their fascinating beauty. Others, with their downy stems and waxen flowers of every gaudy hue, green, lilac, and various shades of pink, red and crimson, some of them with brown lips to the bell, flourished in the richer hollows of their native glen, or bloomed with equal loveliness along the arid cliffs and fissures of the overhanging rocks.' In a narrow bed on the outside of the house containing the Heaths, are two or three plants with which, in another form, we are very familiar-the Black and Green Teashrubs; distinct species, as we may see, although the Chinese, it appears, contrive to prepare both kinds of tea from either plant indifferently! We now enter a spacious stove on the right, crowded with a variety of warm country plants, but chiefly belonging to the tropical Orchidea. The Orchids are an extensive and deeply interesting order of plants diffused very generally over the globe, and every where remarkable for the singularity of their structure, and frequently for the beauty of their flowers. In temperate and cold countries, they are almost invariably terrestrial, growing in the soil like ordinary plants; and, if cultivated at all, far more for the peculiarity of the form than for any beauty of their flowers. But in tropical countries the Orchideæ are found generally growing from the trunks and branches of trees, and when in flower are certainly among the most beautiful objects of the vegetable creation. In the vast river forests of South America, many different kinds of these plants are found attached to the same tree, and with their long pendant clusters of flowers mingling with those of the various climbing plants found in such abundance in the same situations, combine to produce those dense and tangled masses of vegetable forms, which Humboldt has described as so bewildering to the eye, when the attempt is made to trace the course of an individual stem through all its windings, or discover to which of the many stems in view particular leaves and flowers belong. The visiter is struck, upon entering the Orchideous House, by the number of these plants he sees suspended from the rafters in wire-baskets, the husks of cocoa-nuts, or upon fragments of bark. In this position the Orchids grow and flourish, unfolding their curious and beautiful blossoms, apparently deriving the whole of their nourishment from the moisture of the atmosphere alone. Among the most curious of the Orchid flowers are those of the Oncidium papilio (West Indian Butterfly-plant), 'whose resemblance to an insect is increased by the presence of certain petals which look like long antennæ, and by the flowers being borne on a long slender stalk, far away from the leaves, which seems to carry the fly into the air.' Here, again, is the Lady's Slipper, a terrestrial Orchid from the East Indies, whose lovely spotted flowers well deserve the name they bear, and, were they large enough, might grace the feet of the fairest dame in Christendom. Another of these terrestrial Orchids is the rare and beautiful Kingplant from Ceylon, whose velvety leaves are marked with an exquisite network of gold, and, detached from the plant, might readily be mistaken for some costly product of the loom. Amongst the suspended Orchidee is the Vanilla (Vanilla aromatica), which yields the fragrant substance of that name, so extensively used in the preparation of chocolate, &c. But we must not enter into further detail respecting this interesting class of plants; they are deservedly favourites among cultivators, and may here be seen throughout the year adorned with their curious and beautiful blossoms. Leaving the Orchideous House, we next wend our way through a part of the grounds which, until lately, formed the Royal Kitchen Garden to the recently erected Museum. Here, the Guide' informs us, it is intended to preserve 'all kinds of fruits and seeds, gums, resin, dye-stuffs, drugs, sections of woods, and all curious vegetable products, especially those that are useful in the arts, in medicine, and in domestic economy.' Although established for scarcely more than three years, an extensive and interesting collection of these objects has already been formed, and is constantly being added to by contributions from all parts of the world. We can, of course, give but a rapid and cursory glance at its contents, but must not omit to commend the wisdom displayed in attaching a descriptive label to most of the objects exhibited-a plan which turns many a vacant gaze into an attentive and knowledgeacquiring scrutiny. In the first place, we have Indianrubber, fluid, as it flows from the tree, and in its various applications to useful purposes; gutta-percha in its original and manufactured state; nuts and leaves of the Ivory Palm, and several objects in vegetable ivory; delicate lace bark from the liber or inner bark of the Vegetable Lace-trees of Jamaica and Cuba; cocoa-nuts, and various articles made from its fibrous husk or sheath; and leaves, wood, and bark, in various stages of preparation, of the Pollery-tree of Brazil, from whose bark, powdered and mixed with clay, fireproof vessels are made. Among the objects of another description