enchanting expression. A Vandyke, a portrait of a lady, seemed to me most excellent, the face exquisite. The Woman of Samaria talking to our Saviour very fine, by A. Caracci. I also admired the Head of our Saviour, by Guercino.

The next day we fixed upon for our departure from Milan, and we met a very nice family at the hotel, who had just returned from Switzerland, and with whom we had some conversation. They were in great joy at finding the comfort of a good hotel after all the roughing they had gone through in the mountain inns. We went by the railroad to Monza, which is a small village a short distance from the lake of Como. The railroad took us through a beautiful country, like that which surrounds Milan; then the fresh and delightful air, and the beautiful verdure, and pleasing scenery, and woody appearance of the mountains, and the sunny sky of Italy, made the drive to Como very charming. Here we took a steamer across the lake. This piece of water I think more lovely than any which I have seen in Switzerland. The heights and sides of the mountains surrounding it were dotted and lined with villas, plantations, and every sign of cultivated life. On the margin of the lake were so many houses and villas at such short intervals, that it seemed one large city strewed round the romantic grounds. Higher up, the faces of the different mountain sides were one verdant mass of foliage. The boatmen in numbers ply their different crafts about, and when the steamer stops, they throw a rope, and the person coming up or descending, finishes his transit in two or three minutes. The boatmen, in place of pulling their oars as we do, shove them, as they do in most foreign countries. After passing the village of Torno the scenery becomes much more wild and romantic; the villages, houses, and villas become less numerous. I thought that Laglio was one of the prettiest spots I ever saw. Then we next reached Correno. I had for a compagnon de voyage a German young lady, who was going into Switzerland with her mother. She explained all the names of the villages to me, and talked French very nicely. Certainly the manners of the foreign ladies, attractive, easy, and amiable to strangers, make the travelling in their society quite pleasing. Correno is a wild romantic spot. Here, a woman who reminded me very much of the Plymouth Bomboat women, came up to the steamer plying her oars most lustily, and having rather a large boat to pull. She threw a rope to a man who stood on the hatchway with a large packet in his hand, and he, stepping into the boat, was shoved on shore by the " lady of the lake," in just as short a time as the general run of amateur boatmen would have done it. We continued our sail through this beautiful scenery to Campo, opposite to which place is a fine dark glen. I remarked among many beautiful villas, one which had an entrance similar to a grotto, and an tensive range of plantations round it. In each direction, at every point amidst the natural boundaries of the rocks, fine colossal statues were situated, and the whole had the air of a

ex

fairy palace. Such a lovely lake I have never seen in any country as this gem of Swiss lakes. Leman is too large, and like an inland sea; the Lago Maggiore is too straggling, and owes its principal beauties to the three islands in its centre. Zurich is tame and Wallenstein confined. I have not, however, visited Lucerne. After passing this villa, the lake assumed a much more cultivated appearance, and the villages are studded along it. Then we stopped again at Tomazzina, opposite to Bellaggio; then some frowning and wild scenery, but never devoid of houses and plantations, and those in great numbers scattered promiscuously and capriciously over the sides of the mountains.

(To be continued).

AN IRISH PEASANT-MAIDEN.

BY ELIZABETH TOWNBRIDGE.

One summer, on a walking tour,
My wayward will my only law,
Crossing a meadow-path, at eve,
I saw-I'll tell you what I saw-
A fair, soft-smiling Irish face,

With deep-grey eyes and lashes long, And rich brown hair all streaked with gold, And ripe lips bursting into song

One of those songs they ever sing,

Those Irish maids, when evening fallsSome wild verse, passionate and strong Their country's woes or pride recalls; Or some gay legend of their chiefs

By fairy held in glittering thrall; Or gentle tale of love and youthThe sweetest and the best of all!

Upon a woodbine-tangled hedge

One sun-kissed arm upheld her pail, The milk within it foaming high

To match her whiter throat would fail. Beneath my gaze her song was hush'd,

Her brows, pure arch, drawn slowly down; But soon her smiles sweet sunshine burst Again, and chased away the frown.

