dean! Mrs. Dalziel came to the Deanery on the 'l8th, determined to show every one there that, as the bride elect's mother, she ought to be considered a person of considerable consequenco. She talked of her dear brother-in-law the Dean, until the Dean nearly forgot dignity and hospitality alike; and she was abso- lutely coquettish with her future son-in-law, telling him playfully many interesting anecdotes of darling Eva's" infancy and youth. Sir John, however, bore it all man- fully. He took Mrs. Dalziel into dinner, and demeaned himself to her with kindness and courtesy Once, how- ever nay, twice—he thought he heard her call him "John" though not in a very firm or assured tone of voice. The third time he was certain he was not mis- taken. John," said Mrs. Dalziel, hesitatingly, meaning to address her future son-in-law, the Baronet. John," said the Baronet, authoritatively, calling to one of the footmen in attendance Mrs. Dalziel is speaking to you." And Mrs. Dalsiel, covered with con- fusion, asked the man for a spoon. f But she did not venture on the familiarity again, and rather subsided after this episode. She, however, of course made various,inopportune remarks with happy unconciousness, and Sir John could not help feeling thankful that Hazelhurst and WendeII; lay very wide He was too wise a man to allow Mrs. Dalziel to ruffle his equanimity. His pretty Eva was opposite to him, an/1 when he looked on her sweet face, be was quite will- ing to pay the penalty of having Mrs. Dalziel for a mother-in-law. Lady Curzon too good-naturedly under- took to amuse Mrs. Dalziel after dinner, and on the whole the Dean only suffered very ranch from her pre- ence. Mrs. Dalziel, however, retired to bed in the high- ^"This^day has repaid me, Henry," she said to the Maior for the years pf anxiety and devoted love that I have' bestowed on your darling child. When you asked me to marry you, I made a solemn resolution. I said his child shall be my first care, and I thank Heaven during various trials I have never broken it," "Very well, my dear, saicl the Major, mildly. Is it not true, Henry ?"usaid Mrs. Dalziel, surveying herself with gratification in one of the Dean's cheval- glasses. "Have 1 done my duty to dear Eva, or have I n°" Certainly, mv dear, certainly," replied the Major, and Mrs. Dalziel therefore commenced removing her finery in a contented state of mind. The marriage the next day passed off very well. The Dean read the service, and the Major gave his little girl away feeling as he did so that some of the brightness of his own home went with her. Then followed the wed- ding breakfast, the display of the wedding presents, and the congratulations of the guests. Among the most beau- tiful presents that Eva received, and one which was most universally admired, was a very splendid diamond and ruby pendant from Elizabeth and Jasper. They had been invited to the wedding, but had declined. Jasper s health, Elizabeth wrote, prevented him joining in any gaiety, and every one felt that under tb6 circumstances Ihev were better awa-7, | But it was a very tender k ttf r th^'t Elisabeth wrote to the bride, and the bride answered it in very loving words, "I would just like to see you dressed for a minute," Elizabeth had written, and Eva replied by promising tint she would don her wedding dress a second time for Elizabeth's benefit. Tlic- sun was shining wh-ii Eva w is married, and as the old saying runs, the sun never shone on a fairer y hiide. Sir John might well look with pride as well as love on the graceful, white-robed girl that he swore to love and cherish aud Eva did look with pride on the grave and. handsome gentleman to whom she plighted her troth. When it was all over. and the bride and bridegroom had left, the Major Lt, a cigar, and strolled out rather IK'Bsiv{'ly beneath the cathedral towers of Greyminster. After all, lie thought his little girl was gone from him. But when he histed something of this feeling to his bro- ther the Dean, during the aft.-moon, the Dean smiled rather grimly. My dear Henry," belaid, "do you remember tho Quotation ? I Ifow blessings brighten as they take their IJiglit!' I recall to my recollection at this moment bow I left you apparently in absolute despair at Hazelhurst, now a little more than a year ago, because your bless- ing or your 'little girl,' or whatever name you choosa to desiguato Eva by, was then left unexpecte ily on your hands." And the Major langed good-naturedly, and ad- mitted that the Dean's wort s were true. But if her papa felt a little sad at losing Eva, Mrs. Dalziel's elation knew no bounds. When she first returned to Hazclhurst, indeed, she was almost unbearable. She sent for her friend the doc- tor, and boasted until