amination. One morning, about a fortnight before the terrible day, he suddenly rushed into my room, holding aloft a paper covered with strange figures.

"Eureka! Eureka!" he cried, "I've found the key to all the hidden languages in the world. There's a man there down at Bath has started a new style of writing. I've been at work at it all night, and I'm persuaded that it's intimately connected with the Assyrian sculptures, only the inventor don't know. Gregory, fellow, look here-they are words—yes, words—no gammon about it. And look at those dots and those curly-wurlies—all language put in a new and startling form. Why, we can scrawl for ever, and none of our professors be the wiser, and, then, look what power of mind it gives us, and what a wide field it opens in ancient language. I think they call it phonography. You speak the words somehow in your mind, they run down your pen, and jump into pot-hooks and semi-circles on the paper.' And he went rattting along like a crazy fellow for at least ten minutes ere I could put in a word.

"My dear fellow," I began four or five times, when he burst out afresh, "just remember how near our examination is, and get to your grinders, for I'm sure you've neither days nor nights to lose."

"Ah! I see, I see; every new discovery in science is received with a shower-bath or a charivari. Very well, I'll go to Bath as you wish me in your heart, though you haven't said as much, and hold a cabalistic conversation with this man Abracadabra."

He was missing for a few days, but duly presented himself to me on his return.

"He's a fine fellow, my boy!" he burst out, "none of your narrowminded men, but a philosopher. I used to think philosophers never bothered themselves with terrestial matters, but got their heads stuck in the clouds, and left nothing but their dangling legs for the contemplation of disconsolate friends. But I am coming to believe such men get their understandings polished more than once a month, and are not forgetful of clean linen. By Jove! only to think of Plato keeping a bookseller's shop, and retailing cheap American envelopes, or Socrates editing a penny Athenian Blowpipe!'

We were smoking our cigars in my room on the eve of the day of days, and I was surprised to find Carpenter so well "up," and talking so rationally, but I made some allusion to his newly-found science, and Pegasus started with him in a spanking trot, as it did with the carrier's cart in Schiller's poem.

"You don't believe me-I don't expect you will, until I have discovered the origin of all the alphabets in the world, and through my new language shall be able to say A B C with a Hottentot, compare notes on magic with an Egyptian maugraby, and talk philosophy with a Red Indian medicine-man, But you will some time. I found Martin Phonographicus at Bath was quite unconscious of the actual results that may come from his scheme, so I wasn't going to tell him, not I. Talk of Semitic alphabets, and those cuneiform figures that nearly sent our Assyrians and Ñinevites mad, why they're as plain as possible-nothing but an Eastern system of writing by sound, with a good deal of the nasal twang in it-a sort of primeval Yankeeism, you know. But I'm not going to tell you all my secrets, or perhaps you'll blab; but look here," he added, showing me a row of queer figures, "these are spells, such as Merlin, Faustus, and Cagliostro used, nothing but runes or invocations, you know, written in short-hand. All nature knows my language, and spirits, winds, electric wires, and everything; and as soon as I have perfected myself, I mean to call spirits from the vasty deep,' like Prospero, by my dots, lines, and wriggleology." And he

puffed a mouthful of smoke half-way across the room, and winked at me strangely.

The morning came. We took a final cram of our medical notes, sauntered the afternoon at the hospital, enduring the miserable jokes of those fellowstudents who were acquainted with our coming trial, and the probable condition of our nervous systems, and towards dusk wended our way to the college.

Here I lost sight of Carpenter, until having run the gauntlet of all the tables and examiners, I was ushered into a room where several students had already arrived. Here I found Carpenter very hilarious, and making sure of having passed. Presently an attendant came and called out five names, the last of which came out slowly, "Mr. Carpen-ter." He followed carelessly, and, although we knew it, it was not until he was officially informed of it that he arrived at the full inglorious consciousness of having been plucked. He hurried home, and I found him soon after with a small Leipsic edition of Homer before him, reducing the letters into some phonetic system, which he said would alike interpret Hebrew, Sanskrit, Chaldee, and Persee. I left for Wimbleton a few days subsequently, and the last I heard of him was that he was getting nearer his key to universal language, and did not care a button-toss or a finger-snip for M. R. C. S. E.

CHAPTER II.

