The Cardigan Observer and General Advertiser for the Counties of Cardigan Carmarthen and Pembroke

COMMON JOYS. Our commen joys, 0 what are they ? The brightest and the best; They glad us in our bu,y walks, Are with us when we re6t: An angel band, they hover 'round, In waking and in dream, And o'er our hearts in saddest hours They shed a golden beam. Our common joys, 0 what are they ? The priceless pearls and gold frv Which memory sifts upon the heart When life is growing old: The thought that we have treasured up Where nought can steal away— The'consciousness of doing good With ever, passing day.

THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. --+- CHAPTER VIII—(Continued). g •'■he sound of a voice, singing the evening hymn, came j?atin £ up on the still, evening air, from below. I 0 was nothing remarkable in the performance; tones were clear and sweet, but plaintive, and Hfti any effort at intonation or expression; but J111(i the surroundings, at that hour, it was very pre- tin1*8 ^l9 senses. Even the women did not speak had ceased. t. It is her," said Me?; "they always go down beach as far as the Chine of evenings when it's j e* It's the little thing's fancy for her to sing. I t think poor Nelly would, of her own will, ever i/up her voice even that much; but the poor mite 2Sdf»r ifc BO hard it's the funniest thing you ever jJ'Ay, that child's been God's own gift to her, I ™icted as it is, poor innocent!" said the dame. Did she never Patty began, when the sound Voices approaching caused her to stop. P the broadest pathway that led from the beach, u*Oss the downs, towards the Bullocks' cottage, came young widow and her child. £ he mother had carried her little girl up the but the moment the top was reached it evi- JJtiy begged to be set down, and ran towards Meg, advanced to meet them, ^elly came with her up to the cottage door, and J?? greeted affectionately by the others; but they Hot ask her in, nor invite her to share the meal preparing. Ifc had been done so often, and invan^blv declined, that it had ceased to be Rented. i, Your eyes look tired, my child," said the dame you work too hard by candle-light—you should give J^rself some rest." I rest all to-morrow," said the widow, in a low which was strange, at first, to those who had Own Nelly Hartsom, but had long ceased to be so. •b Sunday ? yes, of coarse, so we all do," said atty, quickly. I shall come and see TOU to-morrow, mind," said tojle Meg. but thanked her, and said she would be glad, j5\Qo change of the countenance marked any one which they touched, as she stood and She had kissed the dame, as she would a mother, little Ida had stolen to the knee of the ol!d 0tnan, and stood holding her hand and looking jrjlttiringly up into the face of Patty, who was a "^nger to her. Mother and child were dressed in deep mourning, of the cheapest material, but made and put on with ^e and neatness. that brief time what a change had come upon ?~-once the beauty of Sandcombe village I i fier face was of a changeless, unvaried pallor; tM 86emed larger from that contrast, their fixed and solemn look, gazing, as it were, space, and the dark shadows under them, gave 4948 of long and painful vigils and solitary weeping. Iler hair, of which the pretty girl had been so PtOud, was drawn back under the widow's cap she ."I(! wore, and the black shawl, thrown hoodwise ,*er her head, added to the strange, unworldly look of face. The child, tall of her age, and unusually forward its feet and in speech, had its mother's eyes, with *"1 their former beauty, but not the sprightly glance arch attractions which in children are so winning, shadow of the great stroke which had sent the Poor babe fall soon upon the world still rested on her; fid little Ida would be passed by in the crowd as a and unprepossessing child. What does she say ?" ask ed Patty, when the little 5*1» unmindful of the advances made by the other ?kild, had timidly approached her, and, touching her ^nd, lisped out some infantine request. ( She is asking you to sing," said Nelly, without a V^*nge of voice or countenance. She always does *ny one she sees for the first time." •Mother as she was, Patty was somewhat taken i &ck by this odd request, and at a loss how to reply; Meg, more accustomed, lifted the child in her 4ttas. Shall I sing to Idy ? I can't sing like mammy, H I'll sing about the robin, shall I ?" 3?he child clapped its little hands, and a faint blush "jole out upon its cheek. Evidently the robin was an favourite. The song was sung; Nelly the while looking on hatefully at the good-hearted performer. The child r*t rapt in silence, evidently drinking in the sounds hea4 hr turned aside, one small arm laid round singer' neck. There was no need te bid her H^nk the {rood friend when the song was ended. The j.'Sses on the lips of the kind woman came from the J^tle affectionate heart; then she was set lightly on ground, and ran to her mother, neither repeating request to Patty, nor noticing the child, which itched ab her curls as she passed. With quiet thanks some kind service her good neighbours had ^ndered, Nelly took her leave, and went slewlyaway, .^Wn the winding path among the rocks which led 10Wards her home. cc Ay, how sorely she is changed! exclaimed atty, as they disappeared from sight. Think of oqat being merry Nelly Hartsem But she's very beautiful still," said Meg, 'Ugh! I don't know; she made me shiver like ?^DS nisrh a graveyard—and that poor child how did you notice ?" i Yes—mother, did you see ?—just coming as it was year this time." j, Ay, it be a mystery, aurely; it wants but ten "ays to the child's birthday." •h 'And it's two years since he was lost?" asked atty. cc Yes, to-morrow." "Well," said Patty, "it seems a pity she eouldn't settled again, and made herself and that poor a comfortable home. It would have been better *ban pining their lives out yonder all alone." The dame sighed. Ay, I wish she could ha.' fancied my lad, poor Dan! he was right set upon her; and she'd have made him a good wife, and he 1toulEl have stayed among us; but the Lord's will ^ust, be done!" She'll never marry now, I suppose ? said Patty. Nelly isn't the girl to take a man for his money Or there's one, if I'm not mistaken, has been long Bet on having her, and would make a lady of her, Itrid not a bad man neither." I( Him that lives down at Decpgang ? said Patty, What is his name ? Meghorn." Mercy me! if she refused our Dan, she wouldn't lurely take up with that dark, stern-looking fellow." The dame shook her head. One mus'n't judge J looks, Patty; Saul Meghorn did the part of a christian man by them poor souls as run upon the 8bark's Teeth last fall: and when the brig went to on the rocks under the fog bank—when the Jfcnals wur blown over—you mind it, Meg—he went J* himself to help them: ay, he be a good, Christian filan t" 1 It's a pity Ohrist'n men can't look it," responded daughter. n Mother, the dew is falling; Bhall we go in now ?" 4kid Meg. CHAPTER IX. rj. HUND AHD IDA. weeks passed. Spring deepened into summer. Q-ood Dame Bullocks had became the grandmother r, a young Tom, and her time was now fully occupied the cares so congenial to her kindly nature. She small leisure now to tbink much of the J^ttpants of the solitary cottage, and, indeed, the jJ^terious loss of the husband of Nelly, and the no mysterious affliction of her child had grown to be gossip now; more recent topics had taken their tlace, and the widow went her solitary way, little ^ed, apparently,by any. Pn the fine summer evenings Nelly might be seen »h i S **er wtL7 to the beach, often along the path we have spoken of, which led to the j/une ln uncertain weather, somewhat nearer and taking her seat in some sheltered nook Wo 8an^ hillock, with her ever-busy fingers em- on weary seam or mazy net work, she would Wt °n /n(^efat,&a')'y» till the waning light forced tQ ° desist. Now and again she would, in answer So&i 6 Petitioning of little Ida, lift up her voice in J?atf 8^eet strain, always of the solemn kind to which had so irreverently objected. on y,neeJiD& at her mother's feet, her one hand resting 1^ «p, the child wirald listen breathless, till the iigg »te Passed away; then, with the never-failing (payment, would again stray off to pick the shells and pebbles from the beach; or, with wonderful dexterity, climbing from jutting-point to point, till above her mother's head, she would, ia her childish way, proclaim her triumph, and laughing gently at Mrs. Franklen's affected alarm, make a hasty descent, to throw herself into her arms, and show that she was safe. These were Poor Nelly's sole moments of relaxa- tion from a life of hard toil, and stern, self-denying endurance. So they sat one evening when the sun had set, and the shadows were lengthening along the beach. The widow had lain down, after a last vain attempt to thread her needle once more, the fine piece of work on which she was employed, and sat looking far out, as if with her earnest gaze she would pierce the cur- tain of sunset and see beyond, and what next. Little Ida sat some way farther down the beach, her lap filled with the treasures she had col- lected and on a piece of cotton was busily threading such of them as possessed the necessary property of a hole. Suddenly she sprang up, the scattered wealth of the sea-shore new far and wide, and with a cry, unusual, indeed, for the quiet child, a shout almost, of U Hun! Hun!" she flew up thp beach towards the Ohine, whence an enormous shaggy, dun Newfoundland dog came leaping, with apparently equal joy, to meet her. The greeting was vociferous and energetic. The shaggy brute, in all his wild demonstrations, seemed mindful of his companion's weakness, and carefully avoided knocking her down, as by one touch of his paw must else have been inevitable; and the little girl, while she hugged her brute friend by one arm tightly round hiB neck, refrained from quite choking him, as she lavished caresses on his huge head, and in her dialect (doubtless intelligible to the animal), called him by a thousand endearing names, and inquired where he had been so Ion' away ? The widow had started to her feet, and was looking with anxiety around, along the beach, and to the cliffs above. To her, the appearance of the animal was evidently the precursor of a presence less welcome than was that of shaggy Hund to little Ida. But no one was in sight, and though she looked towards the couple disporting themselves along the beach, as with the intention of calling back her child, she apparently changed her mind, and again seating herself, was falling into her old musing attitude, when a footstep crushed the sands beside her, and from a jutting cliff, down which the pathway wound, Saul Meghorn stood before her. She glanced hastily round, as for some chance yet to escape, but her little girl was at some distance; she could not have recalled her in time to avoid hear- ing him and quick as light came the thoughts which prompted her, with forced calmness, to remain, and stand, to listen, as he spoke. At last, then, you will hear me, and answer." He spoke hurriedly, and with his hat in his hand, as he had removed it before she saw him, even before he turned the rock whence, ere descending, he had marked the little group. It was the firet time—we know since when—she had heard his voice, though she had seen him, and by other means had been made aware of his existence near her, and its object. The throng of memories that the voice awoke suddenly to life held her some momenta silent, but it was with a calmer voice than this that she answered: What can my answer bo ? I can have but one answer to any man who asks that: I shall never be any man's wife in this world, while I live, never-and leaøt-" He interrupted her. Do not say it! least of all mine, you would have aaid; butwAy ? Mrs. Franklen (he gave her a title seldom used to those of her station, and in those parts), I would not speak of the past: if I made a mistake then, if all was but girlish frolic, of which I made too much—at least do me iustice; I took no advantage of it, I held aloof from the way of your married life, though God knows how bitter it was to me to know it! Oircumstances compelled me to remain in the neighbourhood; but if you heard of me, it was at least in no way unworthily, or to make you regret you had ever known me as other than a neighbour." "It was a wicked cruel folly," she-said coldly; "but I was to blame, I was wrong-Yei;, and God knows I have been punished heavily. But for that— only that foolish trifling as it was in me, I know, no worse was in me at the time—but it came from that, all my trouble—but for that he would have been with me now my husband——" The words died in her throat, and she stopped, but no change came in the fixed, pale features. You know, you must have heard-all the village could tell what was in that dreadful letter, the last words he wrote. I never forget them, night nor day —' I know all your deceit and falseness.' God knows you know what was the all, and how far it went,, and how little the truth came to." Again she stopped. "Do not speak of it now," he said, hastily; "it was a sad mistake—the tongues of gossips magnify these things." If I had but told him! it I had but told him all, at ilrst she said, bitterly, but never raising her voice above its chill, even tones-" this is what I say to myself night and day, night and day—all would have been well; even my foolish tongue and hasty words would not have drove him to madness." She paused, then yet more coldly added— And this is why I say that least of all can I bear to think of you. I say to myself—but for him, but for him——" "Yet I did not- II No, no, I know it; you were not to blame," said the woman, a shade of softness mitigating her harsh tone; no, and I am, maybe, unjust that I cannot bear even that my child should be thankful to you, that I cannot accept even as from a friend-" Yes why will you be so cruel to yourself why slave as you do by night, I know, to send back money ?" Ah! I knew it was you," she said, half turning her head towards him, for as yet her gaze had never wandered from the open sea before them. II I knew it could be none of my poorer friends. God knows I would never have let it be-would rather have died, but to keep that roof over my head and hers—the home he took me to. I could not leave it; and when the man cime and told me it was paid, well, I knew it must be." And why bring back the money in portions to my house? I do not need it. Why deny me the pleasure of serving you, even as a neighbour, knowing of your trials and toil? See, now"—and he made a step nearer, she moved two away from him-u let the past be past; forget you ever knew me, till, wandering about the world, a solitary man, I met you and your child, and heard your history, and learned to love you both." She uttered an exclamation, and lifting her hands hurriedly, with the old gesture of clasping one wrist, let them drop, and againmoved a step away. Your child-" he began. Yes, yes, she has told me j she has oomo fall of her prattle of how kind you were, and it pained me to have to She stopped, suddenly looking round', for the child and dog had disappeared. Where is she ?" exclaimed the mother, and she again looked wildly round, uncertain which way to start in search, when the faint cry of a baby voice fell upon their ears, and they simultaneously turned their eyes upwards. Far above their heads, dwindling into the grey twilight, save where a faint reflection from the horizon touched its beetle brow with gold, loomed the peak of Deepgang cliff, as we have described, out beyond the face of rock beneath. And there, poised like a cherub about to take wing, stood the child. She, fearless, and led on by her four-footed playmate, had clambered, toying from spray to spray, and height to height, of the Chine; thence, seeking possibly a sight of her mother, had arrived at the edge of the precipice, whence but a step forward, an inclination of the body—a caress even of the rough brute at her side—mlbst send her hurling to their feet, a lacerated and bleeding corpse! One glance upward, and Nelly, without a word or cry, buried her face in her hands. Rescue and hope seemed out of question. The child was evidently ter- rified at her position, and extending her little hands, seemed about to spring forward, while Hund stood patiently at her side, and detecting his master