universal fast of late from all such things. These pastimes were, perhaps, scarcely of the grave or dignified order suited to the ages of the persons engaged. There was a wild reckless freedom, and a rare physical development about them, perhaps more suited to the school and to the age of school time.

But they were all born in the country-reared in the country-and, as seems to be the case in such instances, had never found their taste for the whole round of country associations-green fields, green trees, the running water, and the rest-grow enfeebled by satiety. Trite, but very true, is the remark, that it is impossible to read through the grand green book of nature. We never tire of turning over its gorgeously coloured prints, and fresh bright stories.

There was a lake close by the house of the Franklyns, with a little pier down to the water, and a goodly sized boat. The Franklyn young ladies loved the water, and when they were alone would come down chattering and laughing, of mornings and evenings, and pull the oars with good skill and fair strength. Young Welbore Craven now on this visit, would come down with them often, and they would put off together, a noisy joyous party-not indeed with any pure love of oarmanship, for little was done in that direction, but from the sheer "fun of the thing;" for the boat moved but lazily; and there was splashing and rocking from side to side, and entanglement of oars, and fictitious perils, and general confusion, to a foud cheerful chorus of unchecked laughter and general frolic. The elder sister, who must not be taken to be too demure in her temper, and in her quiet way loved their droll exercises too, attended as it were by way of general moderator. That strangely youthful young man of business, had a sort of leaning to attach himself to these parties. An odd fancy, for no one could be so utterly and hopelessly out of place. Yet for the young to consort with the young, what more natural. Yet it may not be concealed that his company was by no means relished. He was a living inconsistency-an anachronism among their sports. As discordant as the ideas of contingent remainders

and a ball-room, a Hebrew root and a wedding, yet with that curious misapprehension of the ends for which he was created, a strange fatality seemed to draw him to the young. He, too, went in the boat, and did splashing according to the infantine laws and canons.

Young Welbore Craven did not relish him from the first. He made no secret of it. His fair open face would contract when he saw the young man of business approaching with light gay steps. "Why is this odious attorney always teasing us in this way? Can't he stick to his law and bill of costs. We don't want him." And presently he had christened him (with a loud boisterous laugh) "Young Capias," and the girls welcomed that sobriquet with delight, and by the name of "Young Capias' he was invariably known among them for the future.

seen

He was considered horribly intrusive, and was always introducing with a pleasant boyish dégage air into their amusements. He was agreeably free and easy with Miss Charlotte, who, strange to say, would appear to have accepted him on much the same footing. A blank would fall on the whole party when, some little congress of amusement being arranged, the young man of business was tripping from the house, in a jaunty lounging fashion, to join their sports. A plot of smooth-shaven grass had been marked out, decorated with poles and flags, all for the now popular game of croquet; with deft delicate touches, the blue, green, and black balls were all day long spinning along over the grass, and the sharp smart click of the spiteful roquet, was heard through the air like dropping musketry. An uncharitable game-a malicious exercise, more or less vindictive, mainly on account of that roquet element. It scarcely evokes the charitics of society. He whose green or yellow ball lies within a stroke of victory, but which is savagely shot away across a whole prairie into the remote desert, strikes the ground savagely with this implement, and turns away to hide an impatient smile of vexation.

Young Craven and Miss Charlotte usually played the field-the whole world in fact. The sides were about evenly matched. They could not

then relish the adhesion of the jaunty young man of business when he came tripping forth, swinging his mallet gracefully. Young Craven would fling down his, or send a ball skimming into the distance with a savage stroke. He would not speak, save in a short surly way. Jealousy," thought Mr. Crowle, with a simper and was hugely gratified. It was all atoned for by Miss Charlotte's sweetness and attention. It was very marked--curiously marked -thought Mr. Crowle-and was very acceptable.

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Young Craven's views and "intentions" were gradually becoming very significant; and it was plain, to common observers, would gradually work themselves clear. Before "Young Capias" he froze up. Presently, however, he grew sarcastic, at least as sarcastic as his rough open manly temper would let him, and directed a few crude scoffs in the direction of Young Capias," it must be said to the infinite delight of the latter. "Jealousy," thought he, and wel comed it with complacency. Something, however, came about presently; and at the end of the second week of young Craven's visit, which, as it were, cleared the air, but made the way very free and open for all parties. A very simple incident, unworthy and almost mean in a historic sense, but with curious results for the future direction of this narrative.

Down by the edge of the lake was a pleasant little grove of trees, which stretched out in a sort of diminutive peninsula into the waters. The head gardener an ingenious Scot-who had a fancy for training little conceits, in whatever resources were at his disposal, had cut out a sort of sheltered retreat among the trees-very grateful and acceptable during the hot summer days; and it had become a fashion with members of the Franklyn family to lay out little expeditions to this spot-to have tea on the island, or strawberries on the island ;-in fact, when anything delicate or acceptable was to be taken, to have it, by any possible excuse, taken down for consumption to the island. The article, of whatever kind, was always held to acquire a richer flavour by the process.

