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She sat down with Manch and Ishmael, and the mocking-bird sang to them, and she caressed it with her slender, ungloved fingers, and all the while she was thinking how she should speak the words she had come to say—the warning of danger, the offer of means to get out of its reach. At last she said, as Constant, perched upon her finger, picked at the grapes she held: “They are great company to you. No wonder you dislike to part with them. You call this one Constant: what is the name of his mate?” She had not spoken before. At the first word she uttered he looked up quickly; his large, startled-looking eyes fastened themselves upon her face with a troubled, questioning gaze, such as she had seen in Gabriel, only more intense, and shading oft' into an expression of profound sadness and despondency. Melieent understood the look. Her face had touched the chords of memory, but their echoes had said, “the face which hers resembles has long since been dust.” He had no suspicion of the truth. She was not recognized, and Melieent drew a deep breath,— was it altogether of relief, or did a feeling of regret mingle with it and make it almost a sigh? Ishmael roused himself after a moment’s ab straction, and answered the question she had asked. “I call her different pet names,” he said, eva sively. Manch had told her that he called this favorite bird “Milly,” but it seemed he could not speak that name at this moment. “ Yon must be lonely here,” said Melieent, feeling that she must say something to the point, for time was passing, and she dreaded the thought of her husband returning and finding her away after what had occurred that morning. “l'ou must be lonely here: this is a gloomy spot, and Manch tells me you have traveled and seen many beautiful places—would you not rather live at some of these?” “All places are pretty much alike to me,” he answered. “The same sun shines on them, the same sky hangs over them, and we walk under it with the same hearts in our bosom. Places don’t alter feelings.” “But there are places more profitable to live at—where you could make more money, I mean.” “I make all I need here; my wants are few,” he answered, looking up from the bird he fon dled, and smiling an indescribably sweet and patient smile that went to Melicent’s heart. She was silent for a moment, hesitating liow else to urge her desire that he should leave this place. Then she bent nearer to him, her face still shaded, and said impressively: “ But suppose you are in danger here—watched for and liable to be taken and—persecuted— would it not be better to go away ?” He gave a start of surprise; his hand involun tarily clutched his breast; his eyes met hers with that look of wild trouble and appealing. “You know it, then,” he said, huskily. “So they have found me out.” “No. No one knows but me. I trust no one ever will find out; but —they are in search of you—they' are here—at this place. Y’ou know this, do you not?” “They told me there were men hunting me— that they were close on my track,” he said, pressing his hand to his forehead in a weary, bewildered way. “But I could not make it real; it has been a kind of nightmare with me so long—this feeling of being hunted down—it seems tlie danger must be a dream still.” “It is top real,” murmured Melieent, “and j you must go away soon, and secretly—for your life’s sake." “It’s not worth it. I am tired wandering about like a wounded buffalo hunting a safe place to die in. I had rather die and be buried here. I don't want to go away; I want to rest.” and 'lns'great. sfuTeyes rov0^aronn(f7in*instant', and then dropped until their long lashes fell upon his cheek! Melieent back her tears. “Has a lady on horseback been here, or have you caught sight of one passing?” “Caught what?’ “Sight of a lady, I told you.” “ Dtinno about them critters; I’ve caught a lot of fish, though. Don't you want to buy ’em ?— all fresh and flopping.” “Dam your impudence! Who said any thing about fish ? I asked if a lady came here or passed.” “One might a" passed,” said Manch, reflect ively, as he stopped trimming the lead-sinker on his line, and put his forefinger on his chin. “I've been fishin' in the bayou down there, and what with the plaguey minnows a keepin’ your cork bobbin’, and the mosketoes playin' tunes under your nose, a body hasn’t much chance to look out for ladies.” “ You are either a fool or you pretend to be one. Where’s the man who lives here?” “Oh! he’s some better, thank’ee. We don’t much think it’s the small-pox he’s got, but there’s no tellin.’ Would you step in and see him? May be you’re the doctor. ” The man wheeled his horse and rode off, mut tering an imprecation. Manch called out after him, “You didn't say whether you’d take the fishbut he made no reply. The boy indulged in a quiet little chuckle as soon as his questioner was out of hearing. Putting his head in at the door, he asked: “ How'’s your small-pox, Ishmael? A news boy read me something in a paper that put me up to that dodge. Now, I’ll go for your horse, 1 lady; I hid him in the old nigger fisherman’s hen-house.” “ Who was that man?” asked Ishmael. “Is he one of them you said were on my track?” “ Yes, he is the principal one. Yon may guess how blood-thirsty when I tell you that he is the murdered man’s son. And you will stay here and put yourself in his power ?” “I have changed my mind,” he said, slowly, the light of hope that had so suddenly kindled in his eyes still showing there. “I’ll try to es cape—as some acknowledgment of your kind ness, if nothing else. I thank you for that kind ness with all my heart. I’ll not need to take your money, I think. These things,” (pointing to the collection of fossils, crystals, and curious pet- rifications that she had been looking at) “are , worth something to scientific folks and museum people, so I’ve been told. They’ll, maybe, bring some money—enough to get away. I’ll get the boy to sell them to-morrow.” “I’ll buy them now,” said Melieent. “To-morrow—I will send them to-morrow,” he interrupted, as though wishing to make a delay. Reluctance to any change seemed to be the rul ing feeling in his mind. Melieent comprehended the feeling—the helpless, unnerved weariness of the man—tired of aimless wandering, tired of flying from the nightmare dream of being “hunted down;” broken in health, worse than broken in spirits, though not yet thirty years of age, asking nothing of his fellow-beings but per mission to live out the remainder of his life in the society of his dumb friends and of the child who had so strangely attached himself to his desolate fortunes, and to be buried a’t last near what he supposed to be the grave of the wife he had loved so well. Melieent felt all this as she looked around the poor room and noted all its humble details—a bench, a home-made table, a pallet bed, a box for the squirrel in one corner, in the other a vio lin, the work of Ishmael’s own hands, and carved and finished with much ingenuity. On the table was a little book in old-fashioned leather bind ing. Melieent took it up, and, struck by a sud den memory, turned to the fly-leaf. Her heart beat painfully; a dizzy feeling half blinded her, as she read there, “ To Xeil from Milly," in the pvoWl 1 * —■ —~ 4 .V " +. VlOrfl been hers, blie remembered that she had given “You shall be obeyed. In turn, you must bear with me. I told you what lawless company and a wild life had made of me. Smile now, to show that you pardon me.” Smile she did, but the smile was short-lived, for at that moment they rode up to the gate of the mayor’s house, and Melieent saw her hus band looking at them from the porch. She thought with a pang how he must regard her conduct of this morning. Colonel Archer said “good-bye” at the gate; he had lately taken lodg ings at a hotel in another part of town, in order to be with a friend, he told Mr. Avery. Melieent went in and approached her husband as he walked slowly up and down the piazza, with an open letter in his hand. “Have you been long at home, Aleck? - ’ she asked. “Nearly an hour,” was the cold reply. She determined to speak a word of explana tion. notwithstanding his discouraging manner. “The day was so line I concluded to prolong my ride,” she said. “ I rode down the river and stopped at a fisherman's hut. and bought some crystals and curious petrifications that I think you will like for your cabinet. The boy will bring them to-morrow. I rode alone: I did not meet Colonel Archer until just now, at the cor ner of the street.” He stopped, and there was a struggle in his mind. He wanted to throw off the burden of suspicion, as unworthy of himself and her,—he chafed under it with proud scorn: but an impal pable something held him back. He did not know what this undefinabie barrier might be; he was only conscious of the restraint it exer cised over him. In truth, it was his instinctive perception of the shadow of secrecy that had risen between Melieent and himself. He felt that there was something he did not share—that there was an alienation, a want of openness in what she said and did. It was this that checked the impulse to put his arm