to Captain Howard, but I perceive that he rather admires the sentimental and delicate, and as you say-I am a pretty good actress." "Still," persisted Louisa, "I cannot approve of all this. you say to Robert when he comes?"

66

What will

I hope that, when he comes, he will find that the bird has flown. Captain Howard proposed to me last night, Louisa, and will speak to Ponsonby to-day. Give him a hint how the matter stands, will you? I don't think he will much care, so he can be rid of his sweet sister-in-law.” "I will speak to Sophy, if you wish," said Louisa," and desire her to name the subject to her husband. But let me beg of you, Fanny, to reconsider this. How can you hope ever to be happy, if you marry in this way-with a decided preference too for another? You may be a good actress, but, however gifted, you cannot go on acting for a whole lifetime."

"No one does so for a whole married lifetime, I suppose; but, as my song says,

'The bridegroom you've won, my fair lady,

Is chained in your fetters for life.'

Once for all, Louisa, I have quite made up my mind on this point; it will be something to secure so soon one of the best settlements in Calcutta. People say, that even Miss Crewe-that proud, detestable girl, so full of her high birth and her great expectations, who has refused so many offers, because she can find nobody good enough for her-they say that even she would be glad to catch Captain Howard; but I shall have the triumph of disappointing her, which in itself will be no slight gratification. She dares to rival me, or even to assume some airs of superiority! She has the vanity, too, to think she can sing! Oh, it will be glorious to annoy her! But here comes Sophy; just give her a hint of what my intentions are." And, humming an air, she walked carelessly from the room.

A long conversation concerning Fanny then ensued between Louisa Somerville and her married sister. After the subject had been discussed for some time, Mrs. Ponsonby said:

"Do not distress yourself, Louisa, but let Fanny act as she pleases. No doubt, soon after her marriage she will begin to show what her temper is; but if Howard is the spirited fellow I think him, he will conquer her, if not, she will conquer him: either way they will get along, I hope, passably together. And perhaps, after all, she is right, for Captain Howard is certainly a better match than Robert Sinclair. But now, Louisa, for your affair. Ponsonby says, the offer you have received from Mr. Colman is quite unexceptionable, except, indeed, as regards age. You are, I believe, my dear, twenty-three-he is twenty-five years older; and Ponsonby says, he is sure you may do as well, or better, if you will wait. You may stay with us until you have a more eligible opportunity, especially as Fanny may be considered as positively disposed of."

"I thank you, dear Sophy, for your kindness," said Louisa, "but Mr. Colman's age is no objection to me. After I was, as Fanny calls it, disappointed in love,' I did not think to marry, but looked forward to devoting myself to our father's comfort, to nurse and soothe him in sickness and old age; but he, as you know, sought happiness at the hands of another, and when he did so, he told me he had made arrangements for sending me out to you, for he thought it quite absurd to keep me

home with a young mother-in-law. I had no choice, Sophy, but to come, and now that I am here, I feel no inclination to seek a young husband. Mr. Colman has made me an offer; I have explained to him most candidly my position, past and present, and he has consented to take me as I am. You tell me he bears an excellent character, and, if you and Major Ponsonby see no objection, I will keep my promise. But do not name this affair to Fanny-I dread her sarcasm.'

IV.

BUT we must now retrograde a little, in order to say a few words more of Captain Howard's engagement to Miss Fanny Somerville than we have heard from that lady's own lips. During the few years which had elapsed since Charles had come to India, the recollection of his boyish home at St. Bennett's, of Mrs. Selby, and of dear Nelly, had never left him. At first, he felt much mortified at Mrs. Selby's rejection of all pecuniary assistance; but though he repined, and even spoke of her refusal as a slighting of the filial love he bore her, yet still somehow he respected her the more for it." She may be right," he said to himself; "for though poor Nelly's misfortune prevents any shadow of impropriety, still it might be thought by some to be a payment accepted for the injury done to the poor child by my means. Then he would picture Nelly as he had last seen her at the garden-gate on the morning of his departure-pale, thin, spiritless, and woe-begone. He generally thought of her in this light, seldom comparatively looking back upon her as she was before the accident, and never thinking of her as anything more than a child; for though he had heard of late that her health was much restored, he could never realise her to his mind except as he had last seen her;-that last look had made a deep impression on his memory. "I will go to England," he would say, as the picture assumed reality before his mind's eye-" I will go to England as soon as I can, and see what money can do to repair the mischief-I will not be denied by any one."

