call to mind the sudden change which came over the hon. member's opinion of his Majesty at a later epoch of the Empire. In 1854 Mr. Roebuck, speaking in his place in the House of Commons, protested against the Queen of England advancing to be kissed by 'the perjured lips of Louis Napoleon." Seven years later he went over to Paris to entreat the Emperor to interfere in the American Civil War in behalf of the Confederate States, and on his return Napoleon III. had in England no warmer adherent or more respectful friend. Writing last month about Mr. Ward Hunt, I ventured to describe the right hon. gentleman as "a scold," to refer to his possession of "a tone of voice and manner of speech which are strongly suggestive of the feminine art of 'nagging,'" and to derive from a study of "his cast of mind" small promise of "future manifestations of dignity." The number of the Gentleman's Magazine in which these remarks appeared was barely published when the First Lord of the Admiralty made his now famous speech, in which he seems to have astonished everybody by blusteringly falling foul of his predecessors in office, and letting his tongue trip away with the foolish, angry phrases about the "paper fleet" and the "dummy ships." Mr. Ward Hunt is useful in contrast with Mr. Roebuck, as illustrating the difference between an ill-tempered man of suspicious mind and only average intellectual power, and one of the same temperament but gifted with high ability. Mr. Ward Hunt is undignified in his anger, and, what is worse, he is sometimes, as Mr. Goschen was fain to declare before the House of Commons, "not fair in his statements— is scarcely ingenuous." For lack of ability to conceive arguments he indulges in invective, and in order to support a theory he will paraphrase a statement of fact. He is like "the geographers" described by Swift, who in Afric maps With savage pictures fill their gaps; Place elephants for want of towns. Mr. Roebuck is able to dispense with such devices; and whilst he is ready enough to imagine evil things of his political adversaries, he is content to take their words as actually uttered and their actions as reputably reported, and of these make scorpions for their backs. In argument his style is clear and incisive, and he is a master of good, simple English, which he marshals in short, crisp sentences. His voice, now so low that it scarcely reaches the Speaker's chair, was once full and clear. As in his best days he never attempted to rise to anything approaching florid eloquence, so he rarely varied in gesturefrom a regularly recurring darting of the index finger at the hon. member whom he chanced to be attacking-an angry, dictatorial gesture, which Mr. Disraeli, after smarting under it for an hour, once said reminded him of "the tyrant of a twopenny theatre." Now when Mr. Roebuck speaks his hands are quietly folded before him, and only at rare intervals does the right hand go forth with pointed finger to trace on the memories of the old men of the House recollections of fierce fights in which some partook who now live only as names in history. A RAMBLING STORY. BY MARY COWDEN CLARKE, Author of "The Iron Cousin," "The Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines," "The Complete Concordance to Shakespeare," &c. To honoured "Aunt Catherine," who taught the Author her first letters, this Story is dedicated in affectionate remembrance of those pleasant childhood times. Bright hints of Fortune, not yet read aright, Lead on, like stars, through night, to coming day.-New Play. PART I. RAMBLING story," Lilian? Well, listen, and I will tell you one. Some time since-I will not say how long ago-I chanced to find myself in the thick recesses of a wood as evening was drawing on. Never was there a more gorgeous sunset. I lingered, so absorbedly watching it, that I heeded not my way, and every moment became more and more entangled among the winding paths and bowery thickets that on each side surrounded me. I knew that I must be straying farther and farther from the beaten track-the high road which skirted the wood; but I was precisely in that mood when to go on seems irresistible, to turn back impossible. Yet I had been on foot nearly the whole day, and in the open air since dawn, so that I needed rest; but still the golden light streaming through the trees, the silence of the sequestered spot, the sweet breath of the evening air, the soft fragrance of the closing flowers, all combined to lure me onwards as with a spell of deepest calm and repose. The balm to my spirit seemed to bring refreshment to my limbs, and I strolled on, and still on, from one grassy glade to another, basking in the sense of coolness, and tempered brightness, and mingled shine and shadow. Of a sudden, the stillness was broken by a distant sound-a melodious sound-the sound of music. It was faint, but distinct; muffled, but clear. This seems a contradiction, but so it was. The notes that struck upon my ear were wonderfully marked and vibrant, yet subdued. They seemed at once remote and close at hand. I paused to listen. I could plainly distinguish and follow the air, which was a lively strain, alternating in thrilling rushes of glibsucceeding notes, like the upward shoot of a sky-rocket, with liquid, gliding flows of them, that resembled the tuneful gurgling of a spring brooklet. I advanced in the direction whence the sound seemed to proceed, and came abruptly upon a close-embowered cottage that I had not till then perceived, so closely was it nestled amid the thickest of the copse wood. Climbing roses, jessamine, clematis, and honeysuckle covered it from base to roof, overhanging the porch, garlanding the casements, and filling the air with perfume, while the varied hues of their clustering blossoms lent beauty and richness of colour to the wilderness of foliage amid which they bloomed. The simple door of entrance stood invitingly open. I followed the impulse which led me, and stepped in, raising my hat as I crossed the threshold, with the impression of entering a hallowed presence, so vivid was that of beauty, seclusion, and peace. I found myself in a room of moderate dimensions, low-roofed and lattice-windowed, but furnished with a degree of luxurious taste that bespoke both wealth and refinement. Low cushioned seats abounded; silken and muslin draperies screened the light, aided by the green and blossomed festoons outside; a small table or two were strewn with elegant trifles for work and drawing, books, and cut flowers in vases; a few choice pictures adorned the walls, interspersed with sculptures of antique model. The charm of leisure and gracefully-occupied retirement rested upon all; while that of quiet seemed rather enhanced than broken by the flood of melodious tone that continued to pour forth its ringing fairy music. From no human performer did this music proceed: no human being was there; yet in this room it manifestly had its source. My eyes at length fell upon a small casket, richly chased and ornamented, which explained the mystery-a musical box. But whose hand had set its tuneful measure going? There was no soul near; the place seemed utterly deserted, although so many tokens of recent occupancy lay around. The effect was of a perfect solitude, suddenly as completely made. As I mused, I went up to the pictures, minutely examining each in succession with the interest natural to one himself devoted to the art; and then I passed in review the exquisite pieces of sculpture, with that ever-fresh love and delight which the contemplation of those immortal Greek forms invariably inspires. I threw myself into one of the deep-cushioned chairs, and gave myself up to the full enjoyment of the pleasurable sensations which possessed me. A voluptuous feeling of rest after fatigue, of cool and quiet after heat and exertion, of beauty and calm after a dusty, toilsome walk, crept upon me as my eyes still dwelt untiringly upon the several features which composed the scene. They had all the softened grace of the images in a dream-the effect of illusion or the straying upon enchanted ground-together with that express and actual appeal which belongs to reality. While externally I feasted my sight with the paintings, the marbles, the luxurious appointments of the chamber, and suffered my ears to drink in the scft, sweet music, inwardly I yielded my spirit to the combined influence of their sensuous beauty, and savoured a gratification akin to happiness. My existence, up to that period, had been a commonplace one. It consisted of the usual struggles of a young, unknown artist, determined, in spite of contracted means and limited resources, to work himself a way to independence and renown. With the exception of one care-an orphan sister to provide for-one fast friendship, a few student intimacies, and a single adventure that could at all rank as bordering on romance, my life had been devoid of interest or incident. My ceaseless diligence at the easel had only been interrupted by an occasional country holiday at the midsummer season, when a change from London was absolutely necessary as a matter of health, and when a sketching tour afforded me a fair opportunity for combining industry with relaxation. It was on such an expedition that I was then wandering, and in the course of which I had thus stumbled upon the cottage in the midst of the wood, that memorable June evening. I had been out since sunrise, occasionally stopping to sketch, as the mood, or the effects of light, or the picturesque nature of the scene chanced to strike me. I had made a substantial noontide meal upon some ruddy-streaked bacon, and waterlily-looking eggs, at a little roadside inn; but I was beginning to be conscious that many hours had elapsed since that welcome refection. My travelling equipments were the most compact and succinct possible; my wallet-unlike friend Sancho's-contained nothing edible; only a change of linen and a few toilet necessaries; my portfolio carried only its legitimate contents of drawing-paper, pencils, and palette. There was a low glass-door leading from the room, as it seemed, into the garden. I had at length risen from my chair, with a halfformed purpose of prosecuting my search in quest of whomsoever might be the inmate of this enchanted spot, and I went towards the doorway. |