glott, the most precious MSS., by the error of a servant, were sold, instead of a quantity of waste-paper- -some say to a maker of fireworks; and it is for this reason there is such a paucity of early codices of the sacred Scriptures.

With regard to the date, the Cardinal pointed out a note at the end of one of the books-a -a sort of colophon - which states it was transcribed A. D. 70; but this, I venture to observe, would prove that the Christian era was used as a means of computation even before the siege of Jerusalem. He considered, however, the MS. could not be later than the middle of the second century.

In reply to questions as to the Orations of Hyperides-the notes and illustrations were by the Rev. Churchill Babington, the fac-similes by Messrs. Netherclift and Durlacher; they show the smallest mark and every flaw in the papyrus, and are equal, if not superior, to the best fac-similes of the French. The book was published by subscription, and I believe is now very scarce. Mr. Arden, no question, has the lithographic stones, and with his usual courtesy would, no doubt, permit some copies to be taken

off.

With many thanks for the kind communications of several photographers, I fear it would be necessary to reduce the page so much to get a clear image in the camera, that the text would be scarcely legible. A quarto page of uncial Greek, reduced to three or four inches square, would, I fear, be of little practical utility. It would, however, be very easy to try the experiment on some other MS. I fear, also, it would be necessary to strain the page and get it perfectly flat, or the curl of the vellum would alter the focus and distort the image. Once more apologizing for taking up so much of your valuable columns,

I have the honor to be, Sir,

Your obliged and faithful servant,
ARTHUR ASHpitel.

2 Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, }

The New Testament is not now a separate volume, but it and the Septuagint are all bound in one; and this is as it should be, for they are all one MS.

The Coder exhibits no trace of intentional mutilation. It is true that the Epistles of St. Paul to Timothy, Titus, and Philemon are wholly wanting, as well as the Apocalypse, so far as the ancient writing is concerned; but this arises from the MS. having been injured at both ends, so that in the beginning the greater part of Genesis is gone, and in the New Testament the old writing breaks off in Hebrews ix. As the pastoral epistles, in the arrangement of old Greek MSS., stand after that to the Hebrews, they are thus of necessity wanting. Not so, however, the Catholic Epistles, which occupy their usual Greek location, after the Acts and before Romans.

A later band has remedied the defects in part, after a manner, by prefixing the missing part of Genesis, inserting a portion lost from the Psalms, and adding the latter part of the Hebrews, and the Book of Revelation.

If the testimony of one who has examined and collated personally almost every known ancient Greek MS. of the New Testament, is needed to show the importance of this proposed step, then let me add, that I believe the carrying out of Mr. Thoresby's proposition would be one of the greatest services that could be rendered to textual criticism; and no one could feel more deeply obliged to him than myself. In my Account of the Printed Text of the Greek New Testament (page 156), I have mentioned the pains and trouble which I took in the hope of obtaining the readings accurately of this most important MS.

The MS. ought to be examined as well as photographed; because the manner in which the letters have been traced over again by a later hand is such, that here and there implicit dependence on the photographed copy might lead to inattention as to the faint, pale, original reading.

If any one who used the photographed copy were properly on his guard, by such places having been noticed, then the work proposed by Mr. Thoresby would be satisfactory in the extreme.

I saw at Cambridge, about a month ago, a beautiful photograph of one page of the Codex Augiensis lying in the MS. itself, in the library of Trinity College. Your obedient servant,

S. P. TREGELLES.
6 Portland Square, Plymouth,
Nov. 23.

}

From Bentley's Miscellany.

HOW I GREW INTO AN OLD MAID.

I.

WE were three of us at home-I, Lucy, and little Mary. Mary was, by many years, the younger, for three, two brothers and a sister, had died between her and Lucy. Only one brother was left to us, and he was the eldest, two years older than I. My mother's income was sufficient for comfort, though we had to practise much economy while Alfred was at college.

He came home to us to pass the last vacation before taking orders, but not alone. We had walked into the village to meet the stagecoach, and when it came and he jumped down, a gentleman about his own age followed him. 'My friend George Archer," he said; "you have heard me speak of him. And you, George," he added, "have heard of my sisters. These are two of them, Hester and Lucy.”

66

What a handsome man he was, this stranger! Tall, fair, gentlemanly; with a low, sweet voice, and a winning manner. He is often in my mind's eye even now as he looked that day, though so many, many years have gone by.

We must all of us, I believe, have our romance in life, and mine had come for me before those holidays were over. A woman, to love entirely, must be able to look up to the object of her affections, and none can know with what reverence I regarded him. Had one demanded of me, Did perfection lie in mortal man? I should have pointed to George Archer. The tricks that our fond imaginations play us! But do not think I loved him unsought. No, no. He asked for me of my mother, and we began to talk about our plans.

She had no objection to give me to him. He had won all our hearts, and hers amongst the rest. He was indeed one of the most attractive of men. I thought so then, and now that I can judge dispassionately, I think so still. But she said we might have long to wait. I had my five hundred pounds, but he had nothing save a prospect of a curacy, and he was not yet in orders.

