The letter was in a stiff, female scrawl, and Leonard observed that two or three mistakes in spelling had been corrected, either in another pen or in a different hand.

"Dear brother Dick, how good in him!" cried the widow. "When I saw there was money, I thought it must be him. How I should like to see Dick again. But I s'pose he's still in Amerikay. Well, well, this will buy clothes for you."

"No; you must keep it all, mother, and put it in the Savings' Bank."

"I'm not quite so silly as that," cried Mrs. Fairfield with contempt; and she put the fifty pounds into a cracked teapot.

"It must not stay there when I'm gone. You may be robbed, mother."

"Dear me, dear me, that's true. What shall I do with it?—what do I want with it, too? Dear me! I wish they hadn't sent it. I shan't sleep in peace. You must e'en put it in your own pouch, and button it up tight, boy."

Lenny smiled, and took the note; but he took it to Mr. Dale, and begged him to put it into the Savings' Bank for his mother.

The day following he went to take leave of his master, of Jackeymo, of the fountain, the garden. But, after he had gone through the first of these adieus with Jackeymo—who, poor man, indulged in all the lively gesticulations of grief which make half the eloquence of his countrymen; and then, absolutely blubbering, hurried away—Leonard himself was so affected that he could not proceed at once to the house, but stood beside the fountain, trying hard to keep back his tears.

"You, Leonard—and you are going!" said a soft voice; and the tears fell faster than ever, for he recognized the voice of Violante.

"Do not cry," continued the child, with a kind of tender gravity. "You are going, but papa says it would be selfish in us to grieve, for it is for your good; and we should be glad. But I am selfish, Leonard, and I do grieve. I shall miss you sadly."

"You, young lady—you miss me!"

"Yes. But I do not cry, Leonard, for I envy you, and I wish I were a boy: I wish I could do as you."

The girl clasped her hands, and reared her slight form, with a kind of passionate dignity.

"Do as me, and part from all those you love!"

"But to serve those you love. One day you will come back to your mother's cottage, and say, 'We have conquered fortune.' Oh that I could go forth and return, as you will. But my father has no country, and his only child is a useless girl."

As Violante spoke, Leonard had dried his tears; her emotion distracted him from his own.

"Oh," continued Violante, again raising her head loftily, "what it is to be a man! A woman sighs, 'I wish,' but man should say 'I will.'"

Occasionally before, Leonard had noted fitful flashes of a nature grand and heroic, in the Italian child, especially of late—flashes the more remarkable from their contrast to a form most exquisitely feminine, and to a sweetness of temper which made even her pride gentle. But now it seemed as if the child spoke with the command of a queen—almost with the inspiration of a Muse. A strange and new sense of courage entered within him.

"May I remember these words!" he murmured half audibly.

The girl turned and surveyed him with eyes brighter for their moisture. She then extended her hand to him, with a quick movement, and, as he bent over it, with a grace taught to him by genuine emotion, she said,—"And if you do, then, girl and child as I am, I shall think I have aided a brave heart in the great strife for honor!"

She lingered a moment, smiled as if to herself, and then, gliding away, was lost among the trees.

After a long pause, in which Leonard recovered slowly from the surprise and agitation into which Violante had thrown his spirits—previously excited as they were—he went, murmuring to himself, toward the house. But Riccabocca was from home. Leonard turned mechanically to the terrace, and busied himself with the flowers. But the dark eyes of Violante shone on his thoughts, and her voice rang in his ear.

At length Riccabocca appeared, followed up the road by a laborer, who carried something indistinct under his arm.

The Italian beckoned to Leonard to follow him into the parlor, and after conversing with him kindly, and at some length, and packing up, as it were, a considerable provision of wisdom in the portable shape of aphorisms and proverbs, the sage left him alone for a few moments, Riccabocca then returned with his wife, and bearing a small knapsack:

"It is not much we can do for you, Leonard, and money is the worst gift in the world for a keepsake; but my wife and I have put our heads together to furnish you with a little outfit. Giacomo, who was in our secret, assures us that the clothes will fit; and stole, I fancy, a coat of yours for the purpose. Put them on when you go to your relations; it is astonishing what a difference it makes in the ideas people form of us, according as our coats are cut one way or another. I should not be presentable in London thus; and nothing is more true than that a tailor is often the making of a man."

