of Brohl. At the edges of the road are observed several little pitfalls of the ant-lion, an ugly-looking little insect, who makes a funnel of sand, lies perdu at the bottom of it, and devours any unfortunate ant who has the ill-luck to miss his footing on the overhanging sward. This region appears to be rich in entomology. Among other beetles, one is very common, with red legs and green and gold body, who seems, from the frequency with which he shows himself, to be almost conscious of his beauty. The valley of Brohl appears to be a rift on a large scale, traversing consolidated volcanic débris and mud, of much the same nature as that out of which Pompeii has to be dug. This rift, down which winds a stream, is made irregular by being blocked at intervals by more solid rocks, and in general the forms of its cliffs and vine-bearing terraces are fantastic and theatrical, rather than positively beautiful. A rising watering-place, called Tönnistein, where a very palatable mineral water is to be drunk on the premises, is making this curious gorge one of the smaller resorts of fashion. It debouches on the Rhine at the village of Brohl, whence Andernach is soon reached by railway or by steam. G. C. SWAYNE.

ANA.

SIR JOHN COCHRANE, being engaged in Argyle's rebellion against James II., was taken prisoner after a desperate resistance, and sentenced to be hanged. His daughter Grizzle having obtained information that the death-warrant was expected from London by the coach, dressed herself up in man's clothes, and twice attacked and robbed between Belford and Berwick, the mails which conveyed the death-warrants. This gave time to Sir John Cochrane's father, the Earl of Dundonald, to make interest with Father Peter, a Jesuit priest, and the King's confessor, who, for the sum of five thousand pounds, agreed to intercede with his royal master in favour of Sir John Cochrane, and to obtain his pardon, which was granted. The great-granddaughter of this lady, Miss Stuart of Allan Bank, was the grandmother of the late eminent banker, Mr. Thomas Coutts, whose grandchild is the present Miss Burdett Coutts.

CHARLBOROUGH PARK.-It may not be generally known that Charlborough Park, near Wareham, Dorsetshire, the seat of Mr. J. S. W. ErleDrax, is intimately associated with one of the most important events in the history of our country. In the grounds adjoining it is a small building, something above the dignity of a summerhouse, with the following inscription: "Under this roof, in the year 1686, a set of patriotic gentlemen of this place concocted the plan of the Glorious Revolution with the immortal King William, to whom we owe our delivery from the tyrant race of the Stuarts, the restoration of our liberties, security of our property, establishment of our national prosperity, honour, and wealth. Englishmen remember this era, and consider that your liberty, obtained by the virtues of your ancestors, must be maintained by yourselves."

THE FRAÜLEIN'S HAIR.

AN EPISODE OF THE LIBERATION WAR,

From Moscow the baffled eagle came,
And his eye was glazed with a film of shame ;
His wing was rigid with Arctic rime,
And his plumes were strown ere the moulting-time;
Yet loftily bears he his battered head,
And even Victory shrinks with dread.

So there is muster in Breslau town
To strike that Gallic eagle down;
And the tocsin sounds, to arms! to arms!
Oh, the rapture of such alarms!
And Breslau's youth are up to a man,
Eager to stand in the battle's van;
And Breslau's maids feed their emprize
With smiles, and blushes, and tears, and sighs,
And each from jewelled store supply
The sinews of glorious mutiny.

One brings silver, another gold; Another an heir-loom of trinkets old; But amongst the maiden throng is one Who jewels of gold and silver has none; Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair! Richest of all in the golden hair!

Dowerless maiden! so poor and fair!
She drooped with grief in her golden hair,
As worthy never more to show

A wealth that availed not against the foe ;
And then with the guilt of her poverty bold,
She shore off her tresses of waving gold,
That a gift she might give, if they were sold.

Her gift was the greatest, for never, I ween, At auction or mart was such bidding seen; For every youth in the town would wear Some slightest pittance of golden hair.

Of each the portion was costly and small, Nor were there ringlets enough for all; And one who was late was first to advance And open his breast to a Polish lance.

