POPULAR SONGS.

POPULAR song has in all ages been a great power; and it is easy to understand how this should be. The first delight--apart from the merely physical and instinctive-that rejoices the infant's ear, is the voice of song; and the pleasure derived from this source increases with years. Song never ceases to be delightful,-whether it be chanted at the cradle, by the fireside, in the hayfield, on the march, in the forest, on the deck, or in the church. It embraces man's whole life,-beginning with the cradle-song, and ending with the dirge. It embraces too, the life of Nations, and marks their progress; indeed, the early history of some nations can only be gathered from their songs.

Before the age of printing, the bards were almost the only chroniclers of events; they embodied the traditions and legends of their forefathers in song, and chanted them to the accompaniment of the harp, in the homes of the poor, and in the halls of the great. The deepest emotions assumed then, as they do now, the form of poetry, and were either chanted or sung. Many of these old ballads and songs, as caught up by the popular ear, and handed down from father to son, through many generations, were at length written down, and treasured up in books, where they will live for ever. But a multitude of compositions of the bards have passed away into oblivion, and those which remain sound like the voice of a remote ancestor from the depths of the tomb. These old songs record national disasters and triumphs, the memory of which had otherwise long since passed away. There are even nations altogether dead, whose songs still survive, almost the only record of them that remains. The popular songs were the only archives of the old nations; they had no other. The bards were the chroniclers who set the deeds of the mighty men to words, and chanted them in song; thus, no men were more revered than the Bards in ancient Britain, and the Scalds in Denmark and Norway. They sat at the councils of the Chiefs; their persons were deemed sacred; their skill was regarded as something divine. Among the old Scotch, these bards were hailed by a great name-"Makkeris"-that is, Makers, Creators, Poets. The ancient British bards had for the motto of their order :-"Those who

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are free throughout the world." The early bards were thus regarded as the liberating gods of men.

After the bards, came the minstrels,-and then poets sprang up-that is, men who cultivated beautiful thoughts, and elaborated them in smooth and polished language for the minstrels to sing. The minstrel was a musician, but he might be a poet too, as Blondel was. Many of the popular songs were doubtless composed by the minstrels, from whom the popular ear caught up the verse and the music, and thus the songs were carried into the home, and have floated down to us in long undulating waves of melody, from generation to generation. Centuries ago, the "Battle of Chevy Chase " was chanted along the Scottish border, at once a history, a tale, and a tragedy, embodied in a song,-and to this day, it is the delight of childhood, and the admiration of even the most cultivated minds. It was sung in the halls of the warlike border chiefs, as a war-cry of defiance and hate, the English borderers singing one version of it, and the Scotch borderers another, each flattering the martial prowess of their respective sides, -but to-day, it is chiefly a historical picture of time long since passed away, though, as such, it is invaluable. Yet Sir Philip Sydney said of "Chevy Chase" that he never heard it sung without being stirred as by the blast of a trumpet. Did not Homer write history in his glorious Iliad? without which, the warfare which stormed around the walls of the long-buried and now almost undiscoverable city of Troy, were long since forgotten. And what should we know of the ancient history of Germany, but for its Niebelungen Lied? And is not the thrilling history of Spain, in the terrible contest with the Moors, more graphically written in the Romance of the Cid than anywhere else? We, too, had our old romances of Arthur and the Round Table; and the French had theirs of Launcelot du Lac, Charlemagne and the Good Roland, with many other beautiful songs of the Troubadours.

Popular song has always possessed great power among the people of Danish races, with whom the English nation are closely connected. But the other day, during the war between Denmark and SchleswigHolstein, a popular song was produced, called Den Tapfre Landsoldat, which produced a fit of enthusiasm of the most extraordinary kind. Mr. Hurton, in his recently published volume, From Leith to Lapland,

