as he is but the second voice of his master, who, in his turn, knows an uncommon deal about sich things." "I have, I have," spoke the woman. And she went on and described to Brutus what the Jew had read by strange coincidence; and how up to the very instant of her return to his shop her mind had been full of it. But, beyond this, she had not time to say more, for the minute he heard about the small magazine, Mr. Brutus jumped up, adjourned to his shop, and coming back in an instant with a parcel delicately done up in silk paper, cleared a space on the table and laying it reverently down, opened it as if it held cloth of gold or some holy coat of Treves. She was still full of these thoughts when she reached" that you think of what Jack O'Flanagan said to night, the bird-fancier's. His shop was now shut up, saving the little half window in the door, through which she could see that Mr. Brutus, now alone, was seated in a small inner room, about six feet square which, nevertheless, had a bright fire, and was, altogether, as snug as a wren's nest A supper, consisting of a dish of saveloys, and bread and cheese, was cosily set forth, whilst the little old man, now adorned by a woollen night-cap, and comforted by a mug of ale, and his pipe on the hob, his "bird's nest," on a little three-cornered shelf, which just fitted it, was resting, after the daily labours of his aviary, in a capacious arm- | chair, and with his feet outstretched on the fender. When the woman had opened the shop-door, and closing it again, advanced towards Mr. Brutus's snug retreat, she was amazed to see her bird perched on the forefinger of his left hand, whilst, in his right, he held a "lady's finger," which the bird, aroused every instant or so by the shrill chirps of Brutus, drowsily pecked, and then relapsed into that position which very much bespoke a strong inclination to tuck its head up under its wing, and be off in a nap. 66 "Come, young woman," spoke Brutus, cheerfully, addressing the needlewoman, 'just come in here and rest a bit, and take a saveloy and a little ale, I want to talk to you uncommonly." So saying, he deposited the bird in its cage, and did the hospitable graces of his little cheerful fire-side with kindly eagerness. "I've taken an uncommon liking to the bird already," he continued, when he had placed a portion of his meal upon the needlewoman's plate, and poured her out some ale, "and think, with a little of my tuition, he'll do. But no more o' this, just now, for you look cold, and have walked far, I daresay." He watched her eat with cheerful goodness, his own meal being a mere pretext, and, when she looked less cold and hungry, he recommenced the conversation by asking her name. 'Lucy Dean," she said. 66 Lucy's an uncommon pretty name," he said, "one of my last autumn's hatch has that, so now what I mean to say is, this, as I've taken a mighty liking to the bird, and so has Mr. O'Flanagan, and that ain't common, for he's a special taste in my line, what do ye ask for it?" "There, this is it," he said, when he had taken from the midst of others, the number of the magazine the Jew had read. "I know every word on't, and so does O'Flanagan, and so does the Counsellor; only that O'Flanagan goes so far as to put'em under his pillow at night, as he likes, he says, to sleep on the thoughts o' this blissid little woman." "Woman?" and the bird-fancier's questioner repeated the word many times. Woman, yes," replied Brutus, enthusiastically, "and one as has done more to put a heart in things sich as this, than half the men in the country. Don't she? don't she?" he continued, as his voice ascended up the scale like the notes of a blackbird, "for doesn't she say, jist what the counsellor and O'Flanagan does, that charity will never heal woeful misery like yours, not if it be the charity of half a nation; for it is but lifting a bucket out of a big ocean. But that some must brave the perils of the ocean to these far lands, must lay aside the beggared needle and its lazy bread, must cook and bake, wash and iron, sweep the house and trim the garden, become mothers, and nurse their offspring into good men and women. And some of you must get money, and collect money in that country, and come back to this, and spread the knowledge wide and far that there are blessed lands in this wide world, for them as'll strive and work, and not cling to the pauperism o'the needle; as O'Flanagan says the counsellor says, because it's 'ginteel.' So strive a bit my woman, harm never yet come o'striving after a good pint." Mr. Brutus took here an "egg" from his "nest," and seemed refreshed thereby. "I would, I would, for I have a lion's heart," said Lucy, "Alas," spoke the woman, "little as I have left on earth, the bird is very precious to me, for if I only