Léon feelings which no other man has seen in them. For a moment she feels nerved to a kind of desperation; she will go and seek Léon and tell him the truth, tell him that some one has set on foot this false report of her promise to Nicolas Marais. She turns again towards the high road, and then her heart sinks. How can she seek Léon? It is plain he does not love her; and if she makes this confession will it not be a tacit avowal of love for himself? The weight at her heart seems to burden her limbs. She drags on towards home wearily and slowly. The road turns suddenly into St. Gertrude and takes a breathing space at a sharp angle with a breadth of grass bordered by a clump of nut-trees. Before Marie reaches the nut-trees she sees Léon Roussel standing beside them. She stops, but he has been waiting for her coming; he comes forward to meet her. "Bon soir, Marie," he speaks very coldly, "I have been to your cottage to inquire for you," he raises his cap, but he makes no effort to take her hand," and then I heard you were expected home from Aubette. I did not know how ill you had been till to-day, Marie; I am sorry to hear it; I had been told you were quite recovered.” His cold, hard manner wounds her sorely. "Oh, I am better, thank you," but as she speaks her sight grows dizzy; she would fall if Léon did not catch her in his arms. She feels that he clasps her closely to him for an instant, and then he looses his hold. "Thank you;" she frees herself. "I am better, I will go home now, Monsieur Roussel." He takes off his cap and bows mechanically, and Marie turns towards St. Gertrude. But she does not move, she has no power to go forward; an impulse stronger than her will holds her. She looks round, Léon has not moved either. He stands with his eyes fixed on the ground. "I must tell you something," she says. Léon starts; he has never heard Marie speak in such a humble tone. "I was in the wagon just now, and I heard your talk with Monsieur Michel." Her cheeks grow crimson. "But, Monsieur Roussel, you are in error about me. Nicolas Marais is my friend; I do not deny it;" Léon's face grows so stern that her eyes droop and her voice falters; "but he will never be more to me- - he has always been my If you find that a man, wherever he is placed, quarrels with everybody with whom he is placed in near relation, this assuredly looks ill. It appears as though it must be mainly through his own fault. Even should he be able to make out, in the case of each quarrel, that he met provocation, you cannot help thinking that there is something amiss in the constitution of one who somehow manages to elicit the worst that is in the nature of everybody he meets -the most unreasonable, wrong-headed, unfair, insolent part. Yet in this you may be forming an unjust judgment. It is conceivable that the man who has quarrelled with everybody everywhere from youth to age, may have done so because he has been inexpressibly unhappy in the people with whom he has been obliged to live and deal. The unlikeliest things have happened: happened many times: and it is extremely likely that a great many extremely unlikely things will happen in time coming. Hasty and inexperienced folk, instantly at hearing from a fellow-creature that he lately served on a jury with eleven others, all hopelessly stupid and unreasonable, rush to a conclusion which may be conceived without being expressed. Yet the case may have happened. A few weeks ago I believe it did happen. The writer's profession excuses him from ever serving on a jury: he speaks from no personal feeling. But a man of high intelligence and of lawyer-like acquaintance with the law of evidence lately informed him of the discussion which occurred in the jury room when the jury had retired and assuredly for utter stupidity, and incapacity to discern what facts were relevant to the issue and what had nothing earthly to do with it, the eleven other jurymen could not be spoken of too warmly. Let it be here said, parenthetically, that only the deep tendency in human nature to reverence, trust in, and be guided by the Unknown, can explain the respect paid to the verdict of a jury. If the human race knew the reasons and considerations which decided it in many cases, trial by jury would be forthwith abolished. Where the verdict is right, the reasons are commonly wrong. And it is only because the decision is announced simpliciter, that sane people defer to it. Now, as the one reasonable man may through special ill-luck find himself set to serve with eleven unreasonable jurymen, even so the man who quarrels wherever he goes may not be a quarrelsome man, but a man whom evil fortune has appointed to fall in every where with quarrelsome people. Or, he may be lacking in nothing more than that tact and forbearance which shall at a critical moment gently put provocation aside. It may have been, that one such moment has been in a man's career like the facing points on a railway: has turned him aside into a wrong line from which there was no return. One conspicuous error may have got the dog an ill-name which evermore stuck to him: may have condemned him to go on always in that dismal lane of wrong doing wherein is no turning. The great thing