goats, swine, small game, domestic poultry (especially geese), sea and river fish, and bees; corn, peas, and beans, potatoes, fruit, timber, flax, and tobacco; alum, bog-iron, salt, turf, and amber. The Pomeranian forests are very extensive and productive. The fisheries likewise yield a considerable profit. There are no manufactures of much importance. Good and strong linen, however, is made, and is a considerable article of exportation. What manufactures there are, are confined to the principal towns (Stargard, Stettin, and Stralsund). The trade of this province is very important.

The inhabitants are by descent partly Slavonians and partly Germans. The nobles are numerous, chiefly consisting of German families who have settled here since the twelfth century. The vassalage of the peasants was abolished by Frederick William III. The population in 1846 was 1,165,073, of whom nearly all are Lutherans.

Pomerania was formerly a considerable part of the ancient kingdom of the Wends, or Vandals. From the year 1062 it had its own dukes. The Christian religion was introduced in the twelfth century. The line of dukes became extinct on the death of Boleslaus XIII., in 1637. On the death of the last duke, Pomerania was divided between Prussia and Sweden; and it was not until 1815 that the former state obtained possession of the whole of Pomerania, by certain arrangements with Sweden and Denmark.

THE BOLERO.

THIS popular Spanish dance, like the fandango, is supposed to be of Moorish origin. It is accompanied with songs, guitar, and castanets, and, in the neighborhood of Cadiz, with full orchestra. The dancers represent by their pantomime the most conflicting and passionate emotions of the human heart, from the first blushing dawn of love to the most vehement bursts of intensest rapture. Like most of the Spanish dances, it is sometimes made too voluptuous.

THE OXEN ROAD IN SWITZERLAND.

THE physical features of Switzerland furnish scenery which, if equaled, is not surpassed by any other part of the globe. One of the most picturesque of the hilly portions of Switzerland is the oxen-road, presented in this number.

This road leads through innumerable valleys, extending in narrow range between towering cliffs and rocks. To the traveler it presents a study of wonderful interest.

HEROINES OF HISTORY.

BELONGING to the tribe of Reuben, the daughter of Merari, and widow of Manasseh, Judith is almost as much celebrated for her beauty as for the deliverance of Bethulia when besieged by Holofernes. She had been told that Ozias, the general, had promised to deliver the town within five days into the hands of Holofernes; for which reason she sent for Chabris and Carmis, elders of the people, and informed them of her purpose to free her country, without, however, revealing the means by which she would effect it. Commending herself, then, with especial fervor to the Almighty protection, with what we must consider a strange self-deception, and ignorance of that frame of mind and line of conduct which God vouchsafes alone to bless, she dressed herself with the greatest care in her richest apparel, and under the erroneous idea that she might "do evil that good might come," went to the general's camp, and prostrated herself before Holofernes, pretending that she fled from the city.

As soon as Holofernes beheld her, he, captivated by her address and appearance, promised her protection, with free ingress and egress of the camp. Upon the fourth day, he sent Bagoas to invite her to a superb entertainment, whither his fair captive went, adorned with ever resource that could rivet the admiration of the ruler, already subdued by the graces of her first impression. Like all barbarian soldiers, he protracted the hours of the feast far into the night, until, oppressed by wine

and reveling, he sunk overpowered by stupor, an easy victim to the machinations of his treacherous guest. No sooner was he asleep, than, placing her maid upon the watch to prevent surprise, Judith, still preserving the hypocrisy of religious zeal, we are told, prayed to God, took down the resting warrior's sword, and cut off his head, which having given to her maid, she wrapped the body in the curtains of the bed, and using the liberty she enjoyed of passing the lines unquestioned, went to Bethulia. By dawn the next day the head was exhibited upon the city walls, an event which so appalled the besiegers, that they fled in dismay; and to reward the infamy of her act, in which it appears she found willing accomplices even among the priests of her nation, we are told that the high-priest Jehoiakim came from Jerusalem to Bethulia, and complimented Judith. She also received all the property of the murdered soldier, which afterward, by a continuation of moral ignorance, equally absurd as reprehensible, was consecrated to the service of the Lord. The reward of the traitress Tarpeia would have been much more befitting such conduct, who was pressed to death by the weight of the gold ornaments for the sake of which she had delivered up the city. Judith, however, is reported to have lived one hundred and five years at Bethulia, to have enfranchised her maid, and after her death, to have been lamented seven days by her nation, who placed the day of victory amongst the number of Hebrew festivals.

