Yankee, who sees nothing but the future. The Dutch have customs, and, of course, manners; while the tendency of modern New York life is adverse to both. The citizen of to-day cannot help looking upon the Dutch spirit as "slow," but he has an instinctive respect for it, notwithstanding.

One single Dutch custom still maintains its ground triumphantly, in spite of the hurry of business, the selfishness of the commercial spirit, and the efforts of a few paltry fashionists, who would fain put down everything in which a suspicion of heartiness can be detected. It is the custom of making New Year visits on the first day of January, when every lady is at home, and every gentleman goes the rounds of his entire acquaintance; flying in and flying out, it is true, but still with an expression of good-will and friendly feeling that is invaluable in a community where daily life is so much under the control of that cabalistic word-business. Ladies are in high party-trim, and refreshments of various kinds are offered; but the main point and recognised meaning of the whole is the interchange of friendly greetings.

No one, not to the manner born, can estimate the glow of feeling that characterizes these flying visits. "As iron sharpeneth iron, so doth the countenance of a man his friend." The mere looking into each other's faces is good for human creatures; and when the sincere even though transient light of kindly feeling beams from the eyes that thus encounter, something is done against egotism, haughty disregard and blank oblivion. Many a coolness dies on New Year's Day, under a battery of smiles; many a hard thought is shamed away by the good wishes of the season. Old friends, who are inevitably separated most of the time, thus meet at least once a year, for the enthusiasm of the hour is potent enough to make the valetudinarian forsake his easy chair, and the cripple his crutches. Visiting hours are extended so as to include all the hours from ten in the morning until ten at night, and, in order to make the most of these, the gentlemen take carriages and scour the streets at the true American pace, so as to lose as little time as possible on the way. If a storm occur, it is considered quite a public misfortune, since it lessens, though it never altogether prevents the fulfilment of the annual ceremony. It is true that both ladies and gentlemen are death-weary when bed-time comes, but that for once a year is no great evil. It is true that some young men will take more whiskeypunch, or champagne, than is becoming; but for one who does this there are many who decline "all that can intoxicate," except smiles and kind words. In some houses the blinds are closed, the gas lighted, and a band of music in attendance; and each batch of visitors inveigled into polkas or kedowas, for which the lady of the house has taken care to provide partners. But this is considered a degeneracy, and voted mauvais ton by those who understand the thing. To "throw a perfume o'er the violet," bespeaks the French coiffeur or the parvenu; the simplicity of the ancient Dutch custom of New Year visits is its dignity and glory. Long may it live unspoiled by vulgar fashion! Well were it for the island city if she had kept a loving hold on many another quaint festivity of her ancestors on the other side of the water. Her prosperity would be none the worse of a respectful reference to the good things of the past.

THE PRICE OF A CORONET.

BY MRS. WARD.

A LADY, exquisitely fair, with dark shining bands of hair drawn back from her classic brow, stood beneath the centre chandelier of a brilliantly-lighted ball-room. She had been dancing, and was surrounded by a knot of distinguished men of the county, each anxious to have the honour of handing her to her carriage. She was no longer a girl, for she had been the beauty of that county for some years. She still carried the palm most loftily, albeit younger aspirants smiled at her pretensions, and college youths, whose conversation had no charms for her, affected to depreciate her as passée.

The morning sun streamed through the roseate drapery of Maude Greville's chamber windows, and mocked the light of the wax tapers of her mirror. Before that mirror she sat and scanned the features that had an hour before been illumined with smiles. Heavy tears rolled down that lovely but fading face. Pale, dejected, with tresses all unbound, who would have recognised in that forlorn and weeping creature, the still-admired, handsome, Miss Greville!

By mere chance that night a chord had been touched by the mention of the name of her first love. She had heard him alluded to by one who had left him only the day before.

Ten years ago, she had made her first appearance in a public ballroom, side by side with that young lover-her first friend in life, her first playmate. She paused, her head resting on her hands, and called up from the depths of memory the echo of his gay laugh, his frank boyish air, his burning, earnest words, his sorrow-stricken look on seeing her coquet with a man whom she despised "only to try" if Henry loved her-his remonstrances, her sharp retort.

Again-she was beside him; he was bidding her farewell, mournfully, yet with something like scorn upon his lip; while she, with her heart aching in response to that proud good-bye, smiled calmly-as calmly gave her hand in token of a common-place adieu, and turning away with a steady step, bent it homewards, to seek her own apartment, close the door, and there weep bitterly at the result of her own vanity.

