changed the conversation, without explanation, | nethy within his consulting-room, and Abernethy to another subject. whom they had encountered in the passage, was really the same personage. It is well known that Rogers's house was literally made up of choice gems, and among these was a sketch of the "Miracle of the Slain" by Tintoretto, which Rogers informed Morse was executed by that great artist preparatory to the execution of the painting itself. Morse asked Rogers where the original now was, as he had an order to paint a copy of it, and supposed, as it had been captured by Napoleon I., it was in Paris. Rogers informed him that it had been returned to Venice, where he afterward found it in the Academy of Fine Arts, immediately opposite Titian's "Assumption of the Virgin.' The copy he then made, and which upon the death of its owner fell again into his hands, is in the library room of his town house. Fuseli, who at the time of Mr. Morse's residence in London was at the zenith of his fame, considered the original the finest picture in the world. At this period Abernethy was in the full tide of his popularity as a surgeon, and Alston, who had for some little time had a grumbling pain in his thigh, proposed to Morse to accompany him to the house of the distinguished surgeon to consult him on the cause of the ailment. As Alston had his hand on the bell-pull the door was opened and a visitor passed out, immediately followed by a coarse-looking person with a large shaggy head of hair, whom Alston at once took for a domestic. He accordingly inquired if Mr. Abernethy was in. Mr. Morse first settled himself as an artist in Boston, but afterward removed to Charleston, South Carolina, where he obtained as a patron Governor Alston, a relative of his early friend Washington Alston. This gentleman, whom Mr. Morse had never seen, soon after his arrival in Charleston, directed him by letter to paint portraits of his two children, a son and a daughter, leaving the price optional with the artist. When the paintings were completed, Governor Alston not only added a considerable gratuity to the sum demanded, but gave Mr. Morse an order to execute a painting of his daughter in the very best style of art. For this painting, which represents Miss Alston amidst the ruins of an old abbey caressing a young fawn, the artist demanded eight hundred dollars. Governor Alston, in a highly complimentary letter, inclosed a check for one thousand dollars. When Mr. Morse left Charleston to become a resident of New York, he begged Governor Alston, in consideration of the many kindnesses he had bestowed upon him, to accept as a parting gift a picture painted by himself, entitled the "Judgment of Jupiter," and which he highly prized. This painting for many years occupied a place in Governor Alston's collection, but upon his deccase it was sold among others, and for years its locality remained a mystery. A few years since, while on a visit to Europe, his niece received as a present from a friend a painting at "What do you want of Mr. Abernethy ?" de-tributed to another artist, but which upon exmanded this uncouth-looking person, with the harshest possible Scotch accent. amination proved to be the identical "Judgment of Jupiter" presented many years before to Gov"I wished to see him," gently replied Alston, ernor Alston, and which had now, by the merest somewhat shocked by the coarseness of his re-accident, returned to the possession of the family ception; "is he at home ?" of its author. "Come in, come in mon," said the same uncouth personage. “But he may be engaged,” responded Alston; "perhaps I had better call another time." Mr. Morse, after a life of great activity, intermixed with no little personal annoyance and many pleasant remembrances, at the advanced age of seventy, has retired from the active duties of life, and devotes himself to the gratification of the tastes of a cultivated gentleman, and the exercise of a generous hospitality. His country residence, situated in a most picturesque spot, amidst deep ravines and lofty forest trees, upon the banks of the Hudson, a short distance from the town of Poughkeepsie, is built in the Italian style of villa architecture, and contains a high "I have come to consult you," replied Alston, tower, and extensive piazzas clustering with "about an affection-" vines and flowers. "Come in, mon, I say," replied the person addressed, and partly by persuasion and partly by force, Alston, followed by Morse, was induced to enter the hall, which they had no sooner done than the person who admitted them closed