amongst us only yesterday, told me she had pawned it with Mr. Attenborough a month ago."

"You condemn me never to look at the picture by taking this tone."

"That is well said. But I counted on your amour propre, child. It is impossible you can believe the scandal; but what does the horrid, scurrilous world say, I beseech you? No doubt it received for gospel all which that odious old Mistress Trapboy told at the trial and much noise the trial made, I make no doubt. An artificial, painted creature, believe me; and fifty, if a day! Everybody knows she writ herself the verses she showed for my lord's; as, indeed, he told me himself, very merrily."

All this while, my charming young great-great-grandmother played with her fan languidly, never looking at me. For my part, to tell the truth, I was puzzled, if not embarrassed. What Mrs. Trapboy, what aristocrat, what trial was this of which the lady made such great account, as of a matter with which the town had sung, and which still must live in the ana of the day? Certainly, I knew nothing of it, without being altogether unread in the Causes Célèbres, the "Newgate Calendar," of my native land. However, I remember I was not at the time unwilling to believe her correct; but, with a moral perversity of which I am now (of course) utterly ashamed, rather relished the idea of being lineally connected with a cause célèbre of the romantic, unfortunate sort. Indeed, there is no denying that it is something to have a lord hung, innocent or guilty, for love of your grandmother, and all the world talking of it, and the story to be read in folio. For this reason, and not liking to offend my kinswoman, I did not tell her I believed the whole affair must have been hushed up (if it had ever happened), but artfully said—

"The town is always ready to believe the malicious; and people will have it that every story's true that is wickedly interesting."

"No doubt you are very right-'twas shown in my case, you know, child. But without more ado, I am come to bespeak your goodness for repairing the scandal."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am wholly at your service, but this is an affair I am not qualified to serve you in, I fear."

"Why so?"

"Well," said I-seeing it was best to fall in with my young kinswoman's humour-"I do not know the true history, or in what particulars the common belief is false."

"That is what I have to explain to you, my dear, and you shall put it all in a book and publish it.”

Here the lady composed herself in such a manner that I could only now and then see her profile, as a jet of flame shot fitfully amongst the coals.

"You know how I and my lord became acquainted; 'twas at an assembly of Mrs. Trapboy's, and my husband, poor dear creature! made me known to him. 'Twas a pity I married him, child; I'm sure I don't know what put the resolution into my head, except that he did not court me so much as some other men did, and I loved to be singular. For my spouse, your great-great-grandfather, was a bookish man and a lawyer, one that never was reputed Coxcomb, or Smart, I promise you. However, I believe he had a very sincere passion for me. He denied me nothing the purge could afford-though for that matter 'twas not a long one-and gave me

my liberty very handsomely. Not that he was so complaisant but sometimes to be pressing with me to give up the world, and indeed I loved him well enough to have gratified him had he waited awhile. Alas! I did not know what unhappiness awaited me when I refused compliance with his wishes."

Here the young lady drew a deep breath, and her countenance was so agitated as to throw Charles's Wain into commotion, so that one star at least was in danger of being lost altogether. Happily, however, it needed but a glance at the little looking-glass I have before described to restore her equanimity to talking point.

"My spouse and Philander-my lord was known to me by that name—were not very great friends, though they had once been schoolfellows I heard. To tell the truth, Philander did have something of a hectoring manner, and was often arrogant toward my husband and complaisant to me in the same breath. Nor will I disguise from you, my dear, that to this hour I am not sure whether I was not more pleased than offended at the distinction. But what would you, child, of a giddy creature of twenty-two?"

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I suppose it was natural, ma'am," says I; "but it must have been slightly unpleasant for my great-great-grandfather."

