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Waldie’s Select Circulating Library, Volume 2
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imagined that the hatred of the people was directed as well against the supposed sorcerer as against himself. So he kept himself on his tower, on the watch, revant dans son revoir, as Rabelais says, gazing sometimes upon the cell (Esmeralda’s abode,) sometimes on Paris, making sure guard, like a good dog, and with a heart full of distrust. “All of a sudden, while he was scrutinising the great city with the eye which nature by way of compensation had made so piercing that it almost supplied the want of his other organs, it appeared to him that the profile of the quay of La Vieille-Pelleterie assumed a singular appearance. There appeared to be motion about it; the black outline of the parapet, clearly defined on the whitening waters, seemed to him as no longer either straight or motionless like that of the other quays, but that it undulated to the eye like the waves of a river or the heads of a multitude marching onwards. This struck him as strange. He redoubled his attention. The movement appeared to be extending towards the city: it existed but a short time on the quay; it then subsided by little and little as if it were entering into the interior of the isle, it then suddenly ceased and the outlines of the quay became once more straight and motionless. “At the moment that Quasimodo had exhausted himself in conjecture, the movement re-appeared in the Rue du Parvis, which extends perpendicularly into the city from the façade of Notre Dame. At last, so intense was the obscurity, that no sooner did he see the head of a column debouch by this street, than the crowd spread itself over the precincts, where nothing could be distinguished but that it was a crowd. The sight was alarming. This singular procession could not approach without some noise or murmur, whatever silence might be kept: the trampling of the feet alone of so great a crowd must necessarily have sounded through the stillness of the streets. But no sound reached the brain of the deaf Quasimodo, and the vast multitude of which he could only catch glimpses, and which seemed to him noiseless, had the effect of an army of the dead, who had risen from their graves at midnight, mute, impal. pable, and ready to vanish into thin air. It seemed to him as if a mist full of human beings was approaching, and that what he saw in motion were the shadows of the shades.

“Then the fears of an attempt against the Egyptian returned to his apprehension. A confused notion presented itself to his mind that a crisis was approaching, and he began to reason on the danger of her situation with more method than might have been expected from a brain so imperfectly organised. Ought he to wake the Egyptian? Should he contrive her evasion? Where how ! the streets were invested : the church was washed by the river. No boat was to be had, and there was no outlet. There was but one alternative; he would die on the threshold of the cathedral, after making every resistance in his power until succour arrived. He resolved not to disturb the repose of his protegée; the unhappy creature would wake time enough to die. His resolution being taken, he set himself to examine the enciny with greater tranquillity. “The crowd appeared to increase every instant in the precincts. Quasimodo, however, conjectured that the noise they made must be very slight, for the windows of the street and the place remained closed. All of a sudden a light shone out, and in an instant seven or eight lighted torches appeared above the heads of the mass, brandishing their tufts of flame against the thick darkness. Then were disclosed to the rambling eye of Quasimodo whole troops of men and women in rags, armed with sickles, pikes, hedgebills, and halberts with their glancing heads. Here and there black forks stuck over hideous faces like horns. He seemed to have some vague remembrance of this multitude, and fancied that he had seen the same fashion of heads before (when he was elected fools’ pope.) A man, who held a torch in one hand and a weapon in the other, got upon a post and appeared to be haranguing. At the same time this strange army made some evolutions, as if it were being placed in stations round the church. Quasimodo picked up his lantern, and went down upon the platform between the towers, in order to be able to see more distinctly and arrange his means of defence. “Clopin Trouillefou, on his arrival before the lofty portals of Notre Dame, had, in fact, ranged his troops in order of battle. Although he expected no sort of resistance, he resolved, like a prudent general, to preserve such order as would enable him to face about in case of

Onze-congts. Accordingly he drew up his brigade in such a way, that, seeing it from above, you would have sworn it the Roman triangle of Ecnomus, the boar’s head of Alexander, or the famous wedge of Gustavus Adolphus. The base of this triangle rested upon the bottom of the place so as to block up the Rue du Parris, one of the sides looked upon the Hotel Dieu, the other on the Rue Saint-i’ierre-aux-Boeufs. Clopin Trouillefou was placed at the apex with the duke of Egypt, our friend John, and the boldest of the vagabonds.”—Vol. iv. p. 61. An attack of this kind may seem improbable to a modern reader; but in point of fact such popular movements were not even rare in the cities of the middle ages. “Police,” as we understand the term, did not exist. The rights of feudality were inconsistent with any common protection. There was no centre of force. The ancient cities were simply a collection of seigneuries; a thousand different polices existed, which is as much as to say, none were effective. At Paris, for instance, independently of the one hundred and forty-one seigneurs who pretended to manorial rights, there were twenty-five who claimed as well the privilege of dispensing justice. Of these the bishop of Paris had five streets, and the prior of Notre Dame des Champs had four. All these justiciars only recognised the right of the king as suzerain nominally. Louis XI. commenced the demolition of this absurd and inconsistent edifice of feudal times, and Mirabeau completed it. There existed a vast confusion of watches, under watches, and counter watches, in defiance of which robbery and plunder were carried on with open violence and by main force. It was not unfrequent for a part of the populace to make a set at a particular palace, hotel, or mansion, in the most frequented quarters of the city. The neighbours took care not to interfere in the affair unless the pillage extended to their own property; they shut their ears to the firing, closed their shutters, barricaded their doors, and let the struggle take its course, with or without the interference of the watch; and the next morning the talk in Paris would be, Stephen Barbette was broken open last night, or the Marechal de Clermont was seized, &c. So that not only the royal habitations, the Louvre, the Palace, the Bastile, Les Tournelles, but the mere seignorial residences, the Petit Bourbon, the Hotel de Sens, and the Hotel d’Angoulême, had their battlements and their walls, their porticullis, and their gates. The churches were in general protected by their sanctity; some of them, however, were fortified. The abbey of Saint Germain des Prés was built up like a baron, and it was said that the abbé spent more metal in balls than in bells. We may now resume our extract:— “As soon as the first arrangements were terminated, (and we ought to say, for the honour of the vagabond discipline, that the orders of Clopin were executed in silence and with admirable precision,) the worthy chief of the band mounted on the parapet of the Parvis, and raised his hoarse and husky voice, turning constantly towards Notre Dame, and at the same time waving his torch, the flames of which were sometimes nearly blown out by the wind, at others nearly drowned in its own smoke, now disclosed the reddened façade of the church, and now left it buried in darkness. “‘To thee, Louis de Beaumont, bishop of Paris, counsellor to the court of parliament, I speak, I, Clopin Trouillefou, king of Thunes, grand coèsre, prince of slang, bishop of jesters! Our sister, falsely condemned for magic, has taken shelter in thy church. Thou owest her safeguard and asylum. Now the court of parliament wishes to lay hold of her again, and thou consentest thereto, so that she would be taken and hung to-morrow in the place of the Greve, if God and the vagabonds were not there to stop them. Now we are come to thee, bishop. If thy church is sacred, then is our sister also; if our sister is not sacred, then is not thy church. Here then we are to summon thce to surrender our child if thou wishest to save thy church, or we will take the girl ourselves and pillage the church. And this will be well. In testimony I plant here my banner. God keep thee in his guard, bishop of Paris.” “These words, which unluckily Quasimodo could not hear, were pronounced with a sort of wild and sombre majesty. One of the vagabonds presented his banner to Clopin, who planted it solemnly between two paving stones. . It was a pitch-fork, on the teeth of which hung a huge bunch of bleeding carrion. “The King of Thunes then turned upon the wild forms assembled round him in the guise of an army, and after regarding their savage looks with complacency, he gave the word of onset, the order to charge—” to your business, blackguards,’ was the cry of Clopin de Trouil.

need, against any sudden attack of the watch or of the

lefou.

“Thirty men sprung from the ranks, fellows with athletic limbs and the faces of blacksmiths, with mallets in their hands, clubs, pincers and bars of iron on their shoulders. They made for the great gate of the church, mounted the steps, and in an instant were crouched down under the arch at work with their pincers and levers. A crowd of the vagabonds followed to assist or look on. The eleven steps of the portal were crowded. However, the gates held firm. “Devil!” said one, “ they are hard and stiff; “they are old and their joints are of horn,’ said another. ‘Courage, comrades,’ replied Clopin, I will wager my head against an old shoe, that you will have opened the door, taken the girl, and stripped the chief altar, before there is a beadle awake. Hold’: I think the lock is picked.” Clopin was interrupted by a tremendous noise, which at this instant sounded behind him. He turned round. An enormous beam had iust fallen from the skies; it had crushed about a dozen of the vagabond army on the steps of the church, and rebounded on the pavement with the noise of a piece of cannon, breaking here and there a score or two of legs among the beggars, who sprung away in every direction. The blacksmiths, although themselves protected by the depth of the porch, abandoned the gates, and Clopin himself retired to a respectful distance from the church. “I have had a nice escape,’ cried John, ‘ I was in the wind of it, by Jove, but I see Peter the butcher is butchered.” “It is impossible to describe the fright which fell upon the mob with the fall of the beam. For some instants they stood motionless, staring in the air, more confounded than by the arrival of a thousand of the king’s archers: … Devil!’ exclaimed the King of Egypt, this does look like magic. It must surely be the moon that has thrown us this faggot,’ cried Audry-the-Red.’ ‘Why then the moon is own sister to Notre Dame, the Virgin, I think.’ ‘Thousand popes” exclaimed Clopin, “you are all a parcel of fools, but he did not know how to explain the fall of the beam. “Nothing was visible on the façade, the light of the torches did not reach high enough to show any thing, and all was silent except the groans of the wretches who had been mangled on the steps. The King of Tounes at length fancied he had made a discovery. ‘Maw of God!’ cried he, “are the canons defending themselves? if so, sack sack!’ ‘Sack sack!’ repeated the whole crew, and sack resounded in the court, bawled by hundreds of husky voices, and a furious discharge of gross-bows and other missiles was let fly upon the façade. “…This thundering noise at last awakened the people of the neighbourhood, and in sundry quarters might be seen windows opening, and night-caps popped out, and hands holding candles. ‘Fire at the windows,’ roared out. Clopin. The windows were all shut in an instant, and the poor citizens, who had scarcely had time to cast a hasty and frightened glance upon the scene of flash and tumult, returned back to perspire in terror by the sides of their wives; asking themselves if the devils kept their sabbath now in the Parvis, or whether there was another attack of the Burgundians as in ’64. The men dreamed of robbery, the women of rape, and all trembled. “‘Sack! sack!’ repeated the men of slang, but no one made a step towards the cathedral, they looked at the beam. The beam did not move, and the building preserved its calm and lonely air, but something had frozen the courage of the vagabond army. “‘To the work then, smiths’ cried Trouillefou; let us force the door.’ Not a soul moved. ‘Here are fellows,’ said he, “now, who are frightened out of their lives by a block of wood.’ An old smith came forward and said, “Captain, it is not the block of wood that frightens us, the gate is all bestitched with bars of iron, the pincers are of no use.’ ‘What want you then to knock it in “… “We want a battering ram: ‘Here is one then,’ said the King of Thunes, standing upon the beam, “the canons themselves have sent you one. Thank you, priests,” said he, making a mock obeisance to the church. This bravado had the desired effect; the charm of the beam was broken, and presently it was picked up like a feather by the vigorous arms of a hundred of the vagabonds, and hurled with fury against the doors which they had in vain endeavoured to force. The sight was an extraordinary one, and in the dusky and imperfect light of the torches, the beam and its supporters might have been taken for an immense beast with its hundreds of legs butting against a giant of stone. “The shock of the beam resounded upon the half.

inctallic door like a bell; it did not give way, but the church trembled to its foundations, and in its very innermost caverns. The same instant a shower of stones began to descend. “Hell and the devil’ roared out John, “are the towers shaking their battlements upon us?” But the impulse was on them; it was decided that the bishop defended his citadel, and the siege was continued with fury, in spite of the skulls that were cracked in all directions. The stones descended one at a time, but they came down pretty thick aster each other; the vagabonds always perceived two at a time, one at their feet and the other on their heads. Already a large heap of killed and wounded were heaped on the pavement; the assailants, however, were nothing daunt. ed; the long beam continued to be swung against the gates, the stones to rain down, and the door to groan.” Of course the reader divines the source of this opposition. The workmen, who had been repairing the walls of the southern tower during the day, had left their materials behind, and they consisted of immense beams for the roof, lead and stone. A sudden thought occurred to Quasimodo that they would make admirable means of defence. With a force which he alone could boast, he hoisted the largest and longest beam to be found and launched it fairly out of a small window upon the heads of the vagabonds at work on the steps. The enormous beam in descending one hundred and sixty feet acquired no small accelerated velocity, and hitting and bounding from pinnacle to corner and corner to wall as it fell, and again rebounding on the pavement among the besiegers, it seemed, to the eye of Quasimodo, like a hideous serpent writhing and leaping upon its prey. “Quasimodo saw the vagabonds scattered by the fall of the beam, like ashes before the wind. He took ad. vantage of this affright, and whilst they fixed a superstitious stare upon the block, fallen from the sky as they thought, Quasimodo set to work in silence to heap to. gether rubbish, stones, hewn and unhewn, even to the sacks of tools belonging to the masons, upon the cdge of the parapet; so that as soon as they began to batter the great gates, the hailstorm of stoneblocks commenced, and the vagabonds to think the church was demolishing itself upon their heads. If any eye could have seen – Quasimodo at his work, it would have been a sight of dread. Independently of all the projectiles he had accumulated on the balustrade, he had heaps of stones on the platform itself; so that as soon as the blocks on the outer edge were exhausted, he gathered from the heaps. He then might be seen lowering and rising, dipping and plunging with an activity altogether inconceivable. His great head, more like that of a gnome than of a human being, was to be seen inclining over the balustrade, then a block would fall, then another enormous stone, then another. From time to time he would follow a fine stone with his eye, and when it killed well he grunted ‘hun!’”—p. 76. However, the vagabonds did not flinch. The thick gates were trembling under the weight of the battering engine, the pannels were cracking, the carving sprung off in shivers, the hinges at each blow jumped up from the pivots, the boards began to separate, and the timber was ground to powder between the claspings and bindings of iron; luckily for Quasimodo there was more iron than wood. He perceived, however, that the door could not hold long, and as his ammunition declined, he began to despond. However, another bright idea struck him: the experiment he hit upon we shall describe in the author’s words. “At this moment of anguish he remarked a little lower than the balustrade whence he crushed the men of slang, two long spouts of stone, which disgorged immediately over the great gates. The interior orifice of the gutters opened on the level of the platform. He ran to fetch a faggot from his bell-ringer’s lodge, and placing it over the hole of the two spouts he covered it with a multitude of laths and rolls of lead, ammunition which he had not yet resorted to. As soon as all was arranged, he set fire to the mass with his lantern. “In this interval, the vagabonds, perceiving the stones had ceased to fall, no longer looked up, and the whole cavalcade, like a pack of hounds that have driven the boar to bay, now crowded round the gates, which, though all shattered by the battering engine, were still standing. They were all in expectation of the last grand blow, the blow that was to send the whole in shivers. Each was striving to get nearest to the door that he might be the first to dart into this rich reservoir of treasures that had been accumulating for three centuries. They roared with joy as they bandied about from one to another the names of silver crosses, copes of brocade, the gilded monuments, the magnificence of the choir, the dazzling fetes, and the christmasses sparkling with torches, the casters

brilliant with the sun, and all the splendid solemnities of chalices, chandeliers, pyxes, tabernacles, reliquaries, which embossed the altars with a crust of gold and diamonds. Assuredly, at this moment of bliss, the canters and whiners, the limpers and tremblers and tumblers, thought much less of the rescue of the Egyptian, than they did of the pillage of Notre Dame.

“All of a sudden, while by a last effort, they were grouping themselves about the engine, holding their breath and stiffening their muscles as for a final stroke, a howling, more hideous than that which followed the fall of the beam arose in the middle of them all. Those who were not yelling and yet alive, looked round. Two streams of boiling lead were pouring from the top of the building on the thickest part of the crowd. This stormy sea of men had subsided under the boiling metal: on the two points where it had chiefly fallen, two black and smoking holes were made in the crowd, such as hot water would cause in a drift of snow. The dying were writhing in them, half-calcined and roaring with pain. All about these jets of lead, the shower had sprinkled upon the besiegers and entered into their skulls like ramrods of flame. It was heavy fire, which riddled the wretches with a thousand hailstones .The clamour was horrific. The vagabonds fled pell-mell, throwing the beam upon the dead, the bold and the timid together, and the comrt was cleared a second time. All eyes were raised to the roof of the church. They beheld a sight of an extraordinary kind. From the top of the loftiest gallery, above the central rose-window, huge flames, crowned with sparkles of fire, mounted between the two towers, the fury of which was increased by the wind, which every now and then carried off a tongue of flame along with the smoke. Below this fire, below the sombre balustrade, two large spouts fashioned in the shape of monsters’ jaws vomited forth without cessation a silver shower of burning rain. As they approached the pavement the streams scattered like water poured through the thousand holes of the rose of a watering-pot. Above the flames were the two gigantic towers, the two fronts of which visible, the one black the other red, appeared still greater when viewed against the sky. The numberless sculptures of devils and dragons had an aspect of woe. The unsettled brilliancy of the fire gave them the appearance of life. The serpents seemed to be laughing, the water-spouts to be barking, the salamanders to be puffing the fire, the griffins to sneeze in the smoke. And amongst the monsters thus as it were awakened out of their slumbers by the noise and confusion, there was one in motion who was seen to pass from time to time in front of the fire like a bat before a candle.”—p. 83.

“A silence of terror fell upon the army of Vagabonds, during which might be heard the cries of the canons shut up in their cloister, more uneasy than horses in a stable on fire, together with the stealthy-opened noise of windows, the bustle of the interior of the houses, and of the Hotel Dieu, the wind in the flame, the last rattle in the throats of the dying, and the pattering of the lead. rain on the pavement.”

This formidable mode of resistance rendered a council of war necessary, at which the vagabonds resolved upon an escalade—it failed; the prowess of Quasimodo was again successful, he shook the besiegers off the lad. der and hurled them into the depths below. The contest was thus protracted till the arrival of a very considerable troop of gendarmerie and archers, acting under the immediate orders of the king. The unlucky vagabonds were utterly routed, and cither driven from the field or left upon it. The description of the siege is continued at great length; it is utterly impossible for us to carry on our report of it on the same scale as the preceding scenes, the spirit and animation of which have induced us to enter upon the translation of some considerable passages.

We are tempted to add another scene to the foregoing, which has few equals in any language. Esmeralda having been condemned, Quasimodo and the priest witness the cxccution from the roof of Notre-Dame.—Ed.

“Outside the balustrade of the tower, precisely under the spot where the priest had stopped, projected one of those fantastically carved spouts of stone, which jut out along the sides of Gothic edifices; and from a cre. vice of this gutter, two beautiful wall-flowers in full bloom, shaken, and rendered, as it were, living by the breath of the wind, were wantonly bowing one to the other. From aloft above the towers, far towards the sky, was heard the chirping of little birds; but the priest neither heard nor saw any thing of all this. Ile was one of those men for whom there are no morn

ings, no birds, no flowers; in that immense horizon, which opened so many aspects around him, his contemplation was concentrated on one single point. Quasimodo turned to ask him what he had done with the gipsy; but the Archdeacon seeined at that moment to be out of the world; he was visibly in one of those violent moments of life, when the earth might have given way under his feet, and he would not have felt it. His eyes invariably fixed on a certain spot, he remained silent and motionless, and this silence and this immobility had a something in them so fearful, that the savage ringcr shuddered before, and dared not encounter them. He only followed (and this was still a mode of questioning the archdeacon) the direction of his looks; and in this manner the eye of the unhappy deaf man fell on the place de la Grève. He thus beheld what the priest was looking upon. The ladder was raised near the stationary gibbet; there was an attendance of the populace in the square, and a great number of soldiers. A mar was dragging along the pavement something white, to which something black was clinging. This man stopped at the foot of the gibbet; here something passed that Quasimodo conla not see clearly, not that his single eye had lost its keenness of sight, but there was a knot of soldiers that prevented him from distinguishing every thing. Besides, at that moment the sun shone forth, and such a flood of light burst above the horizon, that it seemed as if all the points of all the buildings in Paris, steeples, chimneys, and gable tops, had taken fire at once. “Meanwhile, the man set about mounting the ladder; Quasimodo then saw him again distinctly—he carried a woman on his shoulder, a young girl dressed in white: this young girl had a halter about her neck. Quasimodo recognised her; it was herself. The man arrived at the top of the ladder, and arranged the knot of the halter. Here the pricst, in order to see better, placed himself on his knees, on the balustrade. On a sudden, the man abruptly pushed away the ladder with his foot, and Quasimodo, who for some moments past had not drawn a breath, saw the unfortunate girl dangle at the end c; a rope, two fathoms above the pavement, with the man crouching down upon her, his feet on her shoulders. The cord twisted round several times, and Quasimodo beheld horrible convulsions all down the gipsy girl’s body. The priest, on his part, with outstretched neck, and eyes starting from their sockets, watched the frightful group of the man and the girl—of the spider and the fly. At the moment when the whole was most dreadful to behold, a demon’s laugh, such a laugh as can only coine from one who has ceased to be a man, burst forth on his livid face. Quasimodo did not hear this laugh, but he saw it. The ringer drew back a few steps behind the archdeacon, and suddenly rushing with fury upon him, with his two huge hands he pushed him into the abyss over which he was leaning. “The priest cried out ‘damnation ” and fell. “The spout beneath him stopped him in his fall; in des. peration, he clung to it with his hands, and just as he opened his mouth to utter a second cry, he saw the fearful and avenging figure of Quasimodo pass on the brink of the balustrade above his head; seeing this he remained silent. The abyss was beneath him ; a fall of more than two hundred fect, and the pavement. In this terrible situation the archdeacon said not a word, gave not a groun; he only writhed on the spout, with surprising efforts to raise himself up, but his hands had no hold on the granite, his feet scratched against the blackened wall, without making good their footing. Those persons who have ascended the towers of Notre Dame, arc aware that there is a projection of the wall immediately underneath the balustrade; it was on the inward inclina. tion of this projection, that the wretched archdeacon exhausted himself. He had not to do with a perpendicular wall, but with a wall that receded from him. “Quasimodo would only have had to stretch forward his hand to save him from the precipice; but Quasimodo did not even look at him, he looked at la Gre re–he looked at the gibbet—he looked at the gipsy girl. The deaf ringer had placed his elbows on the balustrade at the spot where the archdeacon had stood the moment before ; and there, not listing his eye from the only object he had any consciousness of, he remained mute and motionless, as if thunderstruck, and a long torrent of tears fell silently from that eye, whence, till then, but one single tear had ever flowed. The archdeacon panted, his bald forehead streamed with perspiration, his nails bled upon the stone, his knees were grazed bare against the wall; he could hear his cassock, which had caught to the spout, crackle and give way at every shock he gave. To crown all, this spout was terminated by a leaden pipe, which bent under the weight of his

body, and he felt it slowly yielding to his weight. The unfortunate man could not but be certain that when his hands would be broken with fatigue, his cassock conpletely torn, and the lead bent down, he must fall, and terror chilled him to the heart. Sometimes he cast his eyes wildly upon a sort of platform, made by the sculpture, about ten feet lower down, and from the depth of his agonised soul, he demanded of heaven that he might be suffered to finish his life, were it to last a hundred years, on this space of two feet square. Once he looked down upon the abyss beneath him ; when he raised his head, his eyes were closed, and his hair stood bristling erect. “There was something awful in the silence of these two men. Quasimodo continued weeping and looking towards la Grève, while a few feet under him, the archdeacon was in this frightsul state of agony. Finding that all his efforts did nothing but weaken the frail support which remained for him, he had made up his mind to struggle no more. There he was, clinging to the spout, scarcely drawing his breath, not stirring, not moving, but with that mechanical convulsion of the body which we feel in a dream, when we think we are falling ; his fixed eyes opened wide, with a diseased, a terrified glare. Little by little, meanwhile, he was losing ground; his fingers slipped upon the stone; he felt more and more the weakness of his arms and the weight of his body; the bending of the lead that supported him inclincil every Inoment still further in the direction of the abyss beneath him: he could see, and a fearful sight it was for him, the roof of Saint Jean le Rond, as small as a card bent in two. He looked upon the motionless statues of the tower one after the other, all suspended, like him, over the yawning depth, but without fear for themselves or pity for him. Every thing was of stone around him ; before his eyes the gaping monsters, beneath, at the foot of the cathedral, the pavement; above his head, the weeping figure of Quasimodo. In the close, stood a few groups of idlers, who were coolly trying to guess what madman could be amusing himself in so strange a man. ner. The priest heard them say, for their voices came – up clear and sharp to his ear, “Why, he must break to his neck.” Foaming in a complete delirium of terror, to he at length became conscious that all was useless. … Nevertheless, he gathered together whatever strength he was still master of for a last effort. He stiffened him… a self upon the spout, pushed against the wall with his two knees, fastened both his hands in a slit of the stone – and was just on the point of getting a hold for one foot, when the struggle he was making caused the end of the – leaden pipe he was supported by, to bend abruptly down, … and with the same motion his cassock was ripped up. . . . . Finding, therefore every thing give way under him, and having no longer a hold but by his two stiffened and fail. ing hands, the wretched man shut his eyes, and let go the spout. He fell —Quasimodo looked at him as he

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— “A fill from so great a height is seldom perpendicular; – he first launched into the air, his head was undermost, . … and his hands were stretched forth; he afterwards, T. turned several times round, and, finally, the wind drove o o him on the roof of a house; here began the fracturing |- of the unfortunate priest’s body, but he was not dead ‘i when he landed there. •The ringer beheld him still try. ing to clutch the coping with his nails, but the plane

was too much inclined, and he had no strength left; he slid rapidly along the shelving roof, like a loosened tile, and fell with a bound upon the pavement. There be stirred no more.”