the street door, and placing his back against it, said, "Now tell me what is your business with Mr. Abernethy. I am Mr. Abernethy." "What the de'il hae I to do with your affections!" bluntly interposed Abernethy." "Perhaps, Mr. Abernethy," said Alston, by this time so completely overcome by the apparent rudeness of the eminent surgeon as to regret calling on him at all, "you are engaged at present, and I had better call again.” In this delightful spot, adorned with all the chasteness of an artist's taste, in the midst of a charming and affectionate family, and a large circle of sympathizing friends, the evening of life is passing away in quiet and undisturbed repose. Occasionally the little world of "Locust Grove" is fluttered by the announcement of the "De'il the bit, de'il the bit, mon," said Aber- completion of some new telegraphic enterprise, nethy. "Come in, come in," and he preceded as the fruits of his invention, but it soon subthem to his office, and examined his case, which sides into its customary channel, and moves proved to be a slight one, with such gentleness along as quietly and as undisturbed as the dreamy as almost to lead them to doubt whether Aber-river that flows languidly at its feet. PHILIP THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. CHAPTER XXV. INFANDI DOLORES. BY W. M. THACKERAY. HILIP'S heart beat very quickly at seeing this grim pair, and the guilty newspaper before them, on which Mrs. Baynes's lean right hand was laid. "So, Sir," she cried, "you still honor us with your company, after distinguishing yourself as you did the night before last. Fighting and boxing like a porter at his Excellency's ball. It's disgusting! I have no other word for it-disgusting!" And here I suppose she nudged the general, or gave him some look or signal by which he knew he was to come into action; for Baynes straightway advanced and delivered his fire. "Faith, Sir, more bub-ub-blackguard conduct I never heard of in my life! That's the only word for it; the only word for it," cries Baynes. "The general knows what blackguard conduct is, and yours is that conduct, Mr. Firmin! It is all over the town: is talked of every where: will be in all the newspapers. When his lordship heard of it he was furious. Never, never will you be admitted into the Embassy again, after disgracing yourself as you have done," cries the lady. "Disgracing yourself, that's the word. And disgraceful your conduct was, begad," cries the officer second in command. "You don't know my provocation," pleaded poor Philip. "As I came up to him Twysden was boasting that he had struck me, and-and laughing at me." "And a pretty figure you were to come to a ball. Who could help laughing, Sir?" "He bragged of having insulted me, and I lost my temper, and struck him in return. The thing is done and can't be helped," growled Philip. "Strike a little man before ladies! brave indeed!" cries the lady. Very "Mrs. Baynes!" "I call it cowardly. In the army we consider it cowardly to quarrel before ladies," continues Mrs. General B. "I haye waited at home for two days to see if he wanted any more," groaned Philip. "O yes! After insulting and knocking a little man down, you want to murder him! And you call that the conduct of a Christian, the conduct of a gentleman!" "The conduct of a ruffian, by George!" says General Baynes. "It was prudent of you to choose a very little man, and to have the ladies within hearing!" continues Mrs. Baynes. "Why, I wonder you haven't beaten my dear children next. Don't you, general, wonder he has not knocked down our poor boys? They are quite small. And it is evident that ladies being present is no hindrance to Mr. Firmin's boxing matches." "The conduct is gross, and unworthy of a gentleman," reiterates the general. "You hear what that man says--that old man, who never says an unkind word? That veteran, who has been in twenty battles, and never struck a man before women yet? Did you, Charles? He has given you his opinion. He has called you a name which I won't soil my lips with repeating, but which you deserve. And do you suppose, Sir, that I will give my blessed child to a man who has acted as you have acted. and been called a-? Charles! General! I will go to my grave rather than see my daughter given up to such a man!" "Good Heavens!" said Philip, his knees trembling under him. "You don't mean to say that you intend to go from your word, and-" "Oh! you threaten about money, do you? Because your father was a cheat, you intend to try and make us suffer, do you?" shrieks the lady. "A man who strikes a little man before