below, doubtless was whining impatient of return, and only awaited the pleasure of his playmate. From the mother's heart a prayer went out for the soul of her child, whom she felt was lost to life: half insensible, she tottered forward to make some effort, she knew not what. But quick as thought, which showed him the only chance, was the action of the strong man. He gently thrust the mother out of sight behind the jutting rock, as with stentorian voice he hailed the brute, and in a few words was understood. Sagacious Hund gripped gentlv in his teeth the little dress, and gradually drew her back from the edge of the rock. Ida, losing sight of her mother, would expect her to appear by the path behind, and thus her attention would be withdrawn from the hor- rible fascination of the vast space below. But the crags where the child could stand would not bear the man to ascend from the Chine, or the still more tortuous path, would consume more time than could be risked. But one way—he saw it, and in the cause dared it. Swifter than I can describe, or you can read-his more cumbrous garments flung aside-he darted to the foot of the black rocks, and with giant efforts-straining every nerve, testing the powers of those limbs of iron—he toiled up the rugged and perpendicular height. From crag to crag, from seared and gnarled root to tough fern knot, he swung himself, his course marked with the blood that flowed from his flesh, cat and gashed-wounds he never felt _I I; J r-as, by the most perilous feat of 'all, he flung him- self across the gap from the rock to the Chine, and, gaining the summit, drew his body over along the plain, solid surface. In another moment the child was in his arms, close pressed to the breast of the strange man and he, with giant strides, hurrying down the not too accessible pathway through the Chine; good Hund, who had bravely done his part, following close after. The mother, half distraught, sprang forward to meet him, hardly daring to believe it was other than the lifeless body of her child. But when the little voice cried out to her, when she saw the bright eyes and the sweet face she had given over for lost, when she felt her child's arms about her, she sank down against the rock, overcome with excess of joy and gratitude; her trembling limbs refused to support her; and in silence, and with all speed, Meghorn bore the child, and supported her to their cottage, where, unrebuked, be so entered for the first time. Then, as she clasped her child in her arms, the whole sense of her wonderful preservation came full upon her, and nature overcame her. As her tears fell ovor the head of her darling, she turned her eyes to the preserver who stood by, and, falling on her knees, she clasped his hand to her breast, and cried- God bless you ( To be continued.)

MINIE, THE MISER'S DAUGHTER. You are a hardy little thing, daughter Minie, and can do very well without shoes until winter comes. I would not have my darling's feet cold, oh, no, dear! but to do without shoes and stockings in summer will make those little toes better able to bear the cold of winter; think so, my pet ? Minie is a smart little girl. She does not need a teacher; she can spell out of the primer all alone, now that father has taught her the letters, can't II she ? Daughter, you are not a little glutton, are you ? You don't care for butter on your bread, or sugar in your milk and water. Oh, fie upon those folks who think BO much of oating! Such were the lessons old Peter 0. taught his only Such were the lessons old Peter 0. taught his only child, and which her generous, affectionate nature made her willing to learn. Whatever hardsh,p his penuriousness led him to inflict it became her pleasure to endure, because he was lavish of one thing, affection for her. He persuaded himself that all his exactions were for her good, and that theydid not proceed from any desire to deprive her of what was best for her (the common blindness to all but our ewn wishes, a little exaggerated.) So she grew up a hardy, self-denying, self-reliant girl, in their little fisherman's cottage on the rocky shores of Cornwall. She had been motherless since her seventh year; but before that time she had learned, from the maternal example, to be very useful about the house, and when she was left alone with her father, she took charge of the do- mestic affairs. She darned his socks, sewed buttons on his shirts, made her own scanty clothes, swept the rooms, and set the table for their frugal meal, which consisted uniformly of bread from the village, and milk purchased of a neighbour, though sometimes were added blackberries from the hills, or a cod or haddock from the bay. Her father was too suapicioua to have much to do with his neighbours. He seldom saw them, and never allowed their visits. Unlike many misers, he was proud, and when little presents came for himself or his child, from some compassionate villager, he in- Variably sent them back, and so impressed her with the scorn of receiving any assistance, that the most tempting offers could not induce her to accept any- thing. Thus she was cut off from all human sympathy out of her father's heart. The village children who came sometimes, but rarely, to play on the sands near their house, hooted at Minie and her father. Therefore she shunned them, especially after one cruel repulse which she suffered. She had often watched them from some rock above the beach; she even sometimes shyly approached them, pale with the excitement of meeting her fellows, and, unless they were unusually full of mischief or cruelty, they took no notice of her until she ventured to join them, when some bitter taunt usually repaid her intrusion. Her little yearning heart selected two children as her prime favourites, a handsome, daring boy, and a feeble little girl, his sister. Minie had, in her treasury of pretty pebbles and sea-shells, a long string of yellow-speckled sea-birds' eggs, which she had found among the rocks and sand. It was her most valued possession she looked npon it as one of the seven wonders of the world for beauty. She often longed to show it to the children, and one day when her little feeble favourite Was resting from pluy apart from the others, Minie approached, and with trembling hands and swelling heart, held out the string of eggs for her acceptance. The child took the n with much pleasure, but, without stopping to ex- press any of her delight to Minie, she ran off to show her treasure to her playmates. They, excited by desire to share in such gifts, hurried back with her to where the bewildered Minie still stood, and began at once to clamour for more. "Oh, give me some! Haven't you got any more," &e. She led the way to her little museum in the nook among the rocks, and distributed all her treasures. All. But she was glad to give them. She was sur- rounded by playmates. Her heart was light as a feather. Alas! No sooner had they despoiled her of every- thing than they shunned her again, and for thanks she overheard her brave, handsome boy saying, U Ha, ha, we've got something out of the little miser; but the big one-the dad, wouldn't let you skin one of his flints. Old hunks This of her beloved father. She cherished resent- ment against the speaker, but was fain to make a distinction between him and the other children. So the next day she ventured among them, but they cried- Do you think, because you gave us some ugly little shells, that we are going to play with a miser I Go count your eggs—one egg, two eggs, while old Peter counts one shilling, two shillings j You are both mean misers." Minie had a nature strong in all its tendencies and feelings. She never forgot this repulse, and in her very childhood she retired into herself, and quelled every craving for friendship, by pride. The sea was her companion, the sea-gulls her play-fellows. Old Peter O.'s cottage was at some distance from the; village, in a spot secluded by encircling rocks, with a little beach of its own running in a long sandy point far out into the water, and forming on one side a miniature harbour, where the old rotting fishing boat lay. It had not been used for nearly twenty years. but the miser would not sell