is a bottle of milk from the Cow-tree; Shea butter, from the west coast of Africa, made from the kernels of a nut; bread-fruit from the South Sea Islands; birch-bark bread from North America; and the still more curious typha bread from Scinde and New Zealand, made from the pollen of the flowers of the common Bulrush of those countries-the only instance known of the pollen of plants being used for food under any circumstances whatever. Here, too, we make the acquaintance of several new sorts of Tea-as brick tea, wheatsheaf tea, and twisted tea, or old man's eyebrows! To this department, also, belongs the fine collection of wax models of the various table vegetables, and the splendid samples of agricultural products, lately presented to the museum, from the Great Exhibition. In another part are sections of various woods, explanatory of the union of two kinds, of grafting, and of the ravages committed by insects. A row of bottles and small paper packages in one of the cases has the following piece of pleasantry affixed, from which we learn that, under certain circumstances, there may be very much in a name':-'There is a plant called Ervum lens-in plain vernacular, Lentil; the meal or flour of the seeds was first recommended for use as Ervalenta, along with Mélasse de la Cochin-China, or common treacle! It met with a great sale, at three times its value, till explained by Dr Pereira. This led to another name being given to it, Revalenta Arabica, from the Revalenta estates-the seeds being much used in Egypt and Arabia. That, again, was explained by the same pharmaceutist, and it now meets with a ready sale, by venders whose powers of face are not equal to their predecessors, as lentil meal, or flour of lentils.' The objects which are most conspicuous in the museum are the beautiful wax models of the Victoria and other large flowers, and the numerous coloured drawings, suspended around the gallery, of various fruits and flowers, and remarkable trees. Altogether, it forms a deeply interesting collection of vegetable products, and cannot be examined with attention without leading a thoughtful mind to reflect upon the beneficence of the Creator, who has thus treasured up in the vegetable world such various and inexhaustible means of contributing to the comfort and happiness of man. Here, however, we must close, although we have omitted all reference to a variety of interesting objects that will not fail to attract the attention of the visiter. We have endeavoured to point out the more prominent features of the gardens, and to give, as briefly as possible, the substance of what is known respecting some of the more interesting classes of plants they contain; and we trust that some of our readers may be induced by what we have written to visit the gardens themselves-if possible, to visit them often, till they become familiar with the grand and imposing forms of vegetation there displayed, and print upon their memory a lasting impression of their beauty. And we are not without hope that the magnificent structure in Hyde Park may even yet be appropriated to the formation of a similar collection of vegetable wonders, where the crowded population of the metropolis may find, nearer at hand, and limited in its usefulness by no 'respectably attired' regulations, much of the pleasure and many of the advantages now alone afforded at Kew. The desirableness of some such place of public resort is now almost universally admitted, and there can be but little doubt that, whether the Crystal Palace be so employed or not, no long time will elapse before, in the immediate neighbourhood of London, and open to all classes alike, a Covered Park and Winter Garden will be established, where the most beautiful productions of nature and the finest works of human art will be brought together, to minister to public improvement and delight. We should hail such an occurrence with unmingled satisfaction, having a deep conviction that it would be the means of doing immense public good. It would give a stimulus to the acquisition of knowledge, besides being directly instrumental in diffusing it; it would tend to refine and elevate taste, and give a relish for the beauties of nature and art where they are now altogether unappreciated; and we have little doubt that it would be productive of good in a still higher sense, by contributing powerfully, though indirectly, to the moral improvement of the whole community. THE JUVENILE MISCELLANY. flows in a tranquil current; in this case, his taste and his Ask few favours. We ask too much, we expect too much from mankind. When we ask and are denied, when we expect and are disappointed, our temper is affected, and the generous estimate of our species impaired. In To bring out a moral lesson, I suppose the reader, whom particular cases it is honourable to receive the gifts of I address, to possess an estate embellished with a rich beneficence, but it may be remarked, as a general truth, variety of natural and cultivated scenery. A friend pays that he who is in the habit of soliciting favours, and living you a visit, and, to entertain him, you take him over your on the bounty