passed away almost before it could be perceived, in her gratification at her daughter's pleasure, whose pleasures were so few. "You must put off your pupils for one hour to-day, Alice, darling," said she. "Oh no, mamma," was the answer; "Miss Kinnaird will, I am sure, excuse me for going as soon as we have breakfasted. It would be a great indulgence to stay," she added, turning to Edith, "but I must not break an appointment, must I?" "Don't ask me," said Edith, "if you want to be confirmed in doing an unpleasant duty; I have a very expansive conscience in such matters, and I shall certainly advise you to stay." "But your head ached yesterday," interposed Mrs. Brown, looking at her daughter with that indescribable expression of anxiety which indicates a habit, not a mood; and, indeed, you are looking tired. Do stay, Alice-to oblige me, my love." you "Well, mamma," returned Alice, kissing her, "if you make a personal favour of it, I suppose I must; but I do assure you I am perfectly well; and know I must be in a strange state of health, indeed, if an hour more or less could make a difference to me." Mrs. Brown suppressed a sigh as she turned to the breakfast-table, and began to converse with her guest; and Edith's heart felt oppressed by the ideas which this little scene had awakened. Alice did, indeed, look sickly, though not absolutely ill; and she pictured to herself the daily sufferings of the mother who was obliged to see her child daily taxed to the utmost of her strength, perhaps a little beyond it; and whom the despot Poverty actually prevented from doing anything to retard the gradual sacrifice. But Alice seemed to feel that her mother's eyes rested wistfully upon her from time to time, and she answered their silent inquiry by assuming a degree of liveliness unlike her usually shy manner. She talked and laughed, ran from one subject to another, and contrived to lull all suspicion by her unwonted gaiety. Edith was struck by the unusual simplicity of character apparent in all she said; her talk was as unlike the ordinary rattle of a girl of nineteen as it was possible to conceive. And this not because it was more intellectual, for there was no appearance of talent about her, but rather because it was more childish. Flowers, of which even in that small room, and at that unfavourable season, she had a goodly show, and books, were her principal topics; the former she exhibited to Edith with unfeigned delight, expatiating on the past beauty of those which were now withering with as much enthusiasm as could have been demonstrated by the faded belles themselves, had Nature gifted them with tongues; the latter she discussed with at least equal animation, speaking of all the imaginary characters in poem or tale exactly as if they had really lived, and she had known them personally. Edith took pains to discover her tastes, and could scarcely help smiling at the eager sparkle of happiness which came into her face when, in Mrs. Dalton's name, she offered her access to the library at Beechwood. The hours slipped rapidly away, and when Edith, having parted from her new friend with many promises of visiting her again, walked slowly homewards, her thoughts were so fully and so deeply occupied, that she could scarcely shake off her abstraction sufficiently to escape comment from her host and hostess. No bitter words, no gloomy sentiments, broke from her lips that day; she could not have uttered such without enduring the keenest self-condemnation. What then? Was life brighter to her than it had been? Not so; the darkness, rather, was more visible, and she had gone farther into it. But she was beginning to suspect that there might be a reason for the darkness, and to hope that there might be a light beyond. THE MEANING OF THE WORD "COCKNEY." "I advise thee, Gurth, to leave the herd to their destiny, which can be little else than to be converted to Normans before the morning, to thy no small ease and comfort.' "The swine turned Normans to my comfort!' quoth Gurth; expound that to me, Wamba, for my brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read riddles.' "Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four legs?' demanded Wamba. "Swine, fool-swine,' said the herd, 'every fool knows that.' "And swine is good Saxon,' said the jester; 'but how call you the sow when she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels like a traitor?' "Pork,' answered the swine-herd. "I am very glad every fool knows that, too,' said Wamba; and pork, think, is good NormanFrench; and so, when the brute lives, and is in charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name, but becomes a Norman, and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast among the nobles? What dost thou think of this, friend Gurth?'”