which keeps many men right under provocation is their knowing that it is expected of them that they will keep right: indeed, that it is taken as certain. They will not disappoint all their friends, and stain a good reputation. But if a poor wretch has no reputation to maintain if he knows that he is expected to make a fool of himself; and that the thing which would astonish everybody would be his behaving with good temper and good sense if he knows, further, that if he behaved ever so well, a great many of his acquaintances would hasten to say that he had behaved very badly: what a wholesome check is taken off that luckless mortal: moral curb, blinkers, bearing-rein, and kicking-strap! and of course le breaks out and fires up and exhibits himself as an ill-tempered fool. I do not say but he is blameworthy but certainly he deserves profound pity; and the kindly sympathy and helping-hand. You, energetic and warm-hearted reader, not without the sensitive nervous system and the vivid memory, who, by forbearance, self-control, good sense, good taste, good temper, have got so far on your journey through life with very few quarrels, have sometimes felt that rising within you which, unrepressed, might have resulted in making you as utter an Ishmaelite as some poor fellow you readily think of in your own vocation, who has not left himself a friend. And it was not easy to repress it. There are those to whom it is far easier and more natural to say the sharp word than to hold it back. And you have said many a sharp word: but they were said inarticulately. You have dealt many a smart blow, perhaps even a stab or two: but it was all done inwardly: you stopped it in the millionth part of a second: and never mortal knew but yourself. If you believe as I believe, you will think you may have to answer for it some day. You are not so much better than the poor wretch who burst out with what you kept in. A very great man, who was also a good man, told me that in the view of certain social and ecclesiastical facts, he had cursed and sworn a great deal, dumbly. He was one of the greatest preachers and philanthropists of his time. And multitudes who knew and revered him would have been amazed beyond expression had they heard those unspoken words. To this point the idea present to the writer's mind has been one which possibly is quite away from the reader's experience. It has been the idea of a person in a public station who falls out with all those with whom he is called to work: all above him, all below him, all coördinate with him. That such quarrelsome persons exist is certain fact. Once upon a time, a human being desired to convey a message to the incumbent of a Scotch parish. He met the incumbent's man-servant, a quaint old person, and asked him to convey the message to the clergyman. The manservant listened with a somewhat embarrassed air; and finally said, "If ye please, sir, I would rayther ye wrote him a letter for ye see the Doakter and me are no on speaking terms at present." The Doctor, one of the most genial of men, had found it needful to give a scolding to his old domestic, a scolding which in half an hour he had completely forgot, and the old servant preferred to put the case as an estrangement between equals rather than as the fault of an inferior and the gentle indignation of his master. But the instance comes in illustration of what I have said as to quarrelling with those below, above, and on the level. I have known a clergyman who might be said to have quarrelled with his bishop, with the neighboring clergy, likewise with his beadle and pew-openers. But the writer's line of thought has no doubt been directed by his professional bias and probably most readers, thinking of quarrelsome folk, will think rather of the unlucky and unpleasing mortal whose strifes and alienations are in the fields of private life: the man who is not on speaking terms with his brothers, who cannot manage to live with his wife, who is always changing his lawyer, picking a quarrel with his clergyman, bringing an action at law against the neighboring squire about some trumpery matter of fences or water-privileges, rushing from one shopkeeper to another for some small negligence or offence, and served by a rapid succession of the least trustworthy kind of servants. The truly quarrelsome person is a pattern of consistency: he never fails to maintain his character: he quarrels daily from the beginning to the end of a long life. It is his nature and nature will assert itself. As surely as wood will float and lead will sink, will the quarrelsome man get into an altercation. Place him in the conditions, and the consequence is sure. friend of the writer's once was in a crowded railway station at the starting of a train. He was told that a certain very eminent and truly amiable but extremely irritable philosopher was to go by it. When the train had gone, he stated that he had seen the great philosopher, and was much interested in the sight. How did you know him? was the natural question. The ready answer was, “I saw an old gentleman giving an awful blowing-up to one of the porters, and I knew it must be 'the great man.' So it was. And doubtless, when the train had gone, there