Valour abounded in that stern strife,
But the last in battle to think of life,
The first to charge, the last to fly,
The foremost ever to do or die,

The firmest to stand when full in view
The shot tore horse and rider through,
Were the men whose bosom or head did bear
That cognisance of the golden hair.

They the men who cleanly smote
To the saddle from the throat:
They whose sabre-point did pass
Through the trooper's heart in his cuirass;
Who gun from carriage to earth did fling
'Mid the battery's thunderous bellowing;
Always doing, and everywhere,
All that heroes can do or dare.

Fraulein von Scheliha !
Fraulein, Queen of the Free!
"Twas a matchless deed as ever we read,
Or ever shall live to see.

CHAFTER I.

In the east there is a white, wan glimmer, as of a spectre haunting the dying moments of night: then the twilight of early morning is in the London streets. The air is fresh, exhilarating, unadulterated, for as yet even that very early riser the smoke is not astir. The highways are deserted, and for any visible signs of existence the pulse of the great city would seem to have ceased to beat. Solitary policemen, it is true, pursue the nocturnal pastimes of the force in the way of pulling at door-handles and testing shutter-fastenings; and coffee-stalls, warmed by red stoves, gleam mistily here and there, like town glow-worms, at the cor

ners of open streets-but these, seen through the gauze of dawn, are, after all, more phantoms than actualities, and impart no more semblance of vitality to the sleeping metropolis than ghosts to a grave-yard.

A feeling of solitude begotten by the stillness -so unnatural compared with the roar of later hours-impresses forcibly the mind of the early wanderer. Independence so apparently absolute is not without its element of alarm. In the suspension of all social conventions in sleep, men who are compelled to be awake and about, go back to quite a primitive order of being, and learn the advantages of fraternisation as completely as in the

No. 220.

Australian bush or the African desert. It is remarkable how soon interchange of colloquy ensues, how immediately acquaintances are to be made, and all restrictions of form and rank are abolished, amongst vagrants, at say four o'clock in the morning, in the streets of London. Then, even the policeman thaws, and, merging the constable in the man, is quite anxious to inform any one on his beat that it is a fine morning and upon the lightest encouragement will furnish full particulars o the large fire over night, or the daring burglary in the next street two mornings back. After all, nature is an older institution than civilisation, and occasionally asserts her rights of primogeniture.

:

For some time after my first arrival in London, the occupation in which I was engaged rendered it necessary for me to rise very early. I may say at once that I was young-little more than a boy in years-and poor. I occupied inexpensive apart ments in a street turning out of the Hampstead Road. It was in days when existing ingenious contrivances for boiling kettles rapidly by means of a star of gas-jets or a wheel of resinous firewood were undiscovered, or at any rate, not generally available. Breakfast in my own rooms involved difficulties and delays not to be endured. My toilet completed as well as darkness and drowsiness would permit, I sallied out into the streets, and took refuge for half an hour at a small coffeeshop in the neighbourhood of Holborn. The establishment had few recommendations beyond being both early and cheap, though I am bound to add that it was clean and not uncomfortable. What time it opened or whether it ever shut I could never clearly ascertain. Its frequenters were numerous, and for the most part like myself, influenced as to their early rising rather by necessity than choice; gentlemen of the newspaper press, post-office employés on their way to early duty or returning from night service, travellers just arrived by late or preparing to start by early trains, with occasional visitors whom festivity had kept from bed, and who were constantly trying by means of mild decoctions of tea and coffee to negative the effects of recent more powerful potations.

Frequenters of a public room soon become acquainted with its advantages and deficiencies, and acquire, moreover, a sort of right from custom to certain seats and corners. Hence I knew exactly in the establishment I visited the seat that from its situation near the fire was too hot, and the seat that was exposed to the draught of the doorwhere the culinary fumes were too abundant, and where the clattering of crockery and the details of the scullery were unpleasantly closeand I learnt to appropriate a comfortable position at some distance from the entrance and by the side of the fire, at a small table in the centre of a hutch or pew fitted into a recess in the wall, where accommodation was afforded to two guests only. Other habitués of the room had apparently their accustomed places. The usual occupant of the seat opposite to mine was a man of above sixty, as I judged, who appeared to have been well known in the room for some time preceding my first visit. Meeting this same man morning after morning, I soon learnt to take an interest in him and his

