village of Boreham, situated, in case you should wish to find it, in the Shires.' Some fifteen or sixteen years ago it was congratulating itself in that its respectability had escaped a great danger by the defeat of an audacious attempt to run a railway through it, whereby it would have become a convenient suburban

residence for objectionable people from the not very distant manufacturing town of Cottonton, and would have been exposed to the terrible visitations of excursion trains. Why on earth anybody should ever wish to make an excursion to Boreham was what I could never well make out.

One of the most zealous partizans of the scheme, and of those most vexed by its failure, was a worthy elderly gentleman, who might have been seen (if anybody had looked) on a certain sullen gusty afternoon seated by the ample fire of the wellfurnished dining-room of his mansion, near the aforesaid highly-respectable village. This gentleman, Mr. John Cheshire, had, about a year before, departed this life-don't be alarmed, I mean the commercial life of this great London city-and gone in for the joys of elysium at his recently-acquired estate of Boreham Park. You see the iron gates as you turn to the right coming out of the church, and thence a broad gravel sweep leads to the house. The dining-room windows command a fine avenue of oaks and elms, and the

Deer across the greensward leap,
Through shade and sunny gleam,

in a manner highly satisfactory, and suggestive of ancestral halls. The estate, nevertheless, had not for some time been in the possession of anybody who could be said to have had any ancestors. It had passed through several hands, some of them not very clean ones; and the last owner, commonly called Old Grindley, had got possession of it by foreclosing a mortgage. Having all his life steadily refused to

praiseworthy consistency that he had refused to give and bequeath even at his death; so when

Gently declining to his end,

This good old man he died,

his entire belongings fell to Mr. John Cheshire, a very remote connexion, who had never had the slightest expectation of this wealth, and to whom a few hundreds at an earlier period would have been of far more service, for he had been a poor and struggling man during the greater part of his life; and his life's companion had now dropped away from his side, slain, in fact, by the excitement of the unexpected good fortune, the flurry' of which, in her own phrase, had thrown her into a nervous fever, from which she never recovered. Two children also he had lost who might probably have been saved by change of climate and other costly remedies then beyond his reach; and now he had but two left, a girl of some nineteen or twenty years, who was just now sitting on a stool at his side, and a son, far away in India.

The father's eyes were not, like the daughter's, fixed on the fire, nor on the decanters on the table, which the firelight turned to gold_and rubies, but wandered away down the darkening avenue, where the almost leafless trees were swaying and tossing their arms in the cold wind; or sometimes he looked towards the corner to the left, where a glimpse could be obtained of some flat fields and two or three houses, the last outposts of the village.

Mr. Cheshire, as I said, had been a struggling man, but he had never before known what it was to be the prey of the fiend ennui, who does so much towards equalizing the fate of rich and poor. Nothing is more potent to fend off his assaults than the occupation of keeping the wolf from the door. When the wolf comes very near indeed, the occupation becomes rather too exciting to be pleasant; but when he can be kept at a good distance, I am not

sure but that, "on the whole, the business of keeping him off gives life a brisk and racy flavour, that is wanting where there is no possibility of his approach. The present master of Boreham Park was too far advanced in life to begin again on a new plan. His knowledge of horticulture and agriculture did not extend much beyond the greengrocer's; and as for sporting, he could not, for want of early instruction, be made to see how the pleasure of exercise in a fine country was heightened by tormenting a small beast. A rich man, it seemed to him, had nothing to do but to sit down and think of death.

