meet once more in the world to come?" "I will pray to God that we may meet again." And the old woman burst into tears. "No, no, do not weep, you little silly; God will give us back our youth, and once again we shall be the pair we were in days gone by." 'We will, Alexis-we will !" With God

all is possible," whispered Alexis Sergei vitch. "He is all-powerful. Why, he created you, the wisest of women! There, there I was only joking; give me your hand.” And the wife and husband each fondly kissed the clasped hands. After that, Alexis Sergeivitch grew quieter, and then began to wander. Malania Pavlovna sat watching him, one hand still clasped in his, while with the other she from time to time silently wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Two hours passed. Has he fallen asleep?" whispered the old woman who read the prayers so wonderfully well, as she came from behind Irinarch, who was standing near the door motionless as a post, watching his dying master. "He is asleep," answered Malania Pavlovna also in a whisper. But suddenly Alexis Sergeivitch opened his eyes. "Malania, my faithful friend," he muttered, in a broken voice; my own true wife, God's blessing be with thee for all thy true love. I would-but I cannot raise myself-lift me up a little that I may sign thee with the cross. Malania leaned over him; but the raised hand fell back idly on the quilt, and in a few moments Alexis Sergeivitch had ceased to breathe.

His daughters came with their husbands to the funeral; neither the one nor the other had any children. Though he did not once mention their names on his deathbed, they were not forgotten in his will. My heart has grown cold toward them, he once said to me. Knowing, as I did, how kind and gentle he was by nature, I was surprised to hear him speak thus of his own daughters. But no one has a right to make himself judge between a father and his children. A little chink in the ground may in the course of time become a huge ravine. Alexis Sergeivitch said to me on another occasion; a wound a yard long may heal, but cut out only a fingernail, and it will never grow again. have been told that the daughters were

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ashamed of their old-fashioned parents.

A month had not passed when Malania Pavlovna also died. From the day of her husband's death she took to her bed, was scarcely ever to be seen, and no longer cared how she was dressed. But she was buried in the blue satin jacket, and with Orloff's miniatureonly without the diamonds. These her daughters carried off under the pretext that such diamonds were only fit to ornament the picture of their saint; but, in reality, to employ them for the adornment of their own persons.

In such a lively manner do the figures of my dear old friends rise up before me, and my recollections of them are as fresh as if they had died but yesterday. Nevertheless, during the last visit I ever paid them--I was then a student-an incident occurred which somewhat disturbed the impression I had hitherto formed of the patriarchal life led by the Teleguins.

Among the out-door servants was a certain Ivan, the coachman, or coachboy, as he was called. in consequence of his little stature, which was out of all proportion with his years. He was the veriest mite of a man, extremely nimble in his movements, with a pug nose, curly hair, a face perpetually on the grin, and eyes like a mouse. He was a rare buffoon, and lover of practical jokes ; and his tricks and drolleries were infinite. He understood how to let off fireworks, could fly kites, and was a good hand at any game; could ride standing at full gallop, could leap higher than any one else at giant's stride, and was quite a master at making the queerest of shadows on the wall. No one could amuse children better than he, and Ivan was perfectly happy if he was only allowed to spend an entire day playing with them. When he laughed, the whole house shook, and he was always ready with a joke and an answer. There was no being angry with him, and you were obliged to laugh even while scolding him. It was a treat to see Ivan dance-particularly the "fish dance. The music would strike up, and then the fellow darted out into the middle of the group and began turning, twisting, leaping, stamping with his feet, crawling on the floor, and going through all

the antics of a fish that had been caught and thrown on the dry ground; and performed such contortions, clasping his neck with his heels, jumping here, springing there, that the very ground seemed to tremble under him. Many a time Alexis Sergeivitch, though, as I have already said, very fond of the choral dances, has interrupted the dancers, and cried out : Come here, Ivan, my little coach-boy; give us the fish-dance, and look sharp!" And then a minute later you heard him exclaiming 'Ah, that's it; well done, well done!" It was, then, during my last visit that this same Ivan came one morning into my room, and without saying a word fell down on his knees before me. Ivan! what's the matter?'' "Save me, sir !" How? What has happened?" And thereupon Ivan related to me all his troubles.

