four horses and a little yacht for the summer season-joined a fast club-and, in a word, launched out rather extensively for a man with £1,850 a-year.

Mr. Littlegood was still puffing his hookah, when two young men sauntered into his room in the free-and-easy style of intimate friends.

"Well, old fellow, how are you?" ?" cried one, who was a fine hearty-looking man, with a touch of the Hibernian accent.

"How are you, Littlegood?" said the other one also a lean, light-haired, lanky youth, who appeared as if he wanted taking to pieces and rebuilding, so badly was he put together.

"Slightly seedy," was Mr. Littlegood's reply to both questioners-it being absolutely essential to every young man's success in dandyism that he should be seedy every day; or, at all events, at any hour before ten in the evening. People who have anything to do cannot afford to be in a decrepid state of health till the evening's champagne has warmed them into life and activity, and therefore, in order to distinguish themselves from the vulgar herd of workers and thinkers, men about town must be in a perpetual state of matutinal imbecility.

"Where were you fellows last night?" he asked, in return.

"Frightfully long debate in the House," answered the lean youth; "didn't divide till four in the morning."

"And divided then exactly as we should have done at seven in the evening, before any of the speeches were made," added the Irish

man.

"You're a pretty fellow to say that, O'Neil," retorted the other," after having made a three-quarters of an hour speech yourselfthough, to be sure, I don't suppose that made anybody vote differently from his previous intentions."

It

“Que voulez vous?" answered O'Neil. isn't to change anybody's opinions I speak, my boy; and, as a member of the House, you ought to know that nobody else does speak for such a purpose. It's only to make people outside talk about me, and get up a cry over the water, maybe, for O'Neil as Attorney-General, or Chief Justice, or Commissioner of something or other."

"It's a nuisance to have to listen, though, when men talk for their own ends," growled the other.

"And that's precisely what we wish it to be, Lavers," answered O'Neil; "if we didn't

make ourselves nuisances we'd never get anything."

"You may have anything you want here," cried Lorimer, "without making yourselves nuisances; and that's exactly what I shall vote you two fellows if you go on talking shop like that. What the deuce do I care about your stupid debates ? "

"By the way, Littlegood, why don't you into Parliament ?" asked O'Neil.

go "Because he hasn't spent all his money yet, and isn't a bit afraid of the sheriff-time enough then," said Lavers, answering for him, and looking meaningly towards O'Neil.

"True enough," cried the Irishman, quite good humoredly; "they're blessed privileges we enjoy; and if it weren't for the committees that make a man get up so early, and the debates that keep him up so late, I should like Parliament amazingly."

"You missed Mrs. Puddleton's party last night," said Lorimer.

"I was there for half an hour," answered Lavers, "and was making myself remarkably comfortable with a very pretty girl-quite new, too-when that horrid whipper-in of our party came and hunted me out, looking as frightened all the time as if his life depended on getting me safe into the House."

"His seat did-and that's life to him," said O'Neil. "Was it good-the 'hop,' Littlegood?"

Tolerable," was the reply; "there were some very pretty girls-though who they were it is utterly impossible to say. Nobody ever does know where Mrs. Puddleton picks up her friends."

"Was little Stanley there?" asked Lavers. "Do you mean Miss Stanley?" returned Lorimer, coloring slightly.

"Yes-Ellen Stanley; flirting little thing, inclined to be pert," replied Lavers, quietly. "I shouldn't have known her by your description, I confess," said Lorimer, "though I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Stanley several times; and, between ourselves, Lavers, I don't think it's quite the right way to speak of a young lady-that which you adopted just now."

There was a little touch of warmth in Lorimer's manner as he spoke thus; and Lavers, cool as Wenham Lake ice, saw it, and inwardly chuckled at it, because it was precisely the feeling he had wished to elicit.

My dear fellow," he replied, "if I had known that you had any penchant in that quarter I would not have

"There's no need of any particular pen

chant for a lady, I trust, to account for one's disliking to hear her spoken disrespectfully of by name," said Lorimer, interrupting him.

Mr. Lavers was relieved from the necessity of a reply by the entrance, at this moment, of three or four more of Lorimer's friends. The truth is that Mr. Lavers had tried to captivate Miss Ellen Stanley, and that young lady, being unaccountably blind to his mental and moral attractions, had snubbed him accordingly; whereupon he adopted the usual expedient of mean people, of abusing what he could not obtain.

Of the new comers, one was a sportingman, another was a noisy man, and another was merely an exquisite. Only one thing they had in common-they were all idle men, and liked to lounge away an hour or two every morning in a friend's rooms, where tobacco and liquids were plentiful, without any cost to their own pockets.