— Ivanhoe, vol. i. And what would my readers think were I to continue my quotations? And yet the words of our great novellist point to an important principle in our language, which an Englishman might well be pleased to examine. How many, for instance, walk the streets of London, unheeding their names as they pass along, and careless of the history which lies on all sides before them and around them,-the tales of the former life of their country, engraven in legible characters on the very walls of their houses! How many tread daily the crowded thoroughfares of the "East and West Chepe," listening to the measured sound of the bells of Bow, yet think not of the meaning of the phrase, familiar in their ears as "household words," "to be born within the sound of Bow Bells?" And yet surely it is not well wholly to forget names or words which carry us back into past ages,-to days when, if not so copious as now, our language was at least more concise, more vigorous, and more thoughtful. Who knows but that among these names there may be fragments of that elder Saxon tongue our wise forefathers knew how to prize so highly, and which linger even to this day among the purlieus and bylanes of our metropolis? Who is there, that loves his country's story, but would gladly rescue these neglected children of the olden time, from the overwhelming influence of the Norman and the carelessness of a forgetful age? I have felt, therefore, that I may not, perhaps, consult ill for my readers if I attempt, in the following pages, to illustrate and explain one, at least, of those words which have in the lapse of years faded from our memory and fallen into an unmerited obscurity. The name whereby the citizens of London have for ages been proverbially called naturally occurs first to my mind; the more so, that as yet, though many * scattered notices of it may be found in different works of antiquarian repute, no one consistent account of it has, so far as I know, been given to the world. What, then, is the meaning of the word Cockney? Whence its derivation? and wherefore has it been applied, par excellence, to Londoners? Now, on turning to the many passages wherein it, or some form of it, is found among our earlier writers, two leading ideas will be observed as generally running through them. According to the first, the name is referred to the word Cocaigne, an imaginary land where many wondrous things were supposed to take place. According to the second, to the French coquin, or to some form more or less modified from it. The first gives it a local, the second a personal origin; at the same time, it will appear that these ideas were not kept at all distinct even at the first, while in later times they were so blended and confounded together, that, even if originally distinct, their separate derivation was soon lost, and in the end altogether forgotten. The "land of Cocaigne" is often met with in the older dramatists, and in all cases conveys a notion of a place where there was much luxury and sensual pleasure. It is, probably, the same as what the Germans call Wunderland; the French, La Coquaine; the Italians, Cocagna; and the English, sometimes Lubberland; where, according to the old proverb, "the pigs run about ready-roasted, and cry, 'Come and eat me.' Its derivation is not so obvious, yet I imagine it was transferred from the Italian to the French in the early part of the middle ages, there having been for many centuries a celebrated Christmas festival at Naples known by the name of La Cocagna. To this allusion is probably made in a mock-heroic poem composed by Giov. Battista Basili, published at Palermo in 1674, in which L'alma citta di Cuccagna is described in the following lines in the Sicilian dialect: "Sedi Cuccagna sulla una montagna, Di furmaggiri grattuti et havi in cima Di maccaruni una caudura magna." Nares, in his "Glossary," quotes a passage from Balthazar Bonifacius, A.D. 1586, who speaks of "Regio quædam quam Cucaniam vocant, ex abundantia panis, quæ cruca Illyricè vocatur; ""There is a certain region which is called Cucania, from cruca, an Illyrian word for bread," a passage so far to the point, that it implies a country or district in which there was an abundant fertility; and which, therefore, affords a connecting link with many other notices which I shall hereafter adduce. Boileau, in his Satires, speaking of Paris, says that it is "riche pour un pays de Cocagne;" and Boyer (Dictionnaire Français) explains the words, "pays de Cocagne," by Pays fertile et abondant où on fait grand chère." If, then, as I think caunot well be doubted, the phrase was used for any place where luxury was great and universal, we should expect that it would be appropriated in an especial manner to great cities; and of this, as will be seen, we have many instances. Thus Halliwell, to mention one such instance, quotes a ballad, preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, entitled "An Invitation to Lubberland-the Land of Cocaigne," and adds that Lubberland was a burlesque name for London. Now, if it be granted that Cockaigne was ever used as a nickname for London, it will not be hard to believe that Cockney might be used as a nickname for those who dwelt there. And so the following passages demonstrate, where the name is evidently so used, and without any inference deducible from them, whether the appellation was at first, as in after times, a term of contempt. Camden, in his "Remains," gives some lines, attributed to Hugh Bigot, and applies them directly to London and its inhabitants." He says,—— "Were I in my Castle of Bungey I would ne care for the King of Cokeney." And Dugdale, in his "Origines Judiciales," gives a long and interesting account of a festival enacted at Christmas-time by the benchers and barristers of the Temple and Lincoln's Inn, in which entertainment the leading character was termed the King of Cockneys, a festival the more curious from its remarkable analogy with that of the Cocagna at Naples, from whence it is not impossible that it may have been copied in name no less than in character. It is, indeed, not a little striking in what an Italian garb are almost all the lighter pieces of entertainment towards the end of the sixteenth, and beginning of the seventeenth century; our poets and imaginative writers ever looking to Italy as the bright land of their dreams and imaginings, and weaving their poetic fancies, masques, and interludes, upon a pattern