deuce generally. Coolies are not to be trifled with, "Oh, confound them!" cried I; "only wait. If we make this voyage, and get quit of this load of gunpowder safely, oh, won't I !" "Let us hunt them up," said the doctor. 'So we set out for the forecastle. We entered noiselessly, and crept in the direction of the boys' bunks. At first there seemed nothing unusual. The lamps swung and creaked, the timbers strained, the water went thud, thud on the ship's bows. We crawled nearer. We held our breath. Hush! What sound was that? Was it not like the chinking of money? O horror! 'Suddenly, my blood was nearly frozen in my veins by a devilish uproar. I thought at first that it was mutiny-then fire. While I was composing my mind for action, the screaming was renewed tenfold. Coolies streamed and crowded on deck in dozens. They were all violently excited, but did not seem disposed to do any mischief. I sent one of the hands to ascertain what was the row, before I gave any command; but before he returned, the native doctor sprang to my side with a glassy terror-stricken eye and trembling limbs. "Mr Topsal," says he, "our lives are in danger! What folly, what madness! Who could do it? You must act very prudently, Mr Topsal, or this will be our last voyage." "The doctor and I pinched each other black and blue, and shuddered. We crawled still nearer. We got behind a coil of rope and some barrels. We peeped into the corner where the two young scapegraces dwelt. Yes, the metallic sound proWe stretched our necks. There before our eyes sat the two little voyage. Ah! doctor, I'll never forget that for ever thinking that the blackies were rising, or that they had fired the ship, or that they were conspiring. On deck, I walked on needles and 'While I was staring at the poor horrified doctor, pins-every sound startled me. I had taken all unable to see his drift, the man returned, and said possible precautions, had my arms ready, &c.; but that the row was caused by the coolies having it would have been madness to have thought of discovered that the bundle was gone-or, as they resistance. I had all the burden on my own said, that their god had carried it off. It was yet shoulders, for I never told the skipper, and the early dawn, and the great fact had just been dis-"second" did not seem to understand the affair nor covered. I had forgotten about the affair. Now I glanced up at the truck of the main-mast. No bundle was there. It was gone. How? Nothing in the way of atmospheric force could have removed it. Of course, we could not admit the supernatural (unless, indeed, a half-formed suspicion of the possibility of the devil having done the thing). Only one other explanation remained, that of human intervention. But how? and who? I felt cold and giddy, a clammy perspiration oozed out on me, and I felt shaky. I nerved myself. I must act at once, and secretly. 'The doctor whispered: "Oh, Topsal, we'll all be murdered in cold blood, if they discover the trick. Who could it have been ?" I 'I could only echo his question with a groan. called the "second," much to his surprise and disgust; but having left the deck in his charge, the doctor and I went on a voyage of discovery. First we repaired to my room, and thought. Suddenly we both raised our eyes, and staring at each other, whispered: "The boys." to appreciate our danger. But the native doctor did; and assisted me ably. Even my turn below till I was called on deck again. O man, it was was no rest; I couldn't sleep-I dozed and started awful! Suspense, doctor, is a terrible thing! I felt just as if I were living over a volcano-never sure but that an eruption might occur. It would almost have been a relief to have had the worst. My hair turned gray, doctor-no mistake. The "second" even noticed that. I turned shaky and nothing to do with it. How I rejoiced at the close fanciful. No, doctor; I didn't drink; that had of each day! We made a pretty good voyage; and I almost felt as if the land, when we first sighted it, was paradise! When we actually got that cargo safely on shore, and I felt my throat still uncut, I almost thought it too good to be true no mistake!' I don't know how many of my cigarettes Mr Topsal smoked, but I know that the stock was sadly reduced. 'But, I say, Topsal,' I put in, what about the boys, you know? Did you give them an awful thrashing ?'. Mr Topsal looked sulkier than usual as he replied: Well, they got loose as soon as we got into port-robbed me, and deserted the ship. That was the last that I ever saw of them.' A SLEEPING PREACHER. ABOUT the year 1604, the little society of New College, Oxford, numbered amongst its fellows one named Dr Richard Haydock. This person had developed a curious faculty of preaching very learned and excellent sermons when, to all outward appearance, he was in a deep slumber. This faculty was the more noteworthy, in that Haydock was but a dull fellow in his waking hours, and known to be no great scholar. Greek and Hebrew, too, were familiar to his tongue in these nocturnal discourses, though the preacher was supposed to be ignorant of both languages. The fame of him soon spread throughout the university, and the fellows and scholars flocked as regularly to hear Haydock preach in his sleep as to any other sermon. Nor were they ever disappointed of his performance; in fact, so methodical was he in his proceedings, that he never failed to pray most fervently for the king and royal family, both before and after his discourse, which was regularly opened with a text. On concluding, he would wake, stretch, wonder to see an audience, and remember nothing that he had said. The previous career of Dr Haydock presented no very