"The shirts, too, are very good holland," said Mrs. Riccabocca, about to open the knapsack.

"Never mind details, my dear," cried the wise man; "shirts are comprehended in the general principle of clothes. And, Leonard, as a remembrance somewhat more personal, accept this, which I have worn many a year when time was a thing of importance to me, and nobler fates than mine hung on a moment. We missed the moment, or abused it, and here I am, a waif on a foreign shore. Methinks I have done with Time."

The exile, as he thus spoke, placed in Leonard's reluctant hands a watch that would have delighted an antiquary, and shocked a dandy It was exceedingly thick, having an outer case of enamel, and an inner one of gold. The hands and the figures of the hours had originally been formed of brilliants; but the brilliants had long since vanished. Still, even thus bereft, the watch was much more in character with the giver than the receiver, and was as little suited to Leonard as would have been the red silk umbrella.

"It is old-fashioned," said Mrs. Riccabocca, "but it goes better than any clock in the country. I really think it will last to the end of the world."

"Carissima mia!" cried the Doctor, "I thought I had convinced you that the world is by no means come to its last legs."

"Oh, I did not mean any thing, Alphonso," said Mrs. Riccabocca, coloring.

"And that is all we do mean when we talk about that of which we can know nothing," said the Doctor, less gallantly than usual, for he resented that epithet of "old-fashioned," as applied to the watch.

Leonard, we see, had been silent all this time; he could not speak—literally and truly, he could not speak. How he got out of his embarrassment, and how he got out of the room, he never explained to my satisfaction. But, a few minutes afterward, he was seen hurrying down the road very briskly.

Riccabocca and his wife stood at the window gazing after him.

"There is a depth in that boy's heart," said the sage, "which might float an argosy."

"Poor dear boy! I think we have put every thing into the knapsack that he can possibly want," said good Mrs. Riccabocca musingly.

The Doctor (continuing his soliloquy.)—"They are strong, but they are not immediately apparent."

Mrs. Riccabocca (resuming hers.)—"They are at the bottom of the knapsack."

The Doctor.—"They will stand long wear and tear."

Mrs. Riccabocca.—"A year, at least, with proper care at the wash."

The Doctor (startled.)—"Care at the wash! What on earth are you talking of, ma'am!"

Mrs. Riccabocca (mildly.)—"The shirts to be sure, my love! And you?"

The Doctor (with a heavy sigh.)—"The feelings, ma'am!" Then, after a pause, taking his wife's hand affectionately—"But you did quite right to think of the shirts; Mr. Dale said very truly—"

Mrs. Riccabocca.—"What?"

The Doctor.—"That there was a great deal in common between us—even when I think of feelings, and you but of—shirts."

CHAPTER XXIII.

Mr. and Mrs. Avenel sat within the parlor—Mr. Richard stood on the hearth-rug, whistling Yankee Doodle. "The Parson writes word that the lad will come to-day," said Richard suddenly—"let me see the letter—ay, to day. If he took the coach as far as ——, he might walk the rest of the way in two or three hours. He should be pretty nearly here. I have a great mind to go and meet him: it will save his asking questions, and hearing about me. I can clear the town by the back way, and get out at the high road."

"You'll not know him from any one else," said Mrs. Avenel.

"Well, that is a good one! Not know an Avenel! We've all the same cut of the jib—have not we, father?"

Poor John laughed heartily, till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"We were always a well-favored fam'ly," said John, recomposing himself. "There was Luke, but he's gone; and Harry, but he's dead too, and Dick, but he's in Amerikay—no, he's here; and my darling Nora, but—"

"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Avenel; "hush, John!"

The old man stared at her, and then put his tremulous hand to his brow. "And Nora's gone too!" said he, in a voice of profound woe. Both hands then fell on his knees, and his head drooped on his breast.

Mrs. Avenel rose, kissed her husband on the forehead, and walked away to the window. Richard took up his hat, and brushed the nap carefully with his handkerchief; but his lips quivered.

"I'm going," said he abruptly. "Now mind, mother, not a word about Uncle Richard yet; we must first see how we like each other, and—(in a whisper) you'll try and get that into my poor father's head?"

"Ay, Richard," said Mrs. Avenel quietly. Richard put on his hat, and went out by the back way. He stole along the fields that skirted the town, and had only once to cross the street before he got into the high road.

