never was or can be surpassed in the world. A very different personage from Abraham Brown is Chinatumby-Motoosawing, who boards us as soon as we cast anchor in the Madras roads, and a very differently assorted cargo he brings with him to pander to the tastes of all hands. The high surf running on the Madras beach at all seasons of the year, makes the granting of shore-leave to seamen a matter of sometimes angry altercation between themselves and the captain, so they are permitted to enjoy themselves as much as they can aboard. as cool by nature as the most carefully iced | to the caboose fire! I repeat, such a meal raspberries? Shall it be the plantains, not to be surpassed by the finest cream and strawberries? Shall it be the mangoes, or the guavas; the oranges, or shadocks; or shall it be the huge dhurian, rough and coarse without, and abominable of odor within. Even in the choice made in these baskets, one may discriminate the characters and dispositions of the purchasers. The black cook chooses the dhurian, because it is the largest and cheapest, and good enough, he says, for such old bones as his. But when he opens it near the galley-door, he runs imminent risk of being pitched overboard, fruit and all, for the stench pervades every nook and corner of the vessel, and interferes sadly with the enjoyment of the rest of the crew. The dhurian, however, after being opened and exposed to the air for some hours, loses all smell, and is really a succulent and pleasant fruit; besides which, the kernels make a capital substitute for chestnuts, which are unknown in these parts. No sooner has the skipper gone ashore, and the sails been carefully stowed, the ropes coiled up, the deck washed down, and awnings spread fore and aft, with a curtain between us and the sun, than over the side comes Mr. Chinatumby. After him make their appearance two grotesque-looking figures all but nude, with their dark skins plentifully besprinkled with flour and ashes, and many-colored stripes drawn down the But Abraham Brown has other things to forehead, and converging at the nose, over vend besides fruits, else would our long- which feature one broad dab of yellow extailed Chinese carpenter fare badly. With tends. These are the snake-charmers. Up the forethought acquired by long experience, comes a juggler in a somewhat similar costhe bumboatman has supplied himself with tume. Up comes the washing-man and Chon-Chon soup and pork, as prepared by ironing-man (for the laundry is exclusively the itinerant vendors of ready-cooked meats conducted by men in India) in pretty nearly that traverse the streets from morning till no costume at all. Up comes the dubash, night in Penang. He has, moreover, for the like a tallow candle, swathed in muslin, and use of the cabin and fo’castle, butcher's meat with a very bright wafer stuck between his in abundance: half oxen and whole sheep eyes. In one hand he clutches firmly a huge and pigs, whilst the baker has furnished him old pocket-book, full of most laudatory teswith mountains of well-baked bread, biscuits, timonials, highly creditable to the bearer, cakes, and macaroons. Then, in fifty bot- except for the fact of their being invariably tles, he has brought off all the fresh milk either forged or stolen. Up comes a seedy he can procure, and in fifty earthenware pots old individual in European costume, with a as much fresh butter, and a prodigious quan- shocking bad hat, and no shoes or stocktity of lemons, wherewith to make lemon-ings; this is the Fiddle, and after him comes ade this hot afternoon. There never was up the Fife, who is his exact counterpart. such a splendid tea-party in any part of the By and by, when the evening is cool, and world as assembles that afternoon in the every one in a merry humor, we are going fo'castle deck. They may be provided with to have a little dance upon deck. Lastly, better table-linen, finer napkins, more costly up comes the lion of the bumboat, the Madras china, and far more refined company, but jeweller, who, in his sash and manifold pockthe bill of fare cannot be surpassed, or even ets, carries about with him marvellous Tririvalled. Such fruit, such flowers, such bread chinopoly chains and rubies, emeralds, cat'sand butter and preserves, such tea, such eyes, bloodstones, amethysts, etc., set as milk, such "sudden deaths" and grills, re- rings and brooches of very elegant patterns, sulting from basket-loads of unhappy chick-costly withal, and very beautiful to look ens that have been transferred from the bum-upon, so long as the setting will hold toboat with very trifling intermediate process gether (which will not be many days after very clean and nice indeed. If the people in the boat are happy, Jack is in his glory, for they have kept the two Portuguese musicians on board, and mean to retain them as long as they are in harbor. purchase), and prevent the glass from roll- old rags, so got up and folded, as to look ing out, and revealing the skilfully glazed paper, of divers colors and hues, which have been the cause of the gross imposition. The boatmen hand up the various baskets, and Jack is rather at a loss to account for the hissing that proceeds from some of the flattest of them. They contain the educated cobras, who dance to the music of the Charmer. There is no end to this fellow's marvellous tricks. When he opens his baskets, and produces hideous music from his gourd-like flageolet, wagging his head from side to side to mark the time, the loathsome looking masses, coiled up in sand baskets, begin to show evident emotion, and slowly raising their hideous heads, expand their throats, and imitate the motions of the musicians, taking instant advantage of any pause to dart spitefully forward, and endeavor to fix their fangs upon the naked arms of the charmer; a proceeding which at first greatly alarms the ship's crew, who make a precipitate retreat from the poop, and only return after the urgent solicitations of the dubash, who acts interpreter, and then only when armed with a belaying-pin apiece. As this