Les manchettes continuent à orner le bas des manches de soie, comme nous les avons vues tout l'été orner nos simples robes; seulment leurs broderies semblent être devenues plus riches. On les garnit d'une dentelle assortie à celle du collet. Les toilettes

de matin, les manchettes sont en fine batiste brodée, et garnies de valencienne, ou elles n'ont tout simplement qu'un large ourlet piqué et bordé de valencienne.

Les femmes élégantes paraissent préférer aux mouchoirs de poche brodés des mouchoirs unis, n'ayant au bord que plusieurs rangées de points à jour, qui forment la tète d'une valencienne très-fine, haute de deux doigts, et froncée tout autour. Une mouchoir de cette simplicité peut cependant coûter encore cent cinquante francs.

For the sake of our readers who may be lionizing in the Metropolis, we subjoin a few notices that may serve en passant as guides, but will revert more fully in another number to the most interesting among the objects of public interest or curiosity.

To "THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF PRACTICAL SCIENCE" we strongly recommend our readers to pay a visit, being well worthy the attention of the seekers after knowledge or pleasure; besides the day exhibition, there are evening Lectures and familiar illustrations of Scientific subjects which will interest all.

The PALL MALL GALLERY OF PICTURES-the Exhibition Room of which adjoins that of the British Gallery, consists of a very extensive collection of works of

art, and contains mauy productions of an extraordinary character.

is a

The ST. JAMES' GALLERY OF PAINTING is a colleetion from the Spanish and Italian Masters, and has several splendid specimens of their purity of design and force of execution. The picture of Noah discovered in a state of intoxication by his Sons, noble instance of Velasquez' truth of colouring and accuracy of outline. The rebuking expression of the pious sons of the Patriarch is well contrasted with the sneer of Ham, and the whole group is so effectively and forcibly pourtrayed that we can forgive the painter's vanity in making our second parents Spaniards.

A Crucifixion, in ivory, by Benevenuto Cellini, the great sculptor, whose life has been so elegantly translated by Roscoe, bears witness how well deserved is the fame, which this true copier of nature has acquired.

The expression of by-gone agony in the sufferer's face, and the relaxing of the limbs in death have a painful reality, and must be viewed with admiration by all who can appreciate the ineffable hand of genius.

The Exhibition of an ANATOMICAL FIGURE IN WAX, by Signor Serantoni, in Regent Street, is not only interesting to the naturalist, but an object highly deserving a visit from Ladies, as the figure does not offend against propriety or decorum, and a female attendant is employed to describe its anatomy. We understand that several ladies of high rank and character have been led by a judicious curiosity to the Exhibition Room of the Proprietor.

We regret the absence of an interesting collection of ancient costumes which were at one time exhibiting at this building, and of which we purposed giving a full description-not having received notice of its subsequent destination we cannot point out to our readers whether it may be exhibited under the same auspices in the provinces, or is doomed to figure piecemeal in the animated assembly of a masquerade; we should be sorry to learn that this collection is broken up.

A bottle of Labern's Cream came to hand for our opinion-we are rather obstinate in our penchant to the one we have in habitual use (Skelton's Circassian Cream) but from the frequent handsome comments the press, we must consider it worth a trial.

THE FRENCH LANGUAGE
MARCELLIAN SYSTEM.

It is now some months since we treated this spect at considerable length, and at the same time gave an an alysis of the method which Mr. Marcel pursues in his instructions; considering the very great importance of the subject, (and to none more so than our fair readers,) we are induced to extract the following observations, from one of the most enlightened and ably conducted of our weekly prints, they are so completely in unison with our formerly expressed opinions, and our now still firmer connections, that we freely adopt them as our own.

"We heard a lecture the other night by an ingenious Frenchman on a new mode of teaching his native language. Anything new in matters of this sort is always very cautiously received, and no wonder. We have a huge stock of such caution ourselves, but we frankly confess we felt it fairly oozing at our fingers' ends while they applauded M. Marcel's lively lecture, and the startling simplicity of the method he proposes. We wish some of our readers would go and hear him.

