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'I mean, my dear,' he answered deliber- the time that she was very handsome,' reately, that if you are a wise woman you plied Mr. Burdett, with somewhat guilty will act sensibly in this lamentable family confusion. affair, and not take your friends into your confidence. Half the things which get talked about to the injury of people are talked of first by themselves; curiosity is taken for granted when, in nine cases out of ten, it is not felt. Let us apply this, which is certainly my experience, to our own case, and I think you will see that the very best and wisest thing you can do is to say as little as possible about your brother's marriage in any sense derogatory to your brother's wife. So much, common sense will dictate to you; and beyond that, what do you know of this Miss Peyton which could fairly be urged against her?'

'What do I know? Everything. She is a nobody. You must be mad, Frank, or else merely bent on annoying me.'

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You know quite well I am bent on nothing of the sort. What I am bent on is trying to make you at least wait, and consider this matter well, before you do anything that will compromise you with Stephen and with other people. I don't think you know anything more, except that she has been very satisfactory to your mother as her companion, about Miss Peyton than what Foster told us about her. Do you?'

'No, I don't,' said Selina with rude curtness, and a jerk of her chin.

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'Indeed! And you never thought of mentioning that at the time; how very odd!' The lady laughed an unpleasant laugh, while she actually trembled with anger. And no doubt, just like a man, you thought what a wonderful recommendation.' No, indeed, my dear,' said Mr. Burdett, who began to fear that the Haviland temper, diverted from the delinquencies of Stephen, was coming rather too much in his direction, I did not; only one feels more for a handsome young woman, totally unprotected, and obliged to make her own way in the world: and

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indeed!' interrupted Selina, with a vehemence which warned Frank that he was only increasing his difficulties. Quite the contrary, I should say; there are plenty of people ready to protect such interesting creatures. And when Stephen came to town, he said nothing about my mother's companion being such a beauty.'

'No, he certainly did not; perhaps, however, especially as things have turned out since, he thought the more. But all this has nothing to do with what we are talking of. I have just gone over all we know about Miss Peyton, and there is clearly nothing disgraceful in it, nothing which makes it impossible or unreasonable for us to do the

possible about Stephen's marriage, and if questions are asked, answer them as much as possible to her advantage, distinctly remembering that that means to our own.'

I thought so. Now, let us go over ex-wise thing in this business-say as little as actly what we do know about her. She is the daughter of a merchant who was unfortunate in business in the later years of his life, and who left his widow and his only daughter very ill off. Her father was an American by birth, and of good family among the Republicans. Peyton is an excellent name out there, and the widow and daughter were about to go to New York to seek a home with their relatives there, having none in this country, when the mother was taken ill and died. Foster had had business relations with old Peyton, and the girl applied to him for assistance and advice. I had just before been to see him, and told him about your mother, the difficulty of getting her properly taken care of, and so on, and he recommended Miss Peyton for the situation of her companion. It was unfortunate that you were not able to see her at the time, though I don't suppose you would have had the foresight to have rejected her on account of her beauty.' 'I don't know anything about her beauty,' said Mrs. Burdett, snappishly. Pray do you ?'

'No, no; only Foster said casually at

Mrs. Burdett sat in sulky silence for a litthe while after her husband ceased to speak. She was angry with him for the reasonable, the indisputable truth of all he had said; she was angry because she felt, for her own sake, she must act upon the opinions which he supported by unanswerable argument. She might, indeed, enjoy the luxury of indulging her temper, denouncing her brother, decrying his wife, and exercising her imagination in the invention of such facts as she did not know; but she had too clear a perception of the price of this luxury to seriously contemplate its purchase. Her husband was right- a detestable truth, and not of rare occurrence. To yield with a good grace was not in Mrs. Burdett's nature; but she yielded with a bad grace, and her husband was satisfied. He did not expect more, and he frequently had to be satisfied with less.

