The major portion of the yard or court is a pen for the half-wild cattle driven in from the moor; and about it are the stables and cow-houses, the "shippen," and the "linneys "the "shippen " for sheep, and the "linneys" for wagons and carts and the farmer's gig. tinted garment of autumn, gray desolation towering above billowy woods of gold and amber, of copper and of green, what could be more beautiful? In her present weariness of expectation and disappointment, she longed to fly to the recesses of the moor, build herself a cell there of lichened granite stones, and there spend the rest of her days away from the sight and sounds of men. At noon on the first day, the van halted at a small wayside inn, and Richard ordered dinner. "There is but ham and eggs," he said. "Your ladyship must put up with that to-day. The ale is bad, but you shall have tolerable ginger beer." The night was spent at an old coaching inn, a large rambling place with vast sta bles. There she was treated to an excelsupper and to the best of rooms; but Richard did not sup with her, or indeed see her after their arrival at the inn. The worst seasons do not affect the yeomen round the moor; they must thrive, when they have free run for any number of sheep and cattle and horses over the downs, where the grass is always sweet, the water pure, and where disease never makes its appearance. All they have to concern themselves about is a supply of winter food for the stock. Elsewhere, the depression in agriculture, the repeal of the corn-laws, killed off the yeomen; only on the moor-fringes do they thrive to this day as sturdy, as well-to-do, and as indepen-lent dent, and, it must be added, as delighting in law as of old. Dartmoor lay on the south and east, and the cold clay land of north Devon on the west; land also, as already said, that is excellent running and rearing ground for young cattle. Consequently, Richard Cable, as soon as he reached the frontiers of these two poor lands one peat and the other clayfound buyers, but not buyers who were ready to part with their money without a haggle over coppers. It was not Richard who went after the farmers with his goods, as a chapman goes about among farmhouses with his wares; but the yeomen and farmers came to him. But when they came, they made poor pretences that they had chanced on him when bound elsewhere, or were at the tavern for some other purpose. The times of Richard's arrival were pretty well known. The van travelled slower than the news, as the thunder rolls after the flash. The men who came after calves were all alike in this they had very red faces, and all filled their clothes to overflow. They had all loud and cheery voices, and a breezy good-humor not unmixed with bluster, bred of the consciousness that their pockets were well lined, and that they were petty lords on their own domains. In one thing, they, moreover, were all deficient in the knowledge of the value of time. Josephine looked on with wonder at the business Richard did and at the way in which it was done. The scenery was lovely, so lovely that she enjoyed it in spite of the trouble in which she was. The ranges of tors, or granite peaks of the moor, its wildness and barrenness, contrasted with the richness of the country at its feet; now clothed in the many Next morning he paid the account, and they started on their further course. Her boots had been well cleaned; not so those of Cable, which still bore the red mud splashes that had come on them when they were in the sandstone district. It was now clear to Josephine that Richard would not agree to a reconciliation; she must abandon the hopes she had entertained that he would unbend and yield. She also had made up her mind; and when they came to a hill, up which both walked, she went to him on his side of the horse. "Mr. Cable," she said, "you are at once kind and cruel. You provide for me very differently than for yourself, and make provision that I shall lack no comfort; but you do not give me a good word, and not a look good or bad." Well," said he, "of whom have I learned to be cruel? You were scornful and offensive because I did not in a few weeks acquire your ways; and now I am better, I have learned something-that you have taught me - to be unfeeling and seek my own self-interest." "No; I was never either one or the other." He laughed contemptuously. "Not unfeeling! "No, Richard, - I mean Mr. Cable, I was thoughtless, but not unfeeling. I was not self-seeking, or I would not have married you." "You married me to suit a whim, and when you had me, the whim came to slap me in the face and sneer at my manners." She drew a long sigh; there was truth in this, and she did not contradict it. "But we will not cry over spilt milk and strive to patch up broken eggs. The thing is done and sealed up, and stowed away in the lockers of the past." "Tell me this, Richard; are you so set against me in your own mind that you will not take me to your side again? Are we never to come nearer each other than as I sit on the box, and you on the shaft, with your back turned to me? Is your face always to look away from me?" "Forever and forever. It is your doing." "I have trespassed against you, I know; but, I suppose, to all who trespass, for giveness is due when sought with tears." No," he said; "your trespass was too 66 deep." "Proud," he muttered —“proud and wayward, as of old. I feed my calves. Why should not I feed you?" "Because I am not a calf." They walked on in silence some way. Josephine's blood was roused. After reaching the top of the hill, before mounting, she said in a less excited and resolute tone: "Do not call me wrong-headed. I have my self-respect to sustain, and I cannot live on your charity if I may not bear your name.' Again they drove on some little way now over a down that commanded a glorious view of rolling land stretching far away to the west and north-west, and of rugged granite peaks, their sides strewn with overturned rocks, divided from each other by clefts, out of which rushed brawling torrents, coffee-colored with the dye "Then Mr. Cable, if I am not to be of the peat bogs out of which they regarded as a wife, I will owe you noth-sprung. ing. I have money, and I will pay for my lodging and food at the inns. I will not be indebted to you for anything. What had you determined on for me at St. Kerian? - no, not a penny When they came to another rise, Josephine dismounted again and walked up the hill beside her husband. The hill was steep, and she walked bent forward, looking at the ground. "Mr. Cable," she said, "at the inn where we spent the night, my boots were cleaned, but not yours.' 