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We will now return to Gui de Viole, who, mounted on a stately charger, which he had purchased at Grenoble, pursued his route, one fine morning, from that town to St. Marcelline. The execution of his design was at hand. The butchery of Vassy had already reached his ears, and it seemed that at this crisis of his life the voice of his fellow

countrymen called him to battle. Rabaud had, moreover, brought him news, some days previously, that the Lord of Maugiron was in Dauphiny, levying troops for Coligny's army; and this knowledge decided him at once to carry out his long-cherished purpose. But although the career on which he had just entered was his chosen path, and the realization of his fondest hopes, he was sorrowful and depressed. He could not, even at this moment, forget Gabrielle, and the short dream of love in the Castle of Arbèque. It was a quiet, solitary spot through which he rode. The only sound, indeed, which broke the silence, was the murmur of a little river as it flowed beneath the road; and so far from arousing him from his meditations, it seemed to mingle with his musings as he passed along. His past life, with its late visions of love and joy, was as a thing which should know no renewal, and the future-what was there in his future but death, darkness, and bloodshed? Then came the graceful figure of Gabrielle floating before his mental eye; and love, the only ray of hope in his clouded soul, awoke in him that desire, so often and so nobly struggled against, to see her yet once more, if even but for a moment-to bid farewell, were it for the last time-and to fold her in his arms, as had once been his happiness and pride. But we will not follow the young lover's meditations further. Suffice it to say, that so insensible was he at this moment to the present, that he had suffered the reins to hang loosely on his horse's neck, and the animal had led him within a pace or two of the edge of a declivity, whence, in another moment, he threatened to be precipitated into the rapid stream of the Iser below.

"Look! look before you!" exclaimed a strong voice behind him, proceeding from a horseman who was following him at a brisk trot. "In another moment you will be in the river."

The youth needed the warning and all his self-possession at this crisis, as, seizing the bridle, he forced his steed into the high road, and was soon by the side of his deliverer.

"That was a near struggle for life, my friend," said the horseman, as he looked at the pale face of Gui.

The speaker was a young man of a little more than twenty-eight years of age, of a noble and military bearing. A broad-brimmed hat adorned with feathers was set jauntily on one side of his head, and showed to advantage the beautifully flowing brown hair which floated gracefully on his shoulders. A bright blue scarf adorned his fine figure,

a costly sword hung from his belt, and his expression for the protection of their faith and their liberty of was one of extreme cheerfulness and benevolence. conscience. Orleans is witness of the strength Gui made a respectful greeting, and thanked him which we possess. It is there that our leaders are cordially for his warning. gathered; and we have names among them of which France may justly be proud."

Gui had hitherto listened in silence. At length, he asked-" And you-will you fight in the Huguenot ranks?"

"You must surely have been thinking of your love young man," observed the rider jocosely. Gui colored; but his attempt at a denial was very feeble, and a lie would not pass his lips. He remarked, however, with as much indifference as he "I ought scarcely to answer such a question," could assume, that it was not always a matter of returned the other; for we are strangers. To be course in the present day, when so many grave sub-frank with you, however, my name is Maugiron, jects were pending, that every young man who was and I am trying to enlist here for Coligny and found in a reverie must be in love. The horseman Condé, in whose army, I am proud to say, I hold the looked shrewdly into Gui's face at these words, and rank of captain." could scarcely reconcile the extreme earnestness and gravity of the speaker with his apparent youth.

"You are right," he rejoined; "but the question is just now what view one takes of public affairs. Have you heard of the deed at Vassy?" "How should I be ignorant of that which every one speaks about?" replied Gui.

"True," returned the other. "And it is a deed which has filled many of the Catholics with horror and indignation. How much more Protestants must feel, who see in this event but a shadowing forth of that which sooner or later awaits their But"—and here his free spirit broke forth

cause.

-"the hour is come for all true Protestants to rise

"And you are enlisting for soldiers, then?" said Gui hastily. "Good; I will join your ranks." Maugiron joyfully accepted the proffered hand. "You are most welcome to us," he replied warmly. "And now that I have informed you of my name, will you favour me with yours?" "I am called Gui de Viole."

