and say good-night;" and then, after giving his mother a great hug, the young man was gone.

"Lieutenant Sprattles was at the dingy little station to see the Duke off. By the way, Duke," he said, "have you seen our new Beauty?"

The Duke objected to this use of the possessive pronoun, but he answered calmly-" Well, I believe I have. I imagine I met her at my mother's ten minutes ago. Do you know Miss Manwaring?" "Yes; and what did you think of her?"

"I think she's the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life," answered the Duke, lighting his cigar, and getting into an empty first-class carriage; but pretty's not the word-she's something more than that-she's perfectly lovely. Now good-night, Sprattles, and thank you for coming to see me off."

Francis, Duke of Ribblesdale, had a very sensitive and impressionable nature, and he was much affected and delighted by his unexpected meeting with the sister of the friend he had so dearly loved, and had never ceased to regret. He was charmed, too, with the young lady herself, and as he smoked and thought, it came to pass that before he reached Waterloo, which "the slow South Western" always makes a long business, he had come to a determination, and that determination was that he would

change regiments-in order to be near his mother, and in addition to this-But what the young man's further resolve was will appear hereafter.

Truth to tell, for some time past, the Duke of Ribblesdale had been but ill at ease. He was tired of the "trivial round" of fashionable London life. He wished he had gone into a regiment on foreign service, instead of into the household troops. He longed for a more active life. He had had ideas of cutting the army altogether, and of buying a yacht, and going off to the Faröe Isles, or the Isles of Greece, or, in short, anywhere to get away from Town, until the following year, when he would come of age. Now, another and greater idea had struck him, and it will be seen hereafter whether he was able to carry it out. Anyhow, the Duke felt it was something to have got a new idea at all, and when he jumped into a hansom at Waterloo, he felt in better spirits than he had done for some months past.

Let us thank Providence that "the Jeunesse Dorée" of England are not yet like those of some other countries, and especially like those of the Bourgeois Empire of Napoleon the Little, or of the "one-horse" Republic, as the Yankees have it, which has succeeded his tyrannical and debasing rule.

MENTION having already been casually made AOA of a certain Lady M'Adam, it will be proper to inform the reader of some of the antecedents of that bright orange luminary and devoted disciple of the great Mr. Moodle. Clara M'Dougal, then, was the only daughter of a worthy pork-merchant of Carrickfergus, who, at the mature age of five-andtwenty, espoused one Peter M'Adam, an eminent whiskey distiller, and elder of the Presbyterian sect at Belfast. This Peter M'Adam was a great Orangeman, and a staunch supporter of a very clever lawyer, who, chiefly through this distiller's moral influence and indifferent whiskey, became Member of Parliament for Lisdoonacorrigan, and afterwards,

M

His

by his own talents, Solicitor General, and who finally ascended the woolsack as Lord Yellowlily of Carrignatuohil in the County of Antrim. Lordship, unlike those base wretches who are always ready to kick down the ladder by which they rose, never forgot a favour, or one who had rendered it. "He knew a trick worth two of that," he once coarsely observed to a colleague. Like Napoleon the Little, Lord Yellowlily always repaid an obligation, but, like the same parvenu despot, he repaid it as an obligation, and then he stopt short. He never repaid it with interest, however small, and he neither felt nor expressed gratitude. He nicely discriminated the precise amount of the debt, and as nicely calculated the amount he ought to pay in return; and then, and not before then, he paid it, and had done with his benefactor for ever. Thus it was that, when Peter M'Adam, who had been knighted for presenting an address of congratulation to Her Majesty on the occasion of the birth of one of her numerous German grand-children, had gone the way of all flesh, with his claims unsatisfied, Lord Yellowlily remembered his former supporter, and made personal application to the Queen in behalf of his widow. It thus happened that the pork-merchant's daughter and the whiskey distiller's widow, much to her own

surprise, found herself in possession of a handsome set of apartments looking into the royal gardens at Hampton Court. Here at first her ladyship did certainly feel somewhat fish-out-of-waterish, but she was a converted" woman, and she had two great consolations. The first of these was to keep continually declaiming against the Chaplain of the Palace, who was one of the simplest, gentlest, and most charitable of men. His sermons, declared Sir Peter's relict-for, like most ultra-Protestant ladies, she considered herself to be infallible—were not "gospel." Why, too, didn't he publicly testify against the goings-on of those flaunting Jezebels, the Ladies Skandaliza and Coreopsis Corker, who were creditably reported to have left the Palace in broad daylight in pink bathing-dresses, and to have publicly bathed with Lieutenant Sprattles (in blue) in Hampton Lasher? Why did he continue to visit Lady Rathmullen, who was known to have fitted up an oratory in her own private apartments? Why didn't he leave undone everything he had done, and why didn't he do everything he had left undone? And above all, why didn't he conduct the Services of the Church in a manner pleasing to herself, Lady M'Adam, who was not a Churchwoman at all? The widow's other consolation was to sit and