She slept at last, and dreamt of that cold, grey morning when she had risen to listen at her window for the sound of retreating chariotwheels; and how, when this sound had ceased, she had cast her eyes upon the sweet scenes of peace and beauty before her, and felt-what a strange feeling it is in a young mind!-how all outward things had lost their interest, since he whose presence had brightened all, was gone. Alas! one kind word from her lips, one glance of regard from her eye, would have recalled him; but the demon of pride held her in his toils, and while she grieved at being deserted, as she wrongly called it, she bore a front utterly unworthy of the heart within: the bloom of that heart was yet unsullied. But ambition waited to stalk in when love made way. And thus, never loving another, she turned from wealth to rank, undecided which to take; sometimes both were offered, and still the fiend of ambition held up his false mirror, with the shadows of higher destinies beckoning her onwards. a

On the night on which I have introduced Maude to the reader, she had been distinguished by the notice of one who blended rank, wealth, power, interest, with what her stirring and ambitious heart loved better than all-fame! He was a statesman, with vast possessions, and the favourite of his sovereign. Maude accepted, with a beating heart, the homage of the great man's eye. She lent a willing ear to his courtly compliments. She triumphed in the light of his rare smile. She met his lofty courtesy with proud complacency. A few hours of suffering were all she permitted herself to give to her early attachment. Before her lay a futurity of loneliness-beauty faded-the world's neglect ; nay, worse, its pity !—and others, fair as she had been, filling her place in the wreath of youth and loveliness.

It was the morning following the fête, which had been rendered remarkable by the Marquis of Haughtonville's devotion to Maude Greville. He had proposed calling at Greville Place to see her father's collection of fine pictures. He came before the hour appointed. Maude, in her elegant morning costume, was more attractive in the old lord's eyes than in festal array. Cunningly was the little boudoir draperied; tall odorous plants dimmed the light from the windows, their delicate leaves exquisitely contrasted with the curtains of pale rose. A conservatory opened from the apartment: a fountain scattered its silver shower from a mimic shell of alabaster, over twining plants from far-off sunny lands, and unseen music from an elegant work-table added illusion to the graceful scene. Maude reclined on a silken couch, apparently at work-the basket beside her filled with gorgeous-coloured wools; but she was idle. The bright hues, the half-embroidered cushion, the manifold devices scattered about, were all for effect-and Maude succeeded.

"What an elegant woman, and not too young!" thought the Marquis, as he caught sight of his bald head in a large mirror.

"What a noble-looking man!" thought Maude. "Scarcely past his prime. And then his position! A younger man could not have

reached that."

With what a quiet grace she did the honours of her father's table at luncheon ! How soft the voice and that touch of sadness in the smile!-inexplicable to Lord Haughtonville, but most attractive to the blasé man, who, albeit fashionable, was refined !

"After all," thought the Marquis, "the matured affections of a woman like this are more worth to me than the fancy of a young untried heart! My house wants a mistress. Here is one well suited

to my exalted station; and though of good birth, fair fortune, and sufficient beauty, she is one who will appreciate the honour I bestow, and do me no discredit."

On the 10th of April Maude drove from Greville Place, in the prettiest equipage you can imagine. A marquis's coronet adorned the panels. Her trousseau was perfect; her diamonds hereditary; and the passée Miss Greville made a magnificent and tolerably fresh marchioness.

She was sufficiently new to fashionable life to be honestly and visibly shocked at much that she heard and saw; and though such fastidiousness would have been laughed at in Miss Greville, it was charming in the wife of the powerful Marquis of Haughtonville. Maude was supremely happy for a month: the world was kneeling at her feet. Strange that we should value what our principles teach us to despise !

VOL. XXX.

C

Ah, to see Lady Haughtonville driving round the Park in June! with cavaliers on prancing steeds caracoling round her equipage, eager for her haughty bow! Who could tell of an aching heart behind the smile— the face veiled in blonde, the roses shedding their soft hue on her cheek, touched, only touched with rouge! Already she was wellschooled; the rouge concealed the pallor of the cheek; the ready smile the anguish of her soul.

The courteous and popular Lord Haughtonville - the renowned statesman, the idol of society abroad-was the demon of discomfort at home. Vain, pompous, accustomed to rule; the little gracious feeling possessed by him being kept for expenditure at court, the marquis was as disagreeable in private life as he was popular in public.

From the time when Henry Nugent said "Good-bye!" and, after waiting vainly for a word, a look of recall, had departed proudly sorrowful, Maude Greville and he had never met. Theirs had not been a light passion of a few months' endurance; they had played together, grown up together, but the tie which years should have strengthened, had been sundered in a day! . . . . . Maude saw her first lover again—but he knew her not.