Yes, there was one event to which he looked forward with much the same feeling, as a thing natural, inevitable, but to be put off to the latest possible moment- that was the marriage of his daughter. On her account, at least, he had truly rejoiced in the accident that had befallen him; but on the other hand, this accident greatly increased the fear which had haunted him ever since she left school, that every young man who approached the house came with felonious matrimonial intentions. If, indeed, he had had in any case reason to fear his daughter being an accomplice, he would have submitted as best he might; but in the meantime he thought himself justified in endeavouring to avert such a calamity by adopting a system of rigorous snubbing towards all who seemed likely to become offenders; and, in short, took infinite precautions about locking the stable door, without having been equally careful to ascertain whether the steed had not been already stolen. He seemed sometimes, indeed, not disinclined to make an exception in the case of the son of an old friend (of whom more hereafter); but I am not quite sure-for, as we all know, the heart is deceitful, and desperately wicked-whether that was not precisely because he saw he had little to fear from him.

Dinner, the great event of the fortunate man's day now, because the only one, was just over, and the young lady had left the table, and come round to the fire while her

papa finished his wine, and was sitting on a low cushion at his side, with one arm leant lovingly on her father's knee, and the small hand, half hidden in a mass of dark curls, supporting her cheek.

She was looking steadily at the fire, and probably building castles in the devouring element,' for little smiles kept continually playing about her mouth, though they vanished, and were changed into an expression of somewhat sorrowful sympathy, as she glanced up shyly from time to time at her father. Shyly, for she knew he did not like to be watched, and sorrowfully, as she remembered the day of the month, and had some fear that he was dwelling on its being one of those sad anniversaries that increase in number as we proceed in life's journey-days that it would be well to remember rather as birthdays into another world. The man, though he was elderly and fat, and had been in trade, and did sometimes make a slip in his grammarsnatch up, for instance, when in a hurry, an objective for a nominative case, and say, 'That's him'-nevertheless had a heart that was more than a large muscle, and his daughter was well aware of the fact.

He had caught one of the shy glances aforesaid, and immediately got up and walked to the window.

'Well, I dare say it's what they call a fine place,' he began, when he had stood a few minutes contemplating the rather cheerless prospect; but I don't think we'll be here another winter, Addy, that is, if Charlie don't come home. I do get a bit tired of looking at those trees' (I'm not sure he didn't say them trees) 'all day. If it wasn't that you seem to like it, I'd a precious deal rather live in a street with shops and plenty of gaslights. When I opened the pathway across the park again, that old Grindley shut up, I thought I should at any rate have seen the people going along, and the lads and lasses courting, and so on, but that dip in the ground just hides them, so that I can't tell whether there's anybody

or not.'

'Shall I send over to-morrow and

get the books changed, papa, dear?' said the girl; 'I do not think there is anything in this batch that seems to suit you.'

'Well, I can't say there is, my dear; and to say the truth, it isn't easy to find one that does. When I was a boy, I used to think, Give me plenty of books, and I wouldn't care to call the lord mayor cousin; but now, somehow, when I've got the books the appetite seems to be gone. I've been so many years having no time to read, that now I've most forgot how. If I keep a book in my hand for half an hour, I'm safe to go to sleep.'

'I wish the people about here were a little more nice and sociable,' said Addy; ‘but I did think you seemed rather to like our little dinner yesterday-didn't you Pupsy?'

'Oh yes, my dear, oh yes. They were as dull as ditch-water certainly, and most of them seemed to me as if they had swallowed the kitchenpoker. I should have liked to have had in a galanty show, or those chaps that stand upon their heads, or any thing to stir 'em up a bit, but as I could'nt do that, of course I talked away as well as I could. When I've got people round my table, I should as soon think of refusing them a glass of wine as of not doing my best to entertain them. But as for that young puppy Haughton, when he was going away, says he, "Mr. Cheshire, I've been very much pleased with you." Pleased with me, to be sure, as if I'd been making a fool of myself to please him. Dashed if I hadn't a mind to kick him down the steps. But at any rate there's one good in having company, one does feel so pleased when they are gone.'

Well, but how did you and young Weale get on,' asked Mr. Cheshire after a pause.

'We did'nt get on at all, papa, we stuck fast; he did not seem to have anything to say to me, and I'm sure I had nothing to say to him.'

