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but he insisted with so much kindness, that I did not hesitate to reply Ten years have passed since I saw my features-since I looked in a glass; and I have just witnessed in this the traces of captivity which will never be effaced."

"You must not think of that,' he answered; 'you are still young, and a few years of liberty will be sufficient to repair the evil. Believe me, your days will be happy for the future.'

"I listened to him. I endeavoured even to believe his consoling words, but gloom again took possession of my heart, with the conviction that I was no longer fitted for the world. To divert my attention, Prohasko spoke to me on the road of the events which had happened in France since 1830,-the three days of July, the embarkation of Charles the Tenth at Cherbourg, and his stay in Scotland; of King Louis-Philippe, the Poles, and the Greeks. "With what enthusiasm should I have heard this news some years before!-with what eagerness I should have questioned the commissary, and have read the newspapers that I found in all the inns! Alas! I remained cold and unmoved; and I felt then more bitterly than ever to what a degree of indifference and intellectual dejection the tortures of Spielberg had reduced me."

The release of prisoners is effected as suddenly and silently in Austria as arrests; so that Andryane and Confalonieri had only time to embrace each other, the truly noble-minded nobleman exclaiming, "Son felice-son felice!" ("I am happy-I am happy!") Confalonieri at last regained his own liberty; and on the occasion of the coronation of the present Emperor of Austria, Ferdinand, as King of Lombardy, at Milan, in 1838, an act of grace was published for political offences. Of this, however, Fortunato Prandi says

"It soon became evident, however, that the much-boasted act of clemency was in fact nothing more than a fraud, in order to obtain a good reception for the Emperor, and allay the indignation that Pellico's book had roused against Austria throughout the world. In its application, the imperial pardon was only extended to a few young men of family, who, alarmed by the arbitrary proceedings of the inquisitorial commission, had sought refuge in other countries: but all those against whom a sentence had been pronounced for having done or said anything, however trifling, against the sovereign or his government, are still left lingering by hundreds in Hungarian fortresses or in exile."


LIEUTENANT MOODIE, in his amusing "Ten Years in South Africa," gives the following account of his elephant-hunting :Some months after forming my new settlement, I engaged a Hottentot to shoot elephants and buffaloes for me, on condition of receiving half of the profits. This man, who was called Jan Wildeman, was a most expert hunter, rarely failing to kill on the He was a complete wild man of the spot whatever he fired at. woods, and had as many wiles as a fox in escaping the dangers to which he was daily exposed. His activity was most extraordinary; and I was often surprised with his nimbleness in climbing the highest trees to get at the wild vines growing over their tops. While I was considering how I could get up, he would take hold of one of the "baboon's ropes," as they are called, which hang in festoons from the branches, and in a few seconds he would be perched like a crow on the top, enjoying my surprise, and flinging down whole bunches of the fruit.

Though naturally timid, he had acquired by long practice such entire confidence in the correctness of his aim, that he would go right up to an elephant in the woods and bring him down with the first shot. Sometimes, however, his gun would miss fire, when he had to betake himself to his heels, and, by his agility and address, never failed to effect his escape. His adventures of this kind would fill a volume.

Wildeman came to inform me one evening that he had shot three elephants and a buffalo; and that there was a young elephant still remaining with the body of its dead mother, which he thought might be caught, and brought home alive. There happened to be two friends with me from the district of Albany, who had never seen an elephant, and whom, therefore, I persuaded to accompany


One of these gentlemen has already given an account of this little adventure in an interesting little work, entitled, "Scenes in excuse me for telling the story in my own way. Albany;" but, as my readers may not have seen it, they will

As soon as we had finished our breakfast, we set off, accom

panied by Jan Wildeman, my Hottentot Speulman, and their wives, to assist in cutting up the buffalo and carrying the flesh


Entering the forest, Jan first brought us to the carcass of the entrails, and, the weather being warm, the flesh was unfit for use. buffalo; but the fellow was so lazy that he had not taken out the He next led us to one of the elephants he had killed, and showed us the spot whence he had fired. The ball had entered the shoulder in a slanting direction, and passed through the heart. This was an exceedingly difficult shot, as he required to be very near to hit the right place, and for the ball to penetrate through such a mass of skin and flesh.

