Something glided noiselessly across the long bright line which the moon made upon the lake. It was a boat, guided by one man. Lucy caught her breath, and I felt my own hand tremble as I took hers to my heart, unable even to whisper aught of encouragement or love. The boat came swiftly and noiselessly to land; and the man leaped out. Soon we saw him pace the green walk among the trees, come up through the copse, cross the road, and now he stood by the cottage gate. The shadow of a beech tree fell over him: we could only see his form.

The gate slowly opens; the figure advances. Up the gravel walk it comes, treading lightly, and keeping ever in the shade. Lucy clung to me; and her heart beat quick and loud. We both knew the thoughts of each,—and both expected the same revelation of love. The figure advances nearer. We see it look around, as it seems, lovingly; we see it stoop to pluck the flowers, then fold them to his heart, as if they were diamond gems. Yet a moment longer; -the man turns as if to go;-but another thought strikes him, and he comes upward to the terrace where we stood: He crossed into the light, and we saw his face. Lucy uttered a cry of joy and fear together, and then I saw her clasped in the arms of Lascelles!

An older man, and a wiser,-taught in no gentle school, he had returned for peace to the angel whose comfort he had once rejected: and she,-what could she do, but weep and smile, and give all liberally the love which she might not deny? He had suffered much; and sorrow oft makes men wiser, gentler, and more kind. It had taught him to appreciate the love whose value he had so bitterly mistaken, blinded by the glare of a false passion! Whatever of youthful levity he might have had, was now gone: a man, conscious of the worth and dignity of life, conscious of the duty owed to others,―his past follies repented of, and all his excesses sobered, he was only now fit to be the husband of Lucy Carr, though the world might have named such a marriage mean or foolish. It is not the virginity, but the dignity, of a heart which makes it worth,—it is not the freshness, but the truth, of a love which gives it value; and Lucy found that Lascelles, as the duped and betrayed lover of Ellen Craven, was a better, wiser, and truer man, than he would have been, without that purification of suffering.

And now my task was ended! I had guarded the young lamb long as I was able-long as I was needed; and then I gave her to a husband's care; and I never repented the hour when I stood upon the terrace, and blessed the lovers in the moonlight. Bright days were theirs; sweet hours of confidence and love, a life of harmony, and peace, and truth! No shadow crossed their way, save one, when they read of Lord Henry's desertion of his wife and his elopement with Lady Ann. Stern justice to the haughty Ellen; for this was but the first of a long series, which dragged her down, low, low, to poverty and shame! Tongues were busy with her name; and virtuous women turned away when she approached. Her wanton cruelties, which, as rich and powerful, had been but her sweet graces, now became shameless vices; and the virtuous women, who gathered flatteringly round her, when she could pay them with her brilliant balls and routs, and soirées, at which it was a stamp or passport to be "seen," deserted her with blushing shame and indignation, when the divorce was passed-her title gone-her fortune spent. And though she had been the innocent and the oppressed in this, yet society is never keenly alive to the distinctions of right and wrong. Much that was reprehensible, and truly so, in her palmy days, was now remembered to her ruin; and Ellen found herself deserted, shunnednay, even pointed at, as she who had ruined her husband, and forced him to leave her, and whose coquetries and wanton ways had long been the scandal of her society.

I do not say that the sentence, of itself, was unjust. It was not so; but the reasons which brought it down upon her now, were criminal and bad,—yet befitting her. She had sacrificed her all,-virtue, honour, womanhood,-to the world, and it was just that the world should be her judge. She had ruined, for

her vanity's sake, the happiness of many;-it was just that through her vanity she herself should be next ruined. But her judges were none the less guilty in their sentence: nor were their feelings the less base and mean. Yet their time also will come in its appointed hour, and then they will be found, when fallen, wanting in all the requisites of humanity, which, when prosperous, they had adorned by their participation! No pity for them! They have chosen their path;-but they had a better way before them, if they had so willed! Leave them there!-and perhaps they, too, may come out from pain, purified to virtue:-perhaps they, too, may learn life's better value, and lay to heart its dearest lesson, of love, and gentleness, and justice unto all!

A NIGHT WITH THE M.P.'S.

BY ANGUS B. REACH.

