In your word, lady." "But what if I died to-night? Where would it be then?" said she, laughing. "The money would go to the church, for none could claim it." fully or in negligence she had parted with it to one when she should have kept it for all; and inevitable ruin awaited her! "Go, Gianetta," said she to her daughter, "take this veil which your mother has worn and wept under so often, and implore the counsellor Calderino to plead for us on the day of trial. He is generous, and will listen to the unfortunate. But if he will not, go from door to door; Monaldi cannot refuse us. Make haste, my child; but remember the chapel as you pass by it. Nothing prospers without a prayer." Alas! she went, but in vain. These were retained against them; those demanded more than they had to give; and all bade them despair. What was to be done? No advocate, and the cause to come on to-morrow! Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student of the law, a young man of great pro 'Perhaps you will favour us with an ac- mise, Lorenzo Martelli. He had studied long knowledgment." "If you will write it." An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and she signed it before Master Bartolo, the village physician, who had just called by chance to learn the news of the day; the gold to be delivered when applied for, but to be delivered (these were the words) not to one, nor to two, but to the three-words wisely introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing what they knew of each other. The gold they had just released from a miser's chest in Perugia; and they were now on a scent that promised more. They and their shadows were no sooner departed than the Venetian returned, saying, "Give me leave to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done;" and she placed it on a table before him. But in that moment she was called away to receive a cavalier, who had just dismounted from his horse; and when she came back it was gone. The temptation had proved irresistible; and the man and the money had vanished together. Wretched woman that I am!" she cried, as in an agony of grief she fell on her daughter's neck, "what will become of us? Are we again to be cast out into the wide world? Unhappy child, would that thou hadst never been born!" and all day long she lamented; but her tears availed her little. The others were not slow in returning to claim their due; and there were no tidings of the thief; he had fled far away with his plunder. A process against her was instantly begun in Bologna; and what defence could she make; how release herself from the obligation of the bond? Wil and diligently under that learned lawyer Giovanni Andreas, who, though little of stature, was great in renown, and by his contemporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch, and also under his daughter Novella, who would often lecture to the scholars when her father was otherwise engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest her beauty should divert their thoughts-a precaution in this instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having lost his heart to another. To him she flies in her necessity; but of what assistance can he be? He has just taken his place at the bar, but he has never spoken: and how stand up alone, unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array that would alarm the most experienced? Were I as mighty as I am weak," said he, "my fears for you would make me as nothing. But I will be there, Gianetta; and may the Friend of the friendless give me strength in that hour! Even now my heart fails me; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to share, you and your mother shall never want. I will beg through the world for you." The day arrives, and the court assembles. The claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the defence is called for, but none is made; not a syllable is uttered. And after a pause and a consultation of some minutes, the judges are proceeding to give judgment, silence having been proclaimed in the court, when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses them : I "Reverend signors. Young as I am, may venture to speak before you? I would speak in behalf of one who has none else to help her; and I will not keep you long. Much has been said; much on the sacred nature of the obligation-and we acknowledge it in its full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the last letter. It is what we solicit, what we require. But to whom is the bag of gold to be delivered? What says the bond? Not to one, not to two, but to the three. Let the three stand forth and claim it." From that day (for who can doubt the issue?) none were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed fame; nor need I say how soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who sat beside him. When wives will govern, husbands must obey: For many a day Dick mourned and missed his favourite tobacco, And often grumbled sadly at Rebecca. At length the day approached his wife must die. of female friends, old aunts, and cousins, Stood at the gate in sable suits, Just like so many melancholy rooks. They search'd the house throughout, From garret to the pantry, In every corner, cupboard, nook, and shelf- Perched on Rebecca's coffin, at his rest, LEISURE AND LOVE. Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead, With nothing in the world to do, But just to blow a shepherd's reed The silent seasons through; And just to drive a flock to feed, Sheep, quiet, fond, and few! Pleasant to breathe beside a brook, And count the bubbles-love-worlds-there; To slumber in some leafy nook,— And then, a draught of nature's wine, A meal of summer's daintiest fruit; To take the air with forms divine; Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute; Descending, if the night be fine, In a star-parachute. Give me to live with love alone, And let the world go dine and dress; For love hath lowly haunts-a stone Holds something meant to bless. If life's a flower, I choose my own"Tis "Love in Idleness!" LAMAN BLANCHARD. 1 From Points of Misery. By Charles Westmacott; with Designs, by Robert Cruickshank. London. MATCH-MAKERS. "Where are you driving the pig, Paddy?" "To Limerick, your honour." "Limerick! This is the Cork road." "Hush! speak low. I'm only pretending. If it knew I was wanting it to Cork, it would take the Limerick road."-Matthews at Home. 1 years his field passions left him, and he became an active burgh politician and county meeting attender, for which he was eminently fitted, being not only naturally speculative, acute, and public-spirited, but also something of a humourist and bon vivant. Perhaps the principal reason for his remaining a bachelor was his attachment to his nephew, Charles Maitland, the only child of an only and beloved sister, whose memory Sir Richard held in deep and affectionate remembrance. Charles lost both his parents at the early age of twelve; and, on that event, his tutorage devolved upon his uncle, and a maiden aunt by the father's side, Miss Matilda Maitland of Kittlemeadows. These two guardians (as was foreseen and predicted by everybody) were not very harmonious on the subject of their charge, however harmonious they might be in their affection towards it: each aimed at exclusive possession and authority; their views regarding the education and conduct of their pupil were constantly clashing; bickerings, squab About two miles to the east of the old-fashioned burgh of Thrawntrappel, in the west of Scotland, the reader, from that point where the road turns northward, may have observed, at the bottom of a fine sweeping valley, a large ungainly building, of no particular style of architecture. If curiosity led him to take a nearer survey of it he would discover that it was occupied by weavers and their families; and from the innumerable batch of children puddling in its vicinity, and the hearty howl of a drawling ballad, heard even above the ceaseless clatter of the shuttle, he might, without much stretch of ingenuity, be led to conclude that the inhabitants originally be-blings, and heart-burnings were the invariable longed to the sister island. A slight glance, nevertheless, would persuade him that the building had seen better days; and, mutilated, as it is by time and the alterations of successive proprietors, he might even stumble upon the supposition that it had been at one period a family residence of no mean repute. Such, indeed, was its former state; such now is its destination! Even the name of the building has undergone an alteration- -an alteration, however, in keeping with its appearance. It is not known when the appellation Shieldhall degenerated into Shuttlehall; but this much is certain, that the place is now recognized by the former title among a few only of the older peasantry. The ancient family of Shield held it in possession for two or three hundred years; but on the death of Sir Richard Shield, which happened about the middle of last century, it passed into a collateral line, by whom it was afterwards abandoned for a more elegant and better situated mansion. Sir Richard (with whom our present story is connected) lived and died unmarried; and it was supposed that a disappointment in early life was the cause of his celibacy. This supposition, however, was not confirmed by his general character and conduct; for he was neither morose, cynical, nor recluse, but, on the contrary, all his life, cheerful, good-natured, and social. When young he had in dulged in the various manly sports and exercises of the period; but as he advanced in consequences; and the result of all was, that Charles-approved and reproved, flattered and threatened, for the same action-commanded and countermanded in the same breath-instructed to pay no heed to his aunt, and instructed to pay no heed to his uncle-very naturally followed his own inclination, and grew up a self-willed and obstinate youth, which, however, was fully relieved by a