of others, resigns his independence; and ground, to show him the beautiful views it presents of hill the surrender of independence is the sacrifice of all the and valley, of stream and forest. His temperament is valuable qualities of a respectable character. Depend melancholy, his taste is defective, and he listens and chiefly on your own resources-on your talents and inanswers with cold indifference. You are disappointed, dustry-and you will feel the modest consciousness of you are mortified, and almost disposed to think that the self-reliance, and, if success attends your exertions, you views which you deemed beautiful are really the illusions will be inspired with gratitude to the Most High and goodof fancy. Another friend, of an opposite character, at a will to human-kind. A worthy man on whom the world subsequent period becomes your guest. His mind is cul- smiles, in return smiles on the world; and, depending on tivated, he is endowed with a fine perception of rural himself, and confiding in mankind, he can confer and rescenery, and he has appropriate language to give expres-ceive favours without a proud or humiliating sense of oblision to his feelings. He accompanies you in a walk over gation, and his heart overflows with the kind and social your land, and, struck with the general aspect of the sympathies. country and its particular views, he delivers his sentiments in glowing and graphic diction. You catch a portion of his animation, and beholding nature, as it were, through a new medium, you see everything in its fairest form and happiest attitude, and your pleasure, by participation, is enhanced. These two personages-their characters somewhat modified-represent two large classes of mankind. A man of a cheerless temper and discontented mind is satisfied with nothing, dissatisfied with everything, and moves through society with a blighting influence, as lingering winter when it steals over the field of early spring, chilling the opening germs of the blooming year. Another man, cheerful in health, mild in virtue, loves to contemplate the true and beautiful in nature, and the humane and honourable in society; he sympathises in human happiness, and diffuses around his path, as he walks through life, the balmy influence of a benevolent spirit. A person of a cultivated mind and a fine taste takes up his residence in a rural district, amid scenes which to him are beautiful and sublime. His perceptions and pleasures are lively, but will they retain their freshness, or, in the course of time, will they gradually decline? To the question I return two answers-the one deduced from the force of habit, the other from the principles of association. Corporeal sensations and mental emotions-all kinds of excitement-by repetition, grow to maturity, and insensibly fade; but they resemble seeds which, thrown into the ground, in their decay generate new plants. A corporeal or mental excitement, frequently repeated, but not to satiety or exhaustion, passes into a habit, and the habit perpetuates the excitement under a new, subdued, or modified form. A man is placed amid scenes in which he delights; progressively they are blended with his common conceptions, and they become common; they are mingled with his painful emotions, and they become painful, and thus, surrounding objects, receiving the impress of his disagreeable feelings, lose their pristine charm. On the contrary, we suppose the individual to retain his fine sensibility to the beauties of rural scenery, and his life Do no injuries. Duty commands us to cherish the kind and benevolent affections; and, to insure this effect, the violation of a duty carries in itself its own penalty. If you do an injury to an individual, whenever chance presents his person, or memory recalls it, you will experience a painful sense of irritation, or a pang of self-reproach. The self-reproach, in a right constituted mind, naturally produces sorrow and amendment, with the desire of reconciliation which is followed by internal peace. The irritation, in a malicious mind, has frequently the strange effect to perpetuate itself by the very pain it inflicts. One man does an injury to another: every time the deed is recalled to remembrance, he is painfully irritated; but self-love will not allow the cause to be in himself, and his resentment is turned against the object perhaps the innocent object-whom he has injured. Subdue and regulate your passions, observe justice and civility to all, commit no injuries, and with a tranquil and confiding bearing you will move through life without an enemy, and meet every one as a brother in the great family of humanity. The A young man who engages in a vocation to which his abilities are adequate, with a fair character, industry, and prudence, scarcely ever fails to attain a creditable position in society. Many are disposed to question the justness of this observation, and maintain that fortune is capricious in the distribution of her favours-that success may follow merit, but that merit often in vain pursues success. first position, which recommends itself by its truth, renders a youth aware of the value of character, rouses