reason, we do not kill each other, but unite in societies and kill our neighbors. Come, you want me to pretend benevolent sympathy with the people in this house, because the father is a fool and they are poor. There are an infinite number of poor people in the world. Some of them, even, are starving. Well, it is not my fault. Let them starve. It is my business to live, and get the most out of life."

ion has more than once endangered my life. Like a brother, is it not?"

"Like a brother," I murmured, passing over the

covert sneer.

"Very well, then. It is a weakness on my part, but I am willing to make sacrifices for this girl. I will study her wishes. She shall be treated with the greatest forbearance and patience. I do not expect

"Do all your countrymen think like you?" I that she will love me as I love her. That would be asked.

All," he replied. "In Berlin we are clear-sighted people. We put self-preservation first. That means everything. I do not say that we have no delusions. Machinery called charitable exists: not to so extensive and ruinous a degree as in England: still there is hope for the weakest when he goes to the wall that some one will take care of him."

absurd. But I hope that, in a little while, a month or two”—I breathed freely, because I feared he was going to say a day or two-"she will receive my attention with pleasure, and learn to give me the esteem which young wives may feel for elderly husbands. I am not going to be ridiculous; I am not a Blue-beard; I know that women can be coaxed when they cannot be forced. J'ai conté fleurettes-it is not for the first time in life that one makes love at sixty. After all," he went on, cheerfully, "Celia ought to be a happy girl. I shall die in ten years, I suppose. She will be a widow at eight-and-twenty. Just the age to enjoy life. Just the time when a woman wants her full liberty. He lit another cigar and lay back in his chair, What a thing-to be eight-and-twenty, to bury an murmuring enjoyable words: old husband, and to have his money!"

"You would let him die?"

"I do not actually wish him to die. If I saw that his life would be of the slightest use to me, I should help him to live. Let us talk of more agreeable things. Let us talk of Celia. Take a glass of hock. So."

"You do not. You cannot. That is a lesson for you, Ladislas Pulaski. Remember that there is no man noblest and best. Think of yourself at your worst, and then persuade yourself that all other men are like that."

I said nothing to that, because there was nothing to say. It is one way of looking at the world; the best way, it seems to me, to drag yourself down and keep down everybody round you.

"I said then, but you were too indignant to accept the doctrine, that every man had his price. You may guess Mr. Tyrrell's. Every woman has hers. Celia's price is-her father; I have bought her at that price, which I was fortunately able to command."

"You do not know yet."

can

"Yes, I do know. All in good time. I wait. Now, Ladislas Pulaski, I will be frank with you. I intended this coup all along, and have prepared the way for it. I admire the young lady extremely. Let me, even, say that I love her. She is, I am sure, as good and virtuous as she is pretty. Of all the girls I have seen, I think Celia Tyrrell is the best. It is, I know, partly due to your training. She is the pearl of your pupils. Her manner is perfect; her face is perfect; her conversation is admirable; her general cultivation is good."

"She is all that you say," I replied.

"You love her, I believe, like a brother. At least, Celia says so. When I was your age, if I did not love a young lady like a brother, I made it a rule always to tell her so at the earliest opportunity. That inability to love a girl after the brotherly fash

CHAPTER XIX.

THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION.

IN the days that followed things went on externally as if nothing had happened. Celia's suitor walked with her in the town, was seen with her in public places, appeared in church morning and evening-the second function must have exercised his soul heavily-and said no word. Mr. Tyrrell, deceived by this appearance of peace, resumed his wonted aspect, and was self-reliant, and sometimes as blusterous as ever. Celia alone seemed to remember the subject. For some days she tried to read and talk as usual, but her cheek was paler, and her manner distrait. Yet I could say nothing. The wound was too fresh, the anxiety was still there; it was one of those blows which, though their worst effects may be averted, leave scars behind which cannot be eradicated. The scar in Celia's soul was that for the first time in her life a suspicion had been forced upon her that her father was not—had not been- Let us not put it into words.

To speak of such a suspicion would have been an agony too bitter for her, and even too bitter for me. Yet I knew, by the manner of the man, by the words of the German, that he was in some way, for some conduct unknown, of which he was now ashamed, under this man's power. I could not tell Celia what I knew. How was she to tell me the dreadful suspicion that rose, like a spectre in the night, unbidden, awful? We were only more silent; we sat together without speaking. Sometimes I caught her eye resting for a moment on her father with a pained wonder; sometimes she would break off the music, and say, with a sigh, that she could play no more.

