magazines is to be found in their essays and treatises, will find less than we who have searched their news departments, their poetical pages, and their fashionable scandal-there is not more material to be found in many books than in their dedications. The very portion which might be passed over as unworthy of perusal-the paragraphs of domestic news, the birthday and new year odes, the prologues and epilogues of plays, the advertisements, the lists even of marriages and deaths, the description of the latest fashion, the dedications of books, the small-talk and scandal, are the very portions in which to look for the characteristic curiosities of the time. As historical records they are not, perhaps, so useful or so authentic as in their character of mirrors of manners, customs, tastes, and public feeling. Yet history is made up of other materials besides state documents and records; it would not be so complete as we find it but for the additional lights thrown upon it by coins and medals, and fragments of antiquity that were not made for handing it down to us.

"That the information thus derived is valuable we do not pretend; all that we contend for is that it is curious-nay, perhaps more-it may be useful in reconciling and realising recorded history. It may enable us to see the great events of the time in the light which shone upon them-to clothe its characters in the dress they wore-to consider its measures with a tinge of the feelings in the midst of which they originated; and, in reading of the events of the Eighteenth Century, we may be better able to sever ourselves from the Nineteenth-to step back into the days of our grandfathers, and be at home in their society.

THE SPIRIT OF THE FOUNTAIN.

BY NONDUM.

THE fountain leaped up silver-pillared, melting as it rose to rain,
Splashing on the marble basin, in a shower of pearly grain,
Music rising, music falling, ebbing, flowing o'er again.

Oh! the music ever mounting, of that ever singing fountain,
Seemed a merry, mingled measure, joyful, yet still racked with pain.
Did it call to birds in heaven to come down to it and drink?
Did it bid the sallow roe-deer from the forest to its brink?
Had it consciousness, that water? Had it life and could it think?
Was it rising type of hope? If not sorrow, why then sink?
Sure the music ever mounting, of that ever singing fountain,
Was the voice of water siren, who had heart and brain to think.
Ripple, ripple, shooting skyward, like a silver arrow, springing
Like a fresh-born water angel, seeking heaven and still singing,
Chained to earth, yet leaping skyward in a vain desire of winging.
Sure the music ever mounting, of that ever singing fountain,
Was the voice of new-born angel all its bounty round it flinging.
Like a young king free and lavish of his newly-welcomed treasure,
Feeding lilies with the manna of its cool and pearly pleasure,
Flinging right and left its coin, like a spendthrift sick of leisure.
Sure the music ever mounting, of that ever singing fountain,
Was a mine-god's cleaving earth to bear up his silver treasure.

STOKE DOTTERELL; OR, THE LIVERPOOL APPRENTICE.

A HISTORY.

XXI.

THE DEPARTURE AND RETURN.

THE morning that was to reward the anxieties of years arrived at last. It was one of unusual bustle at Stoke. The townspeople were making preparations for drinking to the bride's health, under the presiding dignity of Mr. Camp, and the ready eloquence of Mr. Bam-the one never more proud than when enjoying the honours of the chair, the other never so happy as when preparing to deliver himself in public-and, spreading the prevailing happiness in a still wider circle, Mr. Fairfield had ordered bread, beef, and clothing to be distributed to the poor. A splendid arch of flowers spanned the road above Abbey Grange; every ship and boat in the harbour was decorated with flags and streamers; and merrily rang the bells from the old church spire, while "the wind blew soft," and "the sun shone bright," and young and old trooped upwards to witness the departure of the bride from the home of her childhood.

But, happy as she felt, Helen told her husband, as they returned, that if she could have known how many painful feelings of the past the drive towards the church had power to recal, she would have preferred giving him her hand before some other altar.

After the departure of Sir Blake and his bride, Henry gave a dinner at Knight's Carey, in compliment to Mr. Fairfield and in honour of the

event.

He and his wife were now upon pretty good terms with the neighbourhood. Mary was no longer the last stranger who had come amongst them; and the battery of jealous antipathy was changed from herself to a Mr. Hopkins, who had made what he considered an excellent investment by purchasing an estate called Glenbank. In addition to a goodly number of acres, it included one of the handsomest residences in the county, and there, for the present, he had taken it into his head to live.

