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 in his right mind, and, in much alarm, sent for a physician.

The doctor looked grave on seeing the sick min, and said that he was threatened with typhoid fever, and the words struck a cold terror into the heart of Rosaline Nichols.

Two weeks had passed, passed amid fluctuations of hope and fear, such as the anxious watchers by the bedside of that terrible fever can best understand. For most of the time, Mr. Nichols seemed in a state of stupor, although he had occasional seasons of wakefulness, and rare lucid intervals. His wife had watched most tenderly over him night and day, until the bloom had left her check, and the light was quenched in her blue eyes.

Memory and remorse had been very busy in the heart of the young wife, and she had made many blessed resolves for the time when Hugh should be well again: and then, once in a while, a thought would rush across her soul, a thought »o terrible that it seemed to palsy both heart and brain, and she would moan out wildly, “Oh! God, not that—spare him! spare him!”

But at the end of two weeks there was no abatement of the fever, and all perceived, what the young woman would not admit, that the suf¬ ferer was rapidly failing. A consultation of doctors was held that evening: and when they had all left, the old family physician sent for Mrs. Nichols to tell her the result.

She entered the room with so much eager anxiety in her eyes, and with such a worn, white face, and the bright golden hair put away in heavy wrinkles from the smooth forehead, that, looking on her, the old man was strangely touched.

“Now, doctor, what do they all think of my husband—that he will be better very soon?” She asked the question with touching childish eagerness.

“My dear child,” said the old man, “it grieves my heart to tell you; but—”

She understood him, and a shriek burst from her lips that rang through the house, and stirred the stupor of the dying man; then she stood still, white and paralyzed.

“Oh! Hugh, I can’t let you go, I can’t!” murmured the stricken wife, as, an hour later, she stood by her husband’s bedside. “You’ve been such a good, kind, tender husband to me; you've petted, and watched over, and cared for my lightest wish: and how can I live without you now? Do get well, Hugh, so that I can show you how sorry I am that I’ve not made a better wife; that I’ve been so careless, and cruel, and so indifferent to all your kindness. Oh! Hugh, don’t die and leave your Rosie!” and so, parting away the damp hair in his dying hour, as she had never done in his living ones, Rosaline Nichols made her cry over her husband. Alas! alas! how many such vain cries have been made over dying bedsides; but the guest that, sooner or later, crosses every threshold, was entering, and all his wealth would not buy back one hour of life to Hugh Nichols.

Once he opened his eyes, and smiled faintly on his wife. She put her arms around his neck, and begged him not to leave her, with words that showered the cheeks of every listener with tears. A look of agony came over his face; and the clergyman, who stood by, bowed himself in prayer, and the dying man’s eyes softened as he heard Mm, and there was faith and hope in his face, as he looked upward; but just as the prayer closed, the soul of Hugh Nichols went down to the river—the river where all life flows unto death. Oh! blessed be God, the river over which all true life passes to the shores of eternal rest.

A year and a half had passed. It was a beautiful evening in the early May. The stars filled the sky with their illuminated lettering, and the young moon laid her golden sickle on the azure sky. The apple trees, clothed with white blossoms, looked like tents pitched in the distance, and the winds sent up sweet, fresh fragrance from the woods. Mrs. Nichols’ parlor was lighted that evening almost for the first time since her husband’s death, and on a divan in one of the alcoves, sat Ruel Wylie and Mrs. Nichols. She looked very beautiful in her half mourning, and there was a soft flush on the lady’s cheek that reminded her companion of the days of his early wooing: and although nine years lay between that time and this, the bloom there now was fair as it was then.

“How beautiful the moon is tonight! and she looks in upon us with her old smile. Ah! Rosaline, have you forgotten that night under the willow?”

“I have not forgotten it,” echoed the soft, fluttering voice of the lady.

“And now, Rosaline, my heart must speak the secret it has held so long and heavily. Believe me, that young love was the love of my life, and though I have met many women, beautiful, accomplished and high-born, yet none of them has ever taken the place of the little girl who laid her golden head on my breast under the    apple boughs that night. And, Rosaline, tell me if this long, silent affection does not now deserve some recompense?”

And so with such tender, poetic words, as ever win the hearts of the daughters of men, he won


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 132

NOT SATISFIED.

the beautiful widow; though for a year after her husband’s death she had mourned him sincerely, and resolved in her soul never, never to wear any name but his!

Once, it is true, a thought of him came darkly over her new happiness that night.

“Oh, Ruel!” exclaimed the impulsive little woman, with the tears bubbling into her blue eyes, “what would Hugh say if he knew this?” And Ruel soothed and comforted her, as the living love can comfort for the dead one.

And somewhat after this fashion were the young lover’s thoughts that night, as he rode home through the still country.

“Well, I’m a happy man anyhow, this night. I shall have one of the handsomest wives in  Christendom, and that’s worth a great deal to a   man that values beauty as much as I do. And I always did think more of Rosaline—bless her dear, little soul! than of any other woman, and if I don’t do all 1 can to make her happy I shall be a great scamp.

“Then what a ‘snug nest’ I shall set myself into. Nichols’ estate was valued at least a hundred thousand, and that is no small consideration to a fellow that ill-fortune has dodged all her life.

“Well, anyhow, she could not have done me a greater favor, nor herself either, than to have married that Nichols; and didn’t he die just in  the nick of time?

“You’re a knave, Ruel Wylie, to allow such a thought to cross your brain, but as it’s gotten in there, you may as well take a cigar on it, and console yourself that you are not marrying for interested motives, because you selected Rosaline Wayne, above all other women, when she hadn’t a dollar in the world; and now if Rosaline Nichols brings you a hundred thousand of  them, you certainly have a right to rejoice over that fact.”

And taking out a cigar, and whistling a tune, Ruel Wylie saw the city spires rise in the distance, and heeded not their language nor their prayer.

After all, do not think too harshly of him, reader. He did not consider himself a selfish man, and all men .granted he was an honorable one in business. He had a good deal of impulsive kind-heartedness, and he was utterly unconscious of the vanity and selfishness that poisoned his character, for he was the only son of his mother, petted and flattered from his youth; and self-discipline and high principles of action were lessons that life had never taught him.

Two years have passed, as we look in once more upon the pair wedded for the love of their youth.

It is late breakfast time, and Mrs. Wylie sits before her silver urn, seeming in her lilac silk robe with its dainty blue linings, scarcely older than when we saw her last, and yet her face does not wear the light and joy which we might fancy for the wife of Ruel Wylie

He sits opposite, and that tasteful worsted dressing-gown is certainly most becoming to his tall, fine figure. He is busily engaged with the morning paper, and takes his cup hastily from his wife, and bows without speaking.

Two minutes later ho does speak, however, and in anything but a bland tone,

“What miserable stuff this coffee is, Rosaline! Really, it’s provoking that a man can’t have a decent breakfast.” Ruel is a great epicure, his wife has discovered this long ago.

“Well, really, not occupying the position of cook here, I don’t know that I’m responsible for the coffee, besides, you know, I shall have to drink it as well as you.”

“If you are not cook, Rosaline, I believe you are mistress, and as such I do hold you slightly responsible for the state in which our meals come up to us.”

“Well, I wish, in future, you would mako your complaints to the cook. It will save me a great deal of annoyance, and so long as I provide the table I think I do my share.”

Rosaline regretted these words had passed her lips the next moment, for she knew that nothing irritated her husband so much as any allusion to the money which she had brought him. But the thing was done. He looked up with a glare in his eyes that almost startled her, and she saw him knawing his under lip to keep down the tide of angry words that were in his heart.

But Rosaline had little to fear, and she knew it, for Ruel Wylie was a quick tempered man, but he did not bear malice long, and his anger usually disappeared with a sudden explosion.

But both husband and wife being pettish and exacting, both having been accustomed to a great deal of attention in their youth, neither, of course, understood the secret of making little sacrifices for the other.

Hence they were in a state of frequent irritability by those discords and jars, which mar all the happiness of life.

Mrs. Wylie, had she been a more judicious woman, might have preserved harmony between herself and the husband whom she loved, but her habit of petty complaining and fault-finding, was by no means likely to conciliate a man of his temperament.

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An undetermined species of Pentatomidæ, superficially resembling Dolycoris baccarum, Linn., but with longer and more slender antennæ.

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Halys serrata, Fabr. Syst. Rhyng. p. 181, n. 2 (1803).

One specimen.

An immature specimen, apparently allied to A. femoralis, Stål; black, with the tegmina, borders of the abdomen, and femora greenish cupreous, and the last joint of the antennæ rufo-testaceous, except at the base.