says of it "The most famous national war song in the world is the Marseillaise, but in my humble estimation, it is decidedly inferior to that of Denmark, Den Tapfre Landsoldat ('The Brave Soldier-lad'). The latter, moreover, does not partake of that bloodthirsty spirit which pervades the French hymn. Den Tapfre Landsoldat was written and set to music at the commencement of the war between Denmark and the Duchies; and so eminently national is it, that one burst of enthusiasm, from end to end of the kingdom, hailed its advent. The author and composer were both rewarded with knighthood of the order of the Dannesbrog. During my residence at Copenhagen, Den Tapfre Landsoldat was in the mouth of old and young, at all hours, in all places, on all occasions. The gentleman hummed it over his wine, the lady at her toilet, the mechanic at his bench, the shopman at his counter, the maiden at her spinning-wheel, the child at its play. If you walk the streets, you hear it more or less every few yards; if you enter a drawing-room, the young ladies were sure to be thrumming it on the piano; if you bought a pocket-handkerchief, you would find the words and music printed on it. I have heard it sung, in grand chorus, by whole battalions of soldiers on the march; and my own little fairy queen, of three years of age, has lisped it to me. So powerfully does it appeal to the hearts of Scandinavians, that in Christiana and Bergen I heard it sung by the Norwegian troops, and almost as frequently by the Danes in Copenhagen; and when I sailed into the harbour of Fronuiso, close on the borders of Finland, a boat came from the town with a bugle, playing the spirit-stirring air with first-rate skill."

From a very early period, the Scandinavians have been celebrated for their popular songs. Their history begins with the Saga or ballads of the ancient bards. Snorro Sturleson's Heimskringla may be regarded as the Iliad of the Scandinavian race,-it is full of poetic Edda, dark old paganism, history, antiquarianism, and daring warlike adventure. The old Northmen were a valorous race; their Vikings were the kings of the ocean centuries ago, roving in search of booty along the coasts of all European countries; and returning home again in autumn, after a summer's piracy, they spent the winter by the fire, in recounting their deeds of daring, while the scalds fanned their enthusiasm, by setting their prowess to music, and chanting it in songs and ballads. Hence the old Edda, or poems of Norway-the earliest literature of the North, and its first history. A collection of these old songs has been made in Denmark, entitled the Kæmpe-viser. Though these songs are written in Danish, they belong to the whole of the Scandinavian nations. Many of our oldest English and Scotch ballads bear a striking resemblance to the songs in the Kæmpe-viser; and this is easily understood when the intimate connection of the northern nations with England, at an early period, is taken into ac

count.

These old ballads are like the times in which they were composed-rough, rude, and stern; simple in rhythm, exhibiting little skill in working out details, with no power of colouring; they are but straightforward rhymes, which follow each other like the blows of a hammer; they contain none of those felicities of thought and expression which distinguish modern poets, but are simple, naive, quaint, and often graphic narratives:-such are the characteristics of these old ballads. The sombre character of the stern north dominates in the Danish, Norwegian,

and Icelandish poetry; it is full of woe, of dread, of The grim triumph, and of exulting vengeance. universal genius, Shakspere, in his tragedy of Hamlet, has truly delineated the characteristics of the old Danish race with a deep under-current of philosophy, the tragedy is full of pitiless vengeance and violent death.

The modern popular songs of Denmark and Norway have been modified by the social and domestic ideas which have recently influenced European life. Literature has been humanized and made companionable. Songs have ceased to be exclusively warlike, and full of human passion. They now speak to the affections and feelings they warble of love and home: they cheer and gladden firesides. And the rude climate of the north, doubtless, tends to make the Norwegians value popular song more than even southern nations. All winter they are confined to their dwellings; and thus they come to love home and family. Like their ancestors, the old Scandinavians, the Swedes and Norwegians sit round the fire-the men drinking beer and preparing the instruments of agriculture, and the women spinning wool and flax,-while the merry song goes round, and the old traditions of their forefathers are still recounted with love and

awe.

To turn for a moment to the popular songs of our own land. In England, as in other countries, the earliest history and literature of the cottage was found in ballads, carols, and songs. In the old Saxon times, music was cultivated by rich and poor; and the story is told of King Alfred once entering the Danish camp in disguise, dressed as a minstrel; when he entertained the Danes with his music until he had obtained the information he wanted as to the

situation of their army. The chivalrous Richard Cœur de Lion was also an accomplished musician; and one of the most beautiful stories in English history is that of the minstrel Blondel, who rescued his royal master from the dungeons of the Duke of Austria. But the people, too, had an ardent love of music. At fairs, at weddings, at feasts, and around firesides, the old ballads were sung. Pattenham, in his Arte of English Poesie, published in 1589-that is, more than two centuries and a half since,-tells how, in public places, company assembled to hear, sung to the accompaniment of the harp, the "old adventures and valiaunces" of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, Sir Bevys of Southampton, Guy of Warwick, and such like. But greatest favourites of all were the songs of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, which were the great delight of the common people. At fairs and markets, " rythmers would get upon benches and barrells' heads," and chant the old romances of the Greenwood, to the infinite pleasure of their audiences.