him to honourable activity, inspires him with modest confidence; and these requisites, in every trade and profession, have a fair chance to realise success. The second position, in a restricted sense, is true, but it must be judged by its effect: give it currency, and you furnish the indolent, the eccentric, the imprudent, with a vindication of their conduct, and an excuse for their failure in life. Misfortune generates misanthropy. Prosperity and not adversity is the source of misanthropy. These two propositions, which have been respectively advanced and maintained, are less erroneous in idea than defective in its exposition. Misfortune, if not severe in itself, and not acting on morbid feelings, has a tendency to harden to endurance, or to soften to resignation, and to these two affections distant rays of hope generally arise. An individual of a sensitive temperament, who has been pampered by prosperity and spoiled by flattery, when overtaken by adverse fortune, has not the qualities fitted to sustain it: his pride is humbled, his self-esteem is mortified, and, associating his misfortune with his fellow-men, he is peevish, irascible, and sinks into misanthropy. His care was and fallen ill during the day; on his way home for the night he had bought for it a bit of sweet cake, but the poor little animal refused to eat He had been coaxing it all evening; and, now that it lay motionless, save that it panted and gasped for breath, he hung over it, and nursed it with most assiduous attention. all in vain; he placed a few crumbs of cake near its lips; it seemed to be sensible of his affection, looked up in his face, crawled an inch or two to his hand, and, when he raised it to his face, licked his lips as it had been wont to do, and with a slight struggle died. The tears had been oozing out from his eyelids, and trickling one by one down AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN UNRECOGNISED GENIUS. vourite in its pain; but, now that it was quite dead, he his cheeks for some time, while he watched his CHAP. IV. poor fa burst into a fit of passionate weeping, and refused to be BIDDING me follow him, the Savoyard advanced a few comforted. It was delightful to see how all these poor steps up a dark passage, and then commenced the ascent creatures shared his grief. The Savoyard who had of a flight of dilapidated stairs, which finally introduced brought me with him used all his efforts to pacify the poor us into a large garret. This spacious apartment-which little fellow; and in a few minutes these men and boys, seemed to extend along the upper storeys of several each contributing a trifle, had collected him a sum twice houses-was warmed by a stove and lighted by an old oil the value of the mouse he had lost. My Savoyard raised lamp, both situated near the middle of the room. My his head, and, giving him the money, tried to comfort appearance seemed to excite surprise, not unmixed with him; but the child shook his head mournfully; thanked suspicion; and it was not until my companion had ex- them for their kindness; said, it was not the money he plained the reason of his thus admitting a stranger into cried about, but it was his favourite little mouse; and, their society, that the company relapsed into indifference. looking again at his lifeless pet, which he still pressed to I found that all thus assembled, save one, were foreigners, his bosom, he broke out into sobs. Long after the inand, with the exception of some half-dozen boys, were all mates of the room had closed their eyes in sleep, I heard engaged in organ-grinding. Those thus excepted were a sob or a sigh break from his breast, as he dreamed of the proprietors of small animals exhibited in cages, boxes, the companion of many a weary walk, and the sharer of and so forth. Taking a glance at the room, I observed, many a scanty meal. besides the lamp and stove, a number of coarse beds lying on the floor; a row of barrel-organs carefully stowed away on one side; several cages containing white mice, porcupines, guinea-pigs, squirrels, and monkeys; two or three rough deal tables, some benches, and from twenty to thirty men and boys, some of whom had retired to rest, the majority, however, being engaged in cooking or eating their suppers, counting their day's receipts, or smoking. I gathered from the looks and expressions which greeted my entrance, and the change which took place when they learned the occasion of my visit-that even in this society there was a ton which required to be kept up, and that my presence would have been regarded, and perhaps treated, as an intrusion, had it not been, so far as I was concerned, a matter of necessity rather than of choice. I found them to be so far exclusive as this, that they wished to keep off all mere idlers and the decidedly vicious; and, as I before intimated, all those present, save myself and one other, had brought with them the insignia of their callings, in the form of musical instruments or boxes of animals. This latter person, who with myself formed the exceptions to the general rule, I afterwards discovered to be the proprietor of the garret in which we