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Pentatoma mucronata, Pal. de Beauvois, Ins. Afr. Amér. p. 46, Hémipt. pl. vi. fig. 5 (1805?).

One specimen, considerably smaller than P. calidum, Fabr., and agreeing fairly with Palisot de Beauvois's figure quoted above, which I have no doubt was taken from an African specimen, though it has latterly been referred to the American P. subulatum. This small form may or may not prove to be distinct from P. calidum, for a series would be required to compare the characters; and I therefore provisionally retain Palisot's name for it.

An immature specimen, apparently belonging to a new genus near Macrina, Amyot.


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 A.  B.


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 material but intelligible, as God, Angel, and other ſuch. The three firſt vertues, feeling, bodily wit, and imagination, are scituate in the ſoule, that it is coupled to the body, and giueth life and inner wit & vtter wit to perfection of the body. And theſe thrée vertues be common to men and to other beaſts: But the other vertues,  and , be in the ſoule, in that it may be departed from the body, and abide departed as an Angell, and that by two manner of reſpects. For it beholdeth the higher things and ſo it is called : and beholdeth the neather things, and ſo it is called . In that the ſoule is compared to this end, it hath thrée manner of vertues, one is , whereby it taketh héede to the thing that is true: The other is called , whereby it taketh héed to the thing that is good, the third is called , and thereby it taketh héede thing that is great and huge, and to the thing that is euerlaſting. In the ' is knowledge of the truth, in , wil and deſire of good thing: in ' is flight of contrary, that is, of euill. And ſo euery vertue thus conſidered taketh in this manner knowledge of the truth, either that it deſireth good, either indeuoureth to flie harme. All the wits come of that vertue  and apprehenſiue. All affections and deſire, of  and . Which affections bée foure, that is to ſay, Ioy, Hope, Dreade and Sorrowe. The firſt two come of , for of the thing that we couet and deſire, we haue ioy, and in ioying we hope. The other two, dread and ſorrow, come of the . For of things that we hate we haue ſorrowe, and in ſorrowing we dread. Theſe foure affections be the matter of all manner vices and vertues, as it is in another place ſhewed, and that appereth by Auſten in the booke , where all thoſe thinges are declared.

¶Of the powers of the ſoule. Chap. 7.
If we take héed to the ſoule in compariſon to his working, wee finde three manner of vertues, , that giueth lyfe, , that giueth feeling, , that giueth reaſon. In diuerſe bodyes the ſoule is ſayde to be thrée folde, that is to ſaye, ' that giueth lyfe, and no féeling, and that is in plants and rootes, , that giueth life & féeling, and not reaſon, that is in vnſkilfull beaſts, ' that giueth lyfe, féeling, and reaſon, and this is in men. The Philoſopher lykeneth the ſoule that is called , to a Triangle. For as a Triangle hath thrée corners, this manner ſoule hath thrée vertues, of begetting, of nouriſhing, and of growing. And this ſoule  is lyke to a Triangle in Geometrie. And hée lykeneth the ſoule , to a quadrangle ſquare, and foure cornerd. For in a Quadrangle is a line drawne from one corner to another, before it maketh two Triangles and ſoule ſenſible maketh two triangles of vertues. For where euer the ſoule ſenſible is, there is alſo the ſoule , but not backwarde. And hée lykeneth the ſoule  to a Circle, becauſe of his perfection and conteining. For of all the figures that be called , that is of al the figures of the ſame length the Circle is moſt, and moſt conteineth.

Though the ſoule reaſonable be made perfect in cunning and vertues, as it is ſayde in : it is moſt perfect, and moſt may conteine in the manner of a Circle, touching the kindly vertues. And therefore who that hath the ſoule reaſonable, hath alſo the power  and , but not contrariwiſe.

¶Of the Soule Vegetable. Chap. 8.
THen the Soule Uegetable, that giueth life, hath vertue of begetting, that is néedefull to multiplye and bring forth his kinde, vertue of nouriſhing to keepe a ſingular thing in

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The Nakasendô between Yedo and Takasaki is in a tolerably good condition; I estimate the breadth to vary between 10 and 40 feet; except near Todamura no very steep inclines occur, and without great expense at least this part of it could be easily made a really fine road. The chief difficulty would be as regards some of the villages where the road has in many cases a minimum breadth; but outside the villages it extends through flat arable land, for the greatest part cultivated with corn, rapeseed, beans, etc. (while paddy fields are rare) and it would certainly be no matter of great difficulty to appropriate here and there a strip of these fields along the existing road, and to widen it in this way.

At Todamura the Todagawa is passed by means of ferry boat. The Todagawa is the same river as the Sumidagawa; like many other rivers in Japan, its name is often changed, higher up it is called Arakawa, about 2 ri lower down from the village of Sumida to

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Mictis tuberculosa, Sign, Rev. Zool. 1851, p. 447, pl. xv. g. 5.

A common West-African species.

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Lygæus tristator, Fabr. Ryng. p. 266, n. 13 (1803).

Two specimens obtained.

Long, corp. 16 millim.

Head red, occiput and vertex black nearly as far as the base of the antennæ, but upper orbits red; the lower part of the head under the proboscis is blackish, except behind; head with a central groove and rugose-punctate; close to the back is a waved line, the narrow part behind which is finely punctured. Antennæ black, the terminal joint testaceous, brown towards the tip. Scape curved, thicker than the remaining joints, and a little shorter than the second and fourth joints, which are of equal length; third joint rather shorter than the scape. Rostrum extending as far as the hind coxæ; the basal joint grooved. Thorax black, bordered all round with testaceous; the inner edge of the border and the hinder lobe marked with large punctures; front lobe with a central groove and not punctured, except on a narrow triangular space in front. Scutellum and clavus sparingly punctured, corium more thickly; scutellum and tegmina black, clavus bordered with a narrow red line at the base and on the inside; corium rather broadly bordered with rufotestaceous on the outside, the stripe then crossing to the end of the clavus, and then curving outwards again, leaving the greater part of the centre and the apex black, as is also the membrane. Legs black; coxæ, trochanters, base and under surface of femora coral-red; tarsi, except the basal joint, yellowish grey below. Pleura black, bordered with testaceous above and in the sutures, and with red below; abdomen coral-


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, Sumidagawa, and down Riôgokubashi it ultimately becomes Ôgawa. When I passed the Todagawa in May 1873 I estimated the breadth on the water line to be about 50 metres (165 feet); the velocity of the current being small, so that the discharge must have been small too. But after the rainfall of September and October of last year, I heard that the river had swollen to an enormous degree, and had overflowed its banks, part of the Nakasendô being inundated, and the passage being for some days almost impassable.

From Sakato to Kumagaë the Nakasendô runs along the top of the left embankment of the Aragawa. Between this embankment and the river-bed is an extended piece of arable land, and the river-bed is only seen at a distance. It has here already quite the character of a Japanese upper-river, in which may be seen more gravel and stones than water, and the piers, bank-defences and other river-works are all constructed by means of material extracted from the river, while on the lower parts of the river they consist entirely of wood.

Between F’kaya and Honjô the Nakasendô is sufficiently wide, but there are some steep inclines; here the scenery becomes picturesque and full of variation, exhibiting arable land with farms covered with flowers, the latter even extending to the top of the houses, which were overgrown with a blooming kind of hyacinth; and Buddha-temples calmly situated at a little distance from the road at the end of a neatly paved alley; groves of matsu and bamboo and those magnificent sugi trees, of which often two, three, or even four, grown together at the lower part of their trunks, are the principal features of this part of the road.

Honjô, like Kônosu and F’kaya, is a very large place, but had been burnt down for a great part, a month or so before my arrival. Here is a very prettily situated temple on the top of a hill, from which there is a splendid view over part of the Tonegawa valley, the nearest village on the Tonegawa being Tanakamura, at 1 ri distance. Along the foot of the hill a brook is running, in which

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 naked men and children were occupied in drawing up, by means of small baskets, a small kind of fish, called funa, which is boiled and dried and sometimes used as medicine, though it is also used as common food.

A little before arriving at Shimmachi, from which place a road branches off to Tomioka, which has a large silk-manufactory under French superintendence, the Kanagawa bed is passed. This river is the boundary between the provinces of Musashi and Jôshiu. Such remarkable points as this seem to impress the people; at least both times I passed here, my jinrikisha-coolie turned round to communicate this fact to me. The Kanagawa falls to the right into the Karasugawa, which in its turn fails into the Tonegawa at Goriô. Nota drop of water was to be seen in the Kanagawa; the river looked like a gravel-desert in the midst of the cultivated lands; one or two small rustic bridges were laid across the now dry channels.

