we were allowed no lights for fear the elephants might be frightened by them, and turn back. I must here remark that the elephant's eye is constructed like that of the cat; it sees therefore much better at night than in the day time. We were not only obliged to sit in darkness but also in silence, as their hearing is also very acute; whether this is occasioned by the immense size of their ears or not, I am not able to say. In this state we sate till half-past eight o'clock, when in one instant the whole place was lighted up, and silence was broken by the most deafening shouts, which even now are ringing in my ears. A crash was heard, and eighteen elephants tumbled into the Kraal, which they rushed round and round, charging here and there in their anger and fright. The Kraal, however, was rapidly surrounded by crowds of the beaters; and a chain of fires blazed up on all sides, so that escape was hopeless, and after a vain rush at every point, the poor frighted herd collected quietly in one corner under a thick jungle, and stood wearied and at rest. It was now after nine o'clock, and as there was nothing more to see that night, and being all most eager for dinner, we thought it high time to return to the Bungalow. I must say, however, that I did not feel quite comfortable within two hundred yards of such compa-rit, hope, and courage, were quite gone, they scarcely nions as eighteen wild and furious elephants; notwithstanding this, we had a very merry dinner party, and enjoyed a most comfortable night's rest. Next morning we breakfasted early, in order that we might have more time to spend at the Kraal. When we arrived at the stand, about ten o'clock, all the elephants were together in a corner as before; they had covered themselves with dust in their first rage, but now they appeared quite stupified and overcome. There were two quite tiny little ones among them, who always ran between their mothers' legs, and it was most extraordinary to see the care the elder ones took of them, never even touching them with their large clumsy feet. Soon after we arrived, the entrance to the Kraal was cautiously opened, and about six or eight tame elephants entered, with their mahouts or riders. This seemed to startle our wild friends a little, for they immediately formed themselves into a line, and prepared to make a charge; the tame ones were quite prepared for this, and they commenced advancing forward, throwing down several large trees and crushing them under their feet; this had quite the effect of intimidating the others, who instantly retired to their former position. One or two + of the tame elephants now advanced towards them, followed by the noosers to commence the capture. The moment the wild ones saw them approaching, they made a charge; in doing this, one of the noosers was enabled to throw a noose round the hind leg of one of the largest, the other end of the rope being made fast round the neck of the tame one, who began pulling it with all her might; the wild one made prodigious efforts to escape, but all in vain, at last he threw himself down on the ground in despair, and nothing would make him rise, when one of the tame elephants coming behind him, actually pushed him up with its tusks to his hopeless and final discomfiture; he now gave himself up for lost, and allowed himself to be bound without further resistance. His hind legs were fastened together, and then bound to a strong tree, his front feet were treated in the same manner, with the exception of not being tied together. When he was quite secured, he again threw himself down on the ground, and lay there for two or three hours in exhaustion and despair. He covered himself with dust, which he collected and scattered with his trunk; and from time to time he inserted his trunk into his throat and drew from some receptacle there a supply of water, with which he moistened the whole surface of his skin. It would thus seem as if the elephant, like the camel, is provided with a reservoir of this kind; but whether similarly situated, I am, of course, unable to tell. This elephant was altogether half an hour in being caught and secured, though, owing to the excitement, we could scarcely believe it was five minutes. In this manner sixteen of the elephants were noosed and made fast, and the remaining two were to be left till the next day. One was a very large one, the other, one of the smallest, little more than three feet high, if so much; they were left quite loose, and did not make the slightest attempt to escape; they were even so very subdued that most of the spectators entered the Kraal to pull out the hair from the tails of those that were fastened to the trees, to have it made into bracelets, rings, etc., etc., as little souvenirs of the Kraal. Two gentlemen, more adventurous than the rest, began riding the little one, at which he was very angry, and commenced charging about, throwing down whoever came in his way, to the great amusement of the crowd. Notwithstanding this, it really was one of the most melancholy sights I ever witnessed to see those poor creatures, the true lords of the forest, there at our feet, humbled to the very dust, some