tongues, knowing not, perchance, their right hand from their left. There are Greeks in roomy galligaskins and longtasselled skull-caps—Greeks with small dark eyes and silky black moustachios like leeches, and who, if they are not rascals, might certainly bring actions for libel against their countenances. There are Wallachs and Bulgares in sheepskin jackets and caps, all broiling as is the sun. There are Maltese sailors, suspicious-looking varlets with parti-coloured sashes of many folds about their loins-sashes in which I am very much mistaken if knives do not lurk. There are sunburnt sailors and engineers-many of them English-from the Mediterranean steamers in port, for Marseilles is the Southampton of France.. There are Parisians, regarding all things with supercilious glances. There is the British paterfamilias and his wife, and his children and his man-servant, and his maid-servant, inspecting everything with a stern air, as though it were, somehow or another, a humbug and 'an infamous attempt at extortion, by Jove.' And, finally, there are the Marseillais themselves, who are picturesque enough in look and gesture to satisfy the most sedulous disciples of Salvator Rosa. Nobody can tell exactly who the Marseillais are. They have certainly very little either of the Gaul or the Frank in their composition. They say themselves that they are Romans, and the oldest families of the Provençal aristocracy claim to be descended from Pontius Pilate, who, as the legends tell, settled here, and made a good end of it. Some say they spring from a Phoenician colony, and others that in origin they are Greek. From a touch of Yorkshire' in the midst of their ebullient temperament, I should opine that they

are.

88. ST. PETER'S CHAPEL IN THE TOWER.

The head and body of Monmouth were placed in a coffin covered with black velvet, and were laid privately under the communion-table of St. Peter's Chapel in the Tower. In truth, there is no sadder spot on earth than that little cemetery. Death is there associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue, with public veneration and with imperishable renown-not, as in our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most endearing in social

and domestic charities, but with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame. Thither have been carried, through successive ages, by the rude hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics of men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts. Thither was borne, before the window where Jane Grey was praying, the mangled corpse of Guildford Dudley. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, reposes there by the brother whom he murdered. There has mouldered away the headless trunk of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester and Cardinal of St. Vitalis, a man worthy to have lived in a better age. There are laid John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, Lord High Admiral, and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Lord High Treasurer. There, too, is another Essex, on whom nature and fortune had lavished all their bounties in vain, and whom valour, grace, genius, royal favour, popular applause, conducted to an early and ignominious doom. Not far off sleep two chiefs of the great house of Howard— Thomas, fourth Duke of Norfolk, and Philip, eleventh Earl of Arundel. Here and there among the thick graves of unquiet and aspiring statesmen lie more delicate sufferers.

89. EDUCATION.

What is education? And, above all things, what is our ideal of a thorough liberal education-of that education which, if we could begin life again, we would give ourselves-the education which, if we could mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? Well, I know not what may be your conception upon this matter, but I will tell you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very discrepant. Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one of us would one day or other depend upon his winning or losing a game of chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces, to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check? Do you not

think that we should look with disapprobation amounting to scorn upon the father who allowed his son, or the State which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight? Now, it is a very plain and elementary truth that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players, in a game of his or her own. The chessboard is the world, the pieces the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. All we know is, that his play is always fair, just, and patient; but, also, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well the highest stakes are paid with that sort of everflowing generosity with which the strong show delight in strength; and one who plays ill is checkmated without haste, but without remorse. My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Retzceh has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel, who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win, and I should accept it as an image of human life, Well, now what I mean by education is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in the laws of nature, and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into harmony with those laws.-Professor Huxley.

95. AN AUNT.

When a girl has a mother, her aunt may be little or nothing to her. But when the mother is gone, if there be an aunt unimpeded with other family duties, then the family duties of that aunt begin, and are assumed sometimes with great vigour. Such had been the case with Mrs. Winterfield. No woman ever lived, perhaps, with more conscientious ideas of her duty as a woman than Mrs. Winterfield, of Prospect Place, Perivale. And this, as I say it, is intended to convey no scoff against that ex

cellent lady. She was an excellent lady—unselfish, given to self-restraint, generous, pious, looking to find in her religion a safe path through life, a path as safe as the facts of Adam's fall would allow her feet to find. She was a woman fearing much for others, but fearing also much for herself; striving to maintain the house in godliness, hating sin, and struggling with the weakness of her humanity, so that she might not allow herself to hate the sinners. But her hatred for the sin she found herself bound at all times to pronounce-to show it by some act at all seasons. To fight the devil was her work- —was the appointed work of every living soul, if only living souls could be made to acknowledge the necessity of the task. Now, an aunt of that kind, when she assumes her duties towards a motherless niece, is apt to make life serious.-Anthony Trollope (The Belton Estate').

91. THE GUARDS.

The right of the 1st Division was formed by the brigade of 'Guards.' In its origin, the appellation given to the regiments called 'the Guards' imported that the personal safety of the sovereign was peculiarly committed to their charge. Princes have imagined that, by specially ascribing this duty to a particular portion of their armed forces rather than to the whole, and by granting some privileges to troops specially distinguished as their chosen defenders, they secure to themselves good means of safety in time of trouble; and that still, upon the whole, they do more good than harm to their military system, by establishing a healthy spirit of rivalry between the favoured body and the rest of the army. The danger is, that a corps thus set apart will come to be considered as a great reserve of military strength, and that, for that very reason, any disaster which it may sustain will be looked upon as more ruinous than a disaster of equal proportions occurring to other regiments.

With us, the corps of Guards numbers only seven battalions, distributed into three regiments, called the Grenadier Guards, the Coldstream, and the Scots Fusilier Guards; and each of these three regiments had sent one battalion to form a brigade of Guards now serving in the 1st Division. The officers of the corps enjoy some privileges tending to accelerate their advancement in the army. They are, for the most part, men well born

or well connected; and, being aided by a singularly able body of sergeants and corporals, they are not so overburthened in peace-time by their regimental duties as to have their minds in the condition which too often results from monotonous labour. They have deeply at heart the honour of the whole brigade, as well as of their respective corps; and the feeling is quickened by a sense of the jealousy which their privileges breed, or rather, perhaps, by the tradition of that ancient rivalry which exists between the 'Guards' and the 'Line.'

The men of the rank and file have some advantages over the line, in the way of allowances and accoutrements. They are all of fine stature. Without being overdrilled, they are well enough practised in their duties, and whoever loves war sees grandeur in the movement of the stately forms and the towering bearskins which mark a battalion of the Guards. It is true that these household troops are cut off from the experience gained by line regiments in India and the colonies, but whenever England is at war in Europe, or against people of European descent, it is the custom and the pride of the Guards to take their part.

The force is deeply prized by the Queen, and the class from which it takes its officers connects it with many families of high station in the country. Its officers have so many relatives and friends amongst those who generate conversation in London, that when 'the Guards' are sent upon active service, the war in which they engage becomes, as it were, for their sake, a subject of interest in circles which commonly yield only a languid attention to events beyond the seas. Grief for the death of line officers is dispersed among the counties of the three kingdoms; and, when they fall in battle, it is the once merry country-house, the vicarage, or the wayside cottage of some old Peninsular officer that becomes the house of mourning. But, by the loss of officers of the household regiments, the central body of English society is touched, is shocked, is almost angered; and he who has to sit in his saddle, and see a heavy slaughter of the 'Guards,' may be almost forced to think ruefully of fathers, of mothers, of wives, of sisters, who are amongst his own friends.

There was nothing in the history or traditions of the famous corps of 'the Guards' to justify the notion that they were to be more often kept out of the brunt of the battle than the troops of