had put himself in her way there and given her a fright. "Hers was a better ghaist than your woman's, Tam," said Jock Elliot, giving a dunsh with his elbow to Tam Walkinshaw, who was sitting beside him; "there'll be a joining here instead o' a parting, or I'm muckle mistaken." I must do Jock the justice to say that this was the only joke he made on the subject that night at Haughead, though on our ways home be sure everybody had plenty to say about it. was a bonnie lying place, with a green bank in front, and the clack of the mill was very heartsome. I never saw such a wedding dinner as Bell's. There was such a crush of folk that the parlour couldna contain them, and they had to have the dinner in the barn. There were forms for the young folk, and chairs for the bride, the minister and his wife, and the more honourable portion of the company. After the dinner the older and doucer among them went into the house to have a crack between themselves, and afterwards got their tea quietly from the mistress, while her sons looked after the company in the barn. John Dempster, who was muckle taken up with his bonnie daughter-in-law, had got a new covered cart painted green outside and white in, to take her home in. Her providing had been sent to the mill the day before with her spinning-wheel on the top o't; and her mother charged the miller's man to be sure to drive the bride exactly the same road to prevent ill-luck; but as the man was scarcely sober, it's to be hoped Bell's happiness didna depend on his memory. When John and the bride and bridegroom went away in the cart at night, it seemed as if all the old bauchles (worn-out shoes) in the parish had been gathered to fling after them. They papped off Allan's back like hailstones, as, guessing what was waiting him, he made a fell spring from the housedoor to the cart. And I couldna help thinking that if the French sodgers had taken as good an aim he wouldna have been alive that day, which would have been a great loss to us all, more especially to Bell. Well, to cut my story short, Mr. Matthew, it was na long before old John Dempster got Allan's discharge bought. It was a mercy, for Bonnyparty was then living quietly at Elba, and nobody knew that Waterloo was to come yet. They said the lad submitted very doucely to 't; and he was soon working at the mill as steadily as if he had never been out of the sound of clap and happer. He was gey often up at the Haughead, too, by all accounts; and it seemed as if things were flourishing there again, for bonnie Bell Johnstone's cheeks began to get back their roses and her lips their smiles, though they were o' a different kind from formerly-more soft and sweet, but less pawkie and merry than they used to be. Allan was much thought o' in the country side, for he had been in many battles, and had been wounded more than once, though he was spared to come home without stumping on a stick leg or wanting an arm. Besides, he had seen many outlandish things in the countries he had been in that none of the folk about us had ever heard o' before. And Well, Mr. Matthew, Allan made Bell a kind then his description of the papish worship and gudeman, and she made him a douce wife. Her images, with wax candles burning before them even trial had sobered her down, and made her more in the daylight, set up these idolaters for wasters; serious-minded. They had a bonnie family in time, and the incense, and the priests, and the dirty shaven though one of the sons-a fine lad but wilful-was monks, and the singing bairns with long white sarks so bewitched with his father's stories of his sodgering on the outside of their claes, in the muckle dark life that nothing would keep him from being a sodger kirks with painted windows that turned the Creator's himself, which was a great grief to them. Allan blessed light into all manner o' colours-oh, Mr. often said it was a righteous punishment to him for Matthew, but it was just awful to listen to't. No having left his old father as he had done, and no wonder, everybody thought, that the land was so doubt it was the fruit of that deed. And as to Bell, scourged by God's judgments in the way of fire and I jealouse she had many a thought concerning her sword for its idolatries. But we all liked to hear share in the evil, though she kept them to herself. about them notwithstanding, and thought much of But the lad did well, and time reconciled them to it. the man that had seen such extraordinary sights. Even the very minister had him up to the manse to question him on his adventures in Spain. And ere long there was a blithe wedding at the Haughead, and I trow a bonnier bride than Bell Johnstone never stepped over her husband's doorstane. There were twenty riders at it, and many of them had their wives or sweethearts riding on a pillion behind them. I was glad to see Jock Elliot had brought little Katie Gourlay on his brown mare, for nobody knew till then that Jock was seriously courting her, though we all suspected her feelings for him. The rest of the folk came in carts and caravans, except them that were near neighbours, such as the minister and his wife, and the doctor and his old maiden sister. And Bell had a good providing; Gavin Johnstone didna grudge to his only daughter, for she had the best braws of any bride of that time in the country side. And, well-a-wat! she was the mistress of a grand plenished house at the mill, well stocked with both napery and blankets; for Allan's mother had been an active woman, and had left everything routhy (abundant) behind her at her death. And it The heads of the house are far up in years