He walked on till he came to the first milestone. There he seated himself, lighted his cigar, and awaited his nephew. It was now nearly the hour of sunset, and the road before him lay westward. Richard from time to time looked along the road, shading his eyes with his hand; and at length, just as the disc of the sun had half sunk down the horizon, a solitary figure came up the way. It emerged suddenly from the turn in the road: the reddening beams colored all the atmosphere around it. Solitary and silent it came as from a Land of Light.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"You have been walking far, young man," said Richard Avenel.

"No, sir, not very. That is Lansmere before me, is it not?"

"Yes, it is Lansmere; you stop there, I guess?"

Leonard made a sign in the affirmative, and walked on a few paces: then, seeing the stranger who had accosted him still by his side, he said—

"If you know the town, sir, perhaps you will have the goodness to tell me whereabouts Mr. Avenel lives?"

"I can put you in a straight cut across the fields, that will bring you just behind the house."

"You are very kind, but it will take you out of your way."

"No, it is in my way. So you are going to Mr. Avenel's?—a good old gentleman."

"I've always heard so; and Mrs. Avenel—"

"A particular superior woman," said Richard. "Any one else to ask after—I know the family well."

"No, thank you, sir."

"They have a son, I believe; but he's in America, is not he?"

"I believe he is, sir."

"I see the Parson has kept faith with me," muttered Richard.

"If you can tell me any thing about him," said Leonard, "I should be very glad."

"Why so, young man?—perhaps he is hanged by this time."

"Hanged!"

"He was a sad dog, I am told."

"Then you have been told very falsely," said Leonard, coloring.

"A sad wild dog—his parents were so glad when he cut and run—went off to the States. They say he made money; but, if so, he neglected his relations shamefully."

"Sir," said Leonard, "you are wholly misinformed. He has been most generous to a relative who had little claim on him; and I never heard his name mentioned but with love and praise."

Richard instantly fell to whistling Yankee Doodle, and walked on several paces without saying a word. He then made a slight apology for his impertinence—hoped no offense—and, with his usual bold but astute style of talk, contrived to bring out something of his companion's mind. He was evidently struck with the clearness and propriety with which Leonard expressed himself, raised his eyebrows in surprise more than once, and looked him full in the face with an attentive and pleased survey. Leonard had put on the new clothes with which Riccabocca and wife had provided him. They were those appropriate to a young country tradesman in good circumstances; but as he did not think about the clothes, so he had unconsciously something of the ease of the gentleman.

They now came into the fields. Leonard paused before a slip of ground sown with rye.

"I should have thought grass land would have answered better, so near a town," said he.

"No doubt it would," answered Richard; "but they are sadly behind-hand in these parts. You see that great park yonder, on the other side of the road? That would answer better for rye than grass; but then, what would become of my Lord's deer? The aristocracy eat us up, young man."

"But the aristocracy did not sow this piece with rye, I suppose?" said Leonard, smiling.

"And what do you conclude from that?"

"Let every man look to his own ground," said Leonard, with a cleverness of repartee caught from Doctor Riccabocca.

"'Cute lad you are," said Richard; "and we'll talk more of these matters another time."

They now came within sight of Mr. Avenel's house.

"You can get through the gap in the hedge, by the old pollard oak," said Richard; "and come round by the front of the house. Why, you're not afraid—are you?"

"I am a stranger."

"Shall I introduce you? I told you that I knew the old couple."

"Oh no, sir! I would rather meet them alone."

"Go; and—wait a bit—harkye, young man, Mrs. Avenel is a cold mannered woman; but don't be abashed by that."

Leonard thanked the good-natured stranger, crossed the field, passed the gap, and paused a moment under the stinted shade of the old hollow-hearted oak. The ravens were returning to their nests. At the sight of a human form under the tree, they wheeled round, and watched him afar. From the thick of the boughs, the young ravens sent their hoarse low cry.

CHAPTER XXV.

The young man entered the neat, prim, formal parlor.

"You are welcome!" said Mrs. Avenel, in a firm voice.

"The gentleman is heartily welcome," cried poor John.

"It is your grandson, Leonard Fairfield," said Mrs. Avenel.