"What are we all going to do?" cried O'Neil.

I'm going to the Corner,' to set my book on the Oaks straight a little," answered

one.

"I'm going to look at a dog-cart mare that's said to be first-rate, and the figure not too high," said another.

"I'm going up to Lord's, to see the first match of the season between our county and the Marylebone," said another.

fault. Ellen Stanley is pretty, fascinating, clever (a little too much of this), and altogether more to my taste than any girl I know: but, somehow, I don't feel a bit in love with her. She pleases me; pleases me very much too. And yet I leave her without a pang, go home and sleep as soundly as if I had been talking to old Bosher instead of the handsomest girl in London. Can you explain this? Why is it that my feelings are so completely untouched?"

“Because, my dear brother," said Jessie to herself as she read the letter next morning"because you are too much in love with yourself just yet. No such enemy to love as vanity."

The other letter was to Miss Ellen Stanley's mama :

"Your kindness in inviting me to join your little family circle whenever I please, is most warmly appreciated by me: and I can scarcely imagine a more happy and charming household than yours must be, if I may venture to judge from what I have seen of its in

mates.

Pretty well-considering that Mr. Lorimer had seen no one of the lady's family save Miss Ellen Stanley herself.

The notes finished, Mr. Littlegood gave the promised half-hour's lesson to our friend Job Peck, made an elaborate toilet, stepped into his cabriolet, and drove down Piccadilly with Job perched up behind his first appear“that proud eminence."

the

Lorimer then proceeded to write his notes, which were all very short. One was to his tailor-another to a horse-dealer in country--another to the "captain" of his little yacht-and two of them were to ladies. Perhaps we may venture to take a peep at these. One of them-bah! one of them was only to his sister. Nevertheless, let us see what he says:

"From all this, my dear sister, you will conclude that I am desperately in love; but for once even your shrewd sense will be at

CHAPTER IV.

POOR LITTLE ROSE.

In a dirty little narrow court, in one of the worst parts of Lambeth, dwelt one William Bennoch-commonly called "Staggering Bill" -with his wife and two children.

He was once a blacksmith, and he styled himself one still; but, being in a perpetual state of drunkenness, as his sobriquet implies, he seldom worked till reduced to the verge of starvation, or rather till he was unable to procure another glass of spirits for it is astonishing what a small quantity of solid food was ever consumed by "Staggering Bill."

The worst of Bill was, that he was the most morose and ill-tempered of brutes when the fumes of the drink first began to pass off; so that it almost tempted those around him to give him some liquor to preserve the good humor which seemed habitual to him while quite drunk.

His wife was one of those strange beings, so commonly mated with drunkards, that puzzle you to decide what their natural and original character was. She was a shrew and a coward together; but you could not tell whether her temper had always been at fault, or whether the continued misery of her life had given her the scolding tongue. When Bill was maudlin he was often sentimental, and would weep as he told you that "that there woman's blessed tongue had druv him to drink." But then it is a remarkable fact, that people who are drunkards have always, according to their own accounts, been "driven to it" by something or somebody; it never, in the least degree, arises from their own depraved appetites.

Mrs. Bennoch, perhaps, might more reasonably say that she had been driven to drink; for, certainly, she occasionally flew to the bottle for consolation, when distracted by her husband's brutality and their state of destitution. Apparently she had been handsome once; at least, her features were well formed; but, then, the haggard, lean countenance, and the often bloodshot eyes, destroyed the effect of the original beauty. Nor did her dirty and tattered dress diminish the repulsive effect of her face and her tall bony figure.

As far as the vice of intoxication went, the difference between Bill and herself was this: that Bill was always drunk, or had just been so and was just going to be so again; while she was often sober for weeks together. She took in washing when she could get any; but having the misfortune occasionally to drop a few things into the fire, and often to scorch others brown, she was not likely to be a popular or highly patronized laundress. Had it not been for the strong feeling of benevolence ever displayed by the poor to the poor, she would have wanted both work and bread more often than she did.

66

'Dick! you young vagabone, come here," screamed Mrs. Bennoch to her son: "where is the brat, hang him?" she continued, as she got no answer.

"Dare say he's in the Grapes," suggested her husband, who was in the three-quarter stage.

What should he do there?" she answered snappishly; "do you think he's going to be as big a sot as his father?"

"What's the odds?" hiccupped Bill, sublimely indifferent and perfectly good-tempered.

