see the patients of an hospital, with all their haggardness, tricked out in gala dresses from Monmouth Street. But if you will look on me as a true friend, believe me I am one-and shall be so while I live." "Thank you!" And she gave him her hand, which he received cordially. "Now," she said, "I will venture to ask you a question which has very often occurred to me, but I never could venture on it before. You have spoken almost as often as I have seen you with bitter contempt of indolence and self-indulgence. I know how deeply and writhingly you feel the existence of so much misery in the world, and that you believe much may be done to remedy it. What I want you to tell me is this-Why, with such views, you spend your life as you now do, with no apparent occupation beyond the skill of a peasant. Often when I have heard you speak, I have fancied that, if you would only try, you would make others hear, understand, feel, and act." "I told you that you would find me your sincere friend, and so you shall, for I will tell you something of my story, which, perhaps, will diminish your surprise. But to no one have I ever spoken of the matter before, and when you hear it, you will not wonder at my reserve. I have had two male friends in my life, or those whom the world would call so. One of them, the early friend, united to me by youth and circumstances, has turned out altogether worthless. Where I thought I had a diamond dew-drop, I found a stain of the commonest ditch-water. The other was the friend of my commencing manhood, ardent, sympathetic, graceful, expansive, clear of head, and vigorous of heart. He had fortune and appearance in his favour, as well as useful family connexions; and, while I was in the eyes of men an uncouth contentious reprobate, he was regarded with general favour and applause. He took many of his opinions from me, and my influence modified all his pursuits and aims. His taste led him strongly towards literature. He was ambitious of fame, and, as a thinker and creative artist, would perhaps have obtained it. But I felt harshly and fiercely the extent of wrong and grief on earth, and would have cheerfully spent my life blood, and that of my friend, to re I had dress a portion of the evil. been left penniless, and was obliged to work for bread. He offered me half his income, as I had done to another; but that experiment had been too unfortunate, and I would not accept his bounty. Our friendship, however, still continued. I urged him into practical political life, for which he had many qualifications and some outward helps, although but little inclination. There was a large town for which I was anxious that he should be representative, and I persuaded him to plunge into the schemes and confusions of its parties. On his first electioneering attempt he failed. But, at another, I furnished him with proofs of the utter public and private baseness of his chief opponent. These he published, and chased the culprit from the field. But the exasperation of this man's partisans impelled one of them, a gentleman by station, to seek a quarrel with him, and challenge him. ́ I was a hundred miles away at the time, but hastened to the place, and found him a corpse. He had been shot by the pistol of a bullying sycophant, which I felt as if I had loaded and pointed at his heart. But the ball pierced mine too, and I was an utterly miserable man. cannot conceive what I then felt-at least I trust you cannot-and it would be useless to describe it. This was three years ago. The shock turned my hair grey, and drove me from among mankind. The time which has since passed has not been more than enough to restore me to a specious outward tranquillity ;-inward peace, even of the hollow fretful kind which I before enjoyed, it has not brought me. You Nor will a thousand years do that. You do not knowmay you never learn!-the continual subdued horror of remembering how the whole existence of another, and him one who relied on you, was overthrown and irreparably crushed under a weight first loosened by your hand; I once thought it resembled a perpetual burning alive on the unquenchable funeral pile of another's corpse. The pain, however, of this mortal ulcer in my heart has grown comparatively dull and chronic, and I am regaining the command of my faculties. hereafter, I shall exert them, I know not, but probably by speech and writing for humane and moral purposes, rather than by any interference in How, what is called politics. I see too many sticking up to their necks in that slough and calling for help, to believe that it would yield me stable footing. But I have never heard of any attempts at good, undertaken indepen dently of party, in purity of heart, and with quiet consideration of the case and circumstances, which have not more than fulfilled the hopes of the man." CHAPTER IV. "It comes on me," said Maria, "like a heavy blow, when I hear any one despair of full and tranquil hap piness. I am sure it is to be found by those who seek it; and although there is