to peep and to wonder at the poor humble oaken looking she felt herself guilty, guilty beyond all box. Weeks went by. John Strong proved himself a peerless servant, trusty, honest, faithful. More ships outward bound stayed at the little wharf; more golden coin fell into the little parlour till; more good was everywhere. Yet the little meek-voiced woman, in her secret heart, was ill at ease; the mystery was unsolved, and she had not Badger to consult. When she made John's bed, she shook the box; when she dusted his room, she turned it upside down; when the day was clear, she peeped within the four little gimlet-holes of the top, and saw nothing but darkness. The box was with Mrs. Dipple at home and abroad. Selina, kind, gentle as she was, guessed that the box held the memory of a sorrow. She saw wisely within the heart of a man. She never touched the box, never turned it, never was unjustly curious; yet as she tucked up fresh crisp blinds, or laid a little book upon the table, or a note, or a few flowers, or a plant in the windows, she wondered, but not ignobly. She was only made gentler and kinder by this observed touch of sorrow; she would not add to it-not she. John never talked of his history, his friends, or whom he knew, or whence he came; and, moreover, you could not ask him questions. One thing more than all, now summer was come, was his going forth every Sunday and holiday at noon with his box, not again returning with it till late in the evening; then the little wondering heart saw that he was always sad. One August Sunday afternoon some little matter of business took the old man from his home, and as he wanted company, he bid his pretty daughter put on her best bib and tucker, and come away with him to the fields. So she did. Towards evening they reached a little secluded village amid the Surrey hills, with a quaint primitive church, ivy-clad, and topped by a golden spire, on which glittered the last smile of the setting sun. The old man's business lay with the landlord of the little village inn, so the girl stepped out into the garden, from thence, by a primitive green lane, into the lonely churchyard-a quiet, quaint, hidden place, where even the flowers slept, and the tall grass waved gently. She found a little wayward path amidst the tiny graves; she passed beneath the angel-gloried window, and there before her, in the shadiest spot, with his back towards her, seated on the grass, with his head bent forward and his hands clasped, with the box by his side and the lid open, sat John Strong-veritable, silent, and, to all human ken, unpoetical John Strong. She looked, she could scarcely believe, yet in self-pardon. Yet, might not some redeeming pardon lie in silence, imitative, virtuous silence? Oh! little heart, why was it so trusty? She crept back again, scarcely breathing, never looking back, on, on, into the green and overshadowed lane, and there she stopped and thought. Why was she pale and silent that night? Zechariah asked why. At home Mrs. Dipple took tea alone; one cup was all, though four were her quantity; as to the toast, it dried upon the hob, and hissed and frizzled till the butter was no more. Her thoughts were with John's box. She thought and thought till the bells tolled for church; then she dressed, took up her prayer-book, laid it down again, then took forth from the closet a phial, locked up the house, put the key in her pocket, and took her way to Dr. Badger's, forbidden Dr. Badger's. Come in," cried Badger. 66 "Got the pills over the way at Shuker's, eh?" "Zechariah would have 'em there since” "Yes, yes, I know, Mrs. Dipple, since that fellow with his box. Oh, yes, I perfectly understand. Let Shuker make the pills and have a family practice, because I saw what was in a vagabond's box; yes, yes, I understand. Get your laudanum elsewhere, ma'am." The little meek-voiced woman set down her bottle nevertheless. She was not ill-natured, yet she longed to hear Badger's particular opinions respecting John Strong. So she talked so placidly, so enticingly, so tickled Badger's hopes that he should supplant Shuker, that he forthwith left the bitter ingredients alone, drew a little bottle from a three-cornered cupboard, the contents of which proved cordial and medicinal, put his chair close to the little woman, and pounded his aloes and his gentian in another fashion, and with his aspic tongue. By the time church was over, the little woman went home in a very confidential humour, perfectly convinced Badger was a much abused man, and quite full of anticipative examination of John Strong's box, and a tête-à-tête cup of tea that the doctor promised to take with her on the following Wednesday afternoon, when Zechariah and John were to go down the river, and Selina to see a friend on Tower Hill. Wednesday came; the doctor was in his best black coat, the souchong was strong, the muffins unexceptionable, the cream thick. The doctor having finished his six well-sweetened cups of tea, the little woman carefully locked the front and back doors, and led the way to John's room, stopping at every two stairs. under pretext of fetching her breath, but in reality to still a little conscious fluttering about the heart, that increased to a wild, hesitating throb, as she turned the handle of the door. There was the box. No candle was wanted, for the setting sun fell warmly within the little chamber, and the doctor's eyes were like the magnifying telescope. Veritably, like the boy with the apple-pie, the doctor peeped