not confine himself entirely to specimens of a lower order,-a proceeding about as fair as if we took from Millbank or Coldbath Fields Prison some ten or twelve convicts, and exhibited them as fair samples of English society. Yet, with all this hardness and cynicism, there is in Mr. Thackeray a deep spring of tenderness and true pathos, which it would be well if he allowed to run more often and more freely. It peeped forth in some of his earlier works, ran a little more openly through those charming "Lectures on the English Humorists of the last Century," and was allowed to gush forth in a full stream in "The Newcomes." The character of Colonel Newcome took the world by surprise, for few believed that the author of" Vanity Fair" could pourtray a character that did not disgust by some odious trait. The Colonel, however, never forfeits our love and reverence for a moment: he is injudicious and hasty sometimes, but never anything that is incompatible with a high and noble nature. We know no more pathetic description in the whole range of fiction than the account of Colonel Newcome's bankruptcy and subsequent poverty.

But now we must come to a close. We have dwelt more on Mr. Dickens's writings, because they have been so much and so unfairly abused. Every one who delights in Mr. Thackeray's works tries to exalt his paragon by depreciating his, so-called, rival. Mr. Thackeray, we are glad to say, has never countenanced this spirit. He has always spoken of Mr. Dickens's writings in a tone of generous admiration, which it would be well if his own admirers adopted. But why should we pit against each other our two leading writers of fiction ? Let each remain on his own pinnacle, which he has gained with so much labour, and rest undisturbed on his well-merited laurels.

Ah ! he who clasps thee fondly now,
Shall often mourn thy broken vow,
With tearful eye a-grieving;
Gazing on stormy sea,

Wailing the Fates' decree,
Fool for believing!

Fool not to know the fickle breeze,
But ever think to love and please.
Ah Pyrrha, thy sweet devilries,
Beguile the young untried :
I, who fell in Love's sea,
Lo! within the Sea-god's shrine
Swam out full speedily.
Hang those dripping clothes of mine—
Sign that the world may see
How, of Pyrrha's witchery,
'Scaped I the tide !

CHOWRINGHEE;

OR

THE RAYMOND FAMILY.

A TALE OF CALCUTTA LIFE.

By HARTLEY HALL.*

CHAPTER I.

In which the reader is admitted to the Green Room, to make the acquaintanceship of some of the Actors and Actresses in this Calcutta Drama.

READER, you are standing, if you are with me, at the drawing-room door of No.-, passed this house, and noticed its snowy Chowringhee Road. Often as you have white face and bright green jhilmils, you, perhaps, never expected to stand with a comparative stranger at the head of that tenement's stair-case, about to be introduced to the occupants.

*An original novel, treating principally of Calcutta Life, by a gentleman well known in England and in India as a shrewd and observant writer, and whose former works— published at home-have met with marked success. A few chapters of "Chowringhee, or the Raymond Family," have already ap peared in the columns of an Indian publication, to which the author at one time contributed; the story will be continued in each issue of the Miscellany until it is completed. In drawing attention to Chapter I. to-day, we are not, we hope, overstepping our province, when we express the opinion that HARTLEY HALL will attract a large list of readers, especially as his story is identified with every-day existence, and is, to some extent, a new subject for the novelist. The copyright of this tale is reserved by the author.

"Miss Emily Raymond: allow me the pleasure of introducing Mr. or Mrs.to you; they are readers of mine, and, as such, I can recommend them."

"Reader Miss Emily Raymond: take a chair. I trust that Colonel Raymond is well. I hear that he will shortly be stationed at Fort William. I read his speech at the dinner the other day. We shall all be delighted to see him. How is Lady Kean? I have not seen her on the Course of late; and, what is stranger, she seems to have abandoned her morning ride, and gentlemen ask and wonder where the Amazon has gone." &c. &c. &c.

Now Colonel Raymond is Emily's father, and has Command of the -th Regiment, stationed at Lucknow. Emily is not his only child; she has one senior sister, Katharine, who has been married just two months to Sir Godfrey Vyse Bullen. Mrs. Raymond, or rather Lady Raymond, for she was a daughter of Lord William Jolliffe, -has been dead one year. Lady Kean is an unmarried sister of hers, and is supposed to keep the Colonel's house. Colonel Raymond got property by his wife, and, if he lives, will inherit more in his own right. And so, reader, now I think you know sufficient of the Raymond family for me to proceed to my story.

