LOVE AND MONEY.

A STORY OF EMS.

EMS is a charming place. It lies about twelve miles to the south-east of Coblentz, in the valley of the Lahu,that miniature Rhine, all bordered with orchards and vineyards, and steep wooded hills. Nothing can be more romantic than the situation of the town, which consists of one long irregular line of hotels and lodging-houses, with the mountains at the back, the river in front, and long double rows of acacias and lindens planted at each side of the carriage-way. Swarms of donkeys with gay saddles, attended by drivers in blue blouses and scarlet-trimmed caps, loiter beneath the trees, soliciting hire. The Duke of Nassau's band plays alternate selections of German, Italian, and French music in the pavilion in the public garden. Fashionable invalids are promenading. Gaming is going forward busily in the Conversation-Haus alike daily and nightly. Ladies are reading novels and eating ices within hearing of the band; or go by, with colouredglass tumblers in their hands, towards the Kurhaus, where the hot springs come bubbling up from their nauseous sources down in the low vaulted galleries filled with bazaar-like shops, loungers, touters, and health-seekers. All is pleasure, indolence, and flirtation.

To Ems, therefore, came the Herr Graff von Steinberg -or, as we should say, the Count von Steinberg-to drink the waters, and to while away a few weeks of the summer season. He was a tall, fair, handsome young man; an excellent specimen of the German dragoon. You would never suppose, to look at him, that anything of illness could be his inducement for visiting Ems; and yet he suffered from two very serious maladies, both of which, it was to be feared, were incurable by any springs, medicinal or otherwise. In a word, he was hopelessly in love, and desperately poor. The case was this:-His grandfather had left a large property, which his father, an irreclaimable gambler, had spent to the uttermost farthing. The youth had been placed in the army, chiefly through the interest of a friend. His father was now dead; the inheritance for ever gone; and he had absolutely nothing beyond his pay as a captain of dragoons, and the distant prospect of one day retiring with the title and half-pay of major. A sorry future for one who was disinterestedly and deeply in love with one of the richest heiresses in Germany!

"Who marries my daughter will receive with her a

[PRICE 1 d.

dowry of 200,000 florins, and I shall expect her husband to possess, at the least, an equal fortune."

So said the Baron of Hohendorf, in cold reply, to the lover's timid declaration; and with these words still sound. ing in his ears, weighing on his spirits, and lying, by day and night, heavily upon his heart, came the Count von Steinberg to seek forgetfulness, or, at least, temporary amusement, at the Brunnen of Ems. But in vain. Pale and silent, he roamed restlessly to and fro upon the public promenades, or wandered away to hide his wretchedness in the forests and lonely valleys around the neighbourhood of the town. Sometimes he would mingle with the gay crowd in the Kurhaus, and taste the bitter waters; sometimes linger mournfully round the tables of the gaming company, gazing enviously, yet with a kind of virtuous horror, at the glittering heaps of gold and at the packets of crisp yellow notes which there changed hands so swiftly and in such profusion. But Albert von Steinberg was no gambler. He had seen and experienced the evil of that terrible vice too keenly already in his own father, to fall a prey to it himself. Years ago he had vowed never to play; and he had kept his oath, for no card had ever been touched by his hand. Even now, when he found himself, as it might happen now and then, looking on with some little interest at the gains and losses of others, he would shudder, turn suddenly away, and not return again for days. Nothing could be more regular than his mode of life. In the morning he took the waters; at noon he walked, or read, or wrote; in the evening he strolled out again and heard the band, and by the time that all the society of the place was assembled in the ball-room or at the tables, he had returned to his quiet lodgings, and, perhaps, already gone to bed, in order that he might rise early the next morning to study some scientific work, or to take a pedestrian excursion to the ruins of some old castle within the limits of a long walk.

It was a dull life for a young man-especially with that sweet, sad recollection of Emma von Hohendorf pervading every thought, and every moment of the day. And all because he was poor! Was poverty a crime, he asked himself, that he should be punished for it thus? He had a great mind to throw himself off the rock where he was standing-or to throw himself into the river, if it were deep enough-or to go to the baron's own castlegate, and shoot himself-or-or, in short, to do anything desperate, if it were only sufficiently romantic; for his hot young German head, full of sentiment aud Schiller,

could be content with nothing less than an imposing tragedy.