lying down as if dead, others leaning against the trees apparently in all the stupor of despair at the loss of their liberty for ever. All seemed as though their spiappeared capable of living through the night; even the elephant which was loose seemed quite stupified, for though several times very much provoked (by those who should have known better,) it never moved an inch, but appeared as though in a dream, while its precious liberty it seemed to have lost all hope or wish of regaining. I cannot omit mentioning how much the strength and beauty of the ropes employed for noosing the elephants struck us. They are made of deer hides, and nothing seems to make the slightest impression on them. They are made by the Rhodias or out-casts, no others would do it, as they would lose caste by doing such hard and dirty work. But to return to the elephantsat five o'clock on the second evening they were taken down to the river to water, two or three of them. This is a most interesting scene; the wild elephant is fastened between two tame ones, and thus led down to the river. On the road they made several attempts to escape, but all to no purpose; they were most anxious also to lie down in the water to bathe themselves, but even this little request they were refused, notwithstanding, they seemed very much refreshed, and to enjoy it exceedingly. We returned home for dinner, and in the evening were amused with some beautiful fire-works, which the Cingalese particularly excel in. We were obliged to retire very early, as we were to return to Kornegalle the next morning. A few of our party were to remain, however, till the evening, as they wished to see the conclusion of the Kraal in the noosing of the two remaining elephants, and by their description it must have been well worth seeing. The large elephant was so furious, that it was a long while before they were able to catch it, and when caught, it broke away twice after being secured: it burst the ropes, and again it tore down the tree it was fastened to; its strength was really wonderful. We had no rain returning, so that I was better able to remark the surrounding objects. Passing through the forest, I saw a number of Banian trees, whose shoots had formed themselves into the most extraordinary shapes possible; some looked exactly like great cables suspended from one tree to another; the parasites and creepers were very beautiful and curious. We were most fortunate in having the pleasure of Dr. Gardener, the eminent botanist, for a companion, in whose company, the most insignificant plant or flower, has some interest, in relation to which, he always told some tale of instruction. On our journey back to Kandy, he discovered the Upas tree, growing within a few miles of Kornegalle. It was not known before that it grew in 1 Ceylon. Its poisonous properties, however, have been few highly rented acres. He was in arrears with his a little exaggerated. Though Dr. Gardener remained un- landlord, and threatened with an execution and ejectder the tree for some time, he neither saw nor experi- ment; but not knowing what was to become of him if enced any of those fearful effects which are attributed his wretched farm was taken from him, he struggled on, to it. Concerning the poison of its gum, however, it is and laboured incessantly and enormously himself, to do nevertheless, quite true, that its qualities are the most as far as possible without paid labour. Within the deadly. house there was a system of the most rigid economy Kornegalle is, I believe, at some seasons, very un-practised. There were often painful scenes between her healthy; one of our party remarked, that it was impos- parents when they were pressed with difficulties that sible it could be otherwise, seeing the deadly Upas tree they could not cope with. The visits of tax-gatherers, grew there. Notwithstanding this, however, it is a very poor-rate collectors, and of the steward for arrears of pretty place, and, indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Morris' de- rent, with the arrival of letters which her father took up mesne, is more like an English park, than anything with an air of aversion, and laid down with a curse, else. made obvious a state of poverty and perplexity, that drove all happiness out of the house, and out of life. Her father talked more and more of flinging up the farm, and going to the work-house; and told the children who stood in confused silence amid their father's violence and their mother's tears, that they must look out for some service, for he could no longer maintain them at home. We returned to Kandy on Friday night, and I must say, that I really felt very glad to feel myself once more out of the range of our jungle-friends, the elephants. For several days afterwards, I imagined every sound to be either the trumpeting of an elephant, or the cries of the beaters. In conclusion, I must say, that a Kraal is the only sight worth seeing in Ceylon, combining at once, excitement, wonder, novelty, and instruction. Nancy Tulloch, or rather Nancy Bains, for that was then her name, was deeply wounded by these circumstances. She was the oldest of nine children, and yet she was little more than eighteen. She was naturally of a lively and gay disposition, full of spirit, and rendered her mother immense service in the house. She was ex FACTS FROM THE FIELDS.