fain to waste its energies.' All this is very well for the philosophic Una, who pays her taxes under protest, since she had no voice in laying them on; but the implied notion, that our pretty countrywomen have no petty cares connected with their food, no little rivalries and little aspirations, but plenty of earnest interest in the destinies of the race-is very complimentary. After flourishing a little, however, about these grievances, which, we fear, are not wholly unknown to our English beauties, she proceeds to the main point. 'What,' she asks, 'is the diet of New England generally? Hot biscuits, fat pork, and tea! these are the staples. They are varied with preserves, made pound for pound, and endless varieties of cake, and the inevitable pie. Pastry, which most children in England are not allowed to touch until they get their long frocks or tailed coats on, is here the everyday food of young and old. Salt pork is cheap-that is, greasy fulsomeness makes it pall sooner on the appetite than any other meat, and so it forms the pièce de résistance at almost all tables, except those who live within hail of a butcher, and whose owners are well to do in the world. Tea is the grand panacea for all fatigue, low spirits, dampness, coldness, pains in the head and in the back, and, in short, for nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to; the quantity taken by middle-aged and elderly women almost surpasses belief. Certainly, to put the average at six or eight cups a day would be setting it low enough.'

What mere human beauty could stand these horrors? Fancy Miss Angelina, dressed for her first ball, and sitting down, before she goes forth conquering and to conquer, to keep up the stamina with just a little snack of fat pork, gooseberry-jam, and pumpkin-pie! Is it any wonder that this young lady should wither at twenty-five? Yet fat pork has its advocates. Cobbett was delighted with the fondness of the Americans for 'extreme unction,' and on his return to this country, did everything in his power to force the greasy dish upon the English palate, affirming that a dislike to fat pork was a decided symptom of insanity. We may allude, likewise, to the important part played by hogs' lard in the composition of cosmetics. The thousand and one kinds of paste and pomatum for the skin and hair are all of this substance, only differing a little in the colour and perfume; and in nineteen cases out of twenty, hogs' lard is bears' grease. Why should a substance improve beauty when absorbed by the skin, and destroy it when taken into the stomach? This is a question we leave to be settled between Una and the chemists.

Another cause of the unhappy condition of female beauty in America is stated by the outspoken Una to be--the dirtiness of the fair sex. This is dreadful. Not one woman in ten, she asserts, permits cold water to touch her whole person every day, and not one in five performs the same ablution once a week; while,

if the truth could at once be flashed forth from its hiding-place, it would shew still longer intervals, from the bare thought of which imagination shrinks.' We do not know what is the case in this respect as regards the majority of our own countrywomen; and, to say the truth, we are afraid to ask.

6

The wrath of Una falls next upon the sleeping accommodation. Three-quarters of New England,' she tells us, 'sleep in slightly enlarged coffins;' and, in our opinion, a capital plan it is, for if the fourth quarters were stowed with the rest, the people might as well be in their graves at once. These coffins are called bedrooms, for no other reason than that they are large enough to hold a bed, a light-stand, and a wash-stand; and 'they are often rendered redolent of sweetness by thickets of coats, pantaloons, dresses, and petticoats hung on the walls.' This is so faithful a sketch of the bedrooms of the middle-class Londoners, that one might fancy Una to be speaking, by mistake, on the wrong side of the question,

till we hear that the dens described are 'purified by the perfumes of the adjoining kitchen, and the dead, dry heat of its red-hot stove. Here "pa, ma, and the baby," with now and then a brace of small fry in a "trundle-bed," seethe and swelter through the winter nights, and fit themselves admirably for facing the nor'wester in the morning. Here, when one of the family is sick, he is pretty sure to die; because a fever almost inevitably takes the typhoid form from the fetid atmosphere around, and the struggling currents of health are sent stagnating back to the burdened heart and lungs.' Up to this point, Una makes out no case specially against her countrywomen; and if the argument ended here, we should have to bring in Nature guilty of what is laid to the charge of the American women. But now, at the very fag-end of the discourse, comes the whole gist of the matter, and we see why it is that Englishwomen are superior in freshness of looks, and in their duration of beauty, not only to their transatlantic sisters, but to the women of most of the countries of Europe. All day long in winter,' says Una, 'the stove-heat burns into the brain, and withers the cheeks, and palsies the muscles, and enfeebles the step; and though summer comes with its outer air and its fruits and flowers, the loads it is asked to remove are too much for it, and the years circle round, the weary, aimless, soul-consuming years, and the bad diet, and the uncleanly habits, and the foul air, and the hot stove have done their miserable work. Beauty is gone, health is vanished, hope has set, and the young mother, who should be just beginning to shed beauty and goodness and light around her, has shrunken mournfully into the forlorn and wrinkled and unlovely old woman. When will our countrywomen awake and ponder the things that concern their peace?'

