hibit the progress, culmination, and decline hitherto evident in styles, and whose biography will thus become the history of art.

We confess these conclusions seem contradictory in themselves, and to the whole tenor of Mr. Garbett's own book; it is precisely because art must be for the many that we are hopeful of progress; "the many (in every nation)," he says, "are vulgar, gross-minded, and thoughtsparing;" but why? Because they are uncultivated; in these countries particularly the enjoyments of taste have hitherto been the monopoly of the wealthy-the few. But educate, diffuse just principles of taste, throw open exhibitions and museums of art, tax not the very enjoyments of air and light, infuse into your schools of design and your art competitions, the true and high spirit of art study and appreciation for art's own sake, and say will the many always be "vulgar and gross-minded?" Again, should we want another hopeful sign, it is in the very existence of printing as a mean of education; no more secrecy, like the free

masons in the days of Gothie culmination which Mr. Garbett describes; no more monopoly of knowledge, invention, or taste; on the wings of the press thoughts fly to the uttermost bounds of the earth. We have admitted how far printing may seem to militate against phonetic painting; but we are utterly at a loss to understand how it can mar the progress of architecture; and did we wish utterly to confound Mr. Garbett, we would ask him the meaning, the cui bono of his own admirable work, essentially cal culated to aid in the cultivation of pure

taste.

His theory of individual greatness, or great individuals, is an utter solecism in philosophy and history; he says we shall never again have a Periclean age, though we may have a Pericles; we can only answer him, whether as regards a Pericles, a Phidias, or a Raffaelle, in the words of a distinguished French writer:-"Il faut des siecles heureux pour former des grands hommes; la nature les ebauche, l'emulation, les recompenses les achevent."

THE widower came home, but the young bride of his youthful choice slept in a foreign land. And his two little motherless daughters, Mary and Lizzie, returned to the home of their infancy; and they ran about from place to place, and visited again each well-remembered spot the old tree round which they had played with their nurse, and under which their dear mamma used to tell them little stories. They wept to think that she was no longer with them; that the aviary in the gardenthe birds were all gone, and the wires out of their place and broken. And the little summer-house in the corner at the end of the old walk, with its pretty painted-glass windows, but now locked up the mistress of it had gone to

rest.

"How glad I am that the little Fortescues are come," said Jane to her mother one day.

"It is not likely, my dear, that you

will see so much of them as you used to do," answered her mother; "they have their governess now, and their aunt, whom I do not know as well as their poor mother."

The truth was that Mrs. Saunders saw at a glance that she would not get on well with Miss Fortescue, who joined her brother in England, and partly volunteered, and partly was asked, to look after his litle girls. Aunt Bidz-for such was the name she rejoiced in, Bridget being a family name of the Fortescues, and elegantly contracted into Biddy Aunt Bidz was much older than her brother, and had always been accustomed to advise and dictate to him; and in this case the reins of government were given up without a struggle. So poor Mrs. Saunders, after all her trouble, had nothing right at the Abbey. This would not do, and that was dirty, and this room was badly settled, and those

chairs were covered, and this sofa ought to be uncovered; and these curtains must be taken down, and that ottoman placed in the corner. So Mrs. Saunders retreated as soon as possible. She had been caught by the family on their arrival actually in the house, settling it for them, and Miss Fortescue found fault before her as if she had been a paid housekeeper.

"I am only the agent's wife," said Mrs. Saunders to herself, and took her leave as soon as she could, determined only to pay the usual visit of ceremony, and leave Miss Fortescue where she was. But the children, Mary and Lizzie, they were glad to see her, and kissed her, and hung on her, and asked her when she would come again, and how was Jane and Charles, and Robert, who was at school in England.

"Come here, my dears," said Miss Fortescue, in a stately way; "do not annoy Mrs. Saunders."

You are not going?" said Mr. Fortescue, rousing from a sort of lethargy, as she wished him good-bye. "How's Saunders? Come over and dine with us some day. Poor Fanny's gone, though."