"Ugh, you brute!" cried Mrs. B., and she went out into the court and screamed

"Dick!" at the top of her voice, besides inquiring of all her neighbors whether they had seen her hopeful son. She also took a peep in at the Grapes (but, to her credit be it said, she did not take a glass there), and at last returned home without finding the truant Dick.

"If you weren't such a drunken, lazy brute, you might take these things home for one yourself," she screamed to her husband.

"All right, old girl; I'll take 'em-why shouldn't I?" answered Bill, in his best of tempers, and making an effort to get up.

"A

"Don't be a fool," cried his wife. pretty likely thing that I'd send you to Mrs. Travers's, my best customer, and the only lady I work for now; I shouldn't see another thing of hers nor a bit of her money again." "Wha's-the-matter-o'-me?" asked the innocent Bill, as if perfectly unconscious that he was not fit to be presented to any lady in the land.

Mrs. Bennoch disdained to answer, but continued her own remarks, talking rather to herself than her husband.

"If Rose wasn't so timid I might send her; but its a plaguy long way for Rosepoor little Rose;" and strange to say, as the woman uttered that name all her vixenish and vicious looks vanished, and there was a soft and womanlike expression, half-smiling and half-tearful, on her haggard and worn face.

And who was Rose-poor Rose?

Right well had her mother said "poor Rose;" for what fate could be harder for a young girl than to live in such a home, and with such parents, as those of little Rose Bennoch?

A strange child was Rose-her mother had insisted on giving her that name-for ever hiding in dark corners, and sitting so still that a listener could scarcely have heard her breathing. A little, slight, delicate child she looked, with her large, very large, dark eyes, and their long black fringes, contrasting with the white pale skin of her face. She never smiled-or so rarely that few of the neighbors had ever seen her do so. Even Dick, her brother, had never succeeded in making her laugh. Her face had an almost constant expression of terror, or at least of apprehension; but mingled with the look of fear was a strange and almost sinister look of cunning, like that of a person habituated to falsehood and stratagem. You will see it in the professional pickpocket, and in the detective policeman; in the smuggler, the sheriff's officer, and the sharp attorney; and equally in

the ill-treated wife, or child, of the domestic tyrant. Not that Rose was ill-treated; she always kept out of her father's way, and she was the only creature for whom her mother had any real affection. Yet Rose was almost as much afraid of her mother as of her father; she heard her scolding tongue, and she had seen her several times intoxicated. So Rose seldom came out into the light of day, but crept into dark corners, and hid herself, and dreamt long day-dreams of the world outside their narrow court, of which she rarely ever had a glimpse.

She had a book always with her-one and the same book. It was not so much for the pleasure of reading the book that she thus kept it, but because it had two pictures in it: one was a simple picture of a family at breakfast in a comfortably furnished room, with a smiling mama, a very precisely dressed papa, and three extremely neat and good-looking children. And Rose would look at the picture for hours in her dark corner, till her large eyes ached, and envy (but she did not know that it was envy she felt) the happy children in their happy home.

The other picture represented a simple English landscape with a church, and waving trees, and a stile, on which sat a young lady in a light summer costume, with a broad-brimmed straw hat, like those wherein our sisters again luxuriate in these latter days. And this picture pleased Rose even more than the other she had never seen the country, never beheld any other foliage than that of the squares and parks of sooty London, and that seldom enough; yet she would sigh for the fields and trees she saw here depicted, and long to be the happy girl seated on the stile.

:

"Rose dear, Rose!" cried her mother, in such gentle tones, that a stranger would scarcely have known the voice to be the same as a few minutes before was screaming in the court, or scolding the drunken husband.

A little rustling might be heard in the further corner of the room, behind a large washing-tub turned up on its side, and Rose came out, with her book hidden under her apron, and glided quietly to her mother's side.

"Would you be afraid to go a long way off with these clothes, Rose-all by yourself?"

"No," answered Rose; and she spoke the truth, for she scarcely knew what fear meant, except in connexion with her father or mother. "It's a very long way," said her mother. "Is it, is it," asked Rose, hesitating"is it in the country ?" having, however, but the vaguest idea of where the country was.

"No, it ain't so far as all that, dear," said her mother; and Rose was sorry to hear it. "It's only nigh to Berkeley Square, where Mrs. Travers lives: that's the nice kind lady that come herself one day you know, and patted you on the head, and said you ought to go to school; and so you ought, goodness knows, for you're nigh thirteen-but it can't be helped. The bundle ain't a heavy one, for it's only some fine things. Lawk a mercy knows how she trusts such things to me; but she does, and we'd often go without a bit of bread if she didn't. Are you hungry, Rose?" "No, mother," answered the girl.

"But you've had nothing to-day-the child will be starved,” she said.