even the doctor grew weary. She sent for her sailor, Captain Marshall, after she bad in- formed him during a visit that he had paid her, that Sir John Tyrell had said this, and that Sir John Tyrell had said the other, at least twenty times, the old sea-captain ':08e almost with t roar. "Madam," he said, seizing his hat; I've been Sir John Tyrelled enough for one day!" Ar d be accordingly marc.bed out of the house, stumping down his wooden leg with extraordinary vigour, aud leaviiig Mrs. Dalziel certainly feeling rather uncomfortable. To write to Eva also, was a subject of endless com- placency to her. No one ever caUed upon Mrs. Dalziel now, that she had not just heard from, or was just going to write to my dear child, Lady Tyrell." Little Eva, in her wanderings abroad with her husbaud, received ss many letters from "Mamma," that at last Sir John, with rather a comical smile, asked Eva what they were all about ? I cannot tell you," answered Eva, laughing, but if you would like to read them—" Not for the world!" cried Sir John, with such gen- uine alarm on his face that Eva could not contain her mirth. It was quite the spring before Sir John and Eva re- turned from their wedding tour. By this time Elizabeth and Jasper were settled in London; Jasper preferring to be in town, both on account of his health, and also be- cause, being unable to join in country sports, he found more amusement and society there. There were changes at Wendell West-bouse, too, by this time. Robert Hor- ton had got over his disappointment about Eva, and be- come engaged to a really nice girl in the neighbourhood; and Harry (to Elisabeth's great regret) insisted on being a soldier, and had left the homestead, and gone to Sand- hurst. "My dear," said the boy, on Elizabeth remonstrating with him on taking this step, you see you are a swell now and I do not wish you to be ashamed of me, if you are called upon to weep over my untimely grave. As Ensign or Lieutenant Horton, perhaps you might pay me this attention without disgrace but if I were a lawyer's clerk, or a doctor's apprentice, I would not reasonably expect it." "You foolish boy!" said Elizabeth. But for "all that, MacforHal bad his own wav. and left Wendell, navine frequent visits to Jasper and Elizabeth in town, when- ever he had the opportunity. Sir John and Eva came to Elizabeth's bouse at once on their retirn to England. Eva looked radiantly pretty, and (whispered,* as she fling her arms round Elizabeth's neck. "He is so good to me. He quite spoils me." And, indeed, the little lady was so daintily dressed, and altogether bad such an air of lavish expen- diture on her adornment, that Elizabeth thought there must be some truth in her words. But it is an excellent fault in a husband, my dear," answered Elizibeth, laughing, and Eva laughed also pleasantly at Elizabeth's reply. Eva was very anxious that Elizabeth should go some- times to places of amusement with herself and Sir John, but as Jasper was unable to accompany them, Elizabeth declined. On one occasion, however, Jasper intefered and insisted that Elizabeth should go, and when she came down dressed to do so, he looked at her with great pride. "My handsome girl!" he said. Why don't you go out more dressed as you are now ? Every one would admire you, Lissa." "I only care for one admirer, sir," answered Elizabeth, with some of her old liveliness of manner, and if I can eep him, I am content." A nd Jasper took her in his ran, while for a moment a strange moisture dimmed his eyes. But if Elizabeth is a rare visitor among the rich and preat, she is a very frequent one among *the poor and needy. To darkened sick rooms, along the dreary wards »f hospitals, she goes, a beautiful and welcome guest. God has been very good to me," she once said softly <o some one who was wondering at her life; and so imong the sick and sorrowing she chiefly spends her Xealtli and time. THE END.
j Rights of Reproduction Reserved.
Rights of Reproduction Reserved. THE CHARTIST MOVEMENT 4> THE LETTERS OF ZliPHANIAH WILLIAMS. LIFE IN A CONVICT SETTLEMENT. PART VI. Van Diemen's Land, Launceston, Nov 18th, 1846. MY DEAKEKT JOAN,—Your most welcome letter of the 26th of May, 1846, I have just received, and as you justly observe, how to account for your not receiving a single letter from me for upwards of twelve months, I am at a loss to know, unless my letters have fallen into the hands of the Government authorities. I have great reason to surmise as much from the treatment which I receive. Mr Jones has enjoyed the privilege of a ticket-of-leave for more than twelve months, and Mr Frost has been gazetted for the same indulgence, while I have just had the mortification of receiving an answer from Sir James Graham