something grandly heroic in the struggle that is carried on under the certainty of never attaining this good, I cannot but believe that the possession of it would add to all our efforts a sober strength which they must other wise want." Collins smiled, half sadly, half scornfully, and shook his head. "It is Destiny, not I, that will deprive you one day of that faith." I do not know what Destiny means; but I trust in God." "Take what name you will for the ruling Power of all things. God cannot perform impossibilities." "Yes; but for Him no good is impossible." "It may be-nay, I feel it is sothat for a reasonable voluntary being, learning as only he can learn by experience, there will always be errors behind to mourn over, and a vista of unattainable good before, which inevitably lengthens as we advance. It only remains for us to grieve without affectation or imbecility, aud to journey on without turning aside or stopping." For all the ills you speak of there is, I am sure, a remedy, if I could but make you understand me. I have learned to call it Faith, but I know that it is Blessedness. Now, it would seem, of course, that you must know better than I; but, at least, I have, for the present, the advantage of you, in my more hopeful creed and happier mind. By the way, have you ever seen a poor man who lives in this neighbourhood, of the name of Fowler? I have several times visited him, and he seems to me a beautiful example of peace and joy in circumstances which would naturally produce despair, and might almost seem to justify it. He is a crippled basketmaker, without family or friends, or settled means of subsistence, and yet, by dint of reliance on a good Power protecting and guiding him, he is full of cheerfulness and hope. I wish you would go and see him, and make acquaintance with him." "I will. But both for you and him the day will inevitably come of awa kening to a higher and larger selfconsciousness, and a sadder knowledge of our destination." God forbid!-And, my dear Mr Collins, you must not forget that I have been, in former times, when I was about sixteen, as perfectly wretched as I can imagine any one; so that mine is not the mere unreflecting contentment of a child. I was then beginning to think a little for myself, and I found my own heart and life so far from what I saw they ought to be, that I was almost in despair. Had I been a Romanist, I might then have been tempted to turn nun." "What changed your views?" "I will tell you. I was taken, for the first time, to a great party in London, and was thoroughly dazzled and confused by all I saw, and by the excitement of the music and dancing round me. I remember that it seemed to me as if every thing in the world was successively rolling out of its steadfastness, and wheeling away in tangled curves to the sound of necromantic music. I said to myself, Where am. I? What am I? Is every thing a dream?'-In the midst of this amazement of mine, a famous singer came forward; silence was obtained, and she sang with such impassioned ravishing melody, that I thought my soul would have flown away upon her aërial warbling. The applause as she ended called off my attention; but then I saw a crowd of faces turned towards her in enthusiastic delight, and deep homage expressed in the eyes and manner of some of the men and women whom I had always heard of as the most to be admired and re verenced. She sat evidently weary, but with a slight smile of exquisite enjoyment; and it burst upon me more strongly even than before, that her inspiration must arise from some full and rich source of ecstacy far beyond all that skill or physical endowment could supply. O!' I thought, that I could sing like her! that I could experience her inward spring of rapture and harmony!' The next moment I blamed my own folly, and felt that this was mean and jealous envy. It flashed across me as something horrible, that, after such abundant and pure delight, I could so soon sink into this wretchedness, and a sharp pang of self-reproach shot through me. I remember that I pressed my hand strongly against my heart, for I completely crushed the little nosegay of lovely flowers which I was wearing. The music and the dancing now again began, and looking up for a moment in sad perplexity, I saw before me a spectacle which altered the whole current of my thoughts. It was a pic ture of the Saviour by one of the great Italian masters, I think of the Lombard school, and probably Luini. By whomsoever painted, it was so grave, so loving, so awful-but I cannot de. scribe it. For some minutes I had no notion where I was, and sat with my face turned up towards the canvass, as if I expected to hear it speak. And speak to me indeed it did, though not with audible sounds; for there whispered in my heart words which I had heard and read a hundred times, and learned by rote, without ever reflecting on them. Indeed, perhaps, this mechanical familiarity had deadened their meaning for me. The words were Be of good cheer! I have overcome the world.'