ladies will commit any act of cowardice, I dare say. And if you wish to beggar my family because your father was a rogue-" "My dear!" interposes the general. "Wasn't he a rogue, Baynes? Is there any denying it? Haven't you said so a hundred and a hundred times? A nice family to marry into! No, Mr. Firmin! You may insult me as you please. You may strike little men before ladies. You may lift your great wicked hand against that poor old man in one of your tipsy fits; but I know a mother's love, a mother's duty, and I desire that we see you no more." "Great Powers!" cries Philip, aghast. "You don't mean to-to separate me from Charlotte, general! I have your word. You encouraged me. I shall break my heart. I'll go down on my knees to that fellow. I'll-oh!-you don't mean what you say!" And, scared and sobbing, VOL. XXIV.-No. 140.-Q the poor fellow clasped his strong hands togeth- | errands. I played cards with her. I sate and er, and appealed to the general. listened to her dreadful stories about Barrackpore and the governor-general. I wallowed in the dust before her, and she hated me. I can see her face now: her cruel yellow face, and her sharp teeth, and her gray eyes. It was the end of August, and pouring a storm that day. I suppose my poor child was cold and suffering up stairs, for I heard the poking of a fire in her little room. When I hear a fire poked over comes back to me; and I suffer over again that infernal agony. Were I to live a thousand years I could not forgive her. I never did her a wrong, but I can't forgive her. Ah, my Heaven, how that woman tortured me!" Baynes was under his wife's eye. "I think," he said, "your conduct has been confoundedly bad, disorderly, and ungentlemanlike. You can't support my child, if you marry her. And if you have the least spark of honor in you, as you say you have, it is you, Mr. Firmin, who will break off the match, and release the poor child from certain misery. By George, Sir, how is a man who fights and quarrels in a no-head now-twenty years after-the whole thing bleman's ball-room to get on in the world? How is a man who can't afford a decent coat to his back to keep a wife? The more I have known you, the more I have felt that the engagement would bring misery upon my child! Is that what you want? A man of honor." ("Honor!" in italics, from Mrs. Baynes.) "Hush, my dear! A man of spirit would give her up, Sir. What have you to offer but beggary, by George? Do you want my girl to come home to your lodgings, and mend your clothes?"...... "I think I put that point pretty well, Bunch, my boy," said the general, talking of the matter afterward. "I hit him there, Sir." "I think I know one or two similar instances," said Mr. Firmin's biographer. "You are always speaking ill of women!" said Mr. Firmin's biographer's wife. "No, thank Heaven!" said the gentleman. "I think I know some of whom I never thought or spoke a word of evil. My dear, will you give Philip some more tea?" and with this the gentleman's narrative is resumed. The rain was beating down the avenue as The old soldier did indeed strike his adversary Philip went into the street. He looked up at there with a vital stab. Philip's coat, no doubt, Charlotte's window; but there was no sign. was ragged, and his purse but light. He had There was a flicker of a fire there. The poor sent money to his father out of his small stock. girl had the fever, and was shuddering in her There were one or two servants in the old house little room, weeping and sobbing on Madame in Parr Street, who had been left without their Smolensk's shoulder, que c'était pitié à voir, wages, and a part of these debts Philip had paid. Madame said. Her mother had told her she He knew his own violence of temper, and his must break from Philip; had invented and unruly independence. He thought very hum- spoken a hundred calumnies against him; debly of his talents, and often doubted of his ca-clared that he never cared for her; that he had pacity to get on in the world. In his less hope- loose principles, and was forever haunting theaful moods he trembled to think that he might tres and bad company. "It's not true, mother, be bringing poverty and unhappiness upon his it's not true!" the little girl had cried, flaming dearest little maiden, for whom he would joy-up in revolt for a moment; but she soon subfully have sacrificed his blood, his life. Poor sided in tears and misery, utterly broken by the Philip sank back sickening and fainting almost thought of her calamity. Then her father had under Baynes's words. been brought to her, who had been made