his old friend, for there was a warm corner in his heart, and he said— She shall never sail on waters she is not used to, but shall drop to pieces in her old port." t Old Peter had made his immense wealth by specu- latien. By fortunate fishing he saved enough to purchase a schooner, which traded to the Mediterra- nean. It brought him home rich returns, which he invested in Consols, &e. The interest of this he was always turning over, and so, without risking his whole fortune, he doubled and doubled parts of it, until he counted his hundreds of thousands, while his only child paddled about bare-foot in the warm tide-puddles, grew up ignorant, and knew nothing of the beautiful, refining luxuries of life; or, I should say, the luxuries of art; for the child had a soul, and nature painted pictures for her with meon, and rocky shore, and dusky, sparkling water. Nature taught her a fine taste for music by playing grand anthems on the huge organ of rocks and waves with her wild winds. Nature shawed her what gracefulness of motion meant by her sweeping gulls, sailing hawks, and vessels dancing on the curl- ing, rolling waves. Nature read her, besides, the noblest poetry at all hours, and the child had a quick ear, and eye, and mind for it. The neighbours cried shame on the old man to leave his daughter in such ignorance. Sometimes they ex- postulated with him; but the squire, that man of influence in the village, only met with sneers; the acute lawyer, a dumb defiance; and even the good old orthodox minister only a stubborn hearing. All did no good apparently, until one day the latter accused him of cruel injustice to his daughter in letting her grow up so ignorant, and depriving her of the happy resources of education. This had some effect, and on the day Minie was fourteen years old, her father said to her, "It is your birthday, daughter. You are in your teens, and ought to know a heap by this time. What have you learned?" To cast up sums and read in my Testament, father. Well, the minister has begged me to send you to read in his library every day, and I want you to go. But don't be beholden to him for any instructions. You are too smart a girl not to be able to study by yourself. Pick and choose the books well. Always take the most worn-out ones, because those must be the ones other folks read most; and study with all your might, girl. You are backward, they tell me, and I want yen to be ahead of them all. Go to- morrow morning and Minie, don't get to talking with the village folks. Just keep on your own way, and don't let them badger you into gabbling and gos- siping." The next day saw the proud, silent, barefoot girl take her way to Mr. L.'a library, and without a word to any one, seat herself in a comer with a well-worn book, over which she pored for four hours. The I good pastor was afraid to notice her in any way, lest bashfulness or wildness should make her take flight. She continued to come every day henceforth but Mr. L. hardly ventured to address a word to the silent student in the corner of his library, though he often, unknown to her, directed her studies, by placing the books he wished her to peruse immediately in her way. ThA few words of greeting, or advice, or kind interest which be gave her, were, however, treasured in her heart, and Mr. L. soon felt that she regarded him with deep, affectionate reverence. Little bunches of the earliest spring flowers, or rare wild-wood plants, he sometimes found upon his fltudy table, and his children often rejoiced over star fish, or shells, which the shy girl rather left in their way than directly gave to them. The baby she sometimes caressed, with repressed but uncontrollable tender- ness. Mr. L. suspected that her stubborn refusal of conversation or friendly communion was in obedience to some whim of her strange father's, and fearful pf the withdrawal of the half concession he had gained, he concurred in it. In this way a year passed. (To be continued.)

FLOGGED BY MISTAKE.-The custom of order- ing punishments (says Count Segur, French Ambassa- dor to the Court of Russia, in his interesting "Memoirs and Recollections") at the caprice of the moment, which are no sooner commanded than in- flicted,-and for faults condemned without examina- tion, by an absolute master,—leads to the strangest mistakes, even with those who are the least severe. The following is one, of which the result was sum- ciently ludicrous-thanks to the person who had been the object of it—although the commencement was both harsh and cruel. One morning a man entered my house with the greatest precipitation; he seemed confused and agitated, at once by fear, pain, and passion; his hair was standing on end, his eyes red and full of tears, his voice tremulous, and his clothes in disorder. I found he was a Frenchman, and on inquiring the cause of bis agitation he replied—" I entreat the protection of your Excellency against a dreadful act of injustice and violence. I have this moment, and by order of a powerful noble, been outraged, without the least cause, and received a hundred lashes." Such treatment," I answered, would be inexcusable if even a serious fault had called for its inniction if j*aa no motive, as you assert, it ia not only inexpli- cable, but very improbable; but who could have given S|Ui?- aQ orc^er It wasi" replied the complainant, h«,Excellency the Count de Bruce, governor of the city. You are mad," said I; "it is impossible that 50 estimable enlightened, and generally respected a man as the Count de Bruce could allow himself bo commit such an act of violence on a French- man, unless you had personally attacked and insulted him.' Why, sir," rejoined the sufferer, I never knew the count. I am a cook; and having heard bhau the governor wished for one, I presented myself at his house, and was ordered to go into his closet. As soon as I was announced to his Excellency, he ordered me to receive a hundred lashes, which were instantly inflicted. My story may appear improbable, but too true, as my eboulde-a can testify." Listen," said I, at length. If, contrary to all ap- pearances, you have told the truth, I will obtain re- paration for the injury nor shall I suffer my countrymen, whom it is my duty to protect, to be treated in this manner. But reflect well that, if you tttve told me an untruth, I shall also know how to make you repent the imposture. You shall yourself take a letter to the governor, which I will write, undone of my attendants fehall accompany you." I instantly wrote to the count, informing him of the strange denunciation that had been made to me. I told him that, although it was impossible to give it credit,, yet the obligation to pro- teot French subjects made it my duty to request some explanation of so singular an act, since it was not j possible that any subordinate agent would have so un- i worthily made use of his name to commit this act of i violence. I added that I should wait with impatience for his answer, in order that measures might be taken to punish the complainant if he had made a false as- sertion, Or to obtain prompt justice for him if he had told the truth. Two hours passed without my receiv- ioga»y answer. I began to get impatient, and pre- pared to go out myself, in order to procure the explanation I demanded, when I observed the complainant come suddenly into the room. He no longer appeared the same person; his hair was calm, his mouth smiling, while his eyes seemed to sparkle with joy.^ Well," said I, have you brought back a reply? ''No, sir; his Excellency will make one him- self immediately, but I have no longer any cause of complaint; I am sa.tlsfied-well satisfied; and the whole of the affair has been a mistake. It only re- mains for me to thank you. for your kindness." « Sow ia this ? I Mked him. Have you got rid of the hundred lashes already ? r "No, sir, I have not, for they are well engraved on my shoulders but, faith, they have been perfectly well dressed, and in such a way as to make me take things very quietly now. The whole matter has been explained to me; it oflgmated as follows: Count Bruce had a cook who was born on one of his estates; this man deserted a few days before, and committed a theft. gia Excellency, in giving orders to have him sought for,* determined that, if overtaken, he should be Such were the circumstances under which J presented myself to apply for the vacant place. When the door of the governor's closet was thrown open, he Was sitting with bis back towards me, very much occapied- On entering, the servant, who went before, said, 4 Monseigneur, here is the cook;'upon which his Excellency, without turning his head, replied, Very well, let him be taken into the courtyard, and give him the 100 lashes, as I have ordered.' The order was scarcely given when the door was shut, and I was seized by the servant. He called his comrades, who, without pity, as I have told you, applied the 100 lashes on a poor French cook instead of a Russian cook and a deserter. His Excellency," added the poor unfortunate cook, "in pitying my case, condescended to explftin the cause of the mistake, and terminated his consoling words by the gift of this purse of gold. as you may see." I now dismissed the poor fellow, whose just anger, I could not help thinking, was much too easily appeased. THE DEATH OF JOAN OF ABC.—At daybreak on the 30th of May, 1431, a priest entered the cell of a young woman at Rouen, and announced that he was come to prepare her for death. Not that the prisoner was ill—she was young, healthy, and in the fnll possession of her faculties; the death she was to suffer was a violent one—she was to be burned alive! Burned alive at one-and-twenty! What could the poor wretch have done ? She had shirred the power of the English in France; she had, by means of an enthusiasm which rendered her obnoxious to the clergy, roused the French nation from the torpor into which it had been thrown by the stunning blows dealt to it by Henry V. of England, and she had dared to thwart the purposes and brave the anger ef vindictive church- men like the Bishop of Beauvais, and the Bishop of Winchester, Cardinal Beaufort. The prisoner's name was Jeanne Dare, or as she has been more coinnionly, but erroneously, called, Joan of Arc. The priest a announcement took the poor maiden entirely by surprise. A week before she had been led out into a public place in Rouen, and compelled, in a moment of weakness, when surrounded by enemiea—not one kindly face among the crowd—and under circum- gtanses of great excitement, to sign a document dis- avowing and solemnly abjuring certain cnarges of heresy which were preferred against her; and she had been told on that occasion that her life would now be spared, though she must resign herself to a sentence of perpetual imprisonment. The excuse for breaking faith with the poor girl was this, tbtt since her abjuration she had said that St. Catherine and St. Margaret, with whom she asserted she was frequently in direct communion, had appeared to her and rebuked her for her weakness in yielding to the threats of violence. On first hearing the announcement of the priest Jeanne's firmness gave wayshe wept and gave vent to piteous cries, tore her hair, and appealed to the great Judge against the cruel wrongs done to her; but by degrees her self- pesseesion returned, and she listened to the ministra- tions of the priest, received the last sacrament from him. &nd announced herself ready to submit to the will of God. At nine o'clock in the morning she was carried away in the hangman's cart to the market-place of Rouen, where had been already laid the funeral pyre on which the young victim was to be sacrificed. The Bishop of Beauvaia, Cardinal Beaufort, and several other prelates, with the English military commanders, were there, and a vast crowd had come out to see "the maid of Orleans die. In the centre of the market-place, about the spot where now stands a fountain surmounted by a figure of Jeanne Dare, the stake was reared, and around it were piled the fagota. Soldiers guarded the place of execution. The ceremonial of death was begun on that beautiful May morning by a sermon in which the crime of heresy was vehemently denounced, then the sentence pronounced by the shepherds of, the. flock on the ewe lamb before them was published, and the signal was given to proclaim the last act of the tragedy. A soldier's staff was broken and formed into a rough cross which the Maid elapsed to her breast. She was then bound to the stake, the fagots were lighted, the fire leaped up areund her, and after suffering the agony indispensable to death by burning her spirit returned to God who gave it. The English cardinal watched the whale proceedings with unmoved face, and when his victim's life was beyond his reach he ordered her ashes and bones to be gathered up and to be cast into the Beine.- CastelVe Few Popular Educator,

LADIES' COLUMN. THE FASHIONS. The fashion of wearing a cordon of flowers com- menced last winter, and now the ambition appears to be to hava natural ones for the purpose but, un- fortunately, at a ball these fade quickly. Roses are the favourite flowers for these cordons, and they are made up with three colours—red, pink, and tea roses. The newest garlands for evening wear are composed of sweet peas and hortensias, of violets, crocuses, and forget-me-nots, with either gold or silver intermixed. The small Infanta wreath is charming. It consists of pomegranate flowers, with velvet leaves veined with gold. Also the Druidees wreath, made of oak leaves of every shade of gold, from the darkest to the lightest, which is almost silvery, the acorns being dead gold. The Muse garland is likewise pretty. It is composed of olive leaves of dark green velvet veined with cold, the small olives being gold. The Victim wreath is in white, blue, and pink narcissus, a trail of the same flowers mixing with the curls at the back of the head. The Psyche wreath is red camellias and gold leaves. The PourtalAs pouf is made with black feathers powdered with gold, aDd marigolds with diamond centres. The luminous sprays of silver thistles and golden chestnuts and the new golden butterflies are also much worn, mounted with feathers that are dipped in either gold or silver. Dancing shoes are made this season with very short fronts, and the toes are almost pointed; there is a small Charles IX. strap across the instep, and this strap is fastened with a miniature buckle. The shoes should be the ..me colour as the dress, and sometimes they are embroidered with same flowers as the rest of the toilette. With a pale blue dress trimmed with field flowers, the shoes would be blue faille worked with flowers. White satin boots are again worn at balls they are embroidered with white jet, but are by no means becoming to the foot. Black satin boots, for evening wear, are fastened down the centre with straps, and between the straps there is a white blonde ruche. For ceremonious calls velvet boots are worn. The rugs for covering the knees when driving have become most luxurious this winter. The latest novelty in rugs for a Victoria is not fur at all, but feathers, as it is made entirely of ostrich feathers, stripped from their quills, and in their natural grey and creamy white shades. Light-coloured rugs are most used inside carriages, while darker ones are selected for the driver, though there is nothing handsomer for a lady's carriage than the coloured beaver that so closely resembles sealskin. Among the fashionable light rugs are natural beaver, the long fleece of white fox, the red fox, and the wolverine; the last are specially popular this season. Cheaper rugs are made of the skins of the wild cat and shaded llama. Feather bands are in great demand for dress trim- mings. There are bands of flat feathers, such as peacocks' and lopbephore, in shaded green and blue, for trimming black India cashmeres, and mixed with these are a few split-or décMrlø-feathers that are very effective. Cream-coloured, almond, and grey mantles for dressy occasions are trimmed with fawn- coloured feathers, and small muffs to wear with them are made of the same material, with a broad feather band in the middle instead of a narrow band at each end some muffs are entirely of feathers, and are stuffed with eider dewn. Round hats and evening bonnets are made entirely of feathers; for the latter white marabout is most used.—The Queen.