'Ah, indeed! I'm sorry for that. If you and Jemmy Barrow's son could have taken a liking to one another however, there's no hurry for that, God knows.'

This young Weale' was the son

of Mr. Barrow the great railway director, who was one of Mr. Cheshire's oldest friends, and who, in the days when he was not great, had intended to christen his son Wheel, so that his whole name might convey a playful allusion to the implement of the father's earliest success when he was only an industrious 'navvy.' But the curate being somewhat scandalized at the proceeding, had spelt the name Weale; and Mr. Barrow not being strong in his orthography, had not found out till many years afterwards, the fraud that had been put upon him.

The two men, Barrow and Cheshire, having climbed the hill together, had retained a sort of regard for each other, though differing widely in character; and there had long been a question between them of an alliance of their houses in the persons of Miss Adelina Cheshire, and the director's son and heir; but like many similar projects it did not exactly seem to march. Mr. Weale Barrow had not quite made up his mind, for, though he would have liked so pretty a wife, he had a strong taste for blood' in any matrimonial engagement he might allow himself to enter into. Miss Adelina had fully made up her mind; but being aware of a tendency to-well-FIRMNESS, in her papa's character, had thought it advisable not to tell the pig he was going to Cork.

'Had not we better go into the drawing-room, papa?' said the young lady,' and let me read a bit of that novel to you: it is so nice.'

novels?"

Pho! child, do you suppose I care for your foolish said papa; and Adelina mentally answered yes; for she had observed that though her sire thought it her duty generally to read Hume and Smollett's History of England, or some other work which every gentleman ought to have in his library, he got into a state of coma much more swiftly and certainly than when she had coaxed him to listen to some of these paltry works of fiction. She had even taken a mischievous delight in leaving one of these foolish volumes in his way,

and had rejoiced greatly when she had seen him come rather sneakingly into the room, take up the despised story book with a sort of unconscious air, and instantly retreat with it to his den. She had never known him guilty of so mean an action with a volume of Hume and Smollett's History.

She did not therefore presume to hint her opinion that her honoured papa did care for foolish novels; but when he said a minute or two afterwards, 'Yes, we may as well go into the drawing-room,' she knew she had got a nibble at the bait she had thrown out.

This drawing-room was a small one that had been recently built, for the old one had been found too large for all but state occasions; and Mr. Cheshire who knew nothing of architectural proprieties, merely built what he wanted, and made it as comfortable and convenient as he could for the end he had in view.

'Let me just go and see whether it is warm enough for you papa,' said she, turning away with alacrity from the window; but just then the deep organ-like tones of the great house-dog made themselves heard, and she ran back again, and putting her face close to the pane, exclaimed, 'I declare it's the postman, ever so much before his time; I caught a glimpse of his dear red collar turning the Portugal laurel,' and down she flew to the hall to anticipate by about two seconds the receipt of the desired freight. She returned with three letters-or rather two letters and a packet-for one was much too large to take a place as the most voluminous of letters. One of the letters and the packet, which were both addressed to Mr. Cheshire, she immediately presented; the other, a much smaller epistle, she kept a little withdrawn, seeming to hesitate whether, to produce it or not, and at last slipped it into her pocket, prudently taking time to consider the question.

Her father's attention was quite taken up, so that he did not notice the little manœuvre. The letter he received was on large, rough-looking paper, and directed as if the pen had been held at arm's length.

'Why that's Colonel Audsley's hand,' said Mr. Cheshire in a pleased tone, no fear of mistaking that. Why the Indian mail isn't in? He must have come home by the last. I did hear he was coming.' The letter consisted only of about a dozen lines, stating that the writer had lately returned from India, and was coming down to look at a house that was to be let in the neighbourhood, and would take the opportunity of seeing his old friend Mr. Cheshire.

Who is Colonel Audsley, papa?' asked the young lady.

Who! why the newspapers would tell you that, my dear, only you girls never read anything in newspapers except what is not worth reading. Colonel Audsley is one of the most distinguished veterans of our Indian army. Surely even you must remember Chunderawut and Guzzerapore?'

