folly, when the people's voice had already pronounced his dismissal.

་

"The Servians,' observed to Mr. Paton the Natchalnick (Director) of Kruslevatz, are laborious, grateful, and obedient; they bear ill-usage for a time, but, in the end, get impatient, and are with difficulty appeased.' When I, or any other governor, say to one of the people, brother, this, or this, must be done,' he crosses his hands on his breast, and says, 'it shall be done;' but he takes particular notice of what I do, and whether I perform what is due on my part. If I fail, woe betide me! The Obrenovitsch party forgot this—hence their fall!"

The tyranny of Milosch has been defended on the plea of its necessity under the circumstances in which he arrived at power; and, perhaps, for the earlier period of his administration, while the ebullition of the popular passions naturally attendant on such events was still unsubsided, a plea of this kind may have its weight. But the prolongation of that tyrranny is fatal to the defence; and, after all, the judgment pronounced upon the matter by the general sense of the Servian nation, must remain incontrovertible.

The characters of Milosch and Kara Georg, are, in many respects, antithetical. Had they come together after ambition had been awakened in the breast of the former, a collision would, probably, have been inevitable, although there can be little doubt, that if such a meeting were to have taken place before the adventitious elevation of the Obrenovitsch, the master genius of Kara Georg would have taken its superior level unquestioned. They never met—the ambitious man felt that his greatest enemy would be the patriotic man, and did not hesitate in choosing the means to clear his path of that obstruction. It is a black history.

Professor

"Kara Georg,' says Ranke, had only left his country in the hope of returning to it under happier auspices; and when he received letters from Servia, entreating his presence there again, he did not hesitate long. Reaching the boundaries without a passport, he induced the ferryman, by a handsome present, to set him across the Save, and hastened to join Wuiza, by whom he had been most pressingly invited, in Smedervo. Here all his talk was of another rising, which would, he said, be supported by a similar outbreak in the Morea. He sent Milosch an invitation to join him in this scheme, and re-commence the war immediately. But it was no part of Milosch's policy to attach himself to a movement, the success of which rested on such remote combinations; still less did he wish to see the influence of the old leader, by whose side his own could not subsist a moment, again establish itself in the country. He did not hesitate to give the Pasha notice of the arrival of Kara

Georg in Servia. The Pasha represented to him the danger which lay in such revolt, inasmuch as the Sultan would, doubtless, immediately dispatch a fresh army into the land, and retract the concessions of the existing status; and summoned him, at the same time, to send him the head of his illustrious countryman. Hereupon, Milosch caused the following brief mandate to be conveyed to Wuiza: Either the head of Black Georg, or thine own;' strengthening its effect by repeating the same a couple of days after. Kara Georg soon became aware of the danger into which he had flung himself, but escape was impossible, compassion was out of the question. One day, having dropt asleep after long and anxious watchings, he was murdered by one of Wuiza's Monkhas. How much better had it been for Servia, and, since there is a happiness even in death, how much happier had it been for himself, had he but fallen, sword in hand, in the last fort which had held out against the Turks! As it was, he fell by the band of his own countrymen, at the command of their oppressors, one of the first victims of the new movements of which Europe was about to be the theatre !"

H. W. H.

STREAMING in through the window of his shabby parlour there came a flood of the golden light of a June sunset over the lean face of Doctor John Foy -golden light; but the poor physician just at that moment possessed not one guinea-not even one coin of the hard gold of this world's idolatry.

He was not one of those who worship the great idol wealth, our earth's present master-the one universal ruler, which in place of being overthrown like the fancied gods of heathen times, before the new influences of the advancing life of the world, grows still in power, and was never more mighty than now in our meri dian time of civilisation. John Foy was naturally uncovetous of money to a great degree; and it was only his hard fate that made money matters ever present in his existence. He saw nothing but the want of money in all things around him; he heard nothing but the cry for it ever and ever through the whole day.