remarkable features. He was born at Grewel, in Hampshire, had received his early education at Winchester, from thence he had proceeded to New College, where he was admitted a fellow in the year 1590. He took the usual degrees in arts, and afterwards travelled for some time abroad. Haydock, on his return, about 1598, published a heavy folio on the subjects of Painting and Engraving; this he thought sufficiently valuable to be handed down to posterity, with his own portrait on the title-page. Thomas Bodley, the founder of the Bodleian Library, was a sort of patron of his, and to him the work was dedicated. written from Salisbury at the time reported him 'At court there is one Haydock, of New College, in Oxford, by profession a doctor of physic, who uses oftentimes to make long sermons in his sleep. The King's Majesty heard him one night; the next time, the Dean of the Chapel and Sir Thomas Chaloner; the third time, my Lord of Cranborne caused a bed to be put up in his drawing-room Lord Pembroke, Lord Shandos, Lord Danvers, Lord at court, and heard him preach, and sent for my Marre, and others. He doth very orderly begin with his prayer; then to his text, and divides it; and when he hath well and learnedly touched every part, he concludes it, and with groaning and stretching, awakes, and remembers nothing he said. The man seems to be a very honest man, of a good complexion, of a civil conversation, and discreet; hath no books, or place to study; and twice or thrice a week usually preaches. Yet the king will not say what he thinks of it. He will hear and sift him ere he depart from court.' His Majesty, we are told, proceeded in the business with infinite solemnity and precaution, and after much cross-examination by himself and his The notoriety of the sleeping preacher was privy-councillors, actually prevailed upon Hayrapidly extended beyond Oxford, and in a few dock to confess his imposture, and to give in months attracted the attention of King James. writing the motives both of his beginning and of That monarch, as we all know, prided himself on his continuance in so strange a practice. On his superior wisdom, and eagerly seized any op- Sunday the 28th, he sent to the king that 'if it portunity that offered of displaying it before a would please His Majesty to pardon his offence, crowd of admiring courtiers. He therefore deter- and deliver him from punishment, he would conmined that Haydock's supposed marvellous gift fess the whole truth of this deceit wherewith he should be tested at court, and under his own keen had abused the world.' His first confession was eye. Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, who was then Sec- not considered sufficiently explicit and minute, retary of State, was instructed to make inquiries as appears from a letter written by the Earl of of Dr Abbots and Dr Hussey, leading authorities Worcester, one of the leading councillors, to the of the university, relative to Haydock; and these Secretary of State, mentioning such points as His learned gentlemen were commissioned to arrange Majesty, 'out of the depth of his wonderful judgfor the transfer of the preacher's services to the ment,' required to have further cleared. Ulticourt of St James's for a time. Haydock, how-mately, the preacher furnished some very comever, must have had some inkling of what was plete details of the origin and growth of his imgoing on, as a little before this time he quietly left posture. These details are curious, and have an air Oxford, and some weeks elapsed before Dr Hussey of truthfulness. We are told that on his first coming could give any tidings of him. It was then found to Oxford, Haydock had a great desire to study out that Dr Haydock was settled and lodged in divinity, and to become a preacher, but found in the house of one Blacker, dwelling in the close himself a disability for that faculty, by reason of at Salisbury. In that city he was rapidly acquir- a stuttering he had in his speech, and a slow ing fame as a physician, for, indeed, it was princi- imperfect utterance. He was thus reluctantly compally to the study and practice of medicine that pelled to abandon this study, and betook himself he had devoted himself at Oxford. A letter to physic. It afterwards came to his remembrance, as he said, that his school-fellows at Winchester had told him many times how he used to speak in his sleep; and that he then made verse, and spoke Latin, with much more quickness of invention and readier utterance than at any time else. Whereupon, he took a conceit that he would try how near he could come to such ability of utterance by speaking at the time of night which was nearest to that in which he used to speak in his sleep. First he began, as soon as he was out of his first sleep, to speak some discourse concerning physic; and found in himself such ripeness of invention, and so perfect and ready delivery, that he was astounded at himself, and practised this fashion of speaking after midnight some four or five times, in physic; which, when he found to make so great an alteration of his speech, and ability to discourse, he resolved to try if the same effect would follow if divinity were the chosen subject, as he had ever the strongest desire for that branch of learning. So he took a text, and prepared himself to preach from it three or four days before he put it in practice; and, when sufficiently prepared, would sit up in bed, after his first sleep, and deliver what appeared to him a very excellent sermon. This course was pursued by Haydock several times without the least intention of being overheard; but by chance one night some one lying in the chamber next to his own was awake, and heard all he said. It was accordingly reported over the college the morning after that Mr Haydock had preached very learnedly in his sleep. Haydock was weak or wicked enough to humour the deception, and had practised it for about a year and a half every other night-preaching in Latin at Oxford, and in English in the country. Haydock's petition to the king for forgiveness is still preserved amongst the state papers, and is a curious testimony to the vanity and weakness of the man. It is much too long to reproduce here, He says: reputation there as a very able physician. He afterwards came to London, died, and was buried there, shortly before the outbreak of the civil wars. A GOLDEN SORROW. MIRIAM's married life commenced under pleasant Mr St so a very few extracts must suffice us. 