About twenty years before he had been exchanged from the service of a certain Suchinski on to the estate of the Teleguins; but simply exchanged, without going through any legal formality or being supplied with the necessary papers. The man in whose place he had been taken died, and his old masters had quite forgotten Ivan, so that he remained with Alexis Sergeivitch, as if he had been born a serf in the family. In the course of time his former masters died also, and the estate passed into fresh hands and the new proprietor, who was generally reported to be cruel and brutal, informed the authorities that one of his serfs had been taken into the service of Alexis Sergeivitch without any legal sanction, demanded his iminediate surrender, and in case of refusal threatened his detainer with a heavy fine and punishment. Nor was the threat by any means an idle one, since Suchinski was a very high-placed official, a privy counsellor by rank, with great influence throughout the district. Ivan in his fright appealed to Alexis Sergeivitch. The old man took pity on his favorite dancer, and made an offer to the privy counsellor to buy Ivan of him for a good round sum, but the proposal was contemptuously rejected; and what made matters worse, he was a Little Russian-as pig-headed as the very devil. There was nothing to be done but to give up the poor serf. "I have

me;

lived here, made my home here, served here, eaten my daily bread here, and it is here I wish to die," Ivan cried to am I a dog, to be dragged by a chain from one kennel to another. Save me, I implore you; entreat your uncle never to give me up; do not forget how often I have amused you. And if I do go, the worse for us all; it can only end in crime !" In crime! what do you mean, Ivan ?" Why, I shall kill him. I will go, and the first day I will say to him, let me return to my old master, sir; do not refuse me, or if you do, take care; I will murder you."

If a chaffinch or a goldfinch had suddenly spoken, and threatened to swallow a large bird, I should not have been more astonished than I was to hear Ivan speak thus. Ivan, the dancer, buffoon, and jester, the beloved of children, himself a child, this good-souled creature, to become a murderer ! The idea was too ridiculous. Not for a moment did I believe him; but what I could not understand was that he should even talk of such a thing. I had, however, a long conversation with Alexis Sergeivitch, and employed every form of entreaty that he would somehow or other arrange the affair. "My dear sir," the old man replied, "I should indeed be glad to do so, but it is impossible. I have already offered the pig-headed fellow a good price, three hundred roubles, on my word of honor, and he will not hear of it; so, what can I do? Of course it is illegal, and the exchange was made in the oldfashioned way, as between men of honor, and now it promises to end badly. You will see, the man will take Ivan from me by force-he is very powerful, the Governor-General often dines at his houseand he will send soldiers to arrest him. And I have a mortal fear of soldiers ! The time was, I would never have given up Ivan, let him storm as loudly as he chose; but now, only look at me, what a poor cripple I am. How can I fight against a man like that?" And in truth, Alexis Sergeivitch had of late aged greatly: his eyes now wore a childish expression, and in place of the intelligent smile that once lit up his features, there played round his lips that mild unconscious simper which I have remarked that very old people will preserve even in their sleep.

I communicated the result of our interview to Ivan, who heard me in silence with his head bent. Well," he at last exclaimed, it is given to no one to escape his fate. But I shall keep my word; there is only one thing to do; and I will give him a surprise. If you don't mind, sir, give me a little money to buy some vodki.' I gave him some, and that day Ivan drank heavily; but in the evening he favored us with the fish dance," and danced so that the girls and women were in ecstasies. Never before had I seen him in such force.

The next day I returned home, and three months later, when I was in St. Petersburg, I learned that Ivan had kept his vow. He was sent off to his new master, who at once called him into his study and informed him that he was to act as coachman, that three of his bay horses would be given into his charge, and that it would be the worse for him if he did not look well after them, or in any way neglected his duties. "I am not a man to be joked with, added he. Ivan listened to all his master had to say, and then throwing himself at his feet declared that, whatever his honor might wish, he never could be his serf. Let me go back, I beseech your honor; or if you like, send me to be a soldier; or before long evil will come upon you

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His master flew into a furious passion. Oh, you are one of that sort, are you? How dare you talk to me in that way? First, please to know that I am not your honor, but your excellency; and next, do not forget that you are long past the age for a soldier, even if they would take such a dwarf; and lastly, pray, what is it you threaten me with? Do you mean to burn my house down?" No, your excellency, I shall never set fire to your house. "What then, are you going to murder me?" Ivan made no reply. "I will never be your serf," he muttered at last. "I will just show you, whether you are my serf or not, roared his master. And Ivan was severely punished; but for all that, the three bay horses were put under his care, and he received the place of coachman.