-THE DEPOPULATING tremely pretty at the same time, and began to attract POLICY. BY WILLIAM HOWITT. EXTENSION OF THE ENGLISH MANUFACTURING SYSTEM, A FEW WORDS ABOUT NANCY TULLOCH. much admiration from the young men of the neighbourhood. Spite of this, however, she began to think very much of going out to service, and of going rather into a town, where she should see more of life, than in the pride too in not wishing to be a servant where every one hard service of the country. She might have a little knew her. Her mother for some time would not hear of it, saying what was she to do without her! But when Nancy saw that things went still worse and worse at home, she thought she could do more for her family by relieving it of her support, and being able to send it part of her wages. While these things were running in her mind, she one day saw in a London newspaper an advertisement for a housemaid in a gentleman's family, where there were only himself and his housekeeper; the wages good, and a healthy maid of good character from the country preferred. Catching at this as a very likely situation for a commencement, she wrote unknown to her parents, and from the particulars given in reply, was induced to engage herself at once. Her parents, though at first somewhat taken by surprise, at length consented, on condition that if she did not find the place all she expected she should not stay. Nancy Tulloch, like Zealous Scattergood, had learnt charity through suffering. Bright and happy as she seemed to be and was, there was an epoch in her history known only to her husband and Mrs. Brentnal, which had made her ready to forgive the failings of others, and to feel for the injured with a quickness of feeling which Away, however, went light-hearted Nancy Bains, and had the true spirit of heroism in it. Gay at heart, and soon reached the house indicated in Lincoln's-inn-fields. full of happiness as she seemed now, she had been at The house was no other than that of our old acquaintone terrible crisis driven by misery to the very thresh-ance Mr. Woodcroft Meadowlands, and his housekeeper old of self-destruction. A friendly hand had plucked appeared a large-built good-looking woman of fifty, who her from it-and that hand was honest John Tulloch's. impressed on Nancy how much she insisted on conduct It was the spirit with which this had inspired her, that and character in a girl, especially as her master was a had made her active in behalf of Meldrum, though Mel- bachelor, and therefore she preferred a simple-hearted drum never knew the slightest portion of the real cause. girl out of the country. Nancy was pleased at this disNancy Tulloch, like our Saviour, could go a long way to position of the housekeeper, and found the place exseek and save that which was lost, and where she did tremely easy, a char-woman coming once or twice not see an actual malignity of nature, she was unwil-week to clean the floors and stairs, and do sundry things ling to despair of any one, or to abandon her desires for that the house-maid might be relieved from them. his restoration. Zealous Scattergood had laid open his whole history to her, and she saw in his persecutions even the benevolent finger of God, for they had compelled him into a steady minister and counsellor of the poor by closing all higher avenues of exertion against him, if higher there can be. Nancy Tulloch was one of the numerous family of a small farmer in Dorsetshire. As she was growing into vomanhood penury was pressing with an iron pressure her father. He had gradually grown poorer on his Nancy Bains was somewhat surprised that a gentleman like Mr. Meadowlands, who, she was told was a man of large estate, and had a fine establishment in the country, should prefer to live in such a very quiet way in town, not even keeping a man-servant, and scarcely being seen at home except in an evening. But why need we prolong a common story? Nancy found Mr. Meadowlands a very agreeable man, who seemed to be very much pleased with her indeed. It was not long before he began to pay her particular attentions, and bought on her several handsome presents. To a girl of her age and country experience this was all agreeable enough from a handsome man of Mr. Meadowlands' station-but Nancy was not without a considerable degree of shrewdness, and she grew very uneasy. She resolved to tell the housekeeper of the presents, and to say that she did not altogether feel right about it. She did so, but the housekeeper only replied "Pooh, child! he means you no harm, but he is pleased with your manners, and what is a present or two to him." This did not satisfy Nancy, and things began rapidly to assume so dangerous an aspect, that she resolved to quit the place as speedily as possible. Alas! poor Nancy! she was only one of the many simple innocent creatures who are decoyed by the same diabolical means into a prison-house, from whence they never escape but with ruin, and in those cases where there is a