assembled. Contrary to the general practice of returning to their native land with the modest proceeds of a few years' rambling through England, this man-now approaching the decline of life-had settled down in the position I have indicated, and solaced himself for his absence from his country by surrounding himself with his countrymen. What may have been his reason for thus remaining in England, I could not ascertain. Perhaps some crime or misfortune rendered his return dangerous, and his protracted exile involuntary. Be this as it may, he seemed to be a peaceful, harmless sort of man, and possessed of more than average intelligence. He was acquainted, moreover, with the histories (many of them curious and interesting enough) of most of the occupants of the room, and could tell why each one had left his quiet native village, and the narrative of his adventurous journey to the land of wealth. I was much pleased with the simplicity and kind feeling of these wanderers; the younger members of the fraternity chattering, playing each other sly tricks, fondling, and practising a thousand endearing arts of affection, before they sank to sleep. One little fellow was in deep distress. One of the white mice, by exhibiting which he earned his livelihood, had drooped One man, among this assemblage of foreigners, attracted my attention by his strong Hibernian cast of countenance, general appearance, and accent. How he obtained admittance into the band, composed, I believe, with this single exception, of men of foreign extraction, if not foreigners by birth, I could not discover. It may be, that the religious sympathies subsisting between them were the cause, and, besides, he was exceedingly goodnatured and obliging, and overflowed with genuine Irish humour. This son of the Emerald Isle, however, let the reason be what it may, was evidently a prime favourite. I entered into conversation with him, and found him extremely communicative. His name was Michael O'Grady; and, on my asking Mick how it was that he had taken to the line of business in which he was now engaged, his answer-The blessed Virgin, shure, paice be wid her, gave me a delicate aire an' a fine thaste for music, an' so I larned to play the organ'-afforded me so much amusement at the self-complacency with which Mick complimented himself on superior musical ability displayed in grinding a barrel-organ, that I could not refrain from expressing my emotion by a laugh, in which the musician very heartily joined. I shared the supper of my guide; who, after pointing out an empty bed which I might occupy, and once more exhorting me to keep up my spirits, retired to rest. I preferred remaining seated near the stove, my mind being too much harassed by anxious thoughts on other matters to permit any very great solicitude as to sleep. I sat thus watching the flitting lights and shades playing among the smoky rafters of the garret, as the flame of the lamp flickered to and fro in the currents of air, which the broken roof admitted freely; and when the last of my companions had mumbled over his pater-noster, or ave-maria, and sunk into repose, I was still revolving in troubled thought my unpromising position and prospects. The flame was expiring, and the place gradually shading into darkness, before exhausted nature claimed her due rest, and I fell asleep. I was awakened from profound, dreamless sleep by a hand pressing on my cheek, and, starting up, found that one of the men, groping about for a match with which to relight the lamp, had been the unintentional cause of awaking me. The garret was in almost complete darkness, there being no window. Morning was already advancing, and in a few minutes all the occupants of the room were astir preparing breakfast. Again I was sup plied by the man to whom I was indebted for the night's accommodation; and, the meal speedily despatched, one after another left the room, and started on their various routes. I accompanied the Savoyard with whom I had entered some distance on his walk to the neighbourhood in which he designed to pass the day; and, bidding him farewell at the corner of a street, had no little difficulty in resisting the pressing importunity with which he urged my acceptance of a small silver coin, as a parting gift. My day's proceedings were very similar to those of the preceding one, and the afternoon found me strolling leisurely along a quiet street at the west end. I stood near the door of one of those shops, so common wherever there is a respectable and opulent population, in which stationery, fancy articles, music, Berlin wools, and such goods, are sold, and listlessly observed the proprietor serving a young lady to some trifling articles. He was wrapping up some things she had bought, and with silvertoned accents sought to persuade to additional purchases. I caught the reply: Very pretty, indeed, and the price, certainly, exceedingly low; but at present I cannot afford it. With intuitive delicacy the man immediately waived the subject, and the conversation took a different direction. Not afford it! thought I; how does she-so well dressed, and wearing such rich ornaments-how does