But John who had risen with knocking knees, gazed hard at Leonard, and then fell on his breast, sobbing aloud—"Nora's eyes!—he has a blink in his eyes like Nora's."

Mrs. Avenel approached with a steady step, and drew away the old man tenderly.

"He is a poor creature," she whispered to Leonard—"you excite him. Come away, I will show you your room."

Leonard followed her up the stairs, and came into a room—neatly, and even prettily furnished. The carpet and curtains were faded by the sun, and of old-fashioned pattern, but there was a look about the room as if it had long been disused.

Mrs. Avenel sank down on the first chair on entering.

Leonard drew his arm round her waist affectionately: "I fear that I have put you out sadly—my dear grandmother."

Mrs. Avenel glided hastily from his arm, and her countenance worked much—every nerve in it twitching as it were; then, placing her hand on his locks, she said with passion, "God bless you, my grandson," and left the room.

Leonard dropped his knapsack on the floor, and looked around him wistfully. The room seemed as if it had once been occupied by a female. There was a work-box on the chest of drawers, and over it hanging shelves for books, suspended by ribbons that had once been blue, with silk and fringe appended to each shelf, and knots and tassels here and there—the taste of a woman, or rather of a girl, who seeks to give a grace to the commonest things around her. With the mechanical habit of a student, Leonard took down one or two of the volumes still left on the shelves. He found Spenser's Fairy Queen, Racine in French, Tasso in Italian; and on the fly-leaf of each volume, in the exquisite hand-writing familiar to his memory, the name "Leonora." He kissed the books, and replaced them with a feeling akin both to tenderness and awe.

He had not been alone in his room more than a quarter of an hour, before the maid-servant knocked at his door and summoned him to tea.

Poor John had recovered his spirits, and his wife sate by his side holding his hand in hers. Poor John was even gay. He asked many questions about his daughter Jane, and did not wait for the answers. Then he spoke about the Squire, whom he confounded with Audley Egerton, and talked of elections, and the Blue party, and hoped Leonard would always be a good Blue; and then he fell to his tea and toast, and said no more.

Mrs. Avenel spoke little, but she eyed Leonard askant, as it were, from time to time; and after each glance the nerves of the poor severe face twitched again.

A little after nine o'clock Mrs. Avenel lighted a candle, and placing it in Leonard's hand, said, "You must be tired—you know your own room now. Good-night."

Leonard took the light, and, as was his wont with his mother, kissed Mrs. Avenel on the cheek. Then he took John's hand and kissed him too. The old man was half asleep and murmured dreamily, "That's Nora."

Leonard had retired to his room about half-an-hour, when Richard Avenel entered the house softly, and joined his parents.

"Well, mother?" said he.

"Well, Richard—you have seen him?"

"And like him. Do you know he has a great look of poor Nora?—more like her than Jane?"

"Yes; he is handsomer than Jane ever was, but more like your father than any one. John was so comely. You take to the boy then?"

"Ay, that I do. Just tell him in the morning that he is to go with a gentleman who will be his friend, and don't say more. The chaise shall be at the door after breakfast. Let him get into it: I shall wait for him out of the town. What's the room you give him?"

"The room you would not take."

"The room in which Nora slept? Oh, no! I could not have slept a wink there. What a charm there was in that girl!—how we all loved her! But she was too beautiful and good for us—too good to live!"

"None of us are too good," said Mrs. Avenel with great austerity, "and I beg you will not talk in that way. Good-night—I must get your poor father to bed."

When Leonard opened his eyes-the next morning, they rested on the face of Mrs. Avenel, which was bending over his pillow. But it was long before he could recognize that countenance, so changed was its expression—so tender, so motherlike. Nay, the face of his own mother had never seemed to him so soft with a mother's passion.

"Ah!" he murmured, half rising, and flinging his young arms round her neck. Mrs. Avenel, this time, and for the first, taken by surprise, warmly returned the embrace: she clasped him to her breast, she kissed him again and again. At length with a quick start she escaped, and walked up and down the room, pressing her hands tightly together. When she halted her face had recovered its usual severity and cold precision.

"It is time for you to rise, Leonard," said she. "You will leave us to-day. A gentleman has promised to take charge of you, and do for you more than we can. A chaise will be at the door soon—make haste."

John was absent from the breakfast-table. His wife said that he never rose till late, and must not be disturbed.