to my memorial for a free pardon, and also another from Mr Gladstone to my memorial for a ticket-of-leave, stating that they cannot recommend me to Her Majesty for such indulgence, nor any further mitigation of my sentence. Notwithstanding, I have done more to merit indulgence than any man that ever came, or probably may come into the colony, notwithstanding that my general conduct has uniformly been pronounced as most exemplary, and al- though neither Frost nor Jones has done anything extra- ordinary to deserve favour; yet, strange as it may ap- pear, they have received indulgence which has not been extended to me. There is no accounting for this marked distinction, but in one way, viz., whenever the authori- ties find a man possessed of more than ordinary abilities, every indulgence is withheld from him in order that they ~hiay benefit by his services, the authorities themselves being the greatest novices imaginable. But their villany does not rest here. In order to render useful men subservient and effectually to keep them within their clutches, all pos- sible means are devised to plunge them into trouble. This I and many more have sorely felt. Such treatment may appear to you very strange, but, however strange and in- consistent, it is not the less true. Although I am not now employed by Government, yet, whenever they have any U, important job which requires skill and abilities, they may, as I hold no ticket-of-leave, command my services at a moment's notice. Thus I am kept in perpetual dread. From what I had seen in the papers, and had learned from your letters, I entertained very sanguine hopes of the success of Mr Duncombe's motion, but, unfortu- nately, like every other, that also proved abortive. That happy day when I shall have the heartfelt gratification of embracing the dearest objects of my affection, and the pleasure of returning my grateful thanks to those inde- fatigable friends who have humanely exerted themselves in my behalf, appears to me now to be veiy remote indeed Little good is to be expected from Lord John's Ministry Perhaps something may be done at the next election.' They will doubtless make great concessions, like the Tories, for the sake of the Chartist support. I hope our friends will extort something more than words from them. It appears that some of them are inclined to limit our time to 10 years. Although you speak somewhat favourably of your health and circumstances (heaven grant it is well with you), my fears and anxiety for your welfare and happiness are beyond conception. Of the for vent desire I feel to be again m your society none can form an idea except those who have been placed m similar circumstances. Though I am much better situated now than I have been since*I came into this cursed country, yet I am still miserable and shall ever continue so as long as I am debarred your society. I am now living in one of the largest hotels in Launceston, where I am engaged as clerk for the coaches which run from this place to Hobart Town and other places. Three coaches start from here daily • and I can assure you that, in attending to these, keeping accounts, booking, debt collecting, &c. my time is fully occupied. I am also expected (though not by my agree- ment) to wait in the bar from seven o'clock iii the morn- ing till 10 at night, but mostly until 12, and one and two next morning. Then I am obliged to be up again at three o'clock to prepare for the coach which starts from here every morning at four for Hobart Town. I need not tell you that from the loss of repose I am completely wearied off my legs. I have endured this now just three months, but I am fearful I must leave, it being rather too much for me. This will be much against my inclination, for I am treated with the greatest respect. I live as one of the family, on the very best the country produces. I have also a good feather bed to lie on, which is what I have not enjoyed since I left home, except a night by chance here and there. My paper is drawing to a close, &nd I must therefore conclude, which I do by tendering you my warm and heartfelt regard, still hoping the day is not far distant (though nearly despairing) when I shall experience the ineffable happiness of once more enjoying the sweets of the society of those who will be ever most dear to me. Desiring my best respects to all enquiring friends, I remain, dearest Joan, Your most affectionate husband till death, ZEPHANIAH WILLIAMS. P.S.