CHAPTER XIII.--ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.

We held many consultations about what Richard was to be; first,

without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterward with him;

but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard said

he was ready for any thing. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he might

not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had thought

of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him what he

thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of that, too, and it

wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide

within himself, whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary

boyish inclination, or a strong impulse, Richard answered, Well, he

really _had_ tried very often, and he couldn't make out.

"How much of this indecision of character," Mr. Jarndyce said to me,

"is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and

procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't

pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is

responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or

confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that,

and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing

every thing as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of

much older and steadier people may be even changed by the

circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that a

boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences, and

escape them."

I felt this to be true; though, if I may venture to mention what I

thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard's

education had not counteracted those influences, or directed his

character. He had been eight years at a public school, and had learnt,

I understood, to make Latin Verses of several sorts, in the most

admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been any body's

business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings

lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to _him_. _He_ had been adapted

to the Verses, and had learnt the art of making them to such

perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I

suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again,

unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it.

Still, although I had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very

improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and

always remembered all through life, I did doubt whether Richard would

not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his

studying them quite so much.

To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject, and do not even now know

whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to

the same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever

did.

"I haven't the least idea," said Richard, musing, "what I had better

be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into the Church,

it's a toss-up."

"You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way?" suggested Mr. Jarndyce.

"I don't know that, sir!" replied Richard. "I am fond of boating.

Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a capital

profession!"

"Surgeon--" suggested Mr. Jarndyce.

"That's the thing, sir!" cried Richard.

I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.

"That's the thing, sir!" repeated Richard, with the greatest

enthusiasm. "We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!"

He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily.

He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it,

the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was

the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this

conclusion, because, having never had much chance of finding out for

himself what he was fitted for, and having never been guided to the

discovery, he was taken by the newest idea, and was glad to get rid of

the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin Verses

often ended in this, or whether Richard's was a solitary case.

Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him, seriously, and to put

it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter.

Richard was a little grave after these interviews; but invariably told

Ada and me "that it was all right," and then began to talk about

something else.

"By Heaven!" cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself strongly in

the subject--though I need not say that, for he could do nothing

weakly; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry

devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is in

it, the better for mankind, and the worse for those mercenary

taskmasters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious

art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and

despicable," cried Mr. Boythorn, "the treatment of Surgeons aboard

ship is such, that I would submit the legs--both legs--of every member

of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture, and render it a

transportable offense in any qualified practitioner to set them, if

the system were not wholly changed in eight-and-forty hours!"

"Wouldn't you give them a week?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.

"No!" cried Mr. Boythorn, firmly. "Not on any consideration!

Eight-and-forty hours! As to Corporations, Parishes, Vestry-Boards,

and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods, who assemble to

exchange such speeches that, by Heaven! they ought to be worked in

quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserable

existence, if it were only to prevent their detestable English from

contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the Sun--as to

those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardor of gentlemen in

the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense the inestimable services of

the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive

education, with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I

would have the necks of every one of them wrung, and their skulls

arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the contemplation of the whole

profession--in order that its younger members might understand from

actual measurement, in early life, _how_ thick skulls may become!"

He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a

most agreeable smile, and suddenly thundering, Ha, ha, ha! over and

over again, until any body else might have been expected to be quite

subdued by the exertion.

As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice,

after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.

Jarndyce, and had expired; and as he still continued to assure Ada and

me, in the same final manner that it was "all right;" it became

advisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge therefore, came

down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his

eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did

exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a little

girl.

"Ah!" said Mr. Kenge. "Yes. Well? A very good profession, Mr.

Jarndyce; a very good profession."

"The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently

pursued," observed my Guardian, with a glance at Richard.

"O, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. "Diligently."

"But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are

worth much," said Mr. Jarndyce, "it is not a special consideration

which another choice would be likely to escape."

"Truly," said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard Carstone, who has so

meritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall I say the classic

shades?--in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the

habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in that

tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born, not

made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he

enters."

"You may rely upon it," said Richard, in his off-hand manner, "that I

shall go at it, and do my best."

"Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!" said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his head.

"Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to go at it,

and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over those

expressions; "I would submit to you, that we have only to inquire into

the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now, with

reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently eminent

practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?"

"No one, Rick, I think?" said my Guardian.

"No one, sir," said Richard.

"Quite so!" observed Mr. Kenge. "As to situation, now. Is there any

particular feeling on that head?"

"N--no," said Richard.

"Quite so!" observed Mr. Kenge again.

"I should like a little variety," said Richard; "--I mean a good range

of experience."

"Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge "I think this may be

easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in the first place, to

discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and, as soon as we make

our want--and, shall I add, our ability to pay a premium?--known, our

only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number.

We have only, in the second place, to observe those little formalities

which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and our being under

the guardianship of the Court. We shall soon be--shall I say, in Mr.

Richard's own light-hearted manner, 'going at it'--to our heart's

content. It is a coincidence," said Mr. Kenge, with a tinge of

melancholy in his smile, "one of those coincidences which may or may

not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that

I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed eligible

by you, and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I can

answer for him as little as for you; but he _might_?"

As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr. Kenge

should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before proposed to take

us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we should

make our visit at once, and combine Richard's business with it.

Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a

cheerful lodging near Oxford-street, over an upholsterer's shop.

London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours

at a time, seeing the sights; which appeared to be less capable of

exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal theatres,

too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth seeing.

I mention this, because it was at the theatre that I began to be made

uncomfortable again, by Mr. Guppy.

I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada; and Richard was

in the place he liked best, behind Ada's chair; when, happening to

look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Guppy, with his hair flattened down

upon his head, and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. I felt,

all through the performance, that he never looked at the actors, but

constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared

expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection.

It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, because it was so very

embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But, from that time forth, we

never went to the play, without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit--always

with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a

general feebleness about him. If he were not there when we went in,

and I began to hope he would not come, and yielded myself for a little

while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encounter his

languishing eyes when I least expected it, and, from that time, to be

quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening.

I really can not express how uneasy this made me. If he would only

have brushed up his hair, or turned up his collar, it would have been

bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at

me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a

constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or to cry

at it, or to move, or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing naturally.

As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of the box, I could not

bear to do that; because I knew Richard and Ada relied on having me

next them, and that they could never have talked together so happily

if any body else had been in my place. So there I sat, not knowing

where to look--for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy's eyes were

following me--and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this young

man was putting himself, on my account.

[Illustration: MR. GUPPY'S DESOLATION.]

Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that the

young man would lose his situation, and that I might ruin him.

Sometimes, I thought of confiding in Richard; but was deterred by the

possibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy, and giving him black eyes.

Sometimes, I thought, should I frown at him, or shake my head. Then I

felt I could not do it. Sometimes, I considered whether I should write

to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a

correspondence would be to make the matter worse. I always came to the

conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy's

perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any

theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we

were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly--where I am sure I

saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful

spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The

upholsterer's where we lodged, being at the corner of two streets, and

my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near the

window when I went up-stairs, lest I should see him (as I did one

moonlight night) leaning against the post, and evidently catching

cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the

day-time, I really should have had no rest from him.

While we were making this round of gayeties in which Mr. Guppy so

extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring

us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousin was a Mr. Bayham

Badger, who had a good practice at Chelsea, and attended a large

public Institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard

into his house, and to superintend his studies; and as it seemed that

those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's roof, and as

Mr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger

"well enough," an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor's consent

was obtained, and it was all settled.

On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr. Badger,

we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger's house. We were to

be "merely a family party," Mrs. Badger's note said; and we found no

lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded in the

drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a little,

playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little, playing the

harp a little, singing a little, working a little, reading a little,

writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little. She was a lady of

about fifty, I should think, youthfully dressed, and of a very fine

complexion. If I add, to the little list of her accomplishments, that

she rouged a little, I do not mean that there was any harm in it.

Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking

gentleman, with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised

eyes: some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He

admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the

curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands.

We had barely taken our seats, when he said to Mr. Jarndyce quite

triumphantly.

"You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham Badger's third!"

"Indeed?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Her third!" said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham Badger has not the

appearance, Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two former

husbands?"

I said "Not at all!"

"And most remarkable men!" said Mr. Badger, in a tone of confidence.

"Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Badger's first

husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of

Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European

reputation."

Mrs. Badger overheard him, and smiled.

