her social stock in trade. They were her claims to regard and attention, as some people's riches, or as a pretty woman's beauties. She was forever urging upon Anne the wholesomeness of early exertion and the infinite evil of giving way. So that Annie "put herself forward too soon," said the old nurse despairingly, and was stirring about the house at a time when other ladies would have been cosily wrapped in white-frilled dressing gowns and lying on bedroom sofas.

Percy noticed nothing. When, a fortnight after that new life had come among them, Annie appeared at the dinner-table just the same as ever-only paler and more languid, but infinitely lovelier-his sole remark was -shaking hands with her and kissing her forehead "It scarcely seems a fortnight Annie, since you were here: but my mother says it is so." Yet his manner had an indescribable shade of softness quite unusual to him; and Annie forgave the coldness of his spoken welcome.

But Percy was not soft either in speech or in manner; and, after to-day, he gradually relapsed into his old silence and indifference. Annie re-assumed her household duties; and, in another week all things were exactly the same as before. The old nurse even leaving, called away earlier than was expected, owing to an error in dates elsewhere. And then Annie had her treasure in her sole charge, with no one to whom she could trust him with confidence; therefore, without assistance or relief. She had no nursemaid, and her two servants were not clever about babies. She was surprised to find how that one little creature absorbed her time, and how scant was the leisure left for the busy house duties she had undertaken before his birth. Yet the inexorable law had to be fulfilled, however unable she was to fulfil it.

for active household work. The consequence was that week by week she fell gradually behind, until she was in debt several pounds; all to be saved out of an allowance that did not compass the inevitable expenses! It was hopeless to think of it. What could she do? If she curtailed her husband of any of his special comforts, she feared he would say that she no longer regarded him, and thought only of her baby. Besides, ought she to fail in making her duty to her husband the first thing in her life? Exacting Mrs. Clarke it was impossible to cut down. By virtue of that fallacy-the privilege of old age-she must be pampered and petted and preserved whoever failed or wanted, and a worn-out, useless life be nursed up to croon away a few idle years by the chimney-corner, though the young and the needed should perish in its stead. Mrs. Clarke was impossible. What could she give up further in herself? She had not, as it was, one of the ordinary physical helps to a young mother, and, if she reduced her regimen to within straiter limits than at present, she must be content with plain bread and water. What should she do? While in her own room, kneeling by her baby's pretty little cot, and longing for him to awake, she suddenly remembered that she had a handsome old-fashioned pearl necklace, of her dear mother's. She never wore it; it was of no use to her. She would sell it; and thus be saved from further anxiety and unhappiness. It might be a pain; but it was only a pain of sentiment at the worst; while, to vex her husband, and perhaps lose his confidence, would be a crime. That very day she paid up all her back bills, and started fair again, with a balance in hand.

She

But this must not happen again. must work, as she did before; for she was strong now, and must bear her part with the When those terrible house-books had been rest. And she did work as before, improvisput back into her hands again, and the mean ing all sorts of portable cradles for her darsum once more doled out, she had received ling, so that he should be watched over the a strict injunction to be doubly careful now while she was busy, as zealously as if she had with this heavy expense before her, and to nothing else to do than care for him and remember that she saved for her child while guard him. She worked till her limbs she saved for her husband. This completed ached, and her head was dull, and her heart the circle of Annie's obligations. Passionate depressed. She worked till she was faint love was now added to her former principle of steady duty, and she had not a wish to evade the observance of her task.

