Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speech- faint, wailing cry. "They're married," he less and helpless dismay.

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bashwood the younger, pushing his father back roughly into the cab. "He's safe enough. We shall find him at Miss Gwilt's."

The old man took his son's hand and kissed it. "Thank you, my dear," he said, gratefully. "Thank you for comforting me."

moaned to himself, his hands falling helplessly on his knees-his hat falling, unregarded, from his head. "Stop them!" he exclaimed, suddenly rousing himself, and seizing his son, in a frenzy, by the collar of the coat.

"Go back to the hotel!" shouted Bashwood the younger, to the cabman. "Hold your noise!" he added, turning fiercely on his father.

The cab was driven next to the second lodg-"I want to think." ing which Miss Gwilt had occupied, in the neighborhood of Tottenham Court Road.

"Stop here," said the Spy, getting out, and shutting his father into the cab. "I mean to manage this part of the business myself."

He knocked at the house,door. "I have got a note for Miss Gwilt," he said, walking into the passage the moment the door was opened. "She's gone," answered the servant. went away last night."

"She

The varnish of smoothness was all off him by this time. His temper was roused. His pride

even such a man has his pride!—was wounded to the quick. Twice had he matched his wits against a woman's, and twice the woman had baffled him.

After a

He got out, on reaching the hotel for the second time, and privately tried the servants with the offer of money. The result of the experiment satisfied him that they had, in this instance, reBashwood the younger wasted no more words ally and truly, no information to sell. with the servant. He insisted on seeing the moment's reflection he stopped, before leaving mistress. The mistress confirmed the an- the hotel, to ask the way to the parish church. nouncement of Miss Gwilt's departure on the "The chance may be worth trying," he thought previous evening. Where had she gone to? to himself, as he gave the address to the driver. The woman couldn't say. How had she left?"Faster!" he called out, looking first at his On foot. At what hour? Between nine and watch and then at his father. "The minutes ten. What had she done with her luggage? | are precious this morning, and the old one is beShe had no luggage. Had a gentleman been ginning to give in." to see her on the previous day? Not a soul, gentle or simple, had come to the house to see Miss Gwilt.

The father's face, pale and wild, was looking out of the cab window, as the son descended the house-steps. "Isn't she there, Jemmy?" he asked, faintly-"isn't she there ?"

"Hold your tongue!" cried the Spy, with the native coarseness of his nature rising to the surface at last. "I'm not at the end of my inquiries yet."

It was true. Still capable of hearing and of understanding, Mr. Bashwood was past speaking by this time. He clung with both hands to his son's grudging arm, and let his head fall helplessly on his son's averted shoulder.

The parish church stood back from the street, protected by gates and railings, and surrounded by a space of open ground. Shaking off his father's hold, Bashwood the younger made straight for the vestry. The clerk, putting away the books, and the clerk's assistant, hanging up a He crossed the road, and entered a coffee-surplice, were the only persons in the room shop situated exactly opposite the house he had when he entered it, and asked leave to look at just left.

In the box nearest the window two men were sitting talking together anxiously.

the marriage Register for the day.

The clerk gravely opened the book, and stood aside from the desk on which it lay.

The day's register comprised three marriages solemnized that morning; and the first two signatures on the page were "Allan Armadale" and "Lydia Gwilt !"

"Which of you was on duty yesterday evening, between nine and ten o'clock ?" asked Bashwood the younger, suddenly joining them, and putting his question in a quick, peremptory whisper. Even the Spy-ignorant as he was of the truth "I was, Sir," said one of the men, unwill-—unsuspicions as he was of the terrible future ingly. consequences to which the act of that morning "Did you lose sight of the house?—Yes! I might lead-even the Spy started when his eye see you did." first fell on the page. It was done! Come

"Only for a minute, Sir. An infernal black-what might of it, it was done now. There, in guard of a soldier came in—"

"That will do," said Bashwood the younger. "I know what the soldier did, and who sent him to do it. She has given us the slip again. You are the greatest Ass living. Consider yourself dismissed." With these words, and with an oath to emphasize them, he left the coffee-shop and returned to the cab.

"She's gone!" cried his father. "Oh, Jemmy, Jemmy, I see it in your face!" He fell back into his own corner of the cab, with a

black and white, was the registered evidence of the marriage, which was at once a truth in itself, and a lie in the conclusion to which it led! There-through the fatal similarity in the names

there, in Midwinter's own signature, was the, proof to persuade every body that, not Midwinter, but Allan, was the husband of Miss Gwilt!