high sense of innate virtue, with despair and death. We pass over the horrible story-London can furnish such every day in the week. Enough-that some weeks afterwards Nancy Bains was turned, at a moment's warning, with violence and insult, out of the house of Mr. Woodcroft Meadowlands. A stranger in London, knowing no one, and not daring to reveal her condition to her parents at home, or go there, the poor girl saw herself with terror standing on the pavement of Lincoln's-inn-fields with the box that contained her whole worldly property. A cab accidentally passing she called to the man to take her up. He asked where he should drive. She did not know, she said at length, to the city. Being set down at the corner of a street, she called a porter to carry her box, and as they went along she asked him to show her to some decent lodgings. The man did this very honestly, and in her little room, as soon as she was alone, she flung herself on the bed and gave way to the excess of her misery. How earnestly did the poor girl pray that she might die, but such prayers are not heard; and during several days that she continued here, without stirring out, she thought over and over in distraction what she should do. One moment she resolved to go to a magistrate and accuse Mr. Meadowlands of his crimes, but the monster, conscious of his security, had before warned her of the uselessness and the danger of any such attempt. Against a man of his wealth and station, and with people in his house ready to give evidence for him and against her, it could only result in a charge of a trick to extort money on her part. It could only bring her exposure and punishment as an impostor. Such are the securities of the innocent poor against the oppressions and outrage of the sensual rich in a country where it is said law and justice are open to every one. Well did Sidney Smith add, and so is Mivart's Hotel. But Nancy Bains's money, far from sufficiency for the purchase of justice or for entering Mivart's Hotel, would not last her long in her present miserable lodgings. Go home she could not, and would not, and dreadful as had been the first experiment, she saw nothing for it, but seeking another service. But with whom was she to advise? She knew nobody, and the people of the house did not seem likely to assist her. In the midst of these agitations she became haunted with a sense of the consequences of her late treatment. She was persuaded that she should become a mother, and stung to madness by the idea, she rushed out, and took her way to Lincoln's-inn-fields, and in her desperation knocked at Mr. Meadowlands' door. It was opened by the housekeeper, who, on seeing her, demanded in no very smooth terms what she wanted. "To see Mr. Meadowlands," she replied. "To see Mr. Meadowlands!" exclaimed the woman in terms of unmeasured and indignant astonishment. "How dare you, you impudent baggage come here and ask any such thing. Begone! or I will give you up to the police!" The door was slammed in her face, and the wretched girl, nearly beside herself, ran down the steps, and walked away scarcely conscious of what she did. She soon, however, resolved to watch for Mr. Meadowlands till she saw him. For several evenings she went to and fro before his house, but in vain. He never came; and a policeman, who had noticed her promenading here, ordered her off. Still every evening for a week she returned, and went the length of that side of the field to and fro for hours. In one of these walks another young woman accosted her, and asked if she was looking for any one, and if she could assist her. Nancy, who was driven to despair, said frankly-" Yes, she wanted to see Mr. Meadowlands, who lived at that house," pointing to it. "Ha! my dear!" replied the young woman with more feeling than Nancy even in her simplicity expected-"is it Mr. Meadowlands? Have you ever been in his service?" Nancy replied, "She had." The young woman, then eyeing her with a peculiar look, said-" And so have I, and I can tell you exactly what has occurred to you. Come along, that policeman is watching us." With that she walked on, and in a few minutes opened under Nancy's feet a gulph of terror that seemed to make her very blood stagnate. She told her own story -the very counterpart of Nancy's. She gave her the information, that this virtuous housekeeper was his base procuress, who advertised for victims. That Mr. Meadowlands was a married man, with several children, and kept a magnificent establishment in Eaton-square. That Nancy was but one of a series of his victims, and that if she would go with her to Lock's Hospital, she could get an order-she would see to what one of them was there come. Nancy, who had hoped, could she see Mr. Meadowlands, that she could move him to compassion, and induce him to find her some asylum till she could again seek out with a fair chance for an honest service-was now struck to the heart with what she had heard. She saw the full horror of her condition-and thanking her informant as well as she could, she turned away, and made for the city with a desperation in her soul that could be satisfied with nothing but death. She turned down towards