In shooting elephants, it is necessary to be provided with balls made of an equal mixture of tin and lead, as lead-balls generally flatten on the skin or bones. Our ignorance of this circumstance at Fredericksburg accounts for the trouble we experienced in killing the elephants there.

After following several of the paths made by these animals, and struggling through the tangled mazes of the forest, we ascended a reaching the top, we came in sight of the carcass of another of the steep sandy ridge covered with low bushes near the shore; and on elephants, and the young one standing by it. At a few paces' distance, we saw a large elephant browsing among the low bushes. He smelt us as soon as we appeared on the top of the hill, and, "Gownatsi!" ejaculated Jan Wildeman, most discordant cry. throwing up his trunk and spreading out his huge ears, uttered a "that's the rascal that gave me so much trouble yesterday; he's as cunning as the devil."

The dogs instantly assailed the animal, and, after several ineffectual attempts to seize them with his trunk, he made off. The dogs now attacked the young elephant, and chased him up the steep sandy hill where we were standing. My visiters, who were unaccustomed to large game, were exceedingly agitated. They bad brought a gun with them for form's sake, but had neglected to load it. One of them, who was a Scotchman, seized me by the coat, and cried out in great agony, "Eh! man, whaar 'ill we rin?— whaar 'ill we rin?" It was no use telling him that there was not danger, man, and the beest comin' right up amang us! I say, man, any danger, for he still kept fast hold of me, saying, "What, nae what 'ill we do?_whaar 'ill we rin?" The women instinctively ran and squatted themselves down behind the bushes.

As soon as I could break loose from the grasp of my countryman, I ran to endeavour to seize the young elephant by the trunk, and Speulman took his stand on the opposite side for the same purpose. I was astonished at the nimbleness with which the animal ascended the steep hill. As he approached the spot where we stood, we found he was much older than we expected, being nearly as large as an ox; and, after making an ineffectual attempt to get hold of his trunk, we were obliged to give him a free passage beI now picked up my gun and gave chase to him, but tween us. he ran so fast that I could not overtake him.

I was well pleased we had not succeeded in seizing krim, as in all probability he would have done us some serious injury with his tusks, which were just appearing at the root of the trunk. When they are only a few days old, there is no difficulty in catching them, and they become docile almost immediately. Several attempts have been made to rear them with cows' milk, but without suc


It is remarkable that the young of the elephant, when a few days old, are not much higher than a young calf; but their bodies are rounder and more bulky. It is also a curious circumstance, that the carcasses of elephants which have died a natural death are never found by the natives in the woods where they are most abundant.


Every country is distinguished by some peculiar modes, a comparison of which with those of a corresponding nature in other countries, especially in matters apparently admitting of but little variety, often affords amusement and instruction. In illustration of this remark may be cited the characteristic salutations of different nations, the various modes of dressing the hair, and the dissimilar pronounciation of the same letter. The cultivation of the vine affords another example. In our own country it is suffered to expand itself to any size, and nailed in regular lines to the wall

or frame of a greenhouse; thus a single tree will produce several hundred weight of grapes. On the banks of the Rhine the growth is limited to four feet in height, and each tree is supported in an upright position. In France it is formed into arches and ornamental alcoves. In Sardinia it assumes the aspect of a parasitical plant, luxuriating among the branches of the largest forest trees, and clasping with its tendrils the extreme twigs. In Asia Minor, its wild festoons hang their green and purple pendants from rural bowers of trellis-work. On the heights of Lebanon it lies in a state of humiliation, covering the ground like the cucumber; and subsequently we saw it in the valley of Eshcol, in a position different from all that have been named. There, three vines planted close together, and cut off at a height of five feet, meet in the apex of a cone formed by their stems; where, being tied, each is supported by two others, and thus enabled to sustain the prodigious clusters for which that region has always been famous-clusters so large that, to carry one, the spies of Moses were compelled to place it on a stick borne by two men. Each mode is, doubtless, the best that could be adopted in the quarter where it prevails, considering the nature of the soil and climate, the value of the land, and the object of the cultivator.-Elliott's Travels.