into it, and touched it, and eyed it, and longed for it, and mourned for it, and nodded for it, and questioned it, and rubbed it, and stared at it, and viewed it, and watched it, and would if he could have cut it, and divided it, and fought for it, and got it, and kept it, and finally would have opened it. "And what does it hold?" asked the little woman, exploding with curiosity, and interrupting the Doctor's turnings, and twistings, and shakings. Badger was on his knees; he turned round, placed his two hands in the form of a trumpet to his mouth, and hissed up into the little woman's face, in a ghastly manner, "Something alive!" The little woman's heart throbbed ten times more, her face was very pale, her voice sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Alive, alive, alive!" she said, "alive, living without food, and with a very little air-alive! What can it be? Is it a snake ? is it a crab? is it a bird?" "Whew," whistled Badger, rattling the box up and down, "whew-a secret!-he-m." Matters were at this climax, when a grapplingiron was thrown upon the little wharf, a flapping sail eddied and settled towards the breeze, darkening the window-panes with its momentary shadow, and a lusty voice called out for Zechariah. The little woman had been left to deliver the necessary reply to this expected summons, so she unwillingly, reluctantly, witnessed one more shake and one more rattle, and crept from the room, and bid Badger follow her for fear of accidents. The doctor obeyed, with a wink and a nod. Once more in the kitchen, he sobered himself with three lumps of sugar and a little wine, whilst the good woman stepped down to the wharf. As he thus stood, the boiling kettle steaming on the fire caught his eye; he hesitated a moment, then stepped to the window, stepped back again, took up the kettle, slipped off his shoes, crept to John's room, poured the boiling water through one of the tiny holes in the box, crept down again, filled the kettle from the neighbouring water tap, put it on the fire, took another lump of sugar, and laughed. He was just anticipating a soothing sip of Zechariah's incomparable Jamaica, when the little woman crossed the wharf, and coming in, whispered that Zechariah was sculling himself up the river, and was in sight of the wharf; then she asked in an agitated under-breath what the secret was; but Badger only smiled, "whew'd" again, put on his hat, and crept forth from the front door, which the little woman held open for him. Business in the lading of an outbound vessel kept trusty John Strong from home the remainder of that week, till late on the Saturday afternoon. Then there was the business of closing the wharf for the night, and paying off the workmen ; and when John did come in, and shook the old man, who was in the chimney-corner smoking his pipe, and Selina by the hand, he went up-stairs. Little, busy, wondering, dreaming heart, why did it think John Strong so long away up-stairs, and wished him down, and settled the tea-cups twenty times, and had the bread and butter all cut, and the tea all steaming to be poured out; and why did she go to the foot of the stairs, and then come back again irresolutely? Some errand called the low-voiced little woman to the door; so then Selina, leaving the dreaming old man, went up stairs-only for her thimble or the scissors. Then when she had hesitated more times than she meant to speak words, she stopped before the door, and softly said, "Mr. Strong, the tea is ready." As she said this a heavy sigh, a sob, a convulsive choking by a resisting, self-struggling breast, caught her ear. She tapped at the dooragain was the sob; she spoke again, there came no answer. "Mr. Strong-sir, good sir, John, John, what is the matter?" Then the little heart beat so and grew so fearful-so very fearful, lest Mr, Strong, sir, John, should be ill, that all hesitation passed away; she stopped to think no longer, but opened the door and went in, gently, fearfully, and wonderingly. There, too, was a pitiable sight, to one so pitying: the strange, silent, unsubdued, unsentimental man sobbing in anguish like a froward child, sobbing convulsively, weakly, pitiably, as strong men do with anguish at their hearts. She stepped back, then went nearer, then hushed as if she spoke beside a sleeping child, asked John if he were ill, and-and-that she The strong man looked up, and saw the angel of pity by his side, as pure from earthly curiosity as the brightest winged spirit that ever housed on earth; so then he pointed to the box, and took her hand, and sobbed again. Then, whilst the little fettered hand trembled, he looked up again, dried his tears, and said but few words, "Pity, oh, indeed a pity, when a little darkling, silent, brooding life, was all earth had left-pity, pity!" "Oh! sir-oh! John, who has touched upon your secret ?" "I know," said John; "cruelly, wickedly 'tis done. Be silent that I have been a child, and am a child in heart. Mercy, mercy, good, kind girl. Tell no one, and to-morrow-to-morrow afternoon, in God's warm sunlight, the secret shall be yours. You will then judge how pitiably, how wickedly the cruelty has been done." The little beating, now hoping heart, wept away again; and when she had dried her sympathetic tears, she went down stairs, and John came too, by. and-by, not a weak, sobbing child, but a man, silent and sorrowful, yet with a wandering eye, that whis. pered how the heart can have a newer spring-time. The morrow was as bright as the previous Sabbath. More bright in the eyes, and to the senses of one, who to the summer day of sunlight and flowers, watched that hope and secret pride. Then, after dinner, John said to the old man that he would take his daughter to a little country village, for the summer air; and the old man said with hearty voice he might, and kissing his child, fell from thence into one of his excursive and voyaging reveries. John manfully brought the box down-stairs; the little woman saw it with wonderment, though she dare not say a word. With this in his right hand, and the little tiny hand upon his left arm, he set forth. The sun was waning when they reached, through the over-shadowed lane, the silent, quaint old burial-ground, with its aged, drooping ivy. Alone, they stood together side by side, upon the heaped turf of a narrow grave, upon which wild flowers grew. Down they sat, nor were the drooping flowers more silent or subdued. At last John spoke. "Here below, beneath this grass, on which the A SEA-DIRGE. 127 rioted in blasphemy by night. I raised her fevered head. I whispered 'Bread, bread,' and when she raised her eyes, they were those that had looked towards God in pity. Have you no friends ?' I said. She shook her head, but whispered 'Here, here,' and then I placed my hand beside her; there was the little darkling life, brooding, silent, wonderful. She said again, Here, here.' Pitiful, oh, pitiful! That night I took her away to a more comfortable home. But she was nearer to heaven than earth-happy, happy, for Earth had reared her with its bitter tears, though she had shed none. She was alone, save for the little darkling life. She lingered months-she wished to die amidst the flowers and fields, to hear the summer wind and thrush's note, to smell the upturned earth and feel the sun. Here she came, and week by week I visited her, till pity and sorrow for Earth's child became love, though the minutes of it were num. bered, shorter, shorter, each day upon the sundial. In the summer air she died, in the little cottage garden, with the blue heavens above, and the violets at her feet; and she wished to be buried in a sunny spot. I was alone, alone with the tortoise, that little darkling life, that had been the only thing of comfort to her, and nestled to her, when the world was rough with its giant terrors." winter's wind and rain falls unpityingly, lies one, who knew no winter of the heart-a poor Italian girl. A shadow never fell upon her spirit-life was one long summer day to her, with flowers, and a sun that never set-that sun was her own heart. Years ago-some fourteen or so-I stood one night in Bethnal Green, homeless, shoeless, foodless, my last penny gone, my home far away amidst the Border hills. A little hand touched mine; a little softened, almost whispering voice, spoke one word Bread, bread;' a little tiptoe figure peered up into my face with eyes, that, in the darkened street, looked liked stars in the dull wintry sky. Bread, bread,' she said again in broken English, and then setting down this very box, she stepped lightly away, coming back presently, to whisper 'bread' again, and place a loaf within my hand, then, whilst I ate, she drew a little tambourine from beneath her ragged handker chief, and twirling it round, danced lightly before me. As she danced thus, a heavy foot came along the broken pavement, and a man clutched her arm roughly. 'Dancing for pastime, eh?' he asked. 'Go on.' He pushed her rudely against me. I was about to speak, when she whispered 'hush,' in the same silvery voice, dropped a few pence into my outstretched hand, and followed, like a beaten dog, the coarse, harsh taskmaster, who had a barrel-organ swung across his shoulders. I neither starved, nor was houseless that night. The day after I got work, honest work; want never came again. Months after, I read by accident, that an Italian had been committed to New-ingly upon his shoulder. It was all pity, pity. gate for a brutal attack upon a poor itinerant dancing girl. My heart told me it was she who had looked pitifully upon me. I sought her. In a cellar in Saffron Hill, crowded with pauperism and misery, debauch and riot, coarse crime and low despair, this girl lay, bedless, but for the castoff rags of one who groaned cant by day, and Thus, as he spoke, he looked aside, and there another angel of pity wept redeeming tears; they were the first shed in sympathy with him. Nature taught him to take that little hand, and draw it within his own, and then the little head fell droop Why ask if it were so? There was no necessity to speak, the heart was soluble. John Strong knew full well why the little hand so trembled: he learnt that angels of pity were not extinct upon the earth, and he drew that little hand upwards towards the sun, and towards his lips, and whispered "mine!" THE Comet! he is on his way, On, on by whistling spheres of light, Where darkness might be bottled up, And what would happen to the land, Our earth should chance to be? I saw a tutor take his tube The comet's course to spy; I heard a scream,-the gathered rays Had stewed the tutor's eye; I saw a fort, the soldiers all Were armed with goggles green; Pop cracked the guns! whizz flew the balls! I saw a roasting pullet sit I saw a cripple scorch his hand, I saw nine geese upon the wing, I saw the ox that browsed the grass I saw huge fishes boiled to rags Strange sights! strange sounds! Oh, fearful dream! The steaming sea, the crimson glare, Spare, spare, oh, spare thine evening meal, |