London Bridge, went wildly up to its cen. tre, and looked round her to see if she could mount the parapet and spring off before any one could seize her. But the eyes of a score of passengers seemed upon hershe cast one glance over the wall down into the dark and dismal depth, and her spirit recoiled. But not the less did she pursue her purpose. She descended the steps near the foot of the bridge on the city side, and made her way to the packet wharf. Here, as soon as she saw the gleam of the water, she rushed forward at full speed to plunge into the river. With a prayer to God for forgiveness in the very act, and a quick and bitter thought of home, she had got within a yard of the brink, when she was arrested by a strong arm, which seized the skirts of her gown, and a sailor who had been leaning his back against a crane said,-looking her earnestly but kindly in the face. "Whither away, matey, so fast? I fear you are meaning mischief. Is it not true?" Poor Nancy stood as if struck into a pillar of stone. She stared at the sailor, but she uttered not a word, and the next moment she dropped on the ground as if she were shot dead. 66 When she again became conscious, she found herself sitting on a bench propped on the arm of the same sailor. They were still alone; and the man saidThere, matey, you are coming about-now don't fluster yourself. Take it calmly. You are not well. Some. thing troubles you. Never mind, we won't talk about it. As soon as you can walk you shall go and have some coffee; and if John Tulloch can be of any use to you, why he will, matey, that's all. Come, don't be The kind tones of the honest sailor and his kind conduct had such an effect on the poor girl under the cir cumstances, that she could do nothing but weep and sob as if her heart would break. It was some time before the sailor could get her to calm herself, and give him some account of herself, at the same time saying, that¦ he did not want her to tell him anything but what she pleased, he only wanted to know if he could take her anywhere, and do anything for her. When he asked her where her friends lived, it only set her off again, and her distress was so great that the poor sailor was at his wits' end. Well, sweetheart," he said at length, "just let me know what I can do. Try to quieten yourself, and say where we shall go to, will you? There's a good girl." With an effort Nancy now told him enough to let him know that her friends were far off in the country-that she did not know a soul in London-that she had been so shamefully used that she only desired to die-and never could face her friends again. At hearing this the kind sailor said "Well, it is a dreadful place is this London. Come, we will have some coffee, and I will take you to my good old mother, and may be, by and bye, one may hit on something to ease your mind and make you wish to live. Cheer up, matey, cheer up, do." And as he said this he took her gently by the arm, and led her to a coffee-house near, where he went into an upper room and ordered coffee for two. living. Here the door was opened by Mrs. Brentnalwho was no little astonished to see John Tulloch with a young girl on his arm. John, however, entered without ceremony, and said, "Show this young woman up to the little berth in the upper deck, and let her get to bed, for, poor thing, she needs rest, and, mother, be kind to her." Mrs. Brentnal looked first at one and then at the other, and appeared to hesitate what to do. But John Tulloch said, "Quick, mother, quick, don't you see the poor child is almost fainting-quick, and come down to me, and let's have some supper." John Tulloch wanted no supper, but he wanted this awkward scene over, and all explained to Mrs. Brentnal. And here we may say, that though John called Mrs. Brentnal mother, she was no more his mother, than he was her uncle John, though she called him so, while he was at least twenty five years younger than herself. Mrs. Brentnal had been John's nurse when he was a child. He had always been very fond of her, and though, owing to the misfortunes of his father, who was a wealthy farmer at one time, John and his elder brother had come to London, he never forgot the old woman, and when he heard that her husband was dead, and had left her destitute, he sent for her up to town, and took this house, and made her his housekeeper; though at that time he did not need a house, or housekeeper, as he had a room at his brother's in Rotherhithe, and was saving a good deal of money. Mrs. Brentnal soon came down, and heard John's The sailor appeared in the light to be about five-and-story, but for some time was not half pleased with the thirty, of a round ruddy countenance, with a consider-adventure. She pronounced it, at all events, rash_and able bush of brown hair on his head and a brown beard, romantic, and wished no ill might come of it. John that curled up round his chin like a border. His eyes quietly said, he wished so too- and there the matter were something large and blue, and he had altogether an ended for the present. air of the most thorough honesty and kindness. "May be," said he to Nancy, who sate gazing into the fire with a look