Bashwood the younger closed the book and returned it to the clerk. He descended the vestry steps with his hands thrust doggedly into

his pockets, and with a serious shock inflicted on his professional self-esteem.

If

The beadle met him under the church-wall. He considered for a moment whether it was worth while to spend a shilling in questioning the man, and decided in the affirmative. they could be traced and overtaken there might be a chance of seeing the color of Mr. Armadale's money even yet.

"How long is it," he asked, "since the first couple married here this morning left the church?"

"About an hour," said the beadle. "How did they go away?"

The beadle deferred answering that second question until he had first pocketed his fee. "You won't trace them from here, Sir," he said, when he had got his shilling. They went away on foot."

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"And that is all you know about it?" "That, Sir, is all I know about it." Left by himself, even the Detective of the Private Inquiry Office paused for a moment before he returned to his father at the gate. He was roused from his hesitation by the sudden appearance, within the church inclosure, of the driver of the cab.

"I'm afraid the old gentleman is going to be taken ill, Sir," said the man.

"MY DEAR DAD,-Having seen you safe out of the hospital, and back at your hotel, I think I may fairly claim to have done my duty by you, ' and may consider myself free to look after my own affairs. Business will prevent me from seeing you to-night; and I don't think it at all likely I shall be in your neighborhood to-morrow morning. My advice to you is, to go back to Thorpe-Ambrose, and to stick to your employment in the steward's office. Wherever Mr. Armadale may be, he must, sooner or later, write to you on business. I wash my hands of the whole matter, mind, so far as I am concerned, from this time forth. But if you like to go on with it, my professional opinion is (though "She's done us," said the Spy. "They were you couldn't hinder his marriage), you may part married here this morning."

Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and walked back to the cab. As he opened the door and looked in his father leaned forward and confronted him, with lips that moved speechlessly, and with a white stillness over all the rest of his face.

The old man's body swayed for a moment from one side to the other. The instant after his eyes closed, and his head fell forward toward the front seat of the cab. "Drive to the hospital!" cried his son. "He's in a fit. That is what comes of putting myself out of my way to please my father," he muttered, sullenly raising Mr. Bashwood's head and loosening his cravat. "A nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice morning's work !"

The hospital was near, and the house-surgeon was at his post.

"Will he come out of it?" asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.

"Who are you?" asked the surgeon, sharply, on his side.

"I am his son."

"I shouldn't have thought it," rejoined the surgeon, taking the restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse,, and turning from the son to the father with an air of relief which he was at no pains to conceal. "Yes," he added, after a minute or two. "Your father will come out of it this time."

"When can he be moved away from here?" "He can be moved from the hospital in an hour or two."

him from his wife.

"Pray take care of yourself.

"Your affectionate son,

"JAMES BASHWOOD."

The letter dropped from the old man's feeble hands. "I wish Jemmy could have come to see me to-night," he thought. "But it's very kind of him to advise me all the same."

He turned wearily on the pillow, and read the letter a second time. "Yes," he said, "there's nothing left for me but to go back. I'm too poor and too old to hunt after them all by myself." He closed his eyes: the tears trickled slowly over his wrinkled cheeks. "I've been a trouble to Jemmy," he murmured, faintly; "I've been a sad trouble, I'm afraid, to poor Jemmy!" In a minute more his weakness overpowered him, and he fell asleep again.

The clock of the parish church struck. It was ten. As the bell tolled the hour the tidal train-with Midwinter and his wife among the passengers-was speeding nearer and nearer to Paris. As the bell tolled the hour the watch on board Allan's outward-bound yacht had sighted the light-house off the Land's End, and had set the course of the vessel for Ushant and Finisterre.

THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

CONCERNING "ROUND DANCES."

save in the instance of the Utopian theorist, Plato, who, to the intense horror of Eusebius, not only advocates the establishment of dancing

DIDST ever, dear rers. Such an one's schools for both sexes, ut tam pueri quam pu