now— Bell must be six years older than I am--but they were well and hearty when I saw them last, which was only last summer when I was up Borgie water. And that's the end of my Hallowe'en story, Mr. Matthew. THE CENTENNIAL TEA-PARTY IN BOSTON. Throughout the autumn of 1873, the one event looked forward to with the deepest interest in Boston, was the Centennial Tea-Party, to be held in Faneuil Hall on the evening of December 16th. This hall is hallowed to Americans by every patriotic association. The "Old Cradle of Liberty," we call it, and hither we carry our bantlings, no matter of what sex or colour, and the arms of the great public rock, and the voice of the people sing a lullaby, or an awakening, as the occasion demands. It was to this grey stone building that, on December 16th, 1773, thronged, "from all the country round about," crowds of grave, deeply-excited men. Two ships were riding at anchor in the harbour, laden with taxed tea. For the tea there were urns waiting in every house, but the taxes! "Millions for freedom! not a cent for the tax!" said a deep-voiced man from out the crowd; and with one shout they answered "Amen! Overboard with the tea, and the tax will go with it." But the overt act of treason, what of that? narrow and crooked streets to a crowd so dense that any attempt to penetrate it was useless. Policemen in their blue uniforms were everywhere, but the world over there is no crowd so quiet and orderly as the one you find in Boston, therefore there was no occasion for their services. One whole hour of waiting for the doors to open, the pressure and the swaying in the midst of this immense concourse was at times positively fearful, and then two by two it began to lessen, until you found yourself going leisurely up the broad stairs, and as quietly entering the hall, almost as if you were alone in the world. The hall itself looks very venerable for a country that counts the erection of its oldest buildings-by hundreds rather than thousands of years. It is perfectly plain, without the least attempt at architectural ornament, and with but few pictures or national emblems. Portraits of the most illustrious of Massa It was to discuss this somewhat knotty and imporjant point that the doors of Faneuil Hall were thrown wide open, and these excited men were rush-chusetts men hang around the walls, the point from ing in to fill it. The morning was one of the dreariest which nearly all dated the beginning of their greatwhich this dreary winter climate ever offered. Winds ness being the one whose celebration we attended swept in over the frozen ocean, laden with icy rain; that night. great black clouds, full of snow and sleet, lay low over the city; the cold, with a strange new power, pinched and benumbed every one whom it found exposed. Yet, as regardless of it as if they were in the bland air of a lovely June day, these patriots came to the gathering. How this audience in Faneuil Hall looked is a picture which has been painted many times, at least in words; and what they said and did has been told too often, also, to need repetition here. Every man composing that little band of Mohawks has become immortalised, as all are everywhere who at the time of their country's need prove true and brave. But enough has probably been said to recall to the reader the event, let us pass on now to its celebration. The morning of December 16th, 1873, is in striking contrast to the one of a century ago: a clear, bright sun laughs down from a cloudless blue sky; a crisp, clastic, sea-laden air strings up the nerves and sets the brain working at its topmost speed. The earliest trains to the city go heavy with their living freight; carriages loaded to their utmost capacity fill every road; pedestrians crowd the side-walks, and even the very animals, all along the way, look up as if they knew the Centennial had come. Boston is in the day of its glory, and if ever it had a right to use its natural gift of brag, it is at full liberty to indulge it now. Enthusiastic and patriotic thousands have come to do it honour. It almost seems as if the very bones of those sixteen Mohawks would bestir themselves in their scattered graves, and rise all bedecked in their rude finery to receive the crowns of laurel this day to be laid at their feet. As we walk through the gay streets flags are flying everywhere. Red, white, and blue mingle in odd and very characteristic stripes. Teapots of every size and description are displayed in shop-windows. Before a large Oriental tea-store a huge copper teakettle is sending forth volumes of its spicy odours into the sharp, hungry air, and knots of men and women are going into the shop to taste the classic beverage. China seems to have come round the world and dropped down on the mountain city, so that in your bewilderment you have hard work to separate the sentiment from its symbols. The whole tide of human life runs in one direction. Throwing yourself into it, you come through the When we entered this hall, early as we had supposed ourselves to be, it was full, not a spare seat, hardly a spare standing-place anywhere. Galleries, platform, even stairs and window-sills, were already occupied. If one is ever excusable for a desire to grumble, it is on such an occasion. To stand from four until nine, good-naturedly, would only be possible for that order of beings who can rest upon their wings; unfortunately we could not, and very cross I am afraid we looked, until we found one seat on a stairway, over which tramped the children of three large public schools, and another on a window-sill, shunned, as it was used for ventilating