knew of certain bread, a hundred pounds wouldn't buy it, but as it is, it must go. Suppose then I say five shil-" if I knew how. But-" and she stopped suddenly as if lings-it's worth at least five pounds, but then you'd be kind, and would perhaps let me come in and look at it sometimes." "Five shillings would be useful, eh?" asked Brutus, evading her last question. "A fortune," she said. "Oh God, that such a sum, so small to many, should be so large to others, as to have hanging on its possession the threads of life and death." Even as she spoke Mr. Brutus crossed his right hand over the "bird's nest," opened it, took leisurely a pinch of snuff, then gently lifting up the "nest" itself, brought from under it a veritable crown-piece, which he placed on the table before the wondering needlewoman. "This is yours," he continued, "for my good friend O'Flanagan left it for you, as his master Counsellor Fortescue bids him take a pound's worth o' silver every now and then, and drop in a seed corn, whenever he can, in honest, profitable land. So this settled, I'll take Sweet, as I may say, and board, lodge, and edicate him gratis, not talking a word just at present about selling him, but hoping now you'll drop in a bit to see him sometimes, as he 'll have a deal o' cheerful company, and be all alive in spirits, and there's only one thing I'd ask in return, that is The woman looked up eagerly here, though the tears of many mingled feelings were flowing fleetly from their fountains, so that the bird-fancier continued, by saying at first startled by her own temerity, "but might not this rare one, who speaks so nobly from the depths of her woman's heart to her suffering sister woman, tell me how and what to do?" "I dare to say," replied Brutus, struck by the same idea too, "though I once heard a person say, as had seen one, that authors, in and out o'their books, are very different things; and one that might be excessively pleasant in his chapters, would be excessively grumpy out on'em. But if you'll jist wait, I'll step to my partic'lar friend, Noseby, the newsman, round the corner, and ask, for he goes as far as O'Flanagan, in his liking for the little woman, and'll tell you if any body can." ing, admirable Mr. Brutus tied on a mighty comfortable (a present, as he hinted, from a partic'lar nice lady), put on his hat, and departed; soon returning, with not only a copy of a magazine, with Mr. Noseby's respects, but also the precious document of a strip of paper, containing the needed address. So say "I assure you," spoke Brutus, "that Noseby made many inquiries before he'd give this here, sich is his weneration; and that was only after I'd twice told him that you was one o'the fair sex. For though he goes himself once a month, in his weneration to look outside the door, he'd die before he'd give up this little dockiment to any one as wore a hat. And now, Lucy Dean, as you must go, you must jist have a little drop to keep out the cold, that you must." So saying, Mr. Twiddlesing produced a punchy bottle from a narrow closet, like the case of a clock, and which was nailed up against the wall by the side of his brass warmingpan. From this he poured something very red and odorous, but which Lucy would not more than put to her lips. He then suffered her to go with, as he let her out at his shop door, "a God speed," and "that, come whenever she might, she was welcome, and Sweet should not only be duly groundselled, fresh watered, sanded, sugared, and lady-fingered, but also edicated in the ways of a gentleman." (To be continued in our next.) THE MOST VIVID IMPRESSION OF MY CHILDHOOD. FROM THE FRENCH OF J. N. BOUILLY. ALTHOUGH I was deprived of my father before I had seen the light of day, I experienced all a father's tenderness and care from the second husband of my mother. Vincent de Paul Bourgain, Counsellor of Parliament, and Professor of Philosophy in the Royal College of Tours, who was, in regard to me, what his illustrious patron had been to the young orphans of France. He directed my education, and took pleasure in being my private tutor in all From him I had none of those irksome lessons in which the master pedantically impresses the scholar with his superiority: no intimidating threats, no humiliating reproaches. He never forgot the beautiful maxim of Terence, "It is better to keep children in check by the sense of honour and kindness, than by the my studies. influence of fear."