might become of her before she was recovered? Separate yourself from her for a time. It is you, notwithstanding your arts of disguise, that can be the more easily tracked. She, now almost a woman, will have grown out of recognition. Place her in some secure asylum until at least you hear from me again."

Waife read and re-read this epistle (to which there was no direction that enabled him to reply) in the private room of a little coffeehouse to which he had retired from the gaze and pressure of the streets. The determination he had long brooded over now began to take shape to be hurried on to prompt decision. On recovering his first shock, he formed and matured his plans. That same evening he saw Lady Montfort. He felt that the time had come when, for Sophy's sake, he must lift the veil from the obloquy on his own name. To guard against the same concession to Jasper's authority that had betrayed her at Gatesboro', it was necessary that he should explain the mystery of Sophy's parentage and position to Lady Montfort, and go through the anguish of denouncing his own son as the last person to whose hands she should be consigned. He approached this subject not only with a sense of profound humiliation, but with no unreasonable fear lest Lady Montfort might at once decline a charge which would possibly subject her retirement to a harrassing invasion. But, to his surprise as well as relief, no sooner had he named Sophy's parentage than Lady Montfort evinced emotions of a joy which cast into the shade all more painful or discreditable associations. "Henceforth, believe me," she said, "your Sophy shall be my own child, my own treasured darling!-no humble companion-my equal as well as my charge. Fear not that any one shall tear her from me. You are right in thinking that my roof should be her home-that she should have the rearing and the station which she is entitled as well as fitted to adorn. But you must not part from her. I have listened to your tale; my ex

perience of you supplies the defence you suppress-it reverses the judgment which has aspersed you. And, more ardently than before, I press on you a refuge in the Home that will shelter your grandchild." Noblehearted woman! and nobler for her ignorance of the practical world, in the proposal which would have blistered with scorching blushes the cheek of that Personification of all "Solemn Plausibilities," the House of Vipont! Gentleman Waife was not scamp enough to profit by the ignorance which sprang from generous virtue. But, repressing all argument, and appearing to acquiesce in the possibility of such an arrangement, he left her benevolent delight unsaddened-and before the morning he was gone. Gone in stealth, and by the starlight, as he had gone years ago from the bailiff's cottage

gone, for Sophy, in waking, to find, as she had found before, farewell lines, that commended hope and forbade grief. It was,' he wrote, 'for both their sakes that he had set out on a tour of pleasant adventure. He needed it; he had felt his spirits droop of late in so humdrum and settled a life. And there was danger abroad-danger that his brief absence would remove. He had confided all his secrets to Lady Montfort; she must look on that kind lady as her sole guardian till he returned-as return he surely would; and then they would live happy ever afterwards as in fairy tales. He should never forgive her if she were silly enough to fret for him. He should not be alone; Sir Isaac would take care of him. He was not without plenty of money-savings of several months; if he wanted more, he would apply to George Morley. He would write to her occasionally; but she must not expect frequent letters; he might be away for months

what did that signify? He was old enough to take care of himself; she was no longer a child to cry her eyes out if she lost a senseless toy, or a stupid old cripple. She was a young lady, and he expected to find her a famous scholar when he returned.' And so, with all flourish and bravado, and suppressing every

attempt at pathos, the old man went his way, and Sophy, hurrying to Lady Montfort's, weeping, distracted, imploring her to send in all directions to discover and bring back the fugitive, was there detained a captive guest. But Waife left a letter also for Lady Montfort, cautioning and adjuring her, as she valued Sophy's safety from the scandal of Jasper's claim, not to make any imprudent attempts to discover him. Such attempt would only create the very publicity from the chance of which he was seeking to escape. The necessity of this caution was so obvious, that Lady Montfort could only send her most confidential servant to inquire guardedly in the neighbourhood, until she had summoned George Morley from Humberston, and taken him into counsel. Waife had permitted her to relate to him, on strict promise of secresy, the tale he had confided to her. George entered with the deepest sympathy into Sophy's distress; but he made her comprehend the indiscretion and peril of any noisy researches. He promised that he himself would spare no pains to ascertain the old man's hiding-place, and see, at least, if he could not be persuaded either to return or suffer her to join him, that he was not left destitute aud comfortless. Nor was this an idle promise. George, though his inquiries were unceasing, crippled by the restraint imposed on them, was so acute in divining, and so active in following up each clue to the wanderer's artful doublings, that more than once he had actually come upon the track, and found the very spot where Waife or Sir Isaac had been seen a few days before. Still, up to the day on which Morley had last reported progress, the ingenious exactor, fertile in all resources of stratagem and disguise, had baffled his research. At first, however, Waife had greatly relieved the minds of these anxious friends, and cheered even Sophy's heavy heart, by letters, gay though brief. These letters having, by their postmarks, led to his trace, he had stated, in apparent anger, that reason for discontinuing them. And for the last six weeks no line from him had been received. In