of despair-" may be, matey, you would like a glass of something strong-but I never take anything stronger than coffee. I'm a temperance man, and belong to a temperance ship, a temperance captain, and a temperance merchant. But you need a good stiff glass of grog, I think." Nancy Bains thanked him warmly, but said she would prefer the coffee. It was with much difficulty, however, that John Tulloch could prevail on her to take any, and it was not till he had by the kindliness and delicate respect of his manner won something on her attention, that they set out for his mother's, as he called her. As they went along, John said "I see matey, plain enough, that you are not one of these town bred'uns. You're all right and tight as any little vessel can be, only that you've fallen in with treacherous squalls and d- -d pirates. Never mind-foul to-day fair to-morrow. Trust in God, and there may be a good voyage yet." At these words, and especially that “trust in God,” and the genuine heart-warm tone in which it was uttered, Nancy felt herself revived. A spirit of confidence awoke in her. She saw that this was a very honest, kind fellow, and in his way religious, and she could not help giving his arm a gentle pressure to her side as they were going along. "That's right now, matey, come that's right," said the sailor. "Now you can believe me, and so dismiss your fears. I don't wonder at your not believing a stranger all at once-but, do you know, I believe, and I hope you do the same, that a sparrow does not fall to the ground without God's will, and I have a notion, and it pleases me, that it was not without his guidance that I was just in your way to-night.” Nancy could only ejaculate, "Thank you, thank you!" for her tears were flowing again as fast as ever, and they went on in silence till they reached the court where we have found them In the morning he went early over to the ship, which was loading in dock, and was to sail the next week. When he returned at night, Mrs. Brentnal received him with an unusual degree of attention; she had tea on table and had got some Sally Lunns buttered, and his chair set and scarcely did he open his mouth to ask how the poor girl was, before she was quite officious in replying, that she was a good deal cheered up poor thing-and a very nice little creature she was. "You think so, mother," said John, evidently much pleased. "Then I was not such a fool either. Well, well, it delights me, mother, it delights me; if you think so, all is right." Over their tea, Mrs. Brentnal soon showed uncle John, that she was possessed of all Nancy Bairs's story, and that she believed every word of it. She really did believe that the poor girl was as good as she was pretty, but that she was afraid she would never get over it-she would break her heart with grief. "But she must get over it," said uncle John, "you must'nt let her break her heart-and by jingo! why don't you give her some tea, mother?" "She's had it, John," said Mrs. Brentnal. "Well I might ha' guessed that," replied John Tulloch, "and now we're off next week, and you must take charge of the poor thing till I'm back, and then we'll see what we can do with her friends. But that villain Meadowlands!-if I had but another week or so, rat him! if I would'nt shoot him, or chop him down, or something of the sort. He should not live-the villain!" "John Tulloch," said Mrs. Brentnal, "do you want me to see you hanged? Have you lost your senses? Leave the villain to God, who'll punish him, and all such like in his own time. You frighten me, and I am thankful that you're going, I really am this time, though I never was before." John continued to vow all sorts of vengeance against the villain, Meadowlands, however, till he went to bed, and the same next morning at breakfast. To shorten and excellent creature we have seen her. To love and our story, however, the day arrived for John Tulloch to help, were the two great impulses of her heart. Sorgo on board. Before this, Nancy Bains had recovered row had a sacred power over her, that she never tried to something of her spirits. She had got, through Mrs. break. To honest John Tulloch she seemed bound Brentnal, plenty of needlework, and she sate in her lit-by ties of gratitude and respect, that only deepened her tle room stitching away as if it were for her life, and it probably was, for it helped her to get rid of the thoughts that preyed on her life. John Tulloch would have her to take her supper with them, the night before he sailed, and the sweet looks of poor Nancy, as all gratitude and ever and anon, a gush of irrepressible tears, as he spoke cheerfully to her, made him again inwardly curse that villain, Meadowlands, and think what he would do. He had to be on board that night, and so he bade Mrs. Brentnal and Nancy, good-bye, and told them to be good company till he came back, and with that he gave Nancy a shake of the hand that once more made the tears start to her eyes, and a blessing into her heart, as she hastened up stairs to hide her feelings. When John Tulloch returned from his voyage, which had been one of unusual duration, he found Nancy Bains still with Mrs. Brentnal. She had