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DRAWN FROM THE LIFE.

As I rose, I threw some money into her hand.

I hurried off as fast as I could hobble, lest she should overtake me, and though she murmured something indistinctly, I chose to be obstinately deaf, and refused to attach any meaning to her remonstrance.

It was sad to think that my old schoolfellow and his daughter should have fallen so low. I, through no particular merit, intellectual or moral, had become a rich man; he, in spite of all his efforts, well meant if misdirected, was at the workhouse door.

The last time I had seen little Effie, she was a rosy-cheeked, laughter-loving child, playing in her father's garden. Now-it grieved me to think of all she must have suffered, and I knew that her pleading eyes would haunt me reproachfully, till I had rescued her from the depth of misery into which she had fallen.

I met the poor creature in this wise.

One bright summer evening I was wandering homewards, through St. James's Park, from the City, quite glad to enjoy a breath of fresh air.

Presently, feeling rather tired, I sat down to rest my old limbs under the shade of one of those trees which form the long avenue stretching from Buckingham Palace to the Horse Guards.

As I gazed abstractedly at the gay folk on their way to ball, opera, and concert, and dreamt vaguely about many things, a young woman approached, and by the hopeless way in which she sunk down upon the bench, I could see that she was tired out, utterly exhausted in body and mind.

She had a pretty, though care-worn, face, and in spite of her shabby, dust-begrimed dress, there was something in her manner and appearance that bespoke the lady.

"You look very tired," I ventured to remark.

"I am," she replied, in heart-broken tones, clasping her hands together, despairingly, "very, very tired."

By degrees, I managed to gain her confidence, and she informed me of her troubles.

It was the old, sad story.

Her father, a man of limited means, had been induced to risk his Of course, the result was not the wealth he

money in speculation.

had expected, but ruin.

Then, as misfortunes never come singly, illness supervened, to increase the troubles of the family.

The old man was now bedridden, and mother and daughter, both of whom had been brought up in comparative luxury, were forced to work, not for themselves only, but for a hopeless invalid.

Effie had tried every thing-in vain. She was too poor to advertise, but she had gone about from place to place, soliciting employment. Her aspirations were humble enough in all conscience. She was, she said, ready to do any thing by which she could honestly earn a little money. She had tried governessing, and, of course, literature. But she could obtain no employment as a teacher, and her MSS. were returned by editors, who either could not or would not see that they possessed any merit.

Ultimately she had applied for a situation as barmaid, having previously sought employment as attendant in a boot-shop, where, however, her services were declined on the ground that she had not sufficient "strength of wrist." Frame her petition as she might, refusal was always her lot. She owned she was very stupid, very shy, and nervous-not at all brisk, pushing, and business-like, and she despaired of ever meeting with success.

As I have already said, I left her, after having forced some money on her acceptance, and as I hobbled home, wondering how I could best befriend the poor dispirited creature, I fell into a gloomy reverie concerning the many delicate and gently nurtured ladies, who in these days of commercial vicissitudes and gigantic crashes are thrown upon their own feeble energies for support, without any kind of aptitude for a task that is enough to daunt the bravest of us.

No form of poverty is so hopeless or so hidden as what is termed "genteel poverty." It is one of the curses, and one of the least manageable curses of the day.

Think of the hundreds upon hundreds, the whole tribes, as we may say, who have been brought low by insolvent banks, fraudulent companies, and commercial villainy of all kinds. Think, too, of those both in our own country, and still more in France, who have been reduced from competence-ay from wealth-to sheer beggary, by the merciless war that is even now scarcely at an end. How shall we help them? for help they sorely need. What has become of them? They are not the sturdy vagrants who tramp indolently up and down our streets making the air hideous with loud voiced plaint and rough discordant chant. The true suf

ferers are stowed away in the far-off dark corners of the earth. They gnaw their hearts in silence; they pass out of the way and are forgotten-gently nurtured girls, once comely matrons, disinherited children, ruined and heartbroken parents, who are sent into the ranks to battle with adversity, without even that poor armour which habit affords.

It is a hard fight for those who have been born to it, who are, so to speak, up to all the tricks of the adversary, but what chance have those who are plunged into beggary of a sudden?

All the girls cannot be governesses or novelists; all the men cannot be clerks. What is to become of them? How many institutions are there for the relief of gentlewomen in distress, and what is the sphere of their operation? How many are rescued from the water; how many sink and are drowned?

Knowing what the world is, how hard, how merciless in temptation, can we contemplate their future without a shudder?