RICH fragrance fills the dewy air;

Come, dearest, let's away,

And drink new life from field and flower,

So gladdening in May.

The merry month! the merry month!

The joyous month of May !

When laughing flowers are strew'd in showers By happy-hearted May.

Glad music flows from hill and tree;

Birds, carolling in the air,

Pour forth a stream of melody,

To charm us everywhere. Oh the month, the merry month, The sweet, sweet month of May ! Hills, woods, and streams-all nature-seems Most beautiful in May.

The blithesome lambs around their dams
Are bounding in their play;
Shall we be sad, nor seem as glad,

Dear Margaret, as they?

In this sweet month, this dearest month,
This cheering month of May,

Shall we alone, 'neath heaven's clear zone,
Be sorrowful in May ?

But fairest things at last must fade, And mouldering fast decay,

And so must we still love shall be

To us an endless May !

Oh the month! the merry mouth!

The charming month of May !

True love shall be to thee and me
A long, unchanging May.


FROM time to time letters have reached us, relating directly and indirectly to the great question of TEMPERANCE. We have been blamed for what the writers considered inadvertent expressions, or extracts carelessly given, tending to encourage intemperance; and we have been repeatedly asked for an opinion on the abstinence question. We are reluctant, however, to give an opinion, the mind being undecided, while the practice is not yet conformed to the entire abstinence from the use of intoxicating liquors; but a few remarks we are willing to make.

First nobody can dispute that the unnatural excitement of the nerves and circulation, and the consequent depression, which are the never-failing effects of taking alcohol into the stomach, are productive of physical or vital injury. The impaired faculties of the mind, as evinced by weakened judgment and loss of memory in the habitual consumer of alcoholic stimulants, unequivocally point out their baneful influence on the intellect; while the statistics of crime but too clearly show that the use of alcohol is the fertile source of immorality.

We think nobody can, or ought, to dispute the truth of these general admissions.

Second: taking for granted that the moderate use of alcoholic stimulants is beneficial, it can hardly be disputed that, even with all the increased sobriety and improved manners of the age, more wine, brandy, whiskey and gin, more ale and porter, are consumed, than can possibly be necessary for the general good; and if even the moderate use of these stimulants is unnecessary, if not pernicious, what an enormous waste of national resources is daily committed by individuals!—what a fertile spring of misery and vice lies in the very heart of our social habits!

"Then, why are you not a tee-totaller?" some of our readers may ask ; "and why do you not advocate the cause of abstinence from intoxicating

liquors?" Individually, we are disposed to do so; and judging from personal experience, we should say that the moderate use of stimulants is oftener pernicious than otherwise.

But to advocate the entire abstinence from all

stimulants, on the ground of their positive injury, is what we are not prepared to do. To overlook all the modifying circumstances which mitigate the inju rious influences-to forget the adaptability of the human constitution and stomach-to pass over the strength of habit, the mental excitement, and hurry, worry, and wear of life, the force of our social relations, with a thousand ther matters which we cannot at present advert to-is what should not be done, but is too often done, in the advocacy of abstinence from all intoxicating liquors : and, notwithstanding all the evils which arise from the abuse of intoxicating liquors, there are objections, and no slight ones either, which can be urged, drawn from reason and religion, against the ascetism of abstinence.