THE BLACK WELVET BAG. By Miss Mitron D.

Have any of my readers ever found great convenience in the loss, the real loss, of actual tangiblo property, and been exceedingly provoked and annoyed when such property was restored to them : If so, they can sympn. thise with a late unfortunate recovery, which has brought me to great shame and disgrace. There is no way of explaining my calamity but by telling the whole story. Last Friday fortnight was one of those anomalies in weather with which we English people are visited for our sins; a day of intolerable wind, and insupportable dust; an equinoctial gale out of season; a piece of March unnaturally foisted into the very heart of May; just as, in the almost parallel mis-arrangement of the English counties, one sees (perhaps out of compliment to this peculiarity of climate, to keep the weather in countenance as it were) a bit of Wiltshire plumped down in the very middle of Berkshire, whilst a great island of the county palatine of Durham figures in the

centre of canny Northumberland. Be this as it may, on that remarkably windy day did I set forth to the good town of B., on the feminine errand called shopping. Every lady who lives far in the country, and seldom visits great towns, will understand the full force of that comprehensive word; and I had not been shopping for a long time: I had a dread of the operation, arising from a consciousness of weakness. I am a true daughter of Eve, a dear lover of bargains and bright colours; and knowing this, have generally been wise enough to keep, as much as I can, out of the way of temptation. At last a sort of necessity arose for some slight purchases, in the shape of two new gowns from London, which cried aloud for making. Trimmings, ribands, sewing silk, and lining, all were called for. The shopping was inevitable, and I undertook the whole concern at once, most heroically resolving to spend just so much, and no more; and half comforting myself that I had a full morning’s work of indispensable business, and should have no time for extraneous extravagance.

There was, to be sure, a prodigious accumulation of errands and wants. The evening before, they had been set down in great form, on a slip of paper, headed thus —“things wanted.”—To how many and various catalogues that title would apply, srom the red bench of the peer, to the oaken settle of the cottager—from him who wants a blue riband, to him who wants bread and cheese : My list was astounding. It was written in double columns, in an invisible hand; the long intractable words were brought into the ranks by the Procrustes mode—abbreviation; and, as we approached the bottorn, two or three were crammed into one lot, clumped, as the bean-setters say, and designated by a sort of short hand, a hieroglyphic of my own invention. In good open printing, my list would have cut a respectable figure as a catalogue too; for, as I had a given sum to carry to market, I amused mysels with calculating the proper and probable cost of every article; in which process I most egregiously cheated the shopkeeper and myself by copying, with the credulity of hope, from the puffs in newspapers, and expecting to buy fine solid wearable goods at advertising prices. In this way I stretched my money a great deal farther than it would go, and swelled my catalogue; so that, at last in spite of compression and short hand, I had no rootn for another word, and was obliged to crowd several small but important articles, such as cotton, laces, pins, needles, shoe-strings, &c. into that very irregular and disorderly storehouse—that place where most things deposited are lost—my memory, by courtesy so called.

The written list was safely consigned, with a well filled purse, to my usual repository, a black velvet bag; and, the next morning, I and my bag, with its nicely balanced contents of wants and money, were safely conveyed in a little open carriage to the good town of B. There I dismounted, and began to bargain most vigorously, visiting the cheapest shops, cheapening the cheap. est articles, yet wisely buying the strongest and the best; a little astonished at first, to find cvery thing so much dearer than I had set it down, yet soon reconciled to this misfortune by the magical influence which shopping possesses over a woman’s fancy—all the sooner reconciled, as the monitory list lay unlooked at, and unthought of, in its grave receptacle, the black velvet bag. On 1 went, with an air of cheerful business, of happy importance, till my money began to wax small. Cer. tain small aberrations had occurred, too, in my economy. One article that had happened, by rare accident, to be below my calculation, and, indeed, below any calculation, calico at ninepence, fine, thick, strong, wide calico, at ninepence, (did ever man hear of any thing so cheap?) absolutely enchanted me, and I took the whole piece : then after buying for M. a gown, according to order, 1 saw one that I liked better, and bought that too. Then I fell in love, was actually captivated by a sky blue sash and handkerchief—not the poor, thin, greeny colour which usually passes under that dishonoured name, but the rich full tint of the noon-day sky: and a capriband, really pink, that might have vied with the inside leaves of a moss-rose. . Then, in hunting after cheapness, I got into obscure shops, where, not finding what I asked for, I was sain to take something that they had, purely to make a proper compensation for the trouble of lugging out drawers, and answering questions. Lastly, I was fairly coaxed into some articles by the irresistibility of the sellers, by the demure and truth telling look of a pretty quaker, who could almost have persuad. ed the head off one’s shoulders, and who did persuade me that ell-wide muslin would go as far as yard and a half; and by the fluent impudence of a lying shopman,

who under cover of a well darkened window, affirmed, on his honour, that his brown satin was a perfect match to my green pattern, and forced the said satin down my throat accordingly. With these helps, my money melted all too fast: at half past five my purse was entirely empty; and, as shopping with an empty purse has by no means the relish and savour of shopping with a full one, I was quite willing and ready to go home to dinner, pleased as a child with my purchases, and wholly unsuspecting the sins of omission, the errands unperformed, which were the natural result of my unconsulted memoranda and my treacherous memory. Home I returned, a happy and proud woman, wise in my own conceit, a thrifty fashion-monger, laden, like a pedler, with huge packages in stout brown holland, tied up with whipcord, and genteel little parcels, papered and packthreaded in shopmanlike style. At last we were safely stowed in the pony-chaise, which had much ado to hold us, my little black bag lying, as usual, in my lap; when, as we ascended the steep hill out of B., a sudden puff of wind took at once my cottage-bonnet and my large cloak, blew the bonnet off my head, so that it hung behind ine, suspended by the riband, and fairly snapped the string of the cloak, which flew away, much in the style of John Gilpin’s, renowned in story. My companion pitying my plight, exerted himself manfully to regain the fly-away garments, shoved the head into the bonnet, or the bonnet over the head (I do not know which phrase best describes the manoeuvre,) with one hand, and recovercq the refractory cloak with the other. This last exploit was certainly the most difficult. It is wonderful what a tug he was forced to give, before that obstinate cloak could be brought round: it was swelled with the wind like a bladder, animated, so to say, like a living

thing, and threatened to carry pony and chaise, and

riders, and packages, backward down the hill, as if it had been a sail, and we a ship. At last the contumacious garment was mastered. We righted; and, by dint of sitting sideways, and turning my back on my kind comrade, I got home without any farther damage than the loss of my bag, which, though not missed before the chaise had been unladen, had undoubtedly gone by the board in the gale; and I lamented my old and trusty companion, without in the least foreseeing the use it would probably be of to my reputation. Immediately after dinner (for in all cases, even when one has bargains to show, dinner must be discussed) I produced my purchases. They were much admired; and the quantity, when spread out in our little room, being altogether dazzling, and the quality satisfactory, the cheapness was never doubted. Every body thought the bargains were exactly such as I meant to get—for nobody calculated; and the bills being really lost in the lost bag, and the particular prices just as much lost in my memory (the ninepenny calico was the only article whose cost occurred to me,) I passed, without telling anything like a fib, mercly by a discreet silence, for the best and thriftiest bargainer that ever went shopping. After some time spent very pleasantly, in admiration on one side, and display on the other, we were interrupted by the demand for some of the little articles which I had forgotten. “The sewing-silk, please ma’am, for my mistress’s gown.” “Sewing-silk! I don’t know—look about.” Ah, she might look long enough! no sewing-silk was there. “Very strange “—Prescntly came other enquiries— “Where’s the tape, Mary”—“The tape!”—“Yes, my dear; and the needles, pins, cotton, stay-laces, boot laces;” “the bobbin, the ferret, shirt-buttons, shoc-strings?”— quoth she of the sewing-silk, taking up the cry; and forthwith began a search as bustling, as active, and as vain, as that of our old spaniel, Brush, after a hare that has stolen away from her form. …At last she suddenly desisted from her rummage—“Without doubt, ma’am, they are in the reticule, and all lost,” said she, in a very pathetic tone. “Really,” cried I, a little conscience. stricken, “I don’t recollect; perhaps I might forget.” “Depend on it, my love, that Harriet’s right,” interrupted one whose interruptions are always kind; “those are just the little articles that people put in reticules, and you never could forget so many things; besides you wrote them down.” “I don’t know—I am not sure”—But I was not listened to; Harriet’s conjecture had been metamorphosed into a certainty; all my sins of omission were stowcd in the reticule; and before bed-time, the little black bag held forgotten things enough to fill a sack. Never was reticule so lamented by all but its owner; a boy was immediately despatched to look for it, and on his returning empty-handed, there was even a talk of having it cried. My care, on the other hand, was all directed to prevent its being found. I had had the good

luck to lose it in a suburb of B. renowned for filching, and I remembered that the street was, at that moment, full of people: the bag did actually contain more than enough to tempt those who were naturally disposed to steal for stealing’s sake; so I went to bed in the comfortable assurance that it was gone for ever. But there is nothing certain in this world—not even a thief’s dishonesty. Two old women who had pounced at once on my valuable property, quarrelled about the plunder, and one of them, in a fit of resentment at being cheated in her share, went to the mayor of B. and informed against her companion. The mayor, an intelligent and active magistrate, immediately took the disputed bag, and all its contents, into his own possession; and as he is also a man of great politeness, he restored it as soon as possible to the right owner. The very first thing that saluted my eyes, when I awoke in the morning, was a note from Mr. Mayor, with a sealed packet. The fatal truth was visible; 1 had recovered my reticule, and lost my reputation. There it lay, that identical black bag, with its nametickets, its cambric handkerchief, its empty purse, its unconsulted list, its thirteen bills, and its two letters; one from a good sort of lady-farmer, enquiring the character of a cook, with half a sonnet written on the blank pages; the other from a literary friend, containing a critique on the plot of a play, advising me not to kill the king too soon, with other good counsel, such as might, if our mayor had not been a man of sagacity, have sent a poor authoress, in a Mademoiselle-Scuderi-mistake to the tower. That catastrophe would hardly have been worse than the real one. All my omissions have been found out. My price list has been compared with the bills. I have forfeited my credit for bargaining. I am become a by-word for forgetting. Nobody trusts me to purchase a or. of pins, or to remember the cost of a penny riband.

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am a lost woman. My bag is come back, but my fame is gone.

MIADEMOISELLE THEIRESE. By the SAME.

One of the prettiest dwellings in our neighbourhood, is the Lime Cottage at Burley-Hatch. It consists of a small low-browed habitation, so entirely covered with jessamine, honey-suckle, passion-flowers, and china roses, as to resemble a bower, and is placed in the centre of a large garden,_turf and flowers before, vegetables and fruit trees behind, backed by a superb orchard, and surrounded by a quickset hedge, so thick, and close, and regular, as to form an impregnable defence to the territory which it encloses—a thorny rampart, a living and growing chevaux-de-frise. On either side of the neat gravel walk, which leads from the outer gate to the door of the cottage, stand the large and beautiful trees to which it owes its name; spreading their strong, broad shadow over the turf beneath, and sending, on a summer afternoon, their rich, spicy, fragrance half across the irregular village green, dappled with wood and water, and gay with sheep, cattle, and children, which divides them, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, from the little hamlet of Burley, its venerable church and handsome rectory, and its short straggling street of cottages and country shops. Such is the habitation of Therese de G., an emigrée of distinction, whose aunt having married an English officer, was luckily able to afford her niece an asylum during the horrors of the revolution, and to secure to her a small annuity, and the Lime Cottage after her death. There she has lived for these five-and-thirty years, gradually losing sight of her few and distant foreign connections, and finding all her happiness in her pleasant home and her kind neighbours—a standing lesson of cheerfulness and contentment. A very popular person is Mademoiselle Therese—popular both with high and low ; for the prejudice which the country people almost univereally entertain against foreigners, vanished directly before the charm of her manners, the gaiety of her heart, and the sunshine of a temper that never knows a cloud. She is so kind to them too, so liberal of the produce of her orchard and garden, so full of resource in their difficulties, and so sure to afford sympathy if she have nothing else to give, that the poor all idolise Mademoiselle. Among the rich, she is equally beloved. No party is complete without the pleasant Frenchwoman, whose amenity and cheerfulness, her perfect general politeness, her attention to the old, the poor, the stupid, and the neglected, are felt to be invaluable in society. Her conversation is not very powerful either, nor very brilliant; she never says any thing remarkable—but then it is so good-natured, so genuine, so unpretending, so constantly up and alive, that one would feel its absence far more than that of a more showy and ambitious talker; to say nothing of the

charm which it derives from her language, which is alternately the most graceful and purest French, and the most diverting and absurd broken English ;-a dialect in which, whilst contriving to make herself perfectly understood both by gentla and simple, she does also contrive, in the course of an hour, to commit more blunders, than all the other foreigners in England make in a month. Her appearance betrays her country almost as much as her speech. She is a French-looking little personage, with a slight, active figure, exceedingly nimble and alert in every movement; a round and darkly-complexioned face, somewhat faded and passée, but still striking from the laughing eyes, the bland and brillant smile, and the great mobility of expression. Her features, pretty as they are, want the repose of an English countenance; and her air, gesture, and dress, are decidedly foreign, all alike deficient in the English charm of quietness. Nevertheless, in her youth she must have been pretty; so pretty that some of our young ladies, scandalised at the idea of finding their favourite an old maid, have invented sundry legends to excuse the solecism, and talk of duels fought pour l’amour de ses beaux yeur, and of a betrothed lover guillotined in the revolution. And the thing may have been so; although one meets every where with old maids who have been pretty, and whose lovers have not been guillotined; and although Mademoiselle Therese has not, to do her justice, the least in the world the air of a heroine crossed in love. The thing may be so; but I doubt it much. I rather suspect our fair demoiselle of having been in her youth a little of a flirt. Even during her residence at Burley-Hatch, hath not she indulged in divers very distant, very discreet, very decorous, but still very evident flirtations 2 Did not Dr. Abdy, the portly, ruddy schoolmaster of B., dangle after her for three mortal years, holidays excepted And did she not refuse him at last ! And Mr. Foreclose, the thin, withered, wrinkled, city solicitor, a man, so to say, smoke-dried, who comes down every year to Burley for the air, did not he do suit and service to her during four long vacations, with the same ill success. Was not Sir Thomas himself a little smitten ? Nay, even now, deos not the good major, a halting veteran of seventy—but really it is too bad to tell tales out of the parish—all that is certain is, that Mademoiselle Therese might have changed her name long before now, had she so chosen; and that it is most probable that she will never change it at all. Her household consists of her little maid Betsy, a cherry-cheeked, blue-eyed country lass, brought up by her. self, who with a full clumsy figure, and a fair, innocent, unmeaning countenance, copies, as closely as these ob. stacles will permit, the looks and gestures of her alert and vivacious mistress, and has even caught her broken English;-of a fat lap dog, called Fido, silky, sleepy, and sedate;—and of a beautiful white Spanish ass, called Donnabella, an animal docile and spirited, far beyond the generality of that despised race, who draws her little donkey-chaise half the country over, runs to her the moment she sees her, and eats roses, bread and apples from her hand; but who, accustomed to be fed and groomed, harnessed and driven only by females, resists and rebels the moment she is approached by the rougher sex; has overturned more boys, and kicked more men, than any donkey in the kingdom; and has acquired such a character for restiveness among the grooms in the neighbourhood, that when Mademoiselle Therese goes out to dinner, Betsy is fain to go with her to drive Donnabella home again, and to return to fetch her mistress in the evening. If every body is delighted to receive this most welcome visiter, so is every body delighted to accept her graceful invitations, and meet to eat strawberries at Burley Hatch. Oh, how pleasant are those summer afternoons, sitting under the blossomed limes, with the sun shedding a golden light through the broad branches, the bees murmuring over head, roses and lilies all about us, and the choicest fruit served up in wicker baskets of her own making—itself a picture the guests looking so pleased and happy, and the kind hostess the gayest and happiest of all. Those are pleasant meetings; nor are her little winter parties less agreeable, when, two or three female friends assembled round their coffee, she will tell thrilling stories of that terrible revolution, so fertile in great crimes and great virtues; or gayer anecdotes or the brilliant days preceding that convulsion, the days which Madame de Genlis has described so well, when Paris was the capital of pleasure, and amusement the business of life; illustrating her descriptions by a series of spirited drawings of costumes and characters done by herself, and always finishing by producing a group of Louis Scize, Maric Antoinette, the Dauphin and Madame

Elizabeth, as she had last seen them at Versailles—the only recollection that ever brings tears into her smiling eves.

*Mademiole Therese’s loyalty to the Bourbons was in truth a very real feeling. Her family had been about the court, and she had imbibed an enthusiasm for the royal sufferers natural to a young and a warm heart— she loved the Bourbons, and hated Napoleon with like ardour. All her other French feelings had for some time been a little modified. She was not quite so sure as she had been, that France was the only country, and Paris the only city of the world; that Shakspeare was a barbarian and Milton no poet; that the perfume of English limes, was nothing compared to French orange trees; that the sun never shone in England; and that sea-coal fires were bad things. She still, indeed, would occasionally make these assertions, especially if dared to make them ; but her faith in them was shaken. Her loyalty to her legitimate king, was, however, as strong as ever, and that loyalty had nearly cost us our dear Mademoiselle. After the restoration, she hastened as fast as a steam-boat and diligence could carry her, to enjoy the delight of seeing once more the Bourbons at the Tuilleries; took leave, between smiles and tears, of her friends, and of Burley Hatch, carrying with her a branch of the lime tree, then in blossom, and commissioning her old lover, Mr. Foreclose, to dispose of the cottage: but in less than three months, luckily before Mr. Foreclose had found a purchaser, Mademoiselle Therese came home again. She complained of nobody; but times were altered. The house in which she was born was pulled down; her friends were scattered; her kindred dead; madame did not remember her (she had probably never heard of her in her life;) the king did not know her again (poor man : he had not seen her for these thirty years;) Paris was a new city; the French were a new people; she missed the sea-coal fires; and for the stunted orange trees at the Tuilleries, what loy compared with the blossomed limes of Burley Hatch .

LETTERS FROM THE NORTH OF EUROPE. BY CHARLEs BoILEAU ELLIoTT, Esq.

From the London New Monthly Magazine.

One striking evidence of the rapid progress we are making in civilisation is the constant and increasing demand for travels and voyages. We are no longer contented to live within ourselves. The whole world is our theatre. We explore all its regions; nor is there a spot visited by the sun that is wholly unknown to us. Our enterprising countrymen go forth to collect their intellectual treasures, and return home to enrich us with their stores. Every month adds something valuable to the general stock. We enjoy the benefit without encountering the peril. We sympathise with danger, while we feel that it is past, and luxuriate in pleasurable emotions, while our hearts thrill with the interest which the daring adventurer has thrown round himself. This species of writing has also a charm for every reader. The man of science and the rustic, the scholar and the mechanic, sit down with equal zest to participate in the mental feast; and thus knowledge is widely diffused— knowledge which invigorates the inward man, enlarging his capacity, and extending the sphere of his enjoyments, and which prepares a whole nation for liberal institutions, which invests them with political and commercial importance, and thus raises them in the scale of nations. The success of works of this description stimulates enterprise, and opens the largest field for the useful employment of energies which might otherwise be wasted.

Mr. Elliott justly ranks among the most enlightened and intelligent of his class. His unpretending volume discovers an enthusiastic love of nature, and the most liberal views of man in all his diversified conditions. We scarcely ever read a work in which there is so little to censure and so much to approve. Unlike many of his brethren, he is a good writer: his style is pure and classical. He is likewise a philosopher and a Christian. We first become his willing associates, and our intercourse soon ripens into friendship. We close the book with reluctance, and take leave of him with a sigh of regret.

The above interesting work will appear in the next number of the “Library.”

WOL. II.

PHILADELPHIA, JULY 16, 1833.

NO. 14.

PRINTED AND Published by ADAM WALDIE, No. 6, North Eighth STREET, Philadelphia—At $5 for 52 numbers, payable in advance.

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INTRODUCTION.