she dispose of her money, that she cannot afford such a trifling sum as this? I fancied her one of those selfish, heartless creatures, too numerous, alas! who have money to expend in vanity-who are extravagant in the purchase of foolish, useless trifles-but who are too poor to be charitable. A most ungenerous and unjust reflection thisaltogether groundless, perhaps-certainly quite uncalled for; but we are never in a less fit state for scrutinising the conduct of, and imputing motives to others, than when we are ourselves the subjects of misfortune and suffering. I had never yet appealed to the charity of others; indeed, at no time before had I been in such absolute need of assistance as I then was. Weak and hungry, friendless and poor, was it any great wonder that, when the thought of doing so occurred to my mind, and an opportunity offered at the same moment, the temptation was too strong to be resisted. Seated in a lounging chair, free from care, and far removed from the pressure of present, urgent want, reader, you will imagine it impossible that any circumstances could compel you to such a step. I will only hope you may never be put to the test. While I was standing thus at the door of the bazaar, and the idea of making this appeal to the charity of the wealthy had just suggested itself to me for before I had never even contemplated such a thing-I saw a stout elderly gentleman slowly approaching. He was clearly one with whom things went well. His face, his figure, his dress, alke bore the unmistakeable air of one who had been taken care of, kindly treated, not overworked, well fed, comfortably clothed, and conveniently housed. A most cheerful and self-complacent smile played like a sunbeam on his radiant countenance. He seemed to be in perfect good-humour with himself and all the world. I decided on making him the subject of my first experiment in the art of begging. I was almost unconscious at the time of what I said to him, and had a vague impression that whatever sum he might bestow on me would be the hardest earned money I had ever procured, and purchased at a price I would never again pay. I felt a tingling sensation of burning shame, and repented even before I had finished my incoherent appeal to him of having made it. I suppose, by his answer, that it was sufficiently intelligible. Whether I had been altogether deceived in his physiognomy, or whether my interrupting him in some pleasant train of thought disturbed his equanimity, I know not; but the smile passed away: harsh, gruff tones grated on my ear; I heard the words, idle, worthless vagrant-poor-rates-and he had passed. Such was his refusal. A rush of contending emotions overpowered me. Anger, indignation, grief, flashed over my mind, and disappeared; shame, intense and permanent, absorbed my whole spirit. I was walking slowly away in the opposite direction to that taken by the portly gentleman, when I heard the light footstep of a person following me; and in a few moments the young lady whom I had seen in the bazaar overtook me. In passing, she turned round, and quietly held a shilling towards me. I looked in her face, and read there an expression of deepest pity and kindness. I would have refused the proffered charity, but I could not; I would have thanked her for her goodness, but my lips seemed sealed. It appeared to me as though she wished to speak words of comfort or hope, but her lips moved without sound, and, conveying by a look all she could have said, she left me standing alone. She had been a witness of my late appeal, and had seen the cruel repulse I received, and while the rudeness of the rebuff filled her with emotions too strong for utterance, she had sympathised with my distress; and, content to deprive herself of some article of luxury, she was prepared to relieve the unfortunate. The tempter was at work as I sauntered along; busily, busily he wrought; ceaselessly he plied his suggestions; powerfully he urged his strong arguments: he was triumphant, the temptation was successful. Life had no charms; death had no horrors; a plunge, a struggle, a moment's agony, not more intense than I had already often felt, and all was over, and I was in that solitude where the wicked cease from troubling, where the weary are for ever at rest. My determination was taken, but its execution must be deferred for a few hours, until the darkness of night should favour the attempt. Purchasing a roll at the first baker's shop I passed, I sought a nook in some back street, where, unobserved, I might sit and wait until the weary hours had rolled by, and the time for executing my purpose arrived. I soon discovered such a retreat, and, burying my face in my hands, in a short hour I had forgotten all my troubles in sleep. When I awoke, the shadows of night rested on me, and, while my head ached, and my brain swam, I could scarcely remember where I was, or how I had got into such a place. Shivering with cold, I gained the more frequented streets; and having a long walk before me, in order to reach that river which has so often received into its dark depths the wretch weary of a joyless existence, I slowly and sadly