He thought all this, sitting in a little fantastic summerhouse perched high up on a ledge of steep rock just in front of the gardens and public buildings. He looked down at the gay company far beneath, and he heard the faint music of the royal band. The sun was just setting -the landscape was lovely-life was still sweet, and he thought that he would not commit suicide that evening, at all events. So he went moodily down the winding pathway, across the bridge, and, quite by chance, wandered once more into the Conversation Haus. The gaming was going on, the glittering gold pieces changing hands, the earnest players sitting round as usual. The sight only made him more unhappy.

"Two hundred thousand florins!" he thought to himself. "Two hundred thousand florins would make me the happiest man on earth, and I cannot get them. These men win and lose two hundred thousand florins ten times over in a week, and think nothing of the good, the happiness, the wealth they would be to numbers of their fellow creatures. What a miserable dog I am."

And he pulled his hat on fiercely, folded his arms, and strode out of the rooms, taking the road to his own lodging with so dismal an air that the people in the streets turned and looked after him, saying, "He has lost money --we saw him come out of the gaming-rooms."

"Lost money!" muttered he to himself, as he went into his garret and locked the door; "lost money, indeed! I wish I had any to lose."

And poor Albert von Steinberg fell asleep, lamenting that the age of fairies and gnomes had passed away.

His sleep was long, sound, dreamless-for young men, in spite of love and poverty, can sleep pleasantly. He woke somewhat later than he had intended, rubbed his eyes, yawned, looked hazily at his watch, laid down again, once more opened his eyes, and at last sprang valiantly out of bed.

Can

Was he still dreaming? Is it an hallucination? he be mad? No, it is real, true, wonderful! There upon the table lies a brilliant heap of golden pieces-hard, ringing, real golden pieces, and he turns them over, weighs them in his hands, lets them drop through his fingers to test the evidence of his senses.

How did it come there? That is the important question. He rings the bell violently once-twice-thrice. The servant runs up, thinking some dreadful accident has occurred.

"Some one has been here to call upon me this morning?

66

No, Monsieur."

"Now speak the truth, Bertha; some one has been here; you are paid to deny it. Only tell me who it was, and I will give you double for your information."

The servant looks both alarmed and astonished. "Indeed there has not been a soul. Does monsieur miss anything from his apartment? Shall I send for the gens-d'armes ?"

The count looked searchingly in the girl's face. She looked wholly sincere and truthful. He tried every means yet left-adroit questions, insinuations, bribes, sudden accusations, but in vain. She had seen no oneheard no one; the door of the house was closed, and had not been left open. No one-absolutely no one had been there."

Puzzled, troubled, bewildered, our young friend dismissed her, believing, in spite of his surprise, the truth of what she stated. He then locked the door and counted

the money. Ten thousand florins! not a groschen more or less!"

I

Well, it was there, but whence it came remained a mystery. "All mysteries clear themselves up in time," said he, as he locked the money up in his bureau. dare say I shall find it all out by-and-by. In the meantime I will not touch a single florin of it."

He tried not to think of it, but it was so strange a thing that he could not prevent it from running in his head. It even kept him awake at night, and took away his appetite by day. At last he began to forget it; at all events, he became used to it, and at the end of a week it had ceased to trouble him.

About eight days from the date of its occurrence he woke, as before, thinking of Emma, and not at all of the money, when, on looking round, lo! there it was again. The table was once more covered with glittering gold!

His first impulse was to run to the bureau in which the first ten thousand florins were stored away. Surely he must have taken them out the night before, and forgot to replace them. No, there they lay in the drawer where he had hidden them, and there upon the table was a second supply, larger, if anything, than the first!

Pale and trembling he turned them over. This time there were some notes-Prussian and French-mingled with the gold-in all, twelve thousand florins.

