she hears the latch of the lawn-wicket; but no one comes. Then in a short time she fancies again that she hears something like a deep and painful moan. This is repeated, for she catches it in the pauses of the storm; so covering herself up in an old cloak of Mrs. Richards', which hangs in a corner of the wide kitchen, she goes out, regardless of rain and wind. Upon the low wall beside the wicket leans something -it is a man. He is without a hat, and his clothes drip with water. His attitude is that of feebleness and pain. Rosa touches him, and he | looks up, in the fitful light shed through the open door. She can see that he is a gentleman, and one that has been baffling in the sea, by his drenched and exhausted state. "Are you ill, sir?" she says. "Let me call up Mrs. Richards, and Jehu will be back presently." "Áy, the good old names," he says. "No, call up no one; but let me lean on you to the house. I have been dreadfully bruised by the sea, and feel sick and faint for a while; but I shall soon be better." He leans with his hand upon her shoulder, gets on thus step by step to the house, and sinks down in the cushioned chair which Rosa puts for him. He will let her call no one, says it will be time enough when Jehu comes back, bids her draw a stool to his feet and talk to him. He asks her many questions; amongst others, who are her parents. "Only God knows, sir," is the sweet answer; "but He has given me another in Mr. Mervyn. I call him grandpapa; whilst he says I am his little daughter." The gentleman lays his hand on Rosa's head, and the beauty of her innocent goodness sheds its affluent peace upon his troubled soul. He asks her other questions, is glad to hear all about good Johnny Craftbox, Margery Thwistle, and many more. The most earnest question comes at length he asks it tremblingly, and in a way which draws tears from Rosa's eyes-Where-where-where in the churchyard, little one, is Edith Austell's grave? It is not her true name, but people knew her by it many years ago-many years, sweet one, before you were born." 66 "I never heard of such a one, sir," answers Rosa, "and I know almost every grave as well as Jehu. Edith Austell didn't die I think, sir; she went mad about a little baby they took from her a few weeks after it was born. Then in a year or two, though she was mad, and had a husband living-a beautiful young gentleman named Walter Camborne-her old father and her wicked sister Miss Kitty married her far away in some distant shire to old Simon Grey, a huckster in the village, who had a great deal of money; but Edith would not live with him, though she went more mad than ever." "Where is she, then; where is she?" asks the gentleman, who listens with mingled agony and joy. Indeed his manner strikes the little one dumb till he has reassured her. "Please sir, she lives at the Headland Cottage with wicked Miss Kitty-for everybody calls Miss Kitty wicked, though she is very rich-for she has got all her father's as well as old Simon Grey's money; but she treats the poor mad thing very ill, and—” The gentleman rises, as though to speed away on some irresistible errand; but his strength failing him, he has to sink back in his chair. Fortunately, at this instant, Jehu returns, and recognizing the gentleman at once, as Mr. Camborne, so long away in India, is not only rejoiced, but hastens to call up Mrs. Richards, and to give him aid; for he still sits in his drenched things, and looks dying with fatigue. Mrs. Richards descending, is filled with joy too, and she hastens to light a fire in the spare bed-room and get the bed ready; Jehu, in the meanwhile, mulling some wine, and Rosa toasting the bread. As he does this, Jehu imparts good news-that old Sir John is a degree better, and that the Indiaman, though fast breaking up on the terrific rocks on which she struck, has scarcely lost a seaman or a passenger, and that her splendid cargo-saved from the hands of the dastard wreckers by the intrepidity of the coastguardsmen, and the better part of the villagers-may in all probability be rescued. He adds, that all the passengers have taken shelter in the old Hall as the nearest point to the rocks on which the vessel struck; that Mr. Mervyn, the physician, good old Becky, honest Margery Thwistle, and Johnny Craftbox are busied like Samaritans among them; and the gentleman blesses God that his son and his son's young wife are saved. Happily, old Jehu knows nothing as yet about the missing babe, or that the young mother weeps for it. Not knowing this great sorrow, he cannot make its revelation. The gentleman is assisted to bed, and Mrs. Richards waits upon him with the tenderness of a mother. At day-break, and when the storm has temporarily subsided, Jehu sets off to the Hall, to convey the good tidings to his master that Mr. Camborne is saved. It gives inexpressible joy; for up to this hour it has been presumed he is lost, and Mr. Mervyn, the physician, and Mr. Camborne's son return instantly. On their way the sad news reaches the good clergyman that the lighthouse has been swept away; but he makes no comments to his companions, and bids Jehu keep silence if possible. Deeply affecting is the meeting between the aged clergyman and Mr. Camborne, or, rather, Lord Chief Justice Camborne, for such is the high rank he has held for many years in the legal tribunals of Bombay; and earnest is the joy of father and son, though the last mourns his child. This younger Mr. Camborne knows in some