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A FAMILY SCENE.

mother, did her best; and had she been satis-
fied with spoiling her children herself for her
own private amusement, and not have drawn
in her visitors and acquaintances to share in
it, the evil might have passed uncensured.
But Mrs. Fairbairn, instead of shutting herself
up in her nursery, chose to bring her nursery
down to her drawing-room, and instead of
modestly denying her friends an entrance into
her purgatory, she had a foolish pride in show-
ing herself in the midst of her angels. In short,
as the best things, when corrupted, always be-
come the worst, so the purest and tenderest of
human affections, when thus debased by selfish-
ness and egotism, turn to the most tiresome
-a truth
and ridiculous of human weaknesses,-
but too well exemplified by Mrs. Fairbairn.
"I have been much to blame," said she, ad-
dressing Miss Bell, in a soft, whining, sick-
child sort of voice, "for not having been at
Bellevue long ago; but dear little Charlotte
has been so plagued with her teeth, I could
not think of leaving her-for she is so fond of
me, she will go to nobody else she screams
when her maid offers to take her-and she
won't even go to her papa."

"Is that possible?" said the major.
"I assure you it's very true-she's a very
naughty girl sometimes," bestowing a long
"Who was
and rapturous kiss on the child.
it that beat poor papa for taking her from
mamma last night? Well, don't cry-no, no, it
She knows every word
wasn't my Charlotte.
that's said to her, and did from the time she
was only a year old."

"That is wonderful!" said Miss Bell; "but how is my little favourite Andrew?"

"He is not very stout yet, poor little fellow, and we must be very careful of him." Then turning to Miss St. Clair, "Our little Andrew has had the measles, and you know the dregs of the measles are a serious thing-much worse than the measles themselves. AndrewAndrew Waddell, my love, come here and And thereupon Andrew speak to the ladies." Waddell, in a night-cap, riding on a stick, drew near. Being the major's namesake, Miss Bell, in the ardour of her attachment, thought proper to coax Andrew Waddell on her knee, and even to open her watch for his entertain

ment.

"Ah! I see who spoils Andrew Waddell," cried the delighted mother.

The major chuckled-Miss Bell disclaimed, and for the time Andrew Waddell became the hero of the piece; the blains of the measles were carefully pointed out, and all his sufferings and sayings duly recapitulated. At length

| Miss Charlotte, indignant at finding herself
eclipsed, began to scream and cry with all her
strength.

"It's her teeth, darling little thing," said
her mother, caressing her.

"I'm sure it's her teeth, sweet little dear," said Miss Bell.

"It undoubtedly must be her teeth, poor little girl," said the major.

"If you will feel her gum," said Mrs. Fairbairn, putting her own finger into the child's mouth, "you will feel how hot it is.'

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This was addressed in a sort of general way to the company, none of whom seemed eager to avail themselves of the privilege, till the major stepped forward, and having with his fore-finger made the circuit of Miss Charlotte's mouth, gave it as his decided opinion, that there was a tooth actually cutting the skin. Miss Bell followed the same course, and confirmed the interesting fact-adding, that it appeared to her to be "an uncommon large tooth.'

At that moment Mr. Fairbairn entered, bearing in his arms another of the family, a fat, sour, new-waked-looking creature, sucking its finger. Scarcely was the introduction over"There's a pair of legs!" exclaimed he, holding "I don't out a pair of thick purple stumps with red worsted shoes at the end of them. suppose Miss St. Clair ever saw legs like these in France; these are porridge-and-milk legs, are they not, Bobby?"

But Bobby continued to chew the cud of his own thumb in solemn silence.

"Will you speak to me, Bobby?" said Miss Bell, bent upon being amiable and agreeablebut still Bobby was mute.

"We think this little fellow rather long of speaking," said Mr. Fairbairn; "we allege that his legs have run away with his tongue." "How old is he?" asked the major.

"He is only nineteen months and ten days," answered his mother, "so he has not lost much time; but I would rather see a child fat and thriving, than have it very forward."

"No comparison!" was here uttered in a breath by the major and Miss Bell.

"There's a great difference in children in their time of speaking," said the mamma. "Alexander didn't speak till he was two and a quarter; and Henry, again, had a great many little words before he was seventeen months; and Eliza and Charlotte both said mamma as plain as I do at a year-but girls always speak sooner than boys-as for William Pitt and Andrew Waddell, the twins, they both suffered so much from their teething, that they were

BABY MAY.

longer of speaking than they would otherwise have been-indeed, I never saw an infant suffer so much as Andrew Waddell did he had greatly the heels of William Pitt at one time, till the measles pulled him down."

A movement was here made by the visitors to depart.

"O you mustn't go without seeing the baby," cried Mrs. Fairbairn-"Mr. Fairbairn, will you pull the bell twice for baby?"