'I do here, in the naked simplicity of a most and she looked no farther into her life, so far as thankful and penitent soul, ingenuously confess he was concerned. Her character was not formed and acknowledge, that this use of my nocturnal yet; its strength for good or ill was still latent ; discourse, seeming to be a deep and sound sleep, though she had shewn herself capable of a deliberwhen indeed I was waking, and had more perfect ately mercenary marriage, and of telling herself sense of that I conceived and spake, than when by always and exactly the truth about it. At present, day I attempted the same, was from the beginning a all the instincts of her youth, health, and spirits voluntary thing, done with knowledge, upon a discovery in myself of a greater ability, and freedom were dominant, and she made the most of the of memory, invention, and speech, in that mild, absolutely new life which had opened for her. It quiet, and silent repose of the night, than in the did seem strange to her, sometimes, in the rare daytime I found. And again he says: "When intervals in which thought and reflection would company approached, I well perceived, though, in- obtrude themselves, to be actually married to a deed, no ordinary voice could interrupt my strong man, sharing his present life, the nominal partner contemplation, nor the glimmering light of the of every interest and every possession belonging to candle held at mine eyes, which I always kept him, and yet to know so very little of his past as shut, even in the dark, and could never meditate she knew of Mr St Quentin's. to purpose when they were open.' Haydock adds that he never had any sinister plot, purpose, or drift to the disturbance of the peaceable estate, church, or commonwealth-and that he had not offended maliciously, but of human infirmity. King James was too well satisfied with what he was pleased to consider his own acuteness in unmasking the deception, to bear malice against the author of it, and readily pardoned the offender. We have little more to chronicle concerning him. It is needless to say that Haydock discontinued the practices which had made him so notorious. He withdrew once more to Salisbury, and achieved a She was set thinking of this by her long talks with her sister-in-law, and by discovering that though she too was now a married woman, and on the same level of experience of life as Florence, she was not, in reality, a bit more like her in mind, or drawn at all closer to her in sympathies. Florence knew as much of Walter's history, of his childhood and his boyhood, his school-days and companions, of the troubles, and hopes, and pranks of the time before he had ever seen her, as Miriam did; and, of the later incidents, much more than Miriam herself knew. Every name was familiar to Florence which had been a household word to Miriam and Walter; and at the Firs, she had recognised all the localities, and illustrated them by anecdotes related to her by Walter, and cherished in her memory with a fidelity quite mysterious to her sister-in-law, who had not the key to it. Miriam knew nothing about Mr St Quentin's youth or early manhood. Perhaps the difference in their age rendered it natural that she should feel no curiosity to know, and that he should take no interest in telling her; but yet the fact rendered their relation artificial and constrained. Miriam did not suppose that her husband had anything to conceal; she did not weave a romance out of her ignorance and his reticence, and, after the fashion of Miss Austen's charming heroine in Northanger Abbey, construct a martyred wife and a reproachful conscience out of a commonplace character and a life of monotonous prosperity. But she felt that he told her nothing because he held her in light consideration. She did not mind it-it is only love which aims at the knowledge and comprehension of the past; but she estimated by the fact the great distance which divides the experience of a woman who has married for love' from that of a woman who has married for any other motive. 'If Mr St Quentin and I had not strange places and new people to discuss, I wonder what we should find to talk about?' said Miriam, one evening, when Rose was arranging her hair-a portion of her assumed duty which she persisted in discharging. What did you and Walter talk about?' 'About ourselves, I'm afraid; about our want of money, and the very little prospect we had of getting any; about how glad we were we had run all the risks involved in our marriage, and about all the things we would do if we were rich. Very commonplace, but interesting to us. And then, we talked a good deal about you-I always wanted to hear about you-and Walter always had some thing to tell me. He was a most amusing and entertaining companion, as you know; I never could have been dull with his society to count upon; and he is such a wonderful mimic. He would have made a capital actor. Do you know, I should have recognised your voice in a crowd, from his perfect imitation of it.' 