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came to live here, and Faldner paid court to me, when I saw that the Countess innocently regarded it as an excellent match, that she was very probably tired of me-I had been happy only once in my life, and could not hope ever to be so again-every thing else was indifferent to me, and I became his wife."

"Poor creature! Why, with your tender heart, your delicate sensibilities, your many claims to a more dignified station at least, why were you fated to be his wife? But so it is, and I cannot, must not remain here a single day longer. Rough as he is, I have once called him friend; I am now his guest, and even if this was not, we can never be happy!"

He spoke in deep sorrow, and he kissed her eyes only to avoid being yet more unmanned by the grief he read in them.

"Oh, stay but one day," she whispered; "I have but just found you, and yet you want to leave me. When you are gone, the door of happiness is closed to me for ever, and I want a few recollections to live upon in the wide desert in which my lot is cast."

"I will confess every thing to Faldner," cried Froben; "he will cast you off, and then I may claim you. My house is not so finely situated as his castle; you can take in all my estate from its roof; but within my domains you shall be queen, and I your first and truest slave!"

She only shook her head. "Such are your doctrines. I was brought up and married in the holy Catholic church, and nothing but death can ever make me free. How often our wishes are at variance with our duty!" "Farewell, then, for ever," he added gloomily; "but till to-morrow, and then for ever!"

"For ever," she whispered, and clung to his breast. "What, do I find you here, miserable strumpet ?" cried at this moment a third person who stood near them. Both sprang up in terror; before them, trembling and gnashing his teeth with rage, stood the Baron, holding in one hand a paper, in the other a whip, which he was about to let fall on the fair shoulders of his unhappy wife. Froben interposed, took the whip from him, and flung it away, saying, "I beg of you not to make a scene here; your people are in the garden, and such violence would only disgrace you and your house."

"What!" cried Faldner, "is not my house enough disgraced already by this wretched creature-this beggar that I have entertained in it? Do you suppose I don't know your hand-writing?" he asked, showing her the paper; "here is a sweet letter to the gay gallant, the hero of the romance. So I was fated to marry a lady who had first been under your care, and when you are tired of her, honest Faldner is at hand to make her Her Ladyship; then, some six months after or so, the first friend comes, by mere accident, on a visit, just to renew an old acquaint. ance. As to that, you shall answer me, villain; as for this pauper, she may take her plate and lantern and go back to the Pont-des-Arts, or live on your wages. My servants shall horsewhip her out of the castle!"

The man of breeding has, at such times, a decided advantage over a vulgar adversary, whose anger makes him lose reason and self-command, and consequently bewilders. One glance at Josephine, who lay pale and trem. bling on the mossy bank, told Froben what was to be done. He gave her his arm, and led her to the castle. The Baron eyed them with rage; he was on the point of calling his servants to execute his threat, but was kept back by the fear of making his disgrace still more public. He hurried up to the parlour, where he found Josephine lying in tears on the sofa, hiding her face in the pillow, and Froben standing silently at a window. He ran around the room in fury; he cursed himself for having married such a creature. "If there is any law left in the country, I will be rid of her!” he cried: "she has given me false certificates; the pauper represented herself to be of noble birth--the marriage is null and void!"

"That is certainly the best thing you can do," rejoined Froben, "if you only set about it in the right way." "Ha, sir!" roared the Baron, "are you laughing at me, after bringing on me this disgrace? Come along

we don't need a court of law to separate us-that can be done in a moment; come along!"

Josephine, understanding what he meant, sprang up she flung herself at his feet, and begged him to punish her alone; she assured him that Froben was innocent; she confessed that she had written the letter, and declared that he had not discovered who she was till that morning. Our hero interrupted her, and led her back to the sofa. Before taking such a step as you hint at, I generally make my arrangements, and I advise you to do the same," he said, coolly. "First of all, the Baroness must leave the castle, for I will not suffer her to remain here when I am not present to protect her from your ill-treatment."

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"You act as if you felt yourself at home," replied the Baron, ironically; "but I id nearly forgotten madame was once your property. Where shall we take the sweet creature, then? To the poor-house, to a hospital, or to the next hedge, to follow her trade?"