to be"You'll let me-you'll let me see her?" he lieve some of the stories against poor Philip, gasped out. "She's unwell. and who was commanded by his wife to imShe is in her bed. She press them upon the girl. And Baynes tried can't appear to-day!" cried the mother. "Oh, Mrs. Baynes! I must, I must see her," Philip said; and fairly broke out in a sob of pain. "This is the man that strikes men before women!" said Mrs. Baynes. "Very courageous, certainly!" to obey orders; but he was scared and cruelly pained by the sight of his little maiden's grief and suffering. He attempted a weak expostu lation, and began a speech or two. But his heart failed him. He retreated behind his wife. She never hesitated in speech or resolution, and her language became more bitter as her ally fal "By George, Eliza!" the general cried out, tered. Philip was a drunkard; Philip was a starting up. "It's too bad." "Infirm of purpose, give me the daggers!" Philip yelled out, while describing the scene to his biographer in after-days. "Macbeth would never have done the murders but for that little quiet woman at his side. When the Indian prisoners are killed, the squaws always invent the worst tortures. You should have seen that fiend and her livid smile as she was drilling her gimblets into my heart. I don't know how I offended her. I tried to like her, Sir. I had humbled myself before her. I went on her prodigal; Philip was a frequenter of dissolute haunts, and loose companions. She had the best authority for what she said. Was not a mother anxious for the welfare of her own child? ("Begad, you don't suppose your own mother would do any thing that was not for your welfare, now?" broke in the general, feebly.) "Do you think if he had not been drunk he would have ventured to commit such an atrocious outrage as that at the Embassy? And do you suppose I want a drunkard and a beggar to marry my daughter?" "Your ingratitude, Charlotte, is horrible!" cries mamma. And poor Philip, charged with drunkenness, had dined for seventeen sous, with a carafon of beer, and had counted on a supper that night by little Charlotte's side: so, while the child lay sobbing on her bed, the mother stood over her, and lashed her. For General Baynes-a brave man, a kind-hearted man-to have to look on while this torture was inflicted, must have been a hard duty. He could not eat the boarding-house dinner, though he took his place at the table at the sound of the dismal bell. Madame herself was not present at the meal; and you know poor Charlotte's place was vacant. Her father went up stairs, and paused by her bedroom door, and listened. He heard murmurs within, and Madame's voice, as he stumbled at the door, cried harshly," Qui est la?" He entered. Madame was sitting on the bed, with Charlotte's head on her lap. The thick brown tresses were falling over the child's white night-dress, and she lay almost motionless, and sobbing feebly. "Ah, it is you, General!" said Madame. "You have done a pretty work, Sir!" "Mamma says, won't you take something, Charlotte, dear?" faltered the old man. “Will you leave her tranquil?" said Madame, with her deep voice. The father retreated. When Madame went out presently to get that panacea, une tasse de thé, for her poor little friend, she found the old gentleman seated on a portmanteau at his door. "Is she is she a little better now?" he sobbed out. Madame shrugged her shoulders, and looked down on the veteran with superb scorn. "Vous n'êtes qu'un poltron, général!" she said, and swept down stairs. Baynes was beaten indeed. He was suffering horrible pain. He was quite unmanned, and tears were trickling down his old cheeks as he sate wretchedly there in the dark. His wife did not leave the table as long as dinner and dessert lasted. She read Galignani resolutely afterward. She told the children not to make a noise, as their sister was up stairs with a bad headache. But she revoked that statement, as it were (as she revoked at cards presently), by asking the Miss Bolderos to play one of their duets. I wonder whether Philip walked up and down before the house that night? Ah, it was a dismal night for all of them-a racking pain, a cruel sense of shame throbbed under Baynes's cotton tassel; and as for Mrs. Baynes, I hope there was not much rest or comfort under her old night-cap. Madame passed the greater part of the night in a great chair in Charlotte's bedroom, where the poor child heard the hours toll one after the other, and found no comfort in the dreary rising of the dawn. At a very early hour of the dismal rainy morning, what made