We do not remember having perused a volume of personal narrative that afforded more satisfaction than the following tour through the north of Europe, from the pen of Mr. Elliott. His description of Norway, its fiords and fields, its magnificent mountain scenery and dashing torrents—the manners of the isolated inhabitants, many of them almost entirely removed from all contact with civilisation, so graphically depicted, and with so much fidelity, are highly entertaining and instructive. We have spoken of the fidelity of the narrative—of this our conviction is produced from the general character of the book. The style is vigorous and classical, the language of agentleman and scholar—and has all the appearance of having been written, as he says, for the private amusement and information of his friend, then travelling in South America. There is a rraisemblance pervading the whole that will effectually screen it from the too frequently just imputation of being of the spurious brood hatched in the brains of needy authors for the benefit of London booksellers. We believe we hazard little in saying that much of the ground over which the author travels is new to most American readers, and that he presents his scenes in a fresh and satisfactory manner. We should be glad to accompany such a gentleman as Mr. Elliott in other peregrinations. His views of Russian society and manners, &c. are of a late date—in fact it is the most recent work of any value

on the countries he visited. With more personal adventure, and through countries with which we are less familiar, in its graphic style and candour, it will probably remind many of Carter’s popular letters from Europe—a work which still continues to

be much read. –

AUTHOR’S PREFACE.

The following letters, written, with one exception, from the places whence they arc dated, and addressed to private friends, are now submitted to the public. .They comprise little more than a journal, penned at moments snatched from the occupations of a traveller passing quickly through the countries he visited, and anxious to devote his time to the acquisition of information. The desire of the author in publishing this volume is to introduce to the notice of his countrymen the beauties of nature lying within their reach in the almost unexplored mountains of Norway; a tract of country which offers to the traveller, not an isolated prospect, but a succession of richly-varied landscapes rivalling those of the Alps and the Himala. Facts submitted to the observation of the author are recorded with fidelity; but the opinions hazarded regarding national character and civil institutions are not entitled to be received with equal confidence. They were the result of first impressions; and, as such, require confirmation by further experience or the concurrence of other minds. The manuscripts have been revised and enlarged by the author, who, in the additions to his original letters, has drawn chiefly on memory and his own private notes. For the dates of several historical events, and for a few

VOL. II.-14

details interesting to a general reader which escaped his notice, he has referred to the writings of earlier travellers in the north ; as also to the able works of Sir Capel de Brooke, Captain Jones, and Dr. Granville; his obligations to all whom he takes this opportunity of acknowledging.

An occasional reference to ancient history has been inserted, as affording a means of comparing the former condition of the European world and the views of its historians with those of modern times.

The allusions to India will not be thought too frequent by those who are interested in our eastern possessions. Her political importance, the moral condition of her people, and the natural features of the country, have secured for India the attention of every one whose thoughts are occupied with politics, morals, or statistics: and in preparing for publication his private letters, the author considered it unnecessary to expunge the occasional allusions to a land where the first years of his life and his manhood were passed.

Queen’s College, Cambridge.

LETTER I.

.Amsterdam, 24th June, 1830.

After a passage of twenty-six hours from London, we reached Rotterdam at noon on Thursday, the 17th instant. On Saturday we went to the Hague in a char a banc, and on Monday evening cmbarked on a boat, which conveyed us in three hours to Leyden. The following day carried us to Haarlem, and ycsterday evening we arrived at Amsterdam. I have entered into these details that you may follow me on the map, and because I intend to make my letters Iny journal.

Holland is a natural marsh, transformed by artificial means into arable land. Great changes have taken place on its surface, as you will readily believe if you cast your eye over the Zuider Zee in i. map, and recall to mind that in the first century of our era, it was occupied by the Batavi. Enormous mounds of earth are piled up as barriers against the encroachments of the sea, which at full tide rises, in some places, forty fect above the level of the land. The fortification of this country against the waters was undertaken as early as the time of Claudius Drusus, who constructed the first of the dykes that form the bulwark of the Hollanders; which have ‘ever since becn the wonder of Europe, and a lasting monument of industry and perseverance. As we walked at the foot of one of these artificial mountains, gradually sloping to its summit, where the breadth is about thirty feet, i. sea was washing its opposite side far above our heads. There was something in the sound of the waves, and the thought of their elevated proximity, which inspired a fear that they might involve us in destruction, by breaking down the “tall rampire” that

“Spreads its long arms against the wat’ry roar.”

But this fear was momentary, and yielded to admiration, as we contemplated the strength and skilful design of the dyke. The dykes vary in sizo and elevation according to their situation. Formed of stones and adhesive soil, they arc planted towards the sea with reeds which collect the sand that is thrown up. Thus receiving an annual accession of matter, the original structure is protected, while its breadth and stability increase. Where more than usual danger exists, a sceond and interior dyke is raised to secure the country in case the outer one should give way. The two are made parallel, and the intermediate space serves as a channel, commanded by sluices, to carry off an occasional flood; or, as on one occasion, to inundate an hostile army. The plains thus snatched from the legitimate dominion of the sea, are intersected by canals fortificq with locks. These, by a happy contrivance, allow the superfluous water to flow into the ocean, while the efforts of the intrusive waves only serve to close more firmly the barriers. The sides of the cannls are frequently planted with willows; and at this season the water-lilies and field flowers render almost picturesque a country which has little to boast in the beauties of nature. To the amphibious natives the canal offers a means of conveyance, at once readier, cheaper, and more agreeable, than the roads: and trekschuits, or track-boats, supply the place of stage-coaches. In passing through the country on

one of these barges, an Englishman can hardly fail to be struck with the peculiar propriety of our poet’s description, and the happy choice of his words, when he represents the ocean as peeping over the dyke, and wondering at “The slow canal, the yellow-bosomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail; The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.”

The towns in Holland are very similar in their ar. rangements, so that the description of one may apply to all. The streets are broad and clean, being washed every morning; as are the fronts of the houses. Numerous canals of almost stagnant water, intersecting the towns, render them unhealthy in summer, and generate the diseases peculiar to marshy lands. The style of architecture baffles description, being as varied as the houses are numerous. The upper parts of adjacent buildings are seldom of the same elevation or form, but exhibit every grotesque shape that can be imagined; and generally, a house of three stories, with four windows on the ground-floor, has but one above; having decreased in size like the gable-cnd of a tiled cottage in England. Rotterdam, which derives its name from the Rottcr that here flows into the Meuse, contains about sixty thousand inhabitants. It was the birth-place of Eras. mus, of whom a statue in bronze stands on the principal bridge of the city. , A Latin inscription points out the little house where this great man was born. “Haec est parva domus magnus qua natus Erasmus.” H. tomb, if I remember right, is at Basle, in Switzerand. In this large commercial city the canals running through the streets are so large and deep, that, when filled by the tide, vessels of six or seven hundred tons can deliver their cargoes at the door of almost any principal warehouse. They are studded with draw-bridges divided in the centre, and wheeled by machinery to the sides in order to admit vessels, as often as may be necessary. The houses are very high, and strangely and irregularly built: there seems to be in many a foolish at. to imitate the Grecian style, but without taste or uniformity of design. The upper stories project beyond the lower; and some of the houses are so much out of the perpendicular, that the opposite roofs are almost in contact. I rather imagine that this is attributable to tho sinking of the piles which support the fronts of the buildings; the tops of which are thereby inevitably thrown forward. Great care is taken to prevent the farther depression of these piles; and, with this view, small sledges without wheels, drawn by one horse, are substituted by authority for wagons, which are prohibited, lest the vibration occasioned by their movement over a rough part should shake the uncertain foundation. The looking-glasses, which are occasionally seen as appendages to French and German houses, seem here to form the necessary exterior furniture of every window. They are fixed on projecting irons, and inclined at an angle, varying with the elevation of the spot, so as to reflect into the room the street with its motley groups and busy bodies. This absurd toy, contrived to promoto idleness, is worthy of the Hollanders,

“Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.”

The 18th of June is kept holy by the Dutch, (nearly all of whom are Protestants,) to commemorate the mercy of God in the result of the battle of Waterloo. I thought the English might profit by such an example.

We attended the service in the cathedral of St. Law. rence, to hear the organ, which, in the estimation of the Rotterdamese, rivals that at Haarlem. There are two thousand two hundred pipes; the largest are seventeen inches in diameter. The stops are not fewer than ninety; that called the “vor humana,” is said to be unrivalled, except by the corresponding one in the cathedral just mentioned. There is nothing remarkable in the architecture of the church, which is dull and heavy: and nothing in the interior to attract attention, except a brass balustrade, separating the nave from the choir, which exhibits skill and taste in the workmanship.

In the ride from Rotterdam to the Hague, a distance of twenty-seven miles, we passed through Delft, which

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Some old cat. You know the kind of women who keep these little canine spinster. The sort of woman who owns Pekes. … a darned shame the way these sour old maids fuss and pet their nasty little lap-dogs, feeding them on chicken and port …

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OLD MAIDS.

BY MARY EYRE.

Old Maids! The very term seems synonymous with reproach. As they speak it, people picture to themselves some strange, gaunt, spare figure; with sharp pinched-up features, that seem as much a caricature of humanity as the head on a crab-tree walking-stick: an aspect that would sour all the cream in a dairy; and a voice like a cracked bell. Then for the manners and habits of such a personage:—Are not ” as particular as an Old Maid,” ” as fidgetty as an Old Maid,” “across, spiteful Old Maid,” proverbs f Will any young reader bear with us, when we proclaim our intention of breaking a lance againBt all comers in honour of Old Maids? Shall we not rather be suspected of insanity, and thought to be running a muck?

In my youth I lived in a village almost entirely peopled with this much-abused tribe. Yes, the long straggling village of Burnham, extending upwards of three miles, and which lies between the two small towns of Fairholt and Pastover, was garnished on each side by small genteel houses, with trim gardens enclosed by green palings—appertaining to some twenty Old Maids.

It is true there was a small sprinkling—a leaven as it were—of gentlemen, and one or two widows; but the chief of the population of Burnham were single ladies.

The gentlemen consisted of one or two retired half-pay officers, and the rector and his curate. They had all large families, and the widows had mostly children or grandchildren residing with them.

Perhaps, my young reader, you think that we youngsters shared in the common prejudices of society, and despised and ridiculed the Old Maids? Perhaps you imagine that the girls, in the pride of youthful beauty, quizzed ” the faded old things i” and that the numerous schoolboys

—for there were two very large boys’ schools in the village—worried their cats, pelted their lapdogs, climbed their garden palings, and rung their bells, or knocked at their doors at unseasonable hours, and played them innumerable tricks? Not a bit of it;—we knew better.

Whatever faults the maiden ladies of Burnham might have, they had one great virtue—one only excepted, of whom I shall say nothing— not merely a toleration for, but a positive pleasure in seeing the young people around enjoy themselves. They spoiled us all. They gave us continual tea-parties, at which store of currant-buns, hot tea-cakes,—and fruit and wine afterwards, before we left, were not wanting. In their cosy little parlours we laughed, chattered, and told stories, jumped and danced, after a fashion our grandfathers and grandmothers would certainly never have countenanced ; and many a merry quip, or mischievous speech, to which we darea not have given vent at home, we slily whispered to one of our kind entertainers, by whom it was taken up, enjoyed, and repeated with a zest that set the whole party in a roar. I have wandered far in other lands, and had many sorrows; but never shall I forget the social gatherings at which the Old Maids of Burnham, loved to collect us youngsters.

They were a peaceful quiet set. No ways given to scandal, although that is supposed to be the favourite amusement of single women; and I do not remember more than one lap-dog in Burnham. That belonged to a married lady, with fiery, painted, red cheeks, who had no children, and was immensely fat. It used to waddle after its mistress, led by a red ribbon, and was almost as fat as herself. Neither had the Burnham sisterhood any peculiar weakness for cats, or canary birds, and there was not a p&rrot in the place. They occupied themselves in going to church Sundays and saints’-days, and reading the service, and psalms, and lessons, the intervening ones—cultivating their gardens, visiting their neighbours, and doing good works. We had a burial club, and a lying-in club, both supported by them; and for five miles round half the sick people were doctored, half the children educated, by the kind-hearted Old Maids of Bnrnham. It only needed a grave face and a doleful story for any vagabond in the neighbourhood to wheedle coins out of their panes.

There were two sisters, grave and formal to outward appearance, whose house was seldom, toe year through, without one of their innumerable nieces or great-nieces, or some young friends as dear as nieces, on a visit; and whenever they had such guests, the good old ladies deemed it their duty to give “a tea to all the young folks.” Upon one occasion, having provided every possible treat in the way of cakes, jams, jellies,—in short, a regular Yorkshire tea, and an excellent supper afterwards, the good old souls actually invited themselves out to tea with old Miss Firth, leaving their two nieces and Captain Montague and his wife, who were blessed with a large family of children, aged from twenty to one year, to do the honours, “in order,” as they said, “that we might not be under any restraint.” And we certainly were not. We laughed till the walls re-echoed; and danced till they shook again: regretting, all the time, that our kind entertainers were not present to see how much we enjoyed ourselves.

There was a stiff and stately dame, who in her seventieth year was as erect and upright as a grenadier, and whose precise formal manners would lead you to suppose that she could tolerate no youthful frolics. Many a merry night we had in her dining-room;—and when long years after, a heavy sorrow befell me, the stately old lady, then near ninety years of age, folded me in her arms and wept over me!

Another of my dear old friends—whom I called Aunt, though she was no relation of mine —was, it must be confessed, rather prudish and particular; for she threatened to withdraw her nieces from the lady whose school they attended, if she persisted in the enormity of allowing a boy!—to wit, Master Walter Brooke, an urchin not eight years old—to take lessons in dancing among her young ladieB !” It was,” she said, “highly indecorous,- and improper.” And Master Walter Brooke had accordingly to leave off his dancing lessons.

Well! she, too, was one of the kindest and most indulgent of women, a little romantic and high-flown it must be confessed; which was, doubtless, the reason she disapproved of Master Walter’s introduction to a ladies’ school. Protably she had reminiscences of childish flirtalions.leadingto serious consequences afterwards, for she had been a beauty, and much sought *ner, and admired in her day.

I lived with a grandmother, and two aunts, her sisters. My grandmother was strict and

stern, holding that, as she was won’t to say, “It was good for a man that he should bear the yoke in his youth.” She was one to whom all honour was due, one who was capable of great, heroic self-sacrifice, but who wanted indulgence and toleration for the levity of youth. Not until mature years did I learn to appreciate her really noble character. In youth I only feared her.

But her youngest sister, Aunt Mary 1 My gentle Aunt Mary, who had been the beauty of the county, and who when at the theatre, in a visit she paid to London, attracted the attention of George the Fourth, then Prince of Wales, so much, that he sent one of his gentlemen to inquire “Who that lovely woman in green was r” Well and dearly were you beloved, and well even now, are your many small gifts and kindnesses—so little in themselves, so much in the feelings they betokened and called forth— remembered.

We talk of Old Maids, and laugh at the cross, soured expression of countenance, at the wrinkled, furrowed brow, the faded eye, the hollow cheek, at the peculiarity of mien, gesture, and dress, and never remember that once they were young, comely, rosy damsels, little foreseeing the dreary, lonely life of singlehood before them: and that those little peculiarities are the necessary growth of a heart flung back upon itself, and ceasing to take pleasure in earthly things, and to advance with the age. It is hardly possible for man or woman living alone, to avoid contracting habits of singularity. This is the reason of those oddities and quaintnesses we observe in old people. At some particular epoch a heavy sorrow befell them, and thenceforth they lost their interest in every-day affairs. Their minds stood still from that time.

In) after-life I learnt the history of most of our kindly maiden ladies. Not because they were ugly, or unsought, had any one of them remained single. Romances might have been written about most of them, for truth is wilder and stranger than any fiction. Many a touching tale of womanly love, womanly purity and devotion, and suffering, could I tell; and probably, if you knew the real history of “that queer old frump,” whom I see you now, young man, so scornfully eyeing, and if you could see her as she was at seventeen, before your sex had taught her what a chimera love is, and how little happiness is to be found on earth, you would be ready to kneel down and do homage to as beautiful and loveable a creature as man ever gazed upon.

Listen to Aunt Mary’s history, and judge.

“At sixteen your Aunt Mary was the loveliest girl I ever saw,” said old Colonel Dashwood to me.

Then, she was engaged to his brother, the Reverend Lionel Dashwood. There was not much money on either side, but he had good interest in the Church, and she a small independence, and their relatives sanctioned the engagement.

The cathedral city where they dwelt has beautiful rides and drives around it, and Lionel and Aunt Mary often rode out together. From such a ride she one day returned alone. Her mother saw her from the. window, and wondering what had happened, went to the door to meet her. On getting off her horse she threw herself into her arms weeping. Mrs. Trevor passed her arm round her, led her upstairs, tenderly laid her down upon her bed, and advised her to try and sleep, and then she would be better, and soothed her in every way she could think of; hut Mary did not grow better but worse. Fever set in, and a physician was sent for. She tossed restlessly from side to side many weeks on a sick bed, knowing no one, not even her anxious mother. When she recovered consciousness, the doctor said all agitating topics must be avoided; and as she never alluded to him or to her marriage, Lionel Dashwood was never again spoken of in the family. When Mary and her purer)ts began to reappear in society, they learnt he was gone abroad. He remained absent some years, and on his return he married a lady with a large fortune. He had always been ambitious. The Trevors concluded that when they had ridden out together on that ride from which she returned alone, he had broken off his engagement with Mary, on the ground of her small fortune, and bis own slender means.

Poor Aunt Mary! It was long before she recovered her spirits, but she did at last, and lovers came in troops, as if to make up for the faithless one, but none of them touched her heart. The brother of one of these lovers sought an intimacy with her father. He was a man of intellect and refinement: a first-rate artist, of highly-cultivated literary taste, kind to the poor, hospitable, and even lavish in his gifts; he had every virtue and accomplishment, except—a heart.

Lord Dacre’s attention was first attracted to Mary by the fact of her having twice refused his younger brother Hugh. He wanted *’ to see what the woman had in her to bewitch Hugh so desperately.”

Mr. Trevor had just been presented to a living adjoining Dacre Park. The lord of the manor availed himself of the plea of showing hospitality to new comers to become a constant visitor at the Rectory. Every day at the same hour his horse might be seen fastened to the rector’s gate, while he had just run in to carry the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” or the Times, to Mr. Trevor; or a basket of grapes to his wife. He sent Mary choice dowers for her garden; he lent her books, and read to her. Her unaffected simple character, gentle manners, and refined and exquisite taste delighted him.

This village-maiden—this young, beautiful, untutored woman—could appreciate all the beauties of poety and art, and sympathise with him as he had never been sympathised with in such things before, ne rode with her and walked with her to every beautiful spot in a part of England celebrated for its romantic scenery j and if he went away for a few weeks,

he corresponded with her. When he was High Sheriff fer the county, he wrote to her every day, telling her he had ” left the ball-room for the greater pleasure of writing to her.”

This went on thirty years. Then first Mrs. Trevor, and then the Rector, died. Mary went to reside with a widowed sister, not twenty miles from Dacre Park; and Lord Dacre, who for thirty years had visited her at least once every day when at home, seemed to forget her very existence. He never wrote to her, and he called on her five times in twenty years.

But she could not forget him. I remember his once drinking tea with us, after she joined my grandmother; the fidget and the fever she was in, all-day, that everything should look nice, and be as he liked it. He came. A fat lame old man. He had grown obese, I understood, in consequence of an accident which prevented his taking exercise. I remember her nervous flutter as he ascended the winding stairs; her fears lest be might injure himself, and her going to the door and then retreating, because ‘* he did not like to have his infirmity noticed.” I remember how coldly he extended two fingers to her whose whole heart sprung to meet him, and said, looking round the room— “Well, Mary, you ‘ve got comfortable lodgings !” and how I hated and contemned him for his heartlessness. He did not stay above two hours, and was evidently on thorns till he could get away; and this was all Aunt Mary saw of Lord Dacre for three years.

She was then about fifty-eight; he somewhat younger in years, but not in appearance; for she was even then a very handsome little woman, as plump as a partridge, and with a fresh healthy colour in her cheek. She was in great grief at the death of her father, to whom she had been tenderly devoted; and I think still more at leaving the neighbourhood of Dacre Park and its faithless lord. But in her journeys to and fro, while some of her furniture was packing for removal to the house my grandmother had taken at Burnham, and some being set aside for a sale, she remembered the lonely child whose hours passed so dully among stern grown-up people, and brought back some trifle of interest after each visit to Leyton. Alas! the solitary wasp’s-nest on which we—a born naturalist (for none of our family cared for “queer creatures and flowers” but ourself)— had set our heart, fell out of the coach-window and was lost, doubtless, while Aunt Mary was ruminating on the false Lord Dacre—and we never possessed the treasure; but not the less was our little heart drawn towards her who had intended to give us so vast a gift: and that wasp’s-nest was a golden link between us, that remained unbroken till her death, more than twenty years afterwards.

Dear kind old Maiden-aunt Mary! but for you, dreary dreary would my early life have been! How many a storm you averted from my devoted head by taking me out walking until they [i. e., my grandmamma and aunt] had recovered their temper”! Those walks were among the happiest hours of my life:

“We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true—
A pair of friends; though I was young,
Annt Mary seventy-two.”

She had the keenest relish for the beauties of Nature. Not an opening glade in Hazle-wood, terminating in blue distance; not a goldenedged cloud in the sky; not a shadow cast by tree or building on the ground, or a bead of dew glittering on the grass, escaped her eye. She delighted in ” finding out new walks,” as she phrased it, and so did I: that is to say, we were both the veriest land-lmtpers that ever lived. Not a hedge or a gate in the country but we found means to creep through or to get over, if we thought it would lead to a new walk or a fine view.

Once, when she was seventy-six we climbed a six-barred gate, and as we sat on the top she said—” There! I can climb a sixbarred gate at my age you see, as well as you can, young as you are; and that’s a nice green bill below us; just look round and see if anybody’s coming, I should like to run down it.” So I looked, and saw nobody; and Aunt Mary and I, having descended from our eminence, ran a race. The heat was well contested, and we were debating which had beat, when a gate, half hidden by a high hedge, suddenly flew open, and Mr. William Dobbs appeared with his fishing-tackle. He came up to us with a smirk on bis unmeaning face, and congratulated poor Aunt Mary on her youthful appearance, and she crimsoned like a girl. It was evident he had seen and enjoyed the race. Odious old bachelor! I am sure if old maids are despicable, old bachelors, who win maiden’s hearts only to trifle with them and prevent their marrying true men, are worse. “What business have they to behave like Lord Dacre and Mr. William Dobbs? I wish all danglers met the same fate that befell the latter; which episode in the history of Burnbam I mean one day to relate, as a warning to male flirts.

But Aunt Mary was not always merry-hearted enough to run races. It was only now and then her naturally gay disposition broke out. She was generally mild, quiet, pensive, and subdued: acknowledging, to the great scorn of my strongminded aunt, that life now held nothing to attract her, and occupying herself in small kindnesses to all who came near her, in works of charity and in religion. All the children round knew and loved her. She had a store of coloured picture-books in a corner, that were regularly brought out for each little visitor, so that a morning-call at our house was looked forward to as a pleasure, instead of being the bngbear it usually is to children. “I remember,” said a gentleman to me, in speaking of her, “how my children used to come home saying, ‘Good Mrs. Mary Trevor gave me TM>.'” Even to the close of her life she had a “wet, beautiful voice, and so correct an ear

she could not sing out of tune. I never heard anyone sing like her, it was like the low warble of a bird, and her throat used to vibrate as I have seen that of a robin as he sat singing on a bush—her lips never moved, her song seemed to be all in her throat like his—a gush of sweet, faint melody, so faint as scarcely to be heard at the other end of our large drawing-room, and yet so round, clear, and silvery. When we wandered together among the dewy meadows or down the shady lanes, while I ran from hedge-side to bank after butterflies and flowers she would warble snatches of old melodies; “Barbara Allen,” and ” Ye little birds, ye break my heart,” and other songs referring to her own fate, with a pathos that went to my heart even then, girl as I was.