would be an altercation on the question whether the carriage windows should be up or down. A It is curious, but true, that the irritable nervous system which makes a man go through life in this contentious way, is sometimes associated with a very soft voice and pleasant manner. When I was a young lad, I saw for the first time one whose name was a proverb over a large tract of the country for his quarrelsome nature. No reader can possibly surmise who he was: and it can do no harm now to say that in his time he approached more nearly to having his hand against every man and every man's hand against him, than any other human being in the land he lived in. And how astonishing it was to find the gentle tones of a most pleasant voice, and a deferential, kindly, and almost timid manner, as the ordinary characteristics of the fierce Ishmaelite. When the offence came, indeed, he became in one instant another man: it was as if you had trod on the tail of a sleeping and truculent bull-dog. The voice changed, the features changed: there might be justice to an opponent, but it was the hardest and sternest. When he was in such a mood, the name of Sir Walter Scott happened to be mentioned. The irritable man exclaimed, with vociferous wrath, "Sir Walter Scott was a fool!" It is a very trying thing to be constrained by circumstances to maintain relations with a quarrelsome person. It approaches closely to the character of the thorn in the flesh, when you have some tie to such a one which you cannot break, and so must have many dealings with him. Such a trouble, no doubt, is good for one: you learn the habit of self-restraint, likewise of deliberation in speech but no one would willingly hold much intercourse with a fellow-creature in talking with whom you must be ever on your guard, for fear he may take offence. And all your caution will not hinder you some day saying or doing that which a perverse ingenuity may twist into a ground of offence. Mr. Jollikin one winter afternoon said to Mr. Snarling that the latter had chosen an unpleasant day for his walk. Mr. Snarling replied, with much bitterness, that he supposed that concerned nobody but himself; and would hardly speak to Jollikin for about three months. Jollikin would be too thankful if he never needed to speak to Snarling any more forever: but there are many matters of business on which it is indispensable that they should communicate. You fancy that in your dealings with some quarrelsome person, you will be so forbearing, so reasonable, so yielding, so pleasant in manner, that it will not be possible for him to pick a quarrel with you. You are wholly mistaken. Go to right or left, that person will find an offence in what you do. There are creatures, not shut up as insane, who would have irritated Job and infuriated Moses. A word of the latter great Lawgiver. A friend of mine went to church one day. An eminent clergyman preached. He remarked to the congregation that probably some of them had felt surprise at finding Moses described as the meekest of men, inasmuch as he on various occasions broke out into manifestations of rather violent temper. But then, said the distinguished preacher, you must consider how Moses was placed. For many years, Moses had the charge of a great number of Jews. Now, if any of you had the charge of one Jew for two or three weeks, you would learn to wonder at Moses' meekness instead of being surprised by his occasional outbursts. At this point, the congregation audibly tittered. The preacher, among many high qualities, was lacking in humor. It had never occurred to him that he was saying what could cause a smile. And he appeared much surprised and even shocked at the result of his very just observation. It was understood that he had, at one period of his life, the care of a convert from Judaism and that personal experience made its moan in these sentences. It may well be admitted that the position held by Moses was a trying one. But I have a distinct conviction that there are positions in modern life which make nearly as heavy a demand upon forbearance and good nature. There is one such position, whose nature I shall but in the remotest measure indicate, in which a few human beings are placed; which long and sorrowful experience has proved to be too much for the temper of even very conscientious and good men. It has subjected such to what in mechanics is called a breaking strain. And the upshot has been not merely discomfort to themselves, but public scandal. There are men so coupled that they cannot quarrel without injuring their power to do their work efficiently and well. I am supposing both to be reputable and worthy. Unhappily, it is not always so. And then, it becomes specially needful that the one who has a character to lose should refuse to be led into a public quarrel by any measure of provocation. Let such a one ever remember that people at a distance, unaware of the facts, will at once take up the rough impression that there must be faults on both sides. There is no more irritating experience than when one who has practised patience beyond Job's with some cantankerous fool, but in the end breaks out upon him, hears that said. Wherefore, never break out! With