And the husband wept for his departed wife.

He got up early in the morningthere was no danger now of disturbing her as he left her side-and wandered over the place-her own place. The little birds sang, happy, around him, and seemed to mock his grief with their joy. And there was the shady walk, hung over with old trees, where they used to walk

and sat there to cry.

Fanny Burton had been the belle of that country, and Henry Fortescue was a dashing light-infantry officer, quartered in M, a dozen years before, with a couple of hundreds ayear besides his pay. He met Miss Burton, danced, rode with her, loved her with all the wild enthusiasm of love at twenty-five, and proposed. Mr. Burton objected-Fanny had five thousand pounds; but an old uncle of Fortescue's made a settlement on him, and the match went on; but after they had been a couple of years married, Mr. Burton's only son got sick, went abroad, and died at Madeira of consumption; so Fanny became the heiress, for her youngest brother, her own favourite, had been lost at sea about two years before her marriage. The property, failing male issue, went in the female line. Old Burton did not long survive the loss of his eldest son; and by his death four thousand a-year was added to Mr. Fortescue's income, and when his old uncle died soon after, he left him fifteen hundred a-year more. So he had riches; but his treasure, his heart's darling, was gone. What was it all to him?

THE assizes came on, and Grace learned that she should give evidence against her mother, and the thought affected her very much. To have her punished-maybe hung. Horrible! And she was not fit to die. And Grace made known all her fears to her young mistress, Jane.

"But she will not be put to death," said Jane. I don't know what the punishment will be, but I am sure she will not be hung."

This was some comfort to Gracebut still she would have to tell. And she talked still to Jane, until the latter at last consented to ask her papa to forgive Mrs. Kennedy.

"No, my love, I am sorry I cannot oblige you. There are some peculiar circumstances about the robbery which would prevent me, if I were otherwise inclined."

For Mrs. Saunders had told her husband about Grace being an orphan, left in Mrs. Kennedy's charge. What fond wife keeps a secret from her husband, or he from her; and yet, still it was a secret-the minds, the ideas being one and the same.

"Jane," continued her father, "how severely ought that mother to be punished who, instead of teaching the child God gives her, to live honestly, will encourage it in vice; but in this case,

the mother sought to criminate and blast the character of the child actually inclined to virtue. Oh, no, Jane, the trial must go on-I certainly will prosecute.”

"Poor Grace will be so sorry." "Was it Grace asked you to intercede with me?" "Yes, papa."

who came to speak to the stranger, "that we cannot accommodate you; but if you will step this way for a moment, I shall send out to inquire if we can get a bed in the town for you."

"Thank you, thank you," answered the stranger, "that will do very well," as he followed her into a little room off the kitchen, where her mother was

it cannot be done."

to

The down-coach stops in Mchange horses the guard opens the door, and a traveller gets out.

"The attorneys all here, sir," said the waiter, peering into his face.

The stranger did not answer. "A bag and hat-box," he said to the guard.

"Yes, sir-all right, sir. Porter has 'em."

The stranger fee'd the coachman and guard. That didn't look like an attorney, thought the waiter.

"Counsellors, sir, all at the other

hotel."

"Indeed!-can I have a bed here to-night?"

he knew the place quite well. Mrs. O'Hara rose as he entered.

"Sit down, sir, won't you? You must be cold off the coach;" at the same time placing a chair for him.

"I did not find it very cold, I was inside," he said, as he took off his hat, and sat down.

"Perhaps you will take a cup of tea, sir, while you are waiting."

66

Why, I will order tea, if you will allow me, Mrs. O'Hara, provided you stay here and make it for me; for I'll not have you turned out of your room. I may live here, I suppose," he continued, smiling, "even though I sleep

out."

"Oh, certainly, sir-I am much

in, sir. I'll ax the master."

"Is this the coffee-room?" asked the stranger, putting his hand on the handle of a door.

"Stop, sir, stop, the attorneys is in there."

looked over at the stranger, as he smiled.

