his child. Sara, obeying his movement, stood still also with her eyes cast down, and just showing a glimmer of malice under their lids, with the colour glowing softly in her cheeks, with the ghost of a smile coming and going round her pretty mouth. "Oh child, child!" was all Mr. Brownlow said. He was moved to smile in spite of himself, but he was more moved to wonder. After all, she was making a joke of it -or was it really possible that, in this careless smiling way, the young creature, who had thrust her life into his hands like a flower, to be disposed of as he would, was going forward to meet all unknown evils and dangers? The sober, steady, calculating man could understand a great many things more abstruse, but he could not understand this.

This, however, was about the end of their conference, for they had reached old Betty's cottage by this time, who came out, ungrateful old woman as she was, to curtsy as humbly to Mr. Brownlow as if he had been twenty old squires, and to ask after his health. And Sara had occasion to speak to her friend Pamela on the other side of the way. It was not consistent with the father's dignity, of course, to go with her to visit those humble neighbours, but he stood at the gate with old Betty behind in a whirl of curtsies, watching while Sara's tall, straight, graceful figure went across the road, and Pamela, with her little, fresh, bright, dewy face, like an April morning, came running out to meet her." Poor little thing! Mr. Brownlow said to himselfthough he could not have explained why he was sorry for Pamela; and then he turned back slowly and went home, crossing the long shadows of the trees. He was not satisfied with himself or with his day's work. He was like a doctor accustomed to regard with a cool and impartial eye the diseases of others, but much at a loss when he had his own personal pains in hand. He was uneasy and ashamed when he was alone and reminded himself that he had managed very badly. What was he to do? Was he to act as a doctor would, and put his lomestic malady into the hands of a brother practitioner? But this was a suggestion at which he shuddered. Was he to take Jack into his counsel and get the aid of his judgment?but Jack was worse, a thousand times worse, than a stranger. He had all his life been considered a very clever lawyer, and he knew it he had got scores of people out of scrapes, and, one way or other, half the country was beholden to him; and he could do nothing but get himself deeper and deeper into his own miserable scrape. Faint thoughts of making it into "a case and taking opinions on it-taking Wrinkell's opinion, for instance, quietly, his old friend who had a clear head and a great deal of experience came into his mind. He had made a muddle of it himself. And then the Rector's question recurred to him with still greater force - could it be softening of the brain? Perhaps it would be best to speak to the doctor first of all,

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Meanwhile Sara had gone into Mrs. Swayne's little dark parlour, out of the sunshine, and had seated herself at Pamela's post in the window, very dreamy and full of thought. She did not even speak for a long time, but let her little friend prattle to her. "I saw you and Mr. Brownlow coming down the avenue," said Pamela; "what a long time you were, and how strange it looked! Sometimes you had a great deal to say, and then for a long time you would walk on and on, and never look at each other. Was he scolding you? Sometimes I thought he was."

Sara made no answer to this question; she only uttered a long, somewhat demonstrative sigh, and then went off upon a way of her own. 'I wonder how it would have felt to have had a mother?" she said, and sighed again to her companion's great dismay.

"How it would have felt?" said Pamela; "That is just the one thing that makes me feel I don't envy you. You have quantities and quantities of fine things, but I have mamma."



"And I have papa," said Sara, quickly, not disposed to be set at a disadvantage; was not what I meant. Sometimes, though you may think it very wicked, I feel as if I was rather glad; for, of course, if mamma had been living it would have been very different for me; and then sometimes I think I would give a great deal

Look here. I don't like talking of such things; but did you ever think what you would do if you were married? Fanny Hardcastle likes talking of it. How do you think you should feel? to the gentleman, you know?"

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Think," ," said Pamela; "does one need to think about it? love him, to be sure." And this she said with a rising colour, and with two rays of new light waking up in her eyes.

Ah, love him," said Sara; "it is very easy to talk; but how are you to love him? that does not come of itself just when it is told, you know; at least I suppose it doesn't- I am sure I never tried."

"But if you did not love him, of course you would not marry him," said Pamela, getting confused.


that is just one of the things it is so easy to say," said Sara; "and I suppose at your age you don't know any better. Don't you know that people have to marry whether they like it or not? and when they never, never would have thought of it themselves? I sup pose," said Sara, in the strength of her superior knowledge, "that most of us are married like that. Because it suits our people, or becauseI don't know what-anything but one's own will." And this little speech the young martyr again rounded with a sigh.