They will hear something new, yet old; new to their ears assuredly, but very old to their hearts, He merely desires to bring them back into nature's school-the school where they learnt their own language; to learn French as the French do, and to seek it first where the French first seek it in conversation, not in books. It startled us, we confess, on hearing this, that it should not have been proposed before. But simplicity lies a long way down the deep lane of knowledge. We conceive a plan of this sort, supposing it may be accomplished by adults (as in a most striking and convincing series of illustrations M. Marcel, we think, proves it may), to be the very perfection of the system shadowed out by Locke, that facts alone are the means of acquiring language. Quintillian, too, Condillac, and others, have frequently enunciated this; and recently M. Jacotot has been acting upon it partially with extreme success; but he does not hit the point arrived at by M. Marcel. He accomplishes far more in the way of general philosophical education, and, perhaps, from that very reason, over-reaches the mark of attainment to an individual language. His principle of tout est dans tout-all is in all-is a good one, but he overstrains it. He throws the development of reason too much on the mere mechanism of memory. All language, he says, is included in a book, any book, no matter which. In French he names Telemachus. He orders you to commit it, with its translation, completely to memory, word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence, and out of all these he builds up all necessary knowledge. The philosophic dialogues in which he accomplishes this are truly admirable-his first step only is a false one. Proceeding in the first instance from a book destroys the vitality of the language. A living language becomes a dead one when its acquirement depends on graphical representation.

The ear, the ear's the thing. This M. Marcel restores to its great functions. His master is Jacotot-but the pupil in this respect outstrips the master. He, too, rebuilds a grammatical system from the practical; but the prac tical he finds in nature and the necessities of conversation. He proceeds from the known to the unknown, and he makes the first the best of all assistants, until the last becomes its own interpreter. He makes the memory the result of the observation and understanding, not vice versa. There is no pedantry in it. Simplicity and a very lively and intelligent faculty of illustration include all. His observations on pronunciation alone -on the difference between the absolute sound when taught by reading, and the relative as heard by the combination of words in conversing-are worth hearing. Some attention ought to be paid to him surely, if only that a verdict may be given somehow. The mode of acquiring a living language out of the country where it is spoken, so as to be able perfectly to speak it, has always been a puzzle-a Gordian knot, which no teacher we ever yet heard approached the untying of. M. Marcel, we thought, the other night, made it 'familiar as his garter.'"-Examiner, Sept. 21, 1834.

MISCELLANEA.

A Good Hint for Dancers -The existence of the countrydance is threatened. The gallopade has been tried: but the gallopade deranges the ladies' head-dresses, tumbles their clothes, and flusters their faces. As the ladies have no right

to make themselves ugly, the gallopade must be given up. The mazurka comes next, and it has numerous partizans. We shall see! While these revolutions are hanging over us, there is one thing which alone would keep a man from dancing at all; a difficulty that renews itself at every first dance. If you invite a lady to be your partner, she is engaged. What will you do? Ask another. Very good. But then it is as much as to say to the former, "I care no more for dancing with you than with any other;" and to the second, "I dance with you for want of a better, and because another has refused ine!" How is this to be avoided? By not dancing at all; because the lady you first made choice of is no longer at liberty. But in that case it may so happen, that you pass the evening without dancing, however eagerly you may desire otherwise.

In many towns to the south they manage after the following fashion. To each man, as he enters, a basket full of artificial flowers is offered, that he may choose out of it. When he would obtain a partner, in lien of the customary formula,seldom relieved by the slightest variation," Madam, will you do me the honour to dance with me?" he offers the flower, which the lady fixes in her belt till the dance is completed. By this means, no one exposes himself to the mortification and risk of asking a lady who is already engaged, since whatever fair one is still without a flower, is also without a partner.— Translated in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, from the Camelion.

It is by the Thames that the stranger should enter London. The broad breast of the great river, black with the huge masses that float upon its crowded waters; the tall fabrics, gaunt and drear, that line its melancholy shores; the thick gloom through which you dimly catch the shadowy outline of these gigantic forms; the marvellous quiet with which you glide by the dark phantoms of her power into the mart of nations; the sadness, the silence, the vastness, the obscurity of all things around, prepare you for a grave and solemn magnificence. Full upon your soul is shadowed the sombre character of "the golden city;" deep into your thoughts is breathed the genius of the great and gloomy people, whose gloom and whose greatness are, perchance, alike owing to the restless workings of a stern imagination. Behold St. Kathaline's Docks, and Walker's Soap Manufactory, and "Hardy's Shades!" Lo! there is the strength, the industry, and the pleasure the pleasure of the enterprizing, the money-making, the dark-spirited people of England! "Hardy's Shades!"singular appellation for the spot dedicated to festivity. Such is the entrance into Londou by the Thames.

Let us change the scene, reader! You are at Paris!

