still open window, to conceal her emotions or to contemplate the night. By the window grows a jasmine, flower beloved in all recorded ages, like the hyacinth, that most classical of flowers, compared with which the rose is a modern invention. And Adelaide pensively plucks the jasmine flowers; and during all the conversation that follows in this chapter, stands upon the threshold and plucks these flowers to pieces. It is as if she were repeating the old charm, "He loves me, he loves me not! He loves me, he loves me not!"

"You seem disturbed, this evening, my dear," Lady Grovelly observes solicitously, after gazing first at one of these young people, and then at the other. "I am; there's no denying it !" replies her son.

"And what disturbs you?"

"In that panorama of mine, there was a scene in which you and I had a quarrel."

"Heaven forbid, Herbert! I hope that is impossible."

"But suppose you stick to your views about Tom Tiddler's ground; and suppose I am an obstinate brute, and stick to mine?"

"I understand you, my dear; but we need not provide for what is not at all kely to happen. And if it should happen, I hope—”

My lady hesitates there. Her son, sitting at her feet, throws back his head; and, as he seeks her eyes, exhibits the will-o'-wisps dancing furiously in his own. "Yes!" says he.

“In such a case, I hope my love for you, and your love for me, Herbert, will make us both reasonable."

"Mother!" and here the young man springs to his feet, "don't depend on me. Don't rely on my reason !"

"Herbert !"

"No, madam!" he cries, striding up and down the room, with far more emotion than was natural, or than would have seemed natural to Lady Grovelly, had she known all that we know (though now she begins to suspect it, and more). "No, madam! I warn you that I have no head to debate what my heart is set on! If you ever want to silence that, I recommend you to cut off my head first! Cut it off, and set it up as a trophy of maternal solicitude! Cut it off, and hang it over the door where—"

At this point my lady proved herself a true woman. Every sentence of this outburst had struck her like a pistol-shot. A pang every whit as sharp and strong, only not mortal, followed each report; so that if I were writing a mere fiction, I should feel obliged to say here, Lady Grovelly, overwhelmed by the too-fatal evidence of an ill-balanced mind (Oh, that it be no more than ill-balanced !), swooned!" But you are not to look upon this story as a fiction; and the fact is that, so far from swooning (though I dare say she would have preferred that course), Lady Grovelly rose from her chair without exhibiting a symptom of pain, or even of disturbance; and, linking her hand in the young man's arm, she said calmly

"Come, come, my dear boy! What does this mean?-cutting off of heads, and all sorts of nonsense! I dare say you may contrive to have your own way, without being obliged to frighten us two poor women! Why, you have thrown your unoffending eye-glass clean over your shoulder, I declare! It is too bad!"

This little speech, delivered as mother, and son walked up and down the room, had all the effect the former hoped from it. It brought Herbert to his senses. After a moment, his wild manner had all passed away; and, turning round upon my lady, so as to take her by both hands, he said

"Ah! I'm a foolish fellow, and you are the best little mother in the world; and so we'll say no more!"

After this little episode, madame proposed that her son should engage her in the game of chess. Not a bad idea of hers; but Herbert, who by no means appeared the more reasonable of the two, had a better. "No," said he. "Suppose I light a cigar, and we take a turn on the lawn." Joyfully she acquiesced.

Herbert lit his cigar, and, taking no notice of Adelaide (knit together as they were, mother and son), they walked this way and that-here between the trim flower-beds, there down the long avenue, chequered by the shadows of the trees in the moonlight, and across the park, and round and round the fish-pond-without saying a word. In such cases, the less said the better, emphatically. Herbert pulled at his cigar; gradually and more gradually Lady Grovelly drew her boy's arm closer to that bosom where he had once lain, neither longer nor stronger than her fan (what a grand, great, tender thought that must be for a woman!), and so an hour passed, without a word.

