As there was now no further necessity for concealment, Edward and Louise had their marriage publicly repeated; and, after their removal to a more fashionable residence, Mrs. Dacres was visited by some ladies who knew Edward's family and were aware of his expectations. These acquaintances, finding her appearance, and foreign manners and education interesting, appeared rather disposed to patronize her; and amid that new and agreeable entourage, their time would have been passing away pleasantly enough, but for the dull gnawing pain of suspense-the restless fiend that pours a bitter drop into every draught of pleasure, murders gentle sleep, and darkens the very sunshine.

As the remainder of his last quarter's remittance was fast disappearing, Edward called repeatedly on Mr. Rosenthal, but could hear nothing more satisfactory than that the inquiries were progressing, but still incomplete; because it had been found necessary to apply for copies of certain documents to Sir Edward's solicitors; and those gentlemen were rather slow in affording information. At length, when his last bank-note was about to undergo dissolution-and a comfortless and disheartening sensation it is, that parting from one's last true friend, without the consolation of knowing when its vacant place is to be filled by another as sincere! Just then, the longexpected reply arrived from Mr. Rosenthal. In cold and technical, but ceremoniously respectful terms, it informed him that the long searches and inquiries had resulted in the discovery that the entail had been formally set aside so long ago as three generations previously; that Sir Edward was consequently in a position to make any testamentary dispositions that he might choose, except with reference to the title, which was inalienable; further, that a report was in circulation to the effect that Sir Edward was about to marry a young lady in Leicestershire; and that, under any circumstances, the lending party would not feel disposed, except in the unquestionable case of an eldest son, to enter into the proposed arrangement. As if all this were not enough, the letter also enclosed a "little bill" of the expenses of the search, which the writer trusted that Mr. Dacres would perceive the necessity of settling without delay.

That miserable, hope-killing letter swept away at one clean and merciless blow, every expectation and day-dream of his life, every prospect and dependence that made life endurable. His whole existence-if he could continue to exist at all-must henceforth assume a new tone and colour: every habit and association and occupation of his life, the style and character of every lightest word and action, must be thoroughly and altogether transformed. He must work for himself and for one far dearer

than self; and he must therefore descend into a lower stratum of society, and endure, as patiently as he may, the galling superiority of those who were until now his equals.

To those who are born into a condition of labour and dependence and submission, it comes as the natural and regular charter of life. Their struggle with the world comes as the battle-field to the soldier, as the tempest to the seaman. It is their wrestling-ground, the palæstra from which they gather strength and courage. It is their excitement and their ambition; the scene, it may be, of their victory and their triumph. To one educated in habits of authority, self-indulgence, and command-one who has read human nature only in the courteous equal, or the smiling sycophant-that sudden and rude collision with human cruelty and selfishness brings a frightful and agitating revulsion of every feeling and emotion; not so much because labour is formidable, or, because self-reliance is not a lofty and gratifying sentiment; but, because his pride is wounded every hour; because that manner and those pretensions which have become a part of his moral constitution, encounter at every turn a shock and a repulse; because he feels, at length, that he has been valued, and flattered, and smiled upon, not for what he was, but for what he possessed; and because his estimate of mankind falls in proportion. Alas! the courage must be stronger and the pride more scornful than the superficial can imagine, that can outlive and rise above a revolution like this! Starting from a long reverie, he seized the letter and cast it upon the fire-he could not show it to Louise. Then that haunting restlessness, that comes with mental agony, fell strong upon him. He could not remain motionless and alone-for Louise was away returning visits and, without a purpose or a destination, he wandered out listlessly into the streets.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Sea Side Musings.

"And yet it seems most useful to compare

The times that once were with the times that are,

To see how wise men thought in Greek and Roman ages,

And know how wondrous far advanced our modern age is."-Faust.

"Tis the pace that kills."

It is surprising that in this exhaustive age no one has taken the trouble systematically to work out and display the close relations that exist between the physical and the moral; the infinitely delicate connection of sympathy and suggestiveness between the world of nature around and that of thought and feeling, within the mind. Where every idea is based upon some sensation or external perception, who shall say what unnoticed and apparently trivial conditions affect the bent or tone of our thoughts; or, even suggest those of particular character and feeling, and thus establish a connection between matter and mind, analogous to the effects of the physical laws upon matter itself, and the organization of living bodies. Taking colour as an example, the philosopher finds that he can separate a ray of ordinary light, into three portions; a blue, a red, and a yellow,—and he finds that the general effect of light is made up of the effects of these three portions-which may be isolated and separately emyloyed. The chemical power of light he shows to reside in the blue ray; the illuminating in the yellow; the heating in the red. With these facts in view he ascertains that under blue glass-that is with the blue ray-seeds germinate with great rapidity; under the yellow they grow and form tissue and substance most vigorously; under the red they flower and fruit most perfectly and luxuriantly: in fact the blue, the yellow, and the red rays are so to say-the spirits of spring, summer, and autumn,, in which seasons respectively, to complete the chain of evidence so poetically scientific, they are found to predominate. Now, have blue, yellow, and red, as colours, any influence on our minds, which, without too great a stretch of fancy, we may regard as the analogue to that which we have described? The aesthetic philosopher will answer us, that certainly these colours do produce different effects upon us that blue gives an impression of solemnity and splendour; yellow a feeling of lightness and buoyancy, more pleasing joyous and fanciful; red, a sense of the voluptuous, glowing and passionate; and undoubtedly, a reference to the works of the great masters of art, will show that, however unintentionally, they supported the principle and adopted the practice of this theory, as