Still, she could not spare so much time as formerly, and she was not yet strong enough

and giddy and overwrought. But no one saw it. She looked always neat and glossy for dinner; and Percy did not scrutinize her narrowly enough to see how pale she was; nor how thin; nor how her lips quivered

when she spoke, and her eyebrows lifted | a bad manager she was, and how unfit to hemselves up, as if to lift a heavy weight have the guidance of Percy's household exfrom her eyes. He saw her just as she used penditure. Then her baby wanted some to be, with her placid smile, and her low, new frocks; and Annie, true to the instincts sweet voice; with her dainty costume, always of a young mother, had set her heart on marvellously clean and choice, though simple. having them robed and worked, and had been He saw nothing beyond all this, and as the quietly trying to save up for them, little by house went on exactly as it did before, he was little, ever since she sold the pearl brooch, never weary of congratulating himself in secret the companion to the necklace. But to no that he had taken his mother's advice, and had purpose. So Annie sold another little trinput Annie on her mettle, to rightly under-ket, and another and another; paid her bills, stand and practise economical housekeeping. and bought her baby six pretty white worked Mrs. Clarke had a slight attack of indiges- frocks, and a white cashmere pelisse; and tion: and what a miserable house that slight went to bed that night proud and blessed attack created! Percy was impatient and as a queen; free from debt. fault-finding; the old lady capricious, and dissatisfied; and poor Annie's powers were taxed till she was often faint and weeping from weariness and fatigue. But she had her old immunity from observation; though now and then the servant would steal up with tea or coffee, or sometimes with a cup of arrowroot, saved from the old lady's sur-too, in nice clean prints, instead of with all plus, as more needful to Mrs. Clarke the younger and weaker. The neck of Mrs. Clarke's illness from overfeeding was broken in a fortnight, though things had not quite come back to their old groove even then.

But Mrs. Clarke complained to her son that yesterday her cutlet was tough, and she was sure Ann bought inferior meat for her, that she might save for such senseless extravagance as she had just been committing; for did he not see how she had bedizened up that miserable little baby, who would look much better

those useless fallals about him? In her day, indeed, such folly was never thought of, and for her part, she thought what had been good enough for her children might be good enough for Ann's. And she wished Percy would mention it.

Percy was hard, but not small. Provided things went the way of his ordering, he did not care to criticise the stages. He soothed his mother, spoke to Annie about the offending veal, but said nothing ill-natured of the frocks. He had not the heart to do it, with the boy laughing and crowing in his mother's arms, and kicking out his little feet, in all freedom of a first day of short coats.

This illness was expensive. Percy did not insist on the house paying for the doctor; but the thousand little luxuries and the inevitable waste of a sick-room made sad havoc with Annie's calculations. Once or twice when she was very hard pressed, she impoverished her husband's dietary. He always spoke of it, gravely and displeased; and once he said that he did not approve of her negligence; which was becoming marked, very marked, and excessively unpleasant. If she By degrees, every little article of private neglected him, her husband, how could he property that Annie possessed was swallowed feel satisfied that his dear mother, sick and up by extra housekeeping expenses. When infirm as she was, and obliged, after her long she had nothing left that she could approprilife of independence and well-doing, to come ate, she had nothing for it but to dismiss her to him for support; how could he feel sure two servants. She hired a strong, goodthat she received due attention when he was natured maid of all work, clumsy, strong, and away y? He was afraid that Annie's mother-ignorant: one of the tribe who are prone to hood, instead of opening her heart had narrowed it. Annie broke her heart, in her silent, quiet little way over these reproaches, and she inwardly resolved not to offend again whatever it cost her, or whatever other means she must use.

But those horrible bills! She could not keep them under; not though she cried for vexation and wounded pride to think what

fall up-stairs with tea-trays; and who, if they were not watched, would fry potatoes in blacking, and lard boots with the butter. Thus, all the directing fell to the young mistress, and half the work: for the girl was too uncouth to do any thing well, or any thing of herself. Day by day she slowly faded and drooped: day by day, patiently and steadily continuing her work: her cheeks paler, her eyes dimmer

SAVING LITTLE: WASTING MUCH.

and larger; the lustre of her warm brown | son dangerously ill, and for whom the only hair dulled, and its color faded; the slender chance lay in loving watchfulness and care. waist shrinking, as the round young throat But he found her so extraordinarily reduced, But there was no one and with such distinct evidences of organic grew thin and spare. with eyes so keen, or love so quick to mark mischief, that he himself had but little hope the change; no one to cheer her by a kindly of the result. He inquired minutely into her word; no one to help her with sympathy or life; and the whole mystery was revealed. aid; no one to step forward to save her. She was dying, literally, from fatigue and Unpitied and unnoticed, she dedicated her exhaustion, he told her husband frankly, but precious existence to those who did not love severely. her, nor care to watch or guard her. Too heavy a burden had been laid upon her, but her faithful hands bore it bravely to, the last; and, with all a woman's trust and fortitude, she neither thought it hard, nor cried out to be relieved. If she had but spoken! If Percy had but cared to win her confidence!

