MASTER JULIUS HEMINGWAY and his fair cousin Beatrice were lovers; no one need be in doubt or ignorance of that who chanced to see them, on a fine day in September, seated by the margin of the pleasant little river-streamlet or rivulet we should call it in this country, where rivers are not exactly to be jumped over, even with the aid of a ten-foot pole-the pleasant little river that meandered through the broad acres of Sir Geoffrey Fairfax, the damsel's honored and gouty father. Fishing is a serious business, whether it be done with the accomplished and artist-like rod-and-fly of the genuine angler or after the unpoetical fashion of the patient waiters for nibbles who stand half a day at a time on the Castle-Garden bridge, watching the fate of a squirming shrimp or a tough morsel of clam's tongue, dangling from the end of a long and tapering bamboo, and who care much more for the fish than the sport--with an uppermost thought in their minds of the nex morning's breakfast. Fishing, I say, is a serious business; or rather an exacting, and whether prosecuted for amusement or with a special eye to the frying pan, demands the whole mind of the practitioner. Therefore, I repeat, no man or woman who saw Master Julius and his cousin seated close beside each other on the river's brink, gazing into each other's face instead of watching the movement of their lines in the water, could for a moment suppose that they were really fishing; and when a handsome young couple pretend to be fishing in that way it is impossible to go wrong in a guess at their actual occupation; they are not making love what under the sun can they be doing?

Julius was an orphan and heir to nothing save an honorable name and the reasonable affection of his dead mother's elder brother, gouty Sir Geoffrey; who on his part was the rich possessor of one of the finest estates in Devonshire and a remarkably pretty daughter, just blooming, at the time when this story opens, into the first stage of the transition from school girl to young lady; in other words she was just seventeen-an age at which we have wives and mothers in this country, but which in England, where they arrange these things better, or perhaps have no such urgent need to augment the census, is accounted only the proper age for beginning to leave off long pinafores and

going to bed at nine o'clock and having bread and milk for breakfast. She was rather full grown and developed for her age, as the reader will see by looking at her portrait-which, however, was painted two or three years later than the time referred to, and makes her somewhat too mature for the then heroine of the story. Her cousin Julius had been her companion and playmate almost from their infancy, his father having been killed in the wars and his mother by grief and a congestive fever, when he was but just out of petticoats; and as there were no other children about the house, and Sir Geoffrey lived all the year round on his estate, the twain found it perfectly natural to grow up in years and affection together. In short, no matter how or why, the cousins were lovers, and never went fishing together without neglecting their rods and gazing into each other's eyes for hours, just as the picture exhibits them.

Now destiny had written, or settled in some other way, that this pair of lovers should never become one flesh in marriage. Not that Sir Geoffrey, who was a good old soul, very fond of his nephew and almost an idolater of his daughter, would have made any objections to their becoming man and wife, if he had known or suspected-which he did not their incipient inclination to that end; not that the boy's want of fortune would have been any obstacle; not that there was any treachery practised by a rival; the sole cause of the youth and maiden not coming together in marriage was that he hung up his cloak on the withered branch of an old oak tree when he and his cousin sat down together to "angle."

I must tell the story at some length-though with very considerable abridgement of the amplitude of detail with which it is recorded in the chronicles of the Fairfax family; see the sixteenth volume of Howison's "Principal Houses of Devonshire Illustrated," published at London in 1786-because it is rather curious in itself and furnishes a remarkable exemplification of the truth Byron put on record when he said,

"Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men." Julius, as I have said, was without fortune. He was now eighteen years old, and Sir Geoffrey, who was a sensible old gentleman as well as a kind and hearty, had been for some time cogitating how

the youth should be disposed of so as to begin the important business of finding or making his position in life. The worthy and wealthy knight, though he seldom troubled London with his presence, had many friends there, and considerable influence; and he had made use of both to obtain an opening for his nephew. The result was that a commission in the army and active service in the East Indies, then just beginning to open as a field for the making of rapid and great fortunes, were placed at his disposal for Master Julius; and he had received the information on the very day of the pseudo fishing commemorated. He had not as yet spoken to his nephew on the subject, because, for one reason, he thought it a pity to excite the boy's expectations before he knew what they were to result in; but now that he had a certainty to act upon his proceedings in the matter were prompt and summary. When Julius and his pretty cousin returned to the mansion at night-fall, Sir Geoffrey sent for the former to his library; and as the youth entered, the worthy knight saluted him with the abrupt yet kindly announcement that he must see at once to packing up and getting ready to start on the morrow for London

"For London?" exclaimed Julius, half in amazement, a quarter or more in delight and the rest in alarm at the idea of parting from his cousin.

Yes, for London, my boy; and a far journey after that. You are getting to be almost a man, now, Julius, and it is time for you to give over idling your days away, loitering about the park in fantastic dresses and chattering nonsense with Beatrice. You must take a man's part in the affairs of the world, and make your fortune. I have got you a commission-you are to go to India, where diamonds and gold are to be won by the sword the ship sails three days hence, and you must be off by the stage coach to-morrow."

I shall not stop to describe all the emotions caused by this sudden change of position in the breast of Master Julius, or to report what he said and did on the occasion. The reader must imagine all that; and also what passed between him and his pretty cousin. One thing I will briefly mention, however, lest too much sympathizing. anxiety should be awakened; though the young folks were in reality lovers, their attachment was rather incipient than full-fledged-it belonged to the species designated calf-love by staid, elderly folks, who have outgrown all romantic feelings and notions, in their experience of the world's sober duties, compensations and realities; and consequently, though there was some grief at parting on both sides, it had not depth or mastery enough to be very painful. In the youth it was tempered by the excitement of hope, expectation and the love of change; in the maiden by sympathy with

this and by a joyous confidence that in a few years Julius would come back covered with honors and distinctions.

The day passed in various preparations incident to such an epoch in the life of a young gentleman. There were leave-takings in abundance among the neighbors and dependants; there was some packing though not much, for the main outfit was to be provided at London, orders being transmitted to that effect by the post; and there were divers long conversations between Julius and Beatrice, the tenor of which can be guessed at. The morrow came. Breakfast was eaten by all parties with a good appetite, notwithstanding the event that made the day memorable. The stage coach was to pass at ten o'clock-there were but two stages a week in those days, when a speed of ten miles an hour was as much unknown and undreamed of as a rail-road-and as it wanted now but twenty minutes of the time, Sir Geoffrey, his daughter and the young traveller were assembled at the park gates, awaiting the approach of the vehicle, with a general gathering of the inferior household, steward, butler, housekeeper, footman, chambermaids, cook, groom and stable-boy, in the background.

"My cloak, my cloak, where is my cloak? I have forgotten my cloak," suddenly exclaimed Julius. "Run, run, (to the stable-boy,) and fetch it from the hall."

Tom started at full speed, while all eyes were turned to watch his progress, for just at this mo. ment was heard the twang of the coachman's horn, announcing the approach of the " Adventure, twice-a-week stage to London." Tom ran bravely, and in a few minutes was seen darting back across the lawn, his hair streaming behind, but without the cloak.

"Not there, sir," he shouted from afar; "the cloak is n't nowhere there."

"Pish," said Sir Geoffrey; "go without it then, or take my roquelaure. You'll find it big enough, I'll warrant."

66

My cloak, my cloak," answered Julius; "I can't go without my cloak. It was my father'she had it with him when he was killed. I can't go without my father's cloak. Oh run, Tom, run and look for it."