During all this time, Charlie had continued just the same in heart as he was when first introduced to the reader, though the good-natured, manly boy had merged into the fine, high-spirited, handsome man. As Miss Fanny Somerville had said, he was looked upon by husband-hunting young ladies as one of the best matches in Calcutta ; but Captain Howard had never felt tempted to make an offer of his hand and heart to any lady engaged in that pursuit; his whole soul revolted from what he considered the gross indelicacy of young girls going openly to market, and though he had admired many, and even flirted with some, yet he had never paid, or felt disposed to pay, what is called "marked attention" His friends had pointed out Miss Crewe, the great heiress, as a fitting altar on which to lay the first offering of his affections, and the lady herself seemed by no means averse to the sacrifice-which fact was the more flattering, as she had already numberless suitors, though, perhaps, from a somewhat too high sense of her own merits, she had as yet favoured none but she was evidently a mere woman of the world, and when Charles compared her with the ideal which he had formed of what woman should be, he found her lamentably deficient.

to any.

Thus unscathed was Charlie's heart when he returned to Calcutta, after an absence of some little duration in the interior.

"But have you seen the new arrivals, Howard ?" was one of the first

questions put to him by a brother-officer "the two Miss SomervillesMrs. Major Ponsonby's sisters?"

"Why, no,” replied Charles; "I have neither seen nor heard of them until now. Is there anything extraordinary about them ?"

"No, nothing very extraordinary; except that they have come out to India without so direct a purpose of selling themselves to the best bidder as many have. They are obliged to leave home in consequence of the marriage of their father to a young girl far beneath him in society, and only a few months' older than his youngest daughter. Mrs. Ponsonby tells me that Miss Somerville has come out sorely against her own wish, and Miss Fanny is engaged to a gentleman who will soon follow her. Miss Somerville is a pretty, quiet-looking young woman; her sister did not make her appearance in public for a full month after her arrival ; she was unwell, I believe-at all events, it seemed by that as if there were no desire for display-but since she has come out, all the men have been raving about her, and nursing feelings of the deadliest hatred against the coming man who is to marry her. You will be delighted with her, Howard. She is a very fine girl, and a splendid musician, plays divinely, and sings But why should I tell you about her singing? There is to be a small music party at Ponsonby's to-night; you are at home there, and I am invited; let us go together?"

Fond of music as he had ever been, Charles Howard wanted no further inducement. He went, saw Fanny Somerville, repeated his visit, saw her large dark eyes sparkling with subdued fire, and soon, alas! felt that, when turned upon himself (for Charles Howard was a good match), they showed a softness, a shrinking delicacy, a half-conscious timidity, which they wore to no other. Day after day, Charles, unconscious of danger for was she not engaged?-drank deeply of the poisoned cup presented by this Circe, until, with his imagination excited, and his vanity gratified by her, as it seemed to him, innocent partiality, he partly declared the passion which he felt.

Almost expecting an indignant rejection of his half-proffered suit, he was surprised to find that the hand which he held was not withdrawn ; and that the large full eyes were turned for a moment upon him, and then timidly averted.

"Tell me," he exclaimed, "Miss Somerville-is not your heart engaged?"

66

No," she said, half turning away-"not until now."

Enraptured and intoxicated with love and gratified pride-for, though he had mixed much with the world, his heart was warm and fresh as ever-poor Charles Howard was in a perfect fool's paradise of happiness. It were needless to dwell minutely on the remainder of the interview: suffice it to say, that Fanny Somerville succeeded in persuading him that the report of her pre-engagement had no other foundation than the earnest wishes of her friends.

"When I was obliged to come to India," she said, "I allowed the report to remain uncontradicted, for I could not bear that it should be supposed I could be so wanting in delicacy as to come out on a matrimonial speculation. Until I knew you, Captain Howard, I did not regret that this rumour had the effect of keeping me free from suitors; since then I have learnt to feel differently."

Charles drew her towards him, kissed with rapture her dewy lips, and went home to dream of happiness.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

A ROMANCE OF CARLTON GARDENS.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

I.

A RED jacket and a birch-broom by day, a loose great-coat and a thick worsted comforter by night, a quick eye, a sharp ear, and a hoarse voice at all times, go a great way towards making up the individual whom the policemen, cabmen, and watermen of the West End consent to call by the name of "Gruffy."

But he has other characteristics which have made him well known to more distinguished patrons. The loss of an arm is only an external sign; Gruffy has that within which passeth show. No one in London can deliver a letter or convey a message more deftly than Gruffy. He is the prince of street-Mercuries, and, in the regular exercise of his vocation, a model of swiftness and discretion. His personal appearance is not, perhaps, very suggestive of the "delicate Ariel," but he is almost as rapid in his movements, and unlike the tricksy spirit in that respect, he never grumbles. He has had plentiful cause, however, for grumbling during the forty years of existence by which he has been buffeted; but the ills of life seem to affect him little more than they do the castiron post at the street-corner against which he is in the habit of leaning. He quarrels with nothing, not even with the weather-on which account he may be looked upon as a pattern Englishman-because, as he observes, "If it warn't for wet and dirt, how should I get a livin' ?"

