worse for wear. But they had still the point to settle of how to get Diggs to take the things without hurting his feelings. This they solved by leaving them in his study, which was never locked when he was out. Diggs, who had attended the auction, remembered who had bought the lots, and came to their study soon after, and sat silent for some time, cracking his great red finger-joints. Then he laid hold of their verses, and began looking over and altering them, and at last got up, and turning his back to them, said, "You're uncommon good-hearted little beggars, you two-I value that papercase, my sister gave it me last holidays-I won't forget;" and so tumbled out into the passage, leaving them somewhat embarrassed, but not sorry that he knew what they had done.

The next morning was Saturday, the day on which the allowances of one shilling a week were paid, an important event to spendthrift youngsters: and great was the disgust amongst the small fry to hear that all the allowances had been impounded for the Derby lottery. That great event in the English year, the Derby, was celebrated at Rugby in those days by many lotteries. It was not an improving custom, I own, gentle reader, and led to making books, and betting, and other objectionable results; but when our great Houses of Palaver think it right to stop the nation's business on that day, and many of the members bet heavily themselves, can you blame us boys for following the example of our betters?-at any rate we did follow it. First there was the great School lottery, where the first prize was six or seven pounds; then each house had one or more separate lotteries. These were all nominally voluntary, no boy being compelled to put in his shilling who didn't choose to do so: but besides Flashman, there were three or four other fast sporting young gentlemen in the school-house, who considered subscription a matter of duty and necessity, and so, to make their duty come easy to the small boys, quietly secured the allowances in a lump when given out for distribution, and kept them. It was no use grumbling, so many fewer tartlets and apples were eaten and fives'-balls bought on that Saturday; and after locking-up, when the money would otherwise have been spent, consolation was carried to many a small boy by the sound of the night-fags shouting along the passages, "Gentlemen sportsmen of the School-house, the lottery's going to be drawn in the Hall." It was pleasant to be called a gentleman sportsman-also to have a chance of drawing a favourite horse.

The Hall was full of boys, and at the head of one of the long tables stood the sporting interest, with a hat before them, in which were the tickets folded up. One of them then began calling out the list of the house; each boy as his name was called drew a ticket from the hat and opened it, and most of the bigger boys, after drawing, left the Hall directly to go back to their studies or the fifth-form room. The sporting interest had all drawn blanks, and they were sulky accordingly; neither of the favourites had yet been drawn, and it had come down to the upper-fourth. So now, as each small boy came up and drew his ticket, it was seized and opened by Flashman or some other of the standers-by. But no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole's turn, and he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and his ticket is opened like the rest.

"Here you are! Wanderer! the third favourite," shouts the opener.

"I say, just give me my ticket, please," remonstrates Tadpole.

"Hullo, don't be in a hurry," breaks in Flashman; "what'll you sell Wanderer for now?"

"I don't want to sell," rejoins Tadpole.

66

Oh, don't you! Now listen, you young fool-you don't know anything about it: the horse is no use to you. He won't win, but I want him as a hedge. Now, I'll give you half-a-crown for him." Tadpole holds out, but between threats and cajoleries at length sells half for one-shilling-and-sixpence, about a fifth of its fair market value; however, he is glad to realize anything, and as he wisely remarks, 'Wanderer mayn't win, and the tizzy is safe anyhow."

East presently comes up and draws a blank. Soon after comes Tom's turn; his ticket, like the others, is seized and opened. "Here you are then," shouts the opener holding it up, Harkaway! By Jove, Flashey, your young friend's in luck."

66

Give me the ticket," says Flashman with an oath, leaning across the table with opened hand, and his face black with rage.

"Wouldn't you like it!" replies the opener, not a bad fellow at the bottom, and no admirer of Flashman's. "Here, Brown, catch hold," and he hands the ticket to Tom, whe pockets it; whereupon Flashman makes for the door at once, that Tom and the ticket may not escape, and there keeps watch until the drawing is over, and all the boys are gone, except the sporting set of five or six, who stay to compare books, make bets, and so on, Tom, who

doesn't choose to move while Flashman is at the door, and East, who stays by his friend anticipating trouble.

