there will then be effectually nothing better for you to do—the Tiber is still there."

"Oh! Signor, you are kind, I will do what you require ;" and a ray of hope, illumined like the lightning's flash her mournful facein that moment I would have given worlds to have restored happiness to her writhing heart, to have been the object of an affection deep, o'erwhelming as I had felt and understood so painfully, such as alone could suffice to me, such as I might never meet, to give again as wildly back.

That evening in effect, I took A aside; I related to him the agonizing scene I had witnessed, entreating him to grant the unfortunate creature an interview which alone could save her. "Seek," said I, "some more efficient and correct information; I will wager my right hand, my existence, you are now making her the victim either of error or designing villany. Besides, if all my arguments are unavailing," and I looked at him sarcastically, “as an artist, I can assure you that her despair is the most admirable effect you ever beheld and one of the most dramatic things imaginable; take a sketch of her, if only as an object of art."

"Come, come, you plead so well," he replied, with a warmth that he never evinced but when the interest of his art was concerned, "that I yield-I will see in two hours hence some one who can throw the clearest light upon this ridiculous affair. If the key is not in my door, it will be a sign that my suspicions are well-grounded, then, I beg you never more to mention the matter. Now let us speak of something else; how do you like my new studio ?"

Incomparably better than the old one, but the view is not so fine from the window; in your place, I should have kept the garret, were it only to see the Cross of St Peter's and the Tomb of Adrian."

"Oh! there you are again in the clouds; by-the-bye, talking of clouds, let me light my cigar. Well, now I'm off to make those inquiries. Good evening; tell your protegee," said he, with a look of searching and peculiar cast," of my final resolution. I am curious to see who is the dupe." The next morning Giudetta came very early to my lodgings: I was yet asleep; she was at first afraid to interrupt my repose; but, boiling with impatience, she seized a guitar, and struck three chords which awoke me. On turning round in my bed, I perceived her standing near my pillow, overcome with emotion. Heavens! How beautiful she looked! Hope beamed upon her ravishing face, through the brown tinge of her complexion I saw her impassioned blush; she trembled in every limb.

"Well, Giudetta, I think and hope he will receive you; if the key s in his door, it is a token that he forgives you; if he is worthy of such love he will, and-"

The poor girl interrupted me with a cry of joy, threw herself upon my aand, kissed it with transport, sighed deeply, sobbed, and precipitated herself out of my room, bestowing upon me, by way of thanks, a smile so exquisitely sweet in its expression that it seemed to illumine my very being with its enchantment. Some hours after I had risen A- entered my room, and in a cold, grave tone of voice, said to me "You are right, I have discovered my error; but why is she not come then? I awaited her."

"What, not come? Why, she left here this morning, half mad

with the hope I had given her. She must have been at your place five minutes' afterwards."

"I have not seen her; and, nevertheless, I left the key in my door."

"Good God! I forgot to tell her that you had changed your studio. She must have gone to your rooms on the fourth story, not knowing that you were on the first. Away! let us run!"

The door of the the silver spada recognised with We ran to the

We rushed to the upper story of A's house. room was locked; in the panel was deeply fixed which Giudetta wore in her hair, and which Ahorror; it was the one he had presented to her. Transtevere she was not there; to her own lodging-neither was she there; to the Tiber; to Poussin's Walk; we inquired of every person whom we met-no one had seen her. At length we heard voices in violent altercation. . . . We reached the spot whence the noise proceeded. Two herdsmen were fighting for the white fazzoletto of Guidetta, which the unhappy Albanese had torn from her head and cast on the ground before precipitating herself into the rolling Tiber.

PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN A WORLD OF THEIR OWN. Ir is a pretty general notion that there is only one world. People who write about life, speak of "the great world." There has been a novel published lately, called "The Wide Wide World." That idea of the oneness of the world may be all very well in a scientific point of view, and so far as the materials of nature are concerned. In that sense we suppose it is an universe, though even philosophers chop the unit up into bits, and christen the fragments the mineral world," "the vegetable world," and "the animal world," as though there were not one world, but three or more worlds. But, however that may be, we are certain that the unitarian hypothesis in the world of mind is a mistake. There are plenty of worlds-more than we should like to take the trouble to count, probably as many as there are men. As to their being "Wide Wide Worlds," that is a perfect delusion,-most of them there is not room enough to swing a cat in. They are just wide enough for the minds that live in them, and those who know how large the minds of most of their friends are, will be able to tell how wide that is. It is very lucky for most folks that the worlds are not wider than they are, for if they were, some people we know would lose their way, and never find it again. Those who cannot see the length of their noses, don't want a wide world to live in. It would be a positive nuisance, if not an actual danger, to them. They would go poking about all their lives, without finding anything. They would realise all the horror of that desolate place, which the Rosa Matildas of the Minerva press school have made so exclusively their own, about being "cast upon the wide world." Dreadful fate, that. We don't want any wide worlds to be cast upon. Depend upon it, for most of us, it is better

that the world we live in, whichever it is, should be narrow; say as narrow as a coffin.