Froben did not answer him; turning to Josephine, he asked, "Does the Countess still live in the neighbour. hood? Cannot you find a home there for a few days?" "I will go to her," she murmured.

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Very well; Faldner will have the goodness to send you there, and you can remain till Faldner finds out how unjust he has been towards us?"

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Josephine went to the Countess's. Froben advised her to make her visit a short one, promising to inform her of her husband's movements, and to persuade him, if possible, to a reconciliation. No!" she cried, passionately, "within these walls I will never appear again. I turn my back upon them for ever. Believe ine, a woman can bear much, and I have been very patient, but to-day he has insulted me too deeply to be forgotten. if I have to go back to the Pont-des-Arts, to beg for a couple of sous, I would rather do it than submit to such insults from such a man. My father was a gal. lant soldier and esteemed officer of the Empire, and his daughter cannot stoop to be Faidner's maid-servant."

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Froben began packing up when she left, and was busy writing a letter or two when Faldner entered his room. He was surprised to sec his host, and expected a new burst of passion. But it was not so; he only said, “The more I read this unlucky letter, which I found in your room this forenoon, the more am I convinced that you are not to blame in this wretched affair—that is, that you did not know the person; that I found my wife in your arms I freely forgive you, for that woman ceased to belong to me the moment she wrote that silly letter."

"I am glad, for the sake of our old friendship," answered Froben, "that you view the matter in this light; and, moreover, it enables me to speak coolly with you. In the first place, I give you my word that neither to-day nor ever before did any thing pass between us which would cast the least reflection on your honour; that she was a poor girl once, that she was compelled to ask for charity—"

"No, no; say at once that she went round begging," cried Faldner, "and strolled about the streets and squares of that wicked Paris by night, to earn money. I might have had the honour of her acquaintance then, if I had chosen it, for I was present at the moving scene on the Pont-des-Arts. No; even if I could believe what you tell ine, I am still disgraced: the Faldner family and a beggar-girl!"

"Her father and mother were of noble birth-"

"Stuff, nonsense! What a fool I was for letting my self be taken in so! I might as well have married the bar-maid at the village ale-house, if she carried a beer. glass in her coat of arms, and brought me false registers."

"That is a matter of small consequence in my eyes; the main point is, that from the very first you treated her like a servant and not a wife. She could not love you-you are not suited for each other."

"That is the right word," replied the Baron; "we are not suited to each other; the Baron Von Faldner and a beggar-girl cannot suit each other. I am very glad now that I followed my own ideas, and always treated her so; it was what she deserved. I always said there was something vulgar about her."

His rudeness irritated our hero, and he was about to

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It is true that, with the different religious faith of the two lovers, neither of them could indulge the hopes of a new union; but Josephine, sad as her future prospects might be, preferred any thing to the disgraceful treatment to which she had been subjected. As for her husband, though a feeling of remorse sometimes attacked him in a solitary hour, he sought diversion in business, and consolation in the thought that nobody was acquainted with the stain his escutcheon had suffered in making a beggar-girl of doubtful character the Baroness Von Faldner.

A few weeks after these events, Froben was walking up and down the bridge at Mentz. While he was lost in thought, a travelling-carriage rolled past him, whose strange appearance attracted general notice. Our hero's eyes were fastened more strongly on the servant upon the box, whose cheerful brown face seemed as familiar to him as the gaudy colours of his livery. As the carriage ap. proached slowly, the servant noticed him in turn, and cried, "Santiago de Compostella!-there he is himself!" He jumped down, opened the coach door, and out peeped the well-known features of Don Pedro. Our hero hastened to greet him, and the old man embraced him joyfully. "Where is she ?--where is my Laura's daughter? In the name of the Holy Mary, is she here?-tell me tell me at once!" Froben was at a loss what to say: he merely told him that she was then living near the city, and that he should see her the next morning.

