One day when dining at a cheap eating-house, frequented by gentlemen of the pallet, he learned from their conversation that an interesting job was going on in an establishment for which he had himself executed some copying before arriving at a knowledge of the true nature of the business. This was the underhand imitation of an exquisite picture on which a considerable sum had been advanced by a capitalist. Robert's questions were answered frankly, as he was considered to be one of us,' and he discovered that it was the identical Correggio that had been honoured by his own maiden efforts in copying, and that the gentleman whose property was to be thus injured in conventional value was Sir Vivian Falcontower. The latter fact was unknown at the establishment, the name of the owner of the original being of course kept a profound secret by the capitalist, a man who was supposed to have already realised a large fortune by such fraudulent business.

Our adventurer did not hesitate as to what should be done; but he hastened to Jermyn Street to consult Mr Driftwood on the best mode of doing it. The artist was not at all surprised to hear of a circumstance so little uncommon; but he agreed with Robert in thinking that to put Sir Vivian up to the fraud would be doing him an important service.

Anonymous cried he, and his small eyes rested with wonder upon his friend. Upon my word, you have less sense than any young man of genius I ever knew. Why throw away the merit of such a service? Go to Sir Vivian and tell him fairly what you have learned; and when he inquires eagerly for the address of the copiers, let him know distinctly-but in any roundabout way you choose-that you have your fortune to make. He will not bid money for your secret, for he has none himself-not a rap; but he has things in his power that are worth money, and if you play your cards well, he will make a man of you.'

And you would actually have me offer to be bribed for doing the bounden duty of an honest man?'

Tush, tush! I know nothing about honest mennever met with any in all my life. As for Sir Vivian, he will book you for a natural if you do otherwise than I have advised; or else he will suppose that you speculate upon his gratitude and generosity, and he will half choke himself with laughter at the rich idea.'

Then I shall certainly not place myself under so degrading a suspicion. Do you go to him, since you have no feeling of honour. I present you with the secret; make your market of it as you will.'

'No, hang it!' said the artist, 'I have more honour than that comes to. You are a young fellow, and don't know how to wriggle yourself on in this dirty world. The patronage of Sir Vivian would place you above it. You have already saved his daughter from having her face seamed like a mended China mug; and now, in preserving the unique character of his great Correggio, you will establish a double claim that he cannot blink. Go, my dear boy, and tell him all, but tell it prudently; just put a few of your scruples into your penniless pocket-there's a good fellow-and leave old Gallipot to paint for a future age, and starve in the present.'

Robert pondered for awhile on the mixture of greatness and meanness, baseness and honour, presented in the character of poor Driftwood; but his conclusions were, upon the whole, favourable, and he saw, in the midst of the dark stains thrown upon it by circumstance, an original strain of good he could not but admire. This time he did not go home to dress, but walking westward with a steady and determined pace, he soon reached the mansion he sought.

Since he knew by experience that his card alone would not admit him, he wrote upon it with his pencil,

Falcontower on business of importance to Sir Vivian;' and after a brief interval, he was ushered up stairs. There was no one in the room he was shewn into. It was the first of a suite of three drawing-rooms, the folding-doors of which were open; and it was with a flush of gratified taste he looked along the rich and noble vista. Although crowded in the fashion of the day, there was a masterly arrangement throughout which excluded the idea of confusion; the more sumptuous pieces of furniture were here and there relieved with others of exquisite simplicity; and the whole received value and importance from the objects of taste and virtu distributed around. The curtains, the walls, the gilded mirrors, the few but delicious drawings-all were in admirable harmony of colour; while the drab carpets, artfully subdued and chaste, left to its full effect the gorgeous yet elegant character of the scene.

While Robert was surveying with the eye of a connoisseur the most charming and remarkable interior he had yet seen, he observed advancing from the further end of the vista a female figure, which at first appeared to be out of keeping with the picture. As she advanced, however, calmly and gracefully, the sombre hue of her attire assumed a richness corresponding with that of the inanimate objects of the scene, and the same fresh and lovely face he had admired in the studio seemed to bring sunshine into the room. Change of place, time, feeling, had no effect. Miss Falcontower was so absolutely the same, that it was impossible to detect in her physiognomy shade the more, one ray the less.' He could have thought that the life-struggles, disappointments, and miseries that had marked his lot since they parted were only a momentary dream, and that she still stood before him in the painted garret.