Percy never left her bedside. Night and day he nursed her, as she would have nursed her sick child. But this love had come too late. Not all his tears could give back the life which his blindness and hardness had helped to destroy. Neither could it now call out the love in that young heart, which had At last, one day, she failed. She had been lain like a sleeping child that would have for some hours ironing, when, very quietly, smiled back love for love to the one who had she gave a deep sigh, and fell fainting to the | awakened it. All too late! too late! Hapground. The red-armed maid ran screaming piness, love, and life all gone, and the hand away, and Percy hurried down-stairs. He that might have stayed them now stretched found her to all appearance dead on the out imploringly in vain. kitchen-floor; and, taking her in his arms, bore her tenderly and gently to her room. For he loved her as much as he could have loved any wife, and terror frightened him into A doctor was sent nature and demonstration. for; Mrs. Clarke snappishly repudiating all idea of danger, or the necessity of making a fuss because of such a common thing as a fainting fit; but, when the doctor came, he looked grave, ordering his patient to be kept in bed, and to be most zealously tended; ordering her, in fact, the attendance of a per

When Percy left that death-room, he looked a shrunken, gray, withered old man; as if years, not hours, had passed over him since his young wife died. From that day no one ever saw him smile, and no one ever saw him lift his eyes frankly to theirs. He kept them fixed on the ground, or turned away like a man who has committed a crime; and so dragged on a life which had no need to ask of another the mystery and iniquity of torture. Even his mother cried a little when the baby died a month after its mother.

THE jest has become a stale one that English | the late Chief-Justice ever practised, in the shop parents who find their boys too dull for other pursuits, send them into the church. It is not often, however, that the same irony is turned against the legal profession, but we have just stumbled on an instance. It seems comical to think of Lord St. Leonards as deficient in the The English Court genius to make a barber. Journal is responsible for the anecdote.

"It is a singular circumstance that two of the most eminent of the lawyers of the present century, Lord St. Leonards and the late Chief-Justice Abbott (Lord Tenterden), were the sons of operative barbers. We do not understand that

at least: but certainly the ex-Lord Chancellor spent part of his boyhood in the parental shaving-shop, in Duke Street, St. James'. We have heard, in our young days, one of the first counsel at the bar mention that, on one occasion, he had called at the shop of the elder Sugden, when the latter, in the course of some familiar small-talk of which barbers are so fond, remarked, 'I have sent my son to be a lawyer, sir; I hope no offence, but I've tried him at my own profession, but he hadn't the genius for it.""

ON THE LAYING OF THE FIRST STONE | And their cold brows twined with wreaths of

OF THE MEMORIAL CHURCH AT CONSTANTI-
NOPLE, BY LORD STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE,
OCTOBER 19, 1858.

Now no more, fair Stamboul hears the rattle
Of the warrior's harness at her gates-
Sees no more the tide of Europe's battle,
Hotly pressing through her azure straits.
Queenlike, from her terraces and gardens
She looks down along those waters blue,
On those turrets twain, her ancient wardens,
Guardians of the old world and the new.
From her throne, the languid European

Sees the old camp on the Asian shore,
Sees the foam-wreaths on the far Ægean,
And the white sails flitting slowly o'er.
Sees no more the gathering hosts that wander'd
To that wild peninsula afar,

To the desolate fort where England squander'd
So much life, in one brief winter's war.
When the full ship with its living burden
Pass'd so near, she heard the canvas strain,
As it rush'd, in haste, for glory's guerdon,

Toward the rock reefs of that stormy main.
When the waifs of that great strife and anguish,
Like spars borne on a receding tide,
Came back wounded, came back sick to languish
In her shadow, on the Asian side;

To those walls, where sick men, breathing
faintly,

Heard an angel rustling in the gloom, And a woman's presence, calm and saintly, Lighted up the melancholy room.

