The State, it is I! We therefore see how one nation has sailed majestically, if slowly, out of darkness into light; out of chaos into freedom; another has been tossed on the seething billows of war, rapine and revolution; with constitutions that spring like mushrooms and disappear as suddenly; with ministries that vanish like a dream of the morning; and with republics that rnsh into the arms of despotism in order to be saved from anarchy. The student, therefore, when he perceives the contrast, has a guide for his present views. When he hears some demagogue, violent as uninformed, clamouring with impatience for some of those reforms which he fondly deems or pretends are to bring about untold good; and, in order to that end, demanding the removal of some of those obstacles which the constitution places in his way; the student of history observes with a smile, how the moderating action of the fly-wheel in politics has checked undue haste at one time, and prevented undue depression and inaction in another. He will observe how, for the lack of this conservating and restraining power, so many dynasties and constitutions in France have gone to pieces. Yet, such is the crass ignorance of true historical principles that I heard an able French gentleman of great intelligence on other subjects, say to me in reference to some defect in English law: "Ah! If you would only hang up six of your great lords, you would get all these things done!" Yet, even in this century of School Boards and cheap books, there are people in England with whom similar ideas in a milder form are prevalent.

The principle of heredity, to which so much weight is now attached, and which, by politicians of a certain type, is held to apply to all except those whom they specify as "hereditary legislators," is necessarily`a matter of concern to the student of history. To vary a famous expression of our great dramatist: "Some nations are born free, some achieve freedom, and some have freedom thrust upon them." The free-born are few, still fewer thus born who succeed through long ages in retaining that freedom, but they are the master-races of the world. Those who achieve freedom can usually retain it, but those who have freedom thrust upon them present the most curious problems which the study of history affords. A nation like our own, which was not only born free as to some of its component elements, but which has achieved freedom in the equal bearing of its laws and constitution, must be in the opposite category to those half-civilised and servile countries suddenly entrusted with the responsibilities of freedom, for which they are little prepared. Much good for thought and study is also afforded even in the limited scope of modern history. The gradual absorption of small nationalities which has been going forward in Europe during the present century, evidenced by the dismemberment of Poland, the advance of the Colossus of the North; the unification of Italy and Germany, all suggest important considerations for the future. The tendency of European statesmanship to absorb the small peasant proprietors into great Imperial estates, must be borne in mind when we come to ask whether the small properties now being carved out of

Turkey will be able to maintain their freeholds. We begin to wonder, for example, whether the Montenegrin cottier, who now draws so freely on his Russian banker, will ever be called upon to pay both principal and interest, in blood and sinew, or else in kind-that is in land!

Similar questions of the most pregnant kind arise out of the comprehensive study of history in reference to the spread of civilisation. The fact that no savage nation has ever been able to raise itself out of savagery; needing, as it does, an impulse from some man of cultivated and fiery genius, or from some civilised power from without, we are brought face to face with constant counsels in the relations of civilised man with savage tribes. The impossibility of a savage neutral barrier between two more civilised races becomes apparent. The necessary advance of the more cultivated and powerful race, is seen as an axiom, however distasteful the theme may be to the sentimental lover of the noble savage, or the purblind professor of one form of political economy. But, in truth, to waive further examples, the study of history above all things teaches men patience in view of the political questions which surround them; and soon cures them of a belief in those quack medicines of political charlatans which profess to cure all national disorders by one drastic remedy; which assumes that virtue is always on one side, and vice always on the other, in every national dispute; and which takes for granted that the demolition of authority is always the triumph of order, and that the production of anarchy is preferable to an imperfect existent state of things.

