connues à établir l'harmonie parmi les phénomènes, qui, aux premier coup-d'œil, paroissent incompatibles, je me bornerai cepedant à vous communiquer les faits qui ont échappé jusqu'ici aux naturalistes. Car de tout ce que la physique nous présente, il n'y a de stable et de certain que les faits. Les théories, enfans de l'opinion sont variables comme elles.

Ces sont les météores du monde moral, rarement bienfaisans, et plus souvent nuisibles aux progrès intellectuels de l'humanité."

In the midst of a life of such arduous devotion to science, he was overtaken by the

WHEN I was eighteen years old my family entrusted me to the care of a relation whom business called into Tuscany, whither she was accompanied by her husband.

It was an opportunity for me to travel, and to shake off that dangerous idleness, engendered by the quiet of a father's house and of country towns, where the first passions of the soul grow corrupt for want of employment.

I departed with the enthusiasm of youth when about to see the curtain rise on the most splendid views of nature and life.

The Alps, which since my childhood I had seen from the summit of the hill Milly, in the extreme horizon, brilliant with eternal snow; the sea, of which sailors and poets had filled my mind with glowing images; the Italian sky, the heat and serenity of which I had already, as it were, experienced through the verses of Goethe and the pages of "Corinne"

"Knowest thou that land where the myrtles flourish?"

The yet remaining monuments of that Roman antiquity, of which my recent studies had filled my thoughts; - in short, liberty; distance, which gives enchantment to scenes far removed; the accidents, certain in long journeys, which, foreseen by the imagination of the young, adds the zest of anticipation to present pleasure; with the change of language, of faces, and of manners, which seems to open to the mind a new world;-all fascinated me. I lived in a state of con

stant excitement during the long days of expectation which preceded our departure.

This delirium, renewed each day, by the magnificence of nature in Savoy, Switzerland, on the Lakes of Geneva and Como, on the Glaciers of the Simplon, at Milan, and at Florence, lasted till my return.

The business which had brought my companion to Leghorn, being indefinitely prolonged, she proposed to send me back to France, without having seen Rome and Naples. This was to deprive me of my dream at the moment of possession.

I inwardly revolted against such an idea. I wrote to my father to obtain his permission for continuing my journey into Italy alone; and, without waiting for the answer which I could scarcely hope would be favourable, I determined to forestal disobedience by action.

"If a refusal arrives," I said to myself, "it will arrive too late; I shall be blamed, but pardoned; I must return, but I shall have seen."

I reviewed my finances; they were slender. Knowing, however, that a relation of my mother was established at Naples, I trusted that he would not refuse me money for returning, and started, one beautiful night, by mail from Leghorn to Rome.

I passed the winter there alone, in a little room of an obscure street, at the house of a Roman painter, who took me to board in his family.

My appearance, my youth, my enthusiasm, my isolation in the midst of a strange

land, had interested one of my fellowtravellers on the route from Florence to Rome, who united himself to me with sudden friendship.

He was a handsome young man, about my own age, and appeared to be the son or nephew of the famous singer David, then the first tenor at the Italian Theatre. David, already an old man, travelled with us on his way to the San Carlo Theatre, Naples, where he was to sing for the last time.

He behaved like a father to me, and his young companion loaded me with kindness and attention; I responded to his advances with the simplicity and confidingness of my age; before our arrival at Rome we had become inseparable.

The mail then took not less than three days for its journey from Florence to Rome; in the inns my new friend was my interpreter; at table, he served me first; in the carriage, he reserved for me, beside himself, the best place; and, if I slept, I was sure my head would have his shoulder for a pillow.

When I left the carriage at the foot of the steep ascents of the Tuscan or Sabine hills, he joined me, explained the peculiarities of the country, named the towns, and pointed out the monuments; he even gathered lively flowers, and bought fine figs and grapes upon the road-with these he filled my hands and my hat.

David appeared pleased with the affection his companion showed for the young stranger, and sometimes exchanged smiles with him, as they glanced kindly, yet significantly at

me.

Arriving at Rome, at night, I naturally took up my residence in the same hotel.

I was conducted to a room; next morning I did not awake, till the voice of my young friend, who rapped at my door, invited me to breakfast.

Having dressed hastily and descended into the saloon where the travellers were reunited, I turned to clasp the hand of my intimate, but looked for him in vain amongst the company, from whom proceeded a general burst of laughter.

