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AN OLD, OLD STORY.

AND So, my darling, then at last they've sold you,
And doubtless chuckle o'er their common sin;
Don't you remember long ago I told you,
Hearts had no chance, for Diamonds must win?

A title and a heavy rent roll's bought you,
A house in town, an old ancestral hall;
As for the owner! why of those who sought you
I know you liked this lordling least of all.

I've watch'd you often resolutely smother

Your deep contempt whene'er he lisping spake ; Because you thought that duty to a mother

Must be fulfill'd, though your young heart should break.

Duty, indeed! was it a mother's duty

To watch and scheme, then coldly let you go To him who highest bid for your fresh beauty, And know, too, as she did, our heart's deep woe?

Or was it kind of her to lead me near you

(She knew my only wealth was rising fame), Daily to let me see you, watch you, hear you, Then laugh to scorn the sequel when it came? Nay, was it RIGHT? Well, well; I will not linger Upon the past, "the sad brief tale long told;" Perhaps some time remorse will keenly sting her, To find your young life desolate and cold.

You pass'd me yesterday, I all forgetting
Stood as though stricken by a sharp distress ;
The little dog I gave you, you were petting-
Oh, how I envied it that soft caress!

You sat beside your owner, sadly sighing;
You scarcely smiled, though jewels on you shone.
To his few words you coldly were replying-
I've seen you smile, I've heard a sweeter tone!

If I could have his place I would not ask it,

Though o'er his daily life you queenlike shine ; He has but bought the bright and beauteous casket, The "priceless pearl" within has once been mine. "Once mine,"-not now-of course all that is over, The Church has bound you by its solemn vows To give, as payment for a life in clover,

Your best affection to your lordly spouse.

Then give it him, my love, and so forget me, And those few words of love I trembling said; Yet, if sometimes you think of and regret me, Regret me as a faithful friend long dead.

And I will live so that in our chance meetings

I shall not shrink from your sai searching gaze; So we can clasp our hands with kindly greetings, And then pass on, and go our sep'rate ways.

MINUET DE LA COUR.

WE give a sketch of this courtly dance from a very rare print. It was the popular dance of the aristocratic classes, and presents a striking contrast to the almost bovine vigor of the English country dance. Mozart has composed some exquisite music for this style of dance.

THE BELLS OF LARA.-A MEXICAN LEGEND.

THE old equare tower in the market-place of Lara contains a very remarkable peal of bells, three in number, and of immense size. They were cast about two hundred years ago, in the great old foundry of Lara, and they are never rung except on the death of a Warden of Lara, when they are tolled at midnight, in changes that make a very melancholy dirge. It is a common circumstance at Lara, for some venerable narrator of the little circles that close round the firesides on a winter's

night, to recount his memories of how awfully the bells in the old square tower spoke when the father of some present Warden died. He will tell how their tones have something in them resembling the human voice, and how the affrighted sleepers used to wake at the supernatural sound, and light their lamps to scare away any stray demons that might well be lurking in the air upon which such unearthly music was borne. These bells of Lara have a legend of their own. Some say that an old grave digger of the place, now long since passed away, recognized the voice that spoke in their sonorous chimes; and this brought to the fireside-circles strong evidence of the truth of the legend, which I will recount.

The Wardens of Lara were for centuries the hereditary lords of the soil. Their wealth was derived from the mineral regions of the valley in which the old place nestles. Nearly everybody in Lara was connected with the huge foundries there, the works turned out from which were famous for their excellence of manufacture and design.

About the year 1560, one Miguel Brontez was a superintendent of certain mines belonging to the Wardens of Lara. He was a man of active business habits and unimpeachable integrity, faithful in a stewardship of some years, to an aged Warden, who died in the year mentioned, and was succeeded by a graceless and profligate son.

A well-to-do artisan, belonging to the workshops, had a daughter named Urna, who was accounted the fairest among the fair girls for whom Lara was rather celebrated. For some time the profligate young Warden had been laying siege to this plebeian beauty, with views that were the reverse of honorable, and his feelings of rage and malignity knew no bounds, when he heard, one day, that Urna Castillo had just been united in the holy bonds of matrimony to Miguel Brontez.