One afternoon, three or four days after the first opening of the business, I found her in the library, a small room on the first floor dignified by that title, where Mr. Tyrrell kept the few books of general literature he owned, and Celia kept all hers. She had gathered on the table all the books which we were so fond of reading together-chiefly the poets -and was taking them up one after the other, turning over their pages with loving, regretful looks.

She greeted me with her sweet smile. "I am thinking, Laddy, what to do with these books if-if I have to say what papa wants me to say."

"Dc with them, Cis?"

"Here is Keats." She opened him at random, turned over the leaves, and read aloud:

"Ah! would 'twere so with many

A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any

Writhed not at passed joy?'

"Passed joy!' We shall not be able to go out together, you and I, Laddy, any more, nor to read under the elms, nor to look out over the ramparts up

the harbor at high tide, and you will leave off giving me music-lessons; and, when Leonard comes home, he will not be my Leonard any more. Only let him never know, dear Laddy."

“Yes,” she replied, “it would be foolish to keep spoken yet, and I think it never will be."

"He shall never know, Cis. But the word is not

things which are not very ornamental, and would no longer be useful."

"Our poor poets are a good deal knocked about," I said, taking up the volumes in hope of diverting her thoughts; 'I always told you that Keats wasn't made for laying in the grass," and indeed that poor bard showed signs of many dews upon his scarletcloth bound back.

"He is best for reading on the grass, Laddy. Think of the many hours of joy we have had with 'Hyperion' under the elms! And now, I we shall never have any more. Life is very short, for some of us."

suppose,

"But-Cis-why no more hours of pleasure and

poetry?"

be

She shook her head.

"There is our Wordsworth. Of course, he must

given up, too. When the whole life is of the earth earthy, what room could there be for Wordsworth? Why"-she looked among the sonnets"this must have been written especially for me. Listen:

"O friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed
To think that now our life is only dressed
For show....

The homely beauty of the good old cause

Is gone: our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion, breathing household laws.'

"Fancy the household laws' of Herr Räumer!" she added, bitterly.

ing.

She was in sad and despairing mood that morn

"I do not know when that man may desire an answer. And I know that, if he claims it at onceto-morrow-next day-what answer I am to give. I watch my father, Laddy, and I read the answer in his face. Whatever happens, I must do what is best for him." "Put off the answer, Cis, till Leonard comes found another passage: home."

"If we can," she sighed-" if we can. Promise me one thing, Laddy-promise me faithfully. If I have-if I must consent-never let Leonard know the reason: never let any one know; let all the world think that I have accepted-him-because I loved him. As if any woman could ever love him!" Then he had not deceived her with his smooth and plausible manner.

"I promise you so much, at least," I said. "No one shall know, poor Cis, the reason. It shall be a secret between us. But you have not said 'Yes' to him yet."

"I may very soon have to say it, Laddy. I shall give you all this poetry. We have read it together so much that I should always think of you if I ever try and read it alone. And it would make me too wretched. I shall have nothing more to do with the noble thoughts and divine longings of these great men; they will all be dead in my bosom; I shall try to forget that they ever existed. Herr Räumer, my husband "—she shuddered—“would not understand them. I shall learn to disbelieve everything; I shall find a base motive in every action. I shall cease to hope; I shall lose my faith and my charity!"

"Celia-my poor Celia-do not talk like that."

I took the book from her hand-what great things there are in Wordsworth, and what rubbish!—and

"Those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day-
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing,
Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence; truths that wake
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy."

"Do you think, you silly Celia, if things came to the very worst-if you were-let me say it out for once-if you were tied for life to this man, with whom you have no sympathy, that you would forget the beautiful things which you have read and dreamed? They can never be forgotten. Why, they lie all about your heart, the great thoughts of God and heaven, what this beautiful earth might be and what you yourself would wish to be; they are your guardian angels who stand like Ithuriel to ward off evil dreams and basenesses. They cannot be driven away because you have placed them there, sentinels of your life. If-if he were ten times as cold, ten times as unworthy of you as he seems, he

By this time I had mastered my vain and selfish passion. Celia was my sister, and could never be anything else. As if in the time when companionship is as necessary as light and air, it was not a great thing to have such a companion as Celia! In youth we cling to one another, and find encouragement in confession and confidence. David was young-any more boiled mutton. The human palate— when he loved Jonathan. It is when we grow older that we shrink into ourselves and forget the sweet old friendships.

To call upon Mrs. Pontifex was never an inspir- house."

!

"You think so, Johnny?" he replied. "You are young. You are not, again, like St. Peter-ahem! -a married man. Let us go up-stairs."

ures.