fact, the old man, on resolving to consummate his self-abnegation, strove more and more to wean his grandchild's thoughts from his image. He deemed it so essential to her whole future, that, now she had found a home in so secure and so elevated a sphere, she should gradually accustom herself to a new rank of life, from which he was an everlasting exile; should lose all trace of his very being; efface a connection that, ceasing to protect, could henceforth only harm and dishonour her; that he tried, as it were, to blot himself out of the world which now smiled on her. He did not underrate her grief in its first freshness; he knew that, could she learn where he was, all else would be forgotten-she would insist on flying to him. But he continually murmured to himself, "Youth is ever proverbially short of memory; its sorrows poignant, but not enduring; now the wounds are already scarring overthey will not reopen if they are left to heal."

He had, at first, thought of hiding somewhere not so far but that once a-week, or once a-month, he might have stolen into the grounds, looked at the house that held her-left, perhaps, in her walks some little token of himself. But, on reflection, he felt that that luxury would be too imprudent, and it ceased to tempt him in proportion as he reasoned himself into the stern wisdom of avoiding all that could revive her grief for him. At the commencement of this tale, in the outline given of that grand melo-drama in which Juliet Araminta played the part of the Bandit's child, her efforts to decoy pursuit from the lair of the persecuted Mime were likened to the arts of the sky-lark to lure eye and hand from the nest of its young. More appropriate that illustration now to the parent-bird than then to the fledgling. Farther and farther from the nest in which all his love was centred fled the old man. What if Jasper did discover him now; that very discovery would mislead the pursuit from Sophy. Most improbable that Losely would ever guess that they could become separated; still more improbable, unless Waife,

imprudently lurking near her home, guided conjecture, that Losely should dream of seeking under the roof of the lofty peeress the child that had fled from Mr Rugge.

Poor old man! his heart was breaking; but his soul was so brightly comforted, that there, where many, many long miles off, I see him standing, desolate and patient, in the corner of yon crowded market-place, holding Sir Isaac by slackened string, with listless hand-Sir Isaac unshorn,

travel-stained, draggled, with drooping head and melancholy eyes-yea, as I see him there, jostled by the crowd, to whom, now and then, pointing to that huge pannier on his arm, filled with some homely pedler wares, he mechanically mutters, "Buy"yea, I say, verily, as I see him thus, I cannot draw near in pity-I see what the crowd does not-the shadow of an angel's wing over his grey head; and I stand reverentially aloof, with baited breath and bended knee.

SPECTACLES have been often events in the world's history. Pageants have been the expressions of civilisation. They belong not to simple or primitive stages, but ever, as he has gathered wealth and raised power around him, has man delighted to celebrate his acts and inaugurate his works by the pomp and splendour of pageant. It has ever seemed fitting to him that the great events of the great monuments of his age should not appear noiselessly and unobtrusively in their places, but be announced and demonstrated with all acclaim; be affirmed in the presence of multitudes by all the circumstance of spectacle. Sometimes these pageants have only illustrated the pride of kings or nations, and such have passed away from the memories and annals of mankind. Again, they have inaugurated epochs in the existence of a people, or the completion of great works, and then have lived as events. Nor has the love of pageant and spectacle yet died out our utilitarian age adopts them in fact, though it repudiates them in profession. They may have changed their outward form, lost much of their show, grown simpler in their character, yet still are they deemed necessary proclamations of every occurrence, great or small, the laying of a stone, the opening of a college, the accession of an heir to his estate, the exhibitions of art, agriculture and horticulture, the

VOL. LXXXIV.-NO. DXV.

award of honours, the celebration of victories, the thanksgiving for blessings, the anniversaries of the great men and the great events which have moved the destinies of a people. Even the sober men of Manchester, who disdain pomp, and scowl at display, delight in demonstrating their own doings by processions and banquets. If there be an occasion when the spectacle rises to the dignity of an event, it is the triumph by which man proclaims that, in the perfection of a work which shall astonish and benefit coming generations, he has conquered the obstacles of Nature and challenged Time. It is then, if ever, that he may be allowed the accessories of fêtes and ceremonies to inaugurate a success achieved by the strength of his will and the energy of his labour. Such a triumph did the fêtes at Cherbourg proclaim, "Quatre-vingts ans de travaux et plus de deux cents millions de dépenses, voilà le Cherbourg de nos jours.'