"Yes, my dear!" Mr. Badger replied to the smile, "I was observing to

Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, that you had had two former

husbands--both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people

generally do, difficult to believe."

"I was barely twenty," said Mrs. Badger, "when I married Captain

Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I am

quite a Sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I became

the wife of Professor Dingo."

("Of European reputation," added Mr. Badger in an under tone.)

"And when Mr. Badger and myself were married," pursued Mrs. Badger,

"we were married on the same day of the year. I had become attached to

the day."

"So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands--two of them

highly distinguished men," said Mr. Badger, summing up the facts;

"and, each time, upon the twenty-first of March at Eleven in the

forenoon!"

We all expressed our admiration.

"But for Mr. Badger's modesty," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I would take leave

to correct him, and say three distinguished men."

"Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him!" observed Mrs.

Badger.

"And, my dear," said Mr. Badger, "what do _I_ always tell you? That

without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction

as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many

opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak--no, really," said Mr.

Badger to us generally, "so unreasonable--as to put my reputation on

the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and

Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Jarndyce,"

continued Mr. Bayham Badger, leading the way into the next drawing

room, "in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was taken on his return

home from the African Station, where he had suffered from the fever of

the country. Mrs. Badger considers it too yellow. But it's a very fine

head. A very fine head!"

We all echoed, "A very fine head!"

"I feel when I look at it," said Mr. Badger, "'that's a man I should

like to have seen!' It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that

Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor Dingo.

I knew him well--attended him in his last illness--a speaking

likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over

the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham Badger

_in esse_, I possess the original, and have no copy."

Dinner was now announced, and we went down stairs. It was a very

genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the Captain and the

Professor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and, as Ada and I had the

honor of being under his particular care, we had the full benefit of

them.

"Water, Miss Summerson? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray. Bring me

the Professor's goblet, James!"

Ada very much admired some artificial flowers, under a glass.

"Astonishing how they keep!" said Mr. Badger. "They were presented to

Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterranean."

[Illustration: THE FAMILY PORTRAITS AT MR. BAYHAM BADGER'S.]

He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.

"Not that claret," he said. "Excuse me! This is an occasion, and _on_

an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have.

(James, Captain Swosser's wine!) Mr. Jarndyce, this is a wine that was

imported by the Captain, we will not say how many years ago. You will

find it very curious. My dear, I shall be happy to take some of this

wine with you. (Captain Swosser's claret to your mistress, James!) My

love, your health!"

After dinner when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badger's first and

second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us, in the drawing-room a

Biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser before

his marriage, and a more minute account of him dating from the time

when he fell in love with her, at a ball on board the Crippler, given

to the officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth harbor.

"The dear old Crippler!" said Mrs. Badger, shaking her head. "She was

a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as Captain Swosser

used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introduce a nautical

expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser loved that

craft for my sake. When she was no longer in commission, he frequently

said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he would have an

inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck where we stood as

partners in the dance, to mark the spot where he fell--raked fore and

aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. It was his

naval way of mentioning my eyes."

Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass.

"It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo," she

resumed, with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a good deal at first. Such

an entire revolution in my mode of life! But custom, combined with

science--particularly science--inured me to it. Being the Professor's

sole companion in his botanical excursions, I almost forgot that I had

ever been afloat, and became quite learned. It is singular that the

Professor was the Antipodes of Captain Swosser, and that Mr. Badger is

not in the least like either!"

We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser and

Professor Dingo, both of whom seemed to have had very bad complaints.

In the course of it, Mrs. Badger signified to us that she had never

madly loved but once; and that the object of that wild affection,

never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser. The

Professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and Mrs.

Badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great

difficulty, "Where is Laura? Let Laura give me my toast and water!"

when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb.

Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days past,

that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each other's

society; which was but natural, seeing that they were going to be

separated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised, when we

got home, and Ada and I retired up-stairs, to find Ada more silent

than usual; though I was not quite prepared for her coming into my

arms, and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden.

"My darling Esther!" murmured Ada. "I have a great secret to tell

you!"

A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt!

"What is it, Ada?"

"O Esther, you would never guess!"

"Shall I try to guess?" said I.

"O no! Don't! Pray, don't!" cried Ada, very much startled by the idea

of my doing so.

"Now, I wonder who it can be about?" said I, pretending to consider.

"It's about," said Ada, in a whisper. "It's about--my cousin Richard!"

"Well, my own!" said I, kissing her bright hair, which was all I could

see. "And what about him?"

"O, Esther, you would never guess!"

It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her

face; and to know that she was not crying in sorrow, but in a little

glow of joy, and pride, and hope; that I would not help her just yet.

"He says--I know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but he

says," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, Esther."

"Does he indeed?" said I. "I never heard of such a thing! Why, my pet

of pets, I could have told you that, weeks and weeks ago!"

To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me

round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, and laugh, was so

pleasant!

"Why, my darling!" said I, "what a goose you must take me for! Your

cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he could, for I don't

know how long!"

"And yet you never said a word about it!" cried Ada, kissing me.

"No, my love," said I. "I waited to be told."

"But now I have told you, you don't think it wrong of me; do you?"

returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say No, if I had been the

hardest-hearted Duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I said No,

very freely.

"And now," said I, "I know the worst of it."

"O, that's not quite the worst of it, Esther dear!" cried Ada, holding

me tighter, and laying down her face again upon my breast.

"No?" said I. "Not even that?"

"No, not even that!" said Ada, shaking her head.

"Why, you never mean to say--!" I was beginning in joke.

But Ada looking up, and smiling through her tears, cried. "Yes, I do!

You know, you know I do!" and then sobbed out, "With all my heart I

do! With all my whole heart, Esther!"

I told her, laughing, why, I had known that, too, just as well as I

had known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had all the

talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of

it); and Ada was soon quiet and happy. "Do you think my cousin John

knows, dear Dame Durden?" she asked.

"Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet," said I, "I should think my

cousin John knows pretty well as much as we know."

"We want to speak to him before Richard goes," said Ada, timidly, "and

we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. Perhaps you wouldn't

mind Richard's coming in, Dame Durden?"

"O! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said I.

"I am not quite certain," returned Ada, with a bashful simplicity that

would have won my heart, if she had not won it long before; "but I

think he's waiting at the door."

There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side of me,

and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love with

me, instead of one another; they were so confiding, and so trustful,

and so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way for a little

while--I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much myself--and then we

gradually fell to considering how young they were, and how there must

be a lapse of several years before this early love could come to any

thing, and how it could come to happiness only if it were real and

lasting, and inspired them with a steady resolution to do their duty

to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and perseverance: each

always for the other's sake. Well! Richard said that he would work his

fingers to the bone for Ada, and Ada said that she would work her

fingers to the bone for Richard, and they called me all sorts of

endearing and sensible names, and we sat there, advising and talking,

half the night. Finally, before we parted, I gave them my promise to

speak to their cousin John to-morrow.

So, when to-morrow came, I went to my Guardian after breakfast, in the

room that was our town-substitute for the Growlery, and told him that

I had it in trust to tell him something.

"Well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you have

accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it."

"I hope not, Guardian," said I. "I can guarantee that there is no

secresy in it. For it only happened yesterday."

"Ay? And what is it, Esther?"

"Guardian," said I, "you remember the happy night when we first came

down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark room?"

I wished to recall to his remembrance the look he had given me then.

Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.

"Because," said I, with a little hesitation.

"Yes, my dear!" said he. "Don't hurry."

"Because," said I, "Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And have told

each other so."

"Already?" cried my Guardian, quite astonished.

"Yes!" said I, "and to tell you the truth, Guardian, I rather expected

it."

"The deuce you did!" said he.

He sat considering for a minute or two; with his smile, at once so

handsome and so kind, upon his changing face; and then requested me to

let them know that he wished to see them. When they came, he encircled

Ada with one arm, in his fatherly way, and addressed himself to

Richard with a cheerful gravity.

"Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am glad to have won your confidence. I

hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations between us

four which have so brightened my life, and so invested it with new

interests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar off, the

possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don't be shy, Ada,

don't be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together. I

saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But that was afar

off, Rick, afar off!"

"We look afar off, sir," returned Richard.