At Iwabana, the Karasugawa itself is passed by means of a boat-bridge; as the river is very shallow, the boats are moored to baskets loaded with stones, lying at the bottom of the river. The Karasugawa is navigable here only for very small boats, being, as has already been said, full of waterfalls and very shallow. At Iwabana is a large prison, situated on the river, the left bank of which rises here almost perpendicularly to a height of about 30 feet above the water level.

From Iwabana the Nakasendô, not much broader than a footpath, winds through arable lands until Kuragano is reached—a place situated on the right bank of the Karasugawa, a little above the mouth of the Kaburakawa, on which Tomioka lies. From Kuragano a road branches off to the right to Nikkô. Between Kuragano and Takasuki the Nakasendô is in a very good condition, being about 30 feet wide, well drained and shaded by a row of matsu trees on each side. It lus here quite the aspect of an European road, with richly cultivated arable land on both sides, bordered by low hills in the distance.

Takasaki is a large town, 66 miles from Tôkei, with a gloomy looking Daimiô’s castle, and with a flourishing

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the various plans discussed by the great Council at Paris was the sudden attack by flotillas of torpedo boats at different points. Originally adopted as a weapon of coast defence and to keep off a blockading squadron, later developments of this craft had proved that within a radius of 100 miles they could assume the offensive—given sufficient hours of darkness to cover the distance, and they had every chance of making their appearance without warning. This view had led France to acquire a great number of these boats. In the north alone there were sixty capable of such service, and harbours of refuge had been arranged along the coast to which they could return if pressed in pursuit. These refuges were up small rivers or estuaries, of which the defence was their inaccessibility to larger craft. Their existence was well known in England, and a number of swift catchers had been built to watch these places and destroy the enemy's torpedo boats on coming in or going out of them. Only a few, however, were now ready.

Cherbourg, the headquarters of the northern flotilla, is 110 miles from Plymouth and 70 from Portsmouth. It was determined to despatch a squadron of ten boats to each of these ports and


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 endeavour to destroy any vessels that might be in the roads or up the harbour. They had been in commission for some time and all on board were thoroughly trained. The plan was to leave Cherbourg at sundown, proceed along the coast to prevent being observed by our cruisers or vedettes, and then dash across the Channel. A commander was in charge of each expedition, on board one of the new 150-feet boats which had attained to a speed of 28 knots. Most of the boats carried two torpedo tubes, one of which could be pointed on either side or both on the same side.

Not all the boats were so provided. In each squadron two carried machine guns only, their mission being to engage the attention of any guard boats encountered, while the others were to push on without stopping until the main object of the operations had been effected. The plan of the Portsmouth attack was for the squadron to make for St. Alban's Head, then turn to the eastward and proceed at moderate speed towards the Needles. When some way off that end of the Isle of Wight a couple of boats were to be detached and make a feint as of forcing that entrance, while the remainder went on to the other approach. It was calculated that all attention being directed to the eastern channel the main assault had a good chance of passing the forts and getting up the harbour. There was another reason for this arrangement, which was a possibility of coming C


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 across some of the Channel fleet making their way to Portland.

But this did not happen, for those ships ready had left in the afternoon, while the remainder were to sail next morning. It was assumed that any ships lying at Spithead would have their nets out, but vessels alongside the dockyard would be exposed to torpedo attack. No hitch occurred during the journey across. There was a strong westerly wind blowing, but the boats easily maintained a speed of 15 knots. Much attention had been paid to the stoking so as to avoid sparks issuing from the funnel, which has always been the first indication of the approach of a torpedo boat at night. No lights were showing except a small one in the stern of each boat. By an ingenious arrangement this light was provided with a shutter, worked by an electro-magnetic apparatus from the conning tower, by which the light was reduced when the leading boat altered speed, and obscured when her engines stopped. Some warning of this sort was necessary, as the flotilla maintained close order, the bow of each boat close to the stern of the next ahead; but it was found in this position a collision was easily avoided. By closely observing the leader any alteration of course was detected without signalling being required.

About midnight the two boats were detached to make their way to the Needles, and an hour later heavy firing was heard in that direction. The


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 This is intended for WIlliam Sykes number 283 Portsmouth Prison

Sir

Governor of this Prison Sir it is not my wish or will to go against the rules or Regulations of this Prison and I hope and trust through your instrumenttality that William Sykes Convict number 283 will receive this into his hands and i hope it will not miss his heart and i wish to inform him that his wife and Children Brothers and Sisters are all well at present for ought i know we send our dearst and kindest respects to you hopeing it will find you in good health, William my advice to you is that you obey all that are in authority over you and Let your Conduct be good and try to gain that which you have lost i mean your character Let me beg of you to pray to our heavenly father and his son Jesus Christ to give you a clean heart and right spirit within and then all your troubles and anxieties of this world will be small when compared with the Joy and happyness of that bright world above William I hope you are aware that our Blessed Lord has Caused all holy scriptures to be written for our Learning and God Grant that we may hear and read them and not to read them only but to do what they teach us and then when the swelling of Jordan overtakes us may we be ready to meet our saviour and him to be ready to convey us through the valley and shadow of death to our heavenly father arms there everlasting to dwell with him

Dear Brother i ask you to seek for Christian salvation which means deliverance from something that is feared or suffered and it is therefore a term of very general application, but in reference to our spiritual condition it means deliverance from those evils with which we are afflicted in consequence of our departure from God it implies deliverance from ignorance from ignorance of God, the first and the last, the greatest and the wisest, the holiest and the best of beings, the maker of all things, the centre of all perfection, the fountain of all happiness, ignorant of God, we cannot give Him acceptable worship we cannot rightly obey his will we cannot hold communion with him here we cannot be prepared for the enjoyment of his presence hereafter


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 But from this ignorance we are rescued by the salvation of the Gospel, which reveals God to us which makes us acquainted with his nature, his attributes his character, his goverment and which especially unfolds to us that scheme of mercy in which he has most clearly manifested his Glory

it is good that a man should Both hope and quietly wate for the salvation of the Lord, William a few more words when they was leading Jesus to the cross and there followed a great company of people which also bewailed and lamented him but Jesus turning unto them said Daughters of Jerusalem weep not for me but weep for yourselves

well William in conclusion i will say a little about the contents of your letter I belive you said your children was the strings of your heart now i say let christ be the strings of your heart i belive you went on to say that wentworth was your place of Birth and i say let Christ be your salvation

William your brother John sends sends his best respects to you hopeing the advice Given will have a good effect your sister Rebecca sends her love to you and trusts that she will see you again before death do you part and your sister Elisabeth sends her kindest love to you and wish you to behave your self under your present situation and as for me Charles Hargreaves my desire is to point you to the lamb of God that takes away the sins of the world and trust in christ as your Physician for it is through him we Live and move and have our being Dear William your Brother John would give your little Boy a good school education but you Dear Wife cannot find time to send him to school I conclude with the Blessing of God allmighty the father the son and the holy Ghost may remain with you booth now and for ever amen i trust the governor of this Prison is a kind hearted Man Charles Hargreaves Park Gate near Rotherham Yorkshire.


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 other boats were then passing Dunnose and had not yet been discovered. Pushing on, they gave St. Helen's Roads a wide berth, hoping to pass the Horse fort undetected. But the wind had now dropped and the Rattlesnake, a torpedo catcher patrolling between Selsea Bill and the Isle of Wight caught sight of the advancing flotilla. Turning her search light on the black specks in the distance the officer in command divined their mission. The preconcerted signal of two rockets in succession, followed by a gun, was instantly given, and in a few minutes the attention of the defenders, which had been drawn to the western entrance, was concentrated on stopping at all hazards this new attack. The critical moment for the boats had arrived, but there was no hesitation on the part of those in command. A single order "full speed," and guided by the lights on Southsea Beach, they made straight for the entrance of the harbour.

Though it could not be expected that such a daring operation as penetrating through the defences of our principal naval arsenal could be accomplished without great risk, more than one cause favoured its success. The tide was then nearly full flood, so there was no fear of boats grounding on the shoals that at low water impede free navigation. A light ram which, while it did not obscure the land, placed those in the forts at some disadvantage, was a meteorological condition C 2


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 trade. It lies on the confluence of the Karasugawa and the Usuigawa. Both these rivers proceed from the mountains in the neighbourhood of Sakamoto.