"

Robin Hood is certainly by far the most popular character in old English song. Ingenious historians (among others Thierry) have supposed that in the character of Robin Hood was embodied the idea of Saxon resistance to the tyranny of the Norman barons and their priests. Whether he was a merely fictitious or a real character, has never been satisfactorily made out. His birthplace is claimed by many villages, in many counties; and there are Robin Hood's Wells, Robin Hood's Butts, and Robin Hood's Haunts, almost without end. His chief haunt was said to be Sherwood Forest, which stretched from Nottingham to the borders of Yorkshire; and beyond that, further to the north, lay Barnsdale Forest, which extended from Doncaster to Wakefield. These forests were for a long time the haunt of the vanquished Saxons, who, still denying the law of the Normans, banded themselves together as outlaws, and lived under a kind of military organization, with

leaders of their own choosing. One of these was Robin Hood, the fame of whose name may have induced others to assume it long after the original had died; and hence the number of Robin Hood's places in all the northern counties. Fordum, in his Scotichronicon, is, we believe, the only old historian who mentions Robin Hood, which he does in the following words:-"Then arose (1189 to 1194) among the disinherited, the famous Robert Hode, whom the common people were so fond of celebrating in their games and stage-plays; and whose exploits, chanted by strolling ballad - singers, delight them above all things." This is positively all that history tells us of the celebrated outlaw; and the rest of his story and adventures "under the greenwood tree can only be gathered from the old romances and popular songs of the time, which have now been collected in a printed form. Upwards of fifty of these have been found and published; the best edition of them being that of Mr. Gutch, in two volumes. Here we need not refer to the features of Robin Hood's history. Every schoolboy knows them; for, of the characters in English popular history, Robin Hood is unquestionably the favourite,-like as Wallace is in Scotland. And so long as there is pleasure in freshness, freedom, and adventure, in birds and ballads, in green woods, and in the air that blows over the early morning of a nation's being, Robin Hood will have a home and shelter in the very heart of English song and fancy.

Somehow, Robin Hood became identified with May Day; in many districts it was called Robin Hood's Day, and was celebrated as a festival in his honour -as if he had been some saint of great renown. According to the use and wont of celebrating the old Pagan festival of Flora, on May Day, a lady, or queen of the May was chosen, who, for the time being in England as well as in France,-was styled Maid Marion. At a subsequent date, a lord or king of the May was either substituted for her, or united with her; and as the king of the May was in many places termed "Robin Hood," the name thus became linked with that of Maid Marion, and Robin acquired an additional hold upon the hearts of the people. Even after the period of the reformation in England, this festival in honour of Robin Hood continued to be observed. Bishop Latimer tells us how, in one of his pastoral visitations, he arrived in the evening at a small town near London, and gave notice that he should preach the next day, because it was a holy day. "But when he came there," says he, "the church's door was fast locked; I tarried there half an hour and more, and at last the key was found, and one of the parishioners comes to me and sayes,'Syr, this is a busye day with us; we cannot heare you; it is Robin Hoode's day the parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hoode.' And so the good bishop had to take off his episcopal gown, and go forward on his way, leaving the place to the archers, dressed in green, who were enacting, in a shady spot, the parts of Robin Hood, Little John, and all the band.

The same resistance of the Saxon people to their Norman barons-the struggle between the conquered and the conquerors-continued under various other forms; and you see it now speaking out in the common poachers' songs, of which the Zommerzet one is well known,

It's my delight of a shiny night

In the season of the year, &c.

But we are now entering upon the domain of English Popular Song, a large and interesting theme, which we shall have pleasure in resuming at some early opportunity.

HARRY HARTLEY.

A TALE OF A WORKING MAN'S FRIENDLY SOCIETY.

BY CHARLES HARDWICK.

III.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.-CHAPTER ABOUT a week after the destruction of the cottonmill, Mr. Charles Allen was seated by the bed of Harry Hartley. For the first twenty-four hours after the accident, the kind-hearted surgeon had never left his humble friend, hourly expecting he would sink beneath his terrible sufferings.

The poor fellow was sadly mutilated. He had experienced a compound fracture of the left thigh, and his right leg was frightfully shattered. The weakness of the patient from loss of blood, prevented the possibility of a successful amputation. His torture was continual and most intense; but he bore it bravely, no murmur escaping from his parched lips.

After pondering intently for some time, Mr. Allen gently relaxed his grasp from the poor man's wrist. His countenance brightened perceptibly, as he cautiously closed the chamber door, and descended to the little parlour below.