Sitting one morning in her carriage at Howell and James's, waiting for a fashionable friend, the sound of a familiar voice struck on her ear, and made her start to her feet for a moment. Close by, on the pavement, arm in arm with a gentleman of her acquaintance, stood Mr. Nugent. He was comparatively little altered. There was the same honest expression of face-the pleasant smile-the very hair was parted off the open brow in the old way.

Lady Haughtonville's heart beat. The gentleman with Mr. Nugent turned round once, recognised her, and bowed. Her former lover stopped speaking while his friend paid this courtesy; he even looked at her for an instant, but, full of his subject, he drew the other away, and they both passed up the street together. He had forgotten her! But how was Nugent to recognise his early girlish love veiled in blonde and splendidly attired?

Midnight in the vast city! The Marquis of Haughtonville has become Duke of Agincourt. He sits alone in his library. It is a strange solitude that, with the thoughts of the living and the dead gathered round one, while Time rings his knell! What matter whether his march be beaten by an iron, a leaden, or a golden bell! How few joyous hours he marks: how many knells he rings!

There sat the Duke of Agincourt, watching the golden dial. The door opened noiselessly; a physician sleek, smooth, and quiet, entered. He "hoped that ere long all would be well, and that he should have to congratulate the duke on the birth of an heir to his magnificent title and possessions."

Rising from his luxurious chair, the statesman accompanied the physician up the illuminated staircase of his princely mansion.

Silence in the chamber that had well nigh been that of death! Alas! from the anteroom was heard a father's murmurs! A daughter had been born. A child, indeed, but no heir!

No happy words are whispered in unison by thankful parents. The duke departs from the anteroom, muttering vain repinings; and the duchess stretches out her exhausted arms for her child, and tears of unmitigated anguish rain down upon its unconscious little face.

"A daughter," said the duke moodily to himself, as he strode up and down his library. "No future Duke of Agincourt! First and last of the title-no heir shall follow me and I am already an old man!"

What a picture of gloomy discontent was presented by the great statesman in this dark hour! Oh that a poor man could have looked through the rich draperied windows of that costly library, and learned a golden lesson !

On the gorgeous couch of that magnificent apartment, the Duke of Agincourt was discovered dead one morning, as the light streamed in from the windows opened by a servant !

What now availed the statesman's hopes or disappointments? What mattered it to him that there was no longer a Duke of Agincourt ?-that his political career had been glorious to the end-when he lay surrounded by hired watchers? What could he care for waving plumes and emblazoned insignia? Of what value to him now was his coronet gleaming on its velvet cushion?-he could have no satisfaction in the list of titles that decorated his coffin lid. There he lay, stretched out "in state," and curious gazers came and wondered at the gorgeous mummery!

One soft summer's evening, when Nature and Nature's children made holiday, when birds murmured their vespers in the hedgerows, and the haymakers came homeward singing, a plain travelling carriage stopped at a turnpike near the village of Limewood, and the postilions, asking their way to the Limes, were directed down a road shaded by the fine trees, whence the property took its name. The carriage contained the Duchess of Agincourt, and her invalid daughter Lady Ellen.

It was a sequestered village, very beautiful, and, from its sheltered aspect, well suited to the drooping plant the poor mother brought here for change of air. The Duchess had been happy here in her youth. She had passed many years of early girlhood at the Rectory with her uncle; it was in the old churchyard she had first met Henry Nugent. In after years she was wont to say there had been something ominous in their presentation to each other in that little world of death and graves; and there under the old yews they had parted. The old rector had long since been gathered among the dead in the church-yard.

Day had not yet faded, and the Duchess sat at the open window of her quiet drawing-room, gazing sadly on the dim outline of the ivied tower of the village church. The little Lady Ellen lay on a couch moaning in her sleep. Slow tears chased each other down the Duchess's cheek she could do nothing to alleviate the pangs of the sufferer. "May I come in ?" said a child's voice at the window.

It was a little girl of eight years old to whom Lady Ellen had taken a fancy in her walks. The nurse only knew she was the Rector's granddaughter. The young invalid started and awoke at the sound of her playmate's voice, and asked for flowers and some toy which she had promised her. Mary, that was the only name Lady Ellen knew her by, held a rich cluster of roses over her-the sick child laughed and sprang up with eager hands to seize the fragrant offering, the outstretched arms fell listlessly down, a sudden spasm convulsed the features—there was a gasp, a feeble cry, and the Duchess, springing forward, caught her child to her bosom. She parted the sunny hair from the tense brow. They brought lights-the sweet eyes were closed in death.