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SEPTEMBER 28TH.-WEDNESDAY.

John Clare, the Poet.- A Memorial is about to be erected by public subscription over the grave of poor John Clare at Helpston, in Northamptonshire. The late Lord Spencer granted a yearly pension of £10 to the poet, which is continued by the present Earl to the widow.

SEPTEMBER 29TH.-THURSDAY.

Dr. Edward Vogel.-The Government has given £500 to the maiden sister of the late Dr. Edward Vogel, who was murdered in Central Africa whilst travelling for the Foreign Office, giving his services gratuitously. Dr. Vogel was born at Crefeld in 1829, and studied botany and astronomy at Leipzig, under Kunze and D'Arrest. His botanical papers were published in the Bonplandia," and his dried collections of plants are preserved at the British Museum.

SEPTEMBER 30TH.-FRIDAY.

Madrid is to have a grand national museum; and a sum of no less than forty millions of reals has been granted for the purpose.

SHAKESPEARIAN MUSEUM.

A temporary SHAKESPEARIAN MUSEUM, to contain old editions of the Poet's Works, or any tracts or relics illustrative of them, has been formed at Stratford-onAvon. Mr. HALLIWELL is actively engaged in collecting for this object, and he will be glad either to receive as presents for the Museum, or to purchase, any articles suitable to be preserved there. Persons owning any Shakespeariana, would much oblige by communicating with "J. O. HALLIWELL, Esq., No. 6 St. Mary's Place, West Brompton, London, S. W."

THE ROSE, THE SHAMROCK,

AND

THE THISTLE

DECEMBER 1864.

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BITTER SWEETS:

A LOVE STORY.

BY JOSEPH HATTON,

AUTHOR OF THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACOB MORRISTON," ETC.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE GREYS.

WE take up the thread of our story after an interval of four years. On the death of Mr. Mountford, Mrs. Grey, to whom the good old gentleman had bequeathed £1000, went to Maryport to live with her two sons, Richard having been taken into the counting-house of Welford & Co., as a junior clerk. Francis Grey had received rapid promotion. Indeed, he filled up the vacancy, left by the junior partner, so successfully that the three partners had talked together about holding out to him the prospect of a partnership, at some future day. Frank was therefore enabled, with his mother's assistance, to provide a very comfortable home for the family. After making himself acquainted with the interiors of nearly every house in the western suburb of Maryport where "To Let" appeared in the windows, he had decided upon Tristram Lodge, Purdown. The Maryport people take special delight in giving their houses high-sounding titles. They discard numbers altogether. Whole rows of residences, which a stranger would expect to find numbered, have distinct names and titles. It was in a row that Frank had picked out the lodge aforesaid.' First there was Hampton House; next came Florence Cottage; followed by Gordon Villa, which was cheek by jowl with Dot Cottage, and contiguous to Tristram Lodge.

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It was a pleasant row enough. Each house, or cottage, or lodge, or villa, had a pretty little patch of garden, walled in and separated from the neighbouring gardens, on either hand. At the bottom of each garden was a high wall, in the centre of which was a door, and in the centre of the door a wicket, through which curious people could peep and see the centre door of the house. Purdown was on the side of a sloping hill, overlooking the city, and high enough to be tolerably free from the smoke which hung, in a cloud, over the house-tops and chimneys and churches, that appeared on all hands as far as you could see, unless you were very long-sighted, and could catch a glimpse of the fields, upon which the clouds rested, in the far-off distance. A vine climbed up the front of the house and hung about the ledge of the little drawing-room window, on the second storey. For Frank would have a drawing-room. Mrs. Grey had resisted it, and Richard had ridiculed the idea of occupying any room but the kitchen. It was a pretty little kitchen certainly, looking out upon a portion of the garden; but Francis Grey pitied Richard's bad taste, and furnished not only what he called a drawingroom, but a dining-room also. It is true the furniture was not very costly, but it was good, and the cabinetmaker had readily consented to receive his bill by quarterly instalments. In the dining-room there was a mahogany side-board (a little too light in colour), a table with removable leaf, a couch, and six chairs to match. These, arrayed upon one of the best Kidderminster carpets, were partially reflected in a very tall chimney glass, in front of which stood a dying gladiator, in bronze, and two china vases. The drawing-room was an attempt at a miniature representation of the grand drawing-room of Samuel Welford, Esq., who had once had Frank up to his house, on some urgent business, and had shown him his portfolios. Frank's imitation, however, was only on a very small scale, though the room was certainly a pretty little apartment of its kind, filled with "a superior suite of walnut drawing-room furniture in blue damask" (as it was described in Frank's bill of particulars), several ⚫ ottomans, sundry rugs, various pictures, two mirrors, a few statuettes, and a large amount of drapery.

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This luxurious apartment was only used on Sunday evenings. On other nights in the week it was Frank's delight to stretch his legs across the dining-room hearth-rug, as he read his favourite books, or talked to his mother. For Richard Grey seldom went home until late, and he felt little or no sympathy in the conversations or studies of his brother. Both Frank's books and his talk, Richard said, were too slow and too stiff. For his own part he thought "Robin Hood," and "Hans of Iceland," and the "Mysteries of London," altogether superior to "Waverley," and the "Man of Feeling," and the "Vicar of Wakefield." But of course Frank had his own opinion, and he was quite welcome to it.

