pale, while the women, in their tender way, busied about him. Then he signed to Patty to come to him. "Go home for me," he said, "and bring down all I want. I will never leave the court again!" They took him to a vacant room in one of his own houses. They laid him in bed, and sent for a doctor. Nothing was wrong with him-only feebleness, only a sudden break-up. And from his little room, where he daily received his people, Mr. Eddrup was never to stir again. Frank went home with his friends, strangely agitated and moved. He had for once obtained a glimpse of the highest life: the courage which meets everything, which shrinks from no trial-the patience which endures to the end-the life before which all other lives appear so mean and paltry. Of the women in the room that night, all wept but one. Patty Silver sat with dry eyes. Her heart was full of questionings and doubts. She heard but half of what Mr. Eddrup said; for her eyes were bent furtively on Frank, and she was thinking if he loved her. "He loves me-loves me not." Surely, when the Deluge came, and the whirling flood swept down the shrieking street, Marguerite, in her chamber, might have sat deaf and careless, thinking only, "He loves me loves me not." But that story which Mr. Eddrup told his friends lay buried in their hearts. They never spoke of it in his lifetime. They never speak of it now he is dead, and gone to that silent Land where his honour, like the soldier's sword, has been restored to him. CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND. FRANK sitting in Mrs. Skimp's drawing room with Captain Bowker. It is in the morning, but the master mariner is smoking his long cherry-stick pipe. Time hangs somewhat heavily upon his hands since he has had nothing to do. Sometimes he takes the boat and goes down to the docks, where he picks up old friends and spins old yarns. Sometimes he pays visits to ancient haunts at Poplar. Sometimes he makes a morning call upon his cousin, who lives close by, to please whom he has come to live at Skimp's. For the Captain has money-he got it in private ventures during his many voyagesbesides the little pension which his late employers have given him. It is not much; but it is enough to make it desirable to retain him near the family, for fear of foreign and malign influences. More often than anything else, the Captain spends his mornings at the table in Mrs. Skimp's drawing-room, with a sheet of paper and an inkstand, making innumerable blots as he corrects and adds to his poems. This work, indeed, constitutes the real pleasure of his life. To read his verses aloud in the presence of a man who will listen without laughing, such as Frank Melliship, is pure and unmixed happiness. To get them printed is a dream which he just permits to himself. Some day, he thinks-some yet distant day-he will sacrifice the hundred pounds of capital needed to accomplish this object. He must pinch to make up for the loss of five pounds a-year; but what is a little pinching in comparison with so great an object? To-day he has been reading a remarkable poem, his chef-d'œuvre, on which he means to base his reputation. It is called "The Captain's Dream." In this work, imitating unconsciously the example of Dante and several other distinguished "makers," he has embodied in a vision the whole sum of his philosophy. Frank has been pretending to listen. The good-nature which prevents him from yawning in the honest Captain's face also obliges him to come, from time to time, and pay Mr. Bowker a visit, in order to give him pleasure. I, who yield to no man in the quality of good-nature, have ruthlessly cut out the whole of the Captain's poem, which is among the records from which this history is compiled, solely because it might bore my readers. I am far from saying the work is not remarkable in many ways: there is a flavour of the briny in it, a smell of pickled pork, occasional whiffs of rum, a taste of the pannikin, the breath of the ocean. Nautical metaphors alone are used-seafaring similes. We are on board ship, and the wind is whistling through the shrouds. But-but-truth compels me to add that the poet's diction is commonplace, and his thoughts not always exalted. Why do we not consider the varieties of the human mind in our estimate of poetry? There are gradations of intellect, like terraces. Instead of measuring a newly-fledged poet with a stupid, Procrustean bed of criticism, reducing all to one standard, why not make an effort to classify intellectual produce, like merchants classify colonial produce? I believe there are, in the single article of sugar alone, about twelve gradations from treacle to crystal. Suppose we made twelve grades or degrees in poetry? Our greatest poets would belong to the twelfth-the supreme degree which embraces all the rest. As every poet must have some brains, if only a