President, and on his arm the lovely bride. She never looked better; her bright, innocent face looked childlike in its tender youth, and over it passed alternate flush and pallor. Her bouquet was magnificent and was of orange blossoms, tuberoses, white jessamine, and white pink, with a deep frill of point lace from round the outer edge. The attendants formed a semicircle and Mr. Sartoris took his fair gift from her distinguished father. They stepped up on the dais, and Dr. Tiffany made them man and wife. The guests pressed forward to offer their congratulations; before which, however, Sir Edward Thornton and Mr. Fish proceeded to a small table in the centre of the room, covered with a white silk table cover, whereon were the pen and ink with which they witnessed the ceremony.

"At twelve Mrs. Sartoris retired to change her dress for the travelling costume, of which there are two-one of black silk for the steamer, and the other, which she wore to-day, of rich mignonette silk, with a deep flounce and shirrings of silk with smaller ruffles. The polonaise, of same shade in camel's hair, is richly embroidered and fits her graceful figure with exquisite exactness. The hat and gloves matched this refined costume. Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris drove to the depot in the four-horse carriage, in which was also her younger brother, Ulysses. Following the coaches was a large waggon filled with trunks. While the bridal party were en route to the depot, Mr. Widdows rung the chimes of the Metropolitan Methodist Church. He gave the English Wedding March,' 'Hail Columbia,' 'God save the Queen,' and the Star-spangled Banner.'

"A special Pullman palace car bore them away at twenty minutes to two o'clock. After leaving Baltimore this car was attached to the regular New York train. The car was a new one, and was exquisitely decorated with flowers and evergreens and draped with the American and English flags. The President and Mrs. Grant join their daughter at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. And it is stated the Cabinet and her bridesmaids will also go for the purpose of bidding her bon voyage, and to her we say—

'Our hearts, our hopes are all with thee,

Our hearts and hopes, our prayers and tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears
Are all with thee, are all with thee.'"

Varieties.

COTTAGE POETRY.-Those who have not tried the experiment can scarcely imagine how the most prosaic forms of bricks and mortar may be made picturesque and tasteful at very small cost. The repulsive dreariness of the usual bare front of a modern labourer's cottage, with nothing to vary the aspect of its naked walls but the ugly square openings of the windows and doors, may, with very little cost, a scintillation of taste, and a small modicum of outlay (scarcely more than a few shillings), be, in a single season, transformed into a picturesque rustic façade, positively attractive, instead of all but actually ugly. A porch should be the first addition, and a little bit of carpentering forming the roof is the only matter requiring a trifling outlay. It should be supported on unbarked uprights, of any readily-available wood; four sticks of young larch, from the thinning of an overcrowded plantation, being as good for the purpose as anything that can be suggested. A few ladderlike cross-barrings should be added, and the foundation for an exquisitely pretty porch has been successfully laid. Climbing plants are the next requisites. A pink China rose, as flowering nearly all the year round, and its foliage being nearly ever

green, may be the first planted, for it possesses a never-failing charm. It is so elegantly and daintily delicate both in flower and leaf, and yet defies our most cruel frosts. It is one of those " said, are "a joy for ever." things of beauty" which, as Keats has so poetically There may be at its base the crimson dwarf of its own kith and kin, for the sake of contrast of colour. Two kinds of clematis may next occupy posts of honour. On one side should be C. montana, with its shower of snow-flake blossoms, and on the other the brilliant-flowered C. Jackmanni, the huge and abundant drooping blossoms of which will serve in their season to surround our cottage-porch with a glory of purple flower-drapery which no palace entrance could surpass in splendour. Then there may be dropped into the soil, in early April (but not too profusely), a few seeds of convolvulus major, common climbing tropaolum, and T. canariense. This combination will, in June, July, and August, form a gorgeous mass of varied colour, which neither the plants of glowing tropical valleys nor the rarest of the exotic flowers luxuriating in the artificial heat of our palatial stoves can surpass.-Garden.

