Parliament-the part of Sir Harry Vane being filled on this occasion by Tim Doolan. The cannonading had ceased. Tim fired a pop-gun.

'You're an art-critic, Croppie; your bitter-beer has got into your mind. Look here'-he produced a small bit of card-'don't I make sacrifices for the cause of art? This is all left to me of the elegant gold repayter-watch given me at my christening by the O'Donovan-my godfather. That precious piece of furniture is popped, in plain words, for two pounds ten. Respect the unfortunate!'

Croppie was visibly softened. He knew, we both knew, that the elegant gold repayter was a pinchbeck warming-pan that wouldn't go on any terms; but it is in the nature of grief to exaggerate its bereavements -so Tim received our unhalting sympathy. 'I've had all the hitting to myself,' said Croppie, in a mollified tone. Take up the gloves-have a turn at me, one of you. I'm a nice one to talk: look here.' He took sundry bundles of papers from his pockets, and flung them on the floor. "These are rejected contributions-and these-and these; refused by the Weekly Crocodile for not being sufficiently spicy. Spicy is the word, as if art-criticism could stoop to the spicy. And here-here is a letter from Burst and Backett: they won't publish my new book, Art-graphs, at any price; and-and I think they're about right!'

He stood in a magic circle of crumpled manuscripts -his moustache seemed to hover above them like a sea-gull over a wreck. It was sublime; it even went further: we warmed, we simmered up into a smile, and at last boiled over into a laugh. 'We're in the same boat, Tim.' 'And Bad-luck's the name of her.'

'And yet, I think,' said Croppie, if we work honestly, manfully, truthfully, not dallying at the oar, not making-believe to pull, we shall stem the tide against us, reach the shore in safety; and if we don't get rich, Tim, we must balance the pleasures of our professions against their profits. We shall do yet.'

'We'll get out of other men's ruts, and be shunted off into a line of our own.'

'We'll stand by each other.'

'Truth and Hard-work for ever,' shouts Tim; and now to light the gas. Let's have a talk, and here's the Kinahan; and do you take sugar? and fill your pipe. Hot or cold wather? And I'll sing Paddy Looney or Mick Mulligan's Wake; and here's better luck, and many on 'em.'

"The Song of the Studio shall change its tunethere'll be more buyers than pictures yet,' said Croppie prophetically.

'I hope there may,' cries Tim. I hoped so too.

A NEW-YEAR'S EVE. THERE is among a small section of the community an objection to making Christmas Eve a time of rejoicing. That a vast majority of the civilised world are accustomed to do so, is doubtless with the rest a principal reason against it; but there may be also other reasons; for, as genial folks are never in want of an excuse for enjoying themselves, so persons of an opposite character have, upon their parts, blankets ready wetted for every emergency of the breaking-out of a social spark. That man, however, must be strait-laced to suffocation -must have been accustomed to the 'eating of vinegar with a steel fork,' with the worst possible results to his internal system-who has anything to say against the merry doings of New-year's Eve.