Perhaps you may dissent from this; or, at least, be slow to believe it. Well, that is only to be expected. We must make some allowance for the power of education and the force of prejudices. You have been, no doubt, told that the world was all before you; and have read about the Ocean of Life, and have not formed any very correct ideas of mental geography. We must open your eyes a little-give you a compass to steer by, and furnish you with enough information to mark your own place upon the chart of life. By-and-bye, you will begin to see more clearly, and to the end that you may, let us introduce you to a few of the worlds in which others live. Take first, the Fashionable World. Of course we have not any very clear notion of what your conception of the world is; but, if you will allow us, we will assume that you do not belong to the fashionable world. In that respect, then, the Honourable Miss Satinette, the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Fitz Velvet, who has just come out, differs from you. She is in the very centre of it, and what do you think makes up her picture of the world. It is made up of the court, the opera, Almacks', evening parties, Hyde-park and Kensington-gardens-with a sketch of Paris-a glimpse at Rome, and a glance of Baden-Baden, somewhere a little in the back ground. A fine world hers is, you may take our word for it; a very brilliant world, indeed! There are plenty of damasks and tissues, and tapestries, and gold, and jewels, and splendid carriages and prancing horses, and big-calved footmen, and delightful faces in it; but I suppose it does not quite come up to your impression of the world, does it? It is not exactly the "Wide Wide World." It does not take in us, you know, and surely we count for something in the world. It is the world of high names and fine things. Its "leading journal" is the Court Circular, in which you and I don't figure. Its centre is Belgravia. Its denizens know nothing of Hackney, or Homerton, or Holloway, or any such outlandish places. They may know something about Patagonia, or Terra del Fuego, but that is quite another affair, a matter of geography, as you are aware; but the "holes" we live in, they are utterly ignorant of; or, at least, have only a notion of them, as dim, out-of-the-way, far-off oriental localities. But the Honourable Miss Satinette's world is a world for all that, and a rather important world, too; and the little share you have in it, as she has in yours, ought to convince you that there are more worlds than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

"Extremes meet" is an old saying, and we have sufficient respect for it to make it true on the present occasion. We will take a peep at another world, at the very furthest extremity of space. There, you see, rumbling along, is a small vehicle, half cart, half truck; with, if that be possible, a small touch of the hand-barrow. There is a donkey between the shafts, drawing a miscellaneous heap of contributions from the vegetable world. There is a specimen of the animal world walking alongside it, called a costermonger. He has a fustian jacket, corduroy trowsers, and a hat of no particular fashion or material, so far as you can see, and a short pipe. Now, suppose you were to tell Bill Stumps, who lives in Duck-lane, of the world in which the Honourable Miss Satinette moves; do you think he would

recognize it as his world? He knows "Covin Garding," which probably Miss Satinette knows too; for she may send or go there for bouquets, but Bill Stumps does not go for bouquets. He does not know anything about them-" leastways, not by sich a name "as he will tell you if you ask him. He knows about "taters and greens," which Miss Satinette is profoundly ignorant of, except in their culinary state, and he can tell you that "carrots is riz," and that "turnips is not worth carrying," but as to bouquets, ask Bill Stumps' donkey, for one knows just as much as the other. If you were to go down to Duck-lane-of which, perhaps, you know as little as Miss Satinette does of Hackney, proving that Bill Stumps' world is no more yours than it is hers, for that matter-and ask Mrs. Stumps what she thinks about the world, you will find some more room for thought. She thinks Bill's truck is a carriage"leastwise as much of a carriage as she wants. They go down to the forrist on it on a Sunday sometimes." She has not any better notion of the opera than the concert at the Costermonger's Arms. She pricks up her ears when you mention Almacks', because "her Bill" calls gin " max," and Mrs. Stump, likes a drop of that herself; but when it is explained to her, her powers of comparison go no higher than a threepenny "hop" there is somewhere in the neighbourhood of Duck-lane, and her patronage of the drama is bounded by the " penny gaff" which the parish authorities are trying to "put down." That is the world of Bill Stumps; the antipodes of the Fashionable world. It is the vulgar world, and "not a bad sort of world in its way, nayther," Bill remarks, whatever you may think to the contrary notwithstanding.