"Kate, order fresh tea."

"And in a hurry, Kate, do you hear? I only took a snack in Dublin, and am hungry enough."

He

Mrs. O'Hara stared again. called her daughter "Kate," and not in an impertinent way, at all, but just nice and friendly, as if he knew her all his life. Who is he, at all?

The stranger took off his outside coat, and drew his chair close to the fire, and leaned back, looking round the room, as if he and it were old friends. He was a tall, militarylooking man, about thirty-five, with brown hair, just turning to grey, and a fine handsome forehead, large nose, and clear blue eyes, which lighted up with a sweet expression when he parted his lips to smile; and he put his feet on the fender, and made himself quite at home. The teathings came in, and the stranger's eye was turned on Mrs. O'Hara, as he caught her staring at him intently. She poured out his tea, and Kate said that Mary had found a bed for the gentleman, in a very small room down the street, if he does not mind that.

"Oh, no," said the stranger, "six feet square will do me."

Kate went about her household occupations.

"Well, Mrs. O'Hara, how is the world using you?" asked the stranger, helping himself to bread and butter. "Why, then, tolerably well, sir, considering. The assizes, twice a-year, help us."

Is there a heavy calendar this time?"

"I really don't know, sir-I don't trouble my head much about these things."

"Are there any news in the neighbourhood?"

"Why, nothing very particular, sir. I don't take the papers since my husband died, and I don't hear much. You know this part of the country, sir?" she asked.

"A little-I was here when a boy." "You're coming to the assizes, sir?" she again asked.

"Yes, coming to the assizes." And he smiled.

"Well, barristers make a great deal of money at the law."

"They do," he observed, apparently amused.

"And the attorneys, sir-they're a money-making set. But my goodness, sir, she hasn't left you a sugar-tongs." So the old woman stood up to get him one.

"Don't stir, don't stir, Mrs. O'Hara-stay, here's one;" and he turned round, and opened a little cupboard in the wall behind him and found a pair.

Mrs. O'Hara looked at him. "You know the place well, sir," she observed, at length-"who are ye, at all?"

"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. O'Hara." And he smiled at her again. 66 Come, tell me, does Mr. Denham live in this neighbourhood."

"His son does, sir, but his daughters are all married."

"And the Roystons, what has become of them?"

"All here still-sir, the three young gentlemen married, and one of the daughters; the other, poor thing, is single, still. She was going to be married, I believe, but the poor young gentleman was shot. Poor Livy !"

"Poor Henderson!" sighed the stranger, "I thought it would be so." "You knew Mr. Henderson?" said the old woman; "many's the time he was in this room with my poor husband."

"Who on earth are you, sir?" The stranger smiled a melancholy smile at her again.

"And the Hamiltons and Dillons?" he questioned on.

Mr. Hamilton's there still; but Mr. Dillon gave up his place, and sold off everything. Some said he was broke; and Mr. Saunders, Mr. Fortescue's agent, lives there now."

"And who is Mr. Fortescue ?" "Oh, sir, he married Mr. Burton's daughter, and then he got the property at the old man's death."

"Sure there was another son," said the stranger, quickly.

"There was, sir-Master Henry; but the poor young man got decline, and went to the Continent, and died; and the old gentleman didn't live long after him."

"Poor Henry!" sighed the stranger to himself.

"You knew him, too, sir?"

After a pause the stranger asked, "And Mr. Fortescue-is he at home, now?"

66

Yes, sir, he is; but the poor man is in great grief-he lost his wife; she died last month, in Italy, of decline."

"His wife!" cried the stranger— "she dead, too-all gone."

The tears filled his blue eyes, and trickled down on his cheeks.

"I know you, now," screamed his companion, starting up, "I know you, now; you're Charles Burton, if he's in this world."

The tall man stood up, and clasped her in his arms, and kissed her, and cried on, in silence; and she hugged him, and said, "I know you,

now.