we see in the blue mantle of immortality and divine majesty; the yellow light of spiritual purity and glory; the red or purple robes of earthly sovereignty power and magnificence portrayed in their ever living colours. Again, going beyond these particulars to the general aspects of nature, who has not felt the lightness and elasticity of mind and body, the clearness and buoyancy of thought, the cheerful anticipations of early morn, with its glistening dew and expanding flowers, its cool but brilliant light? Is the sense of tranquil repose and contentment-the feeling of passive enjoyment with which we contemplate the warm and red glow of evening -the burning splendour and rose-tinted colour of the setting sun-is this but the effect of ending day's fatigue? Or, again, has the cold calm blue of the sky at night, with its unfathomable translucent depth, no share in leading the mind to the contemplation of that inner consciousness, and to those trains of thought in which, the infinite, the eternal, the immortal, so largely predominate? Does not the expression couleur de rose, as so commonly employed, imply the same explanation; with many other phrases, which we must similarly translate when we look to their origin and adoption? Might I not go even farther, and ask if our sagacious physicians do not practically enforce the same principles; not actually indeed by prescribing a course of blue mountains, sparkling streams, or sunny skies; but, by suggesting a resort to scenes that supply these each may be supposed best calculated to minister to the particular phase of mental disease.

; as

Thus was I dreamily thinking to myself as I wandered along the cliffs on an isolated part of the western coast, enjoying a short relaxation from active employment in "the world." How far my subsequent speculations were suggested by the scene, and illustrate the principle I had been thinking on, I leave to be discovered.

The autumn day was drawing to its close as I found myself on the truncated summit of a conical hill, about five hundred feet above the level of the ocean below. Far away to the westward stretched a circling horizon of sea and sky, terminated on the north by the remote extremity of the wide bay, and a few outlying islands dimly seen and almost lost in the hazy distance; on the south, by a lofty headland sheltering a shore of sand unbroken for three miles. From the point where I stood, the sides of the hill sloped down rapidly to within two hundred feet of the water, and then terminated sharply in perpendicular rocks running out into a long rugged semi-detached island, rising abruptly over the waves. It was part of a bold and precipitous rocky coast of some miles in extent, unbroken save by a narrow cleft of about two hundred yards, forming the mouth of a steeply decending valley, through which the mountain stream

found its way to the sea; and where was situated my resting place, a little hamlet of a dozen houses and a couple of limekilns. After long gazing upon the splendid scene before and around me, and that deep sigh which relieves the heart, as it were, of its overcharged sense of delight; I sat down and in passive enjoyment allowed my mind to wander or be led as it would. How delicious in such situations is the sense-not of loneliness, but of being alone!-apart from the great world of bustle, hurry, and turmoil, high above it all. There was the great glorious sea, appearing, from my elevation, without a ripple to break its glassy surface, and yet, in the long and regular heave of the Atlantic swell pursuing its continuous onward course to the cliffs at my feet. How sublime is that never-ending monotony of motion, with its ceaseless chime of water, not breaking but washing upon the hollowed cliffs, and surging with soblike voice up their deep caverns! Far down, beyond the hill, was the thin white line of tide upon the narrow shore, with the whitewashed houses, the thatched roofs, the pale blue haze rising from the limekilns, and the few inhabitants scattered among the boats or on the smooth-washed yellow sands. Here, I thought, is a scene of tranquility and peace. Here is a spot dropped behind in "the progress of the age;" a people civilized at least to some extent, but not sophisticated. A state of existence unrefined indeed, but at the same time uncompressed by all those artificial stays that mutilate and deform the naturally fair proportions of society.

Mr. Weld, I remember, in his "Vacation Tour in Brittany," describes districts, the inhabitants of which are so far behind the times, that they still speak the idiom, live upon the fare, wear the costume, and cherish the habits of centuries past; and the following incident I know to be true: An old lady, living some few miles from this coast, on accepting the hospitality of a gentleman in Bristol, was conducted to bed in "the spare room," which happened to have over the mantelshelf a gasbracket, with a porcelain imitation candle for its burner. In the morning she replied to inquiries, that she should have rested very comfortably but for the strange candle; she tried to blow it out several times, but could not; it would flare up again, and so she left it to burn out, but awoke several times with its glare upon her; and again tried repeatedly to extinguish it. To her astonishment it was still burning on in the morning, and apparently not much diminished. Such innocent ignorance in these days is refreshing as the perfume of the mountain heath: it is delightful to think that there are still persons in England who have never seen a gas-lamp— travelled by rail-never sent nor received a telegraphic message. But why should this be? Is there anything prejudicial in the "march of intellect," the "progress of art and science," in fact, of mankind, that