around her in the : old, tender fashion, and talk to her freely and fondly as she shared his favorite promenade in the latticed gallery. Instead of this, he said: “I think they are about to serve dinner. You will barely have time to get ready.” (TO BE CONTINUED. ) [For The Sunny South.] UNDER THE WHEELS. BY CAROLINE MARSDALE. We hear a great deal about our forefathers, but where are their companions who urged them along and sustained their flagging spirits ? There is much talk about the Pilgrim Fathers; did any women come over in the “May Flower?” One would think not. We have our monuments commemorating, our speeches and toasts cele brating the deeds of our forefathers, but where are those in honor of our foremothers? It is ungenerous to push the old ladies aside as if i Let all true women honor him as a man, but ble information respecting those subjects, are not qualified to judge in a matter requiring more enlarged views of literature or society. In gen eral parlance woman is weak—incapable of ap preciating man’s ideas—slow to comprehend the plans and schemes of his life. This is too true: but I ask. How old will the world be when she learns these things if men continue to shut the door and turn the key on every opportunity ? Don't look down on her because she cannot tell you whether her government is a monarchy, a republic or an oligarchy. If she is weak, lift her to the summit of your strength; ler her breathe the calm, serene atmosphere of this height; let her know that she is valued not for her complexion, her dimples or her teeth, or be- i cause she can give you the last strain from Ern- ani, but because her virtues make her lovely and lovable. This course will do much towards softening the crudeness of society, and instead of the flippant platitudes that pass between young ladies and young gentlemen, we will have sprightly and ingenious conversation; we will have genial intercourse and free exchange of opinion; pride will be aroused, thought quick ened, and genius won from its solitudes. Then poetry, politics, religion and beauty will meet and commingle. In less than five minutes Sir Walter Raleigh did more to mould the manners of the world than all the women of that reign. Do you think he threw his cloak into the mud to please Eliza beth ? Was she the primary and secret cause of the act ? No; it was to advance his position at court. It was self-interested desire dressed in the garb of chivalry. So it is with much of the conversationalism—conveniently adopted as the only road to success with the fair queens of so ciety. It is done either to pamper the vanity of women or to further some selfish design. Why do women dress ? Why do they flirt ? Why are there so many incessant and senseless talk ers? Why are these “airy nothings without a local habitation or a name?” It is to please yon, gentlemen! Then if you do not approve such things, why encourage them? Why allow a weak creature, a gew-gaw, a pretty plaything, to deprive you of your individuality? Cease to admire, and they cease to exist. But after you yield and take part in these follies, it is ignoble to slip out and join in the cry, “ O ! the vanities, the extravagances, the follies of women !” l'ou who are strong should bear the infirmities of the weak. It is said that men are seldom so ungen erous as when they have been colleagues in an affair that has turned out unfortunately. Let manly honesty come to the rescue and say that the faults and foibles of society shall not be in : an unscrupulous and unqualified manner laid at the door of the weaker sex. Come forward, I though Cato-like you fall on your own sword. She does not ask such a champion as Mr. Mill; , she is too tenacious of that purity and loftiness of soul that marks the true order of womanhood. “young, lovely, richly-dressed and jewelled. Prince James appears to have been completely charmed by the many attractive graces of the young lady, and the passionate love with which his manly bosom swelled inspired him with new life and energy. It was Joan Beaufort he had discovered promenading in the “garden thick with May leaves, and musical with the liquid song of nightingales;” and. “while all life was bright with the rosy hue of a new-blown pas sion, he sung his sweetest song:" “Cast I down mine eyes again. Where, as I saw. walking under the tower. Fill secretly new comen here to plain The fairest or the freshest young flower That ever I saw, methought. before that hour, For which sudden abote. anon astart. The blood of all my body to my heart. Of her array the farm if I shall write. Towards