There

"You pain me, Tom, when you speak so. is nothing attractive about your aunt; but I am sure she is a very worthy person, and deserving of your respect," said my mother.

I

"What! for hooking the old gentleman ?" "Tom," said Nettie, "do you think that is Aunt Janet's hair, or a wig?" (in a confidential tone.) "A wig, to be sure," said Tom, determinedly. "I cannot bear it, Tom," said my mother; "you must really go out of the room. Come, Nettie, and show your aunt some of your water-colors. dare say she likes looking at drawings." "She looks like a judge," said sarcastic Jane. Nettie went to the piano after a while, and sung a ballad or two of Balfe's and Lindley's, sliding out of them into some Scotch airs, which she sang uncommonly well. I was watching Aunt Janet's uninterested face as Nettie sang, and thinking, with some pity, how great a privation hers was, when Nettie struck the first bar of Ye Banks and Braes, and a change swept across the immobile face for an instant, as if she heard, at least, I mean that for a second I fancied so, for as I looked, the face was dull-deaf as ever.

"Nor to anybody she can help," said Jane. "There, you mistake me,” said our aunt, turning round sharply on the unlucky Jane in an instant. "I act from principle in not giving to servants, not from greed."

"How ever did she hear me?" gasped Jane in a lower tone to me.

"As I hear other people," said my aunt quietly. "Good by, dear Mary," (and she turned to kiss my mother). "You have been very kind to me. I never expected you to think me a beauty, you know; you gave me credit for being kind-hearted and sensible,' -I think that was it, and that is all I want from you. Believe me, I think all the better of you for having lived with you for three weeks in the palace of Truth.”

Why, Janet! then you 're not deaf after all?" But what she answered, or what my mother said after that, I don't know, for we beat a hasty retreat from the room. We could not even bring ourselves to go down and say good by when we heard my father and Tom shouting last words at the carriagedoor. I do not think we broke silence for some minutes, till Nettie said: "We have done it now!

"Poor thing!" said my mother, "how I wish she How she must hate us!” could hear those sweet Scotch airs!"

"I should not think it would make much difference to her," said Jane. "I don't suppose she is inclined to be romantic."

Two or three days afterwards, my father came into the morning-room just before lunch, and seeing Aunt Janet, was about to withdraw. "I wanted to

tell you" he said to my mother.

Tell me what, dear?

'Nothing-but that Jacob told me they are going on Thursday. He is getting fidgetty at being away from the office so long."

"Janet spoke about going to me this morning."

แ

Well, I hope you have kept her amused. She must be conciliated at any cost. We must have them again soon, though I hate the sight of her. I really cannot enjoy my dinner in the least, shouting out as I must between every mouthful. But it cannot be helped.".

"For what?" asked Tom, suddenly appearing; and then we told him all.

"You don't mean it!" and then he gave vent to his feelings in the longest of whistles.

What my father said on the subject we never knew, nor, indeed, guessed, for his face was a sealed book, when he so pleased it, but no doubt his heart condemned him sufficiently. "Im

"It was the meanest trick!" said Jane. possible to defend ourselves against such low cunning."

66

No, my dear, you might easily have been safe. I don't think it was quite fair of your aunt, though, and I shall write and tell her so.'

A few days brought Aunt Janet's letter. "You must forgive me, Mary," she said. "I allow I was wrong, - very wrong, if you will; but when you understand all, you will allow that my temptation "I like her," said my mother: "she is quiet and was strong to see you all as you are. Some day I sensible," as my father moved back out of the door-will tell you the story of my father's second wife, who happily died before him, and you will see that my dread of designing people is a natural one, after what I have suffered. Come up to town and see me, Mary, and let us talk it all over till you forgive me."

way.

Thursday morning came, and our guests were to leave us. Uncle Jacob was particularly kind in his manner to us all, telling Nettie and me that we must come and pay our aunt a visit in town after they moved into their new house in Hyde Park Gardens.

"You shall see all that is to be seen, as your aunt means to keep a carriage," he said kindly, and we thanked him as in duty bound; but I don't think we either of us felt inclined to venture on our new aunt's hospitality.

We all went up stairs with Aunt Janet, to help her to dress herself in her wraps and furs. When she was dressed, she sent the maid out of the room, observing to my mother as she did so, that she never gave visitor's money to servants.