Emily Raymond is seventeen years of age-I am speaking of six years ago; and although she is to be the heroine of a novel, it must be confessed that she borders on the beautiful. As she rides on the Course, in her father's ungainly, cumbrous, and oldfashioned barouche, with its faded lining and scratched and scored panels (but which no power or persuasion can make the Colonel renovate), she looks like a rose in the midst of a russet_common, or the face of a Sutherland in a James the Second frame. She is fair, but with hazel tresses, and the faintest tinge of red in the clear depth of her cheeks tells you that she is not a piece of statuary. Her eyes are of the class called "sleepy," with a just sufficient droop of melancholy in their expression to excite your immediate interest. If anything, her eyes look out of proportion to her other features-a most acceptable deformity. When aroused or startled, they open wide and sparklingly, and her head turns upon her neck at an acute angle, as gazelles stand when they hear a gun-shot. Her neck is not full, but of snowy whiteness; her figure is lithe and girlish; she is in no way in advance of her years. She is above the medium height: people think she will be very tall; and her nervous friends dread her overgrowing her strength.

So much for her personnel. She has one rare charm,-a charm almost obsolete in all "fashionable circles," and quite so with the "upper ten thousand." The spell is, that she -being a girl-is girlish. In every word

or action,-listening to flattery, or speaking to her ayah; entering her own chamber, or her father's antediluvian barouche; talking to a morning visitor, or chaunting her prayers on her cushion at St. Paul's,—she is natural. Men call her "green," and, in the way they mean, she is green;-it is to be, hoped she will never change her colours. She is very credulous, and, when the son of Judge Mainwaring, of the Sudder, declared that he would cast himself off the summit of the Ochterlony Monument if she refused to marry him, she said, in a sympathising tone, that she would accept him sooner than permit him to do that! But young Mainwaring is in the Mofussil now, upon a handsome pay for doing nothing, and a retiring pension when he has completed it.

There are several young men of "good degree" after Miss Raymond, much to the annoyance of Lady Kean, whose example is certainly as good as her precept, for no one except sircars with house-bills are ever "after her." She has several times said that she would not allow it, supposing there were. There is no immediate cause of alarm she is an admirable woman, but a little wiry, physically and mentally. As a sister of the late Lady Raymond, she takes the deepest interest in her sister's child, and is the only person, except that child, who can speak authoritatively to the Colonel. She has repeatedly told him, with all the elegance of speech possible, that he is, in many points, a fool. She is of opinion that he should select a higher order of friends and acquaintances, on account of his having married a Jolliffe-albeit the Jolliffes stopped short in their genealogical table at one of Charles' favourite womenone of garrulous Pepys' curses of the nation"; consequently, the young gentlemen already following in the wake of Miss Raymond do not find favour in the eyes of Lady Kean. Of the two young gentlemen specially alluded to, one is Lieutenant Parkes, only recently arrived from Malta; the other is a Mr. St. Albans,-not of the Nell Gwynne family,-about entering the Civil Service. The former of these two individuals has the reputation of being a bold and efficient officer; the latter of being something little short of a genius. Had he but had a birthclaim to his patronymic, Lady Kean would have encouraged the adoration he daily paid at Emily's shrine. As it is, he is in her eyes a Yokel in borrowed plumes. His father is a member of the English Bar; his mother was a bosom friend of the " poor lamented Lady Raymond." Colonel Raymond, to please Lady Kean, had, shortly before this story opens, sent a young officer to her on inspection, for the Colonel was weak enough to dwell sometimes upon the subject of his daughter's value in the matrimonial market ; but in less than a week after the new acquaintance's arrival, Lady Kean discovered

that his father was a member of the Town Council of London, and his mother something lower still. The Colonel "caught it," as Lady Kean always termed her admonishings, by the following dâk :-Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdin.

Reader, you need not remain longer; you have made the acquaintanceship of some of the movers in the coming drama, and until you can pay a visit to Sir Godfrey Bullen in England, you can be contented with what you read and hear.

