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ments and a few others, the widow was very much inclined to titter, which I considered as much as a flirtation commenced; and when I was ordered into another room to be farther examined by the surgeon in attendance, I longed to tell her to stop till I came back. The professional gentleman did his utmost to find a flaw in me, but was obliged to write a certificate, with which I re-entered, and had the satisfaction of hearing the chairman read that I was warranted sound. The Board congratulated me somewhat jocosely, and the widow laughed outright. Our affairs were settled exactly at the same moment, and I followed her closely down-stairs.

“What mad trick are you at now?” inquired the cormorant.

"I am going to hand that lady to her carriage," I responded; and I kept my word. She bowed to me with much courtesy, laughed again, and desired her servant to drive home. "Where is that, John?" said I. "Number, sir, in John; and away they went.

We walked steadily along, the bird of prey reckoning up the advantages of his bargain with me, and I in a mood of equally interesting reflection.

"What are you pondering about, young gentleman?" he at last commenced.

"I am pondering whether or no you have not overreached yourself in this transaction." "How so?"

for the Epsom Races, at which I had particular business; and any little additional reason for disgust to the world would, I thought, be rather a pleasure than a pain-provided I was disappointed in the lovely widow.

I

Modesty is a sad bugbear upon fortune. have known many who have not been oppressed by it remain in the shade, but I have never known one who emerged with it into prosperity. In my own case it was by no means a family disease, nor had I lived in any way by which I was likely to contract it. Accordingly, on the following day I caught myself very coolly knocking at the widow's door; and so entirely had I been occupied in considering the various blessings which would accrue to both of us from our union, that I was half-way up-stairs before I began to think of an excuse for my intrusion. The drawing-room was vacant, and I was left for a moment to wonder whether I was not actually in some temple of the Loves and Graces. There was not a thing to be seen which did street," said not breathe with tenderness. The ceiling displayed a little heaven of sportive Cupids, the carpet a wilderness of turtle-doves. The pictures were a series of the loves of Jupiter, the vases presented nothing but heart's-ease and love-lies-bleeding; the very canary birds were inspired, and had a nest with two young ones; and the cat herself looked kindly over the budding beauties of a tortoise-shell kitten. What a place for a sensitive heart like mine! I could not bear to look upon the mirrors which reflected my broad shoulders on every side, like so many giants; and would have given the world to appear a little pale and interesting, although it might have injured my life a dozen years' purchase. Nevertheless, I was daunted, and I looked round, for something to talk about, on the beauty's usual occupations, which I found were all in a tone with what I had before remarked. Upon the open piano lay "Auld Robin Grey," which had, no doubt, been sung in allusion to her late husband. On the table was a half-finished drawing of Apollo, which was equally, without doubt, meant to apply to her future one; and round about were strewed the seductive tones of Moore, Campbell, and Byron. "This witch," thought I, "is the very creature I have been sighing after! I would have married her out of a hedge-way, and worked upon the roads to maintain her; but with twenty thousand pounds-ay, and much more, unless I am mistaken, she would create a fever in the frosty Caucasus! I was in the most melting mood alive, when the door opened, and in walked the fascinating object of my speculations. She was dressed in simple

"Why, I begin to think I shall be obliged to give up my harum-scarum way of life; drink moderately, leave off fox-hunting, and sell my spirited horses, which, you know, will make a material difference in the probable date of my demise."

"But where is the necessity for your doing all this?"

"My wife will, most likely, make it a stipulation."

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"Your wife!" "Yes. That pretty disconsolate widow we have just parted from. You may laugh; but if you choose to bet the insurance which you have bought of me against the purchase-money, I will take you that she makes me a sedate married man in less than two months."

"Done!" said cormorant, his features again straining their buckskins at the idea of having made a double profit of me. "Let us go to my house, and I will draw a deed to that effect, gratis."