degree his own history; how, when but an infant of a few weeks old, when his father had been sent out to India by old Sir John, he was conveyed in a mysterious way to some aunts of his father's in the south of England. By these he was brought up, and in due time, when educated, and passed the university, he received a civil appointment and went out to India to his father. Here, after and some years' residence, he met the accomplished daughter of a gentleman connected with the civil government of Madras, and they were married a year previously to their return to England. Always supposing that his mother died soon after giving him birth, the young man has never learnt much concerning her; and his father, austerely taciturn about her history, has said but little, though it is known he has never ceased to mourn her fate, since the hour his uncle, old Sir John, pleased to inform him, through his lawyers, that his low inarriage was annulled--by the most sure of all divorcements -death. Unsuspecting a base falsehood, purposely concocted between the Austells and old Sir John, for reasons, on the one side, to dissolve what was styled a "low connexion,' though the girl had inexpressible beauty, youth, virtue, and goodness, on the other, to marry her to old Simon Grey, the village huckster, in order to secure his hoard of money, young Walter Camborne continued in India many years, regardless of returning to a country that contained but the dust of the only woman he ever loved. But necessitated, at last, by premature age and declining health, and willing to accompany his son and son's young wife on their temporary visit to England, they set sail in the "Hydaspes," and are thus met by storms and shipwreck on the very shores of their beloved land. As day advances, Mr. Camborne's impatience with respect to Edith cannot be controlled. In vain the physician urges him not to quit his bed; in vain Mr. Mervyn says that she will probably arrive by and by, as she has been sent for; at last his impatience is such that it has to be broken out to him that she is at the lighthouse, and that, as soon as the sea is less rough, a boat will be sent. But they dare not tell him that the lighthouse itself is washed away, and that for many miles along the coast the excitement is extreme. It is so. Fishermen, villagers, miners, and coastguardsmen, are alike anxious that a boat make its way to the rock, to see if Edith be saved; for the story of her sered brain and broken heart is known far and wide about that Cornish land. But, though the storm has temporarily subsided, a heavy sea rolls shoreward, and thus boat after boat makes the attempt in vain. At length, just as day is closing in, and a storm rises, that as fishermen say, will exceed in wildness the one of the night foregone, a boat, guided by the brave coastguard officer, succeeds in reaching the lighthouse rock, where they find Edith and the three men, though drenched with sea-water and very cold, still alive. The baby, to the amazement of all, is the most thriving of the little company, for the poor breast that is so chill itself has warmed and soothed it. The day has ebbed into fitful twilight when the boat touches the strand. Lifting her up tenderly, for she is very spent and cold, Mr. Scudmore goes aside a moment, and speaks to Mr. Mervyn, telling him of the extraordinary rescue of the shipwrecked babe, and of Edith's belief that it is her own. When he has heard all this, Mr. Mervyn, assisted by the officer, winds his way up the sandy hillocks of the sloping churchyard, to a low dilapidated tomb, on which a man has been sitting for hours. What little of the quick fading twilight is yet left falls round him, and beyond tapers the glowing light from the great church window, for the little choristers are practising their carols as the night before. There is no organ, but their voices sound divinely, and mingle richly with the roaring of the sea. To this lone-watcher the aged clergyman imparts the tidings of Edith's rescue, and, more singular still, of the shipwrecked babe. Then he bids him speak to her tenderly when she comes-a needless bidding--and so departs again to the near shore, and finds Edith, who, crouching on a sea-washed stone with the babe, tells everyone it is her own. But her joy is very great to see Mr. Mervyn. "Isn't God very good, sir," she says, in a voice of unspeakable pathos, to give me my baby back again, after thirty years?" 66 "Yes, Edith, He is very good--full of benignant mercy-though the day of its fulfilment, to all who weep, be long.” He leads her gently up the sea-washed sandy graves, to within a yard or so of the old weatherbeaten tomb. "Look there, Edith," he says; "there is some one else who wants you." She is terrified-and drawing back, entreats Mr. Mervyn to save her-for now her baby is come back again, she will not live with Kitty or Patty. "No, no, Edith; that you will never do again the best and truest friend you have in this world sits there." She believes this, and going gently to the stranger, stoops down and says "You will not sir, please, take my baby from me?" In a moment he rises and grasps her with vehemence in his arms-it is the voice of her radiant youth, and it touches him to the very soul. "Edith-my darling Edith! Man divided us, but God has made us one again--don't you remember me, your husband?" She does her ear is not deaf, nor is her heart so sere, but what she remembers this embrace and voice again. But she