"You must avoid making the slightest noise for two hours at least," said Mr. Allen in a whisper; "I begin to hope that, with great care, your husband's temperate habits and good constitution may yet triumph over the injuries he has received. inflammatory symptoms are considerably abated; and he appears to sleep soundly."

The

Mary Hartley was left alone. Tears of joy, and gratitude, and hope, coursed down her cheeks in a warm and plenteous stream; for the sorrowing woman possessed a large and a loving heart. She could think of nothing now but her poor husband's kindnesses and virtues. She began to reproach herself for the distrust and suspicion which she supposed had prevented him from following the dictates of his better judg ment with respect to the Friendly Society. She had never seriously thought about the matter; her fears alone had dictated her conduct,--and truly, she had good reason to fear. But a week ago, she felt almost certain that her husband was an Oddfellow; and her very dislike to the thing strengthened the suspicion. Now, when she clearly saw how much she should stand in need of the benefits, and fervently prayed that he might have deceived her, the very intensity of her desire magnified the unwelcome doubt. Neither Harry nor the surgeon had said a word to her on the subject since the accident, and she dared not to put the question to either the one or the other. The few pounds in the Savings' Bank would soon be exhausted, and then she must again wrestle with poverty and want! She feared little for herself; but the thought that her crippled husband and five young children must depend almost entirely upon her own labour for the means of existence, pressed heavily on her heart.

Yet there was one bright star shed a pure and holy light over this dark prospect! Her Harry was no drunkard now! Oh! how strong she felt when she thought of this! She could toil and fast, and never flag in body or spirit while her Harry's kind word and look cheered her!

Nearly three months after the accident, Harry Hartley sat in an easy chair by the brook side, at the bottom of his little garden. It was a lovely morning near the end of May. The faintest possible breeze gently shook the leaves and flowers, and breathed returning health upon the bloodless cheek of the invalid. How intensely happy was the expression of that pale thin countenance!

Mr. Allen had been for some time in conversation

with his patient.

How fortunate it is you joined the club, Harry. There is yet hope that you may live without the necessity of accepting the cold charity of the parish. You will have to depend more upon the exercise of your head than upon the labour of your hands for your future livelihood; but a steady man like yourself will not want for friends, I assure you.

"I am very grateful to all who have interested themselves in my behalf," replied the invalid; “and especially to you, doctor. I do not know what sort of employment I should have been fit for if it had not been for your kind teaching for the last two years. Alas! too many working men do not know the value of even a little education! But, doctor, I have long wished to ask you how the members attend to the lodge business since we removed from the public-house to the schoolroom. You know I feel greatly interested in the success of that experiment.'

"I am very sorry to inform you that your high purpose and disinterested labour in that cause has not yet exhibited much fruit. I am afraid we have removed the lodge from the public-house, but not the members!! They merely pay their subscriptions now, and then walk across the street to enjoy their pipes and glasses, without the wholesome restraint imposed by our laws. They neglect the important business of their society rather than forego their accustomed enjoyments! Ignorance, and error, and vice, left alone to their own influences, can but propagate their kind. Innoculation with purer matter is, I begin to think, absolutely necessary in order to effect a healthier future development. I am satisfied that practical philanthropists must continue for a long time to go where they can find the masses, if anything worth the name of success is to result from their benevolent exertions. When "the people," as a body, shall have remedied these great errors of habit, they will not require much assistance from others in their further moral and intellectual advancement.

Harry Hartley was grieved to hear this. He had had great faith and hope in both the wisdom and the practicability of his proposition, for it was mainly through his efforts, that the experiment had been tried. He contented himself with merely observing "Well, well, doctor, I suppose, as you sometimes say, we must work and wait."

Mary Hartley here appeared in the little garden. Her whole form and manner indicated the most profound grief.

"Oh, Harry, Harry! my heart will break!" she exclaimed wildly.

"Why, my good Mary, what's the matter? I feel myself quite well and happy now. I have some good news to tell you, too. Whatever can distress you so?"

"Poor Grace Morley! She died this morning; and they have just taken past the lane end, in the overseer's cart, her three poor helpless children to the workhouse."

"Why, doctor, how's this?" exclaimed Harry; "I thought poor Morley was a member of the lodge!"

"True!" replied Mr. Allen; "he was a member, but his wife had so strong an objection to it, that he ceased to pay some time before his death!"

Mary Hartley stood a very statue! the personification of misery and despair!