"Are you going to be married?" said Pamela, drawing a footstool close to her friend's feet, and looking up with awe into her face. "I wish you would tell me. Mamma has gone to Dewsbury, and she will not be back for an hour. Oh, do tell me. I will never repeat it to any

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body. And, dear Miss Brownlow, if you don't | avenue obliquely in two- the one end all
love him "
light, the other all gloom. The two young
"Hush," said Sara, "I never said anything creatures ran lightly across the shady end, Sa-
about a him. It is you who are such a romantic
little girl. What I was speaking of was one's
duty; one has to do one's duty whether one
likes it or not."

This oracular speech was very disappointing to Pamela. She looked up eagerly with her bright eyes, trying to make out the romance which she had no doubt existed. "I can fancy," she said, softly, "why you wanted your mother; " and her little hand stole into Sara's, which lay on her knee. Sara did not resist the soft caress. She took the hand, and pressed it close between her own, which were longer, and not so rounded and childlike; and then, being a girl of uncertain disposition, she laughed, to Pamela's great surprise and dismay.

"I think, perhaps, I like to be my own mistress best," she said; "if mamma had lived she never would have let me do anything I wanted to do and then most likely she would not have known what I meant. It is Jack, you know, who is most like mamma.'


"But he is very nice," said Pamela, quickly; and then she bent down her head as quickly, feeling the hot crimson rushing to her face, though she did not well know why. Sara took no notice of it-never observed it, indeed — and kept smoothing down in her own her little neighbour's soft small hand.

Oh, yes," she said, "and I am very fond of my brother; only he and I are not alike, you know. I wonder who Jack will marry, if he ever marries; but it is very fine to hear him talk of that perhaps he never did to you. He is so scornful of everybody who falls in love, and calls them asses, and all sorts of things. I should just like to see him fall in love himself. If he were to make a very foolish marriage it would be fun. They say those dreadfully wise people always do."

ra, as always, leading the way. Her mind, it is true, was as full as it could be of her father's communication, but the burden sat lightly on her. Now and then a word or two would tingle, as it were, in her ears; now and then it would occur to her that her fate was sealed, as she said, and a sigh, half false half true, would come to her lips; but, in the mean time, she was more amused by the novelty of the posi tion than discouraged by the approach of fate.

"What are you thinking of?" she said, when they came into the tender light in the further part of the avenue; for the two, by this time, had slackened their pace, and drawn close together, as is the wont of girls, though they did not speak.

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I was only looking at our shadows going before us," said Pamela, and this time the little girl echoed very softly Sara's sigh.

"They are not at all beautiful to look at ; they are shadows' on stilts," said Sara; "you might think of something more interesting than that."

"But I wish something did go before us like that to show the way," said Pamela. "I wish it was true about guardian angels if we could only see them, that is to say; and then it is so difficult to know"

"What," ," said Sara; "you are too young to want a guardian angel; you are not much more than a little angel yourself. When one has begun to go daily further from the east, one knows the good of being quite a child."

"But I am not quite a child," said Pamela, under her breath.

"Oh yes, you are. But look, here, Jack must be coming; don't you hear the wheels? I did not know it was so late. Shall you mind going back alone, for I must run and dress? And please come to me in the morning as soon as ever they are gone, I have such heaps of.

"Do they?" said Pamela; and she bent down to look at the border of her little black silk apron, and to set it to rights, very ener-things to say." getically, with her unoccupied hand. But she did not ask any further questions; and so the two girls sat together for a few minutes, hand clasped in hand, the head of the one almost touching the other, yet each far afield in her own thoughts; of which, to tell the truth, though she was so much the elder and the wiser, Sara's thoughts were the least painful, the least heavy, of the two.

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You don't give me any advice, Pamela," she said at last. "Come up the avenue with me at least. Papa has gone home, and it is quite dark here out of the sun. Put on your hat and come with me. I like the light when it slants so, and falls in long lines. I think you have a headache to-day, and a walk will do you good."