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[GUI DE ST. FLORE TAKING LEAVE OF RABAUD AND SALERS.]

Engraved expressly for The Instrated N. Y. Journal.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE

university of Charlottesville, he forgot all his good may be termed the fierce, implacable enemy of God lessons, and his kind old teacher, and the admoni- and the god-like, and does indeed so pollute the HE life of Edgar Poe is among the saddest in tions of his fond guardian, and the wild nature of divine image in man that wherever it obtains there all literary history, and great lessons may be the man burst out in all its power, and hurried him can be no religion, no truth, no peace, no hope-nolearned from it. He was descended from parents, on from dissipation to dissipation, and infamy to thing but a world of despair, peopled, as it were, by one of whom at least, his mother, had a good deal infamy. It is but fair to say, although it is little jibbering apes in the form and fashion of men. And of wild blood, as it is termed, in her veins, which in extenuation, that the general manners of the uni- what was poor Poe, with all his learning and genius, was not likely to be sobered down by the profes-versity were at that time loose and depraved. Poe, but one of these apes?—a man without heart and sion she adopted, namely, that of an actress, of however, must have been a giant of iniquity-a sort principle, who might have been equal to the highest which she was fond. She does not seem to have of chivalrous champion, if we may use such an ex-offices of state or fellowship, had he devoted himself been a woman of much intellect, but rather of pression, in the cause of the devil-setting all law to virtuous courses, instead of to vice and intempevivacity and general attractiveness. David Poe, and morals at defiance; for even his companions rance. Mr. Allan, however, did not abandon him her husband, was a lawyer; but when he married were shocked at his procedure; and so bad and no- | yet, but received him at his estate at Richmond, and he gave up his prospects in that direction to join torious did he become at last that he was expelled promised to treat him as a son, if he would only his wife. They "played" together, as it is called, the university. mend his ways. Shortly after Mr. A. married a Miss in various theatres in this country until they died. Paterson, and Poe was ungrateful enough to ridicule Such, then, was the parentage of the poet, and it is the lady. Upon this he was turned out of doors, worthy of record, as elucidating many parts of his and his good guardian died not long after, leaving mind and character. For no man, perhaps, ever three children to share his estate. Poe was disinpartook more of the nature of his parents; their herited. very being seemed to be stamped upon his; he was a sort of Janus reflex of them both. He inherited his wonderful analytical power, his lawyer-like observation of minute details, his faculty of unravelling the most knotty difficulties, as well as his wiry strength, from his father; and he had all his mother's gaiety and love of excitement. He had an individuality of his own, however, was imaginative, and delighted to dwell upon dark and mystic themes. There are touches in his poetry of great pathos; and a wild aerial music gushes out of it which takes the heart captive with an indescribable pleasure.

We need not speak of the "Raven," given in this number, in proof of Poe's originality, and consequent individuality What his parents possessed he possessed, and, besides this, genius, and that too of a very high order. What he wanted most was strength of will, and a good guide and monitor. But the very occupation of his parents in a great measure prevented the possibility of guidance; inasmuch as a life of dissipation and theatrical bustle and excitement are incompatible with family discipline. This was Poe's misfortune, and very sorrowfully did he suffer for it. For although he was but five years old when he was taken under the guardianship of an excellent merchant, Mr. Thomas Allan, who indeed adopted him as his son-still the red seed of the wild life had been sown, and finding a soil adapted to its growth, it grew long and silently, until it was matured into one of the saddest harvests ever cut down by criminality and

death.