directed my steps towards Blackfriars' Bridge. In the course of my walk, a woman with three or four children by her side attracted my notice. They bore the appearance of extreme destitution, and were begging. I The woman was clamorous in her entreaties for aid, supplicating the charity of almost every passer-by. She was allowing me to proceed unnoticed-judging, I suppose, from my dress, that I was not in a condition to render her much assistance-when, recollecting the shilling which I had received in the afternoon, and having now no further occasion for money, I called her, and gave her the handful of copper I had left. She overwhelmed me with thanks, following me far with noisy expressions of gratitude. I was absorbed in thought on this little incident, and wondering to what cause the woman would impute a liberality so extraordinary in a person bearing so plainly as I did the marks of poverty, when a gentleman passing me regarded me with so scrutinising a glance, that I feared he might recognise me. I knew him perfectly well, for in dress and manner the editor of the paper with which I had been connected was unchanged; but so greatly was I altered, both in apparel and aspect, that I should not have been at all surprised had Mr Carlett failed to remember me. Doubtful as to my identity, he turned back, and, satisfying himself by another look that he was not mistaken, he advanced, and shook me cordially by the hand. I ventured to intimate my surprise that, considering the circumstances under which we parted, he should treat me with so much kindness. Uttering an exclamation of astonishment, he entered at once on a long statement of certain disclosures respecting the affair in which I had been so unhappily and unjustly implicated, which had transpired subsequently to my losing the situation, and completely exonerated me from suspicion of having been a party to the crime. Hardened by success, and become reckless by repetition, the guilty party had at length, after repeated frauds, become so careless in the perpetration of the deed, as to commit a blunder which led to his detection. The sub-editor was the man whoin a position which, placing him beyond the reach of temptation, had raised him almost above suspicion-had thus betrayed his trust, and plunged at least one innocent person into disgrace and misery. After eluding pursuit for some time, he had at last escaped to a foreign country. Mr Carlett expressed surprise at my not having received intimation of these circumstances, as, besides the exposure in the public papers, there had been advertisements respecting myself, requesting an interview; which advertisements he, very naturally (being ignorant of my mode of life for some weeks previously), wondered I had not seen. Had he known the places and company which I had frequented at that period, he would scarcely have expected me to be conversant with the contents of newspapers. He told me that both the proprietors and himself had been very sorry on discovering the truth, that a steady young man should by such treachery have been deprived of employment, and dismissed, too, with a stain on his character; and, in order to make such reparation as lay in their power, they had reserved for me the situation of sub-editor, which my old friend assured me he thought I was well qualified to fill. Mr Carlett was a shrewd observer, and, even in the imperfect light of the lamps, he perceived from my looks and clothing that my affairs were not in a very flourishing condition. Telling me that he was going out of town that night, and had but little money on his person, he presented me with a sovereign, assuring me that he would do everything needful to prepare me for entering on my office comfortably and respectably, and, appointing to meet me at his own house on the evening of his return, hurried away to arrange for his journey. The whole transaction seemed to me like a dream: at first I was stupified and amazed; then, when I came to reflect on all the circumstances, I was overjoyed that my character had been so satisfactorily cleared. In a little while I had relapsed into my former indifference. The good news had come too late to affect my determination; I was wearied and disgusted with life; my purpose had been settled many hours, and, I still believed, unalterably So. I had become inured to misery, and at this time want of food and regular sleep had doubtless in some degree affected my mind. The verdict of temporary insanity, which is so often passed on the suicide, is not quite the unmeaning fiction which some imagine it to be. I was callous to all ordinary impressions. I did not feel the slightest ill-will towards any of my fellow-men. I had not any deep emotion of joy or sorrow (for the joy I had experienced on hearing of the vindication of my innocence soon subsided into indifference). I had no strong desires, no wishes, no hopes, no fears, no intention but one, and that was, to take the first opportunity of putting an end to a burdensome existence. In passing through the streets, I fancied myself to be completely isolated from all around, as though I had already entered into another state