Instead of the son or nephew of David, I saw by his side, the charming figure of a young Roman girl, elegantly dressed, and whose black hair, arranged in plaits round the forehead, was fastened behind by two long golden, pearl-headed pins, such as are still worn by the peasant girls of Tivoli.

It was my friend, who, on arriving at Rome, had resumed her costume and her

sex.

I ought to have surmised it, from the tenderness of her regard, and the grace of her smile, but I had no such suspicion.

"Dress does not change the heart," said the young Roman, blushing, "only you will no longer sleep upon my shoulder, and, instead of receiving flowers, you must give them; this adventure will teach you not to trust to those appearances of friendship shown you for the future, which may be something very different."

She was a cantatrice- -a pupil and favourite of David; he took her with him everywhere, and dressed her as a man, in order to avoid remarks on the road.

He treated her more as though he were her father than her guardian, and was in no degree jealous of the sweet and innocent familiarity which he had allowed to be established between us.

AFTER some months' creditable application, Mr. Edward Leslie had acquired the joint dignities of M. R. C.S. and L. A. C., and thereby become an acknowledged professor of the healing art to the great prospective advantage of her Majesty's lieges. If Mr. Leslie thereupon assumed some additional importance, the thing is excusable, when we consider the responsibilities of his office; and his friends were inclined to make the more allowance for the weakness, inas

VOL. VIII. N. S.

a case

much as Ned was a good-natured fellow in the main, and would rather do a good turn than a bad one any time. If he had now and then handled " " rather roughly, while he was walking the hospitals, the maltreatment was done in a strictly professional manner (as no end of witnesses would testify), and without the slightest admixture of malice or natural hardness of heart. Perhaps, Ned's hospital training had produced, or at all events, developed a trait, or rather a want

R

of a trait in his character, which his young female cousins, and maiden aunts no longer young, regarded with mingled pity and dismay. They could never get Ned to acknowledge sentimental emotions as a part of his inward experience, and this startling circumstance was regarded by his before-named relatives, as a singular proof of a morbid temperament. His worldly "papa," on the other hand, was sometimes heard to extol the natural shrewdness and strong practical sense of his filial representative, and often presage that "Ned would make his way in the world." Ned Leslie at the time we speak of, would have been exceedingly obliged to any lady or gentleman who could make it clear to him how such a desirable consummation was to be accomplished within a reasonable period. "Make my way in the world, indeed," said Ned, "and achieve the noble enterprise at the age of a patriarch."

After the ordeal of hall and college, Ned felt justified in rusticating for a few weeks before he entered upon the duties of his profession as a partner in a country firm; so he determined to pay a promised visit to a chum of his, Tom Conway, who was in the chrysalis state of an assistant to a gentleman of high repute for chirurgical skill in a town some thirty miles distant from London. And Ned Leslie packed his carpet bag and carried his resolution into effect forthwith.

One evening soon after Ned's arrival, the two friends were enjoying social converse in Conway's snug little den, which was pretty well filled with the fragrance of the Virginian weed, while on the oilcloth-covered table a curious observer could not fail to detect a quart jug of foaming beverage brought for their special refreshment, by special messenger, from a respectable neighbouring hotel. The fact is not to be disguised that honest Tom's hospitable arrangements aimed rather at comfort than ostentation, of which foible he had never been seriously accused.

"I say, Tom, should you like to be made acquainted with my opinion on a momentous question," said Ned Leslie, at the same time knocking off with a little fillip, the ash which had accumulated on the end of his cigar during a reverie.

"By Jove! Ned's turning philosopher," exclaimed Conway, "will it take you long to enunciate your conclusion, Ned; if so, I think we will have it set forth some other time."

"Oh! I'll be brief about it," rejoined Ned,

"I merely wish to state my deliberate conviction that the highly wrought and artificial mode of existence, called civilized life, is radically rotten."

"Bravo!" cried Tom, tilting his chair against the wall, and leaning back in order to give vent to an ironical laugh; “deep thought, choice expression, a perfect Rousseau on stilts you are, by Jove!"

"You needn't laugh, Conway," rejoined Leslie, "I can tell you, it's no laughing matter to be doomed to vegetate in a hothouse; if one must vegetate, 'twould be better to grow naturally and freely on an American prairie, or an Australian sheep run, then we should at least enjoy the sense of existence. I dare say a healthy cabbage feels some pleasure in growing, though it makes no noise and bluster about it."