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Tears of joy stood in the Spaniard's eyes. "How much am I indebted to you, my dear young friend, for giving me news of her!" he cried. "As soon as I could get leave of absence, Diego got the coach ready, and I drove twenty miles a day, so great was my impatience! And is she living happily ?-does she look like her mother?" Froben avoided answering these questions till he had led Don Pedro to his lodgings. The generous juice of Xeres was produced, Diego handed him a cigar and a light, as usual, and, as soon as he was comfortably settled, our hero began to tell his story. The Spaniard listened with deep interest; to Diego's great vexation, he let his cigar go out, for the first time in twenty years, and when Froben came to the violent scene between Faldner and his unhappy wife, his southern Divoa Degan to boil; he pulled his hat down on his forehead, wrapped his cloak round the left arm, and cried, with flashing eyes, Bring me my long rapier, Diego; as true as I am a good Christian and a Spanish cavalier, I will have the wretch's life; I will run him through, if he had a crucifix on his breast: I will make an end of him without the sacrament and without absolution, that I will! My rapier, I say, Diego Our hero tried to sooth the old man, exhausted by his own violence, and showed him that this was useless, as Josephine was no longer in her oppressor's power. The next morning they went to the Countess. It was a moving sight to look upon, as the old man embraced Josephine's blooming, youthful figure, and eyed every feature closely, till his own stern expression relaxed, and with what deep emotion he kissed her eyes and lips. "Yes, you are my Laura's daughter!" he exclaimed; "You have nothing of your father but his golden hair; in all your features you are a Tortosi! Be henceforth my daughter, my dear child: I am rich—I have no kinsmen; you are nearer and dearer to me than any one else on earth, and no one else has so good a claim to you!" The sidelong glances Josephine sometimes cast at Froben seemed to express some doubt as to this last assertion, but she kissed his hand respectfully, and called him her second father.

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The joy of meeting lasted but a short time. Don Pedro related that business called him back to Portugal, and that he did not see why Josephine might not go with him at once; he was so firmly attached to every doctrine of the church that he did not conceive the possibility of Fro en's seeking to wed Josephine, the divorced wife of aner. (What the views of the lovers may have been as

to this point, we have not learned; we only know that Froben sometimes hinted at the propriety of her turning Lutheran, which she declined sadly, but firmly.) Our hero then proposed to her to let Don Pedro depart, and to remain in Germany, promising to remain her friend, if he could not be her husband. This, too, she declined, confessing frankly that she feared her own weakness too much, and that now her misfortunes had made her so proud that she could not bear the idea of lowering herself in the eyes of one whom she esteemed as much as she loved him. She had other and nobler reasons, too." Why," she thought to herself, "should he waste the flower of his life in devotion to an unfortunate creature who can never be his? Why should he give up the prospect of domestic happiness, of a family and a home, for my sake? No; time will assuage his grief, and he will one day forget an unhappy woman who will think of him, love him, and pray for him to the last moment of her life."

It seemed, therefore, as though Josephine's prophetic farewell, "for ever," was yet to receive its fulfilment Don Pedro and his newly-found kinswoman left the Countess's estate, to take shipping in Holland. Froben, who was kept alive only by the hope of soon joining them in Portugal, accompanied them on their journey, and when she begged him not to prolong the pain of separation, he entreated her, in return, "only to the sea, and then-farewell!"

In the month of August, in the same year, an English ship was lying at Ostem, bound for Portugal. About nine o'clock, on a lovely cloudless morning, a shot was fired from the vessel, as a signal for the passengers to embark. A boat came off to the shore, and took away a number, with their baggage. Before it returned, there came down to the beach a party of four persons, evidently of a superior rank to the other passengers. A tall, elderly man stepped majestically in front; he wore a broad-leafed hat, and his cloak hung so gracefully from his shoulders, that one of the sailors swore "if the old fellow wasn't a Spaniard, he'd eat him." After him came a young gentleman, es corting a lady. He looked pale, and seemed trying to conquer his own grief, in order to speak some words of comfort to the lady in hers. Her features were disfigured by weeping, and her lips pressed convulsively together A hat with waving feathers, a costly dress of heavy silk, with rich chains on neck and bosom, seemed ill-suited for a sea-voyage, and seemed to indicate that she had only come to see the young man off. Behind the pair came a servant, who wore his black hair in a Spanish net, and carried a huge unbrella under his arm.