Ivan appeared to submit to his fate, and as he soon proved that he understood his business, he quickly won the favor of his master, the more so because in general he was quiet and civil in his behavior, while the horses intrusted to him were so well cared for that everybody declared it was a treat to look at them. His master evidently preferred driving out with Ivan to going with any of the other coachmen. Sometimes he would laugh, and say: 'Well, Ivan, do you recollect how badly we got on at our first meeting? but I fancy we have driven out the devil after all.' To these words Ivan never made any answer. But one day, just about Epiphany time, his master drove to town with Ivan as coachman, the bells jingling merrily from the necks of the three bay horses. They were just beginning to mount a rather steep hill at foot-pace, when Ivan slid off the box and went behind the sledge, as if to pick up something he had let fall. It was a sharp frost, and his master sat huddled up in a thick fur, with a warm cap drawn close over his ears. Then Ivan took from under his long coat a hatchet which he carried in his belt, came close up behind his master, knocked off his сар, and with the words, "I warned you once, Peter Petrovitch, so you have only yourself to thank,' at one blow cut his head open. He then stopped the horses, replaced the cap carefully on the head of the dead man, and taking his place again on the box drove into town straight up to the police station.

"I have brought you General Suchinsky's dead body, it is I myself who killed him. I told him I would, and I have done it. So take me.

He was arrested, brought to trial, and sentenced to the knout, and then sent for life to the mines in Siberia. And thus Ivan, the gay, light-hearted dancer, disappeared for ever from the world of light.

Yes, involuntarily, but in a different sense, we exclaim with Alexis Sergeivitch : "The old times were good, but they are gone-and peace be with them!" Macmillan's Magazine.

To the large class called general readers the most entertaining part of biography is that which relates to affairs of the heart. One need not go deep into human nature to seek the causes of this predilection, and if one should do so it would be only to repeat truisms and paraphrase proverbs. Indeed, the books devoted to the love-stories of celebrated people would form a curious and not a small collection. It is said that in Germany there are continual publications relating to Goethe's youthful fancy for Frederica Brion, which have come to be called Die Frederike-Literatur ;" and in France it seems that the last word has not yet been said about George Sand and Alfred de Musset, notwithstanding several volumes on the subject which came out twenty years ago. There is a branch of literature devoted to people who have been famous for their love affairs only, of which the letters of Mlle. de Lespinasse and of Mlle. of Mlle. Aïssé are specimens, and which increases yearly. There is no apology or explanation necessary, therefore, for offering an account of the single loveaffair of one of the greatest English authors, especially as the object of his affection was a woman who has many titles to lasting remembrance herself. In all notices of Gibbon hitherto this passage has been treated as an incident rather than an episode. In the most recent work on him (by Mr. James Cotter Morison in the English Men of Letters'') less than half a dozen pages are given to the subject-two to the affair itself, and four to exonerating Gibbon from the accusation of coldness and inconstancy. Perhaps with the data which Mr. Morison had at command when he wrote, he was impartial in acquitting Gibbon from these charges; but even if the latter was excusable for not marrying against his father's will, as without it he could not marry comfortably, there is no excuse offered for his wooing and addressing a young lady without the certainty of his father's consent under those circumstances. Since the appearance of Mr. Morison's notice all the particulars of the story have been made public for the first time. It has an interest

which could not have been guessed from the scanty accounts previously given; the persons connected with it are famous in their own right, and the newlyrevealed qualities of the heroine give it a place in sentimental literature which Gibbon's poor figure as a lover could never have commanded. It is impossible to associate romance with the countenance which prompted Porson's scurrile jest, and poor, blind, old Mme. du Deffand's angry suspicion when she tried to find its outlines. Yet in the owner's early days it had attractions for an enthusiastic girl, whose beauty, intelligence, and goodness marked her for the heroine of a love-story. She became, moreover, the friend of the most distinguished men and women of her time, the wife of a chief actor in the stormy prologue to the terrible drama of the Terror, and the mother of Mme. de Staël. The first love of such a woman would be worth knowing, even if the object had been an obscure country pastor or lawyer of her native valleys; and as it was evidently the groundwork of Mme. de Staël's novel of Corinne," it is curious to compare the fiction with the reality.

In the chateau of Coppet, on the lake of Geneva, famous as the home of M. and Mme. Necker and their daughter Mme. de Staël, there is an old tower which has served the family for generations as a muniment-room. In it are stored journals, memoranda, documents of every sort, and a collection of letters, amounting to twenty-seven volumes, addressed to M. and Mme. Necker, and signed by almost every famous contemporary name in France, and by many of other nations, with copies of important letters written in reply. For some unexplained reason, possibly the prolonged life of Mme de Staël's daughter-in-law, the late owner of Coppet and its archives, who died but three years ago, this treasure of memoir and biography has remained untouched until the past twelvemonth The mine has been opened at last by M. Othenin d'Haussonville, who has published what he terms a series of studies on the Salon de Mme. Necker, his great-great-grandmother.

The first