As mentioned before, from Takasaki one road branches off in a northerly direction to Niigata, while another leading to the same place, still follows the Nakasendô to Oiwake. I shall first describe this latter road, known at Niigata by the general name of Shinshiu Kaidô, in consequence of its passing through the Province of Shinano or Shinshiu.

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 NOT SATISFIED

133

“Where were you last night, Ruel?” she asked, in a somewhat milder tone, for that fiery glance had had its effect on her.

“I was at the club—any objections?” For in one way or another the bitterness which Rosaline’s allusion had created roust have vent.

“I presume it will be of little consequence to you whether 1 have or not, though one might readily imagine a wife would feel somewhat lonely, to pass her evenings away here in the country, while her husband was off till midnight enjoying himself in the city.”

“I believe you usually accompany me, Mrs. Wylie, except when l go to the club; or when, as so frequently happens, I have been unfortunate enough to have incurred your displeasure, and you refuse my invitations.”

But there is no use in going into the details of this quarrel, petty as the folly and weakness of human nature could make it. Alas! its type may be found in so many fair homes, by so many breakfast-tables. It ended in this wise.

“Ruel, you will take me out to ride this morning, won’t you?” asked Mrs. Wylie, as she rose from the table. “It will be perfectly delightful in the woods.”

“I should be happy to accompany you, Rosaline, but I’m under an engagement in the city, and must be there by eleven.”

“That’s always your excuse if I want you to do anything for me. If it was any woman but your wife who asked. I’m sure you’d be ready enough to go with her.”

“I do wish, Mrs. Wylie, you wouldn’t make quite a fool of yourself, by such absurdities as these. I might retort on you, that if any other man had asked you to sew a button on his dressing-gown, you would, most likely, have done him the favor; but as I have the honor to be your husband, you have not thought it worth your trouble to oblige me,” glancing at his gown, from which a button was missing.

“Hugh never asked me to do these things. Hugh was never so unkind to me,” murmured the lady, as she sunk upon a lounge, and burst into tears—just those sort of angry tears which only serve to irritate men further.

So betwixt her new allusion to her first husband and the sight of her tears, the gentleman lost what slight control he had before maintained over his temper.

“I declare, Mrs. Wylie, you’re enough to drive a man mad. Positively I can’t stand this much longer, and if you go on in such fashion, I’ll set sail for California, and see if I can’t find a peace for my life. You needn’t expect me home tonight. I hope, I sincerely hope I may find you in a better humor tomorrow.” And without even bidding his wife good morning, the husband - left the room, slamming the door after him.

It stood apart, that solitary grave, in the woods, telling, amid all the awakening and rejoicing of the year into a new spring, its story of death.

A costly iron railing enclosed it, and a magnificent marble monument threw its shadows over the moss, with which careful hands had cushioned the grave; and the marble told the passer-by that Hugh Nichols, in the fortieth year of his age, was buried there, that he was a most indulgent husband, the truest of friends,  the best of citizens.

The violets, that made a dark-blue fluting around the grave, were tolling their bells of fragrance to the light wind, when, suddenly, the iron gate was opened, and, with a flushed cheek and hurried step, Rosaline Wylie entered the enclosure, and threw herself down by the grave of the man who had been her husband.

“Ah! Hugh, dear Hugh!” she said, while thick sobs shook her frame, “I wish you were back again to pet your little Rosie! You never spoke a cross word to me, you never did an unkind thing to me all the days we were together, and I didn’t prize you half enough until you went away and left me; and now I haven’t anybody to love me half so well as you did!” and here the sobs choked her voice, and she buried her cheek in the short grass, and wept bitter tears for the dead.

At last she grew calmer: and perhaps that fair spring morning, with that peaceful grave, quieted somewhat the uneasy heart of the woman.

“I’m sure it isn’t my fault that Ruel and I don’t get on well together,” she murmured to herself, “Hugh and I never had any trouble together, and all I want is to be understood, and petted, and caressed, as my nature demands, Then, I’m sure Ruel has no right to complain. Just think what a fortune I brought him, and how he has the whole management of it. Perhaps I ought not to remind him of this; but then, what woman could keep her temper through all. his aggravating speeches? But I guess I’ll go home and take a ride, and I’ll dress myself in just the prettiest way I can for Ruel tonight, He’s so fond of seeing me well dressed. I know that was only a threat of his not to return; and he’s in a good-humor I’ll kiss him.”

Then she plucked two or three violets from Hugh’s grave, and twined them among her curls, and went home, no wiser, no better; not dreaming that it lay with herself to disentangle all the


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44. In every Bill presented for assent the words of enactment shall be as follows:—

"Be it enacted by the Yang di-Pertuan Negara with the advice and consent of the Legislative Assembly of Singapore, as follows:— ".

45. No Member of the Legislative Assembly shall be permitted to take part in the proceedings thereof (other than proceedings necessary for the purpose of this Article) until he has taken and subscribed before the Legislative Assembly the Oath of Allegiance in the form set out in the First Schedule to this Constitution: Provided that the election of a Speaker may take place before the Members of the Legislative Assembly have taken and subscribed such Oath.

46. The Yang di-Pertuan Negara may address the Legislative Assembly and may send messages thereto.

47. Subject to the provisions of the Federal Constitution, it shall be lawful for the Legislature by law to determine and regulate the privileges, immunities or powers of the Legislative Assembly; but no such privileges, immunities or powers shall exceed those of the Federal House of Representatives.

48. (1) There shall be a session of the Legislative Assembly once at least in every year and a period of six months shall not intervene between the last sitting of the Legislative Assembly in any one session and the first sitting thereof in the next session.

 * (2) The sessions of the Legislative Assembly shall be held in such places and shall commence at such times as the Yang di-Pertuan Negara may from time to time appoint by Proclamation in the Gazette.

49. (1) The Yang di-Pertuan Negara may at any time, by Proclamation in the Gazette, prorogue the Legislative Assembly.

 * (2) If, at any time, the office of Prime Minister is vacant, the Yang di-Pertuan Negara shall, by Proclamation in the Gazette, dissolve the Legislative Assembly as soon as he is satisfied, acting in his discretion, that a reasonable period has elapsed since that office was last vacated and that there is no Member of the Legislative Assembly likely to command the confidence of a majority of the Members thereof.

 * (3) The Yang di-Pertuan Negara may at any time, by Proclamation in the Gazette, dissolve the Legislative Assembly if he is advised


text: Letter to William Sykes at Portsmouth Prison from Charles Hargreaves


text:
Author:Charles Hargreaves

Works

 * Letter to William Sykes at Portsmouth Prison from Charles Hargreaves (1867)

title: Author:Charles Hargreaves


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 134

JENNY.—HOMEWARD

BOUND.

threads and make sweet harmonies out of her; present life.

And so she had found her early love, only to prove it a disappointment.

And, reader, is it not often so with the dreams of time? If the cups we thirst for were lifted to  our lips, might we not find them bitterness and sorrow? And the green fields to which we look off with such longing eyes, full of thorns did we but tread them?

“Not satisfied, not satisfied!” is it not the cry of every human soul who expects from the world happiness, that “something it cannot give us?”

Oh! the paradises of enjoyment and rest which our fancies build for us in this world are never realized, and if the good gifts we crave of the treasury of time—love, fame, wealth—were showered upon us, we should still find the disquiet and the weariness.

Not out of, but in ourselves, muBt be our rest; and the living for others, the doing good as our hands and hearts find it to do, will alone give us contentment. “Open Thou our eyes that we may see, and our hearts that we may understand.”

JENNY. BY

FRANCES HENRIETTA

SHEFFIELD. WHEN Jenny was a wee thing, And tottled o'er the ﬂoor, And used to hide my lavish gifts In doll sized pinafore.

Miss Jenny wasn’t prudish, Would kiss the grizzly phiz, That thro’ her dainty eyeglass now She only sees to quiz.

When Jenny was a wee thing, And stood beside my knee, I taught her many a lesson Of that Friend we cannot see.

And taught her, lowly kneeling, To lift her heart in prayer To Him who hath the humblest Forever in His care.

Then Jenny was a wee thing, She’s tall and stylish now, And only deigns in Grace Church Her contrite knee to bow.

And ’tis no vulgar leather Must bind Miss Jenny‘s prayers, She likes religion handsome To match the dress she wears.

When Jenny was a wee thing, Her heart was warm and true; But now she mocks at feeling, And truth is passe too.

Ah! Jenny is quite different From the Jean beloved of yore, The little curly, laughing thing I dandled is no more.