COCKCROWING. Of the several intimations relating to the voice of animals in Scripture, we have none more deserving of attention than the "crowing of the cock" throughout the night, there being a first crowing about midnight, and a second again as day begins to dawn; and this so regularly as to be made use of to mark the progress of time from a very early period, it being pointed out as a well-known and established occurrence above eighteen centuries ago. Though this vociferation of the bird is yet persevered in, it seems to be without any regularity, except perhaps the general clamour of the early morning, as in parti cular nights this crowing may be heard at various intervals during the darkness. Night-travelling birds sound a signal for the guidance of their followers; but these creatures usually observe a profound silence when at rest or feeding in the gloom, and perhaps the cock is the only creature that notifies to any habits of these birds in an unreclaimed state, it must very enemy within hearing his asylum on the roost. If such are the frequently be productive of injury to them and their families around them. But in this, his domesticated state, it is a voice which, heard during some sleepless hour, in the deep quiet of the night, becomes most impressive and solemn, brings past events to our recollection, and has, perhaps, often produced holy thoughts and meditations.-Journal of a Naturalist.

long, traced on the side of Wilmington Hill, which attracts so WILMINGTON "LONG MAN."-The figure of a man 230 feet much attention on the South Coast line of railway leading to Hastings, has now had its outline completely restored. The figure is of great antiquity, but its date, origin, or purpose cannot be traced. Hitherto the outline has been marked by simply cutting the turf away and exposing the chalk beneath, but it is now shown by the insertion of white bricks in the space, thus preventing the lines from becoming obliterated. The Long Man," as it is locally termed, is represented as holding a staff in each hand, the distance between them being 119 feet. The Duke of Devonshire, on whose ground the figure is delineated, has greatly assisted the work.

BURNING PAPERS AND LETTERS.-A publisher writes a note of protest against the advice to make a bonfire of old paper on "Moving House" (see page 181). "To burn paper," he says, "is inhuman and wasteful. Every year the consumption of paper increases, rags rise to famine price, and new materials are sought as substitutes. Jute, straw, and grasses innumerable replace cotton (a return, by way of analogy, to the primitive papyrus); wood even will serve.

Thus it has become a matter of importance for every housekeeper to keep a bag or sack for paper waste, which, when filled, may be sent to the mill; it and is easily reconverted into pulp. In case of letters or papers being paper, its value is beyond that of any mere raw material, of any sort, the purchaser will guarantee that they go direct to the pulp mill. The money return to each individual is small, but one helps the diffusion of literature. It may be objected that some literature is pernicious, and that even a preacher's still the supply replaces waste, and increases that general stock waste may help to circulate immoral or infidel publications; from which the 'Leisure Hour' itself is supplied.'

-A. H.

LAUD'S RITUALISM.-The ecclesiastical system of Archbishop Laud was described by Lord Falkland as "an English though not a Roman popery; so it seemed their work was to try how much of a Papist might be brought in without Popery, and to destroy as much as they could of the Gospel without bringing themselves into danger of being destroyed by the law."—Lord Falkland's Speech concerning Episcopacy in 1641.

MR. DAVID WADDLE'S SPECULATIONS. CHAPTER VII.-"BULLS" AND "BEARS." QUITE a fortnight passed before Kate Waddle could be pronounced out of actual danger. During that period the doctor had been twice daily in attendance. Each time not only his words, but the manner in which he spoke them was anxiously scanned by the parents; so much of hope or of fear seemed to hang on his every look. Who that has No. 1184.-SEPTEMBER 5, 1874.

passed through similar experiences does not know the terrible alternations of feeling, where life and death contend for mastery over a loved form? Yet the heavier the trial, the more of duty does it generally bring with it to engage and to relieve the mind.

At least, Mr. Waddle found it so. The first deadening dulness of the shock past, there was so much to do, that he had not leisure, as assuredly he had not the heart, to think either of past undertakings or present prospects. Fresh invitations to

every post, but he heeded them not, scarce perused their proposals. Not that he was sorry for what he had done, nor that under other circumstances he would not again have acted in a similar manner, but that the thought of money was incongruous, so long as the possession of his dearest treasure was so uncertain.