USEFUL HINTS. A LITTLE of everything is nothing in the main. ALAHODK BBBP,-Take a piece of rump-steak, pound it well, and, having larded it, put it into a stewpan with some lemon. Put the cover on the stewpan, and allow it to cook slowly. When the meat has given all the gravy it contains, add equal quantities of stock broth and white wine. Continue to boil it slowly, until the broth thickens; and, before serving it up, squeeze the juice of a lemon over it.—CastelVe Household Guide. RESTORATIVE SOUP FOR INTAHDS.—Take lib. of newly-killed beef or fowl, mince it very fine, add eight fluid ounces of soft or distilled water, four to six drops of pure hydrochloric acid, thirty to sixty grains of common salt, and stir well together. After three hours the whole is to be thrown on a common hair sieve, and the fluid allowed to pass through with slight pressure. On the flesh residue in the sieve pour slowly 2oz. of distilled water, and let it run through while squeezing the meat; there will fce lOoz. of ex- tract of meat, of which a wineglassful may be taken at pleasure. It must not be warmed to a greater extent than putting a bottle filled partially with it to stand in hot water. If the flavour be disagreeable, a wine- glassful of claret may be added to a teacupful. PLUM CAKE.—Jib. flour, lIb, butter, lIb. sugar, llb. currants, raisins, or a mixture of both, two- eggs, bod loz. of candied peel, half a gill of milk, two teaspoon- fuls of baking powder, and a.pinch ef salt. Stir the salt and baking powder into the flour, rub in the butter, which should be previously cut up small, then mix well the sugar, the currants cleaned, the raisins stoned, the peel chopped small. Stir in the eggs beaten up, and add sufficient milk to mix the cafe;1 butter a cake mould, and bake about an hour in a moderate oven. PROBABLY you have to work for your own living. Never be ashamed of it, if such be the case. Industry is not only a duty, but a privilege, and promotes the serenest happiness on earth; it is an honourable grace given as the means of acquiring the best wealth, and is imposed upon our race to develop the noblest energies and insure the highest reward. The idle, vain, careless girl has cause for shame but the girl who works for her bread, who, by her industry, helps to keep things comfortable at home, has a dignity added to her character which the most accomplished and best-dressed lady may look for in vain. THE great law of nature ordains that man shall supply the raw material for his dinner, and that his wife shall cook it. If there were a law passed re- quiring every woman to exhibit proofs of her ability to do good plain cooking before she could be permitted to marry, it would be greatly for the benefit of the human family, and the supply of good cooks would always equal the demand. AGREEABLE DISINFECTA.NT.-In order to purify the air of an apartment, pour some sulphuric acid on acetate of lime, when a white vapour will be disen- gaged—acetic acid-which, mixing with the air, will diffuse a grateful fragrance throughout the room. The acetate of lime is easily obtained by pouring common vinegar on powdered chalk until it ceases effervescing. CHILDREN'S PLAYTHINGS.—Playthings that children make for themselves are a great deal better than those which are bought for them. They employ them a much longer time, they exercise ingenuity, and they really please them more. A little girl had better fashion her cups and saucers of acorns than to have a set of earthen ones supplied. A boy takes ten times more pleasure in a little wooden cart he has pegged together than he would in a painted or gilded car- riage bought from a toy shop; and we do not believe any expensive rocking-horse ever gave so much satisfaction as we have- seen a child in the country take with a wooden plank, which he has bridled and placed on four sticks. There is a peculiar satisfaction in mventing things for one's self. No matter, though the construction be clumsy and awkward, it employs time (which is a great object in childhood), and the pleasure the invention gives is the first impulse to in- genuity and skilL For this reason, the making of little boats, and mechanical toys, should not be dis- couraged and when any difficulty occurs above the powers of a child, assistance should be cheerfully given.

THE OLD SEXTON. 'Twas nigh the hour of evening prayer, The sexton climbed the turret stair Wearily, being very old The wind of spring blew fresh and cold, Wakening there solian thrills, And carrying fragrance from the hills. From a carven cleft he leaned, Eyeing the landscape newly greened The large sun, slowly moving down, Flushed the chimneys of the town: The same where he was first alive, Eighty years ago and five. Babe he sees himself, and boy Youth, astir with hope and joy; Wife and wedded love he sees; Children's children round his kneee; Friends departing one by one; The churchyard in the setting sun. He seats him in a stony niche The bell-rope sways within his reach High in the rafters of the roof The metal warder hangs aloof; All the townsfolk wait to hear That voice they know this many a year. It is past the ringing hour; There is silence in the tower, Save that on a pinnacle A robin sits, and sings full well. Hush! at length for prayer they toll; God receive the parted soul!

/URIETIE*. I A SOLWN Tkwsr.—-Everyone should consider him- self entrusted, not only with his own conduct, but with that of others. OBLIVIOtTs.-People are commonly so employed in pointing out faults in those before them as to forget that someone behind may at the same time be descant- ing on their own. PERSONAL INFLUENCE. Every human being in- fluences his companion for good or for evil. Not the meanest creature on earth lives without touching someone, and in that touch influencing, moulding shaping to better ends or to worse. Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul, and the heart of man knoweth none I more fragrant; while its opponent-ingratitude-is a deadly weed, not only poisoning in itself, but impreg- nating the very atmosphere in which it grows with foetid vapours. The Chinese women are as much slaves of fashion as European ladies. The higher classes of Chinese ladies are taught, like ours, to control their voices— that it is not right to speak noisily. They study attitudes and effects before their mirrors, and they bandage their feet for the same reason that our girls tighten their waists—in order to produce elegance and gentility of form. SWEET DECKINGS.—This fashionable bracelets worn by Transatlantic belles this season must be serious weights to the wrist. Oriental bangles are the favourite style, and appended from them is a miscel- laneous collection of miniature articles in gold or silver, relieved by black and red enamel, such as kettles, opera-glasses, tea-pots, goblets, skulls with ruby or diamond eyes, mice, horses, dogs, eggs, keys, scissors, shoes, cupids, and harlequins, columbines, clowns, and pantaloons, in striped enamel, or silver encrusted with gems. The necklace to match is made of Japanese amber, with a transparent locket contain- ing a fly, apparently alive. A YOUTHFUL POLITICIAN'S AMBITION. — In the memoirs of Lord Melbourne, recently published, the following anecdote of Lord Beaconsfield is given. When a young man, and before he had entered Par- liament, he met at Mrs. Norton's Lord Melbourne, then Home Secretary, who talked with him for a long time. Lord Melbourne was attracted more and more as he listened to the uncommonplace language and spirit of the youthful politician, and thought to him- self that he would be worth serving. Abruptly, but with a certain tone of kindness which took away an air of assumption, he said, Well, now, tell me, what do you want to be P" The quiet gravity of the reply fairly startled him—"I want to be Prime Minister." BRBA -MAXMG.-It is curious to trace the various modes that have been used for leavening or raising bread. The Romans employed millet for leaven, mixed with a sweet wine, and allowed it to ferment for one year; wheat bran also was used, soaked for three days in sweet wine and dried in the sun, and barley paste heated on red-hot coals and then put into vessels till it became sour. The Gauls and Spaniards, who were celebrated for their light bread, having made a kind of frumenty from wheat, used the scum to raise the dough. Ale yeast is chiefly used now in bread-mak- ing, but this can be obtained only in the neighbour- hood of large breweries, and it will keep but a day or two. There is a great import of dried yeast from Holland and Germany, the average annual receipts being 105,500 cwt., valued at over £ 407,000. Of late the various baking-powders have in a great measure superseded the above, and in many cases haye brought about wonderful improvements. How THE RUSSIAN PEASANT LivM.