proceedings. It began to be a source of disap pointment to me if he ever failed to appear opposite to me during the progress of my meal, while his presence permitted me the pleasure of much and ingenious surmise; we had never spoken, however, and there was little in his abstracted, unconscious air that invited me to address him. He was tall, thin, very erect. In the winter he wore a large military cloak folded round him: in the summer his frock coat was always buttoned close up to his chin. His face was worn and sunburnt. He wore no whiskers, but a thick, projecting, shaggy moustache-at a time when moustaches were seldom to be seen in this country; and his hair, iron-grey in colour, was long and tangled. For some reason he had, unknown to himself, acquired in the room the soubriquet of the Baron. The fancy of bestowing upon him this fictitious rank arose probably from a certain dignified foreign air in his manner and appearance. He invariably raised his hat as he entered or quitted the room, and though he never or rarely spoke to anyone, he always delivered or received the newspapers and magazines with which the place was strewn, and which he and others were sometimes moving about in quest of, with great politeness. He read through gold-framed double eye-glasses which fastened with a spring. He frequently occupied himself with writing in a small note-book. been severely wounded in his right arm, but, nevertheless, he wrote with considerable facility and apparent neatness with his left hand; the writing being sloped contrarily to the ordinary method, after the manner peculiar to writers with the left hand. He was in the habit of entering the coffee-room about the same time that I did, and I generally left him there. His breakfast was moderate enough; being seldom more than a cup of coffee, a biscuit, and a cigar. But he had always the appearance of having been up all night, rather than of having risen early. On rainy morn ings he would come in dripping wet and splashed with mire, as though he had been walking far, and when it snowed there was quite a thick crust upon his hat and cloak. Still he exhibited no symptom of fatigue or of desire for rest. Although his dress was simple and his fare frugal, there was about him no positive indication of poverty, while his man. ners and appearance gave no clue as to his ordinary occupation or profession. Altogether the Baron puzzled and interested me. I longed for an oppor tunity of drawing him into conversation, in the hope of gathering some information, or at least some food for further surmise regarding him. Notwithstanding our frequent meetings, however, I

He had

was for some time able to do little more than show him the small civilities and attentions which the facts of our occupation of the same table and the crippled state of his arm fairly permitted. At length I made an excuse for addressing him.

It was a March morning. A bitter east wind was blowing round the corners of the streets as fiercely as though it had been suffering under a pent-up rage and had at length received licence to give the reins to its wrath. Now it furiously whirled about and stung the faces of the passers in the streets with handfuls of sleet; now it made frantic efforts to tear away their hats and cloaks;

now it lashed them with vindictive blasts till they ached and tingled all over as from the most cutting and malicious stripes. The streets so searchingly swept by the wind looked blanched like bones on a sea-strand. Right glad was I to beat a retreat from an enemy so merciless, and take refuge for a while in my warm corner in the coffee-shop.

The Baron was not long after me. As he took possession of his accustomed seat, I was struck by something unusual in his appearance. He was pale and agitated; he glanced continually over his shoulder as though he expected to see some one following him, and his thin white hand trembled so that he at once removed it from the table. His eyes wandered about with a vacant restlessness that was almost alarming, while he was every now and then seized with a distressing fit of coughing which shook his whole frame.

"This is a bad morning," I said.

He turned to me with a startled air. "It is," he replied coldly, after a pause. "Your cold is very bad-are you not imprudent to venture out?"

He gazed at me steadfastly for a moment or two.

"Why do you ask this? Who are you, that presume to question me?

I was not unprepared for a rebuff of this nature. In a few words I ventured to inform him that my question arose from no merely idle motive, but out of real sympathy for him. I reminded him of the many times we had met, and suggested to him that the fact prevented my regarding him entirely as a stranger. I spoke in a tone as conciliatory and polite as was possible to me, and by way of giving an example of confidence, I spoke openly of myself; mentioned my name, address, and calling, and finally expressed regret if in addressing him I had given offence.