The study of history is thus useful to make us look back intelligently upon the past, to afford us some satisfaction in the present, and to afford us sure guidance for the future. It is not to be supposed that its study is impossible without a life-long devotion to its cause. Many a man who has only a few evenings or hours of leisure during the week, may so well and wisely read, compare, and digest the facts of history, as to arrive at conclusions of the greatest moment to his - time. It is the calm and painstaking review of the past, with an eye undimmed and undistorted by the action of passions which influence current events as they proceed, and give value to the study of history. Let it be entered on with a real desire to judge great questions apart from bias or special views, to weigh every fact as in a balance, upon its own merits, and a faculty will be cultivated which will be of lasting service in whatever direction it is applied. The riddle of the Sphinx will begin to be solved, spelled out syllable by syllable; the, at first, unmeaning chain of events will begin to have a language as well as a charm, so that an otherwise unlearned man may thread his way along the tortuous paths of politics and diplomacy, never losing sight of his landmarks, and able to speak or to act with force and insight whenever he is called upon to exercise that freedom or that franchise of which he may be possessed.

JOT.

"OLD BUMPS."

CHAPTER I.

READER! if you are of those stoics who scoff at the tender passion; if you have never been madly in love; if, in fine, you have never met with a charmer for whose dear sake you would, to use the common phraseology, go through fire and water, don't read this story. Turn over the pages at once, and revel in one of those dry, stupid, political or metaphysical articles more congenial to your cold and unenviable temperament.

There we understand each other! Now I shall say my dear reader, because I feel already a sympathetic thrill running through my veins, and I know, instinctively, that you can understand my feelings, and will rather drop a tear of commiseration and pity for my woes, than indulge in an outburst of unfeeling and idiotic laughter.

As our hard-hearted and inexorable editor has hinted, in his usual sarcastic manner, that I must limit the narration of my troubles to eight pages, I plunge without delay into the depth of my story.

I once fell deeply-madly in love at first sight. Time and place are of little consequence to sympathetic minds and hearts like ours, but for the sake of truth and accuracy, I may as well say that the place was the Botanical Gardens, at Edgbaston; and the time-well, it was at a flower show, on that memorable day, now rendered historical from the fact that it was the only fine day ever vouchsafed, for these special fêtes, to the ruling powers of that delightful suburban retreat. And last, but not least, the name of the siren, who won my heart at a glance, was Arabella Spurzheim Jones.

Never! never shall I forget that day. The rhododendrons (ought I to say rhododendra ?) were in full bloom, the maiden hair (fern I mean) was drooping gracefully in the tent, the goldfish were lazily coquetting with the crumbs floating in the water-lily basin of the conservatory, and Dinyer and Gilbey's band, resplendent in new regimentals, was playing that soul-stirring air, "Love Not," with ever so many variations, when I suddenly caught sight of Arabella for the first time.

I will not pretend to describe her too minutely, lest you should accuse me of exaggeration—a vice I heartily detest; enough that she was my ideal of perfection. Features regular and beautiful, eyes gentle and expressive, a figure-the happy medium-neither too tall to be considered lanky, nor too short to belong to the genus "dumpy." And her dress, charming in its simplicity; not so fashionable as to betoken a slavish love of finery, nor so antiquated as to indicate indifference; in fact, just the very choice you would expect of the owner of such a charming and sensible face. When I first saw her, as I think I said before, the band was playing "Love Not," and she was listening in apparent rapture to

that deliciously sentimental, if not very classical tune, and I shall never forget the cold thud that seemed to strike through my heart as the drummer gave an emphasis to the "not" by a most expressive beat of the drum. That man had evidently experienced the throes of unrequited affection. I could see it all, and read his history in the fierce energy of his blows. He did all that a true artist could do to make that word stand out, metaphorically speaking, in large capitals.

Who could gaze, however, upon that face (Arabella's I mean) and say "Love not!" But a moment since I had been careless, indifferent, free-and now I was anxious, spell-bound, and a slave.

But how should I make known my passion? How obtain an introduction ?

I had scarcely asked myself these important questions, when, to my surprise and delight, an old friend of mine advanced towards her, raised his hat, and, after addressing a few words to the lady and gentleman by whom she was accompanied, entered earnestly into conversation. Need I say how jealously I watched them, or how quickly I followed my friend at the termination of his interview. "Brown," said I, clutching him somewhat fiercely by the hand, " tell me, in mercy, tell me, who are your friends to whom you have just been talking ?" "Only the Bumps family," he replied, "don't you know Old Bumps?" "Bumps " said I innocently, "and do you mean to say that charming girl is cursed with such a vile name as Bumps?" "Well, to tell you the truth," said he, "the elderly party's real name is Jones, but he is afflicted with such a horrible mania for the study of phrenology that his friends have kindly christened him 'Old Bumps.' The fat lady is Mrs. Jones, and the daughter rejoices in the euphonious appellation of Arabella Spurzheim Jones; Arabella, after her mother, Spurzheim, in honour of the celebrated phrenologist of that name, and Jones-because she couldn't help it." "Jones!" I mentally soliloquised, "an angel like that to be merely a Jones, instead of a 'Vere de Vere' or an" Edith Lorraine.'"

The reader may, perhaps, express surprise that at a supreme moment like this I should indulge in such an absurd thought; but the fact is, I am somewhat morbid on the subject of names. It's all very well to quote Shakespere and ask, "What's in a name?" but can you imagine a John Dobbs or a Samuel Binks becoming illustrious personages in any possible sphere of life. Fancy, Field Marshal John Dobbs, or Admiral Samuel Binks !

It is true that a little forethought on the part of one's godfathers and godmothers in the selection of Christian names does make a wonderful difference. John Smith, for instance, is common; but Horatio Nelson Smith is grand. James Brown is not distinguishable from the common herd of Browns; but Alfred Plantagenet Browne, with a final "e," is a marked man at once. My humble patronymic is "Walker," plebeian enough in all conscience, but, thanks to the foresight of my immediate progenitors, I am known to the world as Abelard Petrarch Walker.

But this is a wretched digression. Revenons à nos moutons, or rather, to my darling lamb.

My friend was kind enough to introduce me to the family party; and as I never missed an opportunity of attending the gardens, to which they were frequent visitors, I gradually improved the acquaintance with Arabella, and in due time confessed the state of my feelings. Oh! the rapture of that moment, when I learnt from her sweet lips that I was not indifferent to her. It was at a Saturday Promenade Concert, and down in the Fern Valley that the dear confession was made. The birds warbled their harmonious notes, the sky looked celestially blue, and the ferns and the flowers seemed more beautiful than ever. The strains of the distant band were wafted in the gentle breeze, and all conspired, as it were, to fill our hearts with a delicious joy-when suddenly, as if with a warning voice of ill-omen, the tune changed, and we heard again the expressive tones of "Love Not," and the impressive blows of the demon drummer. "Oh, my Arabella!" I exclaimed, "do you remember when last we heard that tune? "Can I ever forget," she replied, "but, oh! Mr. Walker ("Abelard, if you please, my love," I gently insinuated), oh! Abelard, is it not a strange coincidence? That tune has haunted me before; it will haunt me now worse than ever. It comes like a strange foreboding of evil."

I endeavoured, of course, to calm her fears; and I laughed at her forebodings, in spite of my own misgivings. But all to no purpose. "Alas! Mr. Walk-Abelard, I mean," she said, "you do not know my father."

"Pardon me, darling." I ventured to remind her, "I have seen him, and spoken to him twice."

"Still, I say," she continued, " you do not know my father. He is good, but eccentric. He has a terrible hobby, and-and-he has already chosen the man whom he wishes to be my husband."

"Good gracious! Arabella," I exclaimed, anxiously, "and do you approve of his choice."

Slipping one of her dear little hands into mine, and looking up at me reproachfully, but lovingly, she quietly said, "Should I be here, Abelard, if that were so?

"Excuse me, dearest," I returned, "I beg your pardon for the cruel question, and, in spite of what you say, I am a happy man. But come, tell me all about it; all about your father, and all about him-my rival." Then, hand-in-hand, we strolled along the quiet by-paths, avoiding the crowded walks, and shunning, especially, the resorts of those vulgar idiots who indulge in the public osculatory pastime known as "Kissin-the-ring." Then, supremely happy, and none the less happy, maybe, because of the vague anticipations of opposition in the future, we vowed, come what might, to be constant and true to each other for ever and ever. Thus we parted for the day, with the understanding that on the morrow I should wait upon her respected, but eccentric parent, and learn my fate.

In order to prepare me for the coming interview, Arabella informed me, in confirmation of the description already given by my friend