And roguish dimples peeped once more,

In baby-play, from cheek and chin. The rosy mouth, half-oped, and showed The lovely, glistening pearls within. "Good evening, pretty girl," I cried;

"Well met at close of sultry day; A draught of milk, from your kind hand, Refreshed will send me on my way."

Westwich was quite gay; the dull old county and Cathedral town had positively roused itself from its normal state of trance. The Royal East Weffolk Militia were out for their annual training, and they had brought a little life with them. The culminating point of excitement was the principal room of the Weffolk Hotel, where the regiment had established its mess. They were a pleasing, gentlemanly party, who sat there, passing round the wine after dinner; representatives of some of the best families in the county, which is not invariably the case in Militia regiments. Many of them were old soldiers, and all, at least, fair officers: their colonel took good care of that. The old Duke of Weffolk was still a fine soldier-like man, though there remained a slight limp as a memento of that terrible but glorious day, when be added another brilliant page to the annals of

his house.

It was the first day of their meeting, and the talk was fast and eager, a confused medley of sentences surging up above the accompanying

"Where have you been, Mackenzie, that we saw nothing of you in town?"

"I went to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick with Kilross for moose-hunting, and we stayed for some salmon-fishing."

66

'Then you might have written. I thought you must have been in Central Africa, or somewhere out of the reach of mails."

"Now, Delacourt, be reasonable; how could I write? Is not Lord Fairfield Postmaster General ?"

"I believe so, but what of it?"

"Why, of course I can't accept a service from him, or those under him. Clan Kenneth and Clan Collin have been at feud for centuries." "Ha, ha, ha! a very pretty excuse. Come, Mac, did you ever write a letter in your life?"

*

*

*

*

"I'll give you seven pounds over the New Course for a pony. I'm sure there's nothing in the regiment that can hold its own with my Lightning."

"Done! To-morrow after parade. We'll make it fifty if you like!"

་

*

Come to the theatre presently, Danvers? Bianca is glorious; I never saw dancing more graceful and brilliant at the same time. And as for her figure-"

"We'll drink to the 'Beauty in Black,' eh, Hethel? I saw your eye upon her this morning." "I noticed several ladies in mourning, which do you mean?"

"You're very innocent, old fellow, but it won't do: of course I meant that girl with the fair face and golden hair, who was driving a pair of ponies!"

"You must be speaking of my ward and niece, Mr. Marchwood," came in a harsh tone farther up the table.

"I was not aware of it, major, which must be my excuse for introducing the subject." Then in a lower tone to his neighbour. can she be kin to that old scarecrow ?"

"How

Well, gentlemen, who are for a rubber?” "I will take a hand for one." "So will I."

"And I."

Some of them withdrew with their colonel to cards and coffee, others lingered over their wine, but the majority betook themselves to the theatre.

An enterprising manager had taken care to time his visit to Westwich for the periodical meeting of the East Weffolk, and tolerably wellfilled boxes testified to the success of his arrangement.

66

'See, Hethel," said Marchwood, "there is our Beauty in Black in the Duchess of Weffolk's box, so we can soon have a nearer view. Don't hang back man; you must be smitten if you have grown timid. You know we shall have to pay our respects to the Duchess, so we may as well do it at once.'

Sir Henry Hethel, having no wish for further bantering, shook off his strange feeling of embarrassment, and accompanied his comrade. brother has often spoken of you to My poor me," were nearly the first words of Miss Warwick, after he had been introduced.

Tears were in her eyes and in her voice, and Hethel at once remembered hearing of the death of his old brother officer. He could even trace the family likeness to the boyish, fair-haired cornet, he remembered so well.

In a low tone they exchanged reminiscences: if a sad theme it was one to cause a speedy advance in intimacy; indeed, when he quitted her (not very soon) she held out her hand to him as if she already reckoned him among her friends.

The performance was over, and Marchwood, with one or two others, adjourned for supper to Hethel's rooms.

Sir Henry Hethel had distinguished himself as a light cavalry officer in India, where he had received a severe wound. Being quite unfitted for active service, and succeeding at that time to the family title and estates, he sold out. After a year or two a sound constitution triumphed over the effect of his injuries, and, having a horror of inaction, he obtained a company in his county militia. Herc he was a great favourite, and deservedly; a better companion there could not be, and as an officer he was a valuable acquisition.