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Yes, I think I have a little headache," said Pamela, softly; and she put on her hat and followed her companion out. The sunshine had passed beyond Betty's cottage, and cut the

Saying this, Sara ran off, flying along under the trees, she and her shadow; and poor little Pamela, not so much distressed as perhaps she ought to have been to be left alone, turned back towards the house. The dogcart was audible before it dashed through the gate, and Pamela's heart beat, keeping time with the ringing of the mare's feet and the sound of the wheels. But it stopped before Betty's door, and some one jumped down, and the mare and the dogrart and the groom dashed past Pamela in a kind of whirlwind. Mr. John had keen eyes, and saw something before him in the avenue; and he was quick-witted, and timed his inquiries after Betty in the most prudent way. Before Pamela, whose heart beat louder than ever, was halfway down the avenue, he had joined her, evidently, whatever Betty or Mrs. Swayne might say to the contrary, in the most purely accidental way.

"This is luck," said Jack; "I have not seen

you for two whole days, except at the window, I get everything for one's self. Shouldn't you like which doesn't count. I don't know how we that? Better than all the nonsense and all the managed to endure the dulness before that ceremony here," said Jack, bending down to see window came to be inhabited. Come this way under the shade of her hat, which, as it hapa little under the chestnuts you have the sun pened, was difficult enough. in your eyes.' "Oh, I don't mind," said Pamela, "and I must not wait; I am going home."

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"I suppose you have been walking with Sara, and she has left you to go home alone," said Jack; "it is like her. She never thinks of anything. But tell me what you have been doing these two frightfully long days?"

From which it will be seen that Mr. John, as well as his sister, had made a little progress towards intimacy since he became first acquainted with the lodgers at Mrs. Swayne's.

"I don't think they have been frightfully long days," said Pamela, making the least little timid response to his emphasis and to his eyes wrong, no doubt, but almost inevitable. "I have been doing nothing more than usual; mamma has wanted me, that is all."

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"We don't have much ceremony," said Pa"but if I was a lady like your sis



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"Like Sara!" said Jack; and he nodded his head with a little brotherly contempt. "Don't be anything different from what you are, please. I should like people to wear always the same dress, and keep exactly as they were when the first time, you know. I like you, for instance, in your red cloak. I never see a red cloak without thinking of you. I hope you will keep that one for ever and ever," said the philosophical youth. As for Pamela she could not but feel a little confused, wondering whether this, or Sara's description of her brother, was the reality. And she should not have known what to answer but that the bell at the house interfered in her behalf, and began to sonnd forth its touching call -a sound that could not be gainsaid.

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"Then it is too bad of mamma," said Jack; you know you ought to be out every day. I must come and talk to her about it air and "There is the bell," she cried; will be exercise, you know." too late for dinner. Oh, please, don't come any further. There is old Betty looking out."

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"But you are not a doctor," said Pamela, with a soft ring of laughter- not that he was witty, but that the poor child was happy, and showed it in spite of herself; for Mr. John had turned, and was walking down the avenue, very slowly, pausing almost every minute, and not at all like a man who was going home to dinner. He was still young. I suppose that was why he preferred Pamela to the more momentous fact which was in course of preparation at the great house.

"I am a little of everything," he said; "I should like to go out to Australia, and get a farm, and keep sheep. Don't you like the old stories and the old pictures with the shepherdesses? If you had a little hut all covered with flowers, and a crook with ribbons "

Oh, but I should not like to be a shepherdess," cried Pamela, in haste.

"Shouldn't you? Well, I did not mean that; but to go out into the bush, or the backwoods, or whatever they call it, and do everything; and

"Bother dinner," said Mr. John, "and old Betty too," he added under his breath. He had taken her hand, the same hand which Sara had been holding, to bid her good-bye, no doubt in the ordinary way. At all events, old Betty's vicinity made the farewell all that politeness required. But he did not leave her until he had opened the gate for her, and watched her enter at her own door. "When my sister leaves Miss Preston in the avenue," he said, turning gravely to Betty, with that severe propriety for which he was distinguished, "be sure you always see her safely home; she is too young to walk about alone." And with these dignified words Mr. John walked on, having seen the last of her, leaving Betty speechless with amazement. "As if I done it!" Betty said. And then he went home to dinner. Thus both Mr. Brownlow's children, though he did not know it, had begun to make little speculations for themselves in undiscovered ways.

