no mere windy suspiration of forced breath," a stranger assures us, that Scottish minstrel* who turns, however, from mourning over Borromeo to congratulate Gaspar Visconti on his promotion to the vacant see. From the books of travel, by Englishmen of mark, which, at sundry times, and in divers manners, have described this time-honoured "lying in state," we select two passages to the purpose- -one from Addison, the other from Talfourd-with a century and a half between.

66

a

"There is just before the entrance of the choir," writes Addison, little subterraneous chapel, dedicated to St. Charles Borromée, where I saw his body, in episcopal robes, lying upon the altar in a shrine of rockcrystal. His chapel is adorned with abundance of silver work. He was but two-and-twenty years old when he was chosen Archbishop of Milan, and forty-six at his death; but made so good use of so short a time, by his works of charity and munificence, that his countrymen bless his memory, which is still fresh among them. He was canonised about a hundred years ago; and, indeed," adds the future Tatler and Spectator, in the true spirit of those coming shadows" if this honour were due to any man, I think such public-spirited virtues may lay a juster claim to it, than a sour retreat from mankind, a fiery zeal against Heterodoxies, a set of chimerical visions, or of whimsical penances, which are generally the qualifications of Roman saints."+

"During the three days we spent at Milan," writes the late Mr. Justice Talfourd, "we made several visits to the cathedral, returning wearied from other sights to seek unfailing refreshment in beholding it; and, at last, we applied the silver key of five francs to the sepulchre where the great and good Cardinal Borromeo, in his proper person, lies amidst treasures of gold and gems. Whether the wealth be real or simulated is a question of little moment"—especially, we may remark in passing, to the cardinal himself ;-"in either case the mockery of earthly pomp is the same; but the exhibition of the actual remains of famed and titled mortality has a freezing interest for us poor humans.' That chamber of the grave, which Sir Thomas Browne would think too garish, preserves something nearer to life than a skeleton or a mummy, in the quintessence of dust' which it contains. On that skin of parchment yet lingers or seems to linger an expression of anxious benevolence; painful like that which lives in the memory of all those who knew the living Charles Lamb, but retaining still a trace of ineffable sweetness yet claimed from the grave. In gazing on it with admiring sympathy, I felt assured that of all human qualities gentleness is the most imperishable in death as in life; because gentleness has in it none of the elements of decay which blend with fierce passions and proud virtues. Here, not only did the ashes of the just' in moral power achieve a victory over the grave, but the very dust itself bore witness to the angelic nature which possessed it living."

6

* Crichton. See Translations appended to Ainsworth's "Ballads, &c."

† Addison's "Remarks on Several Parts of Italy, &c., in the Years 1701, 1702, 1703."

Talfourd's "Supplementary Vacation Rambles," ch. vii.

ON a comfortable sofa by the side of a large fire in a spacious drawingroom, lay a lady, young and handsome. Not, however, in the extreme of youth, or in girlhood, for she had been a wife and mother some years, and was getting towards eight or nine and twenty. Her face was deathly to look upon. Not a shade of colouring appeared in its features, even in the lips; and the eyes were not like eyes, but like two lumps of lead set in there. She had recently passed through a perilous illness, and though so far recovered as to be in the drawing-room, it could not be said she was out of danger. Excessive debility, continued inward fever, and a cough that could not be got rid of, struggled with each other now, and kept her down. She was lying with her eyes closed, awake, but in a sort of unresisting stupor: she mostly lay so all day long, and had done so for the last ten weeks. One, drawing near, could have heard her laboured breathing, rendering her sentences, when she did speak, abrupt and broken.

The room door opened, and a lad of six came in ; too boisterously-but how impart thoughtfulness to young children? He had his mother's handsome features, her expressive dark eyes, and her naturally fine colour. She slowly opened her eyes.

"I want to say good-by to you, mamma. Sophy was going to take me without, but I ran away from her."

"And have woke up your ma, like an obstinate boy as you are!" broke in Sophy. "I wonder, ma'am, you don't forbid his coming in, unless you please to ring for him.”

"I thought you were already at school, Algernon," she panted. "Is it not late?"