To enter Paris with advantage, you should enter it by the Champs Elysées. Visiting, for the first time, the capital of a military nation, you should pass under the arch built to commemorate its reign of victories. Coming to dwell among the most gay and light-hearted people in the universe, you ought at once to rush upon them in the midst of their festivities. Enter Paris, then, by the Champs Elysées! Here are the mouument's that speak to you of the great soldiers, and here the guinguettes that display to you the great dancers of Europe. You pass by the old gardens of Beanjon; you find the caserne (and this tells you a good deal of the nation you are come to visit), intermingled with cafes and salons littéraires; and you see the chairs under the trees, and the open spaces left for the ball; and if you stop to read an advertisement, it will talk of Chevaux mécanique, and of the Bal paré, and of the Concert des Champs Elysées; and the sun shines upon the golden cupola of the stately Invalides, and on the glittering accontrements of the sauntering soldier; and before you are the Tuileries, with their trees and terraces, which yonder misplaced monument cannot quite conceal; and to your right are the Seine and the Chamber of Deputies, and to your left the Corinthian architecture of those palaces that form the Rue de Rivoli. The tricoloured flag floats from the gates of the Royal Gardens; the military uniform, mixed up with the colouring of every passing group, enriches it with its deep blue and its bright scarlet. The movement about you is universal-equi pages of all kinds are passing in all directions; the movement is universal, but differing from that you are accustomed to in England; the movement is the movement of idleness and of pleasure, an indescribable mirth reigns in all you see, and the busy gaiety of Paris, bursts upon you with the same effect as the glad brightness of Italy. The people, too, have all the habits of a people of the sun-they are not the people of one stock; collected in every crowd are the features and the feelings of divers races and different regions. In Paris you are not in the climate of Paris-Ibid.

THE WINTER CRUISE.

A TALE.

A CUSTOM exists among the smugglers and fishermen, in the towns and villages on the Kentish coast, of engaging with ship-owners residing there, for the perilous adventures of a cruise to effect the landing of contraband goods on some distant shore. Ireland is chiefly the course these expeditions are bound for: and many a smuggler's wife, while listening to the dashing of the rough waves on the shore of her home, and the loud winds blowing harmlessly over the roof of her dwelling, has breathed a prayer that the same storm may be landing her husband's cargo in safety on some unguarded beach, or filling the sheets of his good ship in eluding the pursuit of a revenue cutter. These outfits are invariably made on the approach of November, and are denominated "The Winter Cruise." The vessels are the property of individuals who have realized considerable sums in these speculations, and a fortune is frequently embarked in one vessel. The smuggler looks forward to the success of these adventures with sanguine hopes and beating heart; and, while lamenting over past favours, prays for future good luck, which, if but moderate, makes him comfortable for life. During the absence of the men, their wives are allowed by the proprietors of the vessels a weekly stipend, sufficient for their maintenance; but, on the arrival of disastrous news, the payments are discontinued. Many a hard hand has been softened by the tears mutually shed at the departure for the Winter Cruise; and many a young wife has seen all that she loved launched on the ocean, to sleep in its bosom for ever. A mother, while bestowing her best wishes for a son's success, and endeavouring to smile away her apprehensions of what might befal, has looked upon him for the last time; he has departed-hoping much, fearing little-never more to be seen or heard of.

Folkstone, the scene of this tale, is only relieved by the hereditary good-nature of the inhabitants from a prevailing melancholy, which every where presents itself, as bereaved mothers are pointed out to you, and widowed homes marked in every street.

It was late one night in the month of January, when the flower or the young men of Folkstone were absent on the Winter Cruise, that four women were seated round a sea-coal fire, listening to the heavy rain falling in the street, and the scolding wind as it echoed and rumbled in the chimney of the warm fire-place. One of the party-from her occupying the low-seated patchwork-covered chair, and the peculiar attention paid to her by an indolent cat, who stretched, and purred, and quivered her nervous tail, while peering sleepily in her protector's face-appeared to be the mistress of the house she was a young woman, about five-and-twenty, with all the happy prettiness of a couutry beautyalbeit an indulged grief had thrown a pale tinge over the clear red that still shone in her cheek, as if strug

NO. XLVIII. VOL. IV.