Mr. Hopkins had realised a very handsome fortune upon the Stock Exchange a bad introduction to county society it must be admittedbut as he was in some way connected with one of the oldest families, it might have been supposed that he would have been tolerated, if not well received. And so he would, perhaps, had it not been for two very serious faults. He looked upon spending money as a crime very little less atrocious than poverty; and, spend what he might, he was determined that no one beyond his own roof should partake of its benefits.

It was very different when the property was in the hands of Sir Gilbert Crash. Glenbank was then the constant scene of reckless hospitality; and its gardens and grounds were kept up with a care that made it the showhouse of the neighbourhood. Mr. Hopkins had totally different notions. The only advantage which his coming afforded was confined to its furnishing a frequent source of conversation.

He had two sons, neither of them twenty-one years old, and entirely dependent upon the caprices of the old miser, whose penuriousness made them miserable. Theirs, too, were no "silent sorrows," for one-half their father's eccentricities were told by themselves to ready listeners.

As soon as Henry and his friends had seated themselves at table, the Hopkinses were, as usual, brought upon the carpet.

"They say that he is immensely rich."

"No doubt of it. I am told, on reliable authority, that he is worth at least three hundred and fifty thousand pounds."

"Have you called?"

"No."

"Have you?"

"No."

"I have heard that he is going to engage a new gardener. I should not have supposed that to have been necessary."

"No: but Mr. Hopkins thinks very differently. He has discharged Sir Gilbert's clever Scotchman, and has taken from the union, at low wages, old Jim Hoe, who is to unite the offices of head-gardener, assistant, and a staff of occasional labourers, in his own single person.'

"But he cannot manage the succession houses."

"Certainly not; but the grapes are to take care of themselves, and will all be ripe at the same time. Of course this will not do for more than a year or so."

The first

"Have you heard how he treated the saints? Mrs. Wilmot and Miss Holt went to ask him for a subscription to their new schools. three times they called he denied himself; the fourth they met him at his door; and after talking to him for a good half hour, he gave them -how much do you think?"

"Probably not more than a pound."

"He gave them a shilling, and told them they must remember that it was the only charity to which he should subscribe."

"But the best story is about his dog. Why a man who cannot find in his heart to feed himself should keep a dog, I cannot conceive; but he brought with him a Scotch terrier, which had the strange fancy of being exceedingly attached to him. Indeed it could not bear to be out of his sight. I believe those little brutes would become attached to the gran' diavolo himself. One day, not wishing to take it out with him, he locked it up in what used to be the library. In its distress at being separated, it bolted through the window; and, on his return, he had it hung for breaking the glass."

"The broken glass, I suppose, cut him to the heart ?" "To the what?"

"At any rate the poor dog was killed." "And it was rightly served," said Mr. Bagge. fool of a dog indeed to have become attached to Do you think he ever gave a dinner in his life? that's good about him. Even a dog should have a master."

"It must have been a so repulsive a person. He hasn't the least bit been ashamed of such

"Yes," interposed Mr. Bam, "but I am of opinion that dogs are the only true Christians: the only living creatures by whom injuries are readily and freely forgiven."

"I should not be surprised," added Charles Frampton, "if, hereafter, we should see them perched up aloft, while we lie howling." "It may not be altogether impossible," said Mr. Fairfield. The rector looked grave, but said nothing.

Dinner and the Hopkinses having been fully discussed, the ladies retired; and Dr. Digby, who could be exceedingly agreeable when he chose, led the conversation to more genial subjects for another hour.

Mr. Fairfield, with his usual disregard for himself, had wished Sir Blake and Lady Whitmore to consider the house at Kensington as their separate residence; but they were firm in not allowing him to deprive himself of the home which he had chosen; and, in a day or two, he left Stoke for the purpose of making such alterations in the distribution and decoration of the apartments as he now considered necessary.

A part of the pleasant banishment, to which custom of no remote antiquity has condemned a newly-married pair, was passed at Wanstead; and in its rooms and grounds Blake Whitmore could not forget the kind and gifted being with whose memory they were connected.