If, when the labour of the Day is done, there is

always permitted some relaxation to the whole human family-the forty winks after dinner to Paterfamilias, with his feet on the fender and a handkerchief cast over his venerable features; and the half-hour's play with the children to dear mamma, 'between the lights,' when the braiding of Charley's tunic, the embroidery of Lucy's tucker, are put aside for at least one wholesome, loving romp-surely, much more, then, should we all take some ease at the conclusion of the labours of the Year. Then, if ever, in my (maudlin-sentimental?) judgment, should workhouse fires burn cheerily, and workhouse supper-tables groan with meat and beer, and workhouse doors be opened to let miserable streetwanderers in for a glimpse of warmth and comfort, at the end of (it may well be) a whole year's bitter pilgrimage. What a sense of satisfaction would be added to our own enjoyments at such a time, could we feel that every fellow-countryman (and woman) should be certain of at least one good meal that eve-if they could eat it. But even if this could happen, there would be still, as now, a number of persons, of necessity, debarred from anything like social enjoyment. Lighthouse-keepers, railway-guards, doctors in large practice, sorters of the night-mail, and many other exceptional cases, must needs be sacrificed, if the joy of the great majority is to be complete-nay, if their comfort is to be secured. This is an evil which has always been under the sun (and moon), and there is no way, believe me, my Sabbatarian friends, of remedying it. Only let us pity from our hearts, and do what compensating good we can, to persons so unfortunately situated. I would not like, for instance, to be the housekeeper of a lonely mansion, at whatever wages, upon a merry New-year's Eve. That is the point upon which I have kept my eye, my unsophisticated reader, from the very beginning of this paper. It was to introduce that old housekeepershe was seventy-two, if she was a day-to your notice, that I have been toiling dexterously for these last five-and-twenty minutes. She was not pulled in indecently, and head-first into this narration, you will bear me witness, but led forward delicately by the hand, at the very moment when the audience were about to wonder why, in the name of goodness (or the reverse), the principal person did not make her appearance upon the stage. And this is how I first made the dear old gentlewoman's acquaintance.

In the middle of last summer I arrived at a certain village in the north, much celebrated for its beauty, with the intention of taking lodgings there for my wife and family, who-since the place was generally crowded-were to follow me. It was quite full on this occasion, and likely to be so for a month to come. The hotels were so crammed that many of their private rooms had to be made public; and the lodging-houses in such demand that many of their inmates sat with their heads out of window all day long, on account of there not being any room for them inside; or, it might be, only to obtain a better view of the surrounding scenery, which, in truth, was exquisitely beautiful. Vast hills, made sombre by the pines, which, sentinel-like, stood up on the summits against the clear blue sky, surrounded all the scene except to southward; where a fertile plain went broadening down with 'crowded farms and lessening towers, to mingle with the bounding main.' A swift but shallow river ran through the village, with a bridge of stone, on which, if it was idleness to linger, hour after hour, and catch the changing face of that fair landscape, there were a good many idle people in the place beside myself. Still, as neither of its two dry arches were to be thought of as lodgings for my wife and family, it was necessary that I should quit

that position, and look for accommodation somewhere else. The long white street which made up the little hamlet, it was useless to investigate. The shortest and sparest bachelor employed in a search after a vacant apartment, would not have had the ghost of a chance of finding it; while a domestic person of my girth and length of leg, upon such an errand, would have absolutely exposed himself to public ridicule. In this strait there was nothing for it but to apply to the postmistress, who was likewise the chemist, the librarian, the purveyor of bear's grease to the royal family, and the wine and beer merchant, and who, of course, must needs know everything.

The house-agent informs me,' said I, 'that there isn't a room to be got to swing a cat in anywhere; now, my dear good woman, do tell me that this isn't true.'

'Do you want to swing a cat, sir?' responded the little lady demurely, whom I at once perceived to be that monstrosity, a female humorist, in addition to her various other professions. I laughed my very best at her, for she was my last hope, and my politeness was fittingly rewarded. Yes; there was a house, three-quarters of a mile down the river, then to let; and there was a white mark on the low wall opposite the place, so that I might know exactly where to look for it.

'But is it so very small, then, that one might pass it without seeing it?' inquired I, a good deal disconcerted.

'It is quite big enough to swing a'

'Woman,' cried I, interrupting her in her egotistical chuckle, 'be silent; it is one of the miserable habits of your sex to repeat again and again any remark which you have the misfortune to consider good.'

The little postmistress, who was the autocrat of the village, and unaccustomed to reproof, slammed her little gate behind me, so that the shop-bell which hung to it rang quite a peal of indignation; and I flatter myself that I sent her to her medical department for a glass of ether-or sal-volatile at the very least.