"Well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "That's rational. Now, hear me, my dears! I

might tell you that you don't know your own minds yet; that a thousand

things may happen to divert you from one another; that it is well this

chain of flowers you have taken up is very easily broken, or it might

become a chain of lead. But I will not do that. Such wisdom will come

soon enough, I dare say, if it is to come at all. I will assume that,

a few years hence, you will be in your hearts to one another, what you

are to-day. All I say before speaking to you according to that

assumption is, if you _do_ change--if you _do_ come to find that you

are more commonplace cousins to each other as man and woman, than you

were as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me, Rick!)--don't be

ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be nothing monstrous or

uncommon in it. I am only your friend and distant kinsman. I have no

power over you whatever. But I wish and hope to retain your

confidence, if I do nothing to forfeit it."

"I am very sure, sir," returned Richard, "that I speak for Ada, too,

when I say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted in

respect, gratitude, and affection, strengthening every day."

"Dear cousin John," said Ada, on his shoulder, "my father's place can

never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever have rendered

to him, is transferred to you."

"Come!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now for our assumption. Now we lift our

eyes up, and look hopefully at the distance! Rick, the world is before

you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive

you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your own efforts. Never

separate the two, like the heathen wagoner. Constancy in love is a

good thing; but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in

every kind of effort. If you had the abilities of all the great men,

past and present, you could do nothing well, without sincerely meaning

it, and setting about it. If you entertain the supposition that any

real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could be, ever

will or can be, wrested from Fortune by fits and starts, leave that

wrong idea here, or leave your cousin Ada here."

"I will leave it here, sir," replied Richard, smiling, "if I brought

it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on to my

cousin Ada in the hopeful distance."

"Right!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "If you are not to make her happy, why

should you pursue her?"

"I wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love," retorted

Richard, proudly.

"Well said!" cried Mr. Jarndyce; "that's well said! She remains here,

in her home with me. Love her, Rick, in your active life, no less than

in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well. Otherwise, all

will go ill. That's the end of my preaching. I think you and Ada had

better take a walk."

Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook hands with him,

and then the cousins went out of the room--looking back again

directly, though, to say that they would wait for me.

The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes, as they

passed down the adjoining room on which the sun was shining, and out

at its farther end. Richard, with his head bent, and her hand drawn

through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and she looked up

in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else. So young, so

beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly through

the sunlight, as their own happy thoughts might then be traversing

the years to come, and making them all years of brightness. So they

passed away into the shadow, and were gone. It was only a burst of

light that had been so radiant. The room darkened as they went out,

and the sun was clouded over.

"Am I right, Esther?" said my Guardian, when they were gone.

He who was so good and wise, to ask me whether he was right!

"Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at the core

of so much that is good!" said Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his head. "I have

said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend and counselor always

near." And he laid his hand lovingly upon my head.

I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I did all I

could to conceal it.

"Tut tut!" said he. "But we must take care, too, that our little

woman's life is not all consumed in care for others."

"Care? My dear Guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature in the

world!"

"I believe so too," said he. "But some one may find out, what Esther

never will--that the little woman is to be held in remembrance above

all other people!"

I have omitted to mention in its place, that there was some one else

at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a gentleman. It

was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a young surgeon. He was rather

reserved, but I thought him very sensible and agreeable. At least, Ada

asked me if I did not, and I said yes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE COUNTER-STROKE.

Just after breakfast one fine spring morning in 1837, an advertisement

in the _Times_ for a curate caught and fixed my attention. The salary

was sufficiently remunerative for a bachelor, and the parish, as I

personally knew, one of the most pleasantly situated in all

Somersetshire. Having said that, the reader will readily understand

that it could not have been a hundred miles from Taunton. I instantly

wrote, inclosing testimonials, with which the Rev. Mr. Townley, the

rector, was so entirely satisfied, that the return-post brought me a

positive engagement, unclogged with the slightest objection to one or

two subsidiary items I had stipulated for, and accompanied by an

invitation to make the rectory my home till I could conveniently suit

myself elsewhere. This was both kind and handsome; and the next day

but one I took coach, with a light heart, for my new destination. It

thus happened that I became acquainted, and in some degree mixed up,

with the train of events it is my present purpose to relate.

The rector I found to be a stout, portly gentleman, whose years

already reached to between sixty and seventy. So many winters,

although they had plentifully besprinkled his hair with gray, shone

out with ruddy brightness in his still handsome face, and keen,

kindly, bright-hazel eyes; and his voice, hearty and ringing, had not

as yet one quaver of age in it. I met him at breakfast on the morning

after my arrival, and his reception of me was most friendly. We had

spoken together but for a few minutes, when one of the French windows,

that led from the breakfast-room into a shrubbery and flower-garden,

gently opened and admitted a lady, just then, as I afterward learned,

in her nineteenth spring. I use this term almost unconsciously, for I

can not even now, in the glowing summer of her life, dissociate her

image from that season of youth and joyousness. She was introduced to

me, with old-fashioned simplicity, as "My grand-daughter, Agnes

Townley." It is difficult to look at beauty through other men's eyes,

and, in the present instance, I feel that I should fail miserably in

the endeavor to stamp upon this blank, dead paper, any adequate idea

of the fresh loveliness, the rose-bud beauty of that young girl. I

will merely say, that her perfectly Grecian head, wreathed with wavy

_bandeaux_ of bright hair, undulating with golden light, vividly

brought to my mind Raphael's halo-tinted portraitures of the

Virgin--with this difference, that in place of the holy calm and

resignation of the painting, there was in Agnes Townley, a sparkling

youth and life, that even amid the heat and glare of a crowded

ball-room, or of a theatre, irresistibly suggested and recalled the

freshness and perfume of the morning--of a cloudless, rosy morning of

May. And, far higher charm than feature-beauty, however exquisite, a

sweetness of disposition, a kind gentleness of mind and temper, was

evinced in every line of her face, in every accent of the low-pitched,

silver voice, that breathed through lips made only to smile.

Let me own, that I was greatly struck by so remarkable a combination

of rare endowments; and this, I think, the sharp-eyed rector must have

perceived, or he might not, perhaps, have been so immediately

communicative with respect to the near prospects of his idolized

grand-child, as he was the moment the young lady, after presiding at

the breakfast-table, had withdrawn.

"We shall have gay doings, Mr. Tyrrel, at the rectory shortly," he

said. "Next Monday three weeks will, with the blessing of God, be

Agnes Townley's wedding-day."

"Wedding-day!"

"Yes," rejoined the rector, turning toward and examining some flowers

which Miss Townley had brought in and placed on the table. "Yes, it

has been for some time settled that Agnes shall on that day be united

in holy wedlock to Mr. Arbuthnot."

"Mr. Arbuthnot, of Elm Park?"

"A great match, is it not, in a worldly point of view?" replied Mr.

Townley, with a pleasant smile at the tone of my exclamation. "And

much better than that: Robert Arbuthnot is a young man of a high and

noble nature, as well as devotedly attached to Agnes. He will, I doubt

not, prove in every respect a husband deserving and worthy of her;

and that from the lips of a doting old grandpapa must be esteemed high

praise. You will see him presently."

I did see him often, and quite agreed in the rector's estimate of his

future grandson-in-law. I have not frequently seen a finer-looking

young man--his age was twenty-six; and certainly one of a more

honorable and kindly spirit, of a more genial temper than he, has

never come within my observation. He had drawn a great prize in the

matrimonial lottery, and, I felt, deserved his high fortune.

They were married at the time agreed upon, and the day was kept not

only at Elm Park, and in its neighborhood, but throughout "our"

parish, as a general holiday. And, strangely enough--at least I have

never met with another instance of the kind--it was held by our entire

female community, high as well as low, that the match was a perfectly

equal one, notwithstanding that wealth and high worldly position were

entirely on the bridegroom's side. In fact, that nobody less in the

social scale than the representative of an old territorial family

ought, in the nature of things, to have aspired to the hand of Agnes

Townley, appeared to have been a foregone conclusion with every body.

This will give the reader a truer and more vivid impression of the

bride, than any words or colors I might use.

The days, weeks, months of wedded life flew over Mr. and Mrs.

Arbuthnot without a cloud, save a few dark but transitory ones which I

saw now and then flit over the husband's countenance as the time when

he should become a father drew near, and came to be more and more

spoken of. "I should not survive her," said Mr. Arbuthnot, one day in

reply to a chance observation of the rector's, "nor indeed desire to

do so." The gray-headed man seized and warmly pressed the husband's

hand, and tears of sympathy filled his eyes; yet did he, nevertheless,

as in duty bound, utter grave words on the sinfulness of despair under

any circumstances, and the duty, in all trials, however heavy, of

patient submission to the will of God. But the venerable gentleman

spoke in a hoarse and broken voice, and it was easy to see he _felt_

with Mr. Arbuthnot that the reality of an event, the bare possibility

of which shook them so terribly, were a cross too heavy for human

strength to bear and live.