But there's a haughty lady That rules the world of pride, And thinks to walk the golden streets On the patrician side.

HOMEWARD BY

BOUND.

MISS ELIZABETH MILLER. HOMEWARD bound! across the ocean, O'er the billows bright and blue! Heaves each heart with warm emotion, As the distant shore we view. Home, sweet home, then land enchanted! Fairer far than all beside; By a thousand sweet thoughts haunted, Memories of love and pride. Favor, oh, ye winds. our vessel! For her crew are homeward bound! Yet, if need be, we can wrestle With the storms that gather round. For the hands work bravely over, When the heart is busy too; Love gives strength for all endeavor, Love is strong to dare and do.

Homeward bound! “'0 have been roving O'er the World; and long away; There were those whose tender loving Would have lured our longer stay. In our hearts au'oke the yearning For the old home loved so well; And with joy we are returning, High with hope our bosoms swell

If this be. oh. friends. so cheering. Think, shall not our joy be more. When our barks of life are nearing Canaan‘s fair and lovely shore? For the loved await us. yonder, Warm embraces wait as there! Homes from whence we need not wander, Joys unchecked by pain or care!


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After passing the Karasugawa from the left to the right bank at Takasaki, the left bank of the Usuigawa is followed up to Sakamoto. The Usuigawa is not navigable so high up; its bed being covered with stones between which the rapid stream works its way, now through one, then through different channels, over which rustic bridges are built. The scenery becomes more and more beautiful, and after having passed Matsuida, we are soon in the mountains. The Nakasendo is practicable to this point for jinrikishas, with two good coolies to draw them up the steep inclines. For waggons drawn by horses this part of the Nakasendo is impracticable; such waggons could not advance further than Takasaki.

The valley of the Usuigawa becomes with every step, as it were, narrower and more picturesque; the mountain slopes on both sides of the river are covered in early summer with a carpet of blooming fugi flowers, which form, with the dark green of the sugi trees, the rapidly running streamlets, falling from the mountain slopes and crossing the read, the winding Nakasendo itself, and the charmingly situated mountain villages everywhere at a distance, a really fine picture—drawing even forth some admiring remarks from my interpreter.

The Japanese mountain villages have, at least in the districts which I have seen, a quite different aspect from those in the plains. They consist chiefly of a row of houses on each side of the road, thus forming a street which constitutes the whole village. The houses are notable by their wooden roofs on which blocks of stone are laid, and their poor and dirty appearance.

About 2$1⁄2$ ri from Matsuïda the Usuïgawa is crossed over a bridge, and here a straight road with 160 houses

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 ALONE WITH A MANIAC.

BY F. H. STAUFFER.

I was smoking in my study at Port P——. As I leaned back in my easy-chuir, I became the subject of the most delicious vagaries. My senses were carried away on the wings of the most grotesque imagery; “castles in the air” rose like magic, and long vistas of paintings and statuary opened to my gaze at every turn.

Perhaps this was owing to the segar; perhaps to my hat (which sat rather rakishly on my head,) pressing upon my organs of humor and ideality; perhaps because I was just then satisfied with the world in general, and with myself in particular. Be that as it may, I was for once, matter-of-fact man as I am, indulging in the most absurd yet enchanting vagaries.

Some segars lay on the table, which, together with the way I cocked my head at unusual noises, revealed that I was waiting for a companion. And so I was; I was waiting for Frank Rivers.

A glorious, whole-souled fellow was Rivers; sensitive to a fault, rather visionary in his views, (perhaps only so in comparison with myself,) warm, brave, impulsive, and very strong in his likes and dislikes.

He was never to be cornered in an argument— not he. His antagonist’s reasoning was warped into the most ludicrous shapes; sophistry, dashing with the scintillations of his wit, enveloped it in her folds: and when these failed, his ringing laugh, so peculiarly contagious, would carry him off, undefeated still, upon the strong wings of its sonorous echo.

Interest him in an argument? forsooth! you might as well try to upset Bunker Hill Monument with a yard stick, or attempt to shave yourself with a rolling-pin!

While I was sitting in my reverie, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“There’s Rivers at last!” I thought.

But it wasn’t; the door opened and in stalked a man whom I had never seen before. There was something majestic in his tread, something intellectual in his countenance, something demonical in the glare of his eyes.

“Are we alone?” he asked, in a low voice, looking uneasily around the room.

“Exclusively so,” I replied, eyeing my visitor with more than common curiosity. “Take a chair, Mr.——, Mr.——?”

“Yes, yes—I see. Mr. Miles—Abner Miles,” he replied, taking my hint to introduce himself at the same time that he took the chair.

“You are a philosopher, Mr. Reed—a mechanic and a geuius. I know this because I have inquired; I know this because I have seen the light burning in your room at late hours. I have something to exhibit to you. You will be able to understand me, your perceptives are largely developed, your constructiveness very large, your reasoning powers more than ordinary. I, too, am a genius. For many years I have been devoting my attention to a new motive power—and my labors have at last been crowned with success. You said we were alone?” “I did, Mr. Miles.”

“Well—you are waiting for me to expedite business, ain’t you?”

“Not particularly so—though I expect a friend here shortly.”

“You do?” asked he, glaring at me. Soon his eyes, however, assumed their usual expression. “You are quite complacent, Mr. Reed.”

“Thank you,” I replied, lighting another segar, and becoming slowly convinced that I was alone with a maniac.

Taking a small box from his bosom he made room for it on the table—shoving, as he did so, my books, papers, microscopes, pistols, &c., into a glorious heap of confusion.

“Disarranging your table slightly, ain’t I? But never mind it.”

He opened the box and took out its contents. It was a miniature wagon, neatly fashioned out of brass and steel, with machinery about it that was quite a mystery to me.

Taking the light in one hand and the little car in the other, he sat down upon the floor. Giving the fly-wheel, which was higher than the other wheels, and stood clear of the floor, a sudden twirl, the car went across the room with con- siderable velocity. Going to the farther end of the room, he 6tarted it again. It flew across the room, increasing in velocity as it went, and running up against the wash-board with a force almost sufficient to have demolished it.

“What do you think of that?” he asked. “A great invention, indeed,” I said. “But what is the motive power?”


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 CHRISTIAN FORD'S TROUBLES.

BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.

CHAPTER I.

The sun had gone down behind a mass of dark clouds, and the twilight cast deep shadows over the lake, which an hour before had been golden with the sunset.

Christian Ford stood by the water’s edge, looking dreamily upon the distant hills where a clearer light still lingered, though the shadows were slowly creeping up almost to their summits.

It was a pretty scene by daylight, that quiet lake, with the rocky hills crowding down on one side almost to the margin of the waters; on the others a broad sweep of level plain, with a little village sleeping in the distance, so completely embowered in trees that only the church spire was visible from the spot where Christian stood.

The road passed close to the lake, winding in and out the picturesque curves, with-several dwellings scattered along, from whence lights began to gleam forth as the evening drew on.

But Christian Ford was not thinking of the beauty and quiet which had so often charmed and soothed her. Very grave and pale she looked standing there in the gloom, and one familiar with her face would have seen the changes of a great sorrow in her misty eyes, and the patient sadness of her mouth.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by quick, impatient footsteps on the turf, and at the sound Christian’s features contracted with suffering, then by an effort of her strong will settled into a pallid calm, which gave little evidence of the emotion so sternly repressed.

“Why, Christian, one would think you had been trying to run away from me. I waited for you at the house till I was tired, and at length it occurred to me that I might find you down here.”

Christian turned toward the speaker, quiet and self-possessed.

“I had forgotten that it was so late; shall we walk back to the house?”

“Oh, no, stay here, I beg; I don’t feel tonight like being shut up indoors.”

“As you like,” Christian replied, in the same changeless tone, turning her face a little away a if she were still gazing far over the hills from whence the light had wholly faded.

The young man was moving restlessly to and fro, his breath coming quickly like one agitated by strong excitement, and his eyes fastened upon Christian, as if they would have asked some question which his lips refused to utter.

“Why do you stand there so cold and silent?” he said, hastily. “One would think it displeased you to have me near you.”

There was a slight quiver about Christian’s mouth, but she mastered the agitation bravely, and looked at him with a smile.

“You are a little unjust to me, as is often the case, Mr. Gray.”

“Why do you speak to me in that way?— can’t you call me Robert? Forgive me if I have been abrupt and rude; I am troubled and anxious. Listen to me, Christian! You know very well why I have come here tonight. I leave this place tomorrow, and I could not go without some certainty, some understanding.”

