not to give his daughter to any one but a professional man— a strange and daily increasing folly among the middling classes, which, to my poor way of thinking, will, if not timely checked, rob England alike of her prosperity and independence, as well as of her happiness. To please this vanity, however, young Catchpole was articled to an attorney, at the next market town, to whom he soon, it seems, became only too valuable by his assiduity and abilities; for, when his time was expired, he found that his articles had been drawn up with a flaw in them, purposely, as he could not help suspecting, in order, by rendering them unavailing, to secure his services for a longer period; his master proposed to him to renew his articles, for seven years more, at a salary, but the poor fellow, indignant at the treatment he had received, declined the offer.

Meantime matters had gone on badly with his father, who died poor, and even in debt; the hundred-pound stamp tax on attorney's indentures came out just at that time, and formed a heavy, indeed, as it proved, an insuperable obstacle to his again articling himself. He went on from year to year, working at a small salary, to endeavour to save this sum, but in vain, the necessities of his younger brothers and sisters pressed too heavily upon him; meanwhile the father of his affianced one grew daily more and more dissatisfied with the engagement he had suffered his daughter to enter into when he regarded her suitor as the son of a man nearly as rich as himself, and likely to become a respectable professional man. The lovers were tried with long separations, parental harshness, everything that could embitter their intercourse; still they were faithful to each other, and the poor fellow looked to an interview once in a month or six weeks as a reward for the drudgery to which he was subjected all the intervening time, in sitting twelve or fourteen hours daily at the desk of his employer, who, I found, by his account, was at once jealous of his influence with his clients, and yet exceedingly grasping in taxing his time and abilities to the utmost.

66

"I had always a grave look," said the poor man, even when a child, before I knew what care was; and my anxieties and disappointments, as I arrived at man's estate, very naturally added to the reflectiveness of my disposition.

My master's connection was chiefly among country people, and they, attributing my gravity to wisdom, used very often to ask for me by the name of 'the serious gentleman,' and preferred consulting me to my master. I do not know how far he might have liked the continuance of my popularity, but it was soon put an end to by an accident, the nature of which you may easily guess!" He glanced at his iron hook, as he spoke, and then continued his humble narration. In separating two brothers in a quarrel, the mother being distracted at beholding a loaded gun between them, the piece accidentally went off, and shattered his right hand. This was a deathblow to his prospects, and nearly to himself; after a long confinement to a sick-bed, he rose from it utterly destitute, and incapable of pursuing the calling to which he had sacrificed the best twenty years of his life, in a subordinate capacity. His intended father-in-law made his misfortune the grounds of a positive command to his daughter to see him no more, and before the year was out he, by threats and unkindness, and making her home a scene of discord on her account, drove her into a marriage with the surgeon who visited the family-still adhering to his old ambition of having a professional man for his son-in-law.

"I never saw her afterwards, poor thing," said Mr. Catchpole, "but once, and that was by accident for a few minutes. She had the misfortune to become deranged within a very short time after her marriage; it is now ten years ago, and she remains in the same state; it would be a satisfaction to me to know that she was in her quiet grave; but, however, we must have our trials in this life, and we cannot choose of what nature they may be. I sometimes think I could have borne any others better than those that have fallen to my lot; but, doubtless, if any others would have been better for me I should have had them instead."

I was really edified by this poor man's uncomplaining submission. I could have taken him by the hand, or rather by the hook, that was next me; but he had it in his bosom, and I observed that he seemed to press it tight on his breast, as if to keep down a sigh. He told me that his employer showed a more friendly disposition to him after his misfortune than before; and as he could no longer indorse, or write with sufficient legibility for his profession,

he threw the means of subsistence into his hands as a bailiff's follower and other offices connected with the misfortunes of life.

I told him that, with his evidently compassionate nature, he must often be pained by seeing afflictions that he had no means of alleviating. He replied that at first he had found it so, but that, by habit, everything became neutralizedthat he observed all persons whatsoever had their troubles, even those who, to all outward appearance, might be deemed the highest objects of envy; that he had invariably seen the oppressed more happy than their oppressors; and that even in the worst circumstances there was generally, when they came to their climax, some gleams of hope or accidental aid which had not been reckoned upon.

I am sure I might agree with him in this respect, for who would have thought that, in my hour of trouble, a young man, a mere player, of whom I have so slight a knowledge, should have stepped forward and been the instrument of procuring me, at any rate, a short delay of my fate. Yet, I am not easy about him; I cannot bear the thought of exposing another to an evil that appeared so terrible to myself. I must think of it more largely to-morrow, but at present I am still too much agitated with what has passed.

My dear girls summoned us to a nice little hot supper just as Mr. Catchpole had concluded his narrative; they looked anxiously into his countenance and mine to see what the nature of our conversation had been. I believe they saw I was pleased with him, for Lucy smiled at him as she drew his chair towards the table, and Margaret attended to him with an assiduity that precluded the necessity of his making much use of his iron hand, which, however, was so ingeniously contrived that he could screw a knife into it and use it dexterously enough.

He told us many moving, and some very interesting, stories of parties and circumstances with which his business had made him acquainted, and my girls, on whom anything new never fails to make a lively impression, were alternately excited to compassion and amazement, as sorrow or villany preponderated in his theme. When he took his leave I could not help telling him that I hoped we might meet again, for I was really pleased with his conversation, as well

as with the kindness of his behaviour. He replied only by a staid sort of smile, wished us good-night in a friendly manner, and once more I had the happiness of feeling myself free and with my children. I would not let them enter into any conversation on the events of the evening. I was worn out, and wished to keep my mind as calm as I could. We had prayers, and parted with thankful hearts. I wrote thus far in my journal, and am now about to compose myself to rest, and to put away, if I can, those worldly anxieties and desponding thoughts that war against the soul.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

"The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"

"I HAVE not slept. All the night long I was thinking of young Shirley, and of the liability I have suffered him to incur for me. I ought not to have permitted it. I will go to Norwich this very day, and know the worst at once, whilst I have yet the liberty, and, thanks to this blessed infant, the means. There is a grief again: what is to be done with him if I am taken away? My daughters, too, are sad and fearful: they go about the house in silence, and tread softly, as if they were afraid of being heard from without. Margaret's sweet countenance has a cloud of uneasiness and alarm upon it. She turns pale if she hears a knock at the door, and Lucy and she look at one another as if they were afraid to open it. Poor things! they dread lest their father should be taken away from them, and truly I dread it too; for it appears strange to me that Trickem and Trouncem should take the word of a young player for so large a sum. I fear Mr. Catchpole's goodness of heart may have misled his judgment, in this instance; perhaps he will get himself into trouble by it, poor man! Yes, I will go by the first coach."

These reflections passing through Mr. Slender's mind,

kept him silent at breakfast; and as soon as it was over he promulgated to his daughters the resolution he had taken. They heard him with dismay, for never before within their remembrance had they been deprived of their father's society for twenty-four hours in succession: but they could find no arguments wherewith to dissuade him from a proceeding which they felt to be honest and right. Margaret proceeded to put up a change of linen and his best coat into a carpet-bag, and Lucy, insisting upon carrying it herself, speedily bonneted and shawled herself, to walk by his side.

When Lucy returned she found Margaret in tears. She clasped her in her arms. "Why, darling Margaret," she exclaimed, "what is the matter? You will break my heart if you take to crying and fretting; and I know you do-I have seen you graver and graver this last ten days; and you eat nothing, and I daresay you do not sleep.

if

you die I shall die too!"

Oh,

"But I am not going to die, dear Lucy," said Margaret, wiping her eyes, and trying to smile; "it is very foolish of me, but I felt so sad when I saw our dear father go away. We seemed so alone in the world!"

We have

"But we are together, my own Margaret. never had any other friends than each other, scarcely any other acquaintance, indeed, and yet we have always been happy till now."

"Oh yes, and always shall be with each other," responded Margaret quickly, for she felt a sort of self-reproach at the conviction of Lucy's entire devotedness to her. of that. Still a little society is pleasant."

"I am sure

"And yet, dear Margaret, how often you have said, when Mr. Allspice or Mr. Makeweight have called with the vestry accounts, in an evening, and papa has asked them to stay to tea, that you were glad when they went away, and that you had rather we were always by ourselves."

"I know I have-but I was not thinking of Mr. Allspice or Mr. Makeweight when I spoke."

66

Perhaps you were thinking of Mr. Shirley," said Lucy; "but then there are so few like him."

"None!" said Margaret, with a sort of stifled sigh; “at least, none that we have ever seen; but it would not be right in us, dear Lucy, to make comparisons to the disadvan