When they reached the shore, the lady clung to her companion so closely that the feathers she wore hid his face and his tears from the eyes of the spectators. The old man stood a little way off, wrapped in his mantle, and looking at the sca. His eye glistened, either with a tear or the reflection from the waves. The boat came plash ing up; a plank was thrown out; the old man shook his young friend's hand heartily, and walked rapidly over it, followed by Diego. The young people embraced each other again, and the gentleman prepared to lead her to the boat. "For ever!" she whispered, with a melancholy smile. "For ever!" sighed the young man in reply She stood, by this time, on the plank; the mate, a bluff Englishman, stood ready to receive her, and had already stretched out his broad hand, and was getting ready some well-meant commonplace consolation. Then she turned her dark eye away from the boundless ocean, and it rested on her lover. He stood with outstretched arms on the shore-in his features the rapture of love was mingled with the anguish of parting. Then she seemed as if she could control herself no longer-she sprang to the shore, and in a moment hung upon our hero's neck. "No-I cannot go across the sea!" she cried; "I will stay here: I will do any thing you ask me; I will abandon a faith that prevents my being yours. You are now my country, my kindred, my all: I will stay in Germany!"

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Josephine! my Josephine!" exc aimed Frobe 1, pressing her to his heart in a storm of delight; “mir, then for ever! Heaven has inspired you; for, oh! the pain of

Don Pedro was moved.

parting would have killed me!" They were close-locked || the graves of my ancestors in Valencia, Don Fearo, and in each other's arms when the Spaniard came on shore to tell them there is yet one of the Tortos: blood left who part them. "Come, children," he said, "one leave-tak- values love more than life." ing ought to have contented you; come, Josephine, it's of no use to wait; the ship is going to fire for the last time.” "Let them fire a broadside, if they choose, Don Pedro," cried Froben, joyfully; "she stays here-she stays with me. "What do I hear?" rejoined the Span-is as dear to him as his own. iard, gravely; "I hope it is not as the cavalier supposes; will you not follow your kinsman, Josephine?"

"No!" she answered boldly. "As I stood there in the boat, and looked at the ocean that was soon to divide us, a voice within told me what I ought to do; my mother showed me the way; she followed the man of her heart through the wide world: she left father and mother.. I know what I ought to do; here stands the man to whom I owe the peace of my mother's last moments; life, honour, every thing; and shall I leave him? Greet, for me,

perhaps it prompts you better than an old man like me "Follow your heart, then: could do. I know that, at least, you will be happy in the arms of this cavalier, and I know the honour of our family will you say to your proud kindred when you present to But, Don Frobenio, what them this child of misfortune? Will you have the courage to endure the sneers of the world?"

"Farewell, Don Pedro," answered our hero, boldly, holding out one hand to the Spaniard, while with the other he clasped his mistress; "be of good courage, and do not doubt me. I will show her to the world, and when any one asks, Pray, who was she?' I will reply, with pride, The Beggar-girl of the Pont-des-Arts""

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THE PIC-NIC PARTY.

BY HORACE SMITH.

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Whichever you like, love," was the lady's answer to the so-intended question.

To give a pic-nic party a fair cnance of success, it ||able changes of the weather, still maintains its eleva must be almost impromptu: projected at twelve o'clock at||tion, and I tell you what, dear, if the weather should be night at the earliest, executed at twelve o'clock on the preposterous on the twenty-fourth of August, suppose, infollowing day at the latest; and even then the odds are stead of going into the north, as we did last year, we mifearfully against it. The climate of England is not re- grate into Kent or Surrey? Instead of dining at Hamp. markable for knowing its own mind; nor is the weather stead, as we did last year, shall we go to Greenwich, or "so fixed in its resolve" but that a bright August moon, to Putney, and eat little fishes ?" suspended in a clear sky, may be lady-usher to a morn of fog, slect, and drizzle. Then, again—but this being tender ground, we will only hint at the possibility of such a change-a lady of the intended party might quit the drawing-room at night in the sweetest humour ima. ginable, and make her appearance at breakfast in a less amiable mood, or, perhaps, "prefer taking breakfast in her own room,"-from which notice husbands sometimes infer that such a change has taken place.

Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, a retired silk mercer, in the vicinity of London, determined, notwithstanding all these arguments, to have a pic-nic party on the twenty-fourth of August, his wedding-day. On the third of July, Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, after eating his breakfast and reading the Morning Post, looked out of his parlour window to watch the horticultural pursuits of his better part. Mr. Bagshaw had become a inember of one of the "march-ofintellect-societies," and was confident that the pic-nic would turn out a very pleasant thing.