-I remember nothing more that evening, but that in the carriage, on my way home with my aunt, my eyes filled with tears, and my maid remarked the next morning that the front of my dress was stained as if I had been weeping profusely. Thus began a new period of my life, which I do not believe will ever end, not even with earthly life itself." Collins answered nothing; but when he said he must take leave of her, and go, there was an expression of strong feeling in his face, which could not be mistaken. They had been walking up and down the wood during their whole conversation. It was now the depth of evening. Maria accompanied him to the gate of the enclosure, and they parted as friends for whom an hour had been in place of years of mutual sympathy. CHAPTER V. The next day Collins went, in pursuance of his promise, to see the poor basketmaker of whom Maria had spoken, and who was commonly known in the neighbourhood by the name of Jack Fowler. His dwelling was a small hut rather than cottage, close to the road-side. Before his new visitor reached it he heard a rough and cracked voice singing vigorously "Merry be we from morn till night, Merry be we, merry be we. We old fellows, in dark or light, But ask the young to let us be." Then, when Collins was already close at hand, the tune was changed, and he caught the words "The boy he never stops In the whipping of his tops, Our idle whips away, And sleep like the tops without labour." The structure from which these sounds came appeared about ten feet square, and through the open door and window was seen the room which filled this space, and which was partly occupied by a ladder-stair leading to the floor above. Facing the door a man was seated on a bench, and engaged in weaving a basket. He looked up cheerfully as Collins stood before him, and said—“ Good morning! good morning! Ah! Mr Collins come to see poor Jack Fowler! Well, you are kindly welcome. They do say you know more about bees than any man in these parts. Take a seat, sir, here on the bench-here's room enough.' Collins sat down and looked more closely at him. Jack Fowler probably considered himself past the middle age, being apparently about seventy-five. He also seemed to be in somewhat reduced circumstances, for his principal garment, perhaps in some forgotten period a waggoner's frock, exhibited several holes, some of them repaired by patches, and some still unsophisticated and gaping. His person bore the traces of similar and probably more ancient injury, for it had been shorn of a leg, and had received as a substitute only a wooden member, resembling the original in little else than length, as to which the modern supporter had perhaps the advantage over the preceding one. The right hand had apparently lost the use of two of its fingers, for which it had found no remedy but in the dexterity of the others. The bust which crowned this antique trunk was of higher interest, for under the trenched and expansive forehead appeared a face of arch shrewdness and irresistible goodhumour. The fine blue eyes were still bright, the cheek healthily ruddy, and the sunken mouth wore a most gladdening smile. The old man had beside and behind him the osiers which were the materials of his trade, and two or three baskets. The one he was at work on lay before him, and on a three-legged stool, close to his knee, sat, with professorial gravity, a black cat. While he spoke to his visitor he continued to ply his work, and broke out every now and then with some light-hearted stanza. "How do you get on?" said Collins. “Oh, very well, sir, thank you. I make it a rule to get on well. Never got on ill in my life, except when the waggon went over my leg, and before the doctor came to cut it off, and set me all to rights again. I have never wanted a stocking for that leg since; and only think what a saving that is. Aye, aye, Mr Collins-all for the best. the trouble of being a gentleman, with all the wearisomeness of a fortune to spend. Great blessing that. Don't you think so, sir?" "Why, it seems to have been so to you. But every man has not your basketfull of heartiness, and if one wants that, I think a purse full of gold no bad help." "So many think. I fancied so myself for five minutes once, and then before one could twist an ozier, I saw what a big fool I was. Perhaps, too, you think I had better be young than old. But if you do, I can tell you it is a thumping mistake, for I should have all the work to do over again. I'd as soon have the waggon go over my leg again, just for fun. "O! for the days when I was young! When I thought that I should ne'er be old, When the songs came a-bubbling off my tongue, And the girl that heard the ballad I sung, O! for the days when I was young! "All the old men I know," said Collins, "but you, would be young if they could, and none of the young would be old. So you see most men are not of your way of thinking." I "So much the worse for them. have tried both ends of life, and I like the last best. And what's more, I am sure so would