In 1816 he was born 1811, at Baltimore-he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to England, and visited some of the most beautiful scenery there, which does not seem to have made much impression on him, if we may judge from his writings; for although he was subsequently sent to school at Stoke Newington for four or five years, and must have enjoyed many delightful rambles, and have felt many sweet influences of nature in connection therewith, we do not find any allusion-at least we have seen none-to English rural scenery, tradition, or pastimes in his books. At Stoke Newington he was under the tutorship of a clergyman who did all in his power to instruct and elevate his mind; but on his return to this country, when he entered the

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It is strange enough, that, in spite of these shocking habits, so destructive to the intellect as well as to the moral nature, Poe maintained the first rank of scholarship throughout. He seems to have emulated the career of Crichton, who was posted upon the gates of Padua as a monster of erudition, whom, if any one sought, he might find at the tavern." He was noted, like Crichton, for his gymnastic feats, his fencing, swimming, as well as for his conversational and declamatory powers. It is related of him that he once swam from Richmond to Warwick, “seven miles and a half, against a tide running probably from two to three miles an hour." We doubt, from large experience in this fine art and exercise, the truth of this statement; but it makes a line in the poet's biography, and so we put it down here. It will serve at least to show that he had an extensive fame for performances of this kind among his cotemporaries.

Covered with debt and infamy, he applied to Mr. Allan for money, drew upon him, and when at last he could get no more from his generous friend, he wrote an abusive letter to him, and left America with the intention of joining the Greeks against the Turks. The dissipation to be found in the capitals of Europe, however, held him back, and his drinking and gambling habits strangled his infant ideas of liberty and glory in the cradle. He found his way to St. Petersburg; but his first and last adventure there was a drunken riot, from the consequences of which he had to be rescued by the American minister.

The unhappy man returned once more to this country, and sought Mr. Allan, who was willing to receive him again into favor, notwithstanding his wickedness and ingratitude He accordingly, at Poe's request, got him a scholarship in the military academy, where, abandoning for a time his former habits, and attending to his studies, he became a general favorite. The red seed, however, was still growing, though unseen, and soon waved its harvest ears in the broad light again, like a sea of fire-a horrible, consuming sea, a sea of desolation and death, hurrying the soul onward, as it were into a more fiery sea and everlasting ruin. Ten months after his appointment he was cashiered. He seems to have been under the dreadful enchantment of an evil spirit, who took delight in showing him the pleasant domain of virtue and the regal empire of intellect only to hurl him back again into sloughs of vice and degredation, amidst the howling of vampires, the shrieks of mandrakes, and the orgies of devils. Intemperance was his master passion—that sin which

He subsequently published a volume of poems at Baltimore, which attracted much attention, and he wrote many pieces for the journals of that city, but soon found he could not live by his pen; so he tried to live by the sword, and enlisted as a private soldier. He was recognised by some officers who had previously known him at the military academy, and they kindly tried, without his knowledge, to get him a commission; but just as they were on the point of suceess, his evil genius prevailed again, and he deserted the ranks, and flew no one knew whither.

He next appeared as a competitor for two prizes offered by the "Baltimore Saturday Visitor," and won them by his good writing, because, as the wise adjudicators said, he was "the first of geniuses who had written legibly." Good friends followed this success. He was introduced by the publisher to a gentleman who saw him well clad and made decent to appear in respectable society. For he was at this juncture "thin and pale even to ghastliness; his whole appearance indicated sickness and the utmost destitution. A well-worn frock concealed the absence of a shirt, and imperfect boots disclosed the want of hose. But the eyes of the young man were luminous with intelligence and feeling." Through the efforts of these new friends he obtained the editorship of a magazine at Richmond, but soon fell into his ancient habits, and, getting drunk for a week, lost his situation. proprietor of the magazine, who was a worthy mas, was reconciled to him again, however, on his promise of amendment, and wrote so affectionate and judicious a letter on the occasion that one would have thought it must have affected him for good. But all was of no use. Again he fell, and in 1837 quitted his employer. He was married, too, at this time, to his cousin, Virginia Clemm, who is reputed to have been both a beautiful and amiable girl; and now he had to suffer the pain of finding that she also must want, through his excesses and follies. He is said to have loved his wfe, and perhaps he did; but he took a strange way of showing it.