entertainment grows to a close, a careful observer may perceive a shadow of doubt cross the charmer's face, as he watches his opportunity to make a sudden grab at the snake's neck, which, having accomplished, he forces it into the basket, and puts the lid on instanter. So he serves the rest; and Jack thinks how delighted his old mother at home will be, when he casts anchor alongside of her some fine evening, and tells her that the charmers spoken of by David are yet extant in the east. The sun is setting when the Tomasha finishes for the day, and the boatload returns to the shore, highly satisfied with its day's work. The dhoby, or washerman, carries with him huge bundles of clothes, which, if returned at all when in a purified state, will be sadly diminished in numbers, or misrepresented by worthless The most indolent bumboatmen in the world are those at Alexandria, in Egypt. They dare not board a ship until she is at anchor, and has obtained pratique from the health office, when the captain provides everything requisite from the shore. So they float lazily up and down amongst the shipping, ever and anon shouting out "Ebryting," which is supposed to mean their stock in trade, whereas they have really next to nothing to sell. Sometimes a few oranges or other fruit procures them a customer on board; but it is when a vessel is just on the eve of sailing that they make their grand haul. Then they come alongside with large wicker-cages full of beautiful pigeons, which are sure to be purchased as pets, as will also be the parrots, and the young rabbits and hares. Sometimes they bring off a monkey or two, which prove irresistible baits. Nothing Jack likes better than Jacko's company for a long voyage. The Maltese bumboatmen principally confine their wares to kid gloves, and filigree work in silver and gold, besides a quantity of prettily got up charms. But the most audacious villains are those bumboatmen that cruise off Spain and about the gut of Gibraltar: if you wont purchase the bread and meat they have smuggled off at the risk of their own life and liberty, they do their best to give you a parting stick with a stiletto, or, when foiled in this, and made to drop astern, fire a parting shot at the first object that offers itself to their aim. On the whole, however, the bumboatman is a useful institution for us poor hard-worked and badly-fed sailors, who, after months of peril, exposure, and suffering, find in the contents of his cornucopia a panacea for all human ills. POETRY.-Zagonyi, 230. The Widow of Worcester County, 230. Have Faith in -God, 230. John Bright, 255. Rhode Island to the South, by Gen. Lander, 255. The Traitor's Vision, 255. Devonshire Lanes, 256. The Pool and the Brook, 256. Evening, 256. At Evening time it shall be light, 256. SHORT ARTICLES.-Lossing's Pictorial History of the Great Rebellion, 249. Gregory of Paulton, 253. NEW BOOKS. Part XV. of The Rebellion Record; Edited by Frank Moore; Published by George P. Putnam, New York. This part contains portraits of John A. Andrew, Governor of Massachusetts, and Col. Lowell Putnam. The Woman I Loved, and the Woman who Loved me-will be issued in a separate form. And we have put to press,." Sister Anna's Probation. A Story by Harriet Martineau." PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. ན CHAPTER IV. THE WOMAN I LOVED MARIAN. I RETURNED to England. I wrote to my mother that I was miserable, that I had tried everything, but that I despaired of all but her love. A mother's love never fails. I had left her negligently, I had been two years absent, during which I had lived a life of utter self-indulgence, and now that the bitter harvest was being reaped by me, I wished to fly to her to save me from myself. I told her I wanted nothing but home and her. I do not know whether I deceived myself, I know I deceived my mother entirely. She believed that a season of repose and home affection would in truth heal the wounds of my soul, and that, afterwards, the good qualities for which she fondly gave me credit would be developed and exercised. The magnetic impulse which lured me to England I scarcely avowed to myself, and it was totally unsuspected by her. Her heart, a little chilled by my past conduct, sprung back at once with the idea that I needed her, and prepared out of the abundance of her affection a home in which I could renew the peace and freshness of my soul. I arrived in London. Two days afterwards I met Warburton in the street. He recognized me; he was delighted to see me, and insisted on taking me home to see his wife. They were just passing through London, and were staying at an hotel. His clear, metallic voice, and sharp enunciation, sounded on my ears, but his words made little impression on me. I had an insane wish, I remember, to strangle him as he spoke, and yet I listened with a strange interest-he was hers. We entered; all the self-control I possessed, little enough, God knows, could scarcely support me as I saw her. "Are you not well?" asked the rich, melancholy voice, and Marian, more beautiful than ever, stood before me. I muttered something about Venice and illness. My little friend Harry ran up to me, and asked me to look at his baby sister. Seated on the ground at her mother's feet, circled by toys, sat a lovely little baby girl. 66 My Nina," said Marian. gossip, with the fussy and hard mediocrity peculiar to him. I felt cold and constrained. I talked of Italy, of my pleasant travels, of my home-sickness, of Fanny, and of my mother, as if my heart was there, and not here. Marian looked at me with soft and penetrating eyes. I could act content no longer; I stammered and turned pale. She knew she still held my heart in her hand, and her line of conduct was, I am sure, instantly resolved upon. That woman wrecked me as completely as a false light on a rock wrecks a vessel. In absence, I had felt hate, scorn, rage; beside her, all died away, and the old fascination asserted its power. She was there; what could I do but love? After a time I took my leave, more hopeless, more