The life of Alfred presents us with a picture on which we can gaze with unmixed pleasure. All is harmony and beauty, nothing is harsh and discordant. The magnitude of his works, the purity of his character, the love he uniformly evinced towards his people, are subjects on which his countrymen may well dilate with enthusiastic admiration. The lapse of nine centuries has neither cooled their regard for him, nor weakened the opinion which they entertain of the immense benefits he has conferred upon England. In the far distant Indian empire, and in the Pontiffical dominions, his name was venerated, his acts were applauded; and even in the hearts of the barbarous Northmen his generosity and humanity found in after years a ready response. Historians have felt an honest delight in placing him in the same rank with those great and noble spirits whose birth has been, and ever will be, the advent of a new epoch in the world's progress, the dawn of an extended civilisation. In short, no panegyric of ours is needed, to add one iota to the wreath of fame with which posterity has encircled the brow of the immortal Alfred.

THE CHILD AND THE SUNSET.

BY FANNY E. LACY.

Full oft would I, in childhood's day,
With childhood's wondering mind,

Stand gazing on the tinted clouds
With the parting sun behind;
And thought that heaven's palaces
Were unto me so nigh,

It seemed as if with joyous bound
I unto heaven might fly.

Oh! 'twas a blest simplicity

To watch the lingering ray,
And view each bright revolving form

So softly fade away;

And think that angels' faces

Were smiling down on me,

Inviting to those heaven-lit ways,

With them in heaven to be.

But happier now to walk the earth,
With glance still raised above,
A child still learning lessons there
Of wisdom fraught with love :
To know there is a brighter world
Beyond this world of sin,

And, viewing glories fade without,

To find my heaven within.

Ꭱ Ꭱ

OR, THE MAN FROM BELO W.*

CHAP. XXXVI.-RECONCILIATION.

PAUL, as I have observed at the close of the foregoing chapter, bore forth in his arms the young woman he found in the shed, and discovered he had been in a grievous error. If he had really murdered Redmond he had done so for no offence committed against himself. His companion was not Fanny Wilkinson, but another young actress, to whom, in despair of succeeding with Fanny, he had attached himself. Paul's agony of mind now knew no bounds, especially when Link, in his rough uncouth manner, observed―

"I think you have done his business, Paul."

"God forbid!" exclaimed the latter, dropping on his knees beside the body, having first deposited Miss Winwood somewhat roughly on the grass. "God forbid!" he exclaimed, and lifting up Redmond's head, and supporting it tenderly, he inwardly implored Heaven to come to his aid. There are usually pools of water in grazing fields, which, though they degenerate into thick puddles in summer, are still not without their use on occasions like the present. By Link's advice Redmond was borne to the side of the pond, and there, by a plentiful aspersion of the somewhat unsavoury fluid, recalled to consciousness; while Paul, under the influence of a double joy, that of having escaped the commission of a great crime, and the belief that all his suspicions of Fanny were unfounded, implored his forgiveness in the most earnest and vehement manner, reiterating every species of apology which he thought likely to soften the offended actor. Redmond was not implacable; extending his hand to Paul,

he said

"I have been wrong as well as you, let us henceforward be friends; but, he added, looking about wildly, where is Miss Winwood ?"

Mr. Link had not been unmindful of that young lady's condition, but as soon as he saw Redmond beginning to revive, had proceeded to her assistance. He found her sitting upon the grass, in the act of endeavouring to recollect where she was, and informing her that no great harm had been done after all, brought her presently to the spot where the rivals, now become friends, were uttering mutual apologies and explanations. It was agreed that no notice whatever should be taken of what had happened, that the reconciliation of Paul and Redmond should apparently be gradual, and that they should all return together to the town as if they had accidentally met in their walk.

Delivered from the disturbing influence of jealousy, Paul proceeded assiduously with his studies, his mind expanding and acquiring fresh strength every day. Redmond, who in spite of his dissipated habits was not without a certain kindliness of disposition, assisted him considerably by initiating him in the traditions of the stage, with which he was naturally much better acquainted than Mr. Link, and by bringing under his notice that department of literature which treats of the drama and its development.

Redmond, as I have said, was a man of talent, but without originality of mind, or fixedness of character; he was, therefore, in all things an imitator, and having studied the styles of acting of several celebrated performers, could without much difficulty reproduce them all in succession. From this it will be obvious that he had no system of his own; scarcely, indeed, could he be said to have any ideas or opinions peculiar to himself, because he had so completely subjected his understanding to the sway of others, that even when he seemed

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most independent he was only giving utterance to ideas and notions which he remembered, and fancied to be his own.