She stood there so motionless, one might have thought she heard no syllable that he had spoken, and he went on in his quick, earnest voice,

“You asked for time to reflect, Christian—I have given you three days! Now answer, do you love me?—will you be my wife?”

His wife! How Christian’s womanly heart throbbed at the words, then grew sick with the thought that the sweet name might never be hers.

“You know how I love you, Christian—I can-

mand—but you feel it, do you not?”

She struggled a little with herself, and then said, with the same forced composure,

“I believe that you think so now, Robert.”

“Do not treat real affection with insult, Christian,” he exclaimed, angrily, “even if you do not care for me; no woman has a right to return true love with scorn.”

“Nor had I that intention, Robert; you know me too well to think me capable of it. Yes, I believe that you love me, but whether that love is the one which is to last through life, or only a youthful passion, neither you nor I can tell.” He made an impatient gesture, but she forced him to silence with the soft pressure of her hand upon his arm.

“Hear me out, Robert; I am not saying this to wound you, but because it is true. You

137


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 1898.] Well, no harm done this time. Let's go and look at what that fool of a steamer smashed.'

"It wasn't much, but it delayed us three weeks. At the end of that time, the captain being engaged with his agents, I carried Mrs Beard's bag to the railway-station and put her all comfy into a third-class carriage. She lowered the window to say, 'You are a good young man. If you see John—Captain Beard—without his muffler at night, just remind him from me to keep his throat well wrapped up.' 'Certainly, Mrs Beard,' I said. 'You are a good young man; I noticed how attentive you are to John—to Captain' The train pulled out suddenly; I took my cap off to the old woman: I never saw her again. … Pass the bottle.

"We went to sea next day. When we made that start for Bankok we had been already three months out of London. We had expected to be a fortnight or so—at the outside.

"It was January, and the weather was beautiful—the beautiful sunny winter weather that has more charm than in the summer-time, because it is unexpected, and crisp, and you know it won't, it can't, last long. It's like a windfall, like a godsend, like an unexpected piece of luck.

"It lasted all down the North Sea, all down Channel; and it lasted till we were three hundred miles or so to the westward of the Lizards: then the wind went round to the sou'west and began to pipe up. In two days it blew a gale. The Judea hove to, wallowed on the Atlantic like an old candle-box. It blew day after day: it blew with spite, without interval, without mercy, without rest. The world was nothing but an immensity of great foaming waves rushing at us, under a sky low enough to touch with the hand and dirty like a smoked ceiling. In the stormy space surrounding us there was as much flying spray as air. Day after day and night after night there was nothing round the ship but the howl of the wind, the tumult of the sea, the noise of water pouring over her deck. There was no rest for her and no rest for us. She tossed, she pitched, she stood on her head, she sat on her tail, she rolled, she groaned, and we had to hold on while on deck and cling to our bunks when below, in a constant effort of body and worry of mind.

"One night Mahon spoke through the small window of my berth. It opened right into my very bed, and I was lying there sleepless, in my boots, feeling as though I had not slept for years, and could not if I tried. He said excitedly—

You got the sounding-rod in here, Marlow? I can't get the pumps to suck. By God! it's no child's play.'

"I gave him the sounding-rod and lay down again, trying to think of various things—but I thought only of the pumps. When I came on deck they were pumping. My watch relieved at the pumps. By the light of the lantern brought on deck to examine the sounding-rod I caught a glimpse of their weary, serious faces. We pumped all the four hours. We pumped all night, all day, all the week—watch and watch. She was working herself loose, and leaked badly. Not enough to drown us at once, but enough to kill us with the work at the pumps. And while we pumped the ship was going from us piecemeal: the bulwarks went, the stanchions were torn out, the ventilators smashed, the cabin-door burst in. There was not a dry spot in the ship. She was being gutted bit by


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 314 bit. The long-boat changed, as if by magic, into matchwood where she stood in her gripes. I had lashed her myself, and was rather proud of my handiwork, which had withstood so long the malice of the sea. And we pumped. And there was no break in the weather. The sea was white like a sheet of foam, like a caldron of boiling milk; there was not a break in the clouds, no—not of the size of a man's head—no, not for so much as ten seconds. There was for us no sky, there were for us no stars, no sun, no universe—nothing but angry clouds and an infuriated sea. We pumped watch and watch, for dear life; and it seemed to last for months, for years, for all eternity, as though we had been dead and gone to a hell for sailors. We forgot the day of the week, the name of the month, what year it was, and whether we had ever been ashore. The sails blew away, she lay broadside on under a weather-cloth, the ocean poured over her, and we did not care. We turned those handles, and had the eyes of idiots. As soon as we had crawled on deck I used to take a round turn with a rope about the men, the pumps, and the mainmast, and we turned, we turned incessantly, with the water to our waists, to our necks, over our heads. It was all one. We had forgotten how it felt to be dry.

"And there was somewhere in me the thought: By Jove! this 1s the deuce of an adventure—something you read about; and it is my first voyage as second mate—and I am only twenty—and here I am lasting it out as well as any of these men, and keeping my chaps up to the mark. I was pleased. I would not have given up the experience for worlds. I had moments of exultation. Whenever the old dismantled craft pitched heavily with her counter high in the air, she seemed to me to throw up, like an appeal, like a defiance, like a cry to the clouds without mercy, the words written on her stern: 'Judea, London. Do or Die.'

"O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! To me she was not an old rattle-trap carting about the world a lot of coal for a freight—to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life. I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret—as you would think of some one dead you have loved. I shall never forget her. … Pass the bottle.

"One night when tied to the mast, as I explained, we were pumping on, deafened with the wind, and without spirit enough in us to wish ourselves dead, a heavy sea crashed aboard and swept clean over us. As soon as I got my breath I shouted, as in duty bound, 'Keep on, boys!' when suddenly I felt something hard floating on deck strike the calf of my leg. I made a grab at it and missed. It was so dark we could not see each other's faces within a foot—you understand.

"After that thump the ship kept quiet for a while, and the thing, whatever it was, struck my leg again, This time I caught it—and it was a sauce-pan. At first, being stupid with fatigue and thinking of nothing but the pumps, I did not understand what I had in my hand. Suddenly it dawned upon me, and I shouted, 'Boys, the house on deck is gone. Leave this, and let's look for the cook.'

"There was a deck-house forward, which contained the galley, the cook's berth, and the quarters of the crew. As we had expected for days to see it swept away, the hands had been ordered to sleep in the


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 138

CHRISTIAN FORD'S TROUBLES.

are very young yet—barely twenty; and I am twenty-three—a woman schooled and disciplined by trials, while you, from the careless ease of your life, are still a boy in heart.”

He flushed angrily os any very young man does at that word.

“I don’t see any necessity of your constantly reminding me of that!”

“It is not to annoy you, only to remind you of the impossibility of your knowing at present whether your affection for me will continue un¬ changed. Be just to me, Robert; remember how terrible is the fate of a neglected wife.”

“Can you not trust me?—do you believe me brute enough to treat you unkindly?”

“Never that; but to know that your heart had changed toward me would be worse.”

“But when I tell you that can never happen! Oh, you do not love me, Christian; you treat me like a child—my love is only idle play to you.”

She made no answer to his passionate reproaches, only looked at him with those clear, penetrating eyes, in whose depths darkened such a world of sadness.

“Why don’t you speak to me, Christian? I believe you are made of marble; I cannot find a touch of genuine feeling about you! Do at least be angry; even harsh words would be better than this stony silence.”

“Do not your very words prove how unfitted we are to each other, Robert? You are pas¬ sionate and exacting, and I cannot reply to your bitter words, although they wound me no less deeply.”

“Forgive me—I will not speak so again! Only be kind to me, Christian—you seem so far off— I feel as if a great wall separated us, which I cannot pass. Tell me that you love me; do not torture me in this way, I cannot bear it.”

Torture him! Her feelings, her sufferings were unthought of; only the inborn selfishness of his sex spoke in his passion!

“We could not marry for many, many years, Robert! I am poor, and you are dependent upon your mother, I am certain that she would never give her consent.”

“I am not a child, to be governed by her.”

“Hush! Do you think I would become her son’s wife against her wishes? Then too I have a sacred trust; my poor, blind aunt is entirely dependent upon me—I would marry no man now.”

“But she should be my care too! Think how happy we might be, Christian! We would live in some quiet little nook—here perhaps—happy in each other, asking nothing of the world but its forgetfulness, till life would seem a real fairy dream of delight.”

Her heart beat rapturously at his romantic folly, then the stern reality checked that out- burst.