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It was against the wishes of Lady Raymond that she came out to India in the spring of the year which proved her last. She had no other inducement but that of being near her husband. She did not bring Emily with her in the hopes of her making a good match"; for Lady Kean was not far wrong when she gave it as her opinion, that India could not produce one man whose marriage with Miss Raymond might be regarded as a condescension. She brought her with her because her delicate, frail, nervous temperament could not brook the idea of leaving her behind, and Emily herself was opposed to a separation. But, from the day of leaving England, Lady Raymond gradually declined. She would have been a great deal worse had there been anything the matter with her; but all the fortitude and self-control of the two sisters was centred in one, and Lady Kean, until after Lady Raymond's death, never sympathised with her in her afflictions. Pale, worn, and emaciated, like any garret seamstress,-none knew why,she consented to be driven out upon the Course at night for the first few months. Propped up with hidden pillows in the ancient equipage, returning salutations with the feeblest movement of her gentle head; Lady Kean at her side, a different being in every respect; opposite, the Colonel and Miss Raymond-a lion and a lamb. Doy now recollect that you have often seen them, reader? You do! Well, that was Miss Raymond's mother, -that was the Raymond family,-that was the once lovely Lady Katharine Kean, daughter of Lord Jolliffe of Brackenleigh Hall, Somerset. That was the Colonel and Lady Hester Kean; they were in the old barouche: but they will not all ride together again,-Lady Raymond lies in Park Street burial-ground. You would have liked Lady Raymond-s gentle, so delicately fair, as she was in life. I do not suppose that she ever uttered an angry word, or thought an unkindly thought, to any living soul. She started at the rustling of a leaf, though none could dress a bleeding wound better or more dexterously than she. Perhaps, when Emily is her age, she will be like her in these respects. She is like her in face, and figure, and expression now. Her father adores her: Lady Raymond VOL. I.-5

you

lives in the daughter, and the Colonel worships her in that habitation.

Lady Hester Kean is a great horsewoman. She takes the midaun in one clear straight line, early in the mornings, when few folks are about; she stays not for brake, and she stays not for stone. She has spoken angrily to Miss Raymond about her distaste for equestrian exercise, and once told her she was growing insipid. Emily laughed, but could not return the compliment.

The old barouche stånds under the roomy portico of No.-, Chowringhee. One syce is taking a hurried pull at the durwan's hubble-bubble, the other is whisking the flies off his horse's limbs. The other horse is being devoured-one syce cannot whisk the flies off two horses. The Jehu is patience personified; his dark features are motionless, until he makes a salaam, hails the syce of the_hubble-bubble, and Lady Kean and Miss Raymond are seated in the vehicle, each in a hemisphere of floating gauze.

"To see and to be seen" is the object of the nightly visitors to the Calcutta Course, more than to inhale the cooled fresh air of heaven; or, to be charitable, some combine the two objects. It is a great hour in Calcutta, that of the going down of the sun, and the sudden rushing in of night. Much is done in the sixty minutes: carriages dash out, horsemen gallop forth, men whose stipend keeps them pedestrians saunter on the Alderman's Walk, and assume the outward air of a thousand a month. Men ride beside the carriages, bold in their own knowledge of having got the buggy and the silver teapot-the never disputed passports to matrimony. Apollo torments Daphne with his unwelcome addresses, jealousies are excited, hearts agonised. Daphne is obdurate, and Apollo loses at billiards that night.

Lady Kean bows graciously-less stiffiy than the St. James' bow-to one of her own sex, well mounted on a fresh Arab. She smiles at the rider, and scrutinises the quadruped. The rider is the wife of a notable Civilian twice her own age. He seldom accompanies her; other and handsomer men are always at hand to do that. There is Major Thornton. There is Mrs. Gervase, who has fifty-two new bonnets a year, but cannot be allowed a free indulgence in her follies without remarks. Remarks are one of the scourges of Calcutta. If you are once a little fresh with wine, there are remarks; if you don't drink at all, there are remarks-you must once have been an inveterate tipstave; if you dance twice with the same lady, there are remarks: do what you can, there are, and always will be, remarks, and often very ugly ones.