—Jones wishes to know from you all that you lcnow relative to his wife. Frost lives now in Bothwell, as assistant schoolmaster. As my letters have not all reached you I have sent this through post, hoping you will receive nearly all my others. I trusted to Frost to forward them, as lie was living in Hobart Town. Hobart Town, Nov. 28tli, 1848. My Dearest Joan,—Having once more returned from that worse than hell upon earth-Tasman); Peninsula- and, comparatively speaking, at liberty to breathe again the pure air of freedom, I hasten to reply to your letter of the 26th May last. You were made acquainted with my misfortune through the medium of the Launceston paper, but the account given in that paper was in some respects incorrect. It was not the "milking of the vessel' that led to my detection, neither did I hold a ticket-of-leave, nor do I yet enjoy that privilege. The following are the true particulars. William Ellis and myself had arrangeel with tho proprietor of a vessel trading between Launces- ton and New Zealand, to sail with him to the latter place, and from thence we intended going either to France or America, which would depend altogether upon circum- stances. Had we succeeded in escaping to France, we should have arrived there just in time for that glorious revolution which caused Louis Phillippe to quit t,he throne in so unceremonious a manner. In consequence, how- ever, of the situation I held, I could not lfeave clandes- tinely without incurring disgrace, and therefore I com- municated my intention to Mr and l,[ra Greenbank, whom I then lived wifch. mid helnfr n\yj-ro of the intimacy that existed between them and Jones, whom I dreads very much, I begged them not to give him the least clui of my departure-at leaat for a few days; but it appear; they told him the particulars the same evening, and he on the very next morning, gave information to th< police, and the following morning afterwards the villair took coach for Hobart 1 own to inform the authorities, From theuce he returned, and, Judas-like, came to thE gaol to see me, and said he had been to Hobart, and apprehending that I might be taken, lie called upon Mr Burgess, the chief police magistrate, who de- sired him to return and console me; that, should I be taken, 11e, Mr Burgess, would make the most strenu- ous efforts possible to save me from any punishment, but. should the magistrates give me a sentence, lie would t.'ke care I should not be sent to the Peninsula. There can be no doubt, however, of its being then agreed upon that the Peninsula was the only safe place for mefor, wheM I arrived in Hobart Town, guch information, together with the friendship which Mr Bmrgeas had at times pre- viously manifested towards mo, induced me to apply to him, but he would not see me, neither would he see Ellis, though he bad been his private constable. As I could n'ot. take my departure with any degree of propriety with- out informing my employer, and apprehensive of the treacherous A illain Jones, we made every provision in o ir power to meet the worst. Our friend, the owner of the vessel, was to he on the look out, and if he could find that we were reported as absentees, he had a small boat ready manned to despatch afterus. It so happened, and the river being so long (about io miles) and bad to sail, the boat overtook us when nearly in the lion's jaw-I mean the police stationed at the river's mouth. We immedi- ately put ship about and reported that she had struck a Ipak. Our reason for this was that we were in sight of the police, and consequently we could not appeal in open boat, but saileel back up the river until night. We then got out and puiled up the river, and entered the town un. perceived, and had very nearly reached our residence when we were apprehended, taken into the watch house, and charged with attempting to make our escape Out of the colony. We were afterwards taken before the magistrates and tried, but they failed to adduce the slightest evidence to (substantiate the charge I n ought against us. Although Mr and Mrs Greenbank were summoned as evidence against me, nothing could be extorted from either but what was in my favour. In spite of all, I was sentenced to 12 months, recommended to Tasman's Peninsula to under- go the said period. The inhabitants of Launceston viewing my case unjust and cruel, immediately got up a jietition, which was signed by upwards <>f 150 of the most respectable amongst them, and which was forwarded to his Excellency the Governor, praying for a mitigation of mv sentence. Three of the members of the Legislative Council also ap- plied to the Governor, and offered any security he might require for my safety, and let me return to either of them, but all to no purpose. I also forwarded two peti- tions myself, one to his Excellency, and the other to the Comptroller-General. Although so strongly recom- mended by Government authorities, ministers, and mili- tary officers, it was of no ayail, and why ? Owing to the information given by Jones, and