My other aunt used to sneer at ” the lovesick nonsense of an old woman of seventy,” and say, how absurd it was she did not like to visit a friend living at Wells, because Lionel Dash wood was a canon of that cathedral, and she dreaded meeting him again. “Such folly! after so many years had gone by, and she had been in love with Lord Dacre afterwards! She could not understand it.” But I could. Young as I was, I could understand that a second sorrow of the same kind made the first heavier. It is so bard always to fail. If Aunt Mary had married Lord Dacre—no doubt, surrounded by a rosy troop of boys and girls—she could have held out her hand to the canon, and laughed over old times; but now to return, a faded, slighted, single-woman, to the place where she had been, a beautiful girl, to see her faithless lover, and contrast his lot and her own—No, I did not wonder Aunt Mary did not like to visit Wells. She went, however. Her strong love for her friend triumphed over her remembrances, and she met the canon and his family.

On her return she told me what a sweet woman his wife was, and what a fine family of sons and daughters he had, and how happy his marriage had proved, with a pensive mixture of gladness that he had been blessed, and regret for her own bard lot; and I thought, in my heart, he did not deserve such blessings, for his conduct to my dear little aunt.

A litttle before her death Lord Dacre died, and I think she never quite got over it, she was never so cheerful afterwards. She used to go and stay at Dacre Park with Mrs. Dacre, the widow of that Hugh Dacre, whom she had twice refused, and whose son inherited the title and estates. Hugh Dacre had never forgotten her. So long as he lived he shewed her the attention his elder brother ought to have done. He brought his wife and children to see her, and when on his death-bed said, more than once, to his wife, “Mind, Lizzy, you’re kind to Mary Trevor!” And Mrs. Dacre was kind. She showed Aunt Mary the affection of a niece, as long as she lived. I used to think it was a great pity my little auntie had not married Mr. Hugh; but then he was a rough sportsman, without any literary tastes, and fifteen years younger than she was.

K

It is a strange thing that it is generally men of a sentimental turu of mind—men who could not read a pathetic story without their voices softening and their eyes filling with tears—who are, of all others, most prone to trifle with the affections of women, and by first gaining their affections and then deserting them, destroying the happiness of their victims’ whole lives.

Aunt Mary has been many years in her grave. I was abroad when she died, after only a week’s illness, in her seventy-eighth year. I shall never see Burnham again, but the memory of those dear old maids is yet green in my heart. I never, to this day, wander in Spring through

the meadows, when the lark sings high in the air and the blue-bells perfume the breeze, without thinking of her who was wont at such times to warble old sweet love-songs. In all my lonely walks through beautiful scenery, whenever I meet with a passage in a book that particularly interests me—every day of my life I miss Aunt Mary.

I have travelled much and far, but I never met so much of that kindness which seeks no reward, as among the ladies of Burnham. never saw so much unselfish pleasure in 11 buoyant spirits of youth—so much indulgence for its levity—as among the Old Maids.

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MATCH-BREAKING.

A TALE OF A COUNTRY TOWN.
BY MRS. ABDY.

Married people are often very fond of match-making, and wicked wits say, that they act on the principle of the man who, when irretrievably stuck in the mire, called to a friend to come and assist him, with the view of getting him into a similar situation. Old maids are remarkably fond of match-breaking, and the reason is the same; they feel that they are doomed to perpetual banishment from the temple of Hymen, and therefore are desirous of securing as many companions as possible in their exile. I do not dislike the old maid who is fairly turned of sixty; by that time she gives up matrimonial speculations for herself, and is not rendered miserable by the success of them in others; she betakes herself to cards, lap-dogs, and paroquets, accepts the flattery of a toad-eater if rich, or becomes the toad-eater herself if poor; she may be generally splenetic, but is seldom individually spiteful. The old maid of forty, or five-and-forty, however, is the very genius of mischief; she has not yet taken leave of the air, dress, and manners of juvenility; she has a lingering hope that she may be able to rival girls, which, nevertheless, always terminates in the sad certainty of being rivalled by them; and, next to the apparently inaccessible felicity of being married herself, she learns to rank the pleasure of spoiling the marriages of her young female friends. My business, however, is not to write a treatise upon old maids; but to relate the history of two of the class who were no contemptible and mean professors of the art of match-breaking.

Miss Ogleby was five-and-forty; she had been handsome when young, and might still have appeared to advantage had she condescended to wear dark silks, blonde caps, and tolerably-sized bonnets, to walk a moderate pace, and to speak in a moderate tone. Miss Ogleby, however, was bent on playing the light-hearted, gay, fearless, juvenile beauty; the hair of her wig was drawn back so as completely to display the marks of time on her forehead, her thin arms fully displayed, not their whiteness and symmetry, but their want of them, through gauze or book-muslin sleeves; she adopted a tripping, playful walk, which ill-assorted with her frequent attacks of rheumatism; and her voice, which even in youth was more remarkable for loudness than for melody, had acquired that sort of sharp, dogmatical quickness, which is more fit for cross-examining a witness than for any office to which a lady’s voice ought to be applied; her eyes, which were black, and remarkably large and bright, lost all attraction from the bold stare which characterised them; her teeth were in tolerable preservation, and if two of the front ones were of a more brilliant whiteness than the rest, it is nothing wonderful that inconsistencies should sometimes exist in the human mouth, when we consider how many are continually coming out of it.

Miss Ogleby had tried unremittingly to gain a husband from the age of sixteen, but her large share of forwardness completely neutralised the effect of her small share of beauty; she had, besides, no fortune in her youth; and when the death of an aunt put her in possession of a few hundreds a year, her faded person and unfeminine manners prevented her from receiving proposals, except from decided adventurers, whose motives she had sufficient shrewdness to detect, and whose overtures she had sufficient wariness and self-denial to reject. Miss Ogleby took the round of all the watering-places, and then pursued the plan of Lady Dainty in the comedy, who when she had gone through all the complaints of the day-book, went all through them again: at length, she was induced to take a house in the pretty, cheap, cheerful country town of Allingham; a country town is a delightful locality for an old maid. Gossip is as avowedly the great study and pursuit there, as the classics at Oxford, or the mathematics at Cambridge; and Miss Ogleby soon qualified herself to take a first degree in the science : whether she took honours or not I will not pretend to say; I do not myself consider that the science of gossip has any honours attached to it, but I am quite ready to allow that a great many people are of a contrary opinion. Miss Ogleby’s chief pastime now consisted in match-breaking, and she certainly organized her plans very well; she did not frown contempt on the young girls of her acquaintance, censure their frivolities, and repulse their civilities; but she eagerly sought their society, joined in their amusements, and rallied them about their admirers; she constantly avoided at parties the sofa where sat the matrons—she never approached the card-table either as player or spectator, but took her seat by the piano, or stood by the bagatelle-board, generally indicating her position by her loud laugh and ready jest. Notwithstanding all these juvenilities,, people did not believe Miss Ogleby to be young, but they said that she was remarkably fond of young people; now in this conclusion they were wrong, Miss Ogleby was not fond of young people, but she knew that her machinations against them would work much better if she appeared as their friend than as their foe, and took her measures accordingly. If a young man appeared disposed to admire a diffident girl, Miss Ogleby would immediately attach herself to her side, take the conversation completely out of her hands, answer every observation of the inamorato herself, and, under the veil of great protection and fondness, contrive to make the retiring fair one appear as a child and a cipher; if, on the contrary, the lover was timid, Miss Ogleby would, in the very first budding of his inclination, tell him that everybody said his wedding-day was fixed, ask where the honeymoon excursion was to be taken, and petition for bridecake. If a man of wealth seemed smitten with a penniless beauty, she would tell him that she understood he had offered to settle ten thousand pounds upon her, but that the lady’s friends stood out for twenty, and that she begged to give her humble advice that they would split the difference and make it fifteen; if a prudent, careful man of small income formed an attachment, she would, with the utmost simplicity, eulogise to him the liberal ideas and noble spirit of his chosen fair one; and as all these observations were made with the most smiling hilarity, and she was always on excellent terms with the girls whom she depreciated, it was impossible to prove, or even to believe, her guilty of wilful aspersion.

Miss Ogleby had formed an intimacy at Bath with Miss Malford, another old maid: she began to feel a great want of a confidante and coadjutor, and therefore wrote to her friend, extolling the advantages and recommendations of Allingham, and pressing her to come and settle there; a pretty and cheap house near her own was to be disposed of, and Miss Malford soon took up her residence there. Miss Malford was three years younger than Miss Ogleby, but she had not like her the advantage of having ever been handsome; she was decidedly deformed, and her countenance had that elfin, shrewd expression, which frequently exists in persons so afflicted; and although not more ill-natured than her friend in reality, she had the character of being so, because, being much cleverer, she had a greater ability of saying sarcastic things. Her property was enough to keep her in independence, but not sufficient to be an indemnification for the unloveliness of her person and disposition.

One “poor gentleman,” however, who was rapidly advancing to the end of the London season and his own finances, wrought himself up to the desperate resolution of making a proposal to Miss Malford. Feeling that this daring measure required the protection of numbers, he determined to make known his passion in some public place. He accompanied Miss Malford to the Exhibition at Somerset House; but, alas! the beautiful productions of innumerable delightful ‘portrait-painters smiled and shone around him on every side, and he felt he could not profane the atmosphere of such forms of loveliness, by applying any expressions of admiration to the little, sallow, frowning spinster, hanging on his arm.

The next attempt was at the Adelaide Gallery, and he was actually on the point of making a proposal, when his liege lady inadvertently expressed a wish to be electrified: it was instantly complied with, and the force employed being greater than she had calculated upon, her starts and contortions made her appear so much more frightful than usual, that she lost the opportunity of receiving a far more gratifying electric shock in the shape of an offer of marriage!

The third act of the comedy or tragedy, call it which you will, took place at Madame Tussaud’s wax-work. The hesitating suitor had accompanied Miss Malford and two of her friends thither in the evening; the grand room was splendidly lighted up, and a band was playing “Love in the Heart;” but, alas! love was not in the heart of the unfortunate young man, he did not ” own the soft impeachment.” Presently, however, he entered with his party into the “room of horrors;” a faint lamp burned dimly; he looked at Miss Malford, she had never appeared to such advantage, her complexion was actually only a faint shade of primrose when compared to the yellow waxen effigy in the centre of the room; and although her head was very ungracefully set upon her shoulders, it boasted at least one great superiority to the ghastly heads around her, from the circumstance of its being on her shoulders at all!

The lady and gentlemen of their party quitted the room, and the rash suitor was on the point of pouring forth his passionate protestations, when Miss Malford stopped him by beginning to speak herself. A lady is proverbially anxious for the last word, it would be well sometimes if she were not equally anxious for the first. Miss Malford poured forth such a torrent of spiteful, sarcastic vituperation, against the lady who had just left the room—and whose only fault was that her prettiness and amiability seemed likely to make a conquest of the gentleman who was her escort—that the feelings of the poor suitor underwent a sudden revulsion: he looked around the room, the quietude and repose of the yellow figure were quite refreshing after the display of very disagreeable vivacity which he had witnessed; and although the heads were divorced from their shoulders, those little unruly members, the tongues, had become silent and innoxious in the process. The gentleman led Miss Malford from the room of horrors, still likely to remain Miss Malford, and returned to his peaceable, though humble lodgings, not a “sadder,” but certainly a “wiser man,” than when he contemplated the desperate expedient of enriching and enlivening them by the introduction of a shrewish wife.

Miss Malford was deeply hurt by his secession; she now began to despair of making conquests, and formed her character on the model of Bonnel Thornton’* “mighty good sort of woman;” she interfered in the affairs of families—made husbands discontented with their wives—put variance between parents and children—got gay nephews and saucy nieces scratched out of the wills of rich uncles and aunts— domineered over servants—and lectured poor people.

After her intimacy with Miss Ogleby, however, she became convinced that although there may be much pleasure in mischievous actions in the aggregate, that peculiar branch, which consists in matchbreaking, seems most decidedly cut out for the vocation of the old maid; and when she was once settled at Allingham, she devoted all her energies to that one single great point. I will not relate the number of proposed matches which these well-assorted friends nipped in the bud or the blossom, during the first year of their residence at Allingham; but will hasten to introduce my readers to a very pretty young lady, who had the misfortune of falling under their especial ban. Allingham was a town which, on account of its fine air, reasonable provisions, and frequent gaieties, was considered a very desirable residence by persons of genteel habits and small fortunes; and Mrs. Stapleton, the handsome widow of an officer, deemed it an advantageous spot for herself and her only daughter, Rose, to settle in.

Rose Stapleton was about twenty years old, and a complete personification of youth in her appearance and motions; perhaps I may be considered to have been guilty of tautology in this sentence; but I know many girls whom I maintain have never been young—who are, and always have been, destitute of the sprightliness, elasticity, and freshness of youth. Such was not Rose Stapleton; she was remarkably pretty; and her beauty, on account of its decidedly bright and juvenile characteristics, was likely to be peculiarly objectionable to the sight of an old maid. She had a profusion of rich sunny ringlets. intensely blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and scarlet lips, and teeth so brilliantly white, that Miss Malford said they afforded an infallible indication of consumption; the figure of Rose, however, had nothing consumptive about it, being somewhat below the middle size, and inclined to a degree of plumpness which might have injured its girlish air, had it not been counterbalanced by the light and sylph-like agility of her mien. Rose had also a smile so very sweet, as to give reason to suppose that her temper was equally so. Mrs. Stapleton was generally considered and denominated a worldly-wise woman; but I am of opinion that she was rather injured by the phrase; she had none of the cold, calculating policy, which usually appertains to such a character. She certainly wished and expected that her daughter should marry a wealthy man, and the exceeding personal attractions of Rose did not seem to. render such a hope at all unreasonable; but she took no particular means to secure her point, save giving smiles and invitations to rich men, and cool receptions and averted looks to poor ones. She did not carry her beautiful Rose to display “her buskins gemmed with morning dew” in the early promenade of Cheltenham, or to “wave her golden hair” in the stirring breezes of Brighton.

Rose Stapleton was not educated or put forward for display; she neither acted charades, nor shot at archery meetings, nor officiated at fancy fairs, nor attitudinized in tableaux—she was simply an engaging unsophisticated girl, with a lovely face, moderate accomplishments, and a fine temper. Mrs. Stapleton showed one proof of strict attention to her daughter’s matrimonial interests, which she considered to indicate great shrewdness on her part, but which in my opinion was decidedly the reverse. She did not permit Rose to form a close intimacy with any of the girls among her acquaintance, but as she felt that it would not be desirable to have her unaccompanied by female associates, she readily accepted the overtures of Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford to exceeding sociability. Mrs. Stapleton argued to herself, with what she considered the tact of a woman of the world, “If Rose be surrounded by young and attractive girls, the attentions of any one disposed to admire her will be divided, or perhaps even alienated; now, Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford are excellent foils, and although they are worthy kind creatures, no man in his senses who is a good match, would ever think of offering to either of them; then they are both very fond of Rose, and will be sure to draw her out, and speak highly of her if required, for she is young enough to be the daughter of either of them, and of course is quite out of the question as a rival.”

Poor Mrs. Stapleton, she little knew the instinctive hatred felt by an old maid for a young beauty; she was a thoroughly good-natured woman, without the least taste for mischief, and would just as soon have thought of amusing herself in breaking matches, as in breaking china.

Rose also gave full credit to the protestations of friendship which she received from the spinsters: she and her mother both rather wondered that two or three gentlemen, who had seemed greatly to admire her, had never made any serious proposals to her; but they little imagined that the constant spying, the officious intrusions, and the sly inuendos of their two dear friends, were the real cause of the apparent coolness and dilatoriness of the lovers. Had Rose selected young and pretty girls for her intimate associates, they would have been frequently sought for by beaux, who would have been anxious to become their partners in the dance, or their escorts in the rural walk, and they would have been too well employed and too well pleased to watch and circumvent all her proceedings; but Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford were always at hand to relieve guard with each other; they acted, in fact, the part of complete duennas, but poor Rose never suspected them to be such, since she was unable to picture a duenna abounding in compliments, tender phrases, and fair speeches. One of the favourite amusements of the people of Allingham was to join in pic-nic parties to some secluded and beautiful spot in the neighbourhood, and these pleasure-parties were often productive of anything but pleasure to the old, rheumatic, and ailing. They were generally fixed a week or ten days beforehand, and therefore, as weather in England is generally rainy if it is particularly wanted to be otherwise, it was no uncommon thing to see the whole party set out armed with umbrellas, and followed by servants laden with wrapping-cloaks and box-coats. Sometimes they made their way through thorny hedges to the peril and destruction of scarfs, veils, and drapery; sometimes they pursued the path of a slippery declivity, not unfrequently achieving the whole distance from top to bottom in a minute, at the slight expense of a spoiled dress, or a fractured limb, and they then refreshed themselves after their fatigues by sitting with their legs doubled up under them, in the fashion of a Turk or a taylor, upon the wet grass, eating cold delicacies from plates sliding on their laps, and maintaining a useless conflict with the wasps who hummed around them, attracted by the good cheer in which they abounded.

Now Rose was eminently qualified to appear to advantage at these pic-nics; she had unrivalled abilities at scrambling—she wore no finery which it could injure her temper or her spirits to get spoiled— she scarcely ever caught cold—she had a natural grace, which prevented her from appearing awkward, even in the doubled-up attitude fitted to a pic-nic board^-rand her beautiful complexion could triumphantly defy the most searching ordeal of a bright blazing July sun: add to these recommendations those of an exquisitely turned boot and ancle, and my readers will not be surprised that the firm of Ogleby and Malford deemed it particularly necessary to act as a shadow to Rose on every pic-nic party, lest any of the young men who were in the habit of frequenting them, should be so struck by the charms of Rose, and the combined delights of country seclusion, spreading trees, cold chickens, and champagne, as to put their ad-* miration into the awful and tangible shape of an offer of marriage. Once Miss Ogleby got a sprained ancle by rapidly following Rose down some rude steps cut in a rock, where a young officer in the neighbourhood was tenderly conducting her, and Miss Malford had a severe cold and sore throat from insisting on sitting between her dear Rose and the handsome attorney of Allingham on the damp grass, although chairs and camp-stools had been provided for the seniors of the company. The kind-hearted unsupecting Rose went constantly to sit with Miss Ogleby, and read to her, till the sprained ancle grew well, and she was indefatigable in her presents of lozenges and black currant jelly to Miss Malford during the continuance of her sore throat; she would have softened the hearts of almost any other adversaries, but match-breakers have no hearts of their own, and their greatest pastime consists in probing and tormenting those of other people. An event was now to happen which converted the envious ill-will of those ladies towards the blooming Rose, into decided and malignant enmity. Every town has its great man, and Allingham had a very great man belonging to it. Sir Peregrine Dalling, a baronet of old family and large fortune, had a mansion a little way out of the town; he was about fifty-five years old, had high spirits, a loud voice, and a strong constitution; he was fond of the country, fond of field sports, and especially fond of embellishing and improving his beautiful residence, and therefore had about as great an aversion as Hawthorn, for

“That region of smoke,
That scene of confusion and noise,”

known by the name of London.

A country town is generally full of ladies, who are keenly alive to detect every symptom of a marrying man, provided such man be possessed of sufficient fortune to render a marriage with him desirable; but, strange to say, nobody ever suspected the possibility that Sir Peregrine might be inclined to marry. I rather think that 1 can assign a reason for this strange dulness. Sir Peregrine had been a widower five-and-twenty years, and during that time no one had ever heard a whisper of his predilections or flirtations; now, when an old bachelor falls in love, and wishes to marry, no one is ever astonished; it may be supposed that he is anxious to ascertain the effect of a strange and untried state of existence; but when a widower has remained wifeless through a long period of years, it may reasonably be conjectured, either that the good qualities of his deceased partner have wedded him to her remembrance, or that her bad ones have affrighted him from encountering the chance of a second edition of them in the person of a second wife. Accordingly, nobody attempted to entrap Sir Peregrine as a husband, although all were delighted to receive his lavish civilities and hospitalities as the master of a large income, and a large house. His parties were numerous, and his presents abundant; he was a kind-hearted, generous man, and as he did not see through the characters of our two spinsters, and was pleased with their attentive and obliging manners to him, gifts of fruit and game, and drives in his carriage, were frequently at their command, and as they really believed him unlikely to marry, they spoke no more than the truth when they designated him as “an excellent neighhour, and a great acquisition to Allingham.”

One morning, Sir Peregrine called on Miss Ogleby, and after some nervous hesitations, and divers twitchings of his hat, actually confided to her that he thought of again entering into the matrimonial state. Miss Ogleby, who, to do her figure justice, was so upright as to be on the continual bridle, now bridled still higher; she bit her thin pale lips to make them look red, shook the long gold ear-rings in her ears, and artlessly sported with a drooping side ringlet of her wig; she could not doubt that his intention referred to herself.

“The object of my choice is your most intimate and highly-valued friend,” pursued the baronet.

Miss Ogleby loosened her hold of her ringlet, and ceased to bridle; she bit her lip, however, more violently than ever; her most intimate and chosen friend was Miss Malford: could it be endured that her sister match-breaker should slily have secured such an excellent and splendid match for herself?

“Dear Sir Peregrine,” she said, “my very heart aches for you; Miss Malford has certainly forced herself into some degree of intercourse with me, but I do not know any one calculated to make a worse wife; her person is that of a malevolent old fairy, and her actions are not far different; she is the terror of her servants, whom she starves, suspects, and insults; the horror of the poor, to whom she never gives a shilling, her donations entirely consisting of lectures on the expediency of living on oatmeal and red-herrings, and the facilities of bringing up a family on ten shillings a week, and a perfect spirit of discord among her friends and acquaintance, who can trace most of their quarrels and misunderstandings to her mischievous instigations. Do, Sir Peregrine, consider twice before you place your happiness in the charge of such a woman.”

“My dear Miss Ogleby,” said the baronet, drily, “you give yourself needless pain. In respect to Miss Malford’s bad qualities, I may reasonably be allowed to suppose that they must be counteracted by some powerful recommendations, else you could never be induced to indulge her with so much of your valuable society; but whether her qualities be bad or good can be of little consequence to me, except as a common acquaintance. I am on the point of endeavouring to gain the hand of another of your intimate friends, Rose Stapleton.”

Miss Ogleby for a wonder was completely silenced by the excess of her consternation; had she been committing treason to her faithful and guiltless friend, Miss Malford? had she been exposing herself to the evident ridicule of Sir Peregrine? had she deprived herself of the opportunity of speaking against the vanity and levity of Rose, and the worldliness and cunning of Mrs. Stapleton? It was all too true; and while she was attempting to find some form of words, by which she could repair her unfortunate mistake, Sir Peregine gaily smiled, bowed, and said ” Good morning!” and the awful bang of the street-door informed her that he was gone to proffer wealth and honour, conservatories, ice-houses, green-houses, pineries, &c. to the little insignificant Rose Stapleton. Sir Peregrine, having a natural turn of mind for the ludicrous, and not being so enthusiastically in love as to deem it necessary to look pensive in the matter, actually laughed to himself as he pursued his way down the High Street. He had not intended to call on Miss Malford, but now the prospect of a repetition of his late amusement induced him to do so. He knocked at the door of the “malevolent old fairy,” and was admitted.