Tom ran, the groom ran, the butler ran, every body ran, here, there and every where. In the meantime the coach drove up to the gate, stopped, the coachman got down from his box to stow away his new passenger's portmanteau, and Sir Geoffrey "pished" and "pshawed" at a great rate. and Beatrice were left alone, for all the rest had gone seeking the important cloak. Three minutes elapsed-the coachman, civilly enough, mentioned that he was rather in a hurry; he had a

He

heavy load and the roads were none of the best. Five minutes-still no appearance of the runaways or the cloak. Eight minutes-the other passengers began to show signs of impatience. Ten minutes-still no Julius, no cloak. The coachman pulled his forelock to Sir Geoffrey and sald he couldn't wait.

Sir Geoffrey was a man of prompt habits. "Go on," he said to the coachman. 66 It's no matter; here's a half crown for you to drink my health. I won't keep the stage waiting any longer; Julius shall ride up to London on horseback, and Symonds shall go with him. That will do as well and in fact better," he added, speaking to Beatrice; "I have some errands for Symonds to do in town, and Julius will have time to call on my cousin the Earl, which is but proper."

So said, so done. The coach went on its way. Sir Geoffrey and Beatrice returned to the hall, and destiny had settled the question of marriage or no marriage between our young hero and heroine.

The cloak had not yet been found, and though every body took part in the search, not excepting even good-natured Sir Geoffrey, the grand discovery was not finally made until after the first bell had rung for dinner. That it was made at all was owing to Beatrice. All of a sudden she remembered that Julius had taken the cloak with him, the day before, when she and her cousin rambled away on their angling excursion, and as soon as she mentioned this, Julius remembered that he had hung it up on the dead branch of the old oak tree. To the oak tree he ran, and there sure enough was the cloak still hanging, none the worse for its night out of doors and all unconscious of the mighty influence it had wrought on the fortunes of its young master.

It was the fashion in those days for country gen. tleman to dine at one o'clock. At two dinner was over, the horses were brought to the door, Julius and the steward Symonds mounted, not forgetting the cloak this time, and, to make an end of this part of the story, without going through the farewell speeches, shakes of the hand and kisses, by half past two the pair of travellers were a mile or so on their way to the next market town, twenty miles distant, where they intended to pass the night.

I have said that the ship in which Julius was to take passage was to sail on the fourth day from that which ushered in the opening of this narrative. For a wonder, in those days, the captain's promise was, kept; the ship did sail on the day appointed, and Julius, before the week was out, had a thorough experimental knowledge of sea-sick

load was heavy, and between the two causes, the stage broke down while it was yet forty miles distant from London. The accident cost half a day for repairs, and when the coach passengers at last reached the great city the ship had already gone ; luckily none of those travellers intended to sail by her, and if any other serious disappointment or evil was caused by their detention on the road, the fact has not come to my knowledge. Of them I take leave, therefore, their movements having no farther connection with my story.

Julius arrived in India after a voyage of four months, and. having reported himself to the military authorities, was speedily ordered to join his regiment in a remote part of the country with some long oriental name which I have forgotten, where the pleasant business of shooting and stabbing Mahrattas was then in full prosecution. He did his share of the humane work for two or three years, finding time now and then to write a long letter to his cousin and one not half so long to his uncle, but receiving no answers; which was no great surprise to him, though considerably vexatious, seeing that the operations of the war kept him moving from one part of the country to another, that the post-office establishment was not particularly well orgauized, and that the means of conveyance from England to India were not remarkably frequent in those days, when overland mails and steam packets were yet a long way in the future. He did his duty like a gallant young fellow as he was, acquiring in the meantime a manliness of form and character which made him a very different personage from the idle and fanciful angler of eighteen; and though he retained an affectionate remembrance of his pretty cousinI am loath to put on record any thing that savors of impeaching his constancy-I must acknowledge that the lieutenant of dragoons, in a fair way soon to be captain if some heathenish bullet did not cut off his chance of promotion, found a great many other things to do and to think of than sighing himself into a consumption over the pangs of absence from any feminine divinity whatever.

At length a slight wound and an order to carry despatches brought him to Calcutta, and there he and something like a score of letters awaiting him-the contents of which I choose to put in the form of narrative, going back to England for the purpose.