CHILDREN.

COME to me, oh, ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ah! what would the world be to us,
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung er said;
For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

THE END THEREOF.

1

A NEW NOVEL.

BY MISS M. E. BRADDON,

Author of "Eleanor's Victory," "Lady Audley's Secret," "Aurora Floyd," "Henry Dunbar," etc., etc.

CHAPTER X.

HE ten A. M. express whisked Mr. Walgrave up to town in something less than an hour. The fair Kentish landscape shot past the carriage window, little by little losing its charm of rural seclusion, growing suburban, dotted thickly and more thickly with villas, here newly whitened stucco of the rustic Italian style, there fresh red brick of severely gothic design; for oaks came laurels, for mighty beeches of half a dozen centuries' growth, monkey-trees planted the day before yesterday; every house had its glittering conservatory, trim lawn, and geometrical flower-beds, all ablaze with Tom Thumb geraniums and calceolaria; every where the same aspect of commonplace British prosperity. Then the bright, well-ordered suburb melted into the crowded southern fringe of the great town. The air became flavored

with soap-boiling, tallow, new boots-on the right hand a faroff odor of cordage and tar from Deptford; on the left, the dismal swamps of Bermondsey. Then a clang and a clatter, a shrieking and puffing, and jerking and snorting; a stoppage or two-apparently purposeless-and lo! Mr. Walgrave was at the London-bridge Station; and it seemed to him as if Grace Redmayne, and the life that he had been living for the last few weeks, could scarcely belong to such a world as this. It was a dreary awakening from a delicious dream.

He called a cab-a four-wheeler-since he had the responsibility of his luggage, and no one but himself to take charge of it, and drove through the grimy, miry streets. Even at this deadest period of the year the city was noisy with traffic, and full of life and motion; but, oh! what a dismal kind of life after the yellowing corn-fields, studded with gaudy fieldflowers, and the rapturous music of the lark, invisible in the empyrean!

"Oh, to be a country squire with twenty thousand a year," he thought, "and to live my own life! to marry Grace Redmayne, and dawdle away my harmless days riding round my estate; to superintend the felling of a tree or the leveling of a hedge; to lie stretched on the grass at sunset with my head on my wife's lap, my cigar-case and a bottle of claret on the rustic table beside me; to have the renown that goes with a good old name and a handsome income, and to have nothing to wrestle for, no prize to pluck from the slow-growing tree that bears the sour fruit of worldly success-sour to the man who fails to reach it, ashes to the lips of him who wins it too late! And yet we strive and yet we persevere-and yet we sacrifice all for the hope of that."

The cab took him to one of the gates of the Temple, and deposited him finally in King's-bench Walk. Here he had his chambers, a handsome suite upon the first floor, where he chose to live in defiance of fashion. He fully knew the value of externals, and that well-made chairs and tables are in a manner the outward expression of a man's mental worth. There was no bric-à-brac; nor were the doors shadowed by those ruby velvet portières, which seem to prevail more in light literature than in the houses of everyday life. The rooms were large and lofty, and had all the charm of fine old mantelpieces, deep windowseats, and well-preserved paneling. The furniture was solid, and in good order a little old-fashioned, and therefore in harmony with the rooms. There were books on every side, but no luxury of binding-such books as a gentleman and a lawyer should possess-in sober, decent garb, and arranged with an extreme nicety in fine old mahogany book-cases of that Georgian period whereof the furniture seems always to bear on its front a palpable protest against any pretensions to beauty. There were two or three comfortable easy-chairs, upholstered in russet morocco; a writing-table with innumerable drawers and pigeonholes; a pair of handsome bronze moderator lamps: and over the high mantelpiece in the principal room one picture, the only picture in Hubert Walgrave's chambers.

It was a portrait, the portrait of a woman, with a face of almost perfect loveliness-arch, piquant, bewitching, with hazel eyes that had the light of happy laughter in their brightness. The costume, which the painter had made a little fanciful in its character, was obviously old-fashioned; between thirty and forty years old, at least.

As a work of art the picture was a gem, a portrait which Reynolds or Romney-" the man in Cavendish Square"-might have been proud of.