Harry instantly read the whole of her thoughts. "Come here, my Mary," he said, in his kindest tone; "I wish to gain your forgiveness for one piece of deception which I have practised upon you, and then we shall be perfectly happy. I joined the Oddfellows' club about two years ago, and you would have received ten shillings per week during the time I have been sick, only I requested the doctor to take care

of the money till I was well enough to tell you the truth myself. I know we had about fifteen pounds in the Savings' Bank, and that you have not yet been in want of money. Let me see, doctor, I have been ill twelve weeks, so you will have six pounds to give her."

"No, no, Harry! I won't touch it! I dare not take it! I feel I have no right to it!" hurriedly exclaimed the agitated woman.

"What, Mary! won't you forgive me?"

"Oh! Harry, Harry! how can you ask such a question? It is I who ought to beg your forgiveness!"

The warm tears flowed rapidly down the invalid's pale but happy cheek, as a flood of joy and hope swelled up from his secretly-rejoicing heart.

"Oh, doctor, just explain to her that the money is really and truly hers," muttered Harry, alınost suffocated by the active demonstration of his wife's affection.

"Mrs. Hartley," said the surgeon, "you are as much entitled to this money as you were to any that you ever possessed. It is not given to you by the society as charity, but in the payment of a just debt, honourably contracted."

The wife, after a moment's pause, slowly extended her hand. She spoke not; but her very silence was far, far more eloquent than words.

Mr. Allen walked away, leaving the poor man and his wife to the uninterrupted enjoyment of their new-found happiness.

Harry Hartley's health continued to improve gradually, though slowly, during the warm months of summer and autumn. He was, however, incompetent to the performance of any severe or continual bodily labour. He consequently remained a charge upon the funds of the lodge.

Well, Mr. Hartley, you have not yet told me what you think of doing in the way of business," said the surgeon.

"I have lately learned the value of capital, doctor," responded Hartley, with a laugh. "I am satisfied that if I could get into some little way of business, I have plenty of friends in Lingfield who would support me." Very well," replied Mr. Allen; "I will see what can be done. How much do you think would enable you to commence in such a way as would insure the maintenance of your family?"

"Oh, twenty pounds would be quite enough!" modestly responded Harry. "But where can I hope to get such a sum? Indeed, I can't see that I ought to expect anyone to advance it; though if there was some kind wealthy man, who could have faith in me, oh! what a struggle I would make to prove he had not judged me wrongly."

"I know such a man, Harry!” smilingly replied Mr. Allen; "so you may set about the affair as soon as you please. The district committee granted you, at the last meeting, a benevolent gift of £5 from the incidental fund. A friend, from what he has observed of your steady conduct and provident habits, is quite agreeable, without any security, to make the £5 into a sum sufficient to enable you to commence in some little way of business!"

A few weeks after the above conversation, Harry Hartley removed his family to a little shop situated near the "Bridge Foot," at the entrance to Lingfield. His stock consisted of a miscellaneous assortment of goods, suitable to the wants of the village population. Through Mr. Allen's influence, Harry was appointed agent to a large coal company. His steady and studious habits during the last two or three years, had fully qualified him for the situation; and the worthy

surgeon continually visited him for the purpose of instructing him in the best method of keeping his

accounts.

By dint of the most untiring application, and an economy so severe that he denied to himself almost every personal gratification that involved expense, conjoined to an honourable determination to be selfdependent, if possible, the poor man contrived in twelve months to repay the whole of his borrowed capital. He never knew, with certainty, to whom he was indebted for the loan, though his suspicions constantly veered towards the true person, Mr. Charles Allen.

He did not rest here. He was determined to refund the £5 granted to him as a benevolent gift by his club. This was by no means expected from him; but he was inexorable in his resolve.

At length this great object of his honourable ambition was effected also. He returned home one evening from the society's meeting, his honest heart filled with pride and joy at the thought that, by his own exertions, he had, after a hard struggle, placed himself in a truly independent position! The afternoon had been very stormy. Sudden and heavy showers had deluged the upper valleys. Shortly after Harry's arrival at home, loud peals of thunder shook the air, and huge drops of rain fell.

"We shall have a heavy storm to-night," said Harry; "I am afraid the rising of the waters in the brooks will produce a serious flood before morning. I think I will wait an hour, at least, to see whether it abates or not. You had better go to bed, Mary."