Then what do you think I had better do ?' she asked, in a tone of voice which

ingeniously combined sullenness, victimisation, and a hint that the unlucky Frank was the chief culprit after all.

'I think you had better wait until you hear from your mother or from Stephen that he has returned to Meriton, and then write a civil letter, and leave future proceedings to chance. You see there's a week before you either need or can do anything.'

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Well, I suppose I must do as you say; I suppose I should have no peace of my life if I did not.' This was a sublime effort of fancy, as Mr. Burdett felt, the peace of any Haviland's life being singularly independent of other people; but he had as good a temper as he had sound sense, and he did not permit himself the risky comment of a smile. But if you flatter yourself that Fanny and Maria will be schooled by their husbands in putting up with this quietly, you will find yourself very much mistaken.'

thing, and you will put your brother, over whom you have no power whatever in any other direction (pray remember that), under an immediate obligation to you.'

Mrs. Burdett liked to be thought clever and politic. She did not dislike this cunningly-put suggestion; but if the insidious Frank played his game skilfully, and to her ultimate defeat, however she apprehended the issue, she had no notion of throwing up her hand. So she turned her shoulder towards him, begged he would not trouble her with farther advice in a matter which it was impossible he could understand as well as she did, and preserved a steadfastly sullen and averted face, which not even the Haviland beauty could redeem from being intensely disagreeable.

But the insensible Frank did not mind this. He was quite satisfied with the reception of the suggestion he had made, and went off to his dogcart-after a cursory visit to the nursery, where he cautioned the authorities not to let Mrs. Burdett be 'worried' during the day, because she


Mr. Burdett did venture to smile now, but his irate wife did not perceive that he gave himself that indulgence, as he had gone to the breakfast-table, and helped himself to a cup of tea. His face was quite suffici-rather poorly,' a free translation whose ently grave for the decencies of the occasion, orignal they perfectly understood — with a as he said: jaunty step and in a contented frame of mind.

'I cannot form any opinion of what Fanny and Maria are likely to do; but if they have anything like your good sense they will follow your wise example. As to being "schooled" by Marsh and Fanshaw, I don't know. I couldn't fancy Fanshaw schooling anything but a horse, or Marsh equal to even that noble effort.'

Mr. Burdett was by no means attached to his brother-in-law, and the part he had just played was not dictated either by regard for Stephen Haviland or by self-interest. But he was a sensible, practical man of the world, a great deal cleverer than the * superior people' with whom his marriage Really, Frank, you are becoming quite had allied him, and he had seen at a glance witty. Edward Marsh may not be a gen- that a horrible mess,' as he said to himself, ius, but he makes his wife very happy. I would be made of this affair if it were left am sure her letter' (this was the merciless-to the unassisted management of Haviland ly-crossed foreign epistle before mentioned) is quite delightful to read.'

"Is it? I am glad to hear it, I am sure. I must go now, Symondton expects me in town to-day; and, Selina, I strongly advise you to take the initiative in this matter. You are the first to know of your brother's marriage; well (for she had looked an interruption) the Fanshaws don't count, in comparison with you, so far as influencing the Marshes is concerned; and I am sure it depends on you whether this miserable business comes out right or not; of course, I mean as right as it can come. Suppose you write to Fanny, and make the best of it. She has not your good sense, you know, your clearness of perception, and your knowledge of what I call the science of society, and you must make up in this instance for her deficiencies. If you can only command your own feelings sufliciently to do this, you will do a very clever and politic❘

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talent and Haviland temper.

Selina is safe to take my hints,' he thought as he drove briskly along the London road from his pretty little place at Leytonstone, and she'll tell me about her letter to Fanny as a profound device of her own in a day or two. What a fool Haviland is! I don't know that, though, if she is as handsome and as clever as Foster reported her. When I've done with Symondton I'll look in on Foster. I wonder if he knows of this business."