"You have saved us, mother, I do believe," said Tom. "She likes you well enough to smile on us all for your sake."

A letter came from Uncle Jacob next. "Bring the girls with you when you come, Mary," he said. "Don't let them be vexed with their aunt for her whimsies, she has taken a fancy to your Nettie."

"Nettie's naughtiness serves her as well as most people's goodness," said Tom. "Mother, look at your letter again, and see if there is n't an invitation

for me."

A Journal of Choice Reading,

SELECTED FROM FOREIGN CURRENT LITERATURE.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1866.

him. I must warn him if I could; it was too horri- | threw it on the ground, and, shutting my eyes, ble that another murder should be done.

I was out of the kennel and in the kitchen before I recollected that I should have to pass close to the murdered woman before I could gain the door leading into the hall, which I must cross to gain the drawing-room. I shuddered as I passed the table and drew near to the horrible scene; but, to my utter surprise and no little terror, Mrs. Johnson had vanished the dark gleaming pool of blood and the dead dog were still there, but the huddled up bundle of clothes was gone.

What had they done with it? In spite of the urgent necessity, there was for immediate action, I stood motionless for a minute, hesitating to cross the dimly-lighted hall. Suppose it should be there. I had never seen death before, and the thought of again seeing the dead woman looking so ghastly and horrible with that great gaping wound across her throat, was at that moment more terrible to me than the thought of her murderers' return.

Whilst I stood hesitating, a shadow passed across the first window, and, looking up quickly, to my horror I saw the three men in another monfent pass the second window.

I had no time for thought. In another minute they would be in the kitchen. I turned and fled down the passage and across the hall, rushing into the first open door, which happened to be the drawing-room door, and instinctively half closed it behind me as I had found it. Then I glanced wildly round the bare empty room in search of shelter.

There was not a particle of furniture in the room, and it was quite empty except for some apples on the floor, and a few empty hampers and sacks at the farther end. How could I hide ?

I heard the footsteps crossing the hall, and then, as they came nearer, with the feeling of desperation I sped noiselessly across the room, laid down flat behind the hampers, and, as the door opened, threw an empty sack over me. I felt I must be discovered, for my head was totally uncovered; and I watched them fascinated, breathless from intense terror. They walked to the window, saying, "We shall see better here," and looked out, presently all exclaiming together, "He's coming now; that black spot over there"; and, without glancing in my direction, they left the room again. I was safe, but what could I do to save the farmer? Surely Charlie must be coming with help now, but would he be in time? I must try and save him, was the conviction that impressed itself upon me in a lightning thought, and as it crossed my brain I sprang to the window. All thought of self vanished then with the urgency of what I had to do. I was only eager nervously, frantically eager to save the farmer's life.

They say that mad people can do things which seem impossible to sane ones, and I must have been quite mad with terror and fright for the next few minutes.

Seven feet below me, stretching down the slope of the hill, was the garden, now lying in long ploughed ridges, with the frozen snow on the top of cach of them, and at the bottom of the garden was a stone wall four feet high. Beyond this, as far as the eye could reach, extended the snow-covered fields, and coming along the cart-road to the left was Mr. Johnson in his gig.

I threw open the window, making noise enough to alarm the men if they heard it, and sprang on to the window-ledge, and then, tearing off my jacket,

jumped down. The high jump hurt my wrists and uncovered feet dreadfully, but I dare not stop a moment. I rushed down the garden, tumbling two or three times in my progress, and, when I came to the wall, scrambled over it head-foremost. The farmer was just opening the gate of the field I was in, and I made straight towards him, trying to call out. But I could not utter a word; so I flew across the snow, dashed through the brook, careless that the bridge was a few feet farther down, and when I rushed up to Mr. Johnson's side, I could only throw up my arms and shriek out "Murder!" just as a loud report rang out through the frosty air, and I fell forward on my face.

"And were you hurt?" I asked, as she paused.
"Yes, a little. Look, here is the scar"; and she
raised the flowing fold of tarletane from her soft
white arm, and pointed to a white oval-shaped scar.
"I was ill for several weeks afterwards, but Dr. B.
said it was from fright, not from the shot. They
told me subsequently, that just as I must have reached
the farmer, the men Charlie had fetched entered the
farm-yard at the other side, and took the murderers
unawares; but one of them, who was behind a tree
near the other gate, had just caught sight of me, and
had fired in revenge, and they said that if I had not
thrown my arms forward, I should perhaps have
been killed."

"And Mrs. Johnson ?" I asked.
The girl's face became very grave.

"She was quite dead. The men had put her under the dresser, which explains why I did not see her as I passed through the kitchen, and the poor husband went away directly afterwards. The whole house is uninhabited now. Nobody will live there, and of course it is said to be haunted. I have never been there since that day, and I think I shall never dare to go there again."

The girl stopped, for the gentlemen had just come in from the dining-room, and one, tall and black bearded, who had been pointed out to me by my hostess as the Squire of Stapleford, and Cicely Miles's betrothed, now came up to her, and laying his hand on her white shoulder with an air of possession, said tenderly, "What makes you look so flushed, Cissy? Have you been transgressing again?"

"Yes, Robert. Mrs. Saunders asked me to tell Mr. Dacre," she answered.

"And you will be ill for a week in consequence. I shall ask Mr. Dacre to write the story, to save another repetition of it. You know we wish you to forget all about it, dearest."

"It was too horrible for that," she said, simply. And then the squire turned to me and made the request, of which this tale is the fulfilment.

GUSTAVE DORÉ.

IT becomes a matter of some anxiety when we find a sort of invasion of our illustrated literature made by an artist who might be called the Napoleon of caricature. It was not altogether agreeable to see the grand visions which Dante called up, and most assuredly never intended to be exaggerated by any artist hand, converted into horrid nightmares. A poet may suggest visions, and describe them in the grand, high-sounding music of his verse; but the attempt to place these on paper has nearly always failed in the hands of serious artists, and, in our opinion, the genius of M. Gustave Doré was anything but suited to illustrate the great poem of

61

Dante. That many persons think otherwise we
know from the very general admiration so constant-
ly bestowed upon these works of M. Doré; but we
doubt whether many would be found of this num-
ber who would be able to say they thought them
adequate to the purpose, and conceived in a kin-
dred spirit of Italian art. We suspect, in many
cases, people wonder at, rather than admire, these
works, and if they were to question themselves
would probably find that it was Doré that attracted
them rather than Dante. Just as we see a con-
ceited actor sometimes take the stage and tear a
passion to tatters, till his tragedy makes us roar, so,
we must confess, does M. Doré affect us when he
means to be pathetic. A propensity of this ten-
dency, which amounts to a failing, is, as it seems to
us, fatal in an illustrator: humor the most delightful,
because of its gentle undercurrent, becomes the gro-
tesquery of the clown and imp; and pathos is lost
in the convulsions of physical pain and spasmodic
agony. Doré, in fact, has added nothing but a
peculiar, monkey-like repulsiveness and fiendish
personality to those horrible assemblages of human
beings tormented by demons which Orcagna, and ture, a humorous, as well as a serious, side to his
Hogarth had, with all his leaning towards carica-
other painters of the time of Dante, represented as mask, and was also superior to M. Doré in his nat-
they were bound to do, being good churchmen of uralness. The portrait of Dante as frontispiece is
their day. If the purpose were merely to strike out an outrage upon the ideal which Giotto painted
something new and foreign to those illustrations of from the life upon the wall of the old palace of the
the same fine poetry which were conceived by Cano- Podestà at Florence; that was a face full of the
va, Flaxman, and Cornelius, something opposite to dreamy-rapt expression of the poet, while this is a
the classical idea which was evidently in the mind head full of sardonic spite and half-savage cruelty.
of Dante himself, here we have it offered by M. We might at least have been spared this,
Doré. But, then, we have to remember the eternal have had a real portrait; but M. Doré must make
we might
truth, that beauty of idea is allied with beauty of all his figures pass in his own phantasmagoria. Per-
form, as we see it so implicitly followed in the haps, however, M. Doré never intended to try his
antique representations of gods of the Greeks and hand at portraiture,
Romans, again in the prophets and apostles of Ma- stones of art; he merely proposed to give us his idea
-one of the severest touch-
saccio, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, and constantly of Dante, just as his illustrations convey the materi
relied upon by modern artists of the religious school. alistic view which he takes of the poem. M. Doré's
No one for a moment supposes that these grand cre- talent finds a most congenial occupation in such
ations of art pretend to be like the Elijahs and John works as his illustrations to the works of "Rabelais,"
Baptists of the ancient wilderness, and the dark-"La Legende de Croque-Mitaine," "Les Contes
skinned fishermen of Galilee. These ideal repre- Drolatiques," "Le Roi des Montagnes," the adven-
sentations possess a general truth which appeals to tures of Jules Gérard, the lion-hunter, "Atala," by
all the world as expressing certain human feelings M. de Chateaubriand, and some others, including an
and aspirations, although the personification adopt- extraordinary number of drawings. But the amaz-
ed and other conventionalisms have the least pos- ing facility shown by such an amount of work is still
sible resemblance to the actual facts. Art has its more wonderful when we see that he has undertaken
mode of expression, and beauty is its prime ele- the greatest of all forms of illustration,- that of the
ment: hence the great sculptors and painters of all Bible. We must confess to something of a twinge
time never permitted themselves to paint in the at the first thought of a Bible illustrated by M. Doré.
spirit of positivism which M. Doré indulges; they These illustrations have now been exhibited by the
abjured the real for the ideal, and shunned every-publishers of the work in London (Messrs. Cassell &
thing horrifying to the senses. M. Rénan attributes Co.), and the first numbers of the Bible are, we be-
the fall of Gothic art to the want of this taste: lieve, already published. There are no less than
"L'art du moyen âge tomba par ses défauts essen- 230 large page drawings, which, viewed simply as
tiels, et parce qu'il ne sut pas s'élever à la perfec- the working of one man constantly engaged for four
tion de la forme."
years, and of those wood engravers who have been
employed upon it, are really remarkable as an
undertaking successfully accomplished, and a very
costly one.

and entirely against the ideal of Cervantes. Our
Leech would have done justice to the humor of the
story without this proportionately absurd violence.
So would Leslie, and indeed did in more than one
instance, notably in the "Sancho Panza before the
Duchess."
One of the most glaring instances is the
large cut of Don Quixote lying wounded and mel-
ancholy, his head buried in the pillow and his face
and nose plastered up, with one eye patched over
and the other bloodshot and glazed, averted with
veins, clutching the bedclothes. This is a ghastly
a ghastly look; his bony hands, with their swollen
study from some hospital of criminals.

erary art is to make us turn over the pages to laugh
If the object in illustrating a beautiful work of lit-
at the pictures, then it is accomplished. Our cari-
catures of the time of Gilray and Rowlandson are
precisely analogous in their art with the illustrations
of M. Doré, although his admitted genius raises his
work to that pitch of popular favor which we think
so detrimental, not to say demoralizing, in its influ-
ence.

it

With the singular and rather unaccountable exception of the architectural sculptors of the Gothic, and the ornamentalists of that period who revelled in their grotesques, the old masters never stood, as were, outside their work, and mocked and sneered at the subject. This is, as it seems to us, what M. Doré does almost in every line; we see it in his Crucifixion," in "The Wandering Jew," in many of the illustrations of the "Inferno," which betray a fend-like cruelty in the bare invention displayed in exhibiting the sufferings of the wicked. We see it again in the way in which our most glorious gentleman of knight-errantry, Don Quixote, is made to look ridiculous and contemptible beyond all limit,

part of the work is stated to be more than £ 15,000.
The sum expended upon the artistic
Doré has evidently endeavored to be more in ac-
In this important application of his abilities, M.
cordance with the common taste, and has followed
more the ordinary forms of pictorial composition;
at the same time there is abundant originality to be
noticed in his treatment of subjects which have so
constantly furnished themes to the painters for so
many ages. Generally, indeed, the influence of
the works of the old masters is little perceptible in
the various compositions, and we notice rather that

couraging the wealthy and educated travellers of Europe. The reason why the most interesting country of the Mediterranean is one of the least visited in these days of tourist enterprise is because travelling in it must not only be without comfort, but even without safety.

STAPLEFORD GRANGE.

I HEARD the following narrative at a dinnerparty in a country-house about five miles from the place where the events referred to occurred, and it was related to me by the chief actress in it, -a pretty, lady-like girl of twenty, the daughter of the rector of the parish in which Stapleford Grange is situated. I had sprained my ankle in the morning: and instead of going in to dinner with the rest of the party, was made to lie on a sofa in the drawingroom; and it was after the ladies came in from the dining-room that pretty Cissy Miles, at her hostess's urgent request, related it to me. I give it, as nearly as I can remember, in her own words.