obtained from Mr and Mi's Greenbank, the only parties in possession of the facts, except my friend, who was facilitating my escane. Indeed, the reason assigned by the Governor was. that Mr and Mrs Greenhank's depositions before the magistrates were not in accordance with a previous statement. That was doubtless to Jones. You will naturally be inclined to infer from the foregoing that Jones must have had some reason or cause for his conduct towards me. None whatever, save and except what 1 am now goingto tell you. Weliad some little difference relative to an account between him and Greenbank, which was kept by me and proved to be correct, and I then found it necessary to be plain, honest, and candid, and did not fail to tell him of his pride, assumption, and arrogance, at which my nature revolted, and knowing his origin and the course of life he had pursued, I could not Countenance nor associate with a character so repugnant and odious to my feelings, and I forbade him ever to speak to me again. There is one thing further I have against him, which delicacy forbids me mentioning. I am happy to inform you, that although I had to endure the whole term with- out mitigation, I suffered comparatively little, as all the Government officers manifested the best of feeling towards me, and I want for no comforts, as far as eatables were concerned; but my pride was really hurt :it being escorted through the country in a cart, handcuffed like a felon or murderer, It had the good effect, however, of bringing me very much into notice, and the injustice and cruelty of my sen- tence excited so much* sympathy, that when T arrived here in the prisoner's barracks from the coal mines at the expiration of my sentence, there were several gentlemen waiting ready to take me out. I entered the barracks at six o'clock in the afternoon of the 13th instant, and was out engaged to a gentleman at five o'clock the next morning, in the capacity of what is termed here overseer, but what we woulel call an agent in our country. I will here briefly state the beneficial results likely to arise out of my attempted escape, and in my next I trust I shall be able to give you full particulars, which will be such, I hope, as to render it worth your while to undertake the long, tedious, and dangerous voyage, of which I now beg to apprise you, in order that you may hold yourself in readiness. But dearest Joan, if there were a probability of my being allowed to return, with all my prospects in view, I would not ask you to undertake such & trip, not- withstanding I believe I could scarcely survive the voy- age home, for I find the more I advance in years the more incapable I am of sea voyages. To yourself and dear children, if as formerly, sea voyage would be pleasant, and although the distance is so great, the risk in coming to this-country is less than that to most parts of the world. Moreover, in the event of your being under the necessity to cross the great and fathomless deep, you can calculate upon one great consolation—y»ur health, which I fear is greatly impaired, but which I firmly believe by such a step would be wonderfully improved, if not completely restored, and your existence protracted at least 20 years. The climate is one of the healthiest in the known world, and consequently but little or no sickness, and people die here like trees falling from pure decay. No scarlet or typhus fever, no measles, no small-pox, in fact no fever whatever such as those in my native country, In reference to the prospects I have in view, I have to inform you of a company of four gentlemen, formed for tfce purpose of opening for coal. They have already bought, at my direction, between 500 and 600 acres of coal land adjoining Hobart Town, and they are now in treaty for a considerably fgfeater quantity, which is essential in order to keep out competi- tion. As soon as these purchases are com- pleted, which I expect will be by the end of January next, 1849,1 shall in the course of the next month, at least I fully expect so, know exactly my own situation. I have every reason to believe my income will be at least one thousand pounds per annum. As soon as I obtain posi- tive information on the subject, I shall lose no time in communicating the same to you, as well as all the neces- sary information I can give you relative to your departure from the old country and your voyage to this. It is un- necessary to state that no effort shall be wanting on my part to provide the requisite accommodation for your reception, -not such a hole as Jones had for Mrs Jones on her ar- rival, viz., two miserable small rooms, one appropriated for his workshop, and the other for his kitchen, bedroom, and every other necessary, with