The unreserve of this appeared to soothe him. "You have trust in me, at any rate," he said. I gave him my card. He placed it in his note book-shuffling it in with his hand-then clasped the book and returned it to his pocket.

"Your curiosity in regard to me has been roused?"

'Something more than curiosity." "Interest, perhaps?" "Yes, interest."

"Well, it is not so surprising. You are young and-"

He stopped as though from irresolution. Leaning his head upon his hand and gazing at me searchingly, he after a pause resumed:

"Something has happened to me to-night"speaking slowly and in a depressed tone-"so strange, so marvellous, that I might stand excused if I made the first man I met my confidant; were it only to preserve a record of what has taken place in another mind than my own, I am almost bound to speak. Time so effaces impressions-so constrains us to forget and to disbelieve, it would be a satisfaction to relate this matter to another, even an utter stranger, while it is still new, fresh, and restless in my thoughts. And you have taught yourself to be interested in me?"

A sudden fit of coughing shook him cruelly. Exhausted and panting he rose from his seat. I

Probably he

stretched out my arm to assist him. misunderstood my intention. Smiling, he pressed my hand gently.

"No," he said, "not here; not now."

He moved slowly towards the door, turning back, however, before he had reached it. "Do not follow me," he said, and quitted the room.

For three days the Baron's seat in the coffeeroom was unoccupied, and I could gain no tidings of him. On the evening of the fourth day, however, I found at my lodgings a letter, the handwriting of which I readily recognised. The contents were brief. I was requested to call that night at a house in the neighbourhood of Queen Square. The letter was signed "Lane Daly." I hurried at once to the place appointed, found the house with. out difficulty-it was small, but not mean-looking -and learnt that Mr. Daly occupied rooms on the second-floor. The staircase was tortuous and illlighted, but the apartment into which I was introduced was well-furnished, and generally comfortable in appearance. The Baron, or Mr. Daly, as his real name seemed to be, was reclining on a small sofa in front of the fire. He rose as I entered, shook me cordially by the hand, and motioned me to an armchair by the side of his couch. He looked pallid and weak. He was taking coffee; after pouring me out a cup, he resumed his reclining position.

"You were possibly surprised at my writing to you," he said in a low tone, "but the fact of your presence here shows that I did not draw too largely upon your kindness. I have been ill-I have been compelled to succumb to sickness as I have seldom done before. I have not left my room since I last saw you. You will forgive my asking you to come to me here, but for some days now I must remain a prisoner, and I then leave England. You have expressed an interest in me. I have to thank you much. I have seen you frequently at the coffee-room to which we both resort. I have observed you more perhaps than you are aware of. I can-I do believe that this interest arises from a certain sympathy and not from mere curiosity. You are young. You do not know how valuable to those journeying on to age is the sympathy of the young. I did not perhaps myself know it thoroughly until within these few hours. I did not think I needed the sympathy of anyone. Heaven knows I have not courted it, and but a short time back I would as soon have died as have had a stranger here, sitting where you sit, hearing what I am about to ask you to hear. But an event has occurred which almost forces me to speak. It seems to me that silence would prey upon my

reason.

"I had resolved after our last meeting at the coffee-room, and urged by your kindness there, to make known to you a strange chapter in a strange history. I have been thinking how to isolate this incident from surrounding circumstances, so as to make it intelligible to you without my entering upon a lengthy revelation. I find it necessary, however, that I should narrate to you certain details of my past career which I had not contemplated at first, and which may lead me to be more prolix than I desire. Forgive me, there

fore, if I test your kindness too severely; and remember, you have in fact courted the position you occupy. If my recital weary, it may also warn you; and if I lose your respect, I must beg none the less-your pity.'

I assured him of my sympathy beforehand. "Your patience first, then," he said.

CHAPTER II.

"My name is Lane Daly. I am of the Dalys of Fermoy, a good family, but sadly impoverished, like many another Irish house, by prolonged improvidence. I was a younger son, and as a consequence inherited little more than a foolish pride, a monstrous pedigree, and that phantom property, a contingent interest in an over-encumbered estate. Yet these were excuses enough to keep an Irishman from industry. I was never trained to any profession. I seemed forbidden to toil for my bread. I was brought up with independent notions without independent means. I received an accidental education at a Jesuit college in the neighbourhood of the family estate. Then, as a young man, a brief career of life in Dublin, where I acquired little beyond the science of debt, and I came to London fortune seeking. I had name and connections although I had not money, and moreover every Irishman has some one above him in station whom he looks up to and expects to get something from. A promise is the general result-another word for a lie-it was all I ever got. I, with others, dangled attendance at a great man's levée, in the hope of advancement I never received. He was one of those old-established mockeries-a man who seemed a patron and arrogated to himself the airs of one, without ever doing a single action to merit the title. I am speaking of years long past. I was a young man then. I am not now so old as you perhaps deem me. I am now little more than forty-five, though I am aware I seem older. I was young, and as a necessary adjunct to youth and poverty-came love.

"The family of the Moncktons have been, as you are doubtless aware, for many years distinguished in the commercial history of this country for their enormous wealth and influence. The late Sir John Monckton had one daughter-Margaret. Of her exquisite beauty I will spare both of us elaborate description. Here is her portrait, painted about the date of my first meeting with her, by a French artist of some fame. Judge for yourself."

He took from his breast-pocket a morocco leather miniature case, and handed it to me. It enclosed the portrait of a woman, certainly of great beauty. For some minutes the charming expression of innocence and contemplative purity depicted in the miniature, held me spell-bound. Then I closed the case and returned it to him, motioning my thanks.

"In mind," he went on, "she was not less excellent. And here I should state,-you know me so slightly, it is necessary, that not one thought of the wealth she was likely one day to inherit, ever tainted the truthfulness of my love for Margaret Monckton. I believe that had I met her even in the very humblest position I should not

have loved her less. I had frequent opportunities of seeing her. I was admitted to her father's house, and received there as a constant and welcome guest. That the cadet of a needy Irish family should aspire to the hand of an English heiress, was looked upon as a danger too absurd to be apprehended. So my love grew and swelled unchecked within me, until my surcharged heart broke down beneath the burthen. My passion would find its way into words. I betrayed myself. You can guess the result. The door of Sir John Monckton's house was thenceforth for ever closed against me. My only sins were my poverty and my love. But how unpardonable are these in a rich man's eyes!

"The father of Margaret had views of his own in relation to his daughter's hand. There were other matters besides the happiness of his child to be considered. What could be more important than strengthening his political connections, than enlarging the arena of his commercial pursuits? He had decided upon the marriage of his daughter with a General Galton, a man of high family and great wealth, who had returned from an important colonial appointment to marry and be buried in his native land. Obedience is a nobler virtue than love-the conviction cannot be too soon grafted into the heart of a child. Filial piety is rightly held in high esteem: it has a happy tendency to promote parental profit! How many Englishmen, do you think, champions of liberty abroad, are yet the most cruel of tyrants at home, preying upon their children's joys, weighing their hearts but as fathers in the scale against political advancement and sordid ambition?"

He spoke with violence, and then paused for some minutes, as though overcome with his exertion.

"She loved me," he continued, in a low voice, and speaking slowly and with effort. "Yet she prepared to obey her father's commands. There was something touching, it was too pitiable to be condemned, in her compliance with a bidding which was breaking her heart. In the interval between my dismissal and the final arrangement of her marriage, I had written to her beseeching an interview. Trembling, for it was the first time she had acted wilfully in opposition to her father, she | granted my request. Our meeting was a strange mingling of happiness and suffering-vows of love and outbursts of regret. In vain did we attempt to rend the ties that united us. Each interview dedicated to the interchange of eternal adieux, ended in an arrangement for a further meeting. I saw her again and again. Sir John Monckton resided in one of those houses in St. James's Place, the gardens of which run down to the Green Park. A place of meeting was beneath a lime-tree, in a secluded part of the enclosure. Margaret had free access to the park in the early part of the morning, and by indentations on the bark of the tree, she was enabled to indicate to me the hour at which she could probaby escape from her father's house for a meeting in the evening-the garden wall being so low that she could descend from it into the park, or return thence, without difficulty or much fear of detection.

"What hours of happiness did we pass in the