'Oh yes, I think I do, papa,' said Addy, rather faintly; but with more animation, 'Was not that the gentleman who was so kind to poor Charlie when he had the fever?'

'Yes, certainly; and he who got him the cadetship. I'm as glad as if anybody had given me a thousand pounds to have an opportunity of thanking him.'

It was a habit of Mr. Cheshire's commercial life to state in this way the money-value of his feelings.

'We are old friends too-he and I; and I don't mind telling you, Addy, only don't go gossiping about it, that he was for a good many years a bit in my debt; not from any fault of his own, but he got into a mess through one of his brother officers. I wasn't a very hard creditor to him, and he was no end of obliged to me. I have not been so pleased for a long time as at his coming here.'

While he was speaking, the old gentleman glanced occasionally at the packet which had accompanied the letter, but neither he nor his daughter manifested the smallest curiosity to open it, for the simple reason that they knew perfectly well what it contained. It had for the last few months travelled to London and back again nearly as often as the

railway guard, and as it had originally been forwarded by Mr. Cheshire's son from India, it had by this time done the state some service in the way of postage; but then it was a valuable article, nothing less than a MS. tragedy, the composition of which, the young author, stated had wiled away many a heavy hour at an up-country station. He announced it as 'The First Offspring of his Muse,' and spoke of it, of course, with becoming disparagement; but nevertheless not without signs of parental tenderness.

He wished it to be sent to the managers of the principal theatres, though, in case the first should make a good offer for it, he would not wish his father to go further in scarch of a better. Also-though he rather wished the production of it on the stage to be delayed till he saw whether there was a chance of his getting home-if the manager should be very anxious to bring it out immediately, he would consent.

Authors never do write well, they say, papa,' said Addy.

'Well, why a man should do a thing badly because he's always doing it, is what beats me,' said рара. 'What's the meaning of "Practice makes perfect" then I wonder? I suppose they can write if they like? and if I was one of those that had their pothooks to spell out, I think I'd find a way to make them.'

Miss Cheshire had copied out her brother's tragedy with scrupulous care, in her most elegant hand; the original MS. being put away in a place of safety, as too valuable to be committed to a stranger's keeping. She had not ventured to alter

VOL. LXIX. NO. CCCCXII.

a word in that great work, but only (and that with many misgivings) to accommodate some orthographical peculiarities to the prevailing fashion; retrenching or supplying double ll's and tt's, or compelling ei and ie to observe the customary order of precedence. The fair copy was then forwarded to the most eminent manager in town, with rather a stately note, very polite of course, but loftily conscious of the favour conferred, and requesting that the answer might be sent, with a statement of terms, in ten days, or a fortnight at farthest.

The packet came back almost by return of post, with the answer which consisted of the simple word, 'Declined.'

The rascal has never looked at it,' exclaimed Mr. Cheshire—which indeed was the fact. The tone of the note, and the statement that it was a young gentleman's first production, probably in the manager's estimation rendering further inquiry superfluous. Mr. Cheshire determined to punish him by instantly offering the piece to a rival theatre: it was clear that the first deserved to lose the chance. Strange to say, this second manager was as blind to the merits of the tragedy as the preceding one, though apparently in a better humour, for this time the piece was 'Declined with thanks.'

rather

'Well, at any rate, as he thanks: me he must see that it is clever,' said the elderly innocent; and he now resolved to go up to town and introduce the Muse's Offspring in person, not knowing why the manager of a theatre should be more hard to get at than the master of any other shop. But the utmost his perseverance ever obtained (and that was after a liberal gratuity to the functionary at the door) was a civil message to the effect that Mr. - had no doubt of the merits of the piece, but that his theatre was engaged for the production of pieces of the highest merit already in hand, for three years to come. The civil message was in fact the original composition of the beforementioned functionary, who, being a conscientious man, thought it hard

H H