Paul, on the contrary, was dogmatical and headstrong, like most persons of original character; he felt there was a good deal to like about Redmond, though experience taught him, in spite of himself, that with such a man real friendship was impossible. Paul was all energy, impulse, and enthusiasm ; Redmond naturally cold and phlegmatic, but possessed by the desire to seem warm and impulsive, because thus alone could he hope to pass for a man of powerful intellect, which he coveted above all things. On several points Paul recognised his inferiority to Redmond, who had enjoyed the benefits of a regular education, and seen infinitely more of what is called the world. On these advantages he was inclined to insist and dilate as often as opportunity offered, especially as he loved to be thought the acquaintance of great people, as well as a man of fashion and intrigue. That he had now fallen below his proper level was not to be disguised. He confessed he was a mere actor, without fortune, without friends, without any other visible or tangible means of subsistence, but yet not without splendid expectations. He could not tell to what eminence he might not rise, and with these brilliant but shadowy prospects he had endeavoured to dazzle the mind of Fanny Wilkinson, but altogether without success; he therefore transferred his attentions to Miss Winwood, a person not much unlike himself, egotistical, worldly-minded, unimaginative, but yet capable, like most other women, of some degree of attachment. In person she was a pretty blonde, slender, and above the middle height, which rendered almost inexcusable Paul's mistaking her for Fanny in the forest. As a comic actress she had some merit, but never could bring herself to experience the least sympathy with the great characters of tragedy, whose passions bore them aloft into regions whither poor Miss Winwood's fancy was unable to follow. It was upon the whole fortunate she fell in with Redmond, since they suited each other exactly, neither of them having a single idea projecting beyond the region of self.

Into that modification of life which exists behind the scenes, particularly in a strolling company, I have no leisure to enter, though upon the whole I must say that it is far more respectable and exemplary than the out-of-door world are willing to believe. Full of troubles and difficulties it no doubt is. Poverty often shows itself there in its most menacing attitude, while the worthy denizens of that sphere of illusions are labouring, perhaps, to dazzle the public with shows of magnificence, and to deceive even themselves into the belief that they possess something of the poetic grandeur with which for a few fleeting hours they invest themselves. Actors and actresses, by all the accidents of their calling, are placed in a false position, being condemned habitually to deal with great ideas and conceptions, which, if they yield to the force of inspiration, lift them so far above the level of every-day life, that they are unable properly to attend to its concerns, and if they do not, desert them so completely, that they fail to command the necessary amount of sympathy from their audiences.

Yet there are compensating circumstances in the life of the stage which serve to reconcile people to it, notwithstanding its disadvantages; they who lead it live in an incessant whirl of excitement which quickens their most extravagant hopes into activity, and induces them to forget the disastrous realities of the present in intoxicating dreams of future triumph. Each individual actor or actress thinks the season of revival in public taste must come, when the drama will resume its pristine glory, and all its servants and expositors be raised to affluence. Fortunately the consciousness of incapacity presses itself upon few minds. Vanity whispers to us all that we possess within ourselves the germs of undeveloped greatness, and we live and die in the fond belief that mankind will recognise this pleasing truth, either while we are here to enjoy the results of the happy discovery, or after death shall have set his seal upon our performances, and made them in some measure classical, by rendering them independent of time and place, silencing envy, blunting the edge of personal animosity, and kindling, perhaps, those generous sympathies which the truly great always feel for persecuted and oppressed merit.

But to this posthumous justice the actor cannot look forward; if not appreciated while he lives, he never can be. He addresses himself to present eyes and hearts, and has, properly speaking, no future. From the moment he sinks below the horizon his name is associated with nothing more than the echo of a reputation. He leaves behind him nothing to which mankind can appeal but the faint recollection of pleasure treasured up by his surviving contemporaries, and transmitted imperfectly to the succeeding age in books. And, yet, while he treads the boards, and sees before him those crowded and piled-up spectators whom he denominates the world clapping their hands and loudly applauding his performance, he, perhaps, experiences sensations more purely delightful than those of the greatest conqueror, since they are not necessarily associated with any ideas of criminality, or damped by any remorseful consciousness. And what is true of the actor is truer still of the actress. For in addition to the homage paid to her genius she witnesses the incense offered up to her beauty, and remembering that many have made but one short step from the stage to the most gorgeous mansions of nobility, she also expects to convert life into a romance, and soar from the lowest to the highest fortune.

CHAP. XXXVII.-A THOUSAND A YEAR.

AFTER the adventure above narrated, Paul pursued for some time the by-nomeans noiseless tenor of his way, since he ranted and mouthed prodigiously for the gratification of the world, without encountering any fresh troubles. Fanny seemed to be now all his own, he had got rid of the rivalry of Redmond, and no new competitor had appeared in the field. Several times in the week he acted with her on the stage, and there, under the mask of another character, often addressed to her that fervid language of admiration, which, in imaginative and powerful characters, often approaches idolatry.

The Wilkinsons, by prudence and unremitting industry and economy, were growing comparatively wealthy, though they were still very far from possessing that amount of capital which would have enabled them to encounter the risks of a large theatre, even in one of the provincial capitals of the empire. Of necessity, therefore, they were keenly alive to every advantage held out to them by fortune. Paul, from being an incumbrance, had now come to be one of the chief stays of their company, since he acted ably and in a popular style and drew crowded audiences wherever they went. In every sense, therefore, they had reason to applaud their kindness to him, and looked forward with unmixed satisfaction to the prospect of his union with Fanny, waiting only till time should render it prudent.

