here. I know the head physician well; and the best care will be taken of him.'

"This prudence, which in my father was not harshness - this chilling benevolence intimidated and silenced me. I dared not express my feelings. And what were they, those feelings? What could I have said? What could I have asked? A moment's reflection taught me that it was vain to struggle any longer against the will of Providence. But I prayed, I implored a miracle. I dreamt that it was granted, and I passed from resignation to hope.

"I saw him again. He was between two keepers. His aspect was terrible. His hair was long and dishevelled, his eyes widely opened, his mouth wore an expression which would have been convulsive but for exhaustion. Suddenly he perceived me; an emotion of shame passed over his countenance; he felt the humiliation of appearing in such a condition before me; but when he heard the sound of my voice he gained courage, and spoke.

"You have then condemned me,' he said. How could I have cherished so presumptuous a hope? I could not have been cured when I formed so wild a project ;-to marry a mad-man!' and he laughed a terrible laugh.

"Have I deserved that you should speak thus?' I answered. 'Have you not witnessed my affection?'

"Yes; your goodness, your compassion, your charity, but affection, who could feel affection for such as I am ? I have been driven away from you; even you, so good, so pious, have been revolted at the sight of my misery. If I have fallen into the terrible condition in which you now see me, who is the cause? tell me.'

"I could no longer restrain my emotion. I burst into tears; I sobbed violently. He became more excited; he raised his head; his eyes flashed.

66 6

I am unjust and cruel!' he exclaimed. 'It is not you who refused me. You did not will my death; you could not have been so cruel. It is your father who has destroyed me. It is his barbarous prudence which has caused my ruin. Margaret, I implore you to tell me that you would have consented, that the refusal did not come from you. Give me this assurance; it will soothe my sufferings-it may still my fury. If I can say she loves me, this will be enough of happiness to make my short life calm and peaceful.'

"The blood still freezes in my veins when I think of the answer I might have given him. Can I be thankful enough for having been preserved from such awful recollections? What danger was I exposed to! In what horror should I have held myself!

"In a few moments I recovered my composure. I reproached him gently for his ingratitude towards my father. I tried to inspire him with some hope for the future. But, while I spoke, his keepers interposed between us, and entreated me to retire; they saw that a fearful crisis was approaching. The attendant who accompanied me hurried me away by force.

"From that day his lucid intervals almost ceased. They told me his reason was entirely gone.

"How shall I end my story? How shall I come to the terrible conclusion!

My father took care never to be seen by him; but he daily visited the place of his confinement, and gave constant and anxious

directions respecting him. On one of these visits he caught a sight of my father through the grated window of his cell. The door had been left open for a moment. He rushed out, exclaiming,

"It is he! it is he! my enemy, my murderer!'

"He darted down the stairs before any one could overtake him. He held a knife in his hand, that he had snatched up as he passed. He threw himself upon my father, and laid him dying at his feet. My father was brought back to me, bathed in his blood. The steel had reached his heart. He spoke with difficulty. My dear child! my poor Margaret!' were his last words, and I read in his dying looks the satisfaction he felt at having saved me from that stroke which had laid him low.

"No language can describe the agony I suffered: from that moment I have only existed for sorrow. God has willed it thus.

66

To a state of mind like mine exertion is necessary. I wish to devote myself to the service of the poor and the sick. It cannot be displeasing to heaven that it should be especially to the service of the sufferers from that fatal disease, the image of which is ever before my eyes and in my mind.

"I made inquiries respecting the unfortunate, the unconscious instrument of my terrible misfortune. He has never since had a momentary interval of reason. Never since has he recognized any one. Sometimes I thank heaven for this; at other times I reproach myself for the thought. He was immediately taken to the asylum where my father had intended to send him, only delaying his removal from kindness to his patient. It is at this asylum that I wish to be employed by the superiors of the order, into which I implore the favour of being received. Is it wrong for me to feel that I have still duties to fulfil towards him whom my father watched over with such tender care? I know that I shall not even be permitted to see him; but I shall be near him, I shall learn what his sufferings are. If he should ever recover, I shall ask to be sent away far from the place where he dwells."

I gave back the story of Sister Margaret to the superior; she told me that none of the pious sisterhood were more devoted, more zealous in exertion, more serene and placid in piety. "Nevertheless," added she, "her efforts are beyond her strength; she tries to subdue her sorrow, but it inwardly consumes her. It is never absent from her thoughts: but she never speaks of it."

Six months afterwards I received the following letter:

SIR, you seemed to take so much interest in Sister Margaret, that I feel myself called upon to announce to you that her sorrows are at an end. God has called her to himself. The poor young man who was confined in the asylum has latterly been suffering more and more from the violence of delirious paroxysms. Fifteen days ago brain fever declared itself. Margaret was informed of it. She asked me to dispense with her daily services; she sought refuge in the chapel, where she continued in prayer all that day, and almost all night. The young man died the next morning. His body was carried to the chapel. When we came forwards to sprinkle the holywater, Margaret would stand in her appointed place. As she passed before the coffin she fainted. Two days afterwards she died in my arms-died as a saint should die.”

AN HOUR WITH LADY ANN HAMILTON;

OR,

WHO WAS GEORGE THE FOURTH'S SPY?

BY THE AUTHOR OF "EXPERIENCES OF A GAOL CHAPLAIN."

"It was a marked feature in the lot of that most unfortunate woman' encircled by spies all her life."

to be

Mr. (afterwards Lord Chief Justice) Tindal.

"THE gist of the matter lies in small compass," said I to my excited companion, for an elderly and an antiquarian he was singularly impulsive," did the trinket ever belong to the royal personage you mention? Is it genuine? Can you authenticate it?

"Is Milton's mulberry-tree in Christ College gardens genuine?" returned the virtuoso, pettishly. "Is Sir Isaac Newton's MS. Principia,' preserved in one of the cabinets of Trinity College Library, genuine? Is Charles the First's death-warrant, with the signatures of the regicides attached (as shewn to one in the British Museum), genuine? Authentic! I tell you the trinket has never been hawked about by the curiosity vendors. It came to me all but direct from royalty."

"That last fact was suppressed till now," said I, calmly.

"It should not be; for it is most material," roared my virtuoso friend, Mr. Esten-his pardon for not having sooner announced him!" but people now-a-days won't hearken; countless speakers, no listeners. Who will now lend an ear to the remarks of an old man?"

"I: cheerfully and readily, if those remarks be made calmly and intelligibly," was my wicked response.

"Thanks be praised!" shouted Mr. Esten, his face crimson with anger and his eyes sparkling as he spoke; "my temper is under perfect control. Irritation is, in my judgment, pitiable. No created being ever saw me exasperated. In truth, I defy the power of circum

stances to ruffle me!"

It was only by visible and extreme effort that he refrained from finishing the sentence with a stamp.

"I am "-here commenced-“ Í am—”

"Manifestly an impassive person," was my quiet conclusion.

"And was from boyhood," added he, complacently: "but now for details. When I lodged in Lower Berkeley Street, the son of the mistress of the house fell ill. An ignorant apothecary was called in, and the poor lad was dosed and drenched till he was reduced to the weight and semblance of a skeleton. Seeing that death was inevitable if the drenching system was persevered in, I prevailed on his mother to let me send him to St. George's Hospital; where his case was thoroughly investigated, and where he gradually recovered. The gratitude of his family was great; and a sister who had lived for some years in the establishment of the Princess of Wales brought me as an acknowledgment' this antique filagree box, which, she said, her royal

* Queen Caroline.

mistress had given her for faithful services,' when that ill-advised princess quitted this country for the Continent in 1815."

"A procedure that proved, as she was forewarned, her ruin." "Forget her for the moment!" exclaimed my companion quickly; "and heed only my filagree honorarium. To accept such an article of bijouterie as a present was out of the question. I bought it; and though I paid smartly for my whistle, thought myself the winner of a prize. One morning,-years after it had come into my possession,— as I was exhibiting it to some country virtuoso, who fingered and thumbed my treasure till I could have pitched him off his chair for his vulgar familiarity, I fancied that I discovered a chink or flaw in one of the compartments. Rescuing it eagerly from his clutches, and examining it closely after his welcome departure, I detected, at the base, a small, narrow drawer. In it, among other trifles of no moment,— such as a fragment of gold-beater's skin, a skein of white silk, two mother-of-pearl counters wrapped up in silver paper,-lay a letter, which I conceive to have been written by no other than the late Princess Charlotte, and addressed to her mother. Examine the date and signature, and see if you can arrive at an opposite conclusion."

He tendered me, as he spoke, a letter, and then (with the characteristic agony of a collector) begged me to be "most particularly cautious how I handled it."

It was a small sheet of coarse, common writing-paper, which, from repeated foldings and unfoldings, would scarcely hang together. I scrutinized the water-mark. It tallied, indisputably, with the year in which the letter professed to be dated. The ink was faded; the paper was yellow from age. But still the purport could be distinctly gathered ; for the characters traced on the discoloured page were boldly, firmly, and deeply written. One word" unalterably "-was inscribed in letters of larger size than any other in the missive; and the interest of the document was heightened by the surmise which its appearance suggested that it had been blistered by tears.

Thus it ran:

MY DEAREST Mother,

You may rely on my firmness.

Warwick House, July 9th, 1814.

Always and unalterably your affectionate

"And now, Hammond, what say you?" I hesitated. your candid opinion-adverse or friendly-out with it."

C. P.

"Give me

Speaking as a lawyer," said I, "there is undoubtedly evidence, prima facie, in favour of this exquisite little casket having once belonged to Queen Caroline; and of this note-letter if so you like to call it having been written by her lamented daughter. But this evidence is not varied; nor is it conclusive. C. P. may stand for Charlotte Ponsonby, or Cecilia Pratt, or Cordelia Pierpoint, or half-a-dozen other ladies. And there is, undoubtedly, more than one Warwick House in London. I myself know a Warwick House in Bayswater; in the Regent's Park; at Norwood; at Brompton-"

"Ugh!" exclaimed Mr. Esten, with a gesture of vehement displeasure. "Ugh! Scepticism everywhere triumphant! snubs one right and left. Ugh! A. disbelieves this; and B. discredits that. Ugh!' Apparently unconscious of his displeasure, I proceeded―

The cover,

"The letter you will observe is addressed to no one. unhappily, is wanting, and consequently we lose the corroborative testimony which the seal would have supplied,"

"How dare you, sir, dispute the genuineness of that document? gasped out the antiquary. He tried to utter another sentence, but his rage rendered him inarticulate.

"I don't dispute its being genuine," was my rejoinder; "my remark simply goes to this-that the evidence in support of its authenticity is incomplete. I should like the little note to be verified by one who had been about the late Princess Charlotte, or who was thoroughly conversant with her handwriting, and could fearlessly pronounce upon it."

"Any other painful and damaging suggestion?" inquired my companion with affected calmness.

"There are no initials on the casket, as you are doubtless aware; no coat of arms; nothing to connect it with royalty; nothing to indicate that George the Fourth's Queen was its former owner."

"Permit me now to make an insinuation," said the old gentleman, bitterly, "perhaps the relic is not silver, but pewter-in rare preservation, and exquisitely polished."

Surely I have not offended you!" was my reply. "You asked for my candid opinion; you cannot entertain anger that I have given it ?"

"Two facts," continued he, articulating with difficulty, "I re-assert and will not be driven from : the writer of this letter was the Princess Charlotte; and that box was once the property of her mother. Such is my fixed and firm belief."

"And that you may hold it on sure grounds I will, with your concurrence, endeavour to arrange an interview with Lady Ann Hamilton, for so many years lady-in-waiting on Queen Caroline, and submit both the letter and the casket to her inspection and decision."

By the latter I won't hold myself bound if it be against me," exclaimed Mr. Esten, sharply; "she's an authority, I admit, but not infallible."

"It will be no easy matter," I observed, " to obtain her opinion. She lives at Pentonville in great seclusion, and is not very accessible. But I know a Mrs. Janet Hamilton, a kinswoman and favourite of the late Lord Archibald; with her, I believe, Lady Ann keeps up occasional intercourse. A note of introduction from my venerable friend will, probably, procure us an audience."

Mr. Esten paused, and looked somewhat pugnaciously disposed. "Why should I," murmured he, "waste my time by running after this or that ex-lady in waiting? I want no opinion. My mind is made up. But still-name your day and hour," and he turned to me abruptly; "'twill but exercise the horses."

"The third day from this-Frdiay; the hour-two: will that arrangement meet your convenience ?

"Consider it as an appointment and keep it," grunted the virtuoso ; and we parted.

On a most unpropitious morning-it rained in torrents-we started off in Mr. Esten's britschka for Pentonville; and, after repeated inquiries, at length stood before the humble dwelling where the favourite attendant of a queen-the firm and faithful adherent of her royal mistress-was closing her eventful life. It was a touching and cha