"Half-past two," said Sophy.

It was on the stroke of three, but the servants had sat gossiping over their dinner, and Sophy did not hurry herself to move. She thought her mistress, lying there, would not know whether it was late or early. The child drew near to kiss her.

66

Algernon, darling, be a good boy. Sophy, did you ask Mrs. Smith this morning how she was?"

"No, ma'am, I didn't think of it. She looked as usual." Mrs. Smith was Algernon's governess. She kept a day school. She was not strong, often complained of feeling ill, and Mrs. Grainger had got into the habit of asking Sophy how she was.

They left the room, and Mrs. Grainger relapsed into stillness. But thought came across her, troubling her mind, as it often did; though it made no outward sign.

Should she live? Or would this illness be her consignment to the grave? She could not bear to think of it: though her great weakness caused her to feel all anxiety, even this, less poignantly than would one in health. She could not bear to think of leaving her children; she

could not bear to think that another might ever usurp her place with her husband; be his wife, and their second mother. And yet-unless she speedily got better

The room door opened again, and the same child entered. Sophy also. "What has brought you back?" asked Mrs. Grainger.

"Mrs. Smith's very poorly, ma'am. Her head is so bad she felt it impossible to keep school this afternoon, so she has sent them all back again."

"How tiresome!" feebly uttered Mrs. Grainger.

"She desired her respects to you, ma'am, and she hoped you would excuse it for once, but that indeed she was too ill to bear their noise." "Well, well; children are troublesome when one is ill. Take him into the nursery, Sophy, and help nurse to amuse them. Algie, dear child, I am not well enough to have you here."

The boy bounded off, full of life and spirits, intending to play with, or tease, his sister Isabel: and what with thinking, dozing, and restlessly turning, the invalid got through another hour or two. The servants came in now and then, to see to the fire, or to urge refreshment on their mistress, and the next interruption was from Mr. Grainger.

He was a remarkably good-looking man, full of spirits as his little son, and he came in with a merry smile on his face, and a cheering word. No words but cheering ones were ever heard from him. He edged himself on to the sofa, and leaning over his wife, kissed her repeatedly. "Adam," she sighed, "I feel so low this afternoon!

never get better."

I know I shall

"You foolish girl! You are a mile and a half better than you were a week ago. And I have got some news for you."

"Yes?" she languidly answered.

"It's this. I called on Dr. Rice as I came home, and he assured me you were progressing towards recovery as fast as one, so ill as you have been, can progress. And he has engaged us to go there this day month, for he knows you will be ready for it.'

"How stupid he is!"

"You will not say so when you find him right. You have not had the baby in worrying you; or Algernon ?"

"No; not any of them."

"That's right! Did cook get you the oysters and do them nicely?" "She got them, but it was of no use. I cannot eat."

"But you must eat, Margaret," he answered, in a more serious tone. "It is no good going on, day after day, saying you cannot eat; you

must eat.'

"How can I? Everything I try to swallow is like dry chips in my throat. If my appetite should ever come back

"If! Now Margaret! How can you talk so? It is coming back. In a week's time you will be asking for mutton-chops all day long, and instead of your port wine being coddled into jelly, to take out the spirit and strength, you will be drinking half a dozen glasses a day."

She made no reply. Only sighed and got possession of his hand, lying with it pressed close to her, her eyes closed. He gazed at her in silence; and, now that she was not looking, the hopeful expression faded from his own face. He knew she was in a precarious state.

"Little has got into a splendid thing," he said, presently.

"Has he?"

"Some mines in Cornwall. He and some more fellows are going to work them. I expect, when the thing's regularly afoot, Little will be netting his thousands a year. It is astonishing to hear his account of the wealth opening to them. I have half a mind to drop my spare cash into it."

"Nonsense, Adam!"

I am

"Of course I must hear more about it first, and be all sure. going out after dinner to meet Little, and look at his plans and papers." "You will not stay late?" she said, anxiously. "I feel so dull in an evening."

