Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

therefore, that an ordinary octavo volume of 500 pages, each of 34 lines, and of ten words in each line, contains 170,000 words, the presses of the Atlas may be said to have printed in the course of the time in question sufficient matter for 14,230 octavo volumes. Now, the whole of this was produced, as we before stated, in a few hours, by means of one only, and that a very simple apparatus, consisting of two larger and two lesser cylinders put in motion by a steam-engine of Maudsley, of four horse power, managed by three boys, whose interference on the occasion was strictly limited to the presenting the end of the enormous blank sheet to the first cylinder, and to the receiving it in a few seconds, printed on both sides, as it was discharged by the last cylinder.

TALMA.

Perhaps we no where find "the ruling passion strong in death," so strikingly displayed as in France. There is an anecdote told in relation to Talma, which (whether true or not) is very characteristic of the manner in which the French, more than any other people in the world, "make up their mind" to die, and make their arrangements accordingly! When Talma was about to set out for a provincial town, where he had engaged to perform for a certain number of nights, he received an anonymous letter from a person who begged him to hasten his arrival as much as possible, for that he (the writer of the letter) had made up his mind to die immediately after his finances were exhausted, but was exceedingly anxious to see Talma once more-which, however, he would not be able to do with anything like comfort and satisfaction, unless Talma arrived at the town of, within two days-his financial arrangements standing as follows in hand five francs :

fr. s. Board and lodging for two days 210 Admission to the premières loges 2 Poison...

0

0 10

50

INSIDE OF THE EARTH.

A Leipzig professor has published a work, in which he proves that the earth is hollow, the entrance to it in Poland, and that within there is fire, water, air, amphibious animals, fish, insects, birds, quadrupeds, and men ; and he even describes the details of the subterranean life they lead.

NEW BREAD.

The "march of intellect" has reached its ultima Thule." The force of reason can no further go." M. D'Arcet, of the French Institute, has, we are told, succeeded in preparing from potatoes (the natural food of pigs) and ground bones (the natural food of none but raw-head and bloodybones giants, and "such large deer"), an excellent sort of bread, in every way resembling, as to taste, appearance, &c. the "best wheaten bread" of our bakers' shops! What shall we say to this? It is the imaginations of the nursery "reduced to practice." "Fee! faw! fum!

I smell the blood of an Englishman!
Let him be live, or let him be dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread!"

LITERARY NOTICES.

The distinguished author of Brambletye House, Zillah, &c., has a new novel in considerable forwardness, of a humorous kind, called The New Forest.

A Series of Tales, in two volumes, under the title of Sketches of Irish Character, from the pen of Mrs. S. C. Hall, the Editor of The Juvenile Forget me Not, is announced for publication in April.

Mr. T. Hood requests to state that he has no further connexion with the Annual called the Gem. The Anniversary, we hear, is dropped as an Annual, but is to appear in the form of monthly Numbers, with beautiful engravings, and to commence in July.

The Davenels, or a Campaign of Fashion in Dublin, a novel, by a person of high consideration in Ireland, is nearly ready for publication.

A Novel, entitled D'Erbine, or the Cynic, will shortly appear.

[blocks in formation]

Ir would extend this little history far beyond its prescribed limits, to continue a minute detail of those progressive circumstances which more immediately influenced the happiness and interests of Horace and Millicent, during the remainder of Dr. Hartop and Lady Octavia's sojourn at Sea Vale. The leading incidents must suffice to keep unbroken the thread of the narration. Miss Aboyne failed not (however disinclined) to return Lady Octavia Falkland's visit, within a few days after that honor had been conferred on her; neither did Lady Octavia fail, during their tête à tête in her luxurious boudoir, to call Millicent's attention to sundry objects, affording indubitable proof-in the shape of copied music, verses, sketches for albums, &c. &c.-that the whole of those long mornings, during which she saw little, and occasionally nothing, of Horace, were not devoted to the serious duties which she had been fain to persuade herself occupied at least the greater part of them. Had any lingering doubt still clung about her heart, Lady Octavia's considerate assurance (as the visiter rose to retire) was intended to remove it effectually. "I assure you I am quite shocked, Miss Aboyne," she said, with the sweetest deprecating manner in the world, " at monopolizing so much of Mr. Vernon's time;

but he is so kind and obliging!-and then, you know, those men are such lounging creatures of habit; when he is once comfortably established on that ottoman," pointing to one at the foot of her harp, "there's no driving him away, though I often tell him"With what arguments her ladyship so conscientiously essayed to "drive" Vernon to his duty, Miss Aboyne gave her no time to explain; for even Millicent's gentle spirit was moved by the obvious malice and intentional impertinence of the insinuation; and rather haughtily interrupting Lady Octavia with an assurance, that she arrogated to herself no right whatever over Mr. Vernon's disposal of his time, which must be well employed in her ladyship's service, she made her farewell curtsey, and returned to her own solitary home. Lady Octavia's eye followed her to the door, with an expression that said, "So-'let the stricken deer go weep ;'" and that shrewd meaning implied something very near the truth. The arrow had struck home.

