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brace, while a curse sprang to his lips. The poor youth tottered and reeled, fell forward, striking his forehead, as he fell, violently against a marble pedestal upon which stood an alabaster statue of the Madonna, and the warm blood spouted from his gashed temples over the cold, white robes of the image.
It was a spectacle of horror!—and the guilty being gazed wildly upon his prostrate brother, and thought of Abel and his murderer; upon the red-springled image, and laughed, “Ha! ha ha!" as maniacs laugh, at the fitness of his first offeringa mangled brother-at the shrine of the virgin mother.
The momentary but terrific spell upon his reason passed away; and throwing himself upon the senseless boy, he attempted to stop the ebbing current of life as it trickled in a small red stream down his pale forehead, steeping his auburn curls in gore, at the same time, calling loudly and madly for assistance.
His father, followed by the servants, rushed into the library. "Help Sir, my brother is dying !" he cried wildly.
The old man sprang forward and caught his bleeding child in his arms. His practised eye at once comprehended the extent of the injury he had sustained. He had received a deep cut in the shape of a crescent over the left eye brow, yet not severe enough to endanger life. The free flow of the blood soon restored him to his senses, and opening his eyes, as his father, with a tender hand, staunched the bubbling blood, he fixed them upon his brother with an expression that eloquently spoke forgiveness.
"God pity me!" exclaimed the repentant and now brokenspirited boy; for that look went to his heart: and burying his face in his hands, he precipitately left the room.
The long and bitter hours of grief, remorse and shame, he suffered in the solitude of his own room, no tongue but his who has felt like him, can utter. He experienced sentiments of hatred for himself, a loathing and detestation that tempted him to put a period at once to his own existence. When he recalled the reproving yet forgiving look of his suffering and magnanimous brother, he felt degraded in his own eyes, fallen, lowly fallen, in his own self-esteem. That he must be in his brother's he was painfully aware, and for the first time he felt that the gentle-natured Henri was his superior.
Day closed in night, and night opened into morning, for many long and tedious weeks, and still the old soldier sat by the bed-side of his wounded child.
The generous boy, too honourable to prevaricate, yet too
forgiving and fond of his brother to expose all the truth, had told him that he had fallen against the pedestal, but not that Achille had thrust him against it.
Their father never knew the agency of Achille in the accident; yet, bearing testimony to the truth of the maxim, that suspicion is the hand-maiden of guilt, Achille suspected that he was informed of all the circumstances connected with the act. This suspicion, giving its own tinge to the medium through which he viewed and commented upon his father's deportment toward him after the accident, led him to conclusions as unjust as they were unmerited by his parent. Acting from these conclusions, he shunned his society, and never entered his presence but with a sullen air of defiance.
Occasionally he visited the chamber of his brother, when, in answer to his frequent inquiries of the nurse, he learned that he slept; and pressing the fevered hand, or kissing the cheek of the sleeping sufferer, he would watch over him with the tenderness of a mother till the restless motions of the invalid, indicating the termination of his slumbers, or the heavy footsteps of his father ascending the stair-way in the hall, warned him to return to the seclusion of his own room, or the deeper solitudes of the woods.
A few months passed away, during which Achille became a student within the walls of the university not far from his paternal home; while his brother, entirely recovered, accompanied his parent on his tour.
The period of Achille's residence at the university afforded no incidents which exerted any influence over his subsequent years. It glided away pleasantly and rapidly. He was known by the professors as one, who, never in his study, or a consumer of midnight oil, yet always prepared for the recitation room; and by his fellows, as a young man of violent passions, honourable feelings, chivalrous in points of honour, a warm friend, and magnanimous enemy. Often violent and headstrong in his actions, he was just and equitable in his intercourse with those around him. With a love for hilarity and pleasure, he never descended to mingle in the low debauches and nightly sallies, which, from time immemorial, have characterized the varieties of college life.
At the early age of nineteen, he received its honours, and bidding adieu to the classic walls within which he had passed so many happy hours-the happiest of his life-he proceeded to an adjacent port, where he expected his father to disembark, on his return from his residence abroad.
THE most ancient and interesting building in the parish of Islington, Middlesex, is Canonbury House, so called from having been the country mansion of the Prior of the Canons of St. Bartholemew, in Smithfield; to which foundation the manor of Canonbury belonged until the dissolution of religious houses. The date 1362, yet remaining on a stone in front of a house raised on part of the old premises, may, with great probability, be considered as referring to the period at which a mansion was first erected here. Stow says that William Bolton (who was Prior of St. Bartholemew from 1509 till his death in 1532) "builded of new the manor of Canonbury at Islington;" which fact is corroborated by the Priors rebras, a bird bolt in a tun, yet to be seen in the old building, and in various parts of the garden wall.
The greater part of this mansion has been for a good many years converted into private dwellings; which, with others more recently erected on the same spot, compose a cluster of houses bearing the name of Canonbury Place. Some of these, which have been formed out of the old building, yet retain internally several remains of ancient ornament, in carved chimney pieces, stuccoed ceilings, &c. The general character of the place as again altered by the hand of modern refinement, now presents a striking contrast between the domestic architecture and interior decoration of ancient and present times. The lofty folding sash window opening to the lawn and shrubbery from a parlour ornamented with the light and fashionable furniture of the day is here opposed to the subtantial oak wainscoat, the heavy stuccoed ceiling, and the ponderous chimney ornaments of the 16th Century.
The most striking part of the ancient building at Canonbury is a tower of brick, about 17 feet square and 60 feet high, with rooms attached, and which, both externally and internally, retain much of its original aspect. At the entrance is a spacious hall, with kitchen and other offices. The ascent to the tower, and the several rooms connected therewith, is by an oaken staircase of considerable width. The structure rises to the height of seven stories, and contains, on its several floors, in all 23 apartments; two of which are of large dimensions and ornamented with carved oak wainscots. The staircase is continued to the leads, from which a fine panoramic view is obtained of the metropolis and adjoining villages. On the