The

After visiting Baltimore and New York in scarch of literary employment, we find him settled in Philadelphia in the year 1838, editing a magazine, which was started by Mr. Burton, a literary amateur of that city, and a kind-hearted, high-principled, and honorable man, who, like Mr. Allan, was a true

friend to Poe, and did all in his power to save him from those terrible vices to which he knew he was addicted. As usual, during the first few weeks of his new employment, he was steady and assiduous in the performance of its duties; thought himself entitled to say that he had conquered "the seductive and dangerous besetment" of drink, that he was a " model of temperance," etc.; but alas! the summer glory of that year had scarcely vanished, ere his glory vanished also, and again he relapsed into intemperance and horrid vice. The magazine was neglected, and Poe was dismissed. By this time, however, he had gained a considerable reputation in the chief cities of the Union, both as a prose writer and a poet, and it became a matter of deep regret with all his friends that a man of so much talent should so recklessly throw himself away. Mr. Burton was anxious to reclaim him if possible; and agreed to receive him once more as his editor upon the old conditions, urging him to be less caustic and severe in his criticisms upon the writings of his brother authors, and telling him that he would rather lose his money than wantonly inflict injury upon the feelings of honorable men. Poe

was too apt, in his morbid moods, to indulge in bitter sarcasms, and use the pen with a slashing hand," because," as he said, this manner of writing was successful with the mob." Mr. Burton replied, "I am truly much less anxious to make a

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monthly sensation, than I am upon the point of

fairness." An admirable rebuke!

the New York magazines. He attained the climax self into a fever which put an end to his life. It
of his reputation as a writer by the publication of the was on a beautiful Sabbath evening in October, in
"Raven," the history of which, in its idea and struc- the calm and beautiful twilight, when people were
ture, he has recorded in one of his essays. It is a worshipping God in his holy places and hearing the
wierd and wonderful poem, full of high mystic ima- message of his love, that Poe's rebellious spirit took
gination and a strange melody. His habits, how-its flight for doom.
ever, soon destroyed his prospects; and as he became
more dissipated, so also he became more depraved.
Once he borrowed fifty dollars of a lady of South
Carolina, distinguished for her literary abilities, and
when asked to return them, or give an acknowledg-
ment of the loan, so that she might show it to her
husband, he basely denied the debt; and only con-
fessed to it through the cowardly fear of chastise-
ment by her brother.

There is no space here to make a resumé of his character and life; but surely it is full of sorrow and warning to all. May God help us to profit by the terrible example which he presents; and preserve us from those degrading habits of drinking and dissipation which sooner or later destroy both body and soul.

66

UMBRELLAS.

N Umbrella is described in early dictionaries as AN a portable pent-house to carry in a person's hand to screen him from violent rain or heat." Umbrellas are very ancient; it appears, by the carv

In 1846 Poe was living at Fordham, some miles from New York, in a state of great destitution. His wife was dying; and he and his mother-in-law were attending her last days. When his miseries were known in New York-which they shortly were through the newspapers-money came rapidly in; too late, however, to rejoice the heart of that beauti-ings at Persepolis, that umbrellas were used at very remote periods by the Eastern princes. Niebuhr, ful and unhappy wife, for she was dead before the who visited the southern parts of Arabia, informs first relief came. And then there was for a time silence and sorrow and bitterness and contrition in us that he saw a great prince of that country returnthe house; and mother and husband both yearned soldiers, and that he and each of the princes of his ing from a mosque, preceded by some hundreds of with unspeakable yearnings to have their loved one numerous family caused a large umbrella to be His minister had executed, and the curtain of eterback again. But the Omnipotent had spoken, and carried by his side. The old China-ware in our pantries and cupboards shows the Chinese shaded nity had dropped its starry folds down between by an umbrella.

them all for ever.

It is said that the first person who used an umbrella in the streets of London was the bene

volent Jonas Hanway, who died in 1786. For a

long while it was not usual for men to carry them

without incurring the brand of effeminacy.