He led us into his study, which was a large room, decorated with an immense number of pictThe house, indeed, was full of pictures, newly arrived, the collection of a brother, lately deceased, of the Rev. John Pontifex. I am not learned in paintings, but I am pretty sure that the collection on the walls were copies as flagrant as anything ever put up at Christy's. But Mr. Pontifex thought differently.

pastime, and in the days of my youth found it so, I regret to say.

"The Mission of Xavier.' He was, alas! a Papist, and is now, I believe, what they are pleased to call a saint. In other respects, he was, perhaps, a good man, as goodness shows to the world. That is, a poor gilded exterior, hiding corruption. How different from our good Bishop Heber, the author of that sweet miss-i-o-na-ry poem which we all know by heart, and can never forget:

'From Greenland's icy mountains-
From Greenland's icy mountains-
From Greenland's-ahem !-icy-'

That is, perhaps, the

"You have not yet seen my picture - gallery, Johnny," he said. "The collection was once the—but my memory fails me. property of my brother, the Rev. Joseph Pontifex, result of an imperfect meal." now-alas !-in the bosom of Abraham. He was formerly my coadjutor when I was in sole charge at Dillmington. It was commonly said by the Puseyites at the time that there was a Thief in the Pulpit and a Liar in the Reading-Desk. So great-ahem! -was our pulpit - power that it drew forth these Fearful denunciations. I rejoice to say that I was the -ahem the Liar!"

"Sit down, my dear uncle," said Celia. "You must be fatigued. What was Aunt Jane thinking of to have no dinner?"

It was hard to see where the rejoicing ought properly to come in. But no doubt he knew.

"They are beautiful pictures, some of them," said Celia, kindly.

Mr. Pontifex took a walking-stick, and began to go round like a long-necked, very solemn showman at a circus.

"These are 'Nymphs about-ahem-to bathe.' A masterpiece by Carracci. The laughter of those young persons has probably long since been turned into mourning.

"The Death of St. Chrysostom,' supposed to be by Leonardo Da Vinci. The Puseyites go to Chrysostom as to a father. Well; they may go to the muddy streams, if they please. I go to the pure -the pure Fountain, Johnny.

"Pope Leo X.,' by one Dosso Dossi, of whom, I confess, I had never heard. I suppose that there are more popes than any other class of persons now in misery."

He shook his head, as he said this, with a smile of peculiar satisfaction, and went on to the next picture.

"Let

"Your great-aunt, Celia," said Mr. Pontifex, with a very long sigh, "is a woman of―ve—ry— remarkable Christian graces and virtues. She excels in what I may call the-the-ahem!—the very rare art of compelling others to go along with her. Today we fast, and to-morrow we may be called upon to subdue the natural man in some other, perhaps― at least I hope-in a less trying method." We both laughed, but Mr. Pontifex, shook his head. me point out one or two more pictures of my collection," he said. "There are nearly one thousand altogether, collected by my brother Joseph, who resided in Rome, the very heart of the Papacy-you never knew Joseph, Celia-during the last ten years of his life. That landscape, the trees of which, I confess, appear to me unlike any trees with which I am personally acquainted-is by Salvator Rosa; that Madonna and Child-whom the Papists ignorantly worship-is by Sassoferrato; that group" (it was a sprawling mass of intertwisted limbs) "is by Michael Angelo, the celebrated master; the waterfall which you are admiring, Celia, is a Ruysdael, and supposed to be priceless; the pig-alas! that men should waste their talents in delineating such animals-is by Teniers; the cow by Berghem; that

ahem!-that infamous female" (it was a woodnymph, and a bad copy) "is a Rubens. The Latin rubeo or rubeseo is-unless my memory again fails me -to blush. Rightly is that painter so named. No doubt he has long since-but I refrain."

"A soldier, by Wouverman; on a white horse. Probably the original of this portrait was in his day an extremely profligate person. But he has long "Do you think, Celia," I asked on the way since gone to his long-no doubt his very long-home, "that Mr. Pontifex dwells with pleasure in the imagination of the things which are always on his lips?" [TO BE CONTINUED.]

account.

"That is 'The Daughter of Herodias dancing.' I have always considered dancing a most immoral

I

A LOOK INTO THE GRAVE.

LOOK, through tears, into the dust to find
What manner of rest man's only rest may be.
The darkness rises up and smites me blind.
The darkness-is there nothing more to see?

Oh, after flood, and fire, and famine, and

The hollow watches we are made to keep,
In our forced marches over sea and land-

I wish we had a sweeter place to sleep!