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IDST thou ever, dear reader, stand inactbrilliantly-lighted drawing-room, at a "soirée ella choreas celebrent, spectenturque ac spectent," dansante," and, beholding the graceful evolu- but advises that the pupils in these model estabtions of the waltz, or the more exciting saltation lishments should dance naked—a counsel half of the galop, express to thine inner self ironic carried out by modern modistes. Petrarch, alenvy of the future possessor of those much be-luding to the influence of dancing upon the fehugged female charms? Hast thou, being hap-male character, writes: "Multæ inde impudica ly a Benedick, enjoyed the spectacle of thy spouse domum rediere, plures ambigua, melior nulla." yielding to the close embrace of indiscriminate In our own century, Lord Byron has contributed manhood, during the interminable "German co- to the cause of morality his famous hymn to the tillion ?" If so, then will thy fancy chime with waltz, which had then just invaded England, to our discourse, and thy memory store up our usurp the place of the decorous and stately measwisdom; but if thou be of them who hold su-ures trodden by our ancestors-staid and dignipreme the pleasures of the dance, subordinating fied performances, wherein the dainty finger-tips thereto all other pursuits of "society," as do of the dame were alone confided to her partner, many of our polite townsmen, then we do warn who touched them with courtly reverence: truly, thee from the perusal of this paper, assuring from these to the intimate familiarity of the Gerthee that thou wilt find herein food only for man innovation was a leap which might well contentious comment and untoward brooding. terrify sticklers for intersexual propriety of demeanor.

Be it remembered that the waltz of Byron's day differed as widely from its existing namesake as did its predecessors from it. Its rhythm was slow; its step a graceful, gliding movement; and the lady was held by her partner at arm'slength, his hand only resting upon her waist. What, then, would the noble poet have said of the frantic whirl of our drawing-rooms, whose exigencies demand a contact so immediate that

Diverse opinions on the subject of dancing have been held, and acrimonious controversies thereon entered into, for many hundred years; the rule apparently being that, on the first introduction of each new species of dance, a shock has been communicated to the moral sense of the community, equivalent to that caused by plunging one's feet into cold water; but, being fairly established as a custom, the head has followed the feet, and endurance has advanced to pity, and ended in embrace, until the degradation of suc-crede experto-each palpitation of the female cessive ages has brought us to the immodest clutch of the present day, beyond which no advance can be made in public, unless, in our course around eternity's circle, we revert to the "good old times" of Cato and the Floralia.

heart communicates its vibration to the manly breast opposed? What would have been the wound to his squeamishness had he beheld matrons and maidens alike clasped closely in the arms of not always unobjectionable associates, their heads reclining upon their partner's shoulders, disheveled and with dress disordered by the maddening haste of the exercise-a strug

tering in sudorific sociability?

Terpsichore is but a sorry jade in her own person, and unless attended by her elder sister, Euterpe, fails to charm any but a savage or a lunatic. Her fantastic capers, if seen unaccom-gling crowd, flushed with excitement, and swelpanied by music, would seem so absurd as to provoke our mirth, if they did not arouse our compassion. The ancients recognized this when they represented her with a musical instrument in her hand-a borrowed insignium, in nowise belonging to her office, but which was necessary to give her an air of adventitious respectability; and her dependence upon the "lascivious pleasings" of her companion art is further expressed in the proverb, "Those who will dance must needs pay the piper." Her trade hath ever been an engine of mischief before and since Herodias danced off John Baptist's head; and her meretricious allurements have furnished texts to serious and satirical writers in every generation. "Nemo saltat sobrius" quoth Cicero, thinking, probably, of the entertainments given by his daughter, Tulliola, whereat his son and namesake disgraced the family name by his inebriety. Juvenal, Horace, Martial, Sallust, Justinus, and many others have left on record their protests against dancing; and although some few of the older authors may be found upholding it, their commendation generally applies to pas seuls only,

What a glaring inconsistency is there manifested in the toleration at one time of a posture which, under any other circumstances, would blast a reputation! No pure woman would suffer a man to retain her hand in his, much less to encircle her with his arm, in the ordinary relations of social life; and yet, at the bidding of fashion, and because the additional stimulus of music is superadded, she will not only permit these liberties, but will remain willingly strained to his breast for a quarter of an hour at a time, publicly exhibiting herself in a position which in itself she virtuously condemns. Favors which would properly be denied to the most respectable of her acquaintances off the dancing-floor are there accorded freely even to a notorious libertine; for no guarantee is required from those to whom fashion intrusts the persons of her female devotees further than proficiency in an art chiefly acquired by our young men through association with the most degraded of the other sex-all mental or moral disqualifications being condoned by the single merit of

change a dozen intelligent and intelligible words,
albeit in a constrained attitude, and with many
interpolations from passing elbows.
You may,
perchance, rarely find temporary rest for your
nether man on an unoccupied chair; but ere
you have long enjoyed the unwonted luxury the
inexorable dance again interferes, and your seat
is demanded by some truculent stripling for the
mystic rites of the "German." And yet, in
the face of the practical outlawry thus decreed
against you by the ladies (who rule fashionable
society), they can rail at you for frequenting
your club rather than risking bodily rheumatism
and mental stupefaction at dancing parties!