"Why so it was: I'll not deny it. Nor must you suppose I did not rebuke Philander or condemn myself. Indeed, on one such occasion more remarkable than usual, I quarrelled with Philander downright, returned him his last letter and the comfit-box in silver that he gave me on my birthday-a pretty thingand declared I'd never see him more. How unfortunate it was that your greatgreat-grandfather—(your great-grandfather was born then, you know-a sweet child!)—should take such mighty offence too! I had scarcely sent my maid to Philander's lodgings with the box and the letters an hour, when my spouse sent for me to his room, and putting on a severe countenance that no woman of spirit could endure, rated me soundly on what he was pleased to call my heartlessness and levity. Madam,' said he (I remember his words very well, by token that he stood behind his table with his hand laid flat on a book), 'I am loth to impute your conduct to badness of heart, but rather give you credit for having none at all -which indeed is the only comfort to me, at the same time. You know I have never sought to put restraint upon you in such pleasures, or even such follies, as a young woman of fashion may follow without a necessary loss of reputation, and have been all the more tolerant because my taste and education equally forbid my sharing them. But if you will only go and look on our child-and I believe you have not clapt eyes on him these three days-you may behold one good reason of many why you should not abuse your liberty too far, and why I should check you if you do. Be assured I shall do so. Meanwhile, as a proof that you mean by-and-by to lead a inore dutiful life, I ask you to drop one of your acquaintance at once. Lord Sanglant insulted me to-day, and I did not observe that you were greatly displeased. [Now you know, my dear, I was, as I have told you; but my hubby was angry.] He is a fop and a bully. It is not my way to meddle with such men ; but I consider his convenience as well as my own when I desire you never to speak with him again. I hope,' says he, sitting down again, 'I have made myself understood, good wife?' 'So well, sir,' said I, ‘that I do not promise to endorse your insults by obedience.' He winced at that."

"I am not sure but I should, too."

"But you will acknowledge 'twas indiscrect of him to take notice of the matter.

Had he been silent, all would have been well, for you see I had taken the very course he desired. But no woman of spirit, child, will endure to be suspected and threatened by a husband; and I devoutly wished I had my box and my message back again. I allege human nature for my excuse, and that is not of my making." "And pray what happened next?"

"The most unfortunate thing in life!-I met Philander that very evening at the play. Do me the justice to believe that when he came toward me with his accustomed air, I resolved to discourage him; because it was impertinent in him to neglect my message, and this wounded my pride. Besides, I thought of my spouse at his books, and my conscience was touched, perhaps. But-[this with a shrug of the shoulders and an embarrassed scrutiny of my face]-the fates are too strong for a mere weak woman; and the eyes of twenty envious creatures being on us, I first forgot my resolution, and presently found myself laughing at it-with Philander."

"Pardon me, but that was very culpable !"

"Pray don't begin to blame so soon. However, not to delay the satisfaction of condemning me which of course you feel, my dear, you shall hear at once of worse culpability. Philander prevailed on me to go to his lodgings and take back my comfit-box."

"And how did he that, pray?"

"Honourably, Mr. Censor; and here is where you are not to believe the scandal of the town. You must know that, in the midst of his raillery, he became grave of a sudden. After a long while of reflection with his eyes to the ground, he turned to me, saying, 'Dear madam-(I shall call you Sylvia no more)—now I see you have forgiven me, I will show you I deserved your forgiveness, by earning your husband's too. You are right-he is right. It is a scandalous world; and however innocent the causes that invade the sanctity of domestic life, they should be destroyed. You know my esteem for you; I should be a villain if I esteemed so worthy a man as your husband less. I will be careful not to offend him, or you, again. So, madam, when I leave the theatre I banish myself to the country till I find myself forgotten here.""

"A wise and worthy resolution, ma'am !"

""Twas like him! But,' continued he, 'do not oblige me to take back my present, I beseech you. It is a trifle, but I shall not be satisfied unless you have it again.' 'With all my heart,' said I, 'on condition that I never see you for a whole year.' Agreed! And now the play is over. Your coach passes my doors: you shall take the toy with you on the way.' I suppose he saw some scruples in my face at this, for he added, 'You surely will not deny me the single pleasure of restoring it with my own hands-nay, I insist on it as a penance for your unkindness in sending it back. And to-morrow, you know, I shall be gone.'

"I was a simple thing, and made no more objections. Philander took leave of me, and in half an hour I came to his lodgings. Here occurred an unhappy accident that caused all my misery. My coach was overturned-how, I know not -almost at his very door; and before I had recovered the fright, I found myself within the house who never meant to cross the threshold. My lord, to do him justice, was scarcely less agitated than myself; indeed, I think he had not spoken a word to me when a great noise was heard in the hall. I leave you to imagine my confusion, child, when at the same moment I heard my husband's voice, and

his footsteps leaping up the stairs. My lord pushed me instantly into an inner room and locked the door. However, I could see much that passed, through a chink.

"My dear fellow,' says my lord very cleverly, 'what a tempest of a visit is this! I smoke! Tipstaves! Hang it, what's the sum? A pretty one, I warrant!' "A heavy account, my lord,' said your grandfather, as he placed his hat and sword on the table before him, 'and must be settled without delay of two minutes.' "But 'twill take twice as long to count the pieces, eh ?'