Look down, Stamboul, from thy throne of marble,

From thy cypress gardens green and fair, Where the nightingales forever warble,

And the fountains leap into the air.
Look down, Stamboul, from thy fair dome
swelling,

Where Sophia's broken crosses lie,
And thine Imoums night and day are telling,
In God's face that everlasting lie.

Not in anger come we to upbraid thee,

Not with war-ships floating in thy bay,
Not with brand and banner, brought to aid thee,
Stand we by thy Golden Horn to-day.
Lay the stone, O statesman, tried and hoary,
'Tis no marble monument of war,
But a trophy to thine England's glory
Unto distant ages, nobler far.

But a tribute meeter, and more solemn,
To our lost ones by that rough Black Sea,
Than triumphal arch, or granite column
Graven all with names of victory.

They have had their dirges in our sorrows
When the chill'd blood left the check and
brow,

In that voiceless agony that borrows
An expression out of silent woe.
And their names writ down in Britain's story,
The best page she shows to future years,

glory,

Ah, those laurels wet with woman's tears!

Not yet, time with surely healing fingers,
To our beggar'd love has brought relief,
Still a vain thought of requital lingers,
And an aching memory of grief.

This, our vengeance for the gallant bosoms
In those cruel trenches, night by night,
Chill'd to death, as snow-encumbered blossoms
Fall down, and are trampled out of sight.
This, our vengeance for the young life wasted
In the hot charge, and the vain attack,
The assault to which so many hasted,

And the charge from which so few came
back.

This, our memory of the true and fearless,
Spotless honor, uncomplaining toil,
And the Christian zeal, the valor peerless,

And the tenderness war could not spoil.
Here we raise their monument forever,

Singing for them, till the world shall end, "In memoriam," such as poet never

Set to Heaven's own music for his friend.

Here we rear the white cross and the altar,
Day by day the page of truth unfold,
Chant their dirges from dear England's Psalter,
Read their requiem from her Bible old.
Blend their memory with these aisles of beauty,
Grave them on the windows' storied line;

Meet it is that men who died for duty

Be embalm'd in such a noble shrine.

Where the voice of praise, and prayer habitual,
In due order rises day and night,
Where the calm voice of that calm old ritual
Calls the soldier to a better fight.

Sleep, O warriors! cold your place of burial
In that rough Crimean valley lies,
While our church spire cleaves the blue ethercal,
And all nature smiles beneath our eyes.
Sleep, O warriors! all your toil and striving
In one glorious mission end at last;
Here, to speak salvation for the living,

Hope in death, and pardon for the past.
All your strength and valor now are blending
In one note of love that swells and thrills,
Like a strain of martial music ending

In long echoes drawn from sylvan hills.
For all acts that make our hearts to quiver
With a strong emotion as we read,
Are divine, and go back to the giver.

High endurance-courage-generous deed-
Come from Christ, and unto Christ returning,
Find their full acceptance only there,
In that centre for all noble yearning,
In that type of all perfection fair.
Here we leave you in his church, embalming
Your dear names with thoughts of love and

peace,

Till he comes to reign, all discord calming,
And the warfare of the world shall cease.
-Dublin University Magazine. C. F. A.

No. 767.-5 February, 1859.-Third Series, No. 45.

POETRY.-Sir Marmaduke Pole, 322. "The Rock in the Valley of El Ghor, 322. Three Evenings in the House, 361. The Irish Tenant at Will, 364.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Sir John Coleridges Reminiscences, 338. Photographing an Execution, 339. Free Trade in France, 352. A Scene in the Val Mastalone, 360. Portrait Painting in Madagascar, 376. D'Israeli the Elder, 376. Value of Italian Image-men, 380.

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