He had locked his door-could it be opened from without by a skeleton key? He had a bolt fixed within, that very day. Honest Albert von Steinberg! he took as much pains against fortune as others do against robbery'

Two days later, however, his invisible benefactor came again, notwithstanding all his precautions; and this time he found himself fourteen thousand florins the richer. It was an inexplicable prodigy! No one could have entered by the bolted door, or from the window, for he lived in a garret on the fourth story- -or by the chimney, for the room was heated by a stove, the funnel of which was no thicker than his arm! Was it a plot to ruin him? or was he tempted by the powers of evil? He had a great mind to apply to the police, or to a priest (for he was a good Catholic),-still he thought he would wait a little longer. After all, there might be more unpleasaut visitations!

He went out, greatly agitated, and walked about the entire day, pondering this strange problem. Then he resolved, if ever it recurred, to state his case to the chef de police, and to set a watch upon the house by night.

Full of this determination, he came home and went to bed. In the morning, when he woke, he found that Fortune had again visited him. The first wonder of the thing had now worn off, and he rose, dressed himself, and sat down leisurely to count the money over before lodging his declaration at the bureau de police. While he was engaged in making up little roleaux of gold, twenty in each rouleau, there came a sudden knocking at his door.

He had no visitors, no friends in Ems; he started like a guilty man, and threw an overcoat hastily upon the table, so as to conceal the gold. Could it be that this summons had anything to do with the money? Was he suspected of something that. The knock was repeated, this time more loudly, more imperatively. opened the door. It was the Baron von Hohendorf ! "How! The Baron von Hohendorf in Ems! I am rejoiced-this honour-I-pray, be seated."

He

The poor young dragoon's heart beat so fast, and he trembled so with pleasure, and hope, and astonishment, that he could scarcely speak.

The baron looked at him steadily, but sternly, thrust back the proffered chair, and did not deign to take the slightest notice of the extended hand.

"Yes, Herr Count," he said drily. "I arrived yesterday at this place. You did not expect to see me.'

Indeed, no. It is a pleasure-a-delight—a——

He was so agitated that he forgot his visitor was standing, and sat down; but rose up again directly.

"And yet I saw you, Herr Count, yesterday evening, as you came out of the Conversation-rooms."

Me? Indeed, sir, I never visited the Conversationrooms at all yesterday; but I am very sorry that I was not there, since I should have had the honour of meeting you."

"Pardon me, Herr Count, I saw you. It is useless to argue the point with me, for I stood close behind your chair for the greater part of an hour. Do you know why I am here this moring in your apartment ?" The young man blushed, faltered, turned pale. He knew but one reason that could have brought him a visit from the baron. Had he relented? Could it be his generous design to make two lovers' hearts happy by granting that consent which he formerly refused? There were things more impossible. The baron was capable of such goodness! Something to this effect he stammered in broken sentences, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his hands playing nervously with a pen.

The baron drew himself to his full height. looked stern before, he looked furious now. moments he could hardly speak for rage.

wrath broke forth.

If he had For a few At last his

'Impertinence such as this, Herr Count, I did not expect! I came here, sir, to give some words of advice to your father's son-to warn-to interpose, if possible, between you and your destruction. I did not come to be insulted!"

"Insulted, baron?" repeated the young man, somewhat haughtily; "I have said nothing to call for such a phrase at your lips, unless, indeed, my poverty insults you. The richest man in this land could do no more than love your daughter, and were she a queen, the homage of the poorest would not disgrace her. Explain yourself, I beg."

"Permit me first to ask you one question. What brings you to Ems?"

The young man hesitated, and the baron smiled ironically.

"I came, sir," he said at length, " in search of-I will confess it-in search of peace, of forgetfulness, of consolation. I was not happy, sir-I-”

His voice broke: he looked down, and remained silent. The baron laughed aloud-a harsh mocking laugh that caused Albert to raise his head with a movement of sudden indignation.

"I have not deserved this treatment at your hands, Baron Hohendorf," he said, turning away towards the window. "Your position as the father of one whom I dearly love protects you from the satisfaction I might demand; but I trust the time will come when you will recognise and acknowledge your injustice to me.'