Mrs. Grey secretly admired what she thought was a higher spirit on the part of Richard. She could not help acknowledging to herself that Frank was rather dull company, and that his aims were too much above

his position. Richard would come home full of life and spirits, telling his mother all sorts of funny anecdotes, which he had picked up in the city, and shaking his brown curly locks with laughter. Frank would come home in capital humour, but in a much quieter mood, and would take the earliest opportunity of burying himself in a book. Richard had grown as tall as Frank, and looked quite a man, with his broad shoulders and his stalwart frame. Frank was darker, and what the world would call more gentlemanly in appearance, being a marked contrast, in this latter respect, to his brother. You might have taken Frank for the private secretary of some law Lord; whilst you would have put Richard down as a farmer's son with sporting predilections.

"I'll tell you what, mother," said Richard one evening, "I shall not stop in that humbugging counting-house any longer."

"Oh, nonsense, Richard," replied Mrs. Grey, looking up from her sewing. Frank had not come home for the evening. Mrs. Grey seldom sewed when Frank was at home. "Nonsense, Richard."

"It is not nonsense, mother, it's fact. What's the good of a fellow wasting his life in filling up forms about ships, and posting letters. I shall drop it. It's all very well for Frank, who can be a large card, and do the swell business up in his own room, and be invited now and then to Welford's swell place at the Elms."

"Richard, you forget that Frank has been in the establishment much longer than you, and that poor Mr. Thornhill was very friendly and kind to him."

"No I don't-I don't forget, and that is one of the reasons why I shan't stop. I shall never have the chance of getting on at Welford's as he has; and I mean to look out for another berth. I should like to go for a sailor or a soldier." And the lad threw himself down all his length on the sofa, and looked a most tempting subject for the recruiting officer.

"My dear Richard, you frighten me with such talk: do promise me you will not think of enlisting, or going to sea; do promise me," and Mrs. Grey went to her son, kneeled down by his side, and patted his cheek. "Promise me that."

"I shan't," said Richard, pushing his mother's hand away. "Don't be silly, mother: you are always asking me to promise something or the other. Promise you'll be in at ten, Richard; or promise you will not make a friend of that Peter Foster; or promise not to stay away from dinner again; or promise something or other, always."

"Well, but Richard, you know-"

"No, I don't know, mother, and I ain't agoing to know; I've been made fool enough of, what with Frank and you; and I shall drop it, I tell you."

"I know Frank is proud, Richard, and has his whims and oddities ; but then, you know, he is very kind and considerate, and has been a good son."

"Oh, yes, that's all right as far as it goes, mother; but if you were me-look at my big arms—if you were me, would you like to be stuck in a counting-house all your life figuring about with a pen?"

"Well, my dear Richard, I daresay it is irksome, and we will see if something cannot be done. Your spirits are too great for it; but don't

be rash."

"See if something cannot be done! I ain't going to have Frank and you worrying yourself about it at all. Frank's not to be bothering about I'll get something for myself, and I won't be humbugged." "Why, what a strange mood you have come home in, Richard; you who are so merry and so full of fun."

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"I can't help it. I don't mean any harm to you, mother," and Richard put his arm, in a rough kind of affectionate way, upon his mother's shoulder; "but I tell you I shall stand this no longer. And what have you to say against Peter Foster?"

"Well, your brother does not like him."

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Oh, hang my brother; Frank's not my keeper, I suppose, is he?" "Frank does not think Peter Foster a suitable acquaintance for you. You should give way a little to Frank; he is older than you are, and has had more experience."

"Why, Peter Foster is as good as Frank any day. His father's a chemist and druggist, and keeps three or four assistants, and a horse, which Peter says I can ride when I like."

"But he is too old for you, Richard-you always seem to like to be with persons so much in advance of your years; but I suppose that is because you are so tall;" and the fond mother looked with admiration upon her wilful son.

"So much older! Why, he's only twenty-three, and I'm nineteen next birth-day. Hark! By Jove, that's his voice."

"You are not going out again to-night, Richard?" said Mrs. Grey appealingly.

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Why not? It's only nine o'clock, and Frank's out? I wish you wouldn't bother me in that way, mother. Why can't I go out again if I like ?"

Mrs. Grey looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and the time was later than Richard had said.

"Sarah, Sarah," shouted Mrs. Grey's youngest son, going to the door, tell Mr. Foster to come in."

"I was just doing so," said a young man, not so tall as Richard, but looking at least ten years older. "How do you do, Mrs. Grey?—pretty well this evening?—that's right—just going past to take a quiet stroll, and one cigar-thought I'd look in and see if Dick had come home."

"All right, my boy," said Richard, before his mother had time to speak, "all right, I'm your man."

No wonder Frank Grey had not a high opinion of Peter Foster. He was a dissipated-looking fellow, not, however, without a dash of the

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