* I confided to him my thoughts, and all the desires of my soul. He became the asserter of my rights, which were encroached upon by powerful men, and, in one word, was my constant guide and benefactor during the first thirty-eight years of my life. I here only fulfil a sacred duty in consecrating to his memory the first lines of this work, and in depositing upon his tomb the public homage of my gratitude and respect. We possessed, about two leagues from the city of Tours, which was my native place, a country house, beautifully situated in the midst of woods and delightful meadows. In the fine days of spring I went thither, accompanied by my mother, and occupied my leisure moments with the study of natural history. I ran over, with Reaumur in my hand, all the profusion of plants and flowers which nature lavishes upon the beautiful garden of France. Among other things, I had formed a rich collection of butterflies and other insects. I made myself acquainted with their natural families, their affinities, and their various metamorphoses, and in that attractive study, I admired every day the astonishing reproduction of living beings, and the unbounded variety of nature. In one of my excursions, I discovered a nest of linnets in the middle of a clump of flowery hawthorn, the numerous branches of which, being tightly interlaced, rendered the entrance to the nest almost inaccessible. Nothing could be more enchanting than that pretty nook which usually contains a numerous family, and into which the mother alone has admission by a little hole which is always open on the south side, but which becomes, so to speak, imperceptible when the mother linnet has taken refuge among her little ones. I was scarcely ten years of age, and I had the desire, which was very natural at that age, to appropriate to myself that charming covey, with the hope of rearing the little birds under the wing of their mother. I seized, therefore, the favourable moment when she had stealthily glided into the nook which concealed her brood, carrying • Pudore et liberalitate liberos retinere satiùs esse credo quàm metu. in her beak a provision of grains and little worms; with cager hand I prevented her egress. I tore the nest from its attachments, and the thorns by which it was environed; and carefully tying it up in my handkerchief, that nothing might derange its symmetry, I carried it, intoxicated with delight, to my chamber. There, I covered with fresh herbage a large cage, of which some one had made me a present; I filled with clean water the leaden vessels with which it was provided. I strewed with fine sand the floor of the cage, and there I placed the treasure on which the smiling hopes of a young naturalist were founded. But very soon the linnet escaped from her nest, and fluttered over the whole extent of cage, crushing her wings against the bars. Her agitation was extreme, the feathers of her head stood on end. Spite, rage, and the despair of maternal love seemed to stream forth from her sparkling eyes. She would have liked, but she dared not, to dart upon the sacrilegious hand which uncovered the nest where lay her fourteen little ones, ranged in admirable order, stretching out their beaks, and raising plaintive cries. I contemplated, for a moment, that master-piece of nature, and desirous of putting an end to the tortures of the scared and affrighted mother I retired, convinced that she would feed her young during my absence. I shut the door of my chamber, in order that my dear prisoners might be sheltered from molestation, and I ran to inform my mother and my step-father of my happy discovery, and of the proud hope that I had of rearing that numerous family, which I intended to restore to liberty, when I should have studied at my leisure their growth, their habits, and the development of their nature. My step-father smiled at my project, and his approbation completed my joy. In the evening I re-entered my chamber. I raised cautiously the green sod with which I had covered the cage, and I perceived my linnet still fluttering about in alarm. and appearing to be in no wise occupied with her young ones, which seemed to call for food with more importunity than before. I imagined that it was my presence that disturbed my adopted family. I replaced the sod, and by-and-by I fell asleep to dream of my grand projects as a naturalist. Oh! what pleasure, when these fourteen little ones should have got strength to fly, to go and lay them down with their mother, amid the thickets that shaded the bottom of our garden, and there open the cage for them, from which they should take their flight, and disperse themselves over the neighbourhood. And when," said I to myself, "they return next spring, brought back to these groves by a tender recollection, and I shall listen, here and there, to the ravishing notes of a linnet, I shall exclaim to myself-that it is one of my dear little ones!" Never had I been rocked in more delicious dreams, never had I passed a night so sweetly and peacefully; but, however great the charms of sleep, when we taste the pleasures of self-complacency, sorrow often waits us on our waking. Scarcely