What effcontery! You forget, then, that it is in my power to confront you with the proof of your vice; nay, at this instant to confound and convict you. What gold

is this ?"

And the old gentleman, whose eyes had already detected the glimmer of the coin beneath the coat, extended his hand, and lifted the garment away upon the end of his walking-stick. The lover turned pale, and could not speak.

"Der teufel! For a poor man you have, it seems, a well-filled purse for travelling! Ah! you never gamble?' "Never, sir."

'Indeed! Pray, then, if your gold be not the fruit of the gaming-table, whence comes it ?"

"I know not. You will not believe me, I am aware, but I swear that I speak the truth. This gold comes here, I know not how. This is the fourth time I have found it upon my table. I can discover nothing of the source whence it arrives. I know not why it is here,

who brings it, or how it is brought. By my honour as a gentleman and a soldier,-by all my hopes of happiness in this life or the next, I am utterly ignorant of everything about it!"

"This is too much!" cried the baron, furiously. "Do you take me for an idiot or a dotard? Good morning to you, sir, and I hope I may never see your face again!"

And he slammed the door violently behind him, and went away down the stairs, leaving poor Von Steinberg utterly overwhelmed and broken-hearted. "Cursed gold!" he exclaimed, dashing it upon the floor in his anger, "what brought thee here, and why dost thou torment me!" Then the poor fellow thought of Emma, and of how his last chance was wrecked, and he was so miserable, that he actually threw himself upon his bed, and wept bitterly. All at once he remembered that the baron had a sister at Langeuschwalbach; she, perhaps, would believe him, would intercede for him! He started up, resolved to go thither at once; hastily gathered together the scattered pieces of money; locked them up in the drawer with the rest; ran down straight to the neighbouring carriage-stand; hired a vehicle to convey him to the railway station, and in less than half an hour he was on his way. In about three hours he arrived. He passed nearly the whole day in trying to discover the lady's address, and, when he had found it, was told that she had been for the last two months at Vienna. It was a foolish journey, with disappointment at the end of it! He came back quite late in the evening to Ems, and entered his own room, utterly broken down by anxiety and fatigue.

In the meantime the baron, crimson with rage, had returned to his hotel, and told all the circumstances to his daughter. She could not believe in the guilt of her lover.

"He a gambler!" she exclaimed. "It is impos

sible!"

"But I saw the gold upon his table!"

"He says he knows nothing of it, and he never told an untruth in his life. It will all be explained byand-by."

"But I saw him playing at the tables!"

'It was some other who resembles him."

"Will you believe it if you see him yourself?"

"I will, my father, and I will renounce him for ever; but not till then."

"Then you shall be convinced this evening."

The evening came, and the rooms were more than usually crowded. There was a ball in the salon de danse ; refreshments in the ante-room; gaming, as usual, in the third apartment. The Baron von Hohendorf was there with his daughter and some friends. They made their way to the tables, but he whom they sought was not there. Eager faces enough were there around the board; faces of old women, cunning and avaricious; faces of pale dissipated boys, scarce old enough, one would have thought, to care for any games but those of the schoolground; faces of hardened, cool, determined gamblers; faces of girls young and beautiful, and of men old and feeble. Strange table, around which youth, and beauty, and age, and deformity, and vice, should congregate together, and meet on equal ground!

Suddenly there was a movement at the farther end of the room; a whisper went round, the spectators made way, and the players drew aside for one who now approached and took his place amongst them. This deference is shown only to those who play high and play frequently. Who is this noted gambler? Albert von Steinberg.

A cry of agony breaks from the pale lips of a young girl at the other end of the room, as she clings to the arm of an elderly gentleman beside her, and leans wildly forward to be sure that it is really he. Alas! it is no error-it is Albert! He neither hears nor heeds anything around

him. He does not even look towards where she stands. He seats himself very quietly, as a matter of course, takes some rouleaux of gold and a packet of notes from his pocket, stakes a large sum, and begins to play with all the cool audacity of one whose faith in his own luck is unshakeable, and who is perfect master of the game. Besides this, he carried his self-command to that point which is only to be attained by years of practice. It was splendid to see him so impassive. His features were fixed and inexpressive as those of a statue; the steady earnestness of his gaze was almost terrible; his very movements were scarcely those of a man liable to human frailties and human emotions; and the right hand with which he staked and swept up the gold was stiff and mechanical as that of the commandant in Don Giovanni.