But the sleuth-hound never leaves his quarry until he runs it down; and of such tenacity in his amours was the Warden of Lara. His efforts to gain the favor of Urna were now greater than ever. He sought, but in vain, to pave his way with gold. He deprived the young wife, at times, of her strong-armed protector, by sending him away, on shallow pretexts, to the mountain mines. The Warden of Lara was a handsome man, and his vanity was stung to the quick by his want of success with one who, after all, was nothing more than a workman's wife! Once, when Brontez returned to his home, after an absence of some days at the mines, he found his fair young wife in tears. Reluctantly she confessed to him the cause of her grief. The persecution to which she had long been subjected was now, for the first time, divulged to him-for Urna knew that he was a man of quick temper and violent action, when aroused by injury, and she feared some terrible result. Nor was that result long in coming. Next day Brontez met the Warden, face to face, in the iron-yards, and leaping upon him like a panther, felled him to the earth with a powerful blow.

Heaps of iron lay around the spot where this affair took place, so that the assault was not witnessed by any of the workmen. This gave Brontez a brief time for reflection as to what course he had best pursue. Terrible retribution, as he well knew, would be sure to fall upon him, whether the Warden recovered from the blow or died of it; and so, making his way from the yard unobserved, he went by a circuitous route to his home, which he reached just as the shades of evening were deepening into night. But he at once confided the whole situation of affairs to his wife, and long before morning dawned they were both on their way to a distant iron district, where Brontez, under an assumed name, hoped to obtain employment from the principal employer.

For about a year they lived here in comparative safety-a happy state of affairs, which was destined soon to be brought to a close, however. The Warden of Lara had long since recovered from the blow inflicted upon him by the injured husbandpursuit after whom he, with a hypocrital show of leniency, forbade-the reality of the case being that he feared provoking certain disclosures which would not have been creditable to himself. In course of time, a matrimonial alliance was arranged between him and a daughter of the wealthy proprietor with whom Brontez had found refuge. Certain business affairs rendered it necessary for him to make a visit to the father of his

successor, who ordained that the bells should be rung henceforth at the funerals of the Wardens of Lara, and on no other occasions whatever.

intended bride, and while inspecting the work, in company | tolled for the first time. This was done by order of the next with his host, he recognized Brontez among the overseers who were going to and fro there, and resolved to work his ruin. It is unnecessary to recount the processes by which the Warden ousted the unfortunate overseer from his employer's confidenca.

Suffice it to say that Brontez was dismissed, and thrown once more upon the world, wandered away with his wife to a distant town, where for a while he managed to make a poor subsistence by such precarious employment as he could obtain.

But an evil spell seemed to pursue him even here. Broken down by hardship and poverty, his wife died, and Brontez, now a reckless and broken-hearted man, disappeared from the place, and it was rumored that he had committed suicide. Later, reports went that he had joined a band of robbers in the mountains that tower over Lara; and soon the matter was forgotten altogether, and his name was heard no more.

Meanwhile, certain family affairs rendered necessary a postponement of the Warden's marriage with the wealthy young heiress of the iron-works.

A year had elapsed since his visit to her father, and the time was now at hand when the long-talked-of-alliance was to take place.

To give the popular éclat to the occasion, the Warden ordered the casting of three great bells, the amalgam of which was to be of a quality capable of producing chimes of musical tone. These bells were to be hung in the old tower, and their voices were to be heard, for the first time on the occasion of the Warden's marriage.

The day for casting the bells had arrived. A mighty tank for containing the molten metal had been constructed in the iron-yard, and, by a curious coincidence, on the very spot where long before the Warden had fallen to the ground, stunned and bleeding, from the blow administered to him by the infuriated overseer.

The tank was full of the seething metal, which worked and bubbled angrily, like some lake of molten silver about to burst its banks. The moment for filling the moulds had come, but was delayed for the arrival of the Warden, who was to have witnessed the process.