“Miss Malford,” said Sir Peregrine, I have just been calling on your charming, animated, and, I may add, lovely friend, Miss Ogleby. The cause of my visit I will not hesitate to own to you, her chosen intimate; in fact, I am convinced she will herself be able to inform you of it. For some time it has been my intention to marry again, and—and—” Sir Peregrine hesitated as if labouring under embarrassment, but Miss Malford had already seized on the idea he meant to convey; her habitual frown was increased three-fold, and her sallow complexion assumed a tint of deep yellow.

“Marry Miss Ogleby!” she exclaimed; “oh I Sir Peregrine—do not allow yourself to be so grievously deceived in a woman, whose face and manners are equally artificial and made up. You speak of her beauty and animation—she is a complete piece of mockery in both; the secret of the former is hid in the recesses of her toilette boxes; and as for the latter, her forced hysterical giggle is about as similar to the light-hearted laughter of youth, as the tones of a cracked hurdy-gurdy to the notes of the mounting lark; she is a sort of flying-fish, hovering between the old and the young, and disowned by both, and the affectation of juvenility which she displays in her dress and manner might excite our pity, were it not converted into contempt by the knowledge that her apparently superabundant spirits and hilarity, in reality, mask a dreadful temper. If you must marry a gay showy woman, Sir Peregrine, although, for my part, I think you had much better select a steady, well-informed, sober person, I would rather advise you to choose a wife who actually possesses the charms and vivacity of youth, than one who presents a melancholy withered caricature of them.”

The violent phillippics of Miss Malford and Miss Ogleby against each other may be accounted for when we consider that they were very intimate friends; and it is immeasurably more provoking to behold an intimate friend called to honour than a stranger. The authoress of ” Our Village ” observes that “juxta-position is a great sharpener of rivalry,” and this is seen in places as well as in persons. Brighton abhors the dulness of Worthing, and Worthing is scandalized at the dissipation of Brighton. Ramsgate used to be horrified at the vulgarity of Margate; and Margate, to retort on the stillness and formality of Ramsgate; but now, thanks to cheap steam-boat fares and the absence of pier-dues, Ramsgate rivals Margate in its promiscuous company, and they must both submit to bow their heads, “like a lily drooping,” beneath the aristocratical sneers of Broadstairs. Hastings dilates on the unfinished buildings and uncomfortable aspect of St. Leonard’s, and St. Leonard’s satirizes the narrow streets and dingy lodging-houses of Hastings. In the same way, it is unspeakably trying to the temper of the generality of ladies to behold a cousin or particular friend contract a very advantageous marriage, although a mere acquaintance may form one much more so, without occasioning anything beyond a momentary thrill of envy and dissatisfaction.

But all this time Miss Malford is violently fanning herself with an immense antique green fan, and Sir Peregrine is maliciously suffering her to remain in suspense. At length he spoke. “My good lady,” he said, “I never told you that I had been making an offer of marriage to Miss Ogleby, nor have I the least intention of doing so. I have the highest respect for your good sense and judgment,” (here Miss Malford took off her spectacles, cleared her brow, and tried to look very amiable,) “and I am therefore most happy to tell you that I am going to do what you have recommended, namely, to unite myself to the reality of youth, beauty, and vivacity, instead of the mockery of them; by this time to-morrow, I hope to be the accepted lover of Rose Stapleton.”

Sir Peregrine again performed a quiet exit, and Miss Malford was left, like her friend, to the torments of regret and mortification. Sir Peregrine, meanwhile, proceeded to Mrs. Stapleton’s house, begged a private audience with that lady, and solicited in due form the hand of her beautiful daughter. Mrs. Stapleton was very much surprised and pleased; she assured the baronet, with truth, that he might rely on her consent and best exertions in his behalf, but she could not pretend to answer for Rose; and with some difficulty she prevailed on him to leave the house without an audience with his fair enslaver, since she felt aware that a little (or perhaps not a little) preparation, argument, and expostulation, must be expended on Rose, to induce her to receive the baronet as favourably as a young lady, possessing a dower of two thousand pounds, ought to receive a gentleman of seven thousand a year, who offers carte blanche as to settlements.

Rose and her mother had a long conversation that evening, and the result was creditable to both. Rose forcibly, but calmly and respectfully represented to Mrs. Stapleton the extent of the sacrifice which she should be making in accepting a partner for life so disproportioned to her in age, and so uncongenial to her taste, as Sir Peregrine; she professed herself happy and contented with her present situation, and promising never to marry without her mother’s full consent and approbation, entreated that she would kindly suffer her in this and every other instance to exercise the privilege of rejection.

Mrs. Stapleton made some faint attempts to excite the ambition of Rose to be mistress of two carriages, a train of servants, and a service of plate; but the alternate tears and smiles of her beloved daughter prevented her from expressing herself with any severity, and a kind, courteous, but decided refusal, was conveyed to Sir Peregrine the following morning.

Next to the pleasure of accepting a baronet Mrs. Stapleton felt that the honour of rejecting one was to be reckoned, and she could not resist the temptation of calling on her friends the spinsters to relate the triumph of Rose’s charms, and to deplore Rose’s romantic determination of only marrying for love. They were delighted with the intelligence. Rose Stapleton’s matrimonial prospects were still capable of being marred—she was not at present to be raised above the reach of their malice; besides, they felt no doubt that Sir Peregrine would resent her refusal of his proposals as warmly and deeply as an elderly gentleman usually resents the refusal of a juvenile beauty, and that the gaieties and festivities of the Hall would henceforth be withheld from Mrs. Stapleton and her daughter—no trifling deprivation, when it is considered that Sir Peregrine was frequently

The woman’s dog (Google Books)

Mad Dogs and Englishmen: Rabies in Britain 1830-2000: Rabies in …
https://books.google.com.ph/books?isbn=0230542409

Neil Pemberton, ‎Michael Worboys – 2007 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
First, dog sports were almost exclusively the preserve of men; hence, while their leisure pursuits were unaffected, women’s freedom to walk their dog had been curtailed.100 Second, women owning small dogs with flat faces, for example pugs …

A reply to the Essay on population, by the rev. T.R. Malthus, in a series of …
By Thomas Robert Malthus, William Hazlitt
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against matrimony. These are the two greatest sins which a poor man can commit, who can neither be supposed to keep his wife, nor his girl. Mr. Malthus, however, does not think them equal: for he objects strongly to a country fellow’s marrying a girl whom he has debauched, or, as the phrase is, making an honest woman of her, as aggravating the crime, because by this means the parish will probably have three or four children to maintain instead of one. However, as it seems rather too late to recommend fornication or any thing else to a man who is actually come to be married (he must be a strange sawney who could turn back at the church-door after bringing a pretty rosy girl to hear a lecture on the principle of population) it is most natural to suppose that he would marry the young woman in spite of this principle. Here then he errs in the face of a precise warning, and should be left to the punishment of nature, the punishment of severe want. When he begins to feel the consequences of his error, all parish assistance is to be rigidly denied him, and the interests of humanity imperiously require that all other assistance should be withheld from him, or most sparingly administered. In the mean time to reconcile him to this treatment, and let him see that he has nobody to complain of but himself, the parson of the parish comes to him with the certificate of his marriage, and a copy of the warning he had given him at the time, by which he is taught to know that the laws of nature, which are the laws of God, had doomed him and his family to starve for disobeying their repeated admonitions; that he had no claim of right to the smallest portion of food beyond what his labour would actually purchase; and that he ought to kiss the feet and lick the dust off the shoes of him, who gave him a reprieve from the just sentence which the laws of God and nature had passed upon him. To make this clear to him, it would be necessary to put the Essay on Population into his hands, to instruct him in the nature of a geometrical and arithmetical series, in the necessary limits to population from the size of the earth, and here would come in Mr. Malthus’s plan of education for the poor, writing, arithmetic, the use of the globes, &c. for the purpose of proving to them the necessity of their being starved. It cannot be supposed that the poor man (what with his poverty and what with being priestridden) should be able to resist this body of evidence, he would open his eyes to his error, and “would sub”mit to the sufferings that were absolutely irreme”diable with the fortitude of a man, and the resign”ation of a Christian.” He and his family might then be sent round the parish in a starving condition, accompanied by the constables and quondam overseers of the poor, to see that no person, blind to ” the in”terests of humanity,” practised upon them the abominable deception of attempting to relieve their remediless sufferings, and by the parson of the parish to point out to the spectators the inevitable consequences of sinning against the laws of God and man. By celebrating a number of these Auto da fes yearly in every parish, the greatest publicity would be given to the principle of population, ” the strict line of du”ty would be pointed out to every man,” enforced by the most powerful sanctions, justice and humanity would flourish, they would be understood to signify

that the poor have no right to live by their labour, and that the feelings of compassion and benevolence are best shewn by denying them charity, the poor would no longer be dependent on the rich, the rich could no longer wish to reduce the poor into a more complete subjection to their will, all causes of contention, of jealousy, and of irritation would have ceased between them, the struggle would be over, each class would fulfil the task assigned by heaven, the rich would oppress the poor without remorse, the poor would submit to oppression with a pious gratitude and resignation, the gieatest harmony would prevail between the government and the people, there would be no longer any seditions, tumults, complaints, petitions, partisans of liberty, or tools of power, no grumbling, no repining, no discontented men of talents proposing reforms, and frivolous remedies, but we should all have the same gaiety and lightness of heart, and the same happy spirit of resignation that a man feels when he is seized with the plague, who thinks no more ofthe physician, but knows that his disorder is without cure. The best laid schemes are subject, however, to unlucky reverses. Some such seem to lie in the way of that pleasing Euthanasia, and contented submission to the grinding law of necessity, projected by Mr. Malthus. We might never reach the philosophic temper of the inhabitants of modern Greece and Turkey in this respect. Many little things might happen to interrupt our progress, if we were put into ever so fair a train. For instance, the men might perhaps be talked over by the parson, and their understandings being convinced by the geometrical and arithmetical ratios, or at least so far puzzled, that they would have nothing to say for themselves, they might prepare to submit to their fate with a tolerable grace. But I am afraid that the women might prove refractory. They never will hearken to reason, and are much more governed by their feelings than by calculations. While the husband was instructing his wife in the principles of population, she might probably answer that she did not see why her children should starve when the squire’s lady, or the parson’s lady kept half a dozen lap-dogs, and that it was but the other day that being at the hall, or the parsonage house, she heard Miss declare that not one of the brood that were just littered should be drowned—It was so inhuman to kill the poor little things—Surely the children of the poor are as good as puppy-dogs! Was it not a week ago that the rector had a new pack of terriers sent down, and did I not hear the squire swear a tremendous oath, that he would have Mr. Such-a-one’s fine hunter, if it cost him a hundred guineas? Half that sum would save us from ruin.—After this curtain-lecture, I conceive that the husband might begin to doubt the force of the demonstrations he had read and heard, and the next time his clerical monitor came, might pluck up courage to question the matter with him; and as we of the male sex, though dull of apprehension, are not slow at taking a hint, and can draw tough inferences from it, it is not impossible but the parson might be gravelled. In consequence of these accidents happening more than once, it would be buzzed about that the laws of God and nature, on which so many families had been doomed to starve, were not so clear as had been pretended. This would soon get wind among the mob: and at the next grand procession of the Penitents of famine, headed by Mr. Malthus in person, some discontented man of talents, who could not bear the distresses of others with the fortitude of a man and the resignation of a Christian, might undertake to question Mr. Malthus, whether the laws of nature or of God, to which he had piously sacrificed so many victims, signified any thing more than the limited extent of the earth, and the natural impossibility of providing for more than a limited number of human beings; and whether those laws could be justly put in force, to the very letter, while the actual produce of the earth, by being better husbanded, or more equally distributed, or given to men and not to beasts, might maintain in comfort double the number that actually existed, and who, not daring to demand a fair proportion of the produce of their labour, humbly crave charity, and are refused out of regard to the interests of justice and humanity. Our philosopher, at this critical juncture not being able to bring into the compass of a few words all the history, metaphysics, morality and divinity, or all the intricacies, subtleties, and callous equivocations contained in his quarto volume, might hesitate and be confounded— his own feelings and prejudices might add to his perplexity—his interrogator might persist in his question —the mob might become impatient for an answer, and not finding one to their minds, might proceed to extremities. Our unfortunate Essayist (who by_rhat time would have become a bishop) might be ordered to the lamp-post, and his book committed to the flames,—I tremble to think of what would follow

Women and Gender in 18th-century Russia – Page 105
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Wendy Rosslyn – 2003 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
CHAPTER FOUR Love and the Lap-Dog SEMEON EKSHTUT In Pushkin’s story Kapitanskaia dochka (The Captain’s Daughter, 1836) the heroine Mar’ia Ivanovna meets an elderly lady, who subsequently turns out to be Catherine II.
Dogs!: For Today’s Pet Owner from the Publishers of Dog Fancy Magazine
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Lynette Padwa, ‎Lani Scheman – 1998 – ‎Snippet view
For Today’s Pet Owner from the Publishers of Dog Fancy Magazine Lynette Padwa, Lani Scheman … they were still used to hunt and accompany men into battle, dogs had also become firmly entrenched in the hearts of men and women. Lapdogs — often of the Maltese, bichon frise, or Pomeranian breeds — were favored by …

The Works of the Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Volume 4

No. 434. FRIDAY, JULY 18.

Shtales Threicioe ctxm flumina Thermodontis
Pulsant, el pictis bellantur Amazone armis:
Sett circum Hippolyten, scu aim se martia curru
Penthesilea refert, magnoque ululunte tumultu
Faminea exultant lunatis agmina peltis.

Virg.

Having carefully perused the manuscript I mentioned in my yesterday’s paper, so far as it relates to the republic of women, I find in it several particulars which may very well deserve the reader’s attention.

The girls of quality from six to twelve years old, were put to public schools, where they learned to box and play at cudgels, with several other accomplishments of the same nature; so that nothing was more usual than to see a little miss returning home at night with a broken pate, or two or three teeth knocked out of her head. They were afterwards taught to ride the great horse, to shoot, dart, or sling, and listed into several companies, in order to perfect themselves in military exercises. No woman was to be married until she had killed her man. The ladies of fashion used to play with young lions instead of lap-dogs, and when they made any parties of diversion, instead of entertaining themselves at ombre or piquet, they would wrestle and pitch the bar for a whole afternoon together. There was never- any such thing as a blush seen, or a sigh heard, in the commonwealth. The women never dressed but to look terrible, to which end they would sometimes after a battle paint their cheeks with the blood of their enemies. For this reason, likewise, the face which had the most scars was looked upon as the most beautiful. If they found lace, jewels, ribbons, or any ornaments in silver or gold among the booty which they had taken, they used to dress their horses with it, but never entertained a thought of wearing it themselves. There were particular rights and

privileges allowed to any member of the commonwealth, who was a mother of three daughters. The senate was made up of old women; for by the laws of the country none was to be a counsellor of state that was not past child-bearing. They used to boast their republic had continued four thousand years, which is altogether improbable, unless we may suppose, what I am very apt to think, that they measured their time by lunar years. There was a great revolution brought about in this female republic, by means of a neighbouring king, who had made war upon them several years with various success, and at length overthrew them in a very great battle. This defeat they ascribe to several causes; some say that the secretary of state having been troubled with the vapours, had committed some fatal mistakes in several dispatches about that time. Others pretend, that the first minister being big with child, could not attend the public affairs, as so great an exigency of state required; but this I can give no manner of credit to, since it seems to contradict a fundamental maxim in their government, which I have before mentioned. My author gives the most probable reason of this great disaster; for he affirms, that the general was brought to bed, or (as others say) miscarried, the very night before the battle: however it was, this signal overthrow obliged them to call in the male republic to their assistance; but notwithstanding their common efforts to repulse the victorious enemy, the war continued for many years before they could entirely bring it to a happy conclusion. The campaigns which both sexes passed together, made them so well acquainted with one another, that at the end of the war they did not care for parting. In the beginning of it they lodged in separate camps, but afterwards as they grew more familiar, they pitched their tents promiscuously. From this time the armies being chequered with both sexes, they polished apace. The men used to invite their fellow-soldiers into their quarters, and would dress

their tents with flowers and boughs, for their reception. If they chanced to like one more than another, they would be cutting her name in the table, or chalking out her figure upon a wall, or talking of her in a kind of rapturous language, which by degrees improved into verse and sonnet. These were as the first rudiments of architecture, painting, and poetry, among this savage people. After any advantage over the enemy, both sexes used to jump together and make a clattering with their swords and shields, for joy, which in a few years produced several regular tunes and set dances.

As the two armies romped on these occasions, the women complained of the thick bushy beards and long nails of their confederates, who thereupon took care to prune themselves into such figures as were most pleasing to their female friends and allies.

the men would make a present of every thing that was rich and showy to the women whom they most admired, and would frequently dress the necks, or heads, or arms of their mistresses, with any thing which they thought appeared gay or pretty. The women observing that the men took delight in looking upon them, when they were adorned with such trappings and gugaws, set their heads at work to find out new inventions, and to out-shine one another in all councils of war, or the like solemn meetings. On the other hand, the men observing how the women’s hearts were set upon finery, begun to embellish themselves and look as agreeably as they could in the eyes of their associates. In short, after a few years conversing together, the women had learned to smile, and the men to ogle, the women grew soft and the men lively.

When they had thus insensibly formed one another, upon the finishing of the war, which concluded with an entire conquest over their common enemy, the colonels in one army married the colonels in the other; the captains in the same manner took the captains to their wives: the whole body of common soldiers were matched, after the example of their leaders. By this

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taken any spoils from the enemy,

The American Kennel Gazette – Volume 57, Part 1 – Page 10
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1940 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Mrs. Lintz “did” it, but in a measure it was a sort of accident as the lady expressed herself regarding the happening. “It was this way,” …. There isn’t a toy or lap dog on the whole roll-call of the Irish breeds in or without Ireland. Even her terriers …
The Classical Journal – Volumes 43-44 – Page 246
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The most favored lap-dog in antiquity was the small Melitaean which was imported to Malta (or Meleda?) from Carthaginian Africa.11 These animals were much admired by both men and women of Egypt, Greece, and Italy.12 Theophrastus, …

Vick’s Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Volume 11

O U R Y O U N G PEOPLE.

A second – HAND STORY.

iN Two Ch.APTERS.-CHAPTER i.

“No, Agnes, dear, I do not approve of lap-dogs. I never saw but one which interested me as such. They usually absorb care and attention – not to say money—that should be given to some higher interest, while the occasional sacrifice of life from their rabid tendencies is a bitter penalty. “There are childless women who should feel self-condemned for pampering and petting lap-dogs, when so many human waifs go uncared for, except as public charity picks them up. A woman whose care of a homeless child finally develops a worthy member of society does a noble work for both time and eternity. Moreover, she is likely to be fully repaid by grateful help and genuine love in return, at a time when such love and help corne to be most valued. “If there are exceptions to this result, so there are to every worthy effort in life. We must not, therefore, cease trying to do good. Place such a woman beside one who has spent her time, care and silly endearments upon a dog, and how do they compare?” “O, auntie, how strongly you put it.” “Not at all. I’ve referred to the two cases in the simplest language possible. It is only that the latter case will not bear comparison with the former. Although you are too young, my dear, to assume grave responsibilities, you are not too young to form correct ideas for future guidance.” “I suppose not, for already I feel differently about lap-dogs for pets. But they are such cunning little things.” “Yes, and so are birds, squirrels and rabbits; even little pigs, clean and white, are very cunning.” “So they are; but, auntie, if lap-dogs were not intended for special pets, pray tell me for what they were created.” “I can no more tell you that than I can tell you for what rats, moles and mosquitoes were created, in common with various other annoying animals and in

sects. But I can tell you this—they were all of them created to take care of themselves. It is only when their native habits are interfered with that they cannot do this. Of course, when man domesticates animals for his use or pleasure, he must take care of them. But, however persistently certain people may continue to make pets of useless dogs, you may always feel sure that the Deity never made a four-legged creature for a woman’s lap. He never made a lap-dog. Now we’ll change the subject.” “Not yet, auntie, please. I can’t forget the one lap-dog that interested you ‘as such.” Will you not tell me about it?” “That was a slip of the tongue, dear. I was much more interested in its young owner. If I were to tell you her story I should have to condense it and spoil it, for the carriage will soon be here.” “Never mind that—I’m story-hungry and can’t wait.” “Well, we met on a lake steamer, and it was her dog that led the way to her telling me her history, one day, when we were sitting on deck quite apart from the rest, she on a low seat with her dot of a dog at her feet. She was occupied, as usual, with her double-hemstitching of yards and yards of rufflings, made of the sheerest of Irish linen cambric. She said it was for her sister’s child, which child was the only being in the world in whose veins ran a drop of their blood—hers and her sisters—and that nothing seemed too precious for it. “As we sat there, idly chatting, or dreamily listening to the swash of the water and the labored chug and grind of engine and gearing, she finally dropped her work in her lap, and, bowing her head, covered her eyes with her hand. Her dog, always on the alert, instantly sprang into her lap, and putting a paw upon either cheek, began crying most piteously. As soon as she raised her hand a little and smiled, he jumped down and frolicked as though over-joyed.