He was sitting listlessly in an old arm-chair, the covering of which proclaimed, by many open intimations, that it was fairly worn out. Every other article of furniture in the room was getting rapidly into a bad condition_ not perhaps in an incurable state, had there been the medicine of money at hand, but of all medicines the poor doctor could not compound this. The doctor himself was in the most deplorable state of all; for, being a tall and large-boned man, with large features, the state of pitiable leanness to which he was reduced showed the more palpably; his face was very pale, and mildly and meekly melancholy; a most miserable resignation was its general expression, but at times there was a quivering of the lips, and a gleaming, startling fire in the eyes which betokened that there were yet powerful passions within. Now, as he looked around on the old worn carpet and tattered paper hangings on the wall, and the aged, tremulous centre table, with its deplorable cover, and the rent chintz window hangings which Mrs.

Foy seemed at last to have given over in the mending way, as he might do some hopeless patient, his whole face suddenly expressed deep emotion. He bent his head and fixed his eyes on the thread-bare sleeve of his black coat. Then some sudden light of his early hopes started up in his memory, in terrible contrast with the present gloomy desert of his middle life, and a strong rising of energy bid him strive, struggle, wrestle for success, and upbraided him sorely with wasting his life there, starving in a miserable country town in Ireland, when the wide world was open, and hundreds had risen by their own exertions from frightful situations such as his, and created independence and happiness. for themselves in the very face of an apparent doom.

He resolved that he would make energetic efforts; his energies had certainly grown weak and cold, but they were not yet dead. It was time, indeed, that he should try any expedient, for at this very moment he counted not even one paying patient. He had resided fifteen or sixteen years in the town, and having obtained some practice at first, he had lingered on, though of late, owing to different causes, he could hardly have been in a more hopeless location. Thereone cause of his fallen position appeared. Furious driving was heard; a gig whirled rapidly past the window, and there sat Doctor Foy's most successful rival. The young, handsome, and popular physician turned his bright face, as if mockingly, to the window where sat his unemployed starving senior. It was but a passing glimpse, for the popular physician seemed in urgent headlong haste to the sick bed of some rich individual, doubtless who could give weighty fees for even one hope of protracted life. John Foy caught only one look, but well did he see the new handsome little equipage; the young valuable horse, with his shining sides; the superfine broadcloth, aud the healthy buoyant face of the young

physician himself. He covered his own face with his hands. How could

that thin, worn visage, which mental suffering had so deeply stamped as if with the impress of confirmed ill health, be put for a moment in competition with the sanguine countenance of his rival: would not all sick men and women look with more of confidence on the palpable health displayed so undeniably in that young physician's physiognomy, as it hovered over their diseased forms, and draw a kind of hope from its very brightness, and place infinitely more faith in his prescriptions than in those of a poor wretch whose own body plainly showed the inefficiency of his art for himself.

But the shrill, sorrowful voice of Mrs. Foy sounded in his ears; she was addressing something to his four riotous young sons, who had just rushed into the house from school, and were doubtless very hungry, for they were always so. Just then Mrs. Foy entered.

She had a remarkably thin face, the hollows beneath the eyes were very hollow and strongly marked, and the lines of sorrow from the corners of the mouth were deeply indeed traced; there was a restless wandering look in her pale gray eyes, indicating that the mind was perhaps tried beyond its strength; her dress was poor and much worn, and put on in that careless manner as to effect which tells of sorrow-the sorrow that induces sloth. As Doctor Foy glanced on her, the old times suddenly came before him, when she was plump and pretty, with a sweet smile, and a soft voice, and tasteful arrangement of dress. Alas, for the changing works of poverty-he could hardly keep back his tears.

"I want some money; have you got any money now, John Foy?"

The doctor's lower lip quivered a silent answer.

"Have you any money-any money?" "Money-God help you, Mrs. Foy," he muttered abstractedly.

66

Ay, money, Doctor Foy. There are eight of us; we are starvingstarving-nothing in the house-no, not in the whole house even one crust of bread, and your four boys so young and so hungry-I must have money!"

"I have nothing; get bread on credit."

"Credit-credit" the calm-like despair passed from her face, and her VOL. XXVII.-No. 158.

do

do

cold eyes flashed "can we get credit?— you know the bills they all have?you dream of how they are ever to be paid-ever by us in this world ?— and that debt-that twenty-five pounds -Brown will come for it again this very day I have dreamed it-all last night they were here-one, two-many -many-and there was an execution in the house, and this poor furniture was marked for public sale, but it was nothing in the way of satisfying the crowd of debts-nothing!"