of being; while the shops, houses, vehicles, and foot-passengers, seemed to move before my eyes like a vast panorama, rather than as things having a real existence. The words and actions of those around me produced no impression at all on me; I saw and heard as though I saw and heard not. Occasionally a heavy shower of cold, drifting rain obliged me to take shelter for a few moments, until the violence of the storm had passed away, and then, resuming my walk, I slowly approached the river. It was late at night when I found myself composing part of the stream of people constantly flowing over the bridge, and I paced to and fro for a long period, ere the numbers had much decreased. Then, when it appeared as though the thoroughfare would shortly be deserted, the theatres closed their performances, and a line of vehicles whirled by, which were succeeded by the pedes trians coming from the same places of amusement; and when the last loiterer of these had sought his home, one or two of the daughters of infamy walked slowly by ; and, after the last of these stragglers had passed, a quick step would be heard in the distance, and some youth, hurrying home, broke the silence of night by his rapid footstep, and the sharp ringing sound of his cane as it struck the pavement; and, following him, some reveller returning from late carousal would reel by, ever and anon trolling the burden of some Bacchanalian song; and now I was left alone on the bridge, and the opportunity had arrived: no-a policeman emerges from the gloom, and approaches me; he slowly recedes; and, by his lounging about so long at the end of the bridge, it would appear that he regards me with suspicion, and is determined to keep an eye on me. At last he pursues his way, and I am left in undisturbed possession of the place. Just then a shower of rain drenched me to the skin. I leaned over the parapet of the bridge, and looked down on the cold dark flood rolling below. I was so exhausted as scarcely to be able to stand. I drew from my pocket two copies of the paper containing the identification of my person and the information promised to my sisters. One I returned to my pocket, and prepared to lodge the other in some convenient recess of the bridge, where it might be secure from the wind and rain. The rain descended in torrents; the wind blustered, and whistled, and howled, and moaned, as it swept by, now rushing through the arches of the bridge, and now careering over the roofs of the houses, and now making the cordage and spars of the few small flats which lay anchored at the wharf below creak and groan beneath its power. The surface of the water was rippled with waves by the breeze. All was gloomy; and, when I thought of the few preceding days of my life, and of the harsh tones of the gentleman whose charity I had sought, all seemed in unison with my own feelings. I regarded death as a happy deliverance from trouble, and at that moment viewed it in no other light. I feared it not, nay, it was most welcome, and yet I stood there, not irresolute, but delaying. I felt reluctant to move, and continued gazing abstractedly on the scene before me. I believe the reason that I did not at that moment take the fatal plunge was, that I felt so unwilling to climb up to the parapet; and this, I think, proceeded from extreme weakness, which rendered even this effort, slight as it may appear, too laborious for me to make. Yes; I think a physical, not a moral cause, kept me for some few minutes from executing my purpose. While thus leaning on the parapet, I happened to clutch the paper which I was to leave on the bridge. It reminded me of my sisters: I thought of their peaceful home, and then I thought of my father and mother, and wondered whether I should be with them soon; and memory reverted to childhood and its happy hours; and then the vision of my kind teacher flitted before my mind, and I saw again the funeral procession which bore her to her early grave. And when the moon broke through a mass of dark clouds, and fringed them with her silver light, and the reflection of her beams on the rippled water looked like a pathway to eternity, and I seemed to be standing on its brink, I looked up at a star that shone through an opening in the black clouds, and wondered whether the disembodied spirit would indeed be able to traverse space with the speed of light, and soar from world to world in the blue immense. And then, again, I thought how many friends had gone to explore those, to us unknown, regions, and how few friends I had on earth. And to these kindlier thoughts succeeded, as I remembered the young lady who had looked so kindly on me in the afternoon, when she relieved my necessity. I thought, too, of my old friend who had spoken so cheeringly to me in the evening; nor was the poor Savoyard forgotten. How precious and how powerful may a kind action, word, or even look prove. Then I tried to realise death, and to invest it with horror, and the voice of conscience, which had long been hushed, whispered of guilt; I felt as though I had but just awoke to a sense of my true position and of the responsibilities that rested on me; |