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* When the Duke of Grafton was at the Treasury, the seals were held by Lord Weymouth, the son of Earl Granville's daughter. With more than his grandfather's capacity for liquor, he had inherited a fair portion of his abilities; and anybody who cared to sit up with the secretary of state till the hours were no longer small might obtain a fair notion how Carteret used to talk toward the end of his second bottle. It would have been well for Lord Weymouth if his nights had been consumed exclusively in drinking, for he was an ardent and most unlucky gambler, and by the age of one-and-thirty he had played away his fortune, his credit, and his honor. His house swarmed with bailiffs; and when he sought refuge at the club, he found himself among people whose money he had tried to win without having any of his own to lose, and who had told him their opinion of his conduct in terms which he was not in a position, and (as some suspected) not of a nature, to resent. He was on the point of levanting for France when, as a last resource, his grandfather's friends bethought them that he had not yet tried public life. ..He must have bread, my lord," wrote Junius; "or, rather, he must have wine;" and, as it was convenient that his first services to the state should be rendered at a distance from the scene of his earlier exploits, he was appointed Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. The Dublin tradesmen, however, did not relish the prospect of having a bankrupt nobleman quartered upon them for five or six years, in order that at the end of that time he might be able to show his face again at White's. The spirit which, fifty years before, had refused to put up with the bad half-pence of the dominant country again began to show itself; Lord Weymouth's nomination was rescinded; and, to console him for the rebuff, he was made Secretary of State for the Northern Department, and intrusted with half the work that is now done by the Foreign Office, and with the undivided charge of the internal administration of the kingdom. He did not pay his new duties the compliment of making the very slightest alteration in his habits. He still boozed till daylight, and dozed into the afternoon; and his public exertions were confined to occasional speeches, which his admirers extolled as preternaturally sagacious, and which his severest critics admitted to be pithy. "If I paid nobody," wrote Walpole, and went drunk to bed every morning at six, I might expect to be called out of bed by two in the afternoon to save

two or three sentences as profound and short as the proverbs of Solomon."

Lord Weymouth's successor as secretary of state was the most eminent, and possibly the most disreputable, member of the Bedford connection. The Earl of Sandwich was excellent as the chief of a department. He rose about the time that his predecessor retired to rest, and remained, till what then was a late dinner-hour, closely absorbed in methodical and most effectual labor. "Sandwich's industry to carry a point in view,' says Walpole, "was so remarkable that the world mistook it for abilities;" and if genius has been rightly defined as the capability of taking trouble, the world was not far wrong. Like all great administrators, he loved his own way, and rarely failed to get it; but outside the walls of his office, his way was seldom or never a good one. He shocked even his own generation by the immorality of his private life, if such a term can be applied to the undisguised and unabashed libertinism that he carried to the very verge of a tomb which did not close on him until he had misspent three quarters of a century. He survived a whole succession of scandals, the least flagrant of which would have been fatal to any one but him. Nothing substantially injured him in the estimation of his countrymen, because no possible revelation could make them think worse of him than they thought already. When he was advanced in age, and at the head of what was just then the most important branch of the public service, he was involved in one of those tragedies of the police court by means of which the retribution of publicity sometimes overtakes the voluptuary who imagines that his wealth has fenced him securely from the consequences of his sin. But no coroner's inquest or cross-examination at the Old Bailey could elicit anything which would add a shade to such a character. The blood had been washed from the steps of the theatre; the gallows had been erected and taken down; the poor creature who had been the object of a murderous rivalry was quiet in her grave; and the noble earl was still at the Admiralty. giving his unhonored name to the discoveries of our most celebrated navigator, and fitting out expeditions which might reduce the Puritans of New England and the Quakers of Philadelphia to the necessity of contributing to the taxes out of which he replenished his cellar and his seraglio. Corrupt, tyrannical, and brazen-faced as a politician, and destitute, as was seen in his conduct to Wilkes, of that last relic of virtue, fidelity toward the partners of his secret and pleasant vices, po

And the sweet babe, and the gray headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

PERLING JOAN.

Our Laird was a very young man when his father died, and he gaed awa to France, and Italy, and Flanders, and Germany, immediately, and we saw naething o' him for three years; and my brother, John Baird, went wi' him as his own body-servant. When that time was gane by, our Johnny cam hame and tauld us that Sir Claud wad be here the next day, an' that he was bringing hame a foreign lady wi' him-but they were not married. This news was a sair heart, as ye may suppose, to a' that were about the house; and we were just glad that the auld lady was dead and buried, not to hear of sic doins. But what could we do? To be sure the rooms were a' put in order, and the best chamber in the hale house was

got ready for Sir Claud and her. John tauld me, when we were alane together that night, that I wud be surprised wi' her beauty when

she came.