"How fortunate we shali be, dear," said Mr. Bagshaw, how happy we shall be, if the weather should be as fine un our wedding-day as it is now."

"True, love," replied Mrs. Bagshaw; "but this is only the third of July and, as the anniversary of our happy day is the twenty-fourth of August, the weather may change."

This proposition Mr. Bagshaw did not attempt to deny. The Bagshaws were the happiest couple in the world. Being blessed with the negative blessing of no offspring, the stream of their affections was not diverted into little channels, but ebbed and flowed in one uninterrupted tide reciprocally from bosom to bosom. They never disputed, they never quarrelled. Yes, they did sometimes, but then it was from a mutual over-anxiety to please. Each was afraid to pronounce a choice, or a preference, lest it might be disagreeable to the other; and hence there occasionally did arise little bickerings, and tiffings, and miffings, which were quite as unpleasant in their effects, and somcUmes as difficult to settle, as quarrels originating in less amiable causes.

“But," said Mr. Bagshaw, referring to the barometer, *the instrument for indicating the present state and prob.

"But I put it to your choice, dear." "Either-or neither-please yourself, love, and you are sure you will please me."

"Pshaw! but it is for the gratification of your-or, more properly speaking, for your gratification. I submi to you an alternative for the purpose of election; and you know, Jane, I repudiate indifference, even as concerning or applying to trifles."

"You know, Claudius, we have but one wish, and that is to please cach other; so do you decide." "But, Mrs. Bagshaw, I must promulgate a request that having, as I have, no desire but to please you-you

will

"How, sir! would you force me to choose, when I am so obedient as to choose that you should have the choice entirely your own way? This treatment of me is mon

strous!"

And here Mrs. Bagshaw did what is usual and proper for ladies to do on such occasions-she burst into tears. "Why, then, madam, to use a strong expression, I must say that

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But a loud rap at the street-door prevented the utter ance of an "expression," the force of which would doubt less have humbled Mrs. Claudius Bagshaw down to the very dust.

"Claudius," said the lady, hastily drying her eyes, "that is uncle John's knock. We'll go to Gre-PutGreenwich, love."

"That's well, dear; and be assured, love, that nothing is so adverse to the constitution of what Locke emphatically calls the human mind, philosophically considered, as to persevere in that state of indecision which-thatwhereof-but we will not go to either; uncle John shall select the locality."

Uncle John was a bachelor of fifty-five, possessing twelve thousand pounds, a strong disinclination to part with any of them, a good heart, and a bad temper.

"Good morning t'ye, good folks; as usual, I perceive, billing and cooing.'

The Bagshaws had by this time got together in a cor

ner of the garden, and were lovingly occupied in trim- || happening to think of uncle John's twelve thousand ming the same pot of sweet peas. pounds, he suppressed it, and just contented himself with, "And what then, sir ?"

"Quite the contrary, uncle John," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "Claudius and I have just had one of our most desperate quarrels."

And here the happy pair giggled, and exchanged looks which were meant to imply that their most desperate quarrels were mere kitten's play; and that uncle John did so interpret them, he made manifest by a knowing shake of his fore-finger.

"The fact is, sir, Jane and I talk of commemorating the annual recurrence of the anniversary of our weddingday, at some place a leetle farther in the country; but our minds are in a perfect vacuum concerning the identity of the spot. Now, sir, will you reduce the place to a mathe. matical certainty, and be one of the party ?”

"Why-um-no; these things are expensive; we come home at night with a guinea a-piece less in our pockets, and I don't see the good of that."

"I have it!" cried Bagshaw; "we'll make it a pic-nic; that won't be expensive."

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"Then I'm with you, Bagshaw, with all my heartand it shall be al fresco."

"There or anywhere else you please, sir," gravely replied the learned member of the universal-knowledgewarehouse.

"Uncle John means in the open air, Claudius; that will be delightful."

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Charming!" rejoined Bagshaw.

