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pany of the boy. One night, after having observed a little tobaecobox on a shelf, Tom bought a pipe and some delicate tobaceo, and laid it filled beside the old man. He shook his head, said something about his not having smoked for many years; yet, nevertheless, laid it reverently beside him on the mantel-piece. As these privileges of intereourse increased, Tom found, that often after night-fall, the old man had a visitor; a little flute-shaped weazened old gentleman, named Webbe, who kept a small music shop in a street hard by ; and as the strange story of the old man's daughter “Daisy Brandle” oozed out bit by bit from the said eheerful beadle, Tom began to take great interest in his coming, as often, on such occasions, a voice was given to the music of those old madrigals. This Webbe had been music-master to the girl, who, besides being very beautiful, had been gifted with a wonderful voice, and possessing somewhat her father's quaint taste, had loved such music and such words. Much mystery hung about the foregone time; but on the very noon she was to have married a cousin, who dearly loved her, and who managed the old man's then extensive business, she departed with some princely vagabond, whom she had by accident met with at Webbe's. Little had been known of her from that hour; the business dwindled away, and the cousin dying broken-hearted, the old man had sunk into the sort of dreary life I tell off, and only once a year, on the anniversary of her departure, opened that old chamber that had been hers, and in its moulder and decay, was whispered to be just as she had left it; Master Webbe being on that night always a guest. From hints, dropped by the before-mentioned predecessor of Tom, the beadle had gathered, that Daisy had returned of late years to England, with a young child, and earned a precarious living as an itinerant player. This was all that was known. It was curious that, as the summer waned, the Duekling still lingering fitfully on, some little errand took the boy one night to old Webbe's shop. The musician was in his little baek parlour, rummaging amongst some old music for a customer, who, seated in the shop, was worthily representing those gods of Parnassus, Sternhold and Hopkins, by scraping his throat, and looking solemn, whenever he laid aside an heretic song from the quaint L.M.'s and S.M.'s he was looking at. “A pretty thing this, sir,” said Tom, as he took up some song he had heard old Webbe sing: “Profane, profane,” hem'd Sternholdism. “ Yet even cometh it forth from the mouth of babes and sucklings, for no longer ago than last Monday a little vagabond was a-sitting asinging it in my churchyard, and what made it badder, under my very desk winder. He—m, but Isle soon had her off, for like Moses I smote with a rod, 'specially as it was a little vagabond, as our blessed wicar o' Goldencorn is going to law with the neighbouring wicar of Butter-cum-Bacon, 'cause the mother, a tramping cretur, died on extraparochial ground, and each parish says it won't maintain, and so * * * *” With glistening eyes, and heart divining all, Tom stopped him here to ask the name. “Well, some scrap of paper, with Brandle written on it, was found in the mother's pocket, and * * * * * This was enough, the boy waited not for his errand, but posted off to his friend the smiling beadle ; and that very night Tom asked his master for a holiday, which was granted. It was a glorious autumn noon some days after, that the once outcast and the vagabond made some inquiries at a cottage door in a little village amidst the Surrey hills. “The child that these parsons are a-making a noise about ! Well, as Gruntpipe 's gathering his apples, and 's safe, she, poor cretur, has crept into the churchyard I daresay, it is her only home.” And so, breathlessly, Tom crossed the rustic stile, and with hushed step, went on towards the shadow of the church. In a corner, assigned to pauper burial, for the grass was rank and long, sat a little child some seven years old, bending like a crushed flower down-trodden to the earth. Starting with terror, even at the boy's light step, she rose, little flower as she was, and stood before him, the image of the old man. “Daisy,” and at that word spoken lowlily by divinity from rags, the trusting nature of childhood recognised in the outcast a friend, and, folded in his arms, the ministering angel of Pity wept above the tears of overflowing gladness. He bore her swiftly from the churchyard in his arms, to the top of the lane where the coach passed by, waited for it, and with her then journeyed on to town. Reaching home by night-fall, he bore her into the house unseen by the old man; and the slowly-dying creature, who at times wandered in intellect, said often through the night as she slept beside the fire, nursed by Tom, “Don’t look at her hard, she is too like those pure-winged things you read of, Tom.” The morrow night, as the divinity-forth-from-rags had reckoned, was the anniversary when the locked chamber was opened. Tom had never entered it; but when he knew old. Webbe was come, and after listening with little tiptoed Daisy on the landing to some of those old songs, quickly recognised by the child, for they had been sung by her mother, he took courage and went in. It was a bed-chamber, strewn with apparel, just as the girl had left it : and the two old men were seated by the instrument she had so often played. The one had played sorrowfully, the other had listened droopingly, and they heard not the boy and the child enter; to them the past was visible and sentient; the present dead. * Please, sir,” said Tom, at last laying his hand respectfully on that of the old bookseller, “do not now let these songs make you longer sorrowful; here is a living spirit that will sing them cheerfully : cheerfully because music is the glad voice of God himself. This is your little grandchild.” The power of anger was all gone; and the old man forgot his years of sorrow, in the living image and voice of the child. And if at last one was more subdued than the rest, it was the onee outcast, the vagabond, the thief, who had by set made the baptism of sin, and recognised by each the beautiful power which good in its nature has over evil! The pipe was four times filled that night; a rare supper came from the Drum and Trumpet opposite, and whilst Daisy sung on the old man's knee to the ravished ear of Webbe, Tom listened reverently and lovingly . * * * * And now, whilst I write, Tom Brandle, as he is called, is a proper fighting dragon in the matter of crime and education, and the dogmatic, self-satisfied British Lion, with all his roaring, is like to have the worst of it; for, besides being a bookseller, and concoctor of “aiming-high" spelling books, and a diver into every haunt of crime and wretehedness, he has turned the once gloomy warehouses into a great Ragged School, where is fought, every night, a glorious and triumphant battle with Ignorance and Superstition. That sweet harmonies of our divine nature may not be absent. Daisy has been trained to sing ofttimes therein; and the little flute-shaped man has become an enthusiastic teacher. And Mr. Slimps, from an Apollo of thievery, has become a dispenser of Brandle spelling-books through the country, and he often tells of the poor Duckling's happy death, and Tom's great friendship. And old Brandle smokes extraordinary pipes, over his Burton's and his Fuller's, thinking much of a wedding ring Tom may bye-andbye give to Daisy, with as much reverence for the human flower, as did he, the Poet, when he raised up the one of the summer air crushed beneath his mountain plough, Therefore the divine metaphysic principle of Truth is this: Evil is not a necessity to man, but a contingent of ignorance, that will Jall as humanity progresses towards the great principle of good, which is that of Nature. SILVERPEN.