Thus agencies on which she could not have reckoned were at work to assure the success and the perfection of Julia Peyton's designs. Her triumph was complete when, a few days after she returned to Meriton as its mistress, her husband showed her with undisguised pleasure (in which she perceived a proof of anxiety which he had never avowed) a letter from Mrs. Burdett,

which conveyed her congratulations in terms life. It's irritating to dislike any one, and which, if not warm, were unobjectionably know that any one dislikes you. The other correct, and refrained from all comment on sisters will follow Mrs. Burdett's lead;the manner of the marriage. of course it's her sensible husband's, by the bye. Eliot has a great notion of him, I know. And now I shall swallow pleasure and life-life in its true meaning -as a freed prisoner gulps down the fresh air.'

Now,' thought Mrs. Stephen Haviland, the day is really won. I shall be as popular with all his people as I shall be powerful with him. Any enmity would have been something to spoil the completeness of my

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of Mr. Maurice's writings, should be very much obliged to the author, or authoress, of this little volume. The book contains nothing, as far as we can judge, that is original; but the "short readings" are very clearly put together, and are always of sustained interest. The writer adheres with remarkable fidelity to the main thesis stated in the title, "the Word was made flesh," and, without any unnatural straining, suc

Foul Play. By C. Reade and Dion Boucicault. (Bradbury and Evans.)-We cannot find it in our hearts to criticize this novel formally or at length. We might as well analyze the chemical composition of a strawberry with the cream already on the plate. It is an utterly absurd story, the joke of a great raconteur rather than a deliberate literary effort of skill; but nobody lays it down unfinished, or forgets the incidents, or disbelieves the adventures till he has done read-ceeds, as we think, in showing that the teaching ing about them. It is as vain to criticize its de- of each successive "gospel" either assumes or tails as to criticize the details of the Arabian directly proclaims the incarnation. The incarNights, and we have no more business to point nation itself, however, is regarded not only as the out that guano and tropical rains could not exist great central fact and crowning miracle of huon the same island, than to point out that the man history, but as the constitutive principle of seal of Solomon could not have kept the Genius human nature. Accordingly, the author would in the box after the fisherman had broken it. say that when a man," comes to himself" he The convict-clergyman-Crichton, Robert Penfold, awakens to the consciousness that he stands in is an impossibility; but he is not more impossi- an indissoluble filial relation to the Father of ble than Haroun Alraschid, and the world has Spirits, and that, instead of having to make agreed not to boggle about him. If a writer like spasmodic efforts to "come to Jesus," as the Charles Reade, who has given us Christie John- popular theology invites men to do, the Divine stone to show us what he can do in the condens- Spirit has apprehended him. On this side of ing way, and the Cloister and the Hearth to dis- Christian truth, the law of the Spirit of life, play his power in the amplifying way, chooses as St. Paul terms it, the pages before us are to indulge in such a divertissement, it is no full of lucid and terse statements. At the same business of his readers, who if they get a few time, we must express our wish that the writer improbable incidents, obtain also half-a-dozen had indicated a more decided conviction as to descriptions, like that of the foundering of the the continuance of the "reign of law." For in scuttled ship, which not three men alive could several of the readings, as in that concerning have written except Charles Reade. If Foul"the rich man and Lazarus," we have failed to Play were written to show how artistically its author could weave a romance, it must be pronounced a partial failure, for the incidents are not artistically natural, but there is no proof of any intention of the kind. Had there been, the author of Hard Cash would scarcely have so huddled the later English scenes, in which a greedy sailor puts his fortune through a wall he does not know where, and a detective assists at a condonation of a felony. The design was, we take it, simply to write a story exciting enough to bear division into weekly parts; and to prove that the design has been completely fulfilled, we have only to ask the opinion of any person who has read the first two volumes and mislaid the third. If he is raging with impatience, the book is a success; if not, then not.