'Ah!' said Miriam, leaning back in her chair with an impatient sigh, Mr St Quentin and I will never have anything half so interesting to discuss. There is not a third person in the world he would care to hear me talk of; and, except the most ordinary acquaintances, he never talks of any third person to me. I wonder what sort of woman his wife was? I wonder whether it was a love-match? I wonder what he was like then?' 'You could hardly expect him to tell you much, or indeed anything, about her,' said Florence; he would probably think the subject not a pleasant one.' 'What nonsense! as if I cared, as if any rational being would care! It would be a relief to have something real to talk about, for at present I feel as if it were all a sham. However, we are not likely to be reduced to the necessity of entertaining each other. And now for a good ten minutes of compliments, in lieu of conversation.' She drew her white and gold bournous over her shoulders, kissed Florence, and went wearily away. They were going to a great entertainment that evening at the palazzo of the English ambassador at Naples; and Mr St Quentin was more than usually anxious that Miriam should be well dressed and in good looks. At Miriam's age, even if one has a fair allowance of good sense, one can endure an immense amount of admiration and attention on the score of one's beauty. But these tributes, in themselves welcome, are apt to pall after a time, unless they come from the right person. Miriam was beginning to find out that Mr St Quentin was not the right person, and she was very tired-when her husband had repeated the assurance several times a day for three months-of being told that she was as beautiful as an angel, and that each dress she wore was more becoming to her 'style' than the preceding one. This was only a slight annoyance, however, and the monotony of Mr St Quentin's admiration was atoned for by the variety of that which Miriam received from other sources. They had travelled rapidly to the south, in pursuit of fine weather, and were now settled for some time at Naples. Mr St Quentin reserved his morning hours to his own special benefit as rigidly as he had done in London, to Miriam's great pleasure and relief; and she really had as little to complain of as was possible. The gloss was upon her new life of wealth, and ease, and luxury, and she had as yet been visited by only a momentary occasional thrill of apprehension that it might ever. wear off. She was accustomed to revert, in her conversations with Florence, to the great 'consideration' of her emancipation from the Firs, to her being 'rid of the place and of papa,' more frequently than was quite pleasant to Florence, who had always feared that she would need constant remembrance of that 'consideration;' but she was unconscious of the existence of these symptoms, and had she recognised them, would still have been ignorant of the nature and gravity of the disease they betokened. Mr and Mrs St Quentin excited a good deal of curiosity everywhere that they went, and, as was to be expected, some comment which was not altogether good-natured. But it was very generally admitted that he was quite a model husband, devoted to his beautiful young wife, and yet so little foolish, so charmingly free from jealousy-a passion which would have rendered him equally unhappy and absurd, because, at his age, to expect a young girl like Miriam to do more than tolerate him, would, of course, be quite ridiculous. And she tolerated him-she really did! The manners of Madame were perfectly charming-so attentive, so pleasant, so reverential! If Mr St Quentin had been aware of these comments, he would have been very little obliged to the discerning individuals who made them. Miriam's enjoyment of society was very general; as yet, she was not in danger of any particular attraction. rule, she did not like 'foreigners'-as she, in her thoroughly English way, designated French and Italian people in their own respective countriesand the English whom they met did not interest her deeply. The fact was, Miriam was still so young, and so much occupied and delighted with material things, that she was hardly obnoxious to the real and deadly danger of her position As a the danger of finding out that her unoccupied heart was craving a tenant. She honestly 'supposed all old men were as tiresome as Mr St Quentin,' and she did not think about young men at all; though, if she had thought about them, or any one of them, the general notion of propriety, which stood in the place of sound principle in Miriam's mind, would have precluded all idea of the topic being a dangerous one, until she had been gently and pleasantly conducted into peril and suffering by her mingled unconsciousness and incredulity—yes, incredulity, for it was remarkable that since her marriage Miriam had grown more than ever impatient of sentiment and denunciatory of romance. All this would appear to constitute a state of things which might have sufficed to tranquillise and content the most jealous and elderly of husbands. Nevertheless, it befell upon a certain day that Miriam discovered, with much disgust and contempt, that the ruling passion of her attentive, complimentary, débonnaire husband was jealousy. There had been a good deal of awkwardness in the position of Rose, but she had expected and was prepared for it, and was more afraid of Miriam's impetuosity than of any annoyance to which she was, or was likely to be, subjected. It was misery to Mrs St Quentin to be obliged to allow her