The baron could contain his indignation no longer. Leaving his daughter to the care of her friends, he made his way round the tables, and approached the young man's chair. He extended his hand to touch the player's arm, when his own was forcibly seized and held back. He turned, and saw one of the most celebrated physicians of Germany standing beside him.

"Stop!" he exclaimed, "do not speak to that young man, it might injure him."

"That is exactly what I wish. I will disturb his calculations, the hypocrite."

'Pshaw! you are jesting with me."

"I am perfectly serious. Look at him," continued the physician, pointing to his pale face and set gaze; “look at him! He sleeps! A sudden shock might be his death. You cannot see this, but I can. I have studied this thing narrowly, and I never beheld a more remarkable case of somnambulism."

The physician continued for some time conversing with the baron in an under tone. Presently the bank gave the sigual; the players rose; the tables closed for that evening, and the Count von Steinberg, gathering up his enormous winnings, pushed back his chair and left the rooms, passing close before the baron without seeing him. They followed him down the street to his own door; he entered by means of his latch-key, and closed it behind him without a sound. There was no light in his window -no one in the house was awake-none but those two had seen him enter.

The next morning, when he awoke, he found a larger pile of gold than ever on his table. He was stupified with amazement. He counted it, and he told over 44,000 florins.

Again there came a knock at his chamber-door. This time he did not even attempt to conceal the money; and when the baron and the physician entered he was too much troubled even to feel surprised at the sight of a stranger.

"You have come again to tell me that I am a gambler!" he exclaimed, despairingly, as he pointed to the gold, and leaned his head listlessly upon his hands.

"I say it, my young friend, because I saw it," replied the baron; "but at the same time I come to entreat your pardon for having accused you of it. You have played without knowing it; you have gambled, and yet you are no gambler."

"Yes," interrupted the physician; " for somnambulists often perform the very actions which they detest. But it is, with you, a mere functional derangement-not a settled habit-and I can easily cure you. But, perhaps," he added, smiling, "you do not wish to lose so profitable a malady. You may become a millionaire."

"Ah, doctor!" cried the count, "I place myself in your hands; cure me, I entreat you!

"Well, well, there is time enough for that," said the baron; "first of all, shake hands, and let us be friends.”

"I have a horror of play," replied the involuntary gambler," and I shall instantly restore to the bank all that I have won. See, here is, altogether, 130,000 florins!" " and do

"Take my advice, Albert," said the baron, no such thing. Suppose that in your sleep you had lost 130,000 florins, do you think the bank would have restored it to yon? No, no; entertain no such scruples. Your father lost more than thrice that sum at those very tables, it is but a restitution in part. Keep your florins, and return with me to my hotel, where Emma is waiting to receive your visit. You have 130,000 there, I will excuse the other 70,000 upon which I formerly insisted, and you can make it up in love. Are you content; or must you restore the money to the bank?"

History has not recorded the lover's reply; at all events, he quitted Ems that same day in company with the Baron von Hohendorf and his pretty daughter. The prescriptions of the learned physician have, it is said, already effected a cure, and the Frankfort Journal of last week announces the approaching marriage of i Mdmlle. Von Hohendorf with Albert, Count of Steinberg.

SEA FROM SHORE.