6

The stove, in fact, including the foot-stove, or chaufferette, is the great enemy to beauty throughout the world. Wherever this is used, there is no such thing seen in the women as middle age; all are either young and pretty-if nature has bestowed charms-or old and ugly. The blooming middle age of the Englishwomen is the grand distinctive feature of our island; and it is owing neither to the absence of fat pork in their diet, nor to the presence, in their feelings, of earnest interest in the destinies of mankind, but simply to their inhaling a pretty considerable quantity of fresh air, both in summer and winter. Not that they imbibe enough: far from it. Their sleeping arrangements and their ablutions are both very imperfect, we know; but it may be a question, whether their negligence in these respects, though hurtful to themselves, is not advantageous to us of the ruder sex. Things are bad enough with us as they are; but if Englishwomen 'awoke and pondered the things that concerned their peace'what would become of the peace of the men?

FRENCH EXPERIMENTS IN ENTOMOLOGY. AT intervals during the last three years, Parisian savans have been occupied in various curious researches of equal importance to the entomologist and the physician. Every one knows how extensively leeches are used in medicine, and how efficacious their application frequently is. But leeches are every day becoming rarer and more expensive, especially in France,* where the efforts made to naturalise them have hitherto been neutralised by various obstacles, and among others, by a destructive agency long unknown to science, which has at length been discovered and revealed to the world by a learned Frenchman-M. Soubeiran.

In April 1850, M. Soubeiran began his experiments. He caused a large basin of a peculiar construction to be placed in the central surgery of the hospitals,

* For the Natural History of the Leech, see Journal, vol. iv., second series, p. 334.

in which basin he deposited a number of leeches, with the intention of watching their habits and ascertaining the best mode of treating them. The basin was circular, and lined with lead; a stream of water could be turned through it at will by means of a jet d'eau, from the head of a watering-pot; and there was an opening for the escape of the surplus water, covered with clear muslin, to prevent the leeches from getting out. At the bottom of the basin was a thick bed of potter's earth, in which were placed a number of aquatic plants, such as the Iris pseudo-acorus, the Typha angustifolia or reedmace, the Caltha palustris or marsh-marigold, &c.; and above all, some of the Chara. In one part of the basin was an island level with the water, composed of a bed of clay covered with a layer of light soil and turf, in order that the leeches might bury themselves at pleasure in the light earth. Three hundred fine Hungarian leeches were placed in the basin thus prepared, where they were left undisturbed until the end of September. During this time they were fed three times-twice with blood and once with frogs.

But the animals did not multiply, as was expected. When the harvest came to be looked for, only about 100 young ones were found. These were mostly hidden within the folds of the leaves of the plants, and attached to each of them was a small, pale, tetradecapodous animal with a flat elongated body. It had four folded antennæ, two of them longer than the others, and a biforked tail composed of a single segment. Beneath this tail were appendages that continually agitated the water, to renew it at the surface of the respiratory organs; the feet were furnished with a hook. The animal did not swim, but walked at the bottom of the basin, or along the stems of the plants beneath the water. It was found in great numbers upon the sieves used in fishing up the leeches, and upon the stems of the iris and typha; but the greater number lay within the interior folds of the leaves with the young leeches.

M. Soubeiran placed a few of these insects in a jug filled with water, and threw in among them some young leeches. The animals speedily seized upon the leeches, which could not shake them off, but, in spite of all their efforts, were speedily overpowered. Wishing to satisfy himself whether they would attack full-grown leeches in the same way, the experimentalist put several of them, together with two adult leeches, into another jug likewise filled with water. At the end of a few minutes, they had fixed themselves upon the poor animals, which struggled violently, and endeavoured to escape from their enemies, but could not make them quit their hold. This scourge of young leeches is very common in the Seine, and in some of the stagnant pools in the environs of Paris. Naturalists call it the Softwater Asellus.