6

one

Her observation of Robert was widely different. Time and the world had done their work on him. The lines of care were on his brow, and the light of experience mingled with the light of thought in his eye. The newness of look, the solitariness, the abstract curiosity of the provincial and the scholar had vanished, and with them the youthfulness of air indicative of the youth of the heart. He was a man-watchful, ready, resolute, doubting, despising, defying, yet withal frank, simple, and generous. In external appearance, he was more erect than formerly, his face more pale, his lip more rigid, and his countenance more masculine-the effect, probably, of a pair of full but not heavy whiskers, of the richest brown, extending to the chin.

While Miss Falcontower was advancing, the two exchanged a steady glance which learned all this of each other, and she then offered her hand as to an old acquaintance.

"You have been here before, Mr Oaklands,' said she. 'Twice.'

'But only one card?'

'It was the first I ever possessed: I had by that time turned a gentleman artist.'

'Why did you not repeat your visit sooner?' 'Because,' replied Robert, half amused by the coolness of the question, because I had only too good reason to suppose that I should not be received.'

Why, what was the matter?-Oh, perhaps you knew I was at home-that is so rural! Never take a denial amiss unless you have collateral reasons: it means nothing whatever in itself, but that circumstances render it inconvenient or improper to receive you at the moment. Well, you have turned a gentleman artist

and with what success? Have you begun to rival Correggio?'

'It is Correggio who brings me here, and as the business is of more importance to Sir Vivian Falcontower than my success or failure as an artist, I beg you to listen to me, for I have come on purpose to speak.' He

then mentioned succinctly the discovery he had made respecting the picture, and gave the address of the place where it was in the process of being copied. Miss Falcontower was obviously interested, and even indignant; but Robert observed that the conduct of the capitalist appeared to anger her rather by its insolence than dishonesty.

'Oh, as for that,' she said, in reply to his remark, 'they are all alike; from the rich lender down to the poor colour-grinder, there is not a grain of difference -they all cheat to the best of their ability. Sir Vivian, however, knows how to deal with them; but you, Mr Oaklands, you seem above our reach. This time, thank goodness, it is papa you have made your debtor; and by the same achievement of chivalry, too, by the way-the preservation from outrage of a paltry bit of perishing colour. You are an unknown artist, you are young, you are'

'Poor,' assisted Robert.

'Poor: and what shall I say to Sir Vivian?' "That there is nothing in art, youth, or poverty, inconsistent with honour,' said Robert, as the blood mounted to his brow. The young lady's cheek seemed to reflect the suffusion. It was the first time he had seen her colour change; and she fixed upon him the admiring, melancholy, and dreamy look called up when the sympathies are stirred by some vision of poetry or romance that has nothing to do with the realities of life.

'But, come,' said she starting. 'You were to tell me of your fortunes in the world, and I will save you the trouble. You have failed to secure the certainty even of a living, because you will not stoop to baseness, and cannot wait the turn of events: is it not so?' 'It is.'

'What, then, are you now doing, and what are your plans ?'

'I am supporting myself by means of cheap portraitpainting, till I can ascertain the fate of an article of mine which is to appear, though at no stipulated time, in a quarterly review. If that should attract no attention, then I must give up for the present the hope of being what Mr Driftwood calls a top-sawyer, and gravitate downwards to my allotted place, wherever that may be, in the social scale.'

creditors, who knew that their only chance of obtaining a return of any kind for their money was to leave their debtor unmolested. Sir Vivian then hung up his darling gem in its own place, shipped off for St Petersburg the copy manufactured with Robert's assistance by Driftwood, and sold it to a private collector there as an undoubted Correggio, for more than twice the sum it had been pawned for.

Sir Vivian Falcontower was of an ancient family, although a baronet of recent creation. The son of a baron, and of the eldest daughter of an earl, and brother of the now Lord Luxton, he was a person of considerable consequence in the aristocracy. At an early age, he became the possessor of a large fortune, which, coming suddenly into his hands-through the caprice of an old female relative-he squandered as suddenly; and he was now living, like many other men of rank, in hollow state and splendid poverty. He was, however, a political man, and supposed to possess considerable shrewdness in that line, although not the sort of talent requisite for office; and as the two noble houses he was related to were on opposite sides, and the baronet no enthusiast in his opinions, he did not suffer much from party vicissitudes.

