and decorous, but how could they help staring? The door opens. We behold the figure of a tall man, heavily bearded, sun-browned, blue-eyed. In 1866 this young man rode from Berlin to Nikolsburg; in 1870-71 he rode from Berlin to Versailles: perhaps that is why his features are so brown. And yet it seems to us, as he pauses irresolutely there, that we have never seen so deep a color on his face, and the fashion in which he opens his eyes makes them appear to be of a lighter blue than ever. "Are you afraid?" says B to himan odd question to put to a warrior, even although he is her own husband. The next thing the young man does is to fix his eyes on the confused and abashed Major, and then to burst into a roar of laughter. "Oh, you very bad man!" he calls out, and the Major seems to shrink farther and farther into his shoes; you have left all your guests. Yes? You have betrayed them. Yes? Do you think of the terrible rage the Squire will be in? The The billiards-that is nothing; but you ask a gentleman to dine at your house. You go away. He arrives and finds no oneone-" "He will find a good dinner," says the Major, sulkily, "and I have left a note of explanation. I could not refuse—" "No, Aunty Bell," was the general cry. "Certainly not! Of course not! Don't let me hear such a thing spoken of again, or there will be some big boys with beards. on sent to bed directly." "Please may I sit down?" says the warrior, meekly; and therewith he takes a chair opposite the Major. What wild confusion is this in the hall? Has some lunatic asylum broken loose and come to besiege us? There is a sound of frantic expostulation, of scornful laughter, of stamping of feet, and presently the door is opened, and our three remaining guests appear at once, headed by the Squire, whose face is of a furious color. Now, now!" he says, in tones of indignant remonstrance. "It is too bad, upon my word, it is really too bad—a trick of this sort. What was the need of it? We didn't want to dine by ourselves-not a bit of it-only you women-folks would have it, you know, and so we let you have your own way. But to break up the arrangement in this mean waythis mean way- Well, now, it was too bad. And I know who did it; oh yes, I know who did it. And as for the Major there, why, sir, what the-" He recollects himself in time, and stops, but he is sulky, indignant, and on the whole disposed to challenge us men to go off and partake of the Major's dinner. But what is this? By some preconcerted signal all the children stand up, a chord is struck on the piano, which has been dragged out into the hall, and suddenly the whole of them begin to sing-led by the clear and sweet voice of our B, who is at the piano-the familiar strains of "Auld Lang Syne." The recusants look rather dum founded. "Should auld acquaintance be | again, and went up stairs and threw a flower forgot?" is not a very appropriate grace over the window, that fell on the white pavebefore meat; but when the children had ment and was immediately picked up? And ceased their singing, when they had given how some one who had been of opinion that a ringing cheer of welcome at the end of it, the notion of going to Eastbourne at that when the big soup-tureen became visible in time of the year was absolute madness dethe hall, it was remarkable with what ease clared next day that it was the most beauand thankfulness every one sat down to the tiful place in all the world in December? table. There was not a vacant chair. And Do you remember all these things?" when, amidst all the laughing and talking that ensued, the Squire's eldest daughter, a pert young miss of thirteen, graciously desired to have the pleasure of drinking a glass of wine with her papa, even he was mollified, and gave himself up thereafter to all the careless gayety of the evening. Late that night, when all the children had gone to bed, and just as the last of the guests had driven away from the door, two solitary figures pretty well muffled up might have been observed to steal out into the darkness. Yet it was not very dark, for there was a clear sky overhead throbbing with its innumerable points of white fire, and there was a slight crisp coating of snow on the path, on the lawn and on the bushes. The sound of the wheels died away in the distance. There was no breath of wind to stir the laurel-leaves or the branches of the firs. All around nothing but silence and sleep, and overhead the strange abounding life of the stars. "Do you remember," says one of these two, "a night like this at Eastbourne, a great many years ago, when a girl stole out after all the house was in darkness merely to say one word in reply to a letter she had got? Do you remember how cold the wind was, and how she was told that her face was burning all the same, and how she stole in "Yes, and more," is the reply. "I can remember that I knew at that time a tender-hearted young thing who went about nursing the most beautiful idealisms about wifely obedience and duties, and all she would try to be to her husband in the days to come. That young woman—well, it is a great many years ago, to be sure— vowed that she would honor and respect her husband above all men; that the small world of her acquaintance would have cause to wonder over her faith and devotion. But times. change. We forget these simple aspirations of our youth. What if you found that same tender-hearted thing not ashamed to bring contumely and disgrace upon her husband— to deceive his friends, and make them and him a by-word-all about a paltry billiardtable?" your "Oh, bother billiard-table!" says this impatient person, forgetting how near she was to the Mole, and how that a mere child could have lifted her up by the waist and dropped her in. And then, suddenly altering her tone and demeanor, which she can do in a second when it suits her purpose, she says, with a great shyness great shyness and sweetness: "After all, shall I tell you a secret? You were speaking of young wives. Well, there is nothing they won't do to please their husbands. And now our B- - has been round to us all