[VOL 4

gling for mastery with an intruding enemy. Her features though somewhat irregular, if but carelessly viewed, failed not to obscure the beholder's stedfast observance, from the peculiar interest which a full blue eye and light arched brow lent to the contour. She was resting her face upon her hand, and looking at the red coals in the stove before her;--the others seemed to have just concluded a bit of country scandal, or the success of the sale of a secreted tub of Hollands, from the pursing up of their lips, and the satisfaction with which each appeared to lean back in her chair. "There," said the young woman, in that very

hollow of the fire, I can almost fancy I see my James on the deck of the Mary, looking through his glass to catch a glimpse of some distant sail, Ah! now it has fallen in, and all looks like a rough sea.-Poor fellow!" This was spoken in that abstracted tone of voice, that monotonous sound of melancholy, where every word is given in one note, as if the speaker had not the spirit, or even wish, to vary the sound.

"That's what I so repeatedly tell you of," said a fat old woman of the group; 66 you will have no other thought; morning and night hear but the same cry from you. Look at me-is'n't it fifteen years ago since my William, rest his soul, was shot dead while running his boat ashore on Romney Marsh? and am I any the worse for it? I loved him dearly; and when I was told of the bad news, I did nothing but cry for whole days; but then it was soon over-I knew that fretting would'nt set him on his legs again: so I made the best of a bad berth, and thought, if I should have another husband, all well and good; if not-why, I must live and die Widow Major-and there was an end of it."

"Ah! neighbour," replied the young woman, "you knew the fate of your husband-you were acquainted with the worst-you had not to live in the cruel suspense I endure; but if I knew that he was dead(and her voice grew louder, while the blood rushed into her fair cheek)-I should think of him as much as I do now, and would think and think, and try to bring thoughts every day heavier on my heart, till it sunk into the grave."

"How fast it rains!" ejaculated a shrivelled old woman, who had hitherto remained silent. "How fast it rains!"-and she drew her chair closer to the fire. "It was just such a night as this when-— What's that the wind? Ah! 'tis a rough night; I suppose it must be near eleven o'clock.-Now, I'll tell you a story that shall make you cold as stones, though you crowd ever so close to this blazing fire. It was just such a night as this——"

"Gracious Heaven!" Cried Susan, "I heard a footfall coming down the street so like that which I knew so well-listen!-No, all is silent.-Well Margery what were you going to tell us?"

"Eh! bless us!" replied Margery, terrible bad, surely; what's the matter?"

X

"Nothing-nothing, dame-go on." "Well," said the old woman, "it was just such a night as this—”

"Susan!" cried a voice at the door, in that tone which implies haste, and a fear of being heard-“ Susan! open the door."

"Good God," shrieked Susan, "that voice!"—and all the women rose at one moment, and stood staring atthe door, which Susan was unlocking. "The key won't turn the lock-'tis rusty-who's there?" she breathlessly exclaimed, as in the agony of suspense she tried to turn the key, while the big drops stood quivering on her brow. She trembled from head to foot -her companions stood like statues-the lock flew back, the door opened-nothing was seen but the black night, and the large drops of rain which sparkled in the beams of the candle on the table. "There is no one," said she, panting for breath; "but as I stand here a living woman, 'twas his voice. James! James!" she cried, and put out her head to listen, She heard quick, heavy footsteps hastily advancing at the end of the street: presently a party of six or seven blocademen rushed by the door, dashing the wet from the pavement inSusan's face. They passed with no other sound than that made by their feet, and were quickly out of hearing.

"I wish I may die," said old Margery," but the blockade-men are chasing some poor fellow who has been obliged to drop his tubs; for I saw the blade of a cutlass flash in my eyes, though I couldn't see the hand that held it."

My bonnet! my bonnet!" cried Susan; "there has more befallen this night than any here can tell. 'Twas his voice-stay in the house till I come back-'twas his voice!"-and she ran out through the still driving rain, in the direction of the party that had just passed. They took the street that led to the cliffs; not a light was to be seen-lamps in a smuggling town being considered a very obnoxious accommodation; and, though there may be a rate for watching, the inhabitants take especial care there shall be none for lighting, inasmuch as a lamplighter never yet breathed the air of Folkstone. Susan reached the cliffs; the wind blew fresh and strong off the sea, and the rain appeared abating. She thought she saw figures descend the heights; and quickening her pace, stood on the edge, straining her sight to distinguish the objects flitting to and fro on the beach. She heard a faint "hallo!"-the sound thrilled through every nerve-it was the voice she had heard at the door. She returned the salute; but the buffetting of the wind choked her timid cry. The hallo was repeated; Susan listened with her very eyes. Her distended fingers seemed grasping to catch at sound. A sound did rise above the roar of the breakers and the rushing of the wind: it was the report of a volley of carbines fired on the beach. Susan screamed, and sunk on the edge of the cliff, overpowered with terror and anxiety. Quickly there was seen a flashing of lights along the coast, and men running from the Martello-towers to the beach in disorder. Then was heard the curse for curse, the clashing of cutlasses and discharge of arms, and the hoarse shout of some of the smugglers, who had succeeded in putting their boat off from the shore with part of her cargo, which it appeared they had been attempting to work.