There is Mr. Ashton in a buggy, with a lady! Sir and Madam, your characters

are gone as well ride like Olympus-on a hackerie. Do not wonder, when you next bow to Mrs. Gervase, that you get a cold stare of irrecognition. There is Mr. F.so proud of his stud-to him it is his study. He rides to-night an English horse; it has cost him little short of three thousand rupees. What makes it so fretful and restive? Is it the secret spur of your "offfoot," Mr. F.- -? Ah! there is the second-best beauty in Calcutta: see how she is surrounded with stripling admirers; hearken, as you pass, how naively she gives and takes every verbal thrust of her gallant attendants.

66

Good evening; I shall not forget the music, Miss Powell."

"Good evening-I shall expect it tomorrow, Mr. St. Albans."

Mr. St. Albans is satisfied. The Raymond carriage passed as he spoke. Miss Raymond must have heard that promise of the music to Miss Powell! And Miss Raymond did hear it, and thought nothing of it; and when St. Albans cantered up to the Colonel's carriage, she asked her jealous admirer what music it was; that if she had a copy of it, Miss Powell was welcome to it! Provokingly green!" said St. Albans to himself. "I have had a letter from Sir Godfrey's brother, Herbert," he said, addressing Miss Raymond. "Lady Bullen has pronounced her verdict upon matrimony."

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"Has she indeed ?" observed Emily; " and I hope it is a favourable one." "Because you intend soon to enter the same state?"

"I did not say so, Mr. St. Albans," she retorted, rather sharply.

"Rumour tells a deliberate falsehood then, Miss Raymond!" he replied.

"Does that excite your wonderment ?" asked Lady Kean, leaning forward, and catching St. Albans' eye. Then, after a pause, she continued "If you will allow us, we will hasten home. I think it looks like a rain-storm in yonder cloud."

"Certainly; I beg your pardon if I have detained you. Miss Raymond, may I hope for a game of chess to-night, if I pay you a visit ?"

Emily looked at Lady Kean, and then at the speaker, and replied―

"I have no engagement, I believe."

"Thank you, I have a new problem, which I wish you to solve; good night for the present." And he turned his horse round, and rode away.

The night was darkening. As the sun sank through the roof of the Howrah Station, the moon rose up from the uncleanly heart of Entally. The Course presented merely a huge gathering of bright lamps, and the several equipages were all diverging from the centre of attraction, like so

many alarmed ants from a deceased beetle. The play was over; the great curtain of night had fallen upon it. The players went home no better satisfied than Mrs. Ann Page, when Dame Quickly has been called to the foot-lights between the acts.

Mr. St. Albans checked his horse's gallop as the man he hated most in this world saluted him. Lieutenant Parkes, of H. M. -st Regiment, rode up to his side.

"You exchanged a few soft words this evening, I observed," said the officer.

St. Albans smiled cynically; Augustus was growing wrath with Antony over a virtuous Cleopatra !

"Is this a chess evening, St. Albans ?"

"There is no theme," replied the latter, pettishly," which seems so favourable to your run of thought, as Miss Raymond and myself. I am sure she would not care to think you so often took her name in vain

"Query ?" said the Lieutenant, sharply. "No query about it, Parkes; but, to change the subject, are you going to DumDum to-night ?"

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"No; I have arranged to remain in town, and shall probably have a little pool at Spence's. Shall I see you there ?"

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Possibly," answered St. Albans.

"After the chess ?" added the Lieutenant laughingly.

"Confound the chess, I wish you

St. Albans did not finish the sentence-his friend had galloped out of hearing. It was seven o'clock when St. Albans reached home. He then gave himself up to "Jane Eyre," a cheroot, and a small glass of brandy-pawnee. He was hot, and took the latter medicinally. At eight, his bearer dressed him almost afresh, and turned him out fit and proper for ladies' society. He walked to No.- Chowringhee, and, to his astonishment, found Parkes' buggy in the compound. Upon reaching the drawingroom, he found Lady Kean alone there, but managed, although in a very troubled state of mind, to engage her in conversation. About five minutes had elapsed, when Lieutenant Parkes came into the room, from the verandah, leading Emily Raymond upon his arm. One sharp glance of St. Albans' to the officer was all the escape he allowed his chagrin to have. He put on a forced smile, said he had come prepared for a fierce conflict at chess, and sinned like Ananias, by expressing himself glad that the Lieutenant had come to witness the battle.