A TWELVEMONTH rolled by with its freight of busy thoughts, memories, and sorrows, and I was on a visit to a medical friend of mine, when I went with him one morning to make his usual calls at Whitecliffe House. It was a delightful spot, a quiet lane, hedged by tangled briars, holding up their sweet dewy flower-cups as so many urns of incense to the sun-god, with rich green turf for a pathway, led up to the house. Huge white brick walls overgrown with ivy surrounded it, and a porter's lodge, with a trelliced porch smothered in honeysuckle, sent a thrill of expectation and delight through me as we entered. I was predisposed for musing, and the rich perfume floated me far out into the open fields like a honey-hunting bee. Scarcely a word passed between me and my friend until he had given the horse and gig in charge to a groom, and turned to me, saying—

"You can stroll in the grounds here; I shan't be long. You'll find plenty to interest you."

And in truth I did. The walls were high, but the grounds were so disposed that from a central knoll a splendid view was obtained over the distant country. Close at hand was the gothic spire of a cemetery, rising pure and white, like a cloud moulded by angel fingers up in the everlasting blue, and in the dim distance a range of wild woody hills lifted their shoulders up to the horizon. It was a splendid July morning, and slipping into a summer-house hard by, unobserved I thought, I sat down quite enamoured.

A fit of musing and abstraction came over me, I knew scarcely how; it was so involuntary, so thoroughly mesmeric. I was suddenly in London, sitting in a comfortable corner of my own room in the leathern arm-chair, looking at my usual morning paper, when my eyes were suddenly caught by a name I knew, and I read on dimly, but perfectly, an announcement something like the following:-"The discovery of a new power of interpreting the hidden principle of all ancient and modern languages has just been made by Professor Carpenter, and is one of the most splendid triumphs of modern genius. His work, now in the press, detailing the entire success of his Assyrian expedition, and the general features of his discovery, is anxiously expected by our savans."-Athenæum.

I saw the letters distinctly, engirt by a swimming mist; and when I had run them over, the whole vision passed away, and my eyes were resting on the stony cirrhus just over the garden walls. A wild throng of sensations pressed upon me, and almost bore away my reason for a moment, as a crowd of drunken, staggering bacchanals might hustle and hurry along a sober man. "Would you like to see the grounds, Sir?" said a man habited like a gardener, suddenly standing plump before me, and making me start like a man in some terrible nightmare. I liked the man's mild and benevolent expression, and so I answered, after a pause, which did not for a moment disconcert my questioner, "Yes, I should."

We walked together for some distance, and he pointed out to me very naively the chief objects of attraction, giving me the technical names for all the shrubs and flowers. I was getting quite interested in the man.

"You seem to be quite an authority here," I ventured to remark. "It's a delightful spot.”

"Ah!" he replied with more animation in him than I had noticed before, "A sweet spot, indeed. But look at this arbutus."

He half pulled me towards it, and remaining perfectly motionless until I had completed my inspection and uttered various complimentary criticisms, he looked me full in the face with the same bland quiet gaze.

"I like the looks of you," he began, to my utter astonishment, looking carefully and observantly round him, "I don't mind telling you a secret. I am the greatest poet the world has ever seen! Homer's lyre is a jew's harp to mine; Shakespeare himself no better than a hopping hedge-sparrow. My verses are really splendid. In fact, I'm acknowledged to have no equal. I have come here for quietness and study, to give my genius full swing, you know, and not interrupt the world."

I began to feel queer, and wished the fellow away, so I humoured him a little.

"The world is always jealous of her old favourites," I answered, extremely confidentially.

"Ah! ah! ah!" he chuckled, "do you know I am writing a new epicsplendid invocation to gaslight in the beginning-very fine poem-grand swell in the verse-none of your hop-and-carry-me-along hexameters neither. No one but you knows I am writing it, and the best of it is, it's all in a language of my own-fine, that!" and he chuckled again as if his mouth was full of a hundred small marbles.

Here my friend appeared in the distance, and I motioned that I would follow him.

"Ah! ah! nothing like a real genius, after all! I like the looks of you. Here, don't go-here's a part of my epic, book the second-just run it over at your leisure, and give me your opinion when you come again. I like the looks of you. You'll find it a splendid treat-grand poem!"

The man hastily took from his bosom a piece of carefully-folded paper, and thrust it in my hands. I followed my friend in a problematic state of mind, and as we drove out of the gate, I caught a glimpse of the poet leaning over, and seemingly conversing familiarly, with his shrubs.

When we got into the lane I pulled out my paper, and, unfolding it, found it covered all over with meaningless signs.

"Look what that fellow gave me," I said to my friend. "He said he was a grand poet, and this was part of a splendid epic he was writing in secret.' Yes, yes; the fellow's one of the imbecile idiotic patients of the Retreat. He's always bothering people with his lines. Mad, mad-clean mad, as we say here."

"But the fellow was rational enough about plants, and seemed quite familiar with them."

"I daresay; but he's always mad on one subject-writing. I am told he was months engaged trying to discover the analogy of all known languages by a kind of phonetic system, and the upshot of it all is that his friends have sent him here."

I felt almost thunderstruck. The paper I had seen in thought, the sudden appearance of the man, and the strange circumstances added by my friend, made me sure that I had found my old student-companion.

"Was he a medical student at one time?" I asked nervously. "Yes; at Guy's, I think."

"Just so; and his name "Is Carpenter."

THE USE OF TEARS.

BY GEORGE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE.

BE not thy tears too harshly chid;
Repine not at the rising sigh;
Who, if they might, would always bid
The breast be still, the cheek be dry?

How little of ourselves we know
Before a grief the heart has felt!
The lessons that we learn of woe
May brace the mind, as well as melt.

The energies too stern for mirth,

The reach of thought, the strength of will,
'Mid cloud and tempest have their birth-
Through blight and blast their course fulfil.

Love's perfect triumph never crown'd
The hope unchequer'd by a pang;

The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are bound;
And Sappho wept before she sang.

Tears at each pure emotion flow;
They wait on Pity's gentle claim-

On Admiration's fervid glow-
On Piety's seraphic flame.

'Tis only when it mourns and fears
The loaded spirit feels forgiven;

And through the mist of falling tears

We catch the clearest glimpse of Heaven.

LOST AND FOUND.

WHO that knows Paris, does not know the beautiful old tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie, near the sumptuous Hotel de Ville, formerly hidden in the midst of a labyrinth of crooked, narrow, sunless, filthy alleys, the opprobrium of the capital, but now lifting its noble proportions into the bright blue sky, the glory of a large, airy square, just converted into a tasteful public garden, and opening, on either hand, upon wide, handsome streets; presenting to the eye long perspectives of fine buildings, brilliant shops, and gay promenades? No spot of the earth's surface-not excepting even the most renowned sites of Imperial Rome-could furnish, from its own individual history, a more varied and instructive summary of historical and social vicissitude, than that on which stands my favourite tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.

Among the crowd of mothers, nurses, babies, and loungers, who lost no time in entering on the enjoyment of the pretty garden round the base of the tower, I had once or twice noticed a very pretty, neat-looking young woman, apparently about twenty years of age, and an ouvrière; who was always accompanied by a little fellow of some three years, of whom she took the greatest care, never allowing him to be out of her sight for an instant; and, indeed, scarcely ever letting him leave hold of her hand. The child was always neatly-dressed, and seemed to be lively and intelligent. Something about the appearance of both of them interested me; and I soon found myself looking for them whenever I went into the garden. The young woman was evidently poor, and as evidently sorrowful. She seemed to know nobody; and looked like one accustomed to live alone, and bear her own troubles, whatever they might be, in silence and quiet. I could not help feeling a certain curiosity to learn her history; but was at a loss for any decent pretext for accosting her. All at once, her visits to the garden seemed to cease; at least, for a period of a month or so, I saw no more of her. But one afternoon, as I was sitting, with a book, on the sunny side of the tower, I suddenly bethought me of the young woman and the child; and, looking round involuntarily, in the hope of seeing them, I caught sight of them just entering the garden-gates. The young woman looked paler and shabbier than formerly, and the child was evidently recovering from an illness; for he looked wan and languid, and appeared to walk with difficulty.

"Maman, I'm tired!" I heard him exclaim, as they approached the place where I was sitting. There was a vacant place on the bench beside me; and I drew my gown a little closer to make room for them. The young woman glanced at me quickly as I did so, and after a moment's hesitation sat down beside me, lifting the child upon her lap.

"Eh bien, chéri, thou shalt rest nicely now," said the young woman, caressing him, "see how pretty the flowers are, and how warm the sun is here; 'twill do thee good mon petit chou."

“Maman, I'm hungry!" said the little fellow presently, laying his head on her shoulder.

Thereupon the young woman put her hand in her pocket, and drawing out a bit of bread, carefully folded in a piece of paper, offered it to the child. It was a very small bit, white, and quite clean; but it looked dry and uninviting.