Susan well understood the import of these dreadful

sounds, and recovering from her fright, was striving to ascertain from her station the position of the parties, when a hard breathing of some one, apparently exhausted, arrested her attention, It seemed to issue from beneath, and, looking over the summit of the cliff, she perceived the shadow of a man cautiously ascending. He had almost accomplished his task, and was grasping a jutting fragment of stone, to enable him to rest for a moment from the fatigue of his attempt. Susan heard him panting for breath, and, in endeavouring to discover whether he wore the jacket or the smock-frock (the latter being the usual working attire of the smugglers), heard him sigh heavily. She thought it was a form she knew! she bent over the edge, and held her breath in the very agony of hope and fear. The figure stood with his back to the cliff, and, looking down on the beach, ejaculated, "Oh, God!" It was in one of those moans which betray the most acute suffering of mind, which thrill through the hearer, and create that kindred overflowing of the heart's tears which makes the sorrow of the afflicted more than our own. Susan heard the sound, and breathlessly answered "Who is it?" The figure sprang upwards at the response, and exclaimed

"Susan!"

"James! James!" she cried. He caught a large tuft of grass to assist him in darting into her expanded arms, when the weed broke by the roots from the light sand in which it had grown ;—a faint cry, and the fall of a body, with the rattling of earth and stones, down the steep, where the sounds that struck terror, and madness, and dismay through the brain of poor Susan.

She attempted to call for assistance, but her voice obeyed not the effort, and, in the delirium of the moment, she sprang down the cliff, but, fortunately, alighting on a projection, and at the same time instinctively catching the long weeds, was saved from the danger her perilous situation had threatened: but still she continued her descent, stepping from tuft to stone, reckless whether she found a footing, or was precipitated to the base; which the darkness concealing, all below looked like a black abyss. Susan alighted in safety on the beach: an indistinct form lying on the shingle met her view.

"James! James!" she cried, "speak! let me hear your voice for mercy's sake tell me, are you hurt?"

No answer was returned: she grasped his hand, and felt his brow; but, on the instant started from the form in horror-the hand was stiff, and the brow was deadly cold; and then, as if all her powers of utterance had become suddenly re-organized, she broke forth into such a cry of anguish, that it pierced through the noises of the night like the scream of a wounded eagle. A pistol-shot was heard; the ball whizzed past the ear of Susan, and harmlessly buried itself in the sand of the cliff. A party of the blockade rushed toward the spot, and, by the light of a torch, discovered the poor girl stretched on a smuggler. They raised her in their arms-she was quite senseless; and holding the light in the face of the man, they saw that he was dead.

"She's a pretty young creature!" said one of the men; "it's a pity she could'nt let her sweetheart come to the beach alone, for she seems almost as far gone as he is; what shall we do with her, Sir?"

This was addressed to a young man of the group, wearing the uniform of a midshipman, and whose

flushed and disordered countenance proved that he had taken a considerable share in the late desperate en

counter.

"Take her to the tower, Thomas," said he; "she may assist with her evidence the investigation of this affair. The body of the man must also be carried to our station, for I dare say we shall grabble some of the rascals before the night's work is over, Our lieutenant has ordered the boat to be pursued that put off in the scuffle; and, as some of the cargo is now lying about the rocks here, we must look out for another squall."

One of the sailors sustained the still senseless Susan in his arms, while the corpse followed borne by four others on their carbines.

"This fun was not expected, Infant Joe," said one of the men to the gigantic figure who carried Susan in one of his arms, with as much ease as he would have conveyed a child, and who, in mockery of his immense bulk, had been so nicknamed.

"No," was the laconic reply.

"I think," continued the other, " 'twas your pistol settled that poor fellow, for he lay in the very point of the woman's scream when you fired."

"Yes," said Joe with a grin, "mayhap it was; and I wish each of my bullets could search twenty of 'em at once as surely and as quickly."