We rejoice in the great temperance movement in Ireland, and hope it will be a permanent one. But while perfectly disposed to give full credit to Father Matthew for the honesty and enthusiasm of his character, it is impossible to conceal that the temperance movement in Ireland is carried on by a species of fanatical excitement. The people in large numbers take the temperance pledge, not so much because it is good or beneficial to abstain from whiskey, but that the taking of the temperance-pledge from Father Matthew is a holy or a blessed thing-in fact, a religious, or (if you will) a superstitious action. If this enthusiastic or superstitious feeling sustains the people until a habit is formed, and temperance, or abstinence, is felt to be good for its own sake, then a vast and permanent benefit will have been conferred on Ireland. But if not-if the people break down in large numbers, and return to drinking whiskey in doses, while those who still abstain see that no sudden and visible judgment falls on the violators of their pledges, enormous mischief will be done, and the "last state will be worse than the first." We hope, however, better things for Ireland, though perfectly aware that it requires a deeplyinlaid and sustaining moral power in order to achieve a sudden and startling change in the inveterate habits of a nation.

Meantime, we entreat such of our zealous correspondents as are inclined to draw us into controversy on the matter, to abstain from doing so for the present, as we may very possibly have occasion to return to the question more at large and should we do so, we will not be found "halting between two


M. J. F., GALWAY, requests "a philosophical explanation of musical time and of its application to the art itself," complaining that the subject is left in obscurity in the treatises of musical professors. "We are told," says our correspondent, "that the breve or semibreve is the standard by which the length of other notes in a bar should be computed; but meanwhile we are not informed what time the breve or semibreve itself should occupy. Is it ad libitum, and the others in proportion; or if not, by what is the length of the breve or semibreve regulated?"

We cannot, at least at present, insert an article on Musical Science, as, in another paragraph of his (or qy. her) letter, M. J. F. seems to desire; but we will endeavour to clear up the difficulty, and the more readily as we are afraid there is too much truth in the complaint of obscurity in ordinary musical treatises.

Two sorts of time are made use of in music-Common or double time, and Triple time; both admitting of various modifications. Double time is divided into two kinds the one in which each bar contains a semibreve, or its equivalent in notes of less value; the other in which a minim is the measure of the bar. The duration of a semibreve in ordinary time is the standard by which all other notes is regulated; its duration is estimated as the sixtieth part of a minute, and is marked by musicians by the raising and falling of the hand in unison with the pulsation of the heart, whence the term double time, marked by two motions.

When the first kind of common time is used-i. e. when each bar is equal to a semibreve, it is thus distinguished-E; or, if the movement is intended

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me as most suitable, and most likely to be advantageous? as, having but little fortune, I shall be dependent upon my own endeavours to make my way in the world."

It is only since the last renewal of the East India Company's charter that individuals have been permitted to settle within the territories of the Company without the special consent of the Court of Directors; and this period has been so short, that it would be hazardous to give an opinion as to which of the Presidencies or what employment would be most advisable. Amongst our own connexions, the persons who have chosen India for the field of their exertions

that the semibreve is divided into four notes (crotchets), whereof two (equi- and ambition have either proceeded thither in the civil, military, or marine

valent to a minim) are reckoned in a bar; or


signifying that the semi

departments of the East India Company; and these appointments can only be obtained by the individual patronage of a director.

We should not recommend any young person to go to India without some breve is divided into eight notes (quavers), whereof there are four (equivalent appointment of this nature, unless he had connexions there, or could obtaia to a minim) in a bar.

Triple time takes its name from the whole or half of each bar being divisible into three parts, which are beat accordingly-the first down, the second with the return of the hand, and the last quite up. It is always marked by figures, as in the second kind of common time; the lower showing into how many parts the semibreve is divided, and the upper how many of these parts are contained -3-3-2-4

in each bar. Thus, signifies three minims in a bar;

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three crotchets in

These explanations must be received solely in relation to ordinary modern music. In aucient, and occasionally in church music, other distinctions are made use of; but as far as the duration of notes is concerned, all are reducible to the standard of the semibreve.