“‘Ditto thought I was crying, she said. “One would suppose,” I remarked, “that so young a person as you seem to be, could never have cried enough for him to know what it means. “‘I’ve cried oceans of tears, she responded, quietly, “but I never shall again —no matter what may happen. I am only twenty, and have been married two years. But my troubles commenced when a child—mine and my sister’s. I have had Ditto three years, he crossed the ocean and back with me, or I think I could part with him now, for I’ve seen so much silliness exhibited by the owners of lap-dogs that I dislike to have the credit of possessing one. I have tried giving him away, but he pines and will not eat and is soon returned to me to save his life. You see he is a dog of one idea,’ she laughed, “his sole interest being centered in me.” “May I not know more of your history, I inquired. Your remarks have inspired a deep interest. “‘Yes, you may, she replied, ‘because I think you are one to appreciate it. Our parents died of yellow fever, in the south, when I was too young to realize my loss, though I well remember the shock and sorrow of it. Our father’s brother, the only relative left us, was there, and with his strong arms about me, I remember of feeling so sheltered and safe on his broad chest, as he rocked and soothed me or carried me about, that I felt I could be comforted if only my sister would stop weeping and sobbing, for I was sure she knew just how much need there was for crying, and just how long it should be continued. The poor girl being older, appreciated more, and was nearly heartbroken. “‘In a few days afterward we found ourselves, with our black nurse and white governess, established in our uncle’s bachelor house. He was very fond of us, often saying that we were all he had left in the world, and that we were to be his own precious daughters. Thus two years glided happily away, when, one day, he returned from an autumn hunt with a sore throat and cough. His party had camped out, and there had been a drenching rain. “‘As the days passed by he seemed surprised that his cough got no better and that his sore throat had lapsed into

a settled hoarseness. One day, he said, “Girls, why don’t you charm this trouble away. I never was sick, and I don’t know what it means. Then my sister bustled around and made a hot lemonade, and ordered a foot-bath, as she’d seen our mother do, after which she coaxed him to bed and rubbed his throat and chest with some irritating mixture, while I tucked up his feet and limbs, he joking the while about us two little midgets trying to make him think he was sick. “‘But he grew no better, and our governess said he ought to have a physician, for sometimes quick consumption and bronchitis began in that way. So we hurried to tell him what she said, and at first he laughed at the idea of having a doctor; but when we had told him all, was silent a minute, and then said, slowly, as though talking to himself, “Quick consumption l if there is any chance for that I’ve got it already. Jucco, his body servant, soon had a doctor on hand, who examined his chest a long time, and then scolded everybody, black and white, because he had not been sent for sooner. “‘By this time sister and I were actually terrified lest we were about to lose our last remaining relative and protector. Fleeing to our old nurse and governess, our cries and lamentations could not be restrained until they reminded us that we might be of great comfort to our uncle by being bright and cheery in his presence, and that unless we could be so, we could not be allowed in his room— now, when he would be so lonely without us. With such incentive for cheerfulness we soon repressed all outward signs of grief, and bathing our faces, hastened softly to his room. As we approached the open door we saw him throw up his arms and turn over to the wall, exclaiming: “‘I don’t want to die want to die! “‘That was enough ; we turned and silently fled, lest our bursting hearts should cry out in his hearing. With arms clasped about each other, we were suddenly conscious of a new feeling—our own trouble was eclipsed by sorrow for our uncle; we were so sorry, sorry for him—he did not want to die—oh, if we could only save him for that; we quite forgot ourselves in our pity for the great,

OUR YOUNG PEOPLE.

strong man so suddenly stricken down, for the generous, loving heart that wanted to live, to live for us, we very well knew, more than for any other reason. Suddenly sister sprang up, exclaiming : “‘Think how awful he is feeling, in there alone, and we not one bit of comfort to him. Hurry, let’s get a lot of flowers and toss them all over him, and iust make ourselves laugh-we mustand we must never cry any more, never. “‘But, alas, though we kept up bravely through the day, we cried ourselves to sleep each night.” “But, Agnes, dear, ” said auntie, “I am making this story too long, and how am I to help it when relating the sorrows, the anxieties of those young girls, their actual suffering and struggles for selfcontrol, as they saw their last earthly friend slipping away from them? But I’ve no power to give it the pathos of the narrator, whose experience it was. Her words were pathetic as sobs.” “Go on, auntie, do. I’m glad you can’t ‘condense.’” “I am condensing—have omitted many points of interest. But to resume: “To our great alarm, continued the narrator, a lawyer came, one day, and we were excluded from the room. His coming seemed to confirm our dreariest fears, and we shuddered at sight of his figure as he left the house. For a long time I associated lawyers and undertakers together in my mind. “‘But a short time afterward our uncle had a talk with us that gave us more rational ideas of death than we had ever had before, and relieved our minds of the great sorrow we had felt for him personally, thinking that he dreaded death. He told us that at first he had felt unwilling to die, but that the conflict of feeling was ended in twenty-four hours thereafter, all his will and desire having yielded in submission to the Divine will. My mother, he said, ‘your father’s mother, was a praying christian. She used to tell us boys that she should pray us into heaven, that howsoever far we might try to stray, we’d find there were cords holding us, drawing us back into the right way. I feel now that my mother’s prayers have been answered in my behalf, so that I have been brought low down, where that serene peace is found which assures and strengthens the timid

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soul, and removes all desire to live—all dread of the coming change, for change it only is, it is not death. It is a change from pain and decay to health and life. “‘That part of me,’ he said, ‘which talks to you now, which loves you, which plans for your future welfare, will meet you and talk to you in a higher life. We shall surely meet again and know each other there. “‘Thus he talked at different times, so peacefnlly, even cheerily, that we ceased to sorrow for him, and once more grieved only for ourselves, for our coming loss. And swiftly the end came. Toward the last he failed rapidly, and in three months from the time of the hunting party, the stalwart, broad-chested man was borne from our sight. “‘Our grief was uncontrollable. It was in vain that any one tried to console us. He could not hear our lamentations now, we thought, and the forlorn consciousness that now we had no home— no home, added to our misery. It was useless that our governess assured us that she had promised our uncle to remain with us in the family of our newly appointed guardian, whose home would be ours for the future. We could see no ray of comfort in anything. I no longer needed to guage my tears by my sister’s, they flowed only too freely and would not be suppressed. “‘Our first entrance into the new abode was uncourteously marked by a flood of tears and utter inability to eat. That night, as we lay sobbing, my sister suddenly said, ‘What if uncle knows how we are doing—how it would trouble

him!’ That thought silenced us and dried our tears. We would be quiet for his sake.”

“But, Agnes, dear,” said auntie,” there is the carriage come for me now. I’ll finish this narative another time.” MARIA BARRETT BUTLER. –CUT THE FLOWERS. If you have raised a bed or a garden of flowers, do not be afraid to cut them, and be sure to give them to those who will appreciate them. To last longest the flowers should be cut when they commence to expand and in the coolness of the early morning. They will carry comfort and hope and brighten the hours of the confined invalid.

The old maid (Google Books)

Eliza Cook’s Journal – Volume 3 – Page 403
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Eliza Cook – 1850 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
OLD MAIDS. We helieve that those who know the world will agree with us that it is a place hrimful of prejudice ; not only … lady in close companionship with a pug dog, two cats and a parrot, you may he sure that it is meant for an old maid.
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One could read old maid in every feature! Besides, a slight observation of her ways would have destroyed all lingering doubt in this respect. A large, coffee-colored pug-dog was lying before the fire. This interesting animal served as a footstool …
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Charles de Bernard – 1910 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
One could read old maid in every feature! Besides, a slight observation of her ways would have destroyed all lingering doubt in this respect. A large, coffee-colored pug-dog was lying before the fire. This interesting animal served as a footstool …

Eliza Cook’s Journal, Volume 3
By Eliza Cook

OLD MAIDS.

We helieve that those who know the world will agree with us that it is a place hrimful of prejudice; not only hrimful indeed, hut running over; and considering the fact that wherever there is the smallest space unoccupied in the world’s mind somo prejudice or other manages to creep in, and fill it, wo almost wonder how it is that virtue holds its ground so sturdily as it does.

The worst of these prejudices is that their weight generally falls upon those least ahle to hear them. The hurden is distrihuted very unfairly and unevenly. The weakest nre crushed under them hecause they are weak, and the strong are left unloaded hecause they are strong. If these prejudices acted only against the rogues and the fraudulent, we should have nothing to say against them; the higher they were piled up, the more they would discourage roguery and fraud, hut even here the idea would he horne out that the weakest arc the most heavily taxed, for the successful rogue has not mostly so much prejudice to encounter as the unsuccessful one. The man who fills his pockets hy successful arts, es. apes the hand of the law, and laughs at the world, and may some day come to he respected and admired. Prejudice sits hut lightly upon his hroad shoulders; hut the defeated rascal, convicted at the har of a critninul court, has lost all chance or hope of retrieving his position, fur prejudice weighs him down as though a mountain was pressing him to the earth.

But it is not only against the faults of men that prejudice is directed, it tells with equal forco against their misfortunes. There is a prejudice against a threadhare coat, or a shahhy hat, or an empty purse, which attaches itself firmly to the owners of these ill-favoured articles; though we suppose they are not more enamoured with the condition of their wardrohes, or the state of their exchequers, than tho rest of the world, and would willmgly put them upon a hetter footing if they found it possihle to do so.

Among the worst of prejudices, is that which shows itself against that unfortunate class of the community whose descriptive designation stands at the head of this article. There is no class which has heen more plentifully hespattered with the world’s ridicule, ahuse, and dislike than old maids, and we think this is one of the pre;udices which needs to he put down as soon as may he.

Old maids have heen the hutt for a very large proportion of tho arrows of satire which have heen shot from the how of ridicule from time immemorial. We hardly know, indeed, what our caricaturists, and satirists, and fiction writers would have done without them. Old maids have heen a constant theme, a permanent fount of inspiration for these gentlemen. To serve their purposes, they have figured in all the ridiculous or disagreeahle positions into which women can well he introduced. If you happen to see an engraving of an old sour-faced lady in close companionship with a pug dog, two cats and a parrot, you may he sure that it is meant for an old maid. If you happen to hear of an ancient dame who occupies her whole time in scandalizing and dumaging the fair fame of her neighhours, he certain that the story is fated to end with the circumstance that she is an old maid. If you read of a prude, who is so squeamish that she cannot hear to hear of the slightest friendship hetween the sexes, you may at once make up your mind that she helongs to the sisterhood of old maids, if you are told of a guineavisaged skinflint who starves a pauper servant girl, and works her to death, the chances are twenty to one that it is an old maid; and if in perusing a sentimental novel you are introduced to a sharp-eyed, vinegar-minded duenna,’ who acts as a constant wet-hlanket to a pair of fond, hut emharrassed and despairing lovers, the author will scarcely so far venture to outrage the unities and estahlished proprieties of fiction, as to make her anything else than the affectionate young lady’s aunt, and nti old maid to hoot.

And yet, after all this, the old maids arc not such a very had class of persons. They arc ridiculed and despised more for their misfortunes than their faults. They are quite as worthy a-, the old hachelors, whom the world generally looks upon as quite a respectahle and estimahle set of old fellows. If celihacy he a fault, the men, we are confident, are far more to hlame than the women. The gentlemen usually do much as they like ahout getting married. They havo far more opportunity of putting off the state of s;pgle hlessedness than the ladies. They may, it is true, find a coquette here, and a flirt there, and he jilted in another quarter; hut thut does not often hreak their strong hearts, and the road is still open to them. They never need despair; refused ninety-nine times, they u:ay succeed the hundredth. They have nothing to do if they want to change their condition, hut to go on asking, and like a heggar in search of a penny, they will he pretty sure, in the long run, to find some charitahle-minded person to take pity upon their forlorn and destitute condition. If a man then continues single, wo may fairly presume that it is hecause he chooses to continue so.

With the ladies, however, tho case is very different. They are not the seekers, they must wait till they are sought. They cannot ask the gentlemen, hut must sit patiently till the gentlemen choose to ask them. Both the estahlished customs of society, and the natural delicacy of the feminine nature usually prevent women from making the first advances. We are aware, indeed, that the ladies arc said to have more power in leap-year, than at any other time, and that they are then justified in puttmg hy their hlushes, and hringing a hashful or hackward swain up to the proper point; hut we suppose that the power, if it he in existence, is very seldom exercised, and that the fact of its heing leap-year would he u very small excuse for what the world would not fail to designate as must unfeminine holdness.

Really we think that old maids ought to he pitied rather than disliked or despised, and that their unprotected condition ought to shield them from, rather than expose them to, the prejudices of whi<h they arc made the victims. No douht if we could get at the real sentiI ments of the great majority of old maids, we should find I that their celihacy has not heen the result of choice, hut of necessity, or if not exactly of necessity, of feelings which ought to command our admiration and sympathy. Of course, there are some unmarried, elderly ladies, whose prudery or coquetry in their younger days has prevented them from what is called settling advantageously in life, hut far oftener, higher virtues and imperious necessities have kept old maids single. Of course, and in this their decriers hear us out, some old maids ore plain, not to say ugly, and therefore they have not found wooers. They may have good, feeling hearts, and powerfully cultivated minds, hut their teeth may he irregular, or their eyes dim, or their complexions had, or the small pox may have scarred and seamed their features, and men looking for heauty have turned away and left their warm hearts to wither in their loneliness. What right have we to despise ‘old maids for that? Why should we satirize or ridicule them on that account? What reason have we for converting that which should prompt us to pity and sympathy into an excuse for malice? We might as well visit our displeasure upon the dumh, or the deaf, or the hlind, hecause they cannot converse, or see, or hear, as upon old maids whose faces have frightened the men away.

But some old maids have heen heautiful. We know more than one who still hear ahout them the evident remains of great personal attractiveness. What then kept them single? Sometimes, no douht, their own faults or follies, hut oftener circumstances over which they had no control, and the endurance of which reflects honour upon their character. For example, (and most likely the experience of our readers will fully hear us out) some are the daughters of decayed gentlefolks—girls who were hrought up in comfortahle, perhaps luxurious homes, whose minds were delicately nurtured, and whose education was sedulously attended to. Their poverty has kept hack those of their own rank, who, educated in a moneyloving world, look for fortune, as well as heauty and accomplishment with a wife, and they have heen left to the alternative cither of marrying out of the class in which they have heen hrought up, or sinking into old maidship. We should he the last to encourage any foolish conventional notions of hirth and rank, which so often prevent marriages of pure affection; hut we can sympathize with the feelings of an educated woman, and applaud her motives, when, deharred from an alliance in what she has heen hrought to consider her own class, she shrinks with dread from the idea of taking a partner for life, who has heen hrought up in a different sphere, and in whom she cannot perceive any of that correspondence of sentiment or congeniality of taste, which she thinks essential to make her future life happy. Such motives demand our respect rather than our ridicule.

There are many old maids, too, whom the high and holy prompting of parental affection have made so. Many a girl, the only child of an otherwise lonely parent, the sole prop of a widowed father or mother, the solitary light of a fast decaying life, has given herself up with the nohle devotion of woman, to cheer the last hours of those to whom she owed her life. Living apart and secluded from the world, her heauty has not shone in the hallroom and the social circle, her virtues have heen too silent and hidden to attract attention, she has not heen hrought into the sphere where affections spring up; and if perchance she has, her affections have heen so engrossed hy the solitary invalid at home, that no other love has heen ahle to creep in there ; or perchance if she has felt her heart throh with a new and nameless feeling she has, impressed with a nohle sense of duty, smothered it, sacrificing all to the voice which told her that it was her place to give up all to the task of smoothing and cheering the last hoars of those to whom she was hound hy the strongest ties of hlood.

Many, too, of the old maids whom the world points at, and who are walking tho downward path of age, without

a friendly arm to assist their feehle steps, have heen young, and rich, and heautiful, and have loved as fervently and well as any of those who are hasking in the warmth of family affection. Some of them have loved helow their station, and the world’s prejudices for rank and wealth, acting upon their parents, have harred them from hecoming happy wives; others have loved too deeply to love more than once, and after seeing the lifeless form to which they clung so fondly, placed in the cold earth, have heen unahle to shake off the memory of the dead, have felt that their hearts were huried with them, have turned away widowed in spirit from the merriment and light-heartedness of their companions, and never felt a wish to fill up the void which was once so pleasantly occupied; and others loving and loved again, have heen forhidden hy prudence to take upon themselves responsihilities which they could not properly provide for, and nohly ahstained from gratifying their feelings at the expense of the welfare of infants yet unhorn.

Such women as these do not merit dislike, or ridicule, or contempt. They have heen actuated hy the nohlest feelings of our nature, they have shown in their hest light devotion, patient endurance, and unselfish self-sacrifice. They have nursed parental affection, undying constancy, and a wise prudence, and deserve to he treated with that sympathizing, respectful affection which is due to forhearance, and grief, and heroism. Suhtract such women as these from the class of old maids and there will he very few left to hear the lash of the satirist, and even that small remnant deserve consideration from the fact that their faults are more harmless than faults generally are, and their wrong doing inflicts suffering upon them alone.

Upon the salient points of the character generally assigned to old maids, we would offer a defence for them too. They are said to he addicted to scandal, and to nourish an unnatural sort of fondness for pug dogs, cats, and parrots. It does not, however, seem to us that the old maids monopolize the too prevalent taste for scandal. Wherever half-a-dozen women assemhle round tho teatahle, or for that matter, wherever as many men draw their chairs round the same convivial hoard, whether they he married or single, their neighhours too generally form the suhject of their discourse, and we are pretty sure to hear the history of the last faux pas, or the details of the latest rumours of their respective circles. This is a vice which does not helong exclusively or even mainly to old maids or old hachelors, it is a vice of ordinary society; and though the unmarried no douht have their share of it, hy virtue of their heing mortal, the married are not in a position to throw stones at them upon that account. Indeed, and they say we should speak of people as we find them, the greater numher of gossips of our acquaintance are married folks, who having hrought up a family and got their children “off their hands” feel a lack of occupation, and fill up their leisure hy minding their neighhours’ husiness in order to make up for haying hut little of their own to attend to.

As to the love of quadrupeds and feathered hipeds we make the satirists a present of that feature, and leave them to make the most of it, hegging them to rememher when they do use it, that if it he a failing, it is a very harmless one; and that the human heart, unless thoroughly careless and hardened, must have something to love, and we had rather see it expending its affection upon dumh hrutes and talking hirds than not see it exercised at all. But there are other old maids who in our eyes would redeem ten thousand such foihles as these, and everyhody, too, knows some of them; the old maiden aunts round whom the children cluster for picture-hooks and ginger-hread, who are looked for so anxiously hy the nephews and nieces at festivals, and merry-makings, and holidays, who arc so much themselves children at heart that they attract children wherever they go, and show

what fond mothers they would have heen hy the affection they lavish upon the offspring of others.

In short, we have a great respect for old maids, we think the world uses them very ill, and makes its illusage and neglect the pretext for ridicule and dislike; while they, although of course they have their faults, for the most part hear it with a patience and endurance which should win esteem, and often requite it with an affection and devotion to the wants and infirmities of others which entitle them to sympathy and admiration.

THE RICH MAN AND HIS GOLD.

“Why am I now so sad? Why so cast down?

Is it hecause thou art not what thou seemed? Or arc thy charms too closely viewed hy me,

And thou art not that Gold of which 1 dreamed? For I was ever taught, when hut a child,

That Happiness hy thee alone is hought; And thus, amidst my youthful days, too oft

To thee was turned the ill-directed thought,

“In search of thee I left my early friends—

I’ve sacrificed all else—I’ve hroken tics Which once could hind mc to a happy home,

And which, alas 1 I knew not how to prize. Gladly my treasures would I now resign—

Yes! thee forsake I—to purchase all those years Wherein I’ve gained what I had sought with toil,

And which, not Happiness supplies, hut Tears.”

“Ungrateful man 1” erics Gold; “the fault is yours

That I am not a source of hliss to thee; “Why hold mc thus, with avaricious hands.

Unwilling from your sight to let me he? But I have power to make thee happy still,

If from the past you will a lesson take: Wed Charity 1 I’ll then a servant he,

And not the stare that you have tried to make!”

E. A. N.

A CURATE’S 8TORY.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III,
AFTEIl CLOUDS—SUNSHIN’B.

It was ft quiet spring morning when the season of fresh-
ness was hlushing into the softened verge of summer, and
the fields were lying placid in the sunshine, like unruffled
seas of emerald and gold. The gardens were foaming with
rich hlooms, and the orchard trees were like huge piles of
snow. There was fragrance in the air, and a holier
fragrance in the heart, induced hy the joyous promises of
a fruitful summer, as hetokened in the growing heauties
of the fields, which made it indeed a sacred thing to live;
and a still more sacred thought to contemplate the grand
workings of Nature for our common joy and sustenance,
under the guiding hand of the great Father of humanity,
and the ruler of the earth and sky. AH things were in
promise, and the very air, in its rich redolence of perfume;
and the hroad green earth, in its plenitude of loveliness;
seemed to pulse together in the exuherance of their
heauty, and under the living garniture of huds and flowers
to draw new hopes of peace aud love, and to hound with
gladness in the growing lustre of their full fruition, and
the renewed heauty of their hudding hloom.

I had heen walking early, as was my wont, and stopped, as I had done many times hefore, to take hreakfast with the hlacksmith and his wife and daughter. We were sitting with the window open to enjoy the rich aroma of the fields, and the lovely prospect of the aunlighted woods and meadows. Ellen had taken her accustomed morning walk, and had hrought home with her a hasket full of the loveliest flowers. She always visited the green hollows

on the common which had heen the trysting place of her and Charles, and always culled a few flowers from the horder of the pond, and kept them in a vase heside her all day long, and replenished them on the morning of each new morrow.

We had spent many merry mornings together, and the hopeful nature of each letter that had arrived from Charles inspired us all with confidence that the time was not far distant when the hands and hearts of that truthful pair would he united in a holier hond than the mutual assurances hy which—although far separated—they still clung together. “They’ll make me turnspit, and wife they’ll make thee dairymaid,” said old John, as he chuckled with laughter, and enjoyed a joke at his daughter’s expense. “But that’s a nohle thing of the hoy too, to send the money for the girl’s teaching; why Nelly, you’ll shame the old maid who keeps the hoardin’ school, Miss Willis over the common; they say she knows everything hut how to get a hushand, ha, ha!—you’ll teach I how to make a horse-shoe, and mother how to darn a stocking; the hoy’s got a hig heart, and God hless him, though the old squire wouldn’t like to know it.”

The letter which had heen received the day hefore contained an order upon a hanker in London for a sum of money to he expended in providing Ellen with a course of instruction, to fit her for the sphere she was to occupy after their tried hearts had heen united, and I was commissioned with the superintendence of her education. There was also a sum for the use of old John, accompanied with a promise that his grey hairs should not ho associated with painful toil when the resources of Charles were sufficiently enlarged to enahle him to afford rest to the aged feet of the parents of his “gentle dove,” as he termed her in the letter, “and although the sultry suu of a tropical clime has hrowned my features and somewhat changed my form, my heart is as truthful as ever, and in a few months I shall leave this island of fruitfulness and slavery to return to a shore where the sun shines less hrightly, and where the fields are less luxuriant, to greet a hrighter sunshine than any which is here, and a richer fruitfulness than any known in this land of natural exuherance and human tyranny—that fervid light which can make any spot a place of heauty, and which, when it sheds its hallowed ray upon the path of life hrings forth the tender flowers of affection, and makes that fruitfulness of higher sympathies and feelings which cluster round the heart like gentle hlossoms of love, and sanctify the spot —cloudy and cold though it he—wherever they have their hirth.”

The interest which had heen excited for the prosperity of the youthful pair had never suhsided, and in my walks through the village I was every day greeted with anxious inquiries respecting the health and good fortune of Charles; and the scat which Ellen occupied at church was considered a more sacred precinct than any heneath the ivied roof of the ancient temple, where rich and poor knelt together in humiliation and prayer. My sermons were often tinged with the events which had transpired during the week, as, I helieve, every earnest preacher’s words must he; and I had often enlarged upon the sanctity of the higher sentiments of our nature, and the sway which they should he allowed to have over the passions and morhid pursuits which emhitter the days and hours of our actual life. Some three months after the receipt of the letter containing the instructions for me to follow in regard to the education of Ellen, I had preached with unusual warmth and eloquence to my little flock, and as the golden sunlight streamed through the rich sheets of stained gloss, and lighted up the ancient sanctuary with a calm and holy radiance, which stole insensihly upon the hearts of all; I hushed the souls of my hearers into a devout attention to my words, I sought to typify, hy means of a contrast hetween the crumhling stones of the church and the fresh living heauty of the sunlight and the fields, the eternity of all that is pure and good, and the transient vanity of sordid interests, and the petty hopes of those with whom the soul is dead; and as my little flock were ahsorhing word hy word, and drinking into their very hearts the simple illustrations I h.-.d chosen, the devotional countenance of Ellen caught my eye, md her fate shaped itself into my discourse. “Thus,” I said, “as all the earthly things to which man’s energy and hopes give hirth crumhle aud pass away, even as the moss-covered stones of this venerahle pile, while all the nohler aspirations of his hosom grow onward into new strength and regenerative heauty; as the flowers of the field and the golden sunlight of God which now falls upon us with its sheen of love and henediction; so they whose hrows are furrowed with the scars of evil conscience, and whose hearts are hlack and hollow with the canker of their own wicked deeds, have nothing hut the I hitterness of remorse for their doom. And when Time has heaped his snows upon their heads, they, having huilt only temples of wickedness and vanity, and not sanctuaries of peace and love, will see them crumhle and fall asunder, as do all the things of time, and have nothing left them hut the ghastly ruins of their hlighted hopes, and the dread of meeting that Judge who sits heyond Death’s leaden portals, and who has commanded us to choose the hlessed principles of charity and love as the foundation for our temple of life, and to lay our hearts in purity as a sacrifice upon its sacred altar; while they, who in the honds of a pure affection, and a trusting faith in one another and in God, will see their hopes living and hudding around them into new joys, as the sunlight of each new dawn, and the flowers of each returning sprmg; and the hlessed sunshine of God’s love will keep a higher promise living in their hearts, and the growth of their pure affection will still continue despite worldly gloom and sorrow, and the wreck of those anticipations which they had held most dear.”

