We talked about indifferent subjects, the weather, his medicine, and such like, when all at once he wheeled that chair closer to mine, and burst forth, in a low, deep tone : "Hester, have you ever forgiven me ?" "Indeed yes, long ago." "Then it is more than I have done by myself," he groaned. was rightly served." I looked up at him, and then down at my work again. "But I "You heard, perhaps, how she jilted me. Hester, as true as that you are sitting there working, she drew me on; drew me on, from the first, to flirt with and admire her!" "You are speaking of" I stopped. "Her. Lady Georgina. Who else? And when she saw, as I know she did see, to what a passionate height my love was reaching, she fooled me more and more. I did not see my folly at the time, I was too infatuated, but I have cursed it ever since: as I dare say you have." "Hush! hush!" I interrupted. "And when it was betrayed to the earl, and he drove me away, to part with me, as she did, without a sigh, without a regret!" he went on, not deigning to notice my words. "Hester, you were well avenged." "Do not excite yourself, Mr. Archer." "How I got over those first few weeks I don't know, and shudder to remember. Then came her marriage: I read it in the papers. Heartless, wicked girl! and she had solemnly protested to me she did not care for Mr. Caudour. Well, well, troubles and mad grief do come to an end; and, thank God! so does life." "What was your career afterwards?" "My career, for a time, was perfect idleness. I could do nothing. Remorse for my wild infatuation had taken heavy hold upon me, and a vast amount of misery was mixed up with it. Then when I came to myself a little, I sought employment, and obtained the curacy of a parish in London, where the pay was little and the work great. Next, I married the lady had money, and I had need of many luxuries-or necessities, call them which you will-which my stipend would not obtain, for my health was failing. It grew worse. I think, if I had remained in London, I should have died there, and I went out to Spain." "From whence you have now returned ?" And now "Yes. Penniless. Done out of the money coming to me. the sooner I die the better, for I am only a burden to others. I am closing a life that has been rendered useless by my own infatuated folly ; my talents have been buried in a napkin, my heart turned into gall and wormwood. Oh, Hester! again I say it, you are richly avenged." "Have you ever met since ?" "Her? Never. Her husband is Lord Caudour now. I saw the old baron's death in a stray newspaper that came out to Spain." "Here come your wife and Miss Graves," I said, for, having heard the garden-gate open, I rose and looked from the window. "How soon they are in again!" "Hester," he murmured, in an impassioned tone, as he seized my hand when I was about to pass him, intending to open the drawing-room door, "say you forgive me." I leaned down to him and spoke soothingly. "George, believe me, I have perfectly forgiven you: I forgave you long ago. That the trial to me was one of length and bitterness, it would be affectation to deny, but I have outlived it. Let me go. They are coming up the stairs." He pressed my hand between both of his, and then bent down his lips upon it, and kissed it as fervently as he had kissed my own lips that night, years, years before, when we were walking home from church together, behind my mother and Lucy. I drew it hurriedly from him, for they were already in the drawing-room, and a feeling, long buried, very like that forgotten love, cast a momentary sunshine on my heart and I laughed at myself for being an old simpleton. They had found lodgings, and he was transported to them. I cannot say but I was thankful when they left the house. I fear they did not get on very well. We often sent them a good plate of something, under pretence of tempting his appetite, some slices of roast beef, or a tureen of nourishing broth with the meat in. Lucy would say we could not afford to do it, and Sarah loudly exclaimed against "cooking for other people;" but they were fellow-creatures, and in need—and he was George Archer. The summer put an end to his weary life. It happened, that same spring, it was in May, I had business at the house of one of our pupils, whose father was a tradesman in Bond-street. When very close to it, I found myself in the midst of a string of carriages, inside which were ladies in full evening dress, though it was only one o'clock in the day. Full of surprise, I asked a policeman what it meant. "The Queen's Drawing-room." To be sure. I wondered, then, I had not thought of it for myself. It happened to be the first time I had ever seen the sight, and I stood gazing at the rich dresses, the snow-white feathers, and the lovely, lovely