singularly Italian. The account Dugdale gives is so curious that I shall venture to quote it at some length. It seems that it was usual at such festivals to choose some one as King of the Revels-much as even now, in the games of Twelfth-Night, our children are in the habit of "drawing for King and Queen." In order that the young gentlemen should learn to go through the ceremonies properly, the Marshal was ordered to sit as King on New Year's Day, and to have like service on Christmas-day, and the Master of the Revels was to supply the Marshal's place during dinner time. He adds: "Moreover the King of Cockneys on Childermas Day should sit and have due service, and that he, and all his officers, should use honest manner, and good order without any waste or destruction-making in wine brawn, chely, or other vitails; and also that he and his marshall-buttler and constable-marshall should have their lawful and honest commandements by delivery of the officers of Christmas, and that the said King of Cockneys, ne none of his officers, medyl neither in the buttery nor in the stuard of Christmas his office, upon pain of 40s. for every such meddling." While, in order that there should be no tumult or confusion, it was enjoined, thenceforth be utterly banisht, and no more be used in this house." "That Jack Straw and all his adherents should It is not clear what was the precise office of the King of Cockneys. It may be, that he occupied the place of the St. George in other similar pageants; and that Jack Straw was banished as an antimasque, or representative of popular and plebeian ceremony, as the King of Cockneys was of the higher and more aristocratic classes. Such performances were, it is well known, very common in the reigns of Henry VIII., Elizabeth, and James I., and one of them has this additional interest as the origin of a performance, of a higher and very different cast, once the most popular of its kind, and still never to be forgotten by those who have had the happiness to share in it or witness it. In January 1564-5, the boys of the "grammer skolle” of Westminster enacted | hat over my brows, sallied forth, and turned my a Christmas interlude; and, in 1573, the "children of moody steps in the direction of the cottage. Feeling Westminster" performed another, entitled "Truth, unwilling in my then humour to encounter any of its Faithfulness, and Mercy." These simple amusements inmates, I walked round to the back of the house, were the glorious ancestors of the well-known" West- and throwing open the window of a small room, minster Plays," which all those who have seen them will be glad to learn are not doomed to share which was dignified by the name of the study, and dedicated to my sole use and behoof, I leaped in, and, (as was reported) the fate of Eton Montem. closing the sash, flung myself into an easy chair, where, again involuntarily resuming the same train of thought, I gave myself up a prey to unavailing regrets. On my way I had encountered Freddy Coleman going to shoot wild fowl, and he had accosted me with the following agreeable remark,—“ Why, Frank, old boy, you look as black as a crow at a funeral,-I can't think what ails you all to-day. I met Harry Oaklands just now, seeming as if the Bank had failed; so I told him your sister was going to marry Lawless, just to cheer him up a bit, and show him the world was all alive and merry, when off he marched without saying a word, looking more grumpy than ever." The connexion between Lubberland and the land of Cockneys was probably in the mind of Shakspere when he was writing "Twelfth-night," for in the fourth act he makes the Clown say:-" Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber the world will prove a Cockney, "-a phrase not in itself very intelligible, and which has led to a curious suggested alteration of the words on the part of one of his late editors, who, supposing the Clown to be laughing at the magniloquent language of Sebastian, would have him say, I am afraid this great lubberly word will prove a Cockney.' Be this, however, as it may, the application may easily be that suggested here. And so much of the word Cockney, on the supposition that it is derived from Cocagna, or at least connected with it. On the other name for Londoners, alluded to before, namely, those who are "born within the sound of Bow bells," it may be remarked that, though not a very ancient nickname, it is by no means one of modern origin. The daughter of Touchstone, in the comedy of "Eastward Hoe," printed in 1605, says she used to "stop her ears at the sound of Bow bells, lest she should be thought a Cockney ;" and Beaumont and Fletcher call those who were born within their range "Bow-bell-suckers." The phrase may have arisen from Bow Church having been one of the most central places of the city of London, or from the importance of the acts immemorially performed in it. The Bell of Bow is celebrated in the early history of the city. In 1469, there was an order, that the bell should be rung every night at nine of the clock; and we know from Stow, that one Donne, an opulent mercer, bequeathed, in 1472, two tenements in Hosier Lane for its due maintenance; while some satirical verses are preserved, in which the apprentices complained of the late ringing of the bell which was to suspend their labours for the day. They complain to the ringer: "Clarke of the Bow bell, with the yellow locks, For thy late ringing thy head shall have knocks." And the Clerk replies: "Children of Chepe, hold; you all still, For you shall have the Bow bell rung at your will." FRANK FAIRLEGH; OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES.1 