"What on earth has put you in this delightful vein of reflection, Ned; are not you now enjoying that fragrant havannah, and my invaluable society in addition to the sense of existence as you call it? Don't grumble so; drink your porter like a man," said the matter-of-fact mentor.

"Here are you and I, Thomas Conway and Edward Leslie," resumed the refractory pupil," two proper tolerably educated young men, possessing personable qualities, knowing a thing or two about town, and, moreover, with souls decidedly above pill-boxes, dissipating the precious hours of youth, because society can't appreciate our great and promising capabilities, and won't receive us on a footing of mutual advantage."

"Well, Ned, under the circumstances you have so faithfully described," returned Tom, "I think the best thing we can do, is to enjoy our little luxuries; have another glass will you? and pick out from Mr. Society as opportunity offers."

"You'll never get on, Tom," said Ned, lighting another cigar and puffing vigorously, "I'll tell you why, you're too contented by half. Now I have an ambition,-I want to become a respectable member of the community."

"Ah! I understand," interrupted Conway, "you'd like to pay taxes, sit in a family pew of your own, bring up a genteel and promising progeny, keep a gig, and otherwise set an example of sterling respectability. Lord! how aspiring," continued Tom. "And then the drama being ended and the curtain dropped, it shall be written in the Tattleton Gazette, 'We regret to have

to announce the decease of our lamented townsman, Alderman Leslie. To a cordial and accommodating disposition, he united habits of praiseworthy respectability, which have for a long series of years secured him universal respect. It is said that a tablet to his memory is to be placed over the family pew, where his benevolent countenance was so long familiar in the parish church of Tattleton.' Just fancy that in the Tattleton Gazette, with a circulation of 10,000.

Upon my word, Ned, your ambition is unreasonable-be moderate."

"Have you done?" put in Ned, smiling with an air of pity rather than reproach on the offending scoffer.

"In the good old time," Leslie went on after a pause; one might realize a fortune, but the golden age is past. Upon my soul, Tom, I think the only way to make a fortune is to marry one.

"Then why not go in and win?" said Tom.

"Don't chaff."

"I'm not chaffing, you are perfectly well aware that you are blessed with considerable personal advantages, Ned; those whiskers of yours are not contemptible,-you should have heard the compliment Betty paid them the other day."

"Don't chaff," said Ned again; but he manifested a self-satisfied consciousness of the force of his friend's remarks.

"Well, you know you have, too," continued Tom, "very extensive command of the language of sentiment."

Now the word "sentiment" never failed to exert an irritable influence on Ned's mental perceptions.

"Sentiment!" cried he, with scorn, "sentiment's all bosh," and he exhaled a long blue wreath of fragrant smoke; 66 'sentiment's humbug," he repeated, with the emphasis of a man pronouncing a great truth, and knowing it.

"I don't go with you there, Leslie," said Tom; "although I'm not usually thought sentimental."

But be it known that Mr. Conway was suspected of harbouring a tender feeling, which perhaps warped his judgment in this

make the best wife. Do you find that men who marry for love as the saying is, are the most lucky in their choice; by no means, women have two characters, one before marriage, and one after, and they generally wear the best out first."

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Well, Ned, according to your doctrine, you will find it hard to make a choice."

"Not at all, if one of those girls I have alluded to, had a comfortable sum in the funds, and the other had nothing but her own dear self to bestow on a favoured suitor; why in such a case I might bring. myself to run the risk, but I would "hedge" on the funded property. Take my advice, Tom,-get a fortune with a pretty girl, if you can but get it."

"Well, I don't know that I shall follow advice, but in return for your kindness in giving it, I don't mind putting you in the way of a young lady with a lump of tin."

"What do you mean by a lump of tin," asked Ned, cautiously.

"Miss Betsy Wharton, daughter of John Wharton, late of Islington, currier, deceased; there is her full description; don't make any mistakes."

"By heaven! I'll be off to-morrow morning," exclaimed Ned, eagerly, "a friend of mine has a pretty large circle of acquaintance in Islington. I'll write to him on spec, but before commencing the regular operations of the siege, it will be as well to get certain information of the strategetical value of the fortress, Tom; so I'll call at Doctors' Commons, and study the last will and testament of this same worthy currier.