But I never could have believed, till I saw her; that she was sae very young-such a mere bairn, I may say; I'm sure she was not more than fifteen. Such a dancing, gleesome bit bird of a lassie was never seen; and ane could not but pity her mair than blame her for what she had done, she was sae visibly in the daftness and light-headedness of youth. Oh how she sang, and played, and galloped about on the wildest horses in the stable, as fearlessly as if she had been a man! The house was full of fun and glee; and Sir Claud and she were both so young and so comely, that it was enough to break ane's very heart to behold their thoughtlessness. She was aye sitting on his knee, wi' her arm about his neck; and for weeks and months this love and merriment lasted. The poor body had no airs wi' her; she was just as humble in her speech to the like of us, as if she had been a cotter's lassie. I believe there was not one of us that could help liking her,

for a' her faults. She was a glaiket creature; but gentle and tender hearted as a perfect lamb, and sae bonny! I never sat eyes upon her match. She had never any colour but black for her gown, and it was commonly satin, and aye made in the same fashion; and a' the perling about her bosom, and a great gowden chain stuck full of precious rubies and diamonds. She never put powder on her head neither; oh proud, proud was she of her hair! I've often known her comb and comb at it for an hour on end; and when it was out of the buckle, the bonny black curls fell as low as her knee. You never saw such a head of hair since ye were born. She was the daughter of a rich auld Jew in Flanders, and ran away frae the house wi' Sir Claud, ae night when there was a great feast gaun on, the Passover supper, as John thought, and out she came by the back-door to Sir Claud, dressed for supper wi' a' her braws.

Weel, this lasted for the maist feck of a year; and Perling Joan (for that was what the servants used to ca' her, frae the laces about her bosom), Mrs. Joan lay in and had a lassie.

Sir Claud's auld uncle, the colonel, was come hame from America about this time, and he wrote for the laird to gang in to Edinburgh to see him, and he behoved to do this; and away he went ere the bairn was mair than a fortnight auld, leaving the lady wi' us.

I was the maist experienced body about the house, and it was me that got chief charge of being with her in her recovery. The poor young thing was quite changed now. Often and often did she greet herself blind, blind, lamenting to me about Sir Claud's no marrying her; for she said she did not take muckle thought about thae things afore; but that now she had a bairn to Sir Claud, and she could not bear to look the wee thing in the face, and think a' body would ca' it a bastard. And then she said she was come of as decent folks as any lady in Scotland, and moaned and sobbit about her auld father and her sisters.

But the colonel, ye see, had gotten Sir Claud into the town; and we soon began to hear reports that the colonel had been terribly angry about Perling Joan, and threatened Sir Claud to leave every penny he had past him, if he did not put Joan away, and marry a lady like himself. And what wi' fleeching, and what wi' flyting, sae it was that Sir Claud went away to the north wi' the colonel, and the marriage between him and lady Juliana was agreed upon, and everything settled.

Everybody about the house had heard mair or less about a' this, or ever a word of it came her length. But at last, Sir Claud himself writes a long letter, telling her what a' was to be; and offering to gie her a heap o' siller and send our John over the sea wi' her, to see her safe back to her friends-her and her baby, if she liked best to take it with her; but if not, the colonel was to take the bairn hame, and bring her up a lady, away from the house here, not to breed any dispeace.

This was what our Johnny said was to be proposed; for as to the letter itself, I saw her get it, and she read it twice ower, and flung it into the fire before my face. She read it, whatever it was, with a wonderful composure; but the moment after it was in the fire she gaed clean aff into a fit, and she was out of one and into anither for maist part of the forenoon. Oh, what a sight she was! It would have melted the heart of stone to see her.

The first thing that brought her to herself was the sight of her bairn. I brought it, and laid it on her knee, thinking it would do her good if she could give it a suck; and the poor trembling thing did as I bade her; and the moment the bairn's mouth was at the breast, she turned as calm as the baby itsel -the tears rapping ower the cheeks, to be sure, but not one word more. I never heard her either greet or sob again a' that day.

I put her and the bairn to bed that night, but nae combing and curling o' the bonnie black hair did I see then. However, she seemed very calm and composed, and I left them, and gaed to my ain bed, which was in a little room within hers.