Let the reader be assured of this; if one thing more than another be needed, it is a determined effort to deal with "genteel poverty," which is not, as people suppose, merely indigence, but, in too many cases, absolute beggary-hunger, thirst, the workhouse, the casual ward, the river, and the prison.

It is the veriest commonplace to say that London is a city of great contrasts. So is every great city; so, for that matter, is the country-the pure, free, innocent country, with its lordly mansions on one side of the road, and its miserable hovels-of which there are even now by far too many-on the other.

In an accompanying woodcut we reproduce a scene, painful, and yet not without a tinge of the ludicrous, which lately came beneath our notice, in a ramble homeward from the City.

In the foregoing pages I have simply indicated the existence of an evil; on a future occasion I hope to be able to suggest something, however imperfect, in the way of a remedy.

MYSTERY NO MYSTERY.'

WHEN will mankind be tired of the marvellous ?

Never, let us hope-for the sake of author, printer, and publisherso long as an honest penny is to be earned by sensational stories and "Christmas numbers."

We can in the present article promise our readers a grand treat. It is our privilege to be in a position to lay before them some of the most extraordinary and really true narratives that the most exacting devourer of romance could require.

Weird and puzzling enough in all conscience are some of the tales that we are about to relate; and yet, whatever appearance may say to the contrary, it will be found that they are in nearly every instance susceptible of explanation.

Our mission is to prove that terrors of the "raw head and bloody bones" type are simply and solely the effect of "hallucinations" consequent upon a vitiated state of the bodily organs, the result produced by their action varying in intensity from a disagreeable and oft-recurring impression to a state of absolute agony, by which the patient is impelled to the commission of the most horrible acts.

From the time of the Nymph Egeria to the later period of the Ghost of Wilmington Square, silly people have been found ready enough to put faith in the impossible, on the evidence-incontrovertible as they fancy it-of their "own senses," that is, on the strength of some occurrence which with their limited knowledge they cannot explain.

In the middle ages, we had stupendous revelations from the unknown world, visitants from heaven appearing to the holy men on earth, and fully detailed, because dreamt of, exploits performed at witches' sabbaths, or by sorcerers, demons, and weird wolves.

Even in the present day, though we all feel it a bounden duty to scoff at the supernatural, there is scarcely a man of eminence who has written his autobiography and not acknowledged some extraordinary and apparently inexplicable event in his own life. The

1 "Hallucinations." Par Brierre de Boismont. Paris.

most sceptical have experienced at some time or other a mental emotion, either a phantasy or a hallucination.

Few men are more philosophic, more worldly, or more wedded to material doctrines than was Prince Talleyrand, and yet we are told that there was one circumstance which he could never speak of without shuddering, and without betraying an emotion which amounted to something like an exhibition of excitement.

"I remember" said he, "upon one occasion, having been gifted for a single moment with an unknown and nameless power. I know not to this day whence it came; it has never once returned; and yet, upon that one occasion, it saved my life. I had freighted a ship in concert with my friend, Beaumetz. He was a good fellow, Beaumetz, with whom I had ever lived on the most intimate terms; and in those stormy times, when it needed not only friendship to bind men together, but almost godlike courage to show that friendship. I had not a single reason to doubt his attachment. On the contrary, he had given me, on several occasions, most positive proof of his devotion to my interest and well-being. We had fled from France; we had arrived at New York together; and we had lived in perfect harmony during our stay there. So, after having resolved upon improving the little money that was left by speculation, it was, still in partnership and together, that we freighted a small vessel for India,-trusting to all the goodly chances which had befriended us in our escape from danger and from death, to venture once more conjointly to brave the storms and perils of a yet longer and more adventurous voyage. Every thing was embarked for our departure-bills were all paid, and farewells all taken-and we were waiting for a fair wind with most eager expectation,-being prepared to embark at any hour of the day or night, in obedience to the warning of the captain. This state of uncertainty seemed to irritate the temper of poor Beaumetz to an extraordinary degree; and unable to remain quietly at home, he hurried to and from the city with an eager, restless activity, which at times excited my astonishment: for he had ever been remarkable for great calmness and placidity of temper. One day, he entered our lodging evidently labouring under great excitement, although commanding himself to appear calm. I was engaged at the moment writing letters to Europe; and, looking over my shoulder, he said, with forced gaiety, What need to waste time in penning those letters?-they will never reach their destination. Come with me, and let us take a turn on the Battery; perhaps the wind may be chopping round; we may be nearer our departure than we imagine.' The day was very fine, although the wind was blowing hard, and I suffered myself to be persuaded. Beaumetz, I remembered afterwards,

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