"Draw your sword, sir!'

"May I be hanged if I do! I tell you this is an affair of so many gold pieces.' Here my lord hiccupped as if he was drunk ('twas strange I did not observe it before!). My husband regarded him with a terrible look of rage, that presently changed to disdain, as, plucking off his glove, he tossed it in Philander's face.

"Are you there?' roars my lord, and reeling toward the table, overturned it. The lights were extinguished; in the dark they flew at each other. I heard them fighting, and swooned. Alas! when I left my hiding-place, I saw that my wretched husband-skilled as he was in fence, as all the world knew-had been worsted. He lay on the floor, with Philander's sword run through his heart!"

"And pray, madam," said I, burning with anger, "where was my ancestor's sword?"

"Well, child, it was thrown down with the table, you know. But he recovered it, I am persuaded. My dear creature, there again the world is so horridly mistaken. Had I recovered the shock-and you know my poor nerves gave way beneath it But you have only to read the sweet letter my lord writ me after his flight to be convinced he was no murderer. I have it here!"

"Confound his letter, madam! I am astonished at you !"

"But he's waiting for an answer!"

"Waiting for an answer!” cried I, opening my eyes wider than ever.

My kinswoman had departed, and in her place stood my servant-maid, with a letter in her hand.

I wonder whether, when my great-great-grandmother knocked at the door, it was only the maid—whether all the dream passed between that moment and her rousing me to answer the epistle! Psychologists will answer, Undoubtedly.

DUST HO!

NOBODY likes dust. It seems to be a kind of powdered Cain, driven by brooms, brushes, and breezes, from cranny to cranny and from corner to corner; resting long nowhere, and leading a nomadic, gipsy-like existence. At one time it is found lurking among the jewels of the Queen's crown, in spite of the vigilance of Lieut.-Colonel Wyndham, or whoever it is that keeps the regalia in a properlyfurbished condition; at another, on the ragged hop-picker's caubeen by the roadside, on the poppy-heads of his Grace's stall in the cathedral, or on the broken rails of Bill Sykes's chair in the thieves' kitchen. The housemaid “drats" it because it will get into "them corners," and her mistress is just as virulent against it for resisting all her endeavours to keep it out of her wardrobe and fur-closet; the young ladies hate it for spoiling the Ascot Cup-day; Tom and Ned hate it too -it gets into a fellow's clothes so deucedly; the governor reviles it because the housemaid upsets and disarranges his papers when she dusts them. Even the amiable old Dr. Dryasdust, F.S.A., who was never known to dislike anything, animate or inanimate, calls it "that abominable dust," for his relics and antiquities get broken and knocked down by his dust-defying housekeeper during her never-ceasing persecutions of it.

But, vile and trampled on as it is, it has found one or two people to treat it with consideration. In a speech to the House, Lord Palmerston made honourable mention of it, along with its brother dirt, as being "only matter in a wrong place;" and M. F. Pouchet, a French microscopist of eminence, has lately bestowed a great deal of time and labour on examining it microscopically.

Have any of our fair readers, when carefully applying the feather-brush to a delicate piece of Dresden china, ever asked themselves the question, "What is dust ?" We do not speak of the contents of the dust-hole; we well know what fills that portion of the domestic offices-cinders, vegetables, parings, an occasional silver spoon or thimble, and such-like articles of very definite composition-but we mean that sly, insinuating, subtle dust that settles wherever it can find a lodgement, and which no windows or doors, be they ever so closely shut, will keep out. By the way, we have often wondered if there is any dust at sea; whether the stewards of the Cunard line keep such things as dusting-brushes on board, or if they lock them up as soon as they are out of sight of land, only to be used again when they arrive once more in port!

But we are digressing. M. Pouchet has undertaken to answer our question "What is dust?" This gentleman has published a series of articles in the "Comptes Rendus," containing the microscopic examination of various dusts, from every conceivable place in the world. He appears to have been most indefatigable in his search after the precious material. All kinds of out-of-the-way places, both at home and abroad, have been laid under contribution by him; and we can imagine him rejecting with disdain the offers of travelling friends to bring him curiosities from Egypt, Greece, or Italy, and begging hard for a little dust out of the Sphynx's eye, from a volute of the Acropolis of Athens, or from the nostrils of the horses of St. Mark at Venice. He gives the composition of dust from the Cathedral at Rouen, the ruins of Thebes, the tomb of Rameses II., a sepulchral chamber of the Great Pyramid, the temples of Serapis at Pozzuoli, and