From these observations, M. Soubeiran concluded that the great numbers of the Aselli frequenting the waters of the Seine and the stagnant pools above referred to, render the propagation of leeches impossible, unless this water could be kept from the basins where these useful animals are reared; and even in that case, this method of rearing them is costly, and not easily practicable.

Another insect to which the Parisian naturalists have lately been directing special attention, is the Acarus of the itch. The repugnance and disgust excited from remotest antiquity by this disease are well known. There is a reference to it in the 13th chapter of Leviticus. It is mentioned by Hippocrates, by Aristotle, by Galen, by Horace, by Cicero, by Juvenal, by Rabelais, and by a hundred others. Some of these, and especially Rabelais, give unmistakable indications of being acquainted with the singular insect that causes the disease. But it was reserved for a Corsican student, M. Renucci, to demonstrate the existence of the acarus in such a manner that no one could dispute its authenticity; since that time people have troubled themselves

very little about it. The experiments of a learned French physician have at length rendered the observations on this insect conclusive and complete.

These observations at first presented great difficulties. Dr Bourguignon could readily study the acarus with the aid of an ordinary microscope. He could define its form; he could even delineate its anatomy and reproduction; but how was he to arrive at a knowledge of its habits?

To arrive at this knowledge, the doctor had recourse to a peculiar species of movable microscope, invented by himself, which enabled him to observe the acarus on the diseased person. This microscope is very simple: it is composed of the frame of an ordinary microscope, the optical and essential part of which has been raised from the socket that supported it, and articulated to a movable knee at the extremity of a lever; the instrument can thus be transported to the part under inspection.

Another difficulty, however, presented itself in the fact, that the ordinary light is obscurity for opaque bodies seen through the microscope. Dr Bourguignon was forced, therefore, to have recourse to artificial light, the luminous rays of which he concentrates into a brilliant focus by the aid of a round magnifying-glass, which focus he directs upon the chosen point of observation.

We will not here speak of the fantastic form of the acarus-of its forepaws, which, armed with a kind of sucker, enable it to fasten itself in the furrow which it digs under the skin; of the movable points which it carries on its back, to fix itself more firmly in these furrows; of its terrible mandibles, and all the other weapons with which nature has armed it, to accomplish its destructive mission. We shall merely notice one or two curious details concerning its habits.

The acarus is a kind of microscopic tortoise. In the moment of danger or sleep, it draws in its head and feet. If pushed out of its burrow, it turns its head from right to left, to find out where it has been placed; and speedily regaining its form, it squats in it instinetively, for it has no eyes. Its march is precisely that of the tortoise. Notwithstanding all his optical resources, Dr Bourguignon has not yet been able to discover a single male acarus. All those observed by him were females fecundated, doubtless for many generations, as is the case with several other insects-the gnat, for example. The acarus usually lays sixteen eggs, which are carefully deposited in a furrow under the epidermis, where they are ranged in pairs. They are hatched in about ten days.

Thanks to the observations of Dr Bourguignon, the disease caused by this insect, so terrible to our ancestors, can now easily be cured in two days.*

FLORENCE MAY-A LOVE STORY. THE golden light of evening dazzled the eyes of a young girl who stood upon a stile, watching for the arrival of the London coach.

It was about a hundred miles from London-no matter in what direction-at the bottom of a green valley, down the western slope of which the road came winding here and there concealed by trees. A wellbeaten path led to a village a few fields distant, embowered in orchards, and leaning, as it were, against the massive oaks and elms of a park, that shut in the view in that direction. The square steeple-tower of the old church scarcely overtopped this background of leaves.

Florence May was waiting for her mother, who had been absent some weeks in London, and who had been compelled to leave her all alone in their humble

*This article is chiefly taken from the Archives de Pharmacie, a French medical journal.

cottage-all alone, unless her rectitude and her sense of duty may be counted as companions.

They were poor, humble people. Mrs May was the widow of a country curate, who had died, leaving, as curates sometimes do not, a slight provision for his family. It was like a Providence. Having fought the fight of life nearly out on L.50 or L.60 a year, some distant relation, whom they had never seen and scarcely ever heard of, put the curate in his will for L.1000. This sum, invested, was sufficient to support both mother and daughter in that out of the way place. A letter had arrived, when Mrs May had been a widow for three years, requesting her to come up to London, to hear of something to her advantage.' This was vague enough; but she resolved to comply; and not being able to afford the expense of a double journey, had left her daughter, then about seventeen, under the guardianship of the neighbours, her own character, and a mother's prayers.