It may be inquired why uncle John, who objected to the disbursement of a guinea for a day's pleasure, should so readily have yielded at the suggestion of a pic-nic. Uncle John possessed a neat little morocco pocket-case, containing a dozen silver spoons, and silver-handled knives and forks, and although we are told that these implements are of later invention than fingers, there is, nevertheless, a very general bias in their favour, for the purpose to which they are applied. Now, uncle John being aware of the prevalence of their employment, it was for this reason he never objected to make one of a pic-nic party; for, whilst others contributed chickens, pigeon-pies, or wines-it being the principle of such parties that each member should furnish something to the feast-uncle John invariably contributed the use of his knives, forks, and spoons.

The whole morning was spent in debating on who should be invited to partake of this "pleasantest thing that ever was," and examining into their several pretensions, and their powers of contributing to the amusements of the day; when, at length, the honour of nomination was conferred upon the persons following, and for the reasons assigned:

"Why, then, sir, that is a risk I won't run; and unless we can manage to- -I have it! the very man. How came we to forget him? The-very-man! You know Jack Richards ?"

The last four words were delivered in a tone implying the utter impossibility of any human creature being unacquainted with Jack Richards.

"Not in the least, sir. I never heard of him."

"What! never heard of Ja- The thing is impossi. ble; everybody knows Jack Richards. The very thing for us; such a wit! such a wag!—he is the life and soul of every thing. Should he be unengaged for the twenty. fourth of August. But he is so caught up! I was in. vited to meet him at dinner last Sunday at Jones's, but he didn't come. Such a disappointment to us! However, I shall meet him on Thursday at the Tims's, if he should but keep his promise, and then-"

"But, uncle," said Mrs. Bagshaw, "hadn't you better send him an invitation at once?"

"I'll do better still, my dear; I'll call at his lodgings, and if I find him hanging loose, I'll bring him to dine with you to-day." Then, turning to Bagshaw, he added, "That a man like you shouldn't know Jack Richards, is surprising !"

As this was evidently pointed at Mr. Claudius Bagshaw in his capacity of member of a learned body, Bagshaw pursed up his mouth into a mock-modesty smile, and slightly bowed. Off went uncle John in quest of Jack Richards; and, that the pleasantest thing in the world might not suffer by delay, off went Mr. Bagshaw to ap prize the Snodgrasses, the Groutses, and the rest of the nominecs; and, more important still, off went the lady to the poulterer's, to inquire whether he was likely to have any nice pigeons for a pie, about the twenty-third of next month. The dinner-hour arrived, and so did uncle John, but with a face of unspeakable wo.

"I feared how it would be." "What! can't he be with us on the twenty-fourth 7" inquired both the Bagshaws at the same instant.

"He will if he can; but he won't promise. But te day! However, it serves us right; we were unwise to indulge a hope of his coming at so short a notice. He has almost engaged himself to you for Sunday fortnight, though. What a creature it is!-he has given me such a pain in my side!"

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Something he said that almost killed you with laughing? Repeat it, uncle, repeat it."

"Why, no, he didn't say any thing particular; but he has a knack of poking one in the ribs, in his comical way, and sometimes he hurts you."

Sir Thomas and Lady Grouts-because of their title, which would give an air to the thing (Sir Thomas, formerly a corn-chandler, having been knighted for carrying We intended to describe Jack Richards at length; unup an address in the late reign.) Miss Euphemia Grouts, cle John's accidental notice of this trait has, most proba. daughter, No. 1-who would bring her guitar. Miss bly, rendered that trouble unnecessary. Indeed, we feel Corinna Grouts, ditto, No. 2—because she would sing. that we need scarcely add to it, that he can sing a devil. Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass-Mr. Snodgrass being vice-ish good song, (and everybody knows what is meant by president of the grand junction march-of-intellect-society. Mr. Frederick Snodgrass, their son, (lately called to the chancery bar,) who would bring his flute.

Messrs. Wrench and son, (eminent dentists.) The father to be invited because he was charming company, and the son, a dead bore, because the father would be offended if he were not. And, lastly,

Miss Snubbleston, a rich maiden lady of forty-four, for no other earthly qualification whatever than her carriage, which (to use Bagshaw's words) would carry herself and us three, and also transplant a large portion of the provender to the place of rendezvous.

Bagshaw having made out a fair copy of this list, somewhat in the shape of a bill of parcels, this, the first step towards the "pleasantest thing that ever was," was taken with entire satisfaction.