The meal was scarce over before a chaise and pair came to the door.

"You must not keep the chaise waiting—the gentleman is very punctual."

"But he is not come."

"No, he has walked on before, and will get in after you are out of the town."

"What is his name, and why should he care for me, grandmother?"

"He will tell you himself. Now, come."

"But you will bless me again, grandmother. I love you already."

"I do bless you," said Mrs. Avenel firmly. "Be honest and good, and beware of the first false step." She pressed his hand with a convulsive grasp, and led him to the outer door.

The postboy clanked his whip, the chaise rattled off. Leonard put his head out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the old woman. But the boughs of the pollard oak, and its gnarled decaying trunk, hid her from his eye. And look as he would, till the road turned, he saw but the melancholy tree.

(To be continued.)

UNCLE JOHN; OR, THE ROUGH ROAD TO RICHES.

Men who have been the "architects of their own fortunes," never admit that good luck has had any thing to do with their prosperity. Their pardonable vanity at their own success makes them guilty of a species of ingratitude to Providence. Listen to one of these old gentlemen holding forth to his hopeful son or nephew on his, the said old gentleman's, past life; on his early poverty, his self-denial, his hard work, and his subsequent reward; and the burden of his discourse is ever the same,

Should the listener at any point be tempted rashly to exclaim "how lucky!" the old gentleman will turn on him with a severe frown and say, "luck, sir; nonsense. There's no such thing as luck. Live on a crust, sir; that's the only way for a man to get on in the world." The old gentleman quite forgets that if his first venture in the Chutnee East Indiaman had been a failure; or his first dabble in the stocks had not been followed by the battle of Leipsic; or his senior partner, who had nine-tenths of the profits of the business, had not departed this life suddenly in an apoplectic fit, he would have held a very different position in the world, and probably have been now a denizen of the second floor over his counting-house in the city, instead of a resident in Hyde Park Gardens.

An excellent specimen of this class of old gentlemen is "Uncle John." The obscurity of his early days is so great that even he himself finds it difficult to penetrate it. That he had a father and a mother is incontestable; but these worthy people seem to have left this world of sin at so early a period of "Uncle John's" existence, that, for all practical purposes, he might as well have been without them. His first juvenile recollections are connected with yellow stockings, leather shorts, a cutaway coatee with a tin badge on it, and a little round woolen cap with a tuft in the middle of it, resting on a head formed by nature to accommodate a cap of double its dimensions. In a word, "Uncle John" was a charity-boy.

It must not be imagined that the above fact has ever been communicated by Uncle John himself; for the worthy man is weak enough to be ashamed of it, though he will discourse of his early privations in a mystical manner, with the design apparently of inducing you to regard him rather as a counterpart of Louis Philippe in his days of early exile, than as a commonplace, though equally interesting (to a right-thinking mind) young gentleman in yellow stockings. It is a fact, however, as indisputable as that Uncle John is now worth thirty or forty thousand pounds.

Emerging from the charity-school, and exchanging the leather shorts and yellow stockings for corduroys and gray worsted socks, Uncle John obtained the appointment of office-boy to a Temple attorney. His duties were multifarious—sweeping the office and serving writs, cleaning boots and copying declarations. His emoluments were not large—seven shillings a week and "find himself," which was less difficult, poor boy, than to find any thing for himself. But Uncle John persevered and was not disheartened. He lived literally on a crust, and regaled himself only with the savory smells issuing from the cook's-shop, which was not only an economical luxury, but had the advantage of affording a stimulus to the imagination. He actually saved two shillings a week out of his salary, not to mention an occasional donation of a shilling on high days and holidays from his master.

Uncle John was never idle. When he had nothing to do for his master, which was rarely the case, he used to take a pen and any loose piece of paper or parchment, and copy, or imitate, the lawyer's engrossing hand—known as court-hand—till he became a good penman in this cramped style of writing. Having accomplished this object, Uncle John determined to "better himself," by getting a situation as copying clerk instead of office boy. He succeeded in his attempts, and was installed in another attorney's office as engrossing clerk at twelve shillings a week—a salary which appeared to him, at the time, enormous. But riches did not turn his head. The only increase which he made in his previous expenditure, was in wearing a rather cleaner shirt, and discarding corduroys for some more genteel material. Uncle John was too wise and too self-denying to be seduced inside the cook's-shop yet.

