distraction. She was more than human to me,-she was a fairy, a sylph,-I don't know what she was: anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink-no looking down or looking back. I was gone headlong before I had sense to say a word to her. I don't remember who was there except Dora; I have not the least idea of what we had for dinner except Dora; my impression is that I dined off Dora entirely. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways that ever led a lost youth into hopless slavery. All I know of the rest of the evening, is, that I heard the empress of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French language, generally to the effect that whatever was the matter we ought always to dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra, la! That I retired to bed in a maudlin state of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation. It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would go and take a stroll in the garden, and indulge my passion by dwelling on her image. On my way through the hall I encountered her little dog, who was called Jip. I approached him tenderly, for I loved even him, but he shewed his whole set of teeth, got under a chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn't hear of the least familiarity. I had not been walking long when I turned a corner, and

met-HER.

"You-are-out early, Miss Spenlow."

"It's so stupid at home on a Sunday morning when I don't practice. I must do something. Besides it's the brightest time of the whole day. Don't you think so?"

I hazarded a bold flight, and said, that it was very bright to me then, though it had been very dark a minute before. "Do you mean a compliment? or that the weather has changed?"

I stammered worse than before, in replying, that I meant no compliment, but the plain truth; I was not aware of any change having taken place in the weather. It was in the state of my own feelings.

"You have just come home from Paris?" said I. "Yes," said she. Have you ever been there?"

"No!"

66

"Oh! I hope you'll go soon! You would like it so much!" Traces of deep-seated anguish appeared in my countenance. That she should hope I would go, that she could think it possible I could was insupportable. I depreciated Paris, I depreciated France. I said I wouldn't leave England under

existing circumstances for any earthly consideration. She was
shaking the curls again, when the little dog came running along
the ground to our relief. He was mortally jealous of me, and
persisted in barking at me. She took him up in her arms and-
oh, my goodness!-caressed him. If it had lasted any longer, I
think I should have gone down on my knees on the gravel walk.
How many cups
of tea I drank because she made it I don't
know. But I perfectly remember that I sat swallowing tea
until my whole nervous system (if I had any in those days)
must have gone by the board. By-and-bye we went to church.
I heard Dora sing, and the congregation vanished. A sermon
was delivered-of course, about Dora-and I am afraid that is
all I know of the service. We had a quiet day. No company, a
walk, a family dinner of four, and an evening of looking over
books and pictures. Ah! little did Mr. Spenlow imagine, when
he sat opposite to me after dinner that day with his pocket hand-
kerchief over his head, how fervently I was embracing him in
fancy as his son-in-law. Little did he think, when I took
leave of him at night, that (in the same fancy) he had just
given his consent to my being engaged to Dora, and that I
was invoking blessings on his head! It came to pass that Mr.
Spenlow told me this day week was Dora's birthday, and that
he would be glad if I would come down and join a little pic-
nic on the occasion. I went out of my senses immediately,
became a mere driveller next day, on receipt of a little lace-
edged sheet of note-paper,-" Favoured by papa. To remind."
At six in the morning I was at Covent Garden Market buying
a bouquet for Dora; at ten I was on horseback. I hired a
gallant grey for the occasion-with the bouquet in my hat to
keep it fresh-trotting down to Norwood. There was a young
lady with her, one comparatively stricken in years-almost
twenty I should say. Her name was Miss Mills. Dora called
her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss
Mills. My jealousy of the ladies knew no bounds. But all
of my own sex, especially one imposter with a Red Whisker
were my mortal foes.

We unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting dinner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad. Some of the young ladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under his directions. Dora was one of these. I felt that fate had pitted me against this man, and one of us must fall. Red Whisker made his salad, (I wondered how they could eat it, nothing should have induced me to touch it.) By-and-bye I saw him, with the majority of a lobster on his plate, eating his dinner at the feet of

Dora. I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after this hateful object presented itself to me. I was very merry, I know, but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young creature in pink with little eyes, and flirted with her desperately. I caught Dora's eye, and I thought it looked appealing, but it looked at me over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant. Whilst the remnants of the dinner were being put away, I strolled by myself among the trees in a raging and remorseful state. I was debating whether I should pretend I was not well and fly-I don't know where upon my gallant grey; when Dora and Miss Mills met me.

"Mr. Copperfield," said Miss Mills, "you are dull."
I begged her pardon, "Not at all."
"And Dora you are dull!"

"Oh, dear no! Not in the least."

"Mr. Copperfield and Dora. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which once put forth and blighted, can never be renewed. I speak from the past the irrevocable past. The oasis in the desert of Sahara must not be plucked up idly." I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary extent; but I took Dora's little hand and kissed it-and she let me. I kissed Miss Mill's hand, and we all seemed to go straight up to the seventh heaven, and we did not come down again. We stayed there all the evening. "Dora is coming to stay with me," said Miss Mills, "she is coming home with me to-morrow. If you would call I am sure papa would be happy to see you." What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills' head! and store Miss Mills' address in the securest corner of my memory!

Miss

When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. Arrayed at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills', fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be: nobody wanted him. Mills was at home; Miss Mills would do. I was shewn into a room up-stairs where Miss Mills and Dora were: Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music-a new song, Affection's Dirge. Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden purchase. I can't say that they were very like, or that they resembled any flowers that have ever come. under my observation; but I knew from the paper round them, which was very accurately copied, what the composition

was.

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry that papa was not at home: but I thought we all bore that with uncommon fortitude. Miss Mills, laying down her pen, got up and left the room. I began to think I would put it off till

to-morrow.

"I hope your poor horse wasn't tired when he got home at night! It was a long way for him!"

I began to think that I would do it to-day.

"It was a long way for him," said I, "for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey."

"Wasn't he fed poor thing?" asked Dora.

I began to think I would put off till to-morrow.

"Ye-yes," said I, "he was well taken care of—I mean— that he hadn't the unutterable happiness of being so near you."

"You didn't seem sensible of that happiness yourself at one time of the day."

I saw I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot. "You didn't care for that happiness in the least, when you were sitting by Miss Kitt." (Kitt was the name of the creature in pink with the little eyes.) "Though certainly I don't know why you should, or why you shouldn't call it a happiness at all. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here."

I don't know how I did it. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time. Dora hung her head and trembled, my eloquence increased the more. If she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora's love was not a thing to have, on any terms: I couldn't bear it, and I wouldn't. I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her every minute to distraction. Lovers had loved before, lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved might, could, would, or should ever love as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. So Dora and I were engaged.— Dickens.

COUNT ABEL.

[By kind permission of CHARLES DICKENS, Esq.]

THROUGH the woods of Normandy, and past the yellow

haunted meres,

Rode Count Abel, at the sunrise, in a girth of fifty spears; Bright his eye, and broad his forehead; and in many

wrinkled mass

Rolled his tawn hair down his shoulders, like a scarp of shining brass.

Bridal colours, gorgeous favours, knight and swart retainers

wore,

And the keen points of their lances twisted rose and lily bore; Cheerly blew the morning breezes; cheerly, over holt and lea, Rang the silver-hearted steeples to the bridal company.

As they pricked with jest and laughter through the blasted Linden dells,

On the wind there slid the clamours, low and long, of funeral bells,

Solemn wailings, like the noises heard upon a northern shore, When the grim sea-caves are tideless and the storm strives at their core.

As along the dusky pine-lands in a silent band they spurred, The bell-throated lamentation louder to the south was heard, Peals of heart-delivered anguish, seething, steaming to the skies,

Like the writhing smoke uplifted from some mountain sacrifice. Where a freshet, amber-sided, trickled lightnings through the gorse,

The brave bridegroom, fair Count Abel, turned aside and reined his horse;

Placed his hand within his bosom, and from out his doublet's fold

Slowly drew, with trembling hand, a jewelled disk of ruddy gold.

"Come hither, Bertrand, to my side; come hither, loving trusty knight;

Look, and tell me what thou seest hidden in the locket bright? By the sword that smote thy shoulders, and the great badge

thou dost wear,

Take the trinket in thy palm, and say what thou beholdest there."