"Why, Bagshaw," exclaimed uncle John, who had cast up the numbers, "including our three selves, we shall be thirteen!"

that,) and imitated the inimitable Mathews' imitations of the actors, not even excepting his imitation of Tate Wil kinson's imitation of Garrick.

Except the uncertainty of Jack Richards, the result of the morning's occupation was satisfactory. Bagshaw, still retaining his old business-like habits of activity and industry, had contrived to wait on every person named in the list, all of whom had promised their attendance! and Mrs. Bagshaw had received from the poulterer a positive assurance that he would raise heaven and earth to supply her with pigeons on the twenty-third of the ensuing August!

Committees were forthwith summoned. First, a committee to consider of the whereabout. At this, after an evening of polite squabbling, which had nearly put an end to the project altogether, Twickenham meadows received the honour of selection-nem. con. as Bagshaw said. Next, lest it should happen, as it did once happen, for want of such preconcert, that a pic-nic party of ten found The member of the institution perceived the cause of themselves at their place of meeting with ten fillets of his alarm! but having been lectured out of prejudices re- veal and ten hans, Mr. Bagshaw called a committee of specting matters of greater moment than this, he prepared provender." Here it was settled that the Snodgrasses a look of ineffable contempt as his on'y reply; however, I should contribute four chickens and a tongue; the Pag.

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shaws, their pigeon-pie; Wrench and son, a ham; Sir
Thomas Grouts, a hamper of his own choice wine; Miss
Snubbleston, a basket of fruit and pastry; uncle John,
his silver spoons, knives, and forks; and Jack Richards
-his charming company. And lastly, came the com-
mittee for general purposes! At this important meeting,
it was agreed that the party proceed to Twickenham by
water; that to save the trouble of loading and unloading,
Miss Snubbleston's carriage convey the hampers, &c.
direct to the place appointed-the said cartrage, more-
over, serving to bring the ladies to town, should the even-
ing prove cold; that, for the water -music, the following
programme be adopted: 1. On reaching Vauxhall bridge,
the concert to commence with Madame Pasta's grand
scena in "
Medea," previous to the murder of the chil.
dren, by Miss Corinna Grouts. 2. Nicholson's grand flute
concerto in five sharps, by Mr. Frederick Snodgrass. 3.
Grand aria, with variations, guitar, by Miss Euphemia
Grouts. 4. Sweet Bird; accompaniment, flute obligato,
Miss C. G. and Mr. F. S.-and 5. The Dettingen Te
Deum, (arringed for three voices, by Mr. F. S.) by Miss
Euphemia, Miss Corinna, and Mr. Frederick Snodgrass.
The interstices," as Mr. Bagshaw called them, to be
filled up by the amusing talents of the elder Wrench and
uncle John's friend. And, lastly, that the company do
assemble at Mr. Bagshaw's on the morning of the twen-
ty-fourth of August, at ten o'clock, precisely, in order to
have the advantage of the tide both ways.

Three days prior to the important twenty-fourth, Mr. Bagshaw went to engage the boat, but, in a squabble with the boatman, Mr. B. got a black eye. This was the first mishap.

Restless and impatient though you be, depend upon it, there is not a day of the whole three hundred and sixty. five will put itself, in the slightest degree, out of the way, or appear one second before its appointed time, for your gratification. Oh, that people would consider this, and wait events with patience! Certainly Mr. Bagshaw did not. The night of the twenty-third to him appeared an age. His repeater was in his hand every ten minutes. He thought the morning would never dawn-but he was mistaken; it did; and as fine a morning as if it had been made on purpose to favour his excursion. By six o'clock he was dressed!-by eight the contributions from all the members had arrived, and were ranged in the passage. There was their own pigeon-pie, carefully packed in brown paper and straw; Sir Thomas's hamper of his own choice wine; and the rest. Every thing promised fairly. The young ladies and Mr. Frederick had had thirty rehearsals of their grand arias and concertos, and were perfect to a demi-semiquaver; Jack Richards would certainly come; and the only drawback upon Mr. Bagshaw's personal enjoyment-but nothing in this world is perfectwas the necessity he was under of wearing his green shade, which would totally deprive him of the pleasure of contemplating the beauties of the Thames' scenery--a thing he had set his heart upon. Nine! ten!

