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There's no relation, nor commerce, nor sympathy, nor liking, between the two places; and there never can be any while I live,-nor after I am dead, either, if I can help it. So just put that matter out of your head, Harry, and say no more about it."

Bergan looked down, and the colour rose to his brow. Without seeking to know the merits of the quarrel between his two uncles, he nevertheless felt that the abject submission, the complete surrender of principle and will, expected of him by Major Bergan, was simply impossible; and he began to wonder if it were not his wisest course to place himself at once on tenable ground, by saying that, while he should always be glad of his uncle's advice, and ready to give all due and respectful consideration to his wishes, yet, in matters involving questions of right and duty, the final appeal must needs be to his own conscience. Something of this sort was upon his lips, when the Major spoke again, and in a more amiable tone.

"I am really sorry, for your sake, Harry, that things are just as they are,” said he. “Of course, it is not agreeable to you to run thus unexpectedly against a family feud; -I really ought to have written Eleanor about it, but I thought to spare her the knowledge of her half-brother's disgrace. Besides, as Godfrey is our nearest neighbour, it might be pleasant to be on visiting terms, if he and his were only the right sort of company to keep."

"I think he has children near my own age," remarked Bergan,

"Not now. His two eldest died a few years ago."
แ Ah, yes; I remember hearing of it when I was in

college."

"He has but one left-a daughter," pursued the Major. "A pretty, bright little thing she was, too, as a child; I was really quite fond of her, and she used to spend half her time here,—that is, in the old Hall;-and Maumer Rue almost idolized her, because she fancied that she was something like what Eleanor was at her age. She even used to run away and come over here, after the trouble began; but I reckon they must have found it out, and put a stop to it." And the Major ground his teeth at the recollection, as if he owed his brother an especial grudge on this very head. "However," he went on, "it is better so; for though I could never have found it in my heart to be unkind to the child,-so fond of me as she was, too! -yet I want nothing to do with anybody, or anything, that belongs to Godfrey; and so I am glad, on the whole, that she stopped coming. Doubtless, she will soon merge the name of Bergan into Smith, or Brown, or something equally desirable; and as Godfrey has no son, to bear his patronymic and carry on his business, we may hope that there will be an end of them."

The last words were spoken with ineffable contempt. Then, suddenly rising, as if to dismiss the subject, the Major remarked, with an entire change of tone and

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instructions. Will you come with me, or do you prefer to amuse yourself about home?"

"I will go with you, uncle, if you are willing."
"Both willing and glad. Come on."

Bergan followed his uncle out into the quadrangle,here called the "street,"—and found it to be, for the most part, silent and deserted. The cabins, many of which, on the evening previous, had been brightened by a little gleam of firelight within, or vivified by moving figures, were now closed and locked, the occupants being away at work in the fields. They were all neatly whitewashed; and they stood well apart from each other, leaving room for little gardens between, where vegetables, and occasionally, flowers, were growing. Here and there, too, a pig rooted and grunted in a rude sty; or hens and chickens fluttered and cackled, in their busy, enlivening fashion, around the door.

One of the buildings, of considerable size, and two stories high, where several women and children, with peculiar haggard, heavy, listless, and withal resigned faces, were lying or sitting around the porch, Bergan easily recognized as the infirmary. Another, seemingly stuffed with babies and young children, under the charge of several half-grown girls and one superannuated old woman, he knew to be the day-nursery; for the safe bestowal of the infant population of the quarter, during their mothers' absence in the fields. Here Maumer Rue seemed to be making a visit of inspection; though invisible herself, the slow tones of her voice, exhorting one of the young nurses to greater watchfulness, sounded distinctly from within; and becoming quickly aware of the approach of her master and his guest, she came to the door, and made them a stately courtesy, as they passed.