The sporting set now gathered round Tom. Public opinion wouldn't allow them actually to rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimidation by which he could be driven to sell the whole or part at an under-value was lawful.

"Now, young Brown, come, what'll you sell me Harkaway for? I hear he isn't going to start. I'll give you five shillings for him,' begins the boy who had opened the ticket. Tom, remembering his good deed, and moreover in his forlorn state wishing to make a friend, is about to accept the offer, when another cries out, "I'll give you seven shillings." Tom hesitated, and looked from one to the other.

"No, no!" said Flashman, pushing in, "leave me to deal with him; we'll draw lots for it afterwards. Now, sir, you know me-you'll sell Harkaway to us for five shillings, or you'll repent it."

"No, no, another turn'll do it," answers Flashman. But poor Tom is done already, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast, just as Diggs, in frantic excitement, rushes into the Hall with East at his heels.

"You cowardly brutes!" is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them and supports him to the Hall table. "Good God! he's dying. Here, get some cold water-run for the housekeeper."

Flashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and sorry, bend over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the housekeeper. Water comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and he begins to come to. "Mother!"-the words came feebly and slowly-"it's very cold to-night." Poor old Diggs is blubbering like a child. Where am I?" goes on Tom, opening his eyes. "Ah! I remember now;" and he shut his eyes again and groaned. "I say," is whispered, we can't do any good, and the housekeeper will be here in a

"You hear that now!" said Flashman, turning to the others. "He's the coxiest young blackguard in the house-I always told you so. We're to have all the trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the benefit of such fellows as he.

Flashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing ears. Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men. 'That's true, we always draw blanks," cried one. Now, sir, you shall sell half, at

any rate. "I won't," said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in his mind with his sworn enemy.

"Very well then, let's roast him," cried Flashman, and catches hold of Tom by the collar; one or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in. East seizes Tom's arm and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by one of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling. His shoulders are pushed against the mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the fire, Flashman drawing his trousers tight by way of extra torture. Poor East, in more pain even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts off to find him. "Will you sell now for ten shillings!" says one boy who is relenting.

Tom only answers by groans and struggles. "I say, Flashey, he has had enough," says the same boy, dropping the arm he holds.

with Diggs, silent and sorrowful, and fans Tom's face.

The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough to sit up. There is a smell of burning; she examines his clothes, and looks up inquiringly. The boys are

silent.

"How did he come so?" No answer.

"There's been some bad work here," she adds, looking very serious, "and I shall speak to the Doctor about it." Still no answer.

'Hadn't we better carry him to the sickroom?" suggests Diggs.

"Oh, I can walk now," says Tom! and, supported by East and the housekeeper, goes to the sick-room. The boy who held his ground is soon amongst the rest, who are all in fear of their lives. "Did he peach?" "Does she know about it?"

"Not a word-he's a stanch little fellow." And pausing a moment he adds, "I'm sick of this work; what brutes we've been!"

Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, with East by his side, while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.

"Are you much hurt, dear old boy?" whispers East.

"Only the back of my legs," answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched, and part of his trousers burned through. But soon he is in bed, with cold bandages. At first he feels broken, and thinks of writing home and getting

taken away; and the verse of a hymn he had learned years ago sings through his head, and he goes to sleep, murmuring

"Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest."

But after a sound night's rest, the old boyspirit comes back again. East comes in reporting that the whole house is with him, and he forgets everything, except their old resolve never to be beaten by that bully Flashman.

Not a word could the housekeeper extract from either of them, and though the Doctor knew all that she knew that morning, he never knew any more.

I trust and believe that such scenes are not possible now at school, and that lotteries and betting-books have gone out! but I am writing of schools as they were in our time, and must give the evil with the good.