John Foy writhed miserably in his chair. He was a man of deep feelings -the deepest feelings; the unsuccessful are always so.

"Borrow some shillings from Mrs. Simpson-she is a charitable person; I may repay it shortly-I have plans.' Mrs. Foy looked steadily on his face for a moment.

"John Foy, listen to me: I have struggled I have made weary efforts for a very existence of late-I have eaten scanty meals, and often gone without food almost for days, in order that the poor young children might not feel hunger, but I cannot do this always, nor can I borrow money to add to the great mountain of debts which lies on my heart, and which I know we can never pay; all I can do now is to starve-yes, we can all starve."

She folded her arms and stood silent and immovable.

There was a pause of some moments, during which Mrs. Foy's eyes settled on the doctor's face with a strange and fearful look, seeming in his excited imagination as if she almost expected him to coin his very flesh and bones into money for her sake. He became much alarmed, for he believed he saw incipient madness in that look. He rose and took her hand, and spoke kind words, and uttered hopeful expressions, telling her of the efforts he would make, such as he had never before tried; still she made no answer, neither lips nor eyes moved; there was nothing but the cold, fixed gaze of unutterable feeling, over which there hangs the shading cloud of approaching

madness.

"Margaret, Margaret, only speak," he cried, in much terror; "tell me of Maria; has she any appetite for tea, poor thing? I have not seen her for the last hour."

He was alluding to his eldest daughter, who had been for some time ill of a lingering malady produced by mental causes. The mention of the sick child to the mother had the effect which he wished, of making her speak.

"Poor Maria, she wished for some lemonade, she was so thirsty, but it seems that there is not one penny-no, not one single penny in this wretched house."

The doctor mechanically drew out a much-worn purse; he shook itentirely empty; he searched all his pockets successively-no, not one coin of any description; he pressed his hand over his brow and looked miserably on the gray-coloured, corpse-like face of his wife, and then gazed upwards as if he too was all but distracted. Suddenly he turned round as if some new thought had struck him; he went hastily out to the hall, and paused beside an old coat which he had not worn much of late, and which had been accidentally left there. He remembered a concealed pocket in which he had once been in the habit of keeping loose cash some years before, when he was a richer and younger man, and he would search it now-there might be even one sixpence.

Gold and silver-wonderful, enchanting things! A thrill went through the whole frame of the poor doctor, making his heavy heart bound lightly like joy and youth, and his cold, slow blood rush for the moment merrily through his veins, as his fingers felt the blessed touch of precious metal; he drew forth a half-crown.

In all the many places, from the palace to the cabin, through which money circulates like the life current of the world, rarely has the presence of one little solitary half-crown brought more of gladness with it. It was an old coin, and had doubtless travelled greatly through the earth, and seen much of life, but surely in no place had it ever been greeted with a more grateful welcome. John Foy held it in his hand, and looking upwards, a faintly audible "thank God" passed over his lips, and then he placed the small precious piece of money in the hand of his wife.

"Margaret," he said, "take this as an omen of better things; we shall be richer presently; I have strange and

I saw a

delightful presentiments. vision of wealth pass before my eyes as I sat here half dreaming, and I thought I was pouring quantities of rich gold pieces into your lap; perhaps my rich cousin is going to pity us at last, though he has been so unkind. Now give me a smile-always smile and always trust in God."

A beautiful though momentary smile did pass over Mrs. Foy's lips, and though it did not reach her eyes, yet it delighted the very soul of her husband, for it brought back so strongly her happy girlhood.

Mrs. Foy had only just left the room when a loud and imperious knock was heard a knock telling in every intonation that the person who gave it took airs enough of superiority. The door was opened by the one small servant, and Mr. Marcus Brown, a flourishing tanner of the town of I, was ushered into the room. No spectre risen from the grave would have appalled the sorrowful soul of the desponding doctor so much as did the round, broad, fleshy face, and the corpulent figure of the rich tanner, who, refusing the somewhat tremulously proffered chair, stood, and fixed his eyes sternly on the depressed face of the master of the house. They were sharp, and cruel dark grey eyes, those of the wealthy tanner, and did not at all correspond with the otherwise jolly character of his whole person. The poor doctor saw only one thing in them-he read, as if plainly labelled there, the appalling words-" twentyfive pounds"-owing twenty-five pounds, which must at last be paid— which can be put off no longer.