faces. The carriages had been stationary, but now there was a move, and then they were stationary again. More beautiful than any gone before was the inmate of the chariot now opposite to me; a fair, elegant woman, with a bright smile and haughty eye. Surely I knew the features! I did, alas for me! Though I had never seen them since she stepped, with her sinful fascinations, between me and my betrothed husband, I felt sure it was the Lady Georgina Seaford. "Do you know who this lady is ?" I said to the policeman, in a whisper. He looked at her, at the coronet on the carriage, and then at the servants, at their white coats and crimson velvet breeches. "I think," he answered, "it is the Lady Caudour." Time had passed lightly over her: her countenance was as smooth, as smiling, as free from care as it had been in her girlhood. I was struggling through life with a lonely heart, and he was dying in his obscure lodgings, after a short career of regret and sorrow, whilst she who had caused all, who had sacrificed us both to her selfish vanity, was revelling in all the good that could make life happy. "O Father! Father!" I wailed forth, in the anguish of the retrospect which then pressed sharply upon me, "Thy blessings appear to be dealt out with an unequal hand. Nevertheless, may we still, and always, say, Thy will be done : for Thy ways are not as our ways, and Thou knowest what is best for us." ADVENTURES OF BENJAMIN BOBBIN THE BAGMAN. BY CRAWFORD WILSON. CHAPTER XXVIII. A PICTURE AND A SOLILOQUY. The MONDAY MORNING.-Began the week well by breakfasting heartily, and then turned my attention to business. Succeeded comfortably in both. So at two o'clock I strolled down Princes-street with a gentleman upon whom I had called in a professional way, and who had kindly volunteered to show me over the building in which their national exhibition of paintings was set forth. It was, indeed, a treat to me. élite of Edinburgh were there, and I must say that many of the pictures, as well as their admirers, were possessed of considerable beauties. Having spent about an hour in surveying the most worthy pieces, we retraced our steps slowly through the rooms, turning our attention to the animated and speaking objects, and contrasting them with those that were silent and inanimate. As we drew near the door, my companion, whose arm was linked in mine, suddenly stopped me, and directed my attention to a corner of the apartment. There I saw an old white-headed gentleman of large proportions, with long flaxen hair and a barbarous hat, engaged in contemplating an oil painting. "Look there," said my friend; "that is a sight not to be seen every day-and, when seen, that should never be forgotten." I could see nothing in it; so asked him, "Do you allude to some dagger in the air, the picture, or the man ?" "That old gentleman," he said ; "observe him well." How was I to observe him; his back was turned to me! "Have you done as I requested!" he asked, after a slight pause. "Y-e-e-s-I have." "Then what impressions have you formed ?" "Oh! several." "Be good enough to let me hear them." "The first is, that I would doubtless see him better were his face turned in this direction. The second, that his hair might be shortened, by cutting. The third, that his hat must have looked newer when he purchased it. The fourth, that his tailor would never make a fortune by taking him for a model, and boasting of the fit of his coat. The fifth "No more of that, my dear fellow," he broke in, somewhat testily, "but be reasonable for a moment, and tell me what is your opinion of that painting." I then noticed it for the first time. It was the seated figure of an elderly man. "What a head," I exclaimed, "for an Angelo! What a brow! What a profundity of thought has the limner depicted in the expression of the face! For whom is it intended ?" "You've heard, of course, of the great Professor Wilson-the Christopher North ?" "Heard of him! Who has not? The greatest ornament your university boasts, the purest writer of our language, and the most powerful 66 'Well, that is his likeness." "Then, as you say, it is a sight not easily to be forgotten. I must look at it more closely." So saying, I left him and approached it. There were the deep lines wrought out by experience, age, and reflection, in the forehead; the bright, searching eyes, that ever give earnest of an aspiring soul; the lips compressed-expressive of firmness, selfsecurity, and decision. The whole countenance fraught with intelligence, animation, and the nobility of nature. I was in raptures. Proud must the artist have been of his work, if it were indeed a likeness; one amidst a million must be the professor, if the canvas represented him truthfully. With such thoughts in my