the hall. As places of observation, however, they proved unexceptionable. From them we could see the tables arranged all over the floor, covered with white cloths, and laid with old-time china tea-sets. Ladies dressed in ancient costume, with sweet young faces looking out from under a cloud of powdered hair, sat beside these tables. Pretty pictures they made. We almost expected the faces of those grim old illustrious dead to relax into a smile as they gazed down from their tarnished frames upon this uncommon scene. Suddenly the decided stroke of a baton upon a table, and there, behind it, stood a tall, thin old man, with pale face and white hair. Involuntarily I looked for a vacant frame to be hanging over the platform. I felt almost sure that the Josiah Quincy, who had uttered the wise and eloquent words in that very spot one hundred years ago, had stepped out to preside over us to-night. There was something almost weird about this grandson who yet remained. His voice, tremulous with the weight of years it bore, his antique gestures, his high collar, white neckcloth, and black dress suit, gave him a set-apart look, as if the time which had touched, had hallowed him. Now and then one of his feeble words reached us, but his speech was mainly a dumb show, yet none the less impressive for that, for we almost always knew by his manner whom he was introducing to the audience, and never doubted that he was saying the kindest things, and calling for Robert C. Winthrop, as the latter came upon the stage. The eager bending towards him of that dense crowd was his only welcome. With a Boston audience Mr. Winthrop is always a great favourite. His name alone would have won him a warm recep tion to-night, but he brought to us one of those choice, exquisite bits of oratory, which he, better perhaps than any other man in America, knows how to prepare; nor did it detract in the least from the interest that his voice also was bereft of some of the melodious tones for which, in other days, it had been so noted, or that his manuscript was held in a hand less firm than the one which had wielded the graceful pen a few years ago. Not a word that he uttered was lost. It may have been owing to the respectful silence with which he was listened to, or the fine oratory, which is always distinct. He was frequently interrupted by applause, and his jokes were most enthusiastically received. It is not my intention to notice every speaker, it is only of the three known world-wide strangers will care to hear. Of course at that time, and in that place, there was a great deal of the "spread eagle," and why not? There was none, however, when Ralph Waldo Emerson's turn came. We had been told that he was feeble, and that probably not one word he uttered could be heard; we were, therefore, not a little surprised when he stepped lightly upon the platform, looked quickly and sharply over his audience, threw his head into its peculiar poise, and with a lighting of the face, seen upon that of no other human being, began in an almost clear voice to read his poem. As he never had any manner but the one of jerks and twitches, so now those muscular efforts, untouched by his physical condition, or perhaps rendered more angular and expressive by it, rounded-I should rather say pointed-what he uttered. How the poem would have sounded from any other lips I cannot even imagine, but there was something pathetic in it as he spoke it, in the trembling of another manuscript, in the certainty that the flow and the rhythm of his own peculiar life was also coming to its close. After he sat down, speaker after speaker rose, and in vain claimed the attention of the audience. To listen to any one after he had been heard was simply impossible; the promised tea-party was loudly and impatiently demanded, and in a few minutes the clatter of cups and saucers, with the rattling of spoons, announced that it had fairly commenced. We saw the blue teacups handed around among the crowd; we even took one in our hands, and indulged (to the memory of the brave Mohawks) in a sip of a beverage which might have been the resistible Bohea from Griffin's Wharf, boiled in the salt-water under which it had lain for the century. Then we sauntered for a few minutes among the social, chatty guests, and left with Josiah Quincy's last words ringing in our ears, "Adjourned for one hundred years!" and then, and then where should we all be? MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN. G. G. R. IT is the complaint of some, and the sneer of others, that middle age, especially the middle age of unmarried women, is a very uninteresting period. The romance of hope is gone, and although middle age is eminently the working time of life, the great fruit-bearing season, there are not a few who vainly sigh for the days that are past. The middle age of women who have not found their special work or sphere, is often a period of resess repining, if not of ennui or disappointed complaining. Parents renew their youth in their children, and thus live a double life. Those, too, who are engrossed in business, or in the struggle for a livelihood, have little time for idle musings. But there are women who, having no family to care for and no daily bread to earn, hardly seem to know where they stand, and miss a substance while they chase a shadow. Nobody thinks of crying for May blossoms when trees are laden with russet fruit; or murmurs that the bowed yellow ears are not erect and emerald spears. But there are many who cry unheard for vanished blooms of youth, unconscious that while they sit idle the weeds of selfish neglect