dancing well. Many a young girl who intui- door, you are fortunate if during the evening tively shrinks from the endearments innocently you find one person with whom you can exproffered by her affianced lover, unthinkingly subjects herself to the contaminating embrace and irreverent comment of debauched witlings, whose every thought is a concealed insult. Not that we would imply a sweeping censure upon the male portion of the community; for many -perhaps most-are gentlemen, and as such incapable of harboring an idea repugnant to female purity. But in so composite a society as ours some evil characters are inevitably introduced; and even of those whose antecedents and position should vouch for their refinement there are many whose coarse tastes and dissipated courses render their contact with virtuous women almost a sacrilege. It is, moreover, a lamentable fact that in all civilized countries, while women are held to a strict account for each and every dereliction—even where the temptations thereto are forced upon them by their very censors-the greatest latitude is allowed to men; and the injured party is condemned, while the injurer suffers no rebuke, but rather gains popularity by his evil repute. Hence a witty foreigner said, with much worldly wisdom, speaking of the waltz: "With my son, yes; with my daughter, no!"

But setting aside the demoralizing tendencies of the present system of dancing-for we think we need scarcely labor to prove that a nice sense of female modesty must be blunted by habitual familiarity with the manipulations of the ruder sex-there are other objections to it which we will briefly notice.

Nor is the moral and intellectual deterioration induced by dancing its only evil results. Physical injury is, to a greater or less extent, entailed upon its votaries. It needs no extensive physiological knowledge to teach us that the maintenance of health depends greatly upon the fulfillment of two conditions-adequate aëration of the blood, and proper ablation of effete tissue. Both of these desiderata are effected by the agency of oxygen, which not only revivifies that portion of the blood which has made the circuit of the body, but aids in making new from the chyle freshly added; and, combining with the carbon resulting from textural waste, is breathed forth again as carbonic acid. Now, in a crowded ball-room, we have, above, a multitude of lights, burning each its share of this all-important gas, and, below these, several hundred human beings, who, under the stimulus of violent exercise, are undergoing more waste, and conscquently consuming more oxygen, and creating more poisonous carbonic acid. After a while, this latter is produced in such excess that our dancers, instead of getting rid of their own detritus, are actually inhaling that of others. This is the case, under the most favorable circumstances, attending the "fashionable season;" in the majority of instances, however, a further in

So long as the waltz and its congeners were mere accessories to fashionable entertainments some opportunity was afforded for the interchange of rational conversation, and the most brilliant social reputations for agreeability and culture were borne by some whose feet were innocent of "redowa" or "deux temps:" but now the insatiate pagan muse has so entirely monopolized the beau monde that, except her fiddling sister, none of the Parnassian family dare ven-centive to disease is hospitably provided by ballture within the ball-room. Regard the perfection of dexterity with which the habitués of New York salons twist and twirl through the bewildering confusion of couples, and your involuntary admiration is elicited; but listen to the brainless mockery of dialogue wherewith they beguile the panting intervals of their evolutions -the dreary platitudes and simpering imbecilities that pass current-and verily it would puzzle you to decide whether their heads or heels are lightest. As you dance not you are scarce considered worthy an invite; and even should that civility be reluctantly extended to you, you are constantly reminded that so far as intellectual recreation is concerned you had been better off at home with your own thoughts. Shouldered here, shoved there, your only refuge from the jostling of the dancing-rooms being in recourse to the entry, where you are deafened by the uproar of the musicians and chilled to your marrow by the frequent opening of the street

givers in the form of a "crash"-a maleficent linen cloth which is spread over the carpets to afford a smooth surface for the "many twinkling feet" of pallid victims. From the excessive attrition of this fabric the air is soon filled with a mist of floating lint, whose minute particles whiten one's coat, permeate one's hair, irritate one's eyes, and, worse than all, clog one's organs of respiration with a tenacious coating. Every where one hears of the alarming prevalence of bronchitis, and other diseases of the throat; and physicians will tell us that an enormous majority of these are found among the "fashionable" class of their patients. To such affections many causes are assigned; the climate is berated; the use of anthracite coal is deprecated; nay, even illuminating gas comes in for a share of vituperation; but, though other influences may bear an occasional part in their production, we honestly believe that these maladies, in nine cases out of ten occurring in

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