thimbleful, it follows that he must have a very large mass of mankind beneath him. Martin F. Tupper, for instance, might be numbered one, or perhaps two, on account of some gleams of scholarship. Captain Bowker would no doubt belong to the first grade, without any possibility of pro-I motion at all. "So, Mr. Melliship, there's all my ideas. for you. When I get more, I stick them in. As I go on living, the poem will go on growing-consequently, improving." "Do not your ideas change sometimes?" said Frank. "Never. When I get an idea, Mr. Melliship, it isn't a flash in the pan, like some people's. My ideas take me first of all unawares. They generally begin, like a toothache, when I least expect them-perhaps when I feel a little buffy, in the morning; mayhap, after an extra go of grog the night before: then one comes all of a sudden. I turn it over, and think it out. I'm rayther a slow thinker; but I'm an uncommon sure one, and I never let it go. I don't read much, except the newspaper; so that I've got a great advantage over most poets. All my ideas are my own. I don't steal them and alter them. I let 'em grow. It takes me a long time-perhaps months-to work an idea into shape; but when I have got him, there he is, put into the poem neat and ship-shape, preserved for cure, like a bit of salt beef in a cask of wine. Woman, now -you remember the beautiful passage I read to you just now about woman?” "Yes-yes-yes. Oh! don't take the trouble to read it again, Captain Bowker," cried Frank, hastily. "A few lines to show my meaning,” said the Captain, clearing his throat. "Here we Now, listen: are. "Woman is like a ship--new painted, gay, Fresh holystoned and scraped, she sails away, The ship sails trim, the woman never scolds. That's a good line, young man. That last is a very good line.' He read it over again, shaking his head slowly from side to side in admiration. "Look where ahead the black clouds rise, and see How changed the lines of ocean; on the lee The rocks rise threatening. Furl the mainsail, stow All snug: here comes the tempest. Let her go.' "I leave out the next fifty lines, where I follow up the comparison of a good woman to a good ship. She weathers the storm. end thus:Then I go on to talk of a bad woman; and "All lost-the ship obeys the helm no more. She strikes-she sinks. Her voyages are o'er!"". "Very fine," said Frank-" very fine indeed." "Yes, I flatter myself that there is good stuff there. They've compared woman to all sorts of things. Look here. Here's a bit I cut out of an old play :"A woman is like to-but stay What a woman is like, who can say? There's no living with or without one: Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buz, buz, always buzzing about one. If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humour she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of ven'son or fish, That cries from the table, "Come, eat me!" What then do you think she is like? Like a wheel? like a clock? ship, isn't she? Very well there you are. Work it up, as I do. There's her hold, must be laden or in ballast: a woman with out ballast is like a cork on the water. Her head is the captain's cabin-only room for one. The captain is the man at the helm. As for the rigging, some of it's ornamental, some of it's useful. You've got the bunting, and you've got the sails. The sails is her petticoats-without which, d'ye see, she can't sail out of port. The bunting is her ribbons, because they all, ships as well as women, sail better if they're proud of themselves. And as for her masts, her boats, her keel, her bowsprit, and her fo'c's'le, and all the rest of it-why, bless you, if I had time, I'd run through the whole, and show you how the simile holds. Ah! it's a very delicate subject. Marriage, now. People will get married. Why? The Lord knows. I did myself once, and a pretty market I brought my pigs to. Ease and comfort? Quiet and tranquillity for composing? Not a bit of it. Morning, noon, and night went her tongue. It was 'Jem, get this,' 'Jem, go there.' And if I didn't, squalls, I can tell you." "Well, but you were the man at the helm," said Frank, with a smile. "Man at the helm! I might as well have been in the bows, she stayed below all watches. She wouldn't answer the helm nohow. Never took no notice of the helm. Kept her own course. Never was such a craft. Neat to look at, too. Painted rosy red in the bows; full in the lines, but clean cut; down about the stern; always neat and tidy in the gear. But come to command her-Phew!