The following letter has reached us from Exeter:

"I hope you will excuse the liberty I now take in writing to you on a subject of some importance to myself. I shall be very much obliged by receiving your opinion, through the medium of your Letter-Box. My case is this:-Having lost my parents-who are now, I trust, in a better world-I shall very soon be obliged to struggle for my existence. I have had a tolerable education; I am I have now eighteen years of age; and I have been brought up to no trade. read with pleasure the whole of your articles in The London Saturday Journal' on the British Navy. I have made up my mind to enter the Navy with an acquaintance of mine: can you inform me if there will be any difficulty, after we get to Portsmouth, in entering the navy as boys of the first class; or if it will be necessary for me to write to any person at Portsmouth first, to know if I we could get employment; also, who would be the best person to write to? should not have attempted to trespass on your valuable pages, but I think that other readers of your Journal may be glad to be informed on the same subject. With hope for a satisfactory answer, I remain your most obedient servant,


Young men who have never been at sea will not be received in the Royal Navy, under present regulations, even as first-class boys; but it is probable that if the writer transmits a respectful letter to the Secretary of the Admiralty, requesting he will be pleased to move their lordships to make an order for him to be received, they will comply with his request, provided he has no physical incapacity. Many boys get into the service by this means; but captains will not take them without an order, because they have plenty of choice amongst candidates who have been to sea for a short period.

The only difficulty experienced in manning the Queen's ships is in getting seamen, because of the great disparity of wages; the merchant-seaman's wages being now from 45s. to 60s, and even above that, per month; the Queen's men, 36s. but the latter has thirteen months in the year, his month being calculated by the lunar calendar, and constant pay, under all circumstances of sickness, leave, &c.; the other, the calendar months (12) only, and drawbacks when unemployed, harder work, and in general worse fare and usage, without any claim for pension after twenty-one years' service, or after fourteen years, if worn out, and the Lords of the Admiralty think fit to allow it; and Greenwich, if wounded or disabled. These things induce many to prefer, the Navy; and if the seaman could be induced to reflect, we have no doubt many more would prefer it, because, all things considered, we believe that in the long-run they earn as much in that as in trading vessels, and can save more, if so inclined.

A WOULD-BE ANGLO-INDIAN writes, from Blackburn, "I am an only son, have been brought up in a bookseller's shop, and have received a good education. I am just entering my twenty-first year, and am desirous of going out to India. What part of India, and what employment, would you recommend to

such strong recommendations to mercantile establishments as would secure him a certainty of obtaining employment immediately on his arrival.

A SUBSCRIBER says, "It is, I believe, the popular opinion, that tea which is designated green possesses pernicious properties; and that these qualities are derived from the leaf of the plant being dried upon copper." He, therefore, inquires the difference between black and green tea.

Tea is the leaf of a shrub, the Thea bokea, which, in the eye of an ordinary observer, is not unlike a myrtle. It is produced in greater or smaller quantity in almost every province of China, except the most northerly. Until of late years, the whole of the black tea was brought from the province of Fo-kien, and the whole of the green from Kiang-nan; but the cultivation of both kinds is now extended into other provinces. The differences in quality are occasioned by soil, climate, modes of culture or preparation, and the several periods at which the harvest is reaped. The finest teas are the young and delicate buds; the coarsest, the produce of the old and full-grown leaf.

"Nothing can be more ill-founded," says Mr. Davis, "than the vulgar notion, once prevalent in this country, that the colour of green tea was derived from its being dried on plates of copper. Admitting that copper were the metal on which they were placed, it does not at all follow that they should assume such an appearance from the operation; but the pans really used on these occasions are of cast-iron." But, owing to an excessive demand for green tea, especially by the American captains, who were not very scrupulous about the means of obtaining cargoes, the crafty Chinese set about manufacturing damaged, coarse black-tea leaves into fine, delicate green tea! Mr. Davis found means of witnessing the process, and saw the industrious knaves busily employed in cutting up the large damaged leaves, sifting and drying them, making them yellow with turmeric, and then turning them into green by the aid of prussiate of iron and sulphate of lime! The turmeric and gypsum, or sulphate of lime, are innocuous; but the prussiate of iron, or prussian blue, being a combination of prussic acid with iron, is a poison. It is supposed that in the preparation of even the genuine green teas exported, the Chinese use a colouring matter; they do not use them themselves; while teas in China, prepared from the green-tea plant, have a more natural colour than the bluishgreen teas imported by us. "If," adds Mr. Davis, "deleterious substances are really used, our best safeguard consists in the minute proportions in which they must be combined with the leaves."

Our best thanks are due to many correspondents, who have favoured us with several matters, including the not-to-be-despised matter of advice. Several of them will find in early Numbers that what they have taken the trouble to send will not be thrown away. One of these correspondents we must single out, to let him know that we have received his letter, and appreciate it. We therefore express our thanks to "A Cultivator of Granite," near Aberdeen. The subject suggested by." Adolescens, Nottingham," will also be attentively considered.

All Letters intended to be answered in the LITERARY LETTER-Box are to be addressed to "THE EDITOR of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL," and delivered FREE, at 113, Fleet-street.

The VOLUMES of the LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL may be had as follows:VOLUME I., containing Nos. 1 to 26, price 5s. 6d. in cloth. VOLUME II., containing Nos. 27 to 52, price 5s. 6d. in cloth. VOLUMES I. and II. bound together, containing the Numbers for 1839, price 10s. 6d. in cloth.

BACK NUMBERS and PARTS, to complete Sets, may always be obtained.

London: WILLIAM SMITH, 113, Fleet Street. Edicburgh: FRASER and Co. Dublin: CURRY and Co.-Printed and Stereotyped by Bradbury and Evans, Whitefriars.

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"I DON'T understand, Mary," said a respectable baker, in one of the most crowded thoroughfares in London, to his daughter, a beautiful girl of seventeen, "what makes that young Scotchman, who passes our shop every morning, look so earnestly in every time he passes. Do you know anything of him?' "Nothing more than you do, father," replied the blushing girl. The baker looked anxiously in her face. "I don't think you would deceive me, Mary," said he ; " you know your poor old father doats upon you, and has no object in view but your happiness. Since your mother's death, you are all I have left worth living for, and it would almost break my heart to part with you; but still I know you must marry some time or other: and if you should take a fancy to this young man-"


flat paper parcel on the counter before them, he untied it without
speaking, and showed them an exquisitely beautiful likeness of
Mary. It was in crayons, softly and delicately tinted; and the
baker and his daughter knew not whether to admire most the
fidelity of the likeness, or the admirable execution of the work.
The young man watched their countenances eagerly.
it?" said he.

"You like

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"My dear father!" cried Mary, "I have never even spoken young artist, averting his head. to him or he to me."

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the young man of whom they had been speaking, and who had already passed once that morning, hastily entered the shop, and asked for a French roll. There was nothing very extraordinary in this, and certainly nothing apparently likely to excite confusion; but it must be confessed that Mary trembled while she gave him the roll, and that, in fact, she had not regarded him with quite so much indif. ference as her answers to her father had seemed to imply. Yet Mary loved her father affectionately, and was naturally candid; but what girl of seventeen ever owned, at the first question, that she had fancied herself an object of admiration? The stranger, however, appeared quite unconscious of the emotion he had excited, for he said no more than was absolutely necessary; and the moment he had received the roll, he threw down the money and departed.

From that time the stranger called regularly every morning for a roll, and, though no conversation ever took place between them, Mary could not help regarding him with more than ordinary interest. His countenance was, indeed, one which few persons would be disposed to pass by unheeded; and though he was too pale and thin to be called handsome, his large eyes sparkled with the fire of genius, and occasionally with admiration of the lovely Mary.

"Is it not strange," said the baker, one day, to his daughter, "that a young man, whose dress and general appearance so evidently display extreme poverty, should be so extravagant as to eat nothing but French rolls? A loaf of good wholesome bread would be far cheaper and more nourishing."

Mary said nothing, for though her reason told her that the baker was right, the bright eyes of the stranger, and the evident admiration that they expressed whenever they were fixed on her, had created an interest for him in her heart that made her unwilling to confess him to be in the wrong.