poor little Charlotte fling her arms round Madame, and cry out,“ Ah, que je vous aime! ah, que vous êtes bonne, Madame!" and smile almost happily through her tears? In the first place, Madame went to Charlotte's dressing-table, whence she took a pair of scissors. Then the little maid sat up on her bed, with her brown hair clustering over her shoulders; and Madame took a lock of it, and cut a thick curl; and kissed poor little Charlotte's red eyes; and laid her pale cheek on the pillow, and carefully covered her; and bade her, with many tender words, to go to sleep. "If you are very good, and will go to sleep, he shall have it in half an hour," Madame said. "And as I go down stairs I will tell Françoise to have some tea ready for you when you ring." And this promise, and the thought of what Madame was going to do, comforted Charlotte in her misery. And with many fond, fond prayers for Philip, and consoled by thinking, "Now she must have gone the greater part of the way; now she must be with him; now he knows I will never, never love any but him," she fell asleep at length on her moistened pillow: and was smiling in her sleep, and I dare say dreaming of Philip, when the noise of the fall of a piece of furniture roused her, and she awoke out of her dream to see the grim old mother, in her white night-cap and white dressing-gown, standing by her side. Never mind. "She has seen him now. She has told him now," was the child's very first thought as her eyes fairly opened. "He knows that I never, never will think of any but him." She felt as if she was actually there in Philip's room, speaking herself to him; murmuring vows which her fond lips had whispered many and many a time to her lover. And now he knew she would never break them she was consoled and felt more courage. "You have had some sleep, Charlotte?" asks Mrs. Baynes. "Yes, I have been asleep, mamma.' As she speaks, she feels under the pillow a little locker containing-what? I suppose a scrap of Mr. Philip's lank hair. "I hope you are in a less wicked frame of mind than when I left you last night," continues the matron. "Was I wicked for loving Philip? Then I am wicked still, mamma!" cries the child, sitting up in her bed. And she clutches that little lock of hair which nestles under her pillow. "What nonsense, child! This is what you get out of your stupid novels. I tell you he does not think about you. He is quite a reckless, careless libertine." "Yes, so reckless and careless that we owe him the bread we eat. He doesn't think of me! Doesn't he? Ah-" Here she paused as a clock in a neighboring chamber began to strike. "Now," she thought, "he has got my message!" A smile dawned over her face. She sank back on her pillow, turning her head from her mother. She kissed the locket, and murmured: "Not think of me! Don't you, don't you, my dear!" She did not heed the woman by her side, hear her voice, or for a moment seem aware of her presence. Charlotte was away in Philip's room: she saw him talking with her messenger; heard his voice so deep, and so sweet; knew that the promises he had spoken he never would break. With gleaming eyes and flushing cheeks she looked at her mother, her enemy. She held her talisman locket and pressed it to her heart. No, she would never be untrue to him! No, he would never, never desert her! And as Mrs. Baynes looked at the honest indignation beaming in the child's face she read Charlotte's revolt, defiance, perhaps victory. The meek child, who never before had questioned an order or formed a wish which she would not sacrifice at her mother's order, was now in arms asserting independence. But I should think mamma is not going to give up the command after a sin-man his own hopes and passion. Deep into the gle act of revolt, and that she will try more attempts than one to cajole or coerce her rebel. thirty francs a month-dinner if you would for I forget how little, and a merry talk round the pipes and the grog afterward-the grog, or the modest eau sucrée. Here Colonel Dujarret recorded his victories over both sexes. Here Colonel Tymowski sighed over his enslaved Poland. Tymowski was the second who was to act for Philip in case the Ringwood Twysden affair should have come to any violent conclusion. Here Laberge bawled poetry to Philip, who no doubt in his turn confided to the young French Meanwhile let Fancy leave the talisman locket nestling on Charlotte's little heart (in which soft shelter methinks it were pleasant to linger). Let her wrap a shawl round her, and affix to her feet a pair of stout galoshes; let her walk rapidly through