THE VICAR.

[Winthrop Mackworth Praed, born in London, 26th July, 1802; died there, 15th July, 1839. He was caled to the bar, and was during his latter years a inember of the House of Commons. Although he rendered good service to the state as a politician, it is as a poet that he is remembered; and best as the leader of the writers of vers de société. Humour and pathos, character and satire, are delightfully mingled in his works. An edition of his poems, in two volumes, edited by Derwent Coleridge, M.A., is published by Moxon & Co.]

Some years ago, ere time and taste

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green, And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say"Our master knows you-you're expected."

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;

Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in Court or College,
He had not gained an honest friend
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,-
If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,-
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream, which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses: It slipped from politics to puns,

It passed from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound Divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or showed

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius:

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penned and planned

them,

For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble Lords-and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost,

Lines to a ringlet, or a turban, And trifles for the Morning Post,

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild; And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus; From him I learnt the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus: I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig,

When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,— The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before;

You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?-look down, And construe on the slab before you, "Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN,

Vir nulla non donandus lauru."

TO A BELOVED DAUGHTER.

[Henry Alford, D.D., Dean of Canterbury, born in London, 7th October, 1810; died 12th January, 1871. Author of Poems and Poetical Fragments: The School of the Heart: Chapters on the Ports of Ancient Greece; Psalms and Hymns, adapted to the Sundays and Holydays throughout the Year; Village Sermons, &c. He edited an edition of the New Testament. His language is always simple and direct, and all his works are inspired by fervent religious feeling ]

Say wilt thou think of me when I'm away, Borne from the threshold and laid in the clay, Past and unheard of for many a day?

Wilt thou remember me when I am gone, Further each year from the vision withdrawn, Thou in the sunset, and I in the dawn?

Wilt thou remember me when thou shalt see, Daily and nightly encompassing thee, Hundreds of others, but nothing of me?

All that I ask is a tear in thy eye,

Sitting and thinking when no one is by, "Thus look'd he on nie, thus rang his reply:

'Tis not to die, though the path be obscure; Vast though the peril, there's One can secure; Grand is the conflict, the victory sure;

But 'tis to feel the cold touch of decay;
'Tis to look back on the wake of one's way,
Fading and vanishing day after day;

This is the bitterness none can be spared;
This the oblivion the greatest have shared;
This the true death for ambition prepared.
Thousands around us are toiling as we,
Living and loving, whose lot is to be
Past and forgotten like waves on the sea.

Once in a lifetime is uttered a word
That doth not vanish as soon as 'tis heard;
Once in an age is humanity stirred;

Once in a century springs forth a deed
From the dark bands of forgetfulness freed,
Destined to shine, and to bless, and to lead.

Yet not even thus we escape from our lot-
The deed lasts in memory-the doer lasts not;
The word liveth on, but the voice is forgot.

Who knows the forms of the mighty of old?
Can bust or can portrait the spirit unfold?
Or the light of the eye by description be told?

Nay, even He who our ransom became, Bearing the cross, and despising the shame, Earning a name above every name

They who had handled him when He was here Kept they in memory His lineaments clear? Could they command them at will to appear?

They who had heard Him and lived in His voice,
Say could they always recall at their choice
The tones and the cadence which made them rejoice?

Be we content then to pass into shade,
Visage and voice in oblivion laid,

And live in the light that our actions have made.

MY PLEA.

Master, whose life long work was doing good,
Keep, first of all, my body out of pain;
Then, whether of myself, or not, I would,
Make me within the universal chain
A link, whereby

There shall have been accomplished some slight gain
For men and women, when I come to die.

ALICE CARY.

THE WHITE BOAT.

A STORY OF LA VENDÉE.

[Emile Souvestre is one of the very few French novelists whose works are pure in thought and incident. His most important work is the Souvenirs d'un BasBreton; but he has written many others several specially for children-and all may be read without fear of encountering any indelicate scene or suggestion.]