"You must play with your new chessmen," said the latter to Miss Raymond.

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They were a gift, Mr. Parkes, and this is the giver," she replied, alluding to St. Albans," and I think we will use them."

"When did you see them ?" asked St. Albans.

Parkes being the party questioned, answered that Miss Raymond had shown them to him the day before.

St. Albans bit his lips. There was treachery in the camp. Why should Parkes, when they met the night before, not tell him that he had called that day upon Miss Raymond? What business had they in the verandah together? Had Lady Kean grown blind to the imprudence of having a visitor like Lieutenant Parkes ? What would the Colonel think if The chess-board being ready, St. Albans' bitter reflections are interrupted, but only to flow in another direction. Miss Raymond wins everything; St. Albans plays as though he had never seen a chessman before, and feels exactly in the trim for unjustifiable homicide.

Five games won, as a Turfite would say, in a canter, Emily Raymond the victress in each; and a severe headache is discovered to be the cause of St. Albans' inability to play. Come what will, however, the vanquished man is determined to outstay Parkes at the house that night; and as such is partly 'the intention of the Lieutenant, the rivals sit late, while Lady Kean has her chair wheeled into the verandah, by reason of her feeling "melted."

Lieutenant Parkes does not seem at all inclined to take his departure, and St. Albans is fully prepared to sit there until tiffin time next day, or until tiffin time every day, until the end of time, sooner than leave that accursed buggy in the compound.

While settling down into this amiable state of mind, Mr. Parkes observes that Lady Kean is all alone; and he ventures to give it as his opinion that such should not be the case. As far as St. Albans is concerned, she might be gasping her last breath before he would move from that apartment; not so with the Lieutenant, who, seeing St. Albans disinclined to take the hint, goes out to Lady Kean himself.

"You said you had some problem for me ?" said Emily, when they were alone. "And so I have."

"Well, tell me the nature of it."

St. Albans took a letter from his pocket, and tore the blank sheet off it. "Can you oblige me with a pencil ?" he asked. Miss Raymond unfastened one from her chain, and handed it to him.

He began to write or sketch something on the paper, and then placed it in Miss Raymond's hand.

exclaimed St. Albans, in amazement; but the victress was bent upon having some practical humour, and she handed the Lieutenant the problem.

He, however, took no advantage of his somewhat compromised rival, but handed Miss Raymond the document, with a laugh.

St. Albans and Mr. Parkes rose to retire home simultaneously, and when they had reached the foot of the staircase, the latter ran back to the drawing-room for his handkerchief, which, he said, he had forgotton. He walked up to Miss Raymond, took her hand, and said in a low whisper

"I shall be miserable until you decide"; and then he descended quickly, and rejoined St. Albans. He offered to drive the latter home.

"He would prefer walking."

"Would he drive with him next day?" "He was already engaged." "Would he billiardise ?"

"Not at that hour of the night for the whole world!" And so they parted, each to have restless slumbers and bewildering dreams.

"My dear child," said Lady Kean, when the gentlemen had gone, and she had returned from the verandah, "I have purposely left you a good deal alone when Lieutenant Parkes has been here, and I expect he has taken advantage of those moments to speak to you upon the delicate matter of love. Has he not, my dear ?" Emily hung her head.

"I see that he has, my love," continued Lady Kean. "Well, you are not to blame; but I must insist upon your father knowing more of his acquaintances before he permits them to invade the sanctity of his private home. It is quite impossible, my dear girl, that a Jolliffe can sink herself to any man in Mr. Parkes' position. What he may ultimately rise to is folly to speculate upon, but if you had an older head, you would agree with me that you must wed a risen man, and not a rising one. Take my advice, my dear, and have as little as possible to say to either Mr. Parkes or Mr. St. Albans. There are better things in store for you. Really the thoughtlessness of the Colonel is beyond endurance; the fact is, he was spoiled by the poor lamented Lady Raymond."

She found a sketch of two hearts, with this written beneath-" How shall I make these two one ?"