lishment, and were that all there would be little or nothing peculiar about it. The men of England, fathers, husbands, brothers, have contributed to it: for it is dedicated to the education of our English girls. Whodare (if she will condescend to accept a salary which the Lord Chancellor would grasp at) shall be principal, and Carlotta, sweet Carlotta, vice-principal; to assist them shall be engaged a staff of rising authoresses who have made Whodare and Carlotta their models. Then fresh from the press the proof sheets of each noble work shall be read to the pupils, who shall stand round the reader lost in wonder and delight. Whodare shall superintend their philosophic studies and generate in them a disregard for decency and an admiration for a manly figure; while Carlotta, chaste Carlotta, shall direct their historical researches, and place before them heroes and heroines who have managed with temporary success to violate every one of God's commandments, especially the 6th, 7th, and 8th.

Peace, visionary! Sufficeth it not for thee that those noble ladies, whose names thou hast somewhat too familiarly handled, are now educating our mothers, wives, and sisters, by the simple and efficient machinery of our subscription libraries: which machinery has enabled the delicate hand of woman to open the flood-gates to a stream of poisonous sewage, the like of which has never before desolated the wide field of literature in any age or country.

SUSPENSE.

It was noon, but dark as midnight when the moon is in her last quarter. Merciful heaven! how the wind howled! It was in February; the snow was falling in blinding fury; it encased you as you walked ; in front and behind, on either side: there was no shelter, the raving blast was as fitful as furious. One felt instinctively for the stone wall or any accustomed object that could be taken hold of.

When I passed the Church of St. Martin-on-the-Hill I heard the wooden belfry groan as if all the evil spirits thought that this was their opportunity for an onslaught, and had congregated for that purpose.

I staggered through the half-finished streets to the house in which I lodged, and, having provided myself with my thickest clothing and a flask of brandy, I made my way to the coast-guard path, which runs almost at the top of the white chalk cliffs, that stand sentinel over this portion of our coast, two hundred and fifty feet above the sea.

The scene was a tremendous one.

The heavens were black, as though the God of Heaven had for ever withdrawn from them the light

of His sun. And the waves with terrible accuracy reflected the sullen aspect of the sky. The cliffs and barren moors which stretched for miles inland presented a startling contrast, being clothed in snow. On the distant horizon was one line of unnatural · light; the intermediate space was utterly dark. It might have been the prelude to the dissolution of a world.

To my left was the harbour of the place, a small and inconvenient one.

The snow now ceased to fall; at intervals loud peals of thunder out-roared the bellowing of the surf, and flashes of lightning occasionally displayed the dreadful scowl that rested on the face of the ocean. It was during the horrid brilliancy afforded by one of these flashes that I first noticed a small fishing boat making for the narrow mouth of the harbour.

In a moment the whole interest of my existence was centred on this wretched craft. My spirit left me standing on the coast; I was aboard the tiny vessel, and felt every lurch and movement, as the furious waves struck her unmercifully in her hour of hopelessness. Now we were lifted up and seemed to touch the threatening roof above, and now we were buried in a grave of boiling waters. Again and again the gallant little craft closed with the monsters that clamoured for her, and I shouted to see their white blood thrown in torrents over her deck. But how long could the unequal struggle be maintained?

At this time my consciousness was recalled to the spot where my body had remained rooted; I became aware (I know not how) of a human body close to mine. I turned. A woman stood or rather cowered beside me.

Pitying Saviour! can I ever forget that face? No long years of tedious suffering could have produced the awful agony on her countenance; it was the work of a sudden and hideous blow dealt by the coward hands of despair and terror on a mother's face. We have all heard stories of glossy curls being turned white by one night's terror. I realized their truthfulness now by one morning's deadly work on the shivering frame at my side.

In a few disjointed sentences her story was told. Her only son, a brave boy of 15 or 16 years, was on board the fishing boat. Three times it had made for the harbour, and after beating close up to its very mouth had been compelled to run out to sea again. And would it succeed in getting in this time?

What could I say or do? Words-idle words— at such a time, when the iron fingers of despair were torturing every fibre of her brain! For the fourth time we saw the ill-fated craft run out into the houseless waste of waters.

Think for one moment, you who, smiling at this story, summon sufficient energy to say, 'Must have been an exciting scene '-think of the crushing weight of suspense on the mother's heart.

SUNSHINE.*

WHENEVER she opened a door a ray of sunlight entered the room with her. And once for a few glad hours my dreary chambers were lighted by her smile; and God forgive me, Sunshine, if I was mad enough to think that, because you had made one day of my existence so bright, you would make all my life the

same.

Perhaps I should have thought no more of her than of a hundred other girls, as pretty and as pleasing as herself, had I not seen her so often in her own home. And what is so true a test of a woman's worth as her conduct towards her near relations (none of your cousins) at home? Many a girl who is charm

* On the outside of this MS. I find the following note, in the handwriting of my friend Mr. Onyx. The MS. itself is in a hand quite unknown to me :

'July 24th, 18—. Received MS. essay, entitled “Sunshine,” from poor Tom Spoonbill. N.B. Sent him 57. the same day; not as the price of his MS.'

Those who have derived any pleasure or amusement from the preceding Essays of Mr. Onyx, are recommended to pass over this paper.-Note by Editor.