scarcely any furniture, and I believe penniless, and over head and ears in debt, having just been declared insolvent, and, for the sake of a livelihood, becoming a strolling player, sometimes appear- ing in the character of William Tell, at other times as Sir Watkin William Wynne, &c. This looks well to support his great pride and pomposity. When he gave informa- tion to the police of my attempt to leave the country, lie was in a respectable situation, beingr in partnership with a French gentleman, watchmaker ana jeweller but as soon as Mr Ducheme found that he was the cause of my appre- hension, he separated from him and left the great man to his own resources, which resulted in his insolvency. This happened about six or eight months previous to Mrs Jones's arrival in the colony. Mr Frost is living in Hobart Town, holding a situation, but living upon the sum of money received from the Chartists. The amount, he told me, did not exceed in the firatpla.ce£275. He stands well in society, and his conduct and manners are gentlemanly. Ellis has just commenced a pottery, and. I think will do pretty well, but, like myself, he has to fight an uphill game. The little we had at the time of our attempted escape we placed in the hands of responsible men, who have since become insolvent, and consequently we lost all. You seem to entertain a strong hope of our restoration in 1850. Ever since* the de- bate in the House of Commons, in the year 1840 I am inclined to entertain the same opinion,' and that, too, from the observations of some of our bitterest enemies in that debate. But whether pardoned or not, time and circumstances, I hope, will not keep us much longer apart. If not pardoned at the supposed period, my circumstances, I trust, will be such that you will have no objection to undertake the voyage, not- withstanding all its privations and horrors. If I could not have reconciled myself to your risking the awful trip, I should long ere this have been in a situation to have sent for you, but until I received your last letter, in which you Intimated a disposition to come out, the thoughts of the privation and risk would for ever be a barrier to my pressing you. But now, under all circumstances, with the prospects I have, there is an apparent probability that the next letter you will receive from me will contain my heartfelt request that you will join me in this country, while, at the same time, trembling with fear for your safety. I have not received the letter in which you say you gave an account of that good creature's—your poor mother's—death. Heaven bless you all, and a pleasant voyage to this country, to the arms of him whose whole and sole happiness depends on your society and welfare. Give my best respects to your brothers and your sister Mary, likewise to Israel Jacob, John Edmunds, and John Thomas, and glad would I feel to see them once more, but fear I never shall. Ardently hoping this will find you all in perfect health and spirits, and that on its perusal you will all with one accord say, We'll see Van Dieman's Land, to complete the happiness of one who has so long been a stranger to his home and country, I remain, dearest Joan, Your's most affectionately, Your's most affectionately, ZEPH. WILLIAMS.
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UP TRAINS WEEK DATS. [ A 11 A A A7 la. ni. p. ip.'p. m. a. m.'a. m. a. in.la. nl7 Glasgow, (St Enoch) dep. 4 SO 9 15j 10 16 Ldmhui-ghftVav B^e),, 4 25 9 20 10 W v.'1.1"51'' 8 1012 10 8 25, 1 W » -i 7 8 n 1 &010 61* W ii f o 6 4010 65 •• » P J a 7 5,Vll 48 !l0 30'll CT Daihngrton „ g\! 8 18; 12 3ft 2 45 11 lOj 1 4 Stodftou | 6 20! fj.O 45iht W W? I 7 •• I'1$1*6 > 0 3Sj 2 10 C 6012 60t 3 26 "nV £ 8 50 •• •• 5 4510 £ lac,k,bl.,rn » I 5 55! In 711 1 Roehdak- „ o « 57' !) o 7 1811 M>h? 4$ » 53 7 2S,10 & •• 7 4512 Huddersftdd g 8 10;i0 SO' 8 fit ft \\al<eficld 10 20.11 J'J 9 ] j# 3$ Lancaster g 'j 5 IS1 ..I 7 43^11 Bradford .4 „ E |l0 30! 2 l<s 8 0 12 ^3 6* Leeds .g ,11 30, 3 20 8 00 J 20 4 » Barnsley „ g 8 45J n l.r> 1 20- 3 20 Sheffield „ H 12 84: 4 30 7 0 10 10 2 28.' 5 35 L'pool(Kanelnph st) I040 [ !) 0 12 0 4 0 Manchester (via Mat) „ t- 'll 30 7 0 9 !>0 1 4 50 Lincoln „ » 35 7 0 1 10$«0 Newark 9 8 7 3:V 1 S8 4 15 Nottingham „ Jil 40 7 45 10 00 2 35, « 46 Derby „ I i 35 1 45 <> 45 8 40 11 ilb 3 40 6 60 Burton „ )2 55, 2 V 15' 9 2 11 56 o 58! f 10 Tamworth 1 18' 2 26| 7 49 9 24 11 22 4 20 r 99 Yarmouth 1 10 C 0 # 20 Norwich 2 20 7 ?010 40 Cambridge „ ft 30- ill 30 2 16 1'oteri)jro' 7 45, Ill 5 » 19 Leu-ester „ hi 4'1 8 15 ..2 55; # 4S Birmingham (New st)„ 2 45 2 4a! 8 4ft 10 5 12 40 4 45' 6$ Worcester 3 42 4 2 9 45 11 25 1 40 5 r.4024 Gloucester arr. 4 34 4 6310 41M2 33 2 38 C 50 W 26 Chepstow C 58 6 6812 20' 2 32 4 58 6 37; I 49 Newport „ 7 80 7 30 1 5^ 2 58 5 40 9 IS: t 8 „ j 7 55 7 66 1 37! 