Helen knew his feelings; and when he expressed a hope that there might not have been anything in his own conduct towards the friend he had lost with which he ought to reproach himself, "No one," she said, "no one, dear Blake, who knows you could believe that you ever intentionally did wrong. In the intercourse of the heart, much of the injury which man inflicts upon woman is simply from want of thought. Happy hours are passed, then come the labours, and anxieties, and ambitions of the world, which grow up and choke the feelings that might have been otherwise cherished and increased. With us it is different. We have none of these distractions. We have time to think upon every look and word; and while, with you, it is merely a pleasant remembrance, with us it is an attachment that sinks deeply into the heart, even sooner than we are ourselves aware. It was no fault of yours, dear Blake-no fault of which you were conscious-that Ellen Fairfield loved you, or that her death was hastened by disappointed affection. You never reflected that, so much together as you were, it could not have been otherwise."

66

My own kind one, this is the first sad thought that, as my wife, you have ever caused me."

"I will try, then, that it shall be the last; and you may remember saying to little Henry, If we only try we shall do well. "

Mr. Fairfield looked forward, with as much pleasure as anything connected with this world could yet afford him, to the arrival of the bride, taking even a woman's interest in the preparations for her reception; and he was anxious that the drawing-room should be arranged as he fancied that his poor daughter would herself have arranged it.

One of his last directions had been to bring the plate-chest from his banker's; and, after giving his remaining orders for the morrow (when Sir Blake and Lady Whitmore were expected), he retired to rest rather later than usual,

Anticipation, whether of joy or sorrow, is not very favourable to sleep; and he had scarcely fallen into his first slumber when he was awoke by a noise below his window. He listened, and all was silent. There was then a smothered sound of broken glass, and a sharp jerk, as if a bolt had,

been drawn back with more force than was necessary. This was followed by a word or two said in anger, but in a low voice, and again all was silent.

Mr. Fairfield had heard enough to satisfy him that something unusual was in progress.

His bedroom was over an ante-room adjoining the library, and a short staircase led from the bedroom to the ante-room, so that he could have a suite of apartments entirely to himself. His favourite servant, Mr. Binns, who had been his butler at Wanstead, had a room with which there was a communication from Mr. Fairfield's dressing-room, by means of a speaking tube, and of this he now availed himself. Binns was not long in obeying the summons, for he had also been disturbed. “You are in too weak a state, sir, to take any part," he said, quietly, as he entered; "but secure the door that leads to the library, and I will myself lock the door of your room. I think, sir, I heard Legge and James coming down the back staircase, and you may depend upon our being a match for them."

Now many a man, under these circumstances, upon finding himself locked up in his own room by his servants, might have had unpleasant suspicions. Mr. Fairfield's only disagreeable feeling was that he should be prevented exposing himself to a danger, to which he was the unwilling cause of exposing others; but he could not help himself, so he stood in the dark alone, and devoutly prayed that no one might be hurt.

The first step taken by Binns was to go up-stairs for a loaded pistol and a light. He then took his place upon the principal landing, and had scarcely done so when two strange men rushed from the back of the house into the entrance-hall, followed by the footmen, Legge and James.

Both the men had their faces partially blackened; and the tallest of them, a stalwart fellow, being laid hold of by James, struck him with some heavy weapon on the side of the head, and he fell insensible upon the marble floor of the hall.

Legge collared the other man, and called out, "Mr. Binns! you take care of that fellow, and we shall do, for this one's a trembling all over." He was himself a little fluttered-as who would not have been? "I'll take care of him,” said Mr. Binns. "Will you?" cried his assailant, cocking his pistol,

goes !"

"then here

Mr. Binns placed his finger on the trigger of his own pistol with the same cool defiance; and, while still speaking, they both fired.

One of the balls passed harmless through the staircase window, merely breaking the glass; but an exclamation, more of savage anger than of pain, showed that the butler had hit his man.

Just then some dogs were heard barking outside.

Stooping, only for a moment, the wounded burglar turned back. "Run for it, you coward," he growled to his companion, as he passed him; and striking the servant on the ankle with his foot, he brought him to the ground. But Legge was young and active, and instantly recovering himself, he again laid hold of his prisoner.

Mr. Binns soon came to his assistance. He fastened one of the passage doors, so as to prevent the fugitive or any of his confederates from coming to the rescue; and then secured their captive by tying his hands.