did the sun dart his first rays through the window of my chamber, than I got up with precipitation. I advanced softly to the cage, I listened; not the slightest sound. I examined; not the slightest movement. Surprised and disquieted, I removed the veil which covered my numerous family, and I perceived the linnet with her wings extended over her little ones; her head drooped towards them; her beak was covered that mother, which the night before was so wild, changes with a viscid matter. I opened the door of the cage, and not her attitude. I softly advanced my hand. I touched her; the same immobility. At last I lifted her up,-she was dead, stiff, and icy-cold; but what confounded and harrowed up my feelings was to see the head of each of her little ones bruised and broken. The barbarous and unhappy mother had killed them all, one after the other, and sinking under her violent efforts and the most cruel anguish of nature, had paid for the horrible sacrifice with her life. long after the volume is closed, a chastened and salutary impression, which re-perusal will but strengthen and confirm. And graphic and life-like as are these characters, there is throughout the whole of this work the inexpressible charm of finished and eloquent writing, which is to literary composition, what tone and colour are to the Sister Art-painting. In the rounded period, in the full and harmonious sentence, the cultivated ear revels, as in the richest strains of music, and, to the fortunate possessor of such an organ, Caxton will unfold beauties, which, dimly recognised by the number, in the pleasurable flow of the language, will open a new field of study and selves students, know how to honour the master-effort of a master-mind, and by whom this work cannot fail to be appreciated as the gem of modern fiction. With nature for his groundwork, poetry and philosophy blend so skilfully with the common routine of daily existence; that when most charmed, the observant reader will find that it is not by forsaking the paths of probability the author has gained the great end of his art, nor by investing the reality with the distorted lines of romance, but by a deep and earnest insight into the heart of man, as it beats in the breast of every individual among us, that he gains from our sympathies and judgment, the recognition of "The Caxtons," as a true picture of the Human Family, instead of "a Family Picture," as modestly announced by Sir Edward Lytton. But to dwell longer on the merits of this great work is to deter our readers from confirming the opinion here given. Oh! what a keen impression that frightful spectacle made upon my mind! I could not, at first, turn away my eyes from it. But soon tottering, and in dismay, I raised a doleful cry, which resounded as far as the apart ment of my step-father. He ran up in alarm, imagining that I had suffered some severe injury. I wished to speak to him, and reassure him, but the violence of my emotion choked my voice. I burst into tears, and pointed to the cage. He understood it all. He was himself seized with astonishment; but, being accustomed to avail himself of the slightest opportunity of conveying to my mind what-honourable emulation to the comparative few, who, themever could tend to raise it to the level of his own, he took me in his arms, and said to me, with an expressive voice which even now I think I hear, You see, my dear child, the effects of captivity. That mother, which presents to you the image of the most atrocious barbarity, presents to me that of the heroism which is produced by the horror of slavery. Herself deprived of liberty, and without hope of its being restored to her, she wished to preserve her little ones from the frightful torture which she felt under these bars. Oh irresistible power of independence! if thou dost produce such an effect upon the feeblest of animals, what then shall be thy power over the being whom the Creator has endowed with supreme intelligence!" Upon these words, he made me promise never to lose the memory of that terrible but salutary lesson which I had received from nature, and recommended me to make use of it, in all the circumstances of my life. During thirty years, whether in the conversations which we held together, or in the letters which he wrote me, he never failed to remind me of my linnet. If I confided to him the earliest inclinations of a loving heart, the choice of an honourable profession, the project of a marriage which appeared to me advantageous, he always replied," Remember your linnet." When, flattered by my success in the world, and in the dramatic art, to which I devoted myself, he feared lest I should be so far dazzled with it as to attach myself to the car of some celebrated beauty, or of some great man of the day, he again