her golden hair and rich attire. In fretwise conchit (inlaid) with poarlis white, The great balas learning as the fire. With mony ane emeraut and fair sapphire: And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue. Of pluniis parted red, and white and blue. they had kept themselves under a bushel all the w hile their husbands and sons were fighting for liberty. But this tendency is not peculiar to the people of that day, nor is it peculiar to any one country. Sir Walter Scott was regarded as a great cham pion of the fair sex. It is easy to forgive his saying: “O, woman, in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy and hard to please, Variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made;” since conscience stirred him to round it with the beautiful melody,— “ But when pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou.” But one of the best stories of this same cham pion was taken from the life of a man who aban doned ids wife and five cbildvqjd-tao-awecarious living, cut out on a romantic mission. Yet shun him as a politician. The inequality she suffers is not imposed by law, not even by con vention—it is imposed by nature. Women wield a power, but that power is used most wisely when used most cautiously. She holds a sceptre, but that sceptre cannot be too deftly wreathed with roses. [For The Sunny South.] THE ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT —OF— ENGLISH LITERATURE. BY HENRY ETHEL WHITFIELD. CHAPTER II.—Continued. Next, in point of time, and first (up to his time) in greatness, writer of true English before the cases of full type, tlie copy set up be- -jfuulevio Jclla f ule liilil, Hlitl tlie gioowl hiick ix>» lrl.*~hail<!ly aiocm tt . . . g ra( j ua Hy w ith type to form a line. about his work nothing of that quick, nip which marks the fingers of the And when she walked had a little thraw Under the sweet greene boughis bent. Her fair fresh face, as white as any snow. She turned has. and furth her wayis went: But tho began mine aches and torment To see her part, and follow I no might: Methought the day was turned into night.” The royal poet afterwards became King of Scotland, and husband of the woman he so pas sionately loved, and of whom he so sweetly sang. It is sad to relate that this noble sovereign was cruelly murdered by a factious nobleman and his bloody accomplices. Although only thirty-seven years elapsed be tween the death of Chaucer and that of King James the First, yet the change that had taken place in the character of the English language was very great. The wording of the verses above quoted is almost sufficiently modem to be readily understood by one who may never have made the old English a close study. In the age of which I am now writing, the language was fast assuming a better form: and this was not all, for a bright era for English literature was near at hand. Yes, it may be again remarked that a new and brighter era was about to dawn upon rustic old England. Never, since the creation of the world, had such a thing as a printing press been seen in Britain; but the man who was destined to be come the great founder of the English printing ! industry was born in a rural district, about 1412. William Caxton, the “Father of the English Press,” had traveled and lived many years in Germany. Whilst in that country, he learned the art of printing, and, in the year 1474, he conveyed his materials across the narrow waters, and established himself at Westminster for the purpose of making real English hooks. It was a novel sight, no doubt, to behold this old man, already in the “sear and yellow leaf,” working earnestly at his press, surrounded by a crowd of awe-struck admirers, or, perhaps, sneerers. But Caxton worked on, and in 1474 the first English book was printed. The work was en titled “The Game and Playe of the Chesse.” It must be a matter of deep interest to know how this indefatigable pioneer managed to pros ecute his great work to a successful issue; and this first attempt at printing in England is graphically remarked upon by a distinguished author as follows: “ Let us pass into liis work-shop and see the early friends at their toil. Two huge frames of wood support the thick screws which work the pressing slabs. There sits the grave compositor “You give up your hold on life so easily,” j recollected how proud both teacher and pupil i captivated by the scene inthe church-vard,—’the He also waged a life-time contest with the cor- modern* onmositor“as they fly amongithe* type she said; • you should have hope; you are yet were when