Parliament-street is

Ir is a bright afternoon in the height of the season. thronged with vehicles and passengers. The grey towers of the Abbey, and the bald-looking church of St. Margaret, aud the plain business-like facade of the law courts are lighted up in the full blaze of the summer's sun. Groups of men now hurrying on, now lounging in idle clusters, occupy the broad footpavement. Barristers, bewigged and begowned, saunter hither and thither, in earnest conversation with sharp-looking Parliamentary solicitors. Clerks are hurrying to and fro with blue bags. Reporters come dropping down one by one on their way to the gallery. Knots of provincial ladies and gentlemen, marshalled by policemen into lines, upon the pavement, are eagerly looking out for Parliamentary notabilities; and crowds of that idle, seedy class of people who are always to be found when anything is going on which can be seen gratis, are disposed in rough rank and file on the Abbey side of the way. Just before them parade a whole troop of saddle-horses, every second one ridden by a smart groom. Quiet comfortable-looking broughams go gliding up and down with that peculiar species of unpretending, sneaking motion peculiar to broughams. Flashing cabs are occupied by diminutive tigers; while about Poets'-corner you see huddled up together a multitudinous array of curricles, family coaches, phaetons, clarences, and led horses, presided over by a host of chattering grooms and lackeys.

And it is one shabby little yellow door, just at the corner of the law-court facade, which seems the centre of attraction. Two or three men with porters' badges, and as many police constables stand about it. There is a sort of longitudinal stepping stone before it; and here carriages and cabs pull up in quick succession; the door of each vehicle is hastily opened by one of the porters aforesaid—one or more gentlemen jump out and vanish into the shabby portal; others come quietly on foot, singly or two or three abreast; but all who enter at the corner door are greeted by the uplifted hats of porters and policemen; for the shabby entrance is the portal of the House of Commons, and the gentlemen who disappear within it are the wise M.P.'s who rule our land.

You can only, unqualified reader, catch a passing glimpse of the interior. You will see a low whitewashed room. A double line of cloak-pins runs round it, and from each pin dangles a label, setting forth the name of an M.P.-consequently there must be 656 pins in the room. There is little else to be seen within it. The floor is covered with thick matting. A couple of baize covered tables stand on either side—at that on the right, half a dozen clerks are writing that on the left is occupied by heaps of evening papers, wet from the press.

Not being M. P.'s, we proceed round the corner to gain the lobby by another entrance. Observe the respectable old dame who sells oranges, apples, and pears, in the porch. Now we are in the lobby. 'Tis an odd place with its

whitewashed walls and labyrinths of passages, and openings, and doors, leading you know not whither-and its ranges of buckets along the walls—and the matting on the floor, which makes you think you are walking over a succession of door-mats-and its trap-door gratings, from whence puffs of hot wind come surging up. And then you observe the rank and file of strangers, waiting their turn for admission to the gallery—and the black-coated white-cravated officers of the House, each decorated with a brass label, worn by a chain round his neck-and lastly you see those wise patres conscripti, the sacred, bailifftabooed M.P.'s themselves, swaggering backwards and forwards; and you catch waifs and strays of their lofty and patriotic talk :

"I say Wiggins, what are to be the numbers ?" "Our people make them forty-five."

"Bet you three to one they're under thirty ?" And Wiggins and his friend pass on.

"What way will Lubbers vote ?"

"Oh, we have him safe. Mrs. Redde Taype asked his wife to her matinée musicale this morning."

Another couple of senators appear.

"I say, Sawyer, let's have a pair, till twelve; there can't be a division till late, for Nolan is going to talk at eleven for two hours, to give the men time to come from the ballet ?"

"All right then, till twelve."

By this time, if one of the white-cravated gentry has not espied and turned us out ignominously, we have turned a corner, and see before us, flanked by two porters' chairs, a glass door, which is continually being swung backwards and forwards, and through which you can only catch occasional glimpses of a distant sort of shabby gothic throne, with the Lion and the Unicorn on the top, and a man in a big wig below-that is the Speaker.

So much for the precincts of St. Stephen's.