THE

tras. Carols are sung in both Welsh and English; and, generally, the waits are popular. If their mu

men attack them savagely, and drive them off. Not exactly that boot-jacks and empty bottles are thrown at them, but they are excoriated in "letters to the editor," in which strong language is hurled at them as intolerable nuisances, ambulatory disturbers of the nights' quiet, and inflicters of suffering upon the innocent. But such cases are rare. The music is almost invariably good, and the effect of the soft strains of melodiously-warbled Welsh coming dreamily to one's ears through the darkness and distance on a winter morning is sweet and soothing to most

HE Christmas season in the land of Arthur and Merlin is a season of such earnest and widespread cordiality, such warm enthusiasm, such hear-sic is not good, they are not tolerated; irate gentlety congratulations between man and man, that I have been nowhere equally impressed with the geniality and joyousness of the time. In some Catholic countries one sees more merriment on the day itself; indeed, the day itself is not especially merry in Wales, at least in its out-door aspects. It is the season rather than the day which is merry in Wales; and the season is a much longer one than with us in America. The festival is usually understood, throughout Christendom, to include twelve days, but the Welsh people not only make much of the twelve days, but they extend the peculiar festivities of the season far beyond those limits. Christmas has fairly begun in Wales a week or two before Christmasday. The waits were patrolling the streets of Cardiff last year as early as December 5th, and Christmas festivals were held as early as December 19th, at which Christmas - trees were displayed, and their boughs denuded of the toys, and trinkets, and lollipops, in which the juvenile heart delighteth. After Christmas-day the festival continues I know not just how long, but apparently for weeks.

The characteristic diversions of the Christmas season are, in the main, alike in all Christian countries. In Wales many curious old customs are retained which in other parts of Great Britain have disappeared, such as the mummers, the waits, carols, bell-ringings, etc. Not only do the bell-ringers of the several churches throughout the principality do their handsomest on their own particular bells, but there are grand gatherings at special points of all the bell-ringers for leagues around, who vie with each other in showing what feats they can perform, how they can astonish you with their majors, bobmajors, and triple bob-majors, on the brazen clangers of the steeples. At Cowbridge last Christmas thirtyfive ringers came together from Aberdare, Penarth, St. Fagans, Llantrisant, Llanblethian, and other still more unpronounceable places, and, after they had rung till the air above the town was black with flying clefs and quavers from the steeples, they all sat down to a jolly Christmas-dinner at the Bear. The bands of waits, or "pipers of the watch," who wake the echoes of the early morning with their carols, are heard in every Welsh town and village. In some towns there are several bands, and much good-natured rivalry. The universal love of music among the Welsh saves the waits from degenerating into the woe-begone creatures they are in some parts of England, where the custom has that poor degree of life which can be kept in it by shivering clusters of bawling beggars who cannot sing. Regularly organized and trained choirs of Welshmen perambulate the Cambrian country, chanting carols at Christmas-tide, and bands of musicians play who, in many cases, would not discredit the finest military orches

ears.

In one aspect the Welsh people may be spoken of as a people whose lives are passed in the indulgence of their love for music and dancing. The air of Wales seems always full of music. In the Christmas season there is an unending succession of concerts and of miscellaneous entertainments, of which music forms a part; while you cannot enter a taproom where a few are gathered together, without the imminent probability that one or more will break forth in song. By this is not meant a general musical howl, such as is apt to be evoked from a room full of men of any nationality when very much under the influence of the rosy god; but good set songs, with good Welsh or English words to them, executed with respect for their work by the vocalists, and listened to with a like respect by the rest of the company. When an Englishman is drunk he is belligerent; when a Frenchman is drunk he is amorous; when an Italian is drunk he is loquacious; when a Scotchman is drunk he is argumentative; when a German is drunk he is sleepy; when an American is drunk he brags; and when a Welshman is drunk he sings. Sometimes he dances; but he does not do himself credit as a dancer under these circumstances; for when I speak of dancing I do not refer to those wooden paces and inflections which pass for dancing in society, whether in Europe or America, and which are little more than an amiable pretext for bringing in contact human elements which are slow to mix when planted in chairs about a room: I refer to the individual dancing of men who do not dance for the purpose of touching women's hands, or indulging in small talk, but for the purpose of dancing; and who apply themselves seriously and skillfully to their work-to wit, the scientific performance of the jig.

I chanced to pass one evening, in the Christmastime, at a country inn in a little Carmarthenshire village remote from railways. Certain wanderings through green lanes (and the lanes were still green, although it was cold, mid-winter weather) had brought me to the place at dusk, and, being weary, I had resolved to rest there for the night. Some local festivity of the season had taken place during the day, which had drawn into the village an unusual number