A quiet-looking, middle-aged man-servant received Mr. Walgrave, and busied himself with the carrying in of the luggage. He was half-butler, half valet; slept in a closet off the small kitchen which lurked at the back of those handsome rooms; and with the aid of a laundress, who might often be heard scrubbing and sweeping in the early morning, but was rarely beheld by human eye except his own, conducted Mr. Walgrave's household. He was altogether a model servant, the result of a good many experiments in the domestic line, was efficient in the duties of a valet, and could broil a chop and boil a potato to perfection, and conduced in no small measure to Hubert Walgrave's comfort.

reason of any Jewish element in his race, but on account of the Biblical tendencies of his mother, to whom he still proudly alluded, on familiar occasions, as an unequaled clear-starcher and a stanch Bible Christian.

"Any letters, Cuppage?" Mr. Walgrave inquired, flinging himself into his favorite arm-chair, and looking round the room listlessly.

It was a very pleasant room, looking westward, and commanding a fine view of that one feature which London has most reason to boast of-the river. It was a comfortable room, stamped with the individuality of the man to whom it belonged, and Mr. Walgrave was fond of it. His books, his papers, his pipes, all the things which made life agreeable to him, were here. In this room he had worked for the last seven years, ever since he had begun to earn money by his profession; and the bookshelves had been filling gradually all that time, every volume added by his own hands, picked up by himself, and in accordance with his own especial tastes.

He began to be reconciled to the change from that shady old hou e in Kent, with the perfume of a thousand flowers blowing in at every win low. London was dull, and empty, and dingy, but he had the things he cared for-books and perfect ease.

"I think I was made to be an old bachelor," he thought. "I should hardly care to leave these rooms to inhabit a palace, unless-unless it was with Grace Redmayne. Strange that a farmer's daughter, educated at a provincial boarding-school, should exercise more influence over me than any woman I ever met-should seem to me cleverer and brighter than the brightest I ever encountered in society. I don't think I am so weak a fool as to be won by beauty alone, though I would be the last to underrate that charm. I don't think I should have been so fond of that young girl if she were not something more than beautiful."

"I should have been so fond." Mr. Walgrave put his passion in a past tense, tried to consider it altogether a thing of the past; and then began to walk slowly up and down his room, now and then pausing by one of the three windows to look absently out at the sunlit river, with its fleet of black, panting steamers and slow coal barges, with here and there a dingy sail flapping in the faint Summer wind, thinking of Grace Redmayne.

What was she doing just at this moment? he wondered. Wandering listlessly in the garden, quite alone, and very sorrowful.

I shall never forget that white, despairing face of hers," he said to himself. "The thought of it gives me an actual pain at my heart. If-if I were a weak man I should take my carpetbag and go back by the afternoon train; I can fancy how the sweet face would light up at sight of me. But I should be something worse than a fool if I did that. The wrench is over. Thank Heaven, I acted honorably; told her the truth from the first. And now I have only to make it my business to forget her."

There were letters for him. Cuppage had arranged them symmetrically in a neat group upon the writing-table at the right hand of the morocco-covered slope on which Mr. Walgrave was wont to write.

He ceased from his promenade presently, and directed his attention to these, as some sort of distraction from meditations which he felt were perilous. They were not likely to be particularly interesting-his letters had been forwarded to him daily at Brierwood--but they would serve to occupy his mind for an hour or so.

There was one, bearing the Kensington post-mark, in a hand which surprised him. A large thick envelope, sealed with a monogram in gold and color, and directed in a bold, firm hand, square and uniform in style, which might be masculine or feminine.

It was very familiar to Hubert Walgrave, He gave a little start of surprise-not altogether pleased surprise-on seeing this letter, and tore open the envelope hurriedly, to the utter destruction of the emblazoned monogram, in which the initials A. H. V. went in and out of each other in the highest style of

The letter was not a long one.

"ACROPOLIS SQUARE, August 19. "MY DEAR HUBERT-You will no doubt be surprised to receive my letter from the above address. Papa grew suddenly tired of Ems, and elected to spend the rest of the Autumn in England. So here we are for a day or two, deliberating whether we shall go to some quiet watering-place, or pay off some of our arrears with friends. Papa lent the Ryde villa to Mrs. Filmer before we went away, and of course we can't turn her out. The Stapletons want us at Hayley, and the Beresfords have asked us for ever so many years to Abblecopp Abbey, a fine old place in the depths of Wales. But I dare say the question will resolve itself into our going to Eastborne or Bognor.