sisterin-law to sit beside Mr St Quentin's valet in the rumble of the travelling-carriage as they drove to Southampton on her wedding-day; and she eagerly expressed her feelings, as soon as they were alone in the cabin of the steamer. Florence made light of it. The valet was a perfectly respectable and respectful person, who, when he found she was not disposed to talk, kept silence cheerfully, and attended to her comfort punctually. But Miriam was not to be consoled. It must never occur again, she said, and thenceforth she took precautions which Mr St Quentin considered absurd and troublesome, but which he did not resent as yet. and laughing together, to the oblivion of time and of the fact that he was waiting to take Miriam out in the brilliant equipage of which he was so proud, her temper for the first time asserted itself. She told Mr St Quentin that she considered his remarks exceedingly intrusive and ungentlemanlike, and that she should do as she pleased. She looked at him in her customary undaunted way as she uttered the defiant words, and she felt slightly uncomfortable at the look she received in return. It was quite outside of her previous experience, and plainly expressive of sullen resentment. It is better you should understand my meaning at once,' her husband said, touching the horses up sharply as he spoke; 'I don't recognise your right to find fault with my interference in any matter connected with our common life. I shall interfere when I think proper, and I think proper now. I do not like this woman; you are too familiar with her; she is too familiar with you; she has not the manners or bearing of a well-trained servant. You cannot be ignorant of the impropriety of making a companion of your maid; or, if you are ignorant of it, I think it is time you should learn it, from me.' Hot anger was in Miriam's heart, but she kept it down for Florence's sake, and tried to turn the conversation. But this did not suit Mr St Quentin; he thought he had gained his point, and wished to improve the victorious occasion. He harped upon the subject, until Miriam could no longer forbear, and sharply told him she had heard quite enough of a matter, trifling in itself, on which nothing that he could say should alter her mind; and that she begged he would consider it exhausted. She She said nothing to Florence of what had passed; but her sister-in-law was too sensitive and too acute to fail to notice the oppression of spirits under which Miriam evidently laboured. pondered over it, quite unsuspectingly, and was filled with forebodings and misgivings. Had Miriam already begun to repent of her bargain? Was she finding out that she had bought wealth, luxury, pleasure, even freedom itself, far too dear? 'I remember,' said Miriam to Florence that evening, apropos of nothing particular-‘I remember to have read in some book, once on a time, that there is a kind of jealousy which is the result of love, and a kind which is the result of temper. I can fancy the one to be rather flattering if felt by a person one loved, but the other must be quite intolerable.' 'My maid is not an ordinary person, and I am very particular about her,' was all the explanation Miriam gave when she made Rose Dixon travel in the carriages for Dames Seules,' and ordered her meals to be served separately at all the hotels. To interfere with his pretty young wife on a personal point of this kind was not in Mr St Quentin's way; but as their terms of residence in various places became longer, and they were more settled, he began to mark his sense of Miriam's over-solicitude for Rose, by treating his wife's maid rather cavalierly, speaking to her in a short, imperious way, which rendered Miriam uncomfortable, and making it evident that he did not recognise any difference between her and the other servants who formed their ostentatiously numerous suite. Florence's was essentially a mild and gentle nature, and she 'I should not like the one much better than the was little given to disliking people; but she did other,' said Florence gravely, for it also would dislike Mr St Quentin. The cold narrow-hearted-imply distrust, and what greater insult than that ness of this man, the polished selfishness of him, can be inflicted upon one?' the total want of pity for human wants or sufferings-she had noticed early that he was lavish only where his own pleasure was concerned-repelled and disgusted her. She saw him rarely, but on those occasions her manner was unconsciously distant without being respectful; she did not keep up her assumed character so well as she believed herself to do; her demeanour to Mr St Quentin was not so servant-like as it should have been. On two or three occasions, her husband made remarks to Miriam upon the advisability of keeping servants in their proper place, which she did not like, and she took no pains to conceal her displeasure. At last, on a repetition of these strictures, called forth by his finding Miriam and Rose talking 'True,' said Miriam moodily, and then she sat silent for a long time, twisting the tassels of her girdle between her fingers, with her eyes fixed moodily upon the ground. From that day forth Miriam knew that her husband watched her, and that he had a rooted dislike to Florence. A few weeks later, a letter from Walter was sent to their Italian address, from the Firs. It was directed to Miriam this time, and contained a letter for Florence. The sisters-in-law were reading their respective letters, in Miriam's dressing-room, when Mr St Quentin returned unexpectedly, and, as Miriam afterwards believed, intentionally, and entered the room. Florence was sitting on a sofa in the deep embrasure of the |