At

He subsequently returned to New York, in diffiAnd now will it be credited that, after Poe had culties still; and his dear old mother-in-law never been thus kindly reinstated in his office, he shortly after took advantage of Mr. B.'s abscence in the forsook him, as we said, but devoted her whole life country to start a new magazine; obtaining "trans-be sold, and when she had no poems, and there was to him; selling odd poems for him where they could cripts of his employer's subscription and account books, to be used in a scheme for supplanting him?" no food in the house, begging for him! N. P. Willis first, a single umbrella seems to have been kept at So it was, however, and when Mr. B. returned, he has written a very touching account of this loving found Poe drunk in a tavern; not a line of copy had woman's devotion to her son; never, in all her appli-monly carried by the walkers.

been sent to the printer's, nor could he get his manuscripts back. All he did get was insult. In short, the only period of Poe's life which was at all creditable, was that during which he was connected with "Graham's Magazine." His Penn project was a failure, as it deserved to be, and he now wrote for Graham " some of his finest pieces and most trenchant criticisms, and challenged attention by his papers entitled "Autobiography," and those on cryptology and cyphers. After a year and a half of brilliant and active literary life, he once more sunk into the dread and fiery abyss in which he was destined at last to perish. Miserable and most unhappy man! whom no kindness could touch, no experience teach wisdom. And yet when he was sober, he was quiet and gentlemanly in his manners and deportment. His little cottage home on the outskirts of Philadelphia was marked by elegance and a refined taste; and his mother-in-law loved him, and never forsook him. There was a strange fascination about him; it was drink that blotted truth and love and honor out of his heart. His whole life was a disease, although a self-inflicted one; and it would have been a mercy to him could he have been treated as an insane person, and put under moral restraint.

He came to New York in 1844, and was received with more honor than he deserved by the literary men of that city. His fame had gone before him, and he added to it by many brilliant productions in

a coffee-house for extraordinary occasions-lent as a coach or chair in a heavy shower, but not com

The "Female Tattler" advertises, "the young

cations," amid all her tears and recitals of distress,
suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could
convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessen-gentleman belonging to the custom-house, who, in
fear of rain, borrowed the umbrella from Wilk's
ing of trust in his genius and good intentions.”
In 1848, Poe delivered a lecture at the Society Li-coffee-house, shall the next time be welcome to
the maid's pattens."
brary, on the cosmogony of the universe, which was
As late as 1788, one John MacDonald, a footman,
afterwards published under the title of "Eureka," who wrote his own life, informs us that he had a
a prose poem. It was a fine effort and full of power" fine silk umbrella, which he brought from Spain:
-a new theory of nature.

About this time he became acquainted by accident with one of the most beautiful women in New England; she was highly gifted also, and adorned with many virtues. Poe might have married this lady, and everything was arranged to this end. A friend congratulated him on his prospects. "I am not going to be married," he said; "I shall not marry." He left New York, determined to break off the engagement; went to the lady's house drunk, on the eve which ought to have been the bridal eve, and conducted himself with such brutal violence that he was ejected by the police. And thus ended that chapter.

but he could not with any comfort to himself use it, the people calling out-Frenchman! why don't you get a coach? " The fact was, the hackney coachmen and chairmen joining with the true esprit de corps, were clamorous against this portentous rival. The footman, in 1788, gives us some further information. "At this time, there were no umbrellas worn in London, except in noblemen's and gen tlemen's houses, where there was a large one hung in the hall to hold over a lady, if it rained, between the door and her carriage." This man's sister was compelled to quit his arm one day, from the abuse he drew down on himself and on his umbrella. But he adds, that "he persisted for three months, till they took no notice of this novelty. Foreigners began to use theirs, and then the English. Now it is become a great trade in London."

Shortly after he joined the temperance society in Richmond, and commenced lecturing in various towns. During his travels he fell in with a lady whom he had known in his youth, and engaged to marry her. At Baltimore, however, where he was, on his way to Philadelphia, to fulfil his engagement, JEAN PAUL says, love may slumber in a he met with some old companions, and drank him- Ilady's heart, but it always dreams.