"Well, Hethel, so distance did not lend enchantment to the view in this case; you evidently found Miss Warwick quite as attractive at close quarters!" said Fred Marchwood. He was Hethel's nearest neighbour in the county, his subaltern and chief companion in the regiment.

"Is she not exquisite ?" asked Lord George Delacourt, the Duke's youngest son. "How the black dress sets off her fair skin and sunny hair! I never saw such lovely hands and arms; she is a little fairy."

"What glorious eyes she has too; soft and melting, yet beaming with light!" returned Hethel. "She reminded me vividly of poor Arthur Warwick, who rode by my side through some rather warm work in the Punjab, and taught us not to laugh at his girl's face."

"So that was what you were discoursing about so confidentially," said Delacourt, "I thought you were making rapid progress!"

"Hethel knows how to make love à la militaire," remarked Captain Mackenzie, a tall, handsome Highlander, with dark eyes and a splendid black beard. He had been no undistinguished member of the old Black Watch, but had sent in his papers in a huff one day, because a junior was promoted over his head. Of course, he immediately regretted his overhasty step, and he had gladly accepted the commission offered him by his father's old friend the Duke of Weffolk.

"How savage the major was when she shook hands with you! he had looked grim enough when you were introduced even," said Marchwood. "What can the man want for her; a prince of the blood ?"

"Freddy, you're not so sharp as usual," observed Mackenzie, quietly. "Don't you know she's an heiress, and can't you guess he wants her money bags for his son ?"

"But he's a greater scarecrow and fool than even his father, if that's possible. He has dipt the estate terribly too, they say, with his passion for gambling," returned Marchwood. "Well, all the more reason for not letting a good thing out of the family. You will see I am right," said Mackenzie confidently.

But why is he not with her, if that's the case?" asked Hethel.

"So you think he could not tear himself away; eh, Hethel?" said the Highlander. He's at Homburg. He can't marry her while she is in such deep mourning, and play is more to his taste than love-making."

"It would be a sin to let her be tied to such a fellow cut him out, Hethel, and disturb their pleasant little family arrangement," said Delacourt.

The others echoed the advice.

Hethel protested that he had no wish for a wife, but his conduct was more in accordance with their recommendation than his words. While the regiment remained at Westwich he had abundant opportunities of meeting Miss Warwick, and he did not neglect them. Mr. Warwick might fume, but he could do little to keep them apart. Quiet as she was, she evidently had " a will of her own," and, as a guest of the Duchess, she was less under control: so when they separated, Charles Warwick's chance was completely at an end, if, indeed, there had ever been any for him.

*

There was a stir at the clubs; there was an unusual assembly, and a very unusual interest. M.P.'s were especially busy, and especially plentiful. Busy because there was a prospect of a close division, which government had accepted as a test of confidence; plentiful because the subject of debate was India, so they had no inclination to be in the House till they were required.

At the Poco Curante a member for a pocket borough and the Household Brigade, just arrived from the scene of action, was holding forth to a group of listeners. Among them were Fred Marchwood, of the East Weffolk, and his brother Charles, a barrister nominally, but in reality a novelist, the writer of several farces, and the writer of spicey articles," as he himself called them. "Old Benson was on his legs, when I came away," said the guardsman, "and really was speaking develish well."

"The man himself is sensible enough; its' his wife who is so supremely rediculous. I have a very rich story about her," said Frank Dynevor, a young artist, who was fonder of hitting off a charicature or comic scene for the graver than working steadily at his easel. He was a great crony of Charles Marchwood, and his rival in perpetrating constant witticisms in and out of season.

"Give it to us, then!" "Out with it!" was exclaimed in chorus.

"Last Autumn," said Dynevor, quite ready to oblige them, "I was staying with the Mostyn's

of Llwdw, who live near that fine place Benson | bought of Evan Llewellyn. The Llewellyn crest, a lion rampant, is conspicuous about the house, and Mrs. Benson thinking the animal not quite the thing, had actually dressed it in trousers!"

"I wonder how a herald would describe the blazon?" asked Charles Marchwood.

“Why, as a lion proper to be sure," replied Dynevor, unhesitatingly.