neither speaks nor looks, nor moves; only her hold relaxes of her precious burden, and it would drop, but that there are those at hand to take and bear it swiftly to the parsonage. Heedless of what is said, Mr. Camborne pushes all away from him, and opening the low door of a little sacristry in the church wall, bears her in and closes it. It is a shadowed place, yet open fully to the aisle of the churchseeing all, and yet unseen-and with a low stone seat about it. On this they sit-the little choristers singing on and on-their voices rising higher than the moan of the wild sea, in the deep gladness of the Christian truths they sing! By-and-by, she slowly recovers-most certainly knows on whom she leans-creeps closer and closer-if that be possible. "Walter," she whispers by-and-by, for there are points on which she is profoundly sane, "I have been very true to you. They married me to Simon Grey; but I was still all yours." He knows it-like her youth, her age is full of tenderness and human goodness; so for a while they sit, that old quaint carol going on, and proclaiming the immortal advent of the great Christian morrow; as well, that all who would accept it and rejoice in it, must cast all hate away for evil done, even though that evil has been done against themselves. They do forgive-the one in weakness, the other in his strength. The song is ended, but the sea moans on! But, lo! when early passers by along the shore turn their eyes towards the lighthouse rock, they find it gone for ever. Earlier still, when the coastguardsmen at the station look with their glasses towards the Headland cottage, they wonder why but a vestige of it is in sight. They wonder more, when, hastening to the wild high bluff, they see that its older portion has been swept away into the abyss below; and by some indications that are left, just as the selfish feasting of the Christmas eve was at its height. They take a boat, and brave the waves beneath; but all signs of what they have engulphed are gone; save that on a little jutting crag midway of the mighty steep, those yards of costly satin flap to and fro, like a fillet in the wind. There let them welter in sea-spray and storm, consigned to that inevitable fate that awaits all things secured through others' ruin and through others' Happily, amidst such portions of the house as remain, the little trunk containing the beautiful miniature and crisp manly lock of hair is found, with another box full of titledeeds and other documents, that will secure to Edith no mean or narrow fortune. Once in the parsonage, Edith is soon under the kindly care of Mrs. Richards and the vil-woe. lage doctor, the physician having returned to the hall in the morning. The baby is already despatched to its mother in the old hooded chaise and in the careful charge of Rosa-who likes it vastly better than Miss Doll-and some kindly neighbours. Thus a peaceful night passes by, saving that Edith asks repeatedly for the infant, and still fancies it to be hers. The only source of disquiet is the storm, which to wards midnight rages again with uncontrolled fury. It will spend itself probably, and the morrow will be fine. The doings at the Hall are much more festive, the passengers and seamen from the Indiaman being chiefly congregated there. A huge Christmas fire is lighted in the long-disused hall, and about nightfall a sort of impromptu dance is got up, Johnny Craftbox, having sent away to the village not only to borrow a fiddle, on which instrument he can scrape a little, but to summons such of Margery's daughters as can be spared from the St. Columb's Arms, and divers other buxom lasses; Johnny's pretty fair knowledge of human nature teaching him that Jack Tar-officer as well as man-loves rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. So there is a famous dance, and no lacking of good cheer; for very ill as he is on his dying bed, old miserly Sir John bids Becky, his kindly housekeeper, give forth whatever need be from his capacious cellars, which Becky does with a generous hand, for a great joy is hers, that she will see "young Master Walter" once again. As for the sweet young mother, she keeps her chamber, though the restoration of her darling baby dries her tears; and delighted with the beauty and goodness of little Rosa, she only longs for the morrow, that she may thank the one who saved her child-its witless, hapless grandmother. That morrow rises over land and sea with supreme beauty. Exhausted nature is full of balminess and repose; the waves sweep in with comparatively gentle undulation, the air has all the mildness of an April day, and the sun lights up the whole horizon with refulgent glory. But she needs not worldly fortune now-the profoundest human love aud pity will encompass her! On this blessed day, after Mr. Mervyn has performed church service, the parsonage is locked up, and they all go forth to the wild, dilapidated Hall. Here is death-bed forgiveness -a repentance worthy of this blessed day-and Edith, wild with joy, gathers the lovely baby once more to her arms. They tell her that the fine stalwart man, its father, is her son; the little pale young lady is its mother; but she does not understand them, for she will persist in calling it "my baby;" the more when good old Johnny Craftbox brings from some pocket near his honest heart, the tiny mouldering cap, the golden lock of hair! She puts the tiny cap upon the baby's head, nestles it on the little downy pillow on