Since the coming of young Welbore

Craven, this little retreat had acquired additional popularity. The ploughman, or other agricultural labourer who was homeward plodding his weary way, was often startled by the sounds of boisterous merriment proceeding from the depths of this retreat.

And here, towards five o'clock of one Thursday, were our party gathered; seated, it must be said, with discomfort about a little table, with the "sensible girl" making tea.

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It was "jolly"-delightful-"such fun." Everything, in fact. The fair youth, with the pink cheeks and saffron moustaches, was seated on a smooth ruinous trunk of a tree, which would not remain steady (unavoidably from its natural formation), and that was such fun." The teapot was overset, and that was still greater "fun." But the height of enjoyment was reached when young Craven built up some dried sticks very neatly together, under a little portable kettle, and drawing a Vesuvian from his cigar case set the sticks on fire, and actually boiled the water-which, when poured out, made real tea, not very different from what was partaken of every morning at breakfast.

The relish with which this ordinary beverage was consumed it is impossible to describe; and the whole, it must be again repeated, was eminently "fun" in the highest degree. And at the bottom of all the "fun" was young Craven.

"I wonder," said one of the girls, suddenly, "that he hasn't found us out here."

"We needn't be too sure of that as yet," said the other.

girl.

He-who?" said the sensible

"Odious Young Capias," said the first, smartly. He was to be out today to see papa."

"What a creature it is," said young Craven, "I am beginning to detest him. I can't bring myself to speak to him. And he is getting so forward and free-and-easy. I snubbed him finely the other day."

"But Charlotte likes him," said one of the girls. "He is one of her pets."

The youth burst into loud peals of laughter.

"I've remarked it," he said. She gets uneasy when we are rough to

"I tell you what-wouldn't it be a good joke-a splendid idea, by Jove!" What, what?" said the younger girls, eagerly.

"If he were to come poking after us to-day-which he will;-suppose we were all to hide ; we'll take away the sticks which join the island, make a little bridge of twigs, then cover it over with grass and sods. He will come across with his greasy simper, and go souse in.'

They all laughed in exquisite delight at this notion-even the sensible girl.

"Poor Mr. Capias," she said, what treatment you are laying out for him -but it is very funny. The idea of him splashing about there."

"Like an eel," said one of the girls. "He will glisten like a snake in the water, you will see," said young Craven.

"He will change colour like a dying

frog.'

"For shame," said the sensible girl. "Oh, I see," said young Craven;

"this is private property. Miss Charlotte's own. We must take care."

"Not at all," said Charlotte, colouring ever so little; "I hate the creature too. He is odious in every sense; but we mustn't plague him; papa would be dreadfully annoyed." It was agreed he should not be plagued, and perhaps the result was the same.

It could not have succeeded; for Mr. Crowle had actually, about half an hour before, arrived at the house on business-had, by way of commencing business promptly, asked for the young ladies-had been told they were down at the island drinking tea, and had set off smirking and smiling, and with a light step, to join the youthful party. What so natural ? The young should consort with the young. He had heard the chatter of their voices among the trees, and had stopped, anxious not to disturb them or come upon them with too much surprise. The young man of business among the trees, listened to this idle chatter, no doubt, with unconcern; but another ploughman, homeward plodding his weary way, met him suddenly, just as he began to move, and though generally careless of physiognomy, was struck by the savage smile and impatient gestures of the young man of business, who was, besides, talking to himself; and the ploughman looked for a long while after him, muttering something about "clean daft.' Mr. Crowle did not join the party of young people that day, though he was pleasant and agreeable as usual. one would have detected any change in his feelings towards them all. He was a very skilful creature, this young man of business, but very vain -ridiculously vain-sensitive to a degree, and specially sensitive on his personal charms. Any affront therefore in that direction galled him sorely. The only thing observed, and observed too with delight, was that he fell away by degrees from that old association with the amusements of the younger people; and that he now and again gave out oracular utterances, curiously pointed and full of mystery, chiefly relating to the uncertain course of human affairs. These he would address to Miss Charlotte, with an attempt at fierce sarcasm; and these were afterwards

No

a source of intense amusement to the whole family, who would treasure them up, and have them repeated over and over again by young Craven, in the tone and manner of the original.

So the warp and woof of life at the Franklyns moved on slowly for a week or so more, and was working into a quiet pattern. The Crowle thread was gradually being withdrawn, but two other threads were

gradually being brought closer together. Finally, one evening the quiet girl came to her father's study, and without flutter or agitation, but just as though she came to tell him that Johnson, the steward, was waiting to see him, told him how young Welbore Craven had that very evening made her a most important proposal, one on which the whole wilderness of her life depended-hopes, fears, joys, and

sorrows.