-then you found out what a deceptive, headstrong, cranky, difficult vessel she was. Ah, well-it's fif teen years ago since I saw her." "Is she dead, then?" "Hush!" said Captain Bowker. "Don't speak so loud. If she aint dead, where is she? She left me; went cruising on her own account; took in another skipper, may be. Anyhow, she went. We've gone away from each other. Dead? Well, she's as good as dead. Don't you ever marry, Mr. Melliship. You're a young man, and the temptation will come strong over a young man at times. Fight it. St. Paul says himself it's better not to marry. I heard that in church last Sunday morning. Say to yourself, 'Which shall it be? Shall it be peace and repose; or shall it be nagging, and pecking, and boxing of ears? Shall it be your legs on the fender and your pipe in your mouth; or shall it be the legs of the chair about your head, and the pipe smashed? Shall it be fair weather or shall it be foul?' There's more craft built for show than for use in these bad times. Don't trust any. Stick to yourself, and be happy. As for me, Mr. Melliship, I'm a fixture. Nothing can disturb me now. I'm in port. I defy the storms. To quote myself, I sing"Laid up in dock, serene I shake my fist, And fortune's storms may thunder as they list.' Those are very fine lines, Mr. Melliship— very forcible, strong lines indeed"Laid up in dock, serene I shake my fist, And fortune's storms-"" "Please, Cap'n Bowker "--it was the redarmed Mary Ann who interrupted him"there's a lady wants to see you.' "I suppose it's my cousin," growled the Captain. "Why can't she wait for me to go and see her? It's my turn, too." "No 'taint Mrs. Robins," said Jane, who knew the Captain's belongings; "this lady says she's your wife!"-grinning all over. The Captain's arms dropped, and his face turned an ashy white. Frank laughed at first; but the poor man's distress was so great that his sense of the ludicrous was lost in pity. "Found me out, has she?" he murmured. "After fifteen years-'Laid up in dock, serene-' No, that won't do. Mr. Melliship, wait a moment. Don't go and leave me in this pinch. Can't nothing be done? See here. After fifteen years to go back to prison! It's more than I looked for. Tell me what to do. Help me to ride out the gale." "There is nothing to be done," said Frank. "But perhaps you had better see her. Suppose she is not your wife, after all?" "Stay with me. Stand by an old shipmate. Don't desert me, Mr. Melliship." "But I can't interfere between you and your wife. Be brave, man. You ought not to be afraid of a woman." "As an ordinary rule," said Captain Bowker, clearing his throat, "there aint a braver man going than me. Not another woman in the world I'm afraid of. But this one's an exception. You didn't know my Polly. I don't care for the rest of 'em, if they were all to come on together. But Polly's too much. for any man." There was a rustling of a dress on the stairs, and Frank waited for a moment. A tall figure in black silk, with a thick veil, glided in. As Frank glanced at her, somehow he thought of Market Basing and Parkside. "Don't sheer off," murmured the Captain, in an ecstasy of terror. But Frank stole softly out of the room, and closed the door, bringing the red-armed one down with him. She had followed Mrs. Bowker up the stairs, with intent to listen at the keyhole. Mrs. Skimp and her daughter were at the bottom, with the same laudable object. "Now, Mrs. Skimp," said Frank, "no listening." And he sat down on the bottom steps by way of precaution. "Oh! Jem," cried Polly, falling on his unresisting neck, and kissing his grizzled forehead "oh! Jem, to think I should find you, and after so many years, and your dreadful cruel conduct. Oh! this is a blessed day!" "How did you find me, Polly ?" asked her husband. "Went to Leggatt and Browne's your old firm. The clerks told me. This is a blessed day!" "D. the clerks," said the Captain. "And why didn't you go before, if you wanted to find me?" "Because I thought you were dead, Jem. I've wore black ever since in mourning for you. See here. They told me at Poplar that you was alive, and where to ask for you. Oh, what a joyful thing to find your husband after fifteen years!" She pulled out her handkerchief, and began to weep-but not plentifully. "Well, what's to be done now?" asked the Captain. "That's a pretty thing to say to your wife," she answered. "Done! What should be done? I've come to live with you." "Oh!" groaned the Captain. "I'm not going to live in a boardinghouse. How much money have you got?" He named his modest income. "That will do. We shall have lodgings. What's the name of the woman of the house?" "Skimp." She went to the head of the staircase, and called out "Mrs. Skimp! You Mrs. Skimp! Come up here at once." Frank quietly went away. "You don't stay in my house another hour," said the aggrieved Mrs. Skimp. "Cap'n Bowker, I'm ashamed of you. I pity you, I do. Paying attentions to my daughter, too." "Eh!" said Polly. "What's that?" "I never did," said the Captain, outraged and insulted. "They're all upon me together. I never did. I'm-I'm-I'm DAMNED if I did! Mrs. Skimp, what do you mean by saying such things? And you a married woman yourself, and know the misery of being married. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I never looked at your daughter, even. I never look at any woman.' "You won't pay her any more attentions, for you shall come out of this place in quick sticks," said Mrs. Bowker. "How long will it take you to pack your things up?" "Well," said the unresisting seaman, fairly over-stunned by the logic of facts, "I think, to do it comfortable, you know, it might take a couple of hours." "Very well," said the lady. "You pack everything up-mind you don't leave nothing behind you in a place like this—and I'll just go down to Poplar and let 'em know as I've found you, and I'll be back here before the two hours are up. This is a blessed day!" She gave the Captain one chaste salute, shot a look of anger at Mrs. Skimp, and marched out of the room. THE ORIGIN OF THE ALPHABET. HE subject of the alphabet and its ori THE gin is one which has attracted the attention of many observers; and must, indeed, at some time or other, have forced itself on the consideration of nearly all thoughtful minds. What is the meaning of those six-andtwenty symbols which serve to render our language visible? Why have they assumed the forms in which we now find them, and whence have they been derived to us? These are questions which most of us must have asked, and many of us may have attempted to answer. Mr. John Evans, F.R.S., F.S.A., an eminent authority, lately read a paper on the subject at the Royal Institution, and this article contains the substance of the learned lecturer's remarks. Mr. Evans said the questions connected with the subject appear to divide themselves under three heads: 1. As to the origin of writing, and the method of its development in different parts of the globe; 2. As to the original alphabet from which that in common use amongst us was derived; and 3. As to the history and development of that original alphabet. recorded in Schoolcraft's "Indian Tribes." A census roll of 1849 gives the details of thirty-four families, comprising 108 souls, by means of symbols for the names of families such as catfish, beaverskin, &c., with marks below showing the number of indi viduals in each. Records of the events of a deceased warrior's life are often given on his tombstone in much the same manner. The totem of his tribe, such as the reindeer or the crane, is reversed to show that he is dead; there are marks recording his war parties and wounds, the number of enemies. he has killed, or the eagles' feathers he has received for bravery. Even love and war songs are symbolized by a kind of pictorial memoria technica; and the record of a night's encampment, with details of a party of sixteen-how they had supped, and what they had for supper-has been depicted on a small scrap of birch-bark. In Mexico, the art of pictorial representation had, at the time of the Conquest, been carried to great perfection. The bulk of the pictures, however, merely represent wars, The art of writing is that by which, as Bacon says, "the images of men's minds remain in books for ever, exempt from the injuries of time, because capable of perpetual renovation." It is that by which human knowledge has become cumulative, so that the stores acquired during one generation are handed down to those which succeed it; and is, indeed, one of the most important characteristics which distinguish civilized from savage races of men. So mysterious does this power of convey-migrations, famines, and scenes of domestic ing information to others, however remote, appear to savages, that they regard written documents as possessed of powers no less than magical, and have been known to hide them at the time of committing a misdeed which they feared might be discovered by their means. Yet many of those in the lower stages of civilization have some ideas as to pictorial records. The cave-dwellers of the south of France, at a time when the use of metals was unknown, and when reindeer formed one of the principal articles of food in that part of the world, possessed considerable powers of drawing and of sculpture. On some of their bone instruments figures of animals are engraved, which possibly may to the original owners have conveyed some reminiscences of scenes they had witnessed when hunting. Among the Esquimaux, such records are frequently carved on their weapons, and the taking of seals and the harpooning of whales are often depicted. Captain Beechey says that he could gather from these representations a better insight into the habits of the people than could be obtained from any signs or other intimations. Among the North American Indians, the system of picture-writing has been more fully developed, and numerous instances are The life. They were, moreover, able to record In Peru, though some sort of hieroglyphic writing appears to have been known, |