It was of course decided that the expected heir or heiress should be

intrusted to a wet-nurse, and a Mrs. Danby, the wife of a miller

living not very far from the rectory, was engaged for that purpose. I

had frequently seen the woman; and her name, as the rector and I were

one evening gossiping over our tea, on some subject or other that I

forgot, came up.

"A likely person," I remarked; "healthy, very good-looking, and one

might make oath, a true-hearted creature. But there is withal a

timidity; a frightenedness in her manner at times, which, if I may

hazard a perhaps uncharitable conjecture, speaks ill for that smart

husband of hers."

"You have hit the mark precisely, my dear sir. Danby is a sorry

fellow, and a domestic tyrant to boot. His wife, who is really a good,

but meek-hearted person, lived with us once. How old do you suppose

her to be?"

"Five-and-twenty perhaps."

"Six years more than that. She has a son of the name of Harper by a

former marriage, who is in his tenth year. Anne wasn't a widow long.

Danby was caught by her good looks, and she by the bait of a

well-provided home. Unless, however, her husband gives up his corn

speculations, she will not, I think, have that much longer."

"Corn speculations! Surely Danby has no means adequate to indulgence

in such a game as that?"

"Not he. But about two years ago he bought, on credit, I believe, a

considerable quantity of wheat, and prices happening to fly suddenly

up just then, he made a large profit. This has quite turned his head,

which, by-the-by, was never, as Cockneys say, quite rightly screwed

on." The announcement of a visitor interrupted any thing further the

rector might have had to say, and I soon afterward went home.

A sad accident occurred about a month subsequent to the foregoing

conversation. The rector was out riding upon a usually quiet horse,

which all at once took it into its head to shy at a scarecrow it must

have seen a score of times, and thereby threw its rider. Help was

fortunately at hand, and the reverend gentleman was instantly conveyed

home, when it was found that his left thigh was broken. Thanks,

however, to his temperate habits, it was before long authoritatively

pronounced that, although it would be a considerable time before he

was released from confinement, it was not probable that the lusty

winter of his life would be shortened by what had happened.

Unfortunately, the accident threatened to have evil consequences in

another quarter. Immediately after it occurred, one Matthews, a busy,

thick-headed lout of a butcher, rode furiously off to Elm Park with

the news. Mrs. Arbuthnot, who daily looked to be confined, was walking

with her husband upon the lawn in front of the house, when the great

burly blockhead rode up, and blurted out that the rector had been

thrown from his horse, and it was feared killed!

The shock of such an announcement was of course overwhelming. A few

hours afterward, Mrs. Arbuthnot gave birth to a healthy male-child;

but the young mother's life, assailed by fever, was for many days

utterly despaired of--for weeks held to tremble so evenly in the

balance, that the slightest adverse circumstance might in a moment

turn the scale deathward. At length the black horizon that seemed to

encompass us so hopelessly, lightened, and afforded the lover-husband

a glimpse and hope of his vanished and well-nigh despaired of Eden.

The promise was fulfilled. I was in the library with Mr. Arbuthnot,

awaiting the physician's morning report, very anxiously expected at

the rectory, when Dr. Lindley entered the apartment in evidently

cheerful mood.

"You have been causelessly alarmed," he said. "There is no fear

whatever of a relapse. Weakness only remains, and that we shall

slowly, perhaps, but certainly remove."

A gleam of lightning seemed to flash over Mr. Arbuthnot's expressive

countenance. "Blessed be God!" he exclaimed. "And how," he added,

"shall we manage respecting the child? She asks for it incessantly."

Mr. Arbuthnot's infant son, I should state, had been consigned

immediately after its birth to the care of Mrs. Danby, who had herself

been confined, also with a boy, about a fortnight previously.

Scarlatina being prevalent in the neighborhood, Mrs. Danby was hurried

away with the two children to a place near Bath, almost before she was

able to bear the journey. Mr. Arbuthnot had not left his wife for an

hour, and consequently had only seen his child for a few minutes just

after it was born.

"With respect to the child," replied Dr. Lindley, "I am of opinion

that Mrs. Arbuthnot may see it in a day or two. Say the third day from

this, if all goes well. I think we may venture so far; but I will be

present, for any untoward agitation might be perhaps instantly fatal."

This point provisionally settled, we all three went our several ways:

I to cheer the still suffering rector with the good news.

The next day but one, Mr. Arbuthnot was in exuberant spirits. "Dr.

Lindley's report is even more favorable than we had anticipated," he

said; "and I start to-morrow morning, to bring Mrs. Danby and the

child--" The postman's subdued but unmistakable knock interrupted him.

"The nurse," he added, "is very attentive and punctual. She writes

almost every day." A servant entered with a salver heaped with

letters. Mr. Arbuthnot tossed them over eagerly, and seizing one,

after glancing at the post-mark, tore it eagerly open, muttering as he

did so, "It is not the usual handwriting; but from her, no doubt--"

"Merciful God!" I impulsively exclaimed, as I suddenly lifted my eyes

to his. "What is the matter?" A mortal pallor had spread over Mr.

Arbuthnot's before animated features, and he was glaring at the letter

in his hand as if a basilisk had suddenly confronted him. Another

moment, and the muscles of his frame appeared to give way suddenly,

and he dropped heavily into the easy-chair from which he had risen to

take the letters. I was terribly alarmed, and first loosening his

neckerchief, for he seemed choking, I said: "Let me call some one;"

and I turned to reach the bell, when he instantly seized my arms, and

held me with a grip of iron. "No--no--no!" he hoarsely gasped;

"water--water!" There was fortunately some on a side table. I handed

it to him, and he drank eagerly. It appeared to revive him a little.

He thrust the crumpled letter into his pocket, and said in a low,

quick whisper: "There is some one coming! Not a word, remember--not a

word!" At the same time, he wheeled his chair half round, so that his

back should be toward the servant we heard approaching.

"I am sent, sir," said Mrs. Arbuthnot's maid, "to ask if the post has

arrived?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Arbuthnot, with wonderful mastery of his voice.

"Tell your mistress I shall be with her almost immediately, and that

her--her son is quite well."

"Mr. Tyrrel," he continued, as soon as the servant was out of hearing,

"there is, I think a liqueur-stand on the sideboard in the large

dining-room. Would you have the kindness to bring it me,

unobserved--mind that--unobserved by any one?"

I did as he requested; and the instant I placed the liqueur-frame

before him, he seized the brandy _carafe_, and drank with fierce

eagerness. "For goodness' sake," I exclaimed, "consider what you are

about, Mr. Arbuthnot; you will make yourself ill."

"No, no," he answered, after finishing his draught. "It seems scarcely

stronger than water. But I--I am better now. It was a sudden spasm of

the heart; that's all. The letter," he added, after a long and painful

pause, during which he eyed me, I thought, with a kind of

suspicion--"the letter you saw me open just now, comes from a

relative, an aunt, who is ill, very ill, and wishes to see me

instantly. You understand?"

I _did_ understand, or at least I feared that I did too well. I,

however, bowed acquiescence; and he presently rose from his chair, and

strode about the apartment in great agitation, until his wife's

bedroom bell rang. He then stopped suddenly short, shook himself, and

looked anxiously at the reflection of his flushed and varying

countenance in the magnificent chimney-glass.

"I do not look, I think--or, at least shall not, in a darkened

room--odder, more out of the way--that is, more agitated--than one

might, that one _must_ appear after hearing of the dangerous illness

of--of--an aunt?"

"You look better, sir, than you did a while since."

"Yes, yes; much better, much better. I am glad to hear you say so.

That was my wife's bell. She is anxious, no doubt, to see me."

He left the apartment; was gone perhaps ten minutes; and when he

returned, was a thought less nervous than before. I rose to go. "Give

my respects," he said, "to the good rector; and as an especial favor,"

he added, with strong emphasis, "let me ask of you not to mention to a

living soul that you saw me so unmanned as I was just now; that I

swallowed brandy. It would appear so strange, so weak, so ridiculous."

I promised not to do so, and almost immediately left the house, very

painfully affected. His son was, I concluded, either dead or dying,

and he was thus bewilderedly casting about for means of keeping the

terrible, perhaps fatal tidings, from his wife. I afterward heard that

he left Elm Park in a post-chaise, about two hours after I came away,

unattended by a single servant!