It is the night of a grand debate, the house is crammed; on either side rises a black sea of hats, groups are talking eagerly at the bar, and behind the Speaker's chair-members are continually running across the floor to confer with some one opposite, and amid the loud gabbling hum, you can see-but you cannot hear-the three or four individuals who, with papers in their hands, on either side of the table, are hurriedly running over the clauses of a private bill. Only two or three places are vacant on the principal benches on the Speaker's right and left. These are the seats of the ministers and the leaders of the Opposition. Presently the latter are filled by gentlemen who deposit bundles of documents upon the table and then lean back, with pleasant, smiling faces which seem to say, "It's all right; wont we puzzle them ?"

The clock now points ten minutes to five, when two or three gentlemen successively appear, each bearing an oblong little morocco-covered box, with a brass handle, and the heads and tails of folded papers peeping out from either extremity. These gentlemen sit down on the Ministerial bench, and solemnly address themselves to open their boxes with little keys hanging from their watch chains. This accomplished, they deposit the contents upon the table, and await in silence the opening of the fight.

And now the House is becoming every moment more eager. All preliminary business is gabbled over at railroad pace; and when the industrious Mr. Gloom rises to ask eighteen questions of the Vice-President of the Board of Trade, relative to the commercial treaty lately concluded by the Duchy of Saurkroutwaggenberg with the Tolverein, he is assailed by a volley of "Oh's and Groans," which would have prostrated any less potent champion. But it is not until the VicePresident assures the hon. member that no official information, &c. &c. &c., has been received by her Majesty's Government, &c. &c. &c., that a sudden hush makes itself felt-that the hon. M.P.'s compose themselves into listening attitudes-that the occupants of the members' galleries lean attentively over the railings—and the voice of the minister is heard enunciating, amid the deadest

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silence, the first sentence of perhaps a three-hour speech. The debate is now fairly on. Dinner time, indeed, brings a lull-the notabilities take flight, leaving only, perhaps, a single first-rater on either side, just to watch the proceedings. Then comes the era-in the reporters' gallery slang-of "little men," and the newspaper scribes are thankful to find they can bundle a whole oration of bad grammar and worse sense up into " After a few words from Mr. Tomkins;" to the unbounded indignation of that senator, who has the papers brought him in bed next morning, and who vows that the press have entered into a special conspiracy to put him down. The evening wears on, however, and the house begins to refil. White waistcoats and patent leather boots increase and multiply. An increasing warmth and spirit show themselves in the proceedings. The big men," finding they have got a full and excited audience, get up and explode one after the other; speeches get more and more peppery-party hits more and more stinging; the feeble "hear, hear!" of the early part of the evening becomes a volley of cheering shouts; every one is thoroughly roused thoroughly warmed to his work; party leaders turn round and address their followers behind them rather than the House, and every enthusiastic supporting cheer from one side is answered by loud derisive bursts of "Oh, oh's!" from the other. Perhaps a "scene" adds additional cayenne to the dish. One hon. member insinuates very broadly that another hon, member is no better than he ought to be; on this, all the second hon. member's friends groan and shout “Oh, oh!" and one of them gets up and says he rises to order; and then both parties shout and yell, and both the hon. members stand making pantomimic speeches in the uproar. At length it is partially stilled, and the first hon. member says he reiterates his statements, and then there is what the reporters call "renewed uproar," and the hon. member alluded to contradicts the first hon. member to his teeth; and, in the midst of a torrent of groans and shouts, the hon. member who has risen to order bawls out that he throws himself on the House, and wishes to know whether this disgraceful scene is to be allowed to continue; on which the Speaker, amid a dead silence, proclaims in a sonorous tone that the words used by both hon. members are unparliamentary; whereon the first hon. member retracts his, and the second hon. member retracts his, and each proclaims the high individual esteem in which he holds the other and then all the hon. members cheer, and things go on as before.