naturally frank, confiding, and generous disposition. It so happened that Charles was just within a month of attaining his majority, and of being freed from the nominal authority of his guardians (for of virtual authority there was none), when Miss Matilda Maitland was gathered to her fathers, leaving him, all and whole, her estate of Kittlemeadows. Her death, which at an earlier period would have been to the last degree gratifying to Sir Richard, tended at this time to increase his perplexity, as it fully enabled Charles to indulge, whenever he pleased, in certain romantic notions, which he had not been backward in revealing, of visiting the celebrated countries where literature and the fine arts had originated or been fostered Travelling in these days was much less a matter of course than now, and was in fact attended with many inconveniences and dangers to which the modern tourist is little liable. Sir Richard's affections were alarmed for his nephew; and of nothing was he more sensibly persuaded than that Miss Matilda Maitland had died, as she had lived-merely to vex him. He understood, however, the character of his nephew too well to make any decided opposition to his intention, but rather endeavoured, by affecting an indifference in the matter, or, at the most, by intimating the propriety of deferring the journey for a short time, to delude Charles into the opinion that it was after all a point of no great moment, which he might put into execution whenever he found it perfectly convenient. By this means Charles was induced to remain at home for nearly two years after the death of his aunt, spending his time chiefly with his uncle, and studying the art of design with great enthusiasm, as well as making himself master of one or two of the modern languages of Europe. It was towards the close of a lowering autumn day that Sir Richard Shield, sitting listlessly at his parlour window, descried an elderly personage riding down the avenue of Shield hall upon a shambling pony. Dinner was just over; and Sir Richard, having (as it happened) no engagement for the afternoon, was beginning to meditate upon that distressing point, What shall I do with myself? when the appearance of this visitor roused him from his speculation. "Ha! old Provost Pennycroft," he said, with apparent satisfaction. "What brings him this way to-day? Some pawky burgh business, it is likely." And he hurried down to the court. The character of the visitor generally affects his reception less than the seasonableness of the visit. Sir Richard welcomed old Mr. Pennycroft with great cordiality; and, ordering his pony to be attended to, led him into his snug supping apartment. "I was thinking," he said, "of a stroll as far as Cricket Place, and a bout with the laird, or, as the afternoon was gousty like, of a sixpenny whist with Charles up-stairs; but, since you are come, we shall just content ourselves, in our own room, with a sober mug and crack. And there," he added, smashing an immense piece of coal with the poker, "there will make a noble blaze!" Na; I cannot stop, Sir Richard, for I must be hame by gloamin', having just a bit invitation to give you" "Pa-pa! Not a word more. It's gloaming already, man. You must stay till supper, and John will see you safe home. Maybe I'll give you a Scotch convoy myself." "He-he-he! You mind, Sir Richard, how fou you filled me the last time? You maybe sooped me out o' the room wi' a besom for onything I ken. How I got hame is a mystery: but I recollect that Margaret, silly thing, fell a greeting when she opened the door-and nae wonder, for I was a' glaur and as white's a clout." "And how is my pretty Rose? It is long since I kissed her fair brow. Could you not have brought her with you?" "A-hem! 'Deed, I was thinking of that. But she'll be better acquaint, thinks I, after the supper. For, d'ye ken, Sir Richard, I have just come to invite you and your nephew, Mr. Charles, to a bit supper in my ain house on Friday night-naething much out o' the common, but just a bit social doing like, amang auld friends. "Friday night? Ay-unengaged. I do not see but I may come, and Charles too, for that matter. But what's in the wind? A new provostship already?" “Na, na. Ance in a lifetime's enough. I meddle or fash little with the council now, as ye ken. But, as I was saying, you must bring Charles with you." "I'll call him-but you can see him before you go. John, bring the Bordeaux, 33. Or you may prefer brandy? Both, John. Charles takes his own way in most matters. Have you got dinner, that's true?" "Just before coming away." -" And I cannot blame him, being inclined to do so myself. Yet he has nothing of me but my stubbornness; for when I was a young billy like him books I held in abhorrence, and my love of letters was confined to love-letters. Ha! what think you of that? Unpremeditated, I assure you. Nothing but rain could keep me within doors, and then I had a thousand things to do with my guns, my dogs, my flies, and my fishing-rods. Come