"You know my errand, Dr. Foy," said the tanner, in a gruff voice, the exact reverse of his usual business tones, when some customer was to be secured.

The doctor merely nodded. He would have spoken; but the word died in a tremulous motion of the under lip.

"How long is it, doctor, since you promised most solemnly that this debt should be paid?”

"It is too long, Mr. Brown; I am well aware of it. God only knows how I have wished to pay you; but it was impossible."

didn't you find it impossible to borrow, too?"

"We were almost starving. Human nature cannot bear that; and so I borrowed; but you shall be paid. Only wait a little longer, and I shall certainly find the means of doing it."

"A little longer!" sneered the tanner. "So you will be saying this day seven years, if I do not take prompt measures. Mr. Murphy, the grocer, won't wait long; and neither will the butcher. If I don't get before them, it's but little will be coming the road of Marcus Brown, I'm thinking."

So saying, he turned in his chair, and took a leisurely and inquisitorial view of the furniture, as if calculating how much it would draw at a public sale.

"You will not ruin me for this

small sum. No; you will remember how long we have been intimate friends. You have neither wife nor child-you are rich-you will give me yet a little longer time."

He spoke with calm firmness; but his face was ghastly pale.

"I'm only asking my own; there's no harm in that; don't talk of my ruining you. But it's always the way. Lend a man a sum, and you're his enemy, if you only offer to ask for your own. Catch me lending five shillings again. No; it's not myself would, if my own brother asked it. I tell you, Doctor Foy, I must be paid and immediately."

"Do you require the money? No -you have no necessity for ready cash. You are a rich man. You are not obliged to waste every hour in the degrading thoughts of planning how the necessities of the next are to be supplied. For this, Marcus Brown, you should return deep, deep thanks to God."

"I'm not a poor man," the tanner said, with an air of proud dignity"I'm not poor, I'm thinking. I leave that to your low professional mendoctors, and clergymen, and such like. Tanners are never poor. Thank God, I belong to such a money-making class."

"Then you will allow me a few weeks longer to settle this account?

66 A few weeks. How would you pay it then either, I'd like to know?

Will all the people of S― be falling sick, and calling you in, Doctor Foy?"

The rich tanner laughed at his joke. Yes, the rich man laughed merrily, until his well-clothed sides shook; whilst the poor one sat, and silently listened, and expressed none of the feelings of contempt which were within him, and which were restrained more by Christian forbearance, than by any servile fear of his insulting creditor; but that hard, cold laugh touched all the bitter sensibilities of the povertyworn man, as if sharp instruments of torture were lacerating the naked flesh of his heart.

It was at last arranged, though with much difficulty on the doctor's side, that the twenty-five pounds should be most assuredly paid within a week; or if not, the strongest measures might be expected to be taken. The rich tanner rose, and with much grumbling for even this short delay, departed.

As the doctor raised his hoary head, and glanced listlessly once more from the window, he perceived a wellknown livery: it was that of the footman of Colonel Moxton, a rich man, who was his cousin in the second degree. The footman advanced to the door, and knocked. The knock brought no hope to the desponding mind of the poor physician, for he was in one of those moods when only despair is dominant, and hope seems far away in its own bright clouds, never to shine over this one sorrowful being's life-path more. It was not until he had perused every word of the note which was handed to him, that he arose, and looked around, and felt as if his soul was escaping from the imprisonment of some black dream, and that there was even a prospect of bright things opened. The note was as follows:

"DEAR SIR-My uncle, Colonel Moxton, is very ill, and having at last got over his repugnance to your professional services-a repugnance which he extends, in a great degree, to the whole faculty-he has directed that you should be called in. I am sorry that I have had few opportunities of seeing you since I came to this country. you are the nearest relation of my uncle now in Ireland, I should have much pleasure in cultivating your society; but you know the strange na

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