CHAP. XVIII. TEARS AND SMILES. READING law did not get on very well that day, De Lolme on the Constitution might have been a medical treatise for aught I knew to the contrary, Blackstone a work on geology. After a prolonged struggle to compel my attention, from which I did not desist until I became suddenly aware that for the last halfhour I had been holding one of the above-named ornaments to the profession the wrong way upwards, I relinquished the matter as hopeless, and, pulling my (1) Continued from p. 38. "Why did you tell him what was not true?" was my reply. "Oh! for fun; besides, you know, it may be true, for any thing we can tell," was the unsatisfactory rejoinder. In order the better to enable the reader to understand what is to follow, I must make him acquainted with the exact locale of the den or study to which I have just introduced him. Let him imagine, then, a small, but very 'pretty little drawing-room, opening into a conservatory of such minute dimensions, that it was in point of fact little more than a closet with glazed sides and a sky-light; this again opened into the study, from which it was divided by a green baize curtain, consequently it was very possible for any one to overhear in one room all that passed in the other, or even to hold a conversation with a person in the opposite apartment. Seeing, however, was out of the question, as the end of a high stand of flowers intervened, purposely so placed, to enable me to lie perdu in the event of any visitors calling to whom I might be unwilling to reveal myself. On the present occasion, the possibility of any one in the drawing-room seeing me was wholly precluded, by reason of the curtain already mentioned being partially drawn. I had not remained long in thought when my reverie was disturbed by some one entering the outer room and closing the door. The peculiar rustle of a lady's dress informed me that the intruder was of the gentler sex; and the sound of the footstep, so light as to be scarcely audible, could proceed from no other inmate of the cottage but Fanny. Even with the best intentions, one always feels a degree of shame in playing the eaves-dropper; natural sense of honour seems to forbid us, unnoticed ourselves, to remark the actions of others; yet so anxious was I, if possible, to gain some clue to the state of my sister's affections, that I could not resist the temptation of slightly changing my position, so that, concealed by a fold of the curtain, and peeping between two of the tallest camellias, I could command a view "Going abroad?" repeated Fanny, mechanically, as if stunned by this unexpected intelligence. "Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am always alarmingly hasty in my movements," he added, with a faint attempt at a smile. of the drawing-room. My ears had not deceived me; | you without saying good-bye,—without expressing a on the sofa, up to which she had drawn a small fervent wish, that in the lot you have chosen for writing-table, was seated Fanny; her elbow was sup-yourself you may meet with all the happiness you ported by the table before her, and her head rested anticipate and which you so well deserve.” on one of her little white hands, which was hidden amid the luxuriant tresses of her sunny hair. Her countenance, which was paler than usual, bore traces of tears. After remaining in this attitude for a few moments, motionless as a statue, she raised her head, and throwing back her curls from her face, opened the writing-case, and wrote a hurried note; but her powers of composition appearing to fail her before she reached the conclusion, she paused, and, with a deep sigh, drew from a fold in her dress a letter, which I instantly recognised as the remarkable document produced by the joint talents of Lawless and Coleman. As she perused this original manuscript, a smile, called forth by the singular nature of its contents, played for an instant over her expressive features, but was instantly succeeded by an expression of annoyance and regret. At this moment a heavy footstep sounded in the passage, and Fanny had scarcely time to conceal her letter ere the door was thrown open and Harry Oaklands entered. The change of light was so great on first coming into the room out of the open air, that, not until the servant had withdrawn, after saying " You will find Mr. Fairlegh in the study, sir," was Harry able to perceive, that, excepting himself, Fanny was the sole occupant of the apartment. "I hope I am not disturbing you," he began, after an awkward pause, during which his cheek had flushed, and then again grown pale as marble. "The servant told me I should find Frank here alone, and that you and Mrs. Fairlegh were out walking." "Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her." "And Frank?" "Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think he said he was going to the Hall, he wanted to find some book in the library, I fancy, I wonder you did not meet him." "I have not been at home lately; my father carried me off to look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back. Good-good morning!" So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room. Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood irresolutely for a moment, with the handle in his hand, and then returned, saying, in a low voice, "No, I cannot do it!