He was now saving at least six shillings a week, which is £15 a year! For four years no change took place in his condition. He still lived in his solitary garret; worked hard all day, and borrowed law books from the articled clerks in the office, which he read at home at night. At home! poor fellow—what a name for his miserable little room up in the tiles of a house in a narrow court out of Fleet-street! But Uncle John was a brave fellow, and worked on without stopping to sentimentalize.

A promotion now took place in the office, and Uncle John was made chief common-law clerk at one pound a week. He had rendered himself quite competent for the duties by his midnight studies. He was never absent from his post, never forgot any thing, and was never ill; for he had the strength of a horse. It is suspected that about this time, Uncle John paid one or two visits to the cook's-shop; but it must not be supposed that the visits were more than one or two. As a rule, Uncle John dined on a piece of the cheapest meat he could purchase, boiled by himself in his garret.

He was wise enough, however, to be very neat in his dress, and thereby gained the credit of being a very respectable young man in the eyes of his employer; for it is a very remarkable fact that clerks are always expected to dress like gentlemen when their salaries are not even large enough to buy them food.

Another four years passed away, when one day Uncle John, having duly screwed up his courage, walked into his master's private room, and, after a little preliminary hesitation, ventured to hint that he should like to be articled! The master stared—the clerk remained silently awaiting his answer.

"Are you aware," inquired the former, "that the expense of the stamp, &c., is one hundred and twenty pounds?"

Uncle John was aware of it, and he was prepared with the money. He had saved it out of his miserable salary.

The master stared still more. But, after a short time, he consented to article Uncle John, and to continue his salary during the term of his articles. Uncle John was in ecstasies, and so far forgot his usual prudence that evening as to indulge in half a pint of bad port wine—a taste, by the way, which he has retained to this day.

He was now a happy man. Every thing was "en train" now to make him one day a "gentleman by Act of Parliament"—as attorneys are facetiously termed. It would certainly require something more than even the omnipotence of an Act of Parliament to confer the character on some of the fraternity.

During the first year of his articles the managing clerk died, and Uncle John was promoted to that office with a salary of two hundred a year. Here was, indeed, a rise in life—from seven shillings a week to two hundred a year! Happy Uncle John. But you deserved it all; for you had plenty of the courage which is prepared for all ills, and endures those which it can not conquer.

Long before the five years of his articles had expired, the clerk had made himself so absolutely necessary to the master, that the latter could scarcely have carried on the business for a month without him. Therefore, when the time arrived at which he ceased to be a clerk and became himself an attorney, Uncle John hinted to his master that he was going to leave him. Cunning Uncle John! You had no such intention; but you knew that your master would take alarm, beg you to stay, and offer you a partnership. Of course—and he did so.

Uncle John's path in life was from henceforth comparatively smooth. He was the working partner in a business which was both profitable and of good quality. Within a few years his partner was foolish enough to quarrel with him, and to demand a dissolution of the partnership. Uncle John readily consented, and all the clients knowing well who was the man that understood the business and transacted it, followed him; and he became an attorney with a practice of two thousand a year, and no partner to share the profits.

His economical habits never forsook him. He married and kept a decent table; but save in a love of good wine (or at least what his uneducated taste considered so), he had nothing but the ordinary necessaries of life. How much he saved each year who shall say? He had no children, and his practice increasing while his wants stood still, he became what he is now—a prosperous and highly respected old gentleman.

It is the fashion of the old to point out such men as models for the imitation of the rising generation. The young, on the contrary, make them the subjects of their ridicule, for their bad grammar and worse manners. Let us see if we can find out the truth, unbiased by either party. Uncle John is now a rich man, an honorable man, a hardworking man, and in the main a sensible man. He has attained his position in life by patience, perseverance, and industry, favored also by a little of that good luck to which we first referred. But Uncle John is deficient in many of the characteristics which adorn human nature. Is it not natural that he should be so? Where was he to learn the gentler feelings of his kind—affection, sympathy, benevolence? In his garret, alone and unfriended? He is mean and parsimonious. He is worth forty thousand pounds, and his deceased brother's child is starving with his wife in a suburban garret. Uncle John will not aid him with a penny. Who aided him? Did he not live in a garret, and save money too? Was he such a fool as to marry before he could keep a wife? Uncle John was guilty of no weaknesses in those days; he can not forgive them in another.