She has been absent more than a week. What has happened in the meantime? Why does Florence wait with more than the impatience of filial affection—with a countenance in which smiling lips and tearful eyes tell of a struggle between joy and sadness? She is troubled with the burden of her first secret-a secret which she nurses with uneasy delight, and which she is anxious to pour into the ears of her only confidanteher mother. How many maidens of seventeen are still in this dream of innocence!

The sun had set before the roll of wheels came sounding down the valley; and when the coach began to descend, nothing could be distinguished but the lights that glanced occasionally behind the trees. The time seemed prodigiously long to Florence. She even once thought that some fantastical, ghostly coachman was driving a phantom vehicle to and fro on the hillside to mock her. Young people in her state of mind would annihilate time and space. However, here it comes, the Tally-ho, sweeping round the last corner-lights glancing-horses tossing their heads and steaming-a pyramid of luggage swaying to and fro. That's a gal's voice as screamed,' said a man to the Whip as they passed. Full, inside and out!' was the reply, and on went the Tally-ho along the level lap of the valley.

'She is not come,' murmured Florence, after waiting in vain some time, to see if the coach would stop lower down; but it pursued its inexorable course, and the young girl returned by the dim path to her cottage on the outskirts of the village.

That was a critical period in her life. For some days after her mother's departure, she had spent her time either at her needle, or with one or two old neighbours, who wearied her with their gossip. To escape from the sense of monotony, she had wandered one morning into the fields, as it was indeed her custom from time to time to do; and there, with the scent of wild-flowers and new-mown hay around, she allowed her mind to be ruffled by those thoughts and feelings which at that age breathe upon us from I know not what regionsparkling and innocent stirrings, that scarcely typify the billowy agitation of succeeding years.

absence, that a stranger came slowly down the opposite bank of the stream; and seeing this lovely young girl entranced in a reverie, paused to gaze at her. His glance at first was cold and critical, like that of a man who has trodden many lands, and has seen more such visions than one under trees in lonely places-visions that, when neared and grasped at, hardened into reality, vulgar and bucolic. In a little time, however, the brow of this stranger unbent, and his lip uncurled; and there came a strange fear to his heart, that what he saw of grace and beauty beneath that archway of willowboughs, was a mere optical illusion-a phantasm painted on the exhalations of the meadow by the sun's beams. There is a certain pride in disappointed natures, which makes them believe that all the loveliness of the outer world is of their own imagining, as if we could imagine more perfect things than God has imagined and thrown on this canvas of the universe.

The man was of the south by travel, if not by birth, and muttered some 'Santa Vergines!' more in surprise than devotion. He did not move or speak to attract the young girl's attention, but waited until her eyes, which he saw were restless, should chance to fall upon him. Her start of alarm, when she found herself to be not alone, was repressed by the grave politeness of his bow.

"Young lady,' he said, in a low musical voice when he had leaped the stream and stood by her side, I am on my way to Melvyn Park. Perhaps I may learn from you in what direction to turn.'

"The roof of the mansion shews above the trees,' replied she, rising and stretching out her pretty hand. "I might have guessed so,' said the stranger, whose accent was but slightly foreign; and this is but a bad excuse for speaking to you. It is more frank to say, that I was surprised at seeing so much beauty and grace buried in this sequestered valley, and could not pass on without learning who you may be.'

Flattery flies to the heart as swiftly as electricity along the wire. The maiden blushed, and drew off but slightly. Florence May,' said she, is known to the whole valley, and will not be made sport of nor molested without finding defenders.'

Was this affected fear a cunning device for telling her name without seeming to answer an unauthorised question?

'Child,' replied the stranger, who perhaps took this view of the matter, for he smiled, though kindly, 'you may count on me as one of the defenders. For the present, let me thank you, and say farewell.'