are stifling every chance of fruit, and blighting their usefulness not less than their happiness. It is to such persons we address ourselves, well aware that there are others, strong and busy, to whom our words may appear little better than beating the air, because they cannot conceive the state of mind or life to which they apply. First, let us all agree that it is the true wisdom to recognise the facts of our life whatever they may be. Some social fictions, and often the mistaken words of friends, may help to obscure them. Yet it is vain to cling to the youth which is past, be our unbelief of the fact ever so stubborn. Rather should it be gracefully resigned for the cheerful acceptance of the duties which mature life is sure to bring. Why, for example, should a single woman of forty cling to the dress and manners of a girl, instead of owning to herself and others that she has fully reached middle age? Countless advertisements show but too plainly how many have a horror of growing old, and snatch credulously at every device for hiding the unwelcome fact. Success in such arts means a walking deception, and where there is falsehood on the surface there is not much hope of truth beneath; failure means an absurd anomaly,-bright hair does not harmonise with a faded cheek, or rouge with a furrowed brow. Besides, lovely as is the bloom of youth, it is hardly missed when the beauty of ex. pression beams forth in its stead. In mourning over and magnifying what is past, there is always danger of neglecting, if not losing, the treasures which remain. Nor must we forget that "The past will always win A glory from its being far; We saw not when we moved therein." Yet in middle age often only the brighter aspects of youth are recalled. "My good days are done," we can imagine one musing in melancholy womanhood; "how different it was at twenty: sheltered by the tenderest love, free from care and anxiety, and happy in what I had and what I hoped to have. Then, weariness was little more than a languid, restful feeling, which gave assurance of having enjoyed myself to the utmost. Around me were intimate friends with whom I could exchange thoughts and feelings, unchecked by doubt or reserve; health of body made it a joy to live and breathe, while an elastic spirit sprang up freshly from every trouble; and then the enchantress Hope, how sweetly she whispered! But now, many sorrows have chastened body and mind. Reaction has come to be a thing of dread-most usurious payment for every excitement. The dear old home is broken up.. Of early friends, some are dead, others are distant or occupied, so that we rarely communicate, and fewer still remain un- | ready yet delicate sympathy invited confidence. Prochanged. How one longs And the sound of a voice that is still!' I have been deceived and disappointed in others, and, bitterer still, have been deceived and disappointed in myself. I have to bear my burdens alone and hide my griefs, lest I tease some careless ear, or hinder some busy hand." Such an outcry is not the less real because it may be morbid. It is, however, only a dangerous halftruth which such a heart has realised, for when we are forced to feel that in this world it is "each for himself," we ought not to forget "and God for all." Human helpers had to fail us before we were willing to seek for Divine aid. And if we have found many things worse, have we not also found many things better, than we expected? In our early romantic dreams we gave scant place to the daily patience, the unselfish love, the meek self-sacrifice we have lived to witness. The mature life which often brings a saddening knowledge of unsuspected evil, is as often cheered by unexpected good. When it is not, it must be our own fault, for what we look out for, that we shall be sure to find. Again, in our teens there was something stirring in the lines: "Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long- But experience has taught their fallacy. The difference between such heroic anticipations and the reality of suffering is as great as between the distant view of a cloud-capped mountain and its actual ascent-its slippery paths and rolling stones, sharp-edged for aching feet-its rare air for the panting breast; while the climber is cheated with many a vain hope, "This is the crest," ere he scales the highest peak. Surely, none but a mad egotist can be "sublime " to himself. A higher frame of mind more fitting to middle age, is taught by Keble: "Then, fainting soul, arise and sing; Soon shalt thou read the mystery right The opportunities that belong to middle-age are surely also compensation for some earlier disappointments. There are few greater and few pleasanter privileges than the powerful influence the older may exert over the younger. Ten, or even twenty, years of difference does not weaken the sympathy between them; indeed, in a thoughtful mind rather deepens and enlarges it. An instance recurs to memory of a a lady in the writer's own circle whose influence over young friends was good incalculable. More than one thought of her almost as a guardian angel, to whom they could go for wise and kind advice, and speak of things they could not confide to one another. Her cultivated intellect kindled their emulation, and her bably deeper sorrows than they knew of were the source of this refined sympathy. How often the younger mind referred to her words and ways, and was unconsciously influenced by her as one whose high principle, transparent unselfishness, and religion, united to make a character of singular beauty. Another lady we recall who was revered chiefly as an