If I were to say without comfort and consolation, I should not only violate the truth, but be false to my mistress, Nature; in whom alone, of all created things, I believe. Ah, my mistress, this is pantheism-sheer, sheer heathenism, no doubt; but what is to be said? I don't care who knows it, and Mademoiselle may call me a donkey if she pleases; but upon thy heart alone, O Nature! did I ever find repose-no voice but thine, in the soughing of thy winds, in the unutterable murmuring of thy seas, ever stilled my ever-asking heart. But the days of thy worship, O Pan, are past. In these we are importers of cotton, and weavers of cotton; and the great question is, how much is wheat a quarter? But still, great Nature; for all our infidelity, you give us more than cotton, and more than corn; you give us, in many a sad strait, that peace, that comfort, that healing which neither riches nor philosophy can compass, and the lack of which no end of cheap calico would compensate.

The cigar burnt out, the walk ended; mother and son re-enter the house to find Adelaide retired. Soothed and lullabied as they are, mother and son, it is scarcely a time to sit down to polite conversation. That which quieted their spirits says within them, "Now to sleep-a good long, sound sleep, and I promise you there shall be no dreams!" Acting upon this suggestion, Herbert kisses mamma's cheek, performs a momentary worship over her hand as it lies in his, and retires too.

They make light of all that has passed this evening, and bid "Good night!" in a perfectly easy, unembarrassed manner; but it is to be observed that my lady not only accompanies her boy to his room, but enters it, and, somehow, does not seem inclined to leave it. She potters about there, unnecessarily folding and smoothing the socks he is to wear to-morrow (thinking, perhaps, of when they used to be so small!), and, for the rest of the time, sitting with her hands in her lap, in a perfectly unmeaning manner. Herbert begins to wonder what the deuce she means, at last, and feels obliged to hint that perhaps she had better go; and when she does take her candlestick again, she is a remarkably long time arriving at the door, finding something to arrange, and lingering to arrange it, at every step. At length she is gone, closing the door very, very softly.

It occurs to her now to ask what has become of Adelaide. My lady is curious about her meeting with Herbert, in the first place; and, notwithstanding that she was so much engrossed by her son's strange conduct, it is not to be supposed that Lady Grovelly had overlooked the silent part played by Miss Dacre. Indeed, there would have been little reason in it, if she had; for Adelaide brooding over her piano, Adelaide with drooping eyelids, Adelaide plucking the jasmine to pieces -"He loves me, he loves me not!"-offered the only picture of the whole drama of the evening which she could contemplate complacently.

"Ah!" said she to herself, as she went up to the young lady's room, "I little thought Adelaide so deeply interested in Herbert as her manner to-night betrayed. Indeed, I did not give the poor child credit for so much sensibility as she evidently possesses."

Tap, tap!" No answer.

"Tap, tap!" Still no answer.

"Asleep, I suppose!" said my lady, disappointed. She longed for a little chat with Adelaide before she herself went to rest; and now was the time for confidences on either side, if ever. Indeed, Lady Grovelly hardly knew how much she

wished to talk with Adelaide till, finding her tapping unheeded, she turned from the door.

But here came in a favourable interposition of the Destinies. By some accident, a book fell to the floor in Miss Dacre's room. Heaven knows how or why it happened—it is a point I have never been clear upon. However, the book did fall, and Lady Grovelly, recalled by the sound, opened the door and looked in.

Why, what a lucky young fellow is this Herbert! Here is another lady sitting in the dark and dreaming of him! Just as we have seen Charlotte, behold Adelaide! The only difference is, that the arm Miss Dacre's head rests on is whiter than Lotty's, and the head that rests on her whiter arm is more classically chiselled, and droops with a more graceful, statuesque thoughtfulness; moreover, while there is not a single tear on our little maid's cheeks, on Adelaide's there are three or four.

"Why, Adelaide !" cries my lady.

"Oh, aunt dear!" sighs Adelaide; and, lifting her head as she speaks, the white, supporting arm falls prone upon the table like a marble column.

Mademoiselle, I must now invite you to contemplate this tableau until the 1st proximo.

