judgment, and his reasons and his actions may be safely left to his own wisdom and discretion.

Within a month after the union of Vivian and Evelyn Walsingham, Mr. Melville and his family, accompanied by the young bride and bridegroom, embarked for Europe.

A few days before their departure, Mrs. Melville paid a visit to Mammy's cottage. She respectfully rose and stood, as was always her wont, in the venerated presence of her mistress. The snowy apron and collar were now relieved upon a black dress, and the creole turban was replaced by a white cap. Mrs. Melville spoke to her kindly of the arrangements she had directed to be made to secure her comfort during the absence of the family.

The poor woman burst into tears. "I cannot live now, ma'am," she said, "if you and all the family go away. Johnson has his wife and children, and he will like to stay and take care of your flowers, and the house, and every thing; but poor me!" and she sobbed aloud. "If you could only jest let me go with

you, ma'am!"

And Mammy went.

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CHAPTER IX.

THE SCENE CHANGES.

"AND I have lov'd thee, Ocean!" exclaimed the bard, whose brilliant genius has often illustrated this mighty theme.

But the curious reader of his poetic fancies will perceive that the charms he loves to dwell upon are to be found only in views of the ocean from the land. When the scene is sketched by the poet's master hand, even when he is actually embarked upon "the dark blue sea," when "the white sail is set" and "the glorious main expanding o'er the bow," he still fondly lingers on the "spires and strand retiring," and so proves demonstratively that he is not fairly out at sea. His enthusiasm seems to decline as the land recedes, for his muse then dwells upon "the sorrows sailors find, coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel," and on the joy they experience when on some "jocund morn" the land again appears," and all is well."

So far the poet has the sympathy of all who can appreciate the surpassing beauty and majestic sublimity of the ocean. If its broad expanse can be seen either from a comfortable shelter on the land, or in a

romantic walk on the silvery beach, while the breeze fans away the warm influences of a long summer day, then its varied charms may be fairly acknowledged. Whether like a "molten mirror" it spreads afar, the white sails gleaming on its surface unmoved by a breath, or when its brilliant waves are sparkling like sapphires in the sunbeams, or when, chafing in angry mood, the proud billows come booming against the iron-bound coast, dashing up a cloud of white spray as every successive wave gives its thundering peal, old ocean is glorious. "Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners!"

But when we are fairly out at sea, the magic vanishes, and there are few if any, who have not at some period of a sea voyage found themselves ready to exclaim with another "older" if not a "better" poet, "Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea, for an acre of barren ground!”

We will not torture our reader with all the details that render life, for the most part at such a period, at best "but a waste of wearisome hours," even to those who are not positive sufferers; but pass gladly over all the discomforts, anxieties, and miseries, small and great, usually attendant on the traversée. Happy would it be for the voyager if he could avail himself of our fairy carpet, and find himself transported with as much celerity as we are about to transfer our travellers to the blissful moment that announced the first faint glimpse of the rocky coast, and bright fields beyond, of the Emerald Isle.

If the limits of our story allowed the privilege, we should be only too happy to follow our travellers

step by step in their progress through the loveliest and most highly cultivated country in the world. With what pleasure we could accompany them in their visit to Eaton Hall, its mingled Italian and English beauties probably most admired because first seen of the aristocratic palaces of England, and join in the merriment raised at the expense of funny old Chester, with its rabbit-warren streets and quaint houses!

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Then we should delight in rambling with them through Wales, and pausing at old Conway Castle frowning o'er the foaming flood" that looks so placid just at that classic spot, as if smiling at the "noble rage" of the great bard.

And how pleased we should be again to penetrate the gloomy but beautiful mysteries of Warwick Castle, and to laugh at the wondrous legend of the doughty Guy and his dun cow; or to bask in the soft sunshine on the grassy mounds that now are almost all that is left of the half-fabulous splendors of Kenilworth.

Still less should we have time to pause at Richmond, lovely Richmond! and sail lazily up and down the Thames with the white-breasted swans who seem to be enjoying the scene at their leisure; and least of all could we venture into the labyrinthine mazes of boundless London. We dare not even look towards glorious old Westminster, lest we should be lost amid its Gothic aisles and arches, and become bewildered by the crowd of recollections rushing at once on the mind in connection with it. All this, if described at length, would be betraying our indulgent reader into the perusal of a journal instead of a story.

It was precisely at "Westminster Abbey," that all the journals of all the young travellers of Mr. Melville's party broke down, nor had they courage to resume them afterwards. Unfortunately for posterity, which might have been enriched by these valuable lucubrations, Mrs. Melville happened to refer to our gifted author who has illustrated this noble subject with his pen; and a re-perusal of his beautiful "sketch" so far discouraged them, that the Abbey and the journals were together abandoned in despair.

Still more willingly do we pass over the unenviable journey from London to Paris, the abominations encountered in crossing the Channel, which Boreas and Neptune seem to have combined in using as a funnel for filling all their great Heidelberg tuns of seas and oceans, in a cockle-shell boat overloaded with armies of sick and wounded "land-lubbers," evidently making their first excursion to the great French Capital, and tumbled about in heterogeneous heaps over the floors and deck above and below. All this we leave for chroniclers who have a fancy for such themes. We are willing to escape, and fly over the road from Boulogne-sur-mer to Paris, as rapidly as did the party whose movements it is our duty to keep in sight.

The usual attending troubles of a first arrival and establishment in a great city awaited Mr. Melville and his family in the Metropolis, and it was with no little satisfaction that they found themselves, after encountering a reasonable share of those troubles, established in a handsome house in the most eligible portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.