he

THE FRIENDLY ARREST. 900 T

after in in this tools and boxes there, and took up his

abode solitary room. The events of the last six months seemed to him like a story he had been reading-the impression of them was fast fading away.

He listened for Beatrice's footsteps till evening, but she did not come. He tapped at her door, and unlocked it, to peep into her room. He noticed her lamp and work-box on the table, and the order and neatness that reigned there, and shut the door again without locking it. Later, he heard her coming up the stairs: he knew her step well. She opened her door, and soon after he heard her moving about in her room. He hesitated with a kind of dread of seizing the happiness that awaited him. He was sitting in his chair by the fire, just as he had sat on the night when she parted with him, before the officers came to arrest him, and looking towards her room, when he heard the handle of the lock moved, and saw the door slowly open. Beatrice stood there, holding the lamp in her hand. She started, and stopped upon the threshold, staring at him in wonder.

'Do not be alarmed, Beatrice,' said he; I am no ghost.'

'You startled me!' said she, breathless. I thought you were a hundred leagues away. But I see now, you meant to surprise me.' 'No,' replied Stanilaus, taking her by both hands, and looking in her face; I really meant to go, but I found I could not. loved you too much to leave you.'

Beatrice trembled visibly, and finally laid her face upon his shoulder, and burst into tears. She dreaded that he would change again.

But when she saw afterwards how closely he remained confined, how unceasingly he worked, and how cheerful and contented he had become, she knew how great a change his disappointment had wrought in him. She told him what she had not dared to tell him before-how unhappy his departure had made her; she shewed him the bunch of dried flowers, and he remembered them; and she confessed to him how she had never failed one evening to peep into his room, until the night when she was so astonished to find him there.

Stanilaus worked at small objects all that winter. He would never have thought of attempting a great statue again, had not Beatrice endeavoured to convince him, that he was now far more certain of success than before. One day he issued from his place of concealment, and visited his friend Engelhart, who, though he had regularly received through Beatrice the fruits of his labours, had never known where he was. He shewed him a drawing of his design, and his friend approved it.

"You shall work upon it here,' said Engelhart; but as a previous failure is apt to hinder a man's success, you shall exhibit it anonymously.'

He took the same subject as before, but he treated it so differently, that none could have suspected it to be by the same

artist. He had worked at it with nothing to disturb his thoughts, and he was well satisfied with it. Before it was exhibited, Engelhart had disposed of it for a considerable sum to a foreign nobleman, who was known throughout Europe for his taste in art. The rumour of this purchase insured it attention among the objects in the exhibition. The newspapers extolled it everywhere; and Stanilaus's old enemy pointed out its beauties in the Débats, and alluded to a young artist whose brief but brilliant fame in private circles must be still fresh in the memory of his friends.' He counselled that young artist, if he was still in existence,' to pay a visit to the exhibition, and see his own subject treated by one who had a true sense of art. One morning the baroness and her daughter, who was still unmarried, were astonished to read in the Débats an announcement of the marriage of Count Stanilaus de Lemberg with Mademoiselle Beatrice de Salins. A paragraph in the same paper mentioned the fact, that the statue lately purchased by the Duke de Teruel, and which had attracted so much attention at the late exhibition, was the work of Count Stanilaus de Lemberg. The fame of Stanilaus increased rapidly; but he continued to live privately with Madame de Lemberg at Neuilly, near Paris, where his friend Engelhart visited him frequently. He had no leisure to devote to the frivolous society of his fashionable acquaintances; but when he went to Paris, he never failed to find time for a visit to his friend Madame Benoit.

THE MENAI STRAIT.

E are in the year 1801. George III. is king: Hatfield's attempt on the monarch's life is not forgotten; nor is the death of Burke, nor the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, although the names of Pitt and Napoleon-the statesmanship of the one, and the ambition of the other-crowd foremost in public debate and private discourse. The legislative union with Ireland has just taken place; henceforth the eloquence of the Irish senate is to be heard within the walls of St Stephen's; and before the new political experiment is three months old, there comes the Peace of Amiens, to give the nation something else to talk about. From one end of the realm to the other there are signs of great popular excitement.