"No one here yet! Jane, my love, we shall infallibly lose the tide;" and for the next quarter of an hour the place of the poor repeater was no sinecure.

A knock! Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and Mr. Frederick. Another! The whole family of the Groutses. Next came Mr. Charles Wrench.

"where is

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all for the sake of his own company, his presence was
a grievous aggravation of the disappointment.
The next knock announced Miss Snubbleston.
where was her carriage? Why, it had been newly var
nished, and they might scratch her panels with the
hampers; and then she was afraid of her springs. So
here was Miss Snubbleston without her carriage, for
the convenience of which alone she had been invited,
considered by the rest in exactly the same light as
young Mr. Wrench without old Mr. Wrench-id est,
a damper. A new arrangement was the necessary con-
sequence; and the baskets, under the superintendence
of a servant, were jolted down in a hackney coach, to
be embarked at Westminster. But Miss Snubbleston
brought with her a substitute, which was by no means
a compensation. Cupid, her wretched, little, barking
yelping, Dutch pug, had eaten something that had vis
agreed with him, and his fair mistress would not "for
worlds" have left him at home while he was so in-
disposed. Well, no one chose to be the first to object
to the intruder, so Cupid was received.

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ARRIVAL OF JACK RICHARDS.

"But where can uncle John and his friend be? We shall lose the tide, that's certain," was scarcely uttered by Mr. Bagshaw, when in came our uncle, together with the long-expected Jack Richards.

The usual introductions over, Mr. Richards saluted everybody with the self-sufficient swagger of a vulgar lion.

"The day smiles auspicious, sir," said Bagshaw, who thought it requisite he should throw off something fine to so celebrated a person.

"Smile?-a broad grin, I call it, sir." And here was a general laugh.

66

Oh, excellent!" "Capital !"

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As these were indispensable to the amusements of the day, a servant was dispatched for them. He couldn't be Bagshaw; 'tis eleven now; and the tide. But the gone longer than half an hour. Half an hour! thought servant was absent a few minutes beyond the half hour, and poor Bagshaw suffered severely from that gnawing ther's son of us has experienced upon occasions of greater impatience, amounting almost to pain, which every mo

very point of starting, when a message was brought to or less importance than this. They were again at the dreadfully! What was to be done? Mrs. Snodgrass that little Master Charles had cut his thumb Mrs. Snodgrass vowed she shouldn't be easy in her mind the whole day, unless she knew the extent of the mischief; and as they only lived in Euston-square, and she could be there and back again in twenty minutes, she would herself go see what really was the matter-and away she went. Twenty minutes! During all this time, Bagshaw-but who would attempt to describe anguish indescribable? At length he was relieved by the return of Mrs. Snodgrass; but, to the horror and consternation of himself and of all present, she Now, Mr. Wrench, senior, was an agreeable old den-introduced the aforesaid Master Charles-an ugly, ill. tist, always gay, generally humorous, sometimes witty; he could sketch characters as well as draw teeth; and, on occasions of this kind, was invaluable. The son was a mere donkey; a silly, simpering, well-dressed young gentleman, the owner of no more than the eighth of an "I'm sure you'll pardon this liberty," said the affection den, and of a very fine set of teeth, which he constantly ate mamma: "but poor Charley has cut himself very much, extul ited like a sign or advertisement of his shop. Ap- and he would not be pacified till I consented to take him pend to every thing he uttered were a preface and post-with us. He has promised to be very good. There, don't seript, in the form of a sort of billy-goat grin.

"Bless us! Mr. Charles," said Bagshaw, your father?"

"He! he he! he! Fayther regrets emezingly he raint come, being called to attend the Duchess of Dilborough. He he he! he!"

As we have already said that it was in pure complimacht to the father that the son was invited, and not at ||

tempered, blubbering little brat of seven years old, with a bloated red face, scrubby white hair, and red eyes; and with the interesting appendage of a thick slice of bread and butter in his hand.

cry any more, darling!" and, accordingly, the urchin roared with tenfold vigour. There were no particular manifestations of joy at this arrival; and it is just possible, although nothing was uttered to that effect, that there did exist a general and cordial wish that young Maste Snodgrass were sprawling at the bottom of the deepest

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