seduce you from your first love from your affianced wife, and she is trying to do it."

"You are ungenerous and unjust," said Peregrine Pultuney, with some bitterness in the tones of "I do not believe it-cannot believe it —will never believe what you say."

his voice.

"You will believe it some of these days, and perhaps when it is too late," continued Splashington, in an earnest and natural tone of voice, without French or affectation. "Be sure that Augusta Sweetenham knows well enough the feelings she has awakened in your heart. She has got you into her net, and she will keep you there, if you refuse to accept the hand of succour I offer to you. You have often times accused me of vanity-rightfully, very rightfully, I know; but your vanity is worse than mine, my dear friend. Mine has never done more than make me ridiculous, but your's is leading you to do wrong. But here we are at Fitz-simons's; I would have said more, but as it is I am afraid I have said too much, and yet not enough-too much for your patience and forbearance, but not enough to do you good. Well, well, good bye. I have offended you, but I have done my duty."

"Good bye," said Peregrine Pultuney, leaping out of the buggy. "Thank you for the liftthank you;" and having treated a true friend with undeserved harshness, or rather coldness, which is much worse, Peregrine Pultuney entered the house, and was accosted in the hall by Peer Khan, who

gave him a letter, observing at the same time that it was a ship letter, and he thought it was from Missy Baba.

Peregrine told him to hold his tongue and mind his own business, and having treated his faithful servant as badly as he did his true friend, went into his bedroom, shut the door, and flung himself on his couch.

There he lay thinking for some time; we need scarcely say what were his thoughts: suffice it that they were of such a nature that he did not open his letter until nearly an hour after receiving it, and when he did, he read it with a cold eye, every now and then stopping and muttering to himself certain words which we shall not set down for fear that our hero should forfeit the good opinion of our readers altogether, before we intend it.

Poor Julia-poor sweet Julia! How womanlike-how affectionate was her letter! We shall give but a few extracts; but they will be enough, for the letter was full of repetitions, as love letters generally are.

"Cape, November 3. "MY DEAREST, BEST-BELOVED PEREGRINE.How my heart yearns towards you from this distant and strange place-how I envy this sheet of paper-happy, happy sheet, which your dear hands will press, your dear eyes devour, perhaps, your dear heart beat against, as you carry it about with

you, which I think you will, nay I'm sure you will, sweetest and best. Oh! what would I not give to see you, as you open it, my best beloved. Your face will be so bright, your eyes, I think, full of tears-tears of joy as you read it; but instead of this I shall be, perhaps, landing in England-fifteen thousand miles away from my sweet betrothed

-so desolate and so forlorn. I cannot tell you what a void there is in my heart-how truly wretched I am without you. Nor need I tell you, dearest Perry, for you will know how to estimate my feelings by your own. You cannot be more desolate than I am, nor more truly-more wholly mine, than I am yours, sweet betrothed; and yet I have in you dearest, a most entire and full confidence. I never doubt your truth for a moment: your pure, undeviating affection is a treasure be yond all price; and whilst I feel confident in possessing it and I do feel most confident-I ought to be happy even apart from you. Dearest, best beloved, when will your hand be in mine-your heart beat against mine-and when shall we be happy in the thought that nothing but death can part us. I almost fear that something will prevent the realization of this great happiness—yet, why should I-nothing but death can prevent it, and why should I anticipate that? My dear mother is all kindness-she is much altered, I think, by her late sorrows-is more serious and thoughtful. She says that we shall be married, and

that soon. Is not that kind of her, Peregrine, my beloved? She says that she will do her best for us-and I dare say-oh! how I long for the timethat next year I shall be on my way to India. Mamma will accompany me, of course, and live with us too, sweetest. I am sure you will not mind it; she is good and kind, and now she is alone, and we owe every thing to her. God bless you-write very often-by every Overland mail-as I will do when I reach England. I have kissed this paper again and again; do the same, dearest Perry. Ever your own most devotedly attached

"J. P."

CHAPTER XI.

In which Peregrine Pultuney does not improve, but, if possible sinks still deeper in the good Opinion of the Reader.

AND now, good reader, if you have no objection, we will suppose that the all-important 25th of January has arrived, and conduct you, with your kind permission, to that grand emporium of vanity, where people make bad dinners and worse speeches, and exhibit their cauliflowers and their daughters -where serious fancy fairs and not serious fancy balls, oratorios and race ordinaries come off-where matches are made for life and for the next racesbets paid one night and addresses the next-money lost to-day and hearts to-morrow-to the all-comprehensive TOWN-HALL. There surely never was such a Town-hall, as the Town-hall of Calcutta―surely never a place which if it could write its "reminiscences," would have so very much to write about. A Town-hall in England, knows more, doubtless, about the solemn twaddle of mayors and corporations (thank God, we have no such animals here),