own experience, I knew one of these killed merely by a little piece of foolish pride-the exactly opposite fault to Juliet's. She was the niece of a most trusted friend of my father's, also a much trusted friend of mine in the earliest Herne Hill days of my Cock Robinhood; when I used to transmute his name, Mr. Dowie, into Mr. Good-do,' not being otherwise clear about its pronunciation. His niece was an old sea-captain's only daughter, motherless, and may have been about twenty years old when I was twelve. She was certainly the most beautiful girl of the pure English-Greek type I ever saw, or ever am likely to see of any type whatever. I've only since seen one who could match her, but she was Norman-English. My mother was her only confidante in her love affairs: consisting mostly in gentle refusals-not because she despised people, or was difficult to please, but wanted simply to stay with her father; and did so serenely, modestly, and with avoidance of all pain she could spare her lovers, dismissing quickly and firmly, never tempting or playing with them. At last, when she was some five or six and twenty, came one whom she had no mind to dismiss; and suddenly finding herself caught, she drew up like a hart at bay. The youth, unluckily for him, dared not push his advantage, lest he should be sent away like the rest; and would not speak,-partly, could not, loving her better than the rest, and struck dumb, as an honest and modest English lover is apt to be, when he was near her; so that she fancied he did not care for her. At last, she came to my mother to ask what she should do. My mother said, "Go away for a while,-if he cares for you, he will follow you; if not, there's no harm done." But she dared not put it to the touch, thus, but lingered on, where she could sometimes see him, and yet, in her girl's pride, lest he should find out she liked him, treated him worse than she had anybody ever before. Of course this piece of wisdom soon brought matters to an end. The youth gave up all hope, went away, and, in a month or two after, died of the then current plague, cholera: upon which his sister-I do not know whether in wrath or folly-told his mistress the whole matter, and showed her what she had done. The poor girl went on quietly taking care of her father, till his death, which soon followed; then, with some kindly woman-companion, went to travel. Some five or six years afterwards, my father and mother and I were going up to Chamouni, by the old char-road under the Cascade de Chêde. There used to be an idiot beggar-girl, who always walked up beside the chars, not ugly or cretinous, but inarticulate and wildeyed, moaning a little at intervals. She came to be, in time, year after year, a part of the scene, which one would even have been sorry to have lost. As we drew near the top of the long hill, and this girl had just ceased following, a lady got out of a char at some little distance behind, and ran up to ours, holding out her hands. We none of us knew her. There was something in the eyes like the wild look of the other's; the face was wrinkled, and a little hard in expression-Alpine, now, in its beauty. "Don't you know Sybilla?" said she. My mother made her as happy as she could for a week at Chamouni,-I am not sure if they ever met again: the girl wandered about wistfully a year or two longer, then died of rapid decline. I have told this story in order to draw two pieces of general moral from it, which may perhaps be more useful than if they were gathered from fable. First, a girl's proper confidant is her father. If there is any break whatever in her trust in him, from her infancy to her marriage, there is wrong somewhere,-often on his part, but most likely it is on hers; by getting into the habit of talking with her girl-friends about what they have no business with, and her father much. What she is not inclined to tell her father, should be told to no one; and, in nine cases out of ten, not thought of by herself. And I believe that few fathers, however wrong-headed or hardhearted, would fail of answering the habitual and patient confidence of their child with true care for her. On the other hand, no father deserves, nor can he entirely and beautifully win, his daughter's confidence, unless he loves her better than he does himself, which is not always the case. But again here, the fault may not be all on papa's side. In the instance before us, the relations between the motherless daughter and her old sea-captain father were entirely beautiful, but not rational enough. He ought to have known, and taught his pretty Sybilla, that she had other duties in the world than those immediately near his own arm-chair; and she, if resolved not to marry while he needed her, should have taken more care of her own heart, and followed my mother's wise counsel at once. In the second place, when a youth is fully in love with a girl, and feels that he is wise in loving her, he should at once tell her so plainly, and take his chance bravely, with other suitors. No lover should have the insolence to think of being accepted at once, nor should any girl have the cruelty to refuse at once; without severe reasons. If she simply doesn't like him, she may send him away for seven years or so he vowing to live on cresses, and wear sackcloth meanwhile, or the like penance: if she likes him a little, or thinks she might come to like him in time, she may let him stay near her, putting him always on sharp trial to see what stuff he is made of, and requiring, figuratively, as many lion-skins or giants' heads as she thinks herself worth. The whole meaning and power of true courtship is Probation; and it oughtn't to be shorter than three years at least,-seven is, to my own mind, the orthodox time. And these relations between the young people should be openly and simply known, not to their friends only, but to everybody who has the least interest in them: and a girl worth anything ought to have always half a dozen or so of suitors under vow for her.-(Lost Jewels. -Fors Clavigera, New Series, Letter VI.)* * By kind permission of the Author. PRINTING AND PUBLISHING. YOUNG authors are generally so completely ignorant of all that relates to the business side of a literary life— its relations to the printer and the publisher, and the best means of gaining a footing in periodical literature -that a few plain and simple rules will, it is believed, be found of great assistance to them in the first steps of their career. By mastering these rules, time and trouble may be spared, not only to the writers themselves, but to the various editors, publishers, and printers, with whom they will have to deal. MSS. AND THEIR PREPARATION. It has been said that "the men who have the fewest manuscripts returned are the men who have taken the greatest pains with their work." It cannot be too strongly impressed upon the mind of the intending author that by carelessness in the merely mechanical part of his work, by frequent erasures and crabbed interlineations, by unnumbered pages, and general slovenliness, he may not improbably raise in the mind of the reader, on whose decision so much depends, a natural prejudice, which will only be overcome by something exceptionally good and original in the style or subject of the work itself. "But I want to teach you to write with difficulty," was the somewhat chilling response of Boileau to Racine's boast of how easy he found it to write his first work. The lesson is still needed by the many who scribble in haste and repent at leisure, when they see their productions returned again and again, the pristine freshness gone, the edges worn by frequent folding, and the appearance miserably battered. Every such unsuccessful attempt ought to be turned to account by the writer; he should determinedly apply himself to find out the faults that have proved fatal, in order that he may henceforth labour to avoid them. Having then resolved to improve upon his failure, and having satisfied himself that he really has something fresh and good to say, and that he can say it so as to find favour with the public, the writer will scarcely, perhaps, need to be reminded that such apparently trifling matters as the choice of his paper, its colour, and the length of his written lines are not beneath his attentive consideration. But the beginner who has not yet drawn experience from failure may be willing to purchase it on more favourable terms, by giving heed to the following practical counsels. It is unlikely that anyone who deliberately intends to write for publication needs to be urged to write on single sheets of paper and only on one side of the sheet, as nearly all magazines, in their printed rules for contributors, mention this requirement in capital letters. We are forced to believe that some literary aspirants exist who are, in George Eliot's strong phrase, "so well wadded with stupidity," that they have not yet become impressed with the simple fact that manuscripts intended for printing ought never to be written on both sides of the paper. Beginning, then, with the paper, we would suggest that the best size for literary work is, perhaps, what is known as foolscap quarto. Sheets of this size lie conveniently on the compositor's desk. Larger sheets are awkward to handle, and may need to be folded and shifted with more or less trouble, before the printer can get through them. Smaller sheets run a greater risk of getting mixed up or going amissing. In the matter of colour, white paper is much better than blue, as it throws up the handwriting with more clearness. The written lines should not cover the whole width |