“But such an existence would not be life, Robert! We were put into this world to be of use, we should have no right to settle down in idleness, even had we the means. Then too we should grow old, and romance would not last forever.”

“How can you be so calculating, Christian?” “Because I look at life as it is—another proof how much older I have grown than you.”

“I cannot argue, Christian, I will not! Answer me at once—will you be my wife?”

“When?”

“Now—why should we wait?”

“That you know to be impossible.”

“But if I go away and toil hard for a name, s will you marry me when I return?”

“Oh! Robert, it is not success that would move me—you would be even dearer in adversity.”

“Then you do care for me—you will not send me away wholly wretched?”

“I will not fetter you by an engagement, Go away with your mother as she commands—I have reason to believe that she wishes to separate us.”

But she has never mentioned you to me! Promise, Christian—give me a hope.”

“None, Robert; you have no right to ask it.”

“And you have no right to torture me in this way! I must have this hope to build upon, or I shall have no courage.”

“Go, Robert! Bo the timejong or short, you will find me unchanged—whether circumstances then will allow me to speak I do not know.”

He stamped upon the ground in hot rage, and broke into a torrent of reproaches. In that very love he showed himself more boyish than anything else; no wonder that clear-sighted woman could not trust his earnest protestations, even had there been no other reason to hesitate.

“Then you will not speak?”

“You must go perfectly free, Robert; I will have you bound by no vow; years hence, honor shall not force you to bring back to me the ashes of a spent affection.”

“Farewell, then!” he exclaimed, turning to go. “This is your work; whatever happens now, remember that it is your doing.”

She did not answer. Again he came to her side.

“Will you not hear me? Oh, Christian, be mine! Speak, do speak!”


text:
Author:Henry William Bunbury (1812-1875)

Works

 * 1834: diary, Book of Odds and Ends in the Australian Colonies.


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 CHRISTIAN FORD'S TROUBLES.

139

“Farewell, Robert!”

He dashed aside her hand, and went away without a word, completely overpowered by the insanity of passion which had rushed upon him.

Christian Ford stood for an instant like one stunned by a sudden blow, then she started for¬ ward, and his name, uttered in a tone in which all her long repressed tenderness broke forth, died faintly on her lips,

“Robert! Robert!”

But he was far beyond the sound of her voice, and already the echo of his hurried footsteps was lost in the distance. Christian buried her face in her hands, and a shudder of pain swayed her form to and fro. At length her hands fell to her side, she looked up without a trace of tears upon her white face, and murmured,

“It is over—better to part thus; I can bear it!”

The full moon had come up while she stood there; a soft, indistinct light displaced the shadows which had lain so heavily around, tinging the waters with silver, and shining broad and clear over the distant hill-tops.

There was the sound of approaching footsteps; for an instant Christian trembled, but her heart had deceived her; when she raised her eyes, she saw a tall woman approaching the spot where she stood. The moonlight fell full upon that cold, proud face, and Christian recognised Robert Gray's mother. The girl stood quite still till the lady came close to her, and said quietly,

“Good evening. Miss Ford; I see this lovely night has tempted you out also. I have strayed so far from home that I grew quite startled, and was really glad when I saw you standing here.”

Christian bowed, and remained quietly looking at her with an expression which showed how useless were all those shallow artifices.

“I leave this pretty spot tomorrow,” continued Mrs. Gray, “and I quite regret to go. I am sure I shall miss you very much.”

“You are very kind.”

“I hope, although my poor health has pre¬ vented my seeing as much of you as I could have wished, that you will remember me as a friend.”

“Mrs. Gray honors me by the desire.”

“I wish I might really speak to you as a friend,” continued the lady, after a little nervous pause; “I really wish I might, Miss Ford.”

“I shall only feel gratified by any expression of interest.”

“Thank you, my dear,” she answered, putting out her hand and taking Christian’s cold, unresisting fingers in her clasp.

“You see you are so sensible a girl that one feels safe in being perfectly frank with you, and has no fear of giving offence. Now I want to

talk to you like an old woman of the world— may I?”

“I am listening, Mrs. Gray.”

“I knew you would. I always say you are the only sensible unmarried woman I ever knew;” and she pressed the icy fingers very tenderly. “Perhaps what I am going to say will surprise you. The truth is, that silly boy of mine has taken a fancy that he is dead in love with you—has he ventured to tell you so?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Oh, the little dunce, how you must have laughed! I have never said a word to him on the subject, certain that you would manage him better than I could, but I did not quite like to go away without some explanation.”

“Any that I can give, madam, I am ready to offer.”

“Has he been here to say good-bye?”

“He left me only a few moments since.”

“Indeed! heart-broken, no doubt! Oh, dear, he falls in love so very often; it is really a great trial—and few girls are like you. Now Robert is only nineteen, and you are——” “Almost an old maid; you need not hesitate.” “Oh, my dear, no, no! But no man should have a wife older than himself! Besides, Robert has idle, expensive habits, which quite frighten me; and I am not as rich a woman as people suppose; he must marry money—it’s the only thing for him, don’t you see, my love?”

“Mr. Gray’s mother is the best judge.”

“Of course!—your good sense again! But what I want is this—now you won’t be angry?”

“Pray go on.”

“I knew perfectly well that your feelings were not interested,” continued the woman, resolutely averting her eyes from the pale face, “so I thought it best for all to have a frank understanding. Now I hope Robert will go away convinced that he has nothing to hope. You may even be harsh; don’t spare his feelings, for you may be quite sure that if we come here next summer, you and I shall laugh at him on account of some new love.”

Christian did not wince under that cruel probing of her wound; she would have died then and there sooner than have given any sign.

“Perhaps you will see him in the morning?”

“It would be useless.”

“That will be best—you are always right. I am so much obliged to you, dear Miss Ford; always consider me your friend—now do, I beg. Dear me, how late it is! I am so glad I chanced to meet you; my mind is quite at ease now.”

“I am sorry it should have been disturbed.”

“Oh, you mistake,” she said, striving to recall


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 She motioned the pastor to lead Robert away, and again laid Lucy upon the bed. The girl was almost insane with fever, and very ill. Christian went down stairs, and whispered to the clergyman to see that the young man left the neighborhood at once.

Robert obeyed them unresistingly. At the door he paused, and raised his weary eyes to Christian's face.

“It is all over, I know,” he said, slowly; “but I swear before heaven, Christian, that you shall never have to blush for me again.”

She laid her hand upon his and looked full in his face,

“I believe you,” she answered. “God bless you, Robert!”

Thus they parted; he to take his misery back into the busy world, and she to return to the bedside of the poor sufferer who lay moaning in the delirium of fever.

The next morning Lucy Dean's old father was found dead; but there was no need to tell the sick girl. Before night she was the mother of a child, and with its first breath she had closed her eyes upon this life—freed from its sorrows and pain.

CHAPTER III.

Six years had passed, and Christian Ftrd had reached her thirtieth birth-day. She was living still in that quiet cottage, but no longer alone. Lucy's child had been her constant charge, for with her last words the dying girl had exacted a pledge that she would never forsake it. She had reared it tenderly as if it had been her own, with no bitterness and no heartache, full of thank¬ fulness that she had now something to love.

With Robert Gray she had held no communi¬ cation since the night of his marriage. The old minister had informed him of his wife's dying wish, and he was only too happy that his child should be thus cared for.

The babe was now a bright, sturdy boy of six years, who well repaid the love which Christian lavished upon him. She never inquired concerning his father, though his name would at times reach her—for Robert Gray had begun to make a reputation in his profession.

The turning point in his life had been passed, and his future loomed out clear and undimmed. During all those years Christian's memory was the load-star that drew him on; and yet to his own heart he confessed that in the beginning his passion had not been the true love. Without that great trial in which she saved him from deeper sin, and a life of misery, the fascination of a season would have lost its power.

Even now he never dwelt upon that which might be. Christian had grown to be regarded by him as something too bright and pure for earthly thoughts and desires; and he could not believe that she had ever possessed for him any feeling stronger thnn the affection of a friend.

So life passed on with each, and the child, which might have been a bond of sympathy and union between them, seemed only to make their separation wider and more lasting.

One day Christian heard news, which for a time broke up the calm into which she had schooled herself. Mrs. Gray had returned to her house near the village. It was in the morning when Christian was told of it, nnd that evening the doctor called, on his way past the house, and informed her that Mrs. Gray was very ill with typhus fever, and almost destitute of attendance—for several of her servants had left the house through fear of the disease. What was worse, her son had sailed for Europe on important business only the week before, and probably the first letters he received would inform him of his mother's death.

