hair, the fatherly-looking bass with the
dingy gloves. Selection from the Trovatore,
airs from La Traviata. Ball later in the
evening, under the direction of Mr. Whiff,
from London. No chance, no change, no
local character. The sound of Bow-bells and
the sound of the waves always together, go
where I may.

It is of no use, I suppose, to complain of
this anomalous condition of things at the
sea-side, or to offer any suggestions towards
banishing the intrusive London element from
the region of the coast. So far as I can see,
the artificial taste of the present day appears
to relish the sea-breeze with the London
smack. One observation, however, I must
positively take leave to make before I
conclude. It is inconceivable to me how such a
phrase as "going out of town," continues to
exist in the language. The sooner we study
correctness of expression, and banish such an
absurd form of words from our vocabulary
the better. Instead of telling each other that
we are going out of town, let us henceforth
approach nearer to the truth, and say that
we are going to remove from Metropolitan to
Marine London. That phrase is, I submit,
strictly descriptive of what we all do now,
when we leave the city for the coast—excepting,
of course, the case of any enterprising
individual who may be fortunate enough to
make a watering-place for himself on a desert
island. At present I can only call to mind
one British visitor to the sea-side who is
entitled to assert that he has really been
out of town. That visitor is Robinson
Crusoe.

                   GONE FORTH.

THE old, old house behind its silver trees,
Resounded with a concourse indistinct
Of many voices, like the hum of bees:
Laughter, and long-forgotten outcries, link'd
With voice of weeping sore, and loud lament
Confined within that ancient tenement.

Then, all at once I heard, as in a dream,
The sound of a familiar voice, that spoke
The word "Ilicet;" * and as the bold stream
Bounds into life abruptly from its rock,
The babbling stream of erring youth broke forth,
To water the waste places of the earth.

And some went down among the jungle red,
With vigorous blood; some in the sea that scorns
To render up the census of its dead;
And some sank lifeless at the very horns
Of pious altars; some at the dull shrine,
By sordid human nature deem'd divine;

And some, through evil, made themselves a name;
And some, through good, disclaim'd the names
      they made;
And some received their recompense of shame;
And some put on the purple that makes glad
Successful souls; and some put on the dress
That renders men invisible in nothingness.

Then, last, the reverend master of the flock,
In pastoral offices grown old and grey,
Obey'd the word for forty years he spoke,
And left his fold, and slowly pass'd away:
His work was done, Ilicet, he has gone,
And o'er the old school-house silence its spell has
      thrown!

                    * You may go.

               MY LADY LUDLOW

         CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

BUT I don't see how my lady could think
it was over-education that made Harry Gregson
break his thigh, for the manner in which
he met with the accident was this:

Mr. Horner, who had fallen sadly out of
health since his wife's death, had attached
himself greatly to Harry Gregson. Now,
Mr. Horner had a cold manner to everyone,
and never spoke more than was necessary at
the best of times. And, latterly, it had not
been the best of times with him. I daresay
he had had some causes for anxiety (of which
I knew nothing) about my lady's affairs;
and he was evidently annoyed by my lady's
whim (as he once inadvertently called it) of
placing Miss Galindo under him in the
position of a clerk. Yet he had always been
friends, in his quiet way, with Miss Galindo,
and she devoted herself to her new
occupation with diligence and punctuality,
although more than once she had moaned to
me over the orders for needlework which
had been sent to her, and which, owing to
her occupation in the service of Lady Ludlow,
she had been unable to fulfil.

The only living creature to whom the
staid Mr. Horner could be said to be attached
was Harry Gregson. To my lady he was a
faithful and devoted servant, looking keenly
after her interests, and anxious to forward
them at any cost of trouble to himself. But
the more shrewd Mr. Horner was, the more
probability was there of his being annoyed at
certain peculiarities of opinion which my lady
held with a quiet, gentle pertinacity; against
which no arguments, based on mere worldly
and business calculations, made any way. This
frequent opposition to views which Mr. Horner
entertained, although it did not interfere
with the sincere respect which the lady and
the steward felt for each other, yet prevented
any warmer feeling of affection from coming in.
It seems strange to say it, but I must repeat
it; the only person for whom, since his wife's
death, Mr. Horner seemed to feel any love,
was the little imp Harry Gregson, with his
bright, watchful eyes, his tangled hair hanging
right down to his eyebrows, for all the
world like a Skye terrier. This lad, half
gipsy, and whole poacher, as many people
esteemed him, hung about the silent, respectable,
staid Mr. Horner, and followed his
steps with something of the affectionate
fidelity of the dog whom he resembled. I
suspect this demonstration of attachment to
his person on Harry Gregson's part was