He was gone three clear days only, at the end of which he returned

with Mrs. Danby and--his son--in florid health, too, and one of the

finest babies of its age--about nine weeks only--I had ever seen. Thus

vanished the air-drawn Doubting Castle and Giant Despair which I had

so hastily conjured up! The cause assigned by Mr. Arbuthnot for the

agitation I had witnessed, was doubtless the true one; and yet, and

the thought haunted me for months, years afterward, he opened only

_one_ letter that morning, and had sent a message to his wife that the

child was well.

Mrs. Danby remained at the Park till the little Robert was weaned, and

was then dismissed very munificently rewarded. Year after year rolled

away without bringing Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot any additional little

ones, and no one, therefore, could feel surprised at the enthusiastic

love of the delighted mother for her handsome, nobly-promising boy.

But that which did astonish me, though no one else, for it seemed that

I alone noticed it, was a strange defect of character which began to

develop itself in Mr. Arbuthnot. He was positively jealous of his

wife's affection for their own child! Many and many a time have I

remarked, when he thought himself unobserved, an expression of intense

pain flash from his fine, expressive eyes, at any more than usually

fervent manifestation of the young mother's gushing love for her first

and only born! It was altogether a mystery to me, and I as much as

possible forbore to dwell upon the subject.

Nine years passed away without bringing any material change to the

parties involved in this narrative, except those which time brings

ordinarily in his train. Young Robert Arbuthnot was a healthy, tall,

fine-looking lad of his age; and his great-grandpapa, the rector,

though not suffering under any actual physical or mental infirmity,

had reached a time of life when the announcement that the golden bowl

is broken, or the silver cord is loosed, may indeed be quick and

sudden, but scarcely unexpected. Things had gone well, too, with the

nurse, Mrs. Danby, and her husband; well, at least, after a fashion.

The speculative miller must have made good use of the gift to his wife

for her care of little Arbuthnot, for he had built a genteel house

near the mill, always rode a valuable horse, kept, it was said, a

capital table; and all this, as it seemed, by his clever speculations

in corn and flour, for the ordinary business of the mill was almost

entirely neglected. He had no children of his own, but he had

apparently taken, with much cordiality, to his step-son, a fine lad,

now about eighteen years of age. This greatly grieved the boy's

mother, who dreaded above all things that her son should contract the

evil, dissolute habits of his father-in-law. Latterly, she had become

extremely solicitous to procure the lad a permanent situation abroad,

and this Mr. Arbuthnot had promised should be effected at the earliest

opportunity.

Thus stood affairs on the 16th of October, 1846. Mr Arbuthnot was

temporarily absent in Ireland, where he possessed large property, and

was making personal inquiries as to the extent of the potato-rot, not

long before announced. The morning's post had brought a letter to his

wife, with the intelligence that he should reach home that very

evening; and as the rectory was on the direct road to Elm Park, and

her husband would be sure to pull up there, Mrs. Arbuthnot came with

her son to pass the afternoon there, and in some slight degree

anticipate her husband's arrival.

About three o'clock, a chief-clerk of one of the Taunton banks rode up

in a gig to the rectory, and asked to see the Rev. Mr. Townley, on

pressing and important business. He was ushered into the library,

where the rector and I were at the moment rather busily engaged. The

clerk said he had been to Elm Park, but not finding either Mr.

Arbuthnot or his lady there, he had thought that perhaps the Rev. Mr.

Townley might be able to pronounce upon the genuineness of a check for

£300, purporting to be drawn on the Taunton Bank by Mr. Arbuthnot, and

which Danby the miller had obtained cash for at Bath. He further

added, that the bank had refused payment and detained the check,

believing it to be a forgery.

"A forgery!" exclaimed the rector, after merely glancing at the

document. "No question that it is, and a very clumsily executed one,

too. Besides, Mr. Arbuthnot is not yet returned from Ireland."

This was sufficient; and the messenger, with many apologies for his

intrusion, withdrew, and hastened back to Taunton. We were still

talking over this sad affair, although some hours had elapsed since

the clerk's departure--in fact, candles had been brought in, and we

were every moment expecting Mr. Arbuthnot--when the sound of a horse

at a hasty gallop was heard approaching, and presently the pale and

haggard face of Danby shot by the window at which the rector and

myself were standing. The gate-bell was rung almost immediately

afterward, and but a brief interval passed before "Mr. Danby" was

announced to be in waiting. The servant had hardly gained the passage

with leave to show him in, when the impatient visitor rushed rudely

into the room in a state of great, and it seemed angry excitement.

"What, sir, is the meaning of this ill-mannered intrusion?" demanded

the rector, sternly.

"You have pronounced the check I paid away at Bath to be a forgery;

and the officers are, I am told, already at my heels. Mr. Arbuthnot,

unfortunately, is not at home, and I am come, therefore, to seek

shelter with you."

"Shelter with me, sir!" exclaimed the indignant rector, moving, as he

spoke, toward the bell. "Out of my house you shall go this instant."

The fellow placed his hand upon the reverend gentleman's arm, and

looked with his bloodshot eyes keenly in his face.

"Don't!" said Danby; "don't, for the sake of yourself and yours!

Don't! I warn you; or, if you like the phrase better, don't, for the

sake of me and _mine_."

"Yours, fellow! Your wife, whom you have so long held in cruel bondage

through her fears for her son, has at last shaken off that chain.

James Harper sailed two days ago from Portsmouth for Bombay. I sent

her the news two hours since."

"Ha! is that indeed so?" cried Danby, with an irrepressible start of

alarm. "Why, then--But no matter: here, luckily, comes Mrs. Arbuthnot

_and her son_. All's right! She will, I know, stand bail for me, and,

if need be, acknowledge the genuineness of her husband's check."

The fellow's insolence was becoming unbearable, and I was about to

seize and thrust him forcibly from the apartment, when the sound of

wheels was heard outside. "Hold! one moment," he cried with fierce

vehemence. "That is probably the officers: I must be brief, then, and

to the purpose. Pray, madam, do not leave the room for your own sake:

as for you, young sir, I _command_ you to remain!"

"What! what does he mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot bewilderedly, and

at the same time clasping her son--who gazed on Danby with kindled

eyes, and angry boyish defiance--tightly to her side. Did the man's

strange words give form and significance to some dark, shadowy,

indistinct doubt that had previously haunted her at times? I judged

so. The rector appeared similarly confused and shaken, and had sunk

nerveless and terrified upon a sofa.

"You guess dimly, I see, at what I have to say," resumed Danby with a

malignant sneer. "Well, hear it, then, once for all, and then, if you

will, give me up to the officers. Some years ago," he continued,

coldly and steadily--"some years ago, a woman, a nurse, was placed in

charge of two infant children, both boys: one of these was her own;

the other was the son of rich, proud parents. The woman's husband was

a gay, jolly fellow, who much preferred spending money to earning it,

and just then it happened that he was more than usually hard up. One

afternoon, on visiting his wife, who had removed to a distance, he

found that the rich man's child had sickened of the small-pox, and

that there was no chance of its recovery. A letter containing the sad

news was on a table, which he, the husband, took the liberty to open

and read. After some reflection, suggested by what he had heard of the

lady-mother's state of mind, he re-copied the letter, for the sake of

embodying in it a certain suggestion. That letter was duly posted, and

the next day brought the rich man almost in a state of distraction;

but his chief and mastering terror was lest the mother of the already

dead infant should hear, in her then precarious state, of what had

happened. The tidings, he was sure, would kill her. Seeing this, the

cunning husband of the nurse suggested that, for the present, his--the

cunning one's--child might be taken to the lady as her own, and that

the truth could be revealed when she was strong enough to bear it. The

rich man fell into the artful trap, and that which the husband of the

nurse had speculated upon, came to pass even beyond his hopes. The

lady grew to idolize her fancied child--she has, fortunately, had no

other--and now, I think, it would really kill her to part with him.

The rich man could not find it in his heart to undeceive his

wife--every year it became more difficult, more impossible to do so;

and very generously, I must say, has he paid in purse for the

forbearance of the nurse's husband. Well now, then, to sum up: the

nurse was Mrs. Danby; the rich, weak husband, Mr. Arbuthnot; the

substituted child, that handsome boy, _my son_!"

A wild scream from Mrs. Arbuthnot broke the dread silence which had

accompanied this frightful revelation, echoed by an agonized cry, half

tenderness, half rage, from her husband, who had entered the room

unobserved, and now clasped her passionately in his arms. The

carriage-wheels we had heard were his. It was long before I could

recall with calmness the tumult, terror, and confusion of that scene.