The bell was twice rung, but no baby answered the summons.

"She must be asleep," said Mrs. Fairbairn; "but I will take you up to the nursery, and you will see her in her cradle." And Mrs. Fairbairn led the way to the nursery, and opened the shutter, and uncovered the cradle, and displayed the baby.

"Just five months-uncommon fine childthe image of Mr. Fairbairn-fat little thing neat little hands-sweet little mouth-pretty little nose-nice little toes," &c. &c. &c., were as usual whispered over it.

Miss St. Clair flattered herself the exhibition was now over, and was again taking leave, when, to her dismay, the squires of the whip and the trumpet rushed in, proclaiming that it was pouring of rain! To leave the house was impossible, and, as it was getting late, there was nothing for it but staying dinner.

The children of this happy family always dined at table, and their food and manner of eating were the only subjects of conversation. Alexander did not like mashed potatoes-and, Andrew Waddell could not eat broth-and Eliza could live upon fish-and William Pitt took too much small-beer-and Henry ate as much meat as his papa-and all these peculiarities had descended to them from some one or other of their ancestors. The dinner was simple on account of the children, and there was no dessert, as Bobby did not agree with But to make amends, Eliza's sampler was shown, and Henry and Alexander's copybooks were handed round the table, and Andrew Waddell stood up and repeated-"My name is Norval," from beginning to end, and William Pitt was prevailed upon to sing the whole of "God save the King," in a little squeaking mealy voice, and was bravoed and applauded as though he had been Braham himself.

fruit.

To paint a scene in itself so tiresome is doubtless but a poor amusement to my reader, who must often have endured similar persecution. For, who has not suffered from the obtrusive fondness of parents for their offspring? --and who has not felt what it was to be called upon, in the course of a morning visit, to enter

into all the joys and the sorrows of the nursery, and to take a lively interest in all the feats and peculiarities of the family? Shakspeare's anathema against those who hated music is scarcely too strong to be applied to those who dislike children. There is much enjoyment sometimes in making acquaintance with the little beings-much delight in hearing their artless and unsophisticated prattle, and something not unpleasing even in witnessing their little freaks and wayward humours;-but when a tiresome mother, instead of allowing the company to notice her child, torments every one to death in forcing or coaxing her child to notice the company, the charm is gone, and we experience only disgust or ennui.

Mr. and Mrs. Fairbairn had split on this fatal rock on which so many parents make shipwreck of their senses-and so satisfied were they with themselves and their children, so impressed with the idea of the delights of their family scenes, that vain would have been standing. Perhaps the only remedy would any attempt to open the eyes of their underhave been found in that blessed spirit which "vaunteth not itself, and seeketh not its own."

BABY MAY.

[William Cox Bennett, D.C.L., born at Greenwich, 1820. He has taken an active part in the political and social movements of his native town, whilst he has won fame as a poet, and especially as the poet of infant life. "Of all writers, the one who has best understood, best Miss Mitford, in her Recollections of a Literary Life, says, painted, best felt infant nature, is Mr. Bennett. see at once that it is not only a charming and richlygifted poet who is describing childish beauty, but a young father writing from his heart. Baby May is amongst the most popular of Mr. Bennett's lyrics, and

We

amongst the most original, as that which is perfectly
true to nature can scarcely fail to be." His chief works
are, Baby May, The Worn Wedding-Ring, and other
Home Poems; Queen Eleanor's Vengeance; Ballads and
Narrative Poems; Songs by a Song-Writer; Poems of
Thought and Fancy; and The Ballad and Song History
poetical works is published by Routledge & Sons.]
of England. A complete edition of Mr. Bennett's

Cheeks as soft as July peaches,
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies' paleness-round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise,
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness,
Happy smiles and wailing cries,
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,

Lights and shadows swifter born

Than on wind-swept autumn corn,
Ever some new tiny notion
Making every limb all motion-
Catchings up of legs and arms,
Throwings back and small alarms,
Clutching fingers-straightening jerks,
Twining feet whose each toe works,
Kickings up and straining risings,
Mother's ever new surprisings,
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under,
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings,
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness, that we prize such sinning,
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,
Pullings off of all that's able
To be caught from tray or table;
Silences-small meditations,

Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers-such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care-delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be-
That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

BABY'S SHOES.

O those little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use!

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That by God's good-will,
Years since grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet!

And O, since that baby slept,

So hush'd! how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her for evermore
Of a patter along the floor,
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees,

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face,

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start. W. C. BENNETT.

THE BRIGAND OF THE LOIRE.