66 No," ," he answered, with a short laugh. "I was not there as a grand gentleman traveller, but as a plain, trading wayfarer. They don't black the boots of such as me." "They are plastered with mud of many "Does it offend has dirty boots, my lady?" that you your driver "No, Mr. Cable; but I think it would be pleasanter for yourself, if your boots were cleaned." 66 My boots! I remember what offence they gave you once. They would not take a polish. They were so steeped in oil that they might not come into your ladyship's boudoir. Are you sneering at my boots again? "I will not touch it of it." "You are proud," he said, scowling-colors." "proud and wilful; headstrong always." "And you are proud, Mr. Cable. There is the fortune of Cousin Gabriel Gotham - your father, lying untouched; the rents and dividends are accumulating. You will not have them, and I will not. Yes, you are proud, and I am proud also. I have some spirit left in me, though much is gone. I will live at St. Kerian, as that is your wish; but I will not share your money I will not touch any of it. I will work for my own bread, and not eat that of charity. I have a little money. Good Miss Otterbourne forced a five-pound note on me, and I have saved my wages. I will buy myself a sewing-machine, and live at St. Kerian by my own hands and feet. I suppose there is a sufficient vanity among the girls there to make them desire to dress beyond their station; and that the government schools have done their work effectually in giving them a distaste for doing their own needlework. So there in it. will be an opportunity for me to pick up a livelihood, and to be indebted to none you least of all." to No, Richard; I never sneer now." She put her delicate hand over her brow, and wiped it, and then got up into her place again. Presently they came to a spring that gushed into a granite trough a spring of such crystalline brightness, that looking down through the water was like looking through a magnifying glass. There was a button at the bottom of the trough, and one could distinguish the four holes "This water is very good and fresh shall I give you some?" asked Richard Cable. "No," answered Josephine. "I will take nothing from you, not even a cup of cold water. I will help myself. I will take nothing till it is offered in love." He looked hastily at her, and saw that her eyes were full of tears. He trembled, and lashed his horse savagely, and uttered something much like an oath. He was angry with the cob-it was going to sleep over its journey; and a horse that goes to sleep whilst walking is liable to fall and cut its knees. Richard Cable detected, or fancied he detected, somnolency in the horse, and he worried it with whip and jerk of rein till he had roused it to full activity and a trot, whereat all the calves began to low and plead not to be so severely shaken; but Cable had no compassion on the calves; he lashed into the horse, and made it run along as it had not run that day or last. "It is all pride and wilfulness,” he said to himself. to the kitchen and asked that they might be put where they would dry before morning, when he would brush them over himself. He slept soundly that night; and on waking, dressed himself, brushed the mud off the bottoms of his trousers, and then descended in his stocking soles in quest of his boots. As he came down the back stairs, he could look into and across the kitchen, and he saw behind it, in the back shed that served the purpose of boot-hole and back kitchen, the figure of Josephine. She stood near the door, with the fresh morning light streaming in on her, and white pigeons flying about outside and perching near the door, expecting the morning largess of crumbs. She had her sleeves turned back, exposing her beautiful arms, and—she was blackening his boots. From St. James's Gazette. JENNY LIND. MME. JENNY LIND GOLDSCHMIDT was Fron sitting on the shaft with his legs hanging down, they were much splashed with mud by the horse, as it went through every wet and dirty place in the road; this was especially the case when it was trot-in fact as much esteemed for her private ting; and Richard, looking down at his boots, saw them caked with mud, layer on layer, or clot on clot; below was the red, then the white mud of the pounded granite, then the brown of loamy land, then black from peat-water, where the road traversed the down. virtues as she was admired for her talent; while her personal amiability was such that for that alone she might well be regretted by all who knew her. Born as long ago as 1821 (on the 6th of October) she did not achieve European reputation until some years after the age when the "They are a bit unsightly," he said to genius of really great singers usually ashimself. "And when I come to Stickle-serts itself. She is said to have been path, where I put up for the night, I'll mind and have them dried over the fire in the kitchen; and I'll clean them myself in the morning. She's right-one ought to keep one's self respectable." of feeble health in her childhood, and her parents- the father a teacher of languages, the mother a schoolmistress had some trouble in rearing her. The child's musical education, however, was atWhen they reached the place called tended by no difficulty. She began to sing Sticklepath, a hamlet with an inn, and a almost as soon as to speak; and at the age chapel whitewashed and thatched with of three she was able to repeat more or less straw, and looking like a cottage, he or-perfectly every melody she had once heard. dered supper, and then went after his cob, to rub it down with straw. He was careful of his beast, and always attended to his