The traveller who visits La Vendée, with the stirring memory of its gigantic struggle of loyalty versus revolution fresh in his mind, and looks on it as the land that, in the short space of three years, became the grave of five Republican armies, as well as of the greater proportion of its own heroic population, and was thus converted into a vast and blood-steeped wilderness of smoking ruins, would naturally expect to find in the inhabitants a people gloomy and daring, proud, impetuous, and warlike.

To his astonishment, he sees himself surrounded by a race whose character is in every respect the reverse of this-quiet, thoughtful, taciturn almost to dulness, and whose might, like that of their powerful yoked oxen, slumbers and asks but for repose. Such is the case especially in the hill-country of La Vendée proper, the region of the pure Pictish blood; the people of the plain country bordering on old Anjou are distinguished by greater vivacity and friendliness.

It is in contemplating this aspect of the Vendean character that we learn to estimate the power of that deadly grasp which the bold hand of revolution must have laid on the innermost sanctuary of popular feeling to provoke an outburst of resistance so vigorous and so long sustained.

But if the physiognomy of the Vendeans be marked by a general sameness, nothing can be more varied than the aspect of their country. The eastern shore is indeed barren, dark, and gloomy; but to the north stretches a long tract of undulating country, rich in golden meadows and fertile fields, and dotted with groups of noble forest-trees, in whose shadow nestles many an orchard-circled château and peaceful hamlet: while here and there may be seen a large and populous village, with spire pointing to the skies. The high hedges and deep-embowered lanes, turned to such good account in the burgher struggles of the Chouan warfare, are still the peculiar and distinctive characteristics of the scene. This is indeed the Boccage; and wherever there is an opening, wide tracts of heath are seen, offering the strongest and

most picturesque contrast by the bright blossoms of the yellow furze and the purple glow of the heath flower to the solemn edging of green by which they are bordered. Totally different is the appearance of La Vendée proper-a long and boundless plain of waving corn, almost without trees, except where some narrow strip of orchard ground points to the neighbourhood of château or village. No sooner is the golden harvest brought in, than the waste and dreary stubble-lands are covered with loads of lime, giving to them, in the distance, the appearance of an interminable battle-field strewn with bleaching bones.

Proceeding onward towards the south, to the marshes-the Marais as it is called—we again find ourselves in a new world. The land here shows, like an accident, an exception—a creation of art, a sort of rustic Venice. The corn and the fruit seem to ripen on piles, and the flocks to be grazing on floating pastures. Ever since the sixteenth century efforts have been made to reclaim tracts of this marsh by drainage on the Dutch plan, so that the district should rather have been called Little Holland than "Little Poitou," as it is. Some business connected with one of these recently-drained tracts gave me the long-desired opportunity of seeing something of the mode of life of the Cabanneers

the name by which the inhabitants of the reclaimed lands are known, as Hutters is that appropriated to the dwellers in the marsh.

I had made an appointment with Guillaume Blaisot, the farmer with whom my business was to be transacted, to meet him at Marans, at the mouth of the Sèvre, opposite to the Isle of Rhé, in Pertuis-Poitou. I reached Maillepais, after a very uncomfortable journey, by the diligence, hoping to proceed by water.

As I was waiting at the door of the little inn for the arrival of the boat that mine host had promised me, I perceived an old acquaintance approaching, whom, by his little waxcloth hat and his wooden leg, I had at once recognized as Maître Berand, better known as Fait-tout. Berand was one of those equivocal traders who get a livelihood by various nameless handicrafts, and who, in common parlance, are said to live by their wits. He now assured me that business called him in the direction in which I was going. I invited him to embark with me in the boat, which at that moment came alongside. He thankfully accepted my invitation, and I thus secured a companion who, if not altogether trustworthy, was at least well acquainted with the country and its inhabitants; and who was, moreover, himself an interesting subject for my observation.