whatever inward effort, see you never quarrel with the human creature whose character is such that a quarrel would be unmixed gain to him and unmixed loss to you. You are not on equal terms. Don't quarrel, however hard your adversary tries for a quarrel, and however far in the wrong he may be. Draw off from him: but no more. And let the reputable mortal, when the disreputable tries hard to have a blow-up with him, remember a fact beyond the certain fact that indifferent strangers will in the case of a blow-up conclude that both parties are so far in the wrong. The further fact is this: most certain and most lamentable, yet quite explicable. There are a certain set of people who in case of strife between the reputable and the disreputable will always take the side of the disreputable simply because such. By necessity of their nature and position they will become the vehement partisans of a man immediately on its being made plain that he is a drunkard, a forger, or a swindler. Not necessarily because they feel that thus his character approximates to theirs, though this consideration has its weight: but broadly, because they must needs take the side that is opposed to law and order, and to the way of thinking of the educated class. He was a practical philosopher, that American statesman, who finding his popularity waning with a large stratum of his constituents, revived it by stealing a sheep. This, being made known, set the better class against him: and instantly excited the warmest regard for him on the part of the worse class. He was an injured man, the victim of calumny: the true cause of his restored popularity being the secret conviction in the hearts of his friends that the calumny was quite true. Long ago, in a remote part of Britain, there was a man, the incumbent of a rural parish, whose church was thinly attended, and in whose preaching no mortal felt the smallest interest. But that man, besides being stupid, was bad: and by ecclesiastical sentence he was turned out of his living: deposed, we call it. He forthwith proceeded to hold open-air services in various places: strong sympathy with the victim of oppression was developed in many ill-formed minds; and it was said that sometimes three thousand persons assembled to hear him preach. No one, indeed, of the smallest intelligence countenanced him. But he was able to sustain himself in the sense of popular favor. For popularity sometimes means the favorable opinion of a great many mortals, the opinion of each of whom is worth nothing. Yet, to a wrong-doer, popularity is a helpful thing. Even though he knows he does not deserve it, it is sustaining. But it is specially sustaining in such a case as I have described, because the wrong-doer knows that he does deserve the peculiar popularity he has got. It is by no means accorded him under any mistake. There is a clear, though unexpressed understanding, between the notorious scoundrel, and the crowd that cheers him. It is very difficult, in practical life, for some men, peculiarly placed, to take the right line in regard to quarrelling, or indicating a potentiality of quarrelling. Nothing can be more wretched than to be ever on the watch for an offence: to be ever whipping one's self up into a fever of wrath; writing ferocious letters to innocent acquaintances; cutting such dead: acquiring a reputation for a waspish wrongheadedness that will gradually make a wilderness around a man. But, on the other hand, a sheep-like incapacity of resentment and defence will invite aggression and impertinence. It will not do that the human being should just let himself be kicked and take no offence. It is expedient that it should be understood that the sharp claws are there: thus they will never need to be used. If it is made plain that you are quite able to defend yourself, you will hardly ever be called to do so. There is a practical difficulty here, specially felt by men in certain vocations; but the use of wisdom is to overcome practical difficulties. The writer's father, a wise and good man, was for many years a country clergyman. I have heard him speak of the peculiar difficulties of such a position, among a hard-headed and grasping population. Many people, he said, think it quite fair to cheat a clergyman and then If the clergyman objects to being cheated, they call him a worldly-minded man. Such people expect from the parsor. a literal obedience to the famous and good rule to turn the other cheek when smitten, which they never dream of rendering themselves. Well, I can say no more than was said by a very wise man long ago: Get wisdom. Wisdom, with meekness and deliberation, will help a man out of any difficulty not arising through discreditable action on his part. Mitis sapientia: an excellent thing: and not inconsistent with a firm hand and a stout heart. The revered person named a little ago said that it was difficult for one placed as he was to hold the right course: he did not say it was impossible. And in his long life he was rarely cheated, and never insulted. Once, indeed, an ill-conditioned cur of a dissenting shop-keeper accosted him on the village street on a Monday morning, and said, "You'll be glad to hear, sir, that we had a