COLOURED CLOTHES.

I.

A YEAR ago, a year ago, I folded them away,

Exchanged them for this mourning dress, and shut them from the day;
And, looking at them now, they seem but ghosts of what they were,
Unused to shine against the light, or meet the touch of air.

II.

I can remember how an undefined and nameless change

Fell on me with this dress, so unfamiliar then and strange;

Another phase of life had dropped into the past away,

I felt that earth and Heaven must wear new aspects from that day.

I have learned much from these black clothes, and all the thoughts they bring,
Stern teachers! yet the soul grows strong beneath their lessoning;

They raise the dismal veil from Death, and lo! an angel-face
Smiles on us from the Spirit-Land, and takes the spectre's place.

IV.

Truisms have grown up to truths, hope has been merged in faith,
And love has lighted up his torch under the shades of death;
If some impatient questionings have risen to the skies,
The silence of eternity has closed on the replies.

V.

No holy pages conned by me, no preacher, pulpit-wise,

Could teach me half as much as I have learned from this disguise;
Life's complex riddle has been solved, its darkest secrets read,
By the clear shining of the flame that caught its severed thread.

VI.

Now let me lay these ghosts again that I invoked to-night,
And shut them up within the trunk, before the morning light;
Whole hours have past in reverie, for the clock is striking one;
The lid drops down the padlock snaps, the spectre-troop is gone.

ARIEL THORN.

THE DOMESTIC HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

THE NORMANS.

"The Romans in England long did sway;
The Saxons after them led the way;

They tugged with the Danes, till an overthrow
They both of them got from the Norman bow."

IN passing at once from the Saxon to the Norman epoch, we would not be understood as ignoring that century and more, during which the Danes-those turbulent sea-kings, and their followers-ruled, reigned, and rioted in Great Britain. Far from it; but believing, as we do, that fears within and fighting without, that famines and distresses, were, alas! only too prevalent under their regime, we prefer passing at once to the Norman era, which, with all its disasters— and they were neither few nor far between-was, at least, alive with barbaric splendour and outward prosperity. The barons might rebel, and the serfs might suffer, but the strong hand of the Conqueror crushed every incipient rising, and silenced every discontented murmur; and that one strong will bore down all opposing matter before it, and fused discordant elements into, at least, the similitude of glory, contentment, and prosperity.

The legal ceremonies and customs in contracting marriages among the AngloSaxons, have been already mentioned, but it may be as well to notice a few of the arbitrary fashions and changing ceremonies with which, in after-years, the celebration of their marriages was commonly attended. Marriage was, at this era, celebrated in the house of the bridegroom, and all the expense and trouble of it devolved on him, in consequence of which a considerable time was allowed him to make the necessary preparations. It was not, however, esteemed gallant or fashionable to allow more than six or seven weeks to elapse between the time of contracting and the celebration of the marriage. On the day before the wedding, all the friends and relations of the bridegroom having been invited, they arrived at his house, and spent the time in feasting and in preparing for the approaching ceremonial. Next morning the bridegroom's company, mounted on horseback, completely armed, proceeded in great state and order, under the command of one who was called the forewistaman, or foremost man, to receive and conduct the bride in safety to the house of her future husband.

The company proceeded in this martial array to do honour to the bride, and to prevent her being intercepted and carried off by any of her former lovers. The bride in this procession was attended by her guardian, and other male relatives, led by a matron, who was called the brideswoman, and followed by a company of young maidens, who were called the bridesmaids. She was received by the bridegroom, on her arrival, and solemnly betrothed to him by her guardian, in a set form of words. After this ceremony, the bridegroom, the bride, and their united companies, went in procession to the church, attended with music, where they received the nuptial benediction from a priest. This was, in some places, given under the nuptial veil, which was a square piece of cloth, supported by a tall man at each corner, over the bridegroom and bride, to conceal her virgin blushes. After the nuptial benediction was given, both the bridegroom and bride were crowned by the priest with crowns made of flowers, which were kept in the church