One morning, about three weeks after the first conversation between the baker and his daughter respecting the stranger, the young Scotchman abruptly entered the shop, and laying a large


"Five shillings for such a master-piece?" cried the baker. "I'll give you a guinea with all my heart; and I only wish I could afford ten, for I think the picture honestly worth it."

The worthy baker held out the guinea as he spoke; the young artist eagerly caught it, and, exclaiming "Thank God!" rushed out of the shop.

"There is something very odd about that young man," said the baker, "but whatever it may be, he has made a beautiful likeness of thee, my Mary;" and, so saying he took the drawing carefully in his hands, and carried it into the back shop, where, in due time, after having been properly framed and glazed, it was hung up.

The following morning, and for many successive days, the young man called for his French rolls, but nothing more was said of the picture; and, in the mean time, the unfortunate artist seemed to get thinner every day; and he would sometimes look at Mary with an expression of such unutterable woe, mingled with intense admiration, that the honest heart of the worthy baker was quite touched. Mary, too, was getting thin and pale, and had quite lost her usual gaiety, till, at last, the poor baker could bear it no longer. "I'll tell you what, Mary," said he, one evening, when he and his daughter were sipping their tea in the little back parlour behind the shop, "that young man loves you, and you love him. Come, no nonsense!" continued he, stopping his daughter, when she attempted to speak. "Don't pretend to deny it. I see it all as plain as my hat. I've looked at you often enough; and I've looked at him too, and I'm sure he loves you; and I like him all the better for saying nothing about it to you, as no doubt he thought it could not possibly be agreeable to me. But I've turned the matter over in my mind, and I can really see no ill in the young man, except his fondness for French rolls; and we would soon manage to cure him of that, I warrant you. Besides, he might make something handsome of his turn for painting, if he had somebody to show him how to set about it. And, even if the worst came to the worst, I believe I could manage to keep you both without his doing anything; for, to tell you a secret, Mary, though we have always lived quite snug, and I have brought you up in a plain way, I am a great deal richer than anybody dreams of.-But,

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hark! what was that? Surely nobody is listening ;-do, Mary, step like love in all my life. I don't think I could have been deceived and see." Perhaps, after all, James may have made some mistake; he was always a surly, stupid fellow ;-I'll question him, and investigate the matter myself."

Mary looked, but nobody was to be seen; and yet there had been a listener, and one who was deeply interested in the subjectmatter of the conference. This was James, the baker's man, who, without suspecting his master to be richer than he appeared to be, had long secretly looked forward to marrying Mary, and succeeding to the business, and whose sensations at overhearing the confidential communication alluded to may be easily conceived. The following morning the young Scotchman had not called for his roll, though it was much later than his usual hour; and poor Mary, to whom her father had confided his resolution of having an explanation with the young man the very next time he saw him, found, with a heart throbbing with love and fear, the hours move on, scarcely knowing whether to mourn over her disappointed hopes, or to rejoice at the respite his absence afforded her. At length, the baker, who had an engagement in the city, declared he could wait no longer; and Mary, with an aching breast, saw him depart. Half-an-hour, or perhaps more, had elapsed after the baker left, when Mary, who was serving a customer, was startled by observing the young Scotchman in the street, standing near the window, and earnestly looking into the shop, but without attempting to enter it. Mary's heart beat violently at the thought that in another moment he would probably stand before her, and she should hear his voice. Why did he pause? Had similar thoughts crossed his mind to those which had occupied herself and father? She looked at him; but his care-worn face, and hollow eyes, spoke of deeper distress than the hopes and fears of an expecting lover; and the moment their eyes met, instead of entering the shop, he turned away, and hurried down the street. At this moment, James, swinging his basket of bread over his shoulder, left the shop, and turned down the same street as the Scotchman; and Mary, though quite unconscious that this was not purely accidental, felt an undefined and inexplicable terror creep over her as she watched them both proceed down the narrow street at the corner of which the shop stood.