Kate looked into the room, and the tall stranger was still kissing her mother; but they did not mind her. She wisely left them there.

"Why didn't ye tell me?" said Mrs. O'Hara, as they resumed their seats. "I wanted to find out all about the family, first."

"And sure they all thought you were drowned."

"Oh, that's a long story, which I'll tell you, some time or other-you see I'm alive still."

"You are come down here to the assizes, then, to look for the property."

"Oh! no! no! I had no idea my brother was dead. I have earned my

own fortune. I came, after a long absence, to find a loved, darling sister and brother, and pass the rest of my life with them-they are both dead; and I am alone in the world." And his tears flowed afresh.

At length he said, "Your intelligence has quite overcome me, dear Mrs. O'Hara. Will you send some one to show me my lodgings? Tomorrow, I will speak with you, again."

The very

He was up again early in the morning; indeed he scarcely slept. And he took a stick, and went along the well-known road towards home. It was very early-the birds had hardly commenced their morning song-no one was stirring. On he went-each turn in the road so familiar-each tree so well remembered. ditches, as he walked along, seemed friends to him-each little object was recognised, pleasant companions to his thoughts along the old road. There is the little village, now, once his home; and the old church with its well-known spire, like an index forefinger pointing up to warn and check evil-doers that church, where he so often prayed with the dear ones gone -that church to which he had so often gone, a thoughtless lad, with other thoughts than prayer. And the good clergyman, too, Mr. Head-was he there still, who used to remind the young people that it was God's house they were in, and would they not respect him there? Had God forgiven him all the sins of negligence, and wilful ignorance, and headlong crime that he had indulged in, when there before? and the tears trickled down the humbled sinner's check. The Christian felt that God was merciful, and had forgiven; but was he not tried sorely

now?

He came to the old gate, and the lodge inside, and the avenue, disappearing through the trees. The gatepeople were not up, he thought. At all events, he would not trust himself

that way. Old Biddy Crawford, if she was there, would be sure to know him. So he went on under the high park wall, and came to the stile so often passed before, and climbed over. Once again in the dear old place-and his heart was full, up in his mouth. He hurried on-through the wood-and the old trees looked down, and smiled on him, looking young again with the

coming spring. And he looked up on the old friends to welcome the stranger home. Old friends that changed not, though all else changed, old friends, old trees the dear ones that played with him amongst them were gone -the sunny faces had ceased to smile

but the old trees, the warrior nurses, the grim playmates of childhood's happy hour, they were there -still there they only to welcome the stranger home. As he reached the end of the wood, there was the large lawn before him, and the clumps of trees, and the house, the dear house, in the distance. He folded his arms, and looked at the view before him. Still he looked

"And as he gazed on each loved scene,

He felt he felt he was a boy again."

He stood there, lost in thought, while the tears rolled fast from his eyes-his whole past life came up at one view before him. His childhood's happy days, when his angel mother kissed and petted her golden-haired, darling youngest son-the spoiled pet-and taught him to lisp at her knee his in. fant prayers. She went first; then his boyhood, like a dark cloud after a brief hour of sunshine. His stern father, and the hasty blow, his boiling blood, and the bitter secret tears of early manhood's shame at being beaten like a dog. Then the reckless daring, and headlong rush to sin. Then farther on-a lad-still worse, more steeped in vice. And then a vein of gold in the dark chaos of dross. Dear Mary, that loved him so well!-his first love, his last-his darling wife, who died so soon! And a passionate burst of grief checked the thought. He skirted along the wood. Should he approach the house?-there was no one up yet. It was still very early he would just visit the shrubbery at the end, and then go. he entered 'mid the trees again, and reached the shrubbery-and the old walk-the dear old walk; and here the arbour that he and Mary helped old John, the gardener, to make. The old trees here, too, like dear relations, the others only friends he sauntered on, so slowly, to take in all. Oh! of the smallest shrub he would not miss the sight the very weeds had pleasure for him. "The seat there, still, round old Jack's tree;" Fanny's seat,

So