repeated, "Remember your linnet." If my writings, diffused into the bosom of families, drew towards me the goodwill of princes, and exposed me to the intoxicating seduction which they exert upon those who surround them, he said, and with still stronger emphasis, member your linnet." And, finally, in his last moments, when, with faltering voice, he bade me the most touching and memorable farewell, he concluded it with these words, "Remember your linnet." Notices of New Works. The Caxtons are represented by two brothers, as it would appear, diametrically opposed in character and disposition, but in whom "a similarity and dissimilarity," is beautifully and artistically developed. The one a student and recluse, gentle and conciliatory, the other a soldier, full of pride and ambition: the one, rejoicing in his supposed descent from Caxton, the printer; the other insisting that Sir William De Caxton, who fought and fell at Bosworth, is the legitimate ancestor. Upon this subject, and upon one other trying occasion only, had the brothers, loving each other with a full and true hearted affection, ever disagreed. That occasion, the love of their youth for the same lady, whom both sued in vain, though one was loved in return, furnishes one of those powerful and admirable developRe- ments of character with which this work abounds. as a sketch is all which our limited space will allow, we must pass this over without further notice, as also much else worthy of especial note. The Caxtons; a Family Picture;-By SIR E. BULWER But The student brother subsequently marries a sweet and amiable woman, who, in due course of time, presents him with a son and heir, whose entrance into the world is a matter of deep mystery to the abstruse scholar, who appears to have passed from a single to a married state, in complete oblivion of the consequences it usually entails. A boy," said my father, looking up from his book, and evidently much puzzled; "what is a boy? "Lord, Sir!" said Mrs. Primmins, the nurse, "what is a boy? why, the baby!" "The baby!" repeated my father, rising. "What you don't mean to say that Mrs. Caxton is-de"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Primmins, dropping a curtsey; "and as fine a little rogue as ever I set eyes upon." "Poor dear woman," said my father, with great compassion. "So soon too-so rapidly," he resumed, in a tone of musing surprise. Why, it is but the other day we were married! SINCE the days of Pelham, often as this great Master of Romance has delighted myriads of readers, and charmed hosts of critics and literati, no work has issued from his hands, so fraught with ripened observation and thought, as the one before us. From the first page to the last it holds up a mirror of nature. Not diving into the recesses of romance for melodramatic effects, wherein, if we recognise nature at all, we find it under such multiplied forms of exaggeration, as all but obscure the original, but dealing with the raw and hardy material of life as we meet it in the busy throngs of our cities, or seek it in some sylvan glade, dedicated to the no less busy labours of the mind; the characters he evokes before us are firm "Ten months," said my father, with a sigh. "Ten and substantial impersonations, in whose trials and temp-months, and I have not finished fifty pages of my tations we can heartily sympathize, whose joys and refutation of Wolfe's monstrous theory! In ten months sorrows find their reflection in our own minds, whose a child! and I'll be bound complete-hands, feet, eyes, experiences come home to our own bosoms, leaving, ears, and nose; and not like this poor infant of mind, "Bless my heart, sir, said Mrs. Primmins, much scandalized, "it is ten months and more." (and my father pathetically placed his hand on the treatise,) of which nothing is formed and shaped-not even the first joint of the little finger! Why, my wife is a precious woman! Well, keep him quiet. Heaven preserve her, and send me strength to support this blessing." "But your honour will look at the baby; come, Sir?" and Mrs. Primmins laid hold of my father's sleeve, coaxingly. "Look at it-to be sure," said my father, kindly; "look at it, certainly; it is but fair to poor Mrs. Caxton; after taking so much trouble, dear soul." Therewith my father, drawing his dressing robe round him in more stately folds, followed Mrs. Primmins up stairs, into a room very carefully darkened." The young Caxton passed through the usual stages of an only child, the home pet, (spoiled by the mother, and but seldom reproved by the father, whose awakening perceptions of a parent's duty, are, in this instance, most beautifully developed,) the school boy, till, finally, the day arrives when he leaves "boyhood and school for ever." "That is a very strange crisis in our life, when