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visible in every motion. Alas! the first fell ball
comes and damages his wicket. His perfect
disbelief in the reality of such a catastrophe is
sublimeit typifies the dogged constancy of a
nation that never knows when it is beaten.

The one-arms are rudely exulting as Peggy
stumps off, not that he ever made a run, but that
the look of the man was so imposing. The one-legs
droop, the one-arms throw up their caps, or dance
"breakdowns," to give vent to their extreme joy.
The outlying one-arms skip and trip, the
one-legs put their heads together and mutter
detracting observations on the one-armed bowling.
"There was no knowing what to make of them
balls;" "There was no telling where to have
them balls;" "They were a spiteful lot, the one-arms,
so cheeky, so braggy;" " But the one-legs
knew what's what, and they are going to
do the trick yet."

Now the clatter of knives and forks and plates
in the refreshment tent grew perfectly alarming;
it was like a sale in a china-shop. The players,
heedless of such poor sublunary things as boiled
beef and greens and the smoke of flowery
potatoes, played more like madmen than sober
rational cricketers. St. Paul's danced before
my eyes as if I was playing cup and ball with it,
so dazzled did I get with the flying red ball.
The leaping catches were wonderful, the leg-hits
admirable, the bowling geometrically
wonderful, the tips singularly beautiful; the ball
smashed at the palings, dashed into thorn
bushes, lost itself, broke plates in the refreshment
tent, nearly stunned the scorer, knocked
down a boy, flew up in the air like a mad thing.
As for Peggy's balustrade leg, had he not
occasionally screwed it off to cool himself, it would
have been shivered into a thousand pieces. You
would have thought, indeed, that the bowler
mistook his unfortunate "stick leg" for the
wicket, he let fly at it so often and so perversely.
But in vain all skill and energy; the one-legs
could not get at the ball quick enough, their fielding
was not first-rate, the one-arms made a
gigantic effort, forged fourteen runs ahead, and
won. Peggy performed a pas seul expressive of
hopeless despair, and slumped off for a pot of


  WEARY, the cloud droopeth down from the sky,
     Dreary, the leaf lieth low:
   All things must come to the earth by-and-by,
     Out of which all things grow.

  Let the wild wind shriek and whistle
     Down aisles of the leafless wood;
   In our garden let the thistle
     Start where the rose-tree stood;
   Let the rotting mass fall rotten
     With the rain-drops from the eaves;
   Let the dead Past lie forgotten
     In his grave with the yellow leaves.

  Weary, the cloud droopeth down from the sky,
     Dreary, the leaf lieth low:
   All things must come to the earth by-and-by,
     Out of which all things grow.

  And again the hawthorn pale
     Shall blossom sweet in the spring;
   And again the nightingale
     In the long blue nights shall sing;
   And seas of the wind shall wave
     In the light of the golden grain;
   But the love that is gone to the grave
     Shall never return again.

  Weary, the cloud droopeth out of the sky,
     Dreary, the leaf lieth low;
   All things must come to the earth by-and-by
     Out of which all things grow.


THERE was lately published in these pages
(No. 125, page 589) a paper entitled FOUR
STORIES. The first of those stories related the
strange experience of "a well-known English
artist, Mr. H." On the publication of that
account, Mr. H. himself addressed the conductor
of this Journal (to his great surprise), and
forwarded to him his own narrative of the
occurrences in question.

As Mr. H. wrote, without any concealment,
in his own name in full, and from his own studio
in London, and as there was no possible doubt of
his being a real existing person and a responsible
gentleman, it became a duty to read his
communication attentively. And great injustice having
been unconsciously done to it, in the version
published as the first of the "Four Stories," it
follows here exactly as received. It is, of course,
published with the sanction and authority of
Mr. H., and Mr. H. has himself corrected the

Entering on no theory of our own towards the
explanation of any part of this remarkable
narrative, we have prevailed on Mr. H. to present
it without any introductory remarks whatever. It
only remains to add, that no one has for a moment
stood between us and Mr. H. in this matter.
The whole communication is at first hand. On
seeing the article, Four Stories, Mr. H. frankly
and good humouredly wrote, " I am the Mr.
H., the living man, of whom mention is made;
how my story has been picked up, I do not
know, but it is not correctly told; I have it by
me, written by myself, and here it is."

I am a painter. One morning in May, 1858,
I was seated in my studio at my usual occupation.
At an earlier hour than that at which
visits are usually made, I received one from a
friend whose acquaintance I had made some
year or two previously in Richmond Barracks,
Dublin. My acquaintance was a captain in the
3rd West York Militia, and from the hospitable
manner in which I had been received while a
guest with that regiment, as well as from the
intimacy that existed between us personally, it
was incumbent on me to offer my visitor suitable
refreshments; consequently, two o'clock
found us well occupied in conversation, cigars,
and a decanter of sherry. About that hour a
ring at the bell reminded me of an engagement
I had made with a model, or a young person
who, having a pretty face and neck, earned a