recovered her best looks, though mixed with a degree of gravity, that told that sad thoughts lay deep down in her heart. There was a cradle in her little room, and a fine lad sleeping in it; but between Mrs. Brentnal and Nancy, there was a league grown, as of mother and daughter. Mrs. Brentnal declared that Nancy was the best little creature that ever was born. She had written down into the country to tell her parents that she had left her first place, as it did not at all suit her, and that she now got plenty of needlework, and was very comfortable. Mrs. Brentnal had also written to them to say, Nancy was the best creature that ever was born, and the mother had written in return that it was very pleasant to hear such good accounts. Thus all pain had so far been spared them, and their poverty had prevented their coming up, by which any unhappy discovery of the real facts had been prevented. Out of doors Mrs. Brentnal had not found it so easy a matter to satisfy the neighbours as to Nancy's identity. They imagined that she was John Tulloch's wife, and that he did not say so, on account of his relations on the other side of the water, who, they fancied, were expecting his money amongst their children. Any other supposition they could not entertain, except at Mrs. Brentnal's expense; but Mrs. Brentnal explained that all was right, and time would show. And time did show. John Tulloch went two or three voyages, and in the intervals at home, he grew more and more fond of Nancy Bains; brought her presents, and would take her out on excursions to Greenwich, which was his favourite resort, where he could talk to the old sailors, and stroll in the park, and get tea at one of the tea-houses, and the like. Mrs. Brentnal saw all this, but only with evident pleasure, and on the third return of John Tulloch; he fairly married Nancy Bains, and made an excursion to Gravesend to hold the wedding dinner. And yet it was not called a wedding dinner-for honest John Tulloch pretended to his relations and everybody, that Nancy had long been his wife, aye, long before he brought her home. The reason of this was obvious. He was determined that not a soul but himself and Mrs. Brentnal should know an atom of Nancy's past history. It would not have been easy for any one but John Tulloch to satisfy his relations for his keeping silence so long, but as for him, it was quite enough to say that it had been his whim. Had any one been at the trouble to search the registry, they would have found Nancy's little boy registered in her own maiden name--but nobody ever thought of doing it, and the child bore, and will continue to bear the name of Tulloch to his dying day. Nancy, by degrees, became the bright, cheerful, happy love, and made her his living genius, always thinking of him, and for him, and the one good deed that he had done in her behalf, was repaid by a daily devotion, that made his little home in this dingy court, more bright to his eye, or his memory, than the brightest scenes of southern coasts and countries that he had visited in his voyages. Besides the eldest boy, they had now another child playing on the floor, and no one could tell which John liked best,-he could not tell himself-they were both Nancy's. BY DR. SMILES. (Concluded from page 380.) AT the conclusion of the first portion of this memoir, inserted in last week's Journal, we gave Bamford's sketch of himself about the time of his first imprisonment. And now, here is Bamford's portrait of his home, his wife, and his children at the same period: "Come in from the frozen rain, and from the night wind, which is blowing the clouds into sheets, like torn sails before a gale. Now down a step or two.-'Tis better to keep low in the world, than to climb only to fall. "It is dark, save when the clouds break into white scud; and silent, except the snort of the wind, and the rattling of hail, and the eaves of dropping rain. Come in!--A glimmer shows that the place is inhabited; that the nest has not been rifled whilst the bird was away. "Now shalt thou see what a miser a poor man can be in the heart's treasury. A second door opens, and a flash of light shows we are in a weaving room, clean and flagged, and in which are two looms with silken work of green and gold. A young woman, of short stature, fair, round, and fresh as Hebe; with light brown hair escaping in ringlets from the sides of her clean cap, and with a thoughtful and meditative look, sits darning beside a good fire, which sheds warmth upon the cleanswept hearth, and gives light throughout the room, or rather cell. A fine little girl, seven years of age, with a sensible and affectionate expression of countenance, is reading in a low tone to her mother. "And he opened his mouth and taught them, saying, Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn; for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness; for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness sake; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you; and shall say all manner of evil against you for my sake." "Observe the room and its furniture. An humble but cleanly bed, screened by the dark old-fashioned curtain, |