great congregation at the meeting house last night." "Ah, that must have been very pleasant for you," was the unruffled reply. แ It is to be admitted that there are districts, both in England and Scotland, where the parochial clergy may meet occasional rudeness from some sour sectary, who fancies he is "lifting up a testimony." A friend of mine, lately inducted to a country living, soon proceeded to visit the parishioners. In a moorland tract, he entered the cottage of a little tailor. He sat down, and proceeded to talk, which he never found it difficult to do. The tailor sat on a table, stitching away in sulky silence. At length he spoke. "Sir," said he, "I regard it as an unwarrantable intrusion, your entering my house: and I ask ye in what capaweity ye've come here? "My good man," was the reply, "I come as your parish clergyman: you know it is my duty to know all my parishioners, and to be of use to them in any way I can. I know you don't attend church, but that is no reason why you and I should not be friends." Answer: "I dinna regard ye as a minister of Christ ava, but as a servant of Sawtan. If ye come as a gentleman, well and good, but as a minister I refuse to receive you." All this was unpromising but ten years later that youthful parish priest would not have despaired of making something even of that little man. Thus early in his experience he had imperfectly learned forbearance: and I really think he answered wrongly. For, rising from his chair, he thus addressed the poor tailor: "My good fellow, be pleased to understand that it is only as your parish clergyman I ever dreamt of visiting you when I visit as a gentleman,' as you express it, I don't visit people in your position in life." So saying, he departed. I may say, for myself, that I think a clergyman should with never meet the impertinence of an under-bred person any remark evincing the smallest irritation. Without that, the thing can in most cases be stopped: failing this, keep out of the impertinent man's way. Let it be understood, indeed, that if the smart reply is held back, it is not because it is not forthcoming, but because the parson feels it would not be right to utter it; and not worth whi'e. With all other men, it is well that even the most amiable should be understood to have a reserve fund of capacity to fire up; and that if the quarrel be forced, there is something volcanic to meet it. A look will sometimes suffice to stop one who is presuming on you: but I fear it can hardly be a look of pure amiability. There is one case indeed in which it is impossible to re sent any degree of insolence: but that case will not occur more than once in the lifetime of one man in a million. It is when a person in the position of a lady assails you in the language of Billingsgate. There is but the single course to follow. Never give that person the opportunity of addressing you any more. Let us go a little more closely into the casuistry of this matter: remembering that when all is said, people will for the most part act as their physical and mental constitution prompts; and that the best counsels will probably go for nothing. Just yesterday a friend of mine made a call: not a formal call, but on a kind errand. Conversing with the elders of the family, the good old lady suddenly looked round and discovered three grown-up girls mimicking her behind her back. She told me she felt angry for nearly a quarter of a minute. Then she remembered she had herself many times done the like in departed years. So, shaking her head good-naturedly, she said to the confused culprits, "Now, it does not matter in the least your doing that to me; but don't try it with everybody." Unquestionably this was the right thing to do much better than appearing not to notice: infinitely better than taking offence. An old gentleman, who had lavished kindness on a young lad who was a distant relation, once entered a room as the young lad was making a speech to some companions in which he was cleverly taking off the old gentleman, amid roars of laughter. The old gentleman never by word or deed took any notice of the fact. This was more than could have been expected. For ingratitude is a bad thing, and ought to be repressed if not punished. The rector of a large parish was constrained to dismiss a recalcitrant curate. The curate went to a neighboring vicar and made his complaint. The rector, in fact, had exercised astonishing forbearance with the curate, and had given him many warnings. But the vicar, though on friendly terms with the rector, accepted the curate's story without once speaking to the rector and hearing the other side; and went about abusing the rector for harshness and tyranny. He even sent an anonymous letter to the local newspaper, in which he vilified the rector. What ought the rector to have done? I will tell you what he did. He said, "I am sorry that Y., after knowing me for years, should think me capable of acting as he has said I did: I shall not quarrel with him, though he has behaved in an unfair and unkind manner, for that would look ill: but of course, there cannot be the old cordiality between us." So X. gave Y. the cold shoulder. And being a person of a good memory and a