Quite apart from the quarter, yet within sight, stood a cabin of especially rude and forlorn aspect; the open door of which disclosed a strong stake driven into the ground in its centre, and divers rusty chains, handcuffs, padlocks, et cætera, hanging round its sides. This was the prison. Human justice being thus provided with a fitting abode, Bergan involuntarily looked around in search of a corresponding dwelling for Heaven's mercy, in the shape of a little cross-tipped church or chapel, but saw

none.

Major Bergan first stopped at the threshing mill, where Engine (that is to say "Engineer") Jack, a remarkably intelligent negro, and an exceedingly black one as well, was waiting to bring to his master's notice certain slight repairs necessary to the machinery. While the needful discussion was going on, Bergan looked around him, the better to understand the topography of the place.

He observed that Bergan Hall, the roof of which he saw afar off, rising among the trees, was situated upon a considerable elevation—a sort of bluff, overlooking a small inlet, or arm of the sea. To this circumstance, Major Bergan owed his ability to live upon his plantation throughout the year, instead of fleeing therefrom, like most of his class, at the approach of summer. For, just

when the home-scenery takes on its most tender and fascinating grace-when the rice-fields are green as the meadows of paradise-when the temple-like oak-glades are most beautiful with gentle gloom and glinting sunshine-when every thicket has its garland of bloom and every tree has its clinging, flowering vine-when the sweet-smelling pine-woods are glittering with the gorgeous colouring, and melodious with the multifarious voice, of thousands of birds and insects; just then, the rice-planter has to flee for his life from its final, treacherous charm; the soft-shining mist, the deadly malaria, that creeps up at night from the marshes, and covers the land like a sea. If he lingers for but one ramble in the fair, moon-lighted, and moss-festooned avenues, through that silver haze, fever walks by his side under the grand arches, and death waits for him at the end of the alluring vistas.

From this terror and this necessity, the owner of Bergan Hall was free. His vast plantation stretched across the border-line which divides the pestilential riceswamps from the healthful sea-islands; one extremity touching the river, and the other the ocean. At one time, its chief revenue was derived from the far-famed seaisland cotton, to the production of which its sea-board portion was well adapted, but as that crop declined, and the rice-crop rose in value, its neglected swamp-lands were gradually reclaimed and brought under cultivation; and were now the most valuable portion of the estate. Too remote from Bergan Hall to poison it, or its vicinity, with their malaria, they were yet quite near enough for necessary superintendence.

The negro quarter lay somewhat lower than the Hall. On its left, the ground sloped gradually down to a little creek; where lay several flat boats loaded with rice, to show what had been the goal of the negro procession of the previous evening. Along the opposite bank ran a dark fringe of pines.

Horses were now brought. The one assigned to Bergan was a superb blooded filly, full of life and fire. While he stood taking delighted notes of her many fine points, she sniffed round him in half-wild, half-curious fashion; now starting quickly back, now timidly drawing near-and ended by frankly putting her nose in his hand, as if in token of amity. Nor had he been long on her back, ere he felt, with an electric thrill of pleasure, that perfect sympathy between horse and rider, that singular blending of their identity, which is the purest delight of horsemanship, and best explains the fable of the Centaur.

"How do you like her?" asked his uncle, at this juncture.

"Exceedingly,” replied Bergan, with enthusiastic emphasis. "I think that I never rode anything more admirable."

"Henceforth, then, she belongs to you. And never mind the thanks-I am really glad to hand her over to a fitting master. She is too much given to dancing and frolicking for my use, my sober-paced horse meets my

wants a great deal better; consequently, Vic-that's her name, short for Victoria-Vic stands in the stable, eating her head and kicking her heels off, for the greater part of the time. She will be much happier in the hands of a master young enough to sympathize with her."

Bergan could not fail to be delighted with a gift so generous and so timely; bestowed, too, with a delicacy. of manner, an appearance of asking a favour instead of conferring one, in strong contrast with his uncle's wonted bluntness. Visions of long, solitary rides of exploration rose fascinatingly before him. Nor would he suffer his pleasure to be alloyed by any insidious doubt lest the gift might some day take the form of an unpleasant obligation.