3 23 6 7i 9 45 t 33 la. m.;<i. in. p. in.11>. in) i>. in. p. m. a. m. i| I I M I K t. f II < "1. m. a. m. p. m. p. m. p. m. p. r\1. Cardiff dep. (i 30 9 3012 35 12 15 4 28 6 5' Newport 7 010 0 1 5 1 25 4 55 C 30' Chepstow „ 7 30 10 42 1 32 2 12 6 83 7 •> Gloucester 9 12 12 50 2 51 40 0 45 8 23' Worcester sir. 10 9 2 0 5 41 5 0 8 9 9 16* Birmingham (New si) „ ill 17 3 35 4 50 C 40 9 4S «0 1« Leicester „ <12 32 6 17 6 17 8 5' 1 44i Peterboro' 2 50; 10 25 J Cambridge 4 43 9 35 9 35 1 10 I Norwich „ 0 45 2 35 j Varmouth 7 52 3 30 .I Tamworth „ 1 58 4 55 5 31 7 17 ..III 61/ Kurton 112 27 5 30 5 52' 7 38 11 S* Derby 112 50 0 0 6 15 8 0 11 4ft Nottingham 1 50 7 5 7 15 9 15 1 30j Newark „ 2 41 9 17 9 17 4 33: Li'ioln m 3 18 10 010 0 ..I 6 4< Manchester (via Mat),, 2 50 8 10 8 10 9 451010: L'pool (liauc.'Hgh st) „ 345 9 0 9 01035 C0. Sheffield 1 58 7 33 7 3310 12 12 iff Barnsley „ 5583383,1 Leeds 3 io; 9 15 9 IS 2 2, Bradford „ 3 40 9 50 9 50 2 45. Lancaster „ C 3d ) | g stf Wakefield 3369090649 HuddersQelJ 5 310 010 0 0 55 Halifax n 14 45 10 25 10 25 7 30 Koclulale r> 43 11 1511 15 .8 7 Biaeldiurn „ 0 10 9 17 Hull j 5 42'll 1511 15 4 32 York „ 4 3010 2010 20 3 30' 7 Stockton „ 7 15 12 012 C 0 15; Darlington 6 25 11 4311 43444; Dui ham 7 13 12 1812 18 5 24' Sunderland 8 18 12 55 12 55 ( || Newcastle 7 45 12 4512 45, 5 MJ Carlisle 6 25 j 5 4' Edinburgh (Wax Bgel,, 9 5 J t 46] Glasgow (3t Enoch) „ 9 20' 8 ft p. m. a. m.'a. lu.'p. m.'p. in.a. m.l I j TUIRD-C1..VSS PASSENORliS ARE CONVKYKO AS TOUiOWg A.—Third O.t-sa from Midland and North-Eastcrn Stations shewn t* Chepstow, Newport, and Cardiff. B.-This train doej not run on Saturday nights and Mpnday mornings. F.Third Class from Cardiff, Newport, and Chepstow to Midland and North-Eastern Iitatioiis shown. F—Third Class from Cardiff, Newport, and Chepstow to Midland Stations shown. A Train leaves Birmingham at 5.20 p.m., and Worcester at 0.50 p.m., arriving at Gloucester at 8.5, Chepstow 9.21, Newport 9 48, and Cardiff at 10.i3jji.m. PASSENGERS DESIROUS OF TRAVELLING BY THIS ROUTE From Cardiff, Nov. port, and Chepstow, are particularly requested to ask for Tickets to travel by "CUouceater and the Midland Railway." 137 JAMES ALLPORT, General Manager. ESTABLISHED 1800. RC. LEACH, liill-Poster and Advertising Con- tractor, 17 Wood-street, Cardiff. Ilcnts all the Principal and most Prominent Posting Stationg in Cardiff, Canton, and Roath. QOUT, RHEUMATISM," LUMBAGO, AcT JNSTANT RELIEF and RAPID CURE. EADE'S GOUT AND RHEUMATIC PILLS, the safest and most effectual cure for Gout, Rhcumattjni, Rheumatic Gout, Lumbago, Sciatica, Pains in the Ilcad. Face, and Limbs. They require neither confinement nor alteration of diet, and in no case can thev prove injurious. Prepared only by GfeORGE EADE, 72, GosweU-rfkad, I^atidon; and sold by all Chemists, in bottles Is lid; three in one, 2a 9d. Ask for EADE'S GQTT A RIIEFMATfC PTUR. 3701 ~^L E WOOD'S EFFJUtVESC lNO S A LIN E APERIENT For SICKNESS, HEADACHE, HEARTBURN, IRRITATION of the STOMACH, INACTION of the LIVER and DOWELS, IN. FLAMMATION of the BLOOD, BLOTCHES, PIMPLES on the SKIN, and as a COOLING, ANTIBILIOUSSALINE PURGATIVE. This Preparation is recognised by the Faculty as one of th4 most, useful medicines, and should be kent in every hotishnld. -01 Prepared only by EDWIN ALEVYOOP, CASTLE SQUARE, SWANSEA. To be obtained through all Medicine Yendont. 430tf tKCf -=- 4 G. A. S T O 2T S'S FUNERAL FURNISH I N,G ESTABLISHMENT | Stands unrivalled for modenite charges, combined with Goffiafe, Hearses, Mourning Coaches, tftd atll (he oeOflWUT equipments for flrst-class Funeral* 01 superior Style ana finish, and Is Oondueted under the Immediate superintend- ence of the proprietor. Everything necessary for com- pletely furnishing- funerals kept OH the premises; Ideiuk of deceased persons are thereby spared the trouble Of consulting any second person. The proprietor keeping horses, hearses, mourning coaches, &c., can offer M)VMI- J tages tor funerals of every description, at prices tower. than any other house In Cardiff. Arrangements for graves I &c., also made by proprietor. Funerals, with best hearse and coach, paJr of hor&e* and hanging velvets to each, superior r black cloth oorfm nchly nailed,mew breast- elate engraved, flannel linings, mattress In bottom, flannel shroud, best pall, hat- bands, and attendance to cemetery £5 iq Q < 2nd Class, with hearso and coach oomplete IQ0 Srd Class, ditto ditto 8 X0 8 4th Class, ditto ditto 2 15 Ó 6th Class, coffin, pall, hatbands, superior car. riage to take corpse and friends 2 00 6th Class. 