The session of parliament closes; the Irish members go home for a holiday; and being curious to know what sort of travelling it is between the capitals of the two kingdoms, we take a seat

on "one of the stage-coaches which runs at a sober pace from London to Birmingham. We may go either by way of Oxford or Coventry; and if the roads have recovered from the effects of winter rains and frosts, may expect to see the smoke of the Birmingham forges in from twenty to twenty-four hours. Then, having taken time for rest and refreshment, we go on through Shrewsbury to the Welsh borders, where the road, which had been gradually getting worse the further we journey westwards, becomes little better than a mountain-track-wearisome, toilsome, and dangerous. In some places, the road is soft and spongy; in others, the bare rock comes to the surface: here is an overhanging cliff on one side; there, a precipice on the other; while rugged hills are met with every few miles, so steep that you would hardly expect Welsh ponies to find safe footing on their stony sides, to say nothing of a coach with four horses. You will be sure to hear of accidents: here, the coach was overturned, with the usual result of bruises and broken legs to the passengers; there, the wheels went into a hole, and were only got out again after hours of delay; yonder is the sharp corner where the vehicle fell over on the low parapet-wall, and the guard escaped a plunge into the gulf below only by a miracle. In such depressing circumstances, the pleasure to be derived from a sight of the grand mountain scenery of Caernarvonshire is deadened by a haunting sense of danger. At last-having kept your seat for two days and nights you arrive at Bangor, where the Menai Strait, a sea-channel of considerable width, appears to bar all further progress. But presently the coach is driven down to the water's edge, where lies a lumbering old ferry-boat; and everybody dismounts and goes on board, while the coachman, guard, and two or three porters, unload the vehicle, and follow with all the baggage and parcels. Perhaps it rains, or snows, or blows; perhaps it is night, and a howling tempest adds to the dismal effect of the darkness no matter; there is no shelter, and we bear it as best we may. If we do not get wet through from the rain, we shall hardly escape a drenching from the spray; but fine weather or foul, we lose from thirty to fifty minutes in this uncomfortable crossing, with the chance of hearing, while on the way, that the boat was upset in 1785, and fifty persons drowned. We reach the further shore, and wait while another coach is loaded; and then taking our seats, on we travel again, over the wild and rugged tracks of Anglesey, which must have been called roads in mockery. At last, when well-nigh worn out with fatigue and impatience, we arrive at Holyhead; the sailing-packet for Dublin is lying in the harbour, ready to proceed on her voyage; a gang of boatmen seize our luggage, and rush with it to the landing-place, which is nothing but the smoothest part of the sea-beaten rocks. It is not an easy matter to scramble into the boats; but we manage it somehow, and are rowed out to the sloop with more or less of satisfaction, according to the state of wind and weather, and are charged from eighteenpence to five shillings for the brief trip from shore to vessel by

the unconscionable Celts who monopolise the boats. However, we get on board, and if there is a fair wind, we shall make the mouth of the Liffey in fourteen hours; but if it is foul, or if we have sailed late in the day, we may be tossed about for twice or thrice fourteen hours before we arrive in Dublin. Here we encounter another delay, while our baggage is examined at the custom-house, every package being searched as strictly as though we were landing in France; not even a dressing-case or reticule escapes the keen-eyed scrutiny. It will not be the officers' fault if we do not quite lose our temper as well as our patience. Peers, however, and members of parliament, are allowed to go free: perhaps because they never smuggle.

Then, on returning: whether the passage had been fair or foul— whether we are in good spirits at a quick run across, or exhausted with thirty hours' knocking about in the Channel-we have still to land on the bare slippery rocks at Holyhead-still to pay the same exorbitant fees for the getting on shore; and, discontented or not, have at once to prepare for our ride of 264 miles to London, over roads such as have been described. We settle into our seats, and have just begun to make the best of it, when the Menai Strait bars the way, and disturbs our equanimity. Considering that the fare from London to Holyhead was five guineas, and from thence to Dublin one guinea, the traveller was called on to endure more than a fair proportion of discomforts. But, as though there were not enough, the effects of bad travelling were made worse by the stupid packet regulations: a parcel sent down by coach or wagon, to be forwarded to Dublin with all speed, was on no consideration allowed to pass in the same vessel with the passengers, but was kept for a trading-sloop that sailed only once a fortnight. Whatever the importance or urgency of the case, there was no help for it, unless some one going across could be persuaded to take it as baggage-a practice not unfrequently resorted to. Some of the functionaries of the Irish custom-house had a monopoly of the trading-vessel, and resorted to all sorts of vexatious proceedings to keep up a system that filled their pockets; actually sending the parcels all back to Holyhead, more than once, even after orders had been issued for their conveyance by the packets. But so detrimental a system could not last with a steadily increasing traffic demanding fair play; and although the number of passengers was then but 8000 a year, it was soon to be multiplied. The Menai Strait is an arm of the sea, about twelve miles in length, and in width from a few hundred yards to two miles; it washes the western extremity of Caernarvonshire, and separates it from the island of Anglesey. The name is said to be derived from a Celtic word, signifying narrow water; and there is reason to believe that the channel was formerly narrower than at present. When the water is unusually low, the remains of old, natural, and artificial barriers may be seen, which are now covered by the sea; and in one place some pretend to see traces