His daughter, an only child, lost her mother at an early age, and having natural gifts as well as acquired accomplishments, became her father's companion even before she had done with her governess. As years passed, her mind overmastered his; and although much too politic to shew purposely that she was a woman of business, it was her will that was the law of the house. Her marriage was the grand card of the politic pair; but somehow they were not fortunate in playing it. She was very near the point, however, more than once; and at the first serious trial so near being a duchess, that when the affair was suddenly brought to an end, the world of ton went into fits, and the Morning Post went out of print. What was the cause of the duke's inconstancy no one knew. Sir Vivian was for an action, with damages laid at L.50,000; but Claudia, although her colourless cheeks and staring eyes told what a crushing blow it had been, had more sense.

'I cannot say; but it would at least enable me to take others in that style. Such a study would be inestimable!' and he scanned her features with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur, and pierced into the blaze of her eyes as if he would have sounded its depth. Miss Falcontower looked at him with surprise and amusement; but the gaze of mere admiration had no power to kindle that experienced cheek with the glow even of vanity.

Understand,' said she, 'that you need not expect anything for the work, however well executed, but notoriety and sitters; and that understood, when will you come? To-morrow?'

'Then come at an early hour-come at twelve, that we may be sure to be uninterrupted.' Robert thanked his patroness warmly, and took his leave.

We may here, in order to get rid of the subject, relate the sequel of the history of the Correggio. Sir Vivian, accompanied by a police-officer, proceeded to the place indicated by Robert, painted out with his own hand the valuable parts of the imitation, and carried away his picture, the master of the establishment, under the awkward circumstances, not daring to interfere. The loan was thus converted into an unsecured debt, and the lender took his place with a crowd of other

The chance was tried again-and again-and again; but there seemed to be some fatality in the cards. Not that she was not loved, and madly too; but her object was not love, but rank united with fortune. Claudia's determination, however, some people thought, held out too long; for this blooming girl, apparently about fourand-twenty, was in reality a great many years olderwe shall not say how many, although her age certainly overstepped that prosaic thirty, the object of so much dread to young ladies. The secret of this perennial bloom is very simple for those of the sex who enjoy a good constitution and a good complexion. Claudia took equal care of her health and her dress. Even in the full season, she vanished at an early hour in the night, and got up at as early an hour in the morning. Her attire, always elegantly simple, was arranged upon the strictest rules of science. The most vagrant-looking curl had its fixed place and mission; and it was observed that she never sat long at one time in company, a periodical visit to the dressing-room and its cheval mirror being indispensable. She avoided cosmetics, both from taste and on principle. She would as soon have perfumed herself with garlic as with anything else than

them from their oppressors, and restored them to their native hearths.

The anecdote we have given above is characteristic of the difference between the Kurd and the Arab. An Arab who had once received hospitality, even from his bitterest foe, would for ever consider his host's house and person as sacred, and would protect him from injury, even at the peril of his own life. So strong is this feeling that, in battle, if an enemy can claim the dakhel or friendship of one of the members of a tribe, his life is instantly spared.

With the Kurd it is different. Guided by no principles of honour, and amenable to no laws of society, he is alike the dread and the scorn of his neighbours, and his name is used by the Arab muleteer to goad on the very mules and asses, as one of the most disgraceful epithets he can shower upon them; while the proverb, as bearish as a Kurd,' is a saying in common use throughout the East.

SOAP AS A MEANS OF ART.

Dr Ferguson Branson, of Sheffield, writing in the Journal of the Society of Arts, says: 'Several years ago, I was endeavouring to find an easy substitute for wood-engraving, or rather to find out a substance more readily cut than wood, and yet sufficiently firm to allow of a cast being taken from the surface when the design was finished, to be reproduced in type-metal, or by the electrotype process. After trying various substances, I at last hit upon one which at first promised success-namely, the very common substance called soap, but I found that much more skill than I possessed was required to cut the fine lines for surface-printing. A very little experience with the material convinced me that, though it might not supply the place of wood for surface-printing, it contained within itself the capability of being extensively applied to various useful and artistic processes in a manner hitherto unknown. Diesinking is a tedious process, and no method of die-sinking that I am aware of admits of freedom of handling. A drawing may be executed with a hard point on a smooth piece of soap almost as readily, as freely, and in as short a time as an ordinary drawing with a lead pencil. Every touch thus produced is clear, sharp, and well defined. When the drawing is finished, a cast may be taken from the surface in plaster, or, better still, by pressing the soap firmly into heated gutta-percha. In gutta-percha, several impressions may be taken without injuring the soap, so as to admit of proofs being taken and corrections made-a very valuable and practical good quality in soap. It will even bear being pressed into melted sealing-wax without injury. I have never tried a sulphur mould, but I imagine an impression from the soap could easily be taken by that method.' Dr Branson has also employed bees-wax, whitewax, sealing-wax, lacs, as well as other plastic bodies; and in some of these cases a heated steel knitting-needle, or point, was substituted for the ivory knitting-needle. He has sent several specimens to the Society of Arts, which shew, that from the gutta-percha or plastic cast, a cast in brass may be obtained, with the impression either sunk or in relief.