The road ran along along the bank of the creek, passing divers fields under cultivation, and divers others long "turned out;" that is, exhausted, and left to lapse back into their primitive pine-barrenness. In the course of an hour, the two gentlemen came upon a second negro quarter, considerably larger than the first, but with the same general characteristics, even to the threshing-mill. This one, however, ran by water power instead of steam.

The horses were here left in charge of a negro, while the gentlemen walked over to the rice-fields. They soon came into view, stretching, almost as far as the eye could reach, along the bank of a broad, turbid river. Bergan speedily became much interested in their complicated system of dykes, ditches, canals, and gates; as well as in watching the dusky labourers, both men and women, that were busy therein. Leaving details for results, however, he could not but be impressed with the fact that a vast amount of hard work was annually done, and a rich and remunerative crop annually reaped. Plainly, Major Bergan was an energetic, skilful manager.

On his part, the Major was greatly pleased with his nephew's intelligent interest, and predicted, more than once, that he would make a rice-planter of him, in due time, who would show his neighbours "what was what."

The sun was half-way down the western slope, when the uncle and nephew returned to the cottage. Dinner over, the Major civilly expressed his regret that he was unexpectedly called to another part of the plantation. Bergan could accompany him; or, not to disappoint him of his promised visit to the old Hall, he could get the keys of Maumer Rue, and explore it by himself.

Bergan eagerly caught at the latter, alternative. Nor, to do him justice, was the Major at all displeased thereby. Without troubling himself to analyze his own emotions, he yet felt an unconquerable aversion to the task of showing his nephew through the deserted home of his forefathers. Though little accustomed to care for the opinions or the feelings of others, he foresaw an inevitable mortification in looking with Bergan upon the ruin and desolation for which he knew himself to be so largely responsible; since, if he had not invited the ravages of time, he had put forth no hand to stay them. Perhaps this feeling was strong enough, even, to lend to the

business that called him away, an imperative aspect which it might otherwise have lacked.

Bergan, on his part, was well content to dispense with his uncle's guidance. Not only would his presence be a constraint upon his own irrepressible emotions of sadness, regret, and, possibly, indignation; but there would be a rare, subtile charm in wandering alone through precincts at once so familiar and so strange, in finding out for himself (or led only by the shadowy image of his maiden mother) spots hallowed by the tender touch of oldtime joys and sorrows, and nooks and corners darkened not more by mould and cobwebs than by the clinging dust of immemorial family tradition.

First, however, Major Bergan requested his companionship as far as the stable. There they found a bright looking boy, somewhat older than Jip, who had just finished rubbing down the filly of which Bergan had so lately become the master, and now stood regarding the result with great apparent satisfaction.

"Well, Brick," said the Major, sternly," I hope you've done better than you did last time."

"Yes, massa, she done berry fine, I'se sure,-spec' I put a right smart hour on her. Look a dar, now, don' she shine?

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The Major examined her carefully, and finding nothing to fault, was silent. It was not his way to waste words in commendation. He merely turned from the horse to the negro, and asked, pointing to Bergan,— "You see that young gentleman?"

"Yis, massa; sartin, massa." And Brick made an embarrassed bow, uncertain whither this conversation might tend.

"Well, that's Vic's master, and your's. It's your business to take care of her, and wait on him,—that is, do everything he tells you. Hereafter, you are to go to him for orders."

And quickly mounting his own horse, the Major rode off, without waiting for thanks or comments.