His only brother dies, leaving a large family and a widow—unprovided for: for the children have eaten up all he could ever earn. Uncle John does not like the widow (perhaps because she had so many children), but he gives her £50 a year. His own income is about four thousand.

His only sister is also left a widow without a sixpence. Uncle John gives her £50 a year. "People should not marry imprudently. He can afford no more; he has a great many calls upon him." Perhaps so; but the answer to such calls is always, "not at home."

He has many clerks now. He makes them all work twelve hours a day. Why not? He worked twelve hours a day.

He has articled clerks too. They must work twelve hours a day also. He did it. True, Uncle John; but you had your salary for it; while they, on the contrary, pay you for the privilege of working for you.

There is an old adage that a slave makes the worst tyrant. Uncle John exemplifies it. Because he suffered poverty and privation, he thinks that every youth should endure the same. Because nature had given him the constitution of a horse, he thinks that every one should have a similar one.

Such men as Uncle John are striking examples of certain qualities; and of those particular qualities which conduce to success in life. Their highest praise (perhaps there is no higher praise in the world) is their unflinching integrity. But we can not bring ourselves to think them—on the whole—models for imitation. After all, there is selfishness at the bottom of their first motives, and this quality grows with their growth, and strengthens with their strength, till, in their old age, they are impatient at all the enjoyments of youth. The hardships of their younger days are not only to be pitied for the pain they must have inflicted at the time, but because they have closed up all the avenues through which the gentler, nobler, and more generous sympathies of our nature find their way into the heart. Their want of education has not been of the mind alone, but of the affections; and as it is ten thousand times more difficult to learn a language or a science in old age than in youth, so it is infinitely more difficult (if it be not impossible) to teach the science of the affections, and the language of the heart, to the old man whose youth has known nothing of either. Affliction and adversity teach oft-times sympathy and benevolence; but to do so they must have followed on happier times, and not have been a birth-portion. You may praise and respect "Uncle Johns," but you can not love them—neither can they love you.

DARLING DOREL.

"'Most gracious lady! I trust your ladyship will pardon these words, and not take them amiss; inasmuch, as it is true that the women of this town, as well as of the neighboring villages, when they do speak of your ladyship, do commonly call your ladyship the Darling Dorel.'

"Then did the duchess fold her hands, and, raising them to heaven, did say:

"'God be praised for such a precious title! the which, as long as I am in my senses, I would not exchange against 'Your Majesty!'

"The duke did, thereupon, embrace her ladyship, saying:

"'Away with the title, 'princely consort!' I will ever henceforth call thee by none other save 'Darling Dorel!'"

We by no means intend to follow the good tanner through his minute records; but merely write thus much, as necessary preface to a quaint little love story. Premising that the duchess had sent, after her usual fashion, a marriage present to a certain lady, by two of her maids of honor (by name Agnes and Mary), we shall transfer the narrative to our pages in Master Gierth's own manner.

After the presentation of the gifts, and when the marriage ceremony was concluded, the two maids of honor were preparing to return to Brieg, when the bride's father stopped them, saying:

"'How? Shall I suffer two such angels of joy to depart, without tasting of my food and my drink? Nay, noble damsels, ye must abide here awhile beyond the marriage festivities, and be of good cheer! I will immediately dispatch a trusty messenger on horse to her most gracious ladyship, the duchess, and obtain leave for your sojourn here.'

"The two damsels did, therefore, abide there the space of three days, and became acquainted with two gallants of the place; with whom they did exchange love-tokens and rings. But when the two damsels returned to Brieg to render an account of their mission, the duchess did note the rings on the fingers of the two damsels, and questioned them how they came thereby. So soon, therefore, as the two damsels did confess the truth, their mistress, half-jestingly, and half in earnest, said unto them:

"'How now, ye gad-abouts! ye have scarce chipped the egg-shell, and have, as yet, no means to make the pot boil, seeing that ye are poor orphans, and under age; and ye yet dare to listen to the nonsense of strange gallants, unbeknown to your foster-mother! Tell me, foolish young things, ought I not to take the rod to you? Take off the rings from your fingers, and give them to me. I will send them back; seeing that the betrothal is null and void, and mere child's play.'