MODERN TURKS.

I have lived much among Turks of every nation and class-more, I am happy to say, among the uncivilised than the civilised; and here is the comparative description I should give of them :-Uncivilised Turk: middle-sized; of powerful frame; blunt but sincere character; brave; religious, sometimes even to fanaticism; cleanly, temperate, addicted to coffee and pipes; fond of a good blade, and generally well skilled in its use; too proud to be mean, cowardly, or false; generous to prodigality; and in dress, fond of bright colours and rich clothing, of which he often wears three or four suits at one time-one over the other. Civilised Turk: under-sized; of delicate frame; polite, but insincere; not overbrave; often boasting of atheism ; neglecting the ablutions of his religion, partly because the Franks are dirty, and partly because his new costume won't admit of them; given to cognac and cigarrettes; fond of

a showy sheath, if a militaire; or of a pretty cane, if a civilian; no pride whatever, but lots of vanity; possesses no Oriental generosity; and for dress wears a frock-coat; stays, to give a small waist; a gay-coloured 'gent.'s vest;' ditto ditto inexpressibles, often of a rather loud railway pattern,' and strapped down very tight, so as to shew to advantage the only distinguishing Oriental features which remain to him-a very crooked pair of legs; his chaussure consists of a pair of French gay merino brodequins with patent leather toes; his head-dress is a ridiculously small red skull-cap, worn at the back of the head, and often containing a small piece of looking-glass, whereby on all occasions Straw-colour Naples imitation gloves, at two dollars a dozen, to arrange the rather unruly coarse hair it frequently covers. and an eye-glass, are generally considered as indispensable parts of the 'getting up a la Franca.' In point of manners, the lowest real Turk is a nobleman; the best of the Europeanised lot is barely a gentleman.—Parkins's Life in Abyssinia.

WINTER.

Many of the pieces are already extensively known, having made their appearance originally in a popular periodical of the day-the Dublin University Magazine.]

[From a volume of elegant poetry by Dr Waller, just published.*

DREARY old Winter! weary old Winter!
Snow-blanched carl, all dripping and chill;

Ice chains have bound thee, winds whistle round thee,
Heavily, gloomily plodding on still.

Yet when we meet thee, kindly we greet thee

Sit by the hearth-blaze and melt all thy snow; With wassail and gladness we'll charm all thy sadness, Make thy eye brighten, thy icy blood glow.

Dreary old Winter! weary old Winter!

We'll make thy eye brighten, thy icy blood glow.

Cheery old Winter! merry old Winter! Laugh, while with yule-wreath thy temples are bound; Drain the spiced bowl now, cheer thy old soul now,

'Christmas waes hael!' pledge the holy toast round. Broach butt and barrel; with dance and with carol Crown we old Winter of revels the king; And when he is weary of living so merry, He'll lie down and die on the green lap of Spring. Cheery old Winter! merry old Winter! He'll lie down and die on the green lap of Spring.

1854.

Poems. By John Francis Waller, LL.D. Dublin: M'Glashan.

MORTALITY BY WAR AND PESTILENCE CONTRASTED.

It appears from a privately printed paper lately handed to us, that while our total loss of men in the last war was 19,796 killed and 79,709 wounded, the total loss in England and Wales alone by cholera in 1848-9 was 72,180 dead, besides 144,360 attacked. It is calculated that there is an average annual loss of 115,000 by typhus fever and other diseases resulting from unhealthy living-in short, from preventable causes-being about six times the entire loss caused by the twenty-two years of war. In the Peninsular war, 8799 were killed in battle or died of

their wounds, while 24,930 perished by discase.

NOTICE.

In the present number is presented the first of a series of articles, by WILLIAM CHAMBERS, the result of a recent excursion through some of the British American possessions and United States. The remainder will follow as quickly as circumstances will permit. Not to encumber the articles with matters of detail, certain statistical and other facts will be reserved till the conclusion of the series. Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, S Bride's Passage, Fleet Street, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by J. M'GLASHAN, 50 Upper Sackville Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers.