The name by which our young people were now known was not, as may have suggested itself to the reader, their patronymic. Their father was of a proud and ancient family of the name of Oldmixon, and inherited a fair estate in a remote part of Devonshire, together with a large portion of the family pride; but it was neither the pride of ancestry nor of wealth. It was the pride of noble independence, and an unsullied name. In all things he followed in the steps of his forefathers. He had been but once in his life in London, where he had neither connections or friends, and on succeeding to his property, had settled quietly down into that most respectable character, an English country gentlemen.

There was a young lady in the neighbourhood of his estate, who from possessing very fascinating personal charms, as well as from being peculiarly situated in life, had become an object of much interest in that part of the country. She was the descendant of an old and highly respectable family, who bore the name of Silverthong, and she was the last of all her race. She had lately lost her last surviving parent, and found herself a solitary being in the world, without relation or connection; not but she had many friends; cordial and affectionate friends.

Still there is something in the tie of kindred, a cognate bond, which, unless severed by neglect, or cancelled by unworthiness, is the purest, as well as one of the dearest sources of our best affections. To poor Cecilia Silverthong this source had been dried up, or, we may rather say, that, save to her parents, the fountain never had been opened; she felt herself an isolated being; a unit in a populous world; and envied the poorest peasant who could boast his sisters, brothers, and remote relations, though like himself the humblest servants of the soil, or even, possibly, the tenants of a workhouse.

Another peculiarity of this young lady's fate was also quite notorious. Her excellent mother, of primitive manners and unsuspecting nature, had suffered her animated and affectionate daughter when not more than twelve years of age, to make a sort of pet playfellow of a beautiful and noble boy, the son of a closely-neighbouring baronet, who might be not more than in his eighth year. This child attached himself to his elder sister, as he was wont to call her, with such romantic enthusiasm, as to render it a matter not of notice only, but of extreme amusement to their individual families. Nothing that childish affection could exhibit was omitted by the enthusiastic boy to prove his devotion to his elder sister. Whatever were his choicest treats were put aside to be offered to her. The finest products of the pilfered garden and invaded orchard, were offered at her shrine. The rifled bird's nest, and the "rewards of merit," were alone placed at her disposal; and being, as may be supposed in so proximate a neighbourhood, alike under the same masters in similar studies, such as the early elements of education, and music, drawing, &c., in an unlucky moment it was determined by the unsus

pecting, and, perhaps we may say, short-sighted parents, that the children so much attached should receive their lessons together at the house of Cecilia's mother.

A cool and calculating mind might have foreseen the probable consequences on the ardent character and precocious passion of a boy like Charles Rivers. But to his own parents (of whom he was the second son) might probably be traced the volcanic nature of his own temperament, and they considered only the pleasure of gratifying a mere childish penchant in affording him the indulgence of this arrangement.

The mother of Cecilia, who of course saw nothing in all this beyond the pleasure of contributing to her daughter's amusement, had earnestly encouraged the idea, as giving a motive and stimulus to her improvement. Briefly, this intercourse, in about three years, gradually changed from the character of brother and elder sister to that of mistress and pupil.

The boy, fiery and impetuous to all but her, with whom he was submissive and obedient even to the wonder of herself, sprang with surprising strides after acquirement, and with no less amazing precocity towards adolescence.

Another year elapsed; Cecilia had now advanced into her sixteenth year, and Charles Rivers had entered his thirteenth. For some reason or other, never noticed or inquired into, Cecilia now declined all further instruction, and begged to be allowed to study by herself. The request was instantly accorded by her mother, and the boy was, for the first time, sent by his parents to a regular school.

It were useless and childish to record the instances in which he pestered Cecilia with letters filled with the wild imaginings of an amorous boy-how he repeatedly played truant to awaken her in a morning with a tender lay under her well-known window-how, when absolutely denied admittance, he climbed trees and dropped from their branches in her path, scaled walls, and entered through windows, to present himself before her! The boy was mad, and mad for love. Letters after letters were returned unopened, but nothing could stop the insane career of this determined young lover. Poor Cecilia now discovered where she had been to blame. She had petted a young tiger as a plaything, who now, even in semi maturity, turned upon her to devour her.

Years rolled on, and this persecution still continued. Cecilia's mother made repeated remonstrances to the parents of Charles Rivers. They declared their inability to control him, and retorted by accusing her of having notoriously encouraged the attachment. They, in fact, saw no objection to their second son's union with a young lady of a high family, and of very respectable fortune, to say the least. They took, in short, no steps to abate the terrible nuisance complained of. Perhaps, in fact, they rather promoted it. At all events, the persecution became at last so notorious and so annoying, that the poor girl was compelled to seek refuge in a distant county, with some old friends of her family, in the hope of escaping the pretensions of a boyish but resolute attachment, with which her own heart had never for a moment acknowledged a sympathy, beyond the mere indulgence of a playful regard for a beautiful and clever child. The youth was mad, and mad for love; and that was clear as light to all the country!

Years, I say, rolled on; the mother and Cecilia removed from place to place. From time to time Charles Rivers traced and followed them

he

everywhere. At last, when he had just attained his twentieth year, presented himself before her at Bognor, pleaded his love and constancy, implored her forgiveness and pity, and swore he was at length determined to possess her hand, or to die by his own. No woman, I apprehend, could fail to be touched by such symptoms of enduring affection and attachment, however romantic, however unreturned. Cecilia freely admitted all the childish affection she had felt for the child-all the growing friendship she had encouraged for the pupil; but ended by declaring her utter inability to accept his proffered heart, while she beseeched him still to consider her as a friend and sister, in which relations she should ever acknowledge him, in spite of his cruel persecution, as a near and dear connection. This scene occurred on the sands at Bognor, and, as he had contrived, there were no witnesses to the meeting. He now told her, in a resolute and determined tone, that the moment was arrived which was to decide his fate; that he had loved her from his boyhood; that she had encouraged his love; and that he was at length resolved to die at her feet if she still persisted in her refusal to make him happy. Cecilia had heard and read in plays and novels of these tremendous threatenings, but did not altogether believe in their intention. Not without some degree of scorn, therefore, she cautioned him against any attempt to intimidate her.

On this he started, drew a pistol from his pocket, deliberately cocked it, presented it to his head, and pulled the trigger; but the quick sense and presence of mind of woman had defeated him. As she noticed his action, as if purely in scorn, her hand by a backward movement displaced the pistol, and, though its contents grazed and severely injured the skull, they touched no vital part.

Enough was done, however, to prostrate the attempting suicide. He fell to the ground, and the shrieks of the alarmed girl soon brought effectual assistance to the spot: he was conveyed to the hotel, where all necessary aid and attendants were procured for him. The mother of Cecilia wrote off immediately to his parents, to apprize them of the event and of his present residence, and then hastily prepared to leave the place but this was not to be. The shock had proved too powerful for the nerves of the poor girl. She was attacked with faintings and shiverings, and in a few hours was in a high fever, which for many days threatened her life, and from which she only slowly recovered after an alarming confinement of full three weeks, and as long a period of doubtful convalescence.

scene.

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In the meantime, Sir William and Lady Rivers had hastened to the Sir William lost no time in waiting on Mrs. Silverthong with anxious inquiries, condolences, and regrets. She declined seeing him, and he followed up his visit by a letter, in which he stated that they had found their unfortunate son in a raging delirium, that his skull had received a fracture, and that very slender hopes of his recovery were entertained. He apologized for his wife's not having paid her immediate respects with himself, but appealed to her own maternal feelings for her excuse; concluded with expressions of the deepest sorrow for her daughter's sufferings,-sorrow which, he assured her, could only be increased by the melancholy consciousness that his unhappy son had been the occasion of them; but that, should it please God to restore them both, he would take especial care should never be renewed by any person connected with his name.

Charles Rivers was restored to health, but not till long after the object of his love and persecution, and her mother, had left Bognor.

As recollections revived with his returning senses, he could hardly persuade himself that he was not awakened from a frightful dream. At length, he hesitatingly inquired after Cecilia-was told she had long since left Bognor, and from that moment he never named her more, save in his sleep.

Briefly, as he recovered, he became an altered being. All the wild extravagance of his boyish energies appeared to have subsided, and nothing to remain of the former wild and impetuous boy, but a tempered enthusiasm, a chastened vehemence, and restricted rashness, which now assumed the more manly character of unflinching courage.

It had so happened that a wealthy aunt, an elder sister of his father, had died about three years before the period to which our history has arrived, and bequeathed a very considerable property in the funds to her nephew and godson Charles Rivers, which property was to vest in him from the period of his attaining the age of twenty. He was, therefore, now independent of all the world, a circumstance which, while he disdained to urge it to his adored Cecilia, had no doubt, in a measure encouraged, if not suggested, the vigour of his last pursuit.

One day, while taking an airing in an open carriage with his father and mother, Sir William Rivers, in accordance with a plan settled between the latter, began gently to expatiate on the events of the last two months. The moment Charles Rivers perceived the drift of this preface, he calmly interrupted his father.

"If I am right in my supposition, dear sir, you are about to enter on a subject which I am resolutely determined never to discuss. I would not for worlds charge you with being accessory to follies which have nearly cost me my life, and, what is incalculably more valuable to the world, and more dear to me, the life, or, at all events, the happiness of one other being. I would not accuse my parents for the world's purchase of having encouraged, or sanctioned, or even winked at my past enormities, all I will ever say is, that I wish they had been repressed, and my dangerous follies corrected. But the past is irrevocable, and I live henceforward only for the future. I am now, I believe, in a legal sense independent, and need be no longer a burthen to you.

"It is my wish to travel, to see the world; and it shall go hard but the spoiled child and incipient madman shall redeem the character which he leaves behind him, blighted, branded, and all but infamous."

There is no need to pursue this conversation or its results. In less than a month Charles Rivers, after having sold a considerable portion of his funded wealth, bade farewell to his family, and retired to the continent.

BEFORE AND BEHIND THE BARRICADES OF JUNE.*

BY THE HONOURABLE CHARLES STUART SAVILE.

"Oh Liberté! que de crimes se commettent en ton nom."

MADAME ROLAND.

IT had long been evident to every one residing in Paris, or who took an interest in the affairs of the French Republic, that sooner or later a desperate struggle would arise between the moderate and red Republicans. By the latter must be understood those men who, throughout the reign of Louis Philippe, maintained the principles of Republicanism at an enormous disadvantage, and in the face of every possible difficulty and peril. It was they who made the Revolution of February; they cling to their principles with the zealous fervour of religious enthusiasm, and have proved their readiness to die in their defence; they look upon themselves indeed as the regenerators of humanity.

Many accounts have appeared, professing to be true descriptions of the late dreadful events in Paris; they are, however, for the most part garbled, or written by prejudiced pens. Several leading French journals have published details of the most disgusting atrocities perpetrated by the insurgents; the far greater portion, however, of these cases owe their origin to the fertile imaginations of the redacteurs of the Constitutionel, the National, the Siècle, and the Debâts.

It is my intention to confine myself to the description of some of the events of which I was an eye-witness, and which may prove interesting from my having mingled both with the insurgents and with the partisans of the government, preserving, at the same time, a strict neutrality, for I felt that, in my capacity of a foreigner, I had no business to mix myself up with a family quarrel.

On Friday the 23rd of June, I was sitting, at half-past ten in the morning, in my breakfast-room, the windows of which face the Porte St. Martin, when I suddenly heard a tremendous shout, and on looking upon the Boulevart, a most animated scene presented itself to me: shoals of men in blouses were rushing forth from the wine-shops and cafés in the neighbourhood, crying out, "Aux barricades!" "Vive la Republique !" "à bas Lamartine!” “à bas Ledru Rollin!" " à bas Marie," &c. As if by enchantment, barricades began to rise on every side, formed chiefly by omnibuses and fiàcres, which having been thrown over, were placed across the street, and filled and heaped up with paving-stones, torn from the ground by the infuriated people.

It was evident that a new revolution was breaking out, and as everything seemed to foretell that the fighting would be long and bloody, for I was certain that the regular troops would not on this occasion hold back as in February,-I quitted my house, and proceeded as fast as possible to my banker's office, situated near the Chausée d'Antin, in order to supply myself with funds before the establishment should be closed, for it was difficult at such a period to

* This paper was written immediately after the events it describes, but for certain reasons was not then published. Those reasons no longer exist.