"Wot's the objick," says Gruffy, "of fine wether to a pore feller like me? If it didn't never rain I should pretty soon have nuthin' to do! Where'd be the use of crossin's; wot 'ud become of birch-brooms? I mite as well chain mine up all day-as I doos sometimes when I goes of errins-agin this here post! Fine wether's only fit for oldin' ossesand there's a deal less o' that than there used to be. One never sees no idle wizzitin' gents about now; they've all gone to South Orstraly. Put the case, too, as it was auleys moonlite nites. I shouldn't have half the carridges to call; there wouldn't be no stoppin' the way wuth speakin' on; no 'Take care o' the weal, my lady ;' nuthin' o' the sort! Why, I've known a good, thick, yaller fogg-them as you may cut with a knife, and can't see thro' nohow-I've known sitch nites wuth a matter o' ten bob; ah, and more too, when parties has lost theirselves. I aint got no spite agin the farmers, but the 'arder the rain comes down the more I likes it; then's my 'arvest!"

Taking this practical view of the question, Gruffy shakes hands with foul weather. Exposure by day and night, the easterly winds of spring and the searching miste of winter, have somewhat damaged that tuneful organ, his voice, but he is reconciled to this too.

"If it warn't for my woice," he says, "nobody wouldn't know as I was

Nov.-VOL. XCIX. NO. CCCXCV.

S

on the spot, when, p'raps, I was most wanted. Now they hears me. There's Gruffy,' says they; and then they're satisfied."

Few people, of any condition, have a wider circle of acquaintance than Gruffy; that is to say, he knows everybody, by sight, who is worth knowing, and a great many who are not. Living at the West End, his tendencies are, of course, aristocratic, though-not being proud-he can descend to the inferior classes. His sympathies, however, are chiefly with the great, and he has a habit, if people are not born to greatness, of thrusting it upon them.

"Wycount" and "Rite Onnerable" are the titles he prefers bestowing; and he appears to dwell upon the latter with as much satisfaction as Sir Giles Överreach himself. If he can have the opportunity of pointing out a cabinet minister to some stranger in London, who has just paid his footing-a country member of parliament, or some such innocent, we may suppose-Gruffy is happy for the day. During the latter part of Sir Robert Peel's life that statesman was an especial favourite with him. Now and then the question would be put to him, by some one who was aware of his predilection, if he knew the late Premier?

"Do I know Sir Robin Peel, sir ?" would Gruffy exclaim, “I should think I did. Why, sir, there now, just cast your eyes a little that waymore to your left, sir-you're a lookin' at the collum-there, that's Sir Robin Peel hisself, the tall, stout gent just a turnin' the corner by Drummonds-es es-es-es-esGruffy has a difficulty with this proper name; it sticks to him like a leech; he can't shake it off. At last he gets rid of it with an effort, gasps for a few moments, and then slowly says: "Yes, sir, that's the Rite Onnerable Sir Robin Peel, Prime Minister, that is."

In or out of office it made no difference to Gruffy; he always called Sir Robert "the Prime Minister," attaching perhaps a peculiar significance to the word "prime."

Of all the London summers that had passed over Gruffy's head since first he called a coach or swept a crossing, the one that last went by was the most congenial he had ever known. As surely as the sun did not shine throughout the greater part of it, and as certainly as it poured cats and dogs every day, Gruffy went to bed wet through-and happy. The run upon him was perpetual; his multifarious services were in constant demand, and he throve accordingly; so much so, that he began to feel uncomfortably well off.

"Blest," he was overheard to say to his friend Mr. Scowcroft, the Haymarket waterman, as they were taking a pot at "The Anglesea" together" blest if I knows wot to do with my money!"

"I should inwest it, Gruffy," replied he of the badge and leather-apron, gravely, "in Con-sols."

"What's Con-sols ?" asked Gruffy.

Mr. Scowcroft scratched his head as if he wasn't quite prepared with a satisfactory answer-a predicament which sometimes befals advicegivers; at last he said:

"Con-sols has summot to do with corn."

"Oh!" ejaculated Gruffy.

"And so," continued Mr. Scowcroft, rallying, "this here bein' about the wettest season as I've ever seen" (Gruffy nodded assent), "I should inwest in Con-sols and buy up corn; it's safe to rise."