The reader must be kind enough to bear in mind that it was in September Julius embarked for India; and that if he had then missed the ship he would have been obliged to wait three months for another. There was a fair allowance of grief in his cousin's heart at his departure, but that grief, already softened by time, was put aside by one of far more oppressive weight and magnitude when, on a fatal day toward the close of November, good

Sir Geoffrey was suddenly cut down by a stroke of apoplexy. When his will was opened it was found that he had divided his wealth equally between his daughter and nephew-giving to each a goodly succession-and confided the guardianship of the former to that "cousin the Earl" who has been mentioned in the progress of this narrative, The removal of Beatrice to London followed. There she became an inmate of the Earl's splendid mansion, and there, amid the wonders, the novelties and gaieties of the metropolis, of the new world to which she was thus introduced, it is no wonder that new ideas and new feelings in time supplanted those of her more tender, rustic maidenhood. wealth made her an object of consideration in the most brilliant circles; her beauty, her accomplishments and estimable qualities gave to this consideration a higher tone; and the reader will not be surprised to hear that, being sought by many, she found one, when two years had elapsed, the deserving object of a more rational and genuine attachment than that which, when she was but little beyond a child, had linked her to her cousin. In short, when Julius at last received her letters she had been for nearly twelve months a Countess, and was still a happy wife and mother.

Her

That Lieutenant Hemingway read all this with lively interest will easily be imagined; but he was himself a little surprised at finding how little of pain or regret was mingled with that interest. I must confess, however, that I am not at all surprised. Love of his profession, ambition, that ripening change of character which soon follows' entrance upon the engrossing realities and business of life, all these combined with absence and the severing of old associations to make him look back almost with a smile upon the fervor of his youthful affection for his cousin; and there was something, too, in the consciousness that, thanks to the generosity of his uncle, an ample fortune awaited his return to England. After reading his letters he sat for some time musing, in no heartbroken mood; and "I have heard him say," adds the chronicler of the "principal houses in Devonshire," "that nothing occupied his mind so much, during that hour of retrospection, as the oddity of the fact that, if he had not hung his cloak on the dead branch of an old oak tree, he would have gone by the stage, been too late for the ship, remained in England until his uncle's death, and in all probability become the husband of his cousin Beatrice." J. I.

"Now fairest of damsels," the prior he said, And laid his old hand on her gracious young head, "To the convent what brings thee --thine errand declare. T'will go hard to refuse one of beauty so rare."

"Good father a lowly glee-maiden am I. "My suit, holy father, you will not deny; ""Tis only to visit and cheer with my song "The youth who has pined in your convent so long."

This youth was the great Earl of Mar's only son-
In battle and bloodshed renown he had won,
But now on a sick bed he suffering lay,

Though his ailment was mostly at heart-so they say.

The young Earl had fallen profoundly in love,
But his father's objections no prayers could remove,
For the lady, though fair and of goodly estate,
Was the child of a baron whom Mar chose to hate.

The prior he listened with doubt and surprise-
But he could not say nay to those pleading blue eyes;
So he took from his girdle a bunch of great keys
And he said Follow me, pretty maid, if you please."

The glee-maiden came to the convent next day, And again the day after, and weeks passed away, And still the old porter came hobbling along, Every morning, to let in the mistress of song.

For the young Earl grew better-her songs did him good-
They wrought an effect which no medicine could,
And at last he got well-quite hearty and stout-
And every fine day would go riding about.

But one day he rode out and did not return-
The prior was frightened but nothing could learn
Of his runaway patient until, one fine day,
There came to the door, in rich bridal array,

A goodly assemblage of ladies and knights-
The convent was not often blessed with such sights-
The young Earl and his lady-love dropped on their knees
And said Father, your blessing on us if you please."

The prior he gazed and he gaped and he smiled-
"My blessing be on thee, my beautiful child"—
The baron's fair daughter, the glee-girl who came,
And the bride of the young Earl were one and the same.

J. I.