panionship. His mother scarcely ever took notice of him. 5 He passed the days with his French bonne as long as that domestic remained in Mr. Crawley's family, and when the Frenchwoman went away, the little fellow, howling in the loneliness of the night, had compassion taken on him by the housemaid, who took him out of his solitary nursery 10 into her bed in the garret hard by, and comforted him.

Rebecca, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the drawing-room taking tea after the Opera, when this shouting was heard overhead. "It's my cherub crying for his nurse," she said. She did not offer to move to go 15 and see the child. "Don't agitate your feelings by going to look for him," said Lord Steyne, sardonically. "Bah!" replied the other, with a sort of blush, "he'll cry himself to sleep ;" and they fell to talking about the Opera.

Rawdon had stolen off though, to look after his son and 20 heir; and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was consoling the child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews together every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box 25 by his father's side, and watching the operation with neverceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring him sweetmeats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet box, where the child went to see them, and laughed with joy on discovering the treasure ; 30 laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was below asleep and must not be disturbed. She did not go to rest till very late, and seldom rose till after noon.

Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books, and crammed his nursery with toys. Its walls were covered 35 with pictures pasted up by the father's own hand, and purchased by him for ready-money. When he was off duty with Mrs. Rawdon in the Park, he would sit up here,

passing hours with the boy; who rode on his chest, who pulled his great mustachios as if they were driving-reins, and spent days with him in indefatigable gambols. The 40 room was a low room, and once, when the child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildly up in his arms, hit the poor little chap's skull so violently against the ceiling that he almost dropped the child, so terrified was he at the disaster. Rawdon minor had made up his 45 face for a tremendous howl- the severity of the blow indeed authorised that indulgence; but just as he was going to begin, the father interposed.

"For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma," he cried. And the child looking in a very hard and piteous way at 50 his father, bit his lips, clenched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at the clubs, at the mess, to everybody in town. "By Gad, sir," he explained to the public in general, "what a good plucked one that boy of mine is - what a trump he is! I half sent his head through the 55 ceiling, by Gad, and he wouldn't cry for fear of disturbing his mother."

Sometimes once or twice in a week

that lady visited

the upper regions in which the child lived. She came like a vivified figure out of the Magasin des Modes - blandly 60 smiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves and boots. Wonderful scarfs, laces, and jewels glittered about her. She had always a new bonnet on, and flowers bloomed perpetually in it; or else magnificent curling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded twice 65 or thrice patronisingly to the little boy, who looked up from his dinner or from the pictures of soldiers he was painting. When she left the room, an odour of rose, or some other magical fragrance, lingered about the nursery. She was an unearthly being in his eyes, superior to his father — to 70 all the world to be worshipped and admired at a distance.

To drive with that lady in the carriage was an awful rite; he sat up in the back seat, and did not dare to speak; he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully dressed princess 75 opposite to him. Gentlemen on splendid prancing horses came up, and smiled and talked with her. How her eyes beamed on all of them! Her hand used to quiver and wave gracefully as they passed. When he went out with her he His old brown holland was good

had his new red dress on. 80 enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes when she was away, and Dolly his maid was making the bed, he came into his mother's room. It was as the abode of a fairy to him - a mystic chamber of splendour and delights. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes - pink and blue, 85 and many-tinted. There was the jewel-case, silver-clasped ; and the wondrous bronze hand on the dressing-table, glistening all over with a hundred rings. There was the chevalglass, that miracle of art, in which he could just see his own wondering head, and the reflection of Dolly (queerly distorted 90 and as if up in the ceiling), plumping and patting the pillows of the bed. Oh, thou poor lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children; and here was one who was worshipping a stone!

95

Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the Colonel was, had certain manly tendencies of affection in his heart, and could love a child and a woman still. For Rawdon minor he had a great secret tenderness then, which did not escape Rebecca, though she did not talk about it to her husband. 100 It did not annoy her; she was too good-natured. It only increased her scorn for him. He felt somehow ashamed at this paternal softness, and hid it from his wife only indulging it when alone with the boy.

He used to take him out of mornings, when they would 105 go to the stables together, and to the Park. Little Lord

Southdown, the best-natured of men, who would make you a present of the hat from his head, and whose main occupation in life was to buy nicknacks that he might give them away afterwards, bought the little chap a pony not much bigger than a large rat, the donor said, and on this little black 110 Shetland pigmy young Rawdon's great father was pleased to mount the boy, and to walk by his side in the Park. It pleased him to see his old quarters, and his old fellow-guardsmen at Knightsbridge: he had begun to think of his bachelorhood with something like regret. The old troopers were 115 glad to recognize their ancient officer, and dandle the little Colonel. Colonel Crawley found dining at mess and with his brother-officers very pleasant. "Hang it, I ain't clever enough for her I know it. She won't miss me," he used to say; and he was right, his wife did not miss him.

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Rebecca was fond of her husband. She was always perfectly good-humored and kind to him. She did not even show her scorn much for him; perhaps she liked him the better for being a fool. He was her upper servant and maitre d'hotel. He went on her errands; obeyed her orders without 125 question; drove in the carriage in the ring with her without repining; took her to the Opera-box; solaced himself at his club during the performance, and came punctually back to fetch her when due. He would have liked her to be a little fonder of the boy; but even to that he reconciled 130 himself. "Hang it, you know, she's so clever," he said, "and I'm not literary and that, you know." For, as we have said before, it requires no great wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards, and Rawdon made no pretensions to any other sort of skill.

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Washington Irving

(From Roundabout Papers: "Nil Nisi Bonum ")

Almost the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be a good man, my dear!" and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them. 5 Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time.1 Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their lives and passing judgment on their work. This is no review, or history, or criticism: only a word in testimony of respect 10 and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labour the honour of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men.

One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost with the 15 republic; the pater patriae had laid his hand on the child's head. He bore Washington's name; he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling goodwill. His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send 20 us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europeans. If Irving's welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully re25 membered? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart? Who can calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this writer's generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own?

1 Washington Irving died November 28, 1859; Lord Macaulay died December 28, 1859. [Thackeray's note.]