-Fanny," he continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, "I am going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world no more, since you were a child we have lived together like brother and sister, and I cannot leave "It must be on account of your health," exclaimed Fanny, quickly. "Ah!" she continued, with a start, as if an adder had stung her, " that fearful leap you took to save me the exertion was too much for you; I knew I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better had I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your valuable life." "Indeed, it is not so, Fanny," replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently, it was evident she could scarcely stand, "I am regaining strength daily, and Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best thing for me." "Is that really all?" inquired Fanny; "but why then go so suddenly? Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John." "I cannot stay here," replied Harry, impetuously, "it would madden me." The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself, he added quickly, "You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an invalid, proverbially the most capricious of mortals. Six weeks ago I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get away from it—” he paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, "But I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day has opened before you. You must allow me," he continued, in a calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must have been extreme,-"you must allow me the privilege of an old friend, and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank and station which will one day be yours,-rank which you are so well fitted to adorn,may bring you all the happiness you imagine." "Happiness, rank, and station ?-May I ask to what you refer, Mr. Oaklands?" replied Fanny, colouring crimson. "I may have been premature in my congratulations," replied he; "I would not distress or annoy you for the world; but under the circumstances-this being probably the only opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always feel in every thing that relates to your happiness-I may surely be excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this." "You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands," rejoined Fanny, turning | powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth away her face, and speaking very quickly; "pray let this subject be dropped." "You trifle with me," replied Oaklands, sternly, his self-control rapidly deserting him, "and you know not the depth of the feelings you are sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the aflianced bride of George Lawless?" As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression which must have pierced him to the very soul, it was not of anger, it was not exactly of sorrow; but it was a look in which wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible was blended with tender reproach for his having thus misunderstood her. The former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to her pretty little features, of which I could scarcely have believed them capable, she replied, "Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so; therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness. You will, perhaps, excuse me," she added, rising to leave the room; "these events have annoyed and agitated me much.” " Stay exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, "Fanny, for Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I dreaming ? or did I hear you say that you had refused Lawless?" "I have already told you that it is so," she replied; "pray let me pass; you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend." Boar with me for one woment," pleaded Oaklands, in a voce scarcely audible from emotion. "You have not refused him out of any mistaken notions of generosity arising from difference of station ? In a word—for I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you-do you love him ?" and intensity of feeling which, like the Sirocco of the Desert, carries all before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands's agitation. Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming, Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?" Then, finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued, "Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak to me ;-tell me, are you angry with me?" and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous entreaty. Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and, uncovering his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which after a moment or two appeared attended with success; and taking her hand between his own, he said, with a faint smile,— "I have frightened you, - have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my Mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the night of that hateful charade--Fanny, did it never occur to you that I loved you with a love different to that of a brother?" As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, taint as the earliest g'ance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he continued, “Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood, and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I franky curless, that till the idea of your loving awther occurred to me, I was hind to the mure d my own attrction. To be with you, to see and talk to yoG ELIT, SO cultivate your talents, to lead you to aduire the beauties that I admired, to take maerest in the parsalts which interested me, was bang dess enco I wished for mithing mice. Tom Cat GOAT SENT ONS of the dock, and the affectedate klodress with wi you frotted my every wish, the deliziar tenderTess and mary tart which endlived you a be more |