pleading so earnestly to let you men have one evening's billiards in the week that we have all consented. And we are all coming to look on-just to prevent gambling and the use of wicked language, you know. And we propose to have it on Saturday evening, so that you won't be tempted to play after twelve." "Indeed! Have you provided hobbyhorses for us, madam? Would it please Would it please you to have clean blouses and pinafores sent up to the billiard-room, that we may not chalk our clothes? Shall we be rewarded with a silver threepenny-piece if we sing a hymn prettily? Gadzooks, madam! are we babes and sucklings, to be treated in this manner?" "You needn't swear,' says the small person, calmly, "especially on such a night as this. Shall we go up to Mickleham Downs?" An aërolite star fell athwart the sky, and for a moment left a line of light in its wake. Looking at that, and at the wonderful expanse all throbbing with stars, we somehow forgot the fierce fight that had recently raged in our small social circle. We walked on through the white and silent world with that other and living world looking down on it with a million sad and distant eyes; and after the storm there was peace. It is said of Sir Richard that he "twice passed through a great army of northern men alone with his pole- or battle-axe in his hand, and returned without any mortal hurt." The Another story illustrates the good knight's honorable regard for his promise. He was employed by King Edward IV. to besiege Harlech Castle, in Merionethshire, in Wales. The castle was held by a brave captain who had served for many years in France. It was his boast that he "had kept a castle in France so long that he made the old women. in Wales talk of him, and that he would keep the castle so long that he would make the old women in France talk of him." He made good his word by an obstinate defence. The position of the castle was so strong as to render it almost impossible to overcome its inmates except by starvation. To induce a surrender, Sir Richard promised to urge King Edward IV. to spare the captain's life, which had been forfeited by his rebellion. knight soon after brought his prisoner before the king and represented the circumstances. of the surrender. The king replied that he had given no authority to his officer to hold out any hopes of mercy, and that the latter, having used his best exertions to save his foeman's life, had satisfied his pledged word. But Sir Richard would not be tempted from his obligation. "Grant me, I pray," he entreated his sovereign, "one of two things: either place this brave man back in his castle and send some one else to subdue him, or else take my life in place of his whom I have promised to do my utmost to have spared." The king was so impressed by this honorable devotion that he granted the prisoner's life. There is another example of Sir Richard's | be regarded as a blessing, though we are by love and mercy. He had, with his brother, no means inclined to adopt the opinion of the earl of Pembroke, captured, in the island that sage who thought "that the best thing of Anglesea, seven brothers who had, in the that could have happened to a man was simple but expressive words of the narrative, never to have been born, and the next best "done many mischiefs and murders." The to have died the moment after he came into earl, "thinking it fit to root out so wicked existence." The common argument, howa progeny," ordered them all to be hanged. ever, which is made use of to prove the Their mother came to the captors and begged value of life from the strong desire which that two, or at least one, of her offspring almost every one feels for its continuance might be spared to her, urging that the appears to be altogether inconclusive. The execution of the others would be a suf- wise and the foolish, the weak and the strong, ficient atonement to justice. Sir Richard the lame and the blind, the prisoner and the seconded the mother's petition, but the earl free, the prosperous and the wretched, the decided that, all having been equally guilty, beggar and the king, the rich and the poor, all should suffer the same penalty. His the young and the old, from the little child sentence that they should all be executed who tries to leap over his own shadow to the together so enraged their mother with grief old man who stumbles blindfold on his grave, that she knelt down and cursed the judge, all feel this desire in common. Our nopraying that he might suffer defeat or mis- tions with respect to the importance of life, hap in the next battle in which he should and our attachment to it, depend on a prinbe engaged. This incident was soon after- ciple which has very little to do with its ward followed by the encounter at Edge- happiness or its misery. cote, in which both brothers were taken prisoners. Sir Richard, still magnanimous, entreated his captors to spare, not his own life, but his brother's. Both were afterward set at liberty. IT GEORGE L. DUYCKINCK. THE LOVE OF LIFE. FROM "THE ROUND TABLE." T is our intention to expose certain vulgar errors which have crept into our reasoning on men and manners. Perhaps one of the most interesting of these is that which relates to the source of our general attachment to life. We are not going to enter into the question whether life is, on the whole, to The love of life is, in general, the effect not of our enjoyments, but of our passions. We are not attached to it so much for its own. sake or as it is connected with happiness as because it is necessary to action. Without life there can be no action, no objects of pursuit, no restless desires, no tormenting passions. Hence it is that we fondly cling to it-that we dread its termination as the close, not of enjoyment, but of hope. The proof that our attachment to life is not absolutely owing to the immediate satisfaction we find in it is that those persons are commonly found most loth to part with it who have the least enjoyment of it, and who have the greatest difficulties to struggle with, as losing gamesters are the most desperate. |