The Doctor raised his little gray eyes to the speaker, looked at him, hesitated, and seemed either to restrain himself, or to be seeking for some reply. Madam de Moncan good-naturedly came to the rescue.

"I well know," said she, "that here you are a kind providence to all who are suffering."

66 Oh, you are too good!" replied the old man; and then seemed deeply occupied in eating the pasty to which he had just been helped.

Then they left Dr. Barnaby to himself, and the conversation resumed its former

course.

If their attention by chance was drawn to the quiet old gentleman, it was to launch at him some light sarcasm, such as, intermingled with their other discourse, might, they thought, pass unperceived by him who was its object. Not but what these young ladies and young gentlemen were habitually polite, and had also susceptible hearts; but, on this day, the journey, the style in which the déjeuner had been opened, the very fact of being together, the merriment originated by what had happened on the road,-all combined, brought on a thoughtless gaiety, a sympathetic spirit of jeering, that made them merciless towards the victim who had fallen in their way. The Doctor appeared to go on eating quietly, without raising his eyes, or turning his ears, or putting in a word. They set him down as a deaf and dumb man; and the déjeuner passed off without his being any restraint upon them.

When they rose from the table, Dr. Barnaby made a few steps backward, leaving every gentleman to select any lady he wished to conduct to the drawing-room. One of the maids of Madam de Moncan remained alone; the village Doctor advanced timidly, and offered her, not his arm, but his hand. The fingers of the young lady were scarcely touched by those of the Doctor, who, slightly bending his body, in token of respect, stepped forward, with measured pace, towards the drawing-room. This entré was hailed with fresh smiles, but not a shadow showed itself on the unruffled front of the old man, who was now pronounced to be blind, as well as deaf and

dumb.

When he had separated himself from his companion, Dr. Barnaby sought out the

smallest and plainest chair in the room. pushed it into a corner, sat down, placed his cane between his knees, crossed his hands on the head of his cane, and rested his chin upon his hands. In this position, so fitted for meditation, he remained silent, and, from time to time, shut his eyes, as if some gentle slumber, which he neither invited nor rejected, were taking possession of him.

"Madam de Moncan," cried one of the travellers, "I cannot suppose you entertain any notion of living in these ruins and this desert?"

"No, truly; I have no such purpose; but as there are fine trees, and good covers in these woods, M. de Moncan may, perhaps. feel tempted, in the shooting season, to pass here a few of the autumnal months.”

"Then you will have to pull down, rebuild, clear away, and cut down."

"Let us make a plan," exclaimed the young Countess, " and mark out and trace the future garden of my domain."

It had been decreed that this party of pleasure should turn out badly. At this moment a heavy cloud broke, and rain fell small and dense. It was impossible to quit the drawing-room.

"What shall we do?" said Madam de Moncan. "The horses require an hour or two more rest. It is plain that the rain will last for some time. This grass, which grows over everything, is so thoroughly soaked, that no one could go a step from here for the next eight days; all the strings of the piano are broken; there is not a book for ten leagues round; this room icy cold, and dull enough to kill one;— what is to be done?"

In fact, the party, lately so joyous, was insensibly losing its gaiety. The laughs and sly whisperings were giving way to silence. They drew near the windows, and looked up at the sky; but the sky remained dark and heavy with clouds. All hope of a promenade was therefore impossible; so they sat down, as well as they could, on the old chairs and sofas. An attempt was made to reanimate the conversation; but there are some feelings, like flowers, that require a little sunshine, and die off when the sky is dark. All these young people seemed to give way, dejected by the storm, like the poplars in the garden, which, with an idle glance, they saw waving at the will of

the wind. Thus an hour rolled painfully

on.

The lady of the castle, somewhat discouraged by the non-success of her party of pleasure, leant languidly on the sill of a window, gazing eagerly on the prospect that met her eye.

"See there, below," said she, "on that little hill is a small white house that I must have pulled down, it spoils the view." "The white house!" exclaimed the Doctor. For more than an hour Dr. Barnaby had sat motionless and silent in his chair. Enjoyment, weariness, sunshine, rain, had all succeeded each other without his offering a word. His presence had been completely forgotten; so that the eyes of all were instantly turned towards him, as soon as he uttered the words- 'pull down the white house!"

"What interest do you take in that house, Doctor?" inquired the Countess.

"Heavens! madam, forget that I spoke of it. It will be pulled down, beyond all doubt, since that is your good pleasure." "But why do you regret this old tumbledown place?"

"It is-oh, heavens!-it is because those I loved have dwelt there; and

"And they reckon on returning there, Doctor?"

"They have been long dead, madam; they died when I was young."

And the old man gazed mournfully on the white house, which stood out in the centre of the woods, on the opposite side of the mountain like a dairy on a lawn.

There was silence for some moments. "Madam," whispered one of the travellers in Madam de Moncan's ear, "there is some mystery here. Look how sombre our Esculapius has become. Some touching drama has been acted down there-a first love, perhaps. Ask the Doctor to favour us, with a recital of it."

"Yes, yes," was the murmur on all sides, "the tale! a story! a story! And if it fail in interest, at any rate we shall be amused with the eloquence of the narrator."

"By no means, gentlemen," responded Madam de Moncan, in a low voice; "if I should request Dr. Barnaby to recount the story of the white house, it would be on the condition that we shall not laugh at him."

Every one promised to be grave and

polite, so Madam de Moncan approached Dr. Barnaby.

"Doctor," she said, taking a seat near him, "I can see that to this house there is attached some memory of the past, dear to you. Will you tell it to us? I should be sorry to subject you to one painful thought, which it may be in my power to spare you; and I will allow that house to remain, if you will tell me why you have an affection for it."

Doctor Barnaby looked astonished, and remained in silence. The Countess drew still nearer to him.

My dear Doctor," she said, " you see what a wretched day it is; how dismal everything is. You are the oldest among us--tell us a story! Make us forget the rain, the mist, and the cold."

Dr. Barnaby regarded the Countess in great astonishment.

"There is no story to tell," said he; "what passed in that white house is very simple, and of no interest to any one but me, who loved the young people: strangers would not call that a story Moreover, I neither know how to tell a tale, nor even to speak at any length when any one is listening to me. Besides, what I should

have to say is melancholy, and you came here to amuse yourselves."

The Doctor, once more, rested his chin upon his cane.

66

66

My dear Doctor," replied the Countess, the white house shall remain where it is; do but tell us why you have such a regard for it."

The old man seemed slightly moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, took out his snuff-box, put it back in his pocket without opening it, and, looking at the Countess :

"Then, you will not have it pulled down?" he said, as he pointed with a meagre and trembling hand to the dwelling now just visible in the horizon.

"I promise you I will not."

"Well, well, I shall have done that at least for them; I shall have saved the house where they were so happy.

"Ladies," the old man went on to say, "I am little skilled in speaking, but I believe that even the uninstructed can make themselves understood when they are telling what they have seen. I must forewarn you, however, that this story is

not one of joy. When you wish to dance and sing, you send for a musician; but the doctor! his presence is only for the suffering, or those who are near to death."

A circle was formed round Doctor Barnaby, as, with his hands still crossed on the head of his cane, he went on with his story in his usual quiet manner, in the presence of an auditory, who had beforehand plotted to make some jest out of what he told them. "It happened a long time ago-it was when I was young, for I, too, have been young. Youth is a fortune-whereof all of us have a share, the poor as well as the rich, but it abides not in our hands. I had just passed my examination, and taken my degree in medicine, when, in the full persuasion that, thanks to me, men would no longer have death to fear, I returned to my native village to put my talents into practice.

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"My native village is not far from this spot. From the window of my humble chamber I can see that white house, on the opposite side to that you now look upon. In your eyes my village might not, perhaps, be very beautiful. To me it was superb. I was born there, and I loved it. What we love we see after our own fashion, and make our minds to love it. The goodness of God permits us sometimes to be blind, for he well knows that to be always clearsighted in this world below, would not be our advantage. This country, then, appeared to me smiling and cheeerful, and I felt that even to live was a joy. The white house alone, as I rose up each morning and opened my shutters, gave me a disagreeable impression, for it was ever closed in silence, and dismal, like some abandoned object. I never saw its windows opened or shut, or its door ajar, or its garden-gate opened to admit any one whatsoever. Your uncle, therefore, having no use for a cottage so close to his chateau, endeavoured to let it, but the rent was rather too high; nor was there any one amongst us rich enough to come and dwell there. It remained, therefore, tenantless, while not a window in the hamlet but had two or three joyous children's faces pushing aside the branches of wallflowers to peep out on the road, when any noise set the dogs barking. But one morning when I got up, I saw with surprise a great ladder placed against its walls; a painter

was busied in painting the window-shutters, a servant rubbing the windows, and a gardener hoeing in the garden.

666

"So much the better,' thought I; *when a good roof like that shelters no one, it is just so much good lost."

"From this day I saw the house put on a different appearance; the nakedness of the walls was concealed by vases of flowers, a parterre was laid out in front of the entrance; the walks were cleared of weeds, and fresh gravelled; and muslin curtains, white as snow, sparkled in the sun as it darted itrays through the windows. At last, one day a carriage, with post-horses, rattled through the village and stopped in the enclosure of the cottage. Who could these strangers be? Nobody knew them, but every one was desirous of knowing. For a long time, nothing came out of what was going on in that dwelling; all we could see was that the roses were in flower and the grass in full verdure. What commentaries were made on this mysteriousness! They must be adventurers, come there to conceal themselves, or some young votary of pleasure; in fine, everything was guessed, except the truth. The truth is so simple, that no one ever dreams of it; the mind once set in motion, goes searching about to the right and left, but never thinks of looking at what is right before it. A for me I gave myself little care about them. It is of no consequence who may be there,' I thought; they must be human. and for that reason cannot be long without illness, and then they will send for me, so I waited patiently.

"In fact, one morning a message came that Mr. William Meredith would be obliged if I would call on him. I put on my best coat immediately, and tasking myself to assume an air of gravity becoming my position, I walked along the village, not without feeling a little proud of my importance. What anxious feelings did I that day excite. People came te their doors to see me as I passed. He is going to the White House!' they said, as I, without hurrying

for I disdained the appearance of vulgar curiosity-walked gently along, bowing to my peasant neighbours, and saying to them, 'Good-by, my friends; I shall be with you again, by-and-by; I have some business to attend to this morning;' and so I reached the top of the hill.

THE WANING MOON.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

I'VE watch'd too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on your cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The head grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.
See where upon the horizon's rim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, ail pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.
Late in a flood of tender light,

She floated through the ethereal blue:
A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew.
And still thou wanest, pallid moon!

The encroaching shadow grows apace;
Heaven's everlasting watchers soon

Shall see thee blotted from thy place. Oh, night's dethroned and crownless queen! Well may thy sad, expiring ray Be shed on those whose eyes have seen Hope's glorious visions fade away. Shine, thou forms that once were bright, For sages in the mind's eclipse,

For those whose words were spells of might, But falter now on stammering lips.

In thy decaying beam there lies

Full many a grave on hill and plain, Of those who closed their dying eyes In grief that they had lived in vain. Another night, and thou among

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, All rayless in the glittering throng Whose lustre, late, was quench'd in thine. Yet soon, a new and tender light

From out thy darken'd orb shall beam, And broaden, till it shines through night On glistening dew and glimmering stream.

TO THE WINDS.

BY ALICE CAREY.

TALK to my heart, O Winds!
Talk to my heart to-night;
My spirit always finds

With you a new delight,—
Finds always new delight
In your silver talk at night.
Give me your soft embrace,

As you used to long ago
In your shadowy trysting place,
When you seem'd to love me so →
When you meekly kiss'd me so-
On the green hills, long ago.

EVENING.

BY ALEXANDER SMITH.

Look out, my beautiful, upon the sky!
Evening puts on her jewels. Look! she sets,
Venus upon her brow. I never gaze
Upon the evening but a tide of awe
And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,
Swells sweet within me, as the running tune
Grows in the creeks and channels of
stream,

Until it threats its banks.

CHRISTIAN NAMES.

BY CHARLES LAMB.

IN Christian world Mary the garland wears!
Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew ear;
Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear;
And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears.
Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines!
What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round!
How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound!
Of Marthas and of Abigails few lines

Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff

Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can
You Barbara resist, or Marian?

And is not Clare for love excuse enough?

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all than Saxon Edith please me less.

LIFE.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

SLOW pass our days

In childhood, and the hours of light are long,
Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly;
Till days and seasons flit before the mind,
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,
Seen, rather than distinguish'd. Ah! I seem
As if I sat within a helpless bark,
By swiftly running waters hurried on
To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks,
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,
Bare sands, and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,
And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each, but the devoted skiff
Darts by so swiftly that their images
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks, and the great gulf is near.
Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And the fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield-
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence of thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart.

GRAND EXHIBITION OF CABINET WORK AT GORE HOUSE. [FIFTH ARTICLE]

CABINETS AND MISCELLANEOUS OBJECTS.

THE above cut represents a Cabinet, in buhl, belonging to the Queen. The date of its workmanship is about 1700. It is considered a fine specimen of the original style of "Buhl" ornament, and in this piece a distinctive manner may be observed characteristic of the peculiar manufacture.

The most ancient piece in the collection at Gore House, is a carved oak buffet, or "armoire," of the date 1480.* Cabinets of this kind were intended for the preservation of the sacramental plate, or the more costly articles of the table; the lower part serving as a stand for the large brazen, or stoneware flagons for water, wine, &c.

Marked No. 1 in the Exhibition.

No. 3 is an octagonal buffet, in carved oak, in the Flemish style. On the whole, it is a very harmonious and beautiful work, although there are some discordant characteristics about it.

No. 7 is a carved oak Cabinet, in the Italian style, dating from 1520, to 1550. It is profusely adorned with some very beautiful arabesque of the finest "cinquecento" period; but the ornament is much too crowded and uniformly distributed, so that the general effect is greatly deteriorated. The escutcheons of arms on the inner panels of the doors would make it appear have been executed for some one of the once powerful Roman family of the Orsini.

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No. 10 is another carved oak Cabinet, or buffet, in the Flemish style. The beautiful carving of this piece resembles that of the celebrated door-screen of the Hotel-deVille at Oudenarde, in Belgium. From