I must try and describe a little of the geography of the Grange now.

The court-yard was a big square place, much have been an imposing entrance in the old gone by bigger than farm-yards usually are, and it must days. There were two entrances to it, the one we had come in by, leading to our village, the other exactly opposite on the other side of the court-yard, leading over a quarter of mile of fields into the road to our market town of D. To the left hand of the court-yard was a long straight line of what had once been stables, but were now farm-buildings; and to the right, the north side- a long straight line also- of the house itself.

It was the Saturday afternoon before Christmas day, nearly two years ago, when my six brothers, all younger than myself, and I were skating on our squire's fish-pond. We had been skating since din- The front door, which was exactly in the middle ner, and it was not till the wintry daylight was be- of the straight line, and which was flanked on either ginning to wane that the recollection rushed across side by several windows, was now never opened; me that I had entirely forgotton to do a commission but the back door, which was the entry to a little my mother had given to me in the morning. This bit of building standing back from the line of house, commission was to walk to the Grange, a big farm- and which looked almost as if it had been stuck on house, and bespeak some geese for dinner on New-to the big square mansion as an afterthought, was Year's day. My mother had said decidedly, "Those geese must be ordered to-day, Cissy," so I knew that I should have to go: although the Grange was a mile off, although it was very cold, and darkness was coming on, and although I was terribly afraid of a big black dog which was chained up just in front of the Grange back door.

"Who'll go with me to the Grange?" I called out quickly, as this remembrance occurred to me, sitting down and beginning to unstrap my skates. "I've forgotten all about the geese, and mamma said I was to order them to-day."

No one answered. The next day was Sunday, and it might thaw before Monday. Every boy, big or little, seemed laudably desirous of making the most of present opportunities.

"I dare n't go by myself," I called out in a pathetic tone; "it would be quite dark before I got home again."

"Tell the truth, Cis," called out Charlie, a quick, good-natured boy of fifteen, "and say you're afraid of Jip. Never mind, I'll come with you, if you must go." And he joined me on the bank, and proceeded to take off his skates.

"What'll you bet, Jim," he called out, during this operation, "that we ain't at home by a quarter to five? It's exactly four now."

66

"A bob," was the answer, as Jim whirled by. Done; and remember you dub up. Now, Cis, come along, and I can tell you you'll have to run.' Thanks to all my brothers, I was a pretty good runner, and we sped across the squire's fields, and through the narrow lane towards the Grange, as fast as possible. When we got to the last field, which Joined the farm-yard, we slackened pace a little, and when we got into the big court-yard itself, we were walking almost slowly.

How dreadfully lonely it looks, Charlie,” I said, almost with a shiver at the desolate aspect of the place, which had been a grand gentleman's house

on this Saturday afternoon standing a little ajar.

Jip did not greet us with his usual noisy welcome, and there was no sound of any sort about the place except the gabbling of some turkeys in the rear of the farm-buildings. I don't know that I felt any particular fear, but as we followed the path under the shadow of the old elm-trees to the half-open door, a sort of oppressed feeling came over me, induced, I suppose, by the utter silence of the place, and I felt almost as if Jip's bark would have been a welcome sound. We went up and knocked at the door, and when I turned round, I observed that Jip's kennel, which stood exactly opposite, in a line with the front of the house, was empty.

"Where can Jip be?" I said; "I thought they never let him loose"; and I walked forward a few steps, and became aware that the dog's chain and collar were lying beside the kennel. I stood for a moment or two wondering, whilst Charlie, getting impatient at Mrs. Johnson's non-appearance, knocked again at the door. Suddenly, some marks on the flagged pathway in front of the kennel arrested my attention, and upon stooping down to look more closely, I saw that they were - drops and smears of blood.

I raised myself in sudden terror, and called Charlie; and when he came to my side and examined the pathway, we found that there was a bloody trail up to the door.

“What can it be, Charlie?” I said, in a whisper. "I don't know," Charlie returned, thoughtfully; "poor Jip come to grief, perhaps. It's odd Mrs. Johnson does n't come; I think I'll go on a voyage of discovery; stay here till I come back"; and he pushed the door further open.

No, let me go too," I said, hastily, half frightened. I am a coward at the sight of blood. "Well! don't make a row then "; and we entered the little passage together.

On the left hand was the kitchen door, which was