"Bravo Frank; capital!" exclaimed Charles Marchwood, amid a peel of laughter, for the friends never showed any jealousy of each other's hits, notwithstanding their competition for the cap and bells.

"I can't believe anyone would be so absurd," said the guardsman.

"I tell you my dear fellow, I saw it with my own eyes," replied Dynevor.

"There's a little surplusage in that, Dynevor, is there not? You could not see it with anyone else's eyes," sneered a cynical Q.C.

"Could I not? You are a pretty specimen, Barker, of a counsel, learned in the law, not to remember 'qui facit per alium facit per se,' retorted Dynevor. "Some men see with the Premier's eyes, for instance."

'Well, I can give you another anecdote of her," said Charles Marchwood. "I went with my sister the other day to Le Roy, the ladies' boot-maker, and we found Mrs. Benson there trying on the whole stock-by the bye, her foot's much the same shape as an elephant's. At last they brought her something she could get on, so she took up the left shoe, and when she had looked at it, she said, 'Ah, Mossoo Gauche, I see ; he's a capital maker, his boots always fit me.

939

The due amount of applause was cut rather short by the arrival of a kind of amateur assistant whip, who was ordinarily charged with the no light duty of looking up the younger members, and inveigling them when wanted from their balls, their billiards, cards, or the smoking-room.

"Well, Brabazon, what is the news?" asked the guardsman.

"Windbag is speaking, and Wordy is to reply to him. You may make your minds easy for to-night about the division; we have arranged with the other side to have another night's debate, and Sir Robert Major is to move the adjournment."

"He's a clever fellow, Bob Major, but terribly inconsistent," said Dynevor.

"His mind is just like a kaleidoscope," observed Charles Marchwood, "full of fragmentary ideas, which are always forming new and brilliant combinations."

"What majority shall we have, Brabazon?" asked the Q.C., who also wrote M.P. after his name, and, though an independent member, had a keen eye for the loaves and fishes.

"Well, it will be rather close," replied Brabazon ; 66 we have just lost one vote. You know Paynter, the member for Westwich, was

thrown against the rails in Rotton Row this morning? and the news has come that he died an hour ago."

An opposition member now came in. "Wordy is up, so I bolted," he said. "I really can't stand him."

"How many do you give us, Broadlands ?" asked Barker.

"I'm afraid you will get it," replied Broadlands, "but only by one."

"Oh, much more than that," rejoined Brabazon, hastily.

"Remember you have lost two votes by this morning's accident."

"Two! How is that?" asked Brabazon. "Why, Warwick left with his son for Westwich by the last train to canvass the city," said Broadlands.

"The traitor!" exclaimed the official, "and I dare say he has not even paired."

"I only wish he had gone for ever," said Broadlands, "but the son is even worse. Such an insufferable bore ought not to be allowed to walk over the course. Come, Marchwood, you are a Weffolk man; won't you stand up for the honour of your county?"

"I can't afford the luxury of a contested election," replied Fred Marchwood, shaking his head, "but stay; here is the very man for it!"

Sir Henry Hethel just entered the room. He hesitated when they drew him aside, and urged him to stand for Westwich. He started when they informed him who would be his opponent, and looked determined when Fred Marchwood whispered in his ear, "Remember you are rivals in love as well as politics."

66

"I will try it," he said. Fred, you will come down and help us to canvass, and you too Charlie. We will start by the early train, and they will not be many hours before us."

During the winter he had called several times on the Warwicks', but they had always been out to him. As he had on more than one occasion caught a glimpse of some member of the family, he had naturally been much nettled. It was even worse when the season began, for when he asked after Miss Warwick, her uncle replied, coldly, that, as she was in mourning, she would not come to London that Spring. Yet her father had been dead more than a year, her brother nearly eighteen months; evidently they were secluding her from the world, and especially from him. He was delighted to have this vent for his irritation.

They immediately set to work to compose his address to the electors. It is not necessary to give it, as such documents bear a strong family resemblance, and they are not very light reading.

Hethel and his friends were in Westwich, and hard at work at an early hour the next day. He met with a very satisfactory welcome when his intention of becoming a candidate for the seat was made public. His family stood well in the city, and he had some warm and influ