we come home for good.' Home seems a different thing; before, one has been but a sort of guest, after all-only welcomed and indulged, and little festivities held in honour of the released and happy child. But to come home for good—to have done with school and boyhoodis to be a guest, a child, no more. It is to share the every-day life of cares and duties-it is to enter into the confidence of home." In that home he finds, temporarily gathered together besides his father and mother, his mother's brother, uncle Jack, a sanguine speculator, whom we all know, and his "father's brother, Captain De Caxton." "His brother," said I. "Have I then, an Uncle Caxton, as well as an Uncle Jack?" "Yes, my love," said my mother. And then she added, "your father and he were not such friends as they ought to have been, and the captain has been abroad. However, thank heaven, they are now quite reconciled." And Mr. Squills, the family medical adviser and friend. Over a friendly bowl of punch, honour becomes the theme. To the proud soldier honour is embodied in the Waterloo medal at his breast. Honour, pursued the Captain, is the reward of a soldier. What do I care that a young jackanapes buys his colonelcy over my head? Sir, he does not buy from me my wounds and my services; Sir, he does not buy from me the medal I won at Waterloo. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man; he is called a colonel, because he paid money for the name. That pleases him, well and good. It would not please me; I had rather remain a captain, and feel my dignity-not in my title, but in the services of my three-and-twenty years. A beggarly, rascally association of stock-brokers, for aught I know, buy me a company! I don't want to be uncivil, or I would say, damn 'em, Mr. Sir Jack!" A sort of thrill ran through the captain's audience-even uncle Jack looked touched, as I thought, for he stared very hard at the grim veteran, and said nothing. The pause was awkward, Mr. Squills broke it. “I should like, quoth he, to see your Waterloo medal-you have not it about you?" "Mr. Squills," answered the captain, "it lies next to my heart while I live. It shall be buried in my coffin, and I shall rise with it, at the word of command, on the day of the Grand Review." So saying, the captain leisurely unbuttoned his coat, and, detaching from a piece of striped ribbon, as ugly a specimen of the art of the silversmith, (begging its pardon,) as ever rewarded merit at the expense of taste, placed the medal on the table. As the story progresses, full of home lights and shadows, Uncle Jack persuades the passive student, through love for a great work he has on hand, "The History of Human Error," to join a new and pet speculation, "The Great Anti-Bookseller Publishing Society," in the which, as in all cabals against existing powers, ruin falls upon him. It is at this crisis, that the virtues and vices of all concerned are thrown into strong relief, where the stoical soldier, stoical while his own sufferings only were in question, stands out in bold and bright proportions. With the tenderness of a parent bird, he gathers his family beneath the shelter of a ruined castle, which he has mortgaged his property to purchase, in veneration of his chivalrous ancestor, Sir William De Caxton, to whom it had originally belonged, and where the soldier's young daughter, the fruit of a foreign and unhappy marriage, is the presiding genius. Then follows a long and painful history, which we will not wrong the author and reader by transcribing. It is powerfully drawn, and with no less truth and reality than power. And after that comes life in Australia, as vividly sketched as though Sir Edward had himself visited the scenes his pen describes, and the final restitution of peace and happiness, not after the approved fashion of novelists, who lead their heroes and heroines through troubles and perplexities to the heights of terrestrial bliss; but as we find peace and happiness in life, the result of long and painful struggles, with ourselves, no less than with the outward causes of our woe, the traces of which live for ever, but impart resignation and faith, where despair and regret once ruled omnipotent. ADVICE TO THE LADIES. SECOND LETTER. IN this, my second letter, in which I intend sowing my observations at broadcast, much as I did in my last, be good enough, reader, to suppose that you and I are a newly-married couple. It will excuse my unreserve and plain-speaking; and the obligation only lasts while the letter is reading, you know; you understand the position thoroughly, do you? We (in the spirit, that is) have been courting some long time. I have pressed upon your acceptance one or two " very gorgeous silk dresses at 21 guineas, worth 5 guineas;" and "rich watered mantles at 35s., not