Sea

IN the month of June, Prue and I like to walk upon the Battery toward sunset, and watch the steamers, crowded with passengers, bound for the pleasant places along the coast where people pass the hot months. side lodgings are not very comfortable, I am told, but who would not be a little pinched in his chamber, if his windows looked upon the sea? In such praises of the ocean do I indulge at such times, and so respectfully do I regard the sailors who may chance to pass, that Prue often says, with a shrewd smile, that my mind is a kind of Chelsea Hospital, full of abortive marine hopes and wishes, broken-legged intentions, blind regrets, and desires, whose hands have been shot away in some hard battle of experience, so that they cannot grasp the results towards which they reach. She is right, as usual. Such hopes and intentions do lie, ruined and hopeless now, strewn about the placid contentment of my mental life, as the old pensioners sit about the grounds at Chelsea, maimed and musing in the quiet morning sunshine. Many a one | among them thinks what a Nelson he would have been if both his legs had not been prematurely carried away; or in what a Trafalgar of triumph he would have ended, if, unfortunately, he had not happened to have been blown blind by the explosion of that unlucky magazine. So I dream, sometimes, of a straight scarlet collar, stiff with gold lace, around my neck, instead of this limp white cravat; and I have even brandished my quill at the office so cutlass-wise, that Titbottom has paused in his additions, and looked at me, as if he doubted whether I should come out quite square in my petty cash.

This is the secret of my fondness for the sea: I was born by it. Not more, surely, do Savoyards pine for the mountains, or Cockneys for the sound of Bow bells, than those who are born within sight and sound of the ocean, to return to it and renew their fealty. In dreams the children of the sea hear its voice. I have read in some book of travels that certain tribes of Arabs have no name for the ocean, and that when they came to the shore for the first time, they asked with eager sadness, as if penctrated by the conviction of a superior beauty, What, is that desert of water more beautiful than the land ?"

We who know the sea have less fairy feeling about it, but our realities are romance. My earliest remembrances are of a long range of old, half-dilapidated stores; red brick stores, with steep wooden roofs, and stone window

frames and door-frames, which stood upon docks built as if for immense trade with all quarters of the globe. Generally there were only a few sloops moored to the tremendous posts, which I fancied could easily hold fast a Spanish Armada in a tropical hurricane. But sometimes a great ship, an East Indiaman, came sailing up the harbour, slowly, lazily, with rusty, seamed, blistered sides, and dingy sails, with an air of indolent self-importance and consciousness of superiority, which inspired me with profound respect. If the ship had ever chanced to run down a rowboat or a sloop, or any specimen of smaller craft, I should only have wondered at the temerity of any floating thing in crossing the path of such supreme majesty. The ship was chained and cabled to the old dock, and then came the disembowelling.

How the stately monster had been fattening upon foreign spoils! How it had gorged itself (such galleons did never seem to me of the feminine gender) with the luscious treasures of the tropics! It had lain its lazy length along the shores of China, and sucked in whole flowery harvests of tea. The equatorial sun flashed through the strong wicker prisons, bursting with bananas and nectarean fruits that eschew the temperate zone. Steams of camphor, of sandal wood, arose from the hold. Sailors chanting cabalistic strains, that had to my ear, a shrill and monotonous pathos, like the uniform rising and falling of au autumn wind, turned cranks that lifted the bales, and boxes, and crates, and swung them ashore. But to my mind the spell of their singing raised the fragrant freight, and not the crank. Madagascar and Ceylon appeared at the mystic bidding of the song. The placid sunshine of the docks was perfumed with India. The universal calin of southern seas poured from the bosom of the ship, over the quiet, half decaying old northern port. Long after the confusion of unloading was over, and the ship lay as if all voyages were ended, I dared to creep timorously along the edge of the dock, and at great risk of falling into the black water of its huge shadow, I placed my hand upon the hot hulk, and so established a mystic and exquisite connection with Pacific islands, with palm-groves and all the passionate beauties they embower, with jungles, Bengal tigers, pepper, and the crushed feet of Chinese fairies. I touched Asia, the Cape of Good Hope, and the Happy Islands. I would not believe that the heat I felt was of our northern sun; to my finer sympathy it burned with equatorial fervours.