he was able fo read his first chapter white palfrey browsing, the old man bending cler K.v, and did much to expose them in nn ,i se ize the very letter wanted in a trice. With in flip Tpstnnipnf WIipti 1 onmio on A OVQV flvzx 1 * . „ 1: • a_ tllPif fmil stftt.P of IlilSPTlPSS ivnrl pnrrnnlinn • i u a. . i __ _ ,1 xl. .i.in.i young “If you reckon age by years; but I take it we have all our track measured off. I’ve gone over mine: I've passed all the mile-stones,—love, and happiness, and hope even. There’s but one left for me, and that’s one we’ve all got to pass. It don’t matter how or when I get to that. There’s nobody to care but Manch and my dumb family here: they’d miss me a little—wouldn’t you, Bunch ?" he said, stroking the slick head of the in the Testament. When she could command | over the obliterated epitaphs, chiseling into new life the faded emblems of the courage and suffer ings of his warrior forefathers. A beautiful de- ] votion! one sacred in the eyes of posterity; but i doubtless could we have looked upon the strug- atl °n.” herself, she turned to Ishmael. “Is not this a tell-tale?” she asked, gently. “ Ought you not to tear out the leaf?” He caught up the book passionately. “Never!” he cried; “I’ll never tear out that. It'll be buried with me just like it is.” He put it in his bosom and clasped his arms over it; his mouth quivered with emotion. Melieent could not have spoken after this. She j a laurel leaf upon the grave of her their foul state of baseness and corruption. His great and noble acts, through a long, la borious life, have caused him to be very justly called “the morning star of our English Reform- gling mother and needy children, our enthusi- i asm would have been divided between the living and the dead. We, who have a keen vision and first In 1328 was born Geoffrey Chaucer, the great writer of English verse.” It cannot be ascertained in what part of En quiet and steady pace, and many a thoughtful pause, his fingers travel through their task. The master printer, in his furred gown, moves through the room, directs the wedging of a page or sheet, and then resumes his high stool, to complete the reading of a proof pulled freshly from the press. The worker of the press has found the balls or dabbers, with which the form feeling of ordinary human life, would fain drop ^ ,0 . rn: no F * s much known about 0 f type is inked, unfit for use. He must make .. . , , -j , , . , ;— - -r [ «**». gni't he. who faithfully ! ''here anil how he received his early education, fresh ones, so down he sits with intle ground-squirrel, that had first slyly peeped shook hands with him in silence. When she i stood in his place, discharging the duties in- | It; ^ however, quite certain that lie, somehow' an( j corded wool to stuff the ball parted with Manch, he said to her: Go back by the road you came. out of his coat pocket, then ran up his arm and crouched upon his shoulder, eyeing him with head on one side. “How will I rouse him?” Melieent thought. “He is sunk in a kind of helpless apathy. He | thinking to find you.” will not realize the danger until it is too late. ” “ I thought to find you more prudent,” she said, after a pause. raw sheep-skin and tie it round He come “ I thought I could make you feel the necessity of going away; and if you had not the means, I would furnish it.” “l"ou?” he said, looking up wonderinglv at her; “ why should you give anything to me ?" Melieent was glad of the friendly shield of lace that half screened her face from the scrutiny of those truth-compelling eyes; but she answered earnestly: “Why should one human being do anything for another? Are we not bound to feel for and to help each other by our very nature of human ity?” Then glancing around and seeing that Manch, who had gone off, had not returned, she continued: “The boy Manch interested me in your fate. I liked him: he is true-hearted. I found out from him, inadvertently, that you was his best friend. I had heard your story—a portion of it at least—from another source; I can not tell you about it now.” “l'ou did not hear it all,” he said, slowly shaking his head, “oi you wouldn’t interest yourself about me. You didn't hear what a wretch I was—a—a murderer ?” “Yes.” “That I killed an old man for his money?” “Yes, I have heard it all—and I believe you innocent.” “You believe me innocent? No, nobody be- ! lieves that unless it's Manch—not my own mother and brother. No, that can’t be.” “Yes, it is,” said Melieent; “I do not believe yon guilty—and I have heard it all.” He was silent: his lips moved, but he did not