Halt!" cried the officer who was commanding the party; "if mistake not I perceive a body of men, creeping on their hands and knees, at the foot of the cliff. Out with your torches, or we may be fair marks for a bullet."

The men instantly obeyed, and, at the same moment, discovered their progress was interrupted by a gang of armed smugglers, who instantly commenced a practical argument for the right of way by furiously attacking the blockade. At the first fire, the ponderous bulk bearing the light form of Susan reeled and fell with its burthen on the earth; and a smuggler was seen to rush wildly through the chaos of contending beings, hewing his passage with a short broad cutlass, and apparently having but one object in view. A retreat of the smugglers, and the consequent advance of their antagonists brought him to the spot were Susan, still senseless, lay wound in the sinewy arm of the prostrate man-of-war's man. He endeavoured to disengage her from his grasp and, on placing his hand on her neck, he felt that his fingers were straying in warm and still oozing blood. He trembled, and gasped for breath :there were two beings senseless before him-one must be seriously wounded, perhaps dying or dead. He dragged Susan from her thrall: the action was followed by a groan from the man, who faintly rose upon his knees, and made a grasp towards the female with one hand, and drawing a pistol from his belt with the other, discharged it at random, and again fell exhausted. The report was heard by some of the still contending party, and forms were seen hastening to the spot; but the smuggler had safely ascended the cliff with Susan, and sitting on the summit, wiped the drops of agony and toil from his brow, and placed his trembling hand upon her heart. At the first he could discover no pulsation; he pressed his hand firmer against her side, and with a cry of joy sprang upon his feet-he felt the principle of life beat against his palm. He again clasped her in his arms, and, with the speed of a hound, ran across the fields leading from the edge of

the cliffs, darted through the church-yard there, till his quick step was heard on the stones of the paved street. The inhabitants were at their doors and windows, anxious to catch the slightest word that might give them some intelligence of the conflict! for the reports of the fire-arms had been heard in the town, and all there was anxiety and agitation: but the quick questions were unanswered, the salutes were nnnoticed the form that rushed by them was heard to gasp hardly for breath, and they were satisfied something desperate had taken place. The smuggler gained the street Susan had set out from; the women, and others who had joined them, were gathered round the door of the house, waiting with breathless impatience her return, and various were the conjectures of the night's events; when a voice, whose tones all knew, was heard to exclaim" stand o' one side there; a chair! a chair!" They made way for him in an instant; he darted into the house, placed Susan in the arm-chair, and dropped on the door. with his forehead resting on his arm. "James!" the women cried, "are you hurt?" They received no reply; but his convulsive panting alarmed them: they raised him from the ground, while one of the women lighted a candle. At that moment a scream of dismay escaped them all those who had stood listening at the door rushed in, and were horrorstruck on beholding poor Susan lying apparently lifeless in the chair, her face and neck dabbled with blood; but she breathed, and not a moment was to be lost. Restoratives were applied to both, the blood was cleansed from Susan, and, to the joy of all, not a wound could be perceived. James had now sufficiently recovered to stand and bathe her temples: he kissed her cold, quivering lips-she slowly opened her eyes-the first object they rested upon was her husband! She started from the chair, and gazed at him with a mingled expression of terror and delight. James, seeing the effect his appearance produced, pressed her in his arms, where she lay laughing and crying, and clasping him round the neck, till the shock had subsided, when she sat like a quiet child on his knee, reposing her head upon his shoulder. None had as yet ventured to ask a question, but all impatiently waited till Susan should break the silence that had now followed the confusion of cries, tears, and wonder. But she seemed to have no other wish on earth-she was in her husband's arms -beneath their own roof-and that was question and answer, and every thing to her.-James appeared restless, and attempted to rise; but the motion was followed by the close winding of Susan's arms round his neck, Then, as if suddenly resolved, and chiding himself for some neglect, he started from his seat.

"Susan," said he, " you are better now; keep yourself still till I return-I shall be but a few minutes." "No, no," cried Susan, grasping his arm with both her hands" not again-go not again. I shall be able to speak to you presently; don't leave me now, James."

"You mus'n't persuade me to stay,” replied he ; “I left the crew fighting with the blockade when I saw you in that fellow's arms; but I must go back again, for life and death are in this night's business. One of us has been shot, poor Peter Cullen drowned-he would drink in spite of our orders, and fell overboard. I tried to save him; but I'm afraid he lies dead under the cliff, just where I first saw you, Susan, when I lost