The sea had been arrested-huge basins of refuge hewn out of the rock-a harbour made-a fortress constructed-the plan of one generation had been carried on to the nextdynasties had changed-yet republics, and empires, and kings, still accepted and adopted it; different celebrations had marked its progress; and now that the design of centuries had been fulfilled, the work of years com

R

pleted, it was decreed that the result should be crowned by a spectacle, grand, national, and imperial. The fêtes may, as seers prophesy, have other significance than this; yet the occasion was surely reason enough, and the spectacle was worthy of the occasion.

With certain peoples, pageantry is a nature. The combinations, the expressions, the elements which insure a great effect, are to them native suggestions. The Greek was the great master of the art. Grand, sublime, and elegant, his mind caught and reflected the unity of colours, numbers and proportions, of magnificence and simplicity. The Roman was more barbarous in his shows. Medieval exhibitions, though stately and costly, were somewhat heavy and laboured. With the French lives the genius of modern pageantry. More dramatic than grand, more brilliant than sublime, it still inspires a happiness of effect and harmony of arrangement, pictorially and artistically perfect. It speaks, perhaps, more to the passions and the senses than to the heart or imagination; but it does speak. It creates the outer life of the French. They rejoice in it, they glory in it, they understand it, they are ever acting it, and they excel

in it.

:

At Cherbourg the scene favoured them it gave them new and striking elements to work with. The old blazonry of cloth-of-gold had grown obsolete. The old church processions, with their tapers, and vestments, and chanting, had ceased to attract; the movements of masses of troops had been repeated until every citizen knew the programmes by heart. But with the sea for an arena, surrounded by a glorious amphitheatre of hills, and barriered by the grand lines of the "Digue"-with ships and forts as properties-with cannonadings and illuminations for effects-with all the accessories of flags, and barges, and sailors-with two sovereigns as the persona-a spectacle was enacted which will make Cherbourg a name as well as a locality.

Curiously has the destiny of events drawn this place from its obscurity. When history first fairly recognises

it, it is a little fishing-town. A few boats lie in the bay, a Norman castle rises in the background, rocks and sandbanks outlie its shores, the winds from the west rage against it, the sea from the north beats and surges in its roadstead. So it remains on and on for centuries, sheltering fishermen, and sharing the vicissitudes of the times; now under English rule, now under French, and benefiting little by either. The disasters of royalty connect themselves with it. There the Empress Maud sought a refuge from pursuit and shipwreck, and raised a chapel in thanksgiving; there Charles X. trod his last footstep on the soil of France. At last it becomes of import. France aspires to be a naval power, and aims at having a port on the seaboard of the Channel; henceforth Cherbourg is a place to be scanned and surveyed, and reported on by kings and statesmen and engineers. Vauban plans its defence, councils hold consultations on its advantages. The little fishing-town of Normandy enters into the politics of a nation. Nature gives their value to many spots. A fine harbour, a great river, may make an unknown village or a barren waste the jewel in a crown. This offered only position. Its capabilities were to be wrought and wrested from nature. It was to France what Cronstadt was to Russia, a point where the means of defence or attack might be constructed-where a navy might be formed and protected-or whence it might issue to take the command of the sea. It was, however, designed rather as a refuge than a point d'appui. Like Cronstadt, too, it was to be made. The sea was to be fenced out that ships might ride in the roadstead; basins were to be cut from the solid rock; forts were to be raised at all points. All was to be done by the hand of man; nature had done little. The idea of this creation belongs to the Bourbons. Louis XIV. was the first projector. For a long time it was only an idea; rival projects delayed its fulfilment. At length there is a beginning. Commerce is the first consideration. The port for the merchant ships is formed-quays,