Our good old rector, Mr. Coomes, had promised to take my brother as curate. He was getting feeble and required one, and we were delighted at the prospect of having

Alfred near us. I don't know who first hinted that this plan might be changed - I did not: but it came to be whispered that instead of Alfred Halliwell's becoming curate of Seaford, it would be George Archer. My mother spoke to me. She did not like it: she had set her heart on having Alfred settled with us. My brother, light-hearted, goodnatured, was ready to sacrifice anything for his friend and favorite sister. My mother said very little: I believe she thought she could not, consistently with the courtesy and good manners due to a guest. I might, but I would not! Selfish! selfish!

The time came, and they were ordained together. The Reverend Alfred Halliwell was appointed to a curacy in a remote district of North Wales, and the Reverend George Archer to Seaford.

He came. He read himself in on the last Sunday in Lent, the Sunday preceding Passion week. Seaford church, standing midway between the village and the gates of Seaford Park, was a small, unpretending edifice, with only one monument inside it, and one handsome pew, and they pertained to the Earls of Seaford. As we walked into church that morning I could not look up, but I saw by intuition that he was in the reading-desk, and the rector in his pew. Mr. Coomes, that day, was but one of the congregation.

He began the service, and we stood up. It is one of the few remembered moments of agitation in my life: my breath came fast, I saw nothing, and my face was white as the snow outside for it was a very early Easter that year, and snow lay on the ground. In my foolish fancy, I thought every one must be looking at me-as if the congregation, in their curiosity to listen to him, could think of me! It was a persuasive voice, low and silvery, and, though it did not tremble, I saw, in the first glance I stole at him, that he was nervous in his new position, for his bright color went and came.

When I gathered courage to look around, I for the moment forgot him, and everything else, in astonishment. Against the wall, under the one monument, facing the side of the pulpit, was the pew of the Earls of Seaford, with its brass rods and crimson curtains. During the time we had lived at Seaford (four years it was, then, ever since my father's death) that pew had always been empty, and now it was occupied! Standing at the top

far behind. "Mr. Archer, are you and Hester not walking slowly? It is very cold." So he raised his face from mine, and we went on, close to my mother and Lucy.

O, let me believe that he did indeed love me! I am an old woman now, and have struggled through a lonely life, carrying with me a bruised heart. But let me still believe that my dream was real, that, during its brief lasting, George Archer's love for me was pure and true!

My brother fell ill in June. He had been ailing ever since he went down to Wales. The weather, when he travelled, was severe, the place bleak, and he wrote us word that the cold seemed, from the first, to have struck on his chest, and settled there. In June he grew worse, and wanted my mother to go down.

"I shall send you instead, Hester," she said, after considering over his letter. "I cannot go and leave you children here alone." I looked up to remonstrate, feeling the hot color flush into my face. What! send me away from him, miles and miles, where I could never see him, hear his voice, listen for his step? But a better feeling came over me, and the hasty words died on my lips: how could I refuse to comfort my sick brother? "Hester is thinking of Mr. Archer," laughed Lucy. "Now, Hester, don't deny it, I can see it in your face. Look at it, mamma. She is indignant that any one should be so unfeeling as to banish her from Seaford."

"Hester must remember that she is, in a remote degree, the cause of this illness of Alfred's. Had he been curate here, his indisposition would have been well attended to at first, and cured before now. It is only neglect that has suffered it to get ahead."

me.

Her tone was mild, but conscience smote Lucy saw my downcast look. “Mamma,” she said, "let me go to Alfred instead of Hester."

My mother shook her head. "It is not only that Hester is older than you, Lucy, but she has a steadiness of character and manner which you want. I can trust her to travel alone; you are too giddy."

"Why, you know we always said Hester was cut out for an old maid, with her starched notions and sober ways," retorted Lucy, who

"A very good mistake," said my mother. George Archer spoke much with me of his prospects, before I left. He was all buoyancy and hope, as youth is sure to be. He was indulging a chimera-though neither of us thought it one, then that the Earl of Seaford, who had been remarkably friendly with him, during his fortnight's stay, might perhaps give him a living. The family had gone to town, after Easter, for the season, and for Lady Georgina's presentation. And we heard that she bore away the palm of beauty at the drawing-room, that George the Fourth, sated though he was with ladies' charms, had spoken publicly of her exceeding loveliness.

I found Alfred very ill. But it was as my mother thought-what he chiefly wanted was care- he called it "coddling." It has pleased God, in His infinite wisdom, to allot to us all some especial talent of usefulness, and I think that my humble one lies in being a good nurse, in an aptness for soothing and attending on the sick. Alfred lodged with an overseer and his wife (the man had something to do with mines), and though they were attentive to him, in their rough, free way, they had no idea of those cares and precautions necessary in illness. There is no need, however, to linger over this part of my story. With the aid of warm weather, and the blessing of ONE who helps in time of need, I got Alfred round again. By the end of August he was quite well, and I went back to Seaford.

It was a long journey for me: travelling in those days was not what it is now: but I halted at Shrewsbury. We had some very distant acquaintances living there, of whom we knew little more than the name, but my mother wrote to them to receive me, which they kindly did for a night both going and returning. I left Shrewsbury early in the morning, and reached Seaford about eight in the evening.

I never doubted that George Archer would be waiting for me, but when we arrived, and they came flocking round the coach-door, he was not there.

Mamma, Lucy, and Mary, but no George. It was a lovely summer's night, the harvest moon near the full, but a dark shade seemed to have fallen on my spirit.