From that morning Miss Aboyne considered herself absolved from the duty of returning any other of Lady Octavia's visits-who, on her part, becoming sensible that they did not coöperate, as she had expected, with her amiable purpose, soon discontinued them altogether. But the worthy

* See page 202.

26 ATHENEUM, VOL. 2, 3d series.

Doctor, desirous of testifying, in the most flattering manner, his gracious approbation of Vernon's choice, made a magnanimous effort to honor the object of it, by paying his personal respects to her at her own dwelling; it is more than probable, with the benevolent intention of bestowing on her a few of those valuable hints on domestic economy, and the rearing up of a large family, with which, at all convenient seasons, he was wont to favor his fortunate and grateful curate. But adverse circumstances diverted from Millicent the good fortune intended for her; the anticipation of which (for Horace had prepared her for the visit) had in truth grievously disquieted her. Carefully enveloped in a warm roquelaure, (for though the noonday sun was scorching, the morning had been showery,) escorted by Mr. Vernon on one side, and his own valet, with a parapluie, on the other, the Doctor (having previously fortified himself with a basin of vermicelli soup) was wheeled in his Bath chair through the village of Sea Vale to Miss Aboyne's cottage-or, more properly speaking, to the garden gate leading to the little dwelling, and there his further progress was arrested by an unforeseen and insurmountable obstacle. humble gateway was not wide enough, by at least a foot, to admit the Doctor's equipage; (it would scarcely have afforded ingress to his own portly person;) and the little gravel walk, still flooded by recent showers, was impassable to the rheumatic gouty feet that trode "delicately" even on Brussels carpets. Moreover, on casting his eyes despairingly towards the cottage door, at which stood Miss Aboyne, (who, on perceiving the dilemma of her honorable and reverend visiter, had come forward thus courteously,) he conceived a well-founded suspicion, that even arrived at that inner portal, he should fail in effecting an entrance; wherefore, like a true philosopher, accommodating himself to circumstances, he gave two or three prelusive hems, with a view of complimenting the future bride (even from

The

that inconvenient distance) with the speech he had conned in readiness. Already, to Vernon's horror and Millicent's dismay, he had begun, "My dear Madam! it is with infinite satisfaction that I do myself the honor"

when a heavy cloud, which, unobserved by the pre-occupied divine, had been gathering over head, began to discharge its liquid stores so suddenly, that the faithful valet, who waited not his master's commands to face about, gave the necessary word to the officiating footman, and the Bath chair, with its reverend contents, under shelter of the parapluie, was safely wheeled into the Rectory hall, before Millicent had well recovered her alarm in the uninvaded sanctuary of her little parlor.

Two months and more than half a third had passed away, since that May morning (almost the latest of the month), a few days prior to the strangers' arrival at the Rectory, when Vernon had won from Millicent her unreluctant promise to be indissolubly united to him that day three months. What changes had taken place since then-not in the fortunes and apparent prospects of the affianced pair, but in their feelings, habits, and relative circumstances! Vernon had gradually absented himself more and more from the cottage; for some time excusing himself to Millicent, and to his own heart, on various pretences, which, however, he felt would not bear the test of investigation. By little and little he discontinued even those poor unsatisfactory apologies, and Millicent was best content that it should be so; for even her blindness (the wilful blindness of affection) was dispelled at last, and she felt within herself, and knew to a certainty in her own heart, that she should never be the wife of Horace Vernon. Yet did she not, for one single moment, suspect the sincerity of his intentions; nor doubt, that when the illusion was dispersed (she knew it to be an illusion) which now warped him from his better self, he would return to himself and to her, with bitter self-upbraiding, and passion

ate avowals of his own culpable weakness, and honorable anxiety to fulfil his engagements with her. Nay, she doubted not that she was still dear to him-she scarcely doubted that the best affections of his heart were still hers, however appearances might have led to a different conclusion-but she more than doubted, whether Horace Vernon and Millicent Aboyne could ever be again as they had been to each other; therefore she felt in her heart that it was better they should not be united. Yet, for all this, there was no change in her manner to Vernon-scarcely any perceptible change-only, perhaps, in lieu of the sweet familiar cheerfulness with which she had been wont to carry herself towards him, there was a shade of deeper seriousness, of more affecting tenderness, in her deportment, such as might have betokened, to a curious eye and a keen observer, something of those feelings with which the heart of one bound in secret on some far journey, may be supposed, on the eve of departure, to yearn towards a beloved friend, still unsuspicious of the approaching separation. Millicent's generous confidence in Vernon's honor (in his honorable intentions at least) was not misplaced. Never, for a moment, had he harbored a thought of violating his engagements with her; and his heart, as she had been fain to believe, still turned to her as towards its real home, at every lucid interval (the term is not inappropriate) of his spell-bound infatuation; and on more than one late occasion, when some accidental circumstance, or thought suggested by his good angel, had aroused his slumbering conscience and better feelings, he had almost deceived the poor Millicent into reviving hope and trust by an overflowing tenderness of manner, more apparently impassioned than in the early days of their youthful attachment. In some such mood of mind he took his way towards the cottage about the period last mentioned, about a fortnight before the first of September, the day he and Millicent had long anticipated as that