HARD TIMES. *

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE
HE Gradgrind party wanted assistance in mur
dering the Graces. They went about recruit-
ing; and where could they enlist recruits more
readily, than among the fine gentlemen who, having
found out everything to be worth nothing, were
equally ready for anything?

Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to this sublime height were attractive to many of the Gradgrind school. They liked fine gentlemen; they pretended that they did not, but they did. They be

came exhausted in imitation of them; and they yawyawed in their speech like them; and they served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations of political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. There never before was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus produced. Among the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to the Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family and a better appearance, with a happy turn of humor which had told immensely with the House of Commons on the occasion of his entertaining it with bis (and the Board of Directors') view of a railway

derby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown. Specially to Mr. Bounderby, it would have been this very circum-
introduce James Harthouse, Esquire. Thomas stance. Or, so he told him.
Gradgrind."

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"Coketown, sir," said Bounderby, obstinately
taking a chair, "is not the kind of place you have

been accustomed to. Therefore, if you'll allow me
-or whether you will or not, for I am a plain man
-I'll tell you something about it before we go any
further."

Mr. Harthouse would be charmed.

"Don't be too sure of that," said Bounderby. "I
don't promise it. First of all, you see our smoke.
That's meat and drink to us. It's the healthiest
thing in the world in all respects, and particularly
for the lungs. If you are one of those who want us
to consume it, I differ from you. We are not going
to wear the bottoms of our boilers out any faster than
we wear 'em out now, for all the humbugging senti-
ment in Great Britain and Ireland.”
By way of " going in "
to the fullest extent, Mr.
Harthouse rejoined, "Mr. Bounderby, I assure you
I am entirely and completely of your way of think-
ing. On conviction."

"I am glad to hear it," said Bounderby. "Now,
you have heard a lot of talk about the work in our
mills no doubt. You have? Very good. I'll state
the fact of it to you. It's the pleasantest work there
is, and it's the lightest work there is, and it's the
best paid work there is. More than that, we couldn't
improve the mills themselves, unless we laid down
Turkey carpets on the floors. Which we're not
a-goin to do."

"Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right."

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accident, in which the most careful officers ever
known, employed by the most liberal managers ever
heard of, assisted by the finest mechanical con-
trivances ever devised, the whole in action on the
best line ever constructed, had killed five people and
wounded thirty-two, by a casualty without which the
excellence of the whole system would have been
positively incomplete. Among the slain was a cow,
and among the scattered articles unowned, a widow's
cap. And the honorable member had so tickled the
House (which has a delicate sense of humor) by
putting the cap on the cow, that it became impatient
of any serious reference to the Coroner's Inquest,
and brought the railway off with cheers and laughter.
Now, this gentleman had a younger brother of
still better appearance than himself, who had tried
life as a Cornet of Dragoons, and found it a bore;
and had afterwards tried it in the train of an English
minister abroad, and found it a bore; and had then
strolled to Jerusalem, and got bored there; and had 'Lastly," said Bounderby, "as to our Hands.
then gone yachting about the world, and got bored There's not a Hand in this town, sir, man, woman,
everywhere. To whom this honorable and jocular or child, but has one ultimate object in life. That
member fraternally said one day, “Jem, there's a object is, to be fed on turtle soup and venison with
good opening among the hard Fact fellows, and they a gold spoon. Now, they're not a-going-none of
want men.
I wonder you don't go in for statistics."'em-ever to be fed on turtle soup and venison with
Jem, rather taken by the novelty of the idea, and a gold spoon. And now you know the place.”
very hard up for a change, was as ready to "go in "
for statistics as anything else. So, he went in.
He coached himself up with a blue book or two; and
his brother put it about among the hard Fact fellows, "Why, you see," replied Mr. Bounderby, "it
and said, "If you want to bring in, for any place, a suits my disposition to have a full understanding
handsome dog who can make you a devilish good with a man, particularly with a public man, when
speech, look after my brother Jem, for he's your make his acquaintance. I have only one thing more
After a few dashes in the public meeting to say to you, Mr. Harthouse, before assuring you
way, Mr. Gradgrind and a council of political sages of the pleasure with which I shall respond, to the
approved of Jem, and it was resolved to send him utmost of my poor ability, to my friend Tom Grad-
down to Coketown, to become known there and grind's letter of introduction. You are a man of
in the neighborhood. Hence the letter Jem had last family. Don't you deceive yourself by supposing
night shown to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby for a moment that I am a man of family. I am a bit
now held in his hand; superscribed "Josiah Boun- of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of tag, rag, and
bobtail."

man.