The wife obeyed; and Harry sat smoking his pipe to while away the hour. He forgot the storm, for the noise of the thunder and rain gradually diminished. He was mentally revelling with his own thoughts. His heart beat high with rapture as he proudly exclaimed, "For the first time in my life, I am an independent man!"

A low rumbling sound gradually arrested his attention. He paused and listened intently. A moment more, and the noise had increased to a wild and fearful rush! Harry Hartley rushed towards the door for the purpose of investigating the cause, but he reached it not. A blow like a thunder-clap struck the frail barrier, and the room was instantly filled with water.

In the language of the country people, "a cloud had burst!" A large water-spout had indeed struck the mountain-side, and the liberated element rushed madly from the hills, bounding over every obstacle with irresistible impetuosity!

THE WEEK'S HOLIDAY.

"GOOD morning, Miss Ellen. May I ask what important business brings you out so early this morning a quarter to seven exactly."

"I shall answer your question, Mr. Parsons, by asking the reason of your early rising. You are decidedly the last person in Brandon I expected to see this morning."

"Well, I see you are going to the station as well as me; so, let me offer you an arm, and then I will enlighten you. I am going to meet my cousin James Wherton, and a young foreigner whom he has persuaded to join him in a week's holiday. I shall introduce them in due form; and if I had not a particular regard for a certain young townsman of my own, I should begin to speculate on the possibility of calling you cousin; eh, Ellen?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Parsons. You are a great deal too speculative as it is, or I should try to help you out in this matter. IIush! is that the Elton train?

I an expecting Lizzie and Mary by it. You shall introduce them to your London friends.'

The train stopped; and Ellen Westwood soon discovered the two girls, whom she affectionately greeted as her cousins, Lizzie and Mary Beaumont.

"It is not likely that we can wait for the London train, Mr. Parsons," exclaimed Ellen, in answer to a proposal to that effect which her old friend had ventured to make. If you are inclined to join us in a walk to the Abbey, we shall start directly after dinner and now, good morning."

Leaving the three girls to pursue their walk into town, and the gentleman to promenade the platform in expectation of the next arrival, it will be necessary to explain a little.

Ellen Westwood was the only daughter of a solicitor in Brandon, whose highest wish was to see his child grow up a sensible, unaffected woman; and this wish promised to be fully realized. Ellen, besides being accomplished, was distinguished for plain sense and amiable simplicity. Though not strictly handsome, she possessed a quiet, intellectual beauty, which gained many admirers. One of these alone seemed to have made any impression upon the young girl. John Richards was a handsome, dashing young tradesman, who had known Ellen from childhood; and the love, which had begun in his school-days, gradually ripened into the fulness of a first affection, and John and Ellen were, in the eyes of their friends, engaged lovers. Ellen Westwood's cousins -Lizzie and Mary Beaumont-were the daughters of a country gentleman who had lately settled near Brandon, and it had been for some time a pleasant anticipation to the young people that they should, for a few days, escape the quiet of their secluded home, to join in the comparatively gay society which Brandon afforded. They were both remarkably amiable girls, with the usual amount of female accomplishments, and an equal amount of good looks. Lizzie the elder by four years-had just completed her twenty-second birthday; the gayest, merriest creature imaginable. Among her foes (for what pretty girl is entirely without foes?) Lizzie Beaumont was esteemed an arrant flirt, and even those who loved her best could not wholly disguise from themselves the fact that she was a little too fond of winning admiration, and a little too capricious in her rejection of it. Polly was a striking contrast to her gay little sister; with a naturally warm and affectionate disposition, she seemed more anxious to win love than to gain admiration; and few who saw and knew sweet Mary Beaumont could refuse her either. The only serious fault to be found with either of the girls was a certain degree of haughtiness, which rendered them almost unapproachable by the class of visitors they were sure to meet at their uncle's house. Brought up with very common, but wrong notions of true gentility, they supposed that to mix with tradespeople was irretrievably to sink their own dignity; and many were the exclamations of astonishment when they found that most of their clever cousin Ellen's friends were of that calibre. Still more amazed were they when report whispered that she was actually engaged to a druggist in Brandon. However, they wisely determined to enjoy this, their first visit to their cousin, keeping as much as possible aloof from her friends; and a merrier trio never met in Brandon, than the three girls who walked down the High Street to the Westwoods' comfortable house, in time for breakfast.

"Who is that gentlemanly man we saw with you at the station, Ellen?" asked Lizzie Beaumont of her cousin, while they were putting on their bonnets for the promised stroll to the Abbey.

"He is a stationer in Brandon, and the sub-editor