comforts and necessities himself. Then he got milk for the calves; but when he came out into the yard, he found Josephine there with a pan of skimmed milk, dipping in her hand and holding it to the .hungry creatures, which opened their pink wet mouths and mumbled her hand till they had sucked off it all the milk. She was frequently so ill as to be unable to apply herself to study; and during these periods of enforced inactivity she found relief in singing. One day when she was in her tenth year a well-known Swedish actress named Lundberg heard little Jenny at her songs, and, delighted with the pure quality of her voice and the charm of her expression, urged her parents to bring her up as a vocalist. The actress had, of course, a prejudice in favor of operatic singing; but the father and mother were opposed on principle to everything connected with the stage - excepting, it must be supposed, Frau Lundberg herself, who at last prevailed upon the parents to lay aside their personal feelings on the subject and ascertain the wishes of the child herself. Without any predilection for the stage (which she was to quit at the very height of her success as an opera-singer), Jenny longed to be taught in a systematic manner the art of singing; and the actress who took so much interest in her went with her to a singing-master named Croelius, at that time the leading professor in Stockholm. By Croelius the child was introduced to Count Pücke, director of the Court Theatre, in connection with which a state singing-school was maintained. The count, however, was "rude in speech," and, struck by the candidate's sickly appearance, declared that, whether she had a voice or not, she was wanting in some of the first requisites for the boards. Croelius, however, would take no refusal. He insisted on the count hearing his little protégé sing; and to hear was to be conquered. The count was touched by the sympathetic quality of her voice, and at once authorized the child's admission into the singing-school of the Royal Opera House. Here her studies were directed by Professor Berg, the principal of the establishment, and by the composer Lindblad. In addition to her vocal exercises, Jenny had to practice elocution; and she soon showed that without caring much for the stage she had good dramatic instincts. Attached to the singing academy was a theatre where the students acted little pieces; and here the future prima donna distinguished herself in several leading parts. At the age of twelve, however, she began to lose her voice-or, rather, her voice lost brilliancy and tone. A long period of rest was prescribed, and for four years the unhappy child was obliged to give up her favorite art and confine herself exclusively to pianoforte-playing and the study of harmony. Her voice, how ever, was to return in all its fulness and all its beauty. She had reached her seventeenth year when a concert was given at the Opera House, in which one of the principal pieces was the fourth act of Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable," at that time a novelty. There was some difficulty in finding a suitable singer for the part of Alice; and it occurred to Professor Berg that Jenny Lind, with her reviving powers, might be able to undertake it. The fourth act of "Robert le Diable" (in the original, though not in the mutilated version presented in England) includes Alice's great air, "Quand je quittais la Normandie; " and the young vocalist sang it "I so perfectly and with such charming expression that she was applauded with enthusiasm. So delighted was Professor Berg with his pupil's success that he assigned to her on the following day the part of Agatha in "Der Freischütz." saw her at the evening representation," writes Frederika Bremer. "She was then in the spring of life-fresh, bright, and serene as a morning in May; perfect in form; her hands and her arms peculiarly graceful, and lovely in her whole appearance. She seemed to move, speak, and sing without effort or art. All was nature and harmony." Jenny Lind's next great success was obtained in the part of Alice in "Robert le Diable," which this time she sang and acted in its entirety; and it was as Alice that she was destined to make her greatest impression wherever she appeared. Jenny Lind had already determined not to remain forever at Stockholm. In those days the centre of musical civilization, if not of civilization generally, was Paris. Here were maintained with the greatest perfection a theatre for grand opera, a theatre for Italian opera, and a theatre for comic opera, or opéra comique-for the two apparent equivalents do not mean precisely the same thing. Nor was symphonic music neglected; for since 1826 Paris had possessed her Conservatoire concerts, celebrated for their admirable orchestra (in which the solo instruments are taken by the leading professors at the Conservatoire), its well-arranged programmes, and its exclusive audiences. Paris, moreover, was at that time the home of Rossini, Meyerbeer, Auber, Halévy, and often Donizetti, who, when Jenny Lind visited Paris, had just been commissioned to write a work for the Grand Opera, which was duly brought out under the name -soon to become known throughout Europe- of "La Favorita." Accordingly it was to Paris that the highly successful singer of the Swedish Opera House hastened at the first opportunity to make her way. She placed herself under Manuel Garcia, as good a singing-master as ever lived; but who, after the manner of so many other singing-masters, seems to have begun by telling his pupil that all previous instruction had been in the wrong direction, and that the first thing to do was to unlearn all that had previously been taught. He further advised Jenny Lind not to sing a note for three months. This counsel having been adopted, he next put her through a course of exercises, and exercises only. Then she was somehow Vielka, in his "Camp of Silesia," which introduced to Meyerbeer, who at once | Meyerbeer entrusted her with the part of On the 4th of May, 1847, Jenny Lind She accepted an engagement, however, for a |
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