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and their house was to be a kind of home for
her Aunt Annabella, who was getting tired of
being perpetually on the ramble with the
General.

"Dear old friends!" said our young lady,
"You must like him. I am sure you will;
he is so handsome, and brave, and good. Do
you know, he says a relation of his ancestors
lived at Morton Hall in the time of the
Commonwealth."

"His ancestors?" said Ethelinda. "Has
he got ancestors? That's one good point
about him, at any rate. I didn't know cotton-
spinners had ancestors."

"What is his name?" asked I.

"Mr. Marmaduke Carr," said she, sounding
each r with the old Northumberland burr,
which was softened into a pretty pride and
effort to give distinctness to each letter of
the beloved name.

"Carr," said I, "Carr and Morton! Be it
so! It was prophesied of old!" But she
was too much absorbed in the thought of her
own secret happiness to notice my poor
sayings.

He was and is a good gentleman; and a
real gentleman too. They never lived at
Morton Hall. Just as I was writing this,
Ethelinda came in with two pieces of news.
Never again say I am superstitious! There
is no one living in Morton that knows the
tradition of Sir John Morton and Alice Carr;
yet the very first part of the Hall the Drumble
builder has pulled down is the old stone
dining-parlour where the great dinner for the
preachers mouldered awayflesh from flesh,
crumb from crumb! And the street they are
going to build right through the rooms
through which Alice Carr was dragged in
her agony of despair at her husband's loathing
hatred is to be called Carr Street!

And Miss Cordelia has got a baby; a little
girl; and writes in pencil two lines at the end
of her husband's note to say she means
to call it Phillis.

Phillis Carr! I am glad he did not take
the name of Morton. I like to keep the
name of Phillis Morton in my memory very
still and unspoken.

                                            NOW.

                          Awake ! for the day is passing.
                                 While you lie dreaming on
                          Your brothers are cased in armour,
                                  And forth to the fight are gone;
                          Your place in the ranks awaits you;
                                   Each man has a part to play;
                          The past and the future are nothing
                                   In the face of the stern to-day.

                           Arise from your dreams of the future
                                  Of gaining a hard fought field;
                           Of storming the airy fortress;
                                   Of bidding the giant yield;
                           Your future has deeds of glory,
                                   Of honour (God grant it may!)
                            But your arm will never be stronger,
                                   Or needed as nowto-day.

                             Arise! If the past detain you.
                                   Her sunshine and storms forget;
                            No chains so unworthy to hold you
                                   As those of a vain regret;
                            Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
                                   Cast her phantom arms away,
                            Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
                                   Of a nobler strife to-day.

                            Arise! for the hour is passing;
                                   The sound that you dimly hear,
                            Is your enemy marching to battle,
                                    Rise! rise! for the foe is here!
                             Stay not to brighten your weapons
                                     Or the hour will strike at last;
                            And, from dreams of a coming battle,
                                     You will waken and find it past.

             A SENSIBLE TOWN.

IF ever you desire to spend a pleasant
week in France, and to see that wonder of
the civilised world, a wholesome town, go to
Amiens in the valley of the Somme. In
Amiens there is to be found a wise
municipality; there is no room for sanitary
agitation: there is everything that there
should be for the health and satisfaction of
the people. Its valley is a happy valley.
You see now and then short reaches of the
Somme; and, if your taste be in the least
agricultural and rural, you admire the rich
alluvial soil which throws up, as out of a
cornucopia, flax, hemp and cameline, acres of
fragrant bean-blossom and scarlet poppy, rich
in oil, and wheat, and a whole Gizeh of
apples. You come among stacks of turf and
see the water standing in the black holes
under trees, out of which, or near which
they have been dug. In those ponds are
the richest eels and pike; and over them fly
wild ducks.

The first public thing I did when I first
went to Amiens was to mount the very
curious and disproportioned spire of the
cathedral, which an Englishman has likened
to a giant in repose, and a Frenchman to a
vast poem. When I visit any town I always
make it my first business to go up the
greatest number of stairs open to the
public, and begin my survey with a general
view; just as I glance over the table of
contents before I read a volume. From the
top of Amiens' spire I had not very much to
see, always excepting the cathedral roof. I
had seen the whole misty marvel of London
this side of the Surrey hills (London beyond
the hills will soon be added) from the top of
St. Paul's; the purple Campagna and the
quicksilver stripe of the Mediterranean visible
in the horizon from St. Peter's, at Rome;
the Gulf of St. Malo, from Coutances, with
Jersey for a distant object, and the
incomparable twin spires close at hand; nor am
I ashamed to name with these impressive
sights the fen panorama which surrounds the
tower of Ely. From Amiens' spire I saw a
mass of grey-looking houses uniformly spread

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