Just then a difficulty with some machinery in a distant part of the yard summoned away all the workmen, except one, who was left to watch the boiling metal.

On the return of the workmen, Jaquez, the watcher, was found lying upon some blocks of iron in a fit. Restoratives were at once applied, but it was some time before he recovered consciousness; and then it was perceived that his power of speech had departed from him. His hair was blanched to a silvery whiteness, and the vacant wandering of his eyes denoted that reason had lost her sway. Some of the workmen said that Jaquez had long been subject to epileptic fits. Others shook their heads and whispered influences. The poor imbecile was taken care of, and the work went on.

The Warden failed to make his appearance. No further time could be allowed, for the met 1 was at a boiling pitch. The chief overseer gave the signal, and the bells were cast.

The Warden never made his appearance. High and low they searched for him, far and near; but he never was seen again by mortal eye; and many were the occult influences adverted to by the superstitious workmen to account for his mysterious disappearance.

The succession of the Wardenship fell upon the brother of the one who had so unaccountably vanished, and who was believed by his relatives to have committed suicide in one of his mooly fits, by precipitating himself down the shaft of some forgotten mine. One of the first acts of the new Warden was to have the great bells hung in the tower, for which they were originally destined; but strict orders were issued that no test should be made of their tone, the first trial of which the new proprietor chose to have deferred until fate should throw in his way some fair damsel, his alliance with whom would be appropriately celebrated with joyful chime on the wedding-bells. Nevertheless, it so happened that the new Warden never was married. He died, though, about ten years after his succession to the estate; and it was at his funeral that the bells were

And on the day of the funeral a strange circumstance took place in the little asylum for decayed workmen belonging to the foundries of Lara. An old imbecile, named Jaquez, who had been an inmate of the place for many years, became suddenly restored to reason as the sad tolling of the bells vibrated upon his ears. He was on his deathbed then; but, feeble though he was, he spoke-for the first time since his admission into the asylum. Alluding to things of ten years past, as though they had happened but yesterday, he made, in substance, the following statement to his listeners, who now crowded eagerly around him.

Jaquez, as I have stated, was left alone to watch the boiling metal, on the occasion of the casting of the bells. A minute or two after the departure of the other workmen, the Warden made his appearance, having entered the yard by a posterngate that communicated with the grounds of the castle. He was in high glee, and in the act of addressing some condescending banter to Jaquez, when the latter saw approaching from among the heaps of iron, a wild, unearthly figure, clad in the skins of beasts, and his long matted locks tangled with weeds and briars. So paralyzed with terror was Jaquez, that his tongue lost its power, and he was unable to give the alarm. In a moment, the maniac-for such he appeared to be-confronted the Warden, and with the words, "Miguel Brontez greets you!" struck him to the earth with a crashing blow, and then raising him in his arms, plunged him bodily into the seething bell-metal, in which he was dissolved into instant annihilation. Then the maniac fled with the speed of a beast of prey, and of him there is no further record on earth!

Jaquez, as I have said, was a speechless idiot from that hour to the moment of his death. At the casting of the bells of Lara, therefore, none were aware of the terrible amalgam fused in their metal; but is it a wonder that their chimes in the night should startle sleepers, wakening them to a dim horror of demon voices in the air?

SCENE IN A PICTURE GALLERY.

Ir a student of humanity wishes to view his fellow-creatures in one of their most peculiar phases, he ought to station himself in some quiet corner of the National Academy of Design; or, indeed, any picture gallery. He will there see how fearfully and wonderfully made are the ostensible admirers and disciples of art. Every shade of pretence, ignorance, presumption and vulgarity is there to be found, interspersed with a small modicum of modest merit and critical ability.