Mr Arbuthnot strove to bear his wife from the apartment, but she would

not be forced away, and kept imploring with frenzied vehemence that

Robert--that her boy should not be taken from her.

"I have no wish to do so--far from it," said Danby, with gleeful

exultation. "Only folk must be reasonable, and not threaten their

friends with the hulks--"

"Give him any thing, any thing!" broke in the unhappy lady. "O Robert!

Robert!" she added with a renewed burst of hysterical grief, "how

could you deceive me so?"

"I have been punished, Agnes," he answered in a husky, broken voice,

"for my well-intending but criminal weakness; cruelly punished by the

ever-present consciousness that this discovery must one day or other

be surely made. What do you want?" he after awhile added with

recovering firmness, addressing Danby.

"The acknowledgment of the little bit of paper in dispute, of course;

and say a genuine one to the same amount."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, still wildly sobbing, and

holding the terrified boy still strained in her embrace, as if she

feared he might be wrenched from her by force. "Any thing--pay him any

thing!"

At this moment, chancing to look toward the door of the apartment, I

saw that it was partially opened, and that Danby's wife was listening

there. What might that mean? But what of helpful meaning in such a

case could it have?

"Be it so, love," said Mr. Arbuthnot, soothingly. "Danby, call

to-morrow at the Park. And now, begone at once."

"I was thinking," resumed the rascal with swelling audacity, "that we

might as well at the same time come to some permanent arrangement upon

black and white. But never mind: I can always put the screw on;

unless, indeed, you get tired of the young gentleman, and in that

case, I doubt not, he will prove a dutiful and affectionate son--Ah,

devil! What do you here? Begone, or I'll murder you! Begone, do you

hear?"

His wife had entered, and silently confronted him. "Your threats, evil

man," replied the woman quietly, "have no terrors for me now. My son

is beyond your reach. Oh, Mrs. Arbuthnot," she added, turning toward

and addressing that lady, "believe not--"

Her husband sprang at her with the bound of a panther. "Silence! Go

home, or I'll strangle--" His own utterance was arrested by the fierce

grasp of Mr. Arbuthnot, who seized him by the throat, and hurled him

to the further end of the room. "Speak on, woman; and quick! quick!

What have you to say?"

"That your son, dearest lady," she answered, throwing herself at Mrs.

Arbuthnot's feet, "is as truly your own child as ever son born of

woman!"

That shout of half-fearful triumph seems even now as I write to ring

in my ears! I _felt_ that the woman's words were words of truth, but I

could not see distinctly: the room whirled round, and the lights

danced before my eyes, but I could hear through all the choking

ecstasy of the mother, and the fury of the baffled felon.

"The letter," continued Mrs. Danby, "which my husband found and

opened, would have informed you, sir, of the swiftly approaching death

of _my_ child, and that yours had been carefully kept beyond the reach

of contagion. The letter you received was written without my knowledge

or consent. True it is that, terrified by my husband's threats, and in

some measure reconciled to the wicked imposition by knowing that,

after all, the right child would be in his right place, I afterward

lent myself to Danby's evil purposes. But I chiefly feared for my son,

whom I fully believed he would not have scrupled to make away with in

revenge for my exposing his profitable fraud. I have sinned; I can

hardly hope to be forgiven, but I have now told the sacred truth."

All this was uttered by the repentant woman, but at the time it was

almost wholly unheard by those most interested in the statement. They

only comprehended that they were saved--that the child was theirs in

very truth. Great, abundant, but for the moment, bewildering joy! Mr.

Arbuthnot--his beautiful young wife--her own true boy (how could she

for a moment have doubted that he was her own true boy!--you might

read that thought through all her tears, thickly as they fell)--the

aged and half-stunned rector, while yet Mrs. Danby was speaking, were

exclaiming, sobbing in each other's arms, ay, and praising God too,

with broken voices and incoherent words it may be, but certainly with

fervent, pious, grateful hearts.

When we had time to look about us, it was found that the felon had

disappeared--escaped. It was well, perhaps, that he had; better, that

he has not been heard of since.

PHILOSOPHY OF LAUGHTER.

From the time of King Solomon downward, laughter has been the subject

of pretty general abuse. Even the laughers themselves sometimes

vituperate the cachinnation they indulge in, and many of them

"Laugh in such a sort,

As if they mocked themselves, and scorned the spirit

That could be moved to laugh at any thing."

The general notion is, that laughter is childish, and unworthy the

gravity of adult life. Grown men, we say, have more to do than to

laugh; and the wiser sort of them leave such an unseemly contortion of

the muscles to babes and blockheads.

We have a suspicion that there is something wrong here--that the world

is mistaken not only in its reasonings, but its facts. To assign

laughter to an early period of life, is to go contrary to observation

and experience. There is not so grave an animal in this world as the

human baby. It will weep, when it has got the length of tears, by the

pailful; it will clench its fists, distort its face into a hideous

expression of anguish, and scream itself into convulsions. It has not

yet come up to a laugh. The little savage must be educated by

circumstances, and tamed by the contact of civilization, before it

rises to the greater functions of its being. Nay, we have sometimes

received the idea from its choked and tuneless screams, that _they_

were imperfect attempts at laughter. It feels enjoyment as well as

pain, but has only one way of expressing both.

Then, look at the baby, when it has turned into a little boy or girl,

and come up in some degree to the cachinnation. The laughter is still

only rudimental: it is not genuine laughter. It expresses triumph,

scorn, passion--anything but a feeling of natural amusement. It is

provoked by misfortune, by bodily infirmities, by the writhings of

agonized animals; and it indicates either a sense of power or a

selfish feeling of exemption from suffering. The "light-hearted laugh

of children!" What a mistake! Observe the gravity of their sports.

They are masters or mistresses, with the care of a family upon their

hands; and they take especial delight in correcting their children

with severity. They are washerwomen, housemaids, cooks, soldiers,

policemen, postmen; coach, horsemen, and horses, by turns; and in all

these characters they scour, sweep, fry, fight, pursue, carry, whirl,

ride, and are ridden, without changing a muscle.

At the games of the young people there is much shouting, argument,

vituperation--but no laughter. A game is a serious business with a

boy, and he derives from it excitement, but no amusement. If he laughs

at all, it is at something quite distinct from the purpose of the

sport; for instance, when one of his comrades has his nose broken by

the ball, or when the feet of another make off from him on the ice,

and he comes down upon his back like a thunderbolt. On such occasions,

the laugh of a boy puts us in mind of the laugh of a hyæna: it is, in

fact, the broken, asthmatic roar of a beast of prey.

It would thus appear that the common charge brought against laughter,

of being something babyish, or childish, or boyish--something

properly appertaining to early life--is unfounded. But we of course

must not be understood to speak of what is technically called

giggling, which proceeds more from a looseness of the structures than

from any sensation of amusement. Many young persons are continually on

the giggle till their muscles strengthen; and indeed, when a company

of them are met together, the affection aggravated by emulation,

acquires the loudness of laughter, when it may be likened, in

Scripture phrase, to the crackling of thorns. What we mean is a

regular guffaw; that explosion of high spirits, and the feeling of

joyous excitement, which is commonly written ha! ha! ha! This is

altogether unknown in babyhood; in boyhood, it exists only in its

rudiments; and it does not reach its full development till adolescence

ripens into manhood.

This train of thought was suggested to us a few evenings ago, by the

conduct of a party of eight or ten individuals, who meet periodically

for the purpose of philosophical inquiry. Their subject is a very

grave one. Their object is to mould into a science that which as yet

is only a vague, formless, and obscure department of knowledge; and

they proceed in the most cautious manner from point to point, from

axiom to axiom--debating at every step, and coming to no decision

without unanimous conviction. Some are professors of the university,

devoted to abstruse studies; some are clergymen; and some authors and

artists. Now, at the meeting in question--which we take merely as an

example, for all are alike--when the hour struck which terminates

their proceedings for the evening, the jaded philosophers retired to

the refreshment-room; and here a scene of remarkable contrast

occurred. Instead of a single deep, low, earnest voice, alternating

with a profound silence, an absolute roar of merriment began, with the

suddenness of an explosion of gunpowder. Jests, bon-mots, anecdotes,

barbarous plays upon words--the more atrocious the better--flew round

the table; and a joyous and almost continuous ha! ha! ha! made the

ceiling ring. This, we venture to say it, _was_ laughter--genuine,

unmistakable laughter, proceeding from no sense of triumph, from no

self-gratulation, and mingled with no bad feeling of any kind. It was

a spontaneous effort of nature coming from the head as well as the

heart; an unbending of the bow, a reaction from study, which study

alone could occasion, and which could occur only in adult life.