the muddy Champs Elysées, where, in this inclement season, only a few policemen and artisans are to be found moving. Let her pay a half-penny at the Pont des Invalides, and so march stoutly along the quays, by the Chamber of Deputies-where as yet deputies assemble --and trudge along the river side, until she reaches Seine Street, into which, as you all know, the Rue Poussin debouches. This was the road brave Madame Smolensk took on a gusty, rainy autumn morning, and on foot, for five-franc pieces were scarce with the good woman. Before the Hôtel Poussin (ah, qu'on y était bien à vingt ans !) is a little painted wicket which opens, ringing, and then there is the passage, you know, with the stair leading to the upper regions, to Monsieur Philippe's room, which is on the first floor, as is that of Bouchard, the painter, who has his atélier over the way. A bad painter is Bouchard, but a worthy friend, a cheery companion, a modest, amiable gentleman. And a rare good fellow is Laberge of the second floor, the poet from Carcassonne, who pretends to be studying law, but whose heart is with the Muses, and whose talk is of Victor Hugo and Alfred de Musset, whose verses he will repeat to all comers. Near Laberge (I think I have heard Philip say) lived Escasse, a Southern man too-a capitalist-a clerk in a bank, poi!--whose apartment was decorated sumptuously with his own furniture, who had Spanish wine and sausages in cupboards, and a bag of dollars for a friend in need. Is Escasse alive still? Philip Firmin wonders, and that old colonel, who lived on the same floor, and who had been a prisoner in England? What wonderful descriptions that Colonel Dujarret had of les meess anglaises and their singularities of dress and behavior! Though conquered and a prisoner, what a conqueror and enslaver he was, when in our country! You see, in his rough way, Philip used to imitate these people to his friends, and we almost fancied we could see the hotel before us. It was very clean; it was very heap; it was very dark; it was very cheerful— capital coffee and bread and butter for breakfast for fifteen sous; capital bedroom au premier for | night he would sit talking of his love, of her goodness, of her beauty, of her innocence, of. her dreadful mother, of her good old fatherque sais-je? Have we not said that when this man had any thing on his mind straightway he bellowed forth his opinions to the universe? Philip, away from his love, would roar out her praises for hours and hours to Laberge, until the candles burned down, until the hour for rest was come and could be delayed no longer. Then he would hie to bed with a prayer for her; and the very instant he awoke begin to think of her, and bless her, and thank God for her love. Poor as Mr. Philip was, yet as the possessor of health, content, honor, and that priceless pure jewel the girl's love, I think we will not pity him much; though, as the night when he received his dismissal from Mrs. Baynes, he must have passed an awful time, to be sure. Toss, Philip, on your bed of pain, and doubt, and fear. Toll, heavy hours, from night till dawn. Ah! 'twas a weary night through which two sad young hearts heard you tolling. At a pretty early hour the various occupants of the crib at the Rue Poussin used to appear in the dingy little salle-à-manger, and partake of the breakfast there provided. Monsieur Menou, in his shirt-sleeves, shared and distributed the meal. The Madame Menou, with a Madras handkerchief round her grizzling head, laid down the smoking coffee on the shining oil-cloth, while each guest helped himself out of a little museum of napkins to his own particular towel. room was small: the breakfast was not fine: the guests who partook of it were certainly not remarkable for the luxury of clean linen; but Philip, who is many years older now than when he dwelt in this hotel, and is not pinched for money at all, you will be pleased to hear (and between ourselves has become rather a gourmand), declares he was a very happy youth at this humble Hôtel Poussin, and sighs for the days when he was sighing for Miss Charlotte. Well, he has passed a dreadful night of gloom and terror. I doubt that he has bored Laberge very much with his tears and despondency. And now morning has come, and as he is having his breakfast with one or more of the before-named worthies, the little boy-of-all-work enters grinning, his plumet under his arm, and cries, “Une dame pour M. Philippe !" "Une dame," says the French Colonel, looking up from his paper; "allez, mauvais sujet !” "Grand Die! what has happened?" cries |