Let our readers study the picture on page 884, and be will find many of the countenances eloquent with thought. Regard the bright delight in that fair girl's face, eyes, mouth and every feature, radiant with joy. Would you wish to know the reason? She has seen her Alphonso hanging-we mean his picture, hanging on the wall. I wears the same angelic expression it had when he tenderly enquired "Does my Ada love me?" The old lady next to her is evidently regarding her own strong-winded face, which the artist has not flattered. On the left side let us regard the talleman in specs; he is evidently an artist--one of the snob kind. He is looking with jaundiced eyes on some rival's picture, which has been better hung than his own. Just over the fair Ada, who is gazing, as we said, upon her Alphonso, is a fat old fellow; he is evidently a successful shoddyite, or has dived into petroleum with good effect. Having seen knowing ones roll up their catalogue, he is trying how far it improves the picture., The two profiles between the tall man in specs and the bright-faced girl with the catalogue, belong to gentlemen who have gone to look at the living pictures of flesh and blood and bloom, which look as unconscious as though they did not know every young man was regarding them with the tenderest interest and admiration. But if our readers want to know more about the motley crowd we have presented to them, they must study it out for themselves.

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SOMEBODY'LL COME TO-NIGHT.

I must bind my hair with the myrtie bough
And gem it with buds of white;
And drive this blush from my burning brow,
For somebody'll come to-night.
And while his eye shall discern a grace
In the braid and the folded flower,
He must not find in my tell-tale face
The spell of his wondrous power.

"I must don the robe which he fondly calls
A cod of enchanting light;

And sit where the mellowing moonlight falls,
For somebody'll come to night.
Ard while the robe and the place shall seem
But the veriest freak of chance,

'Tis sweet to know that bis eye will beam
With a tenderer, happier glance."

'Twas thus I sang when the years were few
That lay on my girlish head,

And all the flowers that in fancy grew
Were tied with golden tbread.

And somebody" came, and the whispers there

I cannot repeat them, quite

But I know my soul went up in prayer,

And "somebody's " here to-night.

I blush no m re at the whispered vow,

Nor sigh in the soft moonlight;

My robe has a tint of amber now,

And I sit by the anthracite.

And the locks that vied with the g'osy wren

Have passed to the silver gray,

But the love that decked them with flowers thep Is a holier love to day.

THE MASTER OF WINTERSLOW.

It was a black, pitiless night. Cecile Ramsay stepped upon the platform of the little railway station among the hills, and the train, with a shriek and a quiver, rushed away into the darkness again, leaving a strange loneliness and desolation bebing it. There was a terrible wind abroad. It came down VOL. XVII.. No. 6- 22

the valley in great resistless waves, with an awful, thunderous roar; then it wound about among the recesses of the hills, aud whistled shrilly in the rocky gorges, or sat in the tree-tops, sighing and sobbing. Above, the sky was inky black. Afar off a light twinkled faintly, like a flickering star, sometimes quite lost in the gloom; ne ar by them was a red glow from the window of the little station-house. The surly sleet flew in drifts before the wind; the crystal particles glittered upon the window-panes. Cecile Ramsay thought of her drive to Winterslow, and shuddered. But why did no one come to meet

her?

Was there nobony alive in that wild place? Cecile warmed her fingers at the ruddy blaze, and then went and stood in the doorway again, listening intently. In the pauses of the tempest, she could hear the steady fall of water-the music of the brook as it threaded the gorge, but no tramp of hoofs.

Cecile walked about uneasily. It was very strange that no one came. Was that Winterslow where that red light shone out just now, she wondered?

She went in and stood by the fire again, going over in her thoughts the details of the long, bleak, winter's journey, tryng to fancy what manner of people these might be where she was going-looking at the fire with absorbed, eager eyes, hoping something, but fearing more.

Presently a rough man in a shaggy overcoat walked in,

"Are you waiting to go to Winterslow?''

She started.

"Yes. Are you come for me?"

"Yes'm. It's a rough night, but I take it you've a strong heart of your own, or you'd not be going to Winterslow to live. We be ready, if you are."

Cecile followed him out. A carriage and pair of horses stood impatiently pawing the snow.

"Is that Winterslow-where the light shines out?" said Cecile, as she got in the carriage.

"Yes Tha's Winterslow. That light is in the library, and master's waiting for you there. A good three miles off it be."' "Are the family at Winterslow well?"

"Yes, they are well," was the curt reply.

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Winterslow has no mistress, I think," said Cecile, after a

pause.

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