If it had not been for the white mark upon the low wall opposite, I should have missed the house I was in search of to a certainty. It was so enveloped and shut in upon all sides by trees, that there was no getting a glimpse at it from the highway at all; there was no road leading to it, but only a steep flight of steps and a winding path; then a pretty little lawn, which, however, the sun's rays could not reach, except at the precise point where a cracked stone-dial stood, and then another steep flight of steps to the front-door. The house would have been a handsome one but for the air of desolation rather than decay which clung to it. There was a veranda over the two front sitting-rooms, wherefrom the miserable creepers were hanging like determined suicides, and darkening the low-roofed chambers with their weird shadows. All within was clean and orderly, and the ancient furniture well kept and well looking, though it had evidently been long disused. The bedrooms were few but capacious, with enormous cupboards in them, and the most curious and inconvenient angles, wherein nothing could be stowed away but walkingsticks and umbrellas. This old-fashioned appearance within, and the air of melancholy without, were the only objections to the house. It was lonesome,' explained the old housekeeper, as the reason of its not being let, and I quite agreed with her. I would much rather have agreed with than differed from her, upon that or any other subject. I never saw such determination, such grave purpose, such undeniable resolve, before, in any mortal female. I should have liked to have shut her up alone with that humorous postmistress for twenty-four hours, and have had my

choice for a good big bet as to which would have eaten the other at the end of them. I took the house at once for the shortest term at which she would let me have it, which, I am thankful to say, was only some six weeks longer than I had intended our visit to be. I think if she had insisted upon my buying it, I should then and there have paid her the money down, such an air she had of not being trifled with upon any pretence. When matters were arranged, she led me out into the shrubbery, which surrounded the dwelling in a mysterious and labyrinthine manner, and into the long-grassed desolate orchard which lay at its back. The pine-crested hills could be indistinctly seen through its wilderness of trees, and the noise of the rapid waters dimly heard. It was a very beautiful spot for all its 'lonesomeness,' and as cheap as romantic.

'I wonder,' mused I, half to myself, that any difficulty should have been found in letting it.'

'I always let it, over and over again,' answered the old housekeeper, startling me with her melancholy tone, but the folks never come after all.'

'Ah, they don't like to refuse you, my good lady,' said I comfortingly; and, indeed, I could not blame them for their want of firmness.

I, however, returned, for my part, with my wife and family, and spent some very pleasant months in the house with that dear old soul. You will have misjudged her, reader, cruelly, as I did, if you think her anything else but an honest, brave-hearted, grand old woman. During all her lonely residence in that desolate spot-and she lived quite alone in it-she had never been frightened; and only once felt at all uncomfortable like;' that once was last New-year's Eve.

She had gone into the village to make merry on that evening with some relatives of hers; and on her return to the desolate dark walks and lawn, the scene, contrasting itself with that festive one which she had just left, did seem to her unusually comfortless and eerie. The strong iron shutters with which the house was plentifully provided were, however, firmly fastened, for she tried them all outside; and the key of the door she had in her pocket. Once inside, therefore, it was clear she had nothing to fear except from her imagination. She got inside, and fastened the door behind her; but even then could not shake off that uneasy sensation, which she was so unaccustomed to and ashamed of. The long rope of the alarm-bell hung down as usual, through the two stories to the hall-floor itself, quite ready to her hand, and, she confesses, she had at least half a mind to ring it.

But she passed up the two flights of stairs and into her bedroom, with as firm a step, or nearly so, as on other occasions. Once there, however, she did a very unusual thing indeed. Having locked and bolted her door, she placed in front of the keyhole, and about her candlestick, a heap of shawls and cloaks, so that no light should be visible either through window, shutter, or door. And thus she waited for the approach of the thief, whose feet she had seen under the curtains of the great hall-window as she came in. She watched from half-past ten till nearly twelve (and we question whether that New-year's Eve was being spent by any elsewhere under such exciting circumstances); till at last my gentleman'-she always called him so in her narration-came up, as she had expected, and tried her door. Finding that fastened, he stooped down and looked through the keyhole, and listened with great attention. He heard the old lady breathing very stertorously, after the manner of an old lady who had supped heavily, and was suffering for it in her sleep; and he saw no light. Next he struck a match; and she, observing to herself that one light would do for both of them, then extinguished her

all this, the Unconfined-that direly dangerous sort of people-have caught up the case, and 'gone off' upon it.