“Are you going now to Mrs. Gray's house?” Christian asked.

“At once,” the physician said,

“Wait for me five minutes, and I will accompany you.”

“But have you no fear?—no-”

She only smiled, nnd checked his expostula¬ tions. Very soon she was ready to start; the boy left in charge of her faithful woman, and cautioned to be obedient.

When the carriage stopped before the door all Christian’s past sorrow rushed heavily over her soul; but she subdued the weakness and entered the house.

Mrs. Gray was delirious and recognized no one; but during that long illness Christian never forsook her post. At length the disease reached its crisis, and the sick woman fell into a deep, untroubled slumber, from which she woke, weak as an infant, bnt perfectly conscious. It was several days before Christian permitted her to know that she was there, lest the excitement should prove injurious. On the third afternoon, she was watching her while she slept, when the sick woman suddenly woke and gazed full in her face.

Christian was sitting in the shadow, so that her features were partially hidden from view.

“I was dreaming,” murmured Mrs. Gray; “I thought she was here—Christian, you know— who are you?”

“I am Christian Ford,” she replied, softly, The sick woman pulled feebly at the curtains.


text: Index:HW Bunbury papers, vol 2, slwa b1845344 2.pdf


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 144

THE BUDS OF HOPE.

“Let me see your face—quick!’

Christian drew aside the draperies, and Mrs. Gray looked eagerly in her face.

“Yes, you are Christian Ford,” she said; “I n know you now. Have you been here long?”

“For some time.”

Mrs. Gray caught her hand, crying out, “It is you who have watched over me—no wonder I kept dreaming of you! It is to you that I owe my life; and after all the wrong I have done you.”

“Do not talk now,” Christian said, soothingly; “you are too weak yet.”

“I must speak! Say that you forgive me!

“I did that long ago, Mrs. Gray.”

The woman laid her head back on the pillow, weak and exhausted; but from that hour she began rapidly to mend.

Days passed, and she was able to sit up and be wheeled to the window; but no other allusion to the past escaped either of them, no word concerning that man whom each in her own way so fondly loved.

It had been the habit of Christian’s attendant to bring the boy every day into the yard that she might see him, though she had not been allowed to enter the house from fear of infection. One morning Mrs. Gray was sitting by the window when the boy entered the gate.

“Whose child is that?” she gasped.

Christian did not speak, but her eyes answered the appeal.

“His!” exclaimed the mother; “and you have cared for it and loved it—oh! Christian!”

The proud, worldly woman leaned her hand on Christian’s shoulder and wept aloud, tears such as wash out the stains of earthly weaknesses and errors.

“He must not come up here yet,” she said, at length. “Go down to him, Christian.”

Mrs. Gray sat watching the meeting, and soon she saw Christian point to the window, and the child kiss his hand as he looked up.

Six weeks had passed since Mrs. Gray’s attack, and she was now able to go down stairs to see the grandchild, whose existence she had so  haughtily denied, to receive every day new proofs of Christian’s kindness and attention.

One morning, Christian had returned home to look after her house, leaving the boy in his grandmother’s charge. While Mrs. Gray sat listening to the child’s prattle a letter was brought her—her son was in America, that note only preceded him by a few hours.

It was evening when Christian returned; she walked slowly back through the sunset, full of a quiet contentment which she had not known for years.

She entered the little parlor in which Mrs. Gray often sat—but she was not there—only a figure dimly visible at the other end of the room.

Before Christian could move or speak, she found herself face to face with Robert Gray.

“Tell me, Christian,” he cried, grasping her hand, “have I made atonement? May I hope again? Yesterday I had not dared, but my mother has almost banished those fears. Say, will you be my wife?”

Christian Ford released herself from his arms, and stood looking in his face which had grown so old and changed, but from whence beamed a pure light of truth and integrity, nobler far than the youthful beauty of other years.

“Speak, Christian!” be said, troubled by her silence.

“Yes,” she answered, “for you know yourself now—I have no fear.”

There they stood in the twilight of that room, with a world of peace and hope opened before them, leaving far behind the wild sorrow and the mad follies of the past, ready to accept life as it is, neither dreamers nor idlers, and sufficient always to one another.

Then the door opened, and Mrs Gray stole in, leading her grandchild by the hand.

“Christian, have you forgiven us?” she whispered.

Christian’s eyes answered for her; the mother joined the hands of those hardly tried ones, and when she embraced and blessed them, Christian felt upon her forehead not only her kiss of motherly love, but the pure tears of repentance.

THE BUDS OF HOPE.

II null JOUHSON.

The buds of hope, like flowers fair Oft wither ere they bloom; Consigning all onr future bliss To an untimely doom;

Or, as the snow-drops, pure and sweet, They into being start; Bloom In life’s 8pring—then wither In The Winter of the heart.


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WHERE'S THE DIFFERENCE?

BY MRS. M. A. DBM ISON.

A poou man sat at his window—no—I am down the corners of their pretty lips, and the

wrong; it was the window of his hired house. It was a small mansion, a little tenement painted white, and surrounded by richer establishments that seemed to look down with a sort of crim¬ son contempt upon their humble neighbor. The occupants of those stately homes were very much annoyed by the simple little house, and the simple little children that played on its steps, and gener¬ ally kept their curtains down on the side that looked toward them.

But, as I said before, a poor man sat at one of the windows overlooking the street. He was a thoroughly noble-looking man too, with hand¬ some Roman features, and an eye like a hawk. With the exception of his coarse clothes, he was much more gentlemanly and dignified in appear¬ ance than any merchant in that princely row.

A pile of bricks had been emptied quite near bis doorway; they were for repairs. As this man looked out, he saw two or three children with his own little ones, humming and buzzing about the bricks. Their dainty little hands were eager to fashion houses and bridges, and all sorts of momentary architecture. Suddenly the poor man bethought him of a pastime of his own when he was a child, and his heart having retained the pure and sweet emotions of youth through the cares and hardships of maturer life, he hastily threw on his hat, and going down he taught them a new trick. It was this, to place a row of bricks on end, quite near to each other, forming a long line: by touching the last one an impetus is given to every brick by its next neigh¬ bor, and the row is presently swept down in regular order. The children clapped their hands, and shouted so loudly that some of the rich neighbors, coming to their windows, saw how their little ones wore employed, taking lessons in amusement from a poor and almost unknown man.

“What a fool I” said one, sneeringly, “I should think the man was an overgrown baby. See him laugh! See him play! Shame on him! a man grown; we must call our children in.”

And from all those windows went the laugh and sneer. Men with gold-tasseled caps set on perfumed locks laughed the poor man to scorn; women in beautifully embroidered robes turned children were speedily called in.

Years passed, the poor man had grown rich. Wealth had come to him, not through toil; but it did not corrupt his good heart, his simple tastes. Still he loved children and their sports. He built himself a splendid mansion, however, s and lived in the style his great revenues per- mitted.

Again, as in the days of yore, there was a load of bricks left in the vicinity of his home. Again little children gathered to “ play house/’ and again the man sat watching them at his window. Yes, it was his window now—a window whose glass was costly plate—and he sat there no l longer the tenant of a hired house in coarse clothes, but attired in the richest broadcloth. Again, as he looked at the busy, beautiful group s below, his heart kindled with the memories of old, and he felt himself compelled to go down and teach the juveniles his briok-game. So, in a moment after he stood in their midst, and stooping picked up the bricks, arranging, and then setting them in motion.

How the children laughed, and their bright eyes sparkled! The noise brought the aristocratic neighbors to their windows.

“Well to be sure! There’s Mr. B-, that wealthy gentleman opposite, playing with the children. Isn’t it a pretty sight, dear?”

“Yes, and what a fine-looking man he is, to be sure. What freshness of heart he must have to enjoy their little games with so much zest! I declare it’s quite touching!”

“So it is; they say he is all of two million Hasn’t he a fine figure?”

“Splendid! Do see him clap his hands! I declare it really brings the tears to my eyes.”

“Wipe ’em away—wipe ’em away, Mattie, they’re crocodile tears!” cried a young stripling of seventeen.

His sister, a maiden lady of an unutterable age, looked round indignantly.

“Fact! sis, they’re real crockodile tears, and I’ll prove it. When I was seven years old, that same gentleman came out of a little white house l and taught us children that same trick. And, sis, you and mother both called him an old fool,’ as I distinctly remember; and I, for one,


text: Index:HW Bunbury papers, vol 1, slwa b1845344 1.pdf