But if Ada ran these things through her mind, at any rate they made no change in her feelings towards Tom. She was no heroine, but she had much of the better part of her sex's quickness of apprehension as to what was worthy and becoming in her to do; besides she really loved Tom, who had shown himself able and willing to defend her, at all risks to himself: so that, instead of taking the opportunity which now offered of dropping him, dutifully, at the instance of her father and her wealthy uncle, she resolved, on the other hand, to stand by him to the last.

Poor Ada, by this time, was in tears.

"Ah, do n't cry now," said the rough traveller, "don't cry: I cried once after a sweetheart, but I was very young then, I should n't now!" nor did he look as if he would!

"Well," broke in Mr. Brancrust, "I'm not a hard man; I did like Tom, and I'm going to give him one chance-it all depends upon his vote at the election, that will settle it!

"Who are the scoundrels going to put up?" asked Mr. Scampton.

"A retired tradesman, named Winnegar."

“I've heard of him—I know him, sir-greatest rogue that ever lived: lots of money, but how did he get it, eh!" The Indian looked positively ferocious, as he asked this question with a bitter smile.

"Well, uncle dear," said Ada, "Mr. Suffrage may not vote for him, and then-"

66

'May not, he shan't, or else you'll have to forget him: he won't if he cares anything for you, now he knows the consequence of doing so; if he does not care for you, let him vote and be-ahem!"

Well," said Mr. Brancrust, "time will show, let's have no more of it this morning. Ada, ring for the table to be cleared."

"Well, I'm sick of it," said Mr. Scampton; "and, I say, Charlie, if you can spare time, let's have a stroll and look at some of the old places, and see how many faces I know again: can you come?”

"Ada will do her best without her sweetheart, and it'll be all right yet, I know." He made up for his late roughness by a playful tap under his niece's chin; but Ada was very angry with him for all that. So the old companions went out together.

The ladies, I dare say, will think that, as soon as the door was closed, Ada would settle herself for the enjoyment of what is called “a good cry:" no such thing, matters had gone too far for weeping. Ada was determined to do something to prevent Tom giving the fatal vote: he must be prevented-but how? he could not break his oath-she would not desire him to do that, even for her-therefore he must be prevented against his will; but again how?

Ada stood as she had never stood before, looking out of the window with a vacant gaze, her teeth pressed into her under lip, and her brows contracted, in the very brownest of studies.

The opening of the door did not suffice to rouse her; a light hand tapped her shoulder, and a feminine voice cried in her ear-" a penny for your thoughts, Ada!" Ada turned

"Oh, my dear Amelia!"

"Oh, my dear Ada!"—a tremendous embrace here followed.

Now when ladies are rushing into each other's arms, and consequently not thinking how they look, is the very best time for a gentleman to criticise them coolly. We will do so.

Ada was embracing a female form-in a tuscan bonnet, with bows of scarlet ribbon that were perfectly appalling to look upon, festoons of long raven ringlets, with a rather pretty face, and an appearance altogether rather more dressy, rather less elegant, and rather less loveable than that of little Ada herself. Miss Amelia Dovecote was the daughter of a surgeon, in a village, a mile or so from Lower Fleecington. Mr. Coodle Dovecote was an old man, who wore, on all occasions, a shocking hat, a sable boa round his neck and sable cuffs to his coat, summer or winter, who was very fond of chucking the pretty housemaids under their chins, as he called to see their mistresses or masters; had had four wives and fifteen children, and had survived them all, except Amelia.

66

Miss Amelia, from childhood, had a great notion of herself and hers. She had, at least, a dozen sketches, in her own handiwork, of her family crest and family coat-of-arms (obtained heaven knows where from); and had dreams of past greatness, because her father had told her of a great uncle of his, who had a cousin who was in Parliament, and had been seen whispering with Sir Robert Walpole, in the lobby of the House of Commons. Miss Amelia had imbibed no small portion of her father's capabilities of loving. At the age of thirteen her heart was "broken,” at sixteen her prospects were "blighted," in her twentieth year the world was a desert;" but somehow or other, whether flowers had begun to spring in the wilderness, or whether a dim prospect of spinsterhood had warned her that a blighted heart was not the way to get a sound one,—at any rate, after the twentieth summer, her spirits improved vastly. Her ribbons grew vivid, and her ringlets curled longer and with a greater gloss than ever; and at the time when she was called upon to take her part in this little "vaudeville," she was in her twenty-fourth year, a chatty, enthusiastic, mischief-loving, witty young lady, the especial friend of old matrons and maids in casy circumstances, who wrap their declining days in a cloak of scandal, and tea-leaves, and wool-work; and by all young gentlemen with large neck-ties and large hearts, soft velvet

waistcoats and heads of the same character-rather feared, yet admired very much nevertheless! She had been Ada's schoolfellow, and she was her bosom friend.

What a queer thing a lady's bosom friendship is. The friends are frequently old schoolfellows, who have left off trousers and taken to long dresses together, who have gone into decimal fractions and love together, and who not unfrequently get married together. They invariably backbite one another on every possible occasion, dote on one another in public and sulk with one another in private: they vow eternal friendship in the playground, and in a few years Mrs. A. sneers from her brougham at Mrs. B., "her bosom friend," in her gig-or Mrs. C., who has married a merchant's clerk, declines to be introduced to her bosom friend Mrs. D., who has married a tailor!