—The houses of the Russian peasantry are built of logs, and are thoroughly filthy, so that no civilized person could eat or sleep in them if he wished. A fresh egg was the only thing that seemed uncontaminated. The peasant dwells with horses and cattle under the same roof, he above and they below, so that the odour of the stable and every other imaginable vile smell per- meates the whole interior. One not accustomed to that way of living cannot stay within doors, much less eat their food. Their household furniture is of the most primitive kind, so also their farming imple- ments. Indeed, everything makes you feel that you are carried back to the dark ages. The people live in villages altogether, each family having land appor- tioned to them, according to their numbers, by the village commune or assembly, which also decides as to the rotation of crops and the times of gathering them. Some of the country through which we passed seemed quite fertile, but the greater part has a barren appear- ance. A STRANGE TRADITION. — Among the Seminole Indians there is a singular tradition regarding the white man's origin and superiority. They say that when the Great Spirit made the earth he also made three men, all of whom were fair-complexioned, and that after making them he led them to the margin x>f a small lake and bade them leap in and wash. One obeyed, and came out purer and fairer than before; the second hesitated a moment, during which time the water, agitated by the first, had become muddled, and when he bathed he came up copper-coloured; the third did not leap until the water became black with mud, and he came out dark in colour. Then the Great Spirit laid before them three packages, and out of pity for his misfortune in colour gave the black man first choice. He took hold of each of the packages, and, having felt the weight, chose the heaviest; the copper-coloured man chose the next heaviest, leaving the white man the lightest. When the packages were opened, the first was found to contain spades, hoes, and all the implements of labour; the second en- wrapped hunting, fishing, and warlike apparatus; the third gave the white man pens, ink, and paper, the engine of the mind, the means of mutual mental im- provement, the social link of humanity, the foundation of the white man's superiority. „ AN EPISCOPAL WIG.-The first episcopal effort put forth by Bishop Blomfield was an attempt to persuade the king to dispense with wigs on the heads of bishops. But George IV. was conservative, and would not permit the discontinuance of the episcopal wig, and, in fact, it was not dispensed with until the reign of William IV., when the abolition of the troublesome clerical environment was brought about by Sir George Sinclair, the intimate friend of William IV. Sir George was staying with the king on a visit at Brighton, when he went up to Fulham Palace to visit Dr. Blomfield after his elevation to the bishopric of London. He asked the bishop whether he could deliver any message from him to the king. The bishop jocularly replied, "You may present my duty to his Majesty, and say that at this tropical season I find my episcopal wig a serious incumbrance, and I could wish that he would not consider me guilty of a breach of court-etiquette if induced to lay it aside." Sir George repeated the message at dinner for the amusement of the king, who however took it up seriously, and replied, Tell the bishop he is not to wear a wig on my account; I dislike it as much as he does, and should be glad to see the whole bench wear their own hair." Bishop Blomfield took the hint, other bishops followed his example, and so the wig was discontinued. WHAT IS To BE WILL BB.-A soldier in Crom- well's army, passing with his comrades over St. Mary's Bridge, Derby, observed a young girl ladling water from the river. In the spirit of frolic and mis- chief, he threw a large stone, intending it should startle her by making a sudden splash. But it struck her on the head, and made a hideous wound. She fell into the river. The soldier did not wait to see that she was rescued. He galloped on, feeling that he had been guilty of a wanton murder. The unknown con- sequence of his folly preyed upon his mind. His con- science was always upbraiding him. Years after, when discharged from the army, he settled down in Derby. He took a public-house in Bridegate, and, after a short acquaintance with a woman of suitable age, got married. Very soon after he saw his wife combing her hair, and inquired how she got that scar which disfigured one side of her head. She replied, Some wretch of a soldier had once nearly killed her with a stone, but if ever she caught that man she would pay him off for it." It is not recorded how she punished her husband when he confessed being her assailant, or how great was his relief when the haunting thought of a wanton murder was removed from his mind. He was one of the five troopers who road under the oak where Charles was hidden at Boscobel. From this soldier was descended Mr. Hutton, a well-known antiquary of Derby, who re- lated the above anecdote. OLD OMENS.—Even now there exist people who be- lieve in omens. To enumerate the number in which our forefathers believed would be impossible; but we give one or two which may be amusing to the young people. Stumbling in going downstairs or going out in the morning is very unlucky. It is a sign of ill luck to lay one's knife and fork crosswise; for sweet- hearts to interchange knives, as it will cut away their love; to present anybody with a knife, scissors, razor, or any sharp instrument. To avoid ill consequence, a pin, a farthing, or some trifling recompense, must be given in return. To find a knife or razor is un- lucky. That it is ill luck to find money, and worse to keep it, may seem paradoxical to many.^ It is lucky to find four-leaved clover, a piece of iron, an old, horseshoe. Moles are indicative of good or bad for- tune, according to their position on the body. A mole against the heart denotes wickedness on the knee, a wealthy wife; on the nose, a traveller; on the throat, riches; on tW flower jaw of a woman, sorrow and pain; in'the middle of the forehead, a discourteous and cruel mind; on the right side of the forehead, command, esteem, and honour; on the left, near hair, misery; on the left, near middle of forehead, persecu- tions from superior; on the lip, a great eater; on the chin, riches; on the ear, riches and respect; on the right breast, poverty; near the bottom of nostrils, good" luck; on left foot, rashness; right foot, wis- dom on the wrist or hand, an ingenuous mind; near side of chin, an amiable disposition; many moles be- tween wrist and elbow, many crosses which will end in prosperity. LET IN ynE SLNLISTR.—Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, in an article in the Christian Union, on mistakes in our houses, specifies "the exclusion of sunlight" as one. She says :,—" We wish the impor- tance of admitting- the light of the sun freely, as well as building these early and late fires, could be properly impressed upon our housekeepers. No article of furnitura should ever be brought to our homes too good or too delicate for the sun to see all day long. His presence should never be excluded, except when so bright as to be uncomfortable to the eyes. And walks should be in bright sunlight, so that the eyes are protected by veil or parasol, when inconveniently intense. A sun bath is of far more importance in preserving a healthful condition of the body than is generally understood. A sun bath costs nothing, and that is a misfortune, for people are deluded with the idea that those things only can be good or useful which cost money. But remember that pure water, fresh air, sunlight, and homes keept free from damp- ness, will secure you from many heavy bills of the doctors, and give you health and vigour, which no money can procure It is a well-established fact that people who live much in the sun are usually stronger and more healthy than those whose occupations de- prive them of sunlight. ANDALUSIAN BEAUTY.-In some of the manufactories at Seville I found not less than four thousand Andalu- sian gills and women in one enormous room—truly, a startling wonderful spectacle. Fancy, four thousand crinolines hanging up in rows! Among these inhabi- tants of Seville I could not discover twelve even pleas- ing faces. I admit their costume ,was not becoming: their smart clothes and mantillas were laid aside, and their undress was of coarse texture and somewhat in disorder, the fabrication of tobacco entailing much dirt; but I was thoroughly unprejudiced — and I judged of the type of the features and of the form of the figure with the greatest impartiality. Take the better class of Andalusian women, and look at the girls who peep out of the windows, or recline in the carriages that roll along the Pasco, and you will see many charms, but no perfect beauty. The Andalusian is pleasing from her vivacity, her conversational power, politeness, and, above all her perfect simpli- city, for the Spanish lady is, of all women, the most free from affectation.