"I'm not hungry, mother-indeed I'm not," replied Rose.

"Poor child!" muttered the mother once more; and the tears stood in her eyes, as she turned away to fasten up the bundle.

'May I take my book?" asked Rose, as she saw her mother looking at her.

"You can't look at it in the street," said her mother; "you'd better leave it at home." "Let me take it, please, do," said Rose, beseechingly.

"Very well, dear-let me put it in your pocket-there, that'll do. What a strange child it is!" she added, as she watched little Rose's form retreating down the court; and then the mother turned back and cast a look of loathing on her drunken husband snoring on the bed.

Rose went steadily on her way, looking about her very little, yet observing everything that came directly in her sight with more than the usual childish curiosity. And many a passer-by turned back to look at the raggedly clad, poor, thin child, with her large dark eyes, and that strange expression wherein was so much of meaning-so much intellect, cunning, and timidity.

Many times had Rose to ask her way; for the fashionable quarters of London were a wilderness to her; but she never applied to a policeman for her information, because she had more than once seen her father in the hands of one of those officials, and looked with a little dread on them. She had reached as far as the Regent's Circus, in Piccadilly, where she became bewildered by the number of carriages and horses eternally passing by in four directions. The chance of ever getting over that terribly wide crossing seemed to her almost a hopeless one, and she stood nearly ten minutes waiting for one. At length there was a slight lull of traffic for a moment,

and she managed to rush to the landing-place, with the lamp-post in the centre, half across the road. Here she had to stop again for some time; then fancying she had a chance, but looking only one way instead of both, she started off again. There was a loud yell to her from some foot-passengers as a splendidly appointed cabriolet was being driven past at the very moment; the driver pulled his horse almost back on to its haunches, as he uttered a cry of terror himself—the child hesitated at the very moment when she should have leapt forward, and in an instant she was knocked down and was actually under the horse's feet.

She was speedily dragged from thence, and the owner of the cabriolet jumped out, exclaiming

My God she is killed!"

No, no-she ain't killed; but she must have some of her bones broken."

Carry her in here-give her to me,' cried the young man, who forgot all his dandyism and everything else at the moment, in his anxiety for the poor child he had unwittingly injured. "Run for a doctor, for God's sake!"

Poor Little Rose was conveyed into a shop close at hand, and a doctor was soon in attendance.

"Small bone of the left leg broken," said he, "but not a bad fracture, I think; blow on the head, which has stunned her but not very severe. I should recommend, sir," he continued, "that she should be conveyed to Charing Cross hospital."

"Get a cab," cried the young man whom

he addressed; "be quick-is there any better way of conveying her, doctor?"

"No-but she must be driven slowly, and if she can lie on some one's lap who will keep the limb thus, it will be better."

"She shall-she shall," was the answer, and the young man slipped a couple of guineas into the surgeon's hand, and then bidding those in attendance to carry the child carefully to the cab, he first seated himself in it, and then, having her carefully placed on his lap, he held her as tenderly as a mother could have held her infant, and bade the driver go gently to the hospital.

"Poor child! poor child!" he said, "poor enough she looks, indeed-ragged, I seeand thin, very thin. By Jove! I believe she's half-starved: people are so, I knowand yet I often forget it-God forgive me! She's not plain-indeed, she's pretty. What a fair skin-and what jet-black eyelashes! I wonder who she is? Well, I swear she shall never want for anything while I live on earth!"

Five minutes later, little Rose was stretched on one of the hospital beds, and a surgeon was engaged in setting the broken bone. He did not consider it a bad case.

"Thank Heaven! don't let her want for anything-I will pay for all," cried the young

Ir is probably not unknown to many of our readers, that M. Huc, a clever French clergyman, has recently published an instructive and entertaining book on the manners and customs of the Chinese empire. The work is one which may be confidently commended to anybody desirous of becoming acquainted with the institutions, government, and social arrangements of which the Chinese civilization is the product; and as regards the fulness and variety of its information, it may be taken as the latest and most complete authority on the subject. It is not our intention here to enter into any consideration of its general contents; but from that part of it which is de

voted to a review of the national system of education, we propose to draw a few particulars, which, we conceive, are likely to be interesting to the generality of our readers.

It may be matter of surprise to some, considering our boasted European enlightenment, that of all countries in the world, China is the one in which primary instruction is diffused most widely. There is no village, not even a group of farms, in which a teacher of some kind is not to be found. With very few exceptions, every Chinese knows how to read and write, and has such a knowledge of accounts as may serve his purposes for the ordinary occasions of his life. The artizans, the