It matters not to my story to enumerate the countries I visited, or the route by which I eventually entered France. At the expiration of two months after crossing the frontier, I found myself traversing a gloomy forest road in the department of the Mayenne and Loire; -my path chosen at a venture; my restingplace for the coming night a matter of vague speculation. But neither the loneliness and intricacy of the way, nor my uncertainty as to the place where I might sleep, gave me uneasiness. True it was that the brigand cohorts of Napoleon-a crest-fallen and desperate remnant, escaped from the recently fought field of Waterloo-had but lately been disbanded: but I knew that the French soldier rarely turns robber in his own country; and as to a bed, I had already oftener than once had no cause to regret my having relied on the hospitality of the brave and simple Vendéens. Nevertheless, as the day began to decline, I felt a strong desire to exchange the rich repast of brambleberries, which nature had displayed by the way-side, and of which I had freely partaken, for the produce of some well-stored larder; and it was, therefore, with a feeling of agreeable satisfaction that I at length descried the waters of the Loire sparkling in the brilliant rays of the setting sun. He who has once beheld that majestic stream-the boast of troubadour song --will not soon forget the assemblage of charms which its banks present. Vine-clad hills, crowned with castles and towns;-shady glades, echoing to the chime of the vesper-bells;-farspreading meadows of perennial verdure;—and groups of prosperous and picturesquely-dressed peasants; arrest the eye in every direction.

I could descry the towers of Angers from the point where I had first attained a sight of the river; but the intervening distance was too great to allow me to reach that city before nightfall. In these circumstances I resolved to seek for a nearer resting-place:-an arrange ment which hunger and fatigue equally advocated. A bright-looking village, situated on the very brink of the stream, was before me, and I made haste to reach it.

The principal auberge stood in the "Grande Place" a small square, ornamented by several rows of slim lime-trees, and a lofty cross, covered with a variety of offerings symbolical of the Church of Rome. The hôtel was a heavy grotesque pile, by far too large for the purpose to which it was at present devoted. It had been the château of the seigneur of the village under the old régime, and a prison during the horrid alternation of the revolution. Its hereditary possessor, as I afterwards learned, had, in common with many of his retainers, long been held in durance within its walls, and had at length quitted them only to perish in one of the notorious fusillades at Angers. In short, even in France, I had rarely seen a more cutthroat looking structure; and I stepped across its threshold with suspicion.

The appearance of the aubergiste assimilated more closely than was agreeable to me with the aspect of his habitation. He was a tall, muscular, bushy-browed man, with a fierce gloomy cast of countenance. His dress, an empty sleeve, and the brusquerie of his manner, proclaimed the ex-soldier and stanch advocate of military despotism. He encountered me in the outer court, and, instead of returning an affable reply to my salutation, made a motion as if to bar my entrance, and in a low gruff tone demanded a sight of my passport. I readily complied with this requisition; and, apparently satisfied with its contents, he returned it, and pointing in the direction of the kitchen, turned away. I fancied that he muttered a curse on my country as we parted; but I let it pass unnoticed.

I had been but a very short time an inmate of this mansion ere I was struck by the unwonted silence and gloom that pervaded it. In the kitchen-in France almost invariably the seat of mirth-all was dulness and monotony. A couple of raw, uncombed lads, natives of the Bocage, were superintending the stew pans that contained my supper; and two young girls the landlord's daughters, as I conjectured-sat in listless contemplation beside the blazing faggots on the hearth. One of these girls was not merely comely but beautiful;

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but her beauty was of that moonlight character which too frequently betokens a stricken heart. When she moved about, it was with the noiseless step of one treading in the chamber of death. Her low musical voice echoed through the apartment like the gentle breathings of a harp; and more than once I caught her black glistening eyes fixed on me with an inexplicable expression of woe and alarm.

In France a traveller nowise compromises his respectability by partially mingling with the family of his host. In that country the accidental distinctions of birth and fortune are not so deeply graven on the surface of society as in Britain; nor are the habits and manners of the various classes of the community so visibly dissimilar. I had often, in my wanderings, beguiled a heavy hour by encouraging the simple loquacity of the blithe grisettes who usually compose the household of the humbler hostelries; and here the attraction was too obvious to be resisted. I addressed my fair companions with that frank courtesy which I had hitherto found the readiest mode of winning a female's sufferance and smile; but for once it failed to elicit either. Therese, the livelier damsel, did indeed make an effort at conversation; but her more beautiful sister only answered by monosyllables and sighs. Surprised at this taciturnity, I ventured to hazard a surmise as to the cause, by charging her with over-anxiety for the fate of some absent lover; but had reason to repent of my freedom, when I saw her rise abruptly, and withdraw, with her eyes surcharged with tears. Therese, in reply to the apology which I felt it incumbent to make, briefly said, Poor Jacqueline, she has many sorrows;" and with this I was compelled to be satisfied. A notification that supper was ready soon after called me to another apartment; and for the remainder of the evening one of the Vendéen boys was my only attendant.