MR. FRANKLYN has sweet sleep that night. The sigh of joy and relief he drew, as the welcome news was told to him, was deep and refreshing. He had often dreamt of this event, but never thought it possible. He forebore delving among those wretched papers. Something like hope was in store for him yet; clouds were clearing away a little-might wholly clear away after all. Charlotte, the calm, steady, sensible girl, might save the family. His dear Charlotte-his good, faithful, comforting child.

As a match, nothing could be better or more delightful. Sir Welbore, his father, was favourable. There was title, fortune, station-every thing was favourable. There was ecstatic joy through the house-the boisterous girls could have tumbled and thrown somersaults on the floor, to show their delight. And that dear, honest, broad-chested, good, open fellow, who was now recklessly distributing golden presents up and down the house-was there one whom we would have preferred? A darling! It got about presently-was announced, as it were, officially. The country papers inserted their paragraphs with their usual intelligible hieroglyphics. Mr. Crowle, who had been away, came back one morning, had his cold hand taken affectionately in Mr. Franklyn's, and was told the glad tidings. He winced, but broke out presently into affluent smiles and paroxysms of delight, and congratulated heartily. Going away-for he would not stay to dinner he met the curate, Mr. Wells, posting up to the house, radiant.

Such good news," said the curate.

"Ah, indeed!" said Mr. Crowle. "I never knew that. By-the-way, we have not heard of Miss Jenny Bell lately. Nice person she was. Who has heard of her."

"I have. I hear from her constantly," said the curate, with a flush of pride. "I write to her regularly— she wishes to hear every thing that goes on in this dear family, as she calls them."

"O! I see," said Mr. Crowle. Quite so."

"And especially," the curate went on, eagerly, "about Miss Charlotte, her bosom friend. I think," said Mr. Wells, "I know nothing, or have read nothing comparable to her affection for Miss Charlotte, who is now to be so happily married."

"Ah! indeed," said Mr. Crowle, showing all his teeth in one delighted smile. "How curious. And so you keep up a correspondence with Miss Bell ?”

"O, yes!" said the other; "I must write by this very night's post to tell her the news. I am going to get all the particulars I can."

"I see," said Mr. Crowle. "Very good; quite right. Ah! I see. I suspected it when Miss Jenny was here. Don't be angry; but I did see she was very much grieved to go."

The curate's cheeks began to flush, but he was not displeased.

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Nonsense," he said, "Mr. Crowle. A poor curate must not think of such things. O, Mr. Crowle," he added, growing suddenly confidential, "what a pity it was; and such a charming, engaging creature. Her conduct was noble-noble! I never heard of anything like it."

"Noble, certainly," said Mr. Crowle; "noble is exactly the word." "Who in her position would have done the like?"

"Who, indeed ?" said Mr. Crowle. "By-the-way, what is her address? Somewhere in London ?"

The clergyman grew suspicious.

THE object of poetry, whose relation is to the individual, is to delight, refine, ennoble. The object of oratory, whose relation is to the aggregate, is to render the minds of an audience unanimous for purposes whose end is action. The tragic poet works on the passions by scene, character, thought, and sentiment, to purify, by pity and terror, the souls of a multitude; the orator to unify them with his own by conviction and excitation, for a special object in view. An audience leaving the theatre in which a drama of Sophocles was performed, felt themselves inspired with the thoughts and conceptions of the poet, and so raised to the dignified standard of his nature and intellect; but the beneficial effect thus produced became manifested diffused over the general tenor of their lives. On the other hand, one quitting the theatre, in which Demosthenes thundered against Philip, intelligently electrified by his will, associate, unite, arm and march against the invader, animated with an ardour arising from the unanimity of interests produced by the address. From many circumstances connected with ancient institutions and life generally, the study and practice of oratory was more necessary than in epochs of more com

plex civilization-hence ancient eloquence is more artistic than modern. The oral educational system pursued in Greece was specially suited to produce a breed of orators. In the ages of Greece and Rome, also, before journalism, and while codes of law were comparatively simple, the orator was the most important political power in the state; in the senate as at the bar, every political and civil result depended upon the art with which he mastered and impelled the minds of audience or judge-hence the rules which Quintilian lays down for gaining a control over the passions of not deliberative only, but judicial authorities. The Romans,* says Cicero, cultivated two arts-that of war and that of oratory-and their greatness is attributable to their union. While they became masters of the world by war, the art of oratory was essential to all their leading men, who gained power by the defence of clients, triumphs in civil contests, and to the general, to enable him to animate his soldiers before engaging in battle. The Grecian states, and Roman also, continually convulsed in popular agitations and party conflicts, presented the natural area for the growth of the highest species of eloquence, and when the