speak audibly. A change seemed to pass over . him. He lifted his head more erectlv than he that way just now; but he’s gone back by the i season for the women of the present day. other road —round by granny’s house. He’s j Woman is such a fine theme for satire" that few " inking to find you.” ! writers of genius have had the generosity to re- “ He must have seen me come out of town,” | sist it. If she had not existed, Byron would Melieent thought, as she gave free rein to her 1 have been consumed of his own bitterness, horse and went homeward at a rapid rate. As ; “Women mould the manners of the world,” is a she was turning into the street on which she i saying as honored as it is ancient. Like many tended for a stronger arm. But these examples | ° r °Hier, managed to acquire much and varied the handle of the dab. Till this is done, the belong to the past. We wish to speak a word in | knowledge. Part of his chequered life was j press-work is at a stand. But there is no hurry lived, a horseman turned the opposite corner, crossed over and rode up beside her. ‘ ‘ My fair runaway. ” said Colonel Archer, bend ing lightly in his saddle, “how did you manage to elude me this morning?” “Did I make an appointment to ride with you, Colonel ?” she asked haughtily. ‘Not exactly: but when I suggested the disa wise sayings, we accept it, and never stop to | question the soundness of its philosophy, or in- | j quire into the customs of the age in which the author lived, or the circumstances bv which he spent in courtly ease, for he soon gained the favor of his royal master, King Edward the Third. In the troubles which took place not long after the decease of that monarch, misfor tunes overtook the poet, and he led, for awhile, an unhappy existence as exile in France and Zeeland. At the expiration of eighteen months, he returned to England, and, on the accession of Henry the Fourth, he was again taken into royal favor. His death occurred in 1400. The famous “Canterbury Tales” were the press- in the Almonry; and all the better this, for the imperfection of the machinery makes great care necessary on the part of the workmen. Then, suppose the proofs corrected, and the sheets, or pages rather, printed off, the binder’s work begins. Strong and solid was this old binding. When the leaves were sowed together in a frame (a rude original of that still used), they were hammered well to make them flat, and the back was thickly overlaid with paste and glue. Then came the enclosing of the paper in boards—ver- may have been surrounded. Some people are | chief productions of this author; and upon (table boards — thick pieces of wood like the • ii _• i i i til pm Ins “ramp ne n writer coomu mainlir 4-/-, 4/% , i i • i • i i addicted to forming their own landscapes and coloring their own skies. They look through a self-tinted lens at everything. Who knows but fame as a writer seems mainly to de- greeableness, not to say impropriety, of your I that the author of this saying felt his conscience riding alone, and coming back with headaches, ! a little weighty, and in a moment of devoted you acquiesced—by your eloquent silence, if in | chivalry, tossed the burden on the weaker sex? no other way.” 1 ' vr ’' 1 ■ ’ - “I went out this morning with my husband. “But returned without that useful"appendage, and rode away at your own sweet will, in alto gether another direction. ” *' I am grateful for the interest you manifest in my movements. Y'ou must take great pains to watch them.” “A little bird told me of them this time, how ever; but when I mounted my horse and hast ened to overtake you, in the fulness of good in tentions, you spirited yourself away—vanished, horse and rider, like a lady in a fairy tale.” “I have the gift of being invisible when I wish,” said Melieent, pointedly. “ Which means that you desire to be invisible to me?” Melieent, in her heart, wished she could turn upon him and frankly answer “Yes;” but how them his pend.” In giving his opinion of him, Spenser writes thus: “That renowned poet. Dan Chaucer, weU of England undefyled, On Fame’s eternal beadroll worthy to be tyled.” And, while Hallum ranks him with Dante and 1 Never did a scratch from the gray goose quill so ’ | tickle the fancy of the world as this. However t> . . i true it may seem, experience bears proof that J, etr , areh ’ ( ^ I ol . 