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JASPER. -This durable aud beautiful substance, observes the Scientific Review, which has hitherto been obtainable only in limited quantities, chiefly from Siberia and Russia, is now procured, to almost any required extent, at Saint Gervais, in Savoy, where the quarry has a surface of at least 24,000 square yards, and a depth of about twenty-two yards. It is a variety of quartz, which is characterized by being opaque, however thin the plates into which it may be cut, and is of various colours-red,

brown, green, &c., that at present used for jewellery being green with red spots. It resists for indefinite periods the action of the weather, and is an excellent material for ornamentation, whether as stands for small objects, &c., or as panels, columns, &c., to be used by the archi tect. Some of what is found at Saint Gervais bears close resemblance to the beautiful species termed rouge antique; it is of a fine red, and without veins.

From Fraser's Magazine. CHARLES LAMB.

How pleasant it is to reflect that all these lovers of books have themselves become books,' says Leigh Hunt, when thinking over his favourite book-lovers of the past. And, he continues, I should like to remain visible in this shape. I should like to survive so, were it only for the sake of those who love me in private, knowing as I do, what a treasure is the possession of a friend's mind, when he is no more.' In glancing with Leigh Hunt round our book-shelves we cannot but feel that of all human spirits who remain visible in book shape, to keep immortal company with us, there is not one who comes nearer home to us than Charles Lamb. His writings are at the head of those which we take closely to heart in a sort of bed and board acquaintanceship, because the authors have given themselves to us so intimately in the shape of their books, that they come near to us in the warmth of real life; the spirit being so much more than the mere letter. In the visibility of embodied personality, the books of Charles Lamb are of a kind in which the species almost constitutes the genus. He lives in them as fully, as vividly, as Johnson does in Boswell's Life and draws us to him by a tie of tenderer love. He keeps on talking to us, not like a book, but as in life, making the old curious inquisition into the commonplaces of nature, and minor motives of humanity, with the old quaint mental twist in his views; the naiveness that makes confession so charming; passing over his own troubles with that pathetic briskness with which his freakish humour kept the face of things astir, like a phosphorescent sea at night, to hide the darkling depths below; the wit luminous in his eye, the stammer on his tongue, the touch of St. Vitus in his mental movement; his frank heart and open hand making his frailties more human than some good people's virtues; and the acquaintanceship keeps growing until we know him personally, even as Hunt and Hazlitt, Jem White or Wordsworth did, as dear lovable and gentle Charles Lamb.

With the work of his friend Mr. Proctor (or Barry Cornwall) most probably closes the record of Charles Lamb's life. We know now all that we are likely to gather from personal observers. The story is told, or rather we have the complete data for a story that will be told again and again so long as the English language lives in this world. We are enabled to see him as he lived and moved in the eyes of friends and

companions, as well as look at his strange life and delightful character from within, by his own light. We know with what quiet heroism he bore his load for life; how lightly he jested with his lips when his heart was so heavy at times; how deftly he turned his mortal pain into immortal pleasure for us. The key to Charles Lamb's writing may be found in his unique character, and the main clues to his character are visible in his life.

Lamb was born almost in penury, and brought up as a charity boy. This is the plain truth, although the good Sergeant Talfourd amiably tries to festoon the fact and drape Lamb's first entrance on the stage of life as elegantly as he can. He has a knack of cutting the beef with the hamknife to ennoble the flavour: or shall we say, he tells the truth so lovingly? And so blandly does he allude to the poor parents who were 'endued with sentiments and with manners which might well become the gentlest blood,' and the daily beauty of a cheerful submission to a state bordering on the servile,' that on our first introduction we feel a pervading air of gentility. In spite of which, Charles Lamb was one of those favourite children of nature who get put out to that old nurse - of many heroic spirits the stern mother- Poverty.

Charles Lamb was born on the 18th of February 1775, in one of the chambers of the Temple. His father was clerk to Mr. Samuel Salt, a barrister, one of the benchers of the Inner Temple, or rather, he was a kind of factotum, doing all the service that his master required, and doing it cleverly too. The father's family came from Lincolnshire, the mother's from Hertfordshire, and Lamb in one of his essays claims the latter county for his native fields.' Lamb never attempted to trace his ancestry beyond two or three generations. Perhaps he shared in the feeling illustrated by Sydney Smith, who said his grandfather had disappeared about the time of the assizes, and they made no further inquiries. He certainly had no false pride on the subject of his birth, and he left it to his brother John to keep up the dignity of their house.