It was a wearisome time to Mary till her father returned home; and though she went through the business of the shop mechanically, she would have found it difficult to recollect a single thing that passed during the whole interval. The weather, too, changed, and, instead of the bright sunshine which had gilded the early morning, dark clouds spread over the whole atmosphere, and a drizzling rain began to fall. Poor Mary's spirits sank so low that she could scarcely refrain from setting out to seek for her father to console her; and when she recollected that she could not leave the shop, unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. At length her father returned; and she was just helping him to take off his dripping hat and great-coat, when James rushed into the shop, exclaiming-"I thought how it was! that young Scotchman keeps a lady!" Poor Mary could bear no more; she turned pale, and fainted.

It is scarcely possible to describe the worthy baker's consternation at this astounding piece of news; or how he blamed himself; or how bitterly he reproached the unconscious Scotchman. "A young villain!" cried he; "to come here and bring misery into such a happy family as ours; when I had treated him so liberally, too, and intended to do so much for him." After a little calm reflection, however, the baker could not help confessing to himself that he had been more to blame than the young man. The youth had certainly never spoken to Mary of love; and even his looks might be merely expressive of his artist-like admiration of her beauty. At any rate, it was hardly fair to condemn a man for his "And yet," thought the baker, "I never saw anything so


With this determination, the baker left his daughter; but, taught wisdom by experience, he said nothing to her of his plans, and only begged her to confine herself to her room during his absence, and to leave the care of the shop entirely to James. Poor Mary willingly consented, for she could not bear the thought of facing any stranger; in fact, she fancied that every one might read in her countenance the vain, foolish hopes that had filled her heart, and for which she now felt the bitterest shame.

In the mean time her father, having learned from his man that he had followed the young Scotchman to a mean lodging-house in a retired street, pursued the same direction; and entering a publichouse close by, he inquired what lodgers were in the house indicated. The publican, whose principal amusement consisted in watching his neighbours, gladly told the baker all he knew; and after mentioning several names, with a little scandal about each, he ended with saying, "There's a Scotchman lodging in the garret, and a lady with him, whom everybody thinks is no better than she should be, though nobody has ever seen her. When she came, it was in a hackney-coach; and she was so muffled up in shawls, and cloaks, and veils, that nobody could make it out whether she was handsome or ugly, old or young. She always has coffee and a French roll for breakfast, which the young man gets himself; and while she is taking it, she sits in the front room, while the maid does up her bed-room. Many's the time I've said to the maid, I wonder she does not manage to get a peep; but the young man watches the door of the room where the lady is, and if Susan does contrive some message to try to get in, she has hardly tapped before he unlocks the door, bolts out, and shuts it behind him. And when he goes out he always locks the poor lady up, and takes the key in his pocket! There must be something wrong in it. So much mystery can't belong to anything good."

The baker paid for his pot of beer, which he had not the heart to drink, and slowly bent his steps homewards, repeating to himself the publican's words" There must be something wrong in it; so much mystery can't belong to anything good." And, however much his feelings were in favour of the young Scotchman, he could not help allowing that appearances were strangely against him. Thus pondering, he walked along, scarcely heeding where he went, till he reached his own door, when he beheld a scene that almost made him doubt whether he was indeed arrived at home. His once quiet abode appeared a scene of astonishing bustle and confusion. A crowd had gathered round the door, and were elbowing and jostling each other in their attempts to gain admittance into his shop; and the murmurs of a hundred voices, all talking at once, mingled strangely with screams, and oaths, and entreaties for a constable. At length, the constable, a stout, burly fellow, appeared; and as he pushed his way through the throng, the baker managed to follow in his wake.

The scene in the shop required no explanation. The young Scotchman sat in the only chair it contained, hiding his face on the counter, while James triumphantly exhibited a roll, which he declared he had detected the stranger in the act of stealing. The baker's presence, however, soon changed the face of everything. By his desire, the constable dispersed the crowd; and being pre. sented by the baker with a handsome gratuity for his trouble, and assured that it was all a mistake, he departed, while the baker invited the almost heart-broken young man to walk into the backparlour, leaving the shop to the sole occupation of the mortified and disappointed James. The young man mechanically followed

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