every body who made the most of what he has. I was a fool when I was young, and I did not know it, so I thought myself ill-treated. I am a fool now, but I do know it, and so I am content." "It is a queer thing to be content "Bald is my head, so it wears no lock But as well might he rap on the front of For I am not the man he was told of." "Basket-making," said Collins, seems a merry sort of trade, to judge from you." "Aye, sir, it is a merry trade enough, like most others I know of, for those that have merry hearts. And mine has never been heavy, since I first found I was not going to have "Not so queer maybe as you think. Burn those oziers! they're as brittle as glass. All the wise men I have ever seen, and half a dozen have fallen in my way, one how or other, who were thought special wise in their own parishes; all of them who fancied themselves wise, have fancied too, that the world was not good enough for them, and have despised the greater number of men; those, you know, with the rough dirt upon them, but right good ones many of them, nevertheless. ful when I don't feel it. To be sure These wise men, I say, have always I once took an osier, and said to mysupposed every thing, and everybody self, Now, I'll cut a notch on this too coarse for them. I never saw one for every sin I can remember in all of them look right out, straight up, my life.' I began going through the happy and merry. Now, it all seems job from the time I was a baby, and a too good for me, and so I should be a pretty lot of notches I soon had, and beast if I were not contented; just as some of them terrible deep ones, too, the donkey that got into the hot-house that very nigh cut the twig right the other day, and ate up all those fine through. When I had done with it flowers and plants, and things, would I took another, and another, till at have been a wonderful big jackass if last I had five osiers, and nigh five it had not been satisfied, and had hundred notches, for I told them off wanted a thistle.' quite regular, a hundred on each. And when I got the five all in my hands, so nice likely switches they were, too, before I had hacked them in that cruel sort of way-I said to myself, "Your receipt for happiness must be a curious and precious one; I should much like to know it." "Bless you, I have no receipt, no more than our old women have a receipt for making flour-dumpling! They do it quite naturally. And, the same way, I am as happy as can be, except when I have the rheumatism in my leg; and then I'm thankful that I'm not like to have it in the wooden one, and that, by death or some way, most likely, it won't last for ever." "Have you no fear of death?" "Fear! No. I'm afraid of nothing I know of, but a lady who once came to see me, and sat on that stool where Pussy is, and talked for five hours without stopping, all about her sympathy-whatever that is-with the poor, and something that she called the poetry of basket-making, and a deal more. I'm told she is gone out of the country, so I suppose too much tonguiness is made transportation now-it used to be only ducking. But even when she was here I kept on making a basket, and sung a song or two while she talked. No fear of interrupting her, you know; you might as well think to stop a windmill by whistling to it. So I could sing on quite comfortable, and not cut my manners too short either. "Those with too much cash to think of, May the cares of life lament; Death's a fool to look so grim; "No; I cannot honestly say that I have, and I'm too old to speak bash Well, here are the rods to give my conscience a drubbing, at all events.' Then I fell a-thinking and a-pondering what would come of it all, and at last I settled it all off as neat as a lady's work-basket. So I took and shoved the osiers into the fire; and though they were too green to burn well, I got them all burned to ashes at last, and then I was a deal easier." "An ingenious way of burning up your offences, at all events," said Collins. "Not at all-by no means. You're on a wrong scent there. "The greyhound, for all he looks so fine, Has no more nose than this donkey of mine. But I began That wasn't it at all. Said I to myto see it in this way. self,- Here's a pretty baddish lot of But things against me, to be sure. then I don't know what kind of tally other folk might have to show if they worked as many hours as I did, and cut as clean notches.' Nay, I have a pretty good guess that there are some sullen, hard sort of men, I have seen in my time, that would be a deal worse off than I; for my notion is, that I'm no worse than most, and better than some. That's no help, you'll say. Right-very true-none in the world. For I must be judged not by this man or t'other man, but by what I knew and might have done myself, if I had been so minded. And I don't believe, in my own mind, there's one that would have much to boast of, no, not Miss Maria Lascelles, that's as like what they say of angels as any one I know. If so be, then, that we are all of us what we are, that |