persistent nature, he did so for several years; and indeed never gave Y. his confidence again. On the whole, I think he did right. A man who takes up an evil report of you without looking into the facts, and then circulates the evil report, cannot be esteemed as a trustworthy friend. And the rift indicates this sufficiently, without any unpleasant explosion. You are informed, on the best possible authority, that friend whom you have stood by in many ways and whom you entirely trusted, did in the presence of a considerable company abuse you in a most violent manner. You are well aware that it has been for years your friend's custom to speak of you in terms of steady depreciation. That, however, you did not at all mind: as it is your friend's weakness never to speak handsomely of any living mortal except himself. But violent abuse, such as excited the indignation of some who heard it and who were not special friends either of his or yours, is too much and as you thought of many services you had done your friend, a vehement wrath arose in you; and you walked off straight to a place where at that hour you might count on meeting him. If you had met him, he would certainly have had a very bad quarter of an hour. Luckily, he was not there. And as the evening went on, your wrath cooled. You recalled many pleasant hours you had passed together. You remembered that he had a very hasty temper, which a little thing sometimes aroused to a foaming fury, in which he said foolish things which you knew he speedily repented. In some way or other, perfectly unknown to yourself, you must have rubbed him against the grain. And he had many cares; and had met severe disappointments. On the whole, the first impulse to have it out in a regular quarrel died away: and the next time you met your friend he had little idea of the terrible scene he had barely escaped. The coming of a great sorrow has a wonderful power to utterly quench the wrath that promised a very pretty quarrel. My friend Smith one day chanced to take up what is termed a religious periodical: and therein discerned a weak attack on himself. The statement, indeed, was not much to his discredit: for the transgression of which it accused him was that he was very fond of visiting cathedral churches, and also of discussing their architecture and worship. But this was stated as though it were a serious fault and it was followed by a wretched bit of tattle, very vulgar, and utterly false. All this occurred in a paper written by a man for whom Smith had a real respect and regard; and from whom he would no more have expected such an attack than he would a blow on the face. Smith was angry. But the next morning a loss befell him in whose presence all religious periodicals were utterly forgot and when it happened, weeks after, that this special production was brought back to his memory, his anger was as dead as the Emperor Heliogabalus. Never, by word or deed, did he notice the unprovoked attack; and it never made the slightest estrangement between himself and his friend. Various occasions were remembered on which the writer of the stupid bit of gossip had behaved towards him with true kindness: these could not be forgot and not without a faint curiosity as to how on earth his friend could have been led to do what seemed an ill-set thing, he banished the thought of it finally. If a quarrel is sure to come at last, it is better to make the plunge and have it at once, before you have wasted kindness on the person to be quarrelled with. You will think of the judicious Dutchman, to whom entered an acquaintance asking him to become his security for a hundred pounds. "No," said the Dutchman. If I became your security, I will tell you what would happen. When the time came to pay the hundred pounds, you would not be able to pay them: I should have to pay them for you, and then we should quarrel. So I prefer that we quarrel now, when I have my hundred pounds in my pocket.', Then he showed his acquaintance the door. He was a wise man. He had indicated the inevitable course of affairs with entire accuracy. So with a brazen person, very slightly known, who comes and sorns himself upon you stays in your house uninvited and unwelcome. You will not always be able to stand it. There is no reason why you should stand it. After much annoyance, you will have to get rid of him: and he will not be the least grateful. So you had best save annoyance and expense, and come to a distinct understanding at once. Or, if hospitably inclined, you may make a division of your house between yourself and the sturdy beggar. You will take the inside; and give him the whole of the outside. (To be continued.) FOREIGN NOTES. THE Viennese lady orchestra, conducted by Madame AmannWeinlich, has made a successful debut at the Rue Cadet Casino, in Paris. THE new Sultan of Morocco is stated to have dissolved his father's harem, composed of 1000 members. There's filial gratitude for you! BAYARD TAYLOR lately delivered a lecture on "American Literature" at Weimar for the benefit of the Gustav-Adolf Society. The lecture, which was spoken in German, was attended by all the Court. THE MSS. left by Mendelssohn have been offered by the family to the Royal Library