Bergan stood looking doubtfully at his new acquisition. Property of this kind gave him a novel sensation; he could not tell, on the instant, whether he liked it or no. Nevertheless, he recognized the inexpediency of discussing the matter with the dusky chattel himself; who, to represent him fairly, seemed in nowise displeased with his change of owners. He had opened his eyes a trifle wider at his sudden transfer, and uttered a mechanical "Yis, massa,"-that was all. He now stood, tattered hat in hand, waiting for orders. Bergan was somewhat disconcerted to find that he had none to give. Finally he asked,

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"Same's yours, massa, I s'pose."
"Hum-How old are you?"

Brick scratched his head reflectively. "Don' jes' know, massa, 'zactly. Spec' bout-bout-fifteen ortwenty, sah; jess 's massa likes."

Bergan bit his lip. Never had he met with such a spirit of accommodation.

"Go

"Well, Brick," he asked, after a moment, "if you had a half-holiday, now, what would you do with it?" Brick's face grew radiant through all its dusk. a-fishin', massa," he burst out, eagerly; "I jes' should!" "Well, go fishing, then,-if you think you can be back by supper-time."

"Yis, massa. Tank you, massa." And Brick was off like an arrow from the string.

Bergan immediately sought out old Rue's cabin. Outwardly, it differed little from its neighbours; but its interior was not without evidences of thoughtful provision for the faithful old nurse's comfort. Having kindly answered all the questions that she chose to ask, in reference to "Miss Eleanor" and her Western life, he made known his errand. She instantly took a key from her pocket, and was about to put in his hand, when she suddenly drew back, exclaiming :

No, no, that will never do! I forgot. That is the key of the back door. You see, sir, I sometimes look into the Hall, and that way is most convenient."

"I assure you that it will serve me very well, too," replied Bergan. "It does not matter how I make my entrance."

Rue shook her head. "It is not fitting," said she, "that the son and heir of the house should first enter at the back, like a servant."

"The son, but not the heir," replied Bergan, smiling. Rue turned quickly towards him. "Not the heir!" she exclaimed, as if greatly surprised. "And why not?" Bergan could

The question was not easy to answer. not say frankly, "Because such heirship must be bought at too high a price,--even the surrender of my profession, will, conscience, individuality." Nor did the answer present itself to his own mind in this definite form. He was conscious, at the moment, of nothing but a confused, hazy throng of doubts, fears, possibilities, and wishes.

Rue seemed quite satisfied with his silence. She turned to a bureau near by, and, after a little search, drew forth a large, rusty key, which she handed him with a kind of solemnity.

"It has waited long," said she, "for the hand that should rightfully put it into the lock, and let light and hope once more into the old house. I thank the Lord that I live to see the day."

Bergan was too much touched to answer. He walked quickly to the front of the deserted mansion, cut the vines from the door, and put the key in the lock. At first, it opposed a stubborn resistance to his efforts; then suddenly, the bolt yielded, the door turned slowly on its long unused hinges, and he stood, with a beating heart, in his ancestral hall.

AUTOGRAPHS.

TOWARDS the latter end of the seventeenth century,

became a necessary addition to every engraved portrait. Mr. Thorpe's catalogues and Mr. Evan's auctions bore ample testimony to the wide-spreading interest which the subject at this time called forth. Mr. Byerley and Mr. Disraeli wrote essays on the subjects and articles appeared in the "Literary Souvenir," and several other magazines. Facsimiles of autographs of royal, noble, learned, and remarkable personages were published in a volume by Messrs. Smith and Nichols; and Mr. Upcott, the indefatigable librarian of the London Institution, gave fresh excitement to the pursuit by the accidental discovery of Mr. Evelyn's collections.