Lamb had only one brother and one sister; John being twelve and Mary ten years older than himself. He spent the first seven years of his life in the Temple. There he had early access to Mr. Salt's books, and was 'tumbled into a spacious closet of good old English reading, and browsed at will on that fair and wholesome pasturage.' It is thus he speaks of his sister Mary, but the description doubtless applies


to himself. Here he first began to wander | sionary brow and talk of coming glories and in those twisted walks of literature, which vast projects as he looked down long shinhe loved so much in after days, and snuff ing vistas of the future. His influence on the odour of old books, as fragrant to him Lamb was unquestionably great, and the as the blossoms of the tree of knowledge friendship deepened all through life. Such which grew in the happy orchard.' He a radiating mind could not come near others seems to have been a born antique in cer- without warming and quickening them into tain tendencies; and these early surround- a larger life. In dedicating his first collected ings, which threw over him a shadow of the works to Coleridge (1818), Lamb says, past, must have deepened that antique You first kindled in me, if not the power, colouring of his mind. yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.' But in matters political and religious, Lamb never became a very enthusiastic disciple. He listened and wondered at the new heavens that rose, 'like an exhalation,' over the old earth at the incantation of Coleridge's talk; but a bit of pavement that he could feel firm under foot was more to the mind of Lamb than all the cloudlands going. He had not the large diffusive imagination of his friend, and his whole nature clung to those realities that help to concentrate the mind here and now. He dwelt in the present, and was no dim explorer of the future; he nestled in the homely valleys, and did not range the mountain tops of thought. Whatsoever poetic tinge the mind of Lamb may have caught from the glory of Coleridge's sunrise, it certainly was not dyed for life with any colour not its own.

From the long line of dark chambers, and narrow lane and lowering archway, the boy issued forth to walk the old and awful cloisters of Edward.' When he was nearly eight years of age he was presented to the school of Christ's Hospital, where he remained as a scholar for some seven years. Here he appears to have been a little like Charlotte Bronté when she first went to school and her companions were romping around her: she said she could not play-she had not learned to play. While others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a young monk.' And here he learned, amongst other things, to question the propriety of grace before meat, especially such graces as prefaced their cold bread and cheese suppers with a preamble, connecting with that humble blessing a recognition of benefits the most awful and overwhelming to the imagination, which religion has to offer.' He also learned the value of having a home near at hand, and the preciousness of a sister Mary in it. To her thoughtful care, he was indebted for many little additions to the school-fare, such as slices of extraordinary bread and butter,'' lumps of double refined sugar,' a smack of ginger or cinnamon to make his mess of millet' less repugnant, and, crowning treat of all, a hot plate of roast veal,' or the 'more tempting griskin' that had been cooked at home. These dainties were brought to him by his good old aunt, who would toddle' off with any good thing she could get for him; and he used to feel ashamed to see her come and sit down on the old coal-hole steps' and open her apron and bring out her basin. I remember, says Lamb, the contending passions at the unfolding- there was love for the bringer; shame for the things brought, and the manner of its bringing; sympathy for those who were too many to share in it; and at the top of all, hunger predominant.'

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Lamb remained at Christ's Hospital seven years. Here he made the acquaintance of Coleridge, who was his elder-by two years, and who had already begun to lift up his vi

On leaving Christ's Hospital, Lamb had to enter the workday world instead of going to college, as he would have wished. His brother John had a comfortable clerkship in the South Sea House,' and from the old and awful cloisters' to this grave above ground Lamb went to continue his musings and colour his mind, and earn a little money. The old house stood, says Lamb, amongst so many richer houses, their 'poor neighbour out of business. Some forms of business were still kept up, but the soul had long since fled. Lamb tells us that the absence of bustle was delightful, the indolence almost cloistral. With what reverence he would pace the great bare rooms and courts at eventide. How he would ponder over the dead tomes' and ancient portraits; the dusty maps of Mexico, 'dim as dreams,' and soundings of the bay of Panama.'

At seventen years of age, Lamb obtained an appointment as clerk in the accountant's office of the East India Company, and in the India house he served for the space of thirty-three years. It has been a matter of regret to many that Charles Lamb should have been doomed for so long to the drudgery of the desk. And, naturally enough, he did not take to it because he liked it, but because he was in the habit of sub

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