—Elliott's Travels, CHLOROFORM AND THE PUBLIC.—Already the effects on the public mind caused by the recent melancholy deaths from chloroform, aided by certain of the daily papers, are being abundantly exemplified. Medical men, before prevailing on their patients to submit to its administration, have now to undergo a more pain- ful cross-examination as to the dangers of chloroform than ever. Ladies in greater numbers discover that they have heart disease, lung disease, and such like maladies, and not infrequently work themselves up to a pitch of excitement that really the chief danger to be feared ought rather to be that they die of fright than from the effects of the choloroform administered. Some again refuse point blank to have anything to do with the drug, while others-mostly hospital patients -would "rather die than have choloroform." If, instead of reading the sensational nonsense and placards of certain papers, the public bore in mind the net that chloroform prevents the fatal effects of shock from operations to an infinitely greater extent than it endangers life, it would be better for all parties.— British Medical Jovrnal. SILVER.—Silver is the most useful, if not the most valuable, of the precious metals; and if it is not in- vested with the same marvellous and romantic interest is its companion gold, there is still much that is inte- resting about its history and its manufacture. Silver has a specific gravity of 10.60; it is less hard than gold, but harder than copper, and in a pure state may easily be cut with a knife. Inferior only to gold in malleability, it can be beaten out into a leaf of an inch in thickness; while in tenacity, it surpasses its more valuable rival—a wire one-twelfth of an inch thick being capable of supporting a weight of nearly 200lbs. One of the most remarkable properties of silver, how- ever, is that it reflects light and heat more completely than any other metaL The rays of the sun concen- trated by the most powerful burning glass, which would easily melt gold or platinum, strike powerless upon the highly polished surface of a silver object. They are reflected, not absorbed, and the metal re- mains unaffected by the heat. Another effect of this quality of silver is its power of retaining heat; whence its use for-the manufacture of teapots, coffee-pots,and other vessels for holding liquids which are required to be kept as hot as possible.—Once a Week. SQUIRRELS AND THEIR ENEMIES. — Of this most beautiful, active, and graceful of all the furred deni- zens of American woods and plains, there are no less than sixty known varieties. To the sportsman east of the Rocky Mountains, the most interesting species are the grey, the fox, and the pine squirrel. The grey squirrel frequently migrates in vast numbers, and is then very destructive to the corn crop. To such an extent did their depredations reach in the colony of Pennsylvania, in the year 1746, as to excite the alarm of the authorities, a bounty of three-pence was offered for squirrel scalps, and the colonial treasury was depleted to the extent of j68,000, and nearly rendered bankrupt, 640,000 scalps having beem 'paid for in a single year. The squirrel has many enemies, and probably the least destructive of them all is man. The black snake ascends to his nest, and at one fell swoop will destroy a whole litter. The rattlesnake will paralyse poor Bunny by the glitter of his eye, and draw him on, an unresisting victim, into the jaws of death. But the owl is his greatest and most destruc- tive enemy, as towards the close of day he flits on noiseless wings through the darkening, woods, and pounces on his unsuspecting prey. The red-tailed hawk is another of his foes, but he is An open enemy, and wages war magnanimously.-History of Animals. BENEFITS OF MATRIMONY.—Single blossednessisnot good for a married man of mature years. He gets along very well for a little while, until his last fort- night's washing is brought, when he begins to realise the value of matrimony by the absence of shirt but- tons. Man can never be an independent creature until the necessity for buttons can be dispensed with. In a lodging-house a man has considerable conceit taken out of him. His interest in the establishment is limited; authority he has none. His landlady agrees to fodder him two or three times a-day, and stable him at night somewhere on the third floor. He can't complain of the coffee, or growl if the potatoes are underdone. If he doesn't like it, he can leave it. There are other lodging-houses, and he has a choice of evils. In the evening he has all the world before him. He has perfect liberty of choice between his bedroom and the street. There is a parlour, to be sure; but the young lady who has steady company is always there. You go in, and the damsel looks daggers. Her young man looks as though he would like to punch your head. If you are possessed of a sensitive and sympathetic nature, you can't resist this mute but eloquent appeal. Especially w^en it comes home to you, as it does to me, that there was a time when you were similarly situated. How would you have liked it yourself? There is no alternative but to suddenly remember that you "have an appointment," seize your hat, and rush out into the street. — Corry (fLanus, LAST DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.—II. <ighting out her long quarrel with Spain and building her Church system out of the broken masonry of Popery, her concluding years passed away. The great men who had upheld the throne in the days of her peril dropped one by one into the grave. Walsingham died soon after the defeat of the Armada, ruined in fortune, and weary of his ungrateful service. Hunsdon, Knollys, Burghley, Drake, followed at brief intervals, and their mistress was left by herself, standing, as it seemed, on the pinnacle of earthly glory, yet in all the loneli- ness of greatness, and unable to enjoy the honours which Burghley's policy had won for her. The first place among the Protestant Powers, which had been so often offered her and so often refused, had been forced upon her in spite of herself. She was Head of the Name," but it gave her no pleasure. She was the last of her race. No Tudor would sit again on the English throne. Her own sad prophecy was ful. filled, and she lived to see those whom she most trusted turning their eyes to the rising sun. Old age was coming upon her, bringing with it, perhaps, a con- sciousness of failing faculties; and solitary in the midst of splendour, and friendless among the circle of adorers who swore they lived but in her presence, she grew weary of a life which had ceased to interest her. Sickening of a vague disease, she sought no help from medicine, and finally refused to take food. She could not reat in her bed, but sat silent on cushions, staring into vacancy with fixed and stony eyes, and so at last she History of Mtigland. THK LONG Bow AND IRISH SOLDIERs.-The Augs- burgh broadside (1632) refers to the importation of wild Irish soldiers by the King of Denmark, Christian the Fourth, to Germany, troops which were afterwards employed by Gustavus Adolphus, and, much to the as- tonishment of the natives, landed at Stettin. The flying-sheet thus improved the occasion In these latter wicked .days, among other calamities God has inflicted upon us is that foreign nations interfere with us, increase from day to day, desolate our field, lay waste our land and commit great and shameful sins. More especially they impose this retribution upon our people, that many folk quite unknown before, now in- vade our country to avenge our worldly sins. Great numbers arive from distant Ireland, called Hibernians from that island. These men are hardy and strong, dark coloured like gipsies, short in stature, eager to fight, furnished with muskets and quivers, skilful in the use of bows and arrows, ready to cut their way with long knives; they run fast, so that they can make sixteen miles a day. Their clothes and caps have a barbarous appearance, almost all black, all their sheep being, as is well known, of a dark colour their shoes are chiefly made of and tied on with bark of trees. They make shift with little food; if they have no bread and are hungry they dig roots out of the earth, with which they are easily appeased. Because, then, God has sent such people into our land on account of our great sin and shame, let us cease from sin, that we may again take pleasure in us and restore peace to the land, and everyone may follow his honest calling."— D" Wmpons of War.