After school, in the afternoon, I strolled by and gazed into the solemn interiors. Silence reigned within,— silence, dimness, and piles of foreign treasure. Vast coils of cable, like tame boa-constrictors, served as seats for men with large stomachs, and heavy watch-scals and nankeen trousers, who sat looking out of the door toward the ships, with little other sign of life than an occasional low talking as if in their sleep. Huge hogsheads perspiring brown sugar and oozing slow molasses, as if nothing tropical could be kept within bounds, but must continually expand, and exude, and overflow, stood against the walls, and had an architectural significance, for they darkly reminded me of Egyptian prints, and in the duskiness of the low-vaulted store seemed cyclopean columus incomplete. Strange festoons and heaps of bags, square piles of square boxes cased in mats, bales of airy summer stuffs, 、which, even in winter, scoffed at cold, and shamed it by audacious assumption of eternal sun, little specimen boxes of precious dyes that even now shine through my memory, like whole Venetian schools unpainted,--these were all there in rich confusion. The stores had a twilight of dinness, the air was spicy with scores of mingled odours. I liked to look suddenly in from the glare of sunlight outside, and then the cool sweet dimness was like the palpable breath of the far off island-groves; and if only some parrot or macaw, hung within, would flaunt with glistening plumage in his cage, and as the gay huc flashed in a

chance sunbeam, call in his hard, shrill voice, as if thrusting sharp sounds upon a glistening wire from out that grateful gloom, then the enchantment was complete, and, without moving, I was circumnavigating the globe.

From the old stores and the docks slowly crumbling, touched, I know not why nor how, by the pensive air of past prosperity, I rambled out of the town on those wellremembered afternoons, to the fields that lay upon hillsides over the harbour, and there sat looking out to sea, fancying some distant sail proceeding to the glorious ends of the earth, to be my type and image, who would so sail stately and successful to all the glorious ports of the Future. Going home, I returned by the stores, which black porters were closing. But I stood long looking in, saturating my imagination, and, as it appeared, my clothes, with the spicy suggestion; for when I reached home-my thrifty mother-another Prue-came snuffing and smelling about me.

Why! my son (snuff, snuff), where have you been? (Snuff, snuff) Has the baker been making (snuff) gingerbread? You smell as if you'd been in (snuff, snuff) a bag of cinnamon."

I've only been on the wharfs, mother."

"Well, my dear, I hope you haven't stuck up your clothes with molasses. Wharfs are dirty places, and dangerous. You must take care of yourself, my son. Really, this smell is (snuff, snuff) very strong."

But I departed from the paternal presence proud and happy. I was aromatic; I bore about with ine the true foreign air. Whoever smelt me smelt distant countries. I had nutmeg, spices, cinnamon, and cloves, without the jolly red nose. I pleased myself with being the representative of the Indies. I was in good odour with myself, and all the world.-Putnam's Magazine.

OLD ENGLISH BATTLE-FIELDS.

WE may disapprove of war, we may desire to see the departure of the Battle Spirit, we may sigh over the sorrows of the fight, but it is impossible to pass over the field where a great contest was decided, without involving at once our memories and our sympathies with the occasion. There are but few portions of English soil that are not rich and fruitful from the blood of our ancestors; the memory of the old strife is kept alive by the barrows and mounds lying over the plain, by the song of the minstrel so truthful in its typographic delineations, but the monument in the Temple of Peace, by the detail of the prosy old chronicler, by the charters and the parchments wrung from unwilling hands upon the plain. By the ambition and treachery of man the world almost has been transformed into a vast battle-field; every step in the progress of man until within the last half century, has been obtained at the point of the sword, and this is especially the case with England: the curtain of her history arises over a battle-plain, Cæsar and his legions contending with British bravery and prowess; and we may well conceive that Milton's description of our early English history, between the conquests by the Romans, and the settlement of the Heptarchy, as but the continued battling of kites and crows, was true.

But there are a few battle-plains that transcend all others in importance, they are the great spots upon which were enacted events significant in the settlement of the affairs of a country, and indicative of change in the affairs of the globe; where a brave race has, for instance, been struck down by rude foreign invasion, or where a people slowly and magnificently ascended to a tyrant's level, and made a quailing coward shiver before their power; or when in a state old things and new things came into collision, and the dreadful test as to the relative power of old might and young right had to be applied, or