"I hope you are getting quite strong and well. If there were any chance of your being in town for a few hours-I suppose you do come sometimes on business-between this and next Thursday, we should be very glad to see you; but I do not wish to interfere with your doctor's injunctions about rest and quiet. Ems was dull à faire frémir. Half a dozen eccentric toilets, as many ladies who were talked about, a Russian prince, and all the rest the dreariest of the invalid species-so even Kensington Gardens in August are agreeable by the way of a change. -Always sin

cerely yours,

AUGUSTA H. VALLORY."

Mr. Walgrave twisted the letter round in his fingers thoughtfully, with rather a grim smile upon his face.

"Cool," he said to himself. "A gentlemanlike epistle. None of the Eloisa or Sappho to Phaon business, at any rate. I wonder what kind of a letter Grace Redmayne would write me if we were plighted lovers, and had not seen each other for seven or eight weeks. What a gushing stream of tenderness would well from that fond young heart! 'Augusta Harcross Vallory,' looking at the dashing semi-masculine autograph with a half scornful admiration. "What a fine straight up-and-down hand she writes-with a broadnibbed pen, and a liberal supply of ink! One could fancy her signing death-warrants just as firmly. I wonder she doesn't sign herself Harcross and Vallory.' It would seem more natural. Not a bad name for a barony, by-the-way-like Stamford and Warrington. Her husband may be raised to the peerage some day by such a title."

He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. The day was so old already, and he had done nothing-not even answered the three or four letters that required to be answered. He took a quire of paper, dashed off a few rapid replies, left Miss Vallory's note unanswered, and lighted a meditative cigar. Cuppage came in while he was smoking it to inquire if his master would dine at home.

46

No; you can put my things ready for me in an hour. I shall dine out this evening, and I may want to dress early." The cigar suited him. That little commonplace note of Augusta Vallory's had diverted his mind in some measure-had sent his thoughts in a new direction. He was no longer depressed. On the contrary, he was pleased with himself and the world-rather proud of his own conduct during the late crisis in his life-inclined to applaud and approve himself as a generous, honorable-minded man of the world. He did not consider that honor, and generosity, and worldliness were in any way incompatible.

"Nothing could have been more straightforward than my conduct to that dear girl," he said to himself. "From first to

last I was thoroughly candid. Come what may, I can have nothing to reproach myself with on that score."

CHAPTER XI. EVERYBODY knows Acropolis Square and the region to which it belongs-the region amidst which has of late arisen the Albert Hall, but where at this remoter period the Albert Hall was not; only the glittering fabric of the Horticultural Society's great conservatory, and an arid waste, whereon the exhibition of 1862 had stood. Acropolis Square is a splendid quadrangle of palatial residences, whose windows look out upon a geometrically arranged garden, where small detachments of juvenile aristocracy, not yet "out," play croquet in the warm June noontide, or in the dewy twilight, when mamma and the elder girls have driven off to halls of dazzling light, and the governesses are off duty. Acropolis Square, in the height of the London season-when there are carriages waiting at half the doors, and awnings hung out over half the balconies, and a wealth of flowers everywhere, and pretty girls mounting for their canter in the Row, and a general flutter of gayety and animation pervading the very atmosphere-is bright and pleasant enough; but at its best it has all the faults of New London.

And at the suggestion, made in bitter jest, a dim, faint vision of an ermine cap with six pearls arose before Hubert Walgrave's mental gaze.

"Men have sat in the Upper House who began with smaller advantages than mine," he thought. "A fortune like Augusta Vallory's will buy anything in commercial England. One by one the old names are dropping out of the list; and of ten new ones, eight are chosen for the extent of a landed estate, or the balance at a bank. And when money is conjoined with professional renown, the thing is so easy. But it would be rather singular if I were to sit in the Upper House and Sir Francis Clevedon in the Lower."

Every house is the facsimile of its neighbor; there is none of that individuality of architecture which gives a charm to the more sombre mansions of the old-fashioned squares-Grosvenor, and Portman, and Cavendish; not a break in the line of porches; not the difference of a mullion in the long range of windows; and instead of the deep mellow hue of that red brick which so admirably harmonizes with the gray background of an English sky, the perpetual gloom of a dark drab stucco.

The city of Babylon, when her evil days had fallen upon her, was not drearier than Acropolis Square at the end of August, or