"The Word was made Flesh." Short Family Readings on the Gospels for each Sunday of the Christian Year. (Hunt and Co.)- Readers who are in the habit of lamenting the obscurity LIVING AGE. VOL. X. 408

recognize that element of hope for all men, which is absolutely necessary, as it seems to us, if our liberal theology is to be consistent, if our philanthropy is not to wither at its root, and if the noblest minds among us are to be retained in the Christian ranks. It were surely far better that the divine life had not been bestowed upon men, than that it should ultimately prove to them not an "egg," or germ of developing good, but a tormenting "scorpion," a kind of Devil's gift, rather than that of the perfect Father. We cannot but think that on a revision the author will paint in a bit of light on the horizon. But with this protest against an apparent acquiescence in the final triumph of evil, we can honestly and cordially recommend the book to all our readers, and especially to clergymen. These comments on the gospels for the day were prepared for the family at home, while at some distance from church in the country, by one of its members, confined to bed by illness. We are afraid that the pulpit fare was not so good for food as this effort to supply its absence. Spectator.


MR. R. S. S. ANDROS, who died at Berkeley, Mass., last week, was for several years Deputy WHEN are we happiest? When the light of morn Collector of the port of Boston, and has since Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest? acted as the confidential agent of the Treasury When cheerful sounds upon the fresh winds Department in the re-organizing of Custom borne,

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Houses in the South. In early life, Mr. Andros Till man resumes his work with bitter zest, was favorably known as the editor of several While the bright waters leap from rock to glen Are we the happiest then? newspapers, and of a few poems of exquisite beauty contributed to the old Democratic Re- When are we happiest? In the crowded hall, view, while under the charge of Mr. O'Sullivan. When fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the Among them was a short poem commencing:

"A swallow in the Spring
Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves
Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
Wet earth and straw and leaves.'

This little gem has been much admired both in England and in this country, has been often reprinted without the author's name, and, the last time we saw it, in Chambers's Miscellany. Mr. Andros was also the author of a Codification of the Revenue Laws, or Customs Guide, which is recognized as an authoritative standard by those having business at the Custom House. A kinder-hearted or more honorable man than Mr. Andros never lived, and his demise at a comparatively early age is sincerely regretted by all who had the honor of his friendship or the pleasure of his acquaintance. He was the son of the Rev. Thomas Andros of Berkeley, Mass., who is known as the author of a work on 66 The Jersey Prison Ship," having, during the Revolutionary War, been a prisoner in that hulk.

A swallow in the Spring


Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

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How soon - how very soon- such pleasures pall!

How fast must falsehood's rainbow-coloring flee :
Its poison flowerets leave the sting of care:
We are not happy there!
Are we the happiest when the evening hearth
Is circled with its crown of living flowers?
When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth,
And when affection from her bright urn showers
Her richest balm on the dilating heart?

Bliss is it there thou art?

Oh, no! not there: it would be happiness
Almost like heaven's, if it might always be,
Those brows without one shading of distress,
But they are things of earth, and pass away-
And wanting nothing but eternity:
They must, they must decay!

When are we happiest, then? Oh! when resign'd

To whatsoe'er our cup of life may bring;
When we can know ourselves but weak and


Creatures of earth! and trust alone in Him
Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain.
Oh! we are happiest then!


BEYOND the hills where suns go down
And brightly beckon as they go,

I see the land of far renown,
The land which I so soon shall know

Above the dissonance of Time,

And discord of its angry words,
I hear the everlasting chime,
The music of unjarring chords.

I bid it welcome; and my haste
To join it cannot brook delay:
O song of morning, come at last,
And ye who sing it come away!

O song of light, and dawn, and bliss,
Sound over earth, and fill these skies,
Nor ever, ever, ever cease

Thy soul-entrancing melodies.

Glad song of this disburdened earth
Which holy voices then shall sing;
Praise for Creation's second birth,
And glory to Creation's King.