I did not flinch from the agreement. My case, I knew, was desperate. I should have hanged myself a month before, had it not been

not

gray, wholly without ornament, and her dark-
brown hair was braided demurely over a fore-
head which looked as lofty as her face was
lovely. The reception she gave me was polite
and graceful, but somewhat distant; and I
perceived that she had either forgotten, or was
determined not to recognize me. I was not
quite prepared for this, and, in spite of my
constitutional confidence, felt not a little,
embarrassed. I had, perhaps, mistaken the
breakings forth of a young and buoyant spirit
under ridiculous circumstances for the encour-
agements of volatile coquetry; and for a
moment I was in doubt whether I should not
apologize, and pretend that she was not the
lady for whom my visit was intended. But
then she was so beautiful! Angels and minis-
ters! Nothing on earth could have sent me
down-stairs unless I had been kicked down!
"Madam," I began-but my blood was in a
turmoil, and I have never been able to recollect
precisely what I said. Something it was,
however, about my late father and her lamented
husband, absence and the East Indies, liver
complaints and life insurance; with compli-
ments, condolences, pardon, perturbation, and
preter-plu-perfect impertinence. The lady
look surprised, broke my speech with two or
three well-bred ejaculations, and astonished
me very much by protesting that she had never
heard her husband mention either my father
or his promising little heir-apparent, William
Henry Thomas, in the whole course of their
union. "Ah, madam," said I, "the omis-
sion is extremely natural! I am sure I am
not at all offended with your late husband upon
that score. He was an elderly, sickly sort of
a man. My father always told him he could
not last, but he never thought he would have
died so soon after his marriage. He had not
time he had not time, madam, to make his
friends happy by introducing them to you."

I believe, upon the whole, I must have behaved remarkably well, for the widow could not quite make up her mind whether to credit me or not, which, when we consider the very slender materials I had to work upon, is saying a great deal. At last I contrived to make the conversation glide away to "Auld Robin Grey," and the drawing of Apollo, which I pronounced to be a chef-d'œuvre. Permit me, however, to suggest, that the symmetry of the figure would not be destroyed by a little more of Hercules in the shoulders, which would make his life worth a much longer purchase. A little more amplitude in the chest too, and a trifle stronger in the legs, as they say at the insurance office." The widow looked comically

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at the recollections which I brought to her mind; her rosy lips began to disclose their treasures in a half smile, and this, in turn, expanded into a laugh like the laugh of Euphrosyne. This was the very thing for me. I was always rather dashed by beauty on the stilts; but put us upon fair ground, and I never supposed that I could be otherwise than charming. I ran over all the amusing topics of the day, expended a thousand admirable jokes, repeated touching passages from a new poem which she had not read, laughed, sentimentalized, cuddled the kitten, and forgot to go away till I had sojourned full two hours. Euphrosyne quite lost sight of my questionable introduetion, and chimed in with a wit as brilliant as her beauty; nor did she put on a single grave look when I volunteered to call the next day and read the remainder of the poem.

It is impossible to conceive how carefully I walked home. My head and heart were full of the widow and the wager, and my life was more precious than the Pigot Diamond. I kept my eye sedulously upon the pavement, to be sure that the coal-holes were closed; and I never once crossed the street without looking both ways to calculate the dangers of being run over. When I arrived, I was presented with a letter from my attorney, giving me the choice of an ensigncy in a regiment which was ordered to the West Indies, or of going missionary to New Zealand. I wrote to him in answer, that it was perfectly immaterial to me whether I was cut off by the yellow fever or devoured by cannibals; but that I had business which would prevent me from availing myself of either alternative for two months at least.

The next morning found me again at the door of Euphrosyne, who gave me her lily hand, and received me with the smile of an old acquaintance. Affairs went on pretty much the same as they did on the preceding day. The poem was long, her singing exquisite, my anecdote of New Zealand irresistible, and we again forgot ourselves, till it was necessary, in common politeness, to ask me to dinner. Here her sober attire, which for some months had been a piece of mere gratuitous respect, was exchanged for a low evening dress, and my soul, which was brimming before, was in an agony to find room for any increasing transports. Her spirits were sportive as butterflies, and fluttered over the flowers of her imagination with a grace that was quite miraculous She ridiculed the rapidity of our acquaintance, eulogized my modesty, till it was well nigh burned to a cinder, and every now and then

sharpened her wit by a delicate recurrence to Apollo and the shoulders of Hercules.

The third and the fourth and the fifth day, with twice as many more, were equally productive of excuses for calling, and reasons for remaining, till at last I took upon me to call and remain without troubling myself about the one or the other. I was received with progressive cordiality; and, at last, with a mixture of timidity which assured me of the anticipation of a catastrophe which was, at once, to decide the question with the insurance office, and determine the course of my travels. One day I found the Peri sitting rather pensively at work, and, as usual, I took my seat opposite to her.