broken-hearted than before. The Warburtons were to leave town the next day, on a tour of visits. The next day I went down to Speynings. My mother received me with the tenderest welcome. Her heart was large enough to cover my deficiencies, her nature rich enough to inspire mine with warmth and happiness. For a time only. At first I was touched by her generosity, and made resolves to put aside the weakness of my soul, to bury the Past, to turn to the Future; but these resolves were as unstable as the weak and fickle nature that made them. By way of bidding an eternal farewell to my weak love, I went to the Grange, a day or two after I arrived. I did not enter the house, but wandered like a lost soul among the grounds. When I returned, I thought I would go to some of the cottages I had visited with Marian. I thought "this is the last day of weakness, let me have it out. At home I cannot speak of her, here these poor people will give me the last opportunity." I did so; I wandered among them, and heard praises of the ladies collectively, but I had not the felicity of hearing any particular mention of my idol. In one of the cottages a child was crying at the door as I entered. I gathered from her that her mother was very ill, and that her father had gone for the doctor, but that she was afraid her mother would die before he returned. I went in. The woman was delirious, and talking in hurried, inarticulate tones, and I thought I heard her say, "Miss Marian, her that was Miss Compton." We spoke on common subjects; her husband fidgetted about the room, settling the baby's dress, correcting the boy's behavior, and calling out his cut and dried observations about the weather, politics, and fashionable I went up to the bed, and tried to smooth the pillows under her feverish head, and bent low over her to hear what she said, but it was in vain. I did not give up my post till the husband and doctor arrived. Her ravings had become more and more inarticulate. "Good God! Mr. Spencer," said the doctor, as he came in, "are you aware that woman is dying of typhus fever! " I involuntarily shrank back. The poor husband was pouring out thanks to me. He thought it was a charitable impulse which had brought me and kept me there. I offered all that was necessary, and returned home. I was taken ill that evening. The shock my nerves (I will not say my heart) had sustained had told sufficiently on my general health to make me very susceptible to infection, and easily overcome by it. I was taken ill that evening, and remained for six weeks between life and death. As I recovered, memory seemed to awake more vividly than ever. I passed from frenzy to despondency, and at last sunk into a hopeless kind of lethargy, which must have been trying in the extreme to those with me. My mother exerted every faculty of her mind to uphold, to soothe, and to console. She was indefatigable; but the misery with which she heard my confessions and witnessed my struggles seemed to eat into her heart. Every day she was paler and more careworn. A nurse in a fever ward gets that look, when the strength of the strongest is undermined by nightly watchings, and breathing daily impure air. Sharing the sufferings and sorrows of an impure soul is not less fatal and health-destroying. There was the natural feeling of her own impotency to do me any good, which was like wormwood in a mother's heart; and added to this, my abrupt transitions from tenderness to coldness partook so much more of the character of disease than of natural filial affection, that she was tried almost beyond the powers of woman. There are some women for whom the Catholic legend of the heart pierced by seven swords is literally true. My poor mother! her conjugal and maternal affection were the trials of her warm affectionate nature. In both she was wretched. I had as little pity for her as for any one else, and her own life had been latterly so calm and peaceful, all her feelings had so merged and concentrated themselves into that of maternity, that she suffered from my mental sufferings as much as if our existences had been one. There were moments when my petulance and violence terrified her for my reason, there were days when my voiceless depression wrung her heart. My acquaintance with Veronica, and its fatal termination, I concealed from her, but nothing else in my life, and the retrospect was a sad one. I made no effort at self-control. The whole man was weakened, physically and mentally, and I gave way to whatever feeling was foremost. Change of air was recommended to me, and we went to the sea-side. Fanny had been all this time absent on a visit to some friends, and was not to return for many weeks; I had not seen her since my return. My mother and I were alone. When I urged her to send for Fanny as a help and assistance to her, she positively, and almost sternly, refused. I have a deep conviction that it is a trial which only the elect of human beings can bear scatheless, to be loved entirely and utterly by another. It requires a depth, a generosity, an abundance, in one's own nature. I felt oppressed. The strength of the great love which my mother felt for me was too much for my heart's vitality. The glowing sunshine extinguishes the feeble fire. It made me very happy at times; at others, I felt an inadequateness, an insufficiency in myself which was fatal. 66 "You are too earnest, mother," I used to say; one should skim but not dive into subjects as you do." "When you are as old as I am, Hubert,. you will understand that life must be accepted earnestly, if we would make anything of it." Sometimes I would say to her I felt unworthy of such love as hers. She would smile tenderly and say: "It is only the natural difference of feeling. It is always one who loves, and one who is loved. Mine is the best share. It is better, believe me, to love than be loved: the loving love longer than the beloved. Be contented that it should be so." "Contented!" I said, with wonder. "Yes; I can imagine circumstances which would make you wish you could fly from |