Kate had now so far improved that her father could take his place in the sick-room, while his wife had her much-needed rest. It was wonderful how gentle and tender he could be; how soft his voice and delicate his touch. He understood every unspoken wish and anticipated it. Yet there was one which even his affection could not divine. A hundred times during that illness, and when she thought herself nearing the eternal world, had Kate made a new sacrifice of her heart and affections. Yet each time, as she brought it afresh, she felt it surely could not have been made in earnest before, or else it would not have required renewal. Her love was always dying, yet never dead. But why should it die? It could not be sin to love James Nicoll, who was so true and good. Only to utter it even to herself was wrong, and to feel the pang of its loss, when she had made surrender of it, was like grudging to God the sacrifice she had offered.

But there was one thing which was neither good, nor true, nor holy. It had come in suddenly and almost broken up their home, or, at least, what made it such-the confidence, peace, love and happiness that bound them together. Worse still, the very gift it offered to bring, threatened to be fatal, like that poisoned garment which could only be torn off at the cost of life itself. Kate loved her father devotedly. To others, he might be plain, dull, stupid, commonplace David Waddle, the ex-tanner; or else bumptious, unreasonable, provoking David Waddle, Esquire to be, present possessor of four baskets prepared by Graham, and futuristic capitalist. To Kate he was not David Waddle at all-but her own dear, darling father, the best of men, and the most loved of parents. A daughter may give her mother all her confidence, and nestle in her bosom when sorrow is near; but to her father often belongs the spring and enthusiasm of her affections, be he who or what he may; and blighted, indeed, is that daughter's heart of its richest and fairest promise of joy and love, if it cannot or does not render him that tribute. Few who have not really loved, and loved well, a father, will ever love a husband or a child.

But how could poor, sick little Pussy, as she lay there, propped up on her pillows, speak to her father on what so heavily weighed her down?-she, who was so far from having conquered, that even now she seemed to hear the distant din of that everreturning battle in her heart? So the two were long in silence that afternoon, each wanting to say something to the other and each failing of courage to say it. Mr. Waddle had done it all to make them happy. But were they happy? What made people happy? Would money, just then, make them happy? It was an uncomfortable, and yet only what you might call an ordinary and regular train, by which Mr. Waddle was mentally travelling, considering it started from his daughter's sick

room.

The doctor found Kate next morning better than she had been; better far than he could have ex

was bright and his tone confident as he announced this to Mr. Waddle. She was making now rapid progress towards convalescence; the only thing to guard against was the consequences, which sometimes were serious. He did not say it would be so in this case, but "prudence was the better part of valour."

"I tell you what, Mr. Waddle," concluded the doctor, cheerfully, "there are few in so favourable circumstances to ward off consequences as you. You are a rich man! What would it be to you to take your wife and daughter off to France, or at least to the south of England? Come, Mr. Waddle, you must not hesitate! Her life may depend upon it," he added more softly.

To one who had scarcely ever in his life left home there was something very upsetting in the thought of such a journey. Could there be a more comfortable place than "the premises," or more healthy, bracing air than that of Greenwood? Where were they to go to? How, when, or in what manner? Besides, there was another consideration of primary importance which gave Mr. Waddle a little trouble. It was all very well for the doctor to say that he was a rich man; and so he was, or, at least, he might be. But for the present, at any rate, the futuristic capitalist was certainly not in funds. The £300 a year were all needed for home expenditure. Indeed, he knew they must have been anticipated, or rather exceeded; for since Mr. Waddle's prospects had become so brilliant, he had been by no means so prudent and careful as it became a man with an income of just £75 a quarter. Mr. Waddle awoke to the consciousness, then, for the first time in his life, that if all the tradespeople to whom he was indebted were to send in their outstanding bills-not to speak of the doctor's feeshe would not just then be able to pay his way. His new investments had not yet yielded any dividends, nor could they be expected to do so for some months to come. In these circumstances it was happy, indeed, for Mr. David Waddle that he had at any rate on the previous evening contemplated the sale of his four "baskets."