With these words, and a somewhat formal bow, he turned and went across the fields, leaving Florence bewildered, almost breathless, with surprise and excitement, and, to confess the truth, not a little piqued that her ruse, if ruse it was, had brought the dialogue to so abrupt a termination. She had no wish to parley with strangers. Her mother had expressly warned her not to do so. What a famous opportunity thrown away to exhibit the rigidness of her sense of duty! Indeed, there had been so little merit on her part, that the stranger, if he had rightly read her countenance, might pretend that the forbearance had been all on his side. Of course, she would have gained the victory in the end; but how much more dramatic if her prudence had been put to a severer test!

The schoolmen have sought for the place of Paradise-did they peep into a young heart that is waiting, without knowing it, to love?

It was during her first walk since her mother's

acting-she turned with something like a flout, and sat down again, with her face averted from the now distant stranger-averted only a moment; for soon her attitude would have reminded a sculptor of that exquisite group

in which the girl turns to bill the dove that has fluttered down on her shoulder.

Now, take it not as an article of faith that Florence had fallen in love,' as the saying is, with that tall handsome stranger with the black eyes and sun-painted complexion. We would have you more careful in the construction of your credo than that. But, at anyrate, an impression had been produced: this was to be expected. When a man falls into the water, he may not be drowned, but is sure to be wet. Florence had never seen any members of that category of 'lovable persons,' which is of so little political and so much social importance, except two or three six-foot farmers, and the Rev. Mr Simmer, their pale-faced, sandy-whiskered young bachelor vicar of fifty. Should we be astonished, then, that after her first agitation had subsided, there remained something more than memory of the compliment which had fallen from the lips and been ratified by the eyes of that distinguished-looking stranger?

Need it be said, moreover, that whilst she remained by the margin of the stream, and during her sauntering walk home, and all the evening, she thought of little else save this very simple meeting. As to her dreams, we shall not inquire into them; but the moonbeams tell us that they shone all night between the ivy-leaves upon a smile as sweet and self-satisfied as ever lived on the lips of a maiden on her wedding-eve.

Next day, it was rumoured in the village that a foreign painter had come to occupy one of the wings of Melvyn House, by permission of the family, which had remained many years abroad. His name was simply Angelo; and a mighty fine gentleman he was. One could not guess, to look at him, that he had ever lived on frogs; or was'obligated to hexpress hisself in a barbarious lingo,' as the landlady of the Jolly Boys' Inn phrased it.

6

Florence was proud to say casually, to some old spectacled lady--who observed indeed she never,' and told her neighbour that Miss May seemed very forward' -that she had held a minute's conversation with this said painter. We take this as a proof that she was only dazzled by him; and that she had not really experienced one pang of love. So much the better. We must not bestow the only treasures of our hearts on the first interesting person we may happen to meet under a willow-hedge.

And yet there she is at her place again, thinking of yesterday's meeting; and-by the bow of Eros!there is he, too, wandering accidentally in the same direction with his sketch-book under his arm. We had no business to be eaves-dropping; but a concealed fault is half pardoned.' We were invisible, and heard every word they said. It should all be set down here, but it was dreadful nonsense, at least what he said; for she, partly in coquetry perhaps, and partly in pride and prudence, intrenched herself behind the rampart of her maiden modesty, and answered only-by listening.

The young man was in a state of temporary insanity; at least, if one might believe his words. Like all lovers, he professed to have skill in physiognomy. He asked no information about Florence, did not care who she was or where she came from: all he wanted to know was, whether she was free. He spoke eloquently and with sufficient respect. The young girl more than once felt her heart melt; and it was a great exertion for her at length to reply, that her mother was away, and that she could not listen to another word without her knowledge and sanction.

She did listen, however, for he went on talking interminably. According to his account, he was an artist who had studied many years at Rome; but he did not say whether he was of English origin or not, and, of course, Florence could not ask the question. This would have been to avow a stronger interest in him than consisted with her views. We should have liked her

better, perhaps, had she been more frank and artless. Yet, after all, her conduct was not at this time an image of her character, but arose from a struggle between her own simplicity and her recollection of her mother's warnings.

It is needless to say that, after many hesitations, she now invariably went every day to her accustomed seat. This might be interpreted into giving a rendezvous; but she had a prescriptive right to the place, and why should she be driven from it by an intrusive, impertinent stranger? Impertinent! Nay, not so; nothing could be more reserved and respectful than his demeanour; and if he was really in earnest, and if he turned out to be a respectable man, why-perhaps it would be a matter of duty in her not to repulse his advances. Matrimony was indeed, they had told her, an awful responsibility; but if, by undergoing it, she could raise her mother to a more comfortable position, would it not be her duty to make the sacrifice?