After the embrace was over, and the ribbons had been admired by Ada, and Ada's morning dress had been a source of great rapture to Miss Dovecote-after Ada had brought out an anti-macassar of a new pattern, a present from London, and had received homage, as its possessor, from her envious friend-after Miss Dovecote had, in her turn, gained a victory over Ada, by describing a grand ball which she had attended whilst staying, with her cousins, in Derbyshire-after all this, Ada, as all people do to their "bosom friends," began to unbosom herself to her dearest Amelia.

Now the only fault that "dearest Amelia "had to find with her own Ada," was the pertinacity with which Ada continued to like Tom Suffrage. Amelia, as mentioned before, had outlived her period of broken hearts and blighted hopes; and she had higher notions, for Ada, than a mere romantic attachment. She would have been far better pleased if Ada had given herself to one of the rector's "young gentlemen," for that would have been something to talk of—but Tom Suffrage, eh!

But Amelia had by no means a bad heart of her own; and so, finding that Tom was really in possession of as much love as Ada had to bestow, she manfully fought Tom's battles against his detractors, for the sake of her bosom friend.

So when Ada had unfolded all her troubles, and all her dread of the election, and of her father, and of the unhappy vote which belonged to Tom Suffrage, Miss Amelia set seriously to consider what was best to be done.

Miss Amelia, with a quickness of invention which astonished Ada, in the course of a quarter of an hour proposed a dozen wild schemes for preventing Tom from giving the fatal vote, or for softening Mr. Brancrust's Roman determination ; but all these were rejected by Ada.

"Well, then, dear," said Amelia, "we'll think again.'

Then, after "thinking again," a plan, deep and dangerous, was at length resolved upon, by these two female plotters: so deep and so dangerous was it, that it had to be whispered for fear of the very dust, in the carpets, holding it and telling it to the girl in the morning.

This plot, gentle reader, I must not reveal to you yet, as it would spoil my tale: you must therefore "read and learn." Suffice it to say that a man of Mr. Brancrust's was sent for, from the Mill, and was ushered into the room and the presence of the ladies, to the great wonderment of the man himself, and of the girl who fetched him-that the man was asked if he was willing to do a kind thing for his young mistress and a guinea-that he finally consented to do a very illegal thing for both-and the girl received a gratuity to seal her mouth.

After this mysterious proceeding, worthy of a chapter of Mrs. Radcliffe or Eugene Sue, the bosom friends parted. Miss Amelia, having extended her visit far beyond the limits of a morning call, departed in a hurry; and Ada, who felt rather elate at the thought of their plan, went to superintend certain domestic operations, very interesting on tables but not upon paper.

(To be continued.)

A SIGH TO YOUNGER DAYS.

BY E. T. G.

At length farewell, sweet days of youth!—
Time of warm-heartedness and truth!—
Still one by one those days have gone,
Whilst age has rolled its winter on.

The glow of love, and mantling wine,
The future's golden dreams were mine;
But love and wine, and fancy's dream,
No longer urge life's flagging stream.

Then farewell, youth! thy joys are past,
Yet backward still my looks I cast:
Like exile from his native shore,

Who quits it, to return no more.

A SKETCH.

There is a character, in modern times of the world, that has always perplexed us beyond measure. It is that of Joseph Balsamo, better known as the Count of Cagliostro, so celebrated in Paris and through most parts of Europe, towards the end of last century. Next to our own King William the Third, Mr. Macaulay's perfect hero, Dr. Johnson's consummate scoundrel, and to a plain man, like ourselves-who cares not the shank of a button for either party-a person of very mixed qualities, the selfish one predominating, never has any human being been represented in such conflicting colours, just as a friend or an enemy has laid hold of the brush. "What betwixt the dirt and the daubing," as Oldmixon angrily exclaimed of the imaginary interpolations in Clarendon's History, it is well nigh impossible to discover the truth and substantial character of the man.

We stumbled, yesterday, on a French version, with the addition of numerous notes, of the rare Italian account of his Life and Trial, published at Paris and Lyons, in 1791, and itself a book of no common occurrence.* If there be a word of truth in the whole of this volume, such a born and bred knave-such an ignorant, impudent, lying, cheating, and thoroughly heartless vagabond and impostor-such a restless, wandering, accursed Cain, only that he roved about the earth not for the purpose of hiding the brand upon his brow, but of constantly adding to the blackness of it-never justified the law of his birth and the fallen state of Circumambient scoundrelism wrapped him like a mist; and he no more halted, in his way through it, to gulp a mouthful of purer breath, than the earth rests in her revolutions, the blessed spheres in their music, or the ordaining will and foreknowledge of God from the beginning to the end of all things.

man.

Here follows a piece of his youth, from the pen of the holy apostolic scribe, the author of the Italian original, written with an ink that had as much gall in it as ever went to the making of that fluid.

* It is "traduite," says the title-page, "d'après l'original Italien, imprimé a là Chambre Apostolique, et enrichie de notes curieuses." The original itself, "Compendio della Vita et delle Geste de Giuseppe Balsamo, denominato il Conte Cagliostre, &c.," is only to be found in one or two libraries.