1 if r ., says „ t ^, at ,• proudly wears men act a very important part in this great drama. * 16 honored Father ot English Poetry: nor can Woman looks upon man as something stronger the most brilliant of his successors feel ashamed and wiser than herself. Nature intended great ness for man, although she sometimes makes sad oversights in carrying out her intentions. But however great and wise they may be, there is one mistake too common among them, and this mistake occurs in that very arena where women are said to be most potent in moulding the man- ! ners of the world. The mistake is that they judge women'in the aggregate. Let the following I instance illustrate: At a small evening party, two gentlemen of note were conversing on subjects of public in terest, touching as well the women who love their country as the men. Any one with a tol could she with poor Ishmael’s face fresh in her erable knowledge of the English language could mind, and her knowledge that his safety might depend on her keeping friendly with this man ? She lifted her eyes to Colonel Archer—proud had done before: a flush mounted to his pale eyes, but soft with unshed tears—and made her cheek: his eye brightened. It was as though hope, and the energy of life that is bom of hope, had been suddenly kindled in his breast by the knowledge that one being believed in him. He seemed about to speak, but before he did so Manch came running up and went close to Mel ieent. “Did you ever see a heron’s egg?” he asked, putting one into her hand. As she took it, he said, in a rapid whisper: “ There’s somebody coming down the road they'll come here, maybe. Go into the house, and I'll put your horse out of sight." Turning round, he said aloud: "Ishmael, show the ladv appeal: “Colonel Archer, I entreat yon, as a gentle man, to cease such trifling: it wounds my self- respect. I do not want to offend you. I would like you to be a friend to me in a straightfor ward, honest way.” She stopped and added impressively: “There are things I may do that will seem singular—imprudent, perhaps: things I would not do but for the force of circumstances. Don't misinterpret them, please—and don't pre sume upon them.” A purer and less passionate man would have appreciated this appeal, with its tone of mild ness and its undertone of repressed but strong the curious bones and rock things you brought displeasure. It clouded Colonel Archer's face from Californy. “Would she like to look at them?” Ishmael said, and led the way into the house, Manch re maining without. They had hardly entered when a man on horse back rode up to the door. Melieent trembled with dread, while her cheeks burned with indig nant feeling, for the voice was that of Colonel Archer. He had actually followed her there. “Hillo, bov!" he cried; “has a lady been bere ?” “What’s the row? - ’ drawled Manch. leisurely turning round from the fishing line he was fixing. one moment with chagrin and disappointment. But her eves were so beautiful, flashing through soft tearfulness, and his mind was so set upon believing its own wishes to be truth, that he consoled himself, and let vanity and cynicism put their interpretation on Melieent s words. “ She is trying to keep me at bay,” he thought. "She is afraid of me—afraid of herself as well. She is so firm because she is conscious of weak ness.” Still her words were not altogether without effect, and he was not wholly insincere when he bowed his head and murmured: have understood that conversation. At least a lady stood near listening with keen interest; but when the gentleman turned to address her, he changed his voice and manner, and suddenly- dropped to the level of small talk. The first thing he said was, “Y'ou are looking charming, madam”—the poor woman standing there, faded and jaded in the pitiless gaslight. He next asked her how she was enjoying the evening; he then remarked on the weather: then looked aw fully bored. The lady felt instinctively that this wise man thought her ignorant of every subject of public and private weal, and dared not destroy the supposition by broaching a sub ject or expressing an opinion lest he might think her strong-minded and unfeminine. Dear sirs, ladies need not be formidably strong- minded, or literary, or scientific, to talk sensibly on general subjects. The newspapers enable them to do that; with all our schools, the press is an ever-present educator. And this gentle man who was so acute and astute, and really so obtuse as not to see that the lady was gauging him all the while, and felt no fear in believing of such a lineage. Whilst only about forty years had intervened between the time when Sir John De Mandeville wrote his work of travels, and the period when Chaucer composed the “Canterbury Tales,” yet a considerable improvement had taken place in the form and shape of the English language. The reader should do full justice to the trans- - cendent genius of this poet; and to do this, it must be remembered that he had no model, per haps, to guide him, but that he was forced to grope his way, lonely and unassisted, through the then dark and unexplored regions of the | muses. The following is from his greatest work: “ A knight there was. and that a worthy man, That fro the time he first began To riden out. he loved chevalrie, Trouthe and honour, fredom and courtesie. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, And thereto hadde be ridden, no man ferre, As well in Christendom as in Hethenesse, And ever honoured for his worthiness. His ilke worthy knight hadde ben also Sometime with the lard Palatie, Agen another hethen in Turkie: And evermore he hadde a sovereine fris. And though that he was worthy he was wise, And of his port as meke as is a mayde He never yet no villanie ne sayde In all his life, into a manere wight. But for to tellen you of his arail. His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie. Of fustian he wered a gipon, Alle besmotred with his habergeon, For he was late grome from his viage, And wente for to dom his pilgrimage.’* In tlie year 1394, King James the Second, of Scotland, was bom. His father, Robert the Third, had become well-nigh heart-broken on account of the murder of his son Rothesay, and, . j panel of a door, covered outside with embossed i and gilded leather, and thickly studded with i brass nails, whose ornamental heads shone in | manifold rows. Thick brass comers and solid 1 clasps completed the fortification of the book, ! which was made to last for centuries. Half a dozen such volumes used then to form an exten sive and valuable library.” • We certainly owe much to William Caxton for the great service he rendered civilization when he took upon his aged shoulders the apparently almost superhuman task of introducing, un aided and with but scanty means, the grandest of all the wonderful inventions that the wonder ful genius of enterprising man has given birth to. It could hardly have been long before the be nign influence of the press was felt in England. It is almost incredible how suddenly and mate rially the price of books fell—a sure proof of the benefit derived from the enterprise of those pioneers; and it is pleasant to see, from the fol lowing, that Englishmen are not altogether in sensible of the gratitude they owe to the good man—the light of whose genius shed a cheering raj - of brightness over the hitherto dark and gloomy field of English literature: “ These were the men who printed our earliest English books. Their types have been multi plied by millions, and their pages by hundreds. A little silver coin can now buy the book for which Caxton charged a piece of gold. The British cottage is indeed a poor one which can not show some volumes as well printed and as finely bound as his finest works. Rejoicing, as we do, in the countless blessings which the press has given to Britain, let us not forget that arched room in old Westminster, where our earliest printer bent his silvered head over the first proof-sheets of the ‘Game of Chesse.’” (to be continued.) An amateur journalist of Indianapolis has made his fortune by his pen. His father-in-law died of grief after reading one of his leaders, and left him one hundred and thirty thousand dol lars. The Sanscrit class in Boston I niversity in- in order that his other son, James, might be safe eludes two young ladies. So far as known, they from the wicked wiles of certain rebellious no- are the first of their sex in America or Europe and saying that if he had been called upon to blemen, he was sent from Scotland in a ship, to undertake this difficult study. parse the constitution, Murray would have risen from his grave. There are many high-toned and chivalrous gentlemen who have really read and thought much, but their reading and meditation have been confined to one class of subjects, and who, consequently, though they possess much valua- Nthich was to convey him to France. But the vessel was captured "off the English coast, and the young prince was detained as a captive. The royal prisoner was confined in the Round Tower of Windsor. One morning, upon looking out of the window, he saw a beautiful woman walking in a garden near by. This fair one was St. Louis has a magazine, all the work of which, editorial and mechanical, is said to be done bv women. Miss Alice Vickery is reported to be the first and only registered pharmaceutist in England INSTINCT PRINT