this practice of keeping albums appears to have fallen into disrepute, for it began to incur the ridicule, if not of society in general, at any rate of the wits of the day. Charles de St. Denys, Seigneur de St. Evremond, a great favourite at the court of our King Charles II., in his satirical play of Sir Politick Would Bee, introduces a conversation between the knight's lady and a German gentleman on the subject of albums, wherein the latter, after explaining to the lady that in her country all teachers who would claim the honour of literary distinction invariably provided themselves, in addition to a guide-book and itinerary, with a book of blank leaves handsomely bound, called Album Amicorum, and that on visiting the savans of the different places in their route, they make it a point always to present it to them for their signatures. "There is nothing," adds the knight," which we are not prepared to do in order to procure their hand, conceiving it to be as curious as instructive to have seen these learned people who make a noise in the world, and to possess a specimen of their writing." Upon this, the lady, who herself evidently is not a collector of autographs, inquires, with some surprise, "Is that the only use you make of your books?" The German, in reply, admits another use, not very creditable, we think, to the morals of the times. "The book is," he continues, "of the utmost importance to us in our drinking bouts, for when all the ordinary toasts have been exhausted, we take our Album Amicorum, and reviewing the great men who have been so obliging as to inscribe their names there, drink their healths copiously." Either from ridicule, therefore, or from some other cause, the practice of keeping albums for the purpose of collecting autographs appears, as we have already remarked, to have fallen into disuse towards the close of the seventeenth century. From this time the antiquary began to take up what former years had bequeathed to him. Dr. Macro got together a large and very beautiful collection of autographs. Sir William Musgrove also collected two large volumes of signatures of eminent personages, which he afterwards left to the British Museum. The sale of Mr. Brindley's library and of the collection of the varied curiosities which had been accumulated at Strawberry Hill, as also several other sales of a similar character, show what pains have been bestowed upon the collecting of autographs, and the immense money value which choice and rare specimens can conimand. In the early part of the present century, autograph collecting again made its appearance as a popular mania, and it received a strong impetus from the practice of "franking letters," as it was termed a privilege granted to Members of Parliament, and which, in consequence of the dearness of postage, was at this period very greatly abused. Shops for the sale of autographs now began to be established, and the facsimile of a person's signature

Mr.

Mr. Disraeli devoted a chapter to Autographs in his second series of "Curiosities of Literature," and he there raises a discussion which is not without its interest in the present day, when there are not a few persons to be met with who profess that they can distinguish the characters of individuals by their autographs. Disraeli's observations appear to have been taken in part, at any rate, from a small volume by a disciple of the celebrated Lavater, "L'Art de Juger des Charactere des Hommes sur leurs Ecritures." It was published in Paris about the year 1816. The subject is a curious one, and there is, no doubt, much to be said upon both sides of it. Most undoubtedly there are certain national and also individual characters and styles of writing, and it is not without the pale of probability that these should be taken to indicate certain peculiarities of national and individual character. Every act bears some impress of ourselves. Both the thing done and the manner of doing it reflect, in a greater or less degree, the character of the doer. The vivacity and variableness of the Frenchman-the delicacy and suppleness of the Italian-the plodding scholarship of the German, and the business-like habits of our own countrymen, may be said to impress their caligraphy with corresponding indications, and these little ingenuity can arrange and classify. Almost everybody will admit that our handwriting is made to bear the impression of our feelings at the time, and even to reveal them. Who is there who in grief shapes his letters and writes as he does in joy? It was with a full appreciation of this that Shenstone, in one of his letters, says, "I want to see Mrs. Jago's handwriting, that I may judge of her temper." Many other persons, also, have entertained the same idea, and acted upon it. General Paoli told Mr. Northcote, that he had decided upon the character and disposition of a man from his handwriting. We must beg our readers to bear in mind, that delineations of character so deduced are very different things from the characters which they are likely to receive from professional advertisers, whose answers, in a general way, are given with an especial eye to the post-mark on the applicant's letter, and the shilling's worth of postage stamps enclosed.

LETTERS ON POLITENESS AND ETIQUETTE.