"No fear, Margaret. I'll be off the minute dinner's over, and be back by eight; or half-past at latest. But don't you sit up till then when feel tired, go to bed."

you

Mr. Grainger's getting back at eight, proved to be ten. His head was whirling round with the grand projects for making wealth, just unfolded to him. They went out of it, however, when he found his wife still in the drawing-room, and he inquired, almost in anger, how she could be so imprudent.

"I waited for you," she said, scarcely able, now, to speak from exhaustion. "And I have too much bed. Up from it late, and going to it early! It makes me weaker. I know it does. To-morrow I shall get up to breakfast."

"Margaret! how can you speak so foolishly?"

"I shall. I shall get up and try it."

"Very well," he cheerfully said. He would not contest the point then, for she was in no state for it.

And the following morning she did get up. Not to breakfast, but directly after it. By ten o'clock she was in the drawing-room. Standing for a moment at the window, and looking out on the gay London street, she saw Sophy cross the road with Algernon in her hand, towards the house of the schoolmistress. It was partly within view, down a side street, at right angles with their own.

"Sad management!" she exclaimed, turning to her sofa. "Ten o'clock, and the child not taken! It is a sign I am away from everything."

She lay down, and presently, to her surprise, she heard the voice of Algernon on the stairs, talking to one of the servants. Sophy came in alone. "What have you brought him back for?" her mistress said, almost sharply.

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Smith is dead."

Mrs. Grainger rose up and looked at her, really doubting her ears. "What do you say, Sophy ?"

"Mrs. Smith is dead."

"Dead!"

it was

"Dead, ma'am. She died in the night. Her husband says decline, and she knew she should not get well, but she bore up to the last to keep the scholars together. I expect they had nothing else to live upon, for he gets no teaching at his foreign languages. He is cut up

above a bit, poor man, and says he did not know it was so very near. She was only thirty-one: and he don't look so old."

Mrs. Grainger motioned the gossiping servant to leave the room, and sank back on her sofa. Sharp thought came over her with its adder stings. Dead! And she had murmured in her heart at the child's being returned on their hands for one afternoon, fearful of his noise disturbing her, when this poor lady had struggled out her life in its midst !

II.

THE weeks rolled by, and Mrs. Grainger was recovering. Not quite so speedily as her physician had hopefully prophesied, but, on the whole, very well. A shade of pink was returning to her cheeks, she only lay down now and then, and, greatest sign of all, her naturally vigorous mind was resuming its tone. As to her husband, his whole thoughts and heart were concentred upon one point--the Great Trebeddon Mines.

One day, a little later than his usual hour for returning, he came bustling in, tearing up the stairs four at a time. His wife was in the drawingroom, one of her little children on her knee.

"How are you, Margaret? All right, I see. dinner ?"

"For dinner!"

"Because I have asked Little.

"To-day! I wish I had known. addition."

What have you got for

He'll be here in a minute or two."

There's no time now to make any

"Oh, Little's not particular. He will take pot-luck. I told him so. Really, Margaret, the vista opening to that man is truly astonishing." "He is lucky."

"I am so glad you are well enough to be down with us in the diningroom, you will be so interested in what he says. Everybody must be. I declare I would rather have that man's prospects than be heir to the first dukedom in the three kingdoms."

Mrs. Grainger laughed.

"Indeed-there's his knock! Pack off that child, Margaret. Stay! I'll ring the nursery bell."

He had tried his

George Little was a man of forty; but, in spite of his having attained that sober age, he was in no settled condition of life. The fact was, his was a nature too enthusiastic for common business. hand at many things; schemes chiefly; and could not be said to have succeeded in any. Either he had grown tired of them, or they of him. A fine fortune, of his own, had long been dissipated, and he had always some new project on hand, by which it was going to be redeemed. He was good-hearted, good-natured, and good-tempered; a little, quick man of rapid, eager speech, with a keen, dark eye, set deep in his head, and plenty of intellect above it. Just now he was wild-wild-about these mining schemes he had got hold of.

"Such a thing, ma'am !" he protested to Mrs. Grainger, when he was fairly launched on his subject after dinner, and his earnest look and tone proved his perfect faith in what he asserted, "such a piece of luck that is not met with once in a century! You have heard of Trebeddon ?"