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The room set apart for my accommodation during the night was on the upper floor of the house; and, on my way to it, I had to traverse a labyrinthine succession of passages and galleries, which the faint light of the taper, carried by the garçon who acted as my conductor, peopled with a thousand spectral shadows. My couch was not merely comfortable but splendid:

-the tapestry that covered the walls exhibited the gorgeous pageant of a tournament; and the toilette-table was of spotless marble; but the chairs were rickety, and the floor uncarpeted, as French floors usually are, and laid with tiles. This was the sum of my observations; for, fatigued with my journey, I was glad to court repose.

Slumber soon closed my eyelids, but it was unrefreshing and disturbed by dreams. Visions full of terror followed each other in quick succession;-skeleton shapes surrounded me; and murderers' knives glittered at my throat. I fancied that some mortal peril had beset me, and that, to escape this undefined danger, I was vainly struggling to liberate myself from the ghostly galleries which separated me from the household in the lower apartments. I endeavoured to shout for help, but some magical power had chained my voice, and it was not till after I had suffered the protracted torture of the nightmare that I was at length able to conquer the frightful lethargy that had overpowered me.

I awoke with a groan, which smote on my half-conscious ear like a sepulchral echo. An indistinct recollection of the circumstances under which I had retired to rest haunted my fancy; but instead of finding myself reclining on a comfortable couch, I now lay stretched on a cold dank pavement, half-dressed, and in utter darkness. I extended my arms on each side of me, and they encountered solid walls I straightened myself, and my feet touched a similar obstruction. In the first moments of consciousness a terrific idea took possession of me. I had heard of persons having been buried alive while under the influence of a temporary suspension of the vital functions; and this horrid fate seemed now to be mine. I experienced, or fancied that I still experienced, an inability to give utterance to my agony; and my respiration began to grow quick and labouring. The conviction of my premature inhumation was momentarily becoming stronger, when a ray of light gleamed through the wall at my feet, and a noise, like the shutting of a door, relieved my despair. In short, I had become a sleepwalker: but whither my somnambulary adventures had conducted me, was a riddle I had yet to solve.

My first impulse, on being thus far enlightened, was to call for assistance; my second, to endeavour to grope my way back in silence to my apartment. But a low plaintive sound, like the accents of one in sorrow, suddenly fell on my ear, and I paused to listen. It evidently proceeded from the same quarter as the friendly light; and I was tempted to put my eye to the illuminated crevice to reconnoitre. By this scarcely justifiable procedure I was enabled to obtain a view of a small meanly furnished apartment, occupied by two persons, one of whom was my fair acquaintance Jacqueline. Her companion was a young man, who lay reclining on a couch immediately opposite

my place of concealment. He wore the faded uniform of the imperial guard; and though the expression of his countenance was martial and dignified, his pale cheek, hollow eye, and feeble voice, told a melancholy story. Jacqueline was seated near him, and held one of his hands clasped to her bosom. They were conversing in an undertone; and it appeared that she had been urging him to flee from some imminent danger; but the sick soldier was evidently adverse to the proposition, for, in reply, he said, "Nay, my Jacqueline, this may not be. My strength is gone, my hopes are destroyed, my path is beset by traitors, who will eventually run me down. All, all is lost, save you and honour, and on your breast will I die. My blessed wife! all that Victor Delagarde now asks of fortune is, that you may be near to close his eyes."

"You must live, Victor," exclamed Jacqueline, deep sobs interrupting her articulation. "You must live, or I too must perish. But why are you thus cruelly opposed to my plans? Why will you not endeavour to reach some other country, where your precious life may be secure? I will follow you, Victor, to the world's end, if you cannot find safety nearer.'

"

"My kind Jacqueline," said her companion, "I know too well that no perils could daunt your generous heart. But why should I conceal from you that my health is irreparably injured, and that my strength and my spirits are alike unequal to further exertion. I am aware that your father trembles at the risk he runs by harbouring a proscribed man; nay, that he even apprehends the disposal of my insensate remains may bring him into trouble. But why should he urge me to seek a grave among strangers. Yet a few short days, and I shall have looked my last on that dear face, and felt for the last time the pressure of this kind hand. As to my body-the river runs deep.-"

"You will drive me to distraction, Victor," answered Jacqueline. "My father feels no anxiety on his own account; it is for you alone that he trembles. He knows, we all know,

that here you are in constant jeopardy: we cannot even procure you the assistance which your wound demands without imminent risk of being betrayed. Do not injure him by unjust suspicions."

"You have misconstrued my words, Jacqueline," said Delagarde. "I know your father to be a brave and honourable soldier. He has been in every respect my father, since fate bereft me of my natural protectors; but he must be more than man not to tremble at the

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