Matters went on in this way for several days, and Florence began to wait impatiently for the arrival of her mother, to whom she might relate all that had passed. Angelo accustomed, perhaps, to more easy conquests, was irritated by her cold caution, not knowing that hers was the hypocrisy of duty. He once even went so far as to say, that he blamed himself for wasting time with a calculating village coquette, and, rising, departed with a formal salute. Florence's bosom heaved with emotion, tears started to her eyes, her lips trembled, and she was on the point of perilling all her prospects by calling him back. But by a prodigious effort of will, she restrained herself, and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the ground until the sound of his steps had died away.

'No,' said she rising, 'I am not to be so lightly won. These days have given me experience. He is certainly captivating in manners, but sometimes I think that one moment of weakness on my part'- And she thought of the fate of Lucy Lightfoot, who had been left to wear the willow, after saying 'Yes' too soon.

She

In the afternoon, a letter came announcing her mother's arrival for that very day; and it was in the excitement that followed this little misunderstanding that she waited for the arrival of the coach. wanted an adviser sadly. Should she, after what had passed, return next day to the meadow, or should she remain at home in melancholy loneliness? The question was more important than even she imagined; for we will not undertake to say, despite Mr Angelo's lofty sentiments, that his faith was as strong as he professed. Might he not have wished to test the virtue of this beautiful girl, whom he had found, as it were, by the wayside? Men of the world are not averse to these trials; and if their unfortunate victim fall, they go away on the voyage of life, leaving her to repent in tears, and hugging themselves with the idea that they have not been taken in.' They forget that the most fervent Christian does not venture to ask for strength to resist temptation, but only to be kept from it; and that every one of us perhaps would be caught, if the Evil Angler knew what bait to put on his hook.

Florence had just placed her hand on the latch of the door, when she saw a figure come out from a deep mass of shadow close by, and softly approach her. It was Angelo. She screamed slightly, but so slightly that even he scarcely heard. Do not be alarmed, Miss May,' he said; 'I came here in hopes to meet you as you entered. I could not have slept to-night without asking your forgiveness for the rude manner in which I left you, and for my unauthorised accusations. Do say that you are no longer angry.'

"Of course-of course; I have no right to be angry. But, for Heaven's sake, sir, retire: I must not be seen by the neighbours talking to a stranger at this hour.'

'There is no one in the street, and I will not detain you a minute. Cannot you find in your heart to give

me one word of hope, one look of encouragement? I am bewildered, maddened by your cold indifference.' "You have no right, Mr Angelo, to call me cold or indifferent; I have blamed myself for my too great simplicity. My mother will be back to-morrow; I But will tell her what has happened; and-andI must go in.'

This gives me hope,' cried he; 'I ask no more. Florence-dear Florence!'

He took her hand, and kissed it over and over again, although she almost struggled to get it away. The strong passion of that man seemed to pass through her like an electric shock; and wonderful emotions came trooping to her heart. Suddenly, however, she broke away, and, as if fearing her own weakness, glided into the house without a word, and locked, and bolted, and barred the door in a manner so desperately energetic, that even Angelo, who stood foolishly on the outside, could not help smiling.

'She will come to the meadow to-morrow,' said he, rather contemptuously, as if surprised and annoyed at his own success that evening.

But Florence did not come. With the intuitive perception with which modesty supplies woman, she felt that the stranger had pushed his experiments on her character too far. The following day was spent at home in indignant self-examination. What had she done to provoke that freedom, and authorise what seemed something like insult? Conscious of innocence, she proudly answered: Nothing.' But, ah! Florence, were not those tacit rendezvous a fault?

Mrs May arrived in the evening with a whole budget of news and complaints. Small was the mercy by her vouchsafed to the modern Babylon: a den of thieves was nothing to it. The 'something to her advantage' was a proposal to invest her money in a concern that would return fifty per cent. She had expressed herself 'much obliged' to her correspondent; adding, however, that some people would consider him a swindler, indeed she supposed he was. Perhaps he would object to pay the expense he had put her to. Of course. Dishonest persons were never inclined to pay. She wished him good-morning, and hoped he would repent before he arrived at Botany Bay.' Having detailed these and many other brave things which she recollected to have said, good Mrs May began to pay attention to her tea, and allowed Florence to relate all that she had said, done, thought, and felt during the time of her mother's absence.

'Bless me!' exclaimed Mrs May at length, setting down her tea-cup, 'I do not wonder the house looks rather untidy. You have been doing nothing else but making love ever since my back was turned. There's proper conduct for a clergyman's daughter!'

Florence expressed her regret as well as she could, and in trying to excuse herself, was compelled to dilate considerably on the fine qualities of Mr Angelo. Let it be admitted that she suppressed all allusion to the last interview.

'Well, child,' quoth Mrs May, after listening to what by degrees warmed into a glowing panegyric-'I think this is all nonsense; but you know I have always promised never to interfere with any sincere attachment you may form. Are you quite sure this gentleman is not merely making a pastime of you?'

Florence turned away her head, and her mother went on. 'I shall make some inquiries into his position and prospects, and character of course. If all turn out to be satisfactory-we shall see; but I confess to having a prejudice against foreigners.'

It was no easy matter for Mrs May to gain the information she required. The whole village, it is true, was up in arms about the young stranger who had arrived at Melvyn Park, and who, as every one knew, had long ago been betrothed to Miss Florence; but nobody could say one word on the subject that was not surmise. I

Poor Mrs May was highly indignant when she learned that all those visits to the meadows had been watched and commented on by every gossip, that is to say, every woman in the place, and returned home to scold her daughter, and pronounce the mystery unfathomable. You must,' said she, forget this person, who evidently has no serious intentions.'

'I will try,' replied her daughter with an arch look; 'but there he is coming down the street towards our house.'

The stranger had heard of Mrs May's return, and was hastening to beg permission to renew the interviews, the interruption of which had taught him how deeply he was moved. The elder lady received him with formal politeness, as a distinguished foreigner, while Florence endeavoured to keep her eyes to the ground. Mr Angelo found it necessary to break the ice by declaring, that he was no Italian, but an Englishman by origin though not by birth.

'My name,' he said, 'is Angelo Melvyn, and I am now the owner of Melvyn Park. Sorrowful circumstances, you will perhaps have heard by tradition, induced my father to go abroad many years ago. When I became the head of the family, I naturally felt a desire to behold the mansion of my ancestors, which was not invested to me personally with melancholy associations. It was my fancy to explore the neighbourhood without making myself known. I met your daughter; and-may I hope that she has related to you all I have ventured to say of my feelings towards her?'

This explanation made all things straight,' as Mrs May afterwards said. Angelo might have told a good deal more; for example, that his heart was only just recovering from the pain of a bitter disappointment, when the lovely form of Florence appeared to console and indemnify him. But few words in these matters are wisdom; and there is always time to be confidential. Within a month from that period, every one had heard that Mr Angelo Melvyn was about to be married to Miss Florence May, with whom those who had learned their geography, and were not conversant with the facts, insisted he had fallen in love in Tuscany. In those southern climes," said Miss Wiggins to Miss Higgins, it is the custom for cities to stand godfathers to children.' The wedding took place in due season; and it is to be supposed that it turned out a happy one, for the last news we have heard of Mr and Mrs Melvyn was, that they have been seen walking along the meadows near the willow-stream, whilst two brighteyed children-one named Angelo, and the other Florence-were running to and fro, gathering daisies and butter-cups, to make wreaths and nosegays withal.

CORKS.

THE published announcement in the newspapers of a new Cork-cutting Company, gives us one among many reminders of the remarkable fact, that one kind of wood, and one only, should be available for the simple purpose of stopping bottles. We call it wood, though it would more correctly be designated bark: since bark, which it really is, is wanting in many of the characteristics of true wood. No other bark hitherto known possesses in so remarkable a degree the softness and elasticity of cork; or, if there be such, it is too small in quantity to be commercially available. Cork is such a peculiarly inert substance, such a neutral, such an innocent, such a nothing, that it will injure few if any of the liquids with which it may come in contact: the liquids may ruin the cork, but the cork will not retaliate. And then its obedient mechanical qualities are striking enough. We have all heard of a man jumping into a quart-bottle, and when we have seen it done, we will believe it; but in the meantime, we can more readily believe that a quart-bottle cork can be driven into a