From The Spectator, 25 July.

a very faint

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any one who has preoccupied the favoured spot tend to lower one's faith in human nature. But the most fatal of the failures caused by the attempt to adapt a society that has been educated to admire and love the little heat we experience, to tropical fervours like those of the last month, is due to the want of simultaneous consent on the part of society in general. In the first place, it is not a change easy to make even for an individual. If a man determines that he will get up at four, as they do in the tropand gets up at four, -in the first place, he is seedy and miserable all day, and so exhausted at night that he sleeps till nine instead of four on the day after. Or if he is a methodical person, and reasons that if he is to get up at four he must first go to bed at nine, then he tosses in the sultry heat of an English bedroom for about four hours before he closes his eyes, mentally imprecating the worst of fates on the noisy passersby, on the man who will rap his double rap as late as ten next door on one side, and on the other neighbour on the other side who will rouse him even as late as eleven by a furious ring; on the washerwoman who brings home the clothes with a patient single knock more infuriating still, half an hour later, and on the policemen who will converse in their beat just below his window till past midnight. And if at last, after sponging himself, or even taking a frantic pull at the string of the shower bath, and gasping half an hour at the window, he finds sleep possible, he does not waken at four at all, or if he does, wakens with a sense of having been severely beaten all night, which compels him in justice to himself to go off to sleep again, and get up much later than usual, when the breakfast room is like an oven in full baking force. Or take the case of the few happily constituted men who can coax themselves to sleep when they will, heat or no heat. Such a one may really go to bed at nine, and sleep and waken at four with a triumphant sense of superiority to all mankind, and feel as fresh and proud as a hero of romance when he issues from his bath and sees the sun only just touching the attic windows opposite, and contemplates a long morning before him. But then he finds his room all dusty and littered, his stomach very empty, dry food very revolting, and tea unattainable. When at last the housemaid comes in looking surprised and annoyed at the personal interference with her vocation which her master's presence causes, and he asks for tea, he is told, "The milkman hain't come, sir, and won't be 'ere this hour;" and so, long before breakfast-time, the wretched being laments more than any

THE heat is beginning to have a moral interest. Apart from the interesting stories we hear of fariners who have usually supplied two hundredweight of butter per week being only able to scrape together twenty pounds' weight from the depressed and enervated cows, of the india-rubber depôts which have kindled into flames under the burning sun, of the sun-strokes which have overtaken adventurous riflemen or cricket-ics, ers, and all the ordinary stories of a hot season, the heat is really beginning to affect the characters of one's friends and acquaintance. The Old Indians, for instance, are very objectionable, with their didactic and triumphant moralities in their own favour, "Now you have a faintidea of the conditions under which your Anglo-Indian brethren are expected to toil from year to year," which is not, in point of fact, a bit true, for the Anglo-Indians are far better off than we are at present, all their life being so arranged as to suit a tropical climate, and all our life being so arranged as not to suit it. In fact, nothing is more melancholy to notice than the helpless attempts of Englishmen to introduce, on the spur of the moment, the requisite changes, and the abject failure of these attempts for want both of the material pre-requisites and of general organization. In the first place, only the shopkeepers and a few great hotels have got sunblinds, and even they have not got windows which fold back so that you can get all the air without the sun. Scarcely anybody likes to go to the expense of Venetian blinds for a single month or two, and those who do won't alter their window sashes so as to get that horrible hot glass out of the aperture altogether. Happy the very few who have both French windows and Venetian blinds or shutters, for the amount of savage despair which has been elicited by the discovery (quite new to some people) that an ordinary sash, even when the upper and lower parts are made to coincide, still fills up half the aperture, has frequently transformed the most benignant countenances during these last few weeks with an expression of impotent rage terrible to behold. Then at the very best the size of the windows in English houses has been adapted only with a view to admit light, not with a view to admit unlimited air. And consequently, when a rumour has gone forth in any household and been credibly confirmed that a breath of air may be distinctly felt by sitting at a particular window, the glances of feverish impatience which are cast at

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