One evening Fanny performed, at a town in Yorkshire, the character of Lady Macbeth, which ever since she became an actress had possessed extraordinary fascination for her. In dressing the part she followed a theory of her own, wore her own light hair, and sought by every means in her power to augment the feminine delicacy of her appearance. At first the audience were rather shocked, because what she did was contrary to usage. But in England originality is always viewed with more or less favour, and therefore the good people who for some time time fancied themselves displeased, at length recognised the truth of the conception, and rewarded it with tumultuous applause. Next morning at breakfast Fanny received a note from a gentleman of fortune, inviting her to a party the following evening at his house. Similar invitations were sent to Paul and Redmond, and at the proper time they proceeded together to the dwelling of their wealthy host, who they found lived in a very liberal way upon his own estate, with his mother and his sister.

Fanny was properly speaking the star of Wilkinson's company, though Paul now began to attract great attention, and to draw crowded audiences. It was around her, therefore, that all the people crowded at Mr. Westland's party; and the host himself, highly educated, and greatly devoted to the drama, treated her with the most distinguished respect, handing her to and from the piano when she sang, and conversing with her as often as the proper share

of attention to the other guests rendered it practicable. Paul immediately put the most uncomfortable construction on these marks of politeness, and towards the close of the evening, when Mr. Westland took his place beside Fanny on the sofa, and entered upon a discussion with her on her conception of the character of Lady Macbeth, Paul felt assured that he beheld before him a dangerous rival, with whom it would be impossible for him to deal as he had dealt with Redmond. Trembling, therefore, with suppressed indignation and jealousy, he stood near, with the intention of joining, as soon as possible, in the conversation, that he might keep alive in Fanny's mind her recollection of him, of which the modesty of genuine passion taught him to doubt the force. He did not think her fickle, but he thought it quite possible that a better man might present himself, whose superiority she would not fail to recognise, and whom, without blame, she might prefer before him. The want, therefore, of overweening vanity rendered him jealous. It was in himself that he wanted faith, not in Fanny. He looked up to her as to one of whom he was altogether unworthy, though this conviction, instead of inducing him to relinquish hope, only rendered him the more fiercely eager to secure the prize. It will not, consequently, be difficult to imagine the state of inquietude and uncertainty with which he drew near the spot where Fanny and Mr. Westland were discussing the character of Lady Macbeth.

"I was much struck," observed that gentleman, "by your appearance on the stage as the Thane of Cawdor's wife in a manner so entirely at variance with all our received notions. We had been accustomed to see her person put as much as possible into harmony with her acts and ideas, though it would be difficult, perhaps, to explain what connection there is between dark eyes, black hair, a pale swarthy complexion and crime, especially when historically we know that some of the greatest criminals who figure in modern history have been fair.” "I was not aware of that fact," answered Fanny, "but I felt that a more powerful effect would be produced by representing a striking contrast between Lady Macbeth's appearance and her actions. From a scowling, fierce, fiendishlooking woman you expect nothing but displays of wickedness, and therefore you experience no surprise when, from the gratification of pride and ambition, she plunges into guilt. But when you behold a tender, fair, gentle-looking creature wielding daggers, trampling on the laws of hospitality, smearing people's faces at midnight with blood, and becoming the accomplice of the worst of crimes, you are infinitely shocked and startled, and driven to question and examine your theory of human nature, to ascertain whether in reality such things can be. If, as you say, experience has already answered in the affirmative, my conception of Lady Macbeth's personal appearance is at least justified. But perhaps my notion of her character is as little consonant with the received opinion as my view of what her costume and complexion should be." "And what is your notion ?" inquired Mr. Westland.

"I think," answered Fanny, with much diffidence and sweetness of manner, "that Lady Macbeth is upon the whole a great and noble woman, who becomes suddenly contaminated by an access of frenzied ambition. She aspires to be the wife of a king, not in order that she herself may exercise sovereignty, but that she may behold the sceptre in the hands of the man she loves. With a subtle sophistry not uncommon in women, she invests the deed of guilt with metaphysical disguises, invokes the intoxicating influence of power, suggests the imaginary solace which all their future days and nights would receive from reposing on the apex of sublunary affairs and giving law to the most turbulent wills around them. She feels that she is not to be the actor of this dreadful tragedy, but the contriving and persuading intelligence which is to employ man as its coarse instrument. Forestalling ideas too prevalent in our own times, she strips life of its sacred character, and ingeniously sophisticates herself into the belief that the end sanctifies the means; that to do great good it is lawful to do a little ill, and that to administer the whole realm of Scotland her husband may, without much soiling of his conscience, dispatch an old man to