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This story was commenced in the May number.

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the highest degree instructed and refreshed, by this condensed epitome of the whole Coketown question.

I

"So now," said Bounderby, "we may shake hands on equal terms. I say, equal terms, because although I know what I am, and the exact depth of the gutter I have lifted myself out of, better than any man does, I am as proud as you are. Having now asserted my independence in a proper manner, I may come to how do you find yourself, and I hope you're pretty well."

The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to understand as they shook hands, for the salubrious air of Coketown. Mr. Bounderby received the answer with favor.

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Perhaps you know," said he, "or perhaps you don't know, I married Tom Gradgrind's daughter. If you have nothing better to do than to walk up

town with me, I shall be glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind's daughter,"

Mr. Bounderby, said Jem, "you anticipate my dearest wishes."

She was

They went out without further discourse; and
Mr. Bounderby piloted the new acquaintance who so
strongly contrasted with him, to the private red brick
dwelling, with the black outside shutters, the green
inside blinds, and the black street door up the two
white steps. In the drawing-room of which mansion,
there presently entered to them the most remarkable
girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen.
so constrained, and yet so careless; so reserved,
and yet so watchful; so cold and proud, and yet so
sensitively ashamed of her husband's braggart
humility-from which she shrunk as if every ex-
ample of it were a cut or a blow; that it was quite
a new sensation to observe her. In face she was no
Her features were

less remarkable than in manner.
handsome; but their natural play was so suppressed
and locked up, that it seemed impossible to guess at
their genuine expression. Utterly indifferent, per-
fectly self-reliant, never at a loss, and yet never at
her ease, with her figure in company with them
there, and her mind apparently quite alone—it was
of no use 66
going in" yet awhile to comprehend
this girl, for she baffled all penetration.
From the mistress of the house, the visitor glanced
to the house itself. There was no mute sign of a
woman in the room. No graceful little adornment,
no fanciful little device, however trivial, anywhere
expressed her influence. Cheerless and comfortless,
boastfully and doggedly rich, there the room stared
at its present occupants, unsoftened and unrelieved
by the least trace of any womanly occupation. As
Mr. Bounderby stood in the midst of his household
gods, so those unrelenting divinities occupied their
places around Mr. Bounderby, and they were worthy
of one another and well matched.

"This, sir," said Mr. Bounderby, is my wife, Mrs. Bounderby: Tom Gradgrind's eldest daughter. Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. Harthouse has joined your father's muster-roll. If he is not Tom Gradgrind's colleague before long, I believe we shall at least hear of him in connexion with one of our neighboring towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that my wife is my junior. I don't know what she saw in me to marry me, but she saw something in me, I suppose, or she wouldn't have married me. She has lots of expensive knowledge, sir, political If anything could have exalted Jem's interest in and otherwise. If you want to cram for anything,

I should be troubled to recommend you to a better And what more could I possibly do, if I did believe home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that adviser than Loo Bounderby."

To a more agreeable adviser, or one from whom he would be more likely to learn, Mr. Harthouse could never be recommended.

"Come!" said his host. "If you're in the complimentary line, you'll get on here, for you'll meet with no competition. I have never been in the way

it!"

"You are a regular politician," said Louisa.
"Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We
are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs.
Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks
and were reviewed together."

Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of burstof learning compliments myself, and I don't professing in silence, interposed here with a project for to understand the art of paying 'em. In fact, postponing the family dinner to half-past six, and I despise 'em. But, your bringing-up was different taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a from mine; mine was a real thing, by George! round of visits to the voting and interesting notabiYou're a gentleman, and I don't pretend to be one.lities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, and that's visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a enough for me. However, though I am not influ- discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphenced by manners and station, Loo Bounderby may antly, though with a considerable accession of borebe. She hadn't my advantages-disadvantages you dom. would call 'em, but I call 'em advantages—so you'll not waste your power, I dare say."

a

"Mr. Bounderby," said Jem, turning with smile to Louisa, " is a noble animal in a comparatively natural state, quite free from the harness in which a conventional hack like myself works." "You respect Mr. Bounderby very much," she quietly returned. "It is natural that you should." He was disgracefully thrown out, for a gentleman who had seen so much of the world, and thought, "Now, how am I to take this?"

"You are going to devote yourself, as I gather from what Mr. Bounderby has said, to the service of your country. You have made up your mind," said Louisa, still standing before him where she had first stopped-in the singular contrariety of her self-possession, and her being obviously so very ill at ease—“to show the nation the way out of all its dif

ficulties."

“Mrs. Bounderby," he returned laughing, "upon my honor, no. I will make no such pretence to you. I have seen a little, here and there, up and down; I have found it all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and as some confess they have, and some do not; and I am going in for your respected father's opinions-really because I have no choice of opinions, and may as well back them as anything else?"

"Have you none of your own?" asked Louisa. "I have not so much as the slightest predilection left. I assure you I attach not the least importance to any opinions. The result of the varieties of boredom I have undergone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas will do just as much good as any other set, and just as much harm as any other set. There's an English family with a capital Italian motto. What will be, will be. It's the only truth going!"

In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an the flavor of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purappropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss chased in the streets at eight years old, and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest, over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals,

he never saw you abroad."

"No such luck, sir," said Tom.

There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more."

Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew in the course o he evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to

the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither.

CHAPTER XIX

Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charm-IT
was very remarkable that a young gentleman
ing!" every now and then; and they probably
who had been brought up under one continuous
would have decided him to go in for Jerusalem again system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypo-
to-morrow morning, had he been less curious re-crite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It
specting Louisa.
was very strange that a young gentleman who had

"Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her never been left to his own guidance for five conse-
as she sat at the head of the table, where her youth-cutive minutes, should be incapable at last of govern-
ful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked ing himself; but so it was with Tom. It was
as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing
that will move that face?"

Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape! Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile.

A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand-a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips.

is

"Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp
the only creature she cares for. So, so!"
The whelp was presented, and took his chair.
The appellation was not flattering, but not un-
merited.

"Never mind that now," said Bounderby.
"Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin
with me."

"When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," returned Tom, "you This vicious assumption of honesty in dishonesty hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to -a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and so common-dress afterwards." seemed, he observed, a little to impress her in his favor. He followed up the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest manner: a manner to which she might attach as much or as little meaning as she "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly pleased: “The side that can prove anything in a hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have Bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun, and seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perto give a man the best chance. I am quite as much haps?"

attached to it as if I believed it. I am quite ready "No," she returned, quite interested, "he has to go in for it, to the same extent as if I believed it. I never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at

altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was Tom.

"Do you smoke?" asked Mr. James Harthouse, when they came to the hotel.

"I believe you?" said Tom. He could do no less than ask Tom up; and Tom could do no less than go up. What with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, but not so weak as

cool; and what with a rarer tobacco than was to be

bought in those parts; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy state at his end of the sofa, and more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the

other end.

Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking a little while, and took an observation of his friend. "He don't seem to care about his

dress," thought Tom, "and yet how capitally he does it. What an easy swell he is!"

Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom's eye, remarked that he drank nothing, and filled his glass with his own negligent hand.

"Thank'ee," said Tom. "Thank'ee. Well, Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have had about a dose of old Bounderby to-night." Tom said this with one eye up again, and looking over his glass knowingly at his entertainer.

shut

"A very great fellow indeed!" returned Mr. James Harthouse.

To be Continued.

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