to be matched under 60s. ;" you, in your turn, have penned me not a few of the delightfullest gumwafered billets doux. To the accurate diagnosis of our malady, by our mutual relations, has succeeded the application of the remedy by the priest. That service, of which it has been happily remarked that it begins with "Dearly beloved," and ends with "amazement," has been concluded over us. Another John at Runnymede, I have signed away my bachelor liberties in the vestry (in which I have thoughtfully ordered a fire, though it is July)—the clergyman has been shaken hands withyou have taken an affecting leave of your family-à-la Charles I, on the eve of execution-we have been whisked away, a merry peal sounding the while, to the scene of our month's furlough from active life-the honeymoon is upthe raree show of the "at home" (I suppose I have not been able to reason you out of that) has been got over— and we are sitting (still in the spirit, you know) as lovingly as le Tasse et la Princesse Eléonore in the Berlin-wool shop windows, talking on that exhaustless topic, ourselves and our plans. We are sitting in the parlour, which we don't call the drawing-room. I have no particular fancies about furniture, except that I don't like a plurality of lookingglasses, or ornamented ceilings, and hold in detestation a compromise between a fire and no fire which obtains in some households under the name of a "pail," and which I am given to understand saves fuel and housemaids' labour. With your permission we won't begin housekeeping by "pail"ing our ineffectual fires. I am very intolerant too of registered, patent, and improved articles generally; I hope you will not be soliciting me to buy you the greatest novelty in what-nots that is so much advertised, or the classically-named weight to keep the door fast that you saw at Mrs. So-and-So's. I am sure you will not deck out our tables either with rosewood cardstands, as if we needed a postal directory of our visitors always before our eyes, or with expensively-bound diamond classics, four inches by three, as if nonpareil was the right type to read the best English authors in. There is only one room in our house which I wish reserved for my exclusive use; I grant you all the rest as reception-rooms for company, stores, or lumber, with pleasure. This one rooma sort of study, or what is generally understood by the term-I should not like to have a clothes-press, cupboard, or chest-of-drawers, in it; to overlook the garden (I like a large, wild, rambling garden in preference to the usual box-trimmed, smooth-shaven slips of plantation of modern times); to be furnished with just a fire-place, a sofa, a couple of chairs, a few book-shelves, smoking conveniences, and a large wicker-basket for papers. I know you are not what is called "a very active woman," that is, twice or oftener in the course of the year you don't, on principle, denude the floors, and dismantle the furniture; and, during the three terrible days or so of the operations being in hand, are not caught glimpses of as an inspired Pythoness, or heard pouring out comminations like another Emilia. No: you will not find the perquisition after cobwebs and the society of charwomen sufficiently attractive to make you unnecessarily seek for occasions of either. I feel sure that, under your surveillance, all the house matters will run as smoothly as the course of true love is said never to do; and that if at any time the "the fast answers" of a general servant, of the errors of a laundress should ruffle you, at least you will never deem either of sufficient importance to be narrated to me. By-the-by, too, talking of general servants, there is a sort of generalissimo servant I have at times met with that we must not on any account have; I mean one that is privileged by long service, or an acquaintance established with either of us when we were little chits, to make very free and be very garrulous: a sort of nurse in "Romeo and Juliet," or Adam Winterton in the " Iron Chest." We shall be quite good company enough for ourselves, I think, without making a third in a privileged domestic. And this last observation reminds me of something I have to say on the terms of our companionship. In some households-and they may be happy ones enough, for aught I know to the contrary-it is the custom for the husband to recapitulate, in his vacant evenings to his wife and his domestic circle generally, his day's business engagements; in point of fact, so to speak, snail-like to carry the shop home on his back for his family's instruction and amusement. Now I am very averse to this myself. If you'll believe me, I could well do without business as business at all, did I not need to follow it-would the fairy that in the story-books sorts out the entangled shades of wool for the oppressed princess keep my stock and sell my goods for me. As that cannot be, I at least calculate on the scales falling from my eyes, and the lead weights being no longer an incubus on me out of business. I don't appear in private life with a tape-measure round my neck, or a pen behind my ear: why then should I babble of " good parcels," "heavy fourths," or "satisfactory references," in leisure hours. I would willingly find higher occupation for them; sometimes con other volumes than even cash-books. As the doctor or lawyer, I forget which, drew the distinction between living by fools and being a fool one's self, I think I could live by without living for trade only. You are too domestic, I am sure, to be fond of dress to excess; you will not need to be constantly receiving dressmaking deputations, or to be closeted with them for hours and hours, with as much pomp and circumstance as interviews granted at the Home Office. And I can predicate with equal certainty that you will be more worthily engaged than in noticing our neighbours' concerns; that you will not stigmatize any of them as "plebeian looking," or "vulgarly strong;" or argue their being coarse-minded from their using gas and crimson window-curtains. Still less will you, unless a purchase is to be made, gratify an idle curiosity by availing yourself of this or that of your deceased or bankrupt neighbours' effects being on view, and his house open to intrusion. Nor will your charities be public: your name will not appear on Ladies' Committees, nor as strongly recommending (in print,) and thankfully receiving proxies for this or that deserving case. will not pester the donors and subscribers to benevolent societies with requests for votes and interest; nor worry your circle of acquaintance with personal appeals. No; you will instead avail yourself of such means of usefulness to your poorer neighbours as lie within your reach. You We shall have parties now and then, of course we shall, and I trust you will make them honest, and above-board affairs: social re-unions of friends, not glittering assemblages of plate. I am convinced you will exhibit no awkward consciousness of any short coming or inferiority in our domestic arrangements, should any be apparent. I don't know what your tastes and pursuits are: whether you keep an album, or a volumed collection of dried sea-weeds; whether, like my acquaintance, Miss Poorhoney, you delight in the construction of models of houses and churches, (not on any account to be confounded with doll-houses,) with tall windows and painted fronts, or whether like another, Miss Dotterel, you plume yourself on an ability to "take off," after having once seen, any person to whom you are introduced, with such fidelity in manner, voice, and gesture, as to delight all hearers. On second thoughts, though, I am sure you are not like either of these. It was only the other day that I heard Miss Poorhoney, on the question being raised as to the surname of the present Archbishop of Canterbury, suggest as to "whether it was not Cantuar?” Among all the thousand and one pursuits and branches of study open to your engagement in, I know of none that you can favour with so sublimating and spiritualizing an effect on yourself as literary study. I am sure you read well: that is slowly, not as great a hand as Othello at fighting your way through stops; and earnestly, not mincingly or fantastically. A good reader aloud is worth a dozen backgammon boards or whist tables, for making a long evening short. Let me recommend you to abjure a practice common with the sex: don't read, or more correctly don't fancy you are reading, and work at the same time. Put down the stocking for the book, or vice versa: but don't attempt them both together: now a sentence, now a stitch. Do not pencil marginal comments either on the books you read: it savours very much of the essentially English practice of leaving marks of love, by defacements in writing or carving on whatever they come in contact with. Besides it is a thousand to one you do not write equal to the author. I seem to have said all I had to say, except reminding you that every thread you bite vou shorten the lease of your teeth, and that every pin you put between your lips you stick a whole paper of short whites into me. I have done. Farewell, for the present, my "bachelor's wife." TYRANNY AND INSOLENCE. Tyranny is an exuberance of pride, by which all mankind are so much enraged, that it is never quietly endured, except by those who can reward the patience which they exact; and insolence is generally surrounded only by such whose baseness inclines them to think nothing insupportable that produces gain, and who can laugh at scurrility and rudeness with a luxurious table and an open purse. |