away, John." "I have heard say that love makes folk lanely ways. Maybe the young gentleman's in love?" "Pa-pa! I do not say such a thing is impossible, but I don't believe it. Drink—you will find that good. Why, instead of settling on the excellent estate that his old aunt has left him, he is talking of disposing of it, and visiting foreign parts. He'll be off next spring, without fail. I wish the dog would fall in love; it would keep him at home." "A-hem! He has seen my Margaret, I think?" "Eh? No-yes. He may have seen her, but that is all. Believe me, sir, he is as free of love as yourself. Whew! Did not somebody tell me of a certain widow, who lives opposite you, provost, whom you are looking after? Ah, you wicked old sinner!" "You're joking, Sir Richard, you're surely joking. But, after a', I acknowledge—that is to say, I'se no deny that I wadna be the auntie's limmers wadna be the waur of a misIt's seven years-attress to keep them in order. When she was living, honest woman, she keept them to their tasks; but a bachelor's house gangs aye to wrack.' And then he wad say, 'That's a sensible observe of yours, Mr. Pennycroft,' or maybe Provost,' he wad call me; 'ye're aye like yoursell. To say the truth, I was just thinking something o' the same, if I could get onybody to tak' me.' 'Tak' ye!' I wad say; "I understand you. Not a word more. You have no need of a wife, sir. I tell you that to your face. Would it not be a crying sin to place a woman over your own daughter, Miss Margaret?" "Deed, that's the thing that fashes me. And, to be candid with you, Sir Richard, I'deil the fears o' that, man! There's no ane have an ettlin in this bit supper that you'll ten miles round but wad jump at you like a maybe no guess at. Your nephew, Charles, cock at a grosset. But I would advise you, has now come of age; and naething, I was Mr. Charles, to be on your guard, and look considering, could be more bes eming than for about for a gude sonsie quean, like our Marhim just to take a wife discreetly, and settle garet there, wi' a gude tocher.' 'I'm obli down in his auld auntie's yestate. Now, gated to you for your advice, Mr. Pennycroft,' thinking of that, and other points connected he would say, or maybe Provost'—it's a' ane with his weelfare, it occurred to me that which-'and dinna see that I could do better Charles had never been in our house-whilk than just take Margaret hersell.' 'Hoot! was very unsocial like, to say the least-and hoot!' I would say, giving him, maybe, a bit (whispering) if my daughter and him were dunt wi' my elbow, that's no what I was getting acquaint, there's nae saying what meaning. But, Sir Richard (turning to you), might come about-at least (raising his voice) you have not seen my fine cauliflower in the there's been mair wonders in our day and garden-or you have not seen my fine new generation." cocket-hat, hinging, like a chandelier, in the other room! It's marvellous how I should have forgot that. Come awa', it's weel worth seeing.' And then I would tak' you out the room in a great hurry like, and we would leave the twa to begin their courtship." "O you pawkie rogue! This is too much. You wish Margaret married to make room for the widow! I see it all. What says the ballad? """Tis good to be merry and wise, 'Tis right to be faithful and true; But, upon my word, there have been worse "I would be reasonable, Sir Richard; there's nae doubt o' that" sir." Reasonable! You are as rich as a Jew, "Weel, weel-we'se no quarrel about that. But, as I was saying-putting the widow out of the question-I think there's been waur speculations than that." "I said so not you. Only I would drive my point another way." "I ken your meaning, Sir Richard." "Do you? Let's hear." "Ou-ye see if you were setting heart and hand to the matter, you would push it on, nae doubt. For instance, supposing them to be thegither at supper, you would propose to drink Margaret's health, and wish her weel married; and I would say in a jocose manner to Charles, I'm thinking, Mr. Charles, auld. "I used to think you somewhat pawkie, Provost " Isna that the thing, Sir Richard-he-hehe!" But I have been mistaken. Such conduct, I declare, would make even Romeo and Juliet abhor each other. O heavens! what indelicacy is here! I'm a bachelor myself; but, trust me, a proceeding like that you have described would set the coarsest minded man er woman off at a tangent. See-here's my fa vourite folio. I will read you a passage for your instruction. "Ah me! by all that ever I did learn, The course of true love never did run smooth. And wherefore? Master Shakspeare, who knew everything, would know that. To come at it, we might transpose his words: The course of smooth love never did run trat.' Without obstacles, there would be no impetus in the current. But, not to speak generally, Charles is stubborn as a mule, though gentle as a lamb. I might lead him through the world, but I could not drive him an inch. He would be sure to take the different direc |