Mr. Graham welcomed the reappearance of his client with becoming cordiality, but was evidently not prepared for the announcement of Mr. Waddle. Indeed, to do him justice, our capitalist felt a little ashamed under the regretful tone of reproachful remonstrance in which he found himself addressed. It was as if Mr. Graham would have said, "What, and you also! You, whom I have taken such pains to benefit! To sell, and in a falling market too!" But there was no help for it now. Mr. Graham would write up that evening. Was there no more expeditious mode? When one is resolved to have a tooth drawn, it is pleasanter far to have it done at once than to sit for ever so long in the ante-room waiting for the dentist. Mr. Graham would "wire up," and in an hour Mr. Waddle might return and know that the deed was done.

That hour's walk was the least pleasant Mr. Waddle had taken for many years. It was decidedly not calculated to impress him with the benefits of "fresh air." Still there was this to comfort him, that, after all, besides his original capital, a very handsome margin of profit remained. He had invested in shares of which one-half, or ten shillings a share, had been paid. The rest, of course, would never be called up. The sacrifice must be made; it was a

necessity for Pussy's sake. And, lastly, it was only | a temporary measure. This was the sweetest consolation of all, and Mr. Waddle retraced his steps to the broker's office.

There on the table lay the open telegram in reply to the "wiring up." Mr. Waddle read it three times before he quite mastered its contents. Yet it was sufficiently plain : "Cannot realise one premium. Write by this evening's post." Mr. David Waddle was considerably crestfallen. Not so the buoyant Graham. They would wait till the morning's post. With this hope Mr. Waddle had to return to his home, bringing with him scarcely so cheerful a face as might have been expected, considering that Pussy was for the first time to sit up for dinner.

Next morning Mr. Waddle was early at Graham's office. Before starting he had on his own account made private study of that fifth chapter of the Epistle to the Ephesians, and come quite to the conclusion that as "covetousness" should be avoided, he would sell his shares even at a loss, that is, if need be. It was a heavy loss, but he would exercise the grace of being "content with such things" as he had, or at least with such as he could manage to get.

The letter of Mr. Graham's town correspondent contained reference to a great variety of transactions, among which, to use the broker's expressive figure, Mr. Waddle's was "only a flea-bite." Anyhow, it could not be done then, as the shares were being "beared." Mr. Graham talked much about "bears and "bulls," and other share-market slang. If he "wired up" again, there was no use fixing a price; he must give absolute orders, and rely on the discretion of the experienced brokers in London. Did Mr. Waddle not trust him, after all he had done? It was too evident Mr. Graham was losing patience with his client. Mr. Waddle felt himself in the hands of one whom he must not offend. He declared his readiness to leave the matter wholly to his adviser, and with the most perfect confidence. But that was precisely the reverse of what Mr. David Waddle really felt in his heart as he slowly returned homewards. This time, however, his countenance expressed the opposite of what it had done the previous day; he was bright and happy, almost jocular. He would arrange all for their move southwards; and such an outing they should have! In private Mr. Waddle for the first time informed his wife, to her grateful delight, that he intended to "sell out." He might not realise such profits as he would have done, had he only waited a little till either the "bears" had torn the "bulls," or the "bulls" had gored the "bears." Still, he modestly believed, it would be something handsome, and he was determined to give them a thorough good outing.

To the various novel experiences through which Mr. Waddle had lately passed he had to add another. When next morning he entered Mr. Graham's office, Mr. Graham was engaged. Engaged? Was there any one with him? The melancholy Puddles shook his shock of hair, and Mr. Waddle tried to smile and look unconcerned while engaging in the hopeless task of drawing Puddles into conversation. At last, after half an hour's delay, the door of the sanctum opened, and Mr. Graham appeared, hat on head, apparently much astonished at finding his client in waiting. He retreated, however, only a step within the threshold, as Mr. Waddle bustled up to him in a familiar manner.