1 15 f" Walking funerals at extremely low prices. The Trade supplied with Hearses, Coaches, Palls, Ostrich Plumes, Hatbands, &c., on advantageous terms. f Please note the Address 11 and 12, WORKING-STREET (Opposite St. John's Churchyard), CARDIFF. N.B.—Licensed to let Horses, Cabs, iio. Dog Cart to let on Hire. 103 0 R C O R N sT; CORNS! DR. PAVEY S Is warranted to effect a jierfect cure in Celebrated a few applcations. It is not an acid, does COWS! hurn, and gives no pain whatever ortTirmrai 7M.OOO sold last year. Sold hy all fc>OLY I Chemists Is. l^d. post Is. ad. Depot Pa.t.elltcd. 107, Broad-street, Reading. Sold by the following AgOIlt.; :-Williallls, Bute-street, Cardiff; Dimes, High-street, (Swansea Hibbei t and Havman, Neath Whit,e Bros., Carmarthen l'hillip" Newport; Trewecka, Pembroke. 4128 READE S CHEST BALSAM for COUGHS It AND COLDS.—This invaluable medicine immediately re- lieves old or recent coughs, colds, influenza, hoarseness, tiiflitness of the chest, asthma, bronchitis, and pains in the chest and lungs. The worst cases are quickly benefitted by this remedy, which is pleasant, and does not affect the head as most cough medicines do Prepared only by READS BKOTIIKRS, Chemists, Wolverhampton, and sold by most Cliemists in bottles at Is. Itd.,2I;. fl, and 4s 0d.. each. Agents in Cardiff, Anthony, Joy, and Williams, Bute-street. 9.'b BENNETT'S QUININE and IRON PILLS. —Dr Thompson says: "yriNINE is quite unrivalled as a tonic, in diseases of debility, in weakened digostioii. in drowsi- ness, loss of appetite, rheumatism, toothachc, tic-doloreuit, Ac., &e. IRON.—Its strengthening properties are well known, and probably we have 110 medicine of the kind so getienJI) useful and applicable in cold chills, flushings of heat, ucjurvjr, blotches of the skin, nervous debility, loss of blood, (ic., ate.. QUININE and IRON combined are beyond a doubt, as showa by Dr Thompson to he, the very best medicine we possess fat the yonng, the old, the weak, the pallid, the delicate, tit. dyspeptic, and the consumptive.—Prepuvd only by JlKKhrrt. Iligh-strcet, Ledbury. -Agents for Cardiff Mr Williams, 11, Bute- street Mr Procter, Penarth. In Boxes, Is and '2s 9d, or bJ post for 14, 34 stamps. 4'236 D- EN Z I L T HOM SON'S LIVER PILLS. The exigencies of modem life arc such that at times most of 111 must be, of necessity, more or less subject to disorders of the Liver, Stomach, and Bowels,—such as Biliousness, Drowsiness, Giddiness, and Depression, caused by chills, colds, and sudden changes in the temperature; Aci<lity, Heartburn, Flatulence, Distension, Spasms, Sickness, and Head-aeho, caused hy excesses in eating or drinking", Nervousness, Excitability, Pijjiibdion, Wakefulness, Pains in the Head and Stomach, Costiveness, and Debility, uroceodiug from Indigestion and a Congested Liver, caused by harass, anxiety, disquietude of mind, a sedentary iu- door life, or ov4r-fatigue of the brain. The Pills arc entirely vegetable and tasteless, axal cause no inconvenience, their action being gentle, painless and effectual. They correct the morbid condition of the Liver and w>wels, promote a healthy secretion of Bile, cleanse and iuvigmw tho Stomach, relieve the Head, impro\ e the Appetite, aud punf.1 the Blood. Get a ho" and judge for yourself. gold by ICernick & &m, Cardiff, and all Chemists and Medicine Yend;). Is lid; or free for 14 Stamps from DKNKII* THOMSON, 137, Queen's Crescent, HaversUn U Hill, Loudon 3270 ""RELIEF tROM COUGH IN TEN MINUTES. HAYMAN'S BALSAM OF HOREIIOUND ia the most certain and speedy remedy for all Di"rders of the Chest milt Lungs. In Astluuu and Consumption, Rro»iellitis, Coughs, Influenza, Difficulty of Breatliing, iSpittii^i (>f Jil.xvl, Whooping Cough, Hoarseness, Loss of Voice, &e., this Balsam gives instantaneous relief, aud,if properly persevered with,scarcely ever fails to effect, a vapid cure. It has been tried for many years, has on e:;t:lhlish("1 rcpu« tation, a:.d many thousands have been benifit.tod hv its use. IT'HAS A MOST PLEASANT TASTE. IMPORTANT TKSTIMONIAL. Amport Fir*, Andover, May 29th, 18m! Sir, -I have far some years had yoin Ualsam of llorehound hr Atrs B. Webster, and intended writing to teil YOU how lunch benefit she has derived. She was considered consumptive, but the Balsam has quite re- stored her and she is now quite strong. 1 have recommended you dozens of customers, and all have been pleased NN it, it. I am, yours, &e., Mr II:vmaii, Chemist. U. B. WI.,I.VKR. IN THE NURSEUV It is invaluable, as children are fond of it and take it eagerly. Immediately it is taken, coughing ceases, restlessness is gone, and refreshing sleep ensues. No lady who has once tried it would, ever afterwards be without it.. Prepared only hy A. Hayman, CLomlat, Neath, and 6 b7 qll Coewwfs price 16. li'L and vfa. 9J. ner bottle. U>2