The next morning, an hour before Tom's usual time of rising, he was disturbed by a loud impatient rap at his bed-room door, and heard Ned's voice calling in loud tones, "I'm off, sluggard Tom; write soon," and then Ned's hurried steps rattling down the stairs, with small consideration for the slumbering inmates.

Tom presently jumped out of bed, and looking out of his bed-room window, which commanded an extensive prospect up and down the High Street, and a more limited

one over the way, spied Ned Leslie, carpet bag in hand, striding away to catch the morning train for the metropolis. Byand-bye came a letter from Ned, announcing that all was right at Doctors' Commons, the old boy had left the adorable Betsy stock bringing in £300 per annum ; "might be made £400," Ned wrote, "by judicious investment." Ned's Islington friend, John Mortlake, too, had written him to his address at the Bush Inn, stating that he, John Mortlake, knew Betsey Wharton, "and a very good-natured girl she is; not very pretty, though."

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Well," reflected Ned, "few heiresses and they are often spoilt, and not of a honied disposition, and, in this respect Betsy seems charming, and on the whole Ned considered the train of events so exceedingly promising, that he begged Tom to believe him to be his everlastingly and unboundedly grateful friend and well-wisher.

Meanwhile, Tom had, with great satisfaction, accepted an invitation to Mr. John Mortlake's for a quiet evening party, to meet a few friends, amongst whom was expected to be present, Miss Betsy Wharton, in propria persona. At this critical epoch of his life, Ned felt it to be a duty he owed to himself to make the best of his natural and acquired gifts. Hence, he took great pains to put himself in his best "queue," practised winning ways before the lookingglass, and paid particular attention to the arrangement of his hair, and other little matters of his toilet. Moreover, he framed original sentimental compositions, which he committed to memory, and stored up for use on fitting opportunity. In short, Mr. Edward Leslie turned himself out a very gentlemanly looking, well dressed, young man, with a suit of unimpeachable cut, and linen of unsullied purity, and just a little ornament or two to set it all off, but nothing extravagant, for Ned had good taste in matters of personal adornment. And having sucked several aromatic pills, warranted to remove the scent of cigars, Mr. Leslie finally presented himself in Mrs. Mortlake's drawingroom, where he, no doubt, proceeded with no unnecessary loss of time to ingratiate himself with the company, by his pleasant and intelligent good humour.

We have it not in our power to narrate the details of that social reunion in Islington, but there is good reason to believe, that on that auspicious evening. Nel laid a founda

tion of admiration and esteem in the breast of Miss Wharton, upon which he might proceed without presumption to build up the fabric of his tender hopes. It is not necessary to trace, layer by layerr, the completion of that work of art.

We refrain from so far violating the sweet confidences, which, on subsequent occasions, passed between the fair Miss Wharton and her inamorato, as to do more than hint in the vaguest possible manner, that there at length appeared to be a complete understanding between the parties in question, and that it was currently reported in a certain circle of merry Islington, that Miss Betsy Wharton had become the "fiancée" of Mr. Edward Leslie. Of course Ned had been particularly careful to avoid, in the presence of his Islington friends, or Miss Wharton herself, all allusion to the consols standing in her name in the books of the Bank of England. Ned so far yielded to the prejudices of society, that he did not think proper to intimate that this circumstance at all guided him in what his friend told him was a very sensible choice." "She's a very sweet-tempered, domesticated, affectionated, girl," said Mortlae's wife, and will make you an excellent wife," in which opinion Ned acquiesced with great enthusiasm.

"My dearest Betsy," said Edward Leslie, as he was strolling with Miss Wharton in the little garden attached to her aunts residence, "this little spot, with its scanty foliage, and faded flowers, is yet more attractive in your society than the sweetest scenes of rural solitudes, 'tis strange how great an enchanter is the little deity." And he gazed fondly on the young lady leaning on his arm.

"And are you sure you really love me?" returned his fair companion, looking up into his face with tender confidence.

"Can you doubt it, dearest ?" said Ned, with a deprecating expression.

"Oh, no, I do not, Edward," replied Betsy; "yet it seems so wonderful to me that you who might have won some fair, accomplished heiress, should bestow your affection on a poor and almost penniless orphan. I can scarcely believe I am so happy, dear Edward."

Ned was not at all astonished at hearing his intended speak in this manner. "Young ladies are sentimental," he reflected; "they don't like the idea of being married for their