There are some people who can not laugh, but these are not necessarily

either morose or stupid. They may laugh in their heart, and with their

eyes, although by some unlucky fatality, they have not the gift of

oral cachinnation. Such persons are to be pitied; for laughter in

grown people is a substitute devised by nature for the screams and

shouts of boyhood, by which the lungs are strengthened and the health

preserved. As the intellect ripens, that shouting ceases, and we learn

to laugh as we learn to reason. The society we have mentioned studied

the harder the more they laughed, and they laughed the more the harder

they studied. Each, of course, to be of use, must be in its own place.

A laugh in the midst of the study would have been a profanation; a

grave look in the midst of the merriment would have been an insult to

the good sense of the company.

If there are some people who can not laugh, there are others who will

not. It is not, however, that they are ashamed of being grown men, and

want to go back to babyhood, for by some extraordinary perversity,

they fancy unalterable gravity to be the distinguishing characteristic

of wisdom. In a merry company, they present the appearance of a Red

Indian whitewashed, and look on at the strange ways of their neighbors

without betraying even the faintest spark of sympathy or intelligence.

These are children of a larger growth, and have not yet acquired sense

enough to laugh. Like the savage, they are afraid of compromising

their dignity, or, to use their own words, of making fools of

themselves. For our part, we never see a man afraid of making a fool

of himself at the right season, without setting him down as a fool

ready made.

A woman has no natural grace more bewitching than a sweet laugh. It is

like the sound of flutes on the water. It leaps from her heart in a

clear, sparkling rill; and the heart that hears it feels as if bathed

in the cool, exhilarating spring. Have you ever pursued an unseen

fugitive through the trees, led on by her fairy laugh; now here, now

there--now lost, now found? We have. And we are pursuing that

wandering voice to this day. Sometimes it comes to us in the midst of

care, or sorrow, or irksome business; and then we turn away, and

listen, and hear it ringing through the room like a silver bell, with

power to scare away the ill-spirits of the mind. How much we owe to

that sweet laugh! It turns the prose of our life into poetry; it

flings showers of sunshine over the darksome wood in which we are

traveling; it touches with light even our sleep, which is no more the

image of death, but gemmed with dreams that are the shadows of

immortality.

But our song, like Dibdin's, "means more than it says;" for a man, as

we have stated, may laugh, and yet the cachinnation be wanting. His

heart laughs, and his eyes are filled with that kindly, sympathetic

smile which inspires friendship and confidence. On the sympathy

within, these external phenomena depend; and this sympathy it is which

keeps societies of men together, and is the true freemasonry of the

good and wise. It is an imperfect sympathy that grants only

sympathetic tears: we must join in the mirth as well as melancholy of

our neighbors. If our countrymen laughed more, they would not only be

happier, but better, and if philanthropists would provide amusements

for the people, they would be saved the trouble and expense of their

fruitless war against public-houses. This is an indisputable

proposition. The French and Italians, with wine growing at their

doors, and spirits almost as cheap as beer in England, are sober

nations. How comes this? The laugh will answer that leaps up from

group after group--the dance on the village-green--the family dinner

under the trees--the thousand merry-meetings that invigorate industry,

by serving as a relief to the business of life. Without these,

business is care; and it is from care, not from amusement, men fly to

the bottle.

The common mistake is to associate the idea of amusement with error of

every kind; and this piece of moral asceticism is given forth as true

wisdom, and, from sheer want of examination, is very generally

received as such. A place of amusement concentrates a crowd, and

whatever excesses may be committed, being confined to a small space,

stand more prominently forward than at other times. This is all. The

excesses are really fewer--far fewer--in proportion to the number

assembled, than if no gathering had taken place How can it be

otherwise? The amusement is itself the excitement which the wearied

heart longs for; it is the reaction which nature seeks; and in the

comparatively few instances of a grosser intoxication being

superadded, we see only the craving of depraved habit--a habit

engendered, in all probability, by the _want_ of amusement.

No, good friends, let us laugh sometimes, if you love us. A dangerous

character is of another kidney, as Cæsar knew to his cost:

"He loves no plays,

As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;

Seldom he laughs;"

and when he does, it is on the wrong side of his mouth.

Let us be wiser. Let us laugh in fitting time and place, silently or

aloud, each after his nature. Let us enjoy an innocent reaction rather

than a guilty one, since reaction there must be. The bow that is

always bent loses its elasticity, and becomes useless.

Monthly Record of Current Events.

THE UNITED STATES.

The past month has been one of unusual activity. The proceedings of

Congress have not been without importance:--political Conventions have

been held, shaping to a certain extent public movements for the coming

season: and numerous religious and benevolent associations, as well as

ecclesiastical assemblies for business purposes, have held their

annual meetings.

In the United States Senate, the debate upon an amendment to the

Deficiency Bill, by which it was proposed to grant a large increase of

pay annually to the Collins line of Atlantic steamers, continued for

several days. On the 30th of May, Senator Rusk spoke in favor of it,

and on the 6th, Senator James made an argument upon the same side.

Senator Jones, of Tennessee, opposed so large a grant as that

suggested, though he declared himself desirous of sustaining the line.

He moved to strike out $33,000, and insert $25,000, as the increase

each trip. On the 7th, Mr. Cass spoke at length in favor of the

appropriation. The amendment of Mr. Jones was then rejected, by a vote

of 20 to 28. Senator Brooke moved an amendment, granting the whole

amount of postages received in place of all other compensation: this

was rejected by 9 to 38. Mr. Rusk moved that Congress shall have the

power at any time after December, 1854, to discontinue the extra

allowance, on giving six months' notice. This was agreed to. Mr.

Mallory moved, that the contract be transferred from the Naval to the

Post Office Department: this was lost, 18 to 19. On the 13th, Senator

Borland spoke in opposition to the increased grant. On the 19th, the

amendment, giving the line $33,000 additional pay for each trip, was

agreed to, by a vote of 23 ayes to 21 noes: and on the 21st, upon a

motion to agree to this amendment, as reported by the Committee of the

whole, it was decided in the affirmative by an increased vote.

In the House of Representatives the only action taken, worthy of

special record, was the passage, on the 12th, of the Bill granting to

each head of a family, who may be a native citizen of the United

States or naturalized previous to January, 1852, the right to enter

upon and cultivate one quarter-section of the Public Lands, and

directing the issue to him of a patent for such land after five years

of actual residence and cultivation. The Bill was passed by a vote of

107 to 56.----The other debates of the House have turned so

exclusively upon unimportant topics, or upon temporary matters

relating to the approaching Presidential election, as to render

further reference to them here unnecessary.

In reply to the call of the Senate, the closing correspondence of

Chevalier Hulsemann, Austrian Chargé, with the State Department, has

been published. Under date of April 29, Mr. H. writes to the

Secretary, stating that the time had arrived for carrying into effect

the intentions of his government in regard to his official connection

with that of the United States. He complains that the Secretary had

not answered his communication of December 13, in regard to the public

reception given to Kossuth, and that, in spite of verbal

encouragements given him to expect different treatment, his movements

had been derisively commented on by the public journals. He had deemed

it his duty on the 21st of November, to complain of these annoyances,

and on the 28th the Secretary had thereupon notified him that no

further communication would be held with him except in writing. On the

7th of January, the Secretary of State had seen fit to mate a speech

encouraging revolution in Hungary. This demonstration he considered so

strange that he immediately inquired of the President whether it was

to be considered an expression of the sentiments of the government of

the United States. The Austrian government had expressed itself

satisfied with the assurances given in return by the President on the

12th of April, and had instructed him no longer to continue official

relations with the "principal promoter of the Kossuth episode." He

closed his letter by stating that Mr. A. Belmont, Consul-general of

Austria at New York, would continue in the exercise of his functions.

Under date of May 3, Mr. Hunter, acting Secretary of State,

acknowledged the receipt of this communication, and informed Chevalier

Hulsemann that, "as Mr. Belmont is well known to the Secretary of

State as a gentleman of much respectability, any communication which

it may be proper for him to address to the department in his official

character, will be received with entire respect."