"The young damsels did then obey her ladyship, but wept apace the while. This caused her ladyship to have compassion upon them, and she did minister comfort to them thus:

"'Ah! beloved daughters! ye shed bitter, hot tears that ye do not already wear the curch [the German head dress of married women]. But if ye did but know the heaviness of being wedded wives, even when the cares are lightest, ye would rejoice! Meanwhile, the matter hath been carried on against all Christian order. I have always heard that the lover first maketh his suit known to the parents or the guardians, and that then the betrothal taketh place. Your suitors must needs be in great haste. Why stand they in such great necessity of pushing their suit?'

"Hereupon the damsel Agnes plucked up an heart, and said quickly,

"'Most gracious lady! the gentlemen did come with us; and have already the consent of their own parents to make their suit if they be but encouraged by a sign of approval.'

"'Ah! Heaven have mercy!' cried the duchess, joining her hands. 'Have ye, scape-graces indeed, brought your gallants hither? I dare not inquire further. May be, ye have hidden them in your chambers? Meggy (the duchess's nurse), beg his lordship to come hither; I must talk the matter over with him.'

"'After the duke had come and heard that which had befallen, he straightways asked the names of the gallants; and when the damsels had informed his grace thereof, his lordship did turn unto his consort, saying:

"'Listen, Darling Dorel: the parents, on both sides, are most worthy persons, and of unblemished birth. I advise that thou shouldst give thy consent thereunto! Remember, dearest, that we twain were of one mind long before I made known my suit unto thy mother.'

"Whereupon her ladyship did strike her lord upon the mouth with her kerchief, and said,

"'Well!—well!—but we must first look at these youths, and learn what they are like. Tell us now, young damsels, where are your lovers hidden, and what is the signal ye have agreed upon?'

"Agnes did immediately tell her ladyship that the gallants were housed at the Golden Pitcher; and, whereas the Lion's Tower, in the palace, could thence be plainly discerned, they had agreed to tie a white kerchief round the neck of one of the lions as a signal that there was hope for them! The gallants had agreed to abide at the hostel the space of eight days. Should the matter, however, turn out ill, the kerchief displayed was to be black.

"'Well done,' said the duchess to her husband; 'they wish to take two fortresses at once; and would have the white flag wave without firing a shot, and without attempting a storm.'

"Hereupon the Duke Christian did take the hand of his beloved wife, and spoke, somewhat in an under tone:

"'Darling wife! was not the green branch so often stuck in your window at Crossen; also a white flag? Moreover, thou knowest little of a siege; preparations for storming a citadel are not made during the daylight; but secretly, in the night season, in order that the garrison perceive them not. Shots may already have been fired. Tell me, young girls, have ye already kissed the gallants? Mary, do you speak; ye have not yet opened your mouth: make a clean breast.'

"'Ah! most gracious liege,' answered Mary, 'the gentlemen have, indeed, squeezed hands in secret, while we sat at table; and during the marriage-dance, and at sundry other dances, we kissed each other—seeing that others did the like. But we could not be alone with them at any other time; for the bride's mother was always about us, and we lay in her room. Neither, on the way home, had we much liberty; seeing that the old secretary, whom her ladyship did send with us, did observe us most narrowly. But, when the old man did look out of the window of the carriage, then did the gallants look tenderly upon us, and did kiss their hands to us."

"'There, now,' said his lordship, turning to his wife, 'you see that the siege was conducted with vigor. The squeezing of hands was the parley; the kisses the cannon-balls, sent so freely; and the tender looks the shells. Depend upon it the storm can not long be delayed. Listen, darling wife, my heart melts when I bethink me that we also, in our youth, could not brook a long delay.'

"'Let the drums beat the chamade [parley], and let us show our colors!' said the duchess; while she threw her arms round her husband's neck, and stopped his mouth with a kiss. The duke did then ask her, jestingly, 'But which flag shall it be?'

"Hereupon the two young damsels did cry aloud, as with one voice:

"'The white!—most gracious liege!—the white!'

"The duchess could not choose but laugh heartily, and his lordship did immediately order a servant to mount the tower, and to tie a white kerchief round one of the lion's necks. His lordship did then sing an old song the children are wont to sing on May-day: