"Your servant, sir! said Jack, as he entered the room. "Want apartments, sir? happy to show you, sir;" and he led the way, followed by the gentleman, who, before he had gone far, began to doubt the truth of the high-flown compliments which he had just heard bestowed upon the managers of the establishment. It was too soon, however, to pronounce a judgment. Accordingly he followed Jack through a long labyrinth of passages which emitted a dead mouldy effluvium by no means gratifying to the olfactory nerves, whilst their comparative darkness was sufficient to proclaim the antiquity of the structure, which seemed to have degenerated from the expansive mansion of

"A fine old English gentleman,"

to the scarcely habitable condition of a country inn. Alas! the changes that the progress of civilization works in this land! Under its influence the old things do not become as new, but they grow older and older, until their ancient reputation for grandeur and respectability is entirely gone, when they fall out of use, then are forgotten, and finally are suffered to crumble into dust.

"Rather a large inn, this, for Boxingwood, Mr. Purdie," observed the gentleman, as he was being piloted through the dreary lobbies.

"O! very large, sir, and very respectable! can make up thirty beds. Require 'em all!-do a great business in the season and-this is your bedroom, sir," said Purdie, as he arrived at the extreme end of a lobby in which our traveller had seen no other door, notwithstanding the interminable length which it seemed to present to his imagination as he paced it towards his destination.

"This will do very well," said the gentleman, taking in the whole of its somewhat scanty, old-fashioned, and decayed furniture at a glance, and, casting a look out of the window, he observed that it opened into the street.

"You want a sitting-room now, sir!" remarked the landlord, who proceeded to lead the way back through the same long passage to its termination at the other side of the building, where a door opened into a room uniform in point of size with his bedroom, but furnished only with a table and a few well-worn hair-bottomed chairs, whose ample and massive structure testified to the venerable antiquity from which they had descended. This room also enjoyed a prospect of the main street of Boxingwood; but it was not quite clear to the mind of the gentleman why it was that these apartments were placed at the extreme ends of the building, and that they were selected to be shown him for his occupation. As an inquiry into a motive, if there were such, of this kind, however, might in some measure denude the vaunted cstablishment of a portion of its glories, by extracting some humiliating explanation from Jack Purdie, the gentleman restrained his curiosity for the present, acknowledged his satisfaction with the accommodation, and requesting fires to be lit in both apartments, descended with the landlord to the principal room of the inn, to regale himself with a little refreshment.

Whilst this is being got ready, it may be as well to enlighten the reader upon the policy pursued by the inmates of the Black Bull in Boxingwood. The building itself was, as we have already hinted, the decaying relic of a former century. It had been, in its day, the mansion of a country gentleman who had long since shuffled off his mortal coil and passed beyond the bourne of this world; but it had many years ago fallen from its high estate, and now did service to the community under the management of Jack Purdie. Regarding its wondrous spaciousness and its thirty beds, we must declare it was all a fiction. Not but that there was room enough and to spare within its walls for the thirty beds, but it only mustered four of these civilized necessities, and the whole of them were in continual occupation, saving the extra one, which was appropriated to the use of travellers. The mode in which these were distributed amongst the inhabitants of the Black Bull was as follows. Jack Purdie occupied one bed himself, he being a widower

with an only daughter, who shared another with a little girl who performed the duties of a servant of all-work. The third belonged to Reuben and Dubs, both of whom had in this particular, for the last couple of years, been as inseparable as the Siamese twins. As to that happy season of business which was said to demand all the extraordinary appliances of the Black Bull, it existed only in the imagination of the landlord and his servant. If any one chanced to arrive and stay for a night or two in the summer, the spring at once became their great season, and if any one came in the spring, then the summer became the period in which they were so thronged. Thus did they try to deceive strangers, never for a moment reflecting that the slightest exercise of curiosity on their part must disclose a deception, the policy of which, there was no reason to believe, could operate much in favour of the innkeeper.

During the discussion of the simple refection with which the gentleman now renovated his physical nature, he took the opportunity of making a few inquiries of Reuben as to the situation of Willowbranch House, to see which was one of the chief reasons for his visit to this part of the county.

"Thou knows some volks hereabouts, then?" ejaculated Reuben with an expression of unaffected wonder.

66

"O yes," replied the gentleman, "but not many; I know the lady at Willowbranch."

"Hah! Miss Ilbert; she be a good cretur as ever lived i' this world. She aint like her faither one bit. He be all for saving like. It's nothin' for nothin' wi' he, but wi' she! there's nobody like her i' these parts, that's all.” Is the house far from here?

"No, only a vew vields," replied Reuben; "I'm sure it's no more than eight miles at the outside, by the road. By the vields it be nigher, I dare say by a half. But if ye think o' going, we can drive ye over i' the gig. The roads be light, the pony's good, and Dubs be doing nothing, that's all."

As the day was fine, and the distance not great, the gentleman declined the company and accommodation so freely proffered him by Reuben, but, asking his way through the fields, determined to proceed alone to Willowbranch. Accordingly, being shown by Reuben, who declared he could only spare a few moments from the pressure of his business, the length of what he called the Crosstree stile, and then directed to keep straight on for about a mile, next to turn down by Runnel stream until he should come to the stepping stones, by which he would cross to Broadacre Park, then to hold up Dowie's bank, next to turn Thorney corner, then to hold on till

"O!" cried the gentleman, lost in such a complicated direction, which, by the way, was politically intended to make him desire Reuben to accompany him, notwithstanding the pressure of his business at the Bull-"O! I shall make inquiries as I go along. As the day is fine, there are, I see, several parties strolling in the fields; they, I dare say, will be able to put me on the right road, should I require it."

"No doubt, sir!" coincided Reuben, a little chap-fallen on finding that he was foiled; "but take care and not lose yourself," he added, as he assumed a look of bustling importance and started back, declaring that the business at the Bull would be at a perfect stand-still without him.

Left to his own peregrinations, the gentleman pursued his path through the fields, his reflections taking a partial colouring from the beautiful rural scenery with which he was surrounded. Following the path and taking no heed of the directions of Reuben, he continued his walk, only crossing the stiles or turning through the little rude gateways which, at occasional intervals, divided the pastures, until he finally emerged upon the common highway, where he made inquiries respecting the road to Willowbranch. His direction was, that it was straight on, "that it was about three miles, and that he could not miss it if he looked right before him." Attending to this plain information he proceeded on his way, on either side of which he remarked a long succession of willow trees whose pendent branches partly hung over

A VAST SUBMARINE PLAIN.-In sounding the Atlantic Ocean for the telegraphic cable, the greatest depth attained has been 2070 fathoms (about two miles and one-third). For more than 1300 miles the bed of the Atlantic, in the direct line of the track, is found by these soundings to present an almost unbroken plain.

What had

POLITICAL AMNESTY.- The Queen has signified her pleasure that a full and free pardon should be granted, under the Great Seal, to all persons suffering under the consequences of conviction for political offences. hitherto been done merely remitted the punishment inflicted in each case, but a pardon under the great scal restores the individuals to all their civil rights and station as they stood before trial. This act of royal clemency does not include those who broke their parole, or incurred the additional penalty of flying from the sentence of the law.

THE SULTAN'S COOKS.-The Sultan's head cook, independently of the private kitchen of the Sultan, has under his command, in the various Palaces, about 600 men cooks, and had, in the time of Sultan Mahmoud, upwards of 1000.

SINGULAR UNION OF NAMES.-There is, at present, residing in Don Street, St. Heliers, in the island of Jersey, and opposite to each other, Abel, a baker, and Cain, a grocer. Recently Abel married Cain's daughter, and Mr. Adam an engraver, gave the bride away.

WINTER FASHIONS.

THE winter fashions having set in, we observe that mantelletes or cloaks are to be in vogue for the season. Russian titles, out of compliment to those opulent Muscovite ladies who have ordered extensively from Paris, appear amongst their designations. For example, a sortie de bal is named Oursikoff, and is composed of a kind of stuff with long shaggy silk, bearing a striking resemblance to fur. Another is called the Muscovite, others the Duchesse de Boviére, Princesse Bonaparte, Finlanders, and others, equally significant, although varying little in the costume, except in the form of the cape, the colour or the fringe with which they are trimmed. The mantellettes are to be composed of very thick woollen materials, striped or chequered black and white, bound with only fancy galloon or a plain piece of velvet in bright colours. These close over the chest with one or more rows of double silver clasps. Basquines fitting tight to the shape, fastened straight in front down to the waist, and then left open, are also in large demand. There is a great novelty but not likely to be much adopted, resembling a kind of Châle Barteme. It is composed of a piece of black velvet cut in a point, so as to form a shawl.

Our illustrations exhibit a bonnet of white satin, with three bands of the same cut diagonally, and laid on; a bunch of ostrich feathers is placed on cach side. Brown cord and tassel adorning the shoulder; they must be in bright coloured silk, and fall on the outside of the sleeve. The dress is of pearl grey reps, with a pattern of flowers in columns pointing downwards on the tissue of the silk.

Mantellette (Breton) of thick woollen material checked black and white, bound with black galloon, and finished with fancy fringe, black and white. White crape bonnet, with a lace frill, a bunch of flowers (pansies or violets) on cach side, next the face, ornamented with white tulle and mixed running pattern of flowers. flowers. Dress of taffetas, with flounces, upon which is a

Travelling manteau of grey cloth, with a cape forming a point in front; the sleeves very wide; the whole bound with velvet. The dress is plain taffetas d'Italie, with flounces; the colour brown.

The walking dress of gentlemen consists of a plain dress paletôt, of mixed grey cloth.

imagination sees nothing but a succession of pictures, each rising above the other to a sort of climax at the close. We see the Alban and the Roman armies drawn out in order of battle. We see their leaders step forth to the middle of the plain between them, and agree to a decision of the national quarrel by a combat of champions to be chosen from each side. We see the three twin brothers of two sisters, the Roman Horatii, and the Alban Curiatii, standing in the relationship of cousins, selected for this purpose. We sec these engage in mortal conflict amidst the breathless silence of both armies. We see two of the Horatii sink in the arins of death. We see the surviving Roman feign to flee before the three wounded Curiatii. We see these separated in their pursuit of him, and one after the other slain. We hear the exulting shout of the Romans in praise of their victor, and behold him gathering up the spoils of his enemies in token of the triumph of his prowess. In all these separate actions, we see the first act in the drama of the story; two of them in themselves pictures, but, when taken collectively, producing a sort of panorama in which a succession of scenes, all related to each other, is represented at once.

The next scene is Horatius at the head of the Romans, bearing the armour of the three Curiatii. It is here where the story, in our opinion, begins to assume an aspect of grandeur. We can easily conceive the silent but solemn exultation which animates the breast of the hero of the scene. He has slain his three cousins who have slain his two brothers. Whatever room there may be for individual felicitation, there is still more for deep sorrow. However gratifying may be the acclamations of a host, the price at which they have been purchased has been immense. Here however we see him the most prominent figure on the canvas, so fatigued with the conflict in which he has been engaged that he is incapable of enjoying, to its fulness, the delightful kind of excitement which general admiration usually inspires. He assumes, however, an appearance of freshness which those who wish to be heroes, whether for an hour or an age, always believe is necessary to their character. The successful treatment of this picture would solely depend upon the expression thrown into the countenance and form of Horatius amid the exulting acclamations of the army, at whose head he is advancing,

Our next picture is where he meets his sister at the Capene gate of the city whose liberties he has saved. Are we to suppose that the city is dearer to him than any or all of his kindred put together? Are we to conceive him one of those reflective heroes, who have reasoned themselves into a mode of action in which devotion to principles is superior to every sentiment of kindred? If so, then does the character of Horatius assume an aspect of the moral sublime, in which duty has been the motive spring, every other consideration being secondary or subordinate. But this can scarcely be supposed to be the case. Up to the scene at the Capene gate, he may have acted from such a principle, but here, passion seems to have taken possession of him, and the intoxication which has flowed from the enthusiastic plaudits of his countrymen induces a species of madness that carries him beyond the bounds which the same possession of our faculties would prescribe. As he is about to enter the city he meets with his sister, who, with others, has, no doubt, come thus far to welcome him with joyful laudations. She recognizes, however, amongst his spoils, the surcoat of her lover, one of the Curiatii, to whom she had been betrothed, and whom her brother had slain. She shrinks aghast from the sight. Her brother draws his sword, and, striking her to the heart, exclaims, "Such be the fate of her who bewails an enemy of Rome!" The shock to the crowd may readily be conceived. Their gratulations are changed into execrations. From the heroic height of a conqueror, who has saved the liberties of his country, he has fallen to the condition of a murderer. The aet is that of a madman, rather than a hero; of a human butcher, rather than a brother whose natural sympathies, even in the most exulting hour of triumph, might be expected to extend to any woman, and far more to a sister who stood

in her position relative to the slain. If considerations such as these mingled in the composition of such a picture as this scene would suggest, then a strong and unnatural expression of passion must be the predominant feature of the hero; but if his act is to be considered as springing from the deliberate convictions of a mind devoted to duty, patriotism, and the salvation of liberty, then the composition would have to assume quite a different character. The hero then becomes something more than human; his moral stature takes an elevated position, and he is to be surveyed, not as a being actuated by any sudden and mistaken impulse, but as one who has well weighed himself before, and whose previous convictions enable him, at all times, to act with promptitude in every case, in which the love of country and the hatred of its enemies are concerned.

Our next picture would be the appearance of the conqueror and murderer before Tullus the king. This is a scene in which the generosity of the monarch, mingled with sorrow for the criminal, would be conspicuous to every one. The changed aspect of Horatius, too, from being the hero of ten thousand tongues, to be the culprit of as many more, would present a striking contrast to what it had appeared in the previous situations. Fallen from the highest state of popular admiration to a condition of universal exccration, his selfabasement is complete. He is now to be supposed to be fully sensible of the unnatural rashness of his act. The voice of his country, that echoed with the triumph of his name but an hour ago, has turned against him in an instant; and the reaction of better feelings within himself awakens sentiments of remorse for what he has done. The whole composition of a picture on this subject, would call for the highest exercise of the reflective and poetical faculties in the artist. Mind, unseen, but felt, would have to be its predominant characteristic. A solemn vitality would have to pervade it, and the noblest feelings of humanity, be considered as at work within the breasts of those who are the principal figures on the scene.

Our fourth picture necessary to complete this Roman legend so full of forceful and affecting incident, would be the father pleading, with tears in his eyes, to the people for the pardon of his son. Here is another scene demanding the highest talents for its successful execution. All its accessories appear at once to the imagination. We can see the fatal tree, with the rope depending, upon which the malefactor is to be hung with his head covered. We can see all the preliminary ceremonies of a violent and ignominious death gone through, in the presence of the king, the Decemvirs and the people. We see Horatius, the chief of the scene, humiliated by reflection, self-reproach, and remorse, resigned to his fate. We almost hear the palpitations of his large heart, that, at any hrour, would have died for Rome, and that now is about to die not for her, but the murder of a sister. We see the lictor approach to put the halter over his head. We feel the deep silence of the assembled multitude, and at its deepest moment hear the afflicted king Tullus suggest an appeal to its voice. The suggestion is adopted. We see an aged father, with his white hairs, step forth and plead for the life of his son. We behold the multitude moved, and Horatius is free! What an effective subject for a picture is here, and how much is there that would suggest itself, during its treatment, which we are necessarily compelled to omit.

That these subjects and such as these, however, should be taken up by the artist, it is not our object to intimate. Every mind has its own peculiar sympathies and will adopt such subjects as most warmly invite its alliance. What we wish to show is the mode by which a habit may be acquired by readers, of painting in their own imagination, pictures for themselves, during the perusal of history; a habit which, when once formed, we will venture to say will be found a continual source of intellectual pleasure, which will charm us from the too often painful realities of life, into a contemplative world of our own, and enable us to "choose our company," in whatever situation we may be placed. CREON.

O, sons of Afric! Why has fate decreed,

To thee and thine a life that none should know?
Wert thou alone made hopelessly to bleed
In bondage, that thy brother's wealth might grow?
In form and stature thou dost plainly show,

MOST people who speak and read the English language are

aware that Mrs. Beecher Stowe is the daughter of an American clergyman; that she is also the wife of an American clergyman; and that

In 1840, the slave-catchers, backed by the riff-raff of the population at Cincinnati, and urged on by certain politicians and merchants, attacked the quarters in which the negroes

reside. Some of the houses were battered down by cannon. For several days the city was abandoned to violence and to crime. The negro quarters were pillaged and sacked; negroes who attempted to defend their property were killed, and their mutilated bodies cast into the streets; houses were burned, and men, women, and children were abducted in the confusion, and hurried away into slavery. From the brow of a hill on which she lived, Mrs. Stowe could hear the cries of the victims, the shouts of the mob, and the reports of the guns and cannons, and could see the flames of the conflagration. To more than one of the trembling fugitives she gave shelter, and wept with them over the direful fate by which they were overwhelmed. After the fury of the mob had spent itself, many of the coloured people gathered together the little left of their worldly goods and set out for Canada. Hundreds passed in front of Mrs. Stowe's house; and it is suggestive to think of op pressed slaves quitting a land of freedom for the colonies of the old country, against which the new rose on account of its tyranny. During her long residence on the frontier of the Slave States, Mrs. Stowe was enabled to pay them several visits. It was, doubtless, on these occasions that she felt her heart stirred by those generous impulses which found an outlet in the pages of Uncle Tom's Cabin. The evil was too crying, and the suffering which it involved too deep and dreadful, not to have spoken to a soul like hers, in which all the loftier sympathies of our nature seem to enjoy a genial habitation. The poetic depth of her feelings, too, enabled her to give point, energy, and pathos to all that she would say in refer

effects of the most monstrous stigma that ever hung on the character of a country, considering itself as amongst the "freest of the free." The terrible evils which she beheld in the neighbourhood of Cincinnati of the slave system, induced her, for many years of her life, even to avoid all reading upon or allusion to the hateful subject, considering it as too painful to be inquired into, and one which advancing light and civilisation must assuredly live down. But it is well that the active humanities of Mrs. Stowe did not allow her to settle into indolence under such a conviction.