TO GOVERNESSES.

“THE Bosox of A FAMILY.”
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AMoxg the Advertisements in one of the morning papers, there appeared the other day the following exquisite morceau:—

“To Goversesses AND OTHERs.-WANTED, by an English family, living in seclusion in a healthy and warm part of the North of Scotland, some distance from towns, an active, cheerful, and obliging YouNG LAby, who is competent to take the charge of education, and otherwise, of three children, all under six years of age; also make herself generally useful in domestic matters. This is required in return for her board, lodging, washing, &c., but if on all other points an applicant should suit, a small salary would not be refused, if particularly wanted. As the advertiser and her mother have the children constantly with them, the governess will necessarily live in the bosom of the family: lady-like manners and address are therefore, indispensable. French, music (vocal and instrumental), drawing, dancing, needlework, English, &c., will gradually be required. The situation is likely to be permanent, and certainly comfortable and advantageous. Most unexceptionable references will be given and required. Apply personally,” &c.

This is, we think, without any exception, the most naïve and altogether perfect expression of rapacity and intense selfishness we have ever met with—the most elaborate, and at the same time the most natural and unconscious. The words come evidently out of the fulness of the writer's heart. Curiously precise as the address is throughout, coolly and deliberately as the fair composer (for it is a woman, as we see, who is not ashamed to make this insolent, insulting proposition, to educated womanhood), proceeds in laying down her rules and requirements—piling line upon line, and pre

cept upon precept, with almost the anxious particularity of an Act of Parliament—the tone of quiet self-possession is yet such as no mere audacity could supply. Nothing could inspire it short of a eonviction of being in the right, from which all doubt was banished. It is clearly a case of genuine, however mistaken, enthusiasm. This provident mother, who comes before the world with such an ingenious scheme for getting her three children taken charge of “education and otherwise,” all for nothing, is, in her own conceit, a philanthropist, a professed lover and benefactor of the species. She believes herself to be holding out “to Governesses and others,” (as she comprehensively puts it,) an offer which only labours under the disadvantage of being too tempting. She only dreads the number of applications that there will be for a situation so “likely to be permanent,” so “certainly comfortable and advantageous.” The active, cheerful, obliging, and all-accomplished young ladies, whom she invites to hie them to the warm latitudes of the North of Scotland, there to devote themselves to her and her children, and to make themselves “generally useful in domestic matters,” are expressly warned that “most unexceptionable references” will be required, to give them a chance of securing so enviable a promotion. Only personal applications, too, are to be permitted, with the hope of further diminishing the number; and, besides, the presence or absence of the “lady-like manners and address,” which are declared to be indispensable for the children's maid and general domestic drudge without wages, may in this way be detected at once. It must be confessed, indeed, that some of the attractions of the appointment are very seducing. In the first place, the fortunate individual who obtains it, although she will be in reality only a servant of all work, is to be styled a young lady. Then, think of the charming prospect—especially at this season of the year—of going to “live in seclusion, in a healthy and warm part of the North of Scotland.” The hyperborean paradise, too, has the further recommendation of being “some distance from towns,”—which are so apt to distract the ideas of young ladies occupied with the cares of the nursery, and the general domesticities. Most localities in the northern parts of Scotland, indeed, are fortunate in being tolerably remote from the gaieties of town life. We come next to the unlimited nature of the recompense the young lady is to receive for her multifarious services; she is to receive no salary indeed, -unless, as it is facetiously subjoined, it should be “particularly

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