"Excuse me, Mr. Waddle; you must excuse me.

I am very busy this morning. Settling-day coming on, with very heavy transactions. But there "--and Mr. Graham pulled from his breast-pocket the letter of his London correspondent. He handed the letter to his client, and with another "You must excuse me," had left the office before Mr. Waddle had even unfolded the missive which was to decide how large his realised profits were to be. His eyes ran rapidly over the lines till he came to the words, "For Mr. Waddle's shares there is no sale of any kind at present."

Mr. Waddle held the letter in his hand, and stood quite still.

"Hadn't you better sit down, sir?" suggested Puddles.

Mr. Waddle declined the offer. Crumpling up the letter in his hand, he went forth disconcerted. He thought of the future. And yet he would not allow himself to think of it. Whose advice should he now take? Of all he knew only one occurred to his mind whom he could fully trust. Bitter as the ordeal must prove, he would go up on the morrow to London to see Mr. John Nicoll. What mattered any man's opinion to him now? If he could only see a way out of his troubles! And there was hope left. For did not the letter expressly limit the "no sale" of his shares to "at present"?

Mr. Waddle took his wife into his " snuggery and told her all-what he feared, what he hoped, and what he purposed. On one point he was fully resolved; never again would he speculate! Not that it was evil or wrong, but he had not time for it, and he was too far from town, with all its "bulls and "bears."

Then did Mrs. Waddle, as is the wont of all such foolish wives, embrace her husband, and cry over him, and comfort him, and tell him that he was the best and dearest of all husbands, and she the happiest of all women, even though they should lose every farthing, not only of the anticipated profits, but even what she contemptuously called that wretched legacy." Then did Mr. David Waddle speak very lovingly and softly to his wife, and to everybody else in the house. And then did Pussy, before sho went to bed that night, throw her arms around her father's neck, and declare it was the pleasantest day she had ever had, and that she was now quite well, and did not need to go south; indeed, that she would not go south.

But as mother and daughter left the room, two large tears stood in Mr. David Waddle's eyes, and slowly rolled down his cheeks.

CHAPTER VIII.-UP TO LONDON.

To reveal a secret, one of the first topics of consultation between mother and daughter, when within the shelter of their privacy, was the very prosaic one of "ways and means." Mrs. Waddle's finances were at a much lower ebb than her husband had any conception. Engaged as he had daily been with his thousands, it was not to be wondered that he impatiently waived away such trifling considerations as butcher's, grocer's, or baker's bills. And Mrs. Waddle had of late been almost afraid to speak to him about the wants of her housekeeping.

The examination of her purse in Pussy's bed-room proved eminently unsatisfactory. Mr. Waddle had asked and got two pounds from her for his journey to London. She found she had very little ready money left. Kate disappeared and soon returned

N

the realm.

"But, Kate, my darling, I cannot allow you to give up your poor little money," remonstrated her mother, the hot tears starting to her eyes. And yet she knew. that she must allow it, and, moreover, that in all probability she would have to use every penny Kate had laid by, with the view of realising at some time the great object of her young ambition -a gold watch of her own.

"Are we not so happy now, mother, that father has really given up all those shares?" expostulated Kate. "I am sure Uncle Nicoll will help him out of this trouble, and then you will pay me back, and mind with interest, mother. I shall expect-what is it they call it ?-dividends or something;" and Kate tried to look amused and to laugh.

Thereupon the two fell to abusing Mr. Graham, and to declare that it was "all he," thereby meaning to convey to each other, and to their own minds, that any and every blame rested solely upon the stockbroker, while Mr. David Waddle himself was the purest, wisest, and best of men. Which proposition, if it were not easy to demonstrate, might at least be regarded, as it not unfrequently is by mothers and daughters under similar circumstances, in the light of an axiom, incapable of proof, and therefore not requiring it. With this comfortable assurance in her mind, and Pussy's money in her hand, Mrs. Waddle could meet her husband in a more serene mood, and treat his journey and its cost as a mere matter of course.