At length the hand of the clock in the Speaker's gallery points to after midnight, and the Premier is on his legs making the closing speech of the debate. Now comes the "whip" preparatory to the division. Urgent messages are sent to Bellamy's and the smoking-room, and confidential agents of the "whippers in" fling themselves into cabs and tear off to Pall-mall, rushing from club to club to pass the word that the division will take place almost immediately. The House is now all impatience: M.P.'s who have come from parties and want to get back roar "Divide!" till they are hoarse; and at length a Secretary of the Treasury having whispered to the Premier that all their men are ready, the orator winds up in an impassioned peroration; and then amid the burst of hurrahs which hail the last twanging sentence, you hear the Speaker's burly voice, shouting, "Strangers must withdraw!" echoed by the Serjeant-at-Arms and his officers, screaming at the top of their voices, "Clear the gallery!" And the gallery is cleared-and the division takes place and one-half of the next morning's papers say the country is saved, and the other half say that it is lost. Such is a great night in the House of Commons. Happily for the readers of newspapers every debate is not such a monster one. The impracticables -the riders of hobbies-give the Speaker many a holiday. Tuesdays and Thursdays, it ought to be known, are appropriated to the motions of individual private members; and on one of those days the "Notice Paper" containing the business for the evening will probably begin as follows:

Mr. GLOOM-To move for returns of every pint of porter drunk in the metropolis from the 1st of April, 1800, to the 1st of April, 1847 (inclusive)-specifying in what cases the chill was off; also whether the liquor

was served in pewter or glass tumblers; also how each pint was paid for, whether in pence or half-pence; also in the case of a pint being scored, how long it remained unpaid for, and how often the customer was dunned for the amount.

Mr. LUKE WARME To call the attention of the House to the case of John Poddle, a scholar in a national school, who was flogged in the year 1833, for taking sights at the master.

Mr. DENNIS O'Dowd-To move for leave to bring in a bill to do away with the necessity of the descendants of the ancient Irish kings paying their debts.

Mr. JOHN JONES. To move for a committee of the whole House, to inquire into the condition of things in general.

Mr. GLOOM-To move for a committee of the whole House, to take into consideration the policy of abolishing the import duties on Circassian cream, Tartar emetic, and Prussian blue.

Mr. JOHN BLETHERS To move for leave to bring in a bill for the abolition of capital punishment, and for the maintenance for life, in a comfortable respectable, and in very aggravated cases-in a luxurious manner, of individuals convicted of murder.

And so on for three octavo pages of close print.

The Speaker is of course at his post at the usual hour-shortly before four o'clock. About a dozen of members, consisting of Mr. Gloom, Mr. Luke Warme, Mr. Dennis O'Dowd, Mr. John Jones, Mr. John Blethers, and their peculiar friends and seconders, are present. The Speaker cannot take the chair until there are forty members present, and he sits in the chief clerk's place, counting the M.P.'s as they drop in one by one, with the corner of his cocked hat. The dial marks two minutes to four, and, the eager legislators are well aware that if the magic hour be actually attained without the presence of the requisite forty, the House stands ipso facto adjourned. The glass door is kept open, and the anxious eyes of Mr. Gloom see a couple of dozen members laughing in the lobby; out he flies, and by dint of persuasion and cajolery manages to induce the best natured of them to enter.

Meantime Mr. Toppe Sawyer is just as busy keeping everybody he can out. "Don't make a house, my good fellow; the Speaker wants a holiday, and no wonder; there's nothing on the paper, only a lot of stuff of these bores inside. Don't humour them-it would be a positive sin."

The hand of the clock stands at a minute to four. The fate of the day is trembling in the balance. The Speaker has counted thirty-seven, ha! one more -"thirty-eight," "confound him," groan the reporters, in an under-toned chorus -three seconds more, "thirty-nine," another mute groan in the gallery-never mind, there is hope yet-the minute hand is on the first figure of twelve, no house! Yes! No!-Ah! confusion-in the very nick of time-" Forty!" The Speaker mounts to his chair, and Gloom and the Bores are delighted. "Never mind," mutters Toppe Sawyer, "they can't keep a house"--and he is right.

By the time the clock points to a quarter past five, Gloom is humming and hawing, and correcting himself, and repeating himself, and committing frightful ravages on the harmless Mr. Lindley Murray, to about a couple of dozen listless auditors, one-third of whom are stretched out full length on the back benches. Toppe Sawyer sees that his time is come.

"Mr. Speaker: Sir, I beg to move that the House be counted."

Gloom sits down; looking like a grisly bear forced to squat on broken bottles, and in five minutes thereafter the house is empty and silent, and the Speaker is being dragged off by his spanking greys rejoicingly to dinner.

P