I knew not then the painful intelligence which was on its way respecting Charles, for on the next morning letters arrived stating that a plague had hroken out in the island, and that Charles was one of its victims. The pestilence was of a most rapid and fatal character, and strangely, though perhaps justly—for Providence watches over all events—its ravages among the white population were more terrihle than among the slaves. These sudden epidemicvisitations arc not at all unfrequent in the low damp soils of the tropies, as a consequence of the effluvia from wide districts of marshy land, and only upon such land can enormous profits he ohtained hy the system of slave tillage. The letters were official despatches from the authorities of the island to all the friends of the rich planters who were attacked, and from them we learnt that young Burnham was in so dangerous a condition of yellow fever as not to afford hopes of recovery. This melancholy intelligence was a new sorrow to the old hlacksmith and his daughter. I feared that Ellen’s grief would rend her heart or deprive her of reason; in truth, I felt it deeply myself, hut I hid my sorrow in my hosom, and comforted those who had greater cause for tears, as well as my Christian faith suggested.

It was now high summer, and the full tide of heauty in the leafy woods, and the exuherance of fruits in the fields, contrasted strangely with the winter which had set upon our hopes, and the hlight which seemed to hover over the affections of that lovely girl. 1 passed many anxious nights pondering on what mipht he the issue of all these events, and felt myself as much involved in douht and perplexity as did old John, the hlacksmith. My visits to the smithy were more regular and frequent, and day hy day I saw the weak frame of the girl sinking under the weight of her emotions, until she was again laid on a hed of sickness, and her life despaired of.

On the Sunday following that in which I had almost unconsciously referred to her in my sermon, she was in a

most dangerous condition, and tears were shed for her heneath every roof in the village. And how felt that old man whose wickedness of heart had hrought all this ahout? He relented, hut he felt that it was too late. Remorse filled his soul to the very hrim, for the last prop of his proud family was now lopped off hy himself. He felt that the death of his son was certain, for when these visitations come under hurning suns, upon wet marshy grounds, they spare none, hut sweep away all who lie in their desolating march! Yes, he felt that his son would die in a foreign clime whither he had sent him to gratify a vain amhition, even at the expense of a feeling the most sacred that can animate the hosom of humanity; and he asked himself the value of all his schemes, the value of his cold cruelty; he contrasted the suffering which he had caused with the hollowness of its ohject, and even that was not to he realized. He thought of his son’s parting words of sorrow, of his supplications on his knees, of the gentle face of his wife, which flashed upon his memory even when cursing her devoted son; and as these things rushed through his mind like a torrent of fire, searing and scorching his aged hrow, he fell upon his knees, and hegged for mercy from his God.

He went to rest, hut there he lay like a rotten ship upon a hoiling sea; his parched lips and fevered heart seemed to scorch him up like a withered reed amid the fervour of a July noon. The full tide of his own hitter scorn was now turned hack upon himself, and the scorpion stings of guilt feasted on his soul. Again and again the image of the gentle girl came hack upon him, and the true devotion of his hoy came upon his memory too, hut there was no hope within the sultry desert of his heart, and he waited and moaned like a child. Lost were all his vanities and aims; lost were all his hollow pomp and pride; lost, shattered, were his deep laid schemes; and the consciousness of this made his heart, shrivelled and hollow as it was, now shrink still more within him, as the knell of remorse rung within its walls. His hody was as a tomh, for his soul had long gone out of it, and he knew in all its grim reality, the inexpressihle anguish of despair. And now a cold, spectre-like thought came upon him, like a cloud creeping out of darkness, and as it loomed upon him with its ghostly terror, he helieved himself a murderer, he had murdered his own child; he had torn him from the ohject of his love, and in the mad infatuation of his vain amhition, had sent him to a deadly clime where every hreath was poison, and there upon a shore were there were no kind voices to greet him in his last hour, his son must die. His hrain reeled as the death-like picture came hefore his eyes, and in the depth of his despair his reason left him.

The next morning the hell tolled for Charles Burnham, Esq., of Burnham Lodge, who had died in the night of apoplexy.

******

Ellen grew hetter, and her elastic spirit once more conquered, and the hue of health came hack upon her cheek. But she was pensive, and her young heart seemed crushed with the weight of its affliction. I would that I had power to descrihe the amiahle heauty of her character, and the loving gentleness with which she greeted all who met her. The elderly dames of the village were as much interested in her history as the timid girls whose affections were just hudding into womanly love. 1 know indeed that Ellen suffered much more deeply than her looks or words hetrayed, hut her devotion to her parents made her struggle hard to conceal the feelings of anguish which dwelt within her hosom.

So it was, and after eight days had elapsed from the death of the elder Burnham, his hody was consigned with pomp and splendour to the great vault heneath the grey old church. Such a grand spectacle as this funeral had not heen seen in the village for many years, and the cavalcade of plumed horses and carriages attracted the villagers and created a great sensation. The sumptuous coffin was lowered into the vault with solemn rites, hut not a sigh was heard, not a tear was shed. On the Sunday following, I preached upon the vanity of riches, and touched almost unconsciously on the splendour of the recent funeral, and sought to impress upon my hearers the importance of a life of duty and of love, and the hollowness of pride and ostentation. I told them that one deed of kindness was more acceptahle in the sight of God than all the outward show and gilded vanity of wealth, and that they who went with grey hairs to the tomh must rely for mercy at the judgment seat, not upon the plumes and ceremonies of fashion, hut upon the good offices with which they have sanctified their lives; while they whose lot might he lowly, and who were laid in humility heneath the grass and the flowers, would need no marhle to endear them in the memories of those from whom they had parted here, and no costly ceremony to aid them when they went hefore their God, to whose hosom they would ho dear, if their lives had heen sweet currents of good deeds, and words of gentleness and love. I saw the eye of many a fair damsel, and, here and there, that of an aged man glistening with a tear; hut I cannot say that it was for him whose hody had heen just laid within the sacred shadow of the church, in truth, 1 should think not.

Time passed on, and uncertainty as to Charles’s fate weighed heavy upon us. At last we were greeted with the joyful tidings that he had, although upon the very hrink of death, and after his medical attendants had pronounced his case as hopeless, entirely recovered, and was on his passnge home. At last he came, and hecame acquainted with the news of his father’s death, hefore he reached the village. The morning which hrought him was a morning which I shall never forget. We were all in a state of extreme anxiety and watchfulness. I hetook myself to the hlacksmith’s, and sat with the little family in the hest room ready to receive him. At last the sound of rapid wheels and clattering hoofs was heard, and our hearts leaped and thumped within us. A post carriage came wheeling round the clump of fir trees at the further end of the village; and the inhahitants, heing aware of his expected arrival, ran out in crowds to greet him. There were loud huzzas ringing in the air, and, as he sat with a heaving heart within the carriage, he was loaded with congratulations, and the poorest of the crowd lifted up their hard lahour-stained hands to implore a hlessing for him.

The tears fill my eyes when I think of the greeting which he met when he came to the smithy; it would he hopeless to attempt to depict the wild passion with which the two young lovers greeted each other, how they mingled their tears upon each other’s checks, and how old John and his faithful wife wept with them. Charles emhraced me as a hrother, and sohhed upon my neck like a child.

But there was an act of duty which he did not forget; his father had passed into another world, and when evening came, and the tumult of his arrival had suhsided, I went with him to the church, and we stood ahove his father’s grave in the mellow twilight, and prayed together. We then repaired to the lodge, where the domesties welcomed him as all others had welcomed him; and he then assemhled all together in the great dining hall, and thanked them for the kind reception they had given him, made a few impressive remarks upon the melancholy event which had transpired recently within the walls of that house, which now welcomed him as a home, and with a thankful heart went to his rest.

Two months passed away, during which the villagers experienced the hlessings which wealth may confer when it is united to sincerity and warmth of heart, and were taught that henevolence and love was one link whereon riches and poverty might meet each other

It was a fair and golden morning in the sweet autumntime, when flocks of wild hirds were hovering ahout in the hrown corn-fields, and the elms and maples were dressed in rich liveries of russet and gold, and all the signs of plenty were to he seen around, that I was called to officiate as priest, to join in holy wedlock the nohle-hearted Charles Burnham, with his lovely hride, the hlacksmith’s daughter. There was a troop of village maidens dressed in purest white, walking in procession to the church; there were old and young, weak and strong, the rich and the poor, all thronging within the ancient walls to witness this much-looked-for event. And when the two approached the altar, he with his nohle hreadth of countenance, she with her gentle and fairy-like heauty, I was almost too weak to call a hlessing on their heads. Ami the soft sunlight streamed in rich hroad hands through the ancient windows ; and the shrine wherein youth, and heauty, and age, and decrepitude were now assemhled in hreathless silence to witness the most sacred of ceremonies, seemed more consecrate and holy than hefore, and its very walls and pillars, crumhling into dust, seemed to invoke the henediction of the Most High. It was a trial for me, as it was for them, and my voice faltered many times ere I had accomplished the reading of the service. Before it had concluded, she fainted in his arms, and the old church hecame a place of weeping.

I forhear to speak further in detail, for my story is at an end. I will not further allude to the acts of kindness hy which the young squire endeared himself to the hearts of the poor and needy, all of whom called on God to hless and prosper him. Nor can I do more than suggest the happiness of my good old friend John, and his wife, when comfortahly located in a snug cottage near Burnham Lodge, with the consoling conviction that their daughter had heen united to a man who, though rich and powerful, yet possessed a heart; and whose real nohility of character taught him the immeasurahle value of love and virtue, whether they took lodging in the hreasts of the wealthy or the poor. Suffice it, that there was more

happiness in our little village of S for many years

after the wedding, than it had known for many years hefore; and that, although tears were shed within the timehonoured pile on that sweet autumn morning, they wore tears, not of sorrow, hut of gratitude and joy.

SHORT NOTES.

SIGNATURES.

We do not know anything much more provoking than, after reading a letter, written in fair, round characters, from the “Sr” down to the “Ohedient Servant,” to come at the finish upon some caligraphic puzzle, intended to represent the proper names of the writer, hut as unintelligihle as the Chinese characters on the outside of a tea-chest, or the hieroglyphics on the sarcophagi in the Musenm, or the stones recently disinterred hy Mr. Layard at Nineveh. For all you know, your correspondent may rejoice in a Hmdoo, a Tartar, or a Russian cognomen. He may have initials, or Christian names, or surnames, or he may not. He may he ashamed of his designation, and wish to remain incognito, or he may he hoaxing you. At all events, if you want to reply to him, your only resource is to cut out his unreadahle signature, paste it upon the envelope of your answer, add the address, and leave it to the ingenuity of the local postman, who, if he fail, will inform you through the Dead Letter Office. If the evil arose from inahility, we should recommend schoolmasters to give young John Snooks that appellation as a frequent copy; hut that is clearly not the case, for very often (in consequence, we suppose, of the practical inconvenience of these ^raml, flourishmg, many-capitnlled, huddled-up, illegihle signatures), the writers, for fear of ou, in plain letters, that their names are so and so. This puts one strangely in mind of that amatenr painter, who found it necessary to write heneath his picture, “This is a cow!” and is ahout as sensihle a proceeding as a man going to a masquerade, completely disguised, hut with his name upon his hack. Still, if men will have foppish signatures for show, we shall he glad to compound for the folly, hy the interpretation for use (plainly written) heing sent at the same time. We puzzled ourselves for some time as to the cause of this rage for hieroglyphies, without heing ahle to assign a sufficient reason. We could see the motive for a signature 1 that could not he read, to a slanderous epistle; and could understand it upon a dishonoured hill; hut in ordinary correspondence, involving no responsihility, it was long as unintelligihle as the signatures themselves. At last we saw a sheet of autographs, and then a little light shone in upon the mystery. Yes, that was the secret. Most of our great men wrote shocking hands; and, just as we knew a man once, who spoilt a tolerahly good-looking nose hy twitching it ahout in imitation of a very talented and learned law lord, in the hope, we helieve, of getting credit for some of that nohle lord’s mental characteristics; so these mysterious signers spoil their writing in soaring imitation of those men on whom Fame has set her stamp. We suppose it is part of the price we must pay for genins, hut it is very inconvenient; and as something towards a remedy, we heg to assure all whom it may concern that Byron, Shelley, Newton, and other great worthies, arc not admiringly rememhered hecause they wrote hadly, hut hecause they did great things really worthy of imitation, and that the printers of their day would have thought them greater if they had written more plainly. For our own part, if any one were to send us a sonnet equal to one of Shakspere’s, hut written “a la signature,” we should, in despair, consign it to the waste-paper hasket, and the world would lose a treasure; and if only the name was incomprehensihle, then he would he in danger of heing deprived of the fame due to him.

The Love Affairs of an Old Maid

By Lilian Bell

Percival is a genius. People in general do not recognize this fact. He is an inarticulate genius. Men feel that he is in some occult way different from them, yet they do not know just how. Nor will they ever take the trouble to study out a problem in human nature, either in man or woman, unless they are philosophers.

Women care for Percival in proportion to their intuitions. You must comprehend him synthetically. You cannot dissect him. With generous appreciation and sympathetic encouragement, Percival’s genius would become articulate. To discover it he must needs marry—but he must wait for the hundredth woman. This, of course, he will not do. If he can find a Flossy, he will go down on his knees to her, when she ought to be on hers to him; metaphorical knees, in this case.

I am very much afraid he has found her. He is in love. You can always tell when a man is in love, Tabby, especially if he is not the lovering kind and has never been troubled in that way before. The best kind of love has to be so intuitive that it often is grandly, heroically awkward. Depend upon it, Tabby, a man who is dainty and pretty and unspeakably smooth when he makes love to you, has had altogether too much practice.

Percival knows that he is in love—that is one great step in the right direction. But he is in that first partly alarmed, partly curious frame of mind that a man would be in who touched his broken arm for the first time to see how much it hurt. Whoever she is, he loves her deeply and thinks she never can care for him. He did not tell me this. If he thought that I knew it, he would wonder how in the world I found it out. Women are born lovers. They have to do the bulk of the loving all through the world. I told Percival so. At first he seemed surprised; then he said that it was true. I believe some men could go through life without loving anybody on earth. But the woman never lived who could do it. A woman must love something—even if she hasn’t anything better to love than a pug-dog or herself.

“ Why aren’t women the choosers 5‘” said Percival seriously. The same question twice in one day, Tabby. “Whenever I think of understanding the question of love, I wish for a woman’s intuitions. Women know so much about it. They absorb the whole question at a glance. But, with so many different kinds of women, how is a man to know anything?”

I always liked Percival, but a woman never likes a man so well as when be acknowledges his helplessness in her particular line of knowledge, and throws himself on her mercy. Mentally, I at once began to feel motherly towards Percival, and clucked around him like an old hen. He went on to say that men often are not so blind that they cannot see the prejudices and complexities of a woman’s nature, but they are not constituted to understand them by intuition as women understand men. “The masculine mind,” he said, “is but ill-attuned to the subtle harmonies of the feminine heart.”

I was secretly very much pleased at this remark, but I made myself answer as became an Old Maid, just to make him continue without self-consciousness. If I had blushed and thanked him, he would have gone home.

“They set these things down to the nat- A ural curiousness and contrariness of women, and often despise what they cannot com’ prehend.”

He answered me with the heightened consciousness and slight irritation of a man who has been in that fault, but has seen and mended it.

“All men do not. Still, how can they help it at times?”

Then, Tabby, I went a-sailing. I launched out on my favorite theme.

“Men must needs study women. Often the terror with which some men regard these—to us—perfectly transparent complexities, could be avoided if they would analyze the cause with but half the patience they display in the case of an ailing trotter. But no; either they edge carefully away from such dangers as they previously have experienced, or, if they blunder into new ones, they give the woman a sealskin and trust to time to heal the breach.”

I thought of the Asburys when I said that. But Percival ruminated upon it, as if it touched his own case. A very good thing

about Percival is that he does not think he
knows everything. It encourages me to
believe in his genius. To rouse him from
a brown-study over this Flossy girl, I said
rather recklessly,

“I should like to be a man for a while,
in order to make love to two or three wom-
en. I would do it in a way which should
not shock them with its coarseness or starve
them with its poverty. As it is now, most
women deny themselves the expression of
the best part of their love, because they
know it will be either a puzzle or a terror
to their lovers.” ‘

Percival was vitally interested at once.

“ Is that really so P” he asked. “ Do you suppose any of them withhold anything from such a fear?” His face was so uplifted that I plunged on, thoroughly in the dark, but, like Barkis, “willin’.” If I could be of use to him in an emergency, I was only too haPPY

“ Men never realize the height of the pedestal where women in love place them, nor do they know with how many perfections

_ they are invested nor how religiously wom

Old maid (Google Books)

The Gentleman’s Mathematical Companion – Volume 4 – Page 554
https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=2L82AAAAMAAJ

John Hampshire – 1816 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
The Lap Dog: by Mr. P. Wolviers, jun, ofton, Nottinghamshire. Not far from our village there lives an old maid, Who a very blá footman employs; with a little pug dog she’s as pleased, ’tis said, As children are with their new toys. Poor puggy got …
An Affair of Love – Page 175
https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=tKJHAAAAYAAJ

Frank Swinnerton – 1953 – ‎Snippet view
starched, and with raven-dyed hair; the grateful one, who was small and brown, like a sparrow, was Lady Veronica Dare. … stories about old maids of great celebrity, pug- dogs and poodles of almost equal intelligence, and many fashionable …

The Lady’s Monthly Museum, Volume 5

THE GOSSIPER, Na XXVII.

TO TBE GOSSIPER.

Mr. Gossiper,

I Sincerely sympathize with yoilr persecuted friend, “Poeticus.” Alas! sir, such are the evils attendant on the possession of talents, and the emanations of genius! I am not blest, or more properly speaking curst, with the inspiration of poesy; but nature gave me a taste for drawing, which has entailed upon me more miseries than it is possible for Poeticus to enumerate. In what may be termed my infancy, I displayed no inconsiderable precocity of talent, a proof of which, at the early age of five, I copied with considerable exactness, the whole series of plates attached to the affecting story of the “The Death of Cock-robin.” Indeed, from one of these graphic illustrations, I succeeded to admiration; so much so, that the village critics declared it to be a master-piece for my years.

At the age of six, the effusions of my pencil decorated the walls of a temple peculiar to counties south of the Tweed, and one or two even found their way into the best parlour of an ale-house that was situated in the village where my father resided. But it was reserved for the age of ten for me to exhibit the proudest memento of my talents; for a neighbouring wheelwright, who occasionally exercised the Irush as well, (for his acquirements equalled the versatility of Caleb Quotem’s) was employed to paint the sign of the pig-and-whistle, when, perhaps, doubting the sufficiency of his own, he had recourse to my known abilities for assistance ;* and if the production of our combined talents attracted less notice than the more celebrated pictures of a Reynolds or a West, it did not not pass without having many an eulogium bestowed upon it hy the thirsty rustics, as they sought the “soul-inspiring god” by the ale-house fire-side.

I was now considered a prodigy, and many prognosticated that I should one day emerge, like the celebrated Opie, from obscurity, and live to fascinate mankind by the magic productions of my pencil. But, alas! sir, flattered by encomiums and encouraged by success, I ventured, in an unfortunate moment, to pourtray some of those familiar objects of local attachment, which constitute the first step of a youthful artist on the highway of nature; when, in a very short time, my pencil was called into action by the whole circle of my acquaintance, who furnished ample subjects for its exercise; for there was not a neighbour in the village but what had a favourite pig, dog, horse, or cow, whilst his wife had a family of uncouth children, a freckled hen, or a spotted sow; an old maid but what had a pug-dog, cat, monkey, or magpie; a young one but what had a lover, or youth but what had a mistress, which equally demanded pictorial honours. But what .proves much worse, is, the natural generosity of my disposition is such, that I seldom go into company without promising the whole party some memorial or other of my abilities. Now, as I am in the habit of visiting a great deal, the number of obligations of this kind are become so numerous, that I begin to despair of ever fulfilling the half of them. In truth, Mr. Gossiper, this (generally termed) amusement is become so irksome, and interferes so much with my other avocations, that I would willingly, very willingly, sacrifice the envied distinction of being ” a natural genius,” could I dispense, at the same time, with the endless and unpleasant trouble attached to it; but, like the curse of Cain, I fear it is entailed upon me for ever—in vain I plead, that “I have given over the pursuit,” nothing will do—it is still “Pray, my dear Mr. P—, just take a sketch of such-and-such an object for me— it will make such a pretty picture.” But the misery of being a painter does not end even here; no, sir, the remarks which every village babbler feels himself called upon to

make upon every performance, is not the least mortification which I am obliged to endure with becoming gravity—” La! Mr. P—,” says one, “what a frightful nose you have made me!” “What an ngly mouth,” says a second, “you have given Dickey!”—” Really I never saw such saucer-eyes,” says a third,—whilst a fourth declares, with a broad grin, “That it is like never a Christian in the- world.” I think you will now own, that I have little less reason to complain of my unfortunate lot than Poeticus has; indeed I think the miseries which await geniuses like us, ought to be more generally known to have our merits more properly appreciated; I will propose to Poeticus that he put his miseries into rhyme, when I will engage to draw his picture (and introduce as much chagrin in it as I can) by way of frontispiece.

I am, Sir,

Your unfortunate friend,

PALLET HALL. PlCTORlBUS.