which was to unite them indissolubly. For some time past, however, it had been mutually understood, rather than arranged, between them, that their marriage should not take place till after the departure of the strangers, whose stay at the Rectory was not likely to be prolonged beyond the first week in September. That period now drew near-and Vernon remembered that it did, with a strange mixture of discordant feelings. He felt like one who has been long living, as in a dream, under the influence of some strange illusion, which was about to break away and leave him to the sober realities of his appointed lot. That morning, one of those trivial occurrences which often lead to important results in human affairs, tended very materially to hasten the dispersion of his airy visions. He had been present-for the time forgotten-when the letter-bag was brought in to Doctor Hartop, who delivered out from its contents, one from Falkland Park to Lady Octavia. It was from one of her sisters, and the matter so interesting, so redolent of present pleasures, and fêtes in preparation, of noble and fashionable guests arrived and expected, (fashionable men more especially, some of whom were alluded to in slang terms of familiarity, sanctioned by the modern manière d'être of high-bred, rather than well-bred, young ladies,) that the fair reader for once gave way to the fulness of her heart, (seldom was her ladyship guilty of such vulgar unreserve,) and poured out its feelings into the somewhat unsympathising ear of her reverend uncle, reading to him, as she proceeded with her letter, detached portions of Lady Jane's tantalizing communications, which so stimulated her impatient longings, that she ended with, "And now you are so well, dear uncle, why need we stay a minute longer at this horrid place? I could not survive another month of it."

What might have been the Doctor's reply to this very energetic appeal was known only to the fair appellant; for

Vernon, taking advantage of the open door, and being entirely overlooked, had slipt quietly away; and with Lady Octavia's words still tingling in his ears, was in two minutes on his way to the cottage, and to Millicent. In a strange tumult of feeling he bent his steps thither-of surprise and mortification, and bitter self-humiliation and reproach. Other thoughts by degrees stole in, like oil upon the troubled waves-thoughts still composed of mingled elements-painful and humbling, yet healing withal-of Millicent and all she had been to him -faithful, patient, uncomplaining, where there had been so great cause to excite an accusing spirit-nobly unsuspicious of wrong-incapable of envy inaccessible to mean jealousy, though not insensible-O no, he felt she was not of neglect, which to look back upon, wrung him to the soul; and still, still, ill as he deserved it of her, his own-his loving Millicent-his better angel-his future wife and well should the devotion of all his life to come strive to compensate for his temporary dereliction! Then came across him a shuddering recollection of the increased languor and feebleness, which, on two or three late occasions, he had observed and spoken of to herself; but she had made light of his question, and he had not dared have recourse to Nora. Nora and he had, indeed, by tacit consent, for some time avoided speaking to each other; and if they chanced to encounter, Vernon had hurried past, without raising his eyes to a face where he would have been sure to read searching accusation.

All these thoughts were busy in his heart as he pursued his way to the cottage, and for they had melted him to a tenderness of which he wished to subdue the outward indication-by the longest road-that which ran along the back of the village street and the cottage garden-the very lane where, close by the honeysuckle arbor, in that very garden, he had been arrested the first evening of his arrival at Sea Vale, by the sweet sounds of Mil

licent's voice, mingled with the manly tones of her father's. And there again Vernon's heart smote him; his parting promise to his departing friend !-how had it been fulfilled? "But it is not too late, thank God!" he exclaimed aloud; and starting onward, he quickened his step towards the orphan's dwelling, as if to hasten the ratification of his vows, and take her to his heart then and forever. But, at the turning of the green lane, he was overtaken by his old medical friend, Mr. Henderson, who, without slackening the pace of his ambling pony, merely said in passing-" Good morrow, Mr. Vernon! you are on your way to the cottage, I see; you will find Miss Aboyne better to-day." -"Better! has Miss Aboyne been ill? Pray, sir !-Mr. Henderson!"— and Vernon, starting forward, caught the pony's bridle-rein in the eagerness of his alarm.

The good apothecary looked at him with grave surprise, as he answered, with some severity of tone, "Is it possible you can be ignorant of the very precarious state of Miss Aboyne's health, Mr. Vernon? But seeing her, as of course you do, daily, you may not have been struck with the great personal change which has been for some time perceptible to me." Alas! many days had passed of late, during which Vernon had found no leisure hour for Millicent, and this was now the third day since he had seen her. How the fact, as if he were then first aware of it, struck home to his conscience!-and with what miserable apprehension he questioned and cross-questioned the apothecary!-and drew from him an explicit avowal, that although he did not consider Miss Aboyne's case by any means hopeless, it was so critical, that her life hung as it were by a single thread, of which the slightest agitation, the most trifling imprudence, or any untoward circumstance, might dissever the frail tenure. be free with you, Mr. Vernon," the old man continued, laying his hand on Vernon's shoulder as he spoke

"And to

« AnteriorContinuar »