of Berlin, provided the German Government will found two exhibitions, of 700 thalers each, for young musical students deemed worthy of the prizes. A WELL-KNOWN English sporting character, being on his death-bed, was attended by a friendly divine of somewhat sanguine temperament, who, to console him, expressed a conviction that he and his penitent would meet hereafter as winged angels. "Are you sure of that?" inquired the dying man. "Quite sure," replied his adviser. "Then I'll fly you for a sovereign," exclaimed the incorrigible gambler. An enthusiast of this sort seems, according to a local paper, to have greatly distinguished himself on the occasion of a fire which lately broke out at the cotton-sampling offices of a firm in Liverpool. While the conflagration was at its height, and the burning cotton was being thrown out of the windows upon the flags below, a number of brokers stood in the street discussing the sum which the waste would realize. One among them offered to bet a guinea that the burnt cotton would fetch £15, and as this was apparently far beyond its value, he found no difficulty in finding persons willing to take the bet. This he did till twenty people had accepted the wager for a guinea each; he afterwards went to the sale and bought the cotton for £16, which he then sold for £12, sustaining a loss of £4 upon the purchase, but pocketing sixteen guineas as the balance of his profits on the transaction. WE find the following in a late number of the Pall Mall Gazette: As Mr. Ward Beecher will preach at Exeter Hall next May on behalf of the London Missionary Society, it is only right that English people should know and appreciate the difficulties surmounted by those whose business it was to secure the presence of this popular preacher here. Some English Nonconformist ministers who attended the Evangelical Conference at New York were officially deputed, it seems, to invite Mr. Beecher, and did so with great solemnity at what they thought a convenient season, after the great man had delivered a great speech on "The Pulpit of the Age." When the audience left he was ushered into the school-room of the church, and after a formal introduction to each minister, one followed the other in set speeches, urging him to accept the invitation. Like many other clever men, Mr. Beecher probably prefers to talk much to others than to be much talked to, so he tired under this infliction, and just as one of the gravest members of the deputation began in measured phrases to support the petition of his brethren, the New York divine cut in, and said, with the broadest Yankee twang, "I guess I should like to go to England very well, if it warn't for the preaching!" The solemn delegates looked at one another in dismay, and were still more appalled when Mr. Beecher put on a very unclerical, military-looking cloak, with a wide-awake hat, and sat down on the table, dangling his legs a few inches from the floor. There was an embarrassing pause, says a New York correspondent of the Sheffield Telegraph, who appears to be in Mr. Beecher's confidence, and gives a graphic description of the interview, "and I really think Mr. Beecher was afraid that somebody would suggest prayer." His object was to break through the English primness and stiffness, to dispel a too clerical atmosphere, and "joke the English ministers down into naturalness." But as he only partially succeeded in this enterprise, he said, seriously: "I can't preach up to great expectations. I can only talk, and I must talk naturally; so I might disappoint you all." "Ah!" then replied one of the deputation, kindling up, "but that's just what we want. Your naturalness has been a revelation to me, and I want it to be a revelation to our young ministers." So English divines, next May, will be able to study pulpit oratory from Mr. Beecher's point of view; and if he teach any considerable number of them to be easy and natural without being coarse or vulgar, he will perhaps do even a greater service to Christians than to the heathen. MNEMOSYNE. STILL were the azure fields, thick strewn Holding her taper up, to see Deepening the marble pallor there, While by the stream, and down the dell, Thy slow still feet did fare; Thy maiden thoughts were far from me, I knew thee by a simpler name, Not till that night could my soul see Thy soul's dark depths, Mnemosyne! At last thy voice thrilled soft and low- "Oh, thinkest thou this life we live, In this strange haunted planet nurst, Could be the last? or first? The moonlight on her cheek of snow, And as she spake, it seemed I saw I shook, and almost bent the knee, Naming the name, "Mnemosyne!" "I can remember! - all the day Memory is dark, the past is dead, "Before this mortal sphere I trod, I breathed some strange and silvern air; The old lost life comes back to me "I can remember!"- In a trance, " O love, thou didst upgazing stand, Whispering that mystic name to me, And all the luminous eyes above Till, with thy soft lips kissing me, A sense of that forgotten life Blew on our cheeks like living breath; Go by, bright days of golden blooms! She shrinks and darkens in your gleam; O child of heaven, the life we live, Is not the last, nor first; ROBERT BUCHANAN. |