"I have been thinking," said she, "that I have been mightily imposed upon."

"By whom?" I inquired.

"By one of whom you have the highest opinion by yourself."

"In what do you mistrust me?"

"Come now, will it please you to be candid, and tell me honestly that all that exceedingly intelligible story about your father and the liver-complaint, and Heaven knows what, was a mere fabrication?"

"Will it please you to let me thread that needle, for I see that you are taking aim at the wrong end of it?"

"Nonsense! Will you answer me?"

"I think I could put the finishing touch to that sprig. Do you not see?" I continued, jumping up and leaning over her. "It should be done so and then so. What stitch do you call that?"

The beauty was not altogether in a mood for joking. I took her hand-it trembled-and so did mine.

"Will you pardon me?" I whispered. "I am a sinner, a counterfeit, a poor, swindling, disreputable vagabond,- -but I love you as

my soul."

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TO THE LADY OF MY HEART.

The murmur of the merry brook,
As, gushingly and free,
It wimples, with its sun-bright look,
Far down yon shelter'd lea,
Humming to every drowsy flower
A low quaint lullaby,
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour,
Of Love and thee.

The music of the gay green wood,
When every leaf and tree

Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood
To utter harmony;

And the small birds, that answer make
To the winds' fitful glee,

In me most blissful visions wake
Of Love and thee.

The rose perks up its blushing cheek,
So soon as it can see,

Along the eastern hills, one streak
Of the sun's majesty:
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams

A precious freight to me,
For each pure drop thereon me seems
A type of thee.

And when abroad in summer morn I hear the blithe bold bee Winding aloft his tiny horn,

(An errant knight perdy,) That winged hunter of rare sweets, O'er many a far country, To me a lay of love repeats, Its subject-thee.

And when, in midnight hour, I note The stars so pensively,

In their mild beauty, onward float Through heaven's own silent sea: My heart is in their voyaging

To realms where spirits be, But its mate, in such wandering, Is ever thee.

But, oh, the murmur of the brook,
The music of the tree;

The rose with its sweet shamefaced look,
The booming of the bee;
The course of each bright voyager,
In heaven's unmeasured sea,
Would not one heart-pulse of me stir,
Loved I not thee!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

A DIRGE.

[Thomas Chatterton, born at Bristol, 20th November, 1752; died in London, 25th August, 1770. At eight years of age his mother taught him to read from a black-letter Bible, and from that time he became an eager student. Antiquities chiefly interested him, and when sixteen years old he sent to a local journal the description of various ceremonies supposed to have been performed by the friars at the opening of the old bridge of Bristol. This account Chatterton stated he had derived from an old MS. found in the muniment room of St. Mary Redcliff Church. Curiosity was excited, and "the marvellous boy" fed it with the famous poems of Thomas Rowley, a priest of the fifteenth century. Having deceived the sages of his native city, he attempted to obtain the patronage of Horace Walpole by submitting to him some of the Rowleian poetry. Walpole discovered that the poems were ancient only in appearance, and declined to interest himself in the bard who had applied to him under false pretences. Chatterton then proceeded to London, hoping to earn fame and fortune with his pen; but after a five months' struggle with fortune, he, in a fit of despondency, poisoned himself. He was under eighteen years at the date of his death, and Dryden's couplet about Oldham has been aptly applied to him:

"O early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more?"

Of the Rowley poems, the authorship of which no one doubts to be due to Chatterton, the principal are: Ella, a tragical interlule, from which the following lines are taken; The Execution of Sir Charles Baudin; The Battle of Hastings; and The Tournament.]

O! sing unto my roundelay,

O! drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holiday,

Like a running river be:

My love is dead,

Gone to his deathbed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his skin as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below;
My love is dead,

Gone to his deathbed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briared dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,

To the night-mares as they go;

My love is dead,

Gone to his deathbed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud;

Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud;
My love is dead,

Gone to his deathbed,
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his deathbed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briars
Round his holy corse to gre,
Elfin fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his deathbed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Goue to his deathbed,
All under the willow-tree.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide.

I die; I come; my true love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.

MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE

Martiall, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:
The riches left, not got with pain,
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind,
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife,
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life,
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fair,
True wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night dischargéd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;
The faithful wife without debate;
Such sleep as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,
Nor wish for death, nor fear his might.

HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey.

EDUCATION THROUGH THE SENSES.1

[John Brown, M.D., F.R.S.E., born at Biggar,

Lanarkshire, September, 1810. He is a son of the late John Brown, D.D, the eminent Scottish divine and professor of theology in the United Presbyterian Church. Whilst labouring earnestly in the medical profession, Dr. Brown has rendered important services

to literature by his contributions to the North British Review and other periodicals. Rab and his Friends

the pathetic story of a dog's attachment to a humble couple who were kind to him-and other sketches of dog life and character, have obtained great and merited popularity. Hora Subseciva is a collection of Dr. Brown's principal essays and sketches. It is a delight

ful book, full of suggestive thought, leavened with true humour. Locke and Sydenham, with other professional papers; Jeems the Doorkeeper: The Enterkin; and Marjorie Fleming are the titles of other works by the same author.]

One of the chief sins of our time is hurry: it is helter-skelter, and devil take the hindmost. Off we go all too swift at starting, and we neither run so fast nor so far as we would have done had we taken it cannily at first. This is true of a boy as well as of a blood colt. Not only are boys and colts made to do the work and the running of full-grown men and horses, but they are hurried out of themselves and their now, and pushed into the middle of next week where nobody is wanting them, and beyond which they frequently never get.

The main duty of those who care for the young is to secure their wholesome, their entire growth, for health is just the develop ment of the whole nature in its due sequences and proportions: first the blade-then the ear -then, and not till then, the full corn in the ear; and thus, as Dr. Temple wisely says, "Not to forget wisdom in teaching know ledge." If the blade be forced, and usurp the capital it inherits; if it be robbed by you its guardian of its birthright, or squandered like a spendthrift, then there is not any ear, much less any corn; if the blade be blasted or dwarfed in our haste and greed for the full shock and its price, we spoil all three. It is not easy to keep this always before one's mind, that the young "idea" is in a young body, and that healthy growth and harmless passing of the

time are more to be cared for than what is

vainly called accomplishment. We are preparing him to run his race, and accomplish that which is one of his chief ends; but we are

too apt to start him off at his full speed, and

1 From Hore Subsecive, by John Brown, M.D., F.R.S.E. Edinburgh: Edmonston & Douglas.

he either bolts or breaks down-the worst thing for him generally being to win. In this way a child or boy should be regarded much more as a mean than as an end, and his cultivation should have reference to this; his mind, as old Montaigne said, should be forged, as well as indeed, I would say, rather than furnished, fed rather than filled,-two not always coincident conditions. Now exercise— the joy of interest, of origination, of activity, of excitement the play of the faculties,this is the true life of a boy, not the accumulation of mere words. Words the coin of thought-unless as the means of buying something else, are just as useless as other coin when it is hoarded; and it is as silly, and in the true sense as much the part and lot of a miser, to amass words for their own sakes, as to keep all your guineas in a stocking and never spend them, but be satisfied with every now and then looking greedily at them and making them chink. Therefore it is that I dislike-as indeed who doesn't?—the cramming system. The great thing with knowledge and the young is to secure that it shall be their own-that it be not merely external to their inner and real self, but shall go in succum et sanguinem; and therefore it is, that the self-teaching that a baby and a child give themselves remains with them for ever-it is of their essence, whereas what is given them ab extra, especially if it be received mechanically, without relish, and without any energizing of the entire nature, remains pitifully useless and wersh. Try, therefore, always to get the resident teacher inside the skin, and who is for ever giving his lessons, to help you and be on your side.

Now in children, as we all know, he works

chiefly through the senses. The quantity of accurate observation-of induction, and of deduction too (both of a much better quality than

most of Mr. Buckle's); of reasoning from the known to the unknown; of inferring; the nicety of appreciation of the like and the unlike, the common and the rare, the odd and the even; the skill of the rough and the smooth-of form, of appearance, of texture, of weight, of all the minute and deep philosophies of the touch and of the other senses, the amount of this sort of objective knowledge which every if he can play in the lap of nature and out of child of eight years has acquired especially doors and acquired for life, is, if we could only think of it, marvellous beyond any of our mightiest marches of intellect. Now, could we only get the knowledge of the school to go as sweetly, and deeply, and clearly into the

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