We must infer that such is the fact from the results of a trial lately concluded at Liverpool. Two ladies of that city, who, though both under fourteen, have already got themselves invested in steel-hooped dresses, walked out on the Princes' Road, with their governess, Miss Marsh, on the 1st of November last, between one and two o'clock, when a man assailed one with a knife, with which he attempted to cut her dress, exclaiming: These ropes, these ropes, these ropes-I must cut them!' He was beaten off; and the ladies, three days after, were led to the belief that their assailant was a young man of most respectable position and character, named Mr John Huntingdon, whom they accordingly caused to be taken up, consigned to a jail, and in due time tried for the alleged offence. Owing to the general interest in the case, it was necessary to conduct it in St George's Hall, one of the largest, and perhaps the most beautiful in Europe. There, before the gaze of four thousand people, was exhibited the mutilated dress, 'reduced to something like the shape and dimensions of a stick of celery 'so great a deception it was. The attempt to identify this respectable young man as the culprit completely and disgracefully broke down; and such was the public sense of the hardship to which he had been subjected, that the crowd drew his carriage along the streets in triumph. This memorable trial has of course an interest of its own, both in respect of accusers and accused, as well as for their townsfolk in general; but it is nothing to us beyond what it leads us to infer as to the actual, though unknown offender. We can entertain not the least doubt that he must be a member of the class just designated that great class of people who have morbid tendencies, but are not insane enough to require being locked up. There is a constant quantity of such everywhere, and we always see that their predisposed minds fasten upon anything which is much spoken of, or adverted to frequently in the newspapers. When we consider the emotions of disgust and contempt which these shameful dresses are calculated to excite even in sober and sound minds, we need not wonder much that an excitable one should be impelled to fall upon an example with a knife, and madly try to redress outraged propriety. This, of course, is a kind of action which cannot be unattended with danger, not to speak of the unpleasant consequences which may follow from the very notoriety incurred by the

victim. We would therefore have Paterfamilias to look to it. It is a matter trivial in itself; but if we are right in our deduction, he will see that it may

not be trivial in its results.

GOOD WATER COME-BAD WATER GO.

The town of Ely, although in an unfavourably low situation, has benefited in a remarkable manner from going under the Public Health Act in 1851. The chief improvements effected were an introduction of good water, and the establishment of drains to carry off refuse. The average annual mortality during seven years before these changes, was 26 in 1000 inhabitants. In seven subsequent years it was 19 per 1000 (in the last two years, only 17). It is also stated that there has been a special improvement of health to the young-a matter of immense consequence to the future welfare of the community. It is not alone by the rate of mortality of ordinary times that we must measure the benefits of sanitary measures. The place in which, as in Ely, putrid matters are banished, becomes the less liable to pestilences. This has been shewn by a report of Dr Acland, of Oxford, on a typhoid fever which occurred last year at the village of Great Horwood, containing a population of 704. One hundred persons were attacked,

Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and lorn, They stole on our ranks in the mists of the morn. Like the giant's of Gaza, their strength it was shorn

Ere those mists had rolled up to the sky:
From the flash of our steel a new daybreak seemed born
As we sprang up-to conquer or die.

The tumult is silenced; the death-lots are cast;
And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last.
Do ye dream of yon Pale Form that rode on the blast?
Would ye face it once more, O ye brave?

Yes! the broad road to Honour is red where ye passed,
And of Glory ye asked but-a grave!

E. L. H.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by WILLIAM ROBERTSON, 23 Upper Sackville Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers.