Monthly Literary Review, 21, 84, 130, 189, 225, 316, 382, 443, 505, 579, and ... 642 Mrs. Simpkinson's Party, 343 and Musician, The... Native Institutions New Year, A... On an Iceberg ... Pakeha War Song Permanent Pasture Prometheus Chained Remembered Music Responsibility of Colonists Reviews, 17, 78, 126, 186, 251, 313 and Rover's Prize, The, 28, 69, 133, and Ruined Castle, The Separation, 106 and Session, The 407 490 25 631 290 342 : ... Is introducing a MONTHLY MAGAZINE to the notice of the inhabitants of Auckland, we wish to state briefly the objects at which we aim, and to give our readers some hint as to the kind of thing which we hope, in the language of our motto, may be able to detain their eyes and ears. Our aim is to supply a monthly publication which shall embrace all subjects interesting to the general reader; which may please the taste of those who read for amusement, and stimulate the appetite of those who desire information. We have no desire to avoid the subject of politics, which is, or ought to be, interesting to every citizen. On the contrary, the progress, resources, and government of the country, will be freely, but we hope temperately, discussed in these pages. In handling such subjects, so far from us will be the heat and spirit of party that we shall not hesitate to admit articles which differ perhaps to some extent in their views and arguments, deeming calm discussion better than zealous advocacy. With the controversies of theology we have nothing to do; but it sometimes happens that such controversies involve indirectly considerations of much greater importance than the points at issue between rival parties. When this is the case, we shall not decline to speak in the cause of true religion and morality, and of the great principles of toleration and justice. VOL 1-No 1. B We hope to treat of scientific subjects with such absence of technicality, and such illustration of general principles, as may excite the interest of the uninformed, without incurring the contempt of the learned. We shall especially welcome contributions relating to this country, its aboriginal inhabitants, antiquities, meteorology, geology, botany, and zoology. That large class of readers whose time and energies are occupied with the cares and labours of business, and who look to the periodical Magazine as a means of relaxation and amusement, will not find their tastes neglected. We know indeed that bad fiction is nearly as bad as bad poetry; but, although we cannot command the assistance of those masters of their art who have raised the periodical literature of England to its present position, yet we may trust that the food for the imagination which our MAGAZINE will supply, will not be of that kind which is alike rejected of "gods, and men, and booksellers' shelves." We hope that a pen may yet be found competent to engage our fancy with the poetry of Maori history, legend, and character. Nor is it in this country alone that our future poet or novelist may find a yet unopened vein of material for the exercise of his art. The continent of Australia, with the mighty secrets of its old, and the wonderful developement of its new life, offers a fertile field for the genius which can make every phase of human life "a joy for ever" to endless generations of readers. Reviews of all books of interest, and particularly of such as may be published in this country, or in the colonies of the Southern hemisphere, will occupy a prominent position in our pages. We have now said enough by way of preface. We leave our under taking to the judgment of the public, claiming, it is true, the indulgence of the gentle, but not deprecating the criticism of the candid reader. WHAT BECAME OF HIM? IN SIX CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.-IN COTTAGE AND IN HALL THE village had a sad look that day. The sun shone bright, it is true ; and the gentle summer breeze shook into music the rustling leaves of the huge old oaks and elms in the park and on the green. The long dark green grass in the meadows swayed to and fro gently, like the ocean before a storm; and the rippling, glancing wavelets, washed the sand and the shells with a pleasant crisp murmur. Yet the village looked sad. It was not Sunday, yet a great many of the people hung round the cottage doors, listlessly and quietly. The fishermen pretended to be mending their damaged brown nets; but any one could see that they were not thinking or caring a bit about them. At every sudden sound in the street you might have seen a dozen men start like nervous women, and look anxiously up towards that end of the village where, glistening brightly through the trees, might be discerned the roof of the Hall. There was evidently "trouble" in Beachford-to use the expressive country phrase-and it came from the Hall. There was one group there which would most likely have attracted your attention amongst all the others, however. It consisted of three The old man, who persons-an old man and woman, and a young man. was evidently a fisherman, sat with a piece of an old discoloured net drawn across his knees, while he made a very poor pretence of mending a hole in it; his wife sat on a low stool near him, with her hands clasped over her knees, and her eyes fixed on the motions of the young man, evidently her son, who walked with rapid nervous steps backwards and forwards before the house. She occasionally rocked herself slowly, as if in pain, and would now and then moan something unintelligible, at which the old man would glance at her with a pitying look. "Father," said the young man, coming up to where he sat : "Father, I can't abear this no longer! I must go up to the house and hear what's to be heard." Don't ye!" said the old man, earnestly. "Don't ye now, Jim ! "Mayhap harm will come on't. then summat would happen belike." "I can't help it, I tell ye, father. dead; that 'tisn't all as it should be know, I tell ye; I must know." They do say as how the old man's about Master Richard. I must "Well, my son, if you will go, I hope it'll mind, you were turned off not so long gone by. on't happen again." turn out all right; but I wouldn't like to hear "I'm off, then, father! Never fret, mother, about young master. I daresay it's all lies that folks have been talking about it." Sir Charles Fortescue had been buried that morning, and Sir Charles was owner of every acre of land for several miles each way from Beachford. It was not only the death of the landlord, whom they still looked on with a feeling of feudal reverence, that had caused the general excitement in the village. It had been whispered about that all was not right with the young master's claim to the estates. How, or why, no one seemed to know; and tolerably wild some of the ideas were on the subject. It was well known that Richard Fortescue had quarrelled bitterly with his father, about a year before the date of our tale; and some supposed that if the old Baronet had disinherited his son, as every one knew he was the very man to do, young Richard Fortescue might lose his inheritance. This seemed the more likely, from the fact that, during the last few months of Sir Charles' life, he frequently received visits from a nephew, of whom he was evidently very fond. At two o'clock that day the will was to be opened at the Hall by the family lawyer, who was there on purpose. No wonder, then, the simple folks of Beachford, ignorant of the mysteries of entails, should have felt very anxious as to the result of the opening the dreadful document. The excitement of the family about whom we have especially spoken was still more easily accounted for, as Jim Thurstal had been the young master's favorite groom, and had on that account been turned off when he quarrelled with his father. In the room that had been his father's usual sitting room in former years, sat Richard Fortescue. He was a tall, handsome, manly figure, with a face which in all particulars appeared specially suited for his figure. His dress was plain, but of a military character, and his whole appearance suggestive of a gentleman; perhaps rather proud--but yet essentially a gentlemen. He now sat at a table near the window; his face resting on his hands, and his whole appearance giving evidence of a man suffering acutely. His thoughts were at that moment fixed on anything rather than his own elevation purchased by his father's death. On the contrary, it was with the keen grief of a noble mind that he now sorrowed for what he looked upon as his undutiful conduct to that father who, while living, he could never understand and hardly feel any affection for. His meditations were indeed bitter enough, but they were totally unmixed with any fears about his own position and prosperity, although these were at the moment causing so much anxiety in the minds of his humble friends down in the village. He might indeed have heard something of it; but if so it was only to dismiss the subject with a smile. He knew that all the Beachford estates were entailed. As he was thus musing, the door of the room was quietly opened and a young man entered. The occupant of the room did not notice him at first; and he stood still watching him. The new-comer was a man to all appearance about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, but of that kind of appearance which does so often deceive in regard to age. He was certainly handsome, much more so indeed than his companion, although smaller, and as manly looking. His expression, however, was very inferior. It was no easy matter to say exactly where the defect lay; but something in the face gave most people an unpleasant feeling with regard to the owner. As he gazed at his cousin, Charles Fortescue, for such was his name, wore, perhaps his |