My Thrush. ALL through the sultry hours of June, And till the star of evening climbs God's poet, hid in foliage green, Right seldom come his silent times. Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! Nor from these confines wander out, Commits all day his murderous crimes: May I not dream God sends thee there, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes Closer to God art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent ether's sunnier climes. Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! MORTIMER COLLINS. TEMPLE BAR. SEPTEMBER 1864. CONTENTS. ART. I. THE DOCTOR'S WIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S XXVII. "AND NOW I LIVE, AND NOW MY LIFE IS DONE!" XXIX. THE FIRST WHISPER OF THE STORM. II. THE STREETS OF THE WORLD. BOULOGNE: THE RUE DE L'ECU. BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA III. TOWNS ON THE AVON PAGE 155 IV. BROKEN TO HARNESS. A STORY OF ENGLISH DOMESTIC Lifa. IX. PAID IN FULL. BY HENRY J. BYRON CHAPTER XVII. THE GLENBURNS GO OUT OF TOWN. NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE DOCTOR'S WIFE." ONLY A CLOD This New Novel commenced in the August Number of the ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE, which also contains the opening chapters of an Original Tale by Paul Feval, author of "The Duke's Motto," &c. The "ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE" for August began a New Volume. Price One Shilling, Monthly. LONDON: TEMPLE BAR OFFICE, 122 FLEET STREET. NEW YORK: WILLMER AND ROGERS. The right of publishing translations of articles in this Magazine is reserved. b ONLY PRIZE MEDAL At the Great Exhibition, 1862. Sold by all Grocers, Druggists, &c., throughout the United Kingdom. PAPER & ENVELOPES. THE PUBLIC SUPPLIED AT WHOLESALE PRICES, Carriage paid to the Country on Orders exceeding 20s. AND USEFUL CREAM NOTE 2s. Od. per Ream SUPERFINE CREAM-LAID SUPERFINE ditto SUPERFINE THICK ditto 3s. Od. ENVELOPES. 3s. Od. 4s. 6d. SERMON PAPER CIAL) ditto NO CHARGE for Stamping Crests, Initials, Arms, or Address on Paper or Envelopes. 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PARTRIDGE & COZENS, 192 FLEET STREET, & 1 & 2 CHANCERY LANE, LONDON, E.C. Price-List post-free. Trade supplied. KINAHAN'S LL WHISKY V. COGNAC BRANDY. THIS celebrated old IRISH WHISKY rivals the finest French Brandy. It is pure, mild, mellow, delicious, and very wholesome. Sold in bottles, 38. 8d., at the retail houses in London; by the agents in the princi pal towns in England; or, wholesale, at 8 Great Windmill Street, Haymarket, W. Observe the red seal, pink label, and cork branded "Kinahan's LL Whisky.' TEMPLE BAR. SEPTEMBER 1864. The Doctor's Wife. BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," &c. &c. CHAPTER XXVI. A POPULAR PREACHER. HAT could she do? The fabric of all her dreams was shivered WHAT like a cobweb in a sudden wind, and floated away from her for ever. Every body Had misunderstood her. Even he, who should have been a demigod in power of penetration as in every other attribute, -even he had wronged and outraged her, and never again could she look trustfully upward to the dark beauty of his face; never again could her hand rest, oh, so lightly, for one brief instant on his arm; never again could she tell him in childish confidence all the vague yearnings, the innocently-sentimental aspirations, of her childish soul. Never any more. The bright ideal of her life had melted away from her like a spectral cloud of silvery spray hovering above an Alpine waterfall, and had left behind only a cynical man of the world, who boldly asked her to run away from her husband, and was angry with her because she refused to comply with his cruel demand. Not for one moment did the Doctor's Wife contemplate the possibility of taking the step which Roland Lansdell had proposed to her. Far off-as far away from her as some dim half-forgotten picture of fairyland-there floated a vision of what her life might have been with him, if she had been Clotilde, or the glittering Duchess, or Lady Gwendoline, or some one or other utterly different from herself. But the possibility of deliberately leaving her husband to follow the footsteps of this other man, was as far beyond her power of comprehension as the possibility that she might steal a handful of arsenic out of one of the earthenware jars in the surgery, and mix it with the sugar that sweetened George Gilbert's matutinal coffee. She wandered away from Thurston's Crag, not following the meadow pathway that would have taken her homeward; but going any where, half-unconscious, wholly indifferent where she went; and thinking, with unutterable sadness, of her broken dreams. VOL. XII. M She had been so childish, so entirely childish, and had given herself up so completely to that one dear day-dream. I think her childhood floated away from her for ever in company with that broken dream; and that the gray dawn of her womanhood broke upon her, cold and chill, as she walked slowly away from the spot where Roland Lansdell lay face downwards on the grass, weeping over the ruin of his dream. It seemed as if in that hour she crossed Mr. Longfellow's typical rivulet and passed on to the bleak and sterile country beyond. Well may the maiden linger ere she steps across that narrow boundary; for the land upon this hither side is very bare and desolate as compared with the fertile gardens and pleasant meads she abandons for ever. The sweet age of enchantment is over; the fairy companions of girlhood, who were loveliest even when most they deluded, spread their bright wings and flutter away; and the grave genius of common sense-a dismal-looking person, who dresses in gray woollen stuff, warranted not to shrink under the ordeal of the wash-tub, and steadfastly abjures crinolinestretches out her hand, and offers, with a friendly but uncompromising abruptness, to be the woman's future guide and monitress. Isabel Gilbert was a woman all at once; ten years older by that bleak afternoon's most bitter discovery. Since there was no one in the world who understood her, since even he so utterly failed to comprehend her, it must be that her dreams were foolish and impossible of compre hension to any one but herself. But those foolish dreams had for ever vanished. She could never think of Roland Lansdell again as she had thought of him. All her fancies about him had been so many fond and foolish delusions. He was not the true and faithful knight who could sit for ever at the entrance of his hermitage gazing fondly at the distant convent-casement, which might or might not belong to his lost love's chamber. No; he was quite another sort of person. He was the fierce dissolute cavalier, with a cross-handled sword a yard and a half long, and pointed shoes with long cruel spurs and steel chain-work jingling and clanking as he strode across his castle-hall. He was the false and wicked lover who would have scaled the wall of Hildegonde's calm retreat some fatal night, and would have carried the shrieking nun away, to go mad and throw herself into the Rhine on the earliest opportunity. He was a heartless Faust, ready to take counsel of Mephistopheles and betray poor trusting Gretchen. He was Robert the Devil, about whose accursed footsteps a whole graveyard of accusing spirits might arise at any moment. He was Steerforth, handsome, heartless, irresistible Steerforth, with no pity for simple Em'ly or noble Pegotty's broken heart. It may be that Isabel did not admire Mr. Lansdell less when she thought of him thus; but there was an awful shuddering horror mingled with her admiration. She was totally unable to understand him as he really was a benevolently-disposed young man, desirous of doing as little mischief in the world as might be compatible with his being toler |