which her own baby lay when they took it from her whilst she slept, and sings to it a lullaby of such rich pathos, as to make her lunacy bespeak more human love, than others' sanest words! Good Johnny Craftbox returns eventually to the St. Columb's Arms, and there makes a jolly day of it with Margery Thwistle and her daughters, to whom he distributes the best in his pack and box; indeed, before he smokes his last pipe this night, he arranges to lay by pack and box, and hang up his hat at the St. Columb's Arms for ever, as soon as conveniently may be. Soon may Margery Thwistle be Margery Craftbox, and the St. Columb's Arms boast such a landlord! It has been a day of mercies-mercies in storm and sunshine-mercy to long desolation and despair-mercy hidden in the austerest aspects of nature-nay, mercy in the ruthless sea-and MERCY IN THE WINTER'S WAVES. NEWSPAPERS AND THEIR ADVERTISEMENTS. place, great changes have occurred in the "folio of four pages "Which not e'en critics criticise." From the multitude of newspapers which speed their way through the length and breadth of the land, not only issuing in profusion from our own press, but reaching us from every quarter of the globe, we might be supposed, Such productions in those days, in point of like the Athenians of old, to spend our time in style, were beneath the critic's notice; but the nothing else but either to tell or to hear some-journals of the present day may defy criticism. thing new. We are supplied with journals from We could name some among them, whose every state in Europe, and from Africa, America, writings may rank as a peculiar and high branch and Australia. This interchange of intelligence of literature. The power with which momust tend to a good purpose, and be the means mentous subjects are discussed, the critical of promoting civilization. Newspapers are no acumen with which the most complicated matmodern invention; for we find the Roman his- ters are investigated, the graphic sketches and torians sometimes quoting from the Daily Ad- the cutting sarcasms, have all the eloquence of vertiser, or Acta Diurna, so far back as the the most spirited and persuasive oratory, and 585th year of the empire. The Acta Diurna sway the minds of men with an influence altreated of the common occurrences of the day, most as irresistible. Even the dimensions of comprising trials, punishments, sacrifices, elec- our newspapers half a century since make but tions, buildings, prodigies, deaths, &c. It a sorry appearance, when placed beside the was composed under the direction of the ma- ample sheets of our more recent publications. gistrates, and laid up by them, with the other The Times, with its supplement, is said to conrecords, in the Hall of Liberty. Like other tain as much printed matter as would fill a public papers, access to them was easy. We three-volume novel; and what novel ever yet must confess that it somewhat disturbs our touched on the variety of subjects which may notions of the august bearing of the Roman be found in its columns? Facts, surmises, patriots, when we fancy them dipping, con every ill that flesh is heir to, and every remedy amore, into the chit-chat of the day; and it is that science rather disparaging to our preconceived ideas of the dignity of the Roman matron, when she is presented to our mind's eye, scanning the Acta Diurna for the newest fashions or the latest scandal. Something analagous to the words of Autolycus, or to our own advertisements, may have attracted the attention of these Roman belles "Lawn as white as driven snow, Our English newspapers appear to have been modelled on those ancient journals. The first of which we have met any particular notice of is the English Mercury, which dates as far back as the year 1588. It appeared during the Spanish Armada, under the auspices of Queen Elizabeth. A more comprehensive journal, established by Sir Roger L'Estrange, under the title of The Public Intelligencer, came out in the year 1663, and ran a course of three years; it then gave place to the Gazette. The number that have gradually followed have been increasing from year to year, till they can be reckoned by hundreds. Since Cowper's description of the arrival of the newspaper in a retired country can discover and quackery invent. The lovers of fiction could scarcely find anything more touching than what we meet with every day in its advertisements? The few words of entreaty from parents, wives, and friends, to the one who has desolated them, to come back; the return the only condition required for entire forgiveness for all the anguish which has been inflicted. It is impossible to read these brief notices without a touch of sympathy for those suffering the pangs of separation, aggravated by suspense and apprehension; for the unhappy wife, whose husband may have parted in anger, or for some chance hope of procuring help for those at home, or full of happy anticipations-what heavy hours of watching and of listening!