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York, to Frances only daughter of C. W.J. Shakerley, esq. of Somerford Park, Chester. Ascoghe Boucherett, esq. of Willingham, Lincolnshire, to Louisa, youngest daughter of Fred. Pigou, esq. H. Pownall, esq. to Mis A. Waterhouse, both of Russell-square. Edw. Dunn, jun, esq. to Elizabeth, youngest daughter of W. Holme, esq. of Sackville-str. Mr Henry Briggs, of Canton Place, to Charlotte, daughter of John Garford, esq. of the East India Road. Bartoolomew Browne, esq. of Oakingham, to Anna Elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late Jacob Boak, esq. of Leadenhall-street. John Halcomb, esq. of Marlborough, to Miss Margaret Barbor, of the Charter House. John Miles, esq. of Southampton-row, to Elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late John Davison, csq. Rev. Chas. Hardinge, rector of Crowhurst, and vicar of Tonbridge, to Emily, second daughter of R. C. Younger, esq. Clark Stanley, jun. esq. of the Stock Exchange, to Letitia, third daughter of Edm. Edmondson, esq. of St. George’s in the East. Licut. Davenport, 89th regiment, to Henrietta, daughter of the Rev. Geo. Jenkins, and niece to the late Lieut.-gen. Sir Thos. Picton, K.C.B. At Lambeth, the Rev. Levett Thoroton, second son of the Thomas T. esq. of Flintham, Notts, to Miss Grant, daughter of Sir Alex. G. bart. At Chelsea, J. K. Tobin, esq. of Dublin, to Miss Dundee, second daughter of the late Capt. D. of the Fusileers. At Enfield, Sir Thos. Gibson Carmichael, bart, to the Hon Anne Napier, second daughter of Lord N. At Acton, Capt. Edw. Blaquiere, R. N. to Miss White, of Acton Hill. Dued ) In Queen-street, Mayfair, Lord Frederic Campbell, brother to the late and uncle to the present Duke of Argyle, 87. In Upper Wimpole-street, Dowager Lady Asgill, mother to Sir Chas. A. bart. In Swallow-street, in his 43d year, Mr. Arthur Minton, many years an eminent cilinaman, leaving a widow and numerous family to lament his loss. In Wardour-street, Soho, Mr. John Betterton, late of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, son of Mr. B. late of Covent Garden Theatre, and brother to Mrs. Glover. In Devonshire Place, Mary, wife of John Dickinson, csq. of Birch Hall, Lancashire. In Howland-street, Thos. Sanders, csq. 64. In Gray’s Inn, Mr. Sanauel Webbe, sen. the celebrated niusical composer, 76. In Prince’s-court, Westminster, Edw. Astle, esq. of the Receipt of the Exchequer, F.R.S. and F.S.A. In Gloucester-street, Mrs. Eliz. Douglas, relict of the late Alex. D. esq. Richard Thompson, esq. of the Customs. Mr. Thos. Sutton, attorney at law.

Marriages and Deaths in London, &c.

[July 1.

In St.James’s-street, Browning Hall, eldesr son of Chas. H. esq. of Horningsheath, Suffolk. In Great Russell-street, Bloomsbury, MirG. R. Nicholson, midshipman, son of MrRowland N. of Penrith, surgeon, and coasin of Chr. Idle, esq. M.P. for Weymouth. In Chesterfield-street, Mayfair, Miss Catterine Walpole, daughter of the late Hon. TrcsW. In Montague-square, Jos. Monteiro de Almeida, esq. late of Oporto, 65. Lieut.-col. Lachlan Maclean, major of the Tower of London, and lesident governor. In Pall Mall, Mrs. Edwin relict of Chas. Eesq. of Clearwell Court, Gloucester. In Somerset-street, the youngest son of W. Fellowes, esq. In the Adelphi, Mrs. Margaret Osborn, proprietor of the well-known hotel called after her name. In Grosvenor Place, Annabella, second daughter of J. H. Acherley, esq. barrister at law, 12. In Queen Ann-street, Lady Mary Parker, sister to the Earl of Macclesfield. In Lower Grosvenor-street, the Countess of Conyngham, widow of Henry great uncle to the present Marquis Conyngham. In Aldermanbury, Mr. Chr. Kempster Beechey, 83. At Pimlico, Frederick William, son of Geo. Forneret, esq. late a major in the 60th regiment, 4. At Kensington, Rev. Rich. Ormerod, A.M. vicar of that parish. At Hoxton, Rev. John Basset, rector of the parishes of Illogan and Cambove, Cornwall. At Clapton, Jon. Holmes, esq. late of Clement’s Inn. At Lambeth, John Howard, esq. At Hackney, Mary, widow of the late R. Cattarns, esq. of Greenwich. At 1slington, Stephen Ponder, esq. 72. At Chelsea, William, youngest son of Edw. Chas. Howell, esq. 8.-Mrs. BroughtonRich. Rob. Graham, esq. At Blackheath, Harriet, second daughter cf Sir John Eamer, knt. At Hammersmith, Rev. Theophilus Larr, 76.-Mrs. Geo. Scott, 27. In the Kent-toad, Thos. Boult, esq. At Stoke Newington, Eliz. De Haviland, relict of the late Martin De H. esq. of Guernsey, 65. At Kennington, James Phillips, esq. 57.Gill Moody, brother to the late Sam. M. esq. of Queen-square, 75. At Teddington, John Crutchfield, esq. 64. At Hackney, Mr. Caleb Stower, printer, 37. He was a very ingenious and industrious man, and author of the Printer’s Grammar, and several other books connected with the printing business. At Hopetoun House, JAMEs Hope Johnstone, Earl of Hopetoun, a nobleman emi

1816.] Accounts of Earl Manvers, Mrs. Lewson, Mr. B. Thompson.

mently distinguished for his virtues both in public and private life. He was born in 1741 ; at an early period of life entered into the army, served in the glorious battle of Minden, in 1759, when only 18 years of age, and retired from the service in consequence of the ill health of his elder brother, Lord Hope, with whom he travelled on the continent in 1764. In 1781 he succeeded his father, and the following year was elected one of the 16 Peers of Scotland. In 1766 he married Elizabeth, daughter of the late Earl of Northesk, by whom he had several daughters, all dead, except Lady Anne, who married admiral Sir Wm. Johnstone Hope, by whom he is succeeded in his estates of Annandale, which devolved to his lordship in 1792 on the death of his uncle. He was created an English baron in 1809, and having died without male issue, is succeeded in his titles by his half brother, Lord Niddry. In Portman square, Charles Pierrepoint, Earl MAN vers, Wiscount Newark, and Baron Pierrepoint, LL.D. This nobleman, the second son of Philip Medows, esq. by Frances, sister to the last Duke of Kingston, was born in 1737, and educated at Oxford. He was originally intended for the naval service, which, however, he quitted in early life. In 1774 he was returned to parliament for Nottinghamshire, and re-elected for the same county in 1780, 1; 84, and 1790. On becoming heir to the estates of his uncle, the Duke of Kingston, he assumed, in 1788, the name of Pierrepoint, was elevated to the peerage as a viscount and baron in 1796, and promoted to the dignity of an earl in 1806. In 1774 he married Anne, youngest daughter of Wm. Mills, esq. of Richmond, Surrey, by whom he had issue—Evelyn Henry Frederic, born 1755, died 1801 ; Charles Herbert, Wiscount Newark, who succeeds him in his titles and estates, and who married in 1804 Miss Eyre, eldest daughter of A. H. Eyre, esq. M.P. for Nottinghamshire; Henry Manvers, born 17 so; Frances Augusta Eliza, born 1781, married in 1802 to Capt. Win. Bentinck, R. N.; and Philip Sidney, born 1786, married 1810 to Georgiana, only daughter of the late H. G. Brown, esq. of Imley Park, Northamptonshire, and relict of Pryce Edwards, esq. of Talgarth, Merionethshire. The late nobleman was much attached to agricultural pursuits. Extensive plantations upon his estates in Nottinghamshire, especially in and about Thoresby Park, were formed by him, and he warmly interested himself in promoting the breed of sheep by the introduction of merinos. In Coldbath square, at the very advanced age of 116 years, Mrs. Jane Lewson, commonly called Lady Lewson, from her very eccentric manner of dress. She was born in 1700, in Essex street, Strand, of most respectable parents of the name of Vaughan, and was married at an early age to a wealthy gentleman of the name of Lewson, then liv

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ing in the house in which she died. For the last 30 years she had kept no servant, except an old female, who died ten years ago: she was succeeded by the old woman’s granddaughter, who was married about three years since; and she was succeeded by an old man, who attended the different houses in the square to go of errands, clean shoes, &c. Mrs. Lewson took this man into her house, and he acted as her steward, butler, cook, and house-maid, and, with the exception of two old lap-dogs and a cat, he was her only companion. The house she occupied was large and elegantly furnished, but very ancient; the beds were kept constantly made, although they had not been slept in for about 50 years. Her apartment being only occasionally swept out, but never washed, the windows were so crusted with dirt, that they hardly admitted a ray of light. A large garden in the rear of the house was the only thing she paid attention to ; this was always kept in good order: and here, when the weather permitted, she enjoyed the air, or sometimes sat and read, of which she was particularly fond, or else chatted on times past with any of the few remaining friends whose visits she permitted. She was so partial to the fashions that prevailed in her youthful days, that she never changed the manner of her dress from that worn in the reign of George the First. Her manner of living was extremely methodical; she universally enjoyed an excellent state of health, assisted in regulating her house, and never had, until a little previous to her decease, an hour’s illness. She entertained the greatest aversion to medicine; and what is remarkable, she cut two new teeth at the age of 87, and never lost one in her life, nor was she ever troubled with tooth-ach. Her sight latterly failed her. She was supposed to be the most faithful living historian of the age; the events of the year 1715 being fresh in her recollection. In Nelson square, Blackfriars’ road, Mr. BENJAM in Thompson. He was the son of Benj. Blaydes Thompson, esq. a mest respected merchant and magistrate, of Kingston-upon-Hull, who gave him an excellent education, with a view to his embracing the profession of the law, which Mr. Thompson declined, and was sent by his father on commercial business into Germany, where he entered into habits of friendship with the celebrated Kotzebue, and became a warm admirer of the German drama:— hence our stage was indebted to him for the translation of The Stranger, which has been so eminently successful.—Mr. Thompson also rendered into English, and published with great success, many others of his friend’s theatrical works in three volumes, and above twenty other German plays by different authors. The public is also indebted to him for numerous translations from the French, particularly a work on the subject of Merine sheep, which he had made his practical study on a most extensive scale. His origimal works were a volume of poems, “The Ring, or Merry Wives of Madrid;” “The Recal of Momus;” and a variety of plays, many of which have not yet been acted; “Godolphin,” a drama, pc, formed three years since at Drury-lane; and “Oberon’s Oath,” a romance, acted at the same theatre, which was rising rapidly in public estimation, when a fatal attack of apoplexy prevented its author from making several meditated alterations likely to have secured its success. Mr. Thompson, in his prosperity, so warmly patronised the provincial members of the histrionic art, that he was known throughout the profession by the title of “the actor’s friend.”—In his adversity, he is said to have experienced much of unkindness from persons of his own rank and connection, but there is reason to believe that his Thespian friends remembered his kindnesses to the last. While living, he was every thing that could be wished on the score of domestic attachment, as his widow and six children most affectionately feel—and dead, he is poignantly lamented by those who knew his worth, and were, it is to be hoped, not aware of sorrows, which, preying upon an independent but most sensitive mind, nost probably led to his unexpected dissolution. At Grecnwich, in consequence of a fall from his horse, Sir SAM util Whitcom be, knt. The vigour of his understanding, his extreme accuracy, and his almost unexampled assiduity, early raised him to the most distinguished eminence in his profession; while the peculiar kindness of his heart, the honourable feelings of his mind, and the sincerity and fervour of his attachments, endeared him in the highest degree to his fa. mily and to an extensive and most respectable circle of friends. Deeply versed in political history, and ardently attached to our inestimable constitution in church and state, he boldly stood forward on all occasions, the determined opponent of innovation. As an author, the nervous style and acute and cerrect reasoning which pervaded all his writings, seeured to him the most flattering atiention and respect from the highest characters of the age. June 2, MARY, the wife of Dr. VAlry, of Reading. She was the sister of the Rev. William Benwell, of Trinity Col. Oxford, who died in 1796, universally admired and lamented. Like her brother, she died of a fever, occasioned by her anxious and unremitting attention to some sick members of her family. It will not be too much to say, that, in her general conduct, and in all the relations of life, she approached as near perfection as human nature will permit. No one was acquainted with her without admiring her ; she never lost a friend, and she never had an cnciny. Her benevolence was

562 Sir Samuel Whitcombe, Mrs. Valpy, Ree. Sir Herbert Croft. [July 1, ; : 1816.] Bedfordshire—Berks.-Bucks.-Cambridge.—Cheshire.

constantly but judiciously exerted, and eminently useful; her goodness was universal. Her religion was fervent, but calm ; her piety was sincere and active; her devotion was warm and habitual. She did not, iike some gloomy enthusiasts, avoid society; but she never went into company without leaving an affecting example of modest cheerfulness, sweetness of temper, affability of disposition, dignity of manners, and purity of life. She made all around her happy, and she was happy herself in her family, in her connexions, and in her own reflexicas. Towards the pupils of the establishment, over the domestic part of which she presided, she acted not as a friend, but a mother. A short time ago they gave her an interesting proof of their love and gratitude, by presenting her with plate amounting to 250 guineas ;-a gift, the value of which was considerably increased by the endearing manner in which it was made. She has left a husband and eleven children to deplore her loss, revere her memory, and imitate her virtues. At Paris, the Rev. Sir Her pewt Cnorr, bart. L.L.B. of Dunston Park, Berks. This gentleman, grandson of Sir Archer, the secons baronet of the family, was born in 1751, and received his academical education at University College, Oxford, where he took his degree of B. C. L. in 1785, while a student in the Middle Temple. After being called to the bar he entered into holy orders, and was for some time chaplain to the garrison of Quebec, till he succeeded to the title on the death of his cousin, Sir John, in 1797. He married, first, Sophia, daughter of R. Cleeve, esq. by whom he had three daughters; and, scoondly, Elizabeth, sister to H. G. Lewis, esq. of Malvern Hall, Warwickshire, and to the Countess of Dysart, who died a few months since in London. Sir Herbert was an intimate friend of Dr. Johnson’s, to whose Lives of the Poets he contributed the memoirs of Young. He commenced his literary career in 1775 with a volume in 12mo, under the title of “A Brother’s Advice to his Sisters;” which was succeeded in 1780 by “Love and Madness, a Story too true, in a Series of Letters.” These letters are given as a correspondence supposed to have passed between the unfortunate Miss Ray and her lover the Rev. Mr. Hackman, by whom she was assassinated. In 1792, Sir Herbert issued proposals for publishing by subscription “A new edition of Johnson’s Dictionary, enlarged with more than twenty thousand words.” The subscription was to have been twelve guineas, one half to be paid at the time of subscribing, and the other on the delivery of the third volume; but the design was dropped for want of encouragement. Embarrassed circumstances obliged him to go abroad, and he resided for some years at Hamburg, where he printed, in 1797, “A Letter from

– Germany to the Princess Royal of England

on the English and German Languages,”

4to. He was afterwards one of those English whom the mean revenge of Buonapartc detained in France. Since that period he constantly resided in that country, either at Lille, Amiens, or Paris, and produced various publications in the French language. While at Lille he gave to the world part of a Dictionaire critique des Difficultés de la Langue Française, which he never completed. At Amiens appeared l’Horace ectairci parta Panctuation, a singular work, which among many bold and sometimes gratuitous hypotheses contains a great number of observations, striking by their novelty, and expressed in a lively and original nanner.

on the restoration of Louis XVIII. Sir Her

bert printed at Didot’s press “Consolatory

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Verses addressed to the Duchess of Angoulême,” 4to. 1814. This was the only poetical essay ever published by him, though he is said to have left several volumes of M.S. behind him.

At Bombay, on the fifth anniversary of his sister’s demise, George Willi AM Alexand ER TRA raud GRANT, esq. an only son, whose premature excellencies have been faithfully, though feebly, pourtrayed by maternal affection, yet with strict veracity, in the Popular Models. Some youthful minds may be excited to generous emulation, when assured, that the virtues ascribed to Edwin Selby, to William Campbell, and to the Elphinstones, really and uniformly appeared in the daily actions of an individual, before his twentieth year removed to the regions of eternal happiness.

PROVINCIAL OCCURRENCES,

IN THE COUNTIES OF ENGLAND, ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY.

– edfordsht Re. Married.] At Biggleswade, Mr. R. Lindsell, to Miss Wells. Died.] At Toddington, Mr. Thos. Gregory, 58 years schoolmaster and 53 years parish clerk of that town.

be r Ksh l Re. Our readers will recollect a robbery to a very extensive amount, and the subsequent insolvency in consequence of the bank of Messrs. Vincent, Tanner and Co. of Newbury, By a negociation of the assignees of the estate with a person supposed to be a party in the robbery, it is said that upwards of 13,000l. of the stolen property has been recovered. Married.] At Sutton. Mr. W. Drewett, of the Canal Wharf, to Martha, youngest daughter of Mr. White, of Bugg’s Mill. Died.] At Reading, Mrs. Mabbott, relict of Wm. M. esq. of Southcote Lodge. At Windsor, Thos. Baverstock, esq. 44.— Mr. J. Wagstaffe, 57.-Mr. J. Lunn, 56. At Langley, Mr. Geo. Lander, 49. At Wallingford, Jane, daughter of Mr. Rich. Brooker, 16. At Hyde End House, Mrs. Hyde, wife of John H. esq. At East Hanney, C. Dewe, esq. 46. At Abingdon, Wm. Alider, esq. a principal burgess of that corporation, and who had thrice served the office of chief magistrate, 78. At Picket Field, near Hungerford, Gratian Hart, esq. many years in the department of the Ordnance. Buckin Gri A Msh I R.E. Married.] At Aylesbury, the Rev. R. W. Williams, of Thame, to Miss Terry, daughter of R. T. esq. Died.] At Dinton Hall, John Goodall

Vanhattem, esq. eldest son of the Rev. Wm.
Goodall, 17.
At Water Eaton, Mr. Thos. Linnell, 35.

CaMB R J D G esti I RE. The spirit of riot which appeared a few weeks since in Suffolk and Norfolk, extended to this county also, and manifested itself in a very alarming manner at Littleport. near Ely, on the night of the 22d May, where a mob assembled and destroyed the house and furniture of the Rev. Mr. Vachel, a magistrate for the Isle of Ely. Many others of the inhabitants were plundered of considerable property. These outrages were, however, stopped on the 24th, by the active interference of the gentlemen of Ely and a small military force, but not without resistance on the part of the rioters, many of whom were armed. One of the latter being killed, the rest fled, and were pursued in all directions; upwards of 100 were secured, and a special commission was appointed for the trial of the prisoners. Married.] Mr. Stephen Stanton, of Leverington, to Miss Todd, of Wisbech. Mr. Rob. Emmerson, cook of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, to Ann, fourth daughter of Mrs. J. Ripsher, of Ickleton. Mr. Jon. Norton, of Harston, to Miss Jane Grigg, of Stapleford. Died.] At Cambridge, Mr. Rob. Scaplehorn, wine-butler to Trinity”College, 69. At Isleham, Mrs. Palmer. At Fordham, near Newmarket, the Rev. John John, 61.

Cheshi Rip. A new grand stand, capable of accommodating 1,000 persons, is to be erected at the Chester race-course. It will be supported by massy stone pillars, with a betting-stand on the roof, on the large hill nearly opposite

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82. At Marple, Mr. Braddock, attorney. At Chester, John Francis, youngest son of H. A. Leicester, esq. 14.—Mrs. Baugh, 38. At Macclesfield, Harriet, second daughter of the late Mr. O. Wood. At Weston, Mr. Ant. Fulchola, a native of Italy. At Sandlebridge, Mr. Holland, 82. cornwall. The church at Bodmin has long been in a ruinous state, and public worship has been performed in the Assize Hall; nor is there any probability that the case will be speedily altered. The corporation are, by prescription, liable to keep the church in repair; but their funds are stated to be inadequate to the expense which these repairs would now require. The late meeting of the Cornwall Agricultural Society was well attended. The show of rams was particularly good. That to which the first prize was adjudged, was of the pure Leicester breed, from the flock of Mr. Burgess, and brought into the county by Mr. Rodd, who signified his intention of letting the rams bred from him for the improvement of the stock in Cornwall. Married.] At St. Agnes, Capt. Thomas Stephens, to Miss Tregillas, of Goonvrea.— Capt. Seymour, to Mrs. Nichols. At St. Hilary, Mr. Thos. P. Gurney, surgeon, to Lydia, eldest daughter of Mr. Rich. Moyle, surgeon, of Marazion. At Padstow, Capt. John Hogan, of the sloop Dick and Harry, to Miss Guy. At East Looe, Capt. Clements, of Polperro, to Miss Rebecca Reath. At Budock, T. S. Beauchamp, of the Royal Marine Artillery, to Georgiana, only daughter of the late Rev. Geo. Allen, of Redruth. At Truro, Mr. Martin, chief mate of the revenue cutter Alarm, to Miss Odgers, daughter of the Rev. Jas: O. of Bodmin. At Madron, Wm. Grenfell, to Jane Werran. As they are both deaf and dumb, the mother of the former, and father of the latter made the responses. Died.]. At Launceston, Mrs. Pope, many years of the White Hart Inn, 74. At Callington, Mrs. M. Hawke, 77. At St. Austell, Mr. John Gawler,

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At Penryn, Mrs. Whiteway, 43.-Mrs. Grace George, 77. At Liskis, Mrs. Vincent. At Pillaton, Mr. John Rennels, 71. At Falmouth, Alice, sister of Mr. Lazarus Hingston. At Redruth, Mr. J. Wilkinson, a traveller in the woollen trade, from London. At Truro, Mary, widow of Mr. Peter Reymolds, 78. cum her LAND. A correspondent of the Carlisle Patrict has, in a well written address, called the public attention to the propriety of establishing, in the capital of the county, a Museum for the Antiquities and Natural Curiosities of Cumberland. For want of such an establishment great numbers of British and Roman remains have been taken out of the county by strangers, who attached no other value to them than the sum they would produce. Cumberland is not less fertile in natural curiosities than in the relics of past ages. She possesses the treasures of the mineral kingdom in great abundance, and a place of public deposit would operate as a stimulus to their collection. The writer observes, that in case of the establishment of a Museum, there is reason to hope that the owners of such rarities, if they did not think fit to make a donation of them, would, however, send them to this collection, where they might remain private property as before. Married.] At St. Bees, the Rev. George Lewthwaite, rector of Addle, near Leeds, York, to Martha, eldest daughter of Thos. Birley, esq. At Carlisle, the Rev. Jas. Macadam, to Miss Mary Pattinson.— Mr. Benj. Harrison, of Liverpool, to Miss Sarah Harrison. Died.] At Rockcliff, Mrs. Carrick, wife of Mr. C. sen. banker, of Carlisle. At Wigton, Mrs. Eliz. Jefferson. At Clea Green, Mr. John Johnson, S3. At Maryport, Mrs. Eleanor Slack, ;o.Mr. Cowells, 53.-Rebecca, wife of Mr. Geo, Brough, 64. At Cockermouth, Mr. Thos. Tyson, jun. of Whitehaven, 25. At Workington, Mr. Geo. Moore, 67. At Parton, Mrs. Sanderson, relict of the Rev. Mr. S. of Ponsonby, 45. At Whitehaven, Mr. John Wilson, 76.Isaac, son of the Rev. H. Johnston, of Martindale, 17. DeR BYShi Re. Died.] At Derby, Mrs. Lessey, wife of the Rev. Theophilus L. 20. At Edensor, Mrs. Barker. At Hardstaff, Mr. John Brown. At Ashbourne, Mrs. Mellor, 31. D EvoN shine, A correspondent of the Plymouth Telegraph suggests the following improvements in this county:—“It is to be hoped,” says he, “that government will convert that exccllent building, Dartmoor Prison, into a