intellectual guide, for her fine mind had the gift of drawing out the powers of those who looked up to her, and checking frivolity by the tastes which she evoked. Such characters are by no means rare in middle age. Few, if any, women are so lonely that they can exert no influence of this kind, and many It needs find much blessing in its exercise. thought and love, and both are well bestowed. It should excite sympathy to think of the "slippery paths" through which many of the younger sisters have to walk, and in which a helping hand may avert a fall, if not a stumble. But," says an objector, "girls are so often selfish and fickle; they only care for what you can do for them. You fill a temporary want, and will soon be forgotten.' Such a complaint is not true of girls alone, and savours of self-seeking and impatience of little duties. He who gave the "cup of cold Even when water" only filled a temporary want. the affection is shallow, and soon absorbed in a stronger current, that is a small matter if you have been permitted to sow some seed to bear fruit "after many days." 1 If youth has more brightness and animal spirits, middle age ought to possess full compensation in the larger toleration, patience, and charity, which later life should bring. Those who regret the loss of youthful energy and physical strength should rather dwell upon what they have gained in mental power and endurance. They are more able than the young to make the best use of every gift and opportunity they possess, while each year adds to their experience. Time, however, only mellows the best things; while the finest wine is improved by age, the weak and poor turns sour by keeping. Miss Thackeray says that another advantage middleaged persons have is, that they are become used to their bodies-at home in them-and know what can be expected from them. Now the young have to find out all this, and suffer the inconveniences of new dwellers in a house, ignorant of the humours of roofs and grates, which winds will bring smoke, and what doors and windows have private fancies about opening and shutting, etc. All this friction and waste of time is avoided by old residents in both bodies and houses. It is true that some women, even in mature life, are so dependent on others-so tied by circumstances that while they would gladly work they seem condemned to an almost passive state. These are trying cases, but let such take the comfort of knowing that when God sees they cannot work actively for him he accepts the will. "They also serve who only stand and wait." Who waits well will work well when the opportunity comes; and come it will, for ' a stone that is fit for the wall will never be left in the way.' 66 Middle-aged persons have twice the motive for living for man's good and God's glory that the young can have, because they have had so many more mercies and blessings, and have so much longer taxed the infinite forbearance and long but just set out. Is it not rather heathenish to talk of "down the hill of life," on the "shady side" of suffering of the Most High. To them, as to the Jews, belongs the exhortation, "Thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee thirty, forty, fifty years of age? Say, rather, up the these forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee and to prove thee, and to know what was in thine heart." To the Christian, middle-age should be as much happier than youth as is the traveller who has accomplished half his homeward journey than he who has hill to the heavenly city-it is the sunny side of the decades which is nearest the heaven of the Sun of Righteousness. It must be our own fault if middleage is not, like the "Martinmas summer," a glorious season, abounding in fruit, warmth, and peaceful beauty, and beneficent to all around. THE MANDARIN'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XXXVIII.-DISBANDMENT OF THE "EVER-VICTORIOUS ARMY"-END OF THE TAIPING REBELLION. IN AN-TING GATE OF PEKING N consequence of the inactivity of the disciplined force, the Taipings again began to attack the Imperialists, and with better chances of success, for they were no longer aided by Gordon's generalship. A greater number of foreigners than before flocked to the standard of rebellion. It was at once seen that if this renewal of the rebellion was not checked at the beginning, all the fortified places wrested from them would be recaptured, and that a great loss of foreign blood and treasure in defending Shanghai and its environs would be involved. The Chinese Government were in great dread of another attack, and did all they could to pacify the general, by issuing the following decree: "Gordon, specially appointed a General in the army of Kiang-soo, was in command of the troops who assisted in these operations (the reduction of Soochow); his Majesty, in order to evince his approval of the profound skill and great zeal displayed by him, orders him to receive a military decoration of the first rank and a sum of ten thou (Occupied by the Allied Forces.) At this time the country in the hands of the remaining rebels resembled somewhat the form of an hour-glass, having the provincial city of Hangchow at its eastern, and Nanking at its western extremity, with two fortified posts at the waist. The military genius of General Gordon enabled him to see at once that if he could capture these two posts, he would cut off the lines of communication between their bases of operation, and thereby weaken the concentrating force of the enemy. Then the FrancoChinese disciplined corps could attack Hang-chow, and the Imperialists Nanking, with better prospects |