-and for the poor parents to whom that young girl belonged, whose age, appearance, and dress are brought before us by a few words. Who can tell the horrors of the long dreary hours since she left them? And will she return to them pure and unblighted as when she last stood by them on the domestic hearth? Many a tale of woe can be gathered from the few words given. Such as these frequently meet the eye; they were found a few days since in the Times columns of advertisements:-"R. R., you do not wish me to write to you: I will not. You will not desert me? Let me know if you have seen this." It is well to turn from the heartlessness of which it is evident the writer was the victim, to the world of kindness conveyed in the short sentence or two we now copy from the Times: John Wilson,-My dearest brother Jack, come to me: my means are sufficient to support us both. I can also get you employment. For the love you bear me write immediately do not keep me longer in this suspense. Signed A." We can scarcely think that this loving appeal can have met with anything but an affectionate response. Advertisements as now published in England were not general till the beginning of the 18th century. Any person advertising a reward for the return of things stolen, was liable to a fine of £50, if the words "no questions to be asked" were added. The Hue and Cry was the common law process of pursuing "all robbers and felons, with horn and with voice, from hundred to hundred, and from county to county." The hundred was formerly bound to make good all loss occasioned by the robberies therein committed, unless the felon were taken. But by more recent acts, it is now only answerable for damage committed for riotous assemblies: its advertisements still continue to proclaim losses, all ending with “ God save the Queen.” Among a vast number, curiously put, the following was inserted a few years since :-"Lost, a small English spaniel, marked red and white, with long ears and fantail. Answers to the name of 'Topsey.' Whoever brings him to the owner shall receive a reward of ten shillings. God save the King! He lately had the mange." By such slight transpositions of the sense, the most ludicrous effects are frequently produced. We lately read-" Wants a situation, a man and his wife, a short time disengaged. Age, thirtyfour together or separate." the following:-"A nice hot plate for your venison, game, haunch of mutton, &c." There is infinite judgment in thus presenting the various articles of food in review, as it were, to the mind, and it requires no stretch of imagination to conceive the difference of being helped on a cold or hot plate. We have seen "the Reversible Waistcoat" advertised day after day, and, after puzzling for some time over the announcement, we have at last come to the conclusion that it is made after the fashion of some of the habiliments of Bryan O'Linn-“ skinny side out and the woolly side in." When we read of "The Elysian Shirt," what exquisite ideas we form of the article! "Lee and Perrin's Worcestershire sauce" we are assured is "the best sauce extant;" indeed, if we inquire into the most remote times, nothing so admirable could be found. From what has been divulged respecting this condiment, we may indulge freely in its use, with the pleasing impression that we are at the same time actually under medical treatment. "The celebrity of the same," we are assured, "has extended to every quarter of the globe; its efficacy in promoting the general health is becoming daily more and more acknowledged. In the United States it is esteemed for its tonic and invigorating properties, the habitual use enabling the stomach perfectly to digest the food." One of the fortunate enthusiasts, who imbibes this miraculous sauce, writes thus to the gifted inventor: "I have carried a bottle of your WorA rat-catcher advertises-"Rats and gentle-cestershire sauce in a tour, which I have just men catched and waited on by Solomon Gundy." By a slight mistake of the press, truth sometimes slips out-as a never failing remedy" became an ever failing remedy." The gravity which an appeal to our better feelings is sure to induce, is frequently disturbed by a few concluding words, such as in the heart-rending entreaties of the parents of Mary, which " urge her to return home-or, at least, to send back the key of the larder." These advertisements appeared in The Times. The styles of advertisements might be classified; that coming under the head of Temptation would be large indeed. Who could withstand completed, through Spain and Portugal, and I believe I owe my present state of health to its use. Your sauce is a stomachic, and, I think, medicine-I can with truth say, there is nothing in a traveller's baggage so essential to his comfort, at least in these countries, as your sauceand in India also, where it is found at the mess of every regiment." In corroboration of this last-mentioned fact, we are favoured with the following extract from the letter of a medical gentleman in Madras, to his brother in the same profession at Worcester; it comes thus with double weight, as being the opinion of a medical man, and the affectionate communication of a brother, who is, of course, anxious to impart what is most interesting and important. "Tell Lee and Perrin"-it is thus he writes"that their sauce is highly approved of in India, and that it is, in my opinion, the most palatable as well as the most wholesome sauce made." "This sauce," as Lee and Perrin themselves tell us, "is suitable to every variety of dish, and the universal demand which its excellence has created, has led to many imitations being offered to the public." Some among us can remember Packwood's style of advertising-it was sure to secure a reading-it is still occasionally resorted to. "The war in the East" leads us insensibly and unexpectedly into the midst of a "choice stock of India Pongee Handkerchiefs." "The close of Holidays" at once suggest thoughts of "Row |