The Democratic National Convention, for the nomination of candidates

for the coming canvass, met at Baltimore on the 1st of June, and was

organized by the election of Hon. JOHN W. DAVIS, of Indiana,

President. The number of delegates present was 288, and a rule was

adopted requiring a vote of two-thirds (192) for a nomination.

Unsuccessful ballotings were had for four days, and it was not until

the forty-ninth ballot that General FRANKLIN PIERCE, of New Hampshire,

received the nomination. Upon the forty-eighth ballot he received 55

votes, the remainder being divided among Messrs. Cass, Buchanan,

Douglass, and Marcy:--upon the next trial he received 282 votes. Hon.

WILLIAM R. KING, of Alabama, was then nominated for Vice President. A

series of resolutions was adopted, rehearsing the leading principles

of the Democratic party, and declaring resistance to "all attempts at

renewing in Congress, or out of it, the agitation of the slavery

question under whatever shape or color the attempt may be made"--and

also a determination to "abide by, and adhere to, a faithful execution

of the acts known as the Compromise measures settled by the last

Congress--the act reclaiming fugitives from service or labor

included." The Convention adjourned on the 5th.

Mr. Webster, being upon a brief visit to his place of residence,

accepted an invitation of the citizens of Boston to meet them at

Faneuil Hall, on the 22d of May, when he made a brief address. He

spoke of the pleasure which it always gave him to meet the people of

Boston--of the astonishing progress and prosperity of that city, and

of the many motives her citizens had to labor strenuously for her

advancement. He spoke also of the general nature and functions of

government, and of the many causes which the people of this country

have to reverence and cherish the institutions bequeathed to them by

their fathers.

In the State of New York, the Court of Appeals has decided against the

constitutionality of the law of 1851, for the more speedy completion

of the State canals. It will be recollected that the Constitution of

the State directs that the surplus revenues of the Canals shall in

each fiscal year be applied to these works, in such manner as the

Legislature may direct; and it also forbids the contracting of any

debt against the State, except by an act to be submitted to the

people, and providing for a direct tax sufficient to pay the interest

and redeem within eighteen years the principal of the debt thus

contracted. The Bill in question provided for the issue of

certificates to the amount of nine millions of dollars, to be paid

exclusively out of the surplus revenues thus set apart, and stating on

their face that the State was to be in no degree responsible for their

redemption; and for the application of moneys that might be raised

from the sale of these certificates, to the completion of the Canals.

Under the law contracts had been made for the whole work, which were

pronounced valid by the last Legislature. The Court of Appeals decides

that the law conflicts with that clause of the Constitution which

requires the application of the revenues in each fiscal year, as also

with that which forbids the incurring of a debt except in the mode

specified. The decision was concurred in by five out of the eight

judges of that Court.

In South Carolina the State Convention of delegates elected to take

such measures as they might deem expedient against the encroachments

and aggressions of the Federal Government, met at Columbia on the 29th

of April. It adopted a resolution, declaring that the wrongs sustained

by the State, especially in regard to slavery, amply "justify that

State, so far as any duty or obligation to her confederates is

involved, in dissolving at once all political connection with her

co-States, and that she forbears the exercise of that manifest right

of self-government, from considerations of expediency only." This

resolution was accompanied by an ordinance asserting the right of

secession, and declaring that for the sufficiency of the causes which

may impel her to such a step, she is responsible solely to God and to

the tribunal of public opinion among the nations of the earth. The

resolution was adopted by a vote of 135 to 20.

A bill has been passed by the Legislature of Massachusetts, forbidding

the sale of intoxicating liquors within the limits of the State. As

originally passed, it provided for its submission to the popular vote,

and was vetoed by the Governor, because it did not provide for taking

that vote by secret, instead of by an open ballot. The Legislature

then enacted the law without any clause submitting it to the people;

and in this form it received the assent of the Governor. A similar

law, has been enacted in Rhode Island.

During the second week in May all the Missionary, Bible, and other

benevolent associations connected with the several religious

denominations having their centres of operation in the city of New

York, held their anniversary celebrations in that city. They were so

numerous, and their proceedings, except as given in detail, would

prove so uninstructive, that it would be useless to make any extended

mention of them here. They were attended with even more than the

ordinary degree of public interest: very able and eloquent addresses

were made by distinguished gentlemen, clergymen and others, from

various parts of the country; and reports of their proceedings--of

results accomplished and agencies employed--were spread before the

public. The history of their labors during the year has been highly

encouraging. Largely increased contributions of money have augmented

their resources and their ability to prosecute their labors which have

been attended with marked success.----During the week succeeding,

similar meetings were held in Boston of all the associations which

have their head-quarters in that city.----The two General Assemblies,

which constitute the government of the two divisions of the

Presbyterian Church in the United States, have held their sessions

during the month. That representing the Old School met at Charleston,

S.C., on the 20th of May. Rev. John C. Lord, of Buffalo, N.Y., was

chosen Moderator. That of the New School met at Washington on the same

day, and Rev. Dr. Adams, of New York, was elected Moderator. Both were

engaged for several days in business relating to the government and

organization of their respective organizations.----The General

Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church (North) met at Boston on

the 1st of May, and held a protracted session--extending through the

whole month. Most of the business transacted related of course to

matters of temporary or local interest. Special reports were made and

action taken upon the interests of the Church in various sections of

the country, and in the fields of missionary labor. It was decided

that the next General Conference should meet at Indianapolis. Steps

were taken to organize a Methodist Episcopal Tract Society. On the

25th of May the four new bishops were elected by ballot--Rev. Drs.

Levi Scott, Matthew Simpson, Osmond C. Baker, and Edward R. Ames being

chosen. Dr. T. E. Bond was elected editor of the Christian Advocate

and Journal, the recognized organ of the Church; Dr. J. M'Clintock,

editor of the Quarterly Review; D. P. Kidder, of the Sunday School

publications; W. Nast, of the Christian Apologist; and Rev. Dr.

Charles Elliott, of the Western Christian Advocate. Rev. Dr. J. P.

Durbin was chosen Missionary Secretary.

Kossuth, after visiting the principal towns in Massachusetts, had a

public reception at Albany, and spent a week in visiting Buffalo,

Niagara, Syracuse, Troy, and other cities. He was expected at New York

when our Record closed.----Thomas Francis Meagher, Esq., one of the

Irish State prisoners, effected his escape from Van Dieman's Land in

February, and arrived, in an American vessel, at New York on the 1st

of June. He was very warmly welcomed by the public, especially by his

countrymen.

From CALIFORNIA we have intelligence to the 6th of May. The total

shipments of gold for April were $3,419,817; for March, $2,549,704.

Great numbers of Chinese continued to arrive, and they had become so

numerous in the country as to excite serious disaffection, and to lead

to various propositions for their exclusion. The Governor sent in a

special message to the Legislature, urging the necessity of

restricting emigration from China, to enhance the prosperity and

preserve the tranquillity of the State. He objects especially to those

who come under contracts for a limited time--returning to China with

the products of their labor after their term is out, and adding

nothing to the resources or industry of the country. He says that they

are not good American citizens, and can not be; and that their

immigration is not desirable. By a reference to statistics he shows

that China can pour in upon our coast millions of her population

without feeling their loss; that they live upon the merest pittance;

and that while they spend comparatively nothing in the country, the

tendency of their presence is to create an unhealthy competition with

our own people, and reduce the price of labor far below our American

living standard. Governor Bigler also expresses a doubt, whether the

Celestials are entitled to the benefit of the naturalization laws. He

proposes as a remedy--1st. Such an exercise of the taxing power by the

State as will check the present system of indiscriminate and unlimited

Asiatic emigration. 2d. A demand by the State of California for the

prompt interposition of Congress, by the passage of an Act prohibiting

"Coolies," shipped to California under contracts, from laboring in the

mines of this State. Measures have been taken in several of the mining

localities to exclude the Chinese from them.----The Legislature

adjourned on the 4th; the bill proposing a Convention to revise the

Constitution of the State was defeated in the Senate by a vote of 11

to 9.----Serious Indian difficulties have occurred again in the

interior. In Trinity County a company of armed citizens went in

pursuit of a band of Indians who were supposed to have been concerned

in the murder of one of their fellow-citizens. On the 22d of April

they overtook them, encamped on the south fork of Trinity river, and

taking them by surprise, shot not less than a hundred and fifty of

them in cold blood. Men, women, and children were alike

destroyed.----Accounts of murders, accidents, &c., abound. The

accounts from the mining districts continue to be encouraging.