"Middle courses are best," so the sages assure us. So let us take a middle course; not so high as the fashionable world on the one hand, or so low as the vulgar world on the other. Suppose we try the Commercial World. There is Mr. Stock, he is an eminent member of it; what does he say of the world. His world is the exchange. His events a rise and fall in the funds, or the prices of shares. His beau ideal of goodness, a man who always comes to the scratch on settling day. His conception of the devil somehow intertwined with a "lame duck," a fellow who does not "cash up when the time comes. His felicity, a large balance at the bankers. If you speak to Mr. Stock he can tell you how the Three per Cents. are; he is on intimate terms with the Three per Cents. So he is with Bank Stock, and East India Stock, and South Sea and Consolidated Annuities. They are his landmarks, his bosom friends; the creatures of his dreams; the realities of his waking hours. In that world— his world-Mr. Stock is wise, profoundly wise. Out of that world, if you can get him out of it, he is nobody. He does not knowperhaps he may tell you-who invented the steam-engine, and what is more he doesn't care. It doesn't matter whether bipolarity is any more true of metals than of the Polar bear. He thinks Lord Byron did write poetry-Paradise Lost, he believes, but he does not bother his head about such matters. What he wants to know is, whether it will be wise to Bull or Bear the market. If you can tell him anything about that, he will have a real respect for you. If you can't, why he would sooner talk to Rothschild than Faraday; and as for Tennyson-why Tennyson may be all very well, but the City

article is reading enough for him, or any other sensible man, he should think. Still you must not turn up your nose at Mr. Stock's world. It is a large world as worlds go, and a respectable world too, and it may be you and I would have as much difficulty in getting into it as into the Fashionable World we were talking about awhile ago. If we have not the keys of money or birth, the doors of those two worlds are locked against us. As for Bill Stumps' world, that is always open. We suppose because it is not worth locking up.

It is quite another world that that tall old gentleman with a blue frock coat and a black stock, and a silver-headed bamboo cane, with leather tassells, lives in-Captain Stirrup, who was in one of the heavy Dragoon regiments in the Peninsula. He lives in the World of Memory, but that we are afraid is rather an indefinite term, for memory, if we judge rightly, must have a good many worlds all to itself. Whatever subject you speak to the Captain upon, he will be certain to tack off into that world of memory of his. "Gad sir!" the veteran will say-drawing up his spare figure and sticking out his breast, padded till he looks like a pouter pigeon-" Gad sir-that puts me in mind of what Picton said at Badajoz ;" or, "'Pon my honour I never heard such a thing, except once, when we were at Torres Vedras ;" or, "That's just what Broadsword of ours told me the morning of Quatre Bras." No matter what you talk about to Captain Stirrup, it brings to his mind something that was said or done nearly half a century ago. Something that took place in his world, and surely the brave old fellow has as much a right to a world of his own as you or I have. I would rather hear him fight his battles over again, and so would Bill Stumps, too, I'll bet a wager, than I would hear Stock's discourses on the fluctuations of the market, or read the account which the Honourable Miss Satinette sent to her "dearest friend," Miss Angelina Cactus, of the last flower show-no, we beg pardon, horticultural fete, we believe that is the proper termat Chiswick.

We called the other day in the Middle Temple, at the chambers of our old schoolfellow Wigsby. Jack Wigsby, at school, was as fine a fellow as most boys. Jack's world then was the school-boy world, and he cut a tolerable figure in it. A fine fellow was Jackready to fight any boy of his size, or to do anything he was likely to get a thrashing for. Well, how the world changes. Jack is a lawyer now, and expects a silk gown before long. We don't think Jack can be much older than we are, but heavens! what a scarecrow he is. His thin face puts us in mind of a dirty sheet of brown paper, where that old miscreant, Time, has been scrawling his records in wrinkles, and his pepper-and-salt head looks as though the law-stationer had been emptying his pounce-box over it. But people grow old very soon in Jack's world, particularly when they live so entirely in it as Jack does. There is certainly nothing like the professional world for ageing a man soon; and it is just as difficult to get Jack out of his world as Stocks or Stirrup out of theirs. Has Jack seen the paper? Yes, Jack says he has seen it, and he thinks that a very strange decision of the Chief Baron's, in the Exchequer, and he hopes it will not become a precedent. Jack's notion of the paper is of that part headed " Courts of Law." Has Jack seen the last new book? Yes, Jack has. In fact he was