Few things are so uncomfortable in life as a very early start on a cold morning. The tidiest room looks like the parlour of an inn before it has been prepared for the day's guests. Mr. David Waddle was vainly endeavouring to "make a good breakfast." People are mostly admonished to do so when either the meal or their state of mind renders the performance impossible. Then there was hurried good-by, and Mr. Waddle started to catch "the parliamentary train." As he looked back towards his house, he could not but feel the contrast between contemplating the road from within his snug breakfast-parlour at half-past eight o'clock, and contemplating it two hours earlier from outside his own "premises."

There were few passengers for the early train; indeed, there always were few passengers from Greenwood. But among them Mr. Waddle was destined to have a fellow-traveller, whom, of all others, he would just then have most wished to avoid. The Rev. Mr. Hartwell, bent like Mr. Waddle on travel and on economy, was in waiting, attended by Emma, who would see the last for the day of her father, prompted to this not more by daughterly duty than by the circumstance that her father was going to London, where, among other persons and things, he would see her John.

The heart of the minister was not much lighter than that of Mr. Waddlo, though his confidence in the Master supported him under the burden. The minister had of late spent miserable weeks. The smouldering discontent had burst, not into

often the tears to his wife and daughters, despite their attempts to suppress them. Those troubles and sorrows are not always the heaviest which are the most tangible, and therefore capable of being met and faced. It is the continual wear and tear which destroys the fine machinery. Besides, like sensitive men generally, Mr. Hartwell was given to retire upon and write hard things against himself; in short, he had felt his position in Greenwood become untenable, and with a stricken heart he prepared, at the eventime of his work, to set out anew to find some other quiet path for himself and those he loved. His wife was most affectionate, Emma brave, and the others, down to the youngest, true. What plans were made in council in the minister's study, and what prayers were offered up by each in secret during a period when each day brought as it were its fresh observations, and each observation its fresh sorrow and care!

Neither the minister nor his family had seen any of the Waddles since Kate's illness. It had been unmistakably conveyed to them that the old intercourse was at least no longer desired by the owner of Plum Cottage. And, however unjustifiable it may be pronounced on abstract grounds, the female members of the minister's family did feel sore about him whom they regarded as the author of their father's troubles.

But now Mr. Hartwell and the warmhearted Emma were equally shocked at Mr. Waddle's altered appearance. The minister shook him cordially by the hand, and Emma would know all about her dear Kate. And when she ascertained that the master of Plum Cottage was out of reach for the day, she inwardly resolved to "improve the opportunity." The two friends met, all the more lovingly for their short estrangement; Mrs. Waddle was so humble, tender, and kind to the minister's daughter as quite to blot out in many tears the remembrance of her husband's doings; while Kate confided to her old companion all their new troubles. To all which Emma made such answer as might have been expected in the circumstances, and consisting chiefly of a very wise shaking of a very pretty little head, horizontally, vertically, or variously, according as the subject of conversation was Mr. David Waddle, Mr. James Nicoll, or Mr. Peter Graham.

All this time the great engine went on its way, hurrying its human freight to the great city, there to mingle their sorrows, hopes, aspirations, and disappointments with those of the tens of thousands who similarly hoped and suffered.

Mr. David Waddle felt sadly confused when he arrived at his journey's end. Had it not been for the kindly care of the minister he might have found it difficult to discover and take his place in the omnibus, which was now taking him into the heart of the City. Altogether, his mind was out of joint. A hundred times he tried to arrange how and what he was to explain to Mr. John Nicoll. It was past one o'clock when Mr. Waddle found himself outside the Bank. Down Old Broad Street, and he stood in front of the court, whose name he so well remembered. Quite at the bottom of it to the right hand a stair led up to various offices, the names of the firms occupying them being clearly legible in white letters on a black ground, just under the entry. Among them Mr. Waddle read, "Nicoll Brothers, stock and sharebrokers."