WE

E borrow from a French woman some counsels on true politeness that are not limited to any nation. One of the most indispensable elements of good society is also a Christian principle: Do nothing to your neighbour that you would not have done to you. Another -and this is the foundation-stone-consists in forgetting oneself while thinking of other people. No one is more obliging, more sweetly serviceable, than persons of perfectly polite education. With such, relations are easy; they send you away satisfied, even while refusing what you ask for, more satisfied, perhaps, than many who grant all you want-there is a particular manner of saying everything, and also a certain way of giving anything. And here we will stop and say a few words about the education of the heart. Do not smile; the heart, as well as the intellect, requires its education, only it educates itself, and it feels instinctively what is noble without having been taught. Have you never received a handsome present-something you wanted very much-without being pleased with it, whilst a flower, or a trifle, offered in a different way, makes you as happy as if it were a treasure? All that depends upon grace of character, and that grace is the science of good breeding. It can be shown, too, in the choice of what you give. Sometimes, with good intentions, it is possible to wound those you wish to please. A short time ago a very rich young lady gave her music mistress a present of a rich lace mantle, costing twenty pounds. The young teacher was of good family, forced by misfortune to work. With what could she wear this mantle? Which of her modest toilettes could support this splendid addition? None, certainly. The result was that the mantle remained in its box. The poor creature would have been glad to sell it; but she dared not, as Mrs. would not fail to ask her why she did not wear it, and why she obstinately wore a thick shawl during the tropical heat. With these twenty pounds, the girl might have had two or three complete toilettes in accordance with her position. Pretty muslin dresses, a simple silk, two bonnets, etc.; a silk mantle, or a light shawl for her morning lessons. The proof of a kind heart lies in little things. Affection is shown better in the little concerns of every-day life, than in great sacrifices. A noble nature always finds enough force and courage for a premeditated act of devotion, for a splendid sacrifice; but we must think of others a great deal for them to receive kindnesses from us constantly.

All this does not only concern friendship or love, but it is also the great art of the mistress of a house. Some women carry it as far as genius. There are some houses where everything around you smiles, where you feel happy and at your ease as soon as you put your foot into

them, and very often even these houses are not the most luxurious or fashionable. All this depends on the mistress of the house.

--

When you receive friends or even acquaintances you must study, first of all to make your guests feel at home. You must not expect them to fall in with your habits, but must treat them according to their own. You must not only leave them their liberty, the first condition of happiness everywhere, but leave it them so completely that they may have what pleases them, without perceiving that they might have missed it. Two types of different kinds of houses are the following:In the first, the owner had about £1500 a year; the house was small, there were few servants, and only ordinary equipages. You arrived there, and as soon as you entered the gates you felt happy. The servants did not make a fuss about waiting on you, but there was always one at hand when wanted. You never were afraid of having to wait. All was clean and smiling, without being magnificent. The drawing-room was large, the furniture simple but convenient. In the middle was a round table with numbered drawers, each person had the key of one of them, in which pen, ink and paper, and other convenient things were kept, so that no one had the trouble of asking or of going to their own rooms to look for what they wanted. On one side a well-filled book-case, all the newspapers, flowers, a piano, and playing-tables always ready.

Every one went to bed as they pleased in this charming house. Indeed, nobody seemed to be in a hurry to retire, and I have known conversations carried on until long past midnight, between five or six people. I passed one of the most agreeable winters in my life there, and I could scarcely tear myself away when necessity forced me to do so. The amiable hostess

never threw at you the phrase, "Make yourselves at home." She did better, she made you feel that you were at home an hour after your installation. What charming dinners we had! How well she ordered them, that each should always have some dish he would be sure to like; and lastly, as a finishing touch to her grace, her cleverness, and her high breeding, she arranged everything so well that you never found it possible to thank her. It would have been ridiculous. She would have looked at you in astonishment, asking you why, and you would never have been able to tell her. It was for everything, and it was for nothing.

The other house was magnificent, spacious; everything was on a grand scale; something like £20,000 a-year went to keep it up. Everything in abundance, an anthill of servants, splendid apartments, horses, dogs, hunting, walks, balls, private theatricals, Parisian toilettes; such

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