mind I turned to my conductor, who was standing, as I believed, at my back. Amazement! Could it be? Had the picture walked forth from its frame? The old gentleman, and not my friend, was there. We were face to face. I glanced from him to the painting; the same lineaments, the same serenity, the same profundity of mind were mapped out on his countenance. I stared at him, I fear, rather rudely; then checked myself, and uncovered my head. He smiled placidly, and removed his shabby hat. I murmured an apology for my want of thought, and, with a low bow, joined my guide. "You have this day seen what you need never blush to boast of," said my friend, with a smile-"the great professor looking at his own like ness." "More than that-I have been honoured with a salute from him," I returned. "You see, Mr. Bobbin," he continued, "that it is not we should always judge, but the sense that lies beneath it. makes the coat, but the Almighty makes the man.' by the hat The tailor "True," said I, musingly. "That painting is a new one, I presume?" "Yes-one of the latest date." "And the original is in one of the last stages that end life's 'strange eventful history?"" "True again," was his pithy reply. "I should like to know what his thoughts were as he gazed upon that senseless canvas," I said, looking earnestly at my friend. "Why so ?" "They must have been of such a singular nature. I can almost fancy myself in his position. The world at my back, the grave drawing nearer with every beating pulse, the vanity of vanities receding at the steady approach of the worm-death's busy, silent chambermaid. When years have passed away, that picture may still be in bloom, but where shall men search for the original? Must the eyes that have pored over so many classic pages-the tongue that has spoken so ably-the hand that has written so powerfully-the brain that has laboured so energeticallythe heart that has so long advocated philanthropy, moulder in the dust, and be for ever forgotten? Has oblivion no respect for worth, or the grave for what thousands have reverenced? Has time no regenerating balm for honourable age, or the enemy of nature no shame in annihilating glory? Oh life! oh death! what dark paradoxes are ye!" We emerged from the building, where, with many thanks, I parted from my kind conductor. I retraced my steps towards my hotel, humiliated and downcast. The littleness of fame-the vanity of ambition-the insignificance of pride-the absurdity of power-the emptiness of glory, passed in review before me. And yet fame, and ambition, and pride, and power, and glory—those short-lived, air-blown bubbles-look down upon us from every pinnacle, meet us at every turning, blend with our every hope, or mock us from every tomb. "Where," thought I, "are the great and the noble of earlier days! where the long-lived antediluvians-the hoary patriarchs the puissant tyrants—the kings-the conquerors-the sages-and the beauties of the past? Where the dainty Sybarites-the voluptuous Athenians-the hardy Romans-the polished Greeks-where are they? Where the builders of Egypt's pyramids ?—the architects of our own venerable cathedrals? Where the reformers of our faith-the projectors of our ancient laws-the long line of Peter's apostolic successors, those thunderers of the Vatican-where, where are they? Go ask the shroud, the charnel, the vulture, and the worm. And yet men live as though the world were their own, time their plaything, death a stranger, and eternity a fable. Young sings, and truly, All men think all men mortal but themselves; and so, indeed, it is, although every hour is pregnant with the fates of millions, and the preacher cry untiringly All is vanity.' "What is the beauty we admire, with its smiles, its sighs, and its loveglances? What but a painted mask, enshrouding a hideous skeleton, that to-day looks fair and comely, but to-morrow must by death be disrobed-the lovely, the captivating of the past, lived, reigned, and enthralled in their little span of brief and fleeting time. Around them danced their satellites-at their feet sighed love-lorn suitors-at their smiles hearts bounded in ecstasy-for their favours suitors languished; yet a day arrived when the coquetry, the pride, the petty wiles, and the fascinating spells were ended, like dreams of the morning,-when the rich and costly robes were put off without a murmur for the unpretending winding-sheet-when the freshness of ripe lips and the roses of blushing cheeks, once so chary of their charms, shrank not from the kiss of 'cold obstruction,' and when the memories of their owners were, like their forms, forgotten. Such is life, and such is the body and the soul One aspires to heaven, Pants for its sempiternal heritage, The other, for a time th' unwilling sport |