Next morning, the bed was found cauld and empty, and the front door of the house standing wide open. We dragged the waters, and sent man and horse every gate, but ne'er a trace of her could we ever light on, till a letter came twa or three weeks after, addressed to me, frae hersel. It was just a line or twa, to say that she was well, and thanking me, poor thing, for having been attentive about her in her down-lying. It was dated frae London. And she charged me to say nothing to anybody of having received it. But this was what I could not do; for everybody had set it down for a certain thing, that the poor lassie had made away baith wi' herself and the bairn.

I dinna weel ken whether it was owing to this or not, but Sir Claud's marriage was put aff for twa or three years, and he never cam near us a' that while. At length word came that the wedding was to be put over directly; and painters, and upholsterers, and I know not

what all, came and turned the hale house upside down, to prepare for my lady's hamecoming. The only room that they never meddled wi' was that that had been Mrs. Joan's: and no doubt they had been ordered what to do.

Weel, the day cam, and a braw sunny spring day it was, that Sir Claud and the bride were to come hame to the Mains. The grass was a' new mawn about the policy, and the walks sweepit, and the cloth laid for dinner, and everybody in their best to give them their welcoming. John Baird came galloping up the avenue like mad, to tell us that the coach was amaist within sight, and gar us put oursels in order afore the ha' steps. We were a standing there in our ranks, and up came the coach rattling and driving, wi' I dinna ken how mony servants riding behind it; and Sir Claud lookit out at the window, and was waving his handkerchief to us, when, just as fast as fire ever flew frae flint, a woman in a red cloak rushed out from among the auld shrubbery at the west end of the house, and flung herself in among the horses' feet, and the wheels gaed clean out ower her breast, and crushed her dead in a single moment. She never stirred. Poor thing! she was nae Perling Joan then. She was in rags-perfect rags all below the bit cloak; and we found the bairn, rowed in a checked apron, lying just behind the hedge. A braw heartsome welcoming for a pair of young married folk!-The History of Matthew Wald.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, LL.D.

CLEOPATRA.

WILLIAM W. STORY, an American author and artist, was born at Salem, Mass., in 1819, and was educated for the bar; his father having been an eminent jurist. After publishing several works on jurisprudence, W. W. Story took up his residence in Rome, and became widely known as a sculptor and a poet.

His versatile and ardent mind has enabled him to achieve distinction in the

widely various fields of legal and imaginative literature, as well as in art. In 1862 he published "Roba di Roma," a descriptive and critical work on the city of Rome. His "Treatise on the Law of Contracts," and on "Personal Property," have gone through numerous editions, and he has published five volumes of poems.

Here, Charmian, take my bracelets
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows,—
They are hot where I have lain :
Open the lattice wider,

A gauze o'er my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odors

That over the garden blow.

I dreamed I was with my Antony

And in his arms I lay:

Ah me! the vision has vanished,—

The music has died away,

The flame and the perfume have perishedAs this spiced aromatic pastille

That wound the blue smoke of its odor,

Is now but an ashy hill.

Scatter upon me rose-leaves,

They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me

Till into my veins they creep, Reach down the lute, and play me

A melancholy tune,

To rhyme with the dream that has vanished, And the slumbering afternoon.

There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, Through slender papyri, that cover

The wary crocodile.

The lotus lolls on the water,

And opens its heart of gold, And over its broad leaf pavement Never a ripple is rolled.

The twilight breeze is too lazy

Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As a stone above a grave.

Ah me! this lifeless nature
Oppresses my heart and brain!
O, for a storm and thunder,

For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute-I hate it!

Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred.

Hark to my Indian beauty-
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers-

That flashes across the light,

Look listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!

O cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry," Come, my love, come home!"
Shriek, "Antony! Antony! Antony!"
Till he hears you even in Rome.

There-leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell!

Take him-my nerves he vexes—

The thing without blood or brain,

Or, by the body of Isis,

I'll snap his neck in twain!

Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;

Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthly forms expire;

And the bald blear skull of the desert

With glowing mountains is crowned,
That, burning like molten jewels,
Circle its temples round.

I will lie and dream of the past time,
Eons of thought away,

And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;
When a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed,

I wandered where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.

I sucked in the noontide splendor
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on

To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused and roared in answer,

And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me
And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,

And struck at each other our massive arms-
How powerful he was